by Tessa Dawn
Finally, having gathered enough courage to broach the subject, Brooke asked: Napolean, will my body survive what is being done to it?
Napolean was deathly quiet…but only for a heartbeat. As long as you are left alive—and that is a certainty—you will heal. My venom is the most potent in the house of Jadon. He paused as if considering his words. That is why your conversion was so rapid and…efficient. Painful. There were dark shadows in his tone, deep pangs of regret. Brooke, you will never know—there are no words—the way that you suffered…I am so very sorry. Know that I would have never treated you so harshly.
Brooke held back her tears. On some level, she did know, but the memory was too recent, the confusion surrounding what was happening to her—even now—too acute. The male brutalizing her body was not Napolean—she got that; she really did—yet it was Napolean, his arms, his hands…his masculine flesh. Because she didn’t know what to say, she didn’t say anything.
Brooke? he said.
How do you know he will leave me alive? she finally asked.
Napolean sighed. He must. He has plans—plans that require your basic physical health to be carried out successfully.
Like what? Brooke asked, her unease growing.
Do not think about it, Brooke. I would tell you if I thought it would aid you in any way, but I do not wish for you to imagine such things…you will live…no matter what; and right now, that is all that matters.
Brooke was about to argue—she knew that Napolean was only acting according to his deep-seated nature; his first instinct would always be to protect her—but like it or not, they were in this together now. Without her consent, his world had become her world, and his enemies had become her enemies. She would have insisted on knowing every detail except she suddenly realized something far more profound: Napolean Mondragon was in terrifying, uncharted territory, and despite a lifetime of the king’s practiced, rational leadership, the man was reeling from his own sense of helplessness…even as he tried to comfort Brooke. It was absolutely true. He did not want her to imagine what Ademordna was planning…because it was probably too hard to bear the thought of it himself. What man could?
They’re coming, Napolean said abruptly, interrupting her train of thought.
Who’s coming? Brooke asked.
My warriors.
She didn’t dare hope. How many? What will they do?
Napolean’s demeanor was instantly no-nonsense. Only a handful, but it will be enough. They will enter the cabin with force and attempt to seize and subdue me before Ademordna can destroy them. Once they have me incapacitated, they will remove me from the premises and send in the women to care for you. To begin healing your body. This nightmare is almost over for you, Brooke—please hold on just a little longer.
Brooke fought to swallow her fear: What if it was already too late? What if his warriors failed, and Ademordna killed them? Or what if their plan succeeded on all fronts—but Napolean never returned to his body? What would happen to her then? Would his people let her go? Would they blame her? Punish her? And even if they didn’t, how could she ever return to her life…as a vampire? Oh God, what was going to happen? There was no good outcome to any of this.
Brooke, Napolean whispered. Quiet your thoughts, draga mea. All will be well. All will be made well.
She tried. She really did. She wanted to believe Napolean—hell, she needed to believe him…in order to keep her sanity—but there was a strange sense of foreboding washing over her, a distant, intuitive knowing somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach that simply would not let her go. Beyond all the things that were blatantly obvious, something else was terribly…terribly wrong. Something even more disturbing than the brutality her body had endured—something even more disturbing than no longer being human, if that was possible.
Something isn’t right, Napolean, she insisted. I mean, beyond the obvious. Please, Napolean: What aren’t you telling me?
Napolean sighed. His ethereal voice was deadly serious. There will be time to deal with all that has occurred later, Brooke—I assure you. But first, you will need all of your strength to heal. Your body has been badly injured. I do not want your attention focused on anything other than getting well. He paused, and her heart skipped a series of beats, sick with the anticipation of his next words.
Brooke swallowed hard. Was it really that bad? So horrible that he couldn’t even tell her? She did a quick gut-check and knew that whatever she feared—her sense of terrible foreboding—went beyond physical injuries to her body. Needing to know, she let her mind begin to drift…back…back…away…farther and farther from Napolean’s voice and his reassuring presence…concentrating, instead, on her body.
She began to feel some sensations: the heaviness of her physical form, a rawness in her throat, the coppery taste of blood. And then, all at once, pain washed over her like a tsunami crashing upon an unsuspecting shore.
Brooke! Napolean’s will dominated hers. He seized her back from the room with overwhelming force, prying her awareness from the clutches of the dark lord, snatching her back before she could fully register what she had seen. Stay with me just a little longer, my angel.
Napolean, she cried. What has he done to me?
Brooke…
Napolean! Tell me!
Brooke…I…you—
Tell me! Now!
You already know.
She sobbed. She couldn’t help it. Of course she knew—she had known all along—but the reality wasn’t any less harsh now that it was an irrefutable fact: Ademordna had used her body…brutally and repeatedly. Will I remember? She croaked out the words.
No, Napolean assured her. Never. Your mind—your spirit—wasn’t there. His voice was raw with emotion, thick with pain, and there was something else in his tone—something so vulnerable and regretful that it sounded as if his soul had been shattered. Brooke, my heart is laid out on the ground by this atrocity, and I will never come to terms with the fact that I could not protect you—never—but that is my cross to bear. As far as your life is concerned, you must listen carefully to what I have to say, and you must hear with more than your ears. He let the words linger before he continued. I have lived a very long life; and in that time, there is little I have not seen—very little. And because of that, I have learned a very important truth: The body is only a temporary garment—one we wear to play out the various days of our lives—but the soul, the consciousness, it is the seat of all that is. Any time an injury lasts—or an insult continues to fester—it is because of the imprint it has left on the soul.
He paused, as if for effect. When a woman, a child—even a man—is abused, the body will heal completely in most cases, without any trace of the original sin. Any trauma that remains emanates from the soul—a broken heart, a shattered trust…the presence of fear where it once was absent. Self-recrimination, shame, and self-doubt—these are the true injuries sustained by victims of violence, no?
Brooke swallowed hard, still listening. Yes.
By remaining with me, your soul remained untouched. It was simply not there at the time. You were simply not there at the time. And I swear to you on my honor that your heart and mind are unchanged—without memory, awareness, or sentience, there is no place for a lasting injury to take hold. Your body will heal, and you, too, will be whole.
Brooke understood what he was saying. She had known others over the years who had suffered physical violence, and he could not have described the mental aftermath better. But there was still something else. Something beyond the physical violation. Something permanent that he wasn’t telling her.
Napolean?
Yes, he answered.
I have heard you, and I more-or-less agree with you, but there is still something…something you are not telling me…and I can feel it all the way down to my soul.
You are pregnant, Brooke. He spoke in a whisper. Ademordna used my seed and my words to command your pregnancy.
There was a brief moment of…nothing.
&nbs
p; A small mercy.
That critical, surreal instant that occurs after a horrible accident when the mind simply shuts down and insulates the victim from the truth. They hear the words, experience the occurrence, or witness the act with their eyes, but it simply fails to register.
Rather, all becomes silent.
Time ceases to be.
And numbness rules.
With twins? she asked in a faraway voice. Her analytical mind was taking over robotically.
Yes, he answered.
Are they—she paused then, almost slipping into a dangerous rabbit-hole where panic loomed, gargantuan and real—are they even yours? The babies? Or are they evil…like him?
Napolean sounded sick to his stomach. It is the same as if you and I had…the Blood Curse has not changed…there will be one child of light and one child of darkness…and the required sacrifice remains. His next words were spoken with a gut-level disgust he clearly couldn’t hide. Although neither one of us gave our consent—and neither your soul nor mine was there—it was still our bodies that joined. The child will be ours—yours and mine—Ademordna cannot change that.
Brooke bit her lower lip…or at least she thought she did. I don’t understand, she said, sounding as confused as she felt. If this demon…this dark lord…wants to use me to destroy you, why would he command a pregnancy? I mean, wouldn’t it be easier for him to just kill me, leave you without the required sacrifice, and let the Curse come for you at the end of the thirty days? Why go through so much trouble…I mean, yeah, I get that he’s a demon—so why not have some fun while he’s in your body—but the babies? That part, I don’t understand.
Napolean waited a long time to respond, and with their intimate psychic connection, Brooke knew that he was fighting to regain his composure first. Her words had obviously cut him like a knife. For so many centuries, our rules have been black and white: The males in the house of Jadon have two sons—one child of darkness and one child of light—and we are allowed to keep the child of light so our race does not vanish from the earth. The males in the house of Jaegar have made an abomination of the practice—violating innocent women who die horribly giving birth to two dark sons. Like us, they are required to sacrifice one of the two—in their case it is the firstborn—so they, too, keep a child to carry on their perverted lines. I believe that, in this instance, Ademordna intends to kill two birds with one stone: to remain in my body long enough to prevent me from making the required sacrifice, and to turn over both sons to the Dark Ones.
Brooke gasped. That’s why you’re so sure he won’t kill me, isn’t it? He needs me to have the babies!
Yes, Napolean answered.
Brooke began to tremble as the horror swept over her: all of it…
The conference.
Her trip to Dark Moon Vale.
Being taken by a vampire.
The day Ademordna had tried to kill Napolean on the terrace—the possession, her conversion…the violation. The pregnancy.
The Curse!
And what it now meant for her.
Ademordna intends…to turn over both sons to the Dark Ones.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…
She could lose her humanity, Napolean, and her child before it was over.
The enormity of it all was just too much to bear. Caught up in a whirlwind of panic, she slipped out of Napolean’s psychic grasp and reappeared with a whoosh in the room. Her body was a broken, bloodied pulp, still stretched out on the bed, a pile of damaged bone, muscle, and skin…torn, slashed, bruised….and broken.
Stunned by the intensity of the pain, Brooke clutched her stomach with her arms and shouted her agony all the way to the heavens.
“Now!” Marquis Silivasi shouted.
Ramsey, Santos, and Saxson ripped the front wall off the cabin: The door exploded from its hinges, the window burst from its frame, and the crisscrossed logs shot out in one lightning-quick motion.
Marquis leapt into the center of the room, gloved fist raised, eyes and ears alert. He paused only for a fraction of a second—stunned by the scene in front of him: Napolean’s destiny was laid out on the bed like a broken rag doll, bloodied and bruised and screaming like a woman mad with fear. The sovereign king of the house of Jadon knelt over her body, still naked with blood dripping from his fangs. He had recently fed at her…thigh.
“Mother of Draco,” Marquis murmured.
This was not Napolean.
The thing on the bed was a dark lord from the Valley of Death and Shadows…a demon. Marquis stared into Napolean’s absent eyes and shuddered; he could only pray that the demon was not as good with Napolean’s body as Napolean himself would have been.
The dark lord whipped around and snarled, a spine-tingling sound that shook the remaining walls and the earth beneath them. Marquis didn’t wait for an invitation. He lunged at the demon and swung his bare left fist with all the strength and speed he possessed. He was probably the only male in the house of Jadon that even had a shot at landing a blow.
As expected, Napolean caught Marquis’s fist with his hand and squeezed. The king’s bruised and bloodied knuckles tightened around Marquis’s fist, bearing down hard in an effort to crush the warrior’s bones.
Because every single action had been planned out ahead of time, the warriors had a slight advantage: Marquis gritted his teeth against the overwhelming pain and countered the move by driving the spiked cestus skyward in a powerful uppercut that connected squarely with Napolean’s chin. The whole scene seemed to unfold in a fraction of a second: Napolean clutched Marquis’s throat, and his eyes began to glow as he prepared to incinerate the warrior where he stood.
Nathaniel Silivasi struck fast.
Having entered the cabin under a cloak of invisibility, he materialized behind the dark lord, plunged the syringe into his bicep, and injected the full dose of anesthetic all in one swift motion.
Ademordna roared his rage. He spun around and backhanded Nathaniel with such incredible force—such overwhelming fury—that the temperature in the room dropped at least ten degrees, and Nathaniel’s body shot through the opposite wall, blasting splintered chips of wood in all four directions.
And then the dark lord staggered, momentarily dazed and disorganized. Ramsey, Marquis, and Santos seized the moment, taking Napolean to the floor. They held him there with dogged determination, furiously fighting to restrain his arms and legs, as Saxson Olaru slipped a heavy, black velvet hood—one that happened to be embroidered with dozens of carefully placed, studded diamonds—over Napolean’s head to block his powerful eyes. No one wanted to be incinerated.
Napolean bucked beneath them. With one swift kick, he booted Ramsey all the way to the ceiling, and then he began to twist and turn his hands, rotating his long claws like a set of nunchucks—effortlessly slicing the wrists that held him. Hissing, Napolean sat up and reached for the hood.
Marquis threw another punch then. This time, he connected front and center with Napolean’s jaw.
The possessed king only laughed.
“Son of a jackal!” Marquis growled, as exasperated as he was astounded. “Go to sleep, already!”
Maybe it was time for plan B.
Marquis reached into the front pocket of his long, leather coat and drew out a vial of chloroform encased in a silk handkerchief. He broke it in his hand, and before Napolean’s hood could come completely off, shoved it up the length of the cloth and forced the anesthetic over Napolean’s eyes and nose.
A pair of painfully sharp fangs sank into his hand, and an even sharper set of claws pierced his breastbone, puncturing his chest cavity on the way to extract his heart.
Marquis Silivasi did not let go.
He could feel the painful daggers digging…clawing…finally grasping his beating organ in an iron fist, and he braced himself, prepared for the pain—prepared to die—as he knew Napolean would immediately incinerate the organ before any of the warriors could attempt regeneration. In that frozen moment, Marquis understood—far too clearl
y—the sacrifice Nachari had been willing to make…
It had never been a choice.
Fortunately, the combination of Kagen’s sedative and the chloroform spared Marquis from such a fate.
The iron fist relaxed around his heart, and he was able to extract Napolean’s hand, holding the arm up and away from his broken, bleeding chest as the king’s eyelids grew heavy and his body began to slump to the ground.
“See you in hell,” Napolean whispered as he finally went unconscious.
Marquis exhaled deeply and sank to his knees.
A pair of strong arms caught him from behind. “Be still, brother,” Nathaniel whispered in his ear. “Allow me to heal you so we can get the women in here to attend to Brooke—and move on to the real battle.”
Marquis nodded slowly. “Warrior,” he whispered. “You may have been right to give Nachari your blessing.”
Surprised, Nathaniel paused for a second, then chuckled softly. “I’m sorry, but did you just say I was right?”
Marquis grumbled. “Do not misunderstand—”
“Brother,” Nathaniel teased, “as far as I am concerned, it is the chloroform speaking.”
As much as Marquis ever did, he smiled.
And then he passed out.
Napolean’s disembodied spirit had hovered helplessly over Brooke’s battered body—unable to wrench her from the room, unable to help his warriors—as they had battled to subdue Ademordna.
Brooke’s screams of terror and pain—the shock and revulsion she had felt the moment her spirit had re-entered her damaged flesh—had pierced the ancient king’s heart. And he had poured every ounce of his considerable power into blanketing her frail form…absorbing her pain…willing her into a deep state of unconsciousness.
Now, as he replayed the battle-scene in his mind, Napolean felt more than just a little pride for his warriors.
Son of a gun, his males had been clever…and skillful…and quick.
Marquis had managed to engage him while Nathaniel had injected him with some sort of tranquilizer, and the sentinels had neutralized his powers with a diamond-studded hood. Wisely, they had kept Ademordna from using Napolean’s eyes to incinerate them on the spot. And when the anesthetic had not worked quickly enough, Marquis had followed it up with a powerful dose of chloroform.