Dark Reign

DARK REIGN DARKHAVEN SAGA: BOOK NINE DANIELLE ROSE CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Epilogue Acknowledgments Also by Danielle Rose About Danielle Rose For June CHAPTER ONE Distorted pictures, jumbled and messy, flash before my eyes. With each blink, I see something new, something raw and real. I see my friends in pools of blood—some are awake, others unmoving. I see Holland. With ancient texts surrounding him, the witch cradles his lover in his arms, clutching Jeremiah’s head to his chest. Holland sways from side to side, cooing softly. Sound is still muffled, like those who speak do so with hands around their throats. Voices are hoarse and scratchy—their tone utterly unfamiliar. Color is blinding and bright. Our blood, a stagnant stench of rusted metal, is all-consuming. Everything about this place reeks of death. I am lying on the floor, staring at the wood grain. My head is pounding, and each pulsating beat feels like a hundred tiny knives carving into my skull, but I am no jack-o'-lantern, and this is not a joyous occasion. Still, the ache is rooted so deeply, the sensation so pure and true, I feel it in my brain. I hack each time I breathe, like even my lungs are protesting my survival. I tell myself I need to get up, to fight, to protect my friends, but my limbs object. My body convulses with each muscle spasm. Everything feels tight and overworked from constant strain. My muscles twinge when I attempt to move, and I feel the groan from deep within, as though even my bones are brittle. Still, I manage to push myself off the floor, using all my strength to sit upright. My arms feel heavy, and my legs tingle, like the blood hasn’t yet reached my extremities. The sensation is overpowering, and it is all I can think about for several long moments. Only when the tiny prickling ceases do I realize I am dizzy, and it takes several seconds to regain my composure. My skin is clammy, my chest tight. I focus on inhaling slowly, on holding each breath, on exhaling long and deep. I never stop shaking. I think I almost died. When I finally see clearly, I am greeted by the destruction Sofía caused. It is everything I feared, everything I warned the others about—yet it is so much worse than I could have ever imagined. The hunters are wounded, with crimson streaks cascading from their eyes and ears. I scratch at my own skin, and blood cakes my fingernails. I wipe away the evidence on my face, only to have hands stained in red. I should be used to such a sight, but it is no less startling. Jeremiah still hasn’t woken, but the others begin to shift. Hikari crawls closer, her fingers scraping against the floorboards. The sound radiates through the wood and vibrates against my legs. Her usually spiky hair is smooth against one side of her head, where she must have slept on it. The other side stands on end, much like the hackles down my spine. Only now do I realize how uneasy I feel in this weakened state. Anything can happen, and I wouldn’t be able to protect myself—or the others. I need to feed, to rest, but I fear I haven’t the time. Malik is still lying on his back, but he angles his head toward me. Our gazes meet, and I hold my breath, taking in the sight of my leader. His eyes are pooled with tears. They free-fall, and the longer they water, the clearer the liquid becomes. What was once a deep, bright red is now a pale, light pink. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and turns over, clawing to sit upright. “Please wake up,” Holland whispers, catching the attention of everyone in the room. Cradling Jeremiah in his arms, the witch repeats his plea over and over again. Jeremiah doesn’t stir, but I know he is not dead, for if he were dead, he would be ash. But like the rest of us, he is simply broken and bruised. As my body begins to slowly heal from the assault, I assess each hunter, gaze settling on my friends for only seconds at a time. This is it. This is everyone. The fate of Darkhaven rests in our hands, and I hate to admit it, but we have seen better days. Against a rogue militia, we are outnumbered and outmatched. We face a superior threat armed with my amulet. I try to remain strong, but like spilled blood on fresh soil, doubt seeps in, spreading until what was once lush and fertile is now drenched in gore. I fear I will forever be haunted by my past mistakes. Jeremiah groans loudly, his wail echoing around the otherwise silent room. It bounces off the walls and pierces my heart—yet another dagger to flesh I am forced to bear. I release the breath I was holding only to suck in another lungful of air. It is loud and sharp, and it forces the others to look at me. Jeremiah mumbles something inaudible, and Holland pulls him closer. The wounded vampire moans in protest, likely feeling the intense weakness I experienced when I first woke. My body is healing now, and as each second passes, I grow stronger—and hungrier. “What happened?” Jeremiah asks, voice groggy, tone low and slow. He raises his hand to his head, resting his fingers against his temple to ease what is undoubtedly one heck of a tension headache. Without realizing, he smears the blood that cascades down his sharp angles, from cheekbone to jawline, giving it the eerie illusion of war paint. He has yet to open his eyes, to witness the devastation firsthand. He has no idea that we