Page 45 of Blood & Bedlam

“Easy,” she coaxes, mistaking my unease for fear for Cami. I wish I could bloodlink with her to talk, but so far, I’ve only been able to do that with Vlad, since the second consecration. I’m hyper aware that every Otherworlder in here has supernatural hearing, and the last thing I want to do is call attention to myself, so I nod, then pull my gaze back to her.

“It’s good,” I say, even though the man is still staring. It’s starting to creep me the fuck out. I scan their side once more, and when my gaze lands on the fucker who tore into my neck, that ick is replaced with fury. He laughs, perfectly quaffed in a black suit, not unlike the one he wore when they abducted us. I bet if I looked close enough, I’d see the blood of my best friend on the hem of his pantleg. His eyes meet mine on a passing glance and he smirks, dragging his stare up and down my body shamelessly. My lip lifts in a snarl, but before I can flip him the bird in a fuck you, a bell tolls and quiet settles over the room.

Fleur stiffens, head jerking sideways. I follow her gaze to see Cami enter the room through a side door. She’s dressed to kill, her eyes set straight ahead as her bodyguard, the Eternal I now know is named Tully, and Vlad follow behind. Opposite them, the Italian champion approaches. He’s a monster of a vampire, nearly twice the size of Drake, an absolute mountain. They stop across from one another, just a step outside of the golden circle. The ground inside grows lighter with every second we get closer to dawn.

Vladimir looks menacing in his own right, darkness leaching into the room around him in Camille’s wake. The display of power draws the ire and a few hisses from the Italian vamps, but he pays them no notice. Regal, he carries on in a confident stroll, ascending the riser and taking his seat next to me. I breathe a little easier the moment his hand slips into mine, our fingers twining. It’s perhaps not the best idea to flaunt this, but I don’t try to pull back. His eyes are laser focused on Camille. Hecate and Hermes claim seats on the bottom riser and we wait for an older man with papery skin to stand. Old and expensive-looking green robes hang from his frame, and a crest I can’t make out in the low light adorns his breast pocket.

“Two will enter. Only one will be permitted to leave. Let the la morte dell’alba begin!” His hands rise and both champions step into the golden circle. A cackle of power rises to encase them, a shimmering, opaque golden veil spanning from the circle on the ground to the edge of the circle in the ceiling.

“To Death.” The Italian champion grunts, his voice a rough snarl as he cracks his neck.

“To Death,” Cami responds, her body loose and languid as she bounces on the balls of her feet. She looks so tiny compared to him. Stress sears down the Bond between Vlad and me in a crushing wave, but on the surface, he looks bored and unaffected, as do the girls. Cami and the Italian circle each other like sharks, then, as though operating on some invisible cue, they launch into each other with a crack that sounds like two boulders colliding. They move in a blur, but I catch the arrest of their bodies when he sends her into the side of the circle, crushing her head against the barrier. Blood spurts against it and rains down, clearing out the view just in time for me to see her counterattacking with furious fists.

Not one of our people move except for Tully. He circles the ring, barking out orders just like the Italian’s trainer does. It’s madness and mayhem on the Italian side, however. They’re jumping and hollering, gesturing wildly with their hands, baring their teeth anytime blood is drawn against Cami. This is blood sport to them, and it’s with sickening clarity that I realize they’re enjoying the barbarism of it all. That Italian is probably just a thug in their machine, whereas Cami is ours.

Bursts of flame erupt from Cami’s hands, charring the skin of the Italian, but he’s got her pinned with his whole body weight. The ground around them rapidly shifts from blues to purples and panic starts to set in.

“What happens if neither has killed the other when the sun comes up?” I ask Vlad. His eyes aren’t fixed on the fight, now. They’re tracking the progression of dawn through the skylight in the ceiling.

“They both burn,” he rasps.

Cami cries out and it’s piercing, Vlad’s grip on my hand crushing. My bones pop, but I’m too horrified at what I’m seeing to care. She’s fought like a lion, but he has her smashed against the ground, both hands around her neck. Tully is right there with her, just beyond the barrier, yelling orders, commanding her to break the hold.

But she’s fading nearly as fast as the sun is rising.

The Italian shifts on top of her, replacing his hands with his knee, crushing Cami’s chest and windpipe. His arms go up and the Italians cheer while he soaks in his impending victory. Cami’s eyes are bloodshot as she gasps for air. All the while he gloats above her. Vladimir is seconds from killing every person in this room, and it’s not a guess, it’s fact. But Camille’s gaze stays fixed on Tully, even when her eyes flutter from the pressure. Flames flicker and die over her fingertips, the gurgle of blood her death rattle.

The ground turns pink.

It’s nearly sunrise, and Cami is about to die.

Smoke rises from the Italian’s exposed back and arms, the singe of the dawn a swift reminder that he has to finish the job, but he’s too power drunk on his superiority to care. That hubris costs him when he shifts his knee, foolishly releasing the arm he has pinned. It’s a fatal mistake, one even my untrained eye can see.

Cami doesn’t hesitate.

An inferno sparks between them as she summons every ounce of power she has, using her Dark Gift to engulf her entire body in flames. He tries to disentangle himself, but her arms constrict around him, crushing the parts of his body she can reach. The room is silent with the exception of the screams he’s making as he writhes. We watch him burn alive from underneath. The stench of burning hair and singed skin permeates the room, and I nearly gag from it. It’s an agonizing passage of minutes, watching this all unfold, unable to see Cami through the fire. Flames climb higher, engulfing, consuming, until the Italian chokes his last gasp for breath.

The flames extinguish quickly, burning out like a backdraft, leaving only charred remains that crumble into ash against her. From the sky above, the pink gives way to orange. Cami cries out in agony when sunlight paints across her skin, smoking and smoldering herself as bits of her body start to ash. The golden barrier dissipates.

The eldest of the Second of the Blood looks broken, bruised and bleeding with charred pieces of clothing hanging off her body, when she manages to drag herself to her feet. The first step from the circle has Tully rushing to her, offering a hand that she waves off. Every step she takes looks like agony, but her head is tall, her chin high as she turns and finds her father.

He’s standing, towering above us, steel gray eyes locked on hers. A charred, shaking hand balls into a fist, one Cami places over her heart as she kneels on unsteady legs, bowing her head to him and only him.

“I offer this triumph of blood and bone to House of Clan Dracul. Long may its sovereignty reign.” Camille’s voice is raw but strong, and I’m so fucking proud of her. It takes everything in me not to scream and clap for her, but I take cues from the rest of Clan Dracul and keep it cute.

Vladimir is on her in a blink, bidding her rise. They share words I can’t hear, but my heart is still a drumbeat in my chest, my veins full of adrenaline that’s kicking in my blood. She did it. She survived.

It’s over.

“The matter is settled between the House of Clan Torini and the House of Clan Dracul,” the older vamp declares. Murmurs rise around us as the Italians grumble, but Juliette, Fleur, and Claire are down from the stands and crowding their sister before his sentence is finished. I hang back and let them have their moment, grateful that Drake stays dutifully at my side. When I finally stand to head over, I get to the last step when a hand extends to help me onto the floor. I’m a walking klutz in these heels so I take it gratefully out of instinct, but dread washes through my system when I look to see the man from earlier with blue eyes holding my hand.

His thumb caresses over my knuckles, and I resist the urge to rip my hand away. I don’t want to give cause to another incident. Drake’s growl from my back gives me comfort, and I see the man with sharp eyes and his distinguished nose smirk before releasing me.

“You must be the lamb that has stirred up all this trouble.” His cadence is slow, patient. Chills roll through me again, because something about him is so familiar.

“Do I know you?” I ask, searching his face. His skin is warm, so he’s not a vampire. Only Vlad and his kind have warmth. Another Otherworlder, maybe?

“It would wound me deeply if you had met me and did not recall.” He sounds playful, but I can’t shake the alarm bells pinging in my mind. “You are the Dracul’s Bonded?” he asks nonchalantly.