Blood Winter: Immortalibus Bella 3 Read online

  Blood Winter

  Immortalibus Bella 3

  SL Figuhr

  This is a SL Figuhr Book

  Published by SL Figuhr Publishing

  Copyright © 2013 by

  All rights reserved under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, the Universal Copyright Convention and the Berne Convention For The Protection Of Literary and Artistic Works. The author of this book, SL Figuhr, secures all rights to this book, including the rights to reproduce this book in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, and extends such privileges to absolutely no other parties, individuals or companies. Not including ebook exemptions of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, in whole or in part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means including, but not limited to, all existing and yet to be invented information duplicating, storage or retrieval systems, without the specific permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.

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  Email: [email protected]

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  ISBN-13: 978-0-9911498-7-2 (SL Figuhr Publishing)

  ISBN-10: 0-991149866

  LCCN: 2014953505

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, images, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Edited by:

  Lynda Dietz

  Design by Celairen Art

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  using stock photography of

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  Cover Model: Danielle Fiore

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  DEDICATION

  Thank you to Bland (#1 groupie and fan), Iris (whose always believed in me), Michelle (my personal cheerleader,) Tom (for listening to all my whining), Maria (for providing the kick-in-the-pants I needed to publish,) to everyone whose stayed with me during my endeavors, and to all my new fans. I hope you enjoy the continuing journey.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Epilogue

  Connect Online

  Prologue

  Icy air streamed past the stone peaks, and a three-quarters moon played hide and seek with the clouds. Illyria stood on a small ledge, one booted foot propped against a lip of stone, inured to the freezing temperature.

  The rivers reminded her of spilled ink, the main town and smaller villages along it blots. Inhabitants slept, some peacefully, others uneasily. Darker patches spoke of forests and valleys, an occasional faint twinkle marking the spot of hidden camps.

  She brooded over past events. She and her allies had defeated their common enemy, but the feelings of wrongness and evil still lay over the land. How long would it take before the demon's taint dissipated?

  Her right wrist ached and itched beneath the black leather bracers. Her body wanted to heal the scars, but couldn't, so every now and again she felt a twinge, reminding her she was demon marked.

  When would payment come, if at all? Would she be forced back into the underworld as a slave? She had explored and then escaped from the afterlife, making herself what she was today. Or would she be used against her will to tear a rift open so demons could conquer her world? But these mental musings served no immediate purpose. She shoved them into a corner of her mind, to be ruminated on when other, more pressing, problems had been solved.

  Illyria turned her thoughts from the recent past to her future. Her world, her domain, spread out below the mountain peak she stood on. It was her territory. She was its Master.

  Mine, she thought and sent out with her power. Mine. Do not trespass, lest death come for you. Was any of her kind left to hear the message? To pass the warning on? And what of Phillip? Was his mind still broken by the demon? Did he wander the world or had he met his Final Death at the hands of others?

  A moment of grief and sadness washed over her at the idea. Two blood tears leaked out from beneath half-closed lids, leaving frozen tracks down her face before hitting the mountain and bouncing. It didn't matter if those she mourned had been friends, enemies, or unknown; they had all been kin. They deserved at least one moment of acknowledgment that at one time they had existed. She supposed that if she were the last vampire left, she could be the progenitor of a new resurgence should she so choose.

  Once, the mental aether had been filled with noise from mortals and vampires alike, day and night. Enough clamor to drive one insane if one didn't learn how to dampen it. Now, the reverse was true.

  The vampire cast her eyes over the crescent-shaped mountains, which sheltered the valleys and lowlands between their mighty heights.

  She had dealt with the aftermath surrounding Lord Nicky's death. The immortals wouldn't speak of it. She made the king believe Nicky was alive, in hiding and plotting the death of the king. Maceanas was devastated by the duplicity of his oldest and dearest friend. He declared Nicky a traitor, and his life, property, and wealth forfeit.

  A self-satisfied smile creased her features. The nobles fought among themselves to appoint the next advisor. The guilds and rich townspeople fought for more power and recognition from the king. The poor, the slaves . . . they just struggled to survive.

  It didn't matter to her what the mortals who occupied the land thought. Let them fight over it, pretend they ruled it and those who lived there. She knew better—and soon, so would they

  CHAPTER ONE

  Martin paused in the hallway, hearing the murmur of voices coming from inside his father's former office. It was past midnight, and he knew normally his sire spent his nights with his lover, the duchess. He rarely slept at the family townhouse anymore. It did not sound like a female voice, however. The carved wooden door hadn't been properly closed, and a thin crack let a line of light and sound leak out.

  The young viscount carefully moved closer to the small opening, avoiding the creaky spots in the floor. He angled himself so he could hear better, pressing up against the wall beside the small crack. I'm not eavesdropping, he told himself. I'm just waiting for the right moment to announce myself.

  “You made a promise to me. Now it is time to keep it. You will mention to His Majesty I am the best noble for the role of advis
or.” The marquis' silky tone was cold.

  “I am surprised you still desire the help of one you continually call weak,” the earl spat back.

  “I wouldn't, but your cowardice in political matters is well known. When the king hears your mewling support, he will know I am the correct choice.” The scent of cigar smoke floated on the air.

  “Your association with the traitorous advisor will speak more loudly than I on the subject,” Sydney replied.

  Martin could only imagine the look of thwarted rage on Jenabram's face as the man spoke. “We already discussed the matter. It is time you paid for the information I gave you. You will do as you promised—unless you wish to join your brothers?”

  “Do not dare speak their names with your serpent’s tongue!” The earl's voice held more rage than his son had ever heard.

  “Neither I, nor the king, gives a damn about what you think of those events. It is ancient history. Now then, I expect the duchess will also support my claim.”

  His father's reply came crisply. “As I have stated—” He was brutally cut off.

  “Don't whine to me! I don't care what you, or she, think. Just do it. I imagine there are worse fates than execution, especially if you hope to achieve your longed-for divorce.” A chair creaked.

  “Death would be preferable.”

  Martin strained to hear, nearly missing his sire's low voice response as a bell rang to summon a slave.

  A bark of cruel laughter came from the marquis. “Consider the thought motivation.” The sound of firm footsteps crossing the floor came clearly to Martin.

  The young man hurried to hide behind a tall, ornamental vase. The door to the office was flung open a moment later, the irate face of the marquis briefly seen in the oil light, a cloud of cigar smoke trailing behind him. The man walked down the hall, intent on letting himself out whether or not a slave appeared. For a moment, Martin debated following, but thought otherwise as the doorman stepped from a side hall.

  Martin had been handed a summons earlier that day by the butler, commanding his presence, along with the other nobles and townspeople of high status, to cast votes for candidates for the advisor's position. The young man couldn't say what made him so sure the duchess wouldn't back the marquis, only that he knew he was right. Tomorrow would tell for certain.

  * * *

  When Martin awoke, he asked after his sire, only to be told he wasn't present. The young man dressed with care. The gathering of nobles would be his first time participating in a royal election. The palace grounds bustled as his sled pulled into the courtyard. Martin followed a throng of older men inside the palace and toward the council rooms. The great council chambers echoed with voices. Clumps of people, mainly comprised of men, with a few women, stood scattered about the space. It was a point of pride among the nobles, to wear outfits in the fashion of their ancestors. The more out-of-date the clothing looked, the older the title. Some members had managed to preserve their father's or great-grandfather's clothes. The young man could easily spot those whose titles had been granted within the past decade. They wore newer styles and didn't always adhere to their house colors. They also decked themselves out with more jewelry. Some of the people were minor nobles who had been elevated. Often it was a commoner or merchant who’d managed to do some fantastic deed meriting recognition.

  Martin continued his stroll about the interconnected rooms. Most people chose to mill about the antechamber. Four stone carved fireplaces roared with flame in an effort to heat the space. Elaborate brass oil lanterns hung from brass wall sconces cast in the likenesses of past nobles. Overhead, six massive chandeliers of three-tiered metal held thick candles. The heavy brocade drapes around the windows swayed periodically from stray gusts of wind which found their way through cracks in the stone walls. They were tied back to allow the weak winter sun to filter through precious glass. The young man roamed the perimeter of the room, his boots thumping softly on the highly polished oak floor, after acknowledging his peers and betters.

  As he had last night, he eavesdropped shamelessly while thinking, This is becoming a bad habit. One my father would be ashamed of if he knew.

  He paused by a window, as if looking out over the dreary landscape, while listening. Baron Stavic, dressed in green velvet and lace, groused to a group of men, all barons themselves.

  “That prick of a marquis stopped by a while ago, hoping to enlist my support for his bid to become advisor.”

  “I would not let him hear you call him names,” one of the other barons with a thick, waxed mustache mildly suggested.

  “I stand under the good graces of the duchess herself. What more support could a man want?” Stavic replied.

  Quiet chuckles came from some of the men. “And what of when she falls out of the king's favor? Her cronies are not of high position,” needled a man in puce brocade banded with egg-yolk-colored silk.

  “Perhaps that is why they are her cronies,” a different man in black and violet finely woven wool put forth, “for then she will have no real competition.”

  “I would not call Earl Sydney of low standing,” Stavic protested.

  “Of whom do we speak? The elder, who has distanced himself from his family and his name, all because he lusts after the duchess? Or his heir, who has yet to prove himself worthy of his lineage?” the baron with waxed mustache asked.

  Martin didn't stay to hear the rest; he moved on, strolling through the crowds. The intricately carved wood double doors leading into the major chamber stood open with royal guards to each side. A few nobles stood in clumps amid the tiered seats encircling the pit floor. He listened to the debates of which nobles should be nominated for the post as he prowled. Most of the young men he had grown up with had yet to inherit their titles and lands from their fathers, thus they had no say in the matters being discussed, and were not permitted inside. At the far end of the major council chamber, another set of doors remained closed and guarded. Martin knew from talks with his father, the great table of the inner council resided in the room beyond. Each chair's seat back around the long, massive wood table bore the crest of the noble to whom it belonged.

  Martin strolled back to the antechamber. It seemed as if hours passed, but when he glanced at the water clock upon a mantel, only a quarter of an hour had elapsed. He occasionally amused himself by inspecting the tapestries which hung about the room. They depicted various kings and battles. After a few more minutes, the tramp of feet could be heard. The king's personal guards entered, followed by Aranthus and His Majesty. A servant carrying an elongated jug slipped inside the room before the guards shut the doors.

  “All kneel and acknowledge your king!” the chamberlain bawled out.

  Clothes rustled and a few joints creaked as the crowd complied, rising when bid. The king waddled inside, looking much larger, to sit himself in an ornately carved armchair, slightly elevated. It provided him with a clearer view of the long room. No one present could miss the ornate, jeweled gold goblet he held in one hand and drank deeply from at regular intervals.

  His personal guard arranged themselves in a semicircle at his back. “We all know why we are here, so let's not waste time. I know there are still traitors in our midst; Nicky is still free.”

  No one moved. The king's voice, slurred by drink, shook, letting everyone know the rumors of his being perpetually on the brink of hysteria closer to the truth.

  “For the past week, I have been inundated by those seeking to be named royal advisor.” His voice firmed a moment with a tone of annoyance.

  Glances and whispers were surreptitiously traded.

  “I am tired of your sycophancy and squabbling. None of you, except for two, had the fortitude and bravery to consistently speak against Nicky out loud.”

  There was a low sound of hisses from different parts of the room, as if snakes were loose.

  “Therefore, I have decided to suspend your privilege of choosing candidates for the position of advisor. I will make a decision on my own, and announce it w
hen I feel ready.”

  Shocked exclamations rang out, their owners seemingly unable to prevent them from escaping at the king's words.

  “You dare to defy me?” Maceanas screamed, sounding more like his old self.

  Most of those in the room lowered their heads, bowing apologies and denials.

  “Who among you dares to naysay me?” The king was now standing, fat face turning florid, goblet momentarily forgotten as his hands clenched into fists and he glared out over the crowd.

  “If it pleases the crown, I wish to speak,” a familiar drawling voice spoke.

  Heads turned just enough to catch a glimpse of the Marquis Jenabram straightening from his bow.

  “It does not!” Maceanas yelled.

  Blithely the man continued. “Sire, that orphan,” he spat, “brought shame to the entire kingdom. Please at least let your inner council of nobles put forth a few names of those we consider worthy for your deliberations.”

  All heads turned toward the king, whose red shade deepened into a dusky purple. Those present who despised and hated the sneering marquis hoped he would be severely reprimanded.

  “You dare ignore me? You dare to ignore my wishes?”

  “I have never liked nor trusted the boy, Majesty. A feeling I never hid,” Jenabram stated, “in which case, yes, I dare to make suggestions.” His tone clearly implied any name the council put forth other than his own would be a mistake.

  Heads swiveled back and forth, low whispers and murmurs rising against the silence.

  “Then you should take comfort in the fact that is the only reason why I am allowing you to keep your tongue in your head, and your head upon your neck,” the king screamed.

  Both men had much the same look of rage, but Jenabram stiffened, making a deep, deferential bow.

  “As for the rest of you, quit bothering me with your suggestions for a replacement. I want all able-bodied men out looking for that traitor and helping to rebuild my nation. Now get out of my sight and stay out!”