Rebecca gaped at him like he had just arrived from another planet.
She opened her mouth to respond and stuttered something incoherent, before instantly trying again. “And that somehow makes this okay? What you’ve done? What you’re doing…to me? Snatching me out of your driveway, and this whole crazy Curse?” Her voice rose in both angst and volume as she quoted him word for word. “To put it in terms you understand: You are my wife, my mate, the woman who is about to give me a son…all of it is preordained. None of it is optional. And that is why you are here. So, you’re gonna kill Trevor—my territorial vampire is going to murder my ex-boyfriend—and then I’m just going to…to what? Oh yeah, have your sons, have your twins, let you sacrifice the demonic one to…to what? And then, you and I, we just do, what? Live happily ever after?” She was borderline hysterical. “Julien Zechariah Lacusta, surely, even you can hear how insane that sounds. I have a life. I have a job. I have responsibilities! Hell, I run a support group for other desperate women, victims in the exact same shoes as mine. There are five women in my VOSU group, and they depend on me for help, for intervention, for their safety, if not their very lives. I’m not going to turn my back on them. And I’m not going to willingly disappear into some medieval fantasy that these gods—these celestial beings that I’ve never heard of—supposedly created for me.” She licked her bottom lip in a nervous gesture and then purposefully angled her jaw, looking him dead in the eyes for emphasis.
Julien relaxed his shoulders and tilted his head to the side in a matching gesture, growing firm with resolution. “You have an impeccable memory, Rebecca, and you don’t mince words. I like that, so let me have a try. Murder.” He echoed the word she had just used. “Is that what you think it is?” Before she could answer, he held up his hand to dissuade her. “Does a lion murder a gazelle? Does a human murder an ant?” He chuckled, and once again, there was nothing even remotely humorous in the sound. “I am Vampyr, Miss Johnston, I know nothing of this murder you speak of.” He leaned forward and held her gaze. “I only know that you are mine—you belong to me—and that which threatens you cannot exist in my world.” He lowered his hand, almost in a gesture of concession. “And no, you won’t…come around…overnight, but there is something in your soul, something in your blood, something woven into your very DNA that recognizes my own, that bends to my voice and yields to my touch. Do you think everything that happened on that bed was compulsion?” He shook his head before he could spark her anger. “Bad example—I get it—but you need to get this: You’re here. It is where you belong. And I will give you the space, the time, and the knowledge to slowly process all this new information, to adjust to this medieval fantasy, as you so poetically put it. I will answer all your questions. I will address all your fears. And I will explain all you need to know. And somehow, in the midst of this process, I will slowly show to you your own celestial heart. But for now, I have only one question, and I insist that you give me the truth.”
Rebecca blanched, and her eyes filled with mutinous underpinnings; but she didn’t speak a word. She just waited, as if she were actually eager to hear his next words.
“Suppose I take you back home—to Denver—and we find this Trevor, together. As I’ve said, his fate is no longer up for debate. But suppose we take it one step further, and I do the one thing you most want…and need. I fulfill your greatest desire: to set each strong, independent, yet helpless woman free.” He paused to let the heart of his words sink in. “Yes, Rebecca, think of every woman in your support group, all five of their lives. Now imagine each one, finally free from fear, finally free from a life of tyranny and terror, from hiding in the shadows like a wounded dog.” He sat back and crossed his arms, even as he gentled his voice. “Rebecca, my destiny; I will kill them all, every last vile, despicable male. And I will make sure your foundation, your charitable cause, has enough resources to continue your work for a hundred years. And even then, I will not keep you from following your heart’s desires—I will not lock you up like a slave. All I ask is that you listen, and learn, and give me two weeks to do the things that I’ve claimed. Now then, speak only the truth: Put aside the human concept of murder, and answer me from the heart. If you could, would you have me extinguish them all?”
Rebecca sat back, and she seemed to be holding her breath.
Her eyes grew distant, and Julien knew she was weighing his offer, very, very carefully, imagining each woman in her group and what his expert intervention could mean for her life. She brought her hand to her mouth and began to chew on her nails, and gods forgive him, but he had to take a quick, inconspicuous glance at her thoughts: She was thinking about Sheila, a woman who had suffered two miscarriages, how each of her unborn children had been beaten out of her body. She was thinking about a woman named Nancy, and the way she spoke with a lisp, how the left half of her jaw had been wired together. And she was counting all the restraining orders, the numerous, ever-constant threats, all the temporary houses and the fake IDs.
She was weighing what these women had gone through in a society that had all but abandoned them to some cultural blindness—or apathy—that allowed such blatant, unjust atrocities to go on, unchallenged, leaving it up to the victims to fend for themselves, to live or die at the sick, errant impulses of their lovers…or practical strangers.
And finally, she was thinking about an incestuous father who had just been given joint custody of his three-year-old daughter, a child of a woman named Kate, and how the clock was ticking for that precious little girl. Although it went against every civilized, acculturated bone in her human body, Rebecca was tuned in to her celestial DNA, and her desire for justice was as primal as it was strong. “You could do that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You could…take care of them all?”
Julien nodded, resolutely. “For you, my true destiny; I would slaughter a small country.” Once again, he held up his hand. “But never an innocent soul. There will be no blood on your hands, either way. But you haven’t said yes, or no.”
Rebecca fidgeted with her hands; she tugged on the ends of her hair; and she bit down, far too hard, on her bottom lip. She squirmed where she sat, until she could no longer take the chaotic energy, and then she stood, to pace it off.
Finally, turning around, her face gaunt and ashen, she sought the vampire’s gaze. “Yes,” she whispered, as a tear of compassion—or perhaps, remorse?—fell from the corner of her eye. “You don’t necessarily have to kill them—I really don’t want you to kill them. And, either way, I don’t want to know what you do. But if you can set them free—the women—if you can set me free from Trevor…” Her single tear turned into a torrent of anguish, and she shook from the depth of her emotion. “Then yes, Julien…please…please do.”
Julien rose from his perch near the wall, inexorably drawn by the strength of her pain. Dear gods, she was so full of compassion. Despite her conviction, her heart was practically breaking from the mere thought of hurting these worthless men. Yet and still, he would not dishonor her goodness: If he could maim them or erase their minds, set them on another path, then he would. He would spare their lives for Rebecca, unless, of course, someone got out of hand or showed a propensity to continue hurting others, unless it was simply irrefutable: If the man was a rabid dog, and the dog needed to be put down, then Julien was all about the task.
Just the same, Rebecca had made her decision, and he would honor her wishes…
With one exception.
Trevor.
Trevor Rainer.
This particular dog was dead.
Closing the distance between them, even knowing that he had no right, Julien blanketed Rebecca’s slender body in his hard, implacable strength, and wrapped his arms around her. When she didn’t fight him, he knew he had taken her to a very raw, vulnerable place, a place much more personal, much more helpless, and far more exposed than being captured by a vampire—
And great celestial gods, didn’t that say it all.
Sliding a s
trong but gentle hand into her soft, silky hair, he nudged her forward and held her close to his heart, nuzzling the top of her head with his chin. Once again, she allowed it, as she continued to fight her tears; and that, more than anything, solidified his will.
“Sh, don’t cry, angel. I promise you; you are free…at last. I will hunt and destroy them all.”
eight
Later that evening…
After hiking about one mile in from River Rock Road, on the northern end of Dark Moon Vale, Braden Bratianu wound his way down a steep embankment and stopped, about six feet above the lowest point of a concealed, rushing river. Although he was surrounded by thickly treed forest, he wasn’t that far from home. In fact, he was only ten miles or so from Nachari’s brownstone, which was located in the northeast quadrant of the forest, and twenty-five miles from Marquis’s farmhouse, which was lodged in the opposing, northwest. His second family—his self-appointed brothers—could still get to him quickly if he needed them.
Not that he would.
Braden Bratianu had shot up another two inches since his sixteenth birthday, and now, just four months shy of turning seventeen, he stood a full six feet tall. His shoulders were twice as broad as they were when he had first met the Silivasis, and his triceps, biceps, and pectoral muscles seemed to grow more defined, more developed, with every passing day. He was learning how to fight—well, he could hold his own with his classmates at the Academy, and he could certainly mop the floor with a human of any age or ability—and his powers of intuition and second-sight were continuing to evolve, as well. He didn’t always understand what things meant, what he was feeling or why, but he was getting accustomed to the fact that his soul was always plugged in—always online, so to speak—somehow connected, like an open Wi-Fi signal, to the heart of the house of Jadon and the fearsome Vampyr king, Napolean Mondragon.
Ever since that horrible day when Salvatore Nistor had hatched an insidious plot to take down the ancient king with a Blood Possession, Braden had been plugged in, turned on…wired for sound. And now that he had a future destiny of his own—okay, so Kristina wasn’t actually his destiny; she was more like his mail-order, future bride, the woman Napolean was going to make him marry at some point far, far into the future, because the two of them had no one else—he was trying to be a lot more mature. He was doing everything he could to take on more responsibility and show the other warriors that he could act, and think, independently.
Ah hell, who was he kidding?
He was trying to do everything he could to impress Kristina.
After all, he was nearly seventeen, and if human males were all one-track-mind, straight-up into girls at this age, then vampires, who matured quite a bit faster, were like human males on steroids. High heels, miniskirts, and pink Corvettes were just about all Braden could think of anymore: Kristina’s infamous calling cards.
Okay, so that wasn’t completely true, either.
He spent an awful lot of time in the garage with Nachari, looking under the hood of the best Christmas present ever—the brand-spanking-new Ford Mustang “King Cobra” that Nachari and Deanna had bought him last year after he got his driver’s license. His sleek black-and-red pride and joy.
He grinned at the thought, even as he made his way down the steep embankment to the riverbed, fished out two perfectly smooth, water-softened stones, and rubbed them against his shirt.
He had been spending a lot of time at the Dark Moon Mineral Plant recently, not only to learn more about the house of Jadon’s various industries, but to try to understand the metaphysical process that took place when a male vampire transformed a plain, earthen rock into a gemstone through a psychic, ancient practice. He was fascinated by the use of intentional thought—deep, focused emotion—as a catalyst, and the subsequent channeling of quantum waves, how something so simple, yet divine, could rearrange matter.
Most of the gems in Dark Moon Vale were native to the valley. Just the same, it was no secret that a vamp’s energy could turn tears into blood-red diamonds if his pain ran deep enough; that his hopes or fears could materialize as pearls or sapphires under just the right circumstances; or that if he tried real hard, he might be able to craft whatever gemstone he chose, at will. The bottom line was this: Kristina had recently found a perfect pair of tangerine pumps—although, honestly, they just looked orange to him—and she had practically waxed poetic about how spectacular they would look with citrine gemstones embedded in the crisscrossed toe-straps, how awesome they would look with her suede apricot miniskirt.
Braden didn’t know a damn thing about women’s fashion—and frankly, he could not have cared less—but he had noticed how that particular skirt hugged her hips, and if having citrines over her toes made her wear it more often…well…game on.
He would do his best.
So here he was, on the northernmost end of Dark Moon Vale, just thirty minutes after twilight, fishing stones out of a river in the hopes of making two perfect citrines for Kristina, in the hopes of drawing power from the rising moon.
Realizing that his shirt wasn’t enough, he polished the stones with a microfiber cloth, set them on a flat, rocky ledge to dry, and then sat down on the bank of the river to watch the water churn…and to concentrate.
And that’s when he saw the peculiar mist.
Rising off the river like a fog: swirling in unnatural circles, spreading out like smoke from a dampened fire, and settling across the ravine like a ghost.
He sat up straight and heightened his vampiric senses, listening, feeling, trying to see through the fog. Even though it was early January, six o’clock at night, it wasn’t cool enough for the condensed water droplets to form—the dew point just wasn’t right. As a vampire, Braden could inherently sense the temperature and discern the chemistry of the surrounding elements, so he knew that something was…off.
Not wanting to be a baby or involve his brothers—or gods forbid, the king—in his every waking thought or encounter, he hit the psychic disconnect button on his telepathic receiver, even as he continued to watch the mist rise and fall, sway and dip, swirl and dance before him.
He slowly released his fangs.
He sharpened a few of his claws.
And he felt his vision heat, knowing his eyes were glowing red, as he shifted to infrared vision.
Whatever the phenomenon, whatever this was, he could handle it…
All by himself.
Ian Lacusta had given a lot of serious thought to Achilles Zahora’s entreaty: Come home. And he had decided to do just that.
But in his own time.
And on his own terms.
He had no idea what he might be getting into, whether or not he could trust the house of Jaegar any more than he could trust the house of Jadon. He only knew that he had been a solitary entity for far too long to simply pack up his bags and move into a colony of strangers. To present himself as the latest sacrifice in a never-ending, twisted Curse that had never intended him to live.
Relying on the hard-earned lessons of his past, he could only be sure of one thing: Wherever he went in this world, however he traveled, and whomever he met, he needed the protection of his powers: his carefully crafted, lifelong skills.
He needed to play it safe.
History had taught him that appearing anywhere as a vampire was a non-starter. People freaked out; women screamed; men tried to attack, out of some intrinsic flight-or-flight impulse, and Ian invariably had to destroy them all…or make himself a god among men until he grew tired of the game. Even those who didn’t know who—or what—he was still sensed his errant energy, his vacant, demonic heart. And there was just something wicked, vivid, innately unsettling about his black-and-red banded hair. It had taken him a lot of centuries and a lot of trial and error to learn how to project it as blond, but he could.
He could.
And he could also travel as the mist.
He could scatter his molecules to the winds to mask his scent and hide his identity—he had used it for
centuries to elude his brother, Julien, just in case the male was still alive. He could alter the chemical composition of his core and spread it out over miles and miles, if he chose, moving across the land as a fog. Perhaps it was shape-shifting. Perhaps it was something else. Did the proper terminology really matter? After many grueling trials and errors, Ian had finally mastered the craft.
And yes, Harietta had played an invaluable role:
Picture the brightest light you can see, Ian; now try to wrap it, like a cloak, around your mind. The darkness is too stark, Ian; watch your brother, study your twin, try to sense Julien’s soul and emulate it. That’s not good enough, Ian; there’s still something wrong. Be the sunrise, Ian; be the rose as it blooms; be the mist that settles on the grass as dew. Study its innocence, son. Understand what makes it pure. And try…try harder…to do and be just that.
If Ian could’ve brought the woman back to life just to kill her again, he would’ve.
What that hag had never understood was that there was nothing wrong. There was nothing missing. There was nothing too dark. All that blackness, all that vacancy, all that wrongness—was him.
Ian Lacusta.
Exactly the way the Blood had made him.
Exactly the way the dark lords intended.
Yet and still, he had mastered the craft for his mother, and curse her rotting soul, he had learned to become a pure, undefinable, undetectable mist. He had learned how to hide his identity in the fog. And now, nearly thirty minutes after sunset, as he descended on the northern end of Dark Moon Vale to get his own lay of the land, so to speak, before contacting the house of Jaegar, he had the perfect opportunity to try it out.