The Blood Oath

A soft knock at Luther's bedroom door shattered the sanctity of his midnight feeding. He growled, clenching his jaw harder and sinking his teeth deeper into the soft neck of the lily, his blood-host. Ignoring the second knock, he remained in bed, skin bristling at the impudence of the imbecile who dared interrupt his meal. Refusing to let himself be robbed of the moment, Luther savored the warm blood flowing down his throat, pulling with fervor and draining the girl of every drop.

Her naked body fell limp in his arms. She hadn't fought him. Pity. Fear-laced blood was always sweeter.

He shrugged off the slight disappointment. Made little difference. After all, the result was the same.

Luther let himself be lulled by the silence, rocking the girl as she expelled her last weakened breath.

Peace. Rapture.

The moment when the transfer of life happened—when a vampire became transfixed as if drugged by the most potent elixir—was the reason he fed until the heart stopped beating. It wasn't her blood alone he'd taken, but her energy—her life force. The electric currents once flashing through her body now flashed through his.

Her memories flowed through his mind like a gentle wave. She'd dreamed of becoming a dancer. Of falling in love. Of one day becoming a mother.

But fate is cruel, and her short life had been primed for a different purpose.

Sated, he pulled away from the dead girl's neck, closing his eyes and taking in an exultant breath. His veins throbbed as the life-enriched blood fed his bones and muscles. Invigoration soared through him as every strand of his decaying vampire DNA repaired itself, making him stronger and faster than any human.

His vision sharpened, allowing him to see in the darkness. He could hear the thump of a human heartbeat and smell the scent of fear and arousal—the weapons of a true predator.

The euphoria induced by the transfer of life was the reason his kind was predisposed to the bloodfever—and why they had to take caution when draining their hosts.

Luther seldom held such reservations. He was an elder—a Third-Gen vampire—and his centuries-old experience afforded him certain luxuries. He believed he possessed both the mental and physical capacity to resist the bloodfever, although he much enjoyed tempting fate. Or perhaps he delighted in testing his thresholds as his method of preserving his resistance.

Another knock.

He glared at his door and snarled. Cretins. Communing with a blood-host was sacred and the foolish guards outside his door would bear the heat of his intolerance for such an outright disregard of his orders.

As he conjured up ways to tear into the idiot knocking at the door, the distinct scent of a living human filled his nostrils, dulling the edge of his anger. Curious, he inhaled the sweet scent deeper into his chest.

Ah, another lily.

The honor of being his blood-host had already been bestowed upon the dead girl who lay on his bed. Luther wasn't certain why the Harvester had sent him another so soon. Blood-hosts were supposed to provide sustenance to a vampire for several weeks—even months—until the host grew too weak, at which point the hosts were…

He glanced at the dead girl on his bed. Well, disposed of.

Still, at the scent of the girl behind the door, his hunger revved up again. Perhaps he wasn't as satiated as he'd thought. He pushed the dead girl off his lap, grunting as he slid out of his red silk sheets. Rising from bed, he moved through the shadows with the swiftness of a specter.

Not bothering with any clothing, he yanked open the heavy wooden door, startling the young lilyand the two vampires guarding their posts. The light cast from the flickering hearth inside his bedroom danced on his skin like a ballet of flames. Fangs at full length, he licked a streak of blood off his lips, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as he regarded the creature.

Maya. He knew this one well. Taking another pull of her scent, his mouth watered, remembering the sweet taste of her untarnished blood—she was still a maiden. But what truly made her special was evident in the way her throat bobbed. As much as she tried hiding her fear, her body's natural instincts betrayed her. Hosts were a commodity. It made living amongst the mortals less troublesome, but willing lambs didn't taste as good as those who still wanted to live.

Waiting at the entrance dressed in a long, sandy-colored plain gown, the young female trembled. Her eyes traveled over his chiseled chest and further down to where his sexual arousal stood on full display.

He took note of the blood flushing her dark-skinned cheeks as she shied her gaze away. Luther curled his lips in a smile, his displeasure at the interruption now nonexistent.

The young lily bowed her head, dark bouncy curls framing her face, her honey-colored eyes averting his. "Apologies for the interruption, my lord. Banton sent me."

Banton?

Luther's brows pinched. As second-in-command, Banton knew better than to interrupt a feeding, even if it was to send him a second course. Something was wrong. Gesturing to his guards, he ordered them to leave. Once they were out of earshot, he nodded for the girl to continue.

"Priestess Liliuth is here to see you," she whispered.

Fucking. Hell.

Dread spider-walked up his spine as panic surged through his veins at the mention of that name. He needed this as much as he needed a stake through the heart. Rankled, he straightened his back, running tense fingers through his dark hair. Lustful thoughts forgotten, he weighed his situation.

An unannounced visit from a member of the Vates Ordo could only mean one thing: the witches had come for their pound of flesh.

A grunting sound from inside his room drew both his and the girl's attention.

Wretched demons.

For a moment he'd considered siring the young female laying on his bed. The thought didn't last long. He didn't have the time to deal with a whelp. But he'd neglected to break her neck immediately after draining her and now she was transforming into a strigoi.

"Have Banton bring the priestess to my study," he said to the girl. "And tell him to send someone to dispose of that disgusting creature on my bed. Quickly, before it completes transformation."

"Yes, my Lord." With hurried steps, the lily disappeared down the long hallway to the upper floors.

Back in his dressing room, Luther donned his signature black suit. A one-of-a-kind bespoke silk ensemble made specifically for him. As he ogled his own reflection in the antique, full-length mirror, a glint of satisfaction shone in his green eyes.

Embodying the power his suit exuded, he puffed his chest, admiring the crisp, clean lines of his attire. Through the soft fabric, the tight definition of his muscled body could be traced like the hard planes of a marble statue.

Sordid amusement played over his facial features.

If only the entire world knew about the kinds of monsters living among them.

Exposing the humans to their kind had been his father's dream—vampires as the true master race. No longer forced to dwell in the shadows, a curse birthed from magic.

The magic wielded by the Vates Ordo, the most powerful witch hive in the world—and the vampires' centuries-old enemy. Unfortunately, he owed them his allegiance.

With one last look in the mirror, he adjusted his cufflinks and loosened a resigned breath. "So, it begins."

Anticipating the reason for this unannounced visit, he took his time to stroll through the flame-lit, stone passageways of his underground kingdom, tucking his hands in his pockets and absorbing every moment of his borrowed power.

Ornate rugs softened his steps as he admired the large antique paintings on the walls. Some depicted battles fought, or victories won from his time in the Blood Prince's army centuries ago. Others were portraits of their mightiest warriors, including one of the Blood Prince himself, Azrael, his father.

Luther stood in front of the painting, pausing to marvel at the strength and power depicted in this rendering. Sitting atop Phlegon, his beloved war horse, Azrael wore his impenetrable, black armor—a gift from his witch-bride and rumored to have been spelled for protection.

Luther gazed into his father's deep blue eyes, his body shuddering at the memory of the last time he saw him—the day Azrael's own brother, Kane, betrayed him. "It is time for us to reclaim our kingdom, Father."

Floors above, the muffled sounds of hard bass and electronic music pulsed through the walls of his exclusive underground New York City nightclub, Requiem. Envisioning the cohort of vampires and inebriated human hosts dancing en masse as a single organism, Luther released a slow breath.

This was hardly what his father would have imagined as his legacy, but what Luther had accomplished in the five hundred years since his father's entombment was far more valuable than anything they could have foreseen.

His father would need to accept that.

He decided he'd let the priestess wait long enough and tore himself away from the portrait, moving at his vampiric speed the rest of the way.

Pulling open the door to his study, a muscle in his jaw twitched as he regarded the individual standing in the middle of the room. Draped in a thick, green velvet cloak, she looked as if she'd been plucked from the pages of his past. Not everyone was as fond of the modern world as he was; the witchesstill cherished their arcane ways.

"Priestess Liliuth, what a pleasant surprise," he uttered, voice dry and unwelcoming. The windowless study was brandished in the same opulent flare as the rest of the coven. A Persian rug woven in rich burgundy and gold threads adorned the center of the room, showcasing a grandiose oak wood desk and two large, brown leather chairs. Behind his desk, an oversized, red-velvet upholstered chair dominated the space like a king's throne.

Warmly lit by a crackling fire, the study offered a glimpse of Luther's most valued treasures. Dark wood shelves filled with antique books and relics from his past lined the walls, along with the modern touch of security cameras and screens monitoring every angle of his kingdom.

"Of course, you could have phoned," he said. "I would have ensured a banquet was prepared in your honor."

Not bothering to lower the hood of her cloak, the priestess faced Luther, her shrewd, violet-colored eyes locking with his as he ambled toward his desk.

He sat, inviting her to do the same.

Gaze brimming with an internal fire, she ignored his request. "We have business to discuss," she replied tersely.

Luther cocked his head, scrutinizing her head to toe, eyes lingering on her beautifully defined angular face. The hardness of her cheekbones was softened by her brilliant eyes and a mouth ripe for biting. "It's been a while since a member of theVates Ordovisited my home. Do humor me with pleasantries."

The lines on her forehead tensed. "My kind prefers not to consort with strigoi," she said, her last word dripping with disgust. "I am here on my mother's orders."

The vampire snarled, rising to his feet as heat flared through his body, fangs descending to full length. "I am no strigoi. I am my father's son, and you would do well to call me by my name, or High Lord if it pleases you better, witch."

Luther heard the raised tempo of her heartbeat, saw her throat bob, smelled the dark tones of her anger.

Satisfaction flamed in his veins.

Two can play this game.

He sat down, leaning back in his chair. Steepling his fingers, he said, "Now that insults are out of the way, do enlighten me with the reason for your visit."

The woman pulled a small bronze scroll container from inside her cloak and presented it to him.

As he reached for the cylinder, he jerked his hand back at the sight of the black snake coiled around her arm, elbow to wrist. It raised its head and stared at him through yellow eyes with long black pupils, tongue licking the air. The priestess chuckled. "Settle down, High Lord. Miriam is harmless."

He glowered at the reptilian as he took the scroll.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of a little snake," she said, tilting her head.

"I'm not afraid. And that is no simple snake." Her amusement at his aversion to her earth spirit grated against his skin.

Liliuth relaxed her posture, her cold smile dripping with malice. "Miriam can do no harm unless I will it."

"I've been around plenty of your kind far too long to not recognize a creature for what it truly is." He looked at the snake then up at the priestess, his gaze prolonging over her shimmering eyes. "Makes sense you'd pick a serpent."

Liliuth snapped, "Stop wasting my time and open the scroll."

Luther grinned, taking pleasure in watching the witch squirm. Sliding his fingers over the ornate dragon wrapped around the length of the cylinder, he asked, "Why didn't the Divine Mother come herself?"

Priestess Liliuth inclined her chin. "There was no need. I am her second. She has other matters to attend to."

He swallowed hard at the insolence. Opening the container, he pulled out the rolled parchment. Noting the red seal, he inhaled deeply. There was no need to unroll the document to know what it was. He'd surmised as much already. Back muscles taut, his lip lifted at the corner in a snarl. "Matters more important than a five-hundred-year-old oath?"

She stepped forward, shoulders bunched, lips pulled back as she gritted, "I did not come to entertain your displeasure. It was a blood oath forged by dark fire, and one you must honor or be turned to ash, High Lord. So, stop wasting my time with pointless questions. What matters is your duty, not the identity of the emissary." The priestess' bare hands crackled with a green flame as she muttered words in the witches' ancient tongue. The ground rumbled and the books and baubles sitting on the shelves rattled.

Luther shot to his feet and growled, a warning she wasn't the only powerful supernatural in the room. He knew the rules and the consequences for breaking them; he didn't need a brazened girl reminding him. "Magic is forbidden here, witch. Do not make me tell you twice."

Acknowledging his threat, she relaxed her muscles, the green flame disappearing and the invisible force shaking the ground dissipating.

"Very well," he said in a clipped tone, incensed by the audacity of his unwelcomed guest. "When must I fulfill my oath?"

"Forthwith," she replied coolly, catching him off guard.

His muscles tightened as he fought his instinct to leap across the desk, wanting to wipe the arrogant smirk ghosting on her lips right off her face. He'd expected he would at least have enough time to put his affairs in order.

Damn these cursed witches. Always finding ways to screw things up.

"The old magic has stirred," she went on, ignoring his unease. "There can be no delay. Things have been set in motion that cannot be undone."

Luther sniggered. "Your kind. Always a flare for the dramatic."

Stalking closer, her face obscured by shadows, she said, "A new age approaches, vampire. Choose your alliances wisely."

The blood in his veins quickened. She had the gall to intimidate him in his own coven. His fangs could be buried in her neck faster than she could blink, but witch blood was illicit, and drinking from one was punishable by death.

She knew this, but he quite fancied living on the edge. "Likewise," he uttered, licking the top row of his teeth, showcasing his elongated canines.

Liliuth bowed her head, acknowledging his warning. "You leave for Scotland tomorrow. The Divine Mother has made arrangements for you and your men."

Sinking deeper into his chair, he let his anger simmer. "I shall await her orders."

A flouting smile twitched on her lips as she raised one shoulder. "Treachery should come easy to you, High Lord. After all, wasn't it you who secretly aided in your father's capture five-hundred years ago?" Her eyes glinted.

The shameful memory buried its claws into his flesh.

"A deed for which you were handsomely rewarded," the priestess added.

Vile harpy.

Her calculated jab hit its mark. This time, he couldn't control his anger. Rising to his feet again, he leaned forward on his desk. "Do not speak of things you know naught of, girl."

Standing straighter, she puffed out her chest as if satisfied with the way she could so easily rattle him.

"I think it's time for you to leave," he ordered.

As the priestess turned toward the exit, Luther called out to her one last time, "Liliuth." He purposefully left out her elite title. One he knew she'd spent years training in magic to earn. Only a few held such prestige, demanding the utmost respect. He wanted her to know she'd not earned his.

Her back to him, she halted, the fury exuding from her pores making the air ripple with her power, the ground rumbling once more as she whispered her witchy words. Luther couldn't deny he relished fanning her rage.

Pivoting, Liliuth looked over her shoulder, darkened eyes narrowed to slits.

"My father," Luther began, "will not have forgotten what your foremothers did."

"Is that a threat?" she asked.

He matched the intensity of her glare. "Simply a warning. Tell the Divine Mother what she's asking of me will bring dire consequences. Irreversible consequences."

Her lips thinned into a starkly sinister grin. "If Armageddon is what you're referring to, we're counting on it." Turning from him, she crooned, "It would be in your best interest not to fail us, Luther. The entire world will soon learn the meaning of true fear and you're going to want to be on our side of history."