The Vampire King

The Vampire King SASHA CORVYN Contents COPYRIGHT GLOSSARY PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE EPILOGUE ABOUT THE AUTHOR AUTHOR LINKS THE VAMPIRE KING The vampire King Copyright © 2022 by Sasha Corvyn. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in articles or reviews. For information, contact Sasha Corvyn. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities are entirely coincidental. Editor: Rebecca Vazquez, Dark Syde Books. Cover Designer: Wingfield Designs. SPELLING NOTE Please note, this author resides in Australia and is using Australian English. Therefore, some words may be viewed as incorrect or spelled incorrectly, however, they are not. WARNING This content is intended for mature audiences only as it contains adult themes and violence. GLOSSARY Pure-bloods: Vampires who call the eighth level of the Underworld home. They are the strongest race of vampires, with heightened senses and speed, and bloodlust to match. They were led by Marikus Drak, the king of the vampire faction in the Underworld. Turned vampires: Vampires who became such from drinking the blood of a pure-blood vampire. They were once human and live in the mortal realm under the command of the exiled pure-blood vampire lord, Killian Marx. Theros Demons: A feudal demon clan that live in the fifth level of the Underworld. They are ruled by battle and custom. Strength is honoured above all else, holding power over smoke. PROLOGUE London. 1795 The steady drip of water invaded his head as he awoke, hunger rousing him from sleep. He opened his eyes, sewer walls greeting him, the remnants of past civilisations immortalised beneath the city. When he slept, he would dream of his true home, his hatred growing each time he was forced to face reality. Killian Marx knew what it was to suffer, exiled as he was in the mortal realm. A distasteful existence seeped in bitterness. His mood was foul as the stench in this rotted place permeated his pores. So hungry. Blood. Must find a source. He had been running on empty for days, his body wasting away with the hunger that gnawed at his insides. He should be dining on pure blood, but instead, he was lowered to this shame. Hunting for food in the backstreets of London. From his lair, he trod the familiar path to the surface, intent on his purpose in this gods-forsaken hellhole. He watched his prey with steely resolve, lowering himself to a crouch as his fangs lengthened farther, his every instinct spurring him to pounce. His hands shook, but he remained as still as a statue, awaiting his meal. The creature scurried ever closer, its nose twitching, but Killian had the ability to mask his scent. He could lure a human, but that was noticed faster than the death of a rat. The rats are preferable. In some cases, the humans were so disgusting, rotting breath fetid, their skin waxen from lack of hygiene, he shuddered at the idea of piercing them. He wandered the misty moors most nights, preying on any who crossed his path, usually vagabonds who ached for death, their putrid blood like tar on his tongue. Filth compared to the pure blood that flowed in his homeland at the whim of the goddess Akalys. The eighth level of the Underworld was heaven compared to this hellish city. He would give anything to step foot in his home once more, but he had been driven from it five years ago by the one man his father had trusted. Marikus Drak. Now, that evil sat upon his throne. Stolen from him as a fifteen-year-old child. Now that he was a man, he seethed to go after Marikus. He ached to feel the king’s blood sluicing through his fingers, to taste death on his tongue. Instead, here he was, hunting vermin like a mangy cat from the gutter, running from the human authorities and sleeping in the foul depths of the underground tunnels that rabbit-warrened beneath London. Once, Killian had been an heir to the throne, but now, he was heir to nothing. A homeless vampire hiding in a realm not his own, the mortal realm was torment for one such as him. Sunlight was like fire, turning his skin to ash with just a touch. He couldn’t hide for long. What he needed was gold to pay for lodging. He needed support. Marikus had an entire army of pure-bloods. Killian had only himself. Even if he could get humans to follow him with the vampire lure, they died so readily. One punch from an immortal was fatal for these feckless creatures. The Underworld called to him. What he wouldn’t give to tread upon those lands once more. He missed the cold of that realm, the icy winds whipping over the castle, lulling him to sleep as a child. His mother used to tell him stories of Akalys and the warriors who had begun their vaunted royal line. Gods, he missed her too. She had always shown him strength and held him when he’d been afraid. Until the night he’d found her decapitated in a puddle of her own blood along with his father and his older brother. In one fell swoop, he’d become an orphan exiled in a strange land, tracked by Marikus’ assassins. By some miracle, Killian had survived every scrape with the vicious warriors, escaping the executioner’s block by the skin of his fangs. In the past, he had trained with the most skilled soldiers, calling them friends, but now, he recognised their faces