by Tessa Dawn
“If that is truly your wish.” He drew back his arm, sat back in his seat, and turned to look out the window, seemingly unaffected.
Brooke doubted there was much that could affect this man, if anything.
If that is truly your wish?
Had he actually complied that easily?
Was he really that agreeable?
She bit her bottom lip and almost dared to hope. “Could you take me back to the hotel, please? Napolean?” She spoke respectfully, using his name for effect—somehow understanding that he was accustomed to being addressed with great deference.
“I’m sorry, I cannot.” His eyes were kind but stern, his resolve unwavering.
Brooke frowned, and then she shook her head, trying to throw off the mesmerizing cadence of his voice. “Um, why not?”
He smiled then, and it was as if the full glory of the moon had taken residence in the car. “Because you are my destiny, and there is much we must learn about each other in a very short amount of time.”
Brooke jolted. “Excuse me?” Before he could answer, she started to protest. “Um, I can pretty much guarantee you that whatever this destiny thing is, I’m definitely not that person. I mean, no offense; you seem like a really…interesting guy and all, but”—stop it, Brooke—“truly, I just want to go home.” Her eyes started to fill with tears. Damnit, she did not want to cry. She did not want to appear as afraid as she was. Brooke knew better than to give a predator an invitation to pounce—not even one who projected utter nobility and self-control.
She shivered as she lost the battle with her emotions, and the wet evidence of her fear began to roll down her cheeks. “Please…” Her voice trembled. “Please…I just want to go home now.”
The phrase, once spoken, had a transformative effect, jolting her from the present, catapulting her into a distant, painful past…
I just want to go home now.
These were no longer the words of a twenty-nine-year-old woman—the request of a confident, accomplished professional—but the pitiful plea of a six-year-old child who had spent seven days in a small, secluded cabin by a lake…with a predatory stepfather.
These were the words of a smart, resourceful kid who had flattered, cajoled, and pleaded her case—for six long, excruciating nights—in a desperate attempt to outlast, outwit, and outmaneuver a sick, twisted grown-up into taking her back home to her mother…in a life-and-death battle to survive.
And these were also the words of an eight-year-old girl who, two years later, had sat on a hard, wooden bench in a cold courthouse in order to testify against that same evil man—to tell the world what had happened in that cabin and how she had survived—in order to insure that the monster was locked away in a dungeon for a very long time. She had repeated the entire grueling ordeal only to watch her own mother turn away from her in disgust, never to speak to her again…as if somehow, she had been to blame. If it hadn’t been for her late grandma Lanie, who took her in and raised her as her own, Brooke would have had nowhere to go.
Her tears fell like raindrops now, and she looked away, once again feeling very much like that frightened, abandoned little girl.
“Brooke.”
She heard her name as if from a great distance, but she was too far away to respond.
“Where are you, Brooke?” The man’s voice was soothing yet commanding at the same time.
Brooke blinked, then wiped her nose, staring blankly at the man in front of her. “Huh?”
She felt a sudden push…an invasion…like her mind being filled with stiff cotton, and then just as abruptly, the sensation disappeared, and the man’s expression hardened, his features a mixture of anger and resolve.
“Please,” she whispered, despising herself for her weakness. “Please let me go. I just—”
He touched his forefinger to her lips and slowly shook his head. “Shh.”
Somehow, his touch brought her back from the past. Supplanted the girl with the woman. Replaced yesterday with today. And as her bearings came back, her temper flared.
She would rather be dead than grovel!
She would rather risk her abductor’s rage than ever…ever…beg another man for her well-being again.
Brooke squared her chin and forced her tears to stop falling. Staring Napolean straight in the eyes, she gritted her teeth and spat her words. “If you think you’re going to hurt me, you will have to kill me first. So maybe you had better find a different plaything—destiny—because I’d rather be dead than a victim, and I will fight you to my last breath.”
The man’s expression was unreadable. He regarded her thoughtfully, and then his lips drew back and his canine teeth began to lengthen.
Brooke shrieked in surprise. She tried to hurdle the seat into the rear of the truck, but he caught her with one hand and easily placed her back beside him. As she sat there stunned, panting, and wishing like hell that she had a gun, he placed his hand over his mouth, closed his eyes, and then slowly lowered it back down in order to speak.
The sharp, ivory fangs were gone.
“I have no doubt that this is true, my angel, but you must trust me when I tell you—you are not a plaything. And this is not a game. I have no intention of harming you.”
Brooke opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Sometimes silence was golden.
“Rest now,” he whispered in a rich, singsong voice. “There is so much I need to explain to you, and I will. I promise. But you are in no state of mind to receive it just yet. Sleep, and be at ease.”
Brooke felt her eyelids grow heavy, and she yawned unwittingly. “But…I don’t…” Her words drifted off as exhaustion overwhelmed her. She thought she saw the man reach out for her; and then all at once, she felt a tender tug, and her head fell back against a strong, well-defined arm. As her consciousness faded, she became vaguely aware of his commanding presence, the power of his touch; and she could have sworn she heard his voice drifting all around her, floating as if inside her, asking her strange questions about her stepfather—his name, his occupation, his birthday…
Why his birthday, she wondered.
The strange question faded away as she gently nestled into his beckoning warmth and drifted off to sleep.
Brooke’s stepfather was named Angus Monahan.
Adams must have been Brooke’s mother’s maiden name.
And his date of birth was October 13, 1956.
Napolean let the information settle into his consciousness, seep into his pores…knowing he possessed the power to do what no other vampire could do—kill a human being from a distance. He sat back in his seat and pondered: What was he to do with Angus…
As the sovereign leader of the house of Jadon, and an Ancient Master Justice, his primary obligation was to maintain harmony between the Vampyr and their human counterparts, see to a just balance among the earth’s inhabitants. Like all vampires, he was a predator who had to feed to survive, but he rarely killed—even when it was warranted. Should there be an enemy that needed to be destroyed, he called upon his Master Warriors to see to the task; and up until recently, he had even kept conflicts with the Dark Ones to a minimum in order to avoid creating a ripple effect of natural disasters: The earth’s response to a vampire’s emotion was simply too volatile, and Napolean was simply too powerful.
But this was an entirely different matter. This was his destiny.
His woman.
As her chosen mate, Napolean was honor-bound to protect her. As a member of the house of Jadon, a male who understood and upheld the laws, the right of Blood Vengeance was his. He could always attend to the matter later, but truth be told, seeing through Brooke’s mind that the despicable man was still alive really ticked him off.
A low, feral growl rose from Napolean’s throat, and Ramsey peered through the rearview mirror to glance at both of them, no doubt sensing Napolean’s predatory energy. To his credit, the male held his tongue.
Napolean closed his eyes and gave full vent to his psychic power—an unparalle
led command of the laws of nature that few, even among his own kind, could even comprehend. He was quantum energy in motion, ruler of the force which created worlds. As his heart rate slowed and his breathing grew deeper, he began to explore the precise date of Angus Monahan’s birth: the distinct cosmic imprint of the stars and the particular alignment of the planets associated with the day he was born.
Although few humans understood the depth of their connection to the world around them, as a descendant of Celestial Beings, Napolean knew that energy amassed in a very specific way whenever a soul entered a physical body—that the unique configuration of variables existing on that date, in that predetermined moment, was neither random nor unrelated.
It was a direct reflection of the soul, itself.
A psychic fingerprint, as traceable as it was recognizable.
Napolean sighed and entered an even deeper state of awareness. Thoughts were also powerful markers. Their individual vibrations created eternal imprints as every thought ever projected existed forever, vibrating in the nonphysical realm, either active or inactive. Taken as a whole, a being’s name, their nature, thoughts, and actions left as clear of a stamp on the cosmos as their individual fingerprint on a piece of paper.
All Napolean had to do was search the universe. Align the energetic fingerprint that was Angus Monahan with the universal database in which the disgusting man had projected his thought, intention, and action.
Napolean sent his spirit seeking.
He scanned the planet at enormous speed, dividing the vast expanse into quadrants so he could search one at a time. He had taken all the information he needed from Brooke’s memories—analyzing each vibration of fear, helplessness, and disgust from the week she had spent in terror with her stepfather—and reactivated the imprints using his own strong, otherworldly focus. Now, he was searching for the other participant.
A high-pitched humming began to ring in his ears as the vibration increased. He threw back his head and sent the full power of his nonphysical senses in the direction of the vibration until he was almost in perfect alignment with the darkness he had tapped into. His stomach roiled as his body fought to reject the intense hatred and confusion that personified the being that was Angus Monahan. And then just like that, a full connection was made.
Napolean locked onto Monahan’s energy and followed it like a bloodhound, onward…forward…as if he were entering a dark tunnel and spinning at an enormous rate of speed. As his ethereal form emerged from the tunnel, he quickly took inventory of his surroundings in an effort to reorient himself in time and space: Invisible, he had emerged in a small, dingy, one-room apartment on the east side of Detroit, and the place stank like body odor and rotten garbage. Somewhere in the kitchen, there was old meat or produce that had gone bad. Napolean scowled with disgust. And then he saw him. The male who had terrorized the woman he had waited centuries to love.
Angus Monahan was short but burly, the result of being born with a very large frame. It was obvious that he had become lazy over the years, and his once robust appearance was now portly and slack. He sat on an old, grungy couch with his bare feet up on a torn ottoman. He held a beer in his left hand and a remote control in his right. Snorting to drag some phlegm from his lungs, he spat into a nearby trash can and flipped the channel from professional wrestling to hard-core porn. He sank deeper into the tattered cushions and smiled.
For the first time, Napolean noticed that the top of the man’s jeans were unbuttoned, and although he was now staring at naked women, his thoughts were of naked girls. Rage swirled through Napolean’s head like particles in a dust cloud. Still invisible, he sent a thin bolt of electricity from the tip of his fingers into the television set, instantly shorting it out…
And then he waited.
Angus sat up on the edge of the couch and cursed, his layered belly protruding far below his dirty T-shirt. He glared at the TV screen and slammed the remote on the rickety wooden coffee table. “Damnit,” he spat. “I paid good money for that damn box—it better not be broken!”
Although Napolean had no intentions of drawing the scene out, he wanted Angus to know what fear felt like...before he left the earth. Drawing on his primal, animal nature, he released a low growl from the bottom of his throat and followed it with a slow, drawn-out hiss like that of a snake…but far more haunting.
Angus spun around. “Who’s there?” He turned rapidly in every direction, his wide eyes searching the corners of the room anxiously. “What the hell?” He got up and headed toward the kitchen, where he peeked around the corner and glanced low, beneath the table and chairs. When he still saw nothing, he checked behind the soiled garbage can, opened several cabinets, and then headed for the bathroom. Before returning to the living room, he flipped the dead bolt on the front door and latched the chain lock, peeking through the eye hole for good measure. His heart was still beating rapidly when he returned to the television and slowly ran his finger over the burnt power cord. “How the hell…” He grimaced and gave it a hard tug, quickly yanking it out of the wall.
He cocked his head to the side like a confused canine as he measured the broken glass along the front of the screen and sniffed at the remaining wisps of smoke. “Shit, I need another drink.”
Low, taunting laughter echoed through the room.
It crept up the walls, swirled along the ceiling, and dropped down again to envelop the man where he stood. Angus jumped back and threw up his fists. “What the hell kind of game is this? Who’s there! Show yourself, you asshole.” He hurried back to the kitchen, threw open a cabinet door, and retrieved what appeared to be an old Smith & Wesson revolver, and then quickly returned to the living room, waving it in front of him. “I’ve got a gun, you prick. Still want to play with me?”
Still invisible, Napolean silently approached the filthy man and then abruptly slapped him across the face with an open hand. Angus’s nose shattered like a walnut beneath a nutcracker, and several teeth shot out of his mouth as his feet rose up from the carpet and he flew backward into the wall. The revolver flew out of his hand as he hit with a thud, and something in his hip snapped, crackled, and popped.
He screamed in pain. “What are you? Where are you? I don’t believe in ghosts!” The words came out gurgled as he choked on his own blood and struggled for air.
Napolean chuckled, although the lethal sound was devoid of humor. Having divided his life-force into two separate spaces, he now projected his image into the ethereal energy that stood in Monahan’s apartment. “I’m right here,” he whispered, coming into full view with deadly fangs, protruding claws, and glowing eyes.
“Holy shit!” Angus’s eyes shot open and he scrambled about the floor, favoring his broken hip, searching the room for his weapon.
Napolean took one step forward and stomped the revolver with his foot, reducing it to smithereens as if it were nothing more than a puny insect.
“You’re not real,” Angus panted. He rubbed his eyes and then patted the center of his face where his nose used to be. He stared at the empty beer bottles on the floor by the couch. “I’ve had too much to drink.”
Napolean closed the distance between them in three stealthy strides and towered over the human with fury in his eyes. “Oh, I’m very real,” he taunted. He snatched him by the neckline of his shirt and yanked him onto his feet. “Stand up!”
Urine trickled down Angus’s leg, and tears poured out of his eyes, making it next to impossible for the man to breathe. “Please, please, man…I mean, what the—”
“Shut. Up.” Napolean pressed the heel of his hand to Angus’s windpipe, and the man’s remaining teeth literally chattered.
“Please…” He wept like a baby.
Napolean scowled. “Is that how Brooke cried? Did she say please?”
Angus’s eyes narrowed and his brow creased as he appeared to search for meaning in the words. “What? Who? Brooke?” He shook his head furiously. “No…no…no, man; you’ve got the wrong guy!”
Napolean fr
oze then. He closed his eyes and held his breath, taking most of the air out of the room with him. The bastard didn’t even remember. “You don’t know the name of your stepdaughter?” He lowered his head until his fangs brushed against Angus’s throat, and then he growled against his skin. “You don’t remember what you did…to Brooke…at the cabin…by the lake?” He met Angus’s blank stare and then forced his way into the human’s mind like a surgeon, rousing the memory with such precision and strength that it must have felt like a scalpel slicing into his brain.
Angus clasped his head on both sides and cried out. When his eyes met Napolean’s, they were so laced with dread—and understanding—that the pupils had dilated. “How do you know Brooke?” he whispered, shaking.
Napolean considered the question for the briefest of moments, wanting to couch the answer in terms the man would understand. “She is my wife.”
Angus slumped against the wall. “Oh, hell…shit…look…I’m sorry. I never meant…I just…” His eyes bounced around the room haphazardly, unable to meet Napolean’s scrutinizing gaze. “Look, man, I’m sick. Really, I didn’t…I never meant to hurt her. I mean, it’s just…honestly, I’m glad Brookie finally found someone…nice…like you. She was always such a good girl.” He nodded furiously, clearly so frantic to talk his way out of the situation that he would say just about anything—however absurd. “What…what’s your name? I mean, I’d really like to be friends…you and me. It’s probably best for Brooke…so I can make amends…with you…you know, together—”
“Shh.” Napolean placed his finger over Angus’s mouth. “I’m afraid I have very little time for new friends these days.” He ran his tongue over his fangs and smiled.
Angus whimpered like a wounded animal—the pitiful sound growing increasingly high-pitched and desperate—as Napolean bent ever so slowly to his neck to enact his final wrath. In one feline motion, Napolean ripped out the human’s larynx with his teeth and spit the hunk of flesh on the ground. “I have been called many things over the years; however, nice is not one of them.”