by Tessa Dawn
As if a sudden tide of panic had just swept through the room, washed over the sofa, and dragged Rebecca into its dangerous undertow, she flung his arm off her shoulder, leaped from the couch, and began to run toward the staircase.
She had no idea where she was going.
She knew, intuitively, that she could never outrun him—hell, he could just freeze her in place with the sweep of his hand—yet and still, everything in her told her to run.
Julien rose from his perch on the sofa, but he didn’t pursue her, at least not right away. And he didn’t command her body to freeze. “Becca,” he called in a no-nonsense tone. “Angel, please…stop.”
She made it halfway up the first set of stairs and spun around on the landing. “Don’t do this, Julien. Please. I can’t…I’m not…just don’t.”
In an instant, he was there, dematerializing from the great room and transporting within inches of her trembling frame. “Baby, please. You read the letters. You know the history. This monster took my father. This monster killed my mother. This monster has eluded me for over nine hundred years.” He cupped her face in his hands, his touch far too gentle for a male his size, and burrowed his fingers in her hair. “You’ve seen me. You know how I cope—how I don’t cope—with the fallout. Can you even imagine what would happen to me, to this valley, to the earth all around us, if Ian were to somehow get to you, if I had to live with the fact that I had left you defenseless?”
Rebecca covered his large hands in hers and squeezed, mostly out of fear and anxiety. “I don’t have…” Her voice trailed off and she averted her eyes in a regretful admission of shame. “I don’t have the kind of love or commitment that can sustain that level of pain, a conversion. If you hurt me now, I just…I just…”
“You just?” His voice was hollow and void of emotion.
“I just think there would be no future. For us.”
He nodded slowly, allowing her words to linger, and then he locked his moonstone gaze with hers, his pupils dark with conviction. “Analise and Evangeline,” he whispered in a husky tone. “We—you and me—we have a past, and we will have a future. It may be rocky, and the gods know, I’m about the least worthy bastard any female could ever want to be saddled with, but angel of mine—destiny of mine—know this: I am loyal, all the way down to my broken core. I fight for what is mine, and I’m a survivor. If nothing else, I will fight for you, and I will fight for us. I promise you, little mouse, from this day forward, from this moment forward, from the second the conversion ends, no one is going to stalk you; no one is going to deny you anything; nothing in heaven or on earth is going to keep me from protecting you, from protecting us, from cherishing our mating. Rebecca Louise Johnston, you will have my fealty, the same as my king. You will have my heart, for as long as I live. You will have my body, my mind, and my soul, such as it is.” He drew back and chuckled, insincerely. “I know you don’t want it—at least not now—and maybe you never will. But don’t decide our forever based on this one critical, necessary event. Forever is a very long time.”
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears, and despite her incessant trembling, she lowered her gaze, leaned forward, and rested her forehead on the vampire’s chest. He immediately enfolded her in his powerful arms, and despite the maddening, terrifying situation they were both facing, she actually felt safe for the very first time in as long as she could remember. “I’m scared,” she mumbled into his breast.
“I know,” he whispered. “So am I.”
At that, she drew back and peeked up at him. “You? Why? Of what?”
The corners of his eyes creased, and he swept his tongue over his bottom lip in an atypical, nervous gesture. “I don’t want to hurt you, Becca. I don’t want to pull you into this nightmare that is my waking life. And I don’t want to damage the fragile trust we are just beginning to forge. I’m not afraid of Ian. Hell, I’m not even afraid of dying. But I am afraid of hurting you, doing anything to damage our delicate bond.”
“But you’re determined to do it anyway,” she said.
He nodded, slowly. “Yes.”
“And there’s nothing I can say?”
He measured her carefully, studying her features, gazing into her eyes like she was the most beautiful—and innocent—woman in the world. “You can say anything, baby. You can say everything. But at the end of the day, I’m a male vampire. I’m going to protect you, first. I’m going to make you stronger.”
She swallowed her protest and stifled a frown—it wouldn’t do any good. “Can I at least take a minute, have a moment to myself? I don’t know, take a shower and think, maybe process a little, try to get…prepared?”
Julien placed two fingers beneath her chin and lifted her jaw to force her tentative gaze. “I know you don’t believe this, and this situation certainly doesn’t demonstrate it, but there is nothing I would deny you, șoarec micuț. There is nothing I will deny you for the rest of your life. Just meet me halfway…on this…in this awful, difficult circumstance, and know that when you come through on the other side, you will be emerging into a whole new world. A world where you are stronger, faster, and safe…with me.”
Rebecca worried her bottom lip. How could she say that being safe with him was exactly what she was afraid of: being tied to Julien Lacusta, the fearsome tracker for the house of Jadon…forever? How could she explain that there was no going back, that she hadn’t even had a chance to catch her breath, to process this new reality, or to welcome him into her heart? How could she express that she actually feared him more than Ian, despite their burgeoning connection?
It didn’t matter.
Even if she could express it.
The tracker’s mind was made up, and she was, indeed, a little mouse caught in the ultimate trap, in the clutches of a primitive lion, a snare she could never escape. She could only hope and pray that his words were true, that he had meant everything he promised, because like it or not, Rebecca Johnston was about to become a vampire.
She was about to become his.
“Okay,” she whispered, reluctantly nodding her head. “Give me half an hour.”
Julien breathed an audible sigh of relief. He took a generous step backward and tried to appear less domineering—it just didn’t work. He gestured toward the curved, wooden staircase, flanked by so much iron, and spoke in an unusually tender voice: “I’ll be in the great room…when you’re ready.”
Rebecca nodded, and then she quickly sidled past him and bounded down the stairs.
twenty-three
The next morning
Julien Lacusta stepped outside onto the wide-plank floor of his rustic front porch and took a deep, cleansing breath of fresh mountain air. Rebecca’s conversion had lasted five long, harrowing hours, and as much as he had wanted to meet with the sentinels right away, switch his attention to the immediate threat at hand—the missive his dark twin had sent to Braden Bratianu, asking the youngster to meet him at the creek later that night—he had known better.
Rebecca had needed his full attention and support.
She’d had lots of questions and concerns, and frankly, she had just needed to rest, to take a moment and adjust to all the changes and fluctuations that were coming at her, faster than a speeding train: Her senses were changed. Her reality was altered. And her entire world had been turned upside down. She just needed a few hours to process.
Now, as she slept in, curled up in an adorable little ball in Julien’s iron bed, his senses were hyper-acute, and his sense of urgency was enormous. In a couple of hours, he would take his newly changed destiny to Napolean Mondragon’s manse, and that’s where she would remain until the crisis with Ian was over. Just the same, the clock was ticking on their Blood Moon, and he knew he had to get this perilous ball rolling.
Ian could be anywhere.
He could be out there right now…watching… waiting…ready to pounce.
He could be planning virtually anything.
Squatting down beside the terra-cotta pot where Ian ha
d left the maniacal birthday cards, Julien closed his eyes and tried to gather his wits, to control his wayward thoughts, to call upon his inner warrior: the valley’s best tracker.
He took a slow, even breath through his nose, allowing his nostrils to flare, even as he recorded the vast palette of scents that lingered in the air: pine, juniper, fresh earth, wood, moisture, and a hint, just a hint, of something distinctly acrid, Ian Lacusta’s aroma.
He recorded it in his mental database.
And then he opened his eyes and stared at the dust on the porch, followed it down the small series of steps to the unkempt vegetation, the ungroomed xeriscape, just off to the side, and he took a psychic-photo of a faint but noticeable impression: a singular set of footprints. Rising to meander in the direction of the tracks, he began to analyze what he was seeing at amazing rates of speed: There was a slight depression in the left heel print, which meant that Ian walked with a notable gait, actually, a swagger; there was a small, almost indiscernible circle between the third row of tread in the bottom right track, which meant that Ian had a small stone or a pebble wedged between the sole of his boots. And he did wear boots. In fact, based on the size and depth of the footprints, however faint, Julien’s wicked brother had grown to be about six-foot-four, the same height as Julien, but he carried about thirty fewer pounds on his frame. As a vampire, he would be strong and muscular, but his physique would be far more lean and sinewy in nature.
Julien took several steps back and zeroed in on the front porch once more, this time studying the almost nonexistent patterns of dust—they were subtle, undetectable to the human eye, but Julien knew what to look for. Ian had taken two to three steps on the porch before he squatted down to plant the cards, and those steps revealed a two-and-one-half-foot stride. Based on where he stopped, where he stooped, he was still right-handed, which meant that any weapon he wielded would be thrust or brandished from that advantage—it would be more advantageous to attack him from his left.
His handwriting on the garish birthday cards had already revealed plenty: The male was arrogant and drunk with bravado, but he was also anxious, uncertain, and enormously paranoid, all things that could be used against him. The vibration that hung in the air, wrapped itself around the leaves and the planter, confirmed the same thing: His energy was dark and malevolent, focused so strongly that it almost swirled in a quantum hologram, but it was chaotic and desperate.
Julien sighed, even as a feral growl rose, inadvertently, in his throat.
This, too, could be a tactical advantage.
Somehow, Julien had to remain calm, evenly focused, and deliberate in all of his actions and choices.
He repressed the desire to snatch the pot and toss it about a mile down the road, realizing that anyone could be in its trajectory, and he focused, instead, on Ian’s retreat. The male had taken exactly one and a half steps backward before transporting into flight, and then, in less than a ten-foot expanse he had shifted into mist. Julien knew this because the nearby pine trees, those precisely ten feet away, had a subtle, but distinctly different quality to their needles—he could both smell and see the impact of dew on the branches, the added pliability to the tines. They were just an infinitesimal shade darker, greener. Holy mother of Hercules, he thought, that would take the skill of a magician. Julien snarled, and his fangs pressed against his gums. For some reason, that knowledge didn’t really come as a surprise: Ian had mastered so many techniques in his youth, trying to hide his darkness from Harietta, struggling to contain a psychic force that was inbred in his very DNA, learning to adapt at a cellular level. It was no wonder he had the virtual powers of a wizard.
Julien nodded.
So be it.
And that was when he felt, more than heard, Rebecca step onto the porch.
He spun around to face her. “Baby, you should never come outside on your own, not without the all-clear first.”
Rebecca frowned and rubbed her eyes. She had obviously just woken up. “Yeah,” she murmured, “duly noted.” There was nothing hostile in her voice, just a sort of complacent surrender, and to his surprise, it tugged at his heartstrings. “What were you doing?” she asked.
Julien snorted in dismissal. “Nothing. Just…closing some loose ends.”
Rebecca nodded. She glanced around the porch, out into the yard, and down the driveway, and then she absently nodded her head. “You’re tracking, aren’t you? Hunting Ian?”
Julien nodded. “Yeah. Just gathering some information.”
Her soft, topaz eyes lit with just a hint of curiosity, and she hesitated before clearing her throat. “Would you show me? Like…what you’re seeing, recording?”
Julien almost said no as an instant knee-jerk reaction. They honestly did not have the time, and the situation was way too dangerous. Now that she was awake, Rebecca needed to get to Napolean’s manse, post haste. But something brought him up short. Maybe it was the lost look in her expression; maybe it was the pallor of the recent conversion still dusting her complexion; or maybe it was just the fact that she had asked; but he took a few curious steps toward her, extended his hand, and waited to see if she would take it.
She did, albeit cautiously.
He led her to the edge of the porch and pointed at the distant pines. “Do you see those blue spruces, the ones that are slightly taller than the rest?”
She nodded.
“Close your eyes, șoarec micuț, and try to focus your sense of smell on the pine needles.”
She did.
“What do you detect?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, just pine, and maybe some wood from the cones.”
Julien sidled behind her, and she stiffened just a bit, but he pretended not to notice as he wrapped his large muscular arms around her, rested his chin in her silken hair, and closed his eyes in order to transfer the information he had absorbed, analyzed, and sifted directly into Rebecca’s mind. Now that she was converted, it was an easy thing to do.
When she gasped, he tightened his hold. That’s it, angel girl, he spoke inside her mind. You can smell the difference between a moist pine needle and a dry one. You can almost hear the hydrogen combining with the oxygen, if you really filter everything else out. He switched to speaking aloud. “That’s where Ian shifted into mist, changed from his typical vampiric form.” He pointed skyward. “He retreated to the west, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything; he could’ve doubled back and gone anywhere.”
Rebecca leaned back against him, and Julien wondered if she even knew she was doing it. “Wow,” she murmured. “That’s…that’s incredible, Julien. I don’t think just anybody could do that, not even other vampires.”
Julien cocked his head slightly to the side, weighing her words for a moment. Hmm, he’d never really thought about it. He had been a tracker all his life, from the time when he was ten years old and arrived on Napolean’s doorstep, begging to be taught. It all just seemed instinctual…
But speaking of Napolean: “Angel, are you ready to go?”
Rebecca pulled away from him as unconsciously as she had propped against him. “No,” she said in a forthright tone. “But I’m coming to understand that ready doesn’t have anything to do with any of this.” She sighed. “Am I ready to meet the vampire king and queen, to be thrust into this alien, terrifying world even more deeply than I’ve already been? No, I’m really not.”
Julien allowed the silence to linger.
Sometimes words were an insult when feelings were exposed and raw.
Honest.
True.
Finally, he whispered, “We do need to go, baby. I just…there’s no other option that’s feasible.”
Despite her misgivings, Rebecca nodded, and then she quietly spun around, padded toward the front door, and re-entered Julien’s home.
He watched her like a hawk studying its fleeing prey, wishing he could change the trajectory—of everything. Her path and his. The uncertain future, and his inherent weakness. The dueling need to stay alert a
nd hunt Ian, coupled with the imminent danger of slipping into a place of insanity, of too much emotion, continuing to use the H if he had to.
Gods, what a mess his life had become.
Perhaps it had always been.
twenty-four
One hour before sunset
Julien Lacusta felt positively twitchy as he strolled into Napolean Mondragon’s elaborately appointed conference room, just to the right of the large receiving foyer. He made fleeting eye contact with each of the sentinels, in turn—Ramsey, Santos, Saxson, and Saber—and each warrior, to a vampire, gave him a stern, unyielding nod. It was almost as if they were reluctant to say hello, as if the very sound of their voices, echoing in the classy hall, might set the volatile tracker off, send him flying into a virulent rage.
He avoided eye contact with the youngster, Braden Bratianu, even as he acknowledged his informal mentor, Nachari Silivasi, although he couldn’t clearly articulate why. And then he declined his head toward Napolean in the most genuine token of respect he could muster and promptly took an empty seat toward the head of the table, just to the left of the monarch. As he settled back, feeling as if his body was too big for the tall, mahogany chair, he couldn’t help but think about Rebecca…and hope she was doing okay.
He had brought her to the manse nearly five hours ago, and although he had wanted to get right down to business with Napolean and the other warriors, he had restrained his impulse to go straight to the conference room. Instead, he had taken the time to help her get acquainted with her new housemates and surroundings: Brooke Mondragon, the queen, had been as understanding, hospitable, and welcoming as possible, and Tiffany Matthews had also come to the manse as well. As the most recently converted destiny in the house of Jadon, Tiffany had wanted to make herself available to Rebecca, to share her own personal story, answer any questions Julien’s destiny might have, and talk to her about the stages of adjustment, fill in any holes. Both women had gone out of their way to make Julien’s newly converted female feel at home.