The Dracove (The Prophecy series) (41 page)

Mahlon tried again. “Grantlund—”

“He would’ve taken her no matter what, you imbecile,” Cearbhall bellowed.

Mahlon arched a brow and raised his hand. “Cearbhall, that’s not entirely—”

“Ye said she’d be safe here.” Grant slammed his fist down on the desk. It cracked down the front edge. “I trusted you. How could ye do this to me? You’re s’posed to be my
brother
.”

“Boys, I think—”

“
Blood
-brother, an’ as such, I welcomed you an’ your
mortal
woman into my home, an’ this is how ye re-pay—”

“What the hell is
that
s’posed to mean . . .
mortal
?”

Oh boy.
Mahlon knew that was a bad move on Cearbhall’s part. For vampyres, “mortal” was an insult. Not so much the word, but the tone.

“Take it however you wish.” Cearbhall growled, baring his fangs.

Grant’s lip curled, exposing his fangs. The two scowled at one another.

Mahlon watched the exchange, withholding a yawn at the emotional tennis match. He tried to find a point where he could cut in nicely, but it wasn’t working. Hell, he should just let them fight it out. He turned to see if the girl was still there. A small grin stretched across his lips, barely visible; not that these two hotheads would notice if he laughed out loud and danced around in a circle. He thought he’d heard the girl leave, but with these two yelling at each other, it was difficult to hear much of anything.

“You bastard.” Grant threw a book.

Dean Koontz
hit Cearbhall hard upside the head, knocking his head to the side. He closed his eyes tightly and drew in a deep breath, likely only because he’d just figured out Mahlon was in the room. Before long, he opened them again.

If looks could kill . . . .

Okay, perhaps his presence hadn’t sunk in yet. They both opened their mouths. Mahlon did
not
wish to hear what spewed from them.

“That’s enough,” Mahlon shouted. “I’ve had it with your petty bickering.”

“Petty?” Grant asked wildly. “How dare—”

“Silence, Grantlund.” Mahlon’s voiced thundered like a god’s. He’d definitely shaken them both. “The both of you will sit down and shut the hell up.”

Grant stared at him in disbelief, unsure of how to react. He couldn’t believe the man, whoever he was, just spoke to him that way.

“And I’ll do it again if I have to. Now, sit,” the white-haired man commanded.

Grant’s jaw dropped. He looked at Cearbhall, who was still angry, but grinning widely.

“And wipe that damn grin off your face, Cearbhall,” the man said without looking at him.

Cearbhall grabbed the nearest chair and sat.

Grant blinked, but figured if Cearbhall, who was much older than he, feared the white-haired man making demands, he must be pretty powerful. From the sound of his voice, he should be a god.

Grant looked around, and frowned. The man waited impatiently, arms folded and foot tapping the floor, like he were their father. Grant didn’t know what to do. It had been ages since someone treated him this way, since someone told him what to do. Since he acted so childishly.

“He has the only chair,” Grant mumbled. The others had been broken during the rampage.

“Then sit on the floor.” His voice was stern. “You can’t sit on the floor? You sat in the garden with her, in the soil, but you won’t sit on the floor of a house? Fine, sit on the ladder.”

Grant sat on the ladder as the man told him to.

“Wait a minute, how did ye—”

“I know everything, Grantlund,” he said in a much softer tone. “Or do you prefer Grant?”

“Grant’s fine.” He studied the crack he’d made in the desk.
That’s what Kylie calls me
.

“I know she does, Grant. But if you can’t control your anger, you’ll never save her.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Mahlon.”

“Mahlon?”

The white-haired man—Mahlon—nodded.

“Okay . . . How can ye read my mind?”

“Consider me to be your blood-grandfather,” he said, smiling. The smile faded. “I, unfortunately, am the one who created Cianán.”

“What?” That slapped Grant upside the head.
Did I hear him right?

“Aye, you heard correctly.”

“Stop doing that,” Grant snapped. He took a calming breath. “Please.”

“If you wish. I apologize, telepathy is something you care to only share with Kylie.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “When she lets me.” He tried to smile, but it was a weak effort. “I can’t unless she directs her thoughts to me, or leaves herself open, which is rare.”

“I know,” Mahlon said. “I’ve been in her mind.”

Grant glared at him.

Mahlon laughed and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Grant, it was long before you met her.”

“But—”

“I’ll explain everything, since you seem to have no idea what’s going on.”

“Aye, I do. Cianán wants her for—”

Mahlon stepped closer and leaned on the desk. “Grant, you only know a small part of the prophecy.”

Grant didn’t like his tone. He wasn’t a child. But the mention of the prophecy caught his attention.

“What is this prophecy? All I’ve ever known about is some ritual.”

Cearbhall let out a small laugh, and Grant glared at him.

“Shut up, Cearbhall!”

Mahlon rolled his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Listen, you two. If you don’t stop acting like children, we’ll never get anywhere. Continue to act in such a manner, I will treat you as such; otherwise, act your damned ages. Do you wish to save Kylie or not?”

“Of course I do. How could ye—”

“A simple ‘aye’ will do.”

Grant rolled his eyes and lowered his head. “Aye.”

“Cearbhall,” Mahlon said. “Do you wish to help me stop Cianán?”

“Aye, Mahlon,” Cearbhall answered proudly and sat up straight in the chair.

“Good, we have a common goal. Killing one another would defeat this goal. I understand emotions are running high. Strong emotion can wreak havoc on the manners of gentlemen; however, as gentlemen, specifically those of your age, you need to understand and take heed of it.

“Grant, Cearbhall did not betray you. She
was
safer here than anywhere else, unless of course, she’d stayed in Arizona. Cianán would’ve had a much more difficult time bringing her here. Rathius and the others tried to protect her as best they could, but there were too many” —he turned to Cearbhall again— “which, by the way, I wanted to tell you. Rathius is still alive, and very angry.” He smiled.

Cearbhall’s eyes lit up.

“He’s in a safe place for the moment. I’ll bring him to you later.”

Cearbhall nodded.

“Who’s Rathius?”

“The King of Gargoyles,” Cearbhall replied. “Probably the one Kylie saw move up on the roof. He’d only do so in her presence. They wouldn’t have awakened unless she was in danger.”

Grant contemplated Cearbhall’s words. “I’d like to know more about that later.” He turned to Mahlon again. “You never answered my question.”

“Aye, the prophecy.” He walked over to one of the broken chairs. “Cearbhall doesn’t know all of it either, so I’ll tell the two of you what was told me more than two thousand years ago. Now that I think of it, it may be closer to five thousand years.”

White magic trickled from Mahlon’s fingertips to what was left of the broken chair. It gathered itself together. First the legs stood in place. The seat, arms, and back slid into place. When he was done, it looked brand new. He sat down and turned his head toward Cearbhall, but he wasn’t looking at Cearbhall.

“What is it, my dear,” he asked Daniella. The other two stood slack-jawed behind her.

“I wanted to tell Cearbhall—” She had trouble finding the words.

“Go ahead,” Mahlon said.

“We found Frederick, or what’s left of him.”

Cearbhall closed his eyes a moment.

“I’m sorry, Cearbhall,” Mahlon said. “He was with you a long time.”

Cearbhall only nodded.

He gave Cearbhall a moment before gesturing to the three young ones. “Why don’t you join us? You’ll need to hear this, as well.”

They entered the library and each found a place to sit. Daniella sat on the floor in front of Cearbhall. Elizabeth and Kenneth sat on the desk near Grant.

“Who are you,” Elizabeth asked. Kenneth nudged her arm with his elbow. “What? Do you know who he is? I don’t, and I’d like to know.”

“And you shall,” Mahlon said with a warm smile.

“He’s Cianán’s blood-father,” Cearbhall said.

She leaned forward to look around Kenneth, and stared at him. Her eyes returned to Mahlon.

“Is he telling the truth?”

Mahlon nodded. “You question your maker?”

“Well, no . . . I mean . . . How could you create that monster?”

“It was an accident.”

“I want to know who ye are other than that,” Grant said. “You’re not a vampyre.”

Everyone stared at Grant in shock, but Mahlon only smiled. Grant knew something was different about him.

“Very perceptive, Grant; however, I am a vampyre. I’m just different than you’re used to.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t need blood to sustain me or give me strength. My blood doesn’t die within my body like yours does. That’s why you must feed. You take a little of something else when you do so to help keep the blood alive, so to speak, but it’s only temporary.”

Grant noted that tidbit of information and stored it away for later. Right now, the subject was his Master. “How’d ye create Cianán then?”

“I told you, it was an accident.” Mahlon drew in a deep breath and began his story. “During the ritual to make him immortal at Trystan’s request, he died at the conclusion of the spell. I’d never performed the spell before. The last word I said killed him instead of giving him immortality—I said it wrong. Always be certain to pronounce each word correctly; otherwise, things go haywire. The universe can be cruel if you are not specific and don’t articulate.

“Trystan knew I could save him, or at least hoped I could. I cut my wrist and gave him my blood, truly immortal blood. I figured it would work, and in a way it did. After he rose, he needed blood to sustain his body. His blood died, or had gone cold, as some of you call it. Because of the spell, his blood would never stay “warm,” his heart would never create more blood. When you feed, you’re not restoring blood to your veins. You’re stealing part of your prey’s life force to warm your souls. The blood is what you crave because yours can no longer keep you alive. That’s the reason you are the way you are. I didn’t know my blood would do that to him. My blood has given each of you life after death through him.