Thirst: The Kresova Vampire Harems: Aurora

by Knox, Graceley

  “Deep breaths, chérie. I will help you through it all.” His calm tone soothes me, and I draw in a big breath.

  “Why are you here?”

  My question catches him off guard, and he frowns. “I already told you. Have you injured your head somehow between now and the last few minutes?”

  “No, I’m talking about your search. The one you mentioned before. The one that led you to me.”

  He sits back and rests one leg on the opposite knee. “Ah, that.”

  “Yes, dat,” I repeat, mimicking his thick accent.

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “A whole hellavalot, but mostly, how did you find me? How did you know who I was, where I was?”

  “It is . . . complicated, chérie. And I don’t wish to lie to you, which is why I will tell you what I can.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  “It means, I will tell you as much truth as possible”—he looks at Reina who is now plopped on top of the counter, listening intently— “without lying to you.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” I circle my hand encouraging him to continue on. The fact that he’s basically admitting that he’ll tell me the truth, just not the whole truth, antagonizes the shit out of me, but for now, I’ll take what I can get.

  “The Queen summoned me four weeks ago, when the attacks first began. At that time—”

  “—Summoned you where?”

  “Paris.”

  “France?”

  He nods. “That is where her court resides.”

  I’d never even been outside the states. Did becoming a vampire go hand-in-hand with living a glamorous life? I mean sure, that is an upside, but there were bound to be a crap ton of negatives too, besides the obvious undead part.

  “Then how the hell am I seeing her tonight?” I ask.

  “She arrived in Louisiana two nights ago, when I’d reported my findings.”

  “You reported me?”

  “There were already rumors, chérie. Whispers that one amongst the three dozen that had been bitten, one had survived—without Morana’s vein.”

  Vampires were talking about me. A shiver rakes up my spine. Never mind the fact that I’d soon be one myself.

  “And it was before we had actually met,” he adds quickly and looks away.

  Why did he want me to know that? An awkward silence fills the living room, making our 950-square foot living room feel smaller than a prison cell. Reina mouths, “What was that,” to me, but I shake my head and turn the conversation in another direction.

  “When do I actually need blood?”

  “I’m not sure I understand, chérie.”

  “Like…” I glance up to the ceiling, thinking of how to best phrase my question. “I haven’t drunk from anyone’s vein, yet, right? I just have all these desires to have blood, even though I haven’t.”

  “Your desires could end up hurting someone, yes. But you are not prepared to consume blood.”

  “Not prepared?”

  “No, chérie. Your fangs have not broken free, and you are unprepared. The bloodlust you feel is a part of the transition. If you tried to take from the vein, you could kill someone and make yourself sick. This longing, it would still exist, but would have dampened greatly with your queen’s donation. Since you’ve lasted without her blood, she wishes to see you.”

  My eyes widen. “Am I going to have to drink her blood tonight?”

  “No . . .”

  Ugh oh. “No what?”

  “Nothing.” He rubs at the stubble along his jaw. “Simply that Morana is curious to see how you pass through your transition—without her.”

  “So, I’m not drinking her blood.”

  “No.”

  I’m relieved and strangely worried now. “So, when I do need blood, what happens?”

  “For all Kresova, blood can be taken from a willing donor who we can provide you with. Or you can exchange blood with another Kresova.” His tone changes at that last suggestion, and I file that away to ask more about later. “There are some that abhor taking blood from others directly, so they use blood bags from a blood bank. The choice is yours. There are other scenarios, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing.” Carver walks slowly from the window back to the couch and takes a seat. I follow suit and slide into the plush cushions of the couch, my back resting against the arm. “The Kresova are an ancient race, Aurora.”

  “And?”

  “I simply wish you to remember this fact when you meet her. Things will be . . . different. Perhaps some even difficult for you to understand.”

  “Oh-kay.” I don’t even like having a boss. Now I have a queen to answer to.

  Reina says, “Is she a ‘hands on’ or ‘hands off’ sort of ruler?”

  “Queen Morana, is very hands on, and in case Aurora here was having second doubts about doing so.”

  Seconds thoughts. He means second thoughts. I try to hold my smile back, but it takes effort.

  “I would like to remind her that not accepting this invitation would result in Aurora being hunted by Morana’s assassins for the rest of her life, which would be very short. All Kresova must accept her rule as Queen and swear their fealty—or perish by her hand.”

  I rub my face, no longer inclined to smile. “What if no one had ever told her about me, would she still know?”

  “She knows everything.” Carver shrugs a shoulder, his focus on picking the lint off his shirt.

  Oh, because that’s not creepy.

  “And I’m meeting her tonight?”

  Carver nods. “Yes. You must.”

  Emotionally, I feel like I got picked up by a tornado two weeks ago, and I’m still being flung every which way. I look to Reina, who’s sitting atop the counter with her feet tucked under her legs. The corners of her mouth tilt up, and she cocks her head. I know she’s trying to be supportive, but there’s a small flicker of worry hidden under her smile.

  I’m worried too, but my choices aren’t really choices.

  I look to Carver who’s watching me with dark, hooded eyes. “Alright. When do we leave?”

  Chapter 6

  What does one wear to meet a vampire queen?

  In Carver’s words, “You should appear neither too plain nor too beautiful. Your goal is to be appreciated for your looks, chérie, but not admired for them. Morana doesn’t take well to competition.” I couldn’t help imagining her standing before her dresser calling ‘mirror, mirror’ each night like the evil queen in Snow White.

  When I’d mentioned the joke to Carver, he narrowed his eyes and told me that this situation was no laughing matter. Well, his exact words were a bit jumbled, but that’s essentially what he meant.

  What the hell else am I supposed to do? Humor is my only outlet right now. If I’m not laughing, I’d probably be crying, or screaming, or breaking things.

  I end up choosing a pair of slacks and a blouse, but Carver immediately sends me back into the room and forces me into a massive gown Reina had worn last New Year’s Eve to a charity auction masquerade. I feel ridiculous.

  Right after sundown, we take an uneventful ride through the seedier parts of the city and into the outskirts of Louisiana lining the Mississippi River. I lower the windows in Carver’s Audi R8, letting the humid air dampen my freshly done makeup. I’m probably ruining all of Reina’s hard work, but I can’t be concerned about that right now. The thick atmosphere of the car has me seeking the refuge of a breeze—even if it’s a swampy one.

  Stunning grassy hills, white ranch fences, and massive estates littered with oak trees line the snakelike highway. Every so often, we pass another historic plantation now made into a museum. He hasn’t spoken much since the drive began, his attention finely attuned forward. Not that he seems to be paying much attention to the road. Oddly enough, I get the impression his mind is somewhere else entirely, but that doesn’t hinder his ability to maneuver the car with exceptional skill.


  Is he worried? With every mile we drove, the edges of his eyes gather tighter, and his body posture seems tenser than before. I could’ve sworn, a few times, he wanted to say something. Then he’d clamp his mouth shut and look away. His odd apprehension has the butterflies in my stomach behaving like wild angry hornets. I need to break this tension, or I’d pass out.

  “How did you know I wouldn’t run?”

  He glances at me as though he’d forgotten I was sitting here. “What?”

  “That I wouldn’t run last night and go into hiding?”

  “Because, chérie,” He straightens his shoulders and leans back into the smooth leather. “That would have been an illogical choice, and you don’t seem like an illogical type of woman.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “About?”

  “Going to see your queen?” I fidget with the edge of my hair. “You just seem like stressed out or something.” I shake my head. “I don’t know, but it’s freaking me out.”

  “Non. I am, how do you say?” He pauses. “Contemplative at present—and she is your queen too, Aurora. You must not forget that. Nor forget to treat her as such.”

  “Oh, trust me, I haven’t forgotten that.”

  “And you must keep your attitude in line, chérie.” His eyes trace every part of my face, and a hot blush creeps down my cheeks into my neck. “You wear your emotions so openly at times. It is not expected of a Kresova to be so easy to read.”

  “I’ve always had an attitude, Carver. I’m not sure I can behave differently.”

  “You will.” His mouth forms a tight line. “Your very existence depends upon it, understand?”

  I nod.

  “Good, because we are here.”

  We turn off the main road and onto a narrow asphalt drive. When the trees clear, the massive plantation style house comes into view. A wide alleyway lined with even more oaks leads up to the house. Tall white columns framed the structure, adding an elegance to the exterior. Bushes bursting with pink flowers adorn the front walkway. The courtyard garden is lit with antique lanterns, and the half circle drive is completed with a fountain in the middle. I can imagine an epic period romance being filmed right there on the steps leading up to the porch.

  If I wasn’t here to meet a deadly vampire queen, I’d love it.

  Exiting the car, I take a deep, steadying breath. Ahead of me, Carver pulls open a rusted wrought iron gate and waves me forward. Trudging through twisted ground cover and other debris, I try to keep the hem of this ridiculous dress from dragging through the muddied grass until we reach the stone pathway.

  It had taken Reina months to save up for the Elizabethan era gown, just so she could be Anne Boleyn. She’d wanted the authentic look. Not just something picked up at a costume store. When she’d bought the crushed red velvet dress, lace up corset and all, I’d never imagined I’d be borrowing it for anything other than a future costume party.

  Focusing my thoughts back on the present, I clutch bunches of the fabric in my hands and walk through the entrance of the plantation. Once through the gates, goose bumps emerge on my arms, and I shudder. The entire creepy vibe notches up to ten when movement flashes in my peripheral.

  I almost shriek and jump towards Carver. “What the hell was that?” My head twists from side to side as I try to find the source of the movement. “Did you see that?” I whisper low, trying not to attract any attention.

  Carver chuckles, his mirth making my cheeks flush in chagrin. “Just a guard, ma belle. Not to worry, they are charged with keeping those who shouldn’t be here, out. You are meant to be here.”

  I nod, still smarting from his laughter at my expense. What have I gotten myself into agreeing to come here tonight with Carver?

  I turn my steps toward the front entrance, but Carver grabs the edge of my elbow and guides us around the back of the house. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you to see Queen Morana.”

  “Should we be going that way?” I ask, pointing behind us.

  “No, chérie.” Carver looks up and nods to someone I don’t see.

  His hand still on my elbow is causing those stupid happy nerves to act up again. The night is dark, and the moon barely peaks out from behind shadows that litter the sky. Weeks ago, I would have needed a flashlight to make out anything around us, but now, my vision is clear. It’s as though it doesn’t matter if it’s day or night any more.

  After walking near a half mile from the house through a dense, overgrown grove, my feet ache, and I’m regretting the black strappy heels Reina had so strongly encouraged.

  “You know, if I’d known I’d be tugging through a swampy forest, I would’ve worn boots.”

  Carver pauses ahead and turns to me. God he’s handsome—and smart—and sexy.

  He smiles, then nudges his head toward another iron fence twenty feet head. It takes me a few seconds to realize what it is—a cemetery.

  I stop walking. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why the big house then?”

  “Morana is from another time, chérie. She feels most comfortable remaining in a crypt at night. It has always been her way. The house is her temporary residence for any of her daytime affairs.”

  “Whose plantation is this?” I ask.

  “It belongs to the Kresova and our descendants.”

  He nudges toward a large crypt resting in the far corner of the cemetery.

  “There?” I point toward the rectangular shaped building that looks like something out of a horror movie.

  “Yes.”

  My nugget of regret has morphed into a planet sized boulder. “All right.” I take a step, and a cold eerie breeze blows around me and chills my exposed skin. The smell of death and rich dirt reaches my nose, and I inhale the unfamiliar scents, committing them to memory.

  Cracked granite and marble headstones with words no longer readable catch my attention as we weave our way through them. One in particular catches my eye, and I stop. The stone has only one word on it: Abhartach. No last name, no dates, just a single name. Before I can ask about the strange stone in the middle and the ring of thorns surrounding the entire grave, Carver takes my arm and leads me away.

  I open my mouth to ask him about the strange grave but quickly shut it at the subtle shake of his head. He mouths the word later, and I nod.

  We are only a few feet from the entrance into the formidable mausoleum when two cloaked figures appear in front of the doors. They move with such stealth, it’s as though they are made of mist and shadows before they solidify in front of my eyes. Large hoods cover their downturned faces, and I tense. Both are easily over seven feet tall, their long flowing robes billowing in the wind. I look back and forth between the two of them and wait for one of them to address us. For one of them to speak. They stay silent even when the heavy stone doors open from within behind them. I look up to Carver, but his gaze is focused on the entrance in front of us.

  I look back and mentally pull up my big girl panties. I can do this. I can face whatever is behind that creep-tastic door.

  A short, deathly pale man appears between them. Upon closer inspection, I jerk back with a start. He’s just a teenager. He can’t be more than fifteen years old, and he’s dressed as though he just walked off the set of Romeo and Juliet. High waist pants, tall knee-high boots, and a tunic with flared sleeves. I stare at him trying to keep my jaw from dropping. I’d realized that becoming a vampire—or Kresova—could happen at any age, but in my mind, they would all at least be adults.

  The boy in front of me bows low, bending in half at the waist. Carver follows suit, and I just stand there stiff as a board and look between the two of them.

  I whisper to Carver out of the corner of my mouth, keeping my eye on the man-like child in front of us. “Um, Carver—?”

  Carver only shakes his head, his gaze still straight ahead. I frown and cross my arms over my chest. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to introduce myse
lf or keep my damn mouth shut. From Carver’s behavior, shut the fuck up sounded about right.

  I try to at least offer him a friendly smile, but it dies when I see his blank face. His face is completely devoid of any emotion. No twitch of his lips, no raise of his brows, nothing. He’s not even blinking.

  Slowly, he turns his head to look at Carver behind me for a few seconds. Just as slowly, he turns his head back towards me and then addresses Carver.

  “Her Majesty will see her now.” With that, he turns and disappears into the darkness of the crypt, leaving us standing there.

  “Well he’s—”

  Carver slaps a hand over my mouth, muffling the rest of my sentence and clears his throat.

  He barks out a command in a harsh tone, “Go,” and gives me a little push to my lower back.

  I scowl at him over my shoulder, but I move forward anyway. Advancing ahead of me, Carver takes my hand in his and leads me through the doors. The gesture is neither romantic nor sweet. His hand is stiff and devoid of any signs or warmth. It reminds me of the way people behaved in the late 1800’s. It’s a proper thing to do, so that’s why he did it. Not to comfort me or show support.

  We clear the threshold, and the heavy stone doors scrape against the gritty floors and shut behind us with a heavy boom.

  “Carver.” My heart hammers through my chest, and I squeeze Carver’s hand just to make sure he’s still there.

  “I’ll guide you, ma belle.”

  I’m left with no choice but to trust him now. I’m shut behind the heavy stone doors of a crypt in the middle of an abandoned graveyard with two guards outside the doors. My breathing speeds up as I fully grasp what I’m doing. This was the wrong choice. I shouldn’t have come here.

  Carver makes a comforting noise and leads me forward. “It is all right. Remember not to speak unless she speaks directly to you.”

  “What?” My palms start to sweat.