by Tessa Dawn
Ah, and there it was.
A single white envelope, with a time-worn stamp, addressed to Braden Bratianu and made to look like it had gone through the human postal system, like it had come from Hawaii, like it was simply a familial letter from his not-so-adoring family, nothing suspicious to detect. Ian chuckled inwardly; the Dark Ones were nothing if they were not intelligent and resourceful—they had extremely detailed files on all of their enemies, all of the sons of Jadon, and he wondered if the bastards knew just how closely their enemy watched them.
Placing the letter inside the black conical box, Ian swiftly backed away. He rose upward into the sky, scattered the fog in many, diverse directions, and succinctly withdrew from the wizard’s residence.
Done and done.
The boy would get the message and meet him by the creek—or he wouldn’t.
At least Ian had done his part.
Spiraling next, several miles north, Ian felt a feral growl rumble in his disembodied chest: After so many centuries in hiding, this was just way too close for comfort. His eyes took in the expansive valley below, and he snarled.
Julien’s rustic retreat.
He felt for the presence of his brother—of his twin—and sighed with relief when the tracker wasn’t there. Hmm, so where had Julien gone so late at night? And only six days after heralding his Blood Moon.
It didn’t really matter.
In fact, for all intents and purposes, this worked out much, much better.
The strength of the wards surrounding the long, winding driveway and the front porch were daunting to say the least, but Ian possessed something no other visitor could possibly possess: Julien’s shared DNA. The preternatural security system would recognize Ian’s imprint as Julien’s, at least to a lesser extent, and it would allow him to approach the front door.
Ian landed on the stoop with a whoosh, gathering his molecules together in lightning-quick succession, and then reaching for a leather bag. Thank the dark lords, the bundle had transported intact—he wondered just how many vampires could wield such magic, such skill, such well-honed expertise. Stroking the bundled letters lovingly, he rubbed them over his heart, hoping to impart his individual energy…in droves.
To my brother, on our eleventh birthday: Hope you have a sun-shiny day!
What the hell did that even mean?
Happy Twelfth Birthday to my best friend and brother: Let’s make today a great one!
Humans were so simple-minded and trite.
You’re eighteen now—let’s party!!!
Now that one made Ian laugh.
Of course, he had stopped at age twenty-one: There was simply nowhere he could go to find birthday cards for ages 101- 967, and frankly, it would become rather redundant at that point. In fact, it might lose its nefarious effect.
No, Ian thought as he smiled, providing a set of birthday cards from ages eleven through twenty-one is absolutely perfect, especially considering how he had signed the last one: I know our birthdays are still three months out, but I couldn’t wait until April 12th to make up for so much lost time. How fondly I remember the last birthday we shared together. How deeply I desire to see you again. Soon, my beloved brother. I shall have to see you…soon. Love, Ian.
Wrapping the bundle in a delicate, silken bow—a bow his mother, Harietta, used to wear in her hair—he placed it in the doorway and slinked into the night.
Nachari Silivasi stirred restlessly in his sleep, almost as if he were slumbering once again in hell, captured and being tortured in the depraved abyss. He came awake with a start, and to his utter surprise, he was already in panther form.
What the hell?
He swiftly shape-shifted back into his vampiric body and turned to check on Deanna. She was sleeping soundly beside him, her long, dark-brown hair fanned out against the sleek satin pillow-slip like a glorious halo, her beautiful, exotic features peaceful in repose.
He slinked noiselessly from the bed, and then he grabbed a robe and padded down the narrow series of halls, checking Sebastian’s room first, then Braden’s room next.
Nothing seemed amiss.
Yet and still, there was a thick, inky darkness hovering over the brownstone like a looming storm cloud, and his stomach turned over in waves. He made his way up the multi-level staircase and emerged onto the rooftop terrace, glancing upward at the sky. “What’s up, Lord Perseus,” he whispered, absently beseeching his reigning celestial god. Why do I feel like the devil himself has just passed through my home?
There was no answer from the darkness, no rejoinder from the sky, and Nachari splayed his fingers wide as he held his palms, outstretched, at each of his sides. He sent all five senses seeking outward, probing for energy, for errant vibrations, and then, before he could rein them in and analyze what he was sensing, a deep, sonorous voice invaded his mind.
What is it, son? Keitaro Silivasi sounded wholly alert and awake—he rarely slept at night.
I don’t know, Father, Nachari answered immediately. Something woke me from my sleep.
Something? Keitaro repeated. Like what?
Nachari glanced at the tree line; he surveyed the jagged cliffs; he paced around the terrace and peeked down, beyond the railing, toward the familiar mountain road. I do not know, he repeated. I honestly don’t. And then he saw the upraised red flag on the mailbox and stiffened. The bulk of the dissonant energy he was sensing was concentrated around that flag. Huh, he muttered beneath his breath to Keitaro, someone has been here—quite recently.
Keitaro’s psychic voice perked up. Someone? Who?
Nachari shrugged. Isn’t that just the million-dollar question? He felt Keitaro stir and immediately sought to reassure him. Father, let me check it out. I’ll call you if I need you.
Keitaro’s energy snaked through the telepathic line like a bolt of sizzling heat, and the connection went silent for the space of five heartbeats. Are your Lycan wards active?
They are, Nachari answered.
And your human wards are set?
Always, Nachari replied.
And there are how many layers of protection around the brownstone?
Enough to stop a T-rex, Nachari joked, halfheartedly. Father, please, give me a moment. Oh, and please don’t call my brothers. Not yet.
Keitaro chuckled then, his psychic voice growing softer, more pleasant. Well, then you’d better check your emotions, my son. Because if Marquis gets wind of that vibration, he’ll be on your doorstep faster than you can say Ancient Master…brother.
True, Nachari quipped. Very well, I will let you know what I find.
Good enough, Keitaro replied, and then he modulated his voice. I love you, son.
Nachari grew quiet and inhaled sharply.
As often as Keitaro said those words—and he said them almost every time the two of them talked—it still brought the wizard up short: Ever since the male had returned from his captivity in Mhier, ever since his sons had ventured into that perilous, forgotten dimension to rescue him, he had been bound and determined to set the record straight, to provide each of his sons with all the paternal affection they had been missing for centuries. Nachari, in particular, had become very insecure from the prolonged separation, from believing that his father had been dead for 480 years: Unlike Marquis, or even Nathaniel and Kagen, Nachari and Shelby had only shared twenty-one years with the male before the Lycans took him, and Nachari had worried, more than a little, that he might be a stranger with his very own dad.
Keitaro had known that instinctively.
And he had gone out of his way to bridge that gap, to get to know his youngest, living son, to make sure Nachari felt his presence as strongly as possible.
The funny thing was this: Nachari no longer felt insecure.
In fact, Nachari could not have been more certain about his father’s love, or the male’s commitment to rebuilding their relationship—Keitaro had rebuilt it in spades. Still, Nachari smiled. It was so incredibly endearing to hear it spoken so brazenly, repeated so
frequently, and meant so sincerely. And it always catapulted him back to a five-year-old kid.
Love you, too, Dad, he answered, without further hesitation. Be well, Ancient Master Warrior.
Be well, Master Wizard, Keitaro replied, and then he closed the connection.
Nachari strolled to the edge of the terrace and balanced atop the patio wall. In one lithe motion, he shifted into the form of his panther, bounded from the veranda, and prowled toward the mailbox.
He intended to scent this out.
fifteen
Friday, in Denver ~ 6:00 PM
As Julien waited in the back master bedroom, Rebecca cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said to the room, eyeing each woman in turn: Kate Beckman, Nancy Thomas, Sheila Harris, Patricia Sykes, and Teresa Gonzales—they had all made it, and they had all arrived on time. “I really appreciate your flexibility.”
Sheila sat forward on Rebecca’s comfortable, two-toned sofa, and placed her glass of raspberry lemonade on a coffee-table coaster. “We thought you were in Dark Moon Vale for the duration. What’s this about?”
Kate leaned back in a matching upholstered armchair and nodded, clutching a rust-colored throw pillow to her chest.
The other women all looked eager to hear the news.
Rebecca gathered her courage and tried to choose her words carefully. After all, she couldn’t tell them the truth: There’s a six-foot-four vampire waiting in my bedroom, and he needs to read your memories and your thoughts, in addition to viewing our files, so he can get down to business and pretty much wipe the city with the asses of our stalkers. Uh, no, that wasn’t going to work. “I, um…I met someone in Dark Moon Vale who is…very sympathetic to our cause and extremely talented in PI work.” Her eyes darted nervously around the room, an obvious sign that she was fibbing, and she had to force herself to look straight ahead. “In fact, he has a proven track record of making long-term domestic problems actually go away.”
Patricia cleared her throat, and her gorgeous ebony eyes flashed with cautious interest. She held up an elegant, coffee-colored hand and pursed her full, perfectly shaped lips, looking exquisitely beautiful as always. Patricia was a kick-butt software engineer who had made the innocent mistake of dating an NFL linebacker, once. The famous football player could not take no for an answer; he believed he was above the law; and the justice system treated him as if he had a season pass to get away with violence. Thus, Patricia had been terrorized for the last two years. “Um, I think you need to be a little more specific. What do you mean by go away? Girl, did you meet some mafia hitman from the casino? I’m not liking the sound of this, Rebecca.”
A nervous laughter filled the room, yet the women gave her a chance to continue.
Rebecca smiled ingratiatingly. “No, Pat, nothing like that.” Far, far more dangerous than that, she thought. “What I mean by go away is that he has a quantifiable, proven track record. If you look at past cases that he’s worked on”—oh lord, she was really laying it on thick now, and these women were far too smart to buy this pitiful load of bull—“the number of complaints, assaults, and violent encounters simply go away after he’s made contact with the stalkers.”
“Humph,” Patricia snorted, leaning forward in her chair.
“In fact,” Rebecca continued, pretending she hadn’t heard the harrumph, “in every single case he’s taken on, there was no longer a need for a restraining order, no longer a need for hiding, changing your identity, any of it—the women were able to resume their normal lives.”
Okay, that just sounded ridiculous.
Even to Rebecca.
Maybe Julien had been right: He needed to soften the women’s defenses and manipulate their minds in order to make this work.
Sheila cocked her eyebrows and pushed her lemonade further back on the coffee table, as if she was suddenly concerned she would tip it over. “So what you’re trying to say is that this dude, someone you just met in the mountains, can accomplish what the police, the justice system, and a dozen years of living a carefully controlled, defensive life cannot? That he can just somehow persuade these sick, diabolical bastards to stop doing the one thing they’d rather die than let go of?”
“And he can do it without putting a bullet through their brains?” Kate asked.
Rebecca’s body tensed. Oh hell, this wasn’t going as planned. She contemplated her answer mindfully, weighing the various gradations of truth as a concept: Technically, Julien could do it without putting a bullet through their brains, so... “Yes,” she said emphatically, and then she sighed and cocked her head. “Look, the deal is this: He can do it. We don’t get to ask how or why. But—”
“And just what is this going to cost?” Nancy asked.
“Girl, did you hire a hitman?” This time, Patricia stood up.
“Ay-yi-yi, Rebecca!” Teresa chimed in, making the sign of the cross in the air. “What did you do, mija?”
A deep, placid, unearthly drone began to penetrate the air as Julien Lacusta strolled down the narrow hallway, emerged in the living room, and stood at the focal point of the meeting. “Look into my eyes, ladies.”
Despite the fact that it seemed like a ridiculous command—who did he think he was, a snake charmer?—humans were, obviously, innately curious and extremely susceptible to direct suggestion. Every single woman instinctively glanced at his eyes, and then, there was a collective, terrified gasp throughout the room.
His eyes were glowing blood-red, and his pupils had restricted into narrow, vertical slits, much like a cat’s. “Now then,” he drawled, in an eerily compelling voice. “I am Julien Lacusta, and I am going to make your nightmares go away…once and for all. And you are going to let me, without question or objection. Rebecca has just explained everything in such sufficient detail that you no longer have any concerns. You will come to me, one by one, in an orderly fashion, and offer me your hands. And then, you will take your seats and resume your meeting, forgetting that we ever had this conversation.”
The room grew quiet for the space of several heartbeats, and then the women simply sank back into their chairs, smoothed their skirts, slacks, and blouses, and smiled sweetly, waiting to meet Julien and offer the PI their hands.
Rebecca turned her nose up in disgust. “Whatever,” she murmured.
“Ah,” he teased. “Don’t be salty, little mouse.”
She rolled her eyes and moved from the center of the room to his side, so she could watch him more closely. Fine, he had been right. That time. But she wasn’t going to give him carte blanche control over the group and her friends, not that easily. From what he had told her, mind control was a tricky thing; although the way he had explained it, what he had to do was more like fishing…
As a gifted tracker, Julien Lacusta’s mind was a whole lot like a database, at least according to him. It contained multiple files, which stored information, and he could sift through and separate each file by category in the space of mere seconds; and once the information had been stored, he could retrieve what he needed at will: histories, sensory details, memories, and the like. The larger the file on each given subject, the faster he could track the prey. In other words, the hand-touching was a means to an end. Each woman would be uploading her database into Julien’s mind, and from there, he could use her knowledge, her memories, and her emotions to home in on her fears: the man who haunted her dreams.
Still, Rebecca wanted to make sure that he didn’t take too much.
She wanted to make sure he was both gentle and kind.
After all, the gladiator wasn’t exactly known for his tact or his subtlety, at least not since Rebecca had known him.
Patricia rose from the couch and sauntered across the room, heading straight for Julien, and despite the fact that her pupils registered an inordinate amount of fear—she was clearly aware that she was in the presence of a predator—Rebecca reluctantly stepped out of her path and let her proceed. “Pat, this is Julien. Julien, this is Pat,” she said dry
ly, making the cursory introductions. The least she could do was behave like they were civilized, like she wasn’t feeding her friends to a lion.
Julien leaned back against the wall like the lazy, languid jungle cat Rebecca had just envisioned. He folded his arms in front of his chest and extended one hand to grasp Patricia’s in a touch so gentle, so innately seductive that it gave Rebecca pause.
And just what the heck was that?
Jealousy?
Rebecca grimaced. No. Heck no!
She quickly dismissed the thought.
“Nice to meet you, Patricia.” His voice was like a silken sheath, encasing Patricia’s concerns like fingers in an elegant, bewitching glove, practically wrapping her up in velvet.
Was all that really necessary?
He gazed into Patricia’s eyes, and the woman nearly fainted.
Humph, Rebecca thought, watching as his pupils widened.
Then, just like that, he was done.
He released Patricia’s hand; she blinked three times; and then she strolled back to the couch.
Bring the next one on.
Trevor Rainier checked the time on his Rolex.
Damnit, he was forty-five minutes late.
Ah well, that just meant he would make a grand, unforgettable entrance.
He sauntered confidently to Rebecca’s front door and then paused to collect his thoughts. He had waited a lifetime for this moment—at least it felt like it had been a lifetime—and he wanted to play it out just right. But more than that, he wanted Rebecca…
Back in his influence.
Back in his arms.
Back in his life, for good.
He knocked briskly on the door, three times, before reaching for the knob. It opened without resistance, and he ambled into the room.
The women recognized him at once and began to greet him with pleasant salutations, but he refused to give them a passing glance, let alone a reply. His eyes scanned the space in a millisecond, probing with military clarity, searching for just one face, scouring for only one woman…