by Tessa Dawn
“Master,” his sidekick whispered.
“Huh?”
“Say master!”
“Oh yeah…yeah…just let us know, master.” Donnie knelt down then and bowed his head.
Marquis exhaled before he slowly bent over, drew back his hand, and slapped the kid across the face, cuffing him so hard that his eyes bulged out for a second before snapping back into his skull.
Donnie looked up and began to wail like a three-year-old girl, groveling in his own puddle of urine. “Wh...wh…what did you do that for?” he sobbed. And then he whispered, “master” again.
Marquis snarled, “That was for your horrible taste in movies…or books.” He stood up straight. “Great gods, where do you humans get this crap?”
He stepped back and viewed the herd as all of the men quickly fell down into a kneeling position next to Donnie, their heads bowed so low that they rested in the dirt. Marquis began to probe their minds, one at a time, and just as he suspected, these weren’t the hard-core members: These were the followers, the rejects, and the wannabes—none of them willing to die for their girlfriend-beating buddy, Dirk.
“Will you sing me to sleep?” Marquis asked, suddenly amused.
Donnie looked up from the ground. Surprised, he quit crying. A faint light of hope illuminated his gray eyes. “Oh...yeah...yes! Absolutely. Anything you want!”
Marquis took a step back. “The Star-Spangled Banner?”
Donnie eyed the other men; they were all bobbing their heads up and down like a chorus of synchronized yo-yos. “Yes!” he exclaimed, pleading with his eyes.
Marquis cleared his throat. “Well, stand up and show me then.”
The men stood up slowly, clearly afraid that it was some kind of trick, that the vampire was going to play with them before he ate them.
“Turn your backs to me,” Marquis ordered, unable to stomach their pitiful expressions a moment longer.
The men slowly turned around and began to quake, a couple of them outright crying. And then Donnie led the charge: “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light...”
The male who had offered the brilliant coffin idea joined in then, even though he was clearly tone-deaf. “What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming...”
Reluctantly, the last two got on board. “Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watched—”
Marquis swept his hand over the tops of their heads, silencing the obnoxious noise and wiping out their short-term memories at the same time. As far as any of the idiots knew, they had gone to a wild party, had way too much to drink, and left the next morning a few buddies short. As they would not remember where they had gone, they could not come back to search for their missing comrades. When Dirk, Spider, and Doc Holiday—aka Bruce Lee—never returned, they would just assume they had left the gang.
Glad to be rid of them, Marquis watched as one by one, they returned to their banged-up Harleys, searched for bikes that still worked, and started to ride off. The four of them had to ride double as there were only two working bikes left.
As the last of the Pagan Brotherhood rounded the bend, Marquis turned his attention back to Dirk, wondering if the pitiful excuse for a man was still alive. He rustled through the remaining heap of metal, bikes, and corpses until he found Dirk’s mangled body and then pulled the gasping imbecile from beneath a dark purple Sportster.
He was still breathing.
Snarling, Marquis knelt over Dirk, grabbed him by the shirt-collar, and forced him to meet his angry gaze. “You will never touch another woman again, Dirk. You made your last mistake when you touched mine.” Hissing with disgust, he added, “I hope your god has mercy on your pathetic soul.”
With that, he drew back his arm, struck through the chest cavity, and grasped the feeble human heart—
Just as a series of jacketed, hollow-point bullets sliced painfully into his arm—three, to be exact. Marquis winced as one of the bullets went straight through its target, and the other two lodged painfully in the muscle.
“What the hell—”
“Let him go!”
He turned his head just in time to see Kristina standing on the porch like a crazed lunatic, holding a gun in her hand.
She raised it a second time. “Don’t do it, Marquis! Let him go. Take your hand out of his chest, now!” She aimed the gun right at him, and then, holy hell, she pulled the trigger again.
Marquis reacted with preternatural speed, his predatory instincts kicking into high gear. In one fluid motion, he ripped the heart out of Dirk’s body, hefted the corpse up like a shield, and caught the next round of bullets with the carcass.
Kristina cried out in horror. “No!”
Marquis was flabbergasted.
Was it even possible for a male’s destiny to try and kill him, let alone love another male—a human man—so much that she would actually prefer him? Never in his fifteen-hundred years had he seen anything like this. What in all of Hades was going on?
Marquis squatted down, staring at the bullet-ridden body beneath him. His anger boiled over in a fevered haze. His powerful shoulders trembled with rage.
How dare she defy him like this!
After all the Silivasis had done for her over the years: the job, the apartment, the ridiculously high salary—rescuing her from the Dark One who would have ripped her throat out and bled her dry. Even allowing Dirk to live when they should have killed him long ago...
He threw his head back and roared like an enraged lion, leaping to his feet with equal stealth and grace. Like it or not, this female belonged to him. And if she couldn’t love him, then she would most certainly obey him.
Marquis’s muscles rippled and his joints popped as he turned to face his destiny. She had tried to kill him.
Kill him!
His predatory eyes narrowed on the female’s terrified face as he embraced his iron resolve. Well, didn’t this make things easy? Etiquette and words were simply no longer necessary. All the playing nice-nice was over.
Kristina Riley was his to do with as he pleased, and he intended to make that crystal clear. A feral hiss escaped his lips as his tongue swept over his fangs.
She had tried to kill him…
nine
The Ancient Master Warrior stalked across the front yard of his remote mountain home like a native cougar homing in on its prey. The pain in his arm spurred him on. He glared at the wisp of a woman standing on the porch, still holding the gun she had used to shoot him three times in her hands. She was shaking like a jackhammer as she watched his approach.
Good!
She needed to be afraid.
Maybe she was finally starting to get it.
This wasn’t a game. His life was on the line. Her life was on the line. That piece of trash she had just shot him over had fully intended to kill her.
Marquis had read Dirk’s mind as easily as a billboard on the side of the freeway, and his intentions had been crystal clear. But then, she knew that, didn’t she? She just didn’t care. She would rather kill Marquis than the fool that had wanted her dead.
Kristina stepped to the side as he came closer, her deep blue eyes as wide as saucers, but Marquis adjusted his position accordingly, keeping the defiant female directly in front of him. She quickly stepped in the opposite direction. He just as quickly made another adjustment.
Back and forth they went, his stealthy approach becoming a slow waltz of madness between the two of them. Yet Marquis had no intention of dancing with Kristina. He had tolerated more than enough of their dancing.
The Ancient Warrior was resolute.
They were never going to love each other. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even like each other after this night. So that just left the basics: thirty-days to convert her. One full moon to produce twin sons and provide the required sacrifice.
That was it.
That was all.
And the process was going to begin right here and now.
/> Marquis leapt onto the porch from ten feet away, easily wrenching the gun from Kristina’s hand. By the way she screamed, one would have sworn he had just tried to wrench her head off her shoulders. Marquis could not have cared less.
Let her scream.
He snatched her up by the waist, turned her around, and sat down hard on the porch. Her slight form flopped into his lap like a rag doll, and she fell back against him, her back instantly molding to his powerful chest. As her derriere sunk into the cradle of his hips, he encircled her upper body with his injured arm and locked her to him like an iron vice.
And then he did the same with his legs. Sweeping two powerful thighs over her weaker, lean ones, he anchored her down in an unbreakable hold. Involuntarily, her head fell back against his shoulder, and she began to struggle, her voice shrill with panic.
“Marquis! Marquis! Please—”
The sound of his long, snake-like hiss cut her off midsentence. Marquis could have heard a pin drop as he smoothed her wild red hair away from her neck with his free hand, and slowly tilted her head to the side in pursuit of a more favorable angle.
The pulsing artery taunted him beneath her creamy white skin as the vein rose and fell with her frantic gasps of hysteria. The beat of her heart rose to a thundering crescendo like the bass of a rock song that had just hit the chorus. “No!” she wailed. “Oh God, Marquis—don’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I swear it, I’m so sorry…”
Marquis may as well have been deaf.
He lowered his head and licked her jugular...once...twice…as he slowly released his incisors, the razor-sharp teeth vampires used to inject their powerful venom—the teeth the sons of Jadon used to convert human destinies to their species.
And then, without hesitation or apology, he sank the twin ivory fangs deep into Kristina’s neck and began to inject the poison that would change her forever.
Nathaniel Silivasi materialized on the front lawn of his eldest brother’s home about ten seconds before Nachari joined him.
“You felt it too?” Nachari asked.
Nathaniel frowned, his dark eyes scanning his surroundings. “Absolutely, and it wasn’t his typical I just mopped the floor with someone who crossed me energy. Something is really wrong with—”
His voice cut off abruptly as his eyes swept the front porch. Marquis was perched in deadly silence, bent over the limp body of Kristina as she lay across his lap like a flimsy doll. The feral vampire’s jaw was locked on her throat, and his eyes were glowing crimson red.
Nathaniel cleared his throat. Releasing a low whistle, he inclined his head in Marquis’s direction, urging Nachari to take a look.
Nachari eyed the scene on the porch and blanched. He took a few tentative steps toward Marquis and then stopped abruptly in his tracks as the warrior’s head snapped up ever so slightly, his eyes darting back and forth between his brothers in warning. A low, territorial growl rumbled in Marquis’s throat, and his top lip twitched several times. Instinctively, he tightened his arms around his female and scooted further back on the porch.
Kristina appeared to be either unconscious...or dead.
Nathaniel listened for a heartbeat and sighed in relief when he heard two distinct sets: the vampire’s and his mate’s. Slowly nodding at the Ancient Warrior, he put his arm out to motion Nachari back. “Whoa there, little brother; you need to step away.”
Nachari swallowed a lump in his throat and did as Nathaniel suggested.
It was obvious that Marquis was in no state of mind to deal with his family right now. In fact, the male didn’t appear to be in any conscious state of mind at all. He was pure instinct. Wholly predator. And he would perceive any move in his direction as a threat against himself and the female he wasn’t about to relinquish.
In reality, he couldn’t.
Once a male began the process of converting his destiny, it was too dangerous to stop before the procedure was finished: Short of completion, the female would have too much venom inside of her to survive as a human, but not enough to sustain her as a vampire. And during the process, the male couldn’t speak—not verbally or telepathically. He couldn’t let up, and he couldn’t give in to the female’s pleas for mercy.
Conversion was an incredibly painful event. Nathaniel ought to know.
As if on cue, Nathaniel’s mate entered his mind, her psychic voice heavy with concern. Is everything all right, Nathaniel? Is Marquis okay?
Jocelyn’s steady, loving presence soothed him as always. He had only had his destiny for a couple of weeks now, yet he could hardly remember life without her or their new baby son, Storm.
It depends on how you define ‘all right,’ my love.
Jocelyn sighed. What’s going on?
Nathaniel knew the water was frigid, but he dove in anyway. He’s converting Kristina—
No way! Tell me you’re lying, Nathaniel. Already?
He cringed. Yes, already—and on the front porch.
Jocelyn gasped, no doubt remembering the extreme pain of her own recent conversion: Even when one’s mate was gentle and had his partner’s full love and devotion, it was a traumatic event.
I can’t believe she consented so quickly, Jocelyn quipped. I mean...maybe she’s a helluva lot stronger than me, but there is no way I would’ve come willingly into your arms less than twelve hours after meeting you, let alone given you control over my heart, life, and body…accepted what was going on as my true destiny.
Nathaniel knew that Jocelyn was referring to the sacred siring ceremony that took place between mates before conversion, the reverent words that were spoken to one another, as well as the gods, as part of the sacred mating. He sighed. I can assure you, Iubirea mea, there was no consent or ceremony between these two.
Jocelyn became deathly quiet.
Darling?
He wouldn’t!
Nathaniel knew better than to respond.
He didn’t!
Again...nothing.
Oh God...that poor girl! Is she hurt?
Nathaniel glanced over at the porch and frowned, choosing once again to say nothing.
Nathaniel, please tell me he hasn’t hurt her. I mean, I know he’s a bit…severe…but even I didn’t think—
She’ll be fine, Jocelyn. I don’t think Marquis is going to let anything happen to Kristina—
Anything but him! Jocelyn snapped, her tone daring him to argue.
Jocelyn…darling...I did no such thing to you, remember? He is my brother.
She took a slow, deep breath. I’m sorry, Nathaniel: You have enough to think about without adding me to the mix. I just…wow...honestly, I feel sorry for both of them.
Nathaniel sighed, searching for a way to change the subject. Is our son still awake?
Jocelyn’s voice eased then. Is that a trick question? Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! This kid isn’t going back to sleep for hours.
Nathaniel snarled. He is beginning to disrupt our...private time...together. That kid.
Jocelyn laughed. Good grief, Nathaniel; we made love three times today, already. What more do you need?
A deep, sultry growl rumbled in Nathaniel’s throat.
Jocelyn cleared hers. I see, she murmured. Well, I’ll tell you what—you take care of your brother, and I’ll go make some warm milk, see if I can’t get this boy back to sleep.
Nathaniel hissed and sent a visual image of him sinking his fangs into the smooth shelf between Jocelyn’s neck and shoulder, his hands slowly roaming lower and lower… Try hard, my love.
Jocelyn purred a soft invitation to her aroused mate and closed the communication.
When Nathaniel turned around, Nachari was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, a look of disinterest in his eyes. “Not the time or the place, brother.”
Nathaniel grunted.
Nachari rolled his eyes and gestured toward the porch. “What are we going to do about that?”
Nathaniel gave him a stern glare and shrugged. “Stay the hell out of it, that’s what.
” He turned his back and started to walk the boundary of the yard, pointing out the large pile of metal, rubble, and bodies strewn about at the apex of the looped, gravel driveway. “This must have been a lot of what we felt.”
“No doubt.”
When Nathaniel squatted down over a mangled body, Nachari simply materialized at his side and crouched down beside him. The young wizard frowned. “Is that Dirk Warner?”
Nathaniel lifted the head by the back of the neck, careful to keep the blood off his hands. Jocelyn didn’t need to know the full extent of what had taken place at Marquis’s estate earlier that night, and even if he tried to wash the blood off, with her new and improved vampire skills, his mate would smell it on him. “Looks like it.”
“Damn.” Nachari stared at the gaping chest cavity, which was clearly missing a heart. He stood up and walked toward the pile of metal. Then he bent over and picked up a bald, severed head by the two-inch mustache hanging off the mouth. He held it up in the air. “You know this guy?”
Nathaniel shrugged and tilted his head to get a better look. “Never seen him before.”
“Hmm.” Nachari gave the head a good once-over himself.
“Maybe you can try and read Marquis’s energy...wizard,” Nathaniel said, emphasizing the last word with mock contempt.
Nachari sneered. “I’ve just about had it with this warriors-are-superior crap, brother.”
“Yeah, well, by the looks of this yard, we are.”
“Oh, please,” Nachari jeered. “Storm is what? Four or five days old now? Given another year or two, he could’ve taken care of these humans himself.”
Nathaniel laughed.
“Hell, even Braden—”
Nathaniel raised his eyebrows and just stared at his baby brother.
“Yeah...you’re probably right,” Nachari conceded.