by Tessa Dawn
Kagen stood up, hefting Jocelyn as if she weighed no more than a feather. “Was it punctured or was it severed?” he asked Marquis.
What do you mean? Marquis answered.
“Her heart: Was it severed from the chest cavity by the stake, or was it merely punctured?”
Merely? Marquis growled in anger.
Nathaniel sighed. “Marquis, please, answer the question: Kagen needs to know.”
The heart is still attached, Marquis said.
“Good,” Kagen said. “Then as awful as it looks, she is not critical. Continue to infuse her with venom until the opening repairs itself and all the wounds close. Then bring her upstairs to exam room three. I will have Katia attend to her, but odds are she will heal completely on her own.”
Marquis growled his consent and continued pumping life-giving venom into his mate.
“I’ll be with you shortly, my love,” Nathaniel whispered into Jocelyn’s ear. He gently brushed his hand over her cheek as Kagen walked away with her, heading toward the stairs.
The bottom dropped out of Nathaniel’s heart, and a silent fury enveloped his soul as he turned to measure the progress of the man with the Mohawk—the human who had dared to attack his destiny: The man was sawing at his right foot and shaking like an earthquake, his body clearly in shock as he continued to hack away at his limbs. The left leg sat in a bloody heap next to him, the foot was chopped off at the ankle, and the calf was dissected just below the knee…the thigh torn chaotically away from the pelvis. Sweat poured down the man’s face in painful rivulets, and his mouth hung open in a silent scream of terror—and unspeakable pain—yet he continued to dismember himself against his will, caught in the vampire’s compulsion. Since Nathaniel had also seized his vocal cords, there would be no sound to accompany his agony.
Satisfied, Nathaniel headed toward the supply room.
He stopped just outside the door, closed his eyes, and concentrated fully on his hearing. There were two separate sets of heartbeats in the room. The first came from a large, expansive chest. The second, from a narrow, smaller cavity. One male and one female.
Interesting.
Curiosity swept over him as he fed the information to Marquis. It was hard to believe that a female could have gotten the best of either Jocelyn or Ciopori.
No matter.
She was as dead as the male.
Nathaniel drew closer to the room and pressed his ear against the door: Their breaths were shallow and quick, rapid from fear…racing with desperation.
Good.
Alive, Marquis reminded him. I want them alive.
I cannot promise not to harm them, brother. But I will bring them out alive, Nathaniel answered telepathically, in order to remain quiet.
Rendering his body invisible, he passed through the supply room door and rose to the ceiling, where he hung like a spider, spinning a web for his prey. He could see as clearly in the dark as an owl, and it took less than a second to locate both of the intruders—a dark-haired man huddled in the corner next to a terrified blond female. Their backs were pressed hard against the wall, and the male gripped a loaded firearm in his hand as if his life depended upon his grasp.
Silly rabbit.
Based on his body language, Nathaniel determined that the guy was a soldier of some sort, a fighter—well, as much as any human could be against a vampire. The point was: He was clearly determined to fight to the death, whereas the female looked like she might just die any moment from fright.
She certainly didn’t belong in this scenario.
Such stupid, stupid humans, Nathaniel thought. What in the world would make these fools believe they could prevail against such a powerful species? That they could come to Dark Moon Vale, harm the mates of ancient warriors, and still walk away with their lives?
And why in the world had this clearly terrified woman consented to go along with such an ill-begotten plan?
No matter.
Both of them had made a fatal error in judgment. And there wasn’t an argument either one could present that would convince Nathaniel—or Marquis—to spare their lives.
Anticipation heated Nathaniel’s blood as he slowly descended from the ceiling.
twenty-seven
Careful to remain invisible, Nathaniel Silivasi landed on the floor in front of the cowering intruders. He plucked the gun out of the unsuspecting male’s hand and pitched it across the room, well out of the fool’s reach. The female screamed in surprise. She shrank further into the corner and covered herself up in a tight little ball.
But the male came out swinging.
He threw wild, desperate punches in Nathaniel’s direction, one careless jab after the other, each one easily deflected or blocked. Irritated by the idiotic confrontation, Nathaniel stepped out of the fool’s reach and searched the room until he located a folding card table in the corner. With supernatural speed, he flew to the table, broke off a metal leg, and snapped it in half. Wielding both pieces like batons, he twirled them absently in and out of his fingers as he slowly approached the male from behind. In a matter of seconds, he had both of the human’s arms crossed behind his back and tied in an inescapable knot made out of the first half of twisted metal. The human spun around wildly. He kicked at Nathaniel’s legs and tried frantically to free his hands, all to no avail. Further annoyed, Nathaniel swept the human’s legs out from under him, lifted him upside down by the ankles, and secured both feet with the remaining piece of metal. Hog-tied and no longer dangerous—as if he ever was—Nathaniel threw him across the room into the toppled-over card table and bared his fangs at the female, slowly shimmering into view. His low, feral growl spoke volumes: Stay in line.
The woman looked like she had just seen the devil.
She began to scream like a broken siren, one short blast after another rising to a fevered pitch until it became evident that she was about to hyperventilate. “Shut up!” Nathaniel hissed, glaring at her with eyes he knew were gleaming red. “Shut up—or I’ll shut you up.”
The blonde swallowed a gasp and pressed her hand tightly over her mouth in an attempt to quell her unrelenting cries. Tears streamed down her face in rivulets as she removed her hand and whimpered, “Please…oh please, don’t—”
Nathaniel’s glare stopped her short.
A second hand came up to cover the first, and both were pressed hard against her mouth in a feverish attempt to stay silent. She nodded furiously, demonstrating her compliance. Shaking his head with disgust—yet confident that the female would remain obedient—Nathaniel turned back to the male.
The dark-haired human was sprawled out on the floor in an extremely awkward position: His back was twisted sideways against the cold tiles, and his head was propped upright and forward, braced against the top of the table, which now stood parallel to the floor. Praying the man hadn’t died that easily, Nathaniel hovered over his twisted body and squatted down to make eye contact.
The man squirmed.
Good.
He tried to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go. Not to mention, his legs were too tightly bound to assist him.
“Who are you?” Nathaniel growled, his voice so thick with vehemence he hardly sounded coherent. He tried again, slower this time: “Who—the—hell—are—you?” When the man didn’t immediately respond, he added, “You have three seconds to answer before I rip your throat out.”
He knew he couldn’t actually do it.
Marquis had ordered him to keep both intruders alive, but the human didn’t have to know that.
“Screw you, vampire,” he spat.
Surprised, Nathaniel stood up. He took a step back and regarded the human thoughtfully. Studying his features with keen interest, he took in his full measure: Dark, hawkish eyes glared back at him with as much contempt as fear. There was a brazen defiance in his gaze that revealed both a stiff spine…and extremely poor judgment. Moreover, the man’s slightly dilated pupils betrayed a lack of balance, the fact that he wasn’t altogether…wrapped too ti
ght…for lack of a better term. His thin, pursed lips were as cruel as they were stubborn, meaning he was capable of just about anything; however, his sallow complexion exposed an internal weakness: The man thought of himself as a leader—a rebel belonging to some sort of worthy cause—but in reality, he was nothing more than a follower, an easily brainwashed devotee, ultimately under the control of others.
Nathaniel crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well, now, I must admit you have…courage. You’re stupid as hell, but courageous.” He knelt down in front of him, grabbed him by the throat, and squeezed, falling just short of crushing his trachea—after all, destroying the man’s larynx would make it a little hard for him to talk. And then, he wrenched the man’s head back by the hair, dipped his head, and sank his fangs so deep into his throat that they scraped against his vertebrae. He ripped out tissue before releasing his bite, repositioning his mouth, and sinking his fangs once again into the artery.
Nathaniel took long, drugging pulls of the man’s blood, aiming to inflict as much pain as possible—which was a great deal: Without a vampire’s assistance—the mind control that dulled the pain and reduced the initial sensation—there was nothing tolerable or romantic about being bitten by the Nosferatu. A bite felt like exactly what it was: two long, thick spikes being driven into the side of one’s throat.
The pain was beyond excruciating, and the human started to convulse. He shrieked like a newborn baby, and his eyes darted around the room in panicked horror.
Unwilling to risk draining him dry, Nathaniel sustained the bite as long as he could, and then he finally withdrew his fangs…and waited.
“Oh God…oh God…oh God,” the man panted hysterically. “Please…no more…please.” He writhed in pain. From the look in his eyes—and the frenetic way his hands strained behind his back—the human desperately wanted to reach up and apply pressure to his burning throat, ease the unrelenting pain—but he was unable to give himself even the slightest relief.
Nathaniel licked his lips. “That’s better.” He crossed his arms and struggled to take his bloodlust down a notch. He felt a rivulet of the man’s blood trickle out the corner of his own mouth but made no effort to wipe it away. “The brown-haired female”—Nathaniel spoke with absolute dominance and contempt—“the one with the hazel eyes…did you shoot her?” Despite his promise to Marquis, he was trembling in anticipation of the male’s answer: If the guy said yes, then all bets were off. Even Marquis would have to understand how restraint, in such a circumstance, was too much to ask. Nathaniel’s lips twitched as he waited.
The human shook his head adamantly back and forth. “No…no! God, no…I swear it.”
“What about the other woman!” Marquis Silivasi threw open the supply room door and stormed into the room, followed by a reluctant Braden Bratianu. “Did you impale that beautiful, dark-haired woman…through the heart…with a wooden stake?”
Nathaniel looked up at the angry Ancient Master Warrior: Marquis’s rage was simmering…on the edge of boiling. “Brother,” Nathaniel said in greeting. And then he instantly switched to telepathy, not wanting to give the human the satisfaction of knowing the extent of the injuries he had caused their mates: Marquis, what is happening? How is Jocelyn? Where is Ciopori? He paused to look at the young vampire standing nervously at Marquis’s side and frowned—Braden looked both dazed and apprehensive. Why did you bring the boy with you?
Marquis growled so low in his throat that Nathaniel took an instinctive step back, and Braden instantly scurried to stand on the other side of the room. Jocelyn is still in surgery, but Kagen says it is going well. Ciopori is sedated and sleeping in an adjacent room. Julien and Ramsey are guarding her.
Julien Lacusta was the valley’s best tracker and a fierce Master Warrior in his own right, and Ramsey was a crazy-as-hell bastard who could inflict the most hideous torture while whistling a happy tune at the same time. Ciopori was in good hands. And Braden? he asked.
“Braden is now a son in the house of Jadon, and the Vampyr are his people.” Marquis spoke out loud, obviously wanting the human to hear his words. “An attack against our women is an attack against him.” He looked across the room at the adolescent, who now stood with his chest puffed out, no doubt trying like hell to appear braver than he felt. “He is not too young to stand with us in solidarity…or to kill with us…in pleasure.”
Nathaniel nodded. Braden Bratianu might only be fifteen years old, but he had a lot to learn in a very short time in order to catch up with his vampire peers of the same age. As the only human son of a female destiny ever converted to their species, as opposed to being born that way, nothing came easy for the awkward boy. He had to learn what others took for granted, and Marquis had taken a special interest in him ever since the kid had helped save Jocelyn from the Lycan hunters.
“Very well,” Nathaniel growled, giving Braden an approving nod before turning back toward the table.
Marquis was instantly there, looming over the terrified human male. “I asked you a question: Did you stake the other female?”
The human looked precisely like what he was—a man being forced to stare his own death in the eyes. Wisely, he didn’t answer the question.
And his silence told Marquis all he needed to know.
Marquis slowly lifted his hand, and a thin red beam of light shot out of his index finger.
“Wh…wh…what are you doing?” the man asked, his horrified eyes trained on the light.
Marquis shrugged. “Taking the image from your head.” He focused the narrow beam of light on the sweat-dampened skin of the human’s forehead and began to burn a deep cut into his skull as if with a scalpel. As Marquis’s finger moved slowly to the right, the male’s scalp opened in its wake, and the fetid stench of burning flesh began to fill the room.
“No! Stop!” the man screamed, tossing his head back and forth in a futile attempt to avoid the laser. He fell on his side and began to vomit, choking on the refuse as it passed through his throat.
“Cry me a river,” Marquis snarled, and then he snatched the man by his shirt and tossed him onto his back, leaving him prone on the floor like a pagan sacrifice. Marquis straddled the human’s body and forced him to meet his heated gaze. He held his finger directly above a blood-soaked eye and made a circular motion, as if to say, This comes out next, and then he spat in his face. “I won’t ask again: Did you stake the other woman?”
The man choked out the word with unfathomable regret: “Yes.”
Marquis hung his head and released a long, slow, deep breath. In what appeared to be a herculean effort, he rocked back on his heels and briefly retreated from the confrontation; and then he reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if in deep concentration.
Nathaniel had no doubt Marquis was struggling to contain an absolute explosion of emotion, and he would have placed a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder, except he wasn’t at all sure he would get the hand back in its present condition. After sixty seconds or so had passed, Marquis cleared his throat and looked back at the waiting human.
His expression was as cold as stone.
His eyes were both hollow and impassive.
And his voice held a dark-velvet promise in its depths: “I am going to sever your head from your body—with my teeth—but first, you are going to answer three questions: Who are you? Why are you here? And why did you try to murder my wife?”
The man wet his pants.
“Talk,” Marquis snarled. His voice was laced with compulsion.
“Mm…muh…my…name is David…Reed. I’m the head of the Midwest vampire-hunting militia.” In a torrent of piteous words, David explained the organization, how they had come to learn about Dark Moon Vale through their regional Head Hunter—a government operative named Tristan Hart—and how they had hoped to find something in the clinic to help destroy the vampire species: perhaps a sedative made specifically for their race, tissue or blood samples that revealed information about their anatomy, a secret about va
mpire physiology that could be used against them in the future. He explained how they had been caught off guard by the women, and he assured Marquis that they had never intended to attack the females—or anyone else for that matter.
As if that mattered in the least…
After collecting all the information he needed—or wanted—Marquis bent ever-so-slowly over the man’s body and…smiled.
“Please…please, I’m begging you…for God’s sake…I—”
Marquis held his finger over the man’s lips to silence him. “You tried to kill my woman,” he whispered, and then he placed one hand on either side of the man’s shoulders. “Oh, and by the way, your so-called Head Hunter—the one who recruited you to help rid the pure, human race of monsters—was a Lycan.” He laughed, a deep, wicked sound that echoed through the room. “Tristan Hart isn’t a government operative any more than you are: He’s a werewolf, you fool—or at least he was before my brother killed him.” He paused. “Perhaps you will meet up in hell.”
Marquis locked eyes with the human, and then he released his fangs and bent his head oh-so-slowly to his neck. With a calm that was more frightening than any rage, he bit into his throat in one clean bite, his jaw enclosing both sides of the jugular at once. He breathed quietly and evenly, deeply inhaling the man’s scent; and then a deep, guttural growl rose from his very soul and his eyes flashed crimson-red—glazed over like no one was home.
Marquis Silivasi ripped the man’s larynx out in one horrible mouthful.
He spit out the torn flesh, licked his lips, and bit into him again—this time with a feral, unrestrained rage. With both palms braced flat against the floor, evenly spaced on either side of the man’s head, Marquis Silivasi tore out the human’s throat like a rabid animal—biting, tearing, spitting, and snarling—ravaging with such unbridled fury that even Nathaniel had to look away. When he turned back, Marquis was kneeling—silent and still—the base of the man’s spinal column clasped between his teeth like a bone in the jaws of a dog. And the human’s head was fully decapitated from his body.