“Sire?”
He looked up to see his security chief and eldest child, Breno Soares, standing in the doorway, appearing worried. “Did you speak to him? What did he say?”
“Voicemail,” Antonio snapped.
“Ah. Will he return the call?”
“Eventually,” he muttered, but then remembered who he was, and what he was supposed to be. Breno would understand and never repeat anything that happened in this office, but others wouldn’t be so discreet. He had to remember that, or someday he’d storm out of this office, forgetting he had a responsibility to his people. To be their leader—confident and sure—so that they at least felt safe and protected. Even if that that bitch was trying to destroy him.
“I’m sorry, Breno. Of course, he’ll call. It’s unrealistic of me to assume he would be sitting by the phone, waiting for me to contact him.”
“Have you heard from the . . . other this evening?”
“Thankfully, no. I’ve had my fill of her threats and bragging. Fucking German whore. Why can’t she take over her own country, and leave mine alone?”
“The weather is much better here.”
His gaze shot up in surprise, before he realized Breno was jesting. Not funny, he thought. Since that probably was one of her reasons, assuming one could consider anything about her reasonable. She was beautiful, he admitted. But that was how he’d gotten into this fucking mess in the first place. Xavier had warned him, hadn’t he? Told him his cock would lead him into trouble someday. But had he listened? No. No, he hadn’t. He was Lord of Portugal. What did he have to worry about? She was nothing but an incredibly sexy, stunningly beautiful woman, after all.
He had a lot to worry about, apparently.
“Don’t worry, Breno. Xavier and I have spoken of an alliance before. It’s his goal for all of Europe’s vampires, that we ally ourselves, much as they have in North America. This will be the first real test of his design. He’ll call, and he’ll come. Besides,” he added with a grin, “I’m his favorite child.”
To be continued . . .
(Read on for a preview of Nicodemus)
Somewhere in the mists of time…
IT WAS A TIME when gods walked the earth, when armies fought not for bits of land, but for the very existence of humanity. On such a battlefield, five formidable warriors stood against an evil greater than any the earth had ever seen. But evil is not an honorable foe. Betrayed by someone they trusted, the warriors were cursed, one by one, tossed into the maelstrom of time, imprisoned in stone, their freedom resting on nearly impossible conditions. Alone of the five, their leader, the sorcerer Nicodemus, was left free. His curse? To know that his fellow warriors remained trapped forever out of his reach, condemned to an eternity of searching for their stone prisons and the keys to their freedom.
NICODEMUS KATSAROS, the greatest sorcerer of his time, stared in shock at the battlefield before him, the desolation on the faces of victors and losers alike, the knee-deep mud colored red with the blood of the fallen, and beside him . . . nothing, no one. He stood alone in his victory. Aching at the lives lost, at the price he’d paid. A price that was so much greater than anyone could know. His warriors, the men he loved more than any on this earth, no matter that they were bound by friendship and loyalty instead of blood. They were his brothers.
And they were gone. One moment, they’d stood, the four strongest, bravest, most loyal warriors a man could ask for, had fought side by side with him until this final battle. The battle that would bring a long-sought peace to his world, would defeat his enemy Sotiris Dellakos, the rival sorcerer whose brutality and heartless pursuit of power had left misery and despair in its wake. They’d been enemies for decades, though it seemed longer. Nicodemus had been still a teenager when they’d first fought. Sotiris confident that his greater years and talent would easily wipe away this child who’d dared to challenge him.
It had been the bastard’s first loss, but not his last. Nicodemus was far more powerful and drew strength from the love of his people, and above all, from the four warriors whom he’d called from the corners of the earth to fight by his side. Good against evil, light against dark. And they’d come, and they’d stood with him.
Until today, when Sotiris, in a last desperate stroke of evil, had stolen them somehow. Cast them into the sands of time and space, trapped in stone forever. Unless Nicodemus could find them, free them.
He swore that he would. That he would not rest—
A woman’s scream soared over the battlefield, and he raised his head to listen. Had she been calling his name? Who would do that? What woman—
“Fuck!” Vaulting onto his horse, he raced not across the battlefield, but behind his own lines, past bloodstained tents where his medics toiled, trying to save the life and livelihood of those they could. Making heartbreaking judgments when faced with men and women who were too far gone to save. Medics and wounded alike watched with tired eyes when he rode past, his own gaze on the white peaks of his estate, where he’d left her behind, thinking her safer there than on the battlefield.
But he’d been a fool. What challenge was there for Sotiris in destroying one woman, when he’d disposed of four great warriors with a single blow?
Nicodemus slid from the horse’s back as it loped through the gate, running on his own feet now, too agitated to call down a spell that would let him reach her faster, to open a portal and appear by her side in an instant. He climbed the stairs three a time, shoving past staff and courtiers alike. He had no time for them or their endless questions, he had to get to her, to . . .
“Antonia!” The door slammed against the wall as he screamed her name. But he knew. He knew. He was too late. She was gone, just as his brothers were gone. Everyone he’d ever loved . . . gone in the blink of an eye.
He’d won the war, the final victory over Sotiris. But he’d lost . . . everything.
To be continued . . .
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