Brooke tilted her head slightly to the side, her mind working hard to process what Napolean was saying.
“And the Sword of Andromeda is not an imaginary thing,” he continued. “It is the only family heirloom I possess that was handed down from one generation to the next, taken by me after the death of my father. Do you understand what I am saying, Brooke?”
Brooke stared at him intently, measuring every subtle line in his face, following every nuanced fluctuation in his voice. She did not fully understand…yet, but she wanted to. “Help me to understand,” she whispered.
His smile was positively radiant. “It was not a coincidence that your stepfather yielded to your imaginary sword’s power—to Andromeda’s power. The goddess was with you, Brooke. All those years ago. Protecting you for me. You and I were destined, even before your birth.”
Now she was speechless.
His radiant smile softened into a warm glow of pure, unconditional affection. “Will you not even entertain the possibility that this”—he held out his arms, gesturing to encompass himself and all that was around them—“is not only real…but right?”
Her breath escaped on a sigh.
Napolean.
His name was a whisper in her mind.
A biological imperative in her cellular memory.
Napolean Mondragon: keeper of the Sword of Andromeda.
She blinked up at him, and her heart filled with wonder. This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be real. How could an entire world exist outside of her knowledge—an entire species separate from the human race—prospering outside of the knowledge of most of the world’s population? She looked once again at her wrist…
It seemed very real.
And that fateful night—the night of the Blood Moon—it had been real, too.
So had the stars in the sky…Andromeda.
Her imaginary sword.
She slowly shook her head as the full realization sank in: God knew, her week in that cabin with her stepfather had been real…and all of the years she had lived alone without a family since.
She felt Napolean’s scrutinizing gaze and met it head-on, trying to discern the truth from his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe,” she whispered truthfully. “It all seems so impossible.” Her eyes watered, and she started to shiver. “I’m so…afraid.” There. She had said it out loud. “Of you,” she continued, gathering her courage. “Of the world you come from—of all of this.” Her breath came in short gasps. “I feel like I’ve been capitulated back in time—like I’m at the lake again—locked in a cabin against my will, and I—I…” She choked on a sob. “I promised myself that I would never be in that situation again. I don’t know what to do.”
Napolean released a slow, steady breath and held out his hand. “Ingerul meu—my angel—come to me. Brooke…listen to your heart…and let me take this fear from you, forever.” He opened both arms and held her gaze. “Just one step forward.”
Brooke looked at the enormous male standing before her with his arms stretched wide. He was an ancient predator, more powerful than anything she had ever encountered and twice as deadly, yet he looked so…gentle…vulnerable…welcoming.
But she knew better.
He had fangs.
He had…intentions.
“You’re going to bite me at some point,” she murmured, surprised that she had let the words slip.
Napolean didn’t flinch, nor did he deny it. “Just one step, Draga mea.”
“You’re going to hurt me.”
He shook his head. “Life has been…unkind…to you, but your refuge is right here. Come to me, Brooke.”
“You’re going to ask me to face things…do things…horrible, scary things that I’m not ready or able to do.”
“Tomorrow will take care of itself. You cannot make sense of everything in this one moment, and I’m not asking you to. But you can relinquish your fears. I can take that from you...if you’ll let me.”
“That’s mind control,” she protested.
“Compassion,” he argued.
She sighed. “You’re a vampire.”
“And you are my destiny, chosen of the gods. We have no say over our fate, Brooke: only over whether we fight it or embrace it.”
“I’m scared,” she repeated in a whisper, restating her original—and most compelling—argument.
“Just one step,” he replied, restating his.
Brooke closed her eyes. What would it be like to let go of her fears…if only for a moment? To trust someone other than herself? She looked up at him, and there was a deep longing in his eyes: the look of someone who knew exactly what it was like to walk through the world as an island unto yourself: always strong, always in control, always making the hard decisions based on an indomitable determination—not just to survive but to triumph in the end.
Always—and ultimately—alone.
She didn’t understand what was happening—why the earth had suddenly shifted on its axis and thrown her off course in opposition to the very gravity she depended upon to live—but she did believe, deep down in her soul where all truth lived, that some sort of simplicity…if not a preordained destiny…stood only inches away from her now.
That she was being given a rare and indescribable opportunity…
And she no longer had to bear her fear…alone.
Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, Brooke Adams took a single step forward—into the indomitable strength of Napolean Mondragon’s waiting arms.
nine
Tiffany Matthews ran her hands through her short blond hair, smoothing the sleek, stylish tresses back into place, and pulled her beige cashmere sweater down over her hip-hugging jeans, then stared at the heavy metal door in front of her.
It was hard to believe she was standing at the back of a filthy warehouse, about to meet with some covert member of a vampire-hunting militia, but…such was her reality. She swallowed her fear, squared her shoulders, gathered every ounce of chutzpah she could muster, and knocked on the door. Ouch, that hurt her knuckles.
The door opened slowly on a creak and a grind, and a tall, fairly thin man with short, dark brown hair stood in the shadow of the doorway. He was dressed from head to toe in dark camouflage military fatigues, which somehow looked starkly out of place on him. “Matthews?” he grunted.
Tiffany had a sudden urge to bolt and run, but she held her ground…even extended her hand. “Yes, sir. I’m Tiffany Matthews.”
He stuck his head out the door and quickly looked both ways before drawing back. “David Reed,” he said, giving her a thorough once-over from head to toe. He smiled appreciatively. “Come in.”
Tiffany glanced over her shoulder in a reflexive action: What was he checking for? Other humans…or vampires? She shook her head, dismissing the thought. Surely not—it was midday, and besides, the sun was out. She took another long look at David—strange man, remote warehouse, perfect setting for an assault—should she follow? Should she go? Her mind did the math at amazing speed, analyzing possibilities against probabilities faster than she could think them, but in the end, it came down to one simple variable: I simply can’t leave Brooke with that monster.
Forcing herself to smile, she followed David inside the dark warehouse.
Once her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw a vast, empty space—a large, barren rectangle with small institutional windows too dirty to let in light. There was a single muted bulb dangling precariously inside a loose electrical socket right above a solitary metal desk. The desk was parked dead-center in the middle of the warehouse, and there were two folding chairs of the card-table variety facing it and one worn-out swivel seat with torn upholstery perched behind it.
Office much? she thought.
David led her to the desk, where he plopped into the swivel seat and gestured toward the folding chairs. “Have a seat, Matthews.”
Tiffany took a deep breath and sat, ignoring the dust that was now getting intimately acquainted with her favorite jeans.
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“I would offer you a cup of coffee or something, but we don’t have anything,” he said, his voice as serious as a heart attack.
Tiffany opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it. Was there an appropriate response to a non-offer of a non-beverage? Once again, she forced a smile.
He leaned forward then and his dark, intense eyes met hers. “What we do here is serious business, Matthews. The information you’ve come across…very few people have, and it’s important to keep it that way.” He leaned back in his chair and placed both legs up on the desk, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Now tell me exactly what happened—what you saw.”
Tiffany folded her hands in her lap, and, like a robot, she began to recite the events of the night Brooke was taken, careful to remain detached from her emotions. All she needed was to break down in front of this guy and have to dodge some perverted, military-style attempt at comfort. This was about Brooke and nothing else.
When she finished telling the story, she watched him for a minute. He had gone incredibly quiet, listening intently—and for the first time, she had seen something keen in his eyes. He might have been a quack, but he knew about vampires, and his militia was real: It registered in his very countenance.
He put his hand to his jaw and absently rubbed his chin with his thumb. “The males need incubators.”
Tiffany waited for him to elaborate…until she realized that he wasn’t going to. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Incubators. Wombs. The males. Sometimes they take human women and use them to reproduce. Sounds like what might’ve happened to your friend.”
Tiffany blanched. She felt positively ill. “Do you mean that he took Brooke to use her as a breeding—”
“Depends,” he answered.
Tiffany was on the verge of panic. She sat forward in her seat and placed her hands on his desk. “Depends on what!” she demanded.
“On what kind of vampire got her.” He frowned, and his eyes showed a faint compassion. “There’s more than one kind.”
Tiffany was about to come unglued. “Kind? Just tell me what the hell you’re talking about!”
He nodded solemnly. “Some vamps take a woman and keep her. Sure, they use her to breed, but at least she’s still alive—until she becomes an undead blood-sucker like him that has to be put down—” He stopped abruptly.
Tiffany’s mouth fell open, and her heart pounded in her chest. Not Brooke. That wouldn’t happen to Brooke.
That had not happened to Brooke!
“Sorry,” he said, and it sounded at least halfway sincere.
“What other kinds of vampires are there?” She cleared her throat and steadied her voice. “And what do they…do…to women?”
He looked away this time as he spoke. “The other ones are…let’s just say, not something you ever want to meet. They rape their women to force breeding, and the hosts—the women—die forty-eight hours later when the babies are born.”
Tiffany felt light-headed, and that was before the true meaning of his words sank in. “Forty-eight hours? To have a baby? Impossible!” Because that would mean that—just maybe—Brooke was already…dead.
She quickly pushed the thought out of her mind.
That thing—the one who had taken Brooke—he was scary as hell, but evil?
Her head was spinning.
David sighed then. He reached across the desk and took her hand—and she was just upset enough to let him.
“Tell me everything you know about vampires,” she urged. She might as well have the full story. She had to know what she was dealing with—what Brooke was dealing with—and she certainly didn’t want any major surprises down the road.
David wrung his hands together and seemed to be thinking about whether or not to oblige her. After a few uncertain moments, he finally capitulated. “We think they had their origins in Europe,” he stated…and then he began explaining the ins and outs of vampire evolution and their current societies.
He talked about how long the creatures had roamed the earth, how they behaved, and why their eradication was necessary…as was keeping the existence of their species a secret from the world at large. He explained how humans would panic if they knew about their undead co-inhabitants and how that knowledge would lead to widespread panic, vigilante murders of innocent people—not unlike the Puritan witch hunts—and ultimately, an all-out vampire war, which, at the present time, humans couldn’t hope to win.
And that was where his militia—and others like it—came into play.
Their mission was to eradicate the demons one at a time, infiltrate their societies, and learn all there was to know about them before the two races collided.
It all sounded very Orson Wells.
Doomsday.
When he had finally finished, Tiffany couldn’t tell myth from fact: So many crazy, hard-to-digest words had been used…like demon, undead, feeding, and mind control. It was so sci-fi/futuristic that it made her head spin. And beyond that, something wasn’t right.
Something was definitely off.
About David’s militia, their understanding of the vampire species, and even their mission as far as she was concerned—but then, who really cared? Time was of the essence, and Brooke was all that mattered. She needed cold, hard facts, and she needed them now. How capable was David’s militia of helping her? How was the organization structured? And who did she need to convince to get things in motion? As far as Brooke was concerned, what were the next steps?
Tiffany simplified and organized her questions in her mind: There would be time for emotion later. “Tell me about the militia and who you work for. Who is in control of your operation?”
David removed his legs from the desktop and planted his feet firmly on the floor, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he spoke in a hushed whisper. “What I’m about to tell you stays with us. You take it to the grave, capisce?”
“Yes,” Tiffany answered. “I understand.”
David shook his head. “No, I’m not sure you do. You speak a word of this to anyone outside this militia, and you will take it to the grave…capisce?”
Tiffany gulped, clearly getting his meaning. “Yes. I understand.”
David nodded. “Good.” He rested his elbows on the desk and folded his hands together. “There are regional, vampire-hunting militias all over the United States—the world, really—secret cells like ours led by individuals like myself…but financed and directed by covert operatives that we simply call Head Hunters.” He smiled then. “Cute, eh?” The smile was just as quickly gone. “The operatives…the Head Hunters…seem to be national officials who answer to a council of governing nations, but no one really knows. Honestly? No one at the militia level really cares—as long as what needs to get done gets done.” He winked conspiratorially. “Each Head Hunter is in charge of recruiting and maintaining a handful of regional militias—usually groups of seven men, sometimes women—made up of ex-soldiers, bounty hunters, and retired special forces. We don’t contact our Head Hunters; they contact us when and if needed.” He sat back in his chair and drew in a deep breath. “They provide us with all the necessary background and training in the beginning until we’re self-sufficient enough to plan and execute independent missions…until each militia can function independently as a cohesive vampire-hunting unit. I’m not a Head Hunter, but this is my unit, and I’m the man in charge.”
Tiffany reached up to rub her temples. This was beyond comprehension, but at least she knew who she was dealing with now. What she was dealing with now. And she also knew that David was speaking the truth: The night she had been so desperate to find answers…a way to help Brooke…she had seen it in her dreams. It hadn’t been clear who these people were or exactly what they did—but she had seen David Reed as clear as the day was long. And somewhere, fluctuating in the background of the dreamscape—almost, but not quite off-screen —had been another male: David’s Head Hunter as he liked to call him.
&
nbsp; The mysterious man had appeared as somewhat of a shadow, an enormous, imposing male with long, wavy blond hair like the wild mane of a lion. In the dream, his mouth had been set in a cruel scowl, and his eyes had appeared menacing. He never spoke, but David had called the Head Hunter by name in the dream: Tristan…something or other?
Oh yeah…Tristan Hart.
“Where is your Head Hunter now?” Tiffany asked, mostly out of curiosity.
David laughed, and then he shrugged. “Wouldn’t tell you even if I knew, but I don’t. Haven’t heard from him in months.”
Tiffany smiled then. “But that doesn’t matter, right?”
He winked again, seemingly pleased that she got it.
And she did.
David Reed was the only person she knew even remotely capable of trying to save Brooke, and she needed him. Fixing her best smile on her face, she leaned forward and met his gaze with pleading eyes. “David, I don’t know any other way to say this: I really, really need your help.”
ten
Napolean covered Brooke with a heavy wool blanket and walked quietly out of the living room. She had fallen asleep on the couch not long after they had returned from the ravine, no doubt as a result of so much emotional exhaustion.
Napolean was exhausted, too. As many times as he had watched a male from the house of Jadon meet his destiny, go through the full thirty days of the Blood Moon—with all that it entailed—and exit the other side far happier, more content…and even complete, it was still hard to see the finish line from where he and Brooke stood. Trust was a valuable commodity, and it was going to be very hard to earn.
Napolean opened the doors to the main floor veranda and stepped outside, needing a quick breath of fresh air. Brooke was practically inside of him now: Although he hadn’t taken her blood yet, he had touched her, smelled her, and absorbed her essence. He would know if she woke up or moved. He was already that in tune with her.
A dead rose petal fell from an otherwise empty vine attached to a narrow piece of lattice above the veranda and landed at Napolean’s feet, drawing his eyes upward to the sky. Absently, he offered a prayer of thanks to the goddess Andromeda for protecting his destiny so many years ago—it wasn’t enough, of course. She should never have had to go through such a horrific experience in the first place, but it could have been much worse.