Carpathian 20 - Dark Slayer

go.―
    â€œWhy won’t you feed? Perhaps if you tell me . . .―
    He didn’t tell her. He showed her. She had to see— know —the monster she’d brought into her lair. He seized her mind, flowing into her, shoving the memories into her head, forcing her to watch him tear at a frightened child’s little wrist while she pleaded with him, letting her see the mother of his child rotting while he screamed and fought and wept blood, raging at the monster who imprisoned him. He made her watch as he betrayed his twin sister, Natalya, and as he plunged the knife into the breast of a dragon desperately trying to help his daughter escape.
    She paled, but she didn’t pull away from his mind. He felt her move inside of him, alert, the way she was naturally, but soaking up his memories, reading his life. And he fed it to her, hundreds of years with Xavier, watching him torture and kill.
    Xavier had used his body over and over to commit horrendous acts, to breed with chosen psychic women, slowly taking him over, and then later, using him as a puppet to do his evil bidding. She should have recoiled, should have plunged her fist into his chest and extracted his heart there on the spot, but she stayed, looking at everything, unafraid, quiet, giving nothing of her own thoughts away.
    After a while he became aware that he was weeping, deep inside, for those years of torment and regret, for the arrogance of a young man who thought he could single-handedly defeat an enemy who’d eluded warriors and minds far older and wiser than his. He realized he was lying with his head in her lap, her hand stroking his hair, the blood of his tears smearing her thighs.

    â€œDo you see what I am?― he asked. It was a plea. He had spent the last twenty years planning to escape, planning to let the sun cleanse his soul, to take his chances in the afterlife. But here she was, the one woman who could stop him—and she refused to let him go. If he’d had the strength, he would have fought his way out, but he couldn’t risk hurting her, and with his mind so shredded and his body so weak, he doubted he could reach the surface without a major battle between them.
    â€œI see more than you think I see. You have forgotten, Razvan, that I had my own experiences with Xavier.― Her fingers stroked his hair and began to make small circles over his temples. “And you have revealed far more of Xavier and his spells than you know.―
    He didn’t like the speculation in her voice, but her hands worked magic, holding anguish at bay along with physical pain.
    â€œYou cannot best him. Believe me, I have tried over the centuries and I’ve always failed.― He should have pushed away from her, but found he could not. Her hands were inducing a magic all their own. How long had it been since someone had touched him with such gentleness?
    â€œAs did I,― she replied. “I knew Rhiannon and her lifemate. And when Xavier cast a holding spell over me and dragged me into the deep woods, he told me of his plan to kill her lifemate and force her to breed with him. He already had everything in place. Of course I knew the Carpathians would defeat him; we were too strong.―
    She paused. Her voice had gone singsong, lower pitched, almost velvet. He felt the soft notes sliding inside of him, stroking at the painful memories, pushing them back ever so gently. Everything about Ivory seemed soft and smooth and so peaceful.
    â€œNo one defeats Xavier.―
    She leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “Because he has help. He always has help. Every memory you have shown me, a lesser mage first found the platform for the spell he cast. When he took me, and then later took Rhiannon’s lifemate and murdered him, it was not Xavier who committed the actual murder—although I have heard he took the credit.
    It was Draven, Prince Vlad’s eldest son. He betrayed our people to Xavier. He delivered Rhiannon’s lifemate, dead, into Xavier’s hands.―
    Razvan tried to stir, but his limbs were heavy. He felt his mind drifting a little as she built up doors, then slowly and gently pushed them shut to trap the pain and guilt where it couldn’t reach him. One by one, the memories of his defeat and his crimes were slowly blocked until his mind could accept, from a distance, the centuries of failure, of torture