Prologue
1611
Caucasus Mountains, Russia
Dimitri fell to his knees. Exhaustion and agonizing pain ripped through him, blood flowed from the gash at his temple, the slash in his stomach, and dripped from his mouth. His lungs burned and his limbs ached.
“Look at you now, the honorable Dimitri Arsov, on his knees at my feet. I’ll never forget this sight.”
“Nor shall I,” Dimitri rasped.
“Don’t worry. The memory will not plague you for long. Red!” Ven called to the hunter. The witch came forward. His ancient dagger, bare and gleaming in the moonlight, was held steady in his fist.
“Goodbye, my king. You may rest in peace knowing that I will take great care of your Clan.” Ven bowed low and watched with eager eyes as the witch advanced on the humbled warrior. “Finish him!” the vampire demanded.
The hunter kicked Dimitri, his heavy boot shattering the vampire king’s shoulder. Dimitri did not cry out, his face cold as a tomb, his eyes bright with murderous rage. The witch raised the dagger and plunged it into Dimitri’s heart. Ven hooted with glee and laughed as Dimitri’s body fell silently to the moist ground of the forest. Ven kicked dirt in the ancient ruler’s face before turning to the witch.
“Well done,” he said, lightly tossing Red a sack of gold. “I wonder if I should cry when I am given the crown. Or do you think that would be too much?”
The witch shot him a chilling glare.
Ven growled, “What am I doing asking you anyway, witch? I suggest you leave before someone smells his blood.” With that warning, Ven disappeared into the forest, a joyous smile curling his repulsive lips.
Red, founder of the Red Order of Hunters, counted his gold before collecting his weapons. He smirked at what he had just accomplished. Witches had tried for centuries to kill a vampire king and he was the only one to succeed. He single-handedly brought down the last remaining pureblood vampire. The once powerful Dimitri Arsov would be remembered only as a weak king, slain by a Red Order witch.
Red wiped the blood from his brow. The king had not gone without a fight. He would have to use the remainder of his power to heal before he could head home. In this shape, he was too weak to travel.
He collected all his discarded weapons, which lay broken or bloodied on the forest floor, but one remained—the dagger in Dimitri’s chest. Red’s eyes fixed on the weapon. Fear gripped him as he slowly approached the vampire’s body. He was dead. No vampire could withstand a blade to the heart, but still the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. His eyes flickered to the jagged branch that lay just an arm’s length from the corpse.
He is dead, Red thought. He can’t use it.
With a curse he forced the fear from his mind, bent down and wrapped his fingers around the leather hilt.
Almost without moving, Dimitri’s fingers slowly wrapped around the fallen tree limb. With one powerfully swift movement, he impaled the hunter, twisting the spear-like tree branch before wrenching it free. The hunter had no time to scream in pain or blink in surprise as he collapsed, his blood soaking the soil.
Dimitri struggled to his knees, his limbs weak from pain, blood loss, and fatigue. He gripped the hilt of the dagger still embedded in his chest. Clenching his jaw, his breath turned to ice in his lungs as he ripped the foreign object free. The wound would take time to heal, time he did not have. For his plan to work, he could not be found. Glancing about the forest, he remembered passing by a cave before he allowed himself to be ambushed.
2
Forcing himself to his feet he stumbled over to his cloak, which lay discarded amongst the brush. Removing a vile of glowing yellow liquid, he came to the body. The Shaw had given him this position to aid him in his mission. With a pop, he removed the cork and poured the contents over the witch. The body quickly disintegrated, the flesh burning, the bones melting until nothing remained but a scorched outline on the forest floor. Dimitri hoped his people would believe the mark was all that remained of his body, having been burnt by the sun.
Stashing the empty vile in the pocket of his torn pants, he staggered forward and made his way through the trees on trembling legs. He fell to his knees once he reached the safety of the cave; its cool darkness was a soothing balm for his pain-ravaged body. Using what remained of his energy, he dug himself a deep hole. Here is where he would rest, here is where his powers would grow beyond even his own imagination, and here he would be undisturbed until the time came for him to reclaim his throne.
3
4
Chapter One
The pounding of the bass and the high pitch sound of techno was all that could be heard in the club. Bright spotlights roamed, flowing like waves over the sea of people dancing mindlessly to the music.