Blood Possession

by Tessa Dawn

  Napolean smiled.

  Marquis growled. “Go home, woman. We have important things to discuss here.”

  At that, Ciopori punched him in the arm, and to her credit, she didn’t draw back her fist to rub bruised knuckles. “Do not push your luck, warrior,” she chastised softly, still smiling. Then, she swung around, bent down, and planted a sound kiss on Marquis’s lips before sauntering out with Nikolai in her arms.

  Marquis’s face remained hard, but Napolean could have sworn he saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile. This was good—very good. All was well with the Silivasi family for the first time in years.

  Returning his attention to the room, Napolean crossed his arms and regarded the warriors as a whole. The males quickly stood at attention. “If there are no more interruptions,” Napolean said, “then I would like to get on with the meeting. Ramsey, do you have the report I requested?”

  Ramsey Olaru pushed off a large column he was leaning against and slowly removed a thin reed of grass from between his teeth. As he made his way to the front of the room, he rolled his head from side to side, popping his neck to release tension, his cold, calculating eyes staring straight ahead.

  The six-foot-five sentinel was a stormy combination of tightly wound energy and barely leashed aggression in his most relaxed state of mind, a countenance at complete odds with his looks: While, for all intents and purposes, one could argue that something had gone terribly wrong in Ramsey’s childhood—perhaps he had taken a dark turn during his studies at the University—he had the face of a GQ model. A very large, dangerous, somewhat unstable GQ model. His massive shoulders were contrasted by a fall of chin-length, dark blond hair that he kept flawlessly tapered to frame his face; and his solid frame of titanium muscle was encased in baby-smooth skin that remained perpetually tan, though he made no effort to keep it that way. And while women might faint at the sight of his rather…sensual…mouth, every warrior in Dark Moon Vale knew the guy would just as soon rip your head off with his bare teeth than look at you. There was nothing mellow or soft—or GQ—about Ramsey Olaru.

  “Evening, milord,” Ramsey drawled, turning to face the other warriors.

  Napolean nodded and stepped to the side, careful to keep Ramsey in his sights. Not that any of the valley’s three sentinels were anything but loyal to the death, but it simply went against instinct to turn one’s back on a wild tiger.

  Ramsey placed one foot on the seat of the nearest chair, rested an elbow on his knee, and glanced at the notes he held in his hand. “Got a few stats,” he said, and then his eyebrows creased and his face went deathly serious. “As best we can project, based on the schematics Marquis, Santos, and Nathaniel drew up, we believe there are at least fifteen hundred of our Dark Brothers living beneath the Valley.”

  Someone whistled low beneath their breath, and a few of the warriors shifted in their seats. Resulting from the abduction of Princess Ciopori by Salvatore Nistor, the discovery of the Dark Ones’ underground colony had been a shock to everyone. For centuries the sons of Jadon had believed their Dark Brothers to be scattered, nomadic, and living out of caves, yet nothing could have been further from the truth. And now that they had been discovered, the Dark Ones were wreaking havoc in the local towns and villages.

  “There have been at least seven murders that we know of since we rescued the princess—and that’s just within the last thirty days.”

  Marquis Silivasi clenched and released his fists, and Napolean gave him a reassuring nod. You will have your revenge, warrior. The king spoke on a private bandwidth. We all will. He held Marquis’s stare for a moment before turning back to regard Ramsey. “And you believe the purpose of these murders is to stir up fear among the humans, to place suspicion on those of us who live on the surface, who walk in the sun?”

  “We do.” Ramsey nodded.

  “Or just for the hell of it,” Nathaniel Silivasi added from the back of the room.

  Napolean made a tent with his hands and pressed his fingers to his lips. “And how well is this being contained?”

  Saxson Olaru, Ramsey’s fraternal twin and another one of the three sentinels, stood up and bowed his head in deference.

  “Speak freely,” Napolean urged.

  One by one, Saxson made eye contact with the other males. “The new crews are working pretty well.” He gestured toward a tall male with a dark, military buzz cut sitting next to Kagen Silivasi. “Our teams of trackers and medics are getting to the murder scenes and analyzing the evidence—time of death, type of injuries, etc.—fairly quickly, usually before the humans find the bodies. But in those rare cases where we don’t get there first, our cleanup crews are containing the scenes, erasing the memories of the local authorities, and taking control over the situation in less than twelve hours…max. Once we have the bodies incinerated and the DNA cleaned up, our wizards go in to deal with the families and friends—they create new scenarios to explain the deaths, add memories of funerals…relevant histories…whatever is necessary so we don’t end up with a missing persons epidemic on our hands. But I have to say, this is the really difficult and time-consuming part: The tendrils of a life are like the branches of a tree, touching dozens of others, sharing an intricate system of roots. It takes a lot of time and energy to flush out all the central relationships of one human being: best friends, family, lovers, teachers…those who are going to care enough to make some waves.” Saxson glanced at Nachari Silivasi, who was sitting next to his brother Nathaniel, listening with rapt attention. “Right now, it’s a full-time job for the wizards, and that can’t be sustained.”

  Napolean followed Saxson’s gaze. “Nachari?”

  The youngest Silivasi brother and the only Master Wizard present at the meeting stood up.

  “Do you have anything to add?” Napolean asked.

  Nachari lowered his head in a slight decline, a gesture of acknowledgment and deference to the king, and then he let out a deep breath. “Saxson is right, but it’s more than just a bit exhausting—I don’t think any of the practitioners of Magick would complain about that piece of it. The real problem is the risk being taken by our community as a whole…the resulting vulnerability.”

  Napolean knew exactly what Nachari was referring to. The energetic cost of supplanting human memories was higher than that of simply erasing them. Such a feat required the vampire to take blood from each person whose memories he or she wanted to manipulate, and the more blood a wizard took, the more random energy that wizard absorbed from the host. A Master Wizard needed to keep his vibration in perfect alignment with the universe at all times in order to perform Magick at will. Should the Master’s energy be too…compromised…at any given time, he might not be able to perform a much more important duty when called upon. In other words, Magick required alignment; alignment required pure Celestial energy; and pure Celestial energy required a balanced Wizard. Consuming the blood of dozens of scared, confused, and potentially grieving humans altered that balance. And that altered the Wizard.

  Napolean began to pace back and forth in front of the room as he considered the dilemma. “Nachari, explain what happens to the other warriors.”

  Nachari nodded. As was so characteristic of all the Silivasi brothers, his thick, dark hair fell forward as he began to speak. “As you wish, milord.” He turned to face the other males. “Whenever a wizard attempts to alter complex memories…”

  As the bright young wizard continued to speak, his words and image began to fade out.

  It was as if the room had become a scene in a 3-D movie, and the director had suddenly retracted the lens and zoomed out of the picture…

  And then a much narrower image began to come into focus, a strange, unsettling frame containing the shadowed figure of a man, an ancient being who had died over twenty-eight hundred years ago: Napolean’s father, Sebastian Mondragon.

  Napolean swallowed a gasp, hoping to conceal his alarm at the sudden, unexplained appearance of the apparition in the room. Similar manifestations had bee
n occurring far too often recently, and he was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t suffering from some sort of exhaustion…or paranoia…if his years on earth were not beginning to warp his mind.

  He could still see Nachari speaking out of the corner of his eye, and all the males seemed to be focused on the young vampire, carefully weighing his words. No one seemed to notice the dark, imposing man at the back of the room

  Father? Napolean tried speaking to the male using telepathy.

  The shadow turned his head quickly in an angry, undulating motion, his eyes locking indelibly with his son’s. Yes, he answered.

  Napolean took a step back.

  Son… The being spoke again.

  Napolean blinked rapidly, trying to erase the image from his vision, but the man still stood there…looking young and alive…much like he had the last time Napolean had seen him. Right before he had been beheaded.

  Napolean swallowed a lump in his throat. Is it really you?

  The being laughed. Why did you let the Dark Prince murder me, Napolean? Was I not a good father to you? Could you not have attempted to save me?

  Napolean was utterly stunned by the words, and it took him a moment to reply. I…I was only ten years old, Father.

  You were a Mondragon, son! The future leader of our people! There was so much I still needed to teach you—so much life left to be lived—yet you stood there like a frightened child…and watched as I died!

  Napolean was flabbergasted. I didn’t watch. I didn’t…know. I didn’t understand.

  The tall male slowly shook his head and gazed down toward the ground, his face revealing such grave disappointment.

  Napolean swallowed hard, and his heart sank into a hollow place in his chest. He had to make his father understand. He had to convince him. I couldn’t have saved you, Father. I was too far away. It happened so fast—

  Sebastian raised his hand to halt Napolean’s speech. Do you think you were the only one who felt fear in that moment? The only one who suffered on that fateful day?

  Napolean felt the breath leave his chest. No—of course not. “No!” He didn’t realize he had spoken aloud.

  Sebastian looked up and smiled, and then his expression dimmed. Oh son, how I have regretted your weakness in that fateful moment, mourned for the courage you did not possess. Wondered how I failed you.

  Napolean staggered back.

  “Milord.” Someone spoke his title.

  Did I not teach you the ways of our people—the ways of a warrior? his father continued. After so many years—preparing at my side for combat on the battlefields—even at ten years old, your first instinct should have been to confront the enemy.

  “No!” Napolean argued. “You…you wanted me to run…when it all began…you told me—”

  Oh, Napolean… The image of his father wavered, flashing in and out. I wanted to live, son! And then, he simply faded out of view, his voice—and disappointment—echoing through the hall like a ghost’s lament.

  “Milord.” The voice seemed to belong to Marquis Silivasi, but Napolean could not divorce himself from the confrontation with his father long enough to tune it in.

  “Wait!” Napolean shouted. He stepped forward. “Father?”

  “Milord!” This time, Marquis Silivasi reached out and grabbed Napolean by the arm; then he just as quickly let go.

  Startled, Napolean turned to face Marquis: The warrior’s face was ashen and his brow was deeply furrowed. He blinked rapidly, staring at the ancient warrior.

  “Napolean?”

  Ramsey stepped to Marquis’s side and reached out a steadying hand. He placed it on Napolean’s shoulder.

  Napolean stepped back. “Do not!” He waved them both away. “I’m fine,” he muttered, working quickly to regain his composure. “I’m fine.” His eyes swept across the room. The hall had become deathly silent, and the realization of what he had just done—speaking aloud to the ghost of his father—was almost as distressing as the look of alarm on the faces of his warriors.

  All eyes were transfixed upon him.

  Except for one vampire’s…

  Nachari Silivasi stared pointedly toward the back of the room, measuring the empty space where the apparition of Napolean’s father had just stood, a subtle look of wariness in his eyes.

  The wizard had seen something, too.

  Just what, Napolean was almost afraid to ask.

  Almost.

  Gods, he hoped Nachari had not heard his father’s words, but he had to know: There was no point in avoiding the possibility. Did you hear something, Nachari? He spoke on a private, telepathic bandwidth, his psychic voice both stern and unyielding—an unspoken command to reply with the truth, no matter what it might be.

  No. Nachari was quick to reply—almost too quick. And although he appeared to answer honestly, there was a slight hesitation in his voice, and his deep, forest-green eyes darkened with intensity.

  Napolean sighed. He might as well face the subject head-on. “Do you wish to say something, Nachari?” He spoke loud enough for all the males to hear. If something was going to surface, it might as well come out here and now. He would rather go on the offensive than wait around to hear whether or not the youngest Silivasi had witnessed any form of his shame.

  Nachari paused for what seemed an eternity, and then he slowly shook his head. “No, milord.” But there was an odd curiosity in the wizard’s eyes: a deeper wisdom emerging.

  A question not yet answered.

  Nachari might not have seen Sebastian, but he had sensed something.

  “What’s going on, milord?” Ramsey asked, his voice heavy with concern.

  Napolean shook his head and held up his hand. “It is finished,” he said, and that was that. No one would question him further.

  Ramsey and Marquis exchanged curious glances, but neither spoke a word.

  “Now then,” Napolean said, clearing his throat in an abrupt change of subject. “I would like five teams of warriors to go out into the local towns tonight in hunting parties. If the Dark Ones are bent on their murdering rampage, we will be there to meet them.” He turned to regard Kagen. “Master Healer, there is word that another human was found, the body of a woman, raped, murdered, and drained behind the corner grocery in Silverton Park. The remains were taken to the basement of the lodge for analysis and incineration. I would like to meet you there tonight—I want to see what was done for myself.”

  Kagen nodded.

  Napolean turned to Nachari then. “Master Wizard, you will personally attend to the family of this victim. Until we have a better option, supplanting memories is still necessary. I have shared our predicament with the high council in Romania, the fellowship of wizards, and they share your concerns. If we cannot find an adequate solution to the problem of energy imbalance, they can at least send us more Master Wizards to help until the crisis is over.”

  Nachari nodded and took his seat. “As you wish.”

  “Very well,” Napolean continued, eyeing the other males in the room, “if it is possible to capture a Dark One alive, then do so. However, it is our goal from this day forward to see to their ultimate extermination. If we cannot destroy the colony beneath us without significant risk to the earth or its human inhabitants, our way of life, we can at least exterminate our enemy one by one.” He turned to face Marquis, who was still standing in front of him. “Marquis, you and Ramsey see to the ongoing training of the hunting teams. You will share command of the tactical units and adjust strategy as necessary.”

  Marquis nodded and turned to Ramsey. “Can you remain for a while after the meeting? I would like to go over some unfinished details.”

  Ramsey agreed and reluctantly went back to his seat, his cold, calculating eyes taking full measure of Napolean one last time with a note of apprehension before he turned away.

  Napolean straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. “If that is all, this meeting is adjourned.”

  As if perfectly choreographed, each warrior stepped back on his left
foot with military precision and placed his right hand over his heart. All eyes remained respectfully averted while Napolean left the room.

  Relieved to be out of the stifling hall and done with the meeting, Napolean immediately headed for the door that led back to his manse.

  What in the hell had just happened?

  As he reached for the ornate iron handle, he slowly exhaled, remembering the look in Nachari Silivasi’s eyes: The male had answered him honestly, and he had shown the proper respect, but he knew how the wizard’s analytical mind worked. Nachari may not have seen or heard Sebastian clearly, but he had picked up on the errant energy, and he wouldn’t stop turning it over in his mind until he put two and two together.

  Celestial gods, this could only mean one thing, Napolean thought.

  The image he had seen was real.

  As impossible as it seemed, somehow, the father he had failed to save on that wretched day when the sons of Jadon and Jaegar had been cursed was back.

  And he was deeply ashamed of Napolean’s cowardice.

  Napolean hung his head in disgrace. Dear gods, was he really responsible for his beloved father’s death?

  four

  Brooke tossed her luggage in the back of the cab and joined Tiffany in the backseat, ready to head to the airport. The day had gone better than expected, and for all intents and purposes, the annual conference had been a hit.

  She settled into the stiff vinyl seat and tried to get comfortable for the long ride to DIA. Their plane didn’t leave until 11:00 the next morning, so they would have to spend one more night in a hotel by the airport. But she didn’t mind so much. The view was spectacular this time of year, so many auburn, rust, and yellow leaves dotting the landscape as groves of aspen and evergreen trees lined the narrow mountain roads on the way down from the pass. The ride would be a gift of sorts, a gentle reminder of the power…and unabashed beauty…of nature, of her humble place in the whole scheme of things.

  Brooke liked being reminded of the big picture.