Free Blood Awakening by Tessa Dawn Page B

one facing a single platform
where a pulpit would have been, and the energy of the place was indeed heavy
with sorrow. On the solitary platform was a small altar made of multi-colored
granite. It had a smooth, hollow surface at the top, and an extremely dark
energy swirled around the base.
    Nachari pointed to the altar. “At the end of the
Blood Moon, each male has two sons: one child of light to carry on the race,
and one child of darkness—the soulless one—who is brought here as demanded by the
Curse.” He pointed toward the hollow groove at the top of the structure. “The
child is placed on the altar by his father or Napolean, depending upon the
circumstances. Sometimes the mother attends, as do other family members, but
more often than not, Napolean performs the ceremonies himself.”
    Ciopori felt sick to her stomach, but she didn’t
question the gods. The universe was a place of balance: Light cast a shadow. Day
gave way to night. Birth and death mirrored one another. The good could not
exist without the contrast of the bad to make it so. However difficult, the disparity
of two sons—one good, one evil—was a balanced punishment, and she understood
her ancient sisters’ reasoning...even if she didn’t agree with it.
    Nachari and Ciopori walked silently through the
space. When they got to the other side, they were met by yet another door. This
one had crossbones on the front and an ancient warning written in the Old
Language: Behold the portal to the Corridor of the Dead.
    Nachari bit his bottom lip, opened the door, and
ushered the princess inside. “Don’t worry; that doesn’t apply to us.”
    Princess Ciopori took a quick step back. “And you
are absolutely certain of this, wizard?”
    Nachari’s expression was deathly serious. “Yes, absolutely .
I am not ready to leave this earth quite yet, Princess.”
    Ciopori followed him through the macabre door into
what she realized was a confined entry-way: Just beyond the cramped space were
two steps leading up to a hatch, the final entrance to the death chamber, and
the hatch was covered with an enormous iron bolt that locked it in place. It
was obviously meant to keep whoever was inside the cavity from escaping.
    The lingering energy of torture and agony was
almost tangible as Nachari reached up, took a large iron key from a rusted hook,
and unlocked the hatch.
    Ciopori recoiled.
    The interior was shaped like a cylinder—about
twelve feet tall, twenty-feet in circumference—and it reeked of the smell of
death...
    And vengeance.
    And  malevolence.
    Without a doubt, she knew that the souls of her
slain sisters had become the very evil they had sought to punish. As all energy
only multiplied and attracted unto itself, every act of hatred and revenge—every
death meant to atone for their extinction—had simply added to their own
darkness and depravity. What happened here in this chamber was not justice, and
it was not penance.
    It was unholy.
    For the first time since she’d met him, Nachari’s
proud swagger faltered, and he stumbled back as if he could barely stand. His
hands and arms trembled uncontrollably.
    Ciopori followed his eyes as he took in the
contents of the room: There were dozens of oval shower-heads perched around the
upper perimeter of the ceiling, and they were clearly positioned to wash the
sterile-looking walls. But...of what?
    “Blood,” Nachari answered, easily reading her mind.
“The shower-heads are needed to wash away all of the blood.”
    He pointed to a large drain in the middle of the
floor, which dipped down at the center. “It has been said by our people that
when the souls of our female ancestors are done punishing some of the males, there
is nothing left of them to bury or incinerate. What little that remains flows
down that drain like liquid. Others are left intact as a reminder to those who
must bury them...as was the case with my twin.”
    Ciopori caught her breath and shrank back from the
door. His twin?
    Nachari