Page 10 of The Salvation

She clings to me more as I open the coffin. “Merikh,” she whispers but winces, pursing her lips. “Master Merikh, please, don’t do this.”

I deadpan, narrowing my eyes upon hers. “You will have but moments before you fall asleep, little dove.”

Eyes glistening, she rakes her nails into my robes, her tearful gaze flinging between me and the coffin. “Why can’t you take me with you?”

“Because...” I growl low in a warning, appreciating the quickening of her pulse. “You are mine. And I won’t allow anyone to get their fangs within an inch of your throat. It belongs to me. The ones I go to restore are not merely human, Quintessa.” I rub my thumb to wipe away the silent tears on her cheeks. “I must be at my fullest concentration for returningthem to their natural state. With you in my arms, it would be impossible,” I conclude while lowering her into the coffin with its velvet-lined interior.

“Please don’t, Merikh. I’ll stay here in the bed. I promise I won’t leave. I’ll wait for you. Only you,” she pleads, even as I hold her down and grip her throat.

“Bo will remain outside to watch over you. But you won’t require it.” Frustration tightens my muscles. She cared less about how I nearly drowned her. No, one little nap in a coffin is what prompts her terror. Before that terror engulfs my senses with hunger, I hold my breath, forbidding the intoxicating scent of it lacing her blood.

Her terror turns to pure panic as I set my other hand on the coffin lid. While she is still thrashing and shrieking and sobbing, I channel my power, surging the blood to her head to render her unconscious. The silvery gray eyes glaze over and roll to their ceilings. She falls onto the dust-clad pillow, out cold for the next few hours.

I have measured the precise amount necessary to overwhelm her consciousness for the set time I need to do my work. She will curse me for it, loathe me for it, but she will be safe. My blood crest acts as a seal of protection upon her.

After tonight’s Court, she will wear my seal...permanently.

The tensioninside me magnifies as I pass into the labyrinthine walkways of the fossilized gardens.

I, and I alone, know the way through the petrified skeletons, intertwined so closely, it would seem impassable. Apart from the fleeting amount required to send Quintessa into slumber,my blood force has never been stronger. It won’t last, and once I’ve finished my tasks tonight, I will need my conduit more than ever.

But only after I’ve proven my sovereignty in my Court of Hollows and ensured none will contest my possession of her.

The fossilized gardens thin until the bones become part of the dark cavern walls where I enter. On each side of me, the crimson crystalline walls gleam to life, the blood stones radiating at the mere presence of their maker...and master. Damp earth, aged water, and the iron scent of blood engulf my nostrils. Stalactites glisten like massive fangs from a monstrous beast, their appetite whetted. Now and then, a drop of blood falls from the ceiling to kiss my face. I don’t wipe them away. Ancient essence from the origin God of Blood.

I grit my teeth, jaw turning to hard stone when I consider Malachor and how I stole everything from him and condemned his spirit to a purgatory. Unwelcome in the halls of the ancestral dead. Doomed to roam the eternal realms of a land of Limbo that make the Waste look like a square plot of land.

If his spirit were to ever escape from Limbo...my nerve endings explode at the horror that would enfold. My pulse massacres my veins with the danger such a dark fate would bring to Quintessa. She would be his primary target, his only target, knowing what it would do to me. He would write his revenge in every speck of her skin, flesh, and drop of blood. And if it meant keeping me alive, keeping my cursed self alive, she would endure it all. The notion ices my very heart.

It will never happen. Impossible. Fucking impossible.

Entering the innermost Chamber of the Founders, I banish all thoughts of Malachor and face the blood pool—the viscous liquid stirring from my arrival. Dark power breathes here. The blood pool’s sinister vitality curls into my veins in a long-lost greeting, heightening my senses. No other can awaken the sarcophagi resting beneath the protective ichor.

More blood crystals glimmer as I advance through the arched opening with its protective glyphs and sigils—ones only the God of Blood may pass. The very rocks pulse with the essence of the undead Founders as if they are praying to me, desperate for awakening.

I descend the stone stairway, which disappears into the very pool, stopping when my boots touch the surface lapping at the base step. Like a dark mirror, the surface offers no reflection.

Surveying the pool and breathing in the raw scent of decay and death, I extend my hand, rippling my strength in a wave of targeted tendrils that act as tethers to hook into the six Founders.

Slowly, the sarcophagi emerge, rising at my blood command, their otherworldly forms materializing within the pool. Encased in translucent, blood-red caskets, they defy gravity, hovering above the pool’s surface. Unlike all other cursed beings of my realm, the Founders have not been subjected to as much decay on account of the blood seals.

All born vampires, chosen by Malachor in ages past. I was simply his favorite bitten toy-turned-executioner.

Whatever garments they wore have long since faded to threads. The blood seals prioritize flesh and blood and bone. Not robes.

Arkenthorne is the first to open his unholy eyes. His long gray hair like a shroud of ash falls around him. His veins surge to the surface of his pale skin, branching out in hungering black. No more than a moment before he thrashes and writhes from centuries of sleep without sustenance.

I open his casket, remaining behind, prepared for his violent response. Leave it to Arkenthorne to breathe in the bloodscent and dive headfirst into the pool, disappearing beneath the surface.

Shaking my head, I move to the next Founder, Kaelyndra. Her mouth is open in a silent scream, her spectral eyes piercing even in their hunger. When I open her casket, it takes less than a second for her to crouch upon its surface, her feminine snarls echoing through the cavern. She locks her eyes upon mine. I sharpen my focus on her, daring her to attack me.

After scenting the air and marking me, the vampire follows Arkenthorne into the depths to drink her fill.

Seraphys is next. Not the strongest, by any means, but as a former word-binder with the gifts of a seer, he serves me well as a charismatic diplomat wielding his influence over the most populated region in my realm.

Once I unleash him, Seraphys barely regards me before plunging into the pool to join his fellow Founders.

I awaken the remaining three, sneering at the casket of Valeryc, loathe to awaken the Founder, who has more often than not been a thorn in my side. A thorn I may bend and manipulate, but a thorn, nonetheless.

---