Kristie Cook - Genesis

Jordan shoved him to the ground and wiped the vampyre saliva from his cheek. “Pity you haven’t killed them yet.”

He didn’t mean it. He had plans for this vampyre’s family. The bloodsucker came at him again in a blur, but Jordan’s keen eyesight could track him and he stopped the attack with a flick of his hand.

“You don’t want to do that,” Jordan said. “You don’t want to kill me. I’m the only family you have left. Except for the others like you.”

“Family?” the man barked.

“We are brothers-in-law, no?”

Niko hissed the way only a vampyre could. Jordan chuckled.

“I have no family, thanks to you. Not those monsters and definitely not you. I’ll have nothing to do with any of you!” And with that, Niko disappeared.

Jordan shook his head. As commander of the Daemoni, he should probably track down the vampyre, but he didn’t worry about him. How much harm could he cause by himself, especially when he still had a conscience? One of the downfalls of forcing the turns was that the newly changed held onto their humanity, sometimes for years, unlike those given the choice to exchange their souls for immortality. But when on the battlefields, they didn’t have time or patience—or desire—to offer that choice. Such as with Niko, who had to be turned for the greater good of everyone. And, of course, for the greater good of Jordan. He would give Niko more time to accept what he’d become before bringing him into his army.

“So,” Jordan said, looking at Eris and then at Deimos and back at the witch. “The potion worked. Now we move onto the next step.”

“Next step?” Eris asked with bewilderment. He hadn’t shared this part of his plan with her yet.

“We still have potion left, yes?”

“In a pot sealed with my strongest preservation spell. You said to make enough to share. Who are we sharing it with? It won’t affect Daemoni blood.”

Jordan looked at his son and grinned. “We start with Deimos.”

Deimos’ eyes widened. “Why me?”

“Why not?” Jordan asked. “Don’t you want this?”

His son scoffed. “I don’t need it. I have Mother’s blood and yours. I’m already more powerful than you ever were.”

In an instant, Jordan had Deimos by the neck, lifted in the air, his legs dangling several feet above the ground.

“Don’t be a fool,” Jordan growled. “You will take this gift. We haven’t worked all this time for you to throw the opportunity away.”

Deimos responded only with a blink. Jordan tossed him away. The boy flew back several paces and landed on his back with a hard thud that knocked the wind out of him. He remained motionless, staring at the blue sky.

Jordan turned with disgust and called over his shoulder, “Still think you’re more powerful than me?”

Within the hour, Jordan, Eris and Deimos gathered around a cup of brew. A single cup, held in Deimos’ shaking hands. Running out of patience, Jordan glanced at the bruises encircling his son’s throat and back at his eyes, which filled with more fear. Jordan twitched his hand, about to grab the cup and force Deimos to drink the potion, but then his son lifted the cup to his lips. Jordan pulled in a breath and held it. He watched Deimos force down the entire contents and then collapse in convulsions, just as he had done. He didn’t let out his breath for several minutes, not until Deimos finally passed out.

The potion had an immediate effect. Rather than several months, as it had taken Jordan, Deimos changed in weeks. His body grew tall and his muscles developed, transforming him into a full-grown man. Jordan and Eris began to fear their son would never stop aging, that the potion would have the opposite effect of the desired immortality and he would die of old age though he was only a boy. But then the signs of growing older ceased as quickly as they’d started. He appeared to have matured ten years in two weeks, stopping at the prime time of life with a perfect warrior’s build. Jordan didn’t stop worrying, though, until he felt sure Deimos would never age another day again.

Jordan spent his time overseeing the training of his new army. The battles across Thessaly, Athena and Corinth had ended, leaving them few fallen soldiers to turn. He didn’t worry, though. Humans harbored a love affair with war and there would always be another one. In the meantime, they had already doubled their numbers and these new Daemoni needed training. Jordan saw another way to build the army, as well: reproduce more like him and Deimos. But first they needed females for mating.

“It’s time to take the potion to Andronika,” he announced to Eris one evening.

“Your niece?” she asked with surprise.

“I’d rather my sister, but she’s aged too much. Andronika’s blood is as close to mine as we can get.”

“When do you want to leave?”

“When can you have more potion ready?”

“Give me a moon cycle. But we’re running out of Zardok’s blood. I only have enough for this one batch. He’s been generous, but I doubt he’ll give us any more.”

Jordan stroked his chin with thought. “It’s enough. She’s a young girl. She’ll only need part of it. If this goes as planned and Zardok sees the potential for our army, he’ll gladly give all we want.”

Eris swept her hands over her body. “Do I look like the caring type?”

Jordan eyed her. He would have preferred pretty and youthful Inga to do this task, but they hadn’t heard from the witch in years. Not since he’d dismissed her from their home so they could concentrate on the potions. He couldn’t deliver the potion himself—Cassandra would never trust him again—so he had no choice but to rely on Eris.

“You still look old,” he grumbled.

“Like a grandmotherly type? That’s the point. But do I look like a trustworthy grandmother? The kind who holds a sick child or teaches her how to cook?”

Jordan shrugged. He had no idea what a caring grandmother looked like, never having had one of his own. “I suppose.”

Eris pulled in a deep breath and blew it out. “Then it is time.”

She left Jordan in the forest that opened to the cliff where Cassandra and her daughter still resided. They’d been watching the woman and the girl for several days. Cassandra rarely emerged from their cave and when she did, her face was always drawn tight and her eyes filled with pain and sadness. Her hair was usually loose and tangled, streaked with nearly as much gray as Eris’s, and she no longer held her head high. She still grieved for her husband, not knowing he wasn’t exactly dead … but not quite alive, either.

The change in his sister stirred something unfamiliar in Jordan. She used to be so strong, so brave and so determined. He secretly admired her for her courage and unwavering beliefs, even if she believed wrongly. Now she looked lost and defeated. He didn’t understand how the loss of a man could break her. He knew he had been responsible for this change in her … and he could make it better, too. Perhaps he should have Eris slip her the potion after all. It could give her a better life. What was that? Was that foreign feeling guilt?

Disgusted with himself, he shook it off, crept to the edge of the tree line and watched as Eris approached Andronika and struck up a conversation. Relief washed over Jordan when the girl smiled. She already trusted Eris, who led her farther away from the shelter where Cassandra remained, pointing out a clump of the plants the girl sought. After a while, they sat for a rest and Eris pulled out the water skins. She offered one to Andronika and Jordan listened with his inhumanly keen hearing.

“I have my own. You save yours,” the girl said politely, opening her satchel.

“But does yours heal sadness?” Eris asked, her voice softer and kinder than Jordan had ever heard it.