by Tessa Dawn
Much worse.
“Milord?” A soft, female voice interrupted his thoughts, and he spun around to find Vanya Demir stepping up onto the veranda.
His breath caught. She was a vision, wearing a soft, tapered, red velvet chemise over a sleek black velvet skirt, her long flaxen hair hanging loosely to her waist, interspersed with thick, plaited braids, each one secured with a minor black and red ornament. She looked like the royalty she was. “Vanya,” he muttered, surprised to see her.
She smiled then, a sad but sincere expression. “You are surprised to see me, Napolean?”
He looked beyond her down the lane. “I’m surprised to see you alone. Tell me you were escorted here by—”
Vanya waved her hand and laughed. “Of course, milord.” She threw up her hands. “Is there a warrior anywhere in the house of Jadon who will let me or Ciopori venture out at night by ourselves? I think not.”
Napolean’s eyes narrowed. “And in the day?”
She huffed. “No, dear king. We are sadly strapped with an entourage at all times if that pleases you.”
The word dear caught him off guard, and he swallowed. They had shared a very brief but intense relationship—well, more like a heated moment of passion during a very vulnerable time—right after Ciopori had been kidnapped by Salvatore Nistor. In offering the princess comfort, much more had transpired. And it had taken incredible control for the two of them to make the rational, mature, and inevitable decision to part ways in order to spare each other considerable pain down the road.
At the time, Vanya had seemed so absolutely perfect for him. She still was—perfect, that is. But not for him. By all the gods, there wasn’t a doubt in Napolean’s mind that the woman who lay sleeping on his couch had been created from the very essence of his own soul. It was hard to explain, not something easily put into words, but when Brooke stood near him, his heartbeat slowed to match her rhythm…to beat in perfect time with her own. Napolean glanced at the doorway, knowing Brooke was still sleeping, but needing to verify her absence on the veranda with his eyes just the same.
He cleared his throat and regarded Vanya. Gods, she was an otherworldly beauty. “Princess,” he began, his voice soft with regret, “I’m sure you’ve heard by now—”
“I saw the Blood Moon and Andromeda,” she supplied. “Forgive my interruption, milord, but I have no desire to hear you speak the words out loud.”
Napolean nodded and the two stood in silence for a time. “Then why did you come?” he finally asked.
Vanya swept her hair behind her shoulder, raised her chin, and looked him in the eyes. “I needed to see for myself.”
“See what?” he asked.
“That…” she answered, touching her left temple with her forefinger. “That look in your eyes.”
Napolean remained silent.
She sighed. “That look that says you adore her…you want her…you already love her.”
Napolean knew what was being asked of him, and he had no other choice than to say it out loud—to honor both Vanya and Brooke with the truth.
“Indeed,” he exhaled. “She is my true destiny—and my first choice.”
Despite her previous admission, Vanya blinked several times in quick succession, her eyes opened wide, and she placed an unsteady hand over her heart. Taking an inadvertent step back, she looked away. “Oh, well then…”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Gods, I am so bad with words.”
Vanya laughed then. “You—the eloquent, ancient king of the house of Jadon—bad with words? I think not. But I understand; this is difficult territory.”
“Very difficult,” he offered, his voice thick with apology.
Vanya nodded elegantly. “Indeed.” She wrung her hands together and turned to face him once more. “And that is why I have come to ask your permission for something.”
Napolean raised his eyebrows.
Her shoulders sagged. “Well, that is not entirely true. I would, of course, like your permission—your blessing—but I shall follow my decided course of action with or without it.”
Napolean waited to hear what she had to say. Although he was the sovereign king over the house of Jadon—and his word was law—Vanya, for all intents and purposes, outranked him. She had been born before him in Romania; she was the daughter of King Sakarias and Queen Jade—not to mention the blood sister of Jadon and Jaegar Demir—and she was still of the original race: a half-mortal, half-celestial being with pure blood. Ciopori Demir, her sister, also maintained her celestial blood and powers; however, having mated with Marquis Silivasi, she had gone through the conversion under the protection of Lord Draco and was now a vampire as well. Ciopori was the embodiment of all they were—before and after the Blood Curse. Vanya, on the other hand, was a pure, living member of an otherwise forgotten race.
And while she would not live immortal as the Vampyr did, as far as the house of Jadon’s healer could discern, her celestial origins gave her a slightly different physiology than her human female counterparts. Her immune system was stronger, and Kagen Silivasi was working feverishly to create a formula based on injecting small amounts of Vampyr venom into Vanya’s bloodstream at systematic, safe intervals that would maintain her health and prolong her life without risking conversion…or jeopardizing her soul.
“As you know,” she said softly, interrupting his solemn thoughts, “the Master Wizard Nachari has called upon his colleagues from the Romanian University to come to Dark Moon Vale and aid during this…tumultuous time.” She linked her fingers together delicately in front of her.
Napolean nodded. “Yes. Niko and Jankiel. I’m aware.”
She took in a deep breath and held it, clearly trying to gather her courage. When she finally let it go, she was steady and resolved. “What you do not know is that when Niko and Jankiel return to Romania, I intend to go with them.”
Napolean gasped audibly and shook his head. “Vanya, there must be a better solution—”
Vanya held up her hand. “Milord, please…hear me out.”
Napolean frowned. “Your sister and your nephew are here. Your people are here. By all the gods, I know this is a difficult situation, but—”
“If it were only that simple, my king.” She rubbed her temples then. “If it was only about you…but it’s not.” She held both hands over her heart. “I miss my homeland—dreadfully so. You have to understand: I have no history or ties to this new land. All that I know is rooted in Romania.”
“But your sister—”
“And it is far more than that, Napolean. The truth of the matter is: I am exactly who I am. I was raised from the time I was born to lead, to teach…to rule. I was educated in the history of our people and cultivated in the ways of celestial deities. I was taught to be a keeper of our magic, a charge that I took very seriously. You have done well, milord: Much has been passed down through the centuries within the house of Jadon, but males cannot pass down what they do not know. And our magic—our people’s knowledge of the earth and physics, far beyond what is understood even by the Vampyr—cannot be allowed to die with me. Yes, Kagen may discover a way to prolong my life—perhaps indefinitely, should I choose such a thing—and Ciopori also holds the same knowledge—and she is now immortal—but her first responsibility is to her husband and her son…raising Nikolai. Not to mention, any other children they may have.” Vanya threw up her hands and sighed. “I am more than a nanny or a sister, Napolean. Like you, I must do what I was born to do. And I can best do it at the University.”
Napolean took a step back, considering her words. “Are you referring to taking a post…teaching formally?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding her head adamantly. “Writing down the spoken history of our people in texts so that it will never be lost; reciting the magic incantations and charms so that all of our people will know who we are and where we come from. Reviving the ancient spiritual practices to further elevate our males.” She took a step forward and reached for his hand. “The truth is, Nap
olean, I have searched my soul endlessly, wondering why Fabien saved me along with Ciopori: Why did the gods bring me to this foreign place and time, absent everything—and everyone—I have ever loved, except for my sister? And the answer is so clear—and it is so much bigger than me…or even you.” She smiled then. “Understand, milord, that even if you and I had been destined, I would have returned to Romania to do this thing. It is what I was born to do, and it will be a legacy far more essential than being a citizen, or sister, or aunt.” She quickly caught herself. “Do not misunderstand—I am all of those things, and that won’t change—but you cannot stand there as the sovereign lord of our people and tell me not to go…that the knowledge I possess must not be taught and passed on formally from one generation to the next.”
Napolean rested his fist on his chin and looked at her in earnest. Her rare, pale-rose eyes shone with the light of the truth, and the power of her spirit preceded her. Her soft, engaging smile beckoned his compliance every bit as much as her heart did. “No,” he finally uttered, “I cannot argue with your conclusion.” He paused. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Vanya smiled and nodded knowingly. “Then I have your blessing?”
Napolean shut his eyes and cursed beneath his breath. After so many centuries, they had just found her, and now she was going back to the ancient homeland. He had hoped to learn from her himself, to find a place in the Hall of Justice to make full use of her wisdom. But that was selfish, and he knew it. Vanya deserved to be where she would shine the most…where she would be happy. “You do. Have my blessing, that is.”
Vanya exhaled excitedly and wrapped her arms around him to hug him. “Forgive my impropriety, milord, but I am so relieved.”
Napolean allowed his arms to enfold her and did his best to impart his warmth and good wishes.
She stepped back then. “And Napolean?”
“Yes?”
She glanced at the doors to the house and nodded her head in the direction of the front room. “Know that you also have my blessing.” Her smile was radiant. “With your destiny.”
Napolean was at a loss for words.
There was no way to show her his deep appreciation and affection…to convey just how much her words meant to him. They were like a healing balm to his ancient soul.
Vanya Demir was truly dignity incarnated.
Beauty personified.
As the total awareness of all she had said—the true depth of just who was standing before him—became flawlessly clear to him, Napolean offered her the deepest sign of respect he could. He bowed his head, averted his eyes, and placed his right hand—bearing the ring with the crest of the house of Jadon on it—over his heart. It was a gesture of sublimation. A gesture he had not performed since he was a child in Romania standing before the royal family…much as he was now.
It was a gesture reserved solely for him…by others.
“God speed and keep you, my princess,” he whispered reverently.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Vanya gently removed Napolean’s hand from his chest and kissed his ring. “God speed, my king.”
eleven
Napolean watched as Princess Vanya headed briskly away from the veranda toward the winding, cobblestone pathway, where Julien Lacusta awaited to escort her home, and then seamlessly vanished from sight.
He sighed, contentedly.
For the first time in a long while, his soul was at peace.
“Peace is only afforded to the living.” A deep, disembodied voice penetrated the serenity, sending instant chills up Napolean’s spine. He spun around to face whoever was speaking to him, but there was nothing there but mist.
“Who are you?” he asked, speaking to the air.
A tragically sorrowful voice answered. “You do not know me, son?”
Napolean’s voice hitched. “Father?” He turned in all directions, searching first with his eyes and then calling upon all of his heightened remaining senses—one at a time—in an effort to locate the entity.
“My soul cannot rest, Napolean.”
Napolean’s heart skipped a beat. “Show yourself.”
A dark wind swept over the terrace. It tossed clay flower pots effortlessly into the air and leveled iron patio furniture like toy soldiers.
“Save me!”
“Fight!”
“Are you not a king?”
“Are you not a man?”
“Napolean?”
“Napolean!”
Voices came at him from all directions as if streaming from an endless vortex: male voices, female voices, old and young…
Some were clear, some nearly inaudible as they spoke in unison, then individually, in turn.
“Napolean! Stop him.”
“Save him.”
“Change this!”
And then, the most familiar voice—and refrain—of all pierced the air: “Napolean, run!”
Staggering backward, Napolean drew a sharp dagger from a concealed hip holster. He absently massaged the expert carving in the hilt with his thumb—two crimson-eyed warriors with fangs, both perched and alert, prepared for battle—and then he spun the weapon in his hands. Ready.
Just then, a large crack resounded like thunder all around him, and the patio floor dropped out from beneath his feet. His powerful silver-and-black wings shot instinctively from his back, fluttering wildly in an effort to keep him upright, even as the house disappeared from view, and the surrounding trees began to sway like animated demonic spirits.
Limbs extended outward into wily arms. Knots gaped open as fanged mouths whispered hideous taunts. And brittle bark transformed into scaly armor—rough and reptilian like that of mythical dragons.
In the face of an anonymous evil, Napolean relied upon his battle-hardened core to remain steady and alert. He swiftly built his own power into a dangerous conflagration—carefully gathering harnessed energy, mounting his wrath, silently preparing to deliver a lethal strike at a moment’s notice. He was itching to annihilate the enemy.
Even if he couldn’t name it.
He was Napolean Mondragon, after all…
There was nothing on this planet that could best him. At least, not before now.
“What do you want with me?” he demanded. “Who sent you?” Despite his own unsettling guilt—the frequent occurrence of nightmares—it was still hard to believe that his once-loyal, loving father would approach him after all this time as a demon.
The invisible force struck first.
As if out of nowhere, Napolean’s body launched backward. It hurled violently through the air and spun wildly out of control, as if propelled by an enormous malevolent force. Although it felt as if he were traveling a great distance, Napolean remained oddly fixed upon the veranda, and the conflicting perception destroyed his equilibrium. He shook his head in an effort to clear the vertigo, and then he blinked several times in quick succession as his vision blurred and a pair of imperial castle gates appeared before him. On some level, he knew what he was seeing could not possibly be there, but it felt and appeared so real.
A deep protest welled up in his throat, and he watched in horror as a terrified young boy caught his eye before scurrying into a small hole beneath the castle wall. The boy drew himself into a tight little ball.
“No!” Napolean warned. “Don’t go in there!”
The boy was trying to make himself invisible, to hide his very essence from…something…horrific…while all around him a symphony of carnage rose in a deafening crescendo.
Haunting cries battered the air like thunder against a turbulent sky, and Napolean pressed his own hands to his ears, trying to shut out the noise—desperate to separate the past from the present.
The child shook uncontrollably.
Gods, he was so terrified…
So tortured.
So alone!
Absently, Napolean grasped the ring on his right hand and held it in a fierce grip. He remembered a long-ago pledge of fealty to Prince Jadon—how h
e had hoped and prayed and foolishly believed that he would somehow be spared from what was coming, from the Blood Curse—by swearing his loyalty to the favored twin.
But he had not been spared.
No one had.
“Gods, get out of there!” he ordered the child. His voice was hoarse with insistence, and his heart beat frantically in his chest now.
Fearful tears stung the boy’s eyes as his gaze met Napolean’s and he drew back in growing alarm, desperate to break free from the imminent violation. As the cruel, disembodied laughter came closer, battering the boy’s ears—Napolean’s ears—the past and present collided.
“No. No. No.”
The child whimpered.
Napolean cried out.
They were spinning together now, falling as one—not into a hole, nor any physical time-space reality—but into some vast, invisible, nightmarish void, a world made of pure energy, powered by overwhelming, unbearable…emotion.
The child was moaning incessantly now, and although it appalled him to watch, Napolean strained to see. He was transfixed. He knew this scene so well.
Too well…
His heart broke in empathy as he felt the boy shake, knowing that his very bones rattled in his skin.
And then the fog approached.
Napolean swallowed the bitter fruit of fear, choking on it—it tasted like bile—as he began to wrestle in earnest to escape the void. He had to get to the child. He had to get out of this nightmare!
“No!” he protested, fully enraged. He would not live this again!
He could not live this again.
The fog swirled, became a miniature cyclone, rose up from the ground and dipped low—as if it had eyes that could see the little boy hiding.
“You think to escape, child?” The ghostly aberration hissed the words, even as Napolean spoke them aloud—in unison. There was no denying what was coming next, and there was no stopping it.