Forged in Flame (16 page)

“Wasn’t my idea. This harebrained scheme is all our dear sister’s grand plan.”

“I told her it was a waste of time.” Richard sighed. “And that if you had fallen in with The Order, there was no point in meeting.”

“Joining was my choice. No one just
falls in
with The Order.”

“That’s what I was afraid of, little brother.”

“We were born at the same time.”

“Didn’t happen that way and if it were the case, I doubt we would have survived. I was born before you, which makes you my
little
brother.” Richard knew that making of issue of it always pissed Jarreth off. He hoped putting him on the defensive would make him pissed off and allow details about The Order to slip.

“By all of thirty minutes.”

“Still makes me head of the family, since mom and dad are gone.”

“Why are we here?”
 

“Lisa wanted me to talk you out of whatever you’re going to do for The Order. She’s worried about you. You can still back out. If you haven’t gone through the initiation rites, you can still walk…” his words trailed off as Jarreth pulled up his left sleeve. There on his wrist, like a poisonous spider, sat a delicate black rose surrounded by a circlet of interwoven vines with scythe-like thorns.
Shit.

“You and our
dear sister…
” he sneered as though Lisa were some disgusting bug to be crushed under foot, “…are too late.” Jarreth stood and turned to face his brother. “While you’ve been wasting time cozying up to the bloodsuckers, I’ve been doing something to break this curse.” He held up his hand and Richard caught sight of the black rose tattooed on the inside of his wrist. “I’m the only one who’s been proactive to fix this. I will not have
my
course of action dictated by you or Lisa.” He didn’t give Richard a chance to respond before he turned on his heels and stormed away, disappearing into the crowd of humans.

Several hours after meeting with his brother, Knight 157, once known as Jarreth Minagh stood in front of the Keep. The High Lord had summoned him more than half an hour ago. He shivered in spite of the sunshine and relative warmth of the day. The looming facade had sucked all the warmth from the air surrounding it. He swallowed hard, squared his shoulders and held his head level, meeting the gaze of any who crossed his path as he stalked through the halls. When 157 stepped into the audience chamber, the room temperature plummeted to near freezing.
The High Lord isn't pleased,
157 realized as he took a deep breath to bolster his courage. He strode to the center of the room, posture defiant, head held high until the last possible second.
 

When he couldn’t put it off any longer, he dropped to his knees at the heart of the mosaic black rose. It wasn’t the smooth, controlled move that he’d hoped for. His knees hit the tile with enough force that his teeth snapped together. Pain flashed through him and 157 fought to keep his expression neutral. Without missing a beat, he prostrated himself, leaning forward and stretching his arms out in front of him, resting his forehead on the patchwork of tiny tiles and mortar.
 

The annals of The Order offered no prescribed length of time, no guideline that would end his humiliation. His fate lay in the hands of the High Lord, and only
his
command would release the Knight from his penance. One word from the High Lord would end this torture and start a new one.
 

I’m not sure which torture is preferable at this point. It’s just two sides of the same painful coin. I’ve been a Knight long enough to know that.

“You have failed.” The High Lord sounded bored as he spoke in slow, simple words. He didn’t release the knight from his humiliating position. “What do you have to say in your defense?”

“The vampire was not the one The Order told me to expect.”

“That should not have been a problem.” A note of mocking disbelief echoed in the Scottish accented voice.

Knight 157 fought the urge to raise his head or show any hint of the defiance that had built inside him. “I believe that any of us would have difficulty in taking down The Assassin.”

“The Assassin?” The High Lord’s voice hissed mere inches from his ear while hot, fetid breath, invaded his senses.
 

“You had enough of the drug to take down three vampires. Why did you not use it all? Do you have any idea what we could have done with
a single
vial of the Assassin’s blood?”

“I gave him all the sedatives I had. He shook it off in less than three minutes.” Knight 157’s knees ached, and his body trembled as muscles protested the prolonged time on his knees. Regardless, he didn’t dare move.
 

“You are telling me that the sedative was not enough to keep him out long enough to take his blood?”

“I took the blood, High Lord.” He paused and took a deep breath. “From his heart. Two vials as instructed.”

“Then what happened? Why do
you not
have them?”

“He took them back.” Knight 157 waited for the ax to fall.

The High Lord said nothing. Silence hung heavy in the chamber, threatening to suffocate him. Still 157 remained on his knees. The tiles pressed against his knees, and he knew he would have bruises that matched their shape once he was allowed to rise. He heard the whisper of soft-soled shoes on stone as the High Lord returned to the dais.
 

“You have failed,” the High Lord repeated as he sat and steepled his fingers together.
 

Silence closed in. Air left the room, and 157 felt his lungs scream out for precious oxygen.

The High Lord’s voice rang out from the front of the great hall. “Failure is not acceptable, no matter the reason.” He cleared his throat. “Why did you reach out to your family?”

“Pardon me, High Lord?”

“You called your family. The one you were born into. You met with your brother.”

Jarreth’s heartbeat started pounding in his ears.
How does The Order know?

“I will take your silence as an admission of guilt. Still have nothing to say?” The High Lord waited, letting the silence stretch. “Very well.” Heat in the room intensified, and 157 feared his blood would boil in his veins. “Twenty lashes and forty hours upon the rack.” The High Lord proclaimed his sentence in his normal, bored tone.
 

Knight 157 stayed still, knowing that additional time would be added to his punishment if he moved. The rituals that bound every Knight to the Order gave them advantages against vampires and other unholy creatures, but there were a trade-offs, the ability to survive extended periods of the most painful and creative torture among them.
 

When a cold hand closed around each of his arms, 157 flinched. They hauled him up and dragged out of the stone chamber, fighting to get his feet underneath him, but the hooded figures, known as the Blades, were moving too fast for him. They pulled him through the confusing network of halls to the torture chamber.
 

The Blades forced 157 to his knees, yanking his wrists behind him and binding them with rough rope. As part of their initiation rites, every Knight watched the Blades with a prisoner under their
care
. The hood came next, little more than a burlap sack slipped over his head and secured with a heavy, iron collar around his neck. The air inside the bag was thick with dust and itched where rough fabric touched his flesh. The daggers were next, and 157 turned his mind inward. He focused on an image of his sister, his reason for doing this. He didn’t care about eradicating vampires, only about breaking the curse.
 

His clothes were sliced off him, the tip of the daggers precariously close to nicking his skin. He stood in place, not daring to move a muscle as the clothing fell to the floor. The former Jarreth’s wrists were cut free and a huge guard hauled the new 157 to his feet. He wanted to run but fought the urge to rip off the hood and fight. Moving as one, the Blades locked cold iron manacles around his wrists. A moment later, his arms were pulled up so he stretched as far as possible without coming up on his toes. Shivering, 157 closed his eyes, waiting.
 

He lost track of time and had begun to relax, his body acclimating to the cold so the involuntary shivering had stopped. When the first blow fell, an explosion of pain spread across his lower back and thighs.
 

“Count,” one of the Blades ordered.
 

The Knight’s back burned with searing pain. He fought the urge to show defiance in the face of the torture.
 

“You will not be asked again.” The Blade’s voice held a hint of humor and excitement. “You will be lashed until you count. You must count the prescribed number of lashes. If you do not, the lashes begin again until you do.”
 

“One,” 157 answered through gritted teeth.

The lash fell again, vicious metal tips bit deep into his flesh. One of the tails wrapped around his torso and cut into his abdomen. He screamed the count, and the lash fell again. Behind him, he heard whispers… hissing serpents. Gasping for breath, 157 continued the count and the cycle repeated. After the fifth lash, a long pause, and then some distant part of his mind wondered if he had missed the count.
 

He knew what they were doing. Had been forced to witness more than one punishment as part of his indoctrination.
They will not break me.
He steeled himself with the strength that each Black Rose gave every Knight, fighting against the urge to give in.

When the final lash had been delivered, 157 held onto the stake, trying to catch his breath. Ice-cold saltwater hit his back, and he screamed as a new pain ripped through every raw, exposed gash. The Blades didn’t wait. They moved with cool efficiency as they released him from his bindings and pulled the hood from his head. He sank to the floor and sagged against the post while hot tears streamed down his face. They grabbed his upper arms and dragged him across the floor to the rack. He screamed when they pressed his back against the stone wall, every wound erupting in new explosions of pain. His scream cut short when a foul tasting cloth filled his mouth. Choking, he tried in vain to dislodge it with his tongue.
 

The hood came next. Suffocating darkness wrapped him in its shroud, his toes scraping along the floor as the blades dragged him across the room.
 

He couldn’t hear anything above the sound of his own raspy breathing and his heart thundering in his ears. 157 screamed as they dragged first one arm and then the other up over his head and bound them to the apparatus with thick rope. After repeating the process with his ankles, the Blades tilted the table so he was lying flat on his back. Minutes felt like hours, the pain across his back ebbed to a dull ache and his breathing had evened out.

Is that it?

Out of nowhere, a loud screech came from above his head as the ropes bit into the flesh around his wrists and ankles. He struggled against them, fighting to slip free of his bonds, but the Blades had done their work well. He was trapped. They stretched him until his joints burned just before the point where they would dislocate. They left him there, alone, with nothing to do but focus on his breathing. Heavy doors closed, and 157 knew the real punishment had begun.

This
was the true price of his failure.
 

18 - San Francisco, CA - October 15, 2012

Nicholas pulled the borrowed car into the garage and killed the engine before letting his head drop back to the headrest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, a sense of dread descending on him like a shroud. Too many nights had passed since Jayson’s last kill. He dropped his chin to his chest and massaged his temples with his fingers. Allowing himself a few extra minutes to let go of his frustration, he finally stepped out of the car.

When he entered the living room, he took off his jacket, tossing it on one of the high-backed chairs. Eric sat at the breakfast bar, his laptop open in front of him. Through the French doors, Nicholas watched Morgan and Richard out on the patio. The Sorcerer demonstrated some sort of spell as Morgan watched, nodding every now and again.
 

“Welcome back,” Eric said from the kitchen.

“Richard and Morgan are hard at work?”

Eric shrugged. “Not sure how hard they’re working, but they are having a lesson.”

Nicholas entered the kitchen and poured himself a snifter of brandy. “How long have they been at it?”