by Tessa Dawn
Blood Betrayal
A Blood Curse Novel
Tessa Dawn
Contents
Copyright
Credits and Acknowledgments
The Blood Curse
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Other books in the Blood Curse Series
Also by Tessa Dawn
Join the Mailing List
A Sneak Peek
About the Author
Copyright
Published by Ghost Pines Publishing, LLC
Volume IX of the Blood Curse Series by Tessa Dawn
First Edition Trade Paperback Published June 5, 2017 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Tessa Dawn, 2017 All rights reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1-937223-24-3
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Author may be contacted at: http://www.tessadawn.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ghost Pines Publishing, LLC
Credits and Acknowledgments
Ghost Pines Publishing, LLC., Publishing
GreenHouse Design, Inc., Cover Art
Lidia Bircea, Romanian Translations
Reba Hilbert, Editing
“Courage isn't having the strength to go on—it is going on when you don't have strength.” ~ Napoleon Bonaparte.
“Fate whispers to the warrior: You cannot withstand the storm. And the warrior whispers back: I am the storm.” ~ Author Unknown (This popular quote appears in multiple variations, including “The devil whispers…” However, there is no broad consensus as to the original author, or the original iteration.)
“Nocturne” was first performed in Norwegian (1995) by Secret Garden. Over time, the song became known as “Song from a Secret Garden.” It has been recorded on piano, violin, and cello (to name a few) by numerous musicians.
Dedication
To all the warriors who never say die or give up in the face of adversity.
The Blood Curse
In 800 BC, Prince Jadon and Prince Jaegar Demir were banished from their Romanian homeland after being cursed by a ghostly apparition: the reincarnated Blood of their numerous female victims. The princes belonged to an ancient society that sacrificed its females to the point of extinction, and the punishment was severe.
They were forced to roam the earth in darkness as creatures of the night. They were condemned to feed on the blood of the innocent and stripped of their ability to produce female offspring. They were damned to father twin sons by human hosts who would die wretchedly upon giving birth; and the firstborn of the first set would forever be required as a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of their forefathers.
Staggered by the enormity of the Curse, Prince Jadon, whose own hands had never shed blood, begged his accuser for leniency and received four small mercies—four exceptions to the Curse that would apply to his house and his descendants, alone.
Though still creatures of the night, they would be allowed to walk in the sun.
Though still required to live on blood, they would not be forced to take the lives of the innocent.
While still incapable of producing female offspring, they would be given one opportunity and thirty days to obtain a mate—a human destiny chosen by the gods—following a sign that appeared in the heavens.
While they were still required to sacrifice a firstborn son, their twins would be born as one child of darkness and one child of light, allowing them to sacrifice the former while keeping the latter to carry on their race.
And so… forever banished from their homeland in the Transylvanian mountains of Eastern Europe, the descendants of Jaegar and the descendants of Jadon became the Vampyr of legend: roaming the earth, ruling the elements, living on the blood of others…forever bound by an ancient curse. They were brothers of the same species, separated only by degrees of light and shadow.
Prologue
Saxson Olaru sidled up to the bar in Denver’s infamous LoDo, a native, urban term for lower downtown, and he tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
It was a losing proposition.
At six-foot-two, he had soft hazel eyes, the color of swirling caramel, and light ash hair that was neat on the sides, wavy and wispy at the front, tapering softly down a strong, masculine neck. The eye immediately caught a strong, angled jaw and chin, beneath a perfectly groomed, silken goatee and features so pristine, so precisely sculpted, that his high cheekbones looked as if they’d been carved out of marble: In other words, Saxson Olaru usually caught every eye in the room. He dripped sensuality, oozed masculinity, and practically radiated primal confidence. He was the muscular epitome of power, lethality, and grace; and women were drawn to him like moths to a flame. As for men? Well, they felt his presence like a blast of virility and a whirlwind of dominance sweeping through the room like a twister, devastating everything in its wake.
Intimidating was a mild word for Saxson.
But yeah, his goal was to remain inconspicuous.
Good luck with that.
He ordered a second shot of Elijah Craig Single Barrel Whiskey from the female bartender, gave her a gentle but effective mental command to go about her business—since she happened to be staring at him like a dolt with her mouth hanging open and drool rapidly pooling along the corners of her mouth, about to leak onto her chin—and turned to glance at the seemingly average businessman, wearing an overly expensive tie with an extremely cheap suit, in the farthest corner-booth of the bar.
Anthony Beckman.
Kate Beckman’s ex-husband.
The one who had broken her jaw and was this close to molesting their three-year-old daughter during one of his court-approved visits.
What the he
ll…
Saxson repressed a growl: Anthony was one of the human males on Rebecca Johnston Lacusta’s hit list, and he was only too happy to take him out.
Okay, so it wasn’t supposed to be a hit list.
At least not necessarily…
But try explaining that to Nathaniel Silivasi. The Ancient Master Warrior had already removed Ely Thomas’ fingers for breaking Nancy’s arms; dismembered Rollo Jones for causing Sheila to have two miscarriages—and yeah, Rollo didn’t live through the ordeal—and gouged out Hugo Gonzales’ eyes for refusing to leave Teresa alone. Apparently, Nathaniel figured that would put a dent in Hugo’s stalking.
The “list” was supposed to be at least somewhat benign: The warriors were supposed to scrub the abusers’ brains, implant new suggestions on how to live a kinder life, insure that these miscreants would never threaten a woman again—and Saxson supposed that Nathaniel had met that criteria…in his own, creative way.
After all, three down; two to go.
As it stood, Nathaniel was off stalking Julius Schaffer, Patricia Sykes’ one-time, one-date NFL player, and Saxson was hunting in LoDo, handling Anthony Beckman, or at least he was about to…
Problem was: Saxson had already searched Anthony’s soul, and it was nothing but black, murky sludge. The man was as evil as evil came and as sociopathic as a serial killer. He possessed zero capacity for remorse or empathy, and he would never, ever stop terrorizing Kate. It was stamped all over his demented brain, and that meant only one thing—
This one had to be put down.
For good.
Saxson tossed back the second shot of whiskey, slammed the glass on the bar, and made his way toward the back of the room, trying to saunter past the booth as seamlessly as possible. There was no need to create a scene. No need to grab the bully by the scruff of the collar and drag him out of the establishment in order to…handle the business…in a dark, secluded alley. The way Saxson saw it, he could simply snap the idiot’s neck in the space of a heartbeat, leave him propped up like a drunkard, still sitting in the booth, and close his eyelids, if necessary, with the sweep of his hand, make it look like he’d simply passed out.
It might be an hour or more before anyone noticed.
Then again, it might only be five minutes.
Saxson grimaced.
Damn, he hated to cause that kind of drama for the employees or the establishment, but when he weighed their angst against the threat to Kate Beckman’s daughter, it just didn’t seem that bad. Besides, humans could deal with their own affairs. After all, they had created the laws that allowed such injustice to continue in the lives of so many women; they had devalued their females and their children, in spite of what they claimed, in every penal code they wrote; and they still viewed outright violence, assault, and terror as domestic disturbances in nature—whatever the hell that meant—by slapping perpetrators on the wrist, releasing pedophiles from prison, and viewing rape in the context of sex…as if that had anything to do with it.
Violence was violence.
Assault was assault.
And crime was crime.
And a society that wielded a harsher penalty for stealing money than destroying virtue deserved a little mess in an otherwise pristine booth.
It was what it was.
As Saxson sidled by Anthony’s table, he met the human’s gaze with a nod, and then he felt his own eyes turn feral—he knew they were glowing red—it was simply a natural instinct. The human’s jaw dropped open, as if he were about to scream, and Saxson squelched the sound in an instant, turning it off with a simple mental command. A sweet, primal moment, laced with terror and imbued with fear, the knowledge that something horrific was about to take place flashed in Anthony’s pupils, but it never had a chance to reach his twisted brain.
Saxson grazed the human’s cheek with his thumb, anchored his jaw with his palm, and placed the opposite hand on the opposite cheek as if in a lover’s embrace. With a sharp, swift rotation, both wrists working in tandem, he twisted to the right, then back to the left, listening for the telltale pop that indicated the broken vertebrae.
It was swift.
It was effective.
And it was finished.
Anthony Beckman was dead.
Saxson pressed the human’s heavy body back against the seat, using one hand to steady his torso, the other to secure his balance. As the man’s head fell forward, suspended above his chest, Saxson allowed him to slump into a resting position and then closed the man’s eyes.
Smoothing his right hand through his hair, Saxson swaggered past the booth and instantly muted his appearance as he turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction, toward the establishment’s front door—he wasn’t completely invisible, and he wasn’t crystal clear. His presence was like an impression, a ghost or a breeze—others would feel him, they would know he was there, but they would not be able to see, touch, or discern his presence in a way they could actually place. He wouldn’t seem real or tangible.
As he stepped outside into the crisp night air, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his neck before deciding to take a stroll around the block: Nathaniel was hunting on the opposite end of town, taking care of Mr. Sykes—it might be another fifteen or twenty minutes before they could head back to Dark Moon Vale.
Might as well see the sights.
Kyla Sparrow stood behind her identical twin sister in the tiny one-room bathroom at the back of the LoDo bar, watching as Kiera reapplied her liquid eyeliner in the murky mirror, creating a perfect, symmetrical line; and she pretended to listen as Kiera talked.
Blah, blah…blah, blah, blah.
It wasn’t that Kiera wasn’t funny, interesting, and smart—or even beautiful—she was, inside and out. But that and a nickel would buy Kyla a gumball, something she didn’t need.
Kyla Sparrow had much bigger concerns on her mind.
She had much bigger fish to fry than petty, monotonous affairs.
And because of that, she and her twin sister really didn’t vibe.
In fact, they hadn’t vibed for years.
Ever since their freshman year in high school, Kyla had known she was different: While Kiera had been a straight-A student and a practical virtuoso with her violin, impressing classmates and teachers alike with her vibrant, intelligent personality, Kyla had been morosely withdrawn. Not only had she shown very little interest in making friends, pleasing her teachers, or pursuing some extravagant talent, she had become more and more distrustful, increasingly pessimistic, and decidedly different as each new day dawned.
And it wasn’t just a matter of extrovert versus introvert or social versus antisocial. It went a whole lot deeper than that. Kyla had harbored an internal rage: She was prone to fits of violence; often envious, resentful, or just plain combative; and to most people around her, she was an oddity, a rebel, and even a threat. Sure, she shared her identical twin’s genes, good looks, and even her uncanny intelligence, but it manifested in a completely different way.
Kyla needed to know why.
Why were people so stupid and unteachable?
Why did nations let their enemies win?
Why didn’t leaders employ any means necessary to achieve their individual goals, establish collective dominance, and create a hierarchy where the strongest would always survive?
Why did they make so many excuses for the sick, the defective, and the simple among them?
Why didn’t anyone else see that they were all just a bunch of dumb, mindless goldfish, swimming around in a bowl, waiting for someone to feed them, take care of them, direct them as to where to go, what to say, and how to live, repeating the same tiresome routine, day after day, year after year, life after meaningless life? And that’s when she had met Owen Green, the handsome, charismatic leader of the Denver Militia, a secret society of vampire-hunters, engaged in a much grander cause.
At first, Kyla had thought Owen was full of malarkey, with all his fanciful tales
of fanged creatures who stalked the night, Dark Ones and Light Ones, opposing houses, and moons that turned the color of blood. But Owen had made her a believer, over time, over a lot of shocking, revealing, and illuminating time. And more than that, he had shown her things—photos, diaries, gravestones—as he had increasingly gained her trust, all of which left little room for doubt that vampires were definitely real.
Now, thirteen years later, Kyla was more than a believer: She was a full-fledged initiate in the metropolitan area’s secret cell. She was honor-bound and one hundred percent obedient to a Head Hunter she had never met, a regional leader by the name of Xavier Matista, the one who had recruited Owen. In fact, not only had she gone through all the secret trainings, attended all the late-night briefings, and followed the society’s every clandestine move, she had committed herself fully on December 1st of her twenty-fifth year by submitting to a full, irreversible hysterectomy in order to become eligible for field work.
Knowing that any creature she hunted could very well be a Dark One, a powerful and dangerous aberration from what they called the house of Jaegar, the hysterectomy had been a must: No pain, no gain. No risk, no reward.
The society paid very well.
And they took excellent care of their own.
They were all that was standing between humanity and the monsters, and Kyla was ready to make her first kill. She wasn’t playing a child’s game, and she understood that on a deep, intrinsic level. Keeping up with her old life, pretending to be an active member of her family, meeting with her twin from time to time to engage in the mundane was all part of a necessary front. She had to pretend to be a functioning member of society as a whole, even as she knew she was the race’s defender.