A Clash of Storms (A Shade of Vampire #50)(29)

By the time I got to her room, she was gone, the windows wide open and the curtains fluttering in the wind. The traitors roaming through my castle. My domain.

Then the volcanoes died down. One by one, I felt their amber fires leave me, softening my bones and forcing my shoulders to drop. They’d done it. I couldn’t believe it, but they’d done it.

I had three perfectly functional Oracles in my possession, along with that whimpering mess named Abrille, and yet I couldn’t prevent this. They’d done it. They’d taken the Daughter away. They’d persuaded the Dearghs to, I assumed, sacrifice themselves and strip me of a considerable amount of my power.

I heard the turmoil outside and the clashes below. Incubi were deserting their posts, though Destroyers were forced to stay loyal to me and kill those who tried to flee. The Druid was somewhere nearby—I could almost smell his arrogance wafting through the air. Loud bangs made my castle shudder. My Luceria was under siege.

The bastards…

My throne room felt cold. The green fire in my cauldron had died out. I couldn’t see through the flames anymore. Rage engulfed me, and I kicked the cauldron down, its dark, pungent liquid contents spilling across the black marble floor. The proprietary blend of dead creatures’ bones turned to dust and mixed with fae blood and poisonous herbs had been rendered useless without the energy I’d drawn from volcanoes. No longer could I fire it up and look through every green flame it provided.

A large painting of me rested on the wall to my left. It showed me in my younger days, when I’d just been given the keys to the Third Kingdom of Purgaris. My hair was long, combed back and brought together in a braided tail reaching down to my lower back. My eyes were bright, like two suns, my skin pale in contrast with the trimmed black beard and mustache I had sported at the time. I’d opted for a dark green velvet suit when I’d posed for that portrait, consisting of riding pants, a waistcoat, and a fitting tailcoat, complemented by a crisp white shirt and knee-high leather boots.

That wasn’t me anymore.

That version of me had died the moment I’d said yes to Asherak. I kept the portrait because it was the only physical image of myself that was left. The others had been burned in the wars that followed.

I looked handsome…

The mirror showed me someone else. The real Azazel.

My yellow eyes. My slick black hair. My massive frame and braided beard. My bare chest. A hundred black discs tattooed on my arms, once the distinction of a Master Druid. My lower body glistening, covered in black scales as the tip of my tail twitched nervously. And Asherak’s pendant flowing in its endless loop.

My savior. My punisher. My master.

I wasn’t always like this…

I had been a sensible little Druid. My mother hadn’t loved me much. She’d thought I was too sensible. That I’d never amount to anything. My father had had his tattoos burned off his skin—all twenty of them. He hadn’t even made it into the twenty-first level when he’d first used his powers in corruption, trading favors for land and soldiers. Of course, he had been caught. A few years in prison had brought him back a changed Druid.

A violent creature, filled with frustration and contempt. I’d never liked him, but when he started hitting me, I learned how to hate him. It was my mother who’d added fuel to my flame, to my desire to break free and rid myself of their pathetic existence. She’d blamed my father’s shortcomings on me. I was too soft. I brought shame to them.

It wasn’t my father’s string of wrongdoings. It was little Azazel, who was too soft, too gentle to defend himself. They poked and prodded me until I reached my limit.

I showed them. I showed them both.

The world didn’t even notice they were gone. But I was free. And I swore to myself that I would never allow myself to be weak or poor or powerless again. My voyage to power and wealth began at an early age. Unfortunately, my Druid magic skills were well below the Grand Temple acceptance limits. For years I struggled to get in, only to be repeatedly turned away.

Still, I was me. Insufficient. Quiet. But me.

Light poured into my life when Genevieve first looked at me. I lost myself in her greenish eyes, her sandy hair flowing carelessly down her back. She was perfection, her curvaceous body gently wrapped in silvery silk and layers of shimmering organza, white blossoms resting behind one ear. Her soft lips kept me awake at night. Her exceptional Druid talents made me feel inadequate.

I struggled for a long time, until one day I was finally accepted into the Grand Temple. Genevieve was in her fifth year there when I started. I always suspected she’d had something to do with those old windbags allowing me to join the school, but I had no proof, so I kept the idea to myself.

It wasn’t easy. I consistently failed, barely acquiring ten levels before one of the Grand Druids pulled me aside one day and advised me to consider other options outside the Grand Temple.

“Perhaps an apprenticeship in one of the southern cities here, on Persea,” he’d said, making me scoff. I’d ignored him but taken it as a warning. I wasn’t wanted there. I was considered weak.

Inadequate.

My friendship with Genevieve, on the other hand, grew stronger. Her laughter brought me to life. Her smile turned my heart inside out. I longed for her with every breath I took. Then Almus came along. I liked him at first. He was the only one besides Genevieve who acknowledged me. Who spoke to me. He was the one who advised me to be bold. To think outside the box. To be daring and take risks.