by Tessa Dawn
Braden winced. "To be honest, I'm not so sure I'm strong enough to take it: My dad...and Nachari...they still mostly feed me." He looked away like he was embarrassed...as if he hated having to tell her that secret. "I tried a couple times, but I wasn't very...smooth at it. You know what I mean?"
Jocelyn shook her head.
"I mean that it's probably..." He sighed, his frustration growing. "It's probably gonna hurt...for you...if I try."
Jocelyn placed a hand over her stomach.
He could have kept that information to himself.
"Don't talk like that, Braden," she admonished. "Trust me; you're not helping your case. Let's just both keep focused on what we need to do here. There's no way I'm going to leave you in this shed, so this thing we're going to do, it's not optional."
A crimson tear escaped his eye, and Braden turned away.
Jocelyn stroked his cheek. "Oh man, Braden. We're in quite a mess, aren't we?"
Braden nodded, and then he blinked back his tears, equally determined. "I could try your wrist, but the vein's not as good. Not as much blood flow. A lot slower, too. Your neck would be easier...for me."
Jocelyn all at once felt her legs begin to give out from underneath her. She reached up and clutched at the cross in an effort to steady herself...only to end up rattling Braden, who immediately cried out from the pain of the unexpected movement.
"Oh, shit! I'm sorry...I'm sorry, Braden..."
Man, they needed to get this show on the road.
Braden sniffled and tried to nod.
Jocelyn took another deep breath. "Okay...since we both know we're going to do this, and you're going to be just fine at it, let's make sure we're on the same page before we start."
She wanted to make sure Braden would use his time with Nachari wisely. And even more than that, she wanted to be sure they would not have to attempt it more than once.
"The moment you connect with Nachari, I want you to tell him the extent of your injuries—make sure he understands that you're pinned to this cross. You need to let him know that you're with me, and there's no way I can get you down.
Tell him he has to be the one to help you, and he has to do it fast since you only have a few seconds to maintain contact. If you have any extra time after that, try to describe the contents of the shed...what kind of tools we have access to...maybe he can come up with an idea that I can't. Can you remember all of that, Braden?"
Braden looked overwhelmed.
And if Jocelyn was being perfectly honest with herself, she had to admit it was a tall order....
She had seen the young man at Nathaniel's house, trying as hard as he could to utilize his abilities, and the truth was, the kid just didn't have a lot of...aptitude. But if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that necessity truly was the mother of invention, and matters of life and death had a way of inspiring all kinds of newfound talent in people.
Hopefully, vampires were included in that theory.
"I'll try," he muttered.
Jocelyn felt her knees knock together and knew she needed to act quickly, before her courage left her. "Okay, then: the neck it is. Where do you need me?"
Braden looked down at her. "Can you pull your hair out of the way? And get up on your tippy toes. Bring your neck up to my mouth."
Despite the gravity of the situation, the young man sounded a little shy...as if he felt embarrassed saying those things to a female. Jocelyn paused for a moment, hoping there was no sexual association with the act of feeding for a male vampire. But when the thought became just a little too creepy, she pushed it out of her mind. There were plenty of other things to worry about right now; she would keep that concern to herself.
"You ready?" she asked.
Braden let his head fall to the side for a moment, as if he were resting, trying to gather his strength. When he was finally ready, he lifted his head and turned to face her again.
"I'm ready."
Jocelyn started to approach the young vampire, and then all of a sudden, she stumbled back: Young, shy little Braden looked positively...alarming. His beautiful sienna eyes had dimmed into harsh shadows, darker than the night, and his normally golden pupils had narrowed into small little slits, glowing like those of a predatory animal—the centers a deep, feral red. His soft, pouty lips were drawn back in a snarl, and they twitched in some sort of automatic response. The boy was practically salivating with anticipation.
This was not the shy, unsure child she had met at the house—the human who didn't know how to be a vampire. This was the real deal. And he was gearing up to sink those jagged fangs deep into her neck.
Jocelyn sent up a silent prayer and pressed her body as close to the cross as possible.
Don't flinch. Don't faint. Don't pull away.
She repeated the words like a mantra.
Don't flinch. Don't faint. Don't pull away.
And then she rose up on her toes, swept her hair to the side, and pressed her face, cheek-to-cheek, against Braden's.
Despite her resolve, her body shook with fear.
She could feel his warm breath against her neck, a strong contrast to the bitter cold of the night, as his head slowly turned to the side. He nuzzled her neck, gently sweeping his mouth back and forth several times as if trying to find the best angle, and oddly, the sensation had a calming effect on her body. And then, all of a sudden, when she had finally relaxed, a guttural hiss escaped his throat and he struck with unbelievable speed and accuracy.
Braden's head snapped down, his mouth latched onto her throat, and his sharp fangs sank deep into her artery with a ferocity she hadn't expected. The powerful bite almost dropped her in an involuntary reaction as a piercing pain shot through her neck, radiated through her shoulders, and traveled down the length of her spine.
Her legs shook. Her body convulsed. The reaction lasted almost thirty seconds before she finally surrendered to the power of the vampire's hold...before she finally went limp against him, relaxing into a growing web of enthrallment.
Her blood felt cold flowing out of her vein, and she could feel the powerful tug as he sucked, his mouth drawing deep gulps of the life-giving fluid out of her body and into his. And then just like that, she was there: merged with Braden—connected to Nachari.
She could feel the distinct presence of Nathaniel, Marquis, and Kagen as well, each of them projecting their individual essence as clearly as they presented their own personalities in person. Braden relayed the information exactly as Jocelyn had instructed...forgetting nothing.
Life and death, Jocelyn thought.
Nachari responded with quick, decisive action: You will drink until I tell you to release her, and then you will give your mind completely over to me so I can free you before we lose our connection.
Braden grunted an affirmative.
Jocelyn? The voice was Nathaniel's. Listen carefully, my love.
Jocelyn didn't know whether or not Nathaniel could hear her reply, and frankly, she was far too paralyzed with pain to respond even if he could, but the sound of his voice bathed her heart in warmth and hope. She hadn't realized until that moment how deeply she missed him, how strong their connection truly was.
Nachari has fed Braden before, but he has never taken his blood...so we cannot track you through that bond. We were able to follow your trail as far as the Snake Creek River, but the river forks in three directions and the storm has taken all other signs away. As soon as Braden is free, I need you to get to the flares and release as many as you can. Do not worry about the storm. Even if we can't see them, we will be able to smell the phosphorus. Just keep releasing flares. I promise: We will come to you immediately.
Jocelyn blinked her eyes, unable to move her head, hoping Nathaniel could sense her understanding. Hoping he knew how truly sorry she was for walking away the way she had.
And Jocelyn? It was Nathaniel's voice again. You need to know that Tristan is not alone. He has several soldiers with him, and they are not human, sweetheart. They are ly
can-werewolves. They can only be destroyed through extreme trauma or with a silver bullet through the heart. So do not try and fight them. Get to the flares, tiger-eyes.
Jocelyn was almost grateful that she was being held up by a massive set of fangs...by some kind of vampire enthrallment...that Braden had complete control of her body at that moment—because, otherwise, she was going to lose it.
Werewolves?
Enough was enough.
And then a powerful male voice resounded in their minds: Braden, it's Marquis.
Braden became very still, listening intently.
How are you holding up, son?
Jocelyn heard Braden's heart skip a beat. Marquis had called him son, and he was practically holding his breath, straining to hear the fearsome warrior's next words.
I need you to do something for me: I need you to take care of Jocelyn...to do whatever it takes to keep the two of you safe until we can follow the flares. I know how difficult this is right now. I know that you are hurting, but this is what warriors do. And I believe that under all that silliness, you are a true warrior. Can you do that for me, son?
Despite his enormous suffering, his inability to speak, Braden's response could be felt clearly. His intention was almost audible: He would succeed in meeting the Ancient Master Warrior's request, or he would die trying.
Kagen spoke next. Do not forget to use your venom, Braden. It will help to stabilize your wounds until I can attend to your injuries. We will be there shortly, so hold on; know that you only have to endure a little while longer.
Nachari came back then, his voice soft, melodic, and unwavering with authority. That is enough blood, Braden.
Release Jocelyn and seal the wound. When I take control of your mind, it will not be gentle, as I have to move quickly, so do not resist my total control.
At Nachari's command, Braden began to withdraw his fangs. As his canines receded, his incisors lengthened—leaking minute drops of venom onto Jocelyn's neck. The puncture wounds were instantly healed.
Jocelyn dropped to the floor of the shed. She grasped her neck, trying to massage the pain away as she gasped for air.
She lay there, dizzy, looking up at the cross, watching as Braden's solid form began to shimmer into a translucent outline, and the wounds in his hands and chest began to radiate a pulsating orange glow as his body released itself from the piercing spikes. Like air flowing through space, Braden gently floated to the ground.
And just like that, he was free of the cross.
The moment Braden's feet touched down, Jocelyn heard voices coming from around the corner.
Angry voices.
Cursing. Guttural.
Tristan and Willie.
They were back from the hunt and clearly in a foul mood, obviously unable to prevail in the violent storm. They sounded frustrated but determined...desperate to make at least one kill. And who better to go after in the bleak, limiting conditions than helpless, dying Braden?
Jocelyn was as disgusted as she was afraid, but as luck would have it, Nachari was still merged with his young protege. And he had picked up on Braden's observations.
As Jocelyn and Braden frantically scampered for cover, Nachari quickly built the illusion of Braden still hanging on the cross, staked to the wood, bleeding, and almost dead. They dashed into the adjacent room, just to the right of the one Braden had been tortured in, and they hid.
Holding their breath, they took cover in the back of the shed.
Chapter Nineteen
The moment Jocelyn and Braden entered the musty back room, they both hit the floor, silently shutting the door behind them. Braden scampered to the far left corner, ducking behind a large wooden crate, while Jocelyn dashed to her right, hunkering down beneath a strange, looming object.
As soon as she was settled, her eyes began to adjust to the pitch black of the room, and the massive object in front of her began to take shape. Jocelyn clasped her hands over her mouth in an effort to stifle a scream—it just couldn't be.
The large wooden device stood like a glowering phantom, a living remnant of evil transported from a dark, revolting past. It was a statue of history carved out of torture and pain...molded by the shadowed hands of inhumanity.
The ancient guillotine stood almost five feet tall, with a heavy iron blade poised at the top of two adjacent square posts, its sides welded into vertical grooves. The massive blade was held back by a long, rusted pin, and beneath the sharp edge was a hard platform...a horizontal wooden bed.
The bed stretched out perpendicular to the blade so that its occupant's head would hang off the end, dangling helplessly beneath the looming steel—facing up or down, depending upon the executioner's desire.
Jocelyn strained to adjust her eyes. Once. Twice. Another time. And then, in absolute horror, she scurried back from the contraption, kicking up dust in her frenzied effort as her heels dug into the ground. Her eyes remained transfixed on the helpless male lying in front of her, manacled to the wooden platform.
Nathaniel had called the thick head of hair the crown of the King Cobra, but whatever its name, it was unmistakable: red and black bands of wild, wavy tresses, the signature coronet of the Dark Ones—long, silky locks of midnight and crimson, intermixed in a glorious...and terrifying mane.
The vampire's eyes flashed open, glowing like two red embers of fire surrounded by blackened coals, as they smoldered in the back of the darkened room. To Jocelyn's horror, he continued to stare at her as she sat trapped by the wall, no less than two feet away from his protruding fangs.
Jocelyn pressed as tightly against the wall as she could...praying she would disappear from the creature's view.
But his gaze remained steadily locked with hers.
His body was battered and bleeding with what had to be hundreds of flesh wounds—deliberate, shallow cuts made for the sole purpose of bleeding him out...slowly, draining his blood. His arms and legs were shackled with four heavy manacles, two at the ankles and two at the wrists. And a coordinated lock system held the manacles in place, sustained by another large pin, situated just below his right shoulder.
The creature yanked at the heavy manacles, and he growled a harsh, guttural warning as he thrashed around wildly trying to free his tortured body. His cold eyes pierced hers. And then he flashed a look so demonic that Jocelyn froze in place, certain he was about to rip her throat out all the way from the platform...shackled or not.
Jocelyn scanned the room for a weapon: a pipe, a hammer—anything—just so long as it gave her some defense against the wrathful being in front of her. Although the platform looked secure, and the creature looked weakened, there wasn't a doubt in her mind he was searching for a way to break free. And she was his target.
His newfound inspiration.
All at once, the door to the shed flew open and Tristan's deep voice could be heard reverberating across the distance, roaring with anger. "Jocelyn! Where are you? What the hell have you done?"
He obviously knew she had found the keys. Holding her breath, she followed the sound of his footsteps as he clamored around the shed, furiously tossing things out of his way.
He cursed like a sailor as he smashed objects against the walls, all the while shining the bright oval of his flashlight in a crisscross pattern...over the floor, up to the ceiling, then back down again to the corners of the shed.
"The boy is still here," Willie said, "so she couldn't have gotten far."
Jocelyn shut her eyes. Thank God. At least they didn't know Braden was free. Even as she thought it, Braden made his way quietly along the floor to the front of the blackened room, where he perched in waiting behind the heavy door.
Tristan grunted. "She's not strong enough to free him, or believe me, she would have. Jocelyn!" His voice thickened in anger.
Jocelyn held her breath and waited for what felt like an eternity as Tristan's footsteps slowly moved closer...coming toward the back of the shed. As the snarl of his grunts and the hiss of his curses grew louder and louder. He
r heart skipped a beat when she heard the door to the adjacent room open...and then close...signaling that the two men were now headed toward the room they were in.
When Braden crouched low behind the door in a predatory stance, Jocelyn cringed: The boy was no match for Tristan or Willie, not if they were the creatures Nathaniel had named them. Her eyes grew wide with fright even as her heart pounded out a beat of fearful anticipation. Werewolves. Such creatures did not exist. They could not exist. But then, neither did vampires until a few days ago.
Jocelyn's arms and legs began to tremble uncontrollably as the heavy wooden door creaked open and death stood in the doorway. Who was she kidding? She was a detective. She had great self-defense skills, but she was in no way prepared to battle the kind of creatures that were now only seconds away.
And Braden?
He was a terrified boy with a huge heart and a whole lot of guts...who was about to die a gruesome, unjust death. A human turned vampire who couldn't even shape-shift into a bat without assistance.
As Tristan's footsteps finally entered the room, Jocelyn resigned herself to the inevitable conclusion: They were doomed. She only hoped it would be quick and painless.
And then, in her resignation, her eyes swept down to the guillotine, to the creature laid out so heinously before her...the one who would be joining them in death.
And her heart skipped another beat.
What had she learned in all her years as a detective about the nature of a species? Any species. Self-preservation was instinctual...primal...fight or flight. It didn't matter if they were thieves committing burglary, guards watching over inmates, or cops attacked by criminals; in the heat of battle—the actual moment of sink or swim—self-preservation always took over.
Despite the best intentions, one instinct—and only one instinct—ruled supreme: the instinct to survive. That deep, primal voice inside that screamed, Stay alive!
Jocelyn hugged her arms to her chest, trying to gather her courage. It was true—wolves had been known to chew off their own legs to survive a hunter's trap, and humans had been known to eat their dead in the perils of winter. Whatever the threat was, no matter the obstacle that stood between a living being and their life, pressed far enough...they would go after it.