Dark Promises

Convel drove at him hard and fast with his sword, moving easily over the uneven ground, clearly an accomplished swordsman. To be an elite hunter he would have to be. He had confidence. He had experience, and he expected to cut Fen down quickly.

Gunnolf grinned at Zev, once again licking at the drops of blood catching in the fur along the back of his hand and arm. “Your time is over.”

“You don’t have the brains to come up with this plot on your own,” Zev said. He ignored the wide slice on his arm, although blood was pouring from the wound. “Who gave the order for Dimitri to be sentenced to the Moarta de argint?”

“Dimitri,” Gunnolf snarled. He spat on the ground in disgust, circling Zev, looking for an opening for the attack. “You mean the Sange rau? Why do you champion him? I have noticed you have become very friendly with Carpathians. Is it possible you are mixed blood and you seek to save your own kind?”

Another collective gasp went up, and the Lycans closest to the two combatants moved back, putting distance between them and a possible Sange rau.

Zev shrugged his shoulders, his gaze fixed on his opponent. “You have betrayed our council, Gunnolf. You put them all in jeopardy. You’ve disobeyed nearly every law we have. Even now, you do not fight fair, challenging me for leadership, yet not following the rules of the pack. Calling me a hated and feared name seems a desperate tactic. If that’s all you have left, put down your weapons and allow me to take you into custody.”

“There is no fairness when fighting a Sange rau,” Gunnolf countered. “We kill them—exterminate them where we find them.”

He rushed Zev again, feinting to his right and then striking left, the dagger still gripped in his hand. Zev was ready this time, avoiding the razor-sharp blade and catching Gunnolf’s wrist in his unbreakable grip, bending it back and away from Gunnolf so that the wolf fell to the ground. Zev retained possession of the wrist, extracting the dagger and tossing it away.

Gunnolf rolled, howling as an audible snap signaled that his wrist was broken. He kicked out at Zev, driving him back just enough to leap back to his feet. The two bodies came together with a loud crash.

Fen parried Convel’s sword, over and over, but never once gave ground, guarding Zev’s back from the Lycan determined to cut his pack leader from behind. The swordplay was fast and ferocious. Convel tried to drive Fen from his position, but Fen fought him back, increasing the strength of each cut minutely, ratcheting up the speed so skillfully that at first Convel didn’t notice the difference.

Convel obviously recognized that Fen was every bit as skilled as he was with a sword. His expression changed from pure confidence to anger and then desperation. He was now on the defensive, frantically meeting each cut of Fen’s sword. His movements were just that little bit too slow. His footwork began to suffer as time after time the heavy metal jarred his arms and sent shockwaves through his entire body.

He tried to retreat, but the blows kept coming relentlessly, so hard, so fast, he couldn’t begin to keep up with Fen.

“Throw your sword down,” Fen advised. “And face the council.”

Convel couldn’t if he wanted to. His grip was so tight, adrenaline and fear gluing his fingers to the hilt. Fen feinted toward him and triumph burst through the Lycan. At last, Fen had made a terrible mistake. He thrust hard straight at his opponent’s body, putting everything he had into that attack, determined to kill him.

Fen wasn’t there, he’d glided to the other side, and Convel never saw the sword coming at him. He heard it, that betraying whisper as the sword, seemingly alive, cut through the air straight at him. He felt the energy, so aggressive and deadly, rushing toward him. The blade was so sharp he actually didn’t feel the cut as it sliced through flesh and bone. He was dead before he hit the ground, his sword slipping through lifeless fingers.

Dimitri, this is one of your enemies gone, Fen whispered into his brother’s mind.

He took the opportunity to glance into the haven Skyler had created there in the meadow. Tatijana was inside.

Do they live? he asked his lifemate.

Tatijana smoothed back Dimitri’s hair from his forehead. She had never seen a body so torn and battered, not even in the ice caves of her father’s torture chamber. The burns were deep and vicious. Healing the wounds, if even possible, would take time.

He is fighting to save her. Take care of business out there, and I’ll see to the wounded.

She didn’t tell him what she suspected—that Dimitri had possessed Skyler’s body and was undergoing the conversion with her. The idea was distasteful and wrong. No one should ever possess another’s body. For her especially, and for Skyler herself, it was such a crime, an abomination.

Tatijana’s father, Xavier, had made a practice of possessing his son’s body, seducing women and getting them pregnant. He wanted Carpathian blood for immortality. Skyler had been born of such an unholy unity. Possession was taboo in any species. Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to get past her aversion and examine Skyler’s body.

She’d been shot multiple times. Someone had packed rich loam in the wounds in anticipation of her conversion. She sent herself outside her own body to become pure healing spirit. Entering Skyler’s body confirmed her worst fears, Skyler was not alone; if anything, there was more Dimitri than Skyler.

The idea was so repugnant to her that Tatijana found herself back in her own body, thrown there by a force outside herself.

“What is it?” Byron asked. “Is she dead?”

Tatijana took a deep breath. She felt oily, dirty even. Wrong. “I don’t know. How’s Josef doing?”

Josef lifted a hand and waved at her, still feeding from his uncle’s wrist.

Vlad smoothed a hand over Josef’s blue-tipped spiky hair. “He’ll be fine once he’s in the ground,” he assured.

Josef closed the pinpricks on Byron’s wrist and looked from one man to the other. Twice he opened his mouth and closed it, blinking rapidly. “You came,” was all he managed to get out, choking a little and turning his face away.

“Of course we came,” Vlad said. “You’re my son, Josef. Our world. Our pride and joy. How could you ever think we wouldn’t come?”

Tears burned in Josef’s eyes and he quickly averted his eyes. “I’m different. I give you a lot of trouble.”

Byron laughed. “You’re supposed to give us trouble. You keep us from being old men.”