CHAPTER ONE

We should hit the gate soon, Liria murmured in Cyranti’s mind. The sun will sting. Be wary.

It will be fine, Liri, Cyranti cooed back. All will be well.

I have not seen the sun since I was born, her mount said. So long in the Twilight.

You will see it soon, my beloved, Cyranti said, patting her mount’s neck as they rode through the barely lit fields. We will both see it very soon.

Liria shuddered between Cyranti’s legs. The horse’s gait lengthened into a thundering gallop. The wind whipped through Cyranti’s hair, washing it back from her face. She was free. It was odd for her father to allow her to go anywhere without supervision, but she would be protected. Morough would be there, as would his wife and son. A part of elf history would be unearthed for all.

Yorin will be proud of you, Princess, Liria said softly. You are doing what he is too busy to accomplish himself.

He is always proud of me, but yes, Cyranti sighed. Hope and excitement had her heart beating faster. It almost out-beat Liria’s hooves. Father… I wish he could be there. This is bigger than our realm.

It will be—Ah!

Liria’s gait faltered. She went down hard, tumbling to the earth. Cyranti was just barely able to jump from the saddle in time to miss being crushed under her horse’s weight.

Liria! She cried for her soul-mount. The horse, her best friend, twitched where she came to rest. Sharp pains seared Cyranti’s neck. Liria!

My… My Lady… Liria’s mind-voice came weak and rough. My… Lady…

Cyranti hurt everywhere. Her neck burned hotter than fire. She had rolled several feet on the ground. She struggled to get up. Her legs wouldn’t work. On her hands and knees, she crawled to Liria and stroked her mane away from her long face. Liria…

A blade stuck out from her neck. Blood flowed. Cyranti went to remove it, but that might kill her horse. It might… Liria’s breaths were shallow. She shivered.

I’m sorry… Liria murmured. So… sorry…

Liria’s breathing faltered and with one last wheeze, stopped altogether. Cyranti jolted. Her chest caught fire with soul-searing heat, and then it was gone. She was left dazed. The electric spark she’d endured when she bonded with her mount was gone. It was gone. There was nothing left.

“Liria…” She whimpered and stroked her mount's face. “Liria, no.”

With a shaking hand, Cyranti removed the offending blade from her dead mount’s neck. The tip was blackened with a rancid gel that made her nostrils burn. Even the scent of the blood didn’t dampen the stench.

“You are more agile than I had anticipated,” a male voice said from her right.

Cyranti gripped the end of the throwing blade in her fingers. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it flying toward the voice. The cloaked elf dodged it easily with a throaty laugh.

“Why?” she demanded. “WHY?”

“The dead need no answers,” he murmured.

Fear shot through her. Scrambling to stand, Cyranti stumbled a few feet. Pain seared her back and spread. It wasn’t a knife. Cyranti knew the burn of magic. It knocked her flat. She rolled over and arched her back. Agony surged through her from that spot, drawing a low cry from her.

The cloaked man stood over her then. Silver eyes glinted in the low light. His pupils were wide from the dim of the Twilight. The flash of metal caught her attention. He flicked another throwing blade and caught it. This one wasn’t coated in poison. The shine of the metal streaked from end to tip in a fluid, unbroken line.

She tried to crawl away. Her hands and feet slipped in the dewy grass. He followed her easily. Straddling her waist, he grinned down at her and pressed his booted foot into her abdomen. He twisted his foot painfully into her gut.

Cyranti struggled against him. She couldn’t breathe. Her fists were useless as they beat against his ankle and calf. He laughed at her as he stooped to get a closer look. His hands caught her wrists as she aimed punches to his face. It was like he knew her every move before she thought of making them.

“Feisty little girl,” he rumbled. “You should fight harder.”

“What do you want?” she screeched. “What?”

“I want you to be angry.” He chuckled and dug his heel into her stomach. “I want you to be terrified.”

It hurt to breathe. Her lungs couldn’t expand under the weight of his foot. Cyranti tried to scream in pain, but he put more weight on her. It shoved all the air from her lungs in a single wheezed groan.

“I can’t have you leaving here, Princess,” he murmured. “That would be unwise for me. To suffocate you as I am, or to slit your throat? I could always use your blood. Horse blood lacks a certain appeal for my use.”

Cyranti’s already bulged eyes widened. He was a blood mage? There were no blood magi. They all died or gave up the practice. She struggled harder, but he was like stone. He rode her thrashes easily. Cyranti’s heart pounded in her chest like a blacksmith’s hammer to an anvil. The flow of her blood roared in her ears, blocking out his voice.

The moment he released her wrists, heat seared her neck. A jolt of what felt like lightning zipped from the heat upward to her head and down through her shoulder. Waves of hot liquid coated her. Her eyes closed. The weight lifted. She opened her eyes, and the man was gone.

Cyranti blinked, and another face hovered before her. He hissed. His canines elongated with the sound. He placed his hand over the wound on her neck and looked around. His eyes were dark. They lit up with night shine when he looked at her.

He was a predator, not a hunter. She was his prey. He didn’t attack, though. He trembled violently and lifted his head. He yelled something she couldn’t make out. Was he saving her for something else? Was he going to keep her alive to kill her later?

He looked into Cyranti’s dazed eyes. “Remain, girl,” he murmured, his accent thick, even in the human language. “Remain with me.”

“Fangs…” she rasped. “You’re—”

“A vampir, yes,” he whispered. “Remain. Remain with me. Be still.”

She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Everything hurt. Everything burned. It was all starting to go numb. With every beat of her heart, she felt the heat in her neck ebb. The vampire hissed again.

“You bleed out too quickly,” he said. Looking up, he yelled again in another language. Another glance down, and his handsome face grew pained. “Try… I must try.”

“Try,” Cyranti whispered.

His brows furrowed until there were deep wrinkles between them. His fangs resembled needles as he used them to slash two deep gouges into his own wrist. Angling his hand down, he let the blood flow to his fingertips and painted it across her forehead in symbols and marks. He did the same to the naked part of her chest. When he was finished, he pressed his wrist to her lips hard until she was forced to open her mouth from pain.

When she tried to thrash her head, he dug his fingers into her neck until she squealed. Magic flared from his hand, and everywhere he painted her with his blood lit up brightly in a dark red glow.

“Drink,” he growled. “It won’t work if you do not drink.”

She barely shook her head. Her eyes were blurry with tears. She didn’t want to drink. She gagged from the taste. It filled her mouth. Cyranti tried to breathe through her nose, but he moved his wrist to block her nostrils.

“Drink!”

His eyes were wild. He focused on her so intently that she wanted to squirm. It was too painful. She couldn’t breathe. Swallowing, she gagged. The red glow burst and dulled. She was forced to swallow again, and again the magic flared.

“Good,” he murmured. “Drink. It will work. It has to work.”

She swallowed again. The blood was foul. It coated her tongue thickly. Her stomach rolled. Bloody bile rose in her throat, but was washed back down with another mouthful of the vampire’s blood.

He pulled his hand away from her mouth. The slashes to his wrist closed before Cyranti's eyes. The blood that coated his hand absorbed back into his skin. He pressed both hands to her chest, and the magic warmed her to the core. The markings on her flared to life again, brighter than they had been before.

Another deep shadow crossed over them.

“Father,” the other said. “She is an elf, what are you doing?”

“Trying to keep her alive,” the vampire said. “Get into place.”

“This is foolish,” the other said, and knelt at Cyranti’s head. She looked up, and the most beautiful set of clear gray eyes looked into hers. “So foolish,” he whispered.

He placed his hands on either side of her head. They were warm and gentle. The magic flared brighter than before, lighting up the area in a pool of crimson. Pain flared through her. It started at her stomach and coiled outward to her limbs. The painted bloody markings burned, searing into her skin.

“How is she awake?” the son asked in awe. “She’s lost so much.”

“Her neck has healed,” the father murmured. “Adrenaline fuels her, Danatarius. Be mindful not to soak up what has spilled. She will need it back.”

“Only if it works,” Danatarius whispered. His voice was like a prayer. “Only if it works.”

The burning worsened. Her back arched into the elder’s hands. She reached out, her fingers grasped the elder’s robes at his side in an iron grip. A chain dug into her fingers. He pressed her back down and gave her a gentle look.

“It will pain you, Miss, but you mustn’t fight,” he said. “If this works, it will heal you.”

Heal? She cooked. Her muscles contracted violently. Her body tried to curl in on itself, but the vampire held her down. Her hands drew back to her core. The chain, whatever it was, fell from her fingertips as her hands flexed involuntarily. She let out a long wail.

“I cannot bear it, father,” Danatarius said, his tone pleading. He stroked his thumbs along her temples. “She must sleep!”

“No, my son,” the elder hissed. “If she sleeps, we may lose her.”

“Look!” Danatarius nodded to the area beside him. “It recedes… Her blood recedes!” Wonder tinged his voice. His eyes widened. His lips parted, and he licked the lower. “It works.”

“Do not get excited, Danatarius,” the elder murmured. “It may take days for her to complete the change, if it works at all.”

Cyranti whimpered and Danatarius stroked her cheeks. “Hush, sweet thing, all will be well.”

“Let us get her to the Fold,” the father murmured. He patted Cyranti’s chest and ran his hand down the length of her arm. “She must be tended. Tonight will be the worst.”

“I will tend her,” Danatarius offered. “You have duties. I have none for the day.”

“Get her back, then,” the father agreed. He stood and brushed the grass from his leather pants around his knees and from the long tails of his robes. “I will meet you at the Fold.”

Danatarius carefully lifted Cyranti into his arms and stood. He cradled her as if she were a beloved child. When he had her nestled against his chest, he turned and the world blurred. Wind whipped her hair back. It was hard to breathe until she turned her face into his chest. He ran so fast that it felt like her skin was peeling off. They ran so fast for so long that she wondered if they would ever stop. Then, she worried they would stop.

She feared that when he stopped, she’d catapult from his arms. However, he slowed and came to a halt as gently as he had began. She barely jarred from his movements. When she looked away from his chest, her jaw dropped.

“Where are we?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was hoarse and deep. Cyranti licked her cracked lips. Her tongue was so dry.

“This is the Fold,” Danatarius said. “This is our home, your home.”

It was unlike anything Cyranti had ever seen before. There were no spires or towers. The place had an earthy look to it. There were seven stories that she could count. It sprawled to either side for what seemed like leagues. How had she never come across this in her travels?

“My home—NO! I must get back to my father,” she croaked. “He will worry!”

“Calm yourself,” he murmured as he carried her toward the manse. “You are in no shape for such outbursts.”

Tears burned her eyes and she fought to blink them away. “I can’t stay here. I have to go! Let me go!”

She was too weak. She wanted to kick and scream and punch her way out of his arms, but her limbs wouldn’t obey her. He clutched her tighter against his chest as he stood before the doors. They opened without his aid and once he passed through, closed the same way.

He walked her through endless hallways. Everyone Cyranti saw all had the look of humans, but different. Subtly different. She had only seen humans in pictures or when she had visited the Sun King in the Summerlands and viewed through his scrying bowl. But here, there was something different about them. Their eyes all shone with night shine when the light hit them just right. They were calmer, more collected. Each watched her intently, their lips parting as she passed.

Predators. They were all predators. Every one of them reminded her of a bird perched atop a high limb to watch her in her weakened state. Cyranti shrank further against Danatarius’ chest.

He shushed her with a gentle word before continuing, “No harm will come to you here. If you survive, you will be one of us.”

They entered a room, and the door shut behind them. Danatarius’ scent wrapped more heavily around her. She tried to focus, but things were blurring.

“We’re in your room,” she mumbled. “Why?”

“Yes, this is my room. One will be prepared for you if you survive the transition. Until then, you will reside with me,” he said. With care, he placed her on his bed and smoothed a hand over her hair. “What is your name?”

“Cyranti,” she whispered. “Cyranti Lorinar, House Mer’di, Princess of the Twilight.”

“Mother’s bones,” he breathed, “No… no, no, no…”

“I must get home,” Cyranti stressed. “I must get back to my father.”

Danatarius gave her a sorrowful look and sat on the edge of the bed. His hands folded in his lap, but they twitched.

“You are in a state of calm,” he said as he stared down at his fidgeting hands. “Soon, you will begin the transition. It will be… painful. So very painful. The burning will return, far worse than you had felt it during the spell. Your normal canines will be pushed out in favor of fangs that can recede into your jaw and sharpen to a needle’s point at your whim. Your eyes will itch and burn for days as they acclimate further into the night vision. The clothes you are in will feel rough and irritate you. Everything will be agony for days.”

“I’m dying,” she said, closing her eyes.

His hand rested on her stomach. “I hope not. Soon, you will be Vampir. We are not dead things, Princess. We are alive.”

“You cannot be alive,” she hissed. “You are lying!”

Danatarius frowned and scooted closer. He snatched up her hand and placed it over his heart and narrowed his eyes on her. “It beats, does it not? I am warm, am I not? I eat. I breathe. I love. I hate. I live.”

His heart thumped against her palm. His skin radiated warmth from under his soft shirt. With every word, his heart sped up a step. He was agitated. She made him agitated.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand and patted it. “Do not be sorry. Just know that if you live through the transition, you will not be undead. You will be alive. You will still be Cyranti, just… physically changed.”

“Why did your father do this?” she asked. Her throat felt like it was full of sand, her mouth with cotton. “How did you find me?”

Danatarius dropped her hand and went to the table in the corner of the room. He spoke as he poured a goblet of water. “We have been hunting the Architect for eras. Our arrival was no accident. You cost us time, but now we have a lead and that is not something we have had in a very long time. My father, Kordan, is our King… of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” she asked as Danatarius helped her sit up to drink.

“He is our leader for all he is worth. He is the Eldest Elder, the oldest of our kind, the first turned.” As she finished the water, he set the goblet aside and helped Cyranti to lie back down. “I am one of the lucky few who was born this way.”

Cyranti closed her eyes again. Her lids were weighted down, or so it felt. She still couldn’t move her limbs. Breathing was easier, but it was still painful. Her father’s face flashed before her mind. He would be devastated if she didn’t go home. Morough and Ka’lei would be worried when she didn’t arrive at the estate as expected.

“Few?” she asked. It was hard to think, let alone speak. With all her mental strength, she tried to focus on the conversation.

“It is hard for us to produce children,” he said, “perhaps harder than it is for elves.”

Cyranti shivered and in the next moment she was covered with a warm blanket. Danatarius tucked it around her and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Sleep, Cyranti,” he murmured. “Sleep, now. The transition will wake you soon enough.”

“I’m afraid,” she whimpered. Her teeth chattered.

The bed dipped and released as he stood. It dipped on the other side and moved as he crawled across the bed. Soon, the blankets were lifted and his warm body was pressed to her side. The blanket came down again and Danatarius wrapped her up against him.

“It will be frightening,” he said against her ear. “It will be excruciating if you make it that far, but know that you will not be alone. I will not leave you to fight this battle alone.”