Page 31 of Sergi
When the guard opened the door to my cell, he grabbed my arm.
I didn’t move.
“Are you feeling ill? Do you need a healer?”
His question wasn’t out of concern for me. The entire facility was in constant fear of illnesses and contagions from the filthy shifters.
“I’m just tired.” I glanced up at him. Whatever he saw in my expression seemed to put him at ease, and he let me go.
When the door closed and locked behind me, I dropped to the floor and sucked in a huge breath. What the hell was I planning on doing with nine vials of human blood?
The deeper question was one I wasn’t ready to analyze.
Yet it wouldn’t go away. Every time I closed my eyes, he was there.
The vampire’s warm gaze, and his rough words of thanks weren’t enough to put my neck on the line. Yet, I couldn’t come up with a viable reason why he’d been outside the facility, if that was truly where they’d captured him. And I refused to get my hopes up. He had to stay alive long enough to tell me.
Though what made me think a vampire, who’d been strapped to a wall and had little chance of escape, could be of benefit to the shifters, I had no idea. Rather than continue to ponder something I couldn’t answer with the limited information I had, I allowed my wolf to take over and trusted she would protect me for one night.
Chapter Twelve
Sergi fellin and out of wakefulness. The last session with Gheata had been brutal, but he’d managed to give him nothing—not even his name. His body was beyond hunger, though they continued to feed him small amounts of blood after each interrogation. The only possible reason was to extend the sessions and prevent the beast from rising to the point where gaining any further information would be useless.
His bones ached. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in such tight constraints. For interrogation, it was critical for the more dangerous vampires, even when a captor thought them too weak. But never had his bones ached so deeply. It only served as validation of a far worse fate. He’d suspected his condition for some time and hoped he’d been wrong. It would be years, possibly decades, before the blood disease that inflicted so many took its toll, but he could no longer deny the evidence.
The only current option was either sleep or force his body into a meditative state. Since he lacked the practice for proper meditation, he focused his mind elsewhere. He was a man of simple tastes with few exceptions—a finely aged Scotch, a sharply honed sword of Damascus steel, and the artifactshe’d collected over the centuries. They were nothing but small souvenirs he’d saved after a battle or raid.
He’d never understood why a warrior like him would save them. Over time, he suspected he would someday want a physical connection to his long memories. Perhaps more endearing for someone who lived as long as a vampire.
He mentally strolled through his storage unit in Santiga Bay. He’d never paid attention to how much he’d stored away until he’d seen Simone’s room in the manor after her brain injury. She also preferred a simple life, but the art she’d collected reminded him of his own stash. And when he considered modifying his bedroom decor, of all his cherished objects, one stood out over all the others—the dented and stained remnants of a shield.
He pictured the leather, wood, and steel armor that saved his life more than he could count, but that hadn’t been why he’d saved it. And it was that image he held onto as the beast let him sleep.
Sergi ignoredthe group of men as they prepared for another skirmish within the ranks. He was churlish after his meeting with the Captain of the Guard. He’d been doing this for too long—dealing with brash hotheads who thought they knew everything.
Although, to be fair, he’d been that young warrior at one time. After he’d become a rogue, he’d traveled from House to House, picking up work where he could. He’d been brash, daring, and filled with rage. He’d let down those he cared for the most, and though it hadn’t been his fault, the guilt was never far away. And he took it out on the world around him.
Those days had made him a better fighter, had honed his skills as a warrior, and had earned him trust among the men when he’d face the enemy with a fierceness that couldn’t be contained.
Then one day, he found a House that hit a chord deep within him. There were plenty of Houses worth fighting for, and though he didn’t agree with everything his new leader believed, something he couldn’t name made him stay and pledge his loyalty. Yet, that flame of anger held by his beast had never gone out, and it rose that day after meeting with the Captain of the Guard.
He marched back to his unit, irritated as he shucked off his mantle and grumbled. “As if Agar’s orders aren’t enough to contend with, now I’ve been given a new whelp to train.”
The men grunted, but a few glanced around when Sergi mentioned the whelp was the young son of their House leader. A son most had never seen since he’d left for continued education in the Far East. Sergi had seen enough sons of leaders who pranced into battle believing their House name made them resilient—untouchable. He’d seen many of them fall or crawl back to their Father.
He was still complaining about his new assignment as he sharpened his dagger when a stranger walked into the guard’s tent. He wore common battle gear but no insignia. No colors to show who he fought for.
Sergi gave him a quick perusal, then ignored him, returning to his dagger. New warriors were always joining the House.
“You think you can take the Master’s whelp in a fight?” the stranger asked.
“You think anyone in this battalion couldn’t take someone who’s nothing but a pup?” Sergi threw back. He had no time for this. “The only education he should be getting is on the field.”
“Were you calling the Master’s son a dog?”
The men’s eyes shifted as they looked from the stranger to Sergi, and even through his irritation, he took note of it. Sergi might be a warrior at heart, but he played politics better than most, and he tempered his tone.
“I only meant that he’s young. From what I hear, barely over a hundred years.”
