BLOOD CURSE
Book Five in the Dragon Heat series
by Ella J. Phoenix
Black soot coated the ground matching the
dark clouds that covered the crescent moon above. The air felt hot and dry
against Dyam’s skin. Vampires didn’t do well in hot climates, especially ones
so close to an active volcano. Sitting on top of one of the most unstable areas
in the world, Mount Raung, in Indonesia, was 1,600 feet deep, and stood almost
11,000 feet above sea level―yes, it was massive. But if that didn’t impress
you, well, all you had to do was climb to its top rim and gaze across the mouth
that spanned across over a mile in diameter.
Dyam had done just that.
After materializing at the base of the
great volcano, he slowly, carefully and methodically, made his way up,
analyzing every boulder, listening to every sound and watching every shadow.
Long Nose had been right―this volcano offered the perfect site for someone who
wanted to carve a magic dagger out of its ashes, and at least it looked like it
offered more flakes of dried lava than the other two volcanoes Dyam had
inspected before this one. To the right, he spotted two lava pools. One looked
older and deeper than the other. Dyam had researched the volcano before
venturing down there, of course, and what he had found was encouraging. Mount
Raung was the latest volcano to erupt in the world, and its dust cloud had been
so dense that residents within a two mile radius of the caldera fled their
homes, scared by the imminent eruption. Its site was so unstable that the
villagers lived in a constant state of alert.
“Here,” a male voice resounded in the
distance. “This area seems like a good site.”
Dyam crouched low on the ground at the
sound of the unfamiliar voice. It seemed he had company.
“Not sure,” another male replied. “The
ground doesn’t look as dry as we need it to be.”
Careful not to make a sound, and keeping
his body hidden from view, Dyam made his way towards the two men. A sharp sound
of metal hitting rock made him pause.
“Watch it, Osman,” the first male
complained. “If one of these chards gets into my eye, it can blind me.”
“There isn’t another way of doing this,
Vrajitor. We must hack into the stone and try to get a large piece in one go.
Believe me, I’ve done this before.”
Vrajitor and Osman... Dyam had heard
those names before, but he couldn’t remember where.
Crawling low, as close to the smut as
physically possible, he reached a boulder large enough to give him cover. More
chopping sounds emerged from where the two men were, and Dyam poked his head to
the side, nearing the ground so as to not alarm his company of his presence, but
it wasn’t enough. His vantage point gave him a very limited view of what those
two were up to. Learnings from his training as a tracker came to mind―a good
tracker becomes one with his surroundings. But how would he become one with a
volcano?
He looked at the soot covering the
mountain.
Bingo.
An idea popped into his head. As quickly
and as quietly as he could muster, Dyam smoldered the black dirt all over his
beige shirt, dark jeans, face and hands, until only his eyes were clean from
the grunge. After that, he dared poke his head out of hiding a little bit
further, and as he had predicted, the two men didn’t notice a thing.
The one called Vrajitor was tall, with
narrow shoulders, small light eyes and greasy brown hair. His body structure
and the way he carried himself told Dyam the man was obviously a draco. His
friend, Osman, was not though. The white turban, yellow tunic and dark eyes
left no doubt of his origins. He was a daemon from the Dry Lands.
Dyam frowned. What in Hiad was a desert
daemon doing with a draco? Were these the ones planning to bring the Phoenix
back to life, by carving out an ash-dagger from this volcano? Connecting the
dots, he played the scene in his head. The two, for some obscure reason, had
joined forces to rise the Phoenix from the ashes and since they had lost one of
the daggers in the jungle, it made sense that they had to return to the volcano
to dig up another one. But what in Hiad they were doing at the Emerald Lake
still puzzled him.
Dyam’s expert gaze roamed around the
area, taking everything in, anything could be an invaluable clue. There were
two bags on the ground, next to Osman. One looked empty, probably the bag where
the acquired slab of stone would go once their mission here finished, but the
other bag looked full and heavy. Since the two odd companions seemed too busy
to notice him, Dyam stepped out of hiding, and dared to crawl his way behind
another boulder, which would give him a better vantage point. As soon as he
did, his eyes locked on the beautiful woman sitting on the ground not far from
him. She wore a light camisole that looked much too big for her, her long dark
hair cascaded down her shoulders and slender torso, and her sun-kissed skin was
flawless and smooth.
Dyam’s breath got caught in his throat,
his stomach falling suddenly heavy, his mind crashing.
Naiah?
By Apa Dobrý, it couldn’t be, but the
lady looked exactly like Naiah!
He must have called her name out loud,
not only in his head, because the lady in question snapped her head toward him,
catching him red handed. She blinked a couple of times, her mouth gaped as if
in awe and confusion.
And then she stood up.
Big mistake.
“What is it, my bird?” Osman asked,
alarmed. His concerned gaze travelled across the rocky field, and found Dyam
half way out from behind the bolder. “Vrajitor, we’ve got company!”
Damn the Soartas.
The draco dropped what he was doing and
advanced toward Dyam with his axe in hand. Dyam jumped to his feet and prepared
for battle, focusing on his adversary but at the same time, his mind kept the
attention on Naiah, or whoever that lady was. Osman darted to her side,
grabbing her by the elbow as if she were his property, and she didn’t rebut
him.
Vrajitor finally lunged at Dyam, swinging
his axe across in an obvious attempt to cut Dyam’s head off. But Dyam had
centuries of combat training under his belt and easily dodged the attack by
balancing his feet from side to side. Without breaking the rhythm, he then
lifted his foot up and kicked Vrajitor on the chest, making the draco lose his
balance and plummet on the soot-filled ground. Even though it was a point to
Dyam, the strike didn’t keep Vrajitor down for long, and in no time the bastard
bounced on his feet, ready for another round.
From the corner of his eye, Dyam saw Osman
resume carving the rock, now in a much more desperate manner. Naiah’s double
stood close to him, but her eyes were on Dyam.
The axe whooshed past Dyam’s ear, too
close for comfort. Time to end this and get Naiah―or whoever that lady was―out
of here. Yes, because by no means he’d leave without taking her with him. She
couldn’t possibly be Naiah, but the resemblance was too remarkable to be
ignored. She was definitely a water witch and looked to be here of her own free
will, but Dyam couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling that something much bigger
than mere coincidence was at play here.
A large cracking sound echoed in the open
space, followed by a victorious howl from Osman. “I got it! I’m out of here,
Vrajitor,” the daemon bellowed, then, without waiting to see if his accomplice
would win the fight, he darted down the volcano, holding Naiah’s look-alike
tightly by the hand.
Vrajitor glared at Dyam, his mouth
twitched on the side on a weird grin. “See you later, vamp,” he sneered, then
turned around and ran off.
Fuck that!
Dyam didn’t waste a second, and sprinted
after them.
A race between a daemon, a draco and a
vampire could have been the news of the century. The last time such a contest
had been seen was during the Royal Open Games, a few decades ago. The vampire
won.
Dyam put everything onto his legs and
quickly closed in on the three escapees. Vrajitor darted left, taking flight
with his leathery wings, while Osman swerved to the right, obviously wanting to
confuse Dyam in the process. They would probably use the two-against-one
advantage to ambush him farther ahead, and their plan would have worked, if
Dyam’s target hadn’t been Naiah’s double, not them.
As soon as Vrajitor and Osman widened the
gap between them, Dyam jumped in the air and teleported straight between the
turbaned daemon and the lady. His intention had been to kick Osman to the side,
and dematerialize out of there with the lady in tow, before the daemon had the
chance to recover. But as soon as Dyam’s body cells started materializing again
next to the daemon, the air changed around them, giving away his intentions.
Osman, who was probably a seasoned daemon and sensed his approach, swerved
sideways and threw his sharp axe at Dyam. The silver blade flickered against
the moon light, and hit Dyam across the upper arm, opening a gash on his skin,
causing him to lose his grip on the teleportation. But before he lost total
control, he forced his body sideways toward Naiah’s double, and locked her into
a tight embrace. If he was going down, she’d go with him.
It all took less than two seconds and
with the supernatural seep and forces at play, Dyam ended up tossing Naiah
downhill. The two of them rolled down the mountain aimlessly at breakneck
speed, crashing against rocks and anything else that crossed their path. When
they finally came to a halt at the base of the mountain, Osman and Vrajitor
were nowhere to be seen. At least something was working in their favor.
Dyam shook his head, trying to kick it
into gear. His shoulder was bleeding heavily, his ribs were burning like fire,
and his ankle was already swelling from a possible fracture. And yet, he
couldn’t care less. The woman sprawled on the dirt a few feet away was his one
and only goal.
By Apa Dobrý, the resemblance was truly
incredible. She couldn’t be Naiah herself, of course. Maybe she was Naiah’s
twin sister, but Yara had never mentioned Naiah having a twin. His mind reeled
at a million miles per hour trying to decipher what in Hiad was going on. The
Emerald Lake had evaporated, seemingly as part of a ritual to rise the Phoenix
from the ashes, and now Naiah’s doppelganger showed up. He then remembered that
they had never managed to find the red lily which should have encased Naiah’s
inmã... No, this could not be Naiah. Naiah was dead. She died in his arms only
a few months ago.
Feeling his healing power kick in, Dyam
turned on his belly and balancing himself on all fours he pushed off the
ground. He needed to check on the lady, see if she was hurt and look into her
eyes to find the truth about her identity—
A bare foot moved through the air,
hitting him square on the nose.
What the fuck?
The kick had not been powerful but took
Dyam by surprise and down back to the muddy ground he went. When he turned
around after recovering from the shock, he found Naiah’s double towering over
him. Her cold glare clearly stated she wasn’t happy, but it was the
confirmation he needed. Because he’d seen that look before, it was the last one
Naiah gave him before they parted ways.
“Naiah? Is that you?” Dyam asked,
flabbergasted.
But this new Naiah didn’t heed him any
attention. Without a word, she grabbed a chunk of his long hair at the top of
his crown and punched him across the face.
Argh! “Naiah, do you remember me?”
Another cross jab, then another.
Why in Hiad was she attacking him?
On the fourth strike, Dyam’s patience
came to an end. He was a gentleman, raised by a Cherokee shaman, a man of
peace, who had taught him that a men should never raise a hand at a woman. But
the same man had also trained him to survive and defend himself, no matter who
or what he was against.
Dyam grabbed Naiah’s closed fist mid-air,
blocking her attack. She retaliated by gripping his neck with her free hand and
using him as a lever to kick him on the gut.
Fuck. That hurt.
She then jumped in the air in an
unexpectedly smooth back flip, freeing herself from his grip.
“Naiah!”
She didn’t stop though, and threw a
series of kicks, followed by cross punches that would floor the most
experienced boxer to the ground. Dyam managed to block every single one of them
but knew that blocking wouldn’t keep him standing for long. He would have to
fight back at some stage.
When she shifted her feet again,
gathering momentum to start another series of deadly attacks, Dyam crouched low
and lunged himself at her, locking them into an angry hug, and lifted her off
her feet. The move gave him momentum, and he didn’t slow down until they
crashed against a tree. He felt her exhale sharply, as if the impact had
whooshed the air out of her lungs. That’ll teach her. But his vengeful thought
quickly turned into awe. Standing inches from face, Dyam couldn’t help it but
to gasp once again at this lady’s resemblance to Naiah.
Thankfully, due the collision she would
likely need time to catch her breath, which would give him time to recover from
the shock.
Yeah, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Her closed fist hit him right in the
mouth of the stomach. The pain that shot up and down his esophagus was so
blinding that bile built at the back of his throat.
“Argh!” he yelped, but he knew he
couldn’t miss a beat, not while this crazy version of Naiah was kicking his
ass. So without losing his grip on her, he grabbed a handful of hair on the
crown of her head and rammed it against the tree trunk.
A grunt escaped her lips, and the
punching stopped.
He then used the few milliseconds he knew
would be the only break he’d have, to swivel her around, forcing her to face
the tree trunk, and locked her in his arms, his front to her back. Next, he
ensured her deadly fists were detained in his grip, safely away from his
esophagus, and that she’d have no way of getting loose, but she still struggled
against his hold.
“Stop,” he whispered against the back of
her neck. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
To his surprise, she did stop. They were
both panting from the fight, and remained there for a few heartbeats. The scent
of wild flowers invaded his nose, flaring his nostrils and mind in recognition.
This was Naiah’s scent. Well, it was the same yet different at the same time.
The closeness of their bodies added to her delicious scent proved to be too
much for his confused mind to handle, and unable to stop his reaction, he
winced when his groin throbbed for her.
“Who are you?” he asked in her ear, but
it came out a few octaves below normal.
He received no reply so he took advantage
of their apparent cease-fire and spun her in his arms. Now they were
face-to-face once again.
And his brain crashed.
“Naiah,” he exhaled. Smooth cheeks of
sun-kissed skin, framed by dark, wavy locks, a small, cute nose above red,
thick, juicy lips. By Apa Dobrý, this couldn’t be, but there was no mistake.
The woman in his arms was Yara’s tribal sister. She was Naiah.
When Dyam’s gaze finally landed on her
large brown eyes, he saw his confusion and awe reflected in them, and for a
moment he experienced a wave of utter connection, as if Naiah had never died.
For a moment.
Out of nowhere her gaze turned cold, her
brown eyes turned white, and her irises narrowed into thin slits, as her lips
lifted into an ugly growl.
He swallowed dry. “Naiah?”
Then her once cute fingers morphed into
sharp black claws.
“Naiah, wait.”
The sharp claws grew longer and longer,
and no matter how much he tried to hold them down, they lashed at his face
mercilessly. The damned woman was going to shred his face into little pieces,
yet he held on to her despite the pain. By the gates of Hiad, he would not let
her go.
Well, at least, that was his plan before
something gripped him on the back, followed a wave of electricity that
travelled up his spine. Unable to control his movements any longer, Dyam
crashed on the ground, contorting profusely from the electric shock.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Osman
smirk at him, with the high voltage Taser gun firmly in his hand. The bastard
then grabbed Naiah by the elbow and walked away without hurry. He knew very
well it would take a good half hour for Dyam to recover.
Damned gods.
--BLOOD CURSE, book 5 of the Dragon Heat series
