Blood Harvest (Blood Curse Series Book 12)

by Tessa Dawn

  It also meant Achilles had to be more careful.

  He couldn’t let down his guard.

  Millenia Harvest Moon coming or no, he couldn’t just step up to Kristina and start a casual chat. And if he was being honest—if he was being fair—he had to admit that whatever was plaguing the house of Jadon, whatever was in the air, the house of Jaegar was drinking at the same cantina, sucking down the same potent spirits and swallowing their fair share as well: Salvatore Nistor had all but merged with that insidious cube of his, and as a consequence, he had visited Achilles’ lair every other night since early July; Oscar Vadovsky had held at least a dozen council meetings over the same period of time; and well, yeah, Achilles was both twitchy and antsy as hell. Something funky was definitely in the air.

  “Boo!” He barked the word just as Blondie reached beyond her steering wheel and pressed her key fob into the pre-fitted slot. The female squeaked more than she screamed, but the sound was loud, shrill, and annoying as hell. “Shh,” Achilles whispered, leaning forward from the back seat of the car. Shit, the chick was hyperventilating. He encircled her diminutive chest with a tight, bulging arm and placed his huge, heavy hand around her convulsing throat, massaging both sides of her windpipe. “What’s your name, little girl?” His voice sounded like it had been ground through broken glass.

  “M-M-Mindy,” she stuttered, starting to sob.

  “Mindy,” he repeated, this time lacing the word in a velvet compulsion. “Breathe, little darling. That’s it, just take in some air and chill. The Grim Reaper’s not gonna visit you tonight.” She took several deep breaths, but her entire body trembled. Achilles sent an electrical pulse down her larynx, through her lungs, and into her heart, slowing the beats himself. “How does that feel?” He rotated his thumb beneath her chin, then slowly massaged her lymph nodes. “Better?”

  She nodded tentatively.

  “Good,” he crooned, “good.”

  She turned her head to the side to try to steal a glance at him, but he flicked her cheeks with the backs of two fingers. “Look,” he said, his boorish voice thick with compulsion. “I need you to do me a favor.” He reached into the pocket of his long, leather duster, retrieved a plain eight-by-ten envelope, and dropped it in her lap. “First thing tomorrow morning, you’re going to come back to the casino, head up to the top, penthouse floor, and knock on Kristina Riley Silivasi’s front door. When she opens it, you’re gonna hand her that envelope and simply tell her, ‘I have an urgent message from Braden Bratianu—he said to keep it a secret.’ If she doesn’t answer the door, you come back, again and again, every hour on the hour. Got it?”

  Mindy nodded zealously, like a programmed bobblehead doll, then glanced down at the envelope. “But what do I say if she asks—”

  “Shh,” Achilles repeated. “Not another word to me or Kristina. I have an urgent message from Braden Bratianu, and he said to keep it a secret. That’s it. That’s all. You walk away. And the moment you get back in the elevator, you’re going to forget me. You’re going to forget this night and our private conversation. You’re going to forget the letter and handing it to Kristina. The last memory you will have is getting in your car and driving home without incident. Got it?” He sat there for a minute or two, giving his words a chance to linger and the compulsion a chance to take hold, while allowing his mind to wander to other topics, including the upcoming rare, significant observance: tomorrow night’s festivities…

  Achilles had only been two years old at the last Millenia Harvest Moon, but the tales chronicled in the historic almanacs, those told by Oskar and the Colony’s sorcerer, were legendary in their descriptions, detailing how the house of Jaegar celebrated the unholy night: Youngest brothers fed their fathers and siblings until all were satiated and replete. Piles of dead bodies were left in the Vampyr’s wake as they engaged in countless orgies and profane rites. Terrified women were ravished and brutalized, giving birth to dozens of newborn Dark Ones forty-eight hours later—no, not giving birth! The babes clawed their way out of broken carcasses, amidst plaintive screams, unbearable agony, and the fetid stench of death. And when it was all said and done, the house of Jaegar was revived…replenished…

  Refreshed.

  For just a moment, Achilles wondered if Mindy’s shrill scream would add elocution to the disharmonic chorus, and his manhood stirred.

  He lowered his hand from her throat to her blouse.

  He grasped her breast and flicked a nipple…

  Wondering…thinking…considering.

  But nah, not enough there physically to make it worthwhile, and not enough there mentally to hold his interest. Nothing about Mindy beckoned: Come back.

  He withdrew his hand and leaned back against the stiff, uncomfortable leather; his enormous seven-foot frame packed into the Camry’s back seat like a folded sardine. “Fuck,” he growled. He needed to get out of there. “Do you understand the directive, Mindy?”

  The female tried to answer, but once again, she only squeaked.

  At least this time it wasn’t so shrill.

  “Good,” Achilles barked. Enough was enough. She would deliver the letter to Kristina—she had no other choice—but just in case she started to get cold feet, sweat like a pig, or the redhead asked too many questions, he leaned forward, the best he could, and snarled in her ear: “Oh, and Mindy? If you fuck this up, if Kristina doesn’t accept the letter, or if you say one word outside the script I gave you, I’ll be back to snap your little chicken neck.”

  Luckily for Achilles, he climbed out of the car and vanished before the smell of Mindy’s urine, pooling atop the front leather seat, could grow any more pungent.

  Chapter Three

  The Dark Ones’ Colony ~ 3 a.m.

  Salvatore Nistor sat up in bed, swung both feet over the side of his overstuffed mattress, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What in tarnation?” The limestone floor was cold beneath his feet, it felt like the ancient walls of the subterraneous lair were closing in on him, and the heavy antique chandelier looming above his head almost seemed to be mocking him. He flashed an evil sideways glance at his cube and shook his head in exasperation: Achilles Zahora, stuffed like one of the feathers inside Salvatore’s downy mattress in the back seat of an emaciated human woman’s Toyota, and he wasn’t even feeding or abusing the female—well, not really. The scene went dark, much like the lair all around him, but that was just fine with Salvatore—at this point, he didn’t even want to know.

  As far as the ancient vampire was concerned, every day brought something stranger, more confusing than the last, and he couldn’t make heads nor tails out of any of it.

  He lowered his heavy, weary lids, catching a peripheral glimpse of the random papers—notecards, sticky notes, and wadded-up scribblings—scattered about his nightstand, and his brow furrowed. He didn’t have to read them to remember what they said.

  Nonsense.

  Gibberish.

  Arbitrary, meaningless omens portending something vitally important—but what?

  King Silvano’s grandfather, 988 BC.

  Maiden voyage, North America, 799 BC.

  Hawk, circled twice; raven, underlined with an explanation point; Achilles Zahora, blood, blood, blood…

  Yada, yada, yada.

  The accompanying portents—or the cube’s visual revelations, as it were—were just as clear in the sorcerer’s mind as the notes and all the scrawlings: Achilles Zahora, “The Executioner,” bathing in an ancient tub of blood, imbibing the substance through his mouth, ears, and nostrils, swirling it around on his tongue; Achilles Zahora, “The Executioner,” rising from a shallow grave like a mythical phoenix ascending from ash…

  Yeah, Salvatore had seen and heard it all before: He had drunk the Kool-Aid, bought the T-shirt, and now, he just wanted the visions—and the nonsense—to end.

  Oh, but there was more…

  Over the last several weeks, Salvatore had also seen the damnedest string of words, mystical quotes floating through the ai
r like the trail of an invisible skywriter, gliding through his lair:

  Light cleaves to light, and darkness cleaves to darkness.

  Drink this blood and welcome life.

  Drink this blood and welcome death.

  What. The. Hell. Did. That. Mean?

  “Fine,” he said out loud, as if the cavern had ears and the ancient stalactites could hear him. “I get it. The Millenia Harvest Moon only occurs every one thousand years. Tomorrow is no ordinary day. It’s momentous, extraordinary, unequaled in scope and weight!” A snarl escaped his taut lips, cool air grazing his fangs, and he took a deep breath to quell his rising temper. “I get it,” he repeated, “I wasn’t born when the ancestors celebrated the first chiliad moon in antiquity, before the sons of Jaegar were claimed by the Curse, nor was I born during the second Millenia Harvest—I did not get to participate in all its delicacies, all its wicked delights—but alas, I was there in 1011 A.D., and I will never forget that night…that moon…that overwhelming surge of power.” He folded his hands in his lap and bowed his head in reverence. “So, what the fuck is up with this cube, and how long do you intend to toy with me?” He sighed. So much for restraining his temper.

  From across the room, Salvatore’s nephew whimpered, and the sorcerer rose from his bed. His musings must have roused the young vampire, which was a pity in its own right as the two-year-old usually slept like the dead. Salvatore chuckled, and the sound ricocheted throughout the lair: Slept like the dead. What a clever vampiric witticism, though make no mistake, the Vampyr were not the undead—they were not the cold-blooded, inorganic, walking corpses that filled so many human novels and nightmares. Nay, the Dark Ones were very much alive.

  He crossed the floor in a handful of fluid strides, avoiding a particularly sharp stalagmite jutting up from the floor, and reached into the crib where the toddler was now standing. “Ah yes, sweet Derrian.” He picked him up. “Did your uncle Salvatore wake you? Apologies.” He slid his fingers into the child’s thick, wavy black-and-red hair, the same texture as his father’s, and gazed lovingly, all the while smiling, into the two bottomless deep-green orbs staring back at him. The reflection was uncanny, if not a bit unsettling, how the boy’s eyes were the spitting image of his mother’s: Dalia Montano-Silivasi, the human destiny of Shelby Silivasi who never had a chance to be fully claimed and converted. Valentine had seen to that when he had abducted her, ravished her body, and forced her to bear his offspring—well, bear was not quite the appropriate term. It was more like a volcanic eruption that eviscerated the human female’s skeleton, and the impulsive act, the insult to the house of Jadon, had cost Valentine Nistor his life.

  Salvatore’s fangs elongated at the memory…

  Marquis Silivasi and his little brother, Nachari, had exacted such a horrific Blood Vengeance on Valentine, but no matter—Salvatore tucked the memory away, stuffed it deep into the recesses of his subconscious, much like a kitten being held under water.

  Somehow…

  Someway…

  Eventually, Marquis and that incessant, arrogant Master Wizard would get what the pair had coming to them.

  He pressed Darrien’s head to his shoulder and gently rubbed his back—the toddler settled in nicely, emitting a barely audible purr. “It’s a pity you may not remember your father. He was such a magnificent male.” He leaned his head against the child’s. “But your future is very bright, indeed, little one. Tomorrow is the dawning of a brand-new day, and despite all the confusion emanating from my cube”—he glanced over his shoulder, eyed the nightstand briefly, then turned his attention back to Darrien—“the Millenia Harvest Moon will bring amazingly good tidings for you. If nothing else, you will have dozens and dozens of new playmates: vampires to grow up with, hunt with, kill with, brothers who will always have your back, and who may one day seek Blood Vengeance, retaliation, on your behalf.”

  Darrien heaved a sigh, nestled into his uncle’s shoulder, and drifted off to sleep.

  “Yes,” Salvatore whispered, placing him gently back in the crib. “While the sons of Jadon must await their chosen destinies in order to mate and repopulate their house, the sons of Jaegar can reproduce at will. One day soon, there will be a reckoning, and not even Napolean Mondragon with all his celestial powers, nor that High Mage, Fabian, will be able to save them. The Dark Ones will reign supreme.”

  He crossed the room, climbed back in bed, and rolled onto his side, tuning out the cube and the omens. “Bring on the harvest moon.”

  Chapter Four

  Sunrise ~ Morning of the Millenia Harvest Moon

  A ray of soft golden sunlight streamed through the bedroom window as Braden rolled over in bed, wiped his eyes with his forearm, and slowly stretched his arms. His head turned toward the open window, he yawned, and then he gasped.

  Holy shit!

  He sat straight up.

  It was September 16th, dawn of the Millenia Harvest Moon!

  What the hell time was it?

  He closed his eyes and steadied his breath, feeling for the moon’s magnetic pull on the earth, the rotation of the planet, the vibrations in the solar system…

  6:41 a.m.

  He threw back the covers, rose to his feet, and chuckled softly as his eyes caught the brass, sunflower-shaped wall clock hanging on the painted drywall: Yep, 6:41 a.m.

  He slowly looked down at his chest, his legs, then his feet.

  He patted his pecs, feeling the hard rise of the muscles and the lines between ridges.

  He counted his fingers and his toes: Ten each—that was good.

  He ran through a quick, albeit human, cognitive test, asking himself several basic questions: What year is this? Who’s the human president? Count backward from one hundred, by fours…

  One hundred.

  Ninety-six.

  Ninety-two.

  Eighty-eight…

  His brain appeared to be functioning just fine.

  He made a beeline to the en suite bathroom, padded across the travertine tiles, and pressed his nose against the heavy antique mirror hanging above the pedestal sink.

  Too close.

  Way too close!

  He backed up and stared at his reflection.

  Burnt sienna eyes with golden pupils. Chestnut-brown, shoulder-length hair with an occasional blond highlight. Six-foot-two, at least two hundred pounds—he flexed his right bicep and then the same triceps. Damn, he was really getting strong. He shook his head, dismissing the thought, then drew back his lips and stared at his teeth: thirty-two pearly white choppers, two particularly sharp canines on top, and equally powerful incisors. He ran his tongue around the latter, emitting a couple drops of venom from the glands situated beneath them, just to prove he could.

  Yep, he was definitely still a vampire.

  “Braden?” He called his own name in the mirror.

  Nothing felt different, and nothing happened.

  He swiped his lower lip with his tongue, then bit down on the same out of anxiety. “Prince Jadon?” He spoke the words in a whisper, his heart skipped a beat, his hackles rose, and his breaths became quick and shallow.

  Still, nothing happened.

  He breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Braden?” Nachari’s familiar melodic voice echoed from the threshold where the Master Wizard stood, clad only in a pair of black silk pajama-shorts, the ones Deanna had given him for Christmas, and that familiar amulet his twin Shelby had bequeathed him from the other side of eternal existence. “You okay?” Nachari asked. His deep, forest-green eyes looked tired. “How long have you been up?”

  “Not long,” Braden shot back, turning around to face him and leaning back against the sink. “Did I wake you?”

  At this, Nachari chuckled. “Not hardly.”

  Braden smiled sheepishly. Shit, if anything Nachari had probably been up all night, coming into Braden’s room to check on him every hour on the hour, just like a newborn babe, and it was Braden who had slept through it all. “Cool,” Braden replied—he
didn’t know what else to say.

  Nachari pointed at the heavy antique mirror, and Braden sighed.

  Double shit.

  So, Nachari had probably seen and heard everything. “Just, you know,” Braden mumbled, “checking things out, first thing in the morning.”

  Nachari nodded with empathy and raised his eyebrows. “And what did you find?”

  “I’m still me.” Braden swept his hand through his hair. “Is Deanna up, too?”

  “Oh yeah,” Nachari said. “She’s been up for a while. Sebastian did his thing again.”

  Nachari and Deanna’s son, Sebastian Lucas, was seventeen months old already, and being that vampire children developed much, much faster than human children, Sebastian had gone from crawling to walking, from walking to running, and from running to trying out his wings, months ago. Although he still slept in a large, padded bed—a crib that transformed into both a daybed and a toddler bed, fairly easily—Nachari and Deanna kept the sides up at night, primarily for Sebastian’s safety. Just the same, whenever the boy got hungry or restless, whenever he wanted his mother or father, he would simply stretch his wings, float over the spindles to get out of his crib, then fly to Nachari and Deanna’s master bedroom, where he would hover directly above the sleeping couple. According to Nachari, he loved his son dearly, but the behavior was creepy as hell, waking up to a hovering vampire staring down into one’s eyes, with peepers the exact same color…

  Braden couldn’t help but chuckle.

  There was something oddly reassuring about Sebastian waking up his parents—however creepy the manner—on the morning of the Millenia Harvest Moon. It was almost as if the universe was sending a calming message: Business as usual—nothing to see here, folks.