Shadow Rising (Otherworld/Sisters of the Moon #12)

Shadow Rising (Otherworld/Sisters of the Moon #12) Page 35

As we entered the room, I waited for his instruction.

“Kneel on the pillow to the right.”

I did. He closed the door and took his place opposite me. He looked so at ease, and I realized how little I knew of him and his heritage. Blood Wyne had risen again. Roman had talked about his mother, but had he told me everything about her? Had he been truthful about her intentions? And how could I find out?

“Do you know how the vampires came to be, Menolly?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t know. It’s not something we learned in school, or that the OIA taught me when they brought me back to sanity.” I’d told Roman all about that time period—the year of madness and my slow fight back to sanity.

“No one knows how long ago it happened, but it was before recorded history, long before the Great Divide. Humans had risen to sentience and reasoning. And a shaman from a village desired immortality like the Fae.”

“But the Fae aren’t immortal. Even the elves die. Even the gods die,” I whispered.

“True,” Roman said, “but the mortals didn’t know that. Their life span compared to a Fae? A whisper on the wind. The shaman’s name was Kesana. At least, that’s the name we know for her. She decided she wanted the same immortality the Fae had. She went on a quest through the Dream-Time to find the answer, and instead she found demons…demons who fed off life energy.”

“Like Vanzir? Dream-chaser demons?”

Roman shrugged. “No one knows. All we know is that they promised her life unending if she would allow them to merge with her soul. And so, she agreed. The ritual took her down into death. She died and was reborn in the same body—but she was changed. The aging process had stopped, and her hunger for blood was strong.”

“The bloodlust…” I’d wondered how blood played into our mythology and background. Roman’s story rang true.

“Yes, the bloodlust. Kesana found that the more she fed on others—on their blood—the stronger she became. And her shamanic abilities allowed her to learn how to pass along the curse. She learned how to turn others. But instead of the demons merging with her victims, a little part of her own force brought about the change. That is how siring was born. She is the mother of us all.”

It made sense. Vampires were considered minor demons. “What happened to her? Kesana?”

“No one knows. She vanished somewhere into history.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

Roman shook his head. “I don’t know. Truly. If so, she has to have changed. During some rituals, the ancient vampires call upon her like a goddess, but it’s more rite than belief.”

I considered this. It made sense—paying tribute to the mother of our species. “I’ve always wondered how we first began. But what does that have to do with Morio and me and our bond? Or does it?

“In a very limited sense, you sired Morio when your blood was transfused into him. That’s what I’m trying to say—it’s not your soul that sires your children, but your blood. Change the blood and the bond is broken.”

As I gazed at the knife and then back at him, what he was suggesting began to filter through and a wave of panic began to rise. “I don’t want to go through the turning again!”

Roman reached out and caught hold of my wrists when I started to rise. “No, that’s not what I’m suggesting. You can never die again unless it’s the final death, so the ritual can’t reenact your turning.”

“I can’t relive that.” Panic had me fully in its grip now, and I could barely hear what he was saying. All I could see were Dredge’s hands and Dredge’s blood and Dredge’s knife and the darkness of the cave. Furious, I pulled away. “I can never go through that again.”

Roman jumped up and pulled me into his arms, turning me so I had to face him. “Menolly, stop!” He used a command voice and I froze, suddenly aware of my surroundings again. “I would never ask you to return to that time, nor to do anything that remotely put you through what you’ve experienced. I am a cruel master, but I’m no sadist.”

He leaned down and lightly kissed my forehead. “Girl, I’ve done things that made Dredge look like an amateur, and at times, I was vicious and cared for nothing but what I could wrest from life. But…I am wiser, and older, and the bloodlust has shifted into an aspect of my life that I control and use where appropriate.”

Nodding, I forced myself to relax. He let go of me and led me back to the altar, bidding me kneel again. “Through this ritual, you will take on some of my heritage. In a sense, I will ‘adopt’ you, so you will no longer be fully Dredge’s daughter. That will change your blood enough to break the bond between Morio and you, because he will have a bond with the blood in your veins as it is now. Change the blood, change the bond.”

“How…how do we do this?”

“Trust me. I cannot explain the ritual—you must walk through it. But I promise you, it will involve very minimal pain. And what you will gain from it…my dear, you will be not only the daughter of Dredge with his strength in your veins, but also my own, with my strength running through you, too. You will become one of the ancient vampires over time—strong and wise, I hope, and brilliant.”

“I know this is a stupid question,” I said, “but will this change…us? Will you still be my lover?”

He smiled, then, and the faint lines around his eyes crinkled. “Oh, it will alter our relationship, but you will still be my consort. Perhaps more so, because we will be blood bound. And before you ask, this should not affect your feelings for Nerissa. I promised you that I will not interfere with your relationship with her, and I won’t.”

I nodded. That was as much of a guarantee as I was going to get until this was over and done with, and I’d have to be content with it. I glanced at the door. There was still time to back out. “What happens if I don’t break this bond?”

“Eventually it will draw the two of you together. It won’t wear off, if that’s what you’re asking. And if he’s soul-bound to your sister and blood-bound to you, it’s going to create a strain on the youkai.” Roman folded his hands on his lap, waiting.

I had saved Morio’s life, but at what cost? Binding him to me was as bad as when we’d bound Vanzir’s life to ours. Slavery of sorts. Erin had made the choice—she’d been almost dead and she’d chosen to enter the life, but for Morio, the choice had been made for him. And while I knew he was grateful for his life, he was neither vampire nor fully himself.

“If I go through the ritual, what will happen to him?”

“His blood will no longer call to yours. It’s different when you sire someone. You sired Erin and you know how she responds to you. That’s normal. But it’s not normal for vampire blood to be given to those still living, and it sets up a sense of opposition in their nature. He will never be who he was before the infusion, but he won’t feel torn between you and Camille once you undergo the rite.”

I nodded. That was good enough. “If he won’t be in danger from this…”

“He won’t.” His frost-covered eyes focused on me. “Make a decision, Menolly. You must choose. And this is the only time I will offer the chance. It is not something I take on lightly, either, because it will forever bind the two of us. Perhaps I will regret doing so, one day, but we cannot know the future.”

I dropped my head back to stare at the shimmering blue ceiling and murmured, “Let’s do it.”

Roman stood, and, motioning for me to stay kneeling, he began to circle the room, arms stretched out.

“Ancient Kesana, Mother of the Blood, Daughter of Demons, hear me. As you first took the bloodlust into yourself, now watch as I transfer my blood to sire one already sired.” He turned, softly gliding back to the pillow, where he knelt again. He took up the knife and held it up. “Blessed be the knife that brings the blood to the surface. Blessed be the blade that calls forth the life. Blessed be the edge that slices the skin. Menolly, take the goblet and hold it beneath my wrist.”

Drawing back his right sleeve, he held out his wrist. I picked up the goblet and placed it under his arm, as he drew the blade across the skin, moaning as the silver bit into his skin. The cut festered, opening wide, and turned brilliant red. Blood bubbled slowly to the surface—when we bled, it was slow and viscous, flowing in a slow trickle rather than fountaining up like it did with mortals.

The blood splattered into the goblet, rich and red and smelling headily like wine to me. I watched, transfixed as Roman bled into the goblet. He squeezed his arm to encourage the flow, until the chalice was half-full, and then he turned his arm up and waited as the slice healed, which took about five minutes.

“Now, your turn.” He handed me the knife and I gingerly took it, staring at the silver blade. Why we used silver, I wasn’t sure, but I knew this was neither the time nor the place to ask. The gown I was wearing left my arms bare, so I stretched out my right arm over the goblet that he now held and sliced the vein deeply with the silver blade.

The pain of the silver hit me like a burning brand. I managed to catch myself before I cried out, as the blood began its trickling descent to the glass, mixing with Roman’s. As I watched the drops fall, splashing against the crimson of his blood, a shiver ran through me and I tried not to think about what this would mean. Dredge was my sire, but I’d escaped from him and the distance had provided a buffer. But there was no distance between Roman and me.

When the goblet was almost filled, he motioned for me and I turned my arm upright, watching as the wound finished healing. I placed the blade back on the table as he set down the goblet and lit the candle.

The fragrance of ylang-ylang and jasmine filled the room. Roman picked up the vial and opened it. A strange smell filled the room, heady and intoxicating, making me lick my lips. I wanted to ask what it was but forced myself to remain silent. He carefully tipped it over the goblet and dropped one…two…three drops of the coppery-colored liquid into the blood, then took the silver blade and stirred it. Corking the vial again, he put down the knife and picked up the goblet. Turning to me, he dipped his thumb into the blood and pressed it against my forehead.

“I anoint you in the name of the First Mother.” Once again, he coated his thumb and this time he motioned for me to pull back the folds of the gown, exposing my chest. He pressed his thumb against my heart.

“I anoint you in the name of Blood Wyne, my sire and mother.” A third time, and this time he pressed his thumb against my lips.

“I anoint you in my name—Roman, Liege of the Vampire Nation, Son of the Crimson Veil.” He lifted the goblet to salute me, then drank half of it. Handing it to me, he nodded. “Drink.”

I swallowed the blood and it tasted like spice, like cinnamon and cloves and fire and copper. As it bathed my throat, the room began to spin; slowly but surely, I swallowed my fear with the crimson nectar.

I’d been through portals; I’d been through death. I knew transition when I felt it. There was no going back now.

Roman stood and dropped his robe off. He was naked beneath it, and his scars were glowing in a way I’d never before seen. I could see every mark he’d accumulated during his thousands of years. He motioned for me to stand and I dropped away my gown. I glanced down, gasping as every mark Dredge had made on me began to glow and shimmer. I was lit up like I was covered with fireflies or glowworms. But for some reason, here—in this place—it didn’t bother me.

Roman took my hand and as we stepped back, the altar table slid to the left, and a secret door opened in the chamber, revealing a dark passage. A booming of drums and music began to sound as Roman drew me into the passage. He sped up and I kept pace, suddenly aware we were no longer in the mansion but somewhere in between worlds.

And then a light shimmered at the end of the passage, and we raced toward it, bursting through into a wide meadow under the rain-soaked night skies.

Up ahead of us sat a mansion that dwarfed Roman’s house. Painted in alabaster and gold tones, it was surrounded by guards, but they seemed to take no notice of us. They stood at attention, dressed in crimson robes, with gold-hilted knives at their belts.

We walked up the stairs, hand in hand, naked and glowing, and passed through the door as if we were ghosts. I glanced at Roman, but he seemed perfectly calm, as if he did this every day.

As we entered the mansion’s foyer, he pulled me to the right, into a small room, which turned out to be a coatroom. It was the size of our living room at home. Roman handed me a plain white tunic and draped a red cloak around his shoulders, trimmed with gold ribbons and beading. I slid into the simple cotton shift, wondering again what I had done.

After we’d dressed, we walked out and toward the central doors. Roman took my hand again.

He gazed down at me, pausing for a moment. “You are about to be inducted into the Crimson Veil. You will be my heir and hence related to my mother. Do not flinch. Do not hesitate. There is no returning to who you were before you drank the blood sacrifice. Do you understand me, Menolly? Do not fail me.”

As the significance of what was happening began to sink in, I could only nod. My only choice was to move forward.

“I do.” Every fiber in my being screamed against obeying—not because it was the wrong thing to do, but because I hated submitting to anyone or anything. But sometimes, in life, we had to relinquish control to a greater force, in order to bring about a greater good. And I knew in my heart this was the right thing to do, even though I rebelled against the idea of supplication.