Читать книгу Sanctum Angels Shadow Havens Book 1 - Edenmary Black - Страница 3

Ilea Galaurus pulled her skirts up, tucking her legs into the overstuffed brocade chair. Dragging it closer to the carved bed had been a struggle, but she’d been watching her son in the candlelit bedroom for hours, needing to be close. His pale features and occasional soft whimpers frightened her, demanding her vigilance, yet she was unable to do anything to help him.

Saan shivered despite the thick, ebony duvet covering his limbs. He rubbed his inflamed eyelids but remained unconscious. Although he’d only fallen ill three days ago, the fever had struck him like a hurricane. It seemed like something that could fell a human even though there was no possibility that Saan, the child of a daemon and a pureblood vampire, could be infected by any of the diseases a human would carry. The young male had grown hot and delirious, despite the efforts of the best daemon healers of the Demesne, who hadn’t seen anything like this illness. Although used to healing injuries, large and small, they’d never met fever. One had heard of an illness like this that could take a supernatural quickly, but nothing was known of a cure.

The daemon healers had looked to the Internet for answers but found few. Three deaths had been reported in Europe from an illness that could be the same. None of the stricken supernaturals had survived. Calls had crossed the Atlantic, from southwestern Pennsylvania to the capitals of Europe. Promises to share any information were exchanged, but time was trickling through an hourglass in Ilea’s heart. She knew her son might never regain consciousness. Death could take him this very night. The thought propelled her to his bedside for perhaps the hundredth time. Leaning over, moving the voluminous amber skirts of her long gown, she whispered his name and ran a fingertip across his blond eyebrows. Even so ill, he was handsome.

Perhaps you should lie down with him, my lady,” the only healer left in the bedroom suggested from behind her. “It might still his shivering.”

Ilea whirled on the young female. “Get out,” she said, but her words lacked fury. Instantly, she regretted the dismissal. The daemon healers had done as much as they were able. “Forgive me. Your name is Lily?”

The healer nodded shyly.

“Saan is….my only son and …”

…he’s dying in front of me…

“I understand, my lady,” the daemon healer named Lily replied. “I will go now. One of my sisters will return later.” After bobbing her head of light curls, she left quietly.

“Thank you,” Ilea said, turning back to Saan, searching his face for any sign of improvement. She sat on the bed’s edge to take his face in her hands. Just for a moment, Ilea saw the pupils of his beautiful, dark eyes. The whites had gone crimson, as if he were bleeding from some injury behind the bones of his face. His pale skin was hot and moist to her palms. Carefully, she dropped her hands and found to her shock that tiny bruises had formed on his pale cheeks exactly where her fingertips had been, leaving discolorations from the lightest touch.

Pulling the duvet gently back from Saan’s pallid chest, Ilea found bruises. Tiny smears of blood had formed over some. “Dear God,” she breathed. Looking at her own hands, she saw blood on her fingertips. Wiping them against her skirts, she flew to the door. Two huge vampiric warriors stood guard on either side of the doorway, a measure that Saan’s father, Sebastien Galaurus, the Demesne’s leader, had commanded. No one but Ilea, the healers and Saan’s sister, Iridea, would be permitted to cross the threshold. “Where is my Mate?” Ilea demanded.

“In his study, my lady,” the vampire answered instantly.

Ilea picked up the skirting of her gown and rushed through the richly carpeted halls of the elaborate underground Demesne haven she’d shared with her Mate for centuries. By the time she reached Sebastien’s study, her flaming hair had come undone from its tight chignon and her face had grown hot. Saan was dying and a tiny thought she’d kept buried for the past two nights would find Sebastien’s ear whether he wished to hear or not. Drawing breath, Ilea whipped the black double doors nearly from their hinges to stride to the dark, massive desk in front of her Mate. A small group of the Demesne’s vampire warriors were with him but they stepped swiftly from her path.

“Leave us,” she ordered.

The warriors of the Demesne were unused to taking orders from their leader’s Mate, whom they rarely saw, but left after Sebastien gave them a fast nod. Hearing his Mate’s pounding heart, Sebastien sat quickly, as if the air had been knocked from his lungs. “Has our son passed?” he asked quietly.

“He lives but he may well pass before the morning unless something is done,” Ilea gripped the edge of the desk and leaned over it, into her husband’s perfectly sculpted face.

“Call your brother at the Sanctum and seek his advice,” she commanded. “Ask him to send one of the angelic healers. It is the only thing that can save our son.”

Sebastien had thought this might be requested of him, but he had also expected Saan to recover, having his mother’s daemon blood and his own vampiric blood.

“Andrieu is not my brother. I cannot contact anyone at the Sanctum,” he said.

Ilea pulled her hand back and brought it forward in a mind-numbingly fast arc to connect with Sebastien’s jaw. Her Mate’s head bounced backward against the high back of his carved chair, yet he didn’t lift a hand. “You could not have heard what I asked,” Ilea said. “Call Andrieu and ask…no, Sebastien …beg him to send an angelic healer. Tonight.” Ilea’s eyes were changing to the silver swirls associated with strong emotion among daemons. “Do it,” she hissed.

“Has he grown worse? Have the healers found nothing to help?” Sebastien’s voice was barely above a whisper. He knew the answer.

“Must I strike you again to get you to understand my words? Saan is dying. He grows weaker as we speak. The healers have done all that is possible. There is no hope but an angel’s blood!” Ilea’s voice rose, but she couldn’t control herself. “Only the blood of an angel can clear his body of this venom that steals his life tonight, Sebastien. Call Andrieu Grey at the Sanctum.”

Sebastien sat back, staring at the daemon he loved. She was as he’d never seen her, with her hair undone and her face in flames. “Ilea,” he began, “an angel’s blood will kill him. It is poison to all that have daemon blood.”

“He will die, Sebastien! If the angel’s blood hastens his end, he will be released from this torment!” Ilea’s voice cracked with emotion and she dropped her head as a tear fell to the desk’s surface. “If you cannot bring yourself to call Andrieu, call Miriel. She has a child…a boy…and a stepchild…her daughter…she will understand a mother’s pain.” She raised her face to him, wishing she could will him to do as she asked. Had he been less strong willed, she might have glamoured him to it. “See him yourself,” she implored. “Go to him.”

Sebastien rose to his full height, took his Mate’s small hand and moved for the hall. The tight cluster of Demesne warriors in the hall parted, but Sebastien motioned them to follow him. In moments, he was at the foot of Saan’s bed, while the warriors waited outside the young male’s rooms. Ilea turned on a small lamp, bringing light to the bedroom. Saan was writhing but settled as his mother touched his shoulder and whispered something to him. A small blood tear had formed at the edge of his eye. Ilea wiped it away with her fingertip. Rubbing her hands on her skirts, she looked at her Mate’s hard face. Quickly, she tugged the duvet away from Saan’s chest, which was now streaked with skinny ribbons of blood where his skin and the tissue beneath were dying. The leader of the Demesne waved a hand at her and she replaced the duvet, searching his face, waiting for the words she wanted to hear so badly. He motioned her to the hallway, where his warriors stood, expecting orders, but unable to imagine what they would be told to do. Sebastien, who commanded all and intimidated most, took his Mate into his arms.

Just then, Iridea, their daughter, rounded the hall’s bend, nearly colliding with her parents and the Demesne warriors. She’d worn one of the long, ornate gowns her mother favored, almost as a good will offering to her parents, who often disapproved of her jeans and loose hair. Not understanding their tight embrace, she thought Saan had made some improvement.

“Is he better?” she asked.

Sebastien shook his head, as he took her into his arms too. Holding both females tightly, he said, “Go to your brother, Iridea. It appears that his illness is coming to crisis. He will die or survive in the coming hours.”

As Ilea’s breath hitched and her tears fell against Sebastien’s chest, Iridea pulled free to do as she’d been told. She would stay with Saan to the end or to see him recover.

Making eye contact with two of his most loyal warriors over his Mate’s head, Sebastien lifted Ilea’s face. “The blood of an angel will kill him Ilea. Saan may still overcome this illness,” he said wearily.

The words burned like lava in Ilea’s chest. Sebastien wasn’t going to contact the Sanctum even though it might be the only chance for Saan. Immediately, she began to struggle. The sleeve of her gown tore exposing a pale shoulder.

Sebastien held her. He had no wish to hurt her, but he could not let her go. “Saan’s life or his death are not mine to com…”

“Yes, they are… you bastard…you filthy bastard…you can save him…,” Ilea shrieked.

Ilea’s words and struggles were cut short as Sebastien wrapped one heavily muscled arm around her tiny waist and pulled her to his chest so tightly that her feet left the carpet. He raised a hard palm in front of her face, staring as deeply into her eyes as he could, while she writhed against his expansive chest. “Ilea…listen to me …Ilea… hear my voice Ilea…” Within seconds, she slumped, unconscious in his arms.

Two Demesne vampires rushed to their leader to help him with Ilea’s slight weight. Sebastien lifted her into the arms of Zeris, one of his most trusted warriors. Once the vampire held Ilea aloft, Sebastien smoothed strands of red hair from her face.

“Take her to her rooms and lock her in. No one is to see her like this,” he said, before going back into Saan’s room.

Iridea sat at Saan’s bedside, as her mother had. In the soft light, Sebastien noted the resemblance between brother and sister and recalled the unexpected joy his children had brought to him. He’d had little to do with their rearing and although his relationship with Ilea was sometimes difficult, she’d always been a good mother. A strong mother, he thought. Moving closer, he saw tears on his daughter’s face, silver in her wide eyes.

“Iridea…,” he started.

The young woman held a hand up to stop the flow of words. “No more words, father. Just allow me to be with my brother.”

“Will you remain with him then? Through the night?”

“I’ll stay here until he dies or improves.” Raising her head, Iridea looked around. “Where is our mother?” she asked, not realizing that Sebastien had blacked his Mate out and had her locked in her rooms.

“She’s resting. This has been terrible for her,” he said.

“And the angelic blood? Last night, mother told me it might help Saan.”

“It would kill him. I have no doubt of this. He may yet survive Iridea.”

Iridea shook her head as a tear fell. Her deep red hair rippled like waves as she trembled. “We both know we will never hear the sound of Saan’s voice again father.”

Hours later, when the sun rose, Saan’s life had ended. True to her word, Iridea had remained with him until life had gone from his once beautiful body. Daemon healers had come and gone throughout the night, but Iridea was barely aware of them. One had asked if she wished them to ease Saan’s passing, but she’d shaken her head. After Saan had drawn his last breath, she’d gone to her father, who’d taken the news in his study without words.

“Do you want me to tell mother?” Iridea asked, but Sebastien had shaken his head, before saying that he would see Ilea himself.

In the early hours of the next day, daemon healers carefully washed and wrapped Saan in fine, pale linen, before Sebastien carried his son to a windowless receiving room where old prayers and the sweet white smoke from incense burners hung in the air. Ilea was brought to the receiving room in a dark, simple gown that Iridea had chosen for her. Her lackluster eyes tracked the daemon healers who took her son from the receiving room to an elevated pyre just outside the doorway, where the dawn would destroy what the flames set below the pyre did not. She collapsed as the first tendrils of smoke began to rise through the soft white shrouding. Sebastien carried her back to her rooms and laid her on her bed again.

“You are beyond vile. I will hate you forever,” she’d whispered, before closing her eyes.

As that evening fell, hours later, Ilea woke, wrapped herself in a soft cloak the color of night and ventured from her rooms. She hurried through the halls of the Demesne, her gown and cloak billowing behind her like sails. Rain had fallen during the gray afternoon hours, which might make her work easier. It was a fact that pleased her, as she wished only to complete her task without seeing anyone. Entering the receiving room where she’d said a final goodbye to her Saan, Ilea pressed the heavy wooden doors open, breathing in the clear night. Overhead the moon’s radiance was a gift. The flashlight she’d brought would not be needed. Stepping down onto the ground, her soft leather boots sank into mud and the hems of her gown and cloak soon followed. At times, she envied Iridea’s comfort with jeans. Undaunted, she moved to the plot of earth where Saan’s body had been taken in flames. As she’d expected, his larger bones had not been rendered to dust and ash, as he’d only been half vampire. They met her eye like silvery spokes of a wheel broken in the mud. Bending quickly, she began pulling them free to put them into her sack.