She mumbled something about a day of reckoning, and then she stomped out of the room, as gracefully as she could, walking more like a cowboy than an original princess.
2
MILE-HIGH PLANS
Mitch Dunkin took a long, sustained drag off the rainbow-colored bong and held the marijuana in his lungs for as long as he could, eyeing his best friend, Grady, sideways. “Damn,” he finally moaned, drawing out the word. “That’s some mind-blowing ganja, bro.”
Grady reached for the bong. “Hell yeah,” he sputtered. “Alien Dawg from the Platte River Dispensary. That shit’ll knock you off your ass, Mitch.” He took another long hit, set the bong on the raggedy coffee table, and ran a dirty hand through his grungy blond hair, reflecting on the fact that the long, unruly mane was beginning to look like a twice-used mop that someone had dragged across Main Street. He needed to do something about that. “Dude,” he groaned. “I’m so damn high.”
“Me, too,” Mitch echoed. “Mile-high, Grady!”
They both doubled over laughing on the worn-out velvet couch—a twenty-five-dollar special Mitch had picked up from the local Goodwill store—and then Grady glanced at a soggy, curled-up Christmas invitation lying on the floor next to an empty beer can. He reached for the ruined card and brought it a half inch away from his face, as if the up-close-and-personal eyeball would bring the words into better focus. “Hey, Mitch,” he said.
Mitch traced a line of dark-gold stitching along the dirty sofa cushion, wondering when human beings first invented thread. “Wassup?”
“I forgot to tell you; we were invited to a Christmas party!”
Mitch curled his lips into a frown—the concept was way beyond his understanding. “A party? No shit. Where?” He thought about it for a minute, and the idea grew on him. “Are there gonna be any hot chicks there, dressed like candy canes or…or snowflakes?”
Grady snorted. “Nah, dude, not that kind of party. It ain’t at a bar!” He paused to think that through, but lost his train of thought. “And not that kind of invitation.” He tossed the soiled card to Mitch. “Read it.”
“Quit throwin’ shit!” Mitch grumbled, rolling to his side to pick up the paper. He stared at the card and scrunched up his face. “Sepora and Marky’s house? Who the hell are Sepora and Marky? Don’t get it, dude. Christmas—in—Dark—Moon—Vale.” He read the words slowly, pronouncing each syllable separately. “Sounds like some sort of chick-flick to me, some high-society bullshit or somethin’. How do we know these guys?” He began to slur his words as the Alien Dawg took over, launching him into a whole new stratosphere.
Grady laughed uproariously. “We don’t!” He wrapped his arms around his belly and bent forward, clearly overcome by the hilarity of it all; and then he struggled to regain his composure—such as it was. “But, dude, do you know how much money is in that stinkin’ valley? I mean, Dark Moon Vale? Like how rich those suckers are—how much bling there’s gonna be at this silver-and-gold tinsel town shindig?” He sat up, snatched the card out of Mitch’s hand, and sniffed the paper as if he were sniffing a hundred-dollar bill. “I found this on the bank of a river, bro, just outside of Lyons. I think it must’ve floated downstream—like a boat—and you know what I was thinking?”
Mitch’s eyes grew wide as saucers—he needed to pay attention. Grady was about to drop some serious knowledge, secrets of the hidden universe and shit. “No,” he said, sounding as enthralled as he felt. “What?”
Grady nodded his head, one too many times. “I was thinking we could crash this sucker like Bonnie and Clyde—or maybe Barney and Opie… Anyway, we could do some old-school gangsta shit, rob everybody in the room, in and out in five minutes flat. And we’d never have to work again. Hell, we could walk away as billionaires, dude.”
“Billionaires?” The concept blew Mitch’s mind. “Wow. We’d never have to work again.”
“Yep,” Grady groaned. “Gazillionaires…from one freakin’ party.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, bro,” Mitch said.
Grady smiled. “You still got that Colt Single Action Army? The one with the really long barrel and the ivory-colored grip? You know, that O.K. Corral-lookin’ shit.”
Mitch laughed and pointed in the general vicinity of his bedroom door, wagging his finger to indicate his closet. “Hell yeah,” he said. “And you know what?”
“What?” Grady asked. It was his turn to be entranced.
“We wouldn’t even need a mask because I have a Santa suit and an old elf costume, too.”
Grady wrinkled his nose. “What the hell do you have a Santa suit and an elf costume for?”
Mitch smacked his lips and shrugged. “Dunno. It was in the back of the closet when I moved in.”
“Ahhhh…” Grady nodded as if it all made sense then. “Righteous.” A few minutes passed as both twenty-something high school dropouts stared into space, and then Grady finally broke the silence. “So what do you think?”
“’Bout what?” Mitch asked, studying the back of his hand in rapt fascination.
“’Bout gettin’ rich. ’Bout being billionaires, come Christmas. Holdin’ those rich, elitist bastards up at gunpoint. Taking all that money.”
Mitch furrowed his brows. He was getting older now; he needed to think things through like a man, not a kid. “Do we actually have to shoot anyone?”
“I don’t know,” Grady said. “I guess if they act up, we might have to.”
Mitch paused to let Grady’s words sink in—that was some seriously heavy shit. He imagined himself and Grady, dressed in long, black trench coats, cowboy hats, and spurs, rounding the O.K. Corral, and he finally capitulated. “Hell yeah! I think we should do it. I can’t work anymore at the doughnut shop anyway, dude. That shit is making my skin break out.”
“Huh?” Grady asked.
“The grease. All that hot oil in the fryer.”
“Right,” Grady said. “Same with my job. That place is brutal.”
“What job?” Mitch asked, wondering if there was something he’d missed. “You ain’t got a job, Grady.”
“Oh, yeah…”
The two of them shook with laughter.
3
ICE CUBES
Vanya Demir sauntered into the lovely farmhouse kitchen, eyeing all the high-end accoutrements with appreciation: the warm, glowing wood-burning stove in the corner; the custom-made knotted-pine cabinetry with its black wrought-iron hardware; and the stunning views of the valley forest outside the double rustic French doors. She sidled up to the large granite island in the center of the kitchen, took one look at her elder sister’s derriere, and grimaced. “Sister, what is going on with your butt?”
Ciopori sniffed, keeping her eyes focused on the gourmet serrated knife, thick maple cutting board, and basket full of colorful vegetables in front of her. “Nothing. Mind your own business.”
Well that was snippy, Vanya thought, staring once more at the uneven bulges, shallow caverns, and rectangular ridges protruding beneath Ciopori’s skirt. “No,” she said, regretfully. “Can’t do that, sister. There is definitely something going on.” She reached forward, ever so gingerly, as if she were about to test the heat on an iron, and tapped Ciopori’s bulge. “Sister, let me have a look.”
Ciopori slapped Vanya’s hand away and slammed her palm down on the island, keeping her back turned to Vanya. “Stop it! It’s an ice pack, okay? Well, ice cubes in a plastic baggy. Same difference.”
Vanya recoiled, trying to make sense of her sister’s words. How had Ciopori injured her ass? “Good Lords, Princess,” she muttered, “what happened?”
Ciopori’s shoulders sagged, she turned around, and her expression grew sour. “Marquis,” she whispered. “He was not okay with the party or the way we went about it. Are you satisfied, Vanya?”
Vanya drew back, feeling her face flush with heat. “Holy deities, Ciopori, what did that vampire do to you?”
“He spanked me,” Ciopori murmured.
V
anya gawked in surprise. “He spanked you? As in paddled your fanny?” A violent, indecent image flashed through her mind: It involved strange plastic gadgets, Marquis wearing leather, and several empty cans of whipped cream. She quickly swept it out of her mind. “With what!?” she demanded.
Ciopori closed her eyes and sighed. “His hand.”
Vanya bit her bottom lip, considering her sister’s words: ’Twas true—vampires were unnaturally strong, and Marquis was unnaturally overbearing. However, if the Ancient Master Warrior had struck Ciopori’s…bottom…with half the strength he contained in those powerful hands, if he had used the same force he might have applied to a male, he could have done some serious damage: as in a broken tailbone. Black and blue. Blunt-force injuries to musculature.
Surely not…
She nodded, satisfied that he had done no such thing. The domineering vampire had exercised enormous restraint or Ciopori would not be standing in the kitchen slicing vegetables. But still… Marquis loved Ciopori more than his own beating heart. What could have happened between them?
Deciding that she needed more information, she dug deeper: “How many times did he strike you?”
Ciopori opened her eyes and rolled them in annoyance. “Three.”
“Three?” Vanya echoed. “He swatted you on the ass three times? With his hand?”
Ciopori glared daggers through her sister. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? One. Two. Three! Are you having difficulty with the language? Unu. Doi. Trei.”
Vanya suppressed a giggle, once again struggling not to envision the scene. “Did he spank you as hard as he could?”
Ciopori wrung her hands together and frowned. “Of course not, but that’s hardly the point. He swatted me hard enough.” She leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a whisper, not wanting to alert the other destinies, who were minding their own business while working diligently at their various stations around the island. “My cheeks are beet-red; I have Marquis’s fingerprints on either side of my…equator…and it pains me more than I can describe to sit down. Vanya, I am furious!”
Vanya shook her head. She could see that much. “Did you goad him? Yell at him? Throw something at him?” she asked, still trying to figure out the warrior’s motive.
Ciopori flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture. “Not until afterward,” she snipped. “Well, unless you count the candlestick, but he had that coming.”
Vanya grimaced. “Did you run?”
While the question may have seemed irrelevant, it wasn’t. Vampires were predatory creatures at their cores, instinctive, hunting animals. The motion alone could have triggered Marquis’s vampiric instincts.
“Yes,” Ciopori said, “but that is no reason to hit. Isn’t that what we’re trying to teach Nikolai and Lucien?”
Vanya nodded, absently wondering how the kids were getting on at Napolean and Brooke’s royal compound, with the queen and Tiffany Olaru. Bless their generous hearts, they had agreed to keep all the Silivasi youngsters until Christmas Eve, in exchange for Alejándra and her niece, Maria, including Prince Phoenix in tomorrow night’s festivities, allowing him to play with the other children in Marquis and Ciopori’s basement, while the adults entertained each other and their human guests. Prince Paris and Prince Parker were still too young to join their royal brother. “Did you say anything overly provocative?” she asked, returning to the previous subject.
Ciopori waved her hand through the air as if it were the most absurd question Vanya had ever asked. “Only the truth. I told him he was behaving like a little petulant girl; I threatened to divorce him; and I informed him that I, not he, am the alpha-vampire in our house.”
There was a collective gasp in the kitchen, but Ciopori was too focused to notice it.
Too caught up in the recollection to realize that all the destinies were listening…intently.
Vanya bit her bottom lip to keep from bursting out in laughter. “Oh, sister-mine, you said all that to Marquis?” She opened her mouth and then closed it. There was no need to inquire any further. “I don’t think I would even say such things to Saber.” She cocked her head to the side and studied her sister’s strained features. “You do know that these are not human males we’ve mated, correct? While they may be gorgeous—and sexy—and protective, they are also wild, territorial, and savage?”
Ciopori spun around, picked up her knife, and reached for a stalk of celery. She laid it across the cutting board and brought the knife down with a fury. “Oh, we shall see who’s truly savage.” Whack! Slice! Chop-chop-chop. “Whose side are you on, anyway?” She stomped a delicate foot against the hardwood floor. “I would think you would be quite upset with the beast. And I know for certain, if Saber had spanked you, you’d be lusting for blood.”
Vanya nodded.
That much was true.
She frowned, glancing once again at the ice bag. “Why haven’t you just healed the injury with venom?”
Ciopori huffed. “I am not yet that proficient with my incisors,” she explained. “I don’t know if I could produce a sufficient quantity of the substance.” She beheaded another stalk of celery and literally snorted. “And there is no way—not in heaven, nor on earth—that Marquis is getting anywhere near my assets again, not any time soon!”
Vanya drew back and swept her gaze around the kitchen, taking note of the females’ varied reactions: Kristina Riley-Silivasi stood at the opposite end of the granite island, peeling a pile of russet potatoes, and her bright-blue eyes were bulging in their sockets. Jocelyn stood to Kristina’s left, working out the intricacies of gluten-free stuffing, and if she bit her bottom lip any harder, there would be an extra ingredient in the mixture. Deanna stood opposite of Jocelyn, on the other side of Kristina—on the other side of the island—lining up spices for the pumpkin pies, and she looked like she was about to come apart with laughter. And once the dam broke, there would be no putting it back—the gorgeous five-foot-ten artist was practically trembling, trying to hold it together.
And then there was Arielle.
Sweet, docile, dangerous…Arielle, both a warrior and a healer by nature, just like her mate.
She was folding lard into a pie-crust mixture and tapping her foot against the floor like a jackhammer. Vanya couldn’t tell if she was restraining her laughter or restraining the desire to fetch her bow and arrow. Vanya cringed at the thought, deciding to get started on the homemade dinner rolls herself. She’d found a recipe in Betty Crocker—how hard could it be?
Sidling up to the counter between Ciopori and Jocelyn, Vanya leaned back, angled her head to the side, and took one last gander at her sister’s butt—and the words just spilled out on their own. “Honestly,” she murmured, “I’m not sure what upsets me the most. The fact that Marquis tanned your hide or the idea that you could not afford a real, modern ice pack.” She scrunched up her nose. “I think your cubes are melting.”
The entire room burst out in laughter.
And the tip of Ciopori’s serrated knife sank into the board, vibrating from the force of the toss. “Oh, I see how this is going to go…how supportive all my sisters truly are.” She yanked the blade out of the wood and reached for a burlap sack of onions. “’Tis fine. We will have our Christmas gala, and all will go well. I am determined to see this through.”
Laughing so hard she could hardly contain it, Vanya turned to Ciopori, placed her hand on her sister’s wrist—careful to avoid the knife—and waited until the two of them made eye contact. “Sister,” she said sternly. “Tell Keitaro.”
“Yep,” Deanna chimed in. “Sick Papa on him.”
“Mm. Hm,” Arielle agreed.
“Oh, hell yeah!” Kristina added her two cents’ worth.
Ciopori smirked. “I already have.”
Now this made Vanya smile. She released Ciopori’s arm and began gathering the ingredients from her pre-stocked basket. “And what time is the revenge?”
Ciopori adjusted her ice pack and winked. “Keitaro and I will handle his el
dest son after dinner, tomorrow night.”
At this, Jocelyn Levi-Silivasi padded over to the head of the island and placed a supportive hand on Ciopori’s shoulder. “For whatever it’s worth,” she said, “don’t feel too bad, big sister; Nathaniel tries that crap all the time.”
Ciopori and Vanya both recoiled.
“Nathaniel tries to spank you?” Vanya asked. Just what kind of a valley was she living in?
Jocelyn cocked her eyebrows. “Trust me, he doesn’t intend it as punishment.”
Ciopori blanched. “Jocelyn! And you like that sort of thing?”
“BDSM?” Deanna asked, opening another can of pumpkin pie filling.
“No!” Jocelyn insisted, her stunning, striated eyes lighting up like a Bengal tiger’s. “I do not care for any level of pain with my sex—trust me on that one.” She ambled back to her previous place at the counter and gathered some celery and onions of her own to chop for the stuffing. “I do, however, have a bit of a thing for that tall, dark, lethal-as-hell, sexy vampire I mated, wicked imagination and all.” She sighed. “All I said was he tries to spank me; I never said I let him.”
“Yeah,” Deanna said, smirking. “But you never said you didn’t.”
Arielle Nightsong-Silivasi began to roll out her first pastry as she giggled. “Kagen is as passionate and playful as a male can be,” she practically whispered, “but he would never try to spank me.”
“Spoken like a woman who has only been with one guy,” Kristina said. “Even if he is fine as hell and the man of her dreams.”
Deanna Dubois chimed in from her well-organized corner of the island. “Don’t let her tease you, Arielle. Nachari wouldn’t do that either. Never.” She placed undue emphasis on the last word and winked at her copper-haired sister-in-law.