Page 83 of Dark Reign of Forever

“Stop!” Adilla roared. The silence was instantaneous.

Sharp nails already pierced Dominique’s skin and dug under his tendons, but hesitated. Then they withdrew, leaving him coughing and gagging. Instead of ripping out Dominique’s gullet, Esteban wiped at the blood dripping from his face.

Adilla moved closer, towering above Dominique’s prone form. “At my court, it is I who decides who lives and who dies.”

The four holding him down murmured their obedient agreement.

“Brazen,” Adilla said again, and shifted his weight. One of his feet moved as though preparing to crush his skull with a single stomp.

“You are a useless buffoon, drunk on your own imagined greatness,” Dominique growled, using words that Kambyses had uttered verbatim. “You are not fit for immortality.”

A thousand years ago, Adilla had responded by charging at Kambyses in a shrieking fury. Now he only stared down at Dominique as though seeing a ghost.

Dominique had said too much.

Adilla would know these words to be true memories. That Dominique knew them—regardless of how—was irrefutable evidence that his connection to Kambyses was profound.

“You will be mine,” Dominique promised, hoping only to push the useless buffoon over the edge. “You will be mine or you will be dead.”

Adilla shifted his weight back. The wheels spinning behind his unblinking jewel eyes settled into place. “I could not have said it more eloquently myself.”

A tiny gesture to one side, then Dominique’s feet were jammed together and bound tight enough to crush his ankles. A rope flew toward the ceiling and looped around a thick crossbeam, descended on the other side and grew taut. His bound feet shot in the air, following the rope, hauling him up to swing wildly toward the far end of the hall. Several blood-drinkers darted out of the way. Jackson, still by the grand main entrance, watched with an expression of helpless horror.

When Dominique swung back, Esteban caught him. He stripped off the vest and shirt, both tearing like tissues in his powerful hands, then pulled his arms straight down. Someone else wrapped another rope around his forearms, immobilizing him completely.

Adilla appeared in his upside down view of the world and smiled with cold malevolence. “If you have had so much of the great one’s blood, by all means. I will gladly take you up on your offer. Bhavanur, bring a pitcher. A rare vintage must be shared with family.”

Dominique’s whole body went limp with shock. No, there would be no direct feeding. They would drain him. Drain him the way all those mortals back in the city had been drained.

The crowd’s mood turned appreciative as celebratory music started up. Bhavanur appeared before him in a blur and grabbed his bound arms. A small silver blade flashed against his still raw wrists. Seconds later, Dominique heard his blood splatter into the belly of the requested pitcher.

Screaming with rage and more than a little fear, Dominique thrashed and flipped at the end of the rope. If he could reach his feet, maybe…

Hands grabbed for him, held him still and, once the blade re-opened his vein, directed the stream of blood into the receptacle.

Over Bhavanur’s shoulder and past Adilla’s purple robe, he saw Geneviève, his sister and once closest friend. She sat on the dais by the empty throne and stared at the spectacle with an empty face. She looked dead already, a corpse that forgot to lie down.

Tremors raced through Dominique’s body. Tears blurred his vision.

He had failed.

Failed to assert himself. Failed to protect those he cared for. Failed as a wannabe human and as a blood-drinker lord. And failed to convince Adilla of anything that mattered. Whether Adilla believed there might be some truth to Dominique’s story or only tried to avoid giving offense to Kambyses was irrelevant. The result was the same.

He would use Dominique, but he would not destroy him. Not now.

Not ever.

36

Morning Light

Therewasnodoubtin Jackson’s mind. It was his general uselessness as a mere mortal that saved him from the worst of the night. To vampires like Esteban, he was nothing but a docile food supply, a sheep, and he spent the interminable hours in the great hall of horrors doing all in his power to maintain the appearance of one.

He crouched in a back corner and focused on his breathing. The music played and the party rolled while his friend hung like a slab of meat, being bled until he became a skeletal, unrecognizable shadow of himself. Jackson couldn’t afford even the slightest reaction. Any hint of fear spicing his scent or speeding up his heart was bound to attract the sort of attention that would get him killed.

But Esteban had not forgotten him. The slight figure of a male decked out in a shimmering lavender silk suit suddenly stood by Jackson’s side to deliver a curt message. “Your lord requests you attend to him. Now.” He shoved a pitcher into Jackson’s hands and returned to Adilla’s side in a blur.

The winter-fresh scent of Dominique’s blood wafted from the pitcher. Jackson’s stomach hitched.Nothing. It’s nothing, he told himself, and began putting one foot in front of the other. He looked only at Esteban, seeing nothing and no one else, least of all Dominique. But he felt their curious eyes, hundreds of them.

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