Gena Showalter: The Vampire's Bride

Layel barely heard him. Susan, sweet Susan. None had been as gentle, tender, loving or kind. Her greatest crime was—had been, he corrected with an inward roar—loving him.

She had been his everything. Yet his precious human had been slaughtered. For his lack of leadership, the dragon had said. She had been tortured because Layel had wanted nothing to do with the vampire throne and had refused to place restrictions upon the army under his command as his father had.

"I've awaited this moment for many months," another of the hated beasts said, spraying him with a stream of fire.

The flames settled in Layel's cheek, crackling, singeing deep. He gave no reaction, didn't even open his eyes. Truly, he felt nothing except the razor-sharp edge of his grief. If the gods would not heed his cries, he wanted to remain in this spot forever, wanted to die with his woman and child. His family.

"Look at him. Look at the mighty Layel, reduced to this."

All of the dragons laughed.

"I can see why you liked her, vampire. That tight little sheath took me all the way to the hilt."

"I liked pumping into her mouth, feeling her throat close around me."

"I think she liked what we did to her. You heard the way she whimpered…"

Finally Layel's eyelids cracked open, tendrils of hatred and rage blooming, growing, consuming him. Overshadowing his grief, becoming all that he knew. He glanced at the surrounding forest. The demons were still there, still giggling like children. Most of the nearby trees were charred, offering little refuge. Next he glanced at the expanse of dragon warriors. There were eight of them, their stances cocky, assured. Their golden eyes blazed with triumph. Except…

Whatever they saw on his face caused them to lose their smiles. A few even backed away from him.

Perhaps they had forgotten that vampires could fly. Perhaps they thought a broken, bloody man could do no damage. They were wrong.

"SUSAN!" Layel leapt up and attacked, his war cry an echo of all the pain inside him.

The agonized screams that next cut through the forest far eclipsed any that had ever come before them.

Two hundred years later

JUST A LITTLE CLOSER, fire-bastards. Just a little bit closer.

Hidden by lush, dewy foliage, Layel watched as the dragon army marched through the detestably named Forest of Dragons. Where they were going, he didn't know. Why they were going, he didn't know, either. He only knew that he was going to relieve them of their burden. A young—human?—female was bound and gagged inside a portable prison. That prison was balanced by two wooden beams slung over several of the warriors' shoulders, swaying with their movements.

Obviously, she was their enemy.

He didn't know the girl, but a dragon's enemy was his dearest friend. And he didn't like his friends being bound.

The dragons continued to march forward, slowly, steadily. He motioned for his own army to hold…remain composed. They obeyed without hesitation. Since that dark day two hundred years ago, he had happily led his men with an iron fist—straight into a never-ending war. His will was not questioned. Ever. Not without severe consequences.

"…not going to end well," Brand, second-in-command of the dragon soldiers, was saying. Golden light seeped from the crystal dome that surrounded all of Atlantis, forming a halo around his pale, braided hair and disgustingly handsome features.

Brand was strong, brave, loyal to his king, kind to his people. A pity he was a dragon. Had he been born even a demon, Layel thought perhaps he would have liked him. As it was, he wanted Brand alive long enough to take a mate. A mate Layel would then steal. Brand would suffer, for a little while at least, and then Layel would gut him.

Brand had not been one of the warriors present all those years ago—none of the warriors here had been present, for Layel had slaughtered them all. Remembering their deaths, he smiled. Not all of them had faded quickly. Some he had lingered over, enjoying their pain, taking his time with every slice and bite.

Still, killing those responsible hadn't been enough. Not for the horrendous crimes that had been committed against Susan. Hadn't he been blamed for the actions of others? It was only fair to use that same logic against the dragons.

Only when Layel had obliterated the entire race would Susan be avenged. And only then would Layel deserve to join her in the hereafter. Soon, my love. Soon.

"If her sisters see her like this, there will be a war," a dragon called Renard said.

Renard was a dark-haired tyrant who, Layel knew, had studied how best to kill every race in Atlantis. The demons, the nymphs, the centaurs, the gorgons and all the other creatures the gods had deemed mistakes in their quest to create humans. Of them all, Renard hated vampires most and was always eager for a fight.

Eager himself, Layel ran his tongue over his elongated teeth.

"What else could we do?" an irritated voice proclaimed. Tagart. Untamed, almost feral, with black hair and an even blacker heart. He was loyal to no one and was even jealous of his own king. "One more word out of that girl's mouth and I would have cut out her tongue. We had to gag her."

All of the soldiers nodded. Each was taller and more muscled than the last, and each had a long, menacing sword strapped to his bare back, nestled between the slits that hid his wings. Layel collected those swords and hung them on his walls as trophies. He used their bones as furniture.

"Whatever our reasons for binding her, they won't understand. Even though we're taking her back to them. Kind of. If we can find their camp." Brand again. "She's their beloved, their future queen."

Sisters…beloved…queen.

Amazons, Layel realized.

His lips curled in another slow grin. Fierce creatures, the Amazons. Devoted to each other, bloodthirsty, though they mostly kept to themselves unless provoked. Oh, yes. And vicious. Legend claimed that anyone who threatened an Amazon would soon find his deepest fear bearing down on him. A shadow, a determined phantom that would devour him whole.

Yes, the stories of their conquests were endless, though Layel himself had never fought one, never tasted one. He had no interest in doing so, either. Always before, they had been a nonentity to him, unworthy of his time or consideration, for he existed simply to torment the dragons. Nothing more.

But now his mind whirled with ways he might be able to use them. Perhaps he should not liberate this captive, after all. Perhaps he should find the Amazon camp, lie and tell them the dragons meant the girl harm, perhaps meant to kill her in front of them. The dragons would have their asses handed to them by little girls. Now wouldn't that just be—

A loud, piercing war cry sounded.

What seemed like hundreds of warrior women but could only have been a handful suddenly burst from the trees. They were scantily dressed, breasts covered by thin strips of leather, waist and thighs covered by some type of frayed skirt. The vast expanse of skin visible was painted in blue, the color marking royalty.

"Big mistake, dragons," a woman shouted.

"Your last mistake," another called.

What a bright day this was turning out to be. Layel would not have to search for the Amazons, after all.

Blades were anchored to their muscular arms and legs, and death radiated from their fierce expressions. Most were as tall as the dragons, but a few were petite, almost…fragile looking.

In the span of a single heartbeat, a battle was raging between the two races.

Weapons were twirling, men and women grunting and blood splattering. The metallic scent wafted to Layel's nostrils, sweet and tangy. He breathed it in deeply, felt it sweep through his entire body, fuse with sinew and bone and ignite a guttural hunger.