Page 109 of Fated In Ruin
“Ravok chose this moment for a reason. That means everything is in place. He’s the oldest, strongest vampire alive. You, a Bloodmoon witch possessing a rare and powerful magic not seen in hundreds of years…are alive. He’s timed the moment of his rebirth perfectly, and now…” Malachi’s gaze turned unfocused, as if he were searching inward.
“There’s a power source. There has to be. But I don’t know where it is.”
“Maybe…you’re wrong?” I said desperately. “Maybe Romulus was talking about something else.”
“I’m never wrong, Evangeline, when it comes to my Maker. My life has always depended on being right.”
46
RIORDAN
Islammed my fist down on the mahogany dining table, sending crystal decanters and half-filled whiskey glasses rattling. “We're getting nowhere.” The storm had passed, leaving black skies overhead, far off thunder still booming in the distance. Blake restlessly paced from one end of the room to the other, while Malachi brooded at the far end of the table, empty gaze fixed on the blank wall.
“If we split up, we could cover more ground,” Malachi suggested. “One of us takes North America, one heads to the Old Country…”
“And get picked off one by one?” I cut him off. “Maybe that's exactly what Ravok wants.”
Malachi's lip curled. “Better than sitting here doing nothing while he grows stronger.”
“Oh, that's rich coming from you.” The words tasted bitter in my mouth. “Since you’re the one who lost track of him in the first fucking place.”
“Fuck you, Graves. I’m not your goddamned bloodhound. He fell off the face of the earth and I’ve spent every second since trying to locate him. He’s disappeared.”
“Or you’re not trying very hard.” Blake’s voice was quiet, almost threatening.
Malachi's chair scraped against the floor as he shoved violently to his feet. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what he means.” I rose to meet him, blood pounding in my ears. “Who’s to say this isn’t another one of your tricks? That you’re using Evangeline, just like you’ve always used everyone around you?”
His face darkened, until it was as thunderous as the skies outside. “You don't know what you're talking about. I’dneverendanger her.”
“You don’t know the first thing about keeping her safe,” Blake drawled. “Fuck, you nearly killed her with your misguided rescue attempt.” My friend’s lips thinned out, eyes flashing with hatred. “You don’t even look at her like a person. Only like another piece on your chessboard.”
Malachi moved so fast he was a blur. His fist connected with Blake’s jaw, hard enough I heard the impact, his head snapping back. Blake recovered quickly, launching himself at Draven. Tangled together, they crashed into the table, sending maps and expensive glassware flying.
“Fucking stop.” My voice echoed off the ceiling of my family’s formal dining room, but I didn’t care who heard us at this point. “Stop thinking with your goddamned dicks.”
“You want to see how tough you are, Marten? Well, here’s your chance.” Draven sneered, that infuriating smirk twisting his face. “You’re just pissed I claimed her. Pissed she breathedmyfucking name when she came. Evangeline ismine, as much as she is yours. And you. Can’t. Fucking. Handle. It.”
“Forget what I said,” I muttered, stepping out of the way. “Fucking kill him.”
Blake’s rage went incandescent, shadows sweeping out, turning the entire room black as the sky above us. But one brush of those and Malachi was a dead vampire, and while I had the sudden urge to lean back and watch the show…
“On second thought, don’t kill him, just kick his ass. But you’d better brace yourself, asshole.” Malachi might not deserve to die, but he did deserve a good beat down and Blake had enough pent-up rage to fill a fucking ocean.
“Stay out of this,” Blake snarled in my direction, giving Malachi the opening needed to tackle him from behind, pile driving him into the table again, the ancient thing splintering beneath them.
“Motherfucker,” Blake roared, and the room flooded with shadow until I was choking. “You’re going to get her killed.”
“I would never hurt her, I love her.”
Wrong thing to say.
Blake moved with the economy of a practiced warrior, driving an elbow into Malachi’s kidney with surgical precision. The two crashed into the china cabinet—filled with my mother’s favorite dishes—the crystal chandelier overhead trembling as the cabinet splintered apart.
Malachi twisted, immediately countering with a blow Blake barely deflected as they slipped and slid on broken porcelain plates, shattered in a cascade of white fragments across the imported Persian rug, the meaty thud of fists against muscle interspersed by grunts of pain and heavy breathing.
Blake’s counterattack was a blur, a side kick Malachi caught, twisting until he rolled away, using a marble-topped side table to catch himself. They were a blur of strike and counterstrike, block, and redirect, too fast for me to track. Blake's knuckles were bleeding, Malachi's jacket gone, but neither showed any sign of slowing.
