by Tessa Dawn
“You mean, I die?” Braden blurted, needing the clarification.
“That’s not going to happen,” Nachari whispered, sounding more than a little miffed with Fabian.
Fabian shrugged. “I didn’t say it would. Best case. Worst case. You already know each scenario. But you have asked me about probabilities…likelihoods…and I could pontificate over a dozen potential outcomes. The truth is, I believe it will be something in the middle, between those two extremes. Will something powerful, something extraordinary, happen? Yes, it will. Will your soul be lost or supplanted by Prince Jadon’s? I do not know. I expect, perhaps, some amalgamation of the two, however that will look. Will it make you physically ill, change your anatomy…your chemistry? Unknown. Will you be the same male you are today, come the seventeenth day of September? No, you won’t. But you must know, you must keep in mind, who the spirit of Prince Jadon is…who he was…a male of honor, not unlike yourself, a warrior of great power and skill. A leader who spared his people, his followers, for generations in perpetuity, from the worst of the Curse—the one who brought us the four mercies. A brother who loved his sisters so much he sent them ahead to a foreign land and asked me to guide and protect them. A prince who ruled with nobility and honor and who, in his wisdom and foresight, gave us a vial of his blood…on purpose. I am an alchemist, Braden. To you and your generation, this means my feet are most firmly planted in what you might call science, even as the sphere of that word is very broad, but in this matter, I am also what one might deem religious…a high priest…and I would cautiously advise you to have some faith. The celestial deities are neither unaware nor powerless, and Prince Jadon is not malevolent. Perhaps you should sleep this night as Ramsey suggests, but perhaps you should also pray.”
Braden crossed his arms over his chest, pondering the High Mage’s words.
He sat back in the pew and withdrew quietly inward, even as Nachari Silivasi leaned closer. “Do you want to stay at the brownstone tonight?” Nachari asked.
“The lake house is there if you want it,” Santos added. “Water is one of the primary sacred elements, and it does wonders for the spirit…for prayer.”
“Ciopori and I would welcome you at the farmhouse,” Marquis Silivasi said. “She is an original female.”
“As is Vanya,” Saber chimed in. “If you think the lodge, spending the night with your parents and your brother, is the right call, I’m sure the princess would be happy to take a room nearby. I’d ask you to stay at the Gothic Victorian, but Lucien is likely to be up all night—and ain’t gonna lie, I suck as a host.”
Keitaro spoke next. “It’s just me and Zayda at the homestead.”
“The manse might make the most sense,” Napolean offered, matter-of-factly, his brow knitting downward in concern and compassion.
Braden held up his hand to halt any further offers. “I want to be at home.” He eyed Nachari with a knowing, brotherly glance. “I want to be with Nachari and Deanna. The brownstone is still where I live.” His mind shifted rapidly, wandering to Kristina and her warm, elegant penthouse: I’d like to be with Kristina, he thought, but he shoved the musing aside. And then he turned his attention back to the two most powerful beings in front of him: Napolean Mondragon, king of the Vampyr, the leader who had almost single-handedly formed and saved the house of Jadon, and Fabian Antonescu, the godfather whom the only remaining original females called nanaşule, the most powerful magician who had ever lived. “Napolean,” he said softly. “Fabian…” He eyed each ancient male in turn. “Will you pray, too? For me? For my family? For the whole house of Jadon? If the gods are still listening, if Prince Jadon is still…somewhere out there, able to hear, tell him he can use me however he wishes, but I still have a lot of life to live, people who love me, talents to explore, heck, maybe even gifts to one day give. Ask them to watch over our valley. Ask them to somehow, when it’s all said and done, make this Millenia Harvest Moon into a blessing, not a curse, and to protect each and every soul in the house of Jadon, the fraternity of friendship, family, and fealty we all revere.” He paused, thinking it over…that special request. Yeah, he figured, feeling quite certain: “I think, maybe, they’ll listen to you.”
Chapter Two
Kristina took the upcoming S-curve at about eighty-five miles per hour, leaning into the gas pedal of her pink Corvette with a heavy stiletto-clad foot and an even heavier heart.
She wasn’t sure where she was going, and she really didn’t care as she attacked the narrow, winding roads of the steep mountain pass like a reckless banshee, heedless of the potential consequences, dead set on venting her turbulent emotions. She only knew that she had to get the hell out of dodge, away from her penthouse apartment, and away from Dark Moon Vale…just for a couple of hours.
She needed to clear her mind and somehow quiet her soul.
She had to try to reclaim just a little bit of her sanity.
As for integrity…
Dignity?
Yeah, well, she didn’t have much of those left.
She’d exposed her heart and left her self-respect on the penthouse floor when she’d offered her passion, her body, and her soul to Braden, and the vampire had strolled across the floor, kissed her with unrestrained hunger, then shrugged it off as if it were nothing—as if she were nothing—before turning his back and vaulting from the penthouse balcony.
He hadn’t even bothered to look back.
But what was new?
This was the story of Kristina’s life: a deceased, alcoholic father who had not wanted Kristina or her mother—she had never even met the man who had impregnated Mommy Dearest; a hellish run with Dirk, who had abused her emotionally and physically; that horrid experience with Ramsey—Saber—where she had been played like a desperate, love-starved fool. And then there was Braden, possibly the best friend she’d ever had—
But Kristina couldn’t love.
She couldn’t allow herself to be loved…
To completely open up.
She could do sister.
She could do friend.
She could even do smart-mouthed redhead, but she couldn’t do vulnerable, and she couldn’t do…trust. Kristina hid her scars like a master illusionist, but deep down inside, far beneath the surface, the wounds—and the pain—were still bloody and raw.
Still, she had tried…
Earlier that night.
Heaven knew she had exposed her true soul to Braden.
The car’s rear tires spun out on a loose patch of gravel, and Kristina tightened her fingers around the wheel, pressing the tips of her fuchsia-pink manicured nails into the palms of her hands as she steered out of the skid and regained control before heading into another bend in the road.
What the hell was going to happen tomorrow when the Millenia Harvest Moon rose?
What the heck did Braden think of her now?
And since when had she cared…so much?
A staggered steppe of large, jagged boulders leaned toward the road about a half mile ahead, jutting out from a sudden vertical crevasse, a protrusion in the mountain, dotted with pines, blue furs, and quaking aspens, many of the native trees growing straight out of the rocks. She let up on the gas just a bit to maximize her control, and that’s when she saw the shadow.
The ghost in the darkness.
The silhouette of a hulking male, blending almost seamlessly with the rocky shelf, just behind a thick, leaning bristlecone pine.
She blinked several times in quick succession, her vampire-senses coming alive, and then she leaned into the steering wheel, narrowed her gaze through the dew-drenched, foggy window, and scanned the shadow again.
Holy shit!
Both feet hit the brake, and the car skidded sideways.
That wasn’t a shadow, and it wasn’t a lone human hiker.
Last time Kristina checked, shadows didn’t have pale, citrine-colored eyes, black-and-red chin-length hair, or circular bands of black mambas with jeweled red eyes wrapped around their upper right bicep
s.
And humans were rarely seven feet tall.
She gulped, swallowing what felt like a gallon of air, threw the Corvette into reverse, and glanced frantically in the rearview mirror as she hit the gas and tore off backward.
Shit-shit-shit!
The road was too narrow—she almost drove straight into the side of the boulder.
She screeched forward, then darted back, shifting the gears again and again while spinning the wheel left, then right—whatever was necessary—in a desperate attempt to turn the car around.
Damnit!
She came way too close to the edge of the road—two or three inches more, and she would have driven straight off the bluff! She craned her neck to look behind her. Where was the shadow now? “Oh fuck,” she whispered frantically. “Just get out of here, Kristina.” She threw the car into reverse once more, praying no one would come down the pass and sideswipe her before she could get off the road.
Her mind raced frantically, her thoughts spinning faster than her tires…
What had she learned in Nathaniel’s self-defense class?
What vampiric skills had she mastered in the two short years since Marquis had turned her Nosferatu?
What…who…there had to be something!
Shit.
That’s right.
She wasn’t alone.
Kristina Silivasi was never truly alone…
From the moment she had stumbled upon Dark Moon Vale as a lost, homeless runaway, when Kagen Silivasi had rescued her from certain death at the hands of a Dark One, to the day she had begun working at the Dark Moon Casino, under the Vampyr’s protection, to that awful night on the front porch of Marquis’ farmhouse, when the Ancient Master Warrior had converted her under the supposed protection of Lord Draco—it had been an elaborate deception for sure; Marquis had believed Kristina was his destiny—but still, from that night to all the days, weeks, and months thereafter, Kristina had been welcome in the house of Jadon. Hell, Nachari and Deanna were like her brother and sister…
No, Kristina was not alone.
An inexplicable calm settled over her, and she finally managed to shimmy the car out of the middle of the road, pop it back into first gear, and point her front wheels forward, facing home.
And that’s when she saw him.
Again.
Planted in the middle of the road.
Only this time, he was in front of her, looming like a massive, ancient oak tree staking its claim on the banks of a river.
“Achilles Zahora.” She whispered the name, and it left a disgusting taste on her tongue.
Even though she had never technically met the infamous Dark One, she was absolutely sure who he was—his description was undeniable, and his reputation, his terrifying persona, preceded him. The Executioner, as the vampire was also called, belonged to the Dark Ones’ formal Colony Guard, and nearly eight months earlier, he had ordered Ian Lacusta—Julien’s long-lost dark twin, who had escaped being sacrificed to the Curse at birth and returned to Dark Moon Vale—to seek vengeance for the house of Jaegar by murdering Braden at River Rock Creek. Julien had almost died during the fiery confrontation, and Braden had only survived because of his quick thinking and agile shape-shifting—he had escaped in the body of an eagle. As if that were not enough, Braden had faced Achilles once more, along with the Chair of the Dark Ones’ Council, Oskar Vadovsky, when the two dark vampires had tried to extract Braden’s heart in the basement of the Fortress. If not for Nachari and Nathaniel’s intervention, Kristina would have lost Bray forever…
The thought curdled her gut, and her teeth began to chatter.
She hit the brakes again—softer this time, more in control—and a single telepathic word flowed from her mind like a prayer, swirling through running water: Papa.
She steeled her resolve and sharpened her focus…
Keitaro.
She didn’t know how she did it, but her mind went blank of all fear, all chatter, as she projected three crystal-clear, vital images to her HOJ father: her Corvette speeding along the mountain pass, the jutting rocks and the ghost in the shadows, her car, turned around, and the ominous male planted like an oak in front of it.
Achilles Zahora.
She sent the name along the same fluid bandwidth, praying—no, believing—that the eldest Silivasi would hear it.
And just like that, her car was surrounded.
Keitaro Silivasi stood in front of the hood, his thick black hair shining in the moonlight, so dark the purple hues reflected like flowing prisms, dazzling in the dim yellow headlights. Marquis materialized next to Kristina’s driver’s-side window, his expression carved in granite, with a crude ancient cestus on his fisted right hand, and Nathaniel appeared to the right of the car, his dark eyes brimming with lethal purpose, his mouth curved into a slow, easy smile, wielding two razor-sharp stilettos with handcrafted grips and polished silver blades—the Ancient Master Warrior was ready to strike, and by the look on his face, his inner child had come to play.
Kagen leaned against the back of the car—Kristina could see his profile in the rearview mirror—and the good-natured vampire looked more like Mr. Hyde than Dr. Jekyll, his jaw locked in a firm, contemptuous line, his tall, muscular shoulders taut with tension and twitching every couple of seconds. And celestial gods, bless him; Nachari Silivasi emerged, not as a green-eyed Master Wizard but as a full-fledged black panther, slowly slinking back and forth along the Corvette’s front bumper.
Kristina’s eyes glossed over with tears.
They were here.
All of them.
Just like that.
But where was Braden?
Her gut clenched, and she slapped a mental Band-Aid over the persistent, painful wound beneath her latest scar: “Don’t go there, Kristina,” she whispered to herself. “It’s the eve of the Millenia Harvest Moon—you know he can’t get away, not even if he wants to.” It was enough—more than enough—that Napolean had allowed three Ancient Master Warriors, an Ancient Master Healer, and a gifted Master Wizard to leave the critical meeting.
She blinked several times, swiping tears from beneath her lower lids.
It didn’t matter anyhow.
There was nothing to be done…
Keitaro was scanning the road and the nearby woods; Marquis was thumbing a pile of gravel, then scenting it beneath his nostrils; Kagen’s dark brown eyes, which typically shimmered with reflections of silver, were emitting two infrared rays of light as he skimmed the mountaintops, the tree line, and the forest, searching for the faintest sign of life or movement. And Nachari—the panther—was pacing systematically, back and forth, in tight, even rows, examining every inch of the adjacent pass, every tire track, every footprint, every heat wave.
Achilles was nowhere to be found.
The bastard had vanished the moment Kristina had opened the telepathic call.
“Fucking-A!” Achilles bristled, his heavy black boots kicking up gravel in the dimly lit parking lot outside the Dark Moon Casino. He narrowed his citrine peepers on a tall, blonde beanpole who had just gotten off her shift—the human barista must have been anorexic; it was a wonder she could walk to her car—and then he scanned the parking lot a second time, just to make sure there were no vamps in the nearby vicinity, no watchmen or security guards of the blood-sucking persuasion.
“Fuck!” he vented his frustration, once again.
Having stalked the sexy redhead from a relatively safe distance, off and on since an hour past sunset, he had hardly believed his good fortune when she’d climbed into her car around 10:30 p.m., and it would’ve been so much easier to catch Kristina and speak to her directly—kindly and gallantly, of course—alone on the mountain pass. But she had obviously called the cock-sucking calvary, and he had no intentions of starting a war on the eve of the Millenia Harvest Moon, nor of taking on five viperous vampires by himself.
As it stood, and for reasons he couldn’t really place a finger on, he wanted the challenge, he needed th
e chase, he craved the internal satisfaction of catching her, deceiving her, manipulating Kristina’s free will—getting her to come to him freely—not just grabbing and snatching.
Maybe he was old.
Maybe he was tired.
Hell, maybe he was just…bored.
At any rate, it was time for plan B and the Dark Moon Casino…
Finding a less conspicuous cohort.
His attention went back to the waiflike barista and ensuring the absence of vampire guards, sentries patrolling the lucrative establishment on behalf of the house of Jadon. He knew he had been careful to remain invisible, but still, vampires could easily sense their own kind.
And speaking of the local house of Jackasses—what the hell was up with them anyway?
For weeks now, if not months, the males had been acting like a skittish colony of ants: gathering in clandestine clusters, marching in and out of the king’s heavily fortified compound, and circling around that ancient high…priestess—well, High Mage, as the bastards were now calling Fabian—the prehistoric wizard, arisen from the dead. Point being: They were acting like a clique of teenage girls, gossiping around a junior high lunch table, and they all had their panties wadded up in a bunch.
But why?
The skinny barista picked up her pace, reached into her slender handbag to retrieve a key fob, and rounded the hood of her 2010, maybe 2011, Toyota Camry.
Bingo.
Time to move.
As Achilles gathered his invisible molecules and prepared to transport, then materialize inside the human’s way too tiny car, he shrugged his ethereal shoulders. Who the hell cared what was going on with the house of Jadon—the surge in activity had given him a chance to approach Kristina Silivasi on that barren mountain road, and by the looks of the locked-and-loaded entourage that had showed up in an instant, the second Kristina had transmitted a mental SOS, the Bloodstreet Boys were not that busy—not that distracted—they still had time to circle the wagons at the drop of a hat, and that meant whatever they had been chattering about all these months could not be that important.