By Jeanne Kalogridis
It truly is Amsterdam, 1871, twenty-five years earlier than the beginning of Stoker's novel, and twenty-five years following Arkady Tsepesh's flight from his family's ancestral citadel together with his spouse and younger son, Stefan, after studying that he and his family members are certain by means of an old covenant to serve their ancestor, Prince Vlad Tsepesh, who's sometimes called Dracula. For Vlad is a vampire, and the fated firstborn sons in each new release needs to carry him the sufferers he must live on. Arkady had attempted to damage the covenant and failed.
He is now a vampire, separated from his liked spouse and son, with one all-consuming wish - to break Vlad earlier than he attracts Stefan into everlasting carrier throughout the blood ritual. yet Arkady has come too past due to Amsterdam. Vlad kidnaps Stefan, and spirits him away to the citadel in Transylvania to endure the blood ritual. Arkady enlists the aid of Stefan's stepbrother, Abraham Van Helsing, in his exciting conflict opposed to Vlad, as he seeks to unfastened his relatives and positioned an finish to the age-old blood covenant - no matter if it skill he needs to break his personal son.
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Extra resources for Children of the Vampire (Diaries of the Family Dracul, Book 2)
You kill him, uh? That would be nice, to have him gone. He drives the banditos away. ” Toweling his face with a swatch of frayed burlap, Yakima turned to her. She reclined naked amidst the bed’s twisted sheets, her head propped on an elbow, her rich hair spilling across her wrist. A smoky smile lit her eyes, which the sun discovered as it rose now behind the eastern ridges and slanted through the window. ” Yakima turned back to the basin and washed his privates. ” “Shame on you. ” She smiled lustily, savagely, showing her teeth.
The redhead fired twice more at Yakima as he gained the top of the stairs. 44. The man lurched forward and dropped to a knee, grabbing his right shoulder. He poked the pistol through the rail pillars, showing his teeth as he glared down the revolver’s shivering barrel. The pistol flashed and popped, the slug chewing into the floor and throwing slivers across Yakima’s boots. The half-breed sprinted to the bottom of the stairs, grabbed the newel post, and sprang up the steps two at a time as the redhead scrambled to his feet and bolted off down the hall, bellowing like an ox in an abattoir.
The single window looked out on a narrow balcony and the corrals in the canyon below, which was quickly filling now with purple shadows as the sun sank behind the western hills. A lone coyote yammered atop the opposite, saffron-bathed ridge—a slight gray smudge beside a single, gnarled pinion, the brush wolf’s slender snout canted skyward. Yakima dropped his saddlebags on a chair and leaned his rifle against the wall beside the window. The pad of bare feet sounded in the hall, and he turned as Sabina entered, a beaded leather pouch in one hand, a basin of water in the other.