Redemption, Book III of the Arotas Trilogy

  Redemption

  an AROTAS novel

  ALSO BY AMY MILES

  The Arotas Trilogy

  Forbidden

  Reckoning

  The Rising Trilogy

  Defiance Rising

  Amy Miles

  Redemption

  an AROTAS novel

  Copyright © 203 by Amy Miles

  http://www.AmyMilesBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  For my mom.

  Prologue

  A dark shadow of a man perches high above the streets of London, his gaze focused intently on the front doors of the Fortune Theatre. The deserted path below is lit with a golden glow, the light spilling out from the closed glass doors. A marquee above the theatre’s awning announces another nightly performance of A Woman in Black is under way.

  He shifts not out of discomfort or necessity but out of sheer eagerness.

  This is the first attack. The first of many to come.

  His fingers curl around the rooftop ledge as he leans forward, checking once more to make sure the bodies have been positioned perfectly. A single drop of saliva drips from the corner of his mouth, evidence of his rising excitement.

  The victim’s eyes stare up at him, glazed and vacant. The flesh of their throats has been sliced open, carved from ear to ear. Not a single drop of blood will be found along the wounds or the pavement below. He made sure of that.

  Clean cuts, he smiles, stroking the sharpened blade at his side.

  The three college-aged girls below never saw their attacker. He had kept to the shadows, stalking them as they rushed to meet up with a group of friends. Only the blonde sensed his presence. She had cast several cautious glances back over her shoulder, her brown eyes widening with alarm when she saw him swoop down upon her. Her gurgled screams were masked by the honking of taxis as they raced down the streets. The other two didn’t have a chance to put up a fight.

  A slow grin stretches across his face as he imagines the frustration of the waiting party. How long did they linger before they took their seats? Were angry texts later followed by frantic pleas to respond?

  He had watched a group of girls emerge during intermission, searching both sides of the street. They seemed agitated to be sure but not nearly enough. That is why he chose this location for the big reveal. Soon the theatre doors will open and the real show will begin.

  The victims’ arms are spread wide, hands clutching hands as they stretch across the narrow paved street. Long blonde hair is knotted into ginger curls and then into shiny brunette strands, adjoining the three girls in death.

  Their abdomens have been torn open, as if mauled by a bear right in the heart of London. He flexes his fingers, noting the scent of blood that still clings to his claws. This final wound had been an afterthought, a nice touch for the front page of the Sun newspaper tomorrow morning.

  He looks down Russell Street, toward the hustle and bustle of Covent Garden. At this time of night, it is usually packed with shoppers, tourists and street performers. The screams should draw a nice crowd.

  Looking back down at the girls, he smiles at his handiwork. Their skin is abnormally pale, their veins absent from sight. Investigators will not find a single drop of blood in their bodies, nor fingerprints to tie anyone to the crime. The only clue will be the bite marks along the girls’ forearms and wrists.

  The creak of opening doors draws his attention. He crouches low, eager for the show to begin.

  The first to emerge is an older couple, the woman draped in furs and jewels. Her salt and pepper hair is elegantly coifed at the back of her head. She is on the arm of a man who wears a fitted suit, his shoes shined and his steps careful. Neither of them peers into the darkness of the street as they pass.

  The murderer frowns, annoyed that his masterpiece has gone unnoticed under the veil of night. The streetlamp flickered and died nearly an hour before, leaving much of the road cast in shadow, but youthful eyes will easily be able to see the hand that stretches toward the gutter.

  A pair of younger couples emerge next, the women clutching their chests as they discuss the final scene of the play. The tall man on the left notices the lifeless hand first, his muddy brown eyes widening in shock behind gold-rimmed glasses.

  He yanks his wife back, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to draw her away. Her screams beckon a flood of people from within the theatre. Mouths gape wide as pallid faces stare in horror at the macabre scene before them.

  The shadowy monster rubs his hands together, grinning. He rises up slightly as the group of girls he has been waiting for emerge. They rise onto their toes, craning to see over the crowd. As murmurs float through the cluster of theatregoers, one girl’s shriek pierces the night.

  She struggles through the crowd, her petite hands trembling as she tries to push people aside. Her hands cover her lips as she stares down at the beautiful brunette sprawled at her feet. Their likeness is uncanny.

  Her friends cluster around, trying to console her, as she doubles over and yanks on her hair. Her screams turn to mournful wails as she sinks to the ground, arms outstretched toward her sister.

  The concealed man closes his eyes, relishing the sounds of pounding footsteps drawing near. The scent of blood lingers in his nostrils. He breathes deep, savoring the heady scent of death. He licks his lips, capturing a lingering droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth as people speak frantically into mobile phones, some calling for help, others dialing family and friends to give a first-hand account of the gruesome scene.

  A cry of protest rises as camera flashes light up the crime scene. Employees of the Fortune Theatre push their way through the crowd, doing their best to keep people back off the street.

  The killer rises fluidly from his crouched position. He tilts his head, listening to the squealing tires and blaring sirens that converge on his location. The crowds below swells, creating a writhing circle around the three fallen girls.

  Opening his eyes, Lucien Enescue takes a slow, deep breath. His eagerness has blended into long awaited satisfaction. Too long has he lived in secret, forced to hide from the humans…but no longer.

  Confusion over the victim’s markings will lead to doubt, and hopefully a niggling fear will begin to bloom in the pits of the investigator’s stomachs. They will begin to question everything they think they know about this world. And maybe, just maybe, they will allow themselves to consider the impossible: that monsters really do exist.

  Tonight, they will begin to fear the unknown, that which lurks in the shadows. Tonight, the existence of immortals becomes a reality.

  One

  Smoke hovers over the courtyard below, the moans of the dying rising from its depths. The heavy stench of death clings to the nighttime air. Nicolae Dalma wipes sweat from his brow, groaning at the effort that it takes to lift his arm. His vivid green eyes take in the scene below him. He is exhausted, more so than he has ever been before.

  Victory is theirs. Bran castle has been overthrown.

  He looks out over the broken bodies and rubble strewn about the castle grounds with mixed emotions. From atop the stone staircase landing, he ponders how this sweet triumph has come at a high price. Countless immortals have fallen, and although he is grateful for their exit from the world, he knows this n
ight will anger those who remain.

  This battle may be over, but the war rages on.

  His own men, loyal hunters, have fallen as well. Their bodies will be buried in the earth with a monument erected in their memory, but that will not be enough recognition for the service they gave here.

  People said it was impossible to take down the mighty Vladimir Enescue. His reign of tyranny lasted through many generations, but tonight all of that has come to an end. Roseline went after him and, judging by the look in her eye, Vladimir won’t live to see another sunrise.

  Nicolae looks toward the right, to the far end of the courtyard, and dips his head in gratitude to Fane Dalca. The immortal’s long blond hair falls over his shoulders in sweaty locks. Without his help, this victory would never have come. Although they only spent a couple of weeks together while in London, Nicolae has grown to deeply respect Fane and is proud to have fought side by side with him.

  His thoughts turn back to Sadie, locked away in one of the castle towers. He prays that she has remained undiscovered, left to rest. His jaw clenches in anger and the muscles of his forearm grow rigid as he forms a fist at his side. Vladimir hurt Sadie, tortured her. Nicolae would like nothing more than to drive an arrow straight through that monster’s heart, but he would not take that right away from Roseline.

  As he gazes up at the tower, he sees movement along the rooftop. “Roseline,” he calls out as Malachi drags her across the open-air balcony. Malachi’s grip is fierce on her arm, his eyes wide with terror. Nicolae starts to call again but his mouth falls slack at the sight of the being escaping the shattered window behind them.

  The black man is tall, a giant compared to Nicolae’s second in command, Grigori. His dark skin is bare to his waist, revealing an intricate pattern of scars across his chest and arms. It is not his enormous size, or the startling scars that makes Nicolae’s skin tingle with apprehension, but the two wings that rise from his back.

  The feathers, seen just above his shoulders, are deep scarlet, the color of fresh blood. Powerful legs propel him to the edge of the building. The being stops and watches Malachi and Roseline fleeing, but makes no move to pursue.

  “Roseline!”

  Nicolae’s gaze drops to the courtyard below. “Gabriel?”

  Gabriel Marston has always been large, his shoulders broad and his muscles strong from hours on the football field, but his transformation into immortality has amplified his natural characteristics. His hair is longer, shaggier than before. An umber robe drapes over him, brushing against the top of his sandaled feet

  Nicolae lifts his hand to wave in greeting but whirls around at the sound of Roseline’s cry. Her fingers curl around the stone banister, resisting Malachi’s grip on her. Nicolae frowns, unease settling heavy in his chest at the desperation on Malachi’s face.

  Crouching low, Nicolae leaps off the exterior staircase, his knees jarred by the force of his landing in the center of the courtyard below. Fane is already on the move, heading straight for him, his gaze focused intently on Roseline.

  Gabriel reaches out his hand toward her, obviously wanting to go to Roseline, but a large hand encircles his arm, holding him back. Nicolae peers through the dispersing smoke, gaping at the being standing behind his friend. The man towers over Gabriel. His wings are the color of pure gold, identical in design to the being overhead.

  The being lowers his head and speaks to Gabriel. Nicolae is sure his friend will shove him aside and fight his way toward Roseline, but he doesn’t as the second being floats to the ground beside them.

  Fane slides to a halt beside Nicolae, his chest rising and falling as he struggles to slow his breathing. Nicolae glances at the immortal from the corner of his eye. “Ever seen one of those things before?”

  “Nope,” Fane shakes his head. “I’d say they are angels though, but that’s only because of the wings.”

  “Angels really exist?”

  Fane shoots him a scathing glance. “I exist. Can we really question their existence too?”

  “Good point.”

  “Where did Gabriel come from? And what the heck is Malachi trying to pull?”

  “I don’t know,” Nicolae mutters, running his hands through his sweaty hair. His black uniform clings tightly to his skin, making him uncomfortable. His crossbow hangs heavily at his side. “I think it’s time we find out.”

  Nodding in agreement, Fane moves forward but stops mid-step as Gabriel turns to look at them. His pained gaze makes Nicolae’s mouth go dry. “Take care of her for me,” he calls.

  Nicolae shares an incredulous look with Fane as Gabriel wraps his arm around the golden being’s neck and turns his face away as they lift into the air. The scarred angel rises behind Gabriel, flanking him. “Where is he going?” Fane asks, pointing toward Gabriel.

  The angels soar into the sky and are soon lost to the night. When Nicolae’s gaze shifts to the balcony above his frown deepens. “Malachi and Roseline are gone.”

  Fane frowns. “Maybe we should go check on”

  Nicolae’s stomach clenches as a mournful howl echoes through the halls of the castle, resounding off the high ceilings and bursting from its corridors. He blinks and nearly misses Fane’s desperate dash for the stairs. His friend moves so quickly, Nicolae can hardly see his feet touch the ground.

  “Was that Roseline?” Nicolae shouts.

  Fane doesn’t respond as he leaps from one landing to the next, gracefully springing up to grasp the awning. Nicolae’s feet pound against the steps, taking them two at a time. His stomach twists as he reaches the open balcony and races toward the doorway that leads to the great hall.

  He leaps over downed hunters and fallen immortals. His footing is precarious on the blood slickened stone and his pace is much slower than Fane’s, but he pushes himself to run faster.

  Nicolae’s chest feels tight as he rounds the second floor staircase and races toward the next landing, the one that leads to the upper room.

  Fane leaps through a shattered window and lands just in front of Nicolae. He hardly pauses before bursting forward, taking the stairs three at a time.

  Please keep her safe, Nicolae silently begs, unsure of who or what he is pleading with. It doesn’t matter. As he runs, all he can focus on is getting to Roseline.

  “Nicolae!”

  His stride falters at the sound of William’s desperate cry. His heart begins to pound in his chest; his breath is all he can hear as Fane disappears from sight at the top of the staircase. Nicolae’s stomach clenches as he realizes that he’s heading toward Roseline’s room, toward Sadie.

  “Get in here!” Fane shouts, poking his head back into the hall just as Nicolae breaches the top step.

  His legs feel jerky as he moves toward the doorway of Roseline’s room. The hair lifts along the nape of his neck as he crosses the threshold to see William rocking beyond the bed.

  Nicolae’s hands feel clammy as he catches sight of a growing pool of blood just beyond William. Fane stands rigidly to the side, unable to meet Nicolae’s gaze.

  The sound of his footsteps echoes in his ears as he moves around William and sinks to his knees. He blinks rapidly, struggling to accept the sight before him.

  Sadie lies across the floor, her head propped into William’s lap at an awkward angle. Her stomach is splayed open revealing muscle tissue, organs and a glimpse of her spinal cord. “Oh, god,” he cries, his hands fluttering over his mouth. He swallows rapidly, trying to suppress the bile rising in his throat.

  “Help her,” Nicolae croaks, turning to look at Fane. “Please!”

  “I can’t.” Fane rubs his hands over his face, shaking his head. “It’s too late. She’s lost too much blood.”

  “There has to be a way,” Nicolae cries, the pitch of his voice rising. His eyes bulge as he contemplates the alternative. He can’t accept it, let alone begin to process the scene before him.

  Fane dips low, his gaze direct as he tries to reason with Nicolae. “Most of her stomach is on the floor and t
he other half has been severed beyond repair. It’s not humanly possible.”

  Nicolae shakes his head, rocking rapidly as he wails. He can’t breathe, can’t think beyond the acute pain. His entire body trembles as his cry fades out and sobs take their place.

  William stares blankly down at his sister, his gaze unfocused. Fane places his hand on Nicolae’s shoulder, squeezing it. “You need to say goodbye.”

  A gargled moan rises from Nicolae’s throat as he stares at Fane. How can he say goodbye when he’s hardly had a chance to fall in love with her? Has he even told her yet? Said the actual words? Will she die never knowing that she has captured his every waking thought since the first time she rejected him in Chicago?

  “No,” he croaks, reaching out to take Sadie’s hand in his, feeling her rough leather bracelet rub against his arm. Her skin is cool to the touch and unnaturally waxy. He swallows hard, pushing past the fear rising within to stare hard at Fane. “How long?”

  Fane’s shoulders rise and fall with uncertainty. “A minute. Maybe less. Her heart is barely beating.”

  “No, no, no,” he mutters, wishing more than anything that he could run and hide, only to later crawl out from his hole and find Sadie laughing and joking around with William again. “She deserves better than this.”

  “I am sorry,” Fane says softly. He sinks back onto his heels, giving Nicolae some space.

  Anger rips through Nicolae’s gut, deep and visceral. It winds through his stomach and into his chest, clenching so tightly he fears he will lose the ability to take another breath.

  Slowly, his fractured thoughts begin to clear as he looks at Fane. “Turn her.”

  Fane’s eyes bulge in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. Think about what you’re asking, Nicolae.”

  “I am.” The grief is too raw, sealing out logic and years of training. None of that matters right now. He closes his eyes and clings to Sadie’s lifeless hand, knowing that no matter the cost, he will not let her die like an animal, gutted and left for dead. “Save her.”