by Tessa Dawn
She glanced at the hand in front of her face and tried to concentrate on the bedroom, visualize the bassinette the way Jocelyn had explained transportation—well…sort of. As she thought of the room and pictured her son, she began to imagine herself beside him. And as the image became clearer and clearer, she tried to relax, releasing her connection to the physical world. Somehow, she tried to intend her being-ness somewhere else. In an instant, her hand began to fade in front of her eyes—going all pliable, soft, and misty—until distinct sections shimmered completely out of view.
Brooke shrieked and jumped back. She waved her arm in the air and shook her hand wildly, as if she could somehow knock the spell loose. “Holy cow!” she muttered. She grasped her hand and squeezed it, begging the limb to stay on her arm.
And then she swore beneath her breath.
In the throes of her panic—the midst of her antics—she had cleared off the entire bathroom counter, scattering spray bottles, a curling iron, and an open case of makeup all around the room. The disturbance had made quite a racket—not to mention quite the mess. She stared at the chaotic pile of toiletries and grimaced.
Shit, Brooke, are you crazy?
What if she had managed to transport only one part of her body into the other room—or worse yet, several random parts? What would have happened to the rest of her? Or what if she had disappeared somewhere in never-never land, beamed up into outer space, or dematerialized beneath the ocean—and no one had ever found her? The thought gave her chills.
What if she had taken her body apart and then couldn’t put it back together?
She swallowed a lump in her throat.
There was a loud knock at the bedroom door, and her heart sank into her stomach.
Oh, damn.
Ramsey.
The imposing sentinel had been stationed right outside the bedroom door since the moment Napolean left to go to the clinic—to see Nachari and the Silivasis.
“Yes?” Brooke called, trying to sound calm and in control. As if…
“Is everything all right, milady?”
Brooke frowned—my lady? Really?
She tried to put some reassurance in her voice. “Yeah, sure—I mean, yes.” You betcha, Mr. scary-as-hell-warrior! I just almost beamed my butt up to Mars, but everything is hunky-dory. She shuddered then, thinking of the fearsome male on the other side of the door…
Ramsey Olaru was truly one of the most menacing-looking men she had ever laid eyes on. She had feared the spooky guy from the first night she had seen him driving Napolean’s Land Cruiser. There was just something…harsh…in his eyes, something that said the vampire would gladly eat you for breakfast, spit you out if he didn’t like the taste, and devour your quivering children—all before he finished his morning coffee—while never missing a bite of crumb cake in the process.
“Should I come in?” Ramsey asked in that rough, nearly baritone voice.
Now she really did wish she could beam up to Mars.
“No!” she insisted. “Really, I’m fine.” She paused and forced herself to smile—she had given enough presentations to know that smiling was a sure way to put a reassuring note in one’s voice. “Thank you, though…Ramsey.”
The vampire was quiet for a moment, and Brooke half expected him to rip the door from the hinges and fly in on angry wings, but then, of course, he could just materialize into the bathroom if he wanted to, couldn’t he?
The thought scared her to death.
She needed ample warning in order to deal with something like that—a big, husky vampire suddenly appearing in the bathroom, hovering like a velociraptor, flexing giant muscles in her face…and towering over her with big, bad fangs. The Stephen King movie about a slobbering, rabid Saint Bernard suddenly came to mind. Cujo—yeah, that’s what it was called—the one where the crazy dog tried to eat all the actors, and—
She quickly dismissed the thought and checked herself in the mirror, measuring the number of buttons fastened on her pajama-top to make sure she hadn’t left one undone—because that really mattered…why?—and then she shook her head.
Calm down, Brooke: It isn’t going to happen! He won’t just…materialize…in here.
Ramsey was the devil-in-blue-jeans type, a two-hundred-forty-pound raging bull with lethal horns charging through a china shop, not because he was clumsy—in fact, quite the opposite—but just because he could. If this male decided to come into the room, he wouldn’t politely…quietly…appear. He would do it with a sufficient amount of force.
Brooke bit her bottom lip and waited.
Nothing happened.
“Very well then,” Ramsey finally grunted.
She let out a deep, relieved sigh. “Yep, very well then,” she responded, wondering why she couldn’t just shut up. As if her tongue had a mind of its own, it kept going: “Yes, indeedy…very well…everything is super…very…well.” She clasped her hand over her mouth. Everything is super very well? What does that even mean? Stop talking, Brooke!
Ramsey didn’t appear to notice. Or maybe he noticed, but he was just too ornery to care. “Napolean asked me to tell you he is on his way home,” he added.
Brooke’s heart literally skipped a beat.
Her eyes grew wide and she spun around, staring at the mess she had made of the bathroom. She looked down at the front of her clothes, and then fingered her wet hair. Oh, hell… “How do you know?” she asked. “I didn’t hear the phone ring. Did he say how soon he’d be here?”
“He didn’t call,” Ramsey grunted. “He”—the spooky vampire paused, as if searching for the right words—“spoke to me directly.”
Brooke gasped. “Then he’s already here?”
Ramsey chuckled then—actually chuckled—as if he found the whole situation amusing. Clearly, he had no idea just how sinister his laughter actually sounded. “No, milady—in my mind,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Napolean spoke to me directly,” he repeated, “in my mind.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “Telepathically.”
“Oh,” Brooke answered, sighing. She wondered absently why Napolean hadn’t chosen to speak to her, instead. After all, she was a vampire too, now, wasn’t she? “Okay, thanks.”
“Is there anything else you need, milady?” This time, his voice was both polite and respectful.
Brooke chewed on her bottom lip. “Brooke,” she said, in an equally pleasant tone.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
Brooke smiled. “You asked if there was anything else I needed—just for you to call me Brooke.”
Ramsey cleared his throat. “Oh…” He snorted. “As you wish…milady.”
Wow.
Brooke held up her hands, shrugged, and rolled her eyes. “You’re going to make someone a very attentive husband someday, Mr. Olaru,” she whispered beneath her breath, sarcastically.
“Pardon me?” he growled.
Brooke blanched.
Was he in her head? Could he read her thoughts? Shit! She held her breath, too afraid to answer, unwilling to think…anything. Blah, blah, blah, blah—blah, blah, blah…
After a time, Ramsey walked away from the door, and his heavy footsteps could be heard slowly receding down the hall.
Brooke exhaled. This was all going to take some getting used to.
She felt positively faint and more than a little dizzy—the way she sometimes became when she was under an enormous amount of pressure. She peeked into the bedroom one more time, glanced at the bassinette, and heaved a sigh: By some stroke of luck, their son was still asleep. And then she looked in the bathroom mirror—at the mess that was her appearance. For reasons she couldn’t comprehend, she almost felt like crying.
What the heck is wrong with you? she wondered. You are acting absolutely…idiotic…childish.
Positively insane.
She gazed at the face in the mirror, feeling mildly queasy at this point. And then she realized what was wrong…
Napolean was coming home.
&n
bsp; To her.
To their son.
To their bedroom…and their new life…together. For all intents and purposes, the man was her husband now.
Brooke had already been converted. She was no longer human, and there was no going back. The demands of the Blood Curse had already been fulfilled, and as far as his kind was concerned, they were well and truly mated. And she got what that meant—she knew what came next…
In that eager, frightened, excited-yet-overwhelmed way that women had, Brooke knew that their relationship was about to go to another level.
The level.
And she knew that it was inevitable.
Imminent, even.
There was nothing at this point that could stop it—because she no longer possessed the willpower, or the desire, to say no.
Napolean Mondragon, the Ancient Master Justice and dominant leader of the most powerful race of beings she had ever known—the most commanding, and let’s just face it, sexy male she had ever seen—was on his way home to her…to be with his wife for the rest of the night. And one way or another, they would end up making love.
Brooke Adams tried to ignore the swarm of butterflies that fluttered around wildly in her stomach as she set about cleaning the bathroom, drying her hair, and lightly applying a soft application of makeup, all in record time. Relying upon her newly enhanced, preternatural speed, she stepped out of her cotton pajamas and into a tasteful yet form-fitting silk-and-lace nightgown: She wondered if it wasn’t a bit too obvious but decided to keep it anyway. She brushed her teeth, moistened her full lips with a hint of gloss, and dabbed on a few drops of her favorite perfume before finding a comfortable—albeit nervous—position in the lazy armchair beside their son’s bassinette.
She felt ridiculous.
Excited.
Nervous enough to pass out.
Drawing in a deep breath, she folded her hands in her lap and switched her attention from Napolean, the man—and what he was coming home to—to Napolean, the king, and what he was coming home from. Not only had he been in charge of the birth, having to call their sons from her womb while keeping her unconscious at the same time—as she had asked him to—but he had then been faced, alone, with the unthinkable: remitting the Dark One to the Curse for the sacrifice.
Brooke’s hand rose absently to her stomach in both wonderment and trepidation: wonderment because it seemed so impossible—a miracle, in fact—how her body could be so firm, fit, and perfect just hours after creating life; trepidation because it seemed so implausible—evil, without question—how that same magic could have used both her and Napolean to spawn something so abhorrent, so wrong, as the evil twin. For no other reason than to carry out a primordial, vengeful punishment that was ultimately much darker than the original crime.
She shut her eyes and shivered. Napolean had taken that dark being, disguised in a body of light, and seen to its end. And it was right. It was necessary. After all, death, one way or another, was inevitable.
The Curse had seen to that so many centuries ago.
Either the dark infant would be sacrificed, alone, or Napolean would be tortured, mercilessly, to death in the Dark One’s place.
And the latter would only buy a miniscule amount of time for the dark child anyway—releasing something so horrible into the world as a result, that the father’s sacrifice was hardly worth it.
She had read the annals of the house of Jadon, the detailed accounts, and she knew with certainty that the dark twin would grow up to murder, rape, and destroy…to prey on humans unchecked, unrestrained…that ultimately, the sons of Jadon would be forced to destroy it anyhow.
Brooke shuddered at the thought. Even though she understood the reality, she also realized that knowing and doing were two very different things. The bottom line was—Napolean had been forced to carry out the sacrifice alone, and that had to have been horrific for such a transcendent being.
Brooke shifted in the soft, leather armchair and hung her head as a new—yet just as disturbing—topic entered her mind….
Nachari Silivasi.
The other burden weighing heavily on the king’s mind.
The young Master Wizard had saved Napolean’s life. He had died in order to free Napolean’s spirit—in order to wrench the blackened heart of that hideous thing, the dark lord they called Ademordna, from Napolean’s body. Nachari’s sacrifice had enabled the true soul of the king to return; and the other wizards, warriors, and his brothers had counted on bringing the brave vampire back to life, returning him to his own waiting body once the king was safe…
But something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.
Brooke hadn’t understood all of what Jocelyn and Ciopori had told her, but she had sensed enough in Jocelyn’s tone, seen the depth of pain reflected in Ciopori’s eyes, to know that the loss to the house of Jadon was beyond monumental. It was epic. According to Jocelyn, the Silivasi family had suffered the loss of Nachari’s twin only two months before, and the grief had almost destroyed them.
Before he had left the mansion, Napolean had tried to hide his turbulent emotions from Brooke, for her own sanity’s sake, but even a blind man could have seen the truth: The king was racked with guilt and remorse over what had happened to Nachari. He was overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness and determined to do all that he could to help the family…and his people. As it stood, all he could do was sit with the brothers and their destinies at the Dark Moon Clinic, wait and watch in solidarity—pray to the celestial beings for Nachari’s return—yet even Brooke knew that with every moment that passed, the chances of the wizard’s return grew slimmer.
Despite her total lack of experience with a newborn baby, as well as her recent emergence into the Vampyr world as one of their species, Brooke had urged Napolean to take all the time he needed with the Silivasis, to return only when he grew tired or needed a break.
“How is our son?” Napolean’s deep, husky voice echoed through the room, and Brooke almost came out of the chair in fright.
“Holy cow! You scared me!” she exclaimed.
She hadn’t seen him enter the room…or even materialize into the space. He was just suddenly there, standing on the other side of the bassinette, looking like silk and fire, stealth and grace—and utter male perfection—all wrapped up in a black muscle-shirt and dark jeans, leaning over their son as he slept.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his words wrapping around her like a velvet caress. “I didn’t mean to—”
All at once, his eyes grew wide. They swept over her body in an instant, and his mind seemed to…freeze…as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He stared at the small silk straps of her nightgown, and then his eyes roamed over her otherwise bared shoulders before following the sleek lines of her collarbone down to her breasts, pausing at her waist, and then settling on the exposed flesh of her thighs. His appreciation showed in his quick intake of breath as his gaze moved slowly back up the nightgown, lingered at her neck, and finally met her flustered stare. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, seeming to have forgotten his words.
He cleared his throat, and his tongue swept over his full bottom lip, moistening his mouth in an inadvertently sexy gesture. And then a brilliant smile curved along the corners of his mouth.
“Dear gods, Brooke: You are devastating.”
twenty-three
Napolean could hardly breathe.
He had returned home expecting to find his destiny somewhat anxious, and maybe even a little bit upset, by his unavoidable, prolonged absence. Instead, he had walked in on a beautiful, heartfelt scene: the miraculous sight of his son, lying peacefully in an antique bassinette, his soft eyelids closed in contentment, his tiny arms and legs spread out to the sides. And his woman—his destiny—sitting lovingly in the large armchair beside the child, enchanting, like an angel, luminous and surreal, with her hands folded peacefully in her lap.
And then he had noticed what Brooke was wearing…
His body had hardened
instantly, and he had scarcely been able to draw air through his lungs.
The soft, silk nightgown had rendered him speechless, but it was the look of flushed anticipation on her exquisite face—a look that he hadn’t expected to see for many weeks to come—that had caught him completely off guard.
He had told her she was devastating…because she was.
Now he wondered if he hadn’t been too forward with his eyes…his appreciation.
After all, their relationship was still very fragile. A lot had happened in a very short span of time. And they were still getting to know each other as friends.
Brooke shifted nervously in her seat and brought her hand up to her chest, partially covering the exposed skin that robbed him of breath. Clearly, she was uncomfortable, perhaps even a little afraid, yet she had dressed in the most beautiful scrap of silk—for him?—and her thick, dark hair smelled of lavender and vanilla, the soft tresses swaying gracefully just above her delicate shoulders as she turned her head to look at him.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled tenderly, not wanting to disquiet her further with his words.
Unable to hold the very eye contact she had initiated, she smoothed a lock of hair anxiously with her fingers, swept a graceful hand into the bassinette, and straightened the corner of their son’s blanket. “He’s been sleeping most of the evening.” Her voice was a mother’s gentle caress.
Napolean followed her gaze then, reveling in the sight of the child they had created together—whether or not they had chosen the manner of his creation. “He also takes my breath away,” he said.
Brooke smiled, relaxing. “Mine, too.” Her eyes positively sparkled, and she sounded like a child, then—so full of uninhibited joy and wonder. “I have no idea what to do with a baby, Napolean.” She laughed. “But, I already…” She paused and met his eyes once again. “I already love him.”