Page 101 of Of Flame and Fate

Pain unlike any I ever felt spreads along my limbs and warm fluid spills from my mouth. The next stab that comes dulls the ache by half. The third, I don’t feel at all. All I feel is my body bouncing off the ground as he continues to pound the knife into my chest.

His strikes are now more annoying than anything, after all, my time to die has come.

My head rolls to the side, meeting Misha’s tormented features. Tears stream down his eyes and fluid trickles against his dry, cracked lips.

Still, he screams, his hand reaching out. “Mama.Mama!”

I sob into my hands as I return to my prison behind that invisible wall. Misha crawls to his mother, his fingers barely grazing her outstretched palm when the first attacker casts his final blow.

The heel of his boot comes down, crashing into Misha’s head. Misha crumbles, his bloody fingers falling just beside his dear mother’s grasp.

The men say something I don’t understand. Neither bother looking back as they mount their horses. I swallow hard, unable to stop crying even long after they gallop away.

This is a memory from Misha’s past, triggered by his pain at watching Celia burn. It’s what my mind reasons. But just because it occurred long ago, doesn’t make it less horrific or easy to witness. No, this is one of those memories that will haunt me the remainder of my days.

The snow thickens, obscuring him as he lies naked beside his dead mother. But I know they’re still here, abandoned like garbage and their bodies left to rot.

I wipe my eyes as another set of riders arrive. I can’t see them well through the thickening snowfall. That doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the man in the lead.

Even then, Uri loved his capes. He motions to the men on either side of him to Misha. They dismount, hurrying to wrap him in the fur blanket Uri throws them.

Uri slides from his steed and carefully removes his thick gloves, watching Misha with interest. His fangs elongate as he hands his gloves to another servant and kneels beside Misha.

The servant at Misha’s head pries Misha’s mouth open, and as quick as a blade, Uri’s incisor cuts through his wrist. Using great care, Uri presses the large gash he made into his skin over Misha’s mouth.

I didn’t understand the other men when they spoke in Russian. But I understand Uri. Maybe because Misha wants me to.

“Drink, young fighter, young champion, young prince,” Uri tells him. “Live for me and you shall have your revenge.”

Misha doesn’t react, at least not at first. Then I see it, his lips seeking out the edges of Uri’s wound. He fastens his mouth against Uri’s skin, suckling hard and consuming Uri’s blood like a deeply parched man taking his first drink.

Uri loves young beautiful men. I’m not surprised he chose Misha to save. What surprises me is the way he strokes Misha’s head as he nourishes him. Not as a lover, but as the son he always claimed him to be.

Misha’s head falls to the side as Uri pulls away his now healed wrist, his chest rising and falling with purpose even while his eyes remained closed. I don’t expect Uri to coddle him, and he doesn’t disappoint. He slips his gloves back into place, appearing to fuss with them so they lay just right while his servants drape Misha’s limp body over a horse.

Uri doesn’t wait for the man tasked with leading Misha’s horse to follow. He gallops away, his beautiful stallion kicking snow behind them.

I suppose he doesn’t have to wait. He knows Misha will live.

Just as he knows he’ll have his revenge.

“Taran!”

“Taran!”

Something hard smacks my face and I’m back in the garden struggling to keep my feet.

Agnes grips my shoulders. “You have to help the master,” she says, tears streaking down her face.

I turn to where the vampires surround Misha, his gaze feral and his claws lashing out at anyone who nears him. Ash erupts as he takes one down, and another, and another.

“Hank!” I yell when Misha just barely misses him.

He turns around, his face panicked. “He doesn’t see us, Taran. It’s like he’s blind to us.”

More ash streams through the air as another of his family dies, followed by the she-vamp who greeted us when we arrived.

“Celia,” I stammer. “We have to call Celia.”

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