#that man couldn’t be more obvious of a vampire if his entrance was heralded by the pipe organ

[colors-of-my-heart]

my tav upon finding out that the weird pale guy with fangs, red eyes, and two puncture marks on his neck is actually a vampire

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 23: The Spoils (Epilogue)

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Everything comes together.

note: And with that Bound by Destiny is ended! I’ll start posting book 2, Bound by Circumstance, in a day or so! Book 2 follows the events of Nightbound with some heavy changes to the main plot, but I’ll explain more about that on the post itself. Nadya and the Bloodbound series will return in book 4!

[READ IT ON AO3]

Across the city…

He comes up behind, hands on her hips, and graces her tanned throat with familiar kisses. An action not of affection or love but as habitual as hunger and speech.

“Do you really think he’s out there somewhere?”

Valdas tilts his eyes up. Let’s them rest on the portrait.

There’s a reason every statue in every museum around the world is a ghost in marble. The Romans were masters of many things but the key to paint that would last centuries just hadn’t been in their grasp.

And for that same reason Valdas had personally seen to ensuring the canvas would be restored as time wore on. Bolder, thicker strokes on cheeks. A newly discovered blue on her dress. Real gold painted into their wealth.

He rests his cheek on her shoulder. Lets his beard tickle the bare skin there.

“I intend to find an answer; whatever it may be.”

Isseya turns in her lover’s arms and rests their foreheads together. She feels so vibrantly — one of the things he’s always been enraptured by when it comes to her. A single soul in which the pain of the unknown is as harsh as the hope it brings.

“Come,” Valdas coaxes her with an offered hand, “he’s nearly finished and will be ready for us soon.”

“Best not keep the chained beast waiting?”

He stops and gives her an admonishing look. Isseya shrugs; familiar with every emotion except remorse even at this age.

“Best not let him hear that kind of talk, I think.”

“As if the Godmaker has ever cared about the whims of your disciples.”

“He may, now.”

“Because he needs us, Valdas. He needs us. Don’t let old loyalties cloud that from your sight.”

He sighs; doesn’t answer. They leave the portrait hall and venture deeper into the Musea Sanguis.

Hand-in-hand the Trinity walks. What hangs thickly in the air around them is not fear but trepidation.

In the distance a solemn figure reverently returns a forgotten sword onto its claw-like perch. He frowns and adjusts his spectacles — tries to see if the imperfection is a trick of the dim lighting or really exists. Wipes a pocket square over one of the jewels embedded in the hilt just in case.

The couple approaches together with equal looks of bemusement at the man’s compulsions.

“Your trinkets can wait Jingyi,” chides Isseya — like a parent scolding their child, “the Godmaker would be remiss to find he was kept waiting because there wasn’t enough shine in an emerald.”

Though his back is turned the name has an affect on Scholar Jameson — makes him pause and fix himself as if to brush it off like dust on his lapel.

“That is no longer my name, Mistress Isseya.”

When Jameson turns his spectacles are plucked from his nose by her delicate hand. She looks them over with obvious distaste. “It was the name you bore when I Turned you,” she replaces them slightly off-center with amusement, “and I’ll use it as I like.”

Before Jameson can argue, Valdas jerks his head towards the deeper archives.

“Come.”

The vampires walk in stoic silence. With their age and skill it could be as easy as a step in the right direction at the right speed — but there’s an unspoken understanding among them that keeps the pace slow; solemn.

“Have you gathered all that was separated by the Council?” asks Jameson.

Valdas nods. “All but one.”

“But —”

“I’ve seen the lock myself, Scholar. We have five and five is all we need.”

“Do they suspect?”

“If they did we would not be so leisurely, I should think.”

“And the girl?”

He doesn’t hide his reluctance. The falter in his pace is enough — they stop just short of the turn. With gritted teeth Valdas gives a curt nod.

“My Maker and I have discussed her at length. She’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

It’s the change of plans that’s thrown the curator of the Musea off his usual balance. For years — and without the Trinity’s help or involvement — the same plan has been underway. First slow and small only to build with time before things would inevitably (and when the time was right, not before) come crashing down.

Jameson doesn’t do well with change. Never has.

They round into the alcove and Valdas wastes no time approaching the Onyx Sarcophagus. Places his palm flat on the heart of the thing and brushes away from of Vega’s leftover ashes with his thumb.

“My love — the keys.”

Jameson watches with an intellectual interest as his Maker procures a small leather pouch from her jacket.

“The Master and I are grateful for your help this last fortnight. We are truly lucky you accepted the young Lord Lafayette’s invitation.”

While Isseya busies herself with the pouch Valdas turns; gives Jameson a mocking smirk with pity in his eyes.

“There are many forces beyond even us that govern this world, Jingyi, but luck is a nonexistent façade.”

Isseya upends the contents of the pouch into his waiting palm.

Jameson frowns; confused. “You mean to say…”

“The Godmaker’s reach is vast,” says Isseya instead, “vast enough to cross even oceans.”

They watch in silence as Valdas plucks each key from his hand and slides it into the tomb’s bespelled lock.

Five keys of black iron — rusting with time and disuse. Each identical to its siblings on the surface but buried with a different curse within. Five keys of six Council heads.

Obtaining them was the tricky part — impossible for a lone pursuer but the Trinity is never alone. Even apart… never alone.

The first taken by chance; welcoming a weary soldier to the decadence of a soirée.

The second slipped from beneath the breast of a careful and ancient nomarch during a chaotic ballroom.

The third key stolen from the bedside of a hedonist in the throes of passion the night before a trial.

The fourth taken moments before the knife severed head from neck in this very room.

And the final, the fifth, taken with great risk and golden opportunity when all were gathered to herald change.

Could they have simply taken the keys from their owners in violence and bloodshed; yes. Even Sayeed couldn’t have stopped them were they bound by the determination of their unwavering loyalty. But there’s a game to be made in conspiring in secret.

And it’s been so long since they’d played.

Valdas slides in the final key and steps back. Watches with his lover beside as the metal begins to glow with witchfire — strong enough to kill if the set isn’t made whole.

Strong enough to hold back even the most powerful of them all.

Then a spark. A flickering light and the heavy lock bursts into flames that burn like the warmth of the sun against their faces. Valdas turns away with covered eyes. Isseya watches; entranced.

But the flames aren’t satisfied with just the lock; begins to spread outward to the chains link by link. Catching one after the other until the coffin is wrapped in tendrils of flame licking against the polished black surface but unable to burrow inside.

When there’s nothing left to consume; when all the links are shriveled into ash, the witchfire vanishes without a trace.

The hollow silence of the Musea is choking — stealing away the breath from their undead lungs. And then…

c r e a k—

As the coffin opens the Trinity drops to one knee — Jameson behind them catching his glasses before they fall to the carpet in his haste to bow in supplication.

The thud of the lid echoes deep in the marrow of their bones.

Valdas, the eldest of them all, is the first to look up. Takes in the appearance of his Maker with a smile of familiarity.

“Good to see you again, Augustine.”