Amidst the shadows of the tavern, the sound of soothing flutes glided like a spell as two female dancers skimmed the floor, their skimpy garments revealing the seductive curve of their bellies, the swell of their breasts barely concealed.
The double slit of their skirts gave the audience a glimpse of their smooth thighs in motion.
Polished dark wood tables gleamed beneath fat beeswax candles that wept color as they burned, dripping down iron holders.
Eira was lost as she watched him through the haze—the impossibly handsome pale-skinned man seated alone in the reserved spot for important visitors.
She should have been afraid. He was too perfect to be human, yet strange things were more common in her father's tavern than the ordinary.
His aura…the golden cup he drank from…its contents a mystery. The silk robe he wore dipped low, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest like temptation disguised as attire.
When Eira lifted her gaze, she met his eyes—crimson, seductive.
It was fortunate she was seated, for the way he stared could have made her knees give out. She could not look away.
He reeked of power and danger—and Eira liked it.
"Mistress," Theo's voice snapped her from the haze of her memory.
The scent of alcohol and smoke lingered in the dark room of one of her taverns, faint harmonica music carrying from the taproom.
"Yes, Theo," Eira replied, not bothering to look at him, though she anticipated what he'd say—news about Fen's power source.
"My findings are insufficient, mistress," he said. "Fen hardly communicates or trusts his wolves. There's no concrete information about his source beyond bite infection."
"And the parts you discovered?"
"I discovered a garden, hidden behind forgettable rocks in the fortress. I couldn't enter but the light of the moon was stronger—and Fen was there. He would have sensed me if I had stepped further."
"If it is hidden," Eira said, watching smoke from a scented candle coil toward the ceiling, "It's important."
"I will keep seeking more information," Theo continued. "I will not fail you."
Eira turned to where he knelt with his head bowed. Theo—one of her most loyal mercenaries.
His devotion was fueled by his love for her, enough to offer himself as a spy among the wolves despite the cost of his humanity.
Sometimes, Eira wished she could let go of her obsession with Azael. She wished she could forget the thrill of the moments she had shared with him. Instead, she grew worse after discovering that he cherished a girl less than herself.
A defenseless human girl. A slave.
It boiled Eira that Azael would overlook Elana's wretched status and desire her enough to protect her in ways he had never protected Eira.
"Any news from Caesar?" she asked.
"For now, everything moves according to plan. The escape route has been arranged, and the blind girl will take the bait. I'm still working with the men on passing the kingdom's boundaries unnoticed when it's time."
"Good," she said. "Return to Fen's pack. If possible, uncover more."
"Yes mistress," Theo said hesitating with a pause. "My loyalty is forever." Then he left.
Eira closed her eyes—Azael's body creeping back into her thoughts.
Her obsession had grown so deep that she was willing to wield his weakness just to own him forever.
And she knew that just as Azael had his room of incense and incantations, Fen had his—and that would be her key to dominating Azael;
The source of the poison wolves posed to vampires.
**
Azael's irritation sharpened at the groaning heap that was the so-called King of Lumere.
Whatever confidence the man had paraded earlier had evaporated into raw fear.
It was foolish for a king to stand at the front lines of a battlefield in the first place.
Azael scoffed—bodies and flames littered the field, an annoying mess.
The heavy scent of death tainted the air.
The rest of the soldiers still had their modern weapons raised at him, the attacks from them had simply tickled his skin—painful for a moment, but useless.
They were unprepared for a proper fight with him and he was uninterested.
"Please…let—" the king groaned where the burst of flames had thrown him beside Azael.
Azael looked down at him.
"Cara…take me…instead," the king managed.
"Is that your reason?" Azael asked.
Even near death, the king held his gaze, hoping to communicate his plea.
"The prisoners?" Azael pressed, patience thinning.
In the distance, his monochrome vision caught four men hoisting a second cannon other than the one that had exploded in the first legion.
They were attempting a surprise attack.
Another four mirrored the tactic on the opposite flank. Predictable but he wasn't finished with the king.
"Lehava!" Azael commanded as both cannons erupted into flames killing all eight men instantly.
The rest of the soldiers trembled where they stood, finally realizing they stood no chance at winning.
Their pathetic ambush squad had been incinerated as well.
"Not for my lands?" Azael asked again.
"Please…don't hurt her." The king rasped. It seemed Cara was of importance to him.
Deep within him, Azael wasn't interested in any more wars; if not, he would have erased Lumere's army without hearing their King's pathetic motivations.
Wars held consequences—and he was no longer the only one affected by them.
"I no longer hold custody of the one you seek," Azael said. "I give you grace. Leave my territory and never return or else next time I will extend my terror to your kingdom."
This wasn't a worthy battle—just mindless genocide. Azael scoffed and teleported into his throne room, watching through his vision as soldiers hesitated to retrieve their king.
If they tested him further, he'd kill them anyway. The floors of his castle were solid—
they shouldn't be.
His minions were meant to lurk beneath the stone, dragging to hell anyone foolish enough to enter without his permission.
Azael clenched his jaw, watching as two soldiers hauled the king up. Four pointed their weapons outward, escorting him back toward the legions.
"A trespasser," a minion hissed from the floor beneath him, its face struggling to rise through the concrete.
Fury overtook him, these humans thought they could outsmart him even after his mercy.
Azael commanded his flames again, this time igniting the two legions at the sides at once—damning the consequences.
Mercy was never an option for the sick greed of men. He watched as the remaining legions began to retreat, scattering across his territory.
The king limped with his escorts farther from the castle.
Azael's reasoning held him back again.
How had the trespasser bypassed the minions?
The familiar scent of dark magic hit his nose and the demon stirred.
Trouble.
He vanished into his room, no longer sparing the soldiers or their king a thought.
The incense room was open. The burn in his chest flared, distracting his focus.
Movement flickered near the window, a figure trying to stay invisible. Azael seized the figure by the neck.
The bastard coughed as he became fully visible—the same man from the ghost mediator's office.
And even with Azael's hand crushing his windpipe, he began the incantations.
Azael's body faltered; the flames inside him surged. He staggered and released the man, who continued speaking those bloody words the sorcerer's army had used on him in every battlefield their kingdom braved.
**
Even with pain slicing through his throat, Syrus did not stop.
His need to own this power outweighed his need to leave.
Either way, he was a dead man if he stopped.
The Ancient's struggle was fascinating—the elongating fangs he fought to hide, the pained yet controlled groans.
Yet he stood.
Fear bubbled in Syrus' guts, his mind questioning every decision that led him here.
Victor's army was useless. Not even useful in distracting the Ancient to give him enough time.
Was the spell no longer as efficient as before?
"Your audacity is your doom, mortal," the Ancient spoke, his voice a deathly blend of man and beast—still strained, now advancing toward him.
Syrus recited faster, backing against the window.
The sky outside stirred and darkened due to the smoke and flames rising from the land below.
The Ancient absorbed the spell, his struggle dissolving with every step he took toward Syrus.
Syrus glanced down the depth of the window, then back at the Ancient.
He had to jump.
It was either that, or face the gruesome fate promised in the countenance of the Ancient's face.
Magic might break his fall but the chances of being without injuries were slim.
"I will pulverize your flesh and make sure your soul burns in hell for the rest of eternity," the Ancient growled, closer than ever in that horrific voice.
Syrus abandoned the spell and jumped, whispering a shielding charm as he fell onto the earth where fire and death now dominated.