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      For my adorable little mother, Martha.

       Prologue

       Romania, 1820

      Fire raged throughout the city of Cetatea. The flames rose to scorch the midnight sky and choke the stars with its thick and blackened smoke. Nicholas Drakon stood on the rise that overlooked the large and once prosperous city. Shame enveloped him as he absorbed the cries of the innocent that were subdued only by the victorious shrieks of his clansmen; those who had gone against the principles set forth by Nicholas’s father, Lord Victor, leader of the Drakon clan.

      Things hadn’t always been this way. There’d been a time of unity and peace, but that was long before they were all afflicted by the dreadful curse. The decades had passed and the rift within his clan had swelled, resulting in an outrageous battle of wills and the deaths of many innocents. Too long had these wayward members been allowed to proceed with mere warning and chastisement. The time had come to put an end to it.

      Nicholas flexed his grip on the large sword he held. Over his shoulder he cast the thirteen warriors he led a look that warned them to be prepared. With the forms of hulking men and the faces of beasts, they were ready for the inevitable battle that lay ahead, dressed in heavy, intricately worked silver breastplates and bracers of matching quality encasing their wrists. They were slaves and lords of the darkness. Stone by day and gargoyle by night, they’d once been men, but were now damned for eternity.

      At his back, Nicholas flexed great and taloned wings, ready for flight. From the hilltop adjacent to the one upon which he stood, his brothers Simion and Marius observed the holocaust. Simion raised a torch, signaling the commencement of the attack. Steel in his grip, Nicholas and his warriors took to the skies. Their mission was to capture as many of their own alive, but much blood would be spilled this night, he knew. His heart ached for the many who would fall dead by his hands, but this was no time for weakness. What had to be done must be done.

       Fagara Castle, later

      The vicious cries could be felt throughout the castle. They shook the walls and coursed through the stone floors. Nicholas, along with his father and brothers marched down the steps that lead to the dungeon entrance.

      Chained to the walls were the remaining twelve defectors. Among them was the one called Gabriel. Once a man of honor and integrity, he’d become consumed by rage as the Drakon clan had been forced to abandon much of their lands and holdings. They’d been driven deeper into the forest to avoid being hunted by those who deemed their kind an abomination. His fury had swelled even more as Lord Victor had simply accepted this fate, choosing peace over violence. Gabriel had thus formed his own alliance with the intent to destroy any who threatened their family. He’d in turn become the greatest opposition of the Drakon clan; what was worse, he was the younger brother of Lord Victor.

      Lord Victor moved to face his brother. With his massive wings beating against the damp air, Gabriel fought against the chains that bound him. But it was to no avail, for the chains, made from an alloy called titanium, had been purposefully fashioned for this function.

      “Ah, brother,” Gabriel said with a venomous sneer. “I suspect you are pleased with yourself for slaughtering so many of your own.”

      Lord Victor’s head fell a measure. “About as pleased as I am for what I am forced to do this night. I can no longer stand by and allow you to wreak havoc.”

      Gabriel erupted in a loud, derisive laugh. “You speak as if I am at fault. Nay, brother. It is you who brought this curse upon us all.” He sobered, his eyes hard as he continued. “You and your lust for peasant flesh.”

      Nicholas’s eyes narrowed upon his uncle as he steeled himself to remain as he was. It was no secret that the gargoyle curse had been brewed in a single night of lies and deception. Their mother had been a simple peasant girl when she’d captured Lord Victor’s heart, driving him to abandon a senseless betrothal. In a fit of rage, his wealthy and greedy intended bride, Lady Vivian, had spun a web of lies to her cousin Necesar, a powerful sorceress. Vivian had pleaded for vengeance, but even that hadn’t been enough to remedy her discontent. Anger had compelled her to a point of insanity, and in one final act of rage she’d torched her family’s castle, taking not only her own life but those of all who dwelled there.

      And so, armed with the notion that Lord Victor had not only severed the betrothal after forcing himself on her cousin, but that he was also the one to be blamed for Vivian’s death, Necesar concocted a fierce spell, cursing the Drakon bloodline for all eternity.

      Lord Victor looked weary. “No man should be made to suffer for the choices of his heart.”

      “Aye,” Gabriel spat. “Just as an entire clan should not be punished for their leader’s irresponsible follies.”

      Lord Drakon turned away then, his eyes solemn as he fastened a look upon the figure of a hunched and ageless woman who before had gone unnoticed. She advanced, her weathered face coming to rest upon Gabriel. She was called Agatha, and was a witch of the Ananovian