All three of his brothers became deathly quiet, and he knew that they were considering the facts—measuring the numerous possibilities, weighing each eventuality carefully in their minds, and he could only hope that none would be willing—let alone able—to risk Napolean’s life. Simply put, they could not let Napolean die. No one could justify such a cowardly choice. Napolean Mondragon was the pulse —the very heartbeat—of the house of Jadon. And he had no successor. His destiny had finally come after twenty-eight hundred years, which meant that a true heir to Napolean’s throne was less than one moon away from being born—an heir who would share Napolean’s memories and powers, an heir who would intervene with the gods on behalf of the Vampyr.
They simply had to save Napolean.
The implications of his loss were too epic to even put into words.
And he knew all of his brothers understood this.
Nathaniel eventually spoke first, and when he did, his voice was a velvet whisper on the wind: “You cannot guarantee that you will merely go to the brink of death and return, can you, Nachari? The truth is, we may actually lose you…forever.”
Nachari exhaled slowly, unaware until that moment that he had even been holding his breath. “Yes, Nathaniel. There is always a chance I might not make it back.”
As if it were too much effort to remain standing, Kagen squatted down. He looked up at Niko and Jankiel then, regarding each wizard in turn. “Is this really necessary, wizards?”
Both vampires nodded, but it was Niko who spoke: “It is, Kagen.”
Nathaniel squatted down next to Kagen, his movement both graceful and predatory. He stopped when they were eye to eye. “I share your fears, my brother, but we must consider this carefully.”
Marquis’s eyes flashed red. “Fine. Then I will go in Nachari’s place.”
“With all due respect, Marquis,” Niko spoke hesitantly, “the battle we must wage is one of light versus dark…wizardry versus sorcery.” He kept his gaze respectfully averted downward and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he avoided the Ancient Master Warrior’s penetrating stare. “We are not talking about a battle of strength and agility—one warrior’s skill pitted against another’s. We are talking about doing battle with a dark lord.”
Marquis Silivasi grunted and gestured angrily with his bloody hand. “And there is absolutely no way for one of us to confront this demon without dying first?”
“It will take a spirit to confront a spirit,” Niko answered softy. He turned to offer a hand to Kagen, and when the healer accepted it, he helped him up. “Help us do this, Master Healer,” Niko implored. “Please.”
Kagen brought the back of his hand up to his eyes and let his head fall forward, struggling to restrain his emotion. He took a slow, deep breath and said, “I’m sorry: I cannot.”
When he started to walk away, Niko and Jankiel gawked in disbelief and then stared pointedly at Nachari with a look of desperation in their eyes.
“Kagen,” Nachari called, “healer…please, come back.” When Kagen refused to turn around, he spoke to his back. “I don’t want to die, brother”—his voice was heavy with conviction—“but I will do this thing with or without you.” He lowered his voice then and whispered, “My chances are far better with you.”
Kagen turned around slowly, and the look of defeat on his face made Nachari’s stomach turn over in waves.
The truth had been spoken…aloud.
Nachari would risk his life to save Napolean, and no one could stop him.
He would fight like hell to survive, but there was no guarantee that he would.
Marquis rubbed the bridge of his nose, appearing suddenly weary as opposed to enraged. He took several steps back and stared at Nachari blankly, his eyes deflecting light like primordial stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was as vacant and hollow as an empty vessel. It was as if he had buried all emotion inside of a tomb. “I have not yet given you my blessing, Nachari.” There was an implied threat of pulling rank in his words. “Nathaniel? Kagen? What say you each?”
Kagen shrugged and threw up his hands as if to say, I surrender. “Above all else, I am a healer for our people. I will help to subdue Napolean. I will even assist in draining his blood until he flat-lines, with the intention of bringing him back to life. And yes, I will do the same for Nachari: I will pump air into my brother’s lungs and circulate it to his brain while he fights in spirit for our king.” He stared at all three wizards, each one in turn, regretfully shaking his head. “But do not ask me to take part in the decision. This, I will not do.”
Nathaniel’s broad chest rose and fell with deliberate slowness. “We are brothers—always—but first, we are subjects, loyal to our king. I will ask this only once, Nachari, and I insist that you speak the gods’ honest truth: Is there any other way?”
Nachari thought long and hard before answering. When he finally spoke, he did it with strength and conviction. “No, there is not.”
Nathaniel stepped forward and pulled Nachari into a hard, unyielding embrace. He brushed the top of his head with a kiss so light it was almost indiscernible. You are loved, he whispered in his mind. “Go forth with my blessing.”
“Thank you,” Nachari said, nearly choking on the raw emotion. He turned to face Marquis then, and the look in the proud warrior’s eyes almost shattered his resolve. If he could have knelt before his eldest sibling, pledged his loyalty, and promised to live a long, healthy life, he would have done it—just to erase the grief in Marquis’s eyes.
But he could not make such a promise.
And so he waited…
Marquis gripped both of Nachari’s shoulders and paused to consider his next words carefully. “I will also allow you to do this thing, but know this, little brother: If you die, I will never forgive you. Remember that.”
Nachari recoiled, gasping. “Dear gods, Marquis…don’t say that. Don’t—”
“Remember that!” Marquis thundered.
Obediently, Nachari declined his head, averted his eyes, and nodded. Marquis was forbidding him to die in the strongest terms he knew. And it wasn’t an empty threat.
Truly, Marquis could not even entertain the possibility of losing another sibling after Shelby, so what was there to argue?
Nachari placed one hand on each side of Marquis’s face. His thumbs gripped the sharp planes of the warrior’s jaw, and he tightened his grasp when Marquis squirmed in an attempt to break free from such an intimate gesture.
“Marquis.”
It was only one word—tenderly uttered—yet Nachari said more in those two syllables than any eloquent speech could have ever conveyed.
Trembling ever so slightly, Marquis slowly leaned forward until his forehead touched Nachari’s. And then he placed his hands over Nachari’s wrists and held them in a grip of iron.
“Come back to me…brother,” he whispered.
nineteen
Brooke felt a sudden release as a powerful current of energy surged through her body, and the pain finally abated.
Dear God, the pain of conversion had been unbearable—unlike anything she had ever felt before. It had started the moment Napolean had bitten into her neck in the meadow, and it had continued long after they had entered the small log cabin by the river. She knew without question that she had died in those horrific hours.
Died.
One organ, one cell, one system at a time had expired, only to be remade by the substance—the venom—that had traveled through her veins like acid, burning away her cherished humanity to replace it with immortality.
She was a vampire now.
Yet the being that had done this to her—the creature that had treated her with such callous indifference—had not been Napolean. It had been a living, breathing demon: a disgusting, writhing worm that had entered Napolean’s body.
How did Brooke know this for certain?
Because the truth had glowed in the thing’s eyes just moments before it had taken possession: Evil had clung to i
ts serpentine form like scales on the tail of a primordial dragon, and the coldness that had enveloped Napolean—his skin, his eyes, his gentle heart—the moment the worm took over, had been in such stark contrast to the warmth she had felt in his kiss.
Brooke blinked several times and pushed hard against the heavy, stone-like chest above her, hoping to finally wriggle free.
The demon gurgled, sighed, and laughed deep in the back of his throat. His razor-like fangs began to retreat from her neck, and she practically held her breath, waiting for the moment she would be rid of their constant invasion.
She gasped for air, drawing desperate, greedy gulps of it into her lungs, over and over, like a drowning woman who had just broken the surface. Napolean—no, the demon—stared down at her through amber and red eyes. He licked his lips, Napolean’s firm, sculpted lips, and moaned.
“Did you enjoy that half as much as I did, my bride?” His voice was almost Napolean’s—still rich and velvet—only heavily laced with strychnine.
“Where is Napolean?” she demanded. She sat up and tested her new body. Would the muscles work? Would the bones support her? Would her respiratory system sustain her? Despite her fears and the imminent danger of her situation, she couldn’t help but register such a monumental change in her physical being. She felt…invincible. Strong. Healthy to her very last cell.
Powerful in a way she had never even imagined.
She could hear nuanced sounds from very far away—subtle shifts in the wind, the rustling of leaves on the branches of quaking aspen trees—and she could smell the scents of all the humans who had stayed in the cabin before her. While they were faint, they were still discernible.
Brooke jolted: Humans?
Had she just said humans?
Dear God, what was she?
What had Nap—the worm-thing—done to her?
The soft pad of a finger traced her bottom lip, jolting her back into the moment. The demon was bending over her now, appraising her with his gaze, staring straight into her soul with his evil eyes. “Please, my love: Call me Ademordna.”
Brooke gagged. She scampered backward on the bed, twisting violently in an effort to break free. All at once, her body slid forward: Ademordna had grabbed her by the ankle and tugged her back beneath him. She kicked at him in vain, her newfound power proving worthless against his otherworldly strength.
“Going somewhere, my lovely?”
Brooke swallowed hard. It was maddening. When she looked at him, she saw Napolean, and something deep in her soul—something that had slowly been awakening from the moment they had connected that day in the canyon by the waterfall—reached out to him.
Needed him.
Knew him on a level more elemental…and real…than any human connection she had ever experienced.
Until the demon had possessed him, she had not truly understood why she had saved him that day on the terrace: why she had chosen his life over her possible escape. Because somewhere deep inside where eternity resides and the soul remembers, she had recognized that her heart belonged to his. That her life had been designed to merge with his. That the very beat of her heart had adjusted to calibrate with his.
Brooke had fought it on both a conscious and unconscious level. But now that his venom had passed through her body, marking and claiming each of her cells as his own, she knew it on an elemental level: A full awakening had occurred.
Brooke jerked her ankle free from the demon’s grip and looked up into his eyes. She was hoping to find Napolean’s dark, mystical orbs somewhere beyond the demon’s gaze. “Napolean,” she whispered tentatively, hoping against hope, “are you in there?”
The male’s eyes softened. He knelt beside her, reached out a gentle hand, and lightly traced the line of her cheek from her ear to her chin. He smiled Napolean’s captivating smile: “Brooke.” His voice purred her name.
And then he brought down his open hand so hard against her jaw that she felt her bones rattle, and blood squirted out of her mouth.
Stunned, Brooke tried to focus. She had to get away. Crawl off the bed. Get to the door. Yes, the door—it was…where? Over there? She turned her head, and the room spun in dizzying circles as black dots danced through the air.
She could hear Ademordna’s laughter in the distance, bouncing off the walls, echoing in waves of madness, rising to the ceiling only to drop to the floor. His heckling was everywhere: deep and cruel and wicked.
He tore his shirt from his body, revealing Napolean’s perfectly sculpted chest. Smooth skin gave way to lean muscle; rib after rib encased hard, molded sinew; and buttons flew all around her, making a sort of popping sound as they fell to the floor.
Another blow to her face. Another open palm. This one stung her opposite cheek before rattling her chin. Damn, it hurt…
Badly.
Her lip felt swollen, and her mouth was numb.
When Ademordna drew back to look at her—to study his handiwork, Brooke supposed—she pulled herself into a sitting position, immediately rotated onto her hands and knees, and tried to crawl away. Once again, he grabbed both ankles and tugged, only this time, she clutched at the pine headboard for support, her fingers clinging to one of the four posts in a death grip. He yanked harder, wrenching her effortlessly from the post, flipping her back over, and pinning her sideways to the bed—her head and feet perpendicular to the headboard. With her arms stretched out above her, she felt like a pagan sacrifice, just waiting for slaughter.
“Napolean…please…” She slurred the words. They didn’t sound right. Her jaw wasn’t working correctly. She reached up to feel it, and saw Ademordna’s open palm swipe down…again.
She tried to retreat…too late.
Darkness. More laughter. Cool air on her skin.
Was he removing her clothes?
“Soon, you will be the mother of the house of Jaegar, my dear queen,” he crooned.
She heard more than saw his jeans come off, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the horror of what was about to happen, but she couldn’t quite connect with it. Perhaps he had truly slapped her silly. Perhaps her soul would not allow it. Maybe her mind was protecting her.
Please don’t, she prayed silently. Not with Napolean’s body. Not with the hands she was just now learning to trust. Oh God, would no one save her?
Her eyes managed to focus on Ademordna’s twin, glowing orbs for just a second, and the look of malice—the pure, unbridled hatred—that stared back at her wrenched a scream from her damaged throat.
He cocked his head to the side. “Hush, sweetling: Do not force me to beat you bloody before I take you.”
Despite the warning, she screamed over and over…and over, the sound escaping as fast as she could take in air.
“Alas, my queen: You do not listen very well.” He bent over her, licked the side of her face with his tongue, and then sat back up…and showed her his clenched fist. A terrifying look of perverse amusement swept over his face as he drew back his heavily muscled arm and snarled.
And then, in one powerful, hateful motion, his arm came down—
Brooke!
An imperious male voice pierced the icy silence. It penetrated her mind with such force that it jolted her out of the cabin, commanding her full attention…coaxing her from consciousness with enormous, magnetic power.
Brooke, follow my voice. Hear only my voice. Stay with me!
It was Napolean.
And he was there…all around her. Surrounding her, encasing her in his warmth, yet not with his body. It was more like—with his soul.
Napolean? She spoke with her mind, and she somehow knew that he heard her.
Yes, it is me, my love.
Where are you?
I do not know, he said. I do not understand. I am not in my body, but my soul is not in a place I recognize, either. Ademordna has scattered it into a thousand pieces—it floats through the cosmos—waiting to be called back. But I have my mind—my consciousness—and you must stay with me until m
y warriors can get to you, do you understand?
Brooke felt like she nodded her head, but she wasn’t sure. There was only pain in her skull and fuzziness in her body. In the physical realm where the dark lord was now…beating her and—
She started to scream again.
Brooke!
This time, Napolean did more than call her—he somehow took her over. He merged whatever piece of his spirit he had access to with hers, and then he held her in an iron grip…far, far away…from the horror of that room.
Come, he beckoned. Stay with me here—in this place between worlds—while we wait. Tell me of your childhood dreams. Let us plan for the future, reminisce about the past, share our stories and our secrets. Merge with me, Brooke.
She did.
And they shared their lives—their pasts, their hopes, their individual dreams for the future. They exchanged precious memories: the first time Brooke rode a bicycle and how badly she had skinned her knees. The first time Napolean had successfully wielded a sword. She told him about her second-grade teacher, Ms. Krenny, and how the woman’s perpetual kindness—and cherry-flavored Lifesavers—had given her young life purpose; and he told her about the time he had met Joan of Arc. He asked about her education—which classes she took, what she loved, what she hated—and then he told her about the rigors of dorm life at the Romanian University.
He learned about Brooke’s career, her plans and aspirations; and she learned about the many nuances involved in governing the house of Jadon. She told him all there was to know about her best friend, Tiffany, and he described several of his most influential subjects.
Time must have truly stood still because it seemed like an eternity had passed when they finally stopped swapping stories…sharing secrets…yet that wasn’t possible: Was it?