The young male, perched on the bank of the river, was a vampire for sure, and his soul absolutely screamed house of Jadon. If Ian could pass himself off as whatever he chose to this male—if he could emerge from the mist and fool another of his kind into believing he was a harmless innocent, a pure and lovely soul—then he could afford to spend some time in the valley.
He could afford to be within one hundred miles of Julien, confident that he would remain undetected.
The young vampire sat up straight, stiffened his spine, and his burnt-sienna eyes began to glow a coral red, even as he lengthened his fangs and his claws and began to study the mist. And kudos to him, really; at least he knew that the vapor was unnatural.
Ian gathered his molecules to his core; donned his familiar black jeans and a light, dusky gray cloak; and made sure his hair was blond. And then he simply stepped out of the mist and curled his lips into the best imitation of a smile that he had.
“Greetings, fledgling; I am Grigori Antonopoulos, from the isle of Greece, a son of the Vampyr who has been too long away from his people. I greet you in the name of Prince Jadon.”
nine
Braden Bratianu bounded to his feet, startled by the sudden appearance of the strange, enigmatic vampire—how the heck had he snuck up on Braden like that? And how the heck had he transformed into the essence of fog? Outside of Nachari Silivasi, who could shift at will into a panther, and the fact that all vampires could cloak their appearances, become invisible, and even take the shape of a simple bird, like a raven or a bat, this was more than just a little bit extreme. It was a feat of mastery only attempted by a Master Wizard or an Ancient.
It was a phenomenal accomplishment and something Braden immediately wanted to learn. He wiped his palms on his jeans, a bit ashamed that he had been sweating just moments earlier. “What’s up?” he mumbled, still eyeing the guy warily. “Where the heck did you come from?”
The male took a generous step back as if he knew his presence was overwhelming. “I already told you, did I not? I’ve been traveling…in Greece.”
Braden frowned.
Traveling in Greece?
Did he run one of the vampire’s various resorts for Napolean, feeding the funds back into Dark Moon Vale? And why hadn’t Braden ever heard of Grigori Antonopoulos, a Greek surname, rather than Romanian?
Of course, there were a lot of vampires Braden didn’t know…
He cleared his throat, trying to sound older than he was. “Why…so why are you…I mean, why are you all like, just popping up on the bank of a river and shit?” Okay, so that didn’t sound very mature. “I’m just sayin’—why not head to Napolean’s manse or check in with your family or somethin’? Why…I mean…what the hell, dude?”
Grigori laughed conspiratorially. And then the oddest thing happened: Braden felt the lightest tap against his mind, almost like the vampire was trying to glimpse Braden’s thoughts, retrieve some specific piece of information, but nah, he wouldn’t do that, right? That was so against the laws in the house of Jadon, and the guy was definitely a vampire, and he definitely had blond hair—the Dark Ones couldn’t dye that stuff, or at least they were too arrogant and proud to want to—so, maybe, he was just really, really odd.
“How old are you, son?” the vampire asked.
Braden puffed out his chest and raised his chin, running his tongue over his upper canines. “Almost seventeen,” he answered defiantly.
Grigori’s expression deepened with regard. “Ah, and to think I would’ve taken you for at least twenty—you must work out.”
Braden smiled then. “Yeah, you know: I do what I can.”
Grigori nodded and held up both hands. “We all do; do we not?” He chuckled softly. “Can I tell you a secret, my friend?” He swept his hand in an apologetic arc. “I’m afraid I did not ask your name.”
“Braden,” he said warily.
“Ah, yes…can I tell you a secret, Braden?”
Braden cocked his eyebrows circumspectly, feeling a tad weirded out. “Sure, I guess.”
Grigori appeared undaunted. “I came to Dark Moon Vale—at the bank of a river—because I was simply hoping for some solitude, peace, and tranquility before making my presence known. My running into you, here, was purely coincidence, but my secret is this: I am not the greatest fan of this place…or our people.” He quickly held up both hands in a passive gesture to moderate any offense. “Don’t misunderstand me; I revere our king and our patriarch, Prince Jadon, but I have been gone for many, many years.” He shrugged as if it was an insignificant detail. “The truth is, my parents, who have long since passed away, had very little use for me when I was your age. And as an only child, I did not have many friends, save one: a boy I grew up with, who became my best friend. I have come back to surprise him, to see him again, but I would prefer to take my time. To do it my own way. I have traveled the world for many centuries, young Braden, and I doubt that I’ve been missed. My role in the house of Jadon was never that…important.”
Braden furrowed his brow.
Damn, that was kind of messed up.
He was just about to argue—surely no one would’ve treated this guy like an outcast, even if he was extremely weird—but then, the guy was pretty old. Who knew how the Vampyr behaved in 1100 AD or even earlier? Certainly not Braden. And besides, he totally got the absent parents thing. Been there. Done that. Still wore the T-shirt. “Ah man,” he said. “That’s too bad, ’cause it’s really a cool place, even if you don’t have your parents.”
The guy focused on the comment like an eagle homing in on its prey. “Forgive me, but it sounds as if you might have a personal acquaintance with the subject of missing parents. Am I…wrong?”
Braden stiffened, growing instantly alert. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn the vampire had read his mind or, more accurately, his history. But that wasn’t possible because Braden never thought about it. Braden never talked about it. Braden never mentioned to anyone, not even Nachari, that while his parents called him once a week and sent frequent gifts and letters, he often felt like he’d been abandoned. He had never told a single soul that his biological father used to abuse his mother before she filed for divorce, and Braden looked an awful lot like his human father. Maybe too much like his human father. He had never told a single soul what his mother had said, that one night, when she was drunk…
Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Dario and Lily had given in so easily when Braden had asked to remain in Dark Moon Vale. Sure, the Academy was better than homeschooling, and as a wizard, Nachari could teach him things Dario could never explore—but to Braden’s way of thinking, his parents had Conrad now; Braden had a brother he hardly knew; and if they had really wanted him with them, they would have objected to such a long stay.
They would have come to visit.
Pitching his shoulders back in a proud, defiant stance, Braden raised his chin, angled his jaw, and succinctly changed the subject. He wasn’t about to go there with a stranger. “So, who’s your friend?” he asked, his tone making the shift in subject deliberate. “Maybe I know him.”
Grigori met Braden’s gaze with a pensive stare of his own, openly assessing the boy’s reluctance, and then, just like that, his countenance softened, he became generously amenable, and he smiled. Subject change acknowledged. “Excuse me?” he asked in an affable tone.
“Your friend,” Braden repeated. “You said you had a friend here, a best friend, a male you grew up with.”
Grigori’s eyes flitted to the side, waxing suddenly nostalgic. “Ah yes, my dear friend. His name is…or at least it was…Julien Lacusta.”
Braden sucked in a harsh breath of air. “The tracker?”
Grigori narrowed his gaze on Braden and slowly nodded his head, his lips turning up in a mischievous grin. “Ah, is that what he’s become?”
Braden nodded in kind. “Hell yeah, and he’s just about the best damn tracker the house of Jadon has ever seen. That, and a Master Warrior. In fact, h
e just had a Blood Moon, like no less than twenty-four hours ago, so now he’s got a destiny.”
Grigori smiled and threw up both hands. “Well, there you go. Of course, I saw the sky—don’t we all? And that is what prompted me to finally come home and visit.” He leaned forward and practically whispered his next, drawn-out words. “But I really do hope to surprise him, Braden. I think it would mean the world to…the tracker.” He practically gleamed with inner satisfaction. “In fact, now that I know what he does, I think it would be fun to play a little game. Perhaps I can leave little traces of my essence here and there—you know, my psychic fingerprint, my individual vibration, my unique, distinctive calling card—and see if Julien picks it up.”
Braden frowned. “I guess, but I think he’s going to be pretty busy for the next twenty-eight days, if you know what I mean?”
Grigori’s eyes lit up with mirth. “Indeed. I know exactly what you mean. All the more reason not to bother him right away.”
Braden nodded, and the silence grew heavy. No question about it: The guy was weird. Really weird. Still, that wasn’t exactly a crime. “So, where are you going to stay? I mean, while you’re here?” He gestured in the direction of River Rock Road. “I’ve got a car. I can take you to the lodge or maybe a hotel.”
“I think I’d like to reacquaint myself with nature for a time, to rediscover the land. But thank you for the offer.”
Braden flashed a dismissive smirk as if to say, suit yourself. He started to ask Grigori for his cell number—maybe he could text him sometime—but then he thought, nah; dude probably had a tin can attached to the end of a string, or an old-fashioned telegraph machine: tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap. He chuckled inwardly, feeling guilty for mocking the peculiar vampire, even if the guy was unnaturally strange.
“What were you doing?” Grigori asked, making Braden feel instantly guilty. He pointed toward the flat, rocky ledge, at the polished, drying stones, and Braden sighed with relief.
“Oh, that?” Braden turned around to face the stones, grateful for the temporary distraction. “I was just playin’ around with some energy, trying to turn water into wine, you know, that sort of thing.”
“You were trying to make gemstones?” Grigori asked.
Now this got Braden’s attention. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
Grigori cocked one shoulder to his ear in a facetious gesture and smirked. “What kind?”
Braden stared harder at the stones and frowned, knowing he probably didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the metamorphosis right. “Citrines,” he answered sheepishly.
“Citrines?” Grigori repeated. “Hmm.” He glided over to the stones, squatted down in front of the rocky ledge, and placed both hands, palms down, over the rocks. “Ah, you’ve done well, thus far. The stones feel pliant—you’ve already focused some energy.”
Braden raised both brows and took a step closer toward the ledge. “You think?”
“Oh, yes,” Grigori insisted. He bent closer to the stones. “Do you mind?”
Braden shook his head emphatically. “Hell no—I mean, heck no.” Even though Nachari wasn’t there, Braden was still slightly paranoid: Who knew what a wizard could hear. Hell—heck—Nachari might’ve crafted some curse-word spell just to catch him slipping or something.
Grigori chuckled once again and picked up both stones.
He placed them in the center of his left palm and rotated the fingers of his right hand over them in a repetitive circular motion. And then he closed his eyes, and heat began to radiate from his open palm. As he continued to caress the stones, almost like a dutiful lover, the pads of his fingers curled inward and energy shot from their tips. At last, he closed his fist over the stones, exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath, and then slowly reopened his palm. “Is the color to your liking?”
Braden glanced at the two perfect citrines resting in the vampire’s hand, and gasped. “No way!” he exclaimed. “You did that that easily?”
Grigori smiled and bowed his head infinitesimally. “As I’ve said, I’ve been on this earth a very long time, and precious jewels have always been a quick and efficient means of procuring income.”
Braden nodded, entirely impressed.
Eager to study the gemstones more closely, he reached out to take them from Grigori’s palm, and immediately drew back from the contact. In fact, Braden jerked his hand away so hard and so fast that the beautiful citrines went flying through the air and back into the river—all that hard work was lost. “Oh, man…dude…I’m sorry!” Braden clamored.
Grigori stood up and took a generous step back, studying the vampire closely.
Too closely.
Braden flashed a repentant smile and pressed the subject further. “Oh, man, that was so jacked up. I really am sorry. And after everything you just did? My bad! Seriously. I am so, so sorry.” He wasn’t about to say what he was really thinking: What the heck just happened?
Grigori’s expression relaxed, and he held up both hands in dismissal. “What is it the young people say? It’s all good. No harm; no foul.”
Braden nodded, grateful for Grigori’s understanding. Truly, he had not meant to overreact or to offend the seriously strange vampire. It was just…it was just that there was something so wrong with those stones. The energy.
It was so foreign, so remote…
Braden could hardly make it out.
It wasn’t exactly evil, and it wasn’t exactly good.
For lack of a better word, it was obscure: hidden, concealed…
And consequently, terrifying.
This guy had a lot of secrets, and he had built a lot of barriers to conceal them, and all those layers were embedded in those stones.
All that hidden…angst.
Looking down at the ground, Braden noticed a stray strand of blond hair settled on a rock—the guy must have shed it when he bent to make the citrines—and he made a mental note to pick it up and take it home before he left. He didn’t know exactly why, just that all that glittered wasn’t gold. All that was citrine wasn’t brilliant. And something about this male was not as it appeared.
He had given Grigori his word that he would keep his presence in the valley a secret—well, he had at least implied that he would—and he would allow the mysterious vampire to take his time, make his presence known in his own way, at his own pace, out of mutual respect for the house of Jadon. After all, a vampire’s word was his bond, and it wasn’t Braden’s place to judge another male.
Just the same, that didn’t mean he was going to dismiss his common sense. That he would ignore a creepy vibe, or overlook his intuition. He had done that once before, and it had almost cost Kristina her life.
No.
Never again.
Braden would play it off, hang out for a while longer, and then he would head back to the brownstone, and to Nachari Silivasi, a Master Wizard, with a single strand of blond hair in his pocket: a token object that the wizard could easily divine…unravel and dissect…
If necessary.
ten
Three days later
Trevor Rainier double-checked the address on his smartphone as he stared at the gorgeous urban building in front of him: 1590 Wynkoop, in lower downtown Denver, also known affectionately as LoDo. Yep, he had the right address, and didn’t that just speak volumes about Rebecca’s VOSU support group? The fact that it was held in the upscale Mercantile Square Lofts, in the private home of some upwardly mobile, metropolitan bimbo who didn’t know how to keep—or please—her man?
He chuckled inwardly, retrieving the keycard he had lifted from Rebecca’s nightstand drawer in order to get past the secured entry, and made his way to the fancy elevator, all the while, reaching down, deep, for courage. Assuming Rebecca had found another way to gain access to the building—and surely, she could just call upstairs—he was going to walk right into the center of the meeting, stare Rebecca in the eyes, and ask her if she’d missed him.
He couldn’t wait to see her
expression.
And if anyone made a move he didn’t like, said something he didn’t want to hear, like I’m calling 911, then the six-inch hunting knife tucked into his socks would probably do the trick.
Shut them up real quick.
For whatever reason, Rebecca had not been home since Sunday night, and God help the woman if she was sleeping with another man. But if he knew his Rebecca—and he did—then she would never miss something as important as a VOSU meeting, especially when she was the de facto leader.
Stepping out of the elevator onto the third floor, he quickly made his way down the long, narrow hall to the last loft on the right. Thank his lucky stars, the door was propped open. Raising his chin and drawing back his shoulders, he marched right through the entrance, headed toward the professionally decorated living room in the center of the loft, and sauntered to the middle of the group, causing all the women in the circle to crane their necks and gasp.
His cocky grin quickly morphed into a blank, vacant stare, and then it curved into an angry scowl.
Where the hell was Rebecca?
There were five women sitting around the room, staring at him like he had pigeon poop on his face, and not a single one of them had curly golden hair or gorgeous topaz eyes.
“Can I help you?” A tall, skinny blonde stood up, her restless hands betraying her anxiety.
Trevor took an abrupt deep breath and flipped his demeanor on a dime. Grateful that he had worn a Colorado Rockies baseball cap, put on his reading glasses, and dyed his hair black several weeks ago—who knew if these chicks exchanged photos of their estranged lovers—he held up both hands in a submissive posture. “Uh, yeah,” he muttered shyly, trying to sound as nonthreatening as he could. “You must be…Sheila?” He already knew the answer. Her name was written in Rebecca’s address book, next to the loft’s address, and Becca, in all her wisdom, had a small black-and-white picture to the right of every entry.