Page 84 of The Salvation

Then, Bartie blocks my body with his. “Quintessa.” He turns to the side, lighting his fingers on my wrist. “Go. Do not stop. Get to the surface and hide as best you can. I’ll buy you what little time I may.”

“Hmm, little dove. Don’t you know better than to play with the ultimate monster?” Malachor hums to me, his voice unhurried as he ascends because he always gets his prey. He’s fifty feet below us at most.

“Bartie...” My voice cracks as I place one foot on the step above me. Emotion chokes my throat as I gaze down at the fire-binder, the first one I met in the Court of Hollows. The steward who was always faithful to Merikh. The steward who treated me like a lady from the beginning. And the vampire who fell in love with my daughter.

Sometimes when one has only known a friend for a short time, their loss is more potent. And I am losing him. Bartie issacrificing himself for me. And Malachor will kill him. My heart wars in my chest, but the steward meets my eyes, squeezes my hand, and musters a smile.

“My fire darlings will finally get to burn that rotting bastard. I swear to you, Quintessa, I’ll not harm Merikh’s body too much. It still belongs to you.” He winks, then gestures to the crypt. “Go. Find the wettest part of the cemetery and hide with the dead. I have no doubt your other monsters will find you soon.”

How could that be?

While a rational part of me knows this could be in vain, I don’t care. If there is even a fraction of a chance, I’ll try.

So, before Bartie can try to push me away, I skip the three steps, land below him—somehow not dropping the knife—and call into the darkness, “Don’t hurt him!”

“My Lady, no,” he objects, taking my wrist, but it’s too late.

The black diamond-like eyes gleam in the darkness below us. And two fangs shimmer like moonstones. Tendrils of flames curl from Bartie’s figure, casting sinister shadows upon the encroaching figure.

Everything is there. His violent beauty. His predatory eyes, fractured by those long strands of ink-black hair. Statuesque prowess befitting a god. The great mass of his shadowy wings that were once my havens. The soul-splintering gravity of his power.

Malachor wears every single one. He’s even changed into Merikh’s regal robes, mockingly wearing the serpent blood crest.

No broody and dangerous features of Merikh’s tortured heart. No silken feral masculinity. Not the punishing death god feeding on my pain as he relived his, so we could share it before he’d give me unspeakable, inhuman pleasure.

Malachor wears Merikh’s body like a sadistic executioner who takes joy in the torture of others. Merikh takes joy in the strength through suffering—beauty from ashes—knowing thetransformation is his doing as he erodes the layers and tunnels into the core of the being.

Malachor will strip me apart, too. But not like Merikh. Nothing like the vampire I truly love.

“Please...just let him go. Spare his life, and I’ll come with you. Willingly,” I bargain with the God of Blood advancing to me.

My heart thunders as he places one boot on the step where I stand. I struggle to breathe beneath the weight of his eyes like dark blades piercing me. No strength to even muster a swallow, I freeze as Malachor reaches for me with one hand—fingers far too calm and tender.

Head tilted, eyes narrowing in study, he softly curves his fingers upon my cheek. I can almost believe it’s Merikh, pretend it’s Merikh who touches his fingertips to my tears, collecting their trails as if dissecting them.

“Such a great heart for such a little dove with a little soul...” he muses, more to himself than anything. “You remind me of her in some ways. She could not see, but she loved me all the same.”

I bite my lower lip, remembering Necrosyne and the glimpse of their history.

“She felt treasured to be mine,” he remarks, his palm upon my cheek. “As you will, too.”

I knit my brows together, firming my lips and yanking my cheek from his fingers, breaking whatever sick trance he had upon me. “You can take me. You can claim me and break me. And maybe I’ll belong to you. But I will never claim you for mine, Malachor. I will never play with you. You will never be my monster. Now, let Bartie go, and I’ll come with you.”

I stand my ground, now wondering why I haven’t felt his breath behind me, his presence. Not even a hint of crackling flames or smoke.

Horror washes over me at the same time that Malachor grins. “I already have.”

Dread crawls along my spine. Parting my lips with a silent ‘no’, I slowly turn. Agony seizes me, quaking through me, shaking all my organs, and cleaving my heart. Bartie stands behind me. A lifeless statue. Hollow eyes, open but unseeing. No flames.

My legs give out, but Malachor catches me, adding insult to the agony. Especially with how much he smells like the vampire I love. He doesn’t even bother to take the knife. Not that I would do anything with it when he has Merikh’s body.

My heart shudders as the God of Blood simply touches the steward with one finger and sends his form over the railing—falling through hundreds of feet of darkness. Something breaks off inside me and dives after Bartie. I don’t bother to reach for it, especially when Malachor carries me up and not down.

“Now, now, little dove. There is nothing you could have done.” I cringe, turning away from his meaningless consolation, wishing I wasn’t so weak, cursing my humanity. “I’d already dispatched him, even before your noble little leap. His last words were for you.”

Worse than his comforting speech is how he places me upon Merikh’s coffin...sitting up to face him as he leans over me. Worst of all is how my blood still heats and my belly still flutters as Malachor rubs his lips across my brow. Because it’s still Merikh’s mouth. It’s still Merikh’s breath. It’s still Merikh’s blood. But Malachor’s energy. One my heart could never love.

“Hmm...” he muses before bending to pick up something on the ground.

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