by Tessa Dawn
Brooke couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, that would be great. Halloway could fire me, and then he could ask me out on a date.”
Tiffany snickered. “True. True. Maybe not the best idea.” She paused then. “Brooke?”
“What?”
Tiffany’s voice was all at once serious. “Girl, tell me you are dressed and out of bed…please.”
Brooke rubbed the towel over her thick, shoulder-length hair to speed up the drying process and stared at the ruffled hotel sheets beneath her.
“Brooke?”
“What?”
“Brooke!”
“I’m out of bed.”
“Oh hell, Brooke; you aren’t, are you?”
Brooke sighed. “Okay, okay, so maybe I climbed back in bed, but I’ve already showered and washed my hair…and I’m getting back up…right now.”
“Brooke! I swear—”
“I’m up! I’m up!”
“I’m coming over,” Tiffany said.
“No, you’re not.” This time Brooke spoke with authority.
“What’s the room number again?” Tiffany asked, her voice heavy with insistence.
“Tiff, don’t. I’m twenty-nine years old! I think I can dress myself by now.”
“Room number?” Tiffany’s tone brooked no argument.
Brooke absently glanced at the plastic key-card on her nightstand: Dark Moon Lodge, room 425. She rolled her eyes. “How many times have you been to my hotel room, Tiff?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Missy,” Tiffany warned.
“Fine,” Brook said. “Four—two—five.”
“Be there in ten.”
Brooke laughed. “Make it fifteen and bring me a doughnut? I need some sugar.” She put an extra ounce of pleading in her voice.
Tiffany huffed her annoyance. “Now just where am I supposed to find a doughnut shop in Dark Moon Vale? Have you actually seen one since we’ve been here?”
“No,” Brook admitted, feeling the promise of a nice, sugary-sweet pastry rapidly slipping away. “But I’m sure they have a bakery somewhere. If not, maybe try a local coffee shop or the grocery store. Please?”
“Oh, good grief,” Tiffany grumbled. “The conference starts in forty-five minutes, you’re not even dressed, and your top priority is finding a doughnut!”
Brooke stifled a laugh. “Think of it this way,” she said, ignoring the anxiety-producing reference to time, “maybe you’ll get lucky and there’ll be a specialty souvenir-slash-pastry shop right next to the lodge, fully staffed with big, handsome mountain men.” She groaned. “Big, naked mountain men with huge…axes.”
Tiffany sniggered. “Yeah, that’s going to happen.” She sighed, ruefully. “With my luck, it’ll be fully staffed with toothless, mutated psychopaths, all recently transplanted from The Hills Have Eyes.”
Brooke couldn’t really argue: Tiffany’s luck with men was just that bad. “Just get me a fresh chocolate éclair if you find one, ’kay? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“Maybe,” Tiffany teased, trying to sound maternal. “In the meantime, you just get dressed and concentrate on your presentation. Think about what you’re going to do with all that bonus money when Halloway falls in love with your proposal and offers you the director of marketing position.”
Brooke smiled. Now that would be the perfect outcome. Not that the idea of hot, naked mountain men serving pastries—with big axes—didn’t also rank pretty high on the list. “Oh, and Tiff?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring your black stilettos in case my navy pumps don’t work with my skirt.”
Tiffany giggled on the other end.
“What?” Brooke asked, failing to get what was so funny.
“You have an IQ over 140, yet you still rely on sexy legs to give yourself an edge.”
“Hey, Mama didn’t raise any fools, right?” The moment the words left Brooke’s tongue, she regretted speaking them. Not only were they untrue—Mama hadn’t cared enough to raise anyone—but her mother was a subject better left alone. And thoughts of the heartless woman were not about to steal her joy—or her confidence—this time. Not today. She deliberately made her voice cheery. “Every possible advantage, right?”
Tiffany cleared her throat. “I’m telling you, Brooke, you’re not gonna need it. Anyhow, hop to it; I’ll be there in a few.”
“Okay,” Brooke replied, “see ya soon.” She hung up the phone smiling and took a deep, cleansing breath. She might not have much in the way of family—and boy, was that the understatement of the century; outside of her precious grandma Lanie, there was virtually no one related by blood who cared for her—but she had struck gold when it came to finding a best friend.
And, who knows, maybe Tiffany was right: Her presentation was going to be a knock-out. Halloway was going to fall in love with her ideas, every bit as much as her sexy shoes. And the conference in Dark Moon Vale was going to go off without a hitch.
Brooke rubbed the towel energetically through her still damp hair, tousling the thick, heavy strands as she grinned. If all went well, in less than ten hours, she would be headed home to San Francisco with a tentative contract in her hand and an even brighter future on the horizon.
Tiffany was absolutely right.
What could possibly go wrong?
two
Salvatore Nistor raised his arms languidly above his head, crossed his feet at the ankles, and sank deep into the comfortable mattress in his underground lair as he replayed the events of the previous night in his head. He could still see the female he had used…and exterminated…so vividly in his mind. He could still taste her fear, and the thought hardened his groin even now.
She had been standing beside her car in a grocery store parking lot, fumbling with her keys, so tempting and unaware. Her ample chest had risen and fallen with each shallow breath, such a willing victim just crying out, Take me! Choose me!
And Salvatore had been quick to oblige her.
In one lightning quick move, he had snatched the human by her arm, sent her groceries scattering to the ground in random piles of rubbish, and flown the two of them behind the building to a nice secluded area.
“Please,” she had whispered in a terrified voice as desperate tears had rolled down her cheeks.
Salvatore licked his lips as he remembered how he had snarled back at her, “Please what!” The female had been as beautiful as she was…stupid. But that was to be expected, as all humans were pathetically inferior to vampires. Salvatore had pressed his finger to her lips and made a shushing sound, glaring at her with eyes he had known were gleaming red. “Quiet. Not a word,” he had commanded. “Do not move, and do not speak a word.”
He had allowed his fangs to elongate then—slowly, for effect—before lifting her trembling wrist to his mouth and dragging the sharp points of his canines lengthwise across her vein. A small line of crimson had trickled along the creamy white skin of her forearm, and he had quickly lapped it up with his tongue, groaning at the exquisite taste of freshly drawn blood.
Mmm, he moaned even now, growing restless on the bed.
He let out a deep breath, remembering how he had invaded her mind, forcing his way into her memories in order to retrieve her name.
Jane.
Ah, yes, his delectable prize had been named Jane.
He could have sworn Jane’s knees had literally buckled as she had swayed before him then, nauseous from the sight of her own blood, nearly passing out from fright.
But she hadn’t passed out.
She had stood perfectly motionless. Deathly quiet. Like an obedient female should.
“Good girl,” he had murmured, impressed.
He had scanned her fine features next—her soft lips and pale blue eyes, the high inset of her cheekbones, which gave her a model’s appearance—and then he had frowned, thinking it a pity that he would have to kill her before he could thoroughly enjoy her—say, for at least a week or more—if he could avoid getting her pregnant that long.
He
sighed, releasing the pang of regret; after all, duty was duty, and time had been of the essence: Oskar’s orders were to kill, not capture.
In fact, Oskar Vadovsky, the Dark Ones’ new chief of council, had made all of his instructions explicitly clear: “Drop enough bodies in the streets of Dark Moon Vale to terrify the local humans; create enough pandemonium in the towns to rile up the hidden vampire-hunting societies; and let the humans come after their foolish enemies—the sons of Jadon, who live on the surface—while we, the sons of Jaegar, remain safely hidden beneath the earth.” In other words: Exact revenge on Napolean Mondragon for the damage he inflicted on the colony.
Salvatore snarled, remembering the wretched king of the house of Jadon and all he had wrought upon the house of Jaegar—the utterly humiliating ass-kicking he had given all of them the day he and a handful of his warriors had come to rescue Princess Ciopori from Salvatore’s lair. The day Marquis Silivasi and his crew had slaughtered fifty of the Dark Ones’ children, even as the young ones had slept in their cribs.
A deep growl reverberated in his throat, his desire for revenge rising like bile.
As if the murder of their children had not been enough, Napolean Mondragon had single-handedly slain eighty-seven of their soldiers as the males had chased him through the tunnels on his way out of the colony. The haughty king had harnessed the power of the sun—underground, of all things—in order to incinerate his pursuers deep in the heart of their own home—where they should have been safe from burning!
Salvatore ran his tongue over his canines and tried to force the memory from his mind…back to more pleasant recollections.
Back to the night before…
Back to Jane and the way he had snarled at her like a feral animal when she had tried to back away, whimpering at the pain in her wrist.
“You think to escape me, female?” he had thundered.
She had not been such a good girl after all.
“I’m sorry,” she had whined like a baby, clearly not understanding what quiet meant.
Salvatore had cuffed her then, and the impact of his blow had sent spittle mixed with blood spewing from her mouth. “Not a word!” he had repeated, searing her with a harsh glare.
Horrified, she had covered her mouth with both hands, struggling to stifle a scream, and then her legs had given way and she had fallen to her knees, shuddering like an idiot. For a moment, Salvatore had simply watched her—kneeling in the dirt, squirming like a worm—but his patience had not lasted. Jane had moved when he had told her to be still. She had spoken when he had warned her not to make a sound. And she had more or less worn on his last nerve…just because she had. He had been determined to punish her for her insolence.
He laughed now, thinking about it.
They had been such minor infractions, really.
But it simply didn’t matter.
Defiance was defiance, and his enemies never went unpunished.
His lips twitched, and he sat up on the bed, contemplating the importance of that truth: Napolean Mondragon would not go unpunished either. He could not go unpunished. The Dark Ones would have their revenge, and Salvatore would benefit, politically, in the process. He would pay Marquis Silivasi back for taking Ciopori from his lair. He would appease Oskar Vadovsky by demonstrating his superior knowledge of Dark Magick. And he would regain the respect of the remaining council members—the two who had witnessed his own unspeakable degradation—by doing what had never been done before: He would kill Napolean Mondragon, the ancient, heretofore invincible leader of the house of Jadon.
His plan couldn’t fail.
It was too well constructed.
Salvatore had paid too much homage to the Dark Lords of the underworld for their favor in the matter—their assistance in his wicked scheme—and the demon lords would help him. So far, they were delivering handsomely.
Salvatore exhaled.
He stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders, allowing the tension to ease. All in good time. It would all happen in good time.
Once again, he returned his attention to the night before, conjuring the image of a delectable silhouette: the body of the squirming woman still kneeling beneath him, trying desperately to crawl away.
The game had become fun then.
Salvatore had waved his hand, turned on his heels, and started to walk away—pretending as if he were finished with the night’s festivities: He had intentionally given Jane a small measure of hope, a slight window of time in which she almost believed she might escape.
“Ha!”
He laughed aloud, recalling the scene in exquisite detail, the way that Jane had played along so beautifully. She had leapt to her feet—quite adeptly, actually—and taken off running with a strength of purpose that was…well, shocking. And kudos to her for trying. She had even let out an ear-piercing scream, a cry for help so desperate it might have possibly reached the heavens.
But her god hadn’t come to rescue her, and neither had anyone else.
Salvatore lifted the tip of his finger, extended a jagged talon to his mouth, nicked his bottom lip, and tasted the blood, sighing.
The memory was positively erotic.
The female had taken five solid steps—five enormously wide strides—before Salvatore had caught her. He had grasped a handful of her fine, strawberry blond hair in his fist and yanked her back against him. And then he had spun her around by the shoulders, clutched her by the neck, and forced her to face him. “Look at me!”
It had been an imperious command, possibly a little overdramatic.
Of course, he had also scanned the area around them for the presence of others—not that he had been worried about humans; he could always erase their memories if he had to—but he had to be wary of the sons of Jadon, the privileged vampires. If one of them had heard her scream, Salvatore would have been forced to fight. And she was hardly worth it.
Confident that her cries had gone unheard, he had tightened his grasp on her throat, hauled her solidly beneath him, and bent to drink from her neck.
She had truly become hysterical then, beating her hands against his chest and twisting her torso back and forth in a frantic attempt to break free; and all the while, her heart had pounded like a bass drum, threatening to explode in her chest as her tears had fallen like raindrops.
She had begged for mercy, her entire being consumed with terror.
And then instantly, albeit noiselessly, a puddle of pale liquid had pooled on the ground beneath her. Annoyed—actually, disgusted—Salvatore had withdrawn his fangs and quickly shuffled out of the way. He had been wearing a brand-new pair of Testoni Norvegese shoes—not to mention a six-hundred-dollar pair of black linen pants—and the last thing he needed was some human urinating on his crisp, expensive outfit.
He had to admit, the female’s inability to control her bodily functions had really been a buzz-kill; she had almost completely squelched his desire to play.
Almost.
He sighed, musing. If only he could terrorize Napolean Mondragon the same way. Imagine, forcing the arrogant king to wet himself and beg for his life…before killing him: Now that would be worth all the spells in the Blood Canon!
Salvatore’s hands slowly curled into fists at the mere mention of the ancient book of Black Magic. He had possessed the Blood Canon for nearly eight hundred years, and the dark treasure had been his greatest acquisition. His most prized possession. He ground his teeth together. Nachari Silivasi had stolen the book the same day Napolean had killed eighty-seven of the house of Jaegar’s warriors.
In fact, Nachari Silivasi, along with that headstrong tyrant Marquis, had murdered Salvatore’s beloved little brother Valentine even before then—
Stop! Salvatore told himself.
Do not go there!
Not now.
He was surprised by his pathetic lack of discipline. He was getting far too worked up when he needed to stay focused on the here and now. The others would pay.
They would all pay.
Starting with their insufferable king.
Oh, to hell with it, Salvatore growled. He would not restrain his fury! He would not control his thoughts! He would ruminate on his hatred. Feed his sweltering thirst for revenge until it grew into a living, breathing entity with a life of its own.
He would continue to delve into the heart of Black Magick, to beseech the assistance of the dark lords to mess with Napolean’s head—sending him nightmare after garish nightmare, day after endless day—conjuring ever more vivid images of the ghostly apparition Napolean believed to be his father until the worthless king’s mind was so twisted with guilt and confusion that he didn’t know which way was up, what was real and what was illusion.
Napolean Mondragon would ultimately bend to the will of Salvatore Rafael Nistor just as the useless human female had bent to his will last night!
His chest heaved with the raw power of his conviction, and he salivated over his final tryst with Jane, turning each delectable detail over in his mind, savoring the memory of every precious moment one last time. He had punished her for wetting her pants by slowly carving a macabre outline into the delicate flesh of her throat…watching…anticipating…while blood streamed down her neck, across her shoulder, and along the swell of her right breast. Oh, how he had relished the taste—sucking the tender flesh of her nipples as they had slowly marinated in her blood.
The female had opened her mouth to cry out in anguish, but no sound had come out. Salvatore had stolen her voice, and damnit, if her silent pleas hadn’t turned him on.
He had thrown her down to the ground then—careful to avoid the noxious puddle she had made in her moment of weakness—as he tore off her soiled clothes. Gazing down into her pale blue eyes, he had brought his lips to hers and kissed her harshly—a small token of mercy as women liked that kind of thing—and then he had pierced her bottom lip with his fangs so he could drink from her mouth as he took her.
The union had been perfect.
Shocking, painful, uninhibited.
She had begged him to kill her—and he had almost shed a tear.
“Soon, my lover. Very soon,” he had whispered in her ear.