The Blood Ruby

by M. A. duBarry

Amber Quill Press, LLC - Erotica

Copyright (C)2003 by Josephine Piraneo

Temple of the Moon—Dun Drac'ola

Lhiannan Sidhe opened her eyes and met with nothing but cold, empty darkness. Intense panic filled her soul. She tried to lash out, to raise her hands to her face, to search the black void now staring back at her. But such actions were attempted only in vain. She was blindfolded, bound and drugged. The sudden realization added to her panic. She hated being so vulnerable.

Taking a deep breath, Lhiannan tried to calm her nerves as best she could. An array of vague, hazy scenes danced in her head. Niamh. Lhiannan recalled she'd earlier gone to the Temple of the Moon to seek out Niamh, the high priestess who served the lunar goddesses. For tonight, Niamh would assist her as Lhiannan gave her body to the Sun's chosen warrior. Lhiannan let out a sigh. Mayhap her agreeing to such an arrangement hadn't been a wise choice, but in her present condition, she could do nothing to change her fate.

Raised as the Moon Mistress's handpicked vessel, Lhiannan had spent her entire life being tutored for this very night, preparing for her taking. The solar warrior was a man who would compliment her lunar traits. And, even if they never met again, after what would be done here tonight, their souls would remain forever linked in the eyes of the Sun and the Moon. Literally, a marriage made in the heavens.

Lhiannan sucked in a deep breath, the cold temple air filling her lungs. Based on her knowledge of herbs and potions, she recognized the sensations coursing through her body as the effects of a brew made with Drac'olian Root. The prized herb was used widely among her race, the Fae, as well as by the Drac'olian's, as part of their sacred sex acts. But tonight something was different. She didn't like the odd sensations assaulting her body and her mind. The effects were both familiar and strange. Being drugged had brought back memories of torment suffered at the hands of her sister's enemies when she was a child.

She hadn't had reason to reflect on her painful past in years. The Fae and the Drac'olians enjoyed peace in the present. The long wars had finally ceased, as had the practice of kidnapping royals, such as herself. Lhiannan lived a tranquil life, the past firmly behind her. Or so she'd thought.

Indeed, the effects of the Drac'olian Root attacked her in a way she'd never imagined possible. Her intolerance to it came as a surprise.

During her sexual education, the mystical herb had been used on an almost daily basis since Drac'olian Root served to heighten one's sense of pleasure. Never once had it bothered her. But what she felt at present was a far cry from anything even remotely close to bliss. The priestess's magical brew somehow had been altered...more potent, mayhap. Lhiannan couldn't quite grasp the nature of the difference.

She remained in a daze, fighting the turmoil brewing in her body, trying to focus her energy. Judging by what her body sensed, the soft touch of silk graced her face from the middle of her nose to just above her eyes. She was naked, laid out spread eagle. Rough, twisted rope hugged her wrists, tying them to the bedposts behind her head. Her legs were also bound with rope, but not as tightly as her arms. The cool, crisp air of the temple chamber caressed her body and caused her nipples to pucker.

“Lhiannan?” A familiar voice called out to her.

Using the preternatural abilities with which she'd been blessed since birth, Lhiannan sensed the priestess's every move, despite her blinded site. “What poison have you given me, Niamh? I feel as strange as I did when the Celtai Drac'olian's took me prisoner at their castle.”

The priestess approached Lhiannan's bed. “'Tis only a strong dose of Drac'olian Root, nothing more. The doubled dose is bound to cause double the effect. But I had no choice in the matter, your majesty. Necessary precautions must be taken when dealing with the gods. The law states you cannot conceive a child lest the gods deem it so, and tonight could be detrimental to your kingdom and to your yet-to-be-conceived heir. Rules must be followed.”

“But why a double dose of the root?”

“It will prevent the seed from taking root in your womb and it will serve to enhance your pleasure. In time you will come to thank me.”

The old crone was wrong. Lhiannan could never imagine thanking the woman for such loss of control. She was the legendary Vampyre Fae, the soul who always controlled her destiny. She didn't like being helpless.

“The Drac'olian prince is an uncommon soul among his kind,” said Niamh. “He is a prophet and you are his destiny. You must be the one who forces his soul to return to its proper state. Without you, he will never reclaim that which is rightfully his.”

That was it. That was why her painful memories returned. The man who would lay claim to her body was a Drac'olian, a soul descended of the race that once held her captive.

The thought of giving herself to a one-time enemy displeased Lhiannan. “Why should I concern myself with a Drac'olian? I am a Fae and a Vampyre Fae at that. Drac'olian's mean nothing to me. And the Celtai, their ancestors, mean even less.”

The priestess leaned closer to the bed. “Don't be a fool, my lady. We speak of the one they call Quentin Moore. The Sun's chosen warrior, the moon's counterpart. He is your soul mate.”

Lhiannan understood the magnitude of the night before her. Only this man could sate her true desires. And when the time was right, only this Drac'olian, this Quentin Moore, would be able to give Lhiannan the child she craved, the heir her kingdom needed. But why did he have to be born of her enemies? Why couldn't he have been another Vampyre Fae, such as herself?

Niamh let out a sigh. Lhiannan felt the crone's soft hand take hers. “Even if he is descended of those who once held you captive, you mustn't judge him, Lhiannan. The man knows little, if anything, of his heritage.”

“And should he decline the offer?”

“He won't,” answered Niamh.

“How can you be so sure? When he learns who I am, mayhap he won't be so eager to lay with me.”

“He mustn't learn your identity,” said Niamh. “In time you will come to know one another, but for now, the Drac'olian mustn't know the name of the woman with whom he lays.”

Niamh leaned over the bed. “Lift your head.”

Lhiannan obliged. Smooth, cold metal bore down upon her face. The caress of a form-fitting mask kissed her flesh. Only her lips and chin remained exposed, the rest of her face was now hidden behind silk and metal. Lhiannan licked her parched lips. The sweet taste of Drac'olian Ambrosia coupled with her tongue.

Niamh stepped away.

Lhiannan rested her head back upon the bed.

On the instant, a sensual yearning struck Lhiannan's body. The swollen, sensitive nub cradled in her private folds ached. Thanks to Niamh's brew, she needed the Drac'olian...probably more than he needed her.

Taught to never forgo pleasure, Lhiannan twisted her ankles against the rope bindings. She dug her bare heels into the mattress and pushed her bottom up, allowing the crisp air to caress her clit. Ripples of pure bliss shot through her and claimed her desires. But the effects of the Drac'olian Root only served to ignite an even greater need in her body. She moaned.

Another soul entered the chamber. Lhiannan sensed the Drac'olian's presence, felt the heat of his eyes as they raked over her body from head to toe.

“She's not a priestess,” he said. His voice low and deep, reached her ears as if she were standing next to him. “What tricks are you up to, Niamh? I've a mind to turn around, walk straight back to my castle and never return.”

“Have I ever displeased you, Quentin? Did wrong by you in any way?”

“No,” said the Drac'olian. “But...”

Lhiannan sensed angst in Niamh's soul. “My priestesses have only given you everything,” said the crone. “Tutored you in the best manner possible. How can you question my actions now?”

“May I remind you, priestess, your tutors benefited quite well from my so-called education. On that matter we are even." Lhiannan heard the displeasure in the Drac'olian's voice. His pain went beyond mere anger, beyond that which the average man suffered. In the farthest depths of her soul, she felt for him.

“She is your destiny, Quentin. You must take the woman, and begin your journey back to the state in which your soul was meant to live.”

Lhiannan heard Quentin pace back and forth. “What if I have no desire to return to the night? I walk freely among the sun, now. Returning to my true state will only serve to curse me. To take away that to which I have become accustomed, the only life I've known...”

Niamh slammed her hand upon the wall. “If you deny your sacred birthright, your people will never be free. They were meant to be creatures of the night, not warriors of the sun.”

Lhiannan scanned the Drac'olian's thoughts. He had an honorable soul, was a man determined to live for his kingdom and to die for it. Yet she found no true love inside him. He was bound to the sword—a true warrior in every sense of the word.

“You can't force me to do anything, priestess,” said Quentin. “I will not fall for trickery and magic. My mind is made up. I will not bed the woman.” The Drac'olian began to walk away. Lhiannan felt his soul fading from the room.

“But you must,” cried Niamh.

The Dracolian's inner pain struck Lhiannan's heart. He was filled with darkness and angst.

“It is one thing to bed a barren priestess and another thing entirely to spill my seed where it might grow.” He paused. Lhiannan sensed the Drac'olian's heart twist in agony. “'Twas my birth that killed my mother and never will I curse another woman in the same manner.”

“No child will come of your union with her,” said Niamh. “Precautions have been taken.”

“What did you do to her?”

“I've given her a brew made from Drac'olian Root, nothing more.”

Lhiannan pressed her thighs together a second time. The ambrosia was taking full effect now. Her body had grown more sensitive than she ever imagined possible. Her breasts ached for the Drac'olian's touch and her swollen clit craved his kiss. She wanted him on her and in her like she'd never wanted any man before. “Please.” The cry escaped her lips before she realized the word had fallen from her mouth. Lhiannan writhed on the bed, twisting her body about the soft mattress, pulling at the ropes binding her hands and her feet

“The choice is yours, Quentin. Take the woman and face your destiny, or leave and never see your people live the life they were born to fulfill.”

Lhiannan felt Quentin's eyes on her, roaming over her naked body. She scanned his thoughts once more. Never had the Drac'olian been given a woman who didn't demand a price in return for her sating his needs. He didn't trust Niamh.

Finally, he said, “I will do what is needed of me. Nothing more.”

The sound of metal clanging against stone echoed in the room. A soft thud followed, then a second.

Sword, boots... Lhiannan identified the objects falling to the floor. The Drac'olian had removed his weapon and now he shed his clothes. Eager anticipation filled her soul. Soon he would be inside her, fulfilling the ancient prophecy of the Fae legacy. Soon she would begin to make him a creature like herself, a creature of the night.

The thought of tasting the man's blood enticed her. In rising anticipation, Lhiannan ran her tongue over the sharp, protruding points of her growing fangs. A slight taste of blood lingered in her mouth. The dark hunger that cursed her soul emerged like a slow, stalking predator waiting for its next prey.

"Not yet." The harsh sound of Niamh's stern voice echoed inside Lhiannan's head as the priestess communicated with her through telepathy, sheltering her words from the Drac'olian's ears. “Let him take you first and only after you have truly melded with his soul may you begin the process of bringing him across."

Lhiannan swallowed and forced her fangs to retreat.

She sensed Niamh leave the room and heard the Drac'olian make his way across the chamber to stand at the foot of her bed. She felt his gaze upon her body; his insatiable hunger for her. The man was born for sex, as was she.

Quentin climbed onto the bed and rested his hard, hot body between Lhiannan's thighs. The tip of his erect cock touched her swollen mound. She moaned in pleasure and bucked her hips toward him, seeking more of what she knew he had to offer.

He reached for her legs and gently pushed them farther apart.

The heat emerging from the Drac'olian's body warmed her cold flesh. Lhiannan shuddered at the sensation of such extreme temperatures melding together.

He leaned closer and positioned his arms on either side of her. “Do you have a name?”

“Identities matter not, my lord.”

The pad of his thumb caressed her lips, sending a shiver down Lhiannan's spine. Quentin lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. She sensed his hunger. Raw and untamed—the man's desires were much the same as parts of his soul. He'd never known love and he had no interest in learning such emotions at present.

The coldness of his feelings stirred her to the core. Lhiannan had never encountered such a creature. In her world, Lhiannan's family showered her with love and with all that she could ever need or want. But the man in her bed knew nothing of such a life. Lhiannan felt for him, her heart pained by his losses.

He pulled away from her mouth and trailed his tongue to her neck. In slow, deliberate moves, the Drac'olian traced small circles about Lhiannan's flesh, tormenting her in a way that made her skin tingle. The soft touch of his tongue sent goose bumps dancing upon her skin. He continued to move his head further down her body. A second later, Lhiannan froze as the Drac'olian's lips lightly caressed the puckered peak of her right breast.

Quentin teased her, drove her to the edge. His tongue darted up and down, side to side. Lhiannan arched her body toward him. The Drac'olian took her aching nipple inside his mouth and lightly bit down. He pulled and sucked and sucked and pulled. The man worked her hard nipple in a ferocious manner and she couldn't be more pleased.

But the Drac'olian's talents didn't end with his mouth. As he worked her right breast, he reached his hot hand to her left nipple. He pinched her, then rolled her taut, sensitive flesh between his finger and thumb.

Lhiannan bit her bottom lip. The man's exquisite touch reached even to her clit. She couldn't stand it anymore. She rubbed herself against the Drac'olian's thigh and writhed in pleasure as ripples exploded between her legs. The man was all muscle, hard, hot, and sinewy. She wished she could touch his body with her hands, explore his glorious flesh, lay her eyes upon his face. But she was forbidden.

The Drac'olian pulled his mouth away from her nipple and shifted his body toward the bottom of the bed. The searing touch of his large hands caressed Lhiannan's inner thighs. He reached for her heated pussy and spread her nether lips apart.

She moaned.

His fingers sought her mound.

Lhiannan raised her bottom, eager to meet with Quentin's hand. He lightly pinched her, and rolled her swollen clit between his thumb and fingers.

She let out a sigh and twisted even more.

His fingers slid inside her, teasing her.

Lhiannan moaned a second time. Gods, she'd never survive this night.

Quentin pulled away. The sear of his lips kissed the soft flesh of her inner thighs. His hot breath teased the vulnerable apex between her legs. She wanted more of him. She wanted his lips against her aching mound, suckling her most private parts as he had her nipples.

She was certain he read her thoughts. In an instant the Drac'olian buried his head between her legs. His warm, hot mouth assaulted her clitoris, taking the sensitive bud with his lips and his tongue. He lapped at her like a hungry puppy dog, taking all that she offered and doing so in a most pleasing manner.

Lhiannan pulled at the ropes binding her arms to the bed. She wanted to reach out and run her hands through Quentin's hair. She wanted to feel him with her hands. But the more she pulled, the tighter the ropes grew. She sighed. The pressure between her legs grew unbearable. Lhiannan needed more of Quentin than merely his skillful tongue and hands. “Take me Dracolian. Take me now lest your fate slip from your grasp.”

Quentin pulled away from the woman beneath him. He stared down at her and wondered how a creature could offer herself to a man in such a raw manner. Mayhap she was like the priestesses of the temple. A woman trained in the ways of the sex masters. The priestesses—while they didn't take their fates lightly—were accustomed to lie with prophets such as him. The act of their coupling served more to raise needed energy than to sate one's own carnal desires.

But something was different about this woman. Something Quentin couldn't put a finger on.

He leaned forward and shadowed her petite body with his own. Her skin was soft to the touch yet slightly cold. A vampyre... The thought of fucking an undead corpse unsettled him. Yet, against his better judgment, he couldn't turn away.

Quentin reached between her thighs and once more slipped a finger inside her. Then two. She was beyond wet. He explored her primed pussy inch by inch, then slowly withdrew his fingers to tease her swollen mound. The woman responded to his every touch.

He wondered what it would be like to feel her hands upon his body. What it would be like to be served by her.

She moaned softly.

He ran his finger over her clitoris. She was so wet, he easily flicked his finger back and forth, faster and faster.

The woman bucked against his hand and moaned.

He smiled to himself. Quentin enjoyed the woman like this. She was slick, ready for the taking and he would oblige her like she'd never been obliged before. In haste, he grasped for the ropes binding the woman's legs to the bed. He untied the fabric shackles with a flick of his wrists, and then continued to pursue his pleasure.

With one quick move Quentin thrust his aching cock inside her, riding her hard and fast until he thought he could do no better.

But the woman surprised him. She raised her legs, and he drove into her even deeper. He filled her completely.

She cried out in a language unknown to him.

A ray of light filtered into the temple from the open circle in the ceiling. The silver glow of the moon encased the woman's body and suddenly became one with her.

Quentin watched her move in rhythm with his own pacing. She whispered a strange word and then licked her lips. In an instant, two pointed fangs emerged from the woman's mouth and bit into the edges of her full bottom lip. A small drop of blood dotted her flesh. Quentin pulled back slightly.

The woman's hand broke free from their rope bonds and grabbed hold of him.

She held a power over him he'd never experienced before. He couldn't move, almost couldn't breathe. She was the one who now did the taking. In a mere moment's time, Quentin had changed from captor to captive. He rocked in tune to her mystical rhythm; fell seduced to her body, her skills.

A slight prick punctured the flesh at his neck. His blood flowed from his body into the woman's mouth.

Quentin Moore had known pain in his life, having suffered from wounds gained in battle, but this pain was like nothing he'd ever felt before. Unlike anything he'd ever imagined he could feel. This was unnatural.

His body quivered from the experience, and he spilled his seed inside the vampyre who had just taken him. He was left shaken, awed and spent.

Quentin collapsed upon what he thought was the woman, but instead felt only fabric and rope beneath his body. She'd vanished, taking with her more of him than he'd cared to give.

And for some strange reason, Quentin couldn't shake the thought that one day, his actions performed tonight would come back to haunt him.

Dun Drac'ola—two years later

He was about to lose his head.

Quentin Moore stood at the executioner's chopping block and realized for the first time in centuries, his immortality was finally at risk. He had fought more battles than any man could imagine, and not just battles in the mortal realm but in the immortal worlds as well. But tonight his luck had run out. Iron shackles braced his ankles, and thick, rough rope bound his wrists. He could barely move, let alone flee. He hated being at his captor's mercy. But try as he might, escape from an army of thousands was a near impossible feat. Especially on his own and up against a Fae army that was led by a Fae vampyre.

“Yes, it is,” said Abhartach. “And a pity for you.”

His enemy approached him with the look and manner of a wild beast. Abhartach was the vilest vampyre in all the known worlds and now Quentin finally knew why. The man had no soul, no conscience.

“Ah,” said Abhartach. “I enjoy reading your thoughts. Such compliments. And from the staunchest of my enemies. Who would have ever guessed?”

Quentin simply stared at him. The armies of the Fae had taken enough from him today, and he had no intentions of allowing his anger to be shown or his pain, for that matter. And pain was indeed what his heart felt. He wondered how his world had come to this, to a fate that should never have befallen his immortal soul.

He eyed Abhartach with a cautious stare. The warlord vampyre slowly closed in on him.

Abhartach drew a dagger from the scabbard hanging on his belt. He raised the sharp point of the blade to Quentin's face and slowly dragged the weapon across his flesh.

Quentin kept his back straight and his eyes fixed on the distant fields ahead. He'd defy Abhartach with every fiber of his being, regardless of the price he must pay. Never would he give in to the man who killed his family. Never.

A warm trickle of blood oozed down Quentin's cheek. His still-raw wounds from earlier in the day, burned again as the sticky liquid made its way to his neck.

Abhartach forced the knife deeper.

The cold steel dug into Quentin's flesh. Still he didn't flinch. His tender flesh burned as if on fire, but all he could do was think back to the pain suffered by his people. His present torment was nothing like that which his subjects had endured.

After being captured and tortured, he'd been forced to watch helplessly as countless Drac'olians were dragged from their homes and slaughtered in the day's surprise attack. Anger stirred in Quentin's soul as he thought of it. The memory of their cries still burned fresh in his ears. Blood had no sex. Women, children, men, it didn't matter to his enemies; they came to spill Drac'olian blood and spill it they did.

Abhartach had known of those close to Quentin's heart, and the vile man had paid them special attention, destroying each and every one of them in the most hideous of manners. From what Quentin had witnessed of his siblings’ torturous deaths, the devil had more mercy than did his enemy.

Now, all that he had known was gone, wiped from this earth in a single blow. The children's laughter, his brothers’ teasing jests, Fiona's smile... Fiona. He didn't want to recall what cruel fate had befallen his younger sister.

Abhartach's men had teased her, taunted her, humiliated her and then each one had his way with her. And there was nothing he could do. Locked in an iron cage, Quentin was forced to watch, as his younger sister was tortured in the cruelest of manners, all the while crying out to him for help.

He had failed her. He had failed them all.

Quentin shook his head and erased these thoughts, instead balling his hands into tight fists and imagining his fingers wrapping around Abhartach's pale neck, choking the life from the Vampyre Fae. But vile thoughts would do him no good. Justice stood to be served and Quentin had every intention of surviving to see his enemy pay for the actions his wickedness had brought upon Dun Drac'ola. He'd spent the better part of his life battling the Sidhe and now was not the time to give in, even if his odds weren't what he'd wished them to be. And with his hands bound behind his back, his legs shackled, and a Herculean-looking executioner armed with a battleaxe standing at his side, Quentin assessed his odds as grim at best.

He cursed to himself. He should have known Abhartach would be back. The man was viler than the devil, himself, and when he eyed a prize, he was relentless in his quest.

Abhartach withdrew his dagger and stepped back. He raised the blade to his tongue and lapped at his cousin's dripping blood like a puppy at a water bowl. “To taste one's own is a gift greater than any the gods have ever bestowed upon me. Truly, there's nothing finer.” He nodded his head to the axe-man.

The executioner shoved Quentin's shoulder and pushed him forward. “On your knees.”

Quentin refused to move. He looked dead ahead and returned his captor's sinister glare with his own cold stare.

“You're a bold one, Quentin Moore. I'll give you that.” Abhartach's lips curled in an impish, half-smile as he once more made his way toward Quentin. “But none the less, I will have your head, even if you force me take it by the steel of my own blade.”

Quentin held his tongue.

“Your fearless reputation precedes you. But in truth, I never expected you to be as bold when facing certain death.” Abhartach leaned in, his cold breath skimming Quentin's ear. “And your death is the one thing I am certain about. It gives me great pleasure to know I will take the life of my uncle's last surviving child. Payback's a bitch, isn't it, Lord Drac'ola?”

Quentin pulled at the rope wrapped tight about his wrists. The rough fibers bit into his sore flesh and stung his open wounds as if they'd been rubbed with salt. But still he wouldn't give up. With all his might, Quentin continued to work at freeing his hands. He'd promised his dying brothers he'd fight to the end; as far as he was concerned, the battle wasn't over with yet.

Abhartach snickered. “For you, it was over before it began. Now be a good sport and humor me. Mayhap a wince or a moan. I'd even settle for the smallest of pleas begging for mercy. It isn't often I get to kill one of my own blood. And considering you're the first in many years, you could at least have the decency to entertain me.”

Quentin remained silent.

The executioner shoved him to his knees, but he refused to lean over and place his head upon the chopping block. Instead, he defied his captor and turned his head around. He raised his gaze and stared up at Abhartach. Not an ounce of fear coursed through his body. Anger was all he felt. The pain from his losses blocked all other emotions.

The axe-man prepared his weapon.

Abhartach raised a hand. “No,” he said. “I've changed my mind. This one is mine.” He motioned to his man-at-arms. “Bring me the Blood Ruby.” In an instant, a sword appeared at his hands. Brilliant colored rays darted off the red stone sitting in the sword's hilt.

Quentin squinted his eyes. The long, sharp blade glistened in the moon's light and blinded him. He watched his enemy through blurred vision.

Abhartach raised his sword and in one swift move brought the weapon even with Quentin's neck. The blade sliced through the air like lightening.

A shattering sound pummeled Quentin's ears. The cold feel of sharp, jagged ice pricked his flesh.

The blade shattered into millions of tiny shards of glass.

Abhartach froze.

Quentin let out a deep breath and swallowed hard. The rumors he'd heard whispered about him were true, the sword's actions told him this. He was more than merely a cursed Drac'olian; he was the last of an ancient line of warriors spawned by the gods. He was immune to death save for that brought on by the gods of darkness. And Quentin knew even Abhartach would never stoop so low as to sell his soul, or rather what he had left of it, for the sake of revenge.

“Never be so sure, cousin,” said Abhartach. He leaned in and bared his fangs. “I've waited a long time for this moment and now you've taken it away from me. Humiliated me in front of my men. Belittled me in the presence of my army. If I knew I could feast upon your blood without repercussion like I can upon a mortal's, be sure that I would. Now you leave me no choice but to do the inevitable.” He retracted his fangs and stepped back.

Whispers echoed through the circle of soldiers surrounding him. Abhartach raised his hands and silenced the crowd. “Calm yourselves. ‘Twas my own magic. Nothing more.” His voice rose. “A minor tease to taunt the queen's prisoner.”

The crowd of armed warriors cheered.

Abhartach looked away from his men and faced the executioner. “Take him to the ship.”

Quentin eyed his cousin. “Do you really think it wise to take me to Aeval?”

A look of surprise crossed Abhartach's pale face. “So, you do still have a tongue. I was beginning to think my men had cut it out of you.” He narrowed his gaze. “I think it very wise for you to be at the Fae Queen's mercy. I've endured her taunts for centuries. Why not you for a change? I think it would be quite fitting considering the circumstances.”

Quentin offered him a blank stare.

“You didn't know, did you?” asked Abhartach.

“Know what?”

Abhartach drew a long breath. “Your father sent me to the realm of the Fae, to the Sidhe, when I was only ten and two. He pried me from my mother's arms, from my father's castle, and sent me to live among a strange race. And since that day, Aeval, queen of the midnight court, has taunted me mercilessly. I have been her subject, her servant, her warrior, and her bedmate. Her obedient slave.

“In the realm of the Sidhe, a man's fate is judged solely by his ability to please his bedmate. I even had to agree to become vampyre because of her. Being born of the Celtai, I should have been given a choice. I had the right to subdue the vampyre that roamed my soul. But Aeval didn't offer me the option. She forced the vampyre inside to emerge.

“Quite frankly, I'm sick of being the queen's toy. Now I shall gift you to Aeval. What she does with you, I do not care.

“I've imprisoned you, beaten you, and killed off all that remained of your father's blood. I've even captured Dun Drac'ola. Now I shall do to your father's last surviving heir what he did to me. I no longer have any use for you, dear cousin. No use at all.”

Quentin rose to his feet as the executioner hauled him up from the chopping block, thinking that the differences between himself and his evil cousin had never been clearer. He had not been born vampyre as had Abhartach. The Celtai beast that ruled his cousin's soul had never been allowed to emerge, and never would it dare. He was a Drac'olian, a soul descended from an ancient line of cursed warriors who once ruled the night. He was also part Fae, from a royal lineage of Fae born of the gods. Abhartach's Fae line hailed from dark souls—those who had sold themselves to the powers of evil.

His mind continued to spin with overwhelming thoughts. Quentin had heard rumors of the Blood Ruby over the years. It was claimed to be the powerful, magical sword his people once owned. His father had given it away; Abhartach possessed it now. But what Quentin didn't know before today, was that the Blood Ruby was his destiny. And to send him to the realm of the Sidhe was to send him one step closer to fulfilling an ancient prophecy set by the gods.

Quentin was sure that Abhartach knew nothing of this prophecy. And if what was whispered about it was true, if the chosen warrior must sate the desires of the queen of the Vampyre Fae, Quentin wasn't so sure he cared to fulfill it. He knew all too well—a child born of his seed would kill its mother. And if he was the cause of the queen's death, he knew there'd be far more than mere hell to pay for his actions.

Realm of the Sidhe

Lhiannan hid in the shadows behind fretwork and curtains, taking extra precautions to remain concealed. A jolt of fear shot through her heart—Abhartach had returned to the realm and she must avoid him at all costs.

She stepped farther into the shadows. She wanted nothing to do with him. The man was cold and empty, a soulless creature not even the night could desire. But as a fierce soldier, he had managed to win support from her sister, the Queen Aeval. The Queen had appointed him the realm's chief warrior. How she could stomach the man, Lhiannan would never know.

Now, Abhartach had caused the realm grief it had never known in the past. He had violated all that the Fae world deemed sacred, wreaking untold havoc and misery at Dun Drac'ola through his sadistic deeds. Worse of all, Abhartach had broken a sacred pact between the Drac'olians and the Fae—a pact created by the gods in which the Drac'olians were given the land and the Fae were given the sea.

Lhiannan had spent years working on that pact, creating diplomatic ties with the race of beings chosen by the gods. Indeed, the pact had once saved her life.

In her mind, no punishment would do justice for Abhartach's actions. She vowed to give all to the Drac'olian's for the sake of her people, and wondered what actions the gods planned in retaliation for Abhartach's deeds.

Lhiannan had decided not to wait for the gods to act. She had taken her own step to see justice done. After viewing the carnage at Dun Drac'ola through her visions, Lhiannan had known she couldn't keep such knowledge a secret and had told her sister about it.

Aeval had shared her horror, had been in a snit for hours after learning of Abhartach's transgressions at Dun Drac'ola. Now, the Fae queen waited silently for Abhartach's return, remaining pensive as she stared out the window, looking across the sea. Lhiannan watched her from behind the thin curtains, wondering what she had up her sleeve.

Lhiannan's thoughts returned to the images of Dun Drac'ola raging through her head. War was never an easy task, but that battle had been far worse than any Lhiannan had ever witnessed. The immortal cries of the slaughtered Drac'olian's still rang fresh in her ears and her dreams were marred by nightmarish visions of rivers flooded with blood. Abhartach had destroyed all but one of the ancient races, and now even the gods were angered.

She shuttered to think what would happen to Aeval should she not appease the gods and punish Abhartach, or fail to punish him in the right way. And appease the gods, she must, because it was her army who had committed the wrongs, even though the grave mistakes had been the lone sin of Prince Abhartach.

Lliannan's thoughts were consumed by yet another sobering prospect. Once Abhartach learned it was she who had betrayed him to her sister, she would be a marked woman. No one—not even the gods—had ever turned on Abhartach. And the thought of what she had done filled her soul with fear. She never wanted to face the man again, for if she did, she knew what price she'd have to pay. Betrayal, even for the sake of the good was never looked upon in a favorable light among the Sidhe. Death would be the only saving grace.

A sudden strike of terror flooded her soul—Abhartach. She sensed his presence in her sister's chamber. Lhiannan took a step back, further encasing herself within the shadows. A slight part separated the curtains of disguise, and from her lonely station she peered out, watching the soul who had now become her greatest enemy.

Abhartach approached the queen. His long, dark hair flowed past his shoulders and resembled that of a mad man's mane. The look of a wild beast glowed in his black eyes. “The prisoner has arrived, your majesty.” He stood before the sacred podium forbidden to the average Fae, and placed one boot-clad foot upon the first step.

“Your arrogance has grown, Abhartach,” said Queen Aeval.

He smiled a devil's grin. “As has other parts of me, your majesty.” He gripped the hilt of his sword and winked at her.

The queen did not appear amused. She returned to the window, her back once more gracing Abhartach's view. “Is the prisoner armed?”

“Nay, of course not. Do you think me the fool?”

The queen turned around. “Give him his sword.”

“Are you mad, woman? Arm a prisoner with his own sword?”

A swift hand clamped down upon Abhartach's shoulder, forcing the man to his knees. “'Tis your queen you address,” said Aeval's guard, Garrod.

Aeval motioned with her hand for Garrod to release his hold on Abhartach. She took a step closer to the angered warrior. “You're right, Abhartach. The prisoner should not have his own sword.”

“I'm glad you see it my way, your Majesty.”

Lhiannan watched her sister with a curious stare. Aeval was never one to give in so easily.

The aging queen stopped before Abhartach. “Give him yours.”

All color drained from Abhartach's face. The implication of such a decree was demeaning. “My sword?”

“Yes. I have warned you before and you've failed to heed my words. You have misused your powers.”

Abhartach rose to his feet and stepped up to the podium, walking where few dared set foot. Standing within a breath's distance of Aeval, he lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Mayhap if you were not an ice queen, I would have no reason to misuse my sword." He gritted his teeth.

“This has nothing to do with our intimate life, Abhartach. You've destroyed a peace our people have spent centuries building.”

“Garrod.” The queen motioned for her guard to approach the podium.

Abhartach reached for his sword and withdrew the glistening weapon from his belt. “I will avenge this act, I swear it upon my soul. Never will I allow you to disgrace me like this. Never.”

Garrod took the sword.

“The Blood Ruby is not meant to slaughter innocent souls, Abhartach. And today you have destroyed the last Drac'olian holding that still bargained with the Fae. You have betrayed me, betrayed my people. And worst of all, you have betrayed your own self. You are no longer worthy of me.”

Abhartach leaned toward Aeval. “Was it your little wench of a sister who betrayed me? For if it was, and I'm sure it had to be, I will seek justice against her. I will have this kingdom. If it is the last thing I do in this lifetime, I will have my revenge.”

Garrod grabbed hold of Abhartach's arm and led the angered warrior from the room.

“He will avenge this day, sister, just as he says.” Lhiannan emerged from the shadows. “I have never known the man to ever let his anger rest.”

“And should he attempt to reclaim the Blood Ruby, your new suitor will defend you.”

Lhiannan stared at her sister. “Suitor?”

“The Drac'olian was born to rule this realm,” said Aeval. “What better husband for my sister than my successor?”

Lhiannan offered her a puzzled look. “But how can you be sure? This prisoner is a cursed immortal, a soul with no power over the Fae.”

“And you are a soul capable of controlling all immortals, especially the males. Conquer your suitor, Lhiannan, and my realm will be yours. Fail, and our kingdom will fall to Abhartach.”

“You speak foolish words, sister.”

Aeval turned to Lhiannan. She reached out for her sister's hand. “The cauldron that sustains our life-force is no longer capable of sustaining my youth, Lhiannan. I have failed our people by placing my trust in the wrong warrior. Make amends in my name, for I will be here no more.”

A knot twisted in Lhiannan's stomach. “Then the rumors are true. The curse does exist.”

Aeval nodded her head. “Abhartach set in motion the potential for fearsome events when he broke the centuries-old pact created by the gods. He knew we were forbidden to war with the Drac'olian line. Abhartach was to have gone to them seeking a renewal of the pact; instead he slaughtered them, destroying any hopes for a true union between our two worlds.”

“And what makes you think this prisoner will accept the Blood Ruby?”

“He is a soul unlike any other.”

“Meaning?”

Aeval eyed her with a cautious stare. “The power of the Blood Ruby comes from the same blood that courses through his veins. It is his destiny; one's fate is not something a soul can ignore.”

“He is the Drac'olian Fae? The one who took me in the temple?”

“Yes,” said Aeval.

“Why did he not come to us before?”

Aeval crossed the podium and settled her body into the gilt throne marked with the Fae crown. “He does not know the secrets of his lineage. And you mustn't tell him, Lhiannan. He must learn the truth for himself. Your job will be to awaken his Fae powers.”

“But such powers can only rise through seduction, through passion.”

“Precisely,” nodded Aeval.

“And should I manage to completely seduce this warrior, when the task is done, he will die.”

“Only if he chooses to deny that which is rightfully his.”

A chill ran down Lhiannan's spine. She knew full well the power of the Vampyre Sea Sidhe and of their legends. Her Fae, like her half-sister Aeval's, were once fierce enemies of the Drac'olians. It was upon the blood of dead men that her kingdom survived. The cauldron of the Sidhe sustained her people, fed their souls, rejuvenated their bodies, and hid their secrets. And now it was all at stake, as was the fate of one man.

He wasn't just any man, though. He was the one man for whom she had waited all eternity.

Quentin Moore opened his eyes and tried to move. His head pounded. He raised a hand to the back of his skull and winced. Matted hair was pasted to his head, caked in a wet, sticky substance—blood. The executioner on the ship had hit him harder than he'd thought. He cursed to himself. In all his years he'd rarely seen barbarians as crude or as cruel as the vile warriors who destroyed Dun Drac'ola.

Visions of the slaughter came flooding back to him. He had to find a way to win back his freedom and return to Dun Drac'ola. His people deserved a proper burial.

He wondered what remained of them, where he'd bury them all. Never had he imagined he'd have to worry about such things. The Fae had always been modern allies. The war between his race and theirs had long since ceased to exist.

As he had so many times in the last few days, Quentin wondered why the Fae had betrayed the pact, disobeyed the decree set forth by the gods. It had to be his cousin's doing.

Damn you Abhartach

For a long time, the vile warlord had set his eyes on Dun Drac'ola. But never had Quentin expected him to destroy the place. Abhartach could have chosen so many other courses of action. He could have come back and tried for a higher rank in the Drac'olian society, mayhap even ask for a new principality. And in all those requests, Quentin would have been more than willing to oblige the man. But Abhartach had returned to his birthplace carrying anger and vengeance within his soul and nothing more.

For the sake of his people, Quentin only wished he'd seen it coming. Now, he'd see justice served. Even if it killed him.

Quentin rose from the damp, earth floor and stumbled. He couldn't see straight. His surroundings spun into a single blur, leaving him nauseated and confused. He hated being disoriented. Attempting to steady himself, Quentin leaned back and rested his body against the cold, stonewalls and tried to focus his eyes. The room slowly stopped spinning. If only the pounding in his head would stop as well.

He took a deep breath and studied his surroundings. He was in an empty, damp prison cell made of stone and mud. Several sculls spiked on long rods sat propped up in the corner. By the looks of things, he wasn't the first soul to have been held here. Hopefully he wouldn't meet with the same fate as those impaled upon the rods. The smell of foul blood and rotting corpses turned his stomach. He pulled at his tunic and lifted the edge of the shirt to cover his nose.

He needed some air. Quentin looked around the room and noticed a stream of sunlight filtering into the chamber from above. In the middle of the wall to his right, sat a small portal guarded by several iron bars. He pushed himself away from the wall and edged his body closer toward the window. Judging by the short distance between the top of his head and the bottom of the window, the small opening probably sat about eight feet above the floor.

Quentin jumped up and grabbed hold of the rungs fixed into the opening. He held his breath and waited to see if he'd fall. He didn't. The iron rungs were sturdy and well set into the block of stone. Quentin pulled his body upward until his eyes were level with the window. He stared outside.

His prison sat on an island, in a vast sea shrouded in dense mist. He swore a vile oath and slumped back to the floor. Abhartach wasn't kidding when he said he'd be sent to Aeval, to the Realm of the Sidhe. He'd recognize the Fae Sea any day, even in a drunken stupor. It was one of the deadliest bodies of water in all existence, and certainly not something through which one could swim.

Quentin cursed to himself a second time in as many minutes. Escape wouldn't be easy.

The sound of footsteps outside his prison cell echoed through the air. He wondered who was coming for him—Aeval, Abhartach...or worse. Mayhap the gods had decided to finish him off themselves. After all, he was a chosen warrior who'd managed to lose his entire kingdom to a supposed ally. Certainly this would not make them happy with him. And being at odds with those who ruled men's souls, wasn't exactly the safest position in which to be.

“Bloody hell, man,” said a deep voice. “Give me those keys and I'll open the damn door me self. Y'd think after all these years ye be knowing which key would be openin’ which cell.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. He eyed the lock on the door and edged closer to the wall.

A click echoed through the air as the door swung open.

A tall, burly looking man entered the chamber. “Quentin Moore?”

“That depends,” said Quentin. “On who wants to know?”

The man responded with a sly grin, and placed one tattooed arm upon his hip. “You're a feisty one. She'll like that.” He drew a sword and made his way deeper into the chamber.

Quentin jumped to his feet. He'd been taken prisoner once today and in his mind, once was enough. He fisted his hands and raised them in the air.

“Whoa,” said the burly man. “I've no intention of fighting the likes of you. I came here to bring ye this.” He tossed the sword to Quentin.

Quentin reached out and caught the weapon with his right hand.

“And this.”

Another sword came hurling at him. And like the first, Quentin caught the second weapon with a single hand.

“Y're better than I imagined,” said the burly man.

The feel of the heavy hilt in Quentin's hand caused his palm to tingle. A pulsing sensation vibrated from the second sword. He stared at the weapon and noticed the large, blood red ruby embedded in the hilt. “The Blood Ruby.”

“Aye. The finest sword in all the land.”

“I thought it had shattered. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“The Blood Ruby can never break,” said the man. “It merely changes form based on need. What you witnessed must have been simply that.”

Quentin eyed the weapon resting in his left hand. He knew full well the implication of possessing such a sword. He looked over to the man who invaded his cell. “I have no desire to bed your queen.”

The man offered a hearty laugh. “'Tis not queen Aeval who offers you the honor, lad. Rather her half-sister—Lhiannan Sidhe, queen of...” The man paused. “A different race of Fae.”

Quentin stared at the man, a bit baffled. He hadn't been called a lad in centuries and he'd yet to meet a captor who was anything but cruel. The jolly soul standing in front of him wasn't exactly what he'd expected of the Fae. He also didn't like the idea of his captor arming him. “I'm not here to fight or to rut. I only want what is rightfully mine—namely my freedom.”

The man shook his head. “'Tis not for me to decide such a thing. Take the swords and be thankful.” He nodded toward the skulls in the corner. “Those sorry chaps weren't as lucky. Staked on the first day, if me memory serves me right.” The man spun on his heels and headed toward the door. “I'll be back for y’ when Queen Lhiannan decides she desires y’ in her presence.”

Quentin eyed the two swords. In his right hand was the symbol of his kingdom, his heritage. A true warrior's blade forged by the hands of his own grandfather. In his left hand sat a relic cursed by the gods. He tossed the second of the two swords across the room and turned his back. He placed his own sword into the scabbard at his side.

As he slid the blade carefully into its case, a swooshing sound echoed about the room. Quentin slowly looked over his shoulder as the Blood Ruby sliced its way through the air and came to rest at his side. Then, it smoothly melded with his grandfather's sword, forging a new, single blade.

He swore to himself. The Blood Ruby was indeed his destiny. And by the gods, so must be an eternity filled with hell. He could never fulfill the prophecy. Quentin wondered what fate awaited a soul who would defy its makers.

He couldn't bed a Fae. He wouldn't. It was because of him his mother had died. And from an early age, his father had made it quite clear to him, that a soul who was part Fae and part Drac'olian would bring nothing but death to the woman with whom he coupled. Bearing a child would tear her in two.

Quentin had taken his father's words to heart and spent his entire life avoiding the women of Dun Drac'ola. It was his duty to remain distant. The only women he ever bedded were the barren priestesses who taught him the secrets of sex magic. He was safe with them, content and sated. It didn't matter he never knew love. Love was not for a bastard to know, nor was it necessary for a warrior king to experience. Quentin needed no one, least of all this Lhiannan Sidhe.

The door unlocked and opened once again. The burly man who'd brought the swords returned. “You've been called for.”

Quentin raised his hand to his neck. He was immune to the Blood Ruby, but what about his heavenly makers? Once they learned of his defiance, surely they would complete what Abhartach had failed to do at Dun Drac'ola. And he didn't know which of the two was a worse fate—death at the hands of a vile warlord or being wiped from existence by the powers of the gods.

Aeval sat in her chambers and rested in front of the hearth. The heat coming from the raging fire warmed her body and her soul as she reflected upon recent events. Lhiannan had finally found the soul mate for whom she'd waited all eternity, and the Drac'olian was a good man. Aeval sensed it in Quentin's soul even though she had yet to meet him.

His presence in her realm was strong enough she could read his inner feelings. From the union between her sister and the Drac'olian, a child would be born who would rule both realms one day. Her kingdom and that of the Drac'ola would finally enjoy a shared peace.

“I think not.” Abhartach's voice resonated from the shadows. A blade met with Aeval's neck.

“How did you get in here? I've banished you from my kingdom and I know better than to believe my guards would ever betray me.”

He laughed. “Do you really think mere Fae could stop the great Abhartach? Possessor of the Black Sapphire?”

Aeval turned her head toward the voice behind her.

“Ah...you have forgotten the Blood Ruby's evil twin. You see my queen, you may have cast me aside in your realm, but in the world of darkness, I have been restored to my former rank and station.”

“You won't get away with this Abhartach. I won't let you.”

“I'm afraid you'll have no choice.” Abhartach's dark eyes were like pools of black, endless waters. “And I'll have my revenge against that little wench you call a sister.”

Aeval hated that he appeared so confident, so sure of his disgusting, vile ways. “Leave Lhiannan out of this. She's done nothing to you.”

Abhartach's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Oh really? That's not what I've heard. It's because of the little bitch you exiled me. I told you I'd have my revenge and now I'm back to make good on that promise.”

“Why are you so angry at me?” asked Aeval. “I've only given you everything.”

“Given me? More like you took it all away, my dear queen.”

She didn't understand Abhartach. If it weren't for her, he would have starved as a child when his father cast him into the Fae Sea, alone and frightened.

“I am vampyre because of your doings. You took the sun away from me, forced me into the night.”

Aeval rose from her chair and pushed Abhartach's sword away from her neck. “If I hadn't made you vampyre, you'd have died.” Abhartach had been born to a Drac'olian father, and a mother who came from the Vampyre Fae. In most cases, souls such as his would have adapted to both species’ ways. But Abhartach was different. His body warred with the two distinct bloodlines flowing through his veins.

“And what of me being brought here in the first place? Did you not make a pact with the Drac'olian's father, my own uncle, to have me cast out of my own realm?”

“No.” Aeval shook her head. “You have to remember what happened back then. Your father coupled with a Vampyre Fae whom he had no right to take. When you were born, you were sent to him to be raised as a Drac'olian. Your stepmother accepted you as her own, and when your father saw how much she loved you—even more than she did him—he had you cast into the Fae Sea. Quentin's father pleaded with his brother to allow you to stay at Dun Drac'ola. But your father wouldn't have it any other way.”

Abhartach glared at Aeval. “You speak falsely, woman. My father did no such thing. It was Quentin's father who insisted I leave Dun Drac'ola. It was the former lord of the realm who tore me from my mother's arms. Now, I will avenge my parents’ loss and their suffering. I will have Quentin's head and after I kill the Drac'olian, I will have my way with Lhiannan. I will sire the heir who will one day rule both kingdoms. And my dear queen, you will help me every step of the way.”

“Never.”

“Oh, come now,” said Abhartach. “We can do this either the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.”

“I'll never help you.”

“Fine,” snarled Abhartach. “Then the hard way it shall be.” He clenched his teeth and stared directly into Aeval's eyes. His glare blinded her. “By the powers of darkness, I now lay claim to your soul, to your body, and to your mind. As I think, so shall you act; as I speak so shall you command. As I...”

Abhartach's words faded to nothing more than garbled slurs. Aeval tried to fight his powers, but the forces of darkness had made him stronger than he'd ever been. Slowly, she felt her world slipping away, replaced bit by bit by a numb, emotionless, and dark existence.

Lhiannan waited for Quentin in her private chambers. Memories of their last encounter stirred her soul and her heart. She'd waited two years for this moment, but never intended it to happen like this. Lhiannan wanted Quentin to share her world, to come to her willingly. She wanted him to embrace the vampyre.

The Drac'olian family was an ancient line of night creatures stripped of their preternatural abilities centuries ago when they broke the Fae accord. Now Lhiannan wanted to give back to Quentin what was rightfully his. Then, he would be able soothe the hatred that still existed between the races even though their battle with one another had ended. There was no doubt in her mind; Quentin was the key to ending the discord.

He entered the room.

Lhiannan spun to face him, her heart racing. “Lord Drac'ola.”

“The name is Quentin.”

She crossed the chamber and approached him. The strong scent of both Drac'olian and Fae blood reached her nostrils. Quentin's clothing was splattered with mud and dried blood. “Do you deny your Drac'olian ties? Your own father's heritage?”

“I have no desire to take that which once belonged to my father.”

He still bore his pain, thought Lhiannan. “You speak harshly, my lord.”

“I know only that which I've been taught.”

He was stronger than she remembered. And now, seeing him with her naked eyes, Lhiannan came to realize how handsome the man was. He had hair the color of night, eyes as blue as the sea, and a face and body that could easily rival any of the gods'. The Drac'olian was also much larger than she envisioned him to be. He stood over six feet tall; every inch of him hard, sinewy muscle.

“They say you never took a wife.”

“I have no need of a wife.”

“But what about heirs?”

“I had nephews.”

The pain in his heart struck Lhiannan to the core. She reached her hand to his face. “What if I were to tell you I have restored life to your brothers, your sister, your entire kingdom.”

“I would say you lie or that you've done the devil's work.”

Lhiannan ran her fingers down his chin to his neck. She circled him, all the while trailing her fingers around his neck. When she appeared once more in front of him, her fangs had fully emerged. “I have restored your kingdom, Quentin Moore. In a vision, I saw what Abhartach had done. I sent my personal army to give back the lives my sister's chief warrior had taken. Your brothers live, my lord. They await you.”

A puzzled look crossed his face. “If you have given back life to my people, then they now walk among the undead.”

“They are what they were meant to be,” said Lhiannan.

“And what is that? Vampyre Fae like Abhartach?”

“No. They are Celtai Drac'olians. Blessed by the priestess Niamh. They are not true vampyres, but rather creatures one with the night. But they need a leader. A soul who can guide them during the hours of the moon; one who can protect them while the sun warms the earth.”

“Then free me.”

Lhiannan stepped away from him. “If it were so simple, I would. But I fear your freedom is one that must be earned.”

“Have you not taken enough from me?”

She had, but the gods ruled the laws, not her. “You shall gain your freedom once you have accepted your birthright. Accept the Blood Ruby and its responsibilities and you can return to your people.”

“I have no desire for your scheme nor for the Blood Ruby.” Quentin drew the sword from his belt and placed it upon the floor in front of him.

Lhiannan stared at his neck. She forced the invisible wound she'd given him two years back, to return.

“What the...” Quentin raised a hand to his neck and grimaced. He glared at Lhiannan. “Bloody hell woman. What have you done to me?”

“Nothing more than I'd expect you'd do for me.” She reached down to the floor and retrieved the Blood Ruby. Quentin's aura had already infiltrated the sword's mighty blade. And she surmised that the weapon's powers had done the same to her prisoner's soul. The Blood Ruby was now more than mere sword—it was an extension of the Drac'olian's own entity. The prophecy she had helped to begin in the Moon Temple was finally coming full circle. If only Quentin accepted his birthright.

“Come,” she called to the Drac'olian. “I've had a bath prepared for you.”

Lhiannan led Quentin into an adjoining chamber across the main corridor from her public apartments. He kept a keen eye on his surroundings. He had learned long ago never to trust a Vampyre Fae.

Quentin entered a room in which marble columns and half-walls draped in sheer fabrics were the only elements giving it form. Otherwise, the chamber lay completely exposed to the lush, scented gardens outside. Quentin didn't like being in such a vulnerable place. Dun Drac'ola had been a fortress with solid doors and glass-paned windows. Never would he have imagined building a chamber guarded by no real structure.

He scanned the room, taking in its strange, yet enticing features. Midnight blue tiles dotted with constellations from the various heavens covered the half-walls and floor. Quentin had always taken a keen interest in the heavens. Apparently, so did Lhiannan.

Words of a language unknown to him, rested on tiles next to those bearing the constellations. A large, deep pool sprinkled with rose petals sat in the middle of the chamber and glistened in the moon's soft caress.

Strange thoughts entered Quentin's mind as he watched a ripple dance across the water.

They say you've never loved a woman...

“I've no need for love.” He gripped his neck a second time as a burning sensation pricked his flesh. “Damn you woman.” Quentin glared at Lhiannan. She stared back at him, a hungry look in her eyes as they transfixed upon his neck. “If you have something to say, then speak it. I've no use for games.”

Lhiannan made her way across the chamber to stand at his side. “Games, my lord? Is that what you think this is all about?” She reached out to him and placed her hand upon his chest.

Quentin kept silent.

Lhiannan unlaced the ties to his shirt. The caress of her long, tapered fingers upon his bare skin made him quiver. He hadn't felt such softness since he'd had the woman in the Moon Temple two years back. He reached up and grabbed hold of Lhiannan's hand. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Undressing you, my lord. Surely at Dun Drac'ola one does not bathe in his clothes?”

“I can undress myself, thank you.”

She backed away. “Very well. Watching a task performed is sometimes even more pleasurable than performing it.” Lhiannan strolled away from him, an enticing rhythm to her step. She moved like a cat, thought Quentin, her step both graceful and deadly. Deadly to him, at least.

His body hardened on the instant. The site of Lhiannan swaying softly across the room, gliding through the moon light, made him want to reach out, grab hold of her long, flowing tresses, and fuck the woman here and now. He hadn't wanted a woman like this since the incident in the Moon Temple. That damned creature haunted his dreams each night and now he'd found a second one just as cunning, and as enticing as the first. Mayhap even more so.

Quentin shuddered at the thought. He was safe with Niamh and her priestesses. They gave and took on an even scale. And never once did they stir his heart or trouble his mind. The Celtai priestesses were barren by choice; their fertility was a gift they gave up to the gods in return for immortality and the right to serve all realms. With them, Quentin never needed to worry about spilling his cursed seed.

He finished undressing and now stood naked in front of Lhiannan. She eyed him from head to toe, her gaze hungry. He wondered what the teasing vampyre was up to. “Why do you offer your prisoner the luxury of a bath? Have you never heard keeping a captive in soiled surroundings and denying him the right to cleanse his body and clothes, only adds to the quickness of breaking him down, molding him into what you desire him to be?”

Lhiannan walked up to him and ran her fingers across his bare skin. Her sweet scented breath skimmed his ears. “But my lord,” she whispered. “I've already molded you into the precise state I desire you to be.” She reached her arms around him and gently cupped his balls in her hands, then released him and wrapped her fingers around his hard cock.

Quentin thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Never had he met a woman as bold as this one. And never had he encountered a female capable of holding him captive in a way his enemies could never have managed. If she desired it, she could have him completely—mind, body and soul. The notion disturbed him.

“The bath is all yours, my lord.” Lhiannan let go of him and vanished into the dark, night air.

The warm, sandalwood scented water relaxed his weary muscles. While he was a warrior, used to spending days caked in dirt and blood during long battles, he was also a man who believed in keeping a clean body when the luxury of a bath was afforded him. At Dun Drac'ola, every home had a proper bath, even the temples. Several tubs had been installed in his castle, as well.

Quentin remembered the cleansing rituals he learned while being tutored in the ways of the god and goddess. A clean body meant less negativity for working magic. Cleansing the soul was one step closer to approaching the gods.

Quentin dove under the water to wash the dirt and debris from his hair. He came back up and laid his head against the rim. His arms rested on top of the tub, spread out to his sides. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax.

Lhiannan emerged from the center of the pool and startled him. She pressed her naked, wet body against him, brushing the puckered peaks of her breasts over his chest.

He gave her cautious stare.

“I didn't mean to startle you.” Lhiannan rose from the water and took a step away from him, exposing her upper body completely. Small droplets of water dripped from her moon-kissed nipples. “Tell me, Quentin, with whom do you share your bath at Dun Drac'ola?”

“I bathe alone.”

She frowned. “Always?”

He nodded.

Lhiannan leaned forward and placed her lips upon his. She kissed him with an urgency he didn't expect, catching him off guard. “Take me, my lord. Sate me and claim your birthright.”

“I am no fool, your majesty. Drac'olians are well educated in the ways of the Fae and I'm full aware of the fact you're more than capable of reproducing. I will not sire your children.”

“Have you no desire for a family of your own?”

He paused. He didn't like her intruding into the depths of his soul, into his cold, caged heart. “No,” lied Quentin. “I've never desired a wife or children. I've no use for them.” A family of his own was all he ever really wanted out of life. But he was born to be a warrior, not a husband or father. Those were luxuries left to men who retained their heart. And he'd lost his before it even had a chance to grow.

A silver goblet appeared out of nowhere, resting in mid-air. Lhiannan reached for the cup and drank its contents. She leaned forward and kissed Quentin a second time.

The faint trace of Drac'olian Root danced upon his tongue.

“Will you fuck me now, my lord? No child will come of our union.”

Quentin knew better than to give in to his carnal desires, but his hard cock ached. Considering what he'd been through recently, he decided if the woman was so giving, then he was more than willing to take what she was offering. In turn, he'd pleasure Lhiannan any way she wanted him to.

He was her prisoner, her submissive captive.

Taking hold of her, Quentin wrapped his arms beneath Lhiannan's legs and lifted her to his groin. The tip of his rock-hard penis met with her slick pussy on the instant. She was ready for him, primed and opened wide. But Quentin waited. He lowered his head to Lhiannan's right breast and took her rosy red nipple into his mouth. He bit her lightly between his teeth and ran his tongue over the sensitive bud.

She moaned. “Harder, my lord.” Lhiannan's voice caressed his ear.

Quentin did as she ordered and pulled her already swollen nipple deeper into his mouth.

“Better,” she panted. “Much better, my lord. Leave your mark upon my breast; brand me as your own.”

He moved his head away from Lhiannan's body, all the while pulling his captor's nipple with his mouth. Finally, Quentin released Lhiannan from his grasp and looked down at his handy work. Not only was Lhiannan's nipple swollen but so was her areola. The purple hues of a bruise began to color the peak of her breast.

“Brand the other one as well.”

Quentin did Lhiannan's bidding, favoring the left nipple even more than he had the right.

“Take me, Quentin. Take me now and fulfill your destiny.”

He could no longer hold back. Quentin shifted Lhiannan closer to his body and dove into his captor with one swift move. The sensation of thrusting himself deep inside the queen's tight, hungry little pussy was more arousing than he'd expected.

“Take me, Drac'olian. Take all of me.”

He froze. It was also more devastating.

The very same words had been spoken to him once before, falling from the same raw, panting mouth.

Quentin's mind immediately returned to that night in the Moon Temple and realized that his now-captor had been his captive, then. Lhiannan was the Vampyre Fae who'd bitten him two years before, then vanished without a trace. Leaving him to suffer a hunger he thought would one day kill him.

He withdrew his still-hard cock from Lhiannan and gently let go of her, sending her body back to the water.

Confusion crossed the queen's face. “My lord?”

“I wish to bathe alone.”

“But...”

Quentin focused his reeling emotions and made sure to send Lhiannan a look she would never forget. A look that sent her fleeing.

As his captor waded across the pool, she only turned back once. “Remember, Lord Drac'ola...you are still my prisoner and until you earn your freedom, you will remain at my mercy.” Lhiannan didn't bother walking from the tub. Instead, she vanished into the air, her words echoing about the room as a stern reminder to Quentin.

Lhiannan was the one woman with whom he could have everything, share everything. But to do so, he'd have to have a child with her. Quentin knew the legend well. According to the ancient tales, to truly sate Lhiannan Sidhe, her suitor must spill his seed within the queen's womb during the blue moon—the second full moon in a single month.

Quentin remembered studying his father's astronomical tomes and learning that the blue moon was a lunar event taking place once every few years. During the phase, all magic is rendered powerless if concocted for the purpose of interfering with the gods’ prophecies. Not even a double dose of Drac'olian Root could stop Lhiannan from conceiving should Quentin bed her during this phase.

If his calculations were correct, Quentin knew the blue moon would rise in the night sky on the morrow, making it the second of the three-day lunar event.

Quentin plunged his hand into the water and pressed it against his swollen rod. He cursed to himself, realizing he should have fucked her when he had the chance. Then, at least he'd be able to sleep tonight, and with a clear head he could focus on finding a way to escape.

No sooner had these thoughts passed, when the soft caress of a tongue licked the underside of his hard cock. Quentin looked down into the water and saw Lhiannan on her knees.

Her abilities amazed him as she trailed her fangs lightly over his penis and then took him fully into her mouth. His vampyre queen wielded her tongue far better than even the most expert of the moon priestesses did. And she was a hungry little wench as well. Lhiannan sucked his cock until there was nothing left of his seed to spill.

Quentin reached his hands beneath the water to raise her up, but when he looked down a second time, there was no one in the tub save for himself. His captor had once again enticed him, then vanished. And every time she did so, Quentin found himself desiring her more than he had before.

He ventured out of the tub and reached for a cloth sitting on the tiles. Quentin wrapped the fabric about his waist. What he needed now was a warm bed and some sleep. He turned around and headed out of the bathing chamber only to be stopped by a hoard of guards.

“Lord Drac'ola?”

He hesitated. Who else did they expect to find in Lhiannan's apartments? “What do you want?”

“You've been summoned to queen Aeval's midnight court.”

His body went cold. That court served only one purpose—to judge a man's fate based on his abilities to please his bedmate. He wondered what in hell he'd done wrong now.

"...until you earn your freedom, you will remain at my mercy."

Lhiannan's earlier words echoed in his head. Mayhap the woman betrayed him and requested a court. But regardless, the matter still stood—Quentin could not escape the midnight court.

Lhiannan entered Aeval's palace and headed straight for the chamber of justice. She didn't know why her sister had summoned her at this late hour with such urgency. But something in the tone of her sister's message didn't bode well with her. The servant who delivered the note was emphatic she come immediately, and Lhiannan knew better than to question Aeval.

The doors swung open as she approached the queen's official chambers.

Lhiannan froze in her tracks as she realized Aeval had convened the midnight court. And from the looks of it, Lhiannan was to be the center of attention.

“Your majesty.” A judge bowed to her. “Your throne awaits you.”

Lhiannan took the seat next to her sister's gilt chair. “What are you up to now Aeval?” She whispered so the rest of the court could not hear her words.

“Has the Drac'olian accepted his birthright, yet?”

Lhiannan shook her head and frowned.

“Then he leaves me no choice but to judge him.”

“'Tis not fair,” said Lhiannan. “We don't even know much about him. Mayhap he's not a man who rushes into things without thinking them through.”

“Or mayhap he's not a man who deserves my sister.”

Lhiannan let out a deep breath. Two queens in one family wasn't always the best of arrangements, but by the gods, Aeval was her older sister and on this account the woman should have consulted her first before summoning a court to judge the fate of a man she was trying to sway.

“You may proceed, Gobnait,” said Aeval.

The court's high judge rose from her chair and approached the royal podium. She waved her hand, signaling to a man standing at the back of the chamber. A single door opened on the instant and Lhiannan saw Neilus, the court's second ruling judge, enter the room. Behind him was Quentin, his arms bound in shackles and his body covered only in the cloth she'd provided for him after his bath.

Her heart sank.

Neilus walked up the main isle to stand next to Gobnait. He bowed to both Lhiannan and Aeval. “Your majesties.” He then turned and nodded to the guards watching Quentin. “Bring him to the podium.”

A look of suspicion masked Quentin's face. Lhiannan sensed he thought she was the one eager to condemn him. If only he knew the truth. But with the midnight council and their high queen present, Lhiannan could say nothing to him.

She prayed for the best, but prepared for the worst.

Gobnait approached her. “Has the Drac'olian coupled with you, your majesty?”

Lhiannan didn't want to answer. She avoided facing Quentin, the heat in her cheeks rising at the very thought of answering such a question in the public forum. “In what manner?”

Aeval eyed her with a glare.

She had no choice but to answer, and to do so in the manner Gobnait expected of her. Brutal and frank. If not, Quentin would surely be condemned on the instant. “If you're asking if he's fucked me already, then by all means my answer is a blissful yes. If you're asking if the Drac'olian has agreed to reclaim his birthright, then I must admit to having stopped him.”

Lhiannan sensed Quentin's confusion. Still, she didn't dare meet his eyes. Reading his thoughts was difficult enough.

The judge scrutinized her with dark, insolent eyes. “With all due respect your majesty, according to our laws, a queen is always under oath.”

“And under the same laws,” said Lhiannan. “A queen's word is never to be second-guessed.”

Gobnait bowed her head and stepped back from the podium. The judge approached her council seated in the center of the chamber. Lhiannan heard their low whispers, but anger blocked her from concentrating on their words.

She cast her angered gaze upon Aeval. “I find this all very insulting, sister. You had no right.”

Aeval refused to face her. “I had every right,” said the queen. “The fate of our kingdom is at stake and if you cannot complete such a simple task, then mayhap we are better under Abhartach's rule rather than yours.”

She didn't have time to respond to Aeval's comments. Gobnait returned to the podium. “The council wishes for you to rise, your majesty.”

Lhiannan didn't like the tone of Gobnait's voice. But she knew better than argue with a judge of the midnight court. The less said the better. Lhiannan rose from her throne and approached the edge of the podium.

“The council requests you drop your robes, your majesty.”

Lhiannan looked back and glared at her sister. “How can you do this to me?”

The queen turned away.

She saw no way out of it but to give the council what they wanted.

Quentin lunged forward. “Lhiannan, don't give in to them,” he shouted. “I'm not worth it.” The guards pulled him back. He struggled against them, but to no avail.

“Chain him to a pillar,” ordered Neilus.

The guards carried out the judge's order.

Lhiannan took a deep breath and reached for the brooch fastened at her shoulder. She unhooked the pin and let her robes fall to the floor. The wispy fabric gathered at her ankles.

A member of the council approached the podium. “By the looks of it, your majesty, you certainly allowed the Drac'olian to entertain you at great lengths. Are the love bites upon your breasts those inflicted by the prisoner?”

She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“Then I am sure he did more than merely prime you for a good fucking. Do you expect me to believe the Drac'olian prepared you to be taken, then simply walked away without sating either your needs or his?”

Lhiannan opened her eyes. “He pleasured me and then I sent him on his way.” She lied. But telling the court Quentin had no desire to sate her would be far worse. The council would immediately condemn him, restore Abhartach to his previous rank and station, and sentence Quentin to serve as a slave under Abhartach in Aeval's army. Lhiannan had no intention of letting that happen.

Gobnait stepped up next to the council member. “We have the means to tell if the Drac'olian truly did sate you or not.”

“I said he did.”

Gobnait turned to the council table. “Bring me the wand.”

Lhiannan caught her breath. If the judge probed her with the Witch's Wand, the woman would know for certain she hadn't come the last time she engaged in sex play. But she refused to betray Quentin. There was more to the man than met the eye, and Lhiannan was determined to find out just what it was that made his caged heart so cold. She'd breech the walls of his heart's fortress even if it took her all eternity.

Quentin simply had to claim back his birthright, and she wouldn't let this court stand in the way. She couldn't. Her desires were as much at stake as was Quentin's destiny.

A council member brought in the silver box known to hold the Witch's Wand. The woman removed the lid and offered the box to Gobnait.

The judge withdrew the wand and held it high in her hands for all the court to see. “I ask you again, Lhiannan Sidhe, did the Drac'olian sate you or not?”

“Why is this necessary?” she asked. “What difference does it make?”

“If the man has no desire to sate you,” said Gobnait. “Then he has no wish to claim back his birthright. Time is of the essence, your majesty. We are in the midst of the period of the blue moon, and you must conceive under its presence lest your kingdom fall to Abhartach. Your people need to know whether they are to prepare for war or settle in peace.”

“And my people need to know their queen would never lead them into harm's way.” Lhiannan turned to Aeval and pleaded with her eyes. Please... She mouthed the word in silence.

Aeval spoke up. “My sister is not the one who is on trial here, but rather the Drac'olian.”

“Do you take her word, Queen Aeval?” asked Gobnait.

Lhiannan stared down at her sister. “Yes,” answered Aeval. “I do.”

“Then there should be no reason for Lhiannan to fear the Witch's Wand.” Gobnait snapped her fingers and two members of the council stepped up to the royal podium. They grasped Lhiannan's arms and led her to a table sitting in the front of the chamber.

Quentin struggled to free himself from the pillar. “Let her go,” he shouted. “If you touch her, I swear I'll kill you all.”

The sight of Lhiannan being handled in so crude a manner brought back visions of his sister's torture. The cold feel of steel against his flesh reminded him of the iron cage Abhartach's men had placed him in. Of the way they rendered him helpless, forced him to watch his sister's rape, and then later her death. The Fae were a cruel race and he hated being part of them.

Quentin couldn't help but wonder if he hadn't been born to a Fae mother, his younger half-siblings would have survived. Mayhap the Fae would never have bothered with the Drac'olian race. And certainly Lhiannan wouldn't be in her present situation.

He pulled at the chains wrapped around his hands and legs, but they didn't budge. A guard poked his ribs with a sword and drew blood. Quentin looked up at him and glared. “You'll pay. You'll all pay if it is the last thing I do.”

Lhiannan watched helplessly as the guards tightened the chains wrapped about Quentin's body. She sensed his torment at being held captive and unable to help her. She looked away from him.

Gobnait walked to the table and nodded for the council members to place Lhiannan upon the wood surface. They tied her wrists together with rope, then hoisted them onto a hook dangling from the ceiling above her head. Her legs were bent at the knees and spread wide.

Gobnait took the wand and turned it so the smooth end pointed upward. A council member separated Lhiannan's nether lips, fully exposing her clit for all to see.

Lhiannan winced. She hated the fact Quentin had to watch this.

Gobnait began rubbing the wand over Lhiannan's clitoris until it was ripe and swollen, until her vagina was completely slick and begging for the wand.

Lhiannan stifled a moan. She wanted none of this despite her body's reaction.

The long, smooth, crystal rod was slowly nudged inside her. She twisted at the cold sensation assaulting her vagina.

"Use your mind to fool your body and your enemy...” Niamh's teachings came back to fill Lhiannan's thoughts. She immediately replaced her worry with a vision of the night spent with Quentin in the Temple of the Moon. She focused her thoughts and concentrated on the memory of her body's response to the Drac'olian's touch.

Gobnait withdrew the Witch's Wand from inside Lhiannan and stepped back. “Take the Drac'olian away,” she said to Neilus.

“Shall he be condemned?”

“The queen seems to think not, as does the wand,” stated Gobnait. “But as court judge, I sense foul play.”

“He did attempt to assault my guards.” Neilus flashed a wicked grin at Gobnait.

She smiled back at him. “Ah...and for that he must pay. Carry out a fitting punishment.”

“No,” cried Lhiannan.

Gobnait ignored her plea. “This court is adjourned.” The judge handed the Witch's Wand to a council member. She looked up at Lhiannan. “I don't know how you managed to accomplish it, your majesty. But I can use nothing else against you. The wand verified your earlier comments. May your people's future rest on your conscience.”

The judge didn't believe her. Lhiannan knew she had escaped the court this time, but if Quentin didn't act soon, she doubted she could save him from being condemned again.

She was released from the ropes and allowed to leave the table.

At the podium, Lhiannan reached down to the floor and gathered her robes. She brought the fabric up over her body then refastened the pin at her shoulder.

Aeval rose from her throne. “I had no choice in this matter tonight, Lhiannan. The courts have their rules, and in some instances, not even I can keep them from convening.”

“I wish I could believe that, Aeval. But unfortunately, this time I can't.” Lhiannan stepped off the podium and left the court chamber in haste. She headed straight for Quentin's room, fearing the worst.

Neilus's men led Quentin back to the castle prison. All the while he kept thinking about Lhiannan and what the judges had done to her. He kept seeing the humiliation on her face, in her eyes. Gods, he wished he could have saved her from them. They had no right. He'd never known subjects to treat their queen in such a vile manner. It simply didn't make any sense to him, but then again, he'd spent his whole life trying to understand the Fae and never once had he come remotely close.

The Fae were a breed apart, a strange race who were nothing like human mortals or even Drac'olians. It should have been him whom they questioned, not Lhiannan. He was the prisoner, the guilty soul. She'd done nothing save what she felt was best for her kingdom.

Lhiannan gave her body for her people. And none of them appreciated it.

The guards pushed him inside a different cell than he'd been in before. He lost balance and his face met dirt floor. Looking up, he saw that instead of spiked heads surrounding him, a small, rat-infested area would be his new home. Rodents scurried about the edge of the walls, darting in and out of small openings in the stones.

Quentin remained cool and slowly rose to his feet. He'd suffer worse in his lifetime and Neilus's guards didn't deserve the right to break him. He'd take what they dished out and survive it all, even if they poked him with hot irons.

“Couldn't save y'r wee sister, could y’ me lord? They say she was a sweet bit o’ tart.”

Quentin eyed the insolent bastard standing in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle the guard. But unfortunately, the damn shackles at his wrists prevented him from doing so.

“Wished I could'a fucked her meself.”

Hot irons would have been a torture he'd prefer. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the promise he'd made to himself earlier. Not in the face of this fool's disrespect for Fiona.

Quentin lost control.

His hands might have been bound, but his legs were free. Quentin kicked the guard in the groin and sent the man doubling over onto the floor, then kicked him again, this time in the head.

The blade of a sword met with Quentin's neck.

“Back down, man. Now.”

Quentin looked up and met eye-to-eye with a second guard. “You wouldn't want word of this reaching Neilus or Gobnait, now would you? The courts could sanction a decree against your precious Lhiannan, and I doubt you'd care to be the cause for such orders carried out.”

Quentin backed away from the guard he'd kicked. But he did so only for Lhiannan's sake. If it were only his own soul he had to worry about, he would have been more than pleased to beat the insolent man to a bloody pulp. And take down his burly leader in the bargain.

“Now,” said the head guard. “Me men here are just going to rough you up a bit. Neilus’ orders of course. If you fight back, even in the slightest bit, we're to tell Gobnait, and then Lhiannan will pay for your actions against us. Do you understand?”

He understood the man all too clearly. If he still had his Drac'olian armies, he'd kidnap Lhiannan and take her away from this place. Away from this godforsaken hell. He wondered how fearless Neilus’ brutes would be if they faced an army of Drac'olian warriors.

His thoughts returned to his men. They'd never expected an attack from their allies, and even so, they'd fought bravely. Yet again, he berated himself for their fate. If only he'd realized what Abhartach was up to all these years, he could have warned his men, prepared them, saved them. As it was, they'd never had a chance.

Quentin looked up to see a group of armed men enter his cell. They were sorry excuses for warriors.

He recognized them as the same guards who'd chained him to the pillar in the courtroom. Quentin surveyed the lot of them. They were all tall, bulky and more than able to put up a good fight on their own, of that he was sure. And by the looks of it, “roughing him up a bit” was an understatement. Among maces, chains and swords, they also carried weapons and gadgets Quentin had never seen before.

He laughed to himself. To think earlier in the night he'd only been concerned about how to sleep with the after-effects of Lhiannan's caresses raging through his body. Now, he realized that the pain he was about to suffer at the hands of Neilus’ thugs, wasn't going be nearly as tolerable.

Lhiannan returned to her private apartments and looked for Quentin room by room, hoping to find him exploring her palace or mayhap even seeking her. But after searching the area twice, Quentin was still nowhere to be found.

She left her apartments and headed back to the palace's main hallway. There she met Garrod returning from his midnight watch.

“Your majesty, is something wrong?” The tall, burly vampyre guard offered her a puzzled stare. He reached for his sword and wrapped his hand tightly about the hilt.

“I'm looking for Quentin.”

Garrod shook his head. “I haven't seen him since bringing him to your chambers earlier this evening. I believed he was still with you.”

“Has anyone come to call on him?”

“No, your majesty. My watch was a quiet one tonight. No visitors, no beggars. Not even the usual squabble between Aeval's guards at her gate.” He paused. “Come to think of it, I can't remember a night when your sister's men didn't argue.”

Lhiannan realized Garrod hadn't heard about the midnight court. “Something is amiss at my sister's palace. Aeval ordered me to the court and she had Quentin brought in as well.”

A look of shock crossed Garrod's face. “Your sister would never go against you. She'd rather die than see you harmed or even humiliated for that matter. And, well, the midnight court can be a rather degrading experience.”

Lhiannan bit her bottom lip as she recalled the night's events. Degrading didn't even come close to describing them. “Gobnait and Neilus ordered Quentin to be punished. But they had no charge against him.”

“Your sister's judges are more than fair. Surely they would never do such a thing.”

“Garrod, you serve both my court and Aeval's.”

The guard nodded his head. “And I do so with great honor, your majesty. I am the only Vampyre Fae, save for Abhartach, who's ever held rank in both courts.”

Lhiannan mulled over Garrod's words. “And the fact you are vampyre is the key.”

“Your majesty?”

“Abhartach is back,” she said. “How, I don't know, but right now that doesn't matter. He's somehow managed to gain control over Aeval, and therefore all her subjects.”

“And being vampyre, I belong to your realm, not Aeval's,” said Garrod. “Therefore I've escaped Abhartach's grasp.”

“Precisely.”

“When did you last see Quentin?”

“Neilus had him led away from the court and sent off to be punished.”

“Then mayhap we should go to the prison cells at Aeval's castle. If Abhartach is behind tonight's deeds, he'd have had Quentin taken to the worst place possible.”

Lhiannan knew Garrod's words to be true. And she didn't like the fact.

With the Vampyre Fae only a step behind her, Lhiannan headed for Aeval's palace.

Keeping a watchful eye out for Abhartach's men, Lhiannan and Garrod hid in the shadows and slowly searched the royal prison. Cell by cell, they made their way through the dark corridors until they came upon the last chamber. A sick feeling tensed in Lhiannan's stomach. This was the death cell, a place so hidden from the rest of the realm, prisoners could be tortured and no one would hear their cries. Never had a soul emerged alive after receiving punishment in the death cell.

Garrod placed his hands upon the door.

Lhiannan held her breath.

“He's in here,” said Garrod. “I can sense his soul.”

“I can't bear to search for him, feel him. Garrod, is he...is he still alive...?”

“Aye my lady, but just barely.”

“We have to get him out of here.”

Garrod nodded and reached for the keys hanging at his belt. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

At first Lliannan feared Garrod's senses were wrong. No soul could look that bad and still be alive. She'd never remember seeing a prisoner so badly beaten. Sprawled on the floor, Quentin was bloodied and bruised, his ribs poking through his flesh. He'd been punched to such an extent she hardly recognized his face.

“Quentin?”

Moaning, he lifted his head and opened his left eye. Swollen and bloodied, his eye opened no more than a mere slit. “Your majesty.” Quentin's voice was low, barely above a whisper. “Forgive me...”

Lhiannan cradled his face in her hands. “Shhh...there is nothing to forgive, Quentin. You've done nothing wrong.”

The guard shook his head. “By the gods, they've nearly destroyed him. I doubt there's a single unbroken bone left to his body. I'm surprised he's still alive.”

“I'm...immortal,” said Quentin. “They couldn't...kill me...”

Lhiannan looked up at Garrod. “We have to get him out of here before Abhartach's men return.” She helped Garrod carry Quentin out of the prison, saying, “Take him to my palace.”

Quentin moaned once more. “I need...sunlight...”

“Then we'll get you to my gardens outside the bathing chamber.”

As they neared Lhiannan's palace, Garrod said, “You mustn't go any farther, your majesty. It is now dawn and according to the almanacs, today shall see full sun.”

“But we must get Quentin into the garden. He's sworn allegiance to the sun; he's not like us.”

Garrod shook his head. “It's too dangerous for you. I won't allow my queen to be burned by the sun. I'll take him from here.”

“No,” cried Quentin, “I won't let either of you be burned. I can take care of myself.”

Lhiannan placed her hand upon his chest. “Quentin, you can hardly move, let alone walk on your own.”

“Leave me here and I will manage.”

“The last thing I'll do is leave you now.”

Garrod turned to Lhiannan. “Allow me to carry him, your majesty.”

Lhiannan nodded. “Into the bathing chamber with him, Garrod.” To Quentin, she said, “The bathing chamber and its gardens were designed by Lugh as a gift to me. They are such that the moon always protects the inner chamber, even when the gardens bask in the sun's rays. It is the only way I can enjoy full sunlight. If Garrod takes you into the room, do you think you can make your way to the gardens on your own?”

Quentin nodded.

A moment later, Garrod slowly released his grasp on Quentin at a spot indicated by his queen.

“Thank you, Garrod” said Lhiannan.

The guard bowed to her, saying as he left, “I would remain in the palace if I were you, your majesty. If Abhartach has a hold over Aeval, your lands are your only sanctuary. I'll post a Sun Guard at the gate.”

Lhiannan nodded her head and returned her gaze to Quentin.

The pain in his body was almost unbearable. Quentin cursed the men who had done this to him. One day, they'd pay. And when that time came, they'd do so dearly.

He managed to walk across the bathing chamber and descend stairs leading to the gardens. The sun's warmth blanketed his flesh. He basked in the energizing sensation, thanking his god for the gift of renewing his broken body. The sun's warmth was something he thought he'd never experience again.

He lay at the bottom of the stairs. “Lhiannan?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Where are you?”

“I'm right here,” said Lhiannan. “Just inside the bathing chamber.”

Her voice was heaven to his ears. “I don't think last night was your sister's doing.”

“No,” answered the vampyre queen. “I don't think so either. In fact, I believe it was all Abhartach's.”

“Yes,” he said. “My cousin has returned. I sensed his soul while in the prison cell, after Neilus’ men left me.”

“I plan on sending Garrod after him once the sun sets.”

“No.”

“But why not, my lord? Should he not pay for what he's done to you?”

“In time, Lhiannan. In time they'll all pay. But for now, let Abhartach be. He is only avenging the pain he believes his parents suffered. I suppose I would do the same, if I were in his place.”

He waited for Lhiannan's response, but it never came. Quentin couldn't sense her presence. “Lhiannan? Are you still there?”

“Yes, my lord. I only went to fetch you some cloths.”

The swelling around his eyes was diminishing. He could begin to see clearly again. From the inside of the bathing chamber, he saw Lhiannan's hand extend into the sunlight. She held out a stack of white cloths. “There are three of them. One for the ground, one to fold as a makeshift pillow, and one to cover your body.”

No one ever cared for him like this before. He laughed to himself at Lhiannan's concern. She should only know how he'd slept at Dun Drac'ola. He was accustomed to spending his nights naked, on a cold, stone floor and with only his sword and dagger for company.

“You're too kind, your majesty.” He reached for the cloths.

“You're my kingdom's future, Quentin.”

His heart sank. He wished she hadn't said it like that. Somewhere in the deepest depths of his cold, caged heart, Quentin wished Lhiannan could care for him out of love, not duty. Mayhap his father was right. He wasn't fit for any woman.

“Go to your chambers, Lhiannan. Get some sleep.”

“But Quentin, I need to know what we're going to do about Abhartach.”

He let out a deep breath. “Let me rest, Lhiannan. After a few hours of sleep, my body should be well mended. Then, I'll be able to think more clearly.”

“Fine.”

He still sensed her presence in the bathing chambers. “Lhiannan?”

“Yes?”

He couldn't sleep with her so close to him.

“Go to bed.”

“I have no desire to go to my sleeping quarters.”

He needed his rest and he needed to get the woman out of his system. If he didn't, the two of them could end up dead at Abhartach's hands. “And I have no desire to have you sleep so near to me. Now go.”

Quentin felt Lhiannan's soul slip away. He also sensed her pain and... It couldn't be. If he didn't know her better, he'd swear he heard her cry. Ridiculous. The woman was braver than most warriors he'd known. It must have been only his imagination, his foolish desire for her to want him.

By dusk, his body had healed. Quentin thanked the gods for relieving him of most of his pain and mending his wounds. Unfortunately, they didn't help him get rest. He'd spent most of the day in the private gardens outside Lhiannan's palace, tossing and turning, finding it hard to get any true sleep. Lhiannan had occupied his thoughts and even when he did manage to finally drift off, the beguiling creature owned his dreams as well.

Quentin couldn't get her out of his mind.

No woman had ever owned him in such a manner and never had he felt the intense desire to possess another soul like he did Lhiannan. He wanted to protect her, keep her safe and sound, and keep her more than well-sated. Lhiannan wasn't like the temple priestesses. She was a woman to whom he could lose his heart, a woman who could break down the barriers he'd fought so hard to erect. And that meant only one thing. Lhiannan was dangerous. He simply couldn't allow himself to fall in love with her. Ever.

A new suit of clothing had been left for him at the foot of the stairs, as had been the Blood Ruby. Dressed in his clean attire and armed with the cursed sword he knew he could never cast away, Quentin headed for the door.

A servant met him in the hallway. “You have a visitor, my lord. A prince.”

He knew no one, save for Lhiannan and Garrod. And Abhartach. And he certainly didn't care to see his princely cousin this night. “I don't care who he is. Send him away. I have no desire to visit with anyone.” He headed back toward the door.

“Not even your own brother?” The familiar voice made his heart skip.

Slowly, Quentin turned around. Standing in the shadows stood his younger brother, Fintan—a loved one he had watched brutally murdered. “By the gods, it can't be true.”

“Aye, but it is, Quentin. ‘Tis I, Fintan.”

He didn't believe his own eyes. The being who stood before him looked every inch his brother, save for black hair that should have been fair. “I watched you die.”

“And so I did,” said Fintan. “But as my soul began to slip away, Lhiannan's army restored life to me and to most of our kingdom.”

His brother was now one of them, one of the undead. “And the children?”

“Colm's sons survived the return to life.”

The news of his youngest brother's children being alive once more filled Quentin's soul with joy. “And what of your boy? Of Earnan?”

“Not all of us were strong enough to come back. Earnan now rests with his mother.”

“You lost them both?”

Fintan rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath. “I lost the three of them. Dara was with child when Abhartach's men killed her. She couldn't return to me.”

Quentin's earlier joy quickly faded to pain. He couldn't begin to imagine what his brother must be going through.

“Return to us, Quentin,” begged his brother. “Your are our king.”

“Nay.”

Fintan eyed him in confusion.

“Dun Drac'ola is now yours as it should have been from the beginning.”

His brother stepped from the shadows and approached him. He reached for Quentin's shoulder. “The code of the Celtai states only a first-born can rule. Be that soul blessed or cursed, born in marriage or born in sin.”

Quentin shook his head. “A bastard should never be king.”

“Mind your tongue, brother, lest the gods hear you and choose to punish you.”

He laughed. “As if I haven't been punished enough? Besides, what good did I do my people in the past? I failed them once, I have no intention of failing them again.”

Still, the thought of returning to Dun Drac'ola stirred his heart. And stirred his soul. But he'd never allow his people to suffer again as they did before. They deserved a better king than he'd ever been for them.

“We need you, Quentin.”

“I can't go back. As much as I'd like to, I am still a prisoner here, bound to the code of war. I cannot leave until I have earned my freedom.”

Fintan reached down into his boot and retrieved a wax-sealed note. He handed Quentin the folded parchment. “'Tis from Fiona.”

Quentin closed his eyes and held the letter up to his face. The distinct scent of lavender filled his nostrils...Fiona's perfume. He couldn't bare the thought of reading what she had to say to him. How she must hate him. He folded the letter and placed it inside his shirt.

“Do you not care to see what she has written?”

Fintan would never understand. “No.”

“By the gods, Quentin. You are no longer the brother I once knew.”

“Quite the contrary. It is you who has changed, Fintan, not I.” He eyed his brother with a cautious stare. “Tell me, how did you come to the palace? To this realm?”

Fintan took a deep breath. “It wasn't easy. I set sail at dusk and managed to avoid Abhartach's ships in the mists. When I came ashore, I was met by a Vampyre Fae who led me here.”

Quentin looked at his brother more closely, for the first time noticing Fintan's pale face. His eyes, also, were somehow different.

Even though he finally accepted the fact that his people lived again at Dun Drac'ola, Quentin realized the world he had known no longer existed. Going home would never be the same. Not only was he not fit for any woman but, now, neither was he fit for any of the realms known to him.

“Quentin,” said Fintan. “I'd give anything to have you home with us once more. I am here so that I may help in bargaining for your freedom.”

“Go home, Fintan. I have no need nor want of your help.”

A look of pain etched Fintan's face. “Surely you jest.”

Quentin turned away. The thought of severing ties with his siblings pained him, but it was for the best, for their own good. What kind of king would he make? He was a man who walked with the sun. How could he rule a race now drawn to the moon?

No. He failed them once. He wouldn't do so again.

“I said go home, Fintan. I've no desire to ever return to Dun Drac'ola. I have everything I want right here.”

“You choose a life of slavery over your own kingdom?”

He refused to turn around, he couldn't.

Fintan grabbed Quentin's arm. “You don't really expect me to believe that, brother. Do you?”

“I have to go. Lhiannan is waiting for me.”

“But Quentin...”

He gritted his teeth. “Fintan, take the kingdom and rule it as you see fit. You'll make a good king, a deserving king.” He headed toward the door.

“Never,” said Fintan. “You may escape your responsibilities for the time being. But I will be back, Quentin. And next time, you'll return with me even if I have to drag you to the boat myself.”

His brother had no idea about his responsibilities. If only leaving Lhiannan could be so simple. If only resolving the problems with Abhartach were so simple. If only...

Quentin could torment himself for days thinking like this. He knew little of his heritage and the sacred prophecy, and Fintan knew even less. Quentin felt cursed all around. He was damned if he left and damned if he stayed. Truly there'd never be any escape for him.

He left Fintan and headed toward the dining hall. Lhiannan sat at the head of a long, polished table and toyed with a silver goblet. Something occupied her thoughts and Quentin didn't like seeing her in such a somber mood. He wanted her happy, content.

Damn. He was doing it again. The woman would surely be the death of him yet.

He stared at her. Lhiannan's long, black tresses fell free, cascading over her shoulders, bound only by a thin pink ribbon tied loosely at the back of her head. A sheer green gown, the color of the sea, framed her figure.

Quentin wanted nothing more than to extend his hand and wrap his fingers in Lhiannan's hair, raising her tresses to him so he could breathe in the scintillating fragrance of roses that was her signature scent. But he refrained from taken any action. He didn't trust himself.

A vacant chair sat to her right. Quentin waited for her word.

Lhiannan refused to look at him. “My lord,” she said staring at her cup. “I trust you slept well, this day?”

He sensed she was still upset with him for having sent her away earlier in the day. “Quite the contrary, your majesty.” Ice capped his words and even Quentin knew he was being a bit harsh on Lhiannan. She'd been nothing but kind to him. He cursed to himself. If only he could explain to her, tell her the true reason he could never claim back his birthright. Or why he could never claim her as he so wanted.

“Please,” said Lhiannan. “Join me, my lord.” She motioned with a nod of her head to the empty seat.

Quentin adjusted the Blood Ruby secured at his belt and sat down. A servant placed a plate of warm biscuits, eggs, ham and fruit in front of him. He stared at the dish. Eating was the last thing on his mind. Well, eating food, that was. He certainly wouldn't mind making a meal out of Lhiannan as he had that night in the Moon Temple.

The memory caused his body to harden on the instant. Quentin shifted in his chair, painfully aware the vampyre queen still haunted not only his soul but his body, as well. Abhartach's army might have beaten him, but Lhiannan would surely be the death of him.

“Are you not hungry?” A concerned look crossed the queen's face. “It was my understanding this type of meal is customary at Dun Drac'ola.”

“I've lost my appetite for food, nothing more.”

“If you wish something else, you only need ask for it.”

Quentin turned to her. “Why do you treat a prisoner as an equal?”

Lhiannan nervously moistened her lips then raised her eyes to meet his. “I'm trying very hard to understand you, Drac'olian. But you are not a man easily understood. Tell me what it is that I've done to displease you.”

He closed his eyes and swore silently. Now Lhiannan was blaming herself for his own misgivings. “You've done nothing of the sort. I'm just not accustomed to the comforts of your ways.”

Awkwardly, Lhiannan cleared her throat. She looked away from Quentin, lowering her eyes to the table. “I know all too well what it is like to be held captive.”

The news shocked him. “How?”

“When I was a child, centuries ago, the Celtai Drac'olians and the Fae engaged in a brutal battle. My people were driven from their earthly homes and forced to relocate on this island kingdom. The Celtai lost their preternatural abilities as a result of their wrongful battle against us. I was held captive for a short while until the gods forced the Celtai and the Fae to make a new pact. It was the second time in our histories that the Fae and Drac'olian's were forced to make peace.”

So that was how his people came to walk in the sun. Quentin's father never spoke of the fateful battle. Now he knew why. The Celtai had been no better than Abhartach. The notion that her own enemy was the only soul born to sate her, had to be nothing short of devastating to Lhiannan, thought Quentin. He wondered how she accepted the brutal fact.

“In the beginning I refused to agree to the pact, but over time, the new accord saved my life and set me free.”

She'd read his mind again and the notion unsettled him. He'd have to learn to shield his thoughts better in the future.

“The sex masters’ arrangement allowed me to reclaim my physical freedom. The whole lot of them are excellent negotiators.”

“And just how many sex masters have you had?” He surprised himself. The question seemed to have fallen from his lips before he even realized what he was asking. Or rather, what he was admitting.

Lhiannan furrowed her brow. “My lord?”

“I want to know how many tutors you've had.”

She stared at him with a confused look. “Many,” she said. The earlier eagerness to please him suddenly faded from her voice.

“Male or female?”

“Both.”

Her answer wasn't what he wanted to hear. “Where were you educated?”

“Mostly here, or at my sister's palace. On rare occasions I would travel to other temples.”

The casual tone of Lhiannan's voice and her ease in answering such questions displeased him. “And how did they instruct you?”

She slightly lowered her head. “The tutors gave me ancient scrolls, they watched me, answered my questions and in some instances did more than merely dictate instructions.”

“And both the male and female tutors acted in the same manner?”

Lhiannan took a deep breath. “Niamh and her priestesses trained me. As for the male tut...”

“Your majesty.” A servant interrupted.

She turned to her minion with eyebrows raised in disapproval at his rudeness.

He flushed. “I humbly apologize, your majesty. But it is a matter of utmost importance. A priest from the Sun Temple is here.”

“By all means, send him in.” Lhiannan stared at Quentin, her blue eyes aimed toward his neck.

A slight pulsing throbbed at his jugular. “Don't even try,” he said. “From this moment on, my thoughts are my own.” He sensed Lhiannan back down as the tingling sensation dissipated.

A man dressed in robes decorated with paintings of stags, entered the room and approached the table.

Lhiannan faced him with a look of surprise. “Kembell! What brings you to my home?”

“I was summoned here, your majesty.” The man bowed his head then nodded toward Quentin. “Apparently your prisoner is unaware of the fact that a captive soul may not summon a Sun Temple priest without his queen's say so.

Lhiannan moved her gaze from the priest to Quentin. “You summoned Kembell?”

“Yes.”

“I can refuse to answer him, your majesty,” said the priest. “Only say the word and I shall take my leave.”

“No,” answered Lhiannan. “That will not be necessary.” She motioned with her hands for Quentin to leave. “Go with the priest. Mayhap he will be successful in convincing you to accept your birthright, as I seem only to fail.”

She had no idea how wrong her words were. If it were at all possible, he'd do anything and everything to claim back that which was rightfully his. Especially Lhiannan. But Quentin knew only a fool wasted energy on attempting to attain dreams impossible to fulfill.

Quentin didn't respond to Lhiannan as he rose from his chair and followed Kembell from the room.

The priest led him to the Sun Temple, a stone building that stood outside the main gates to Lhiannan's palace and sat within sight of Aeval's castle.

“You look fairly well-kept for a prisoner, my lord,” said Kembell, his voice deep, yet light in tone. “Fairly well indeed.”

Quentin ignored the man's jesting nature. He had serious thoughts on his mind and had no time for games. “You've been chief advisor and my most trusted ally since my father died.”

“And I continue to be so.”

“Then tell me about Lhiannan's education.”

A sly grin spread across Kembell's face. He cocked his head to the side. “You're not talking royal duties or the history of the Fae are you?”

“No,” said Quentin.

“Why not ask my sister? Since I am bound to the sun and my sister to the moon, it was Niamh who trained Lhiannan. I have no desire to interfere in the moon's realm”

Quentin reached for Kembell's robes. He wrapped his hands firmly about the course fabric and pulled the man close to him. “I need to know.”

Kembell raised his hands and pushed Quentin back. “You're jealous, Quentin Moore. Jealous of a woman who has you held captive.” The priest paused, his smile widening. “Well I'll be bloody damned. Never did I think such a day would come.”

Quentin let out a deep breath. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“Well,” said the priest. “Niamh began training Lhiannan at the age of...”

“No. I only want to know about the male tutors.”

A look of confusion crossed Kembell's dark face. “Male tutors? Lhiannan's only had one.”

“Then tell me who he is so I may seek him out and kill him.”

A smirk lifted Kembell's lips. “You are armed and he is here now. If you truly wish to carry out such a threat, you may do so this instant. But I'll wager you won't.”

“Bloody hell, man.” Quentin drew the Blood Ruby and pointed the tip of the blade at Kembell's neck. “I'll have your head for this.”

The priest pushed the blade away from his body. “Turn the sword against yourself, if you seek the one and only man who has lain with Lhiannan Sidhe.”

The words took a moment to sink in. “But she said her tutors were both male and female.”

“Yes,” said Kembell. “And you were the male. Have you forgotten the night in the Temple of the Moon?”

“Hardly.” Although if truth be known, sometimes Quentin wished he had forgotten. “She's had no one save for me that night in the Temple of the Moon?”

Kembell nodded.

“Then I can never claim back my birthright. I would rather die than see Lhiannan suffer.” Quentin raised the sword in his hand and tossed the Blood Ruby across the chamber. The sword flew through the air, bounced off the wall and fell to the floor. The clang of metal clashing against stone echoed throughout the room.

“Forgive me my lord, but I know not of what you speak.”

Quentin looked at Kembell. He couldn't believe the priest hadn't known about his mother's death. “I killed the last queen of Dun Drac'ola. My mother died giving birth to me. Every day of my life, my father reminded me. I can still hear his words in my nightmares.”

“And what words were they, my lord?”

Quentin paced the temple floor. “He would tell me over and over, since I was a breed made of both Fae and Drac'olian blood, that should I lay with a Drac'olian woman, my Fae seed would take root in her womb and kill her during childbirth. Should I take a Fae for a wife, my Drac'olian seed would kill her. My father made it quite clear to me—I was neither fit for Fae nor Drac'olian.”

“Ah,” said Kembell. “That is why you favored the priestesses at the Temple of the Moon. They are barren.”

“Yes.”

The priest sighed deeply. “Your seed will kill neither Fae nor Drac'olian. Both races of women are quite capable of bearing your heirs and surviving their births.”

“Why would my father have lied?”

“Lord Drac'ola was a harsh man. When he lost something he treasured, he did not take it lightly. You were wrongfully accused. The Lady Drac'ola died from a wound inflicted upon her by your father's own sword.”

He couldn't believe his ears. “How?”

“It was an accident. You were but two-hours-old. I suppose your father couldn't face the truth and blamed you instead.”

All these years he had punished himself for nothing. Denied his heart and soul that which he treasured and desired most. He hated his father for lying to him.

“The man knew no other way to deal with his loss,” said Kembell.

“Don't invade my thoughts, priest. Especially now.”

Kembell backed down. He nodded to Quentin and stepped away.

“The man had no right to do to me what he did.”

“I agree. But hating him now won't change the past.”

Quentin knew Kembell's words to be true, but letting go of such a hurt, such pain wasn't easy. “He took everything from me. Took away from me a right, bestowed upon me by the gods. No man should live as I have.”

Kembell kept silent.

Quentin leaned against the stone wall and slowly slid to the floor, covering his face with his hands. If he'd not been so cold, mayhap he would have been a different kind of king for his people. Mayhap with a wife and family of his own, he would have been more cautious, more aware of Abhartach's scheming. He dropped his hands from his face and looked up at Kembell. “I could have had a purpose to my life beyond the way of the sword. My father ensured that I started training with that weapon the day he took a new bride. I was barely five-years-old. Do you know what it's like to live by the sword from such a young age, Kembell? To have only cold steel as your bedmate? As it is, I knew nothing of love, of what it felt to have a heart.”

The priest shook his head, a look of compassion offered in his eyes. “No, my lord, I do not.”

“As a child, I knew no mother's warmth. As a man, I've known no woman's love. And yet, despite the cold life I've known, I still fight to hang on to it. I am a fool, Kembell. Nothing but a bloody fool.”

Kembell crouched to his knees. “You are no fool, my lord. You are merely a soul who had no options. But heed my words, you have been blessed with new choices, Quentin. Claim your birthright and learn to love the way you were meant to love. Share what Lhiannan offers you. No soul should deny itself such pleasures.”

Mayhap Kembell was right. He had his whole future ahead of him, even if it was a new world. He had nothing to lose, and mayhap something to gain.

“I must go to Lhiannan,” said Quentin. “I must tell her the truth about why I've denied her. In the least, I owe her an explanation.” He rose from the floor.

“Will you accept your birthright?” asked the Sun Priest.

“You're asking me to give up the sun, the only way of life I've known.”

Kembell rose to his feet and took a step forward. He placed a hand upon Quentin's shoulder. “I'm asking you to return your people to the life they were meant to live. As it is, Lhiannan has already brought them back from the dead. They need someone who is wise to lead them in this new life. I'm sure you can make arrangements with Lugh to retain the ability to walk in the sun. Mayhap just not as often.”

He could probably live with that, thought Quentin, especially if he had Lhiannan at his side. But there were other things to consider as well. He reached inside his shirt and withdrew Fiona's letter.

“May I have a moment of privacy, Kembell?”

“By all means.” Kembell walked out of the chamber in silence.

Quentin stared at the note in his hand. A gold and red chord sat on the parchment, sealed in place with wax. He tugged at the chord and broke the seal.

My Dearest Quentin,

Please know that by the time you read this note I will no longer walk the face of this earth. I have tried to accept Lhiannan's gracious gift of life renewed, but the painful memories of the siege are too great for me to bear, and too strong for me to forget. Follow your destiny, Quentin. The events of that fateful day must never again take place. Only you can see to it that they are stopped. Know that I always loved you and always will, regardless of where my soul rests.

Your loving sister, Fiona

Quentin crushed the note. Anger and pain tore through him like a storm raging out of control; destroying whatever tender emotions he still had left. “Kembell!” He shouted for the priest.

“My lord?”

“I will fulfill the prophecy, Kembell. I will see to it the Fae and the Drac'olians make peace. That Abhartach is finally stopped. But expect nothing more from me than that.”

The Blood Ruby lifted from the floor and flew through the air, landing in the scabbard on Quentin's belt.

Lhiannan stood on the balcony off her bedchamber and looked toward the sky. The moon's silvery beams draped her body, shadowing her figure against the sheer fabric of the gown she wore.

Quentin had never seen anything as beautiful. He crossed the room and joined her. His body hardened on the instant. He'd fulfill his destiny, give her the child she so craved and then walk away. Lhiannan deserved a man who could love her, not a soul such as him.

“Quentin.” She turned to him and smiled. A look of surprise glistened in her blue eyes.

“Would you rather I leave?”

“No, of course not. It's just I didn't think you'd come back tonight.”

He walked to her and wrapped his arms around her small waist. “And why wouldn't I?”

She leaned her head against his chest and lowered her gaze toward the floor. “I thought mayhap you'd find something more enticing in the realm of the sun.”

“Something or someone?”

“I know you don't love me, Quentin Moore. You don't even desire me. But...”

He slid his hand under her chin and tilted her head upward to meet his gaze. “What makes you think I don't desire you?”

“You sent me away this morning. And before that, you denied me in the bath. What else would you have me believe?”

He stared down into her eyes, so filled with longing, and wished he could make her understand. But he knew his words would mean nothing without proper action. “Lhiannan, I only denied you because I believed any child sired from my seed would kill you. I turned you away because you meant too much to me to lose.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I know it was wrong of me. I should have told you from the very beginning. It's just that....you live for your kingdom. I couldn't bear the thought of shattering any hopes you had for a future peace with my people.”

He saw the hurt in her eyes. “But the gods can't be wrong.”

“No, Lhiannan. They're not wrong. I was led to believe a lie.”

A look of shock crossed her face. “Who would do such a thing?”

Quentin didn't have time to explain about the ways of his father. The moon was full, and precious minutes were slipping away. He lowered his head and pressed his lips against Lhiannan's. He would do what the gods requested of him. He would sate the queen's needs.

He would also give her his heart, but never take hers in turn.

Quentin's mouth hungrily covered hers. The wild touch of his kiss sent shivers down Lhiannan's spine. She reached up and wrapped her hands around Quentin's neck. She slid her fingers through his thick, dark hair and relished the feel of him against her skin. Her body yearned for him, and she wasn't going to let go until he finally and fully sated her.

He deepened his kiss, exploring her mouth in a wild, hungry way. Lhiannan enjoyed the fierceness with which his tongue possessed her mouth. He teased the points of her fangs and she tasted the sweet fragrance of his blood. Her head spun. “Quentin...”

He grabbed hold of the fabric of her gown and raised its hem to her waist. The cool night air brushed against her bare bottom. Quentin lowered his hands to cup her backside and lifted her against him. He carried her to the marble balustrade edging the balcony, sat her on top of it, and spread her legs wide. Then, he lifted her gown over her head.

Lhiannan reached for the ties of his shirt.

Quentin pushed her hands away and removed his clothing in haste.

She stared down at his large, thick cock already hard, eager to plunder her aching pussy. Tonight she'd finally have him as she was meant to have him. Tonight he'd give her what she'd longed for her whole life.

He assaulted her mouth once more, trailing his tongue over her lips then darting inside.

Lhiannan slid forward off the balustrade, edging her honeyed walls toward Quentin's shaft.

“Not yet, Lhiannan.”

She spread her legs further apart and sought his hand. She brought him against her, and placed his fingers firmly against her.

He rolled her clit between his thumb and forefinger and she moaned. Lhiannan didn't think she could ever get enough of him. Then a smooth, cold sensation struck her aching mound. She pulled her lips away from his and dropped her gaze.

A sliver streak flashed in the moonlight. Quentin was holding the Blood Ruby. He nudged the rounded hilt of the sword against Lhiannan's swollen clit and began working the weapon back and forth, up and down. She writhed against it, moving in tune to his stroking rhythm.

Quentin edged the hilt of the sword farther down and then slowly inside her. He thrust it in and out, over and over until she exploded. Lhiannan reveled in the ripples shooting through her insides.

As she savored his handy work, Quentin withdrew the sword and moved it back to caress her clit. It was wet and slick, encased in her own juices. The hilt now glided effortlessly over her mound and she came a second time.

Lhiannan pushed the sword away and edged her pussy toward Quentin's cock. “I want you inside me, my lord. Please.”

He dropped the Blood Ruby, lifted Lhiannan from the balustrade, and carried her inside. After easing her upon the bed, Quentin positioned his body over hers and lowered his head to her neck. Hot searing kisses fell from his mouth.

The feel of his tongue against her flesh made her quiver.

Quentin ventured lower and away from her neck. His tongue roamed intimately along the hollow between her breasts, then up to meet her hard nipple. He gently brushed his lips against her aching bud and took it fully into his mouth.

As he nipped her with his teeth, chills crept down her spine. She glided her hands over his back, scraping her nails against his skin.

Quentin moaned, settling himself between her thighs, hungrily seeking her pussy. He thrust inside her in one swift move.

Lhiannan cried out.

He filled her deeply, sending her over the edge for the third time. She bared her fangs and lifted her head. In an instant she tasted his blood, experienced his most private thoughts and memories. And when she felt him spill his seed inside her, she drank deeper and harder.

“Lhiannan.” He cried out her name.

She withdrew her fangs and dropped her head back upon the pillows.

Quentin collapsed on top of her, his glistening body weary and spent.

Lhiannan gently slid from underneath Quentin's sleeping body and edged her way off the bed. She had her seed inside him, and according to legend she had to present herself to the goddess in the Temple of the Moon within the hour.

Lhiannan went back to the balcony, retrieved her gown, and slipped it over her head. The coldness of the fabric was almost a shock after the warmth of Quentin's hot body against hers.

She turned her head back and raked her gaze over the sleeping Drac'olian. He was content and sated, and slumbered in a deep sleep—rest Lhiannan was sure he needed. Her drinking his blood would render him temporarily weak. By morning, he'd be fully recovered and needed only one more bite to be returned to his true Celtai Drac'olian state. A bite she looked forward to giving him. But first, she'd have to find a way for him to defeat Abhartach. Then and only then would she allow Quentin to fully reclaim his birthright.

Lhiannan took to the night sky. She headed toward the Temple of the Moon and landed outside its entrance. Pausing, she could hear the priestesses tending to their spells, their soft voices swirling around her.

She entered and made her way to the main chamber. Niamh stood over a large cauldron, stirring the contents with a crooked tree branch. The crone raised her head as Lhiannan approached.

“Ah...my dear child. Tell me, do you bring me the news our mistress wishes to hear?”

Lhiannan smiled at her. “Yes. The deed is done.”

“And how do you feel about the Drac'olian now? Do you still consider him a soul for whom you care nothing?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I care more for him than I ever imagined I could care for another soul. My purpose here tonight is two-fold.”

Niamh didn't seem surprised at hearing such news. Smiling faintly, she nodded to a priestess standing to her right and handed the woman the crooked branch. “Finish this, Sorcha.”

She led Lhiannan to an inner chamber. “What plagues you, my queen?”

“Abhartach has returned and I must find a way to destroy him. I can't lose Quentin to my enemy. I've already lost my sister and her entire court to the vile warlord.”

The crone turned away and walked to the back of the chamber. She rubbed her hands together in a way that seemed almost eager to Lhiannan, and mulled over a grouping of burlap sacks and wood barrels.

“Aha...” Niamh leaned forward. She dipped a hand inside one of the barrels and retrieved a small sack, which she opened. “A pinch of my magical blend of herbs will bring forth your muse, Lhiannan. If you allow its power to work, you will inspire the man who possesses your heart and he will fight until he is victorious over Abhartach.”

Niamh placed a small amount of herbs into a goblet and added water. The magical brew bubbled and emitted steam. “It looks as if it should be hot. But it isn't.”

Lhiannan reached for the goblet and raised the cup to her lips. The fruity taste of berries met her tongue. She downed the contents in a few gulps and passed the cup back to Niamh.

“Now, about the child. We need to present you to our Mistress so she will bless the child and keep it safe until its birth.” Niamh took Lhiannan's hand and led her to the sacred temple room with the open ceiling. In the language of the ancient ones, she uttered a magical phrase.

Lhiannan watched in silence as a silver beam of light entered the room from the opening above and wrapped itself around her body. From the center of the beam, a silver moon chord reached out and melded itself with Lhiannan's soul. Warmth filled her body as an entity entered her, taking rest inside her womb. A moment later, the beam returned to the sky.

“The child will be born safely,” said Niamh. “You have nothing to fear, Lhiannan. Both you and the babe you carry will be kept from harm's way.”

“And what of Quentin?”

Niamh looked away. “The Drac'olian has aligned himself with the sun. His protection cannot be sought from the moon. You must call upon Lugh, the sun god, for his assistance.”

“But the sun—”

“You have the power to walk in the sun, now, Lhiannan. At least, for the next nine months because of the child you carry in your womb—it is a being who will be both a day and night creature.”

“And what of Lugh?”

Niamh responded, “With his help, you can inspire your Drac'olian to fight, to claim back what is rightfully his. But in the end, Quentin's ultimate decision must come from within his soul.”

Quentin awakened and reached for Lhiannan, but his hand met only empty sheets and a spare pillow. Panic filled his soul. He rose from the bed and scanned the room. Nothing. Quentin couldn't feel Lhiannan's presence.

He went to the balcony and found his sword lying upon the stone floor. Lhiannan's gown was missing.

After gathering his clothes, he dressed in haste, then reached for his boots and pulled them on quickly. As he fastened the Blood Ruby to his belt, Quentin suddenly became acutely aware of the sun rising against his back, making his skin itch.

He'd never experienced such a sensation. Then it hit him. He was returning to a vampyric state. He raised a hand to his neck and felt the remains of two tiny puncture wounds. Quentin recalled that to be made vampyre, one had to endure three bites. Lhiannan had just bitten him for the second time.

He cursed to himself. He should have told Lhiannan he hadn't yet decided whether or not to embrace his Celtai heritage. On that matter, he needed a bit more time to reflect. Time to adjust his ways.

Quentin put the problem behind him for the moment, making his way through the bedchamber and into the corridor. He approached the palace's front entrance and met Garrod returning from his night post.

“My lord.” The guard bowed to him and continued his way down the corridor.

“Garrod, where may I find Lhiannan at this time?”

“In her bed chamber, my lord. Is something amiss?”

He didn't want to alarm the man. The last thing he needed was to cause a stir at the palace, sending the wrong message to Abhartach. If Lhiannan was missing, he'd find her, himself. “No. Garrod, everything is fine. Enjoy your rest.”

The guard nodded and walked away.

Quentin exited the palace and passed through the main gate. His skin began tingling from exposure to the sun, reminding him of Lhiannan's reaction to the fiery orb. He prayed to the gods she wasn't suffering from burning flesh, mayhap at the hands of Abhartach. Quentin wouldn't put anything past the beast.

He made his way across the fields and entered the wooded lands belonging to Queen Aeval. The silence of the forest surrounding Aeval's castle struck Quentin as odd. He heard no birds, no insects, no wind rustling the trees. A twig snapped in the distance.

“Please,” cried a trembling voice. “Spare me, m’ lord. I've done nothin’ to ya but cross y'r path.”

“And that is the only deed needed to lose your head, man.”

Quentin recognized the second voice. Abhartach.

He climbed a tree and surveyed the area. Dense forests and thick brush covered most of the immediate land, but in the near distance, Quentin saw a small patch of clearing. The vivid green plot of land appeared like a tame oasis in a wild jungle. There, he was able to see the evil warlord and the man he held captive.

Quentin's preternatural abilities kicked in and he focused on the conversation between the two men.

“What are y’ going to do to me, m’ lord?”

“What do you think?” Abhartach took a step forward and aimed the point of his sword at the beggar's jugular.

Quentin squinted his eyes, zeroing in on his enemy's strange-looking weapon. A black blade jetted out from a gold hilt. Centered at the top sat a dark, dull stone. In general, the sword didn't differ from many others Quentin had seen in battle. But what struck him as odd were the smoldering vapors that rose from the weapon's blade. The foul smell of sulfur reached his nostrils.

The Black Sapphire. The evil twin of the Blood Ruby.

A weapon cursed by darkness, the Black Sapphire once belonged to Lugh, god of fire. After the sword had been misused by a warrior, the powers of fire coursing through the blade had transformed to molten liquid. Since that time, the sword had adopted ever-changing shapes.

Quentin knew the man beneath the Black Sapphire's blade would never survive. He had to save him.

He jumped from the tree and ran through the forest toward Abhartach. At the clearing, Quentin stepped forward. Then stopped abruptly as the points of ten blades emerged like lightning through the brush and pricked his neck.

“We meet again, Lord Drac'ola,” sneered Abhartach.

Quentin eyed his enemy. “Let the man go.”

“Still a foolish, noble soul, I see. You disappoint me, Quentin. Have you learned nothing from your dealings with me?”

“Let him go, I said.”

Abhartach reached into a small sack dangling from his belt. He withdrew a coin and tossed it to the man. “If you do as well on your next task, I'll give you two.”

The grimy looking beggar grabbed for the coin and snickered. “Y’ ‘ave me word, m’ lord.”

“Deliver the goods by dusk, and I'll double your reward.”

“Oh, she'll be ‘ere by sunset,” said the beggar. “That I guarantee.”

A sick feeling twisted in Quentin's stomach. He searched Abhartach's mind, but the vampyre blocked him from reading his thoughts.

Quentin peered into the forest, searching with his second sight for the beggar. He found him. The wretch had only one thing on his mind—visions of Lhiannan. Quentin cursed to himself. “If you so much as lay a finger upon my queen, I'll have your head, Abhartach.”

The villainous vampyre turned to face him. “Your queen. Now that is an interesting statement. Since when did you become a soul known for giving in to your captor?”

Quentin stretched his neck to glare at Abhartach. Three sword points punctured his flesh. He ignored the discomfort. “Keep Lhiannan out of this. She has nothing to do with the matter.”

“Quite the contrary, my lord.”

Quentin narrowed his gaze.

An evil smirk crossed Abhartach's lips. “Did you know she betrayed me to Aeval? For that, she must pay. When I am finally finished with you, I will take Lhiannan for my own, and then share her with my men.”

Anger rose inside Quentin's soul. The thought of Lhiannan being touched by the vulgar warlord sickened him. “My father should have done away with you years ago, instead of allowing his brother to ship you off to the Fae.”

An evil laugh echoed through the forest as Abhartach offered a mock look of pain. “My lord. You wound me. And coming from my own kin... how could you?”

Quentin balled his hands into tight fists and jabbed at Abhartach. The vampyre kept one step out of reach, forcing him to lean closer to the swords still aimed at his neck.

“I'll have you, Abhartach. If it is the last thing I do, I'll have your head.”

Abhartach snickered, then turned to his men. “Make him entertain you until dusk. I don't care what you do to the poor creature. Just don't kill him. I want that joy for myself.”

Furious, Quentin watched as Abhartach vanished.

The first of the ten swords fixed on his neck and dug deep into his flesh. He looked up at the sky and squinted. Dusk was a long way off.

The feel of the sun upon her skin was strange to Lhiannan. She couldn't imagine a creature craving such a thing. After untying the bows at the elbow of her gown, she pulled the sleeves over her arms. She didn't like the sun's warmth.

Entering her gardens on the outskirts of the palace grounds, Lhiannan sensed a foreign soul. She surveyed the area and noticed a stranger approaching the main gates of the palace.

As she neared the gate, a beggar dressed in rags fell at her feet.

He reached out a hand and motioned to her. “Help me, m’ lady.”

“What can I do?” Lhiannan fumbled with the lock and opened the gate. She knelt beside the wounded man and offered him her hand.

“I've been burned by the Black Sapphire.” The beggar turned his head, revealing a large welt at the side of his neck.

“Who inflicted this wound upon you?”

“A warrior calling himself Abhartach.” The man licked his parched lips, then swallowed. “Some water, m’ lady. And some food mayhap.”

“Of course.” Lhiannan helped the man to his feet and brought him inside the gate. “Guards!” She called for help, knowing a wound inflicted by the Black Sapphire often meant death. She turned to the man as a Sun Guard arrived to carry him to the palace healer. “How did you escape your tormentor?”

“A new soul, m’ lady. One I had n'er met before.” The man paused as if lost in deep thought. “Que...Cue...Quentin. Yes, Quentin was his name. If not for the noble gentleman, me body would be dead by now.”

Fear twisted in Lhiannan's soul. Her heart ached.

The gods carefully balanced good and evil in all things. The balance weighing against the Blood Ruby was the Black Sapphire. While Quentin survived the Blood Ruby's blade, the same would not happen if he encountered the Black Sapphire.

Lhiannan had to get to Quentin before Abhartach killed him. But she couldn't rescue him alone. Only one soul could help her in this battle, the soul who originally forged the Black Sapphire—Lugh, god of fire.

She recalled Niamh telling her she must turn to Lugh. How wise were the words of the priestess.

Lhiannan headed back toward the gate.

“Your majesty?” A guard called to her from behind.

She spoke to him over her shoulder. “I've no time to explain. If I'm not back by dawn, gather my army and meet me at the Green Man's clearing.”

Lhiannan turned away, leaving the palace sanctuary to search for Lugh. Knowing the god of fire did not like being summoned by a queen who swore allegiance to the moon over the sun, Lhiannan prayed Lugh would answer her call. If he refused her, Quentin would stand no chance against Abhartach.

In true vampyre form, Lhiannan took to the sky and sought out the sacred grove of trees where, occasionally in the past, Lugh had met with her during cloudy, daylight hours. Settling among the overgrown branches, Lhiannan silently prayed, thanking the gods for the natural shield. She still didn't like the sun, even if the child growing inside her favored it, as did its father. The trees’ over-abundance of leaves would allow her to tolerate the daylight longer than usual, and Lhiannan knew she might need plenty of time. The fire god never came to her until he was ready. With Lugh, everything was on his terms.

As Lhiannan sat patiently, she searched the surrounding area. She sensed Quentin's heart, his soul. He was still alive, but Abhartach was nowhere in the vicinity. Which made sense to her. The vile vampyre had never favored daylight, never bothered to adapt to the hours of sun like his ancestors had.

Her thoughts reeled. The idea that her enemy would use the Black Sapphire against Quentin worried her. Again, she thought about how vulnerable the Drac'olian was to the Black Sapphire's deadly blade.

Lhiannan's heart sank. Life without Quentin was something she couldn't bear to imagine, let alone experience. He was her destiny as much as she was his. And she'd stop at nothing to save him.

A soft wind rustled the leaves. “My dear Lhiannan,” said Lugh. “Always a pleasure to see you.” The tall, mighty warrior god appeared on a branch in front of her, a long spear strapped to his arm. He reached out a hand and took Lhiannan's in his, then placed his lips upon her open palm.

The warmth of his kiss stung Lhiannan's flesh.

“Forgive me,” the god said. “It's not often I deal with souls who have little tolerance for my beloved Sun.”

Lugh had a strange sense of humor. Lhiannan smiled at him. “Impressive, to say the least. Rarely does a god apologize or admit his faults.”

He ignored her last comment. “So, what has caused you to have need of my assistance, my wicked night queen?”

“It's the Drac'olian they call Quentin.”

Lugh stroked his chin in a pensive manner. “I've been watching him. The man is an excellent warrior and quite dedicated to the sun. Yet he serves the moon on an almost equal level.”

“Abhartach has taken Quentin prisoner and plans to use the Black Sapphire against him.”

Lugh cocked his head to the side. “And what is your point, my lady? Your Drac'olian warrior is armed with the Blood Ruby. Let him fight against Abhartach. The two are on equal footing.”

“But Quentin has not yet accepted his birthright. The Blood Ruby will do him no good against his enemy until he does so.”

The fire god rose from the branch. “Inspire him, Lhiannan.”

“How?”

“You are the muse of men, are you not?”

She bit her bottom lip and raised her gaze to study Lugh. The god crouched down and stared back at her, meeting Lhiannan eye-to-eye. She said, “He has no desire to become a Celtai and give up his ways. Nor does he love me.”

“I wager he'll change his mind.”

“What do you know that I don't?”

Lugh rose to his feet. “A man knows his heart, Lhiannan, even if he doesn't admit it.”

“Then if I go to him now, mayhap I can convince him to accept his birthright. One more bite and his transformation will be complete. He will return to the Celtai and can be one with his people again.”

Lugh nodded to her. “And, just for you, my wicked little night queen, I will remove my fire from the Black Sapphire. After all, Abhartach and his dark hosts have abused my gift. The Black Sapphire should be a brilliant blue, touched with the fires of the sun. It will give me great pleasure to revert the sword to its natural state.”

Lhiannan smiled at the god. “I can never repay you, my dear Lugh.”

“Ah...convince the Drac'olian and that will be thanks enough. For when all is said and done, should your Quentin take you as part of his destiny, the moon will fill your soul and you will call it down. And I will fill the Drac'olian's, and he will call me down. To be united with my heavenly consort is a treat to which I always look forward. The pleasure will be all mine.” He smiled a rakish grin.

Lhiannan blushed. The thought of sharing her body with the goddess and the god during her coupling with Quentin was asking her to be a bit more revealing than she desired to be. It was one thing to call down the moon. She was accustomed to that. But, sharing herself with the sun was something entirely different.

“Oh, my little wicked queen. It's a sensation one will savor for all time. And certainly nothing to blush about.” Lugh reached for her chin and lifted her head. “Until then, Lhiannan.”

The fire god vanished in an instant.

Dusk.

Quentin looked to the sky above and knew Abhartach would return soon. His neck ached from numerous puncture wounds, his body throbbed from punches and stabs. Seeing his enemy would be a blessed sight. At least then he could go to his grave and be done with this nonsense of torture.

Lhiannan...

If he died, she'd be given to Abhartach or worse, the vile vampyre would kill her and the child she now carried.

Quentin struggled with the chains binding his arms to the tree. He hated being tied, helpless to defend himself.

He watched his captors with a cautious stare. The men were nothing more than a bunch of insolent thugs who probably did Abhartach's bidding for nothing more than a meal. He pitied them. They had no idea what unpleasant fate awaited them when Abhartach tired of them, or when they died for one reason or another.

The men sat around a makeshift camp, sharing crude stories and drinking from the same skin. Quentin licked his sunburned lips. Right about now he'd kill for some water.

One of his captors noticed him. The man rose from the floor and approached him. “Thirsty are you?”

“Yes.”

The man turned back to face his comrades. “The Drac'olian says he's wanting some drink. Shall we sate his thirst or leave him to suffer?”

“Sate him.” The crowd of rogues shouted in unison. The man standing in front of Quentin lifted the skin to his lips. “Now take all of it, for we have no use of a skin that touches the lips of a Drac'olian.”

Quentin had no problem fulfilling the man's order. He drank hard and deep and sucked the last bit of liquid from the skin. Then it hit him. The skin hadn't been filled with water. Quentin spit out the remaining liquid filling his mouth. The taste of iron lingered on his tongue.

Blood. Abhartach's men had been drinking blood, not water.

A sick feeling churned in Quentin's stomach. Pain shattered through his neck as he leaned forward to throw up the contents shifting in his stomach. The points of the swords aimed at his neck dug deeper, ripping his flesh worse than before.

His captors’ laughter echoed in his ears.

Suddenly, he realized Abhartach had come back. He heard the hated voice say, “Had enough, Quentin?”

“I'll have enough only when you're dead and buried.”

The vampyre smirked. “Glad to see you've kept your sense of humor.” He turned his men. “Free him.”

Abhartach walked away from Quentin and headed toward a stack of weapons piled on a crude cart.

Quentin's knees gave way as the chains wrapping his body to the tree were removed. He fell to the ground, surprised by how weak he'd grown.

He stared down at his shirt and saw blood. A pulsing agony throbbed at the side of his neck. His jugular must have been punctured when he leaned into the sword points to heave.

Abhartach stood above him, staring. “Now what have you done? I won't have you die on me now, Drac'olian. I've waited too long to take your sorry life with my own blade.” He raised the tip of the Black Sapphire and eyed Quentin's neck.

In an instant, Quentin felt a searing burn, smelled scorched flesh. He cursed, realizing that Abhartach had cauterized the wound at his jugular.

“I would think you'd rather thank me, than damn me, Drac'olian. I just saved your life.”

Quentin wrapped his hand and fingers over the throbbing wound. “You save me only to kill me a moment later.”

“True, but I still saved you. What good is a corpse to a man looking for battle?”

“Damn you Abhartach. Damn you to hell.”

The vampyre snickered, his lips curling in an evil grin. “All in good time, Drac'olian. All in good time.” Abhartach walked away from him.

Quentin took a deep breath and rose to his feet, gathering his strength. He had to stand on his own lest he'd be killed here and now. He tried to focus. The darkness surrounding him didn't help.

Quentin looked above and saw the dim outline of a cloud-covered moon high in the night sky. Only the slightest of faint silver light showered the clearing. He cursed to himself. With clouds masking the moon, the night appeared darker than usual. He hated fighting in such conditions, but fate had left him little choice in the matter.

Quentin placed his hand on the hilt of the Blood Ruby and drew out the sword.

Abhartach stood before him, his men gathered round in a circle, cheering their deranged master. “Are you ready to meet your maker, Drac'olian?”

Disgust rose in Quentin's soul. “I'll kill you long before you get close enough to take my head.”

“Just try, Quentin. Just try.”

The Black Sapphire cut through the air and clashed against Quentin's sword. He and Abhartach locked eyes as they stood only a breath apart.

“I'll take your little wench, Lhiannan, when you're gone,” said Abhartach. “I've decided used material is best for my men.”

Quentin glared at him and released his sword.

Overhead, a shadow covered the clearing. A dark form took shape in the middle of the Green Man's field.

“And speaking of your little bitch.” Abhartach nodded to Quentin as Lhiannan appeared before them.

“Get out of here, Lhiannan,” shouted Quentin. “Now.”

She approached the two of them and dropped her thin, sheer gown. Her vampyre wings unfurled on the instant and her long, black hair fell free from its ribbon, draping her body like a mystical veil.

Quentin had never seen her in such a form. Even her eyes had changed from sea-blue to red, glowing orbs.

Lhiannan stared at them, saying, “I will give my cauldron, my heart and my soul, to the man who wins this battle tonight.”

“Ha...” sneered Abhartach. “Finally an offer worthy of my battle skills. What say you, Drac'olian? Shall we fight for the wench?”

Quentin slammed the Blood Ruby down hard upon Abhartach's sword. The vampyre fell backward, his weapon disintegrating into nothing more than a heap of smoldering ash. A stunned look crossed Abhartach's pale face. “What have you done, Drac'olian?”

“Not as much as I'd have liked.” Quentin stared down at Abhartach. He raised the Blood Ruby and aimed for the vampyre's neck.

In one swift movement, he severed the evil warlord's head and watched in silence as his enemy's body changed first to bone, then to ash.

The night wind lightly kissed the ground, carrying away Abhartach's remains. The vampyre's men fled in horror.

Quentin turned to Lhiannan and ran to her. He lifted her into his arms and swung her around. “You gave me the strength to fight, my queen.”

“Then my little ruse worked.”

“You said you'd give your cauldron, heart and soul to the man who won tonight. Abhartach was vampyre not a man. I knew you meant me, Lhiannan.”

She smiled at him. “And I meant what I said. I'd die for you, Quentin. I'd do anything to save your soul.”

“You deserve better than what I can offer you, Lhiannan—”

“You've a great prize there, Drac'olian.” Quentin's words had been interrupted by Lugh, who appeared in the clearing.

Quentin stared at his fire god. “You were the reason the Black Sapphire failed Abhartach.”

“I only took back that which is rightfully mine.” Lugh winked at Lhiannan, then shifted his gaze to Quentin. “Abhartach misused my fire. I merely restored it to its proper state. And, if I'm not mistaken, I believe you have a similar task to complete, Drac'olian.”

Lhiannan turned to him. “That's right, my lord. We must return to the palace before the blue moon fades.”

Quentin froze. He couldn't accept what Lhiannan was offering him.

He'd failed his sister and failed his people. If he refused to accept his destiny now that the Queen of the Vampyre Fae had acted as his muse in battle against Abhartach, he would die. And that was a sacrifice he was willing to make for Lhiannan. She deserved better than him.

Unless he died, she'd be tied to him for all eternity. That was something he could never allow.

“Aeval?” Lhiannan pushed open the unlocked door and poked her head inside her sister's private chambers. The room was empty. A cold chill enveloped her body. Her eyes darted to the fireplace. Embers burned in the grates, but the actual fire had long since died out. She wondered where her sister had gone.

“Have you found her yet?” Quentin said behind her.

“No. She's not here and by the looks of it, she hasn't been for a while.”

Quentin reentered the hall and then came back. “I think we should try Gobnait's quarters or mayhap Neilus.'”

Lhiannan gave him a puzzled look. “After what went on in the midnight court?” She shook her head. “I've no intention of going to look for those two tonight. They're the last souls I'd care to encounter right now.”

Quentin shrugged. “If your sister was under Abhartach's spell, and so were her judges, it's possible he held them captive together, in one place.”

Lhiannan frowned. Quentin was probably right, but she really didn't care to confront the judges this night. She had other things on her mind.

“If you want to wait here, I'll go search the judges’ quarters.”

“No,” she said. The thought of being separated from Quentin was the last thing she wanted right now. “I suppose I can't avoid them forever.”

“Come.”

She followed Quentin out of Aeval's room and through the castle. On the third floor they came across the missing trio.

“Lhiannan? Is that you?” Aeval's voice echoed from somewhere above.

“Yes.” Lhiannan searched the corridor but couldn't distinguish where the sound came from. “Where are you?”

“Up here, in the supply loft.”

Lhiannan looked up and remembered a hidden door in one of the tiles of the coffered ceiling. “Quentin, I believe the entrance to the loft is the second tile from the right.”

“I need something to stand on.” Quentin scanned the hall and walked over to a table sitting against the far wall. He pushed it over until it was positioned beneath the second tile. “I'll have them out of there in no time.” He winked at Lhiannan as he jumped onto the table and reached up to move the tile. “Queen Aeval?”

“Yes. I'm over here.”

Quentin looked down to Lhiannan.

“What's wrong?”

“They're tied to the beams,” he said. “I'll have to go up into the loft and help them out.” He stared at her. “Will you be all right waiting down there?”

She nodded her head. “Just be as quick as possible.”

Quentin reached up and pulled himself into the loft. Lhiannan heard his footsteps overhead, then her sister's voice, and that of Gobnait and Neilus. A few minutes later, Quentin emerged from the hidden room and once more steadied himself upon the table. He stood there and waited until Aeval made her way to the loft opening and then he helped her down. He did the same for Gobnait and Neilus.

Lhiannan ran to her sister and hugged her. “I wished I could have helped you sooner, but if we hadn't taken care of Abhartach first, we would have been doomed.”

Aeval smiled at her and wiped a stray hair from her face. “Lhiannan, I'm just glad you're well and finally here. The last few days have been nothing but a strange blur to me.”

Lhiannan backed away from her sister. “Are you saying you don't remember anything?”

Aeval shook her head. “I remember Abhartach appearing in my room and arguing with him. But from that point on, I can't remember anything until I awakened an hour or so ago.”

Lhiannan looked past Aeval to Gobnait and Neilus. “And what about you? Do you remember anything Gobnait?”

“No,” said the judge. “I'm afraid Abhartach manipulated my mind as he did your sister's.”

“And I faired no better,” commented Neilus.

Lhiannan leaned her head toward Quentin. She motioned for him to come closer to her, and lowered her voice. “I think mayhap we should let the past be. If they don't remember, then I'm more than willing to forget.”

“As you wish.” Quentin wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

She liked the way he held her, possessed her. Lhiannan smiled to herself. She had her sister back and she had her Drac'olian. Now if only she could finish the task of making him vampyre.

“Aeval, are you all right? Do you need anything?”

The queen turned back to face her. “I'm fine, Lhiannan. And no, I don't need anything, save a nice warm bath.”

“Then you wouldn't mind if I take leave of you now and return to my palace?”

Aeval shook her head. “No, not at all. Besides, it's almost dawn and I know you Vampyre Fae prefer the night.” The queen reached out and gave her a hug, then shooed her away. “Go.”

As Lhiannan left the Fae castle, she knew that while memories of the midnight court would linger in her mind, the painful recollections would fade away.

Quentin headed for the bedchamber inside Lhiannan's palace.

“Where do you think you're going, my lord?”

He turned around to face her, a puzzled look crossing his face. “To bed, where else?”

“I don't think so. We have a bit of unfinished business to complete.”

Quentin didn't comment.

Lhiannan let out a deep sigh. She hated when he shut himself off from her. “Quentin, you have to do this. We only have until the sun fully rises. If you don't claim back your destiny now, you'll have to wait years until the blue moon returns.”

He couldn't find the words to tell her. “Lhiannan, I don't expect you to understand. But I simply cannot accept what you're offering me.”

She glared at him. “I understand more than you know, Lord Drac'ola.”

“I told you once before never to call me that.”

“It's your title. Your proper title.”

Quentin rested his head against the bedroom door. “A title means nothing without its kingdom.”

“What are you talking about?” She reached out and pulled Quentin back so she could look him in the eyes. “You have a kingdom. My armies restored life to all the Drac'olians; they live as surely as do you. You have an entire realm waiting for your return. Don't you want to go back to your people?”

He remained silent.

Lhiannan didn't understand why this was so hard for him. He had everything now—the Blood Ruby, his kingdom, even the right to reclaim his ancestors’ ways.

“Then you'll give me my freedom?”

“Yes,” she said. “By all means, Quentin. In fact, you are free to go now if you wish. I can't force you to accept the Celtai ways. I'd only hoped you would.”

Quentin closed his eyes and wished the pain of her words didn't hurt as much as they did. He meant nothing to her. After all they'd been through over the past few days, she still had no desire to take his heart. She wanted him to go back to his kingdom, to leave her. Did she really think he could survive such torment?

He was right in refusing what she offered. His death would mean nothing to her. Quentin fisted his hand into a tight ball and pounded it against the door.

Then, he thought of their unborn child. Could he really walk away from the child and wife he so dearly wanted?

"Bloody hell no."

She stared at him, a confused look upon her face and whispered, “Quentin?”

“I'm not going anywhere. I'll never leave you, Lhiannan Sidhe. And one day you'll love me as I love you.”

“And what makes you think I don't love you?”

He smiled at her. “You offered me freedom. I thought you wanted to be rid of me.”

“Rid of you? I might have given you back your physical freedom, Quentin Moore, but I possess your heart and that is a part of you I will imprison for all eternity. Now tell me once and for all, will you or will you not claim back your birthright?”

“I can endure the loss of the sun if I know I'll have you by my side as my wife and as my queen.”

She smiled at him. “Then prepare to walk the night, my lord. For I will be by your side forever.”

He leaned forward and kissed Lhiannan on the lips. The tip of his tongue glided over the fangs inside her mouth, pressing against the sharp points on purpose. The taste of his own blood lingered on his tongue.

Lhiannan pulled back. “It's almost dawn. I think we should go to my sleeping chamber.”

Quentin agreed and followed Lhiannan to the subterranean level of the palace. A stone vault sat at the end of the long corridor.

Lhiannan raised a hand in front of her. A stone slab parted from the wall and slid back inside, revealing an opulently decorated sleeping chamber. She entered and Quentin quickly followed.

He'd never seen such a room. A four-poster bed sat in the middle of the chamber, draped in red velvet curtains and silk sheets. Gilt furniture filled the large space and rich tapestries lined the walls. In the corners of the room stood multi-tiered candelabrum filled with scented sticks of tallow. The faint aroma of roses and fruit danced in the air. Quentin took a deep breath and recognized Lhiannan's scent.

“Come,” she said to him. “Let me share my world with you.”

Lhiannan sat upon the bed and rested against the richly carved headboard. She untied the ribbons fastening her gown. When she finished unraveling the last bow, she allowed the thin fabric to fall to her sides, completely exposing her body.

Quentin took in the sight of her.

She bared her fangs and licked her lips.

He removed his clothes and joined her on the bed.

Lhiannan didn't waste time. She immediately pulled Quentin to her mouth and sank her fangs deep into the flesh at his neck. She drank from him until she heard him hiss.

Quentin pulled away from her. He bared his own fangs and eyed her body, searching for a place to take his first feeding. He never believed a hunger so strong could grow in one's soul.

“You won't feed often, my lord,” said Lhiannan. “The Celtai only drink when the moon so deems it, and they never drink much. And you won't be forced to stay away from the sun totally, either. Even I can stand it at times and for you, it will be even easier.”

He didn't speak, he couldn't. The changing sensations stirring his body were more than he expected. They overwhelmed him, claimed him. As did the realization that his people had been removed from their roots for far too long. Now, he would bring them back, lead them by his preternatural instincts.

Lhiannan watched him change before her very eyes. The Celtai Vampyre slowly emerged; Quentin accepted his new form with ease. He was truly meant to be what he'd now become. And she would be his first feed.

Lhiannan sensed Quentin's desires. She spread her legs wide and allowed him full access to her entire body. He roamed her flesh with his hands and teased her with his fangs. Yet still he searched for a place to feed.

“Anywhere, my lord. All of me is for the taking, because by nightfall the wound will heal.”

Quentin hissed, then lowered his head between her thighs.

The soft scraping of his fangs against her clit was exquisite. He ran his tongue over her swollen nub and teased her, coaxing her. And then he fed from her.

Ripples of pure bliss exploded inside her, satisfying the vampyre that ruled her soul. Only as vampyre could she enjoy such an experience, for she felt no pain. Only as vampyre did she crave such sex.

And now she had an equal with whom to share her dark world.

Now, she had Quentin.

The Temple of the Moon outside Dun Drac'ola—nine months later

Quentin paced the stone floor outside the sacred birthing room. He'd never been so nervous about an event in all his life. Wars and battles were far easier to fight than to wait for a child entering the world. The moon had set, the sun had risen and now the moon had returned. How long could one child take to be born? Where were the priestesses and their students?

As if hearing his thoughts, a priestess emerged from the inner chamber. “You may enter now, my lord.”

Quentin gave her an anxious stare. “It's about time. Another minute more and I would've thought you'd forgotten about me out here.”

The older woman smiled at him, but remained silent.

Quentin entered the birthing chamber and headed straight for the large four-poster bed sitting in the middle of the room. A sheer drape covered the bed in its entirety.

“Your wife and child, my lord.” A priestess lifted the see-through covering.

Behind the makeshift veil, Quentin found what he'd been searching for his whole life—a family of his own.

Lhiannan cuddled the small babe resting in the crook of her arm. “You have an heiress, my lord. A Drac'olian princess who will one day rule both our kingdoms.”

He reached for the child's tiny hand and when the babe wrapped her fingers around his, elation soared through Quentin's heart.

A gray-white, shimmering shadow took form at the side of the bed. Its thin, silver-colored hand reached past the bed drapes and touched the child upon the lips.

“She's been blessed by the moon,” said the priestess. “Greatness will pour forth from her soul. And from her womb will be born mighty warriors and future kings.”

Lhiannan turned toward the priestess. “It would be an honor if you'd train her, Niamh.”

“I think not,” said Quentin.

Seeing her puzzled look, he took a deep breath to still his roiling emotions. “Well, bloody hell, woman. If you were me, you'd feel the same. I know far too well how and what Drac'olian princes feel. And I also remember all too well how eager you were when we first coupled.” He paused and smiled slightly. “Between your blood and mine, this little one will be difficult to hold back. I'd sooner stake my Drac'olian heart than have my daughter trained as a female sex master. I think I'll place one of Lugh's Sun Guards outside her room.” Quentin looked across to Niamh. “Then you moon priestesses will never gain entrance.”

Lhiannan smiled to herself. Quentin was a loving husband and now he'd be a loving father. She had everything she could possibly want.

Life couldn't be more blissful.

Paranormal fiction author Angelique Armae a.k.a. M. A. duBarry, has had a love affair with paper and ink for as far back as she can remember. She's been writing stories and poetry since grade school. According to Miss Armae, writing is in her blood. Her all time favorite author is her late Irish grandfather, from whom she inherited her passion for writing. Angelique favors novels with dark, brooding characters and gothic settings. She considers herself a typical Virgo, is addicted to all things Celtic and believes her soul belongs somewhere in ancient Ireland.

Angelique began her professional writing career in 1999 and sold her first book a year later. Her critically acclaimed vampire novel Come The Night garnered nominations in both the prestigious SAPPHIRE AWARDS (for best sci-fi romance including paranormal sub-genre) and P.E.A.R.L. Awards (Paranormal Excellance in Romantic Literature), including Best New Author, Best Shapeshifter Novel and Best Overall Paranormal Novel. The book won BEST VAMPIRE ROMANCE in the LoveRomances Readers Choice Awards of 2001 and also took home HONORABLE MENTION for BEST E-BOOK.

Miss Armae's work has been critically acclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic, receiving rave reviews from horror novel reviewers, romance reviewers and from readers of both genres.

Aside from fiction writing, Miss Armae works as a freelance journalist and as a reader for a major publishing house. She has had numerous articles published spanning various topics including Tarot, New York State Tourism, and History.

You can view her works in progress page at:

http://www.angeliquearmae.com & http://www.madubarry.com