by Tessa Dawn
“Mm,” Nathaniel purred, splaying his fingers on the small of her back, “then by all means: proceed.”
Jocelyn turned to regard Keitaro—the male’s paternal instincts were pulsing like virulent waves throughout the room, sending out spirals of protective energy. “Father? Are you okay with this?”
Keitaro Silivasi drew back his shoulders and surveyed the basement with a keen, discerning eye. Just as Marquis had done earlier, he scanned the location of every human and vampire; the placement of every piece of furniture; the potential trajectory of an unlikely, stray bullet, in the event one escaped his sons’ interception. Coming to an instant conclusion, he narrowed his gaze on the barrel of the six-shot revolver, his eyes flashed molten red, and a thin beam of focused red light shot forth from his pupils. Heating the tip of the cylinder—while cooling the rest of the gun—he cauterized the tip of the barrel, essentially welding it shut.
And the humans were none the wiser.
Nodding his head, he stepped to the side, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m good.”
Jocelyn chuckled, then smiled. She stepped forward toward Santa and locked her eyes with his. “Grady Wells,” she said aloud, easily retrieving his name from his mind. She repeated the process with the elf. “Mitch…Dunkin.”
The women in the kitchenette watched with great interest.
“Now then, Grady: What did you order us to do?” Jocelyn asked.
Grady’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his palm began to sweat against the grip of the gun. “How the hell did you know my name?” he snarled, as best as a human could.
Jocelyn slapped him so hard and fast, he reacted to the sound before the pain. He jolted in surprise, his head snapped back, and he staggered where he stood, his dilated pupils growing even wider in surprise. “You…you…witch!” he bellowed. He drew back the hand, holding the revolver, and whipped it forward in an effort to strike her with the gun.
The basement filled with a sudden spike of testosterone as five angry male vampires primed their pumps at once—they didn’t like Grady’s choice of words, or his actions.
Not one little bit.
But Jocelyn was nobody’s damsel in distress.
She pivoted on one stationary foot, rotated out of his reach, and maneuvered to his side. Then she drew back her forearm in a vertical lift and slammed him in the jaw with her fist. Before he could catch his balance, or regroup, she pivoted again; caught his trachea between her thumb and curled fingers; and raised him off the ground, squeezing his throat as he dangled. Her thin, dainty fangs descended from her gums at the sight of his bare, exposed throat, and Nathaniel growled an implicit territorial warning.
Not gonna happen.
At least not today.
In fact… probably never.
While male vampires were conditioned to hunt—and feed—on various human prey, choosing blood types, energy patterns, and gradations of souls based on their imminent needs, they were possessive to their primordial bones, and they preferred their mates to feed from them. If and when males bit their mates, the motivation was likely seduction—not the desire for sustenance.
“Draga mea,” Nathaniel warned. “No.” His voice brooked no argument.
Jocelyn’s fangs receded, and she set Grady down, watching as the terrified human backpedaled until he struck the wall, raised the modified gun, and pulled the trigger: While Mitch, the elf, began to suck his thumb like a toddler—he was either too high, too stupid, or too paralyzed with fear to do anything other than watch…and regress—the idiot, Santa, actually fired the weapon!
Unfortunately for him, the frame cracked and bent; the barrel recoiled, failed, and split down the middle; and his fingers swelled to gnarly proportions, sustaining several nasty bruises and abrasions. He screamed like a teenage girl in a horror film, one who was about to be hacked with an axe. “What the hell are you!” he shouted, staring at his bloody hand. “And what the hell did you do to my gun?”
Marquis couldn’t help but notice—the human no longer looked high.
He had sobered up, real quick.
Nathaniel’s eyes flashed red. His long, jagged fangs shot forth from his mouth. And he glided forward like an angry lion. The human had fired his weapon at Nathaniel’s mate!
Only this time, it was Jocelyn who spun around, held up her palm, and met her mate’s feral glare with a soft entreaty of her own. “Dragul meu,” she parroted, “no.”
Nathaniel halted, even as he trembled with the need to annihilate the human. “We are vampires, one and all,” he purred, answering Grady’s question. Then staring at the human’s injured hand, he added, “And you, my friend, are bleeding.” He licked his lips for effect.
Okay, Marquis thought, so Nathaniel could not pass up the opportunity to make the man wet his pants—which he’d just done—but to Nathaniel’s credit, he didn’t strike.
Jocelyn took three measured steps back, creating some space between herself and Grady, and then she held out her hands, palms up. “Nathaniel…”
Her warrior-mate sidled up behind her, placed both hands on her hips, and breathed into her ear. “Close your eyes, draga mea, and picture the night. See the storm waging outside. While the snow is calm and enchanting, the clouds are constantly moving…churning…feel the warm wet air as it rises, become the cooling condensation…now channel the crystals of ice as they flow back to the ground.”
Marquis knew what his brother was doing.
An ancient vampire—hell, even a fledgling—could harness the elements around him, both intentionally and unintentionally, using nothing more than the kinetic energy from his emotions, but Jocelyn was still fairly new to their race. Nathaniel was helping her harness the energy of the snowstorm.
Her hands began to vibrate, and the tips of her fingers glowed a reddish-gold.
“Good, draga mea,” Nathaniel crooned. “Now turn your hands over…slowly…and focus all the energy into the tips of your fingers. Faster. Stronger. Faster, still.” He watched her hands carefully, and then he placed the tips of his fingers beneath her elbows and channeled a bit more energy for her. When the conflagration was streaming in a steady, throbbing pulse, he whispered, “Now.”
Jocelyn flexed her hands, and ten sizzling bolts of energy, much like lightning, only not quite as strong, shot from the tips of her fingers and struck Grady in the center of his chest.
Nathaniel beamed with pride, even as Grady jerked, convulsed, and collapsed to the floor.
And that’s when Mitch, the wayward elf, completely panicked. Withdrawing his thumb from his mouth, he reached into his lumpy green knapsack and retrieved a sawed-off shotgun. “Go to hell, you nasty blood-sucker!” he shouted, leveling the gun at Jocelyn.
Okay, so the shit just got serious.
Nathaniel lunged forward, as did Marquis, but Keitaro was already there: snatching the shotgun out of Mitch’s hands, bending it into a pretzel, and wrapping it around the human’s wrists like a pair of ordnance-steel handcuffs. He snatched Mitch by the throat and squeezed. “I should end you, human. Right here and right now.” He glanced around the basement, eyeing his beloved family. “But it’s Christmas Eve, and you aren’t worth the energy.” He turned to his youngest living son, Nachari. “Wizard, erase these humans’ memories, replace them with something else, and alter their motor-functioning…just enough…so they are no longer capable of random violence. Then toss them into the night, on the side of a road. We have had enough interruptions for one evening.”
Nachari lowered his head in a respectful nod. “As you wish, Father.”
And that’s when Nathaniel held up one finger. “Wait just one moment, Master Wizard. There is yet one more lesson to teach. He glanced over his shoulder, regarded his wild son, and smirked. “Storm.”
The child drew to immediate attention, and Marquis knew at once what Nathaniel intended to do. Smiling, he turned toward the far end of the basement and crooked his finger as well. “Nikolai.”
The two eager toddlers came forward at their fathers’ commands, waiting for further instructions.
Gesturing toward the human interlopers—one on the floor, still writhing in pain; the other staring at his trussed wrists like a dolt—Nathaniel and Marquis gave the imperious order in unison. “La-i sangele!”
Loosely translated, it meant to seize or claim—to take their blood—a command that would trigger the children’s feral instincts.
What would it hurt? Marquis thought, watching as the tiny nosferatu released their fangs, extended their wings, and flew toward the horrified humans.
While there might be hell to pay with their mothers for using their children as weapons, their fathers wouldn’t let it go too far.
They would simply allow their boys to wet their whistles, practice a little feeding, if only to try out their canines. Besides, Storm could avenge the insult to Jocelyn, and after all, they were Vampyr, not human—they had their own code of loyalty, honor, and punishment.
It was never too soon for the children to learn.
And as for the humans’ mores and customs?
Marquis Silivasi shrugged.
Craciun Fericit la toti, si la toti o noapte buna—
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night…
The asshats had chosen to rob the wrong house.
9
KEITARO
Peace.
Quiet.
And family harmony…
At last.
Keitaro Silivasi sat on the edge of the fireplace hearth next to Vanya, observing his family and feeling truly blessed. Marquis and Ciopori were snuggled together in a single high-backed armchair with the princess nestled on the warrior’s lap. Apparently, the woodshed had done the trick, and all was right in their household. Nathaniel and Jocelyn were on a two-person settee opposite Marquis and Ciopori, and Jocelyn’s legs were draped over Nathaniel’s lap, covered in a soft-beige throw blanket, even as Nathaniel stroked his hand lovingly back and forth over Jocelyn’s knee—he probably didn’t even know he was doing it.
Kagen and Arielle were on the sofa opposite Keitaro, and the two were as perfectly—and seamlessly—matched as wine and cheese: easy, intoxicating, and mellowing to perfection. Arielle rested her head on Kagen’s shoulder, and the healer held her hand with so much reverence, one would have thought she possessed the secrets of the universe concealed in her lifeline. Nachari and Deanna had claimed the second settee, and at least for now, Deanna was seated on the elegant cushions, a blanket over her lap, while Nachari stood behind her, tenderly massaging her shoulders and pausing every so often to brush an affectionate kiss on the top of her head. Her expression was nothing short of serene.
Content.
Grateful.
And while Kristina sat alone on the remaining wingback chair—it would have been nice if Braden could have been there, but it was heartening to know the young vampire was finally spending quality time with his parents—she looked as comfortable and at ease as the soft yellow flame flickering atop a candle on the mantel. For a once-human female who had come from the streets—from a life as a homeless runaway, before she was saved from a Dark One and taken in by the Vampyr—she could not have been more at home. Plainly put: Kristina looked as if she had been born to the Silivasi family.
And didn’t that just warm Keitaro’s heart.
He had all his children around him.
Well, all but Shelby…
But he wouldn’t let his mind drift in that direction, not tonight. Despite missing his destiny, Serena, so much that it sometimes hurt to breathe—as it had for 481 years—Keitaro had his offspring’s undying love; he had their genuine respect; and he had the blessing of their precious children, his beloved grandsons: Keitaro Storm, Nikolai Jadon, Sebastian Lucas, and Shelbie Ryder, the latter named after Keitaro’s youngest son. The children were finally sleeping peacefully—thank the celestial gods—and Keitaro wanted to use this rare, precious moment to somehow convey how deeply he cherished his offspring. He wanted to show each and every vampire in the room just how much they meant to him as their father.
Not being one to squander the moment—to put off for tomorrow what could gratify today—he cleared his throat to command the room’s attention and reached into an oversized blue knapsack lodged beside his feet. “I know we agreed not to buy gifts for one another,” he began, addressing the now-attentive parlor, “that our observance of this particular holiday was mainly for our valued human friends, but I could not forego the opportunity to do something, however small, for each of you, for your families. I wanted to show my respect.” Without delay, he turned to face Nathaniel and Jocelyn. “Son…daughter.” He felt his heart virtually swell with love. “I could not place your entire gift in this sack, so you will have to come by the homestead to get the rest of it. I did, however, bring a replica of sorts.” He handed three color photographs to Jocelyn, watching her intently as she accepted the vivid images, glanced down, and lit up with excitement.
“Oh, Keitaro, thank you, Father!”
He beamed with warmth and pleasure. “You’re welcome. They’re for your aquarium…obviously.”
Prior to meeting Nathaniel, Jocelyn Levi had collected rare, exquisite fish, which had taken her years to acquire. Once mated, Nathaniel had promised to retrieve the entire collection from San Diego and bring it to Dark Moon Vale, as well as to enhance her aquatic treasure trove by building a large tropical atrium on his sprawling estate. Complete with mist, exotic birds, and waterfalls to add to the marine ambiance, Nathaniel had made good on his promise. And now, Keitaro had contributed his own special touch to the collection: a white-and-blue platinum arowana; an enchanting peppermint angelfish; and a gorgeous, horizontally striped, purple-and-orange candy basslet. Having access to the house of Jadon’s resources hadn’t hurt with the $431,000 price tag, but the real benefit had come from being a vampire—Keitaro had been able to get around the required government special permits with nothing more than a wink and a nod, a carefully placed compulsion.
Jocelyn leaned toward Nathaniel so he could see the photographs, pointing at each image one at a time and describing the various fish. She instantly knew what they were. “I love them,” she breathed, her voice raw with emotion. “I absolutely love them.”
Since Nathaniel was not one to be upstaged in skill, expertise, or accumulated knowledge, he had taken a keen interest in each and every species in the aquarium—often going hog-wild on additions to the atrium—and his deep satisfaction was evident. “Thank you, Father.” There was something extra, if not indefinable, in the last word he spoke: Father.
A trace of deep emotion.
A passing hint of angst.
A fleeting recollection of all Nathaniel and his brothers had been through in order to bring their sire home from a world of deprivation and slavery.
Keitaro nodded, and a wealth of love transferred between the two males in that fleeting, intimate gaze.
Keitaro shifted restlessly on the hearth and turned his attention to his eldest son. “Marquis, I have something for you and Ciopori.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Princess Vanya. “And I have something for you as well.” He had to pause to consider his next words carefully, because this gift was truly epic, and there was no adequate way to describe it. He reached into the knapsack and withdrew two plain wooden boxes, each lined in virgin-white silk, and nodded in deference at each of the recipients as he handed over the boxes—first, to Ciopori and Marquis, then to Princess Vanya.
“Marquis’s distant ancestor, Timaos Silivasi, brought this with him from Romania, and it has been passed down in our family for generations. I kept it in a trunk, buried beneath the floorboards of the homestead where you boys grew up”—he swept his eyes around the room—“waiting for the day that you might have destinies and children of your own, in order to pass it down to my eldest son as well. And it just so happens that it will likely have even greater meaning to Ciopori and Vanya.”
Ciopori bli
nked several times, her brilliant golden eyes twinkling with curiosity. She flashed an eager glance at Keitaro, and then slowly opened the box, her eyes immediately scanning the aged, time-worn parchment resting against the silk. She ran a soft, delicate finger over the elaborate Romanian script. “What is it, Father?” She spoke quietly, though her heart was beginning to race.
Keitaro gestured toward the box. “Pages from Queen Jade’s diary—from a journal she kept when she was eighteen years old.”
Ciopori gasped, and Vanya choked back a sob. “This…this is our mother’s diary?” Vanya asked, her hand shooting up to her mouth.
Keitaro smiled and nodded. “Yes, Princess. There were one hundred pages in all. I placed fifty pages in each silk-lined box, after taking them to a bindery to have a conservator-archivist preserve them.”
Ciopori pinched the bridge of her nose in an obvious effort to stave off tears, and Vanya pressed the box to her heart, rose from the hearth, and left the room—her emotion was too raw to contain.
Millennia ago, both Ciopori and Vanya had fled the Romanian castle of King Sakarias in the middle of a stormy night. Desperate to escape Prince Jaegar’s bloodthirsty army—their brother’s bloodthirsty army—they had made it out with their lives, just barely. Soon after, the ancient wizard Fabian had accompanied them to North America, where he’d placed them deep in the ground in an enchanted sleep to await Prince Jadon’s return…and their ultimate awakening.
Only Fabian had never returned.
And neither had Prince Jadon.
The women had remained in the ground for eons, until Marquis Silivasi had—at last, and inadvertently—awakened his destiny from what might have been an eternal slumber. And Ciopori, along with Marquis, had awakened Princess Vanya in turn. To have such a cherished piece of their past—of the castle, of Romania, and of their mother—was truly invaluable.
And deeply stirring to the soul.