by Rebecca Main
Mr. Vrana
A Soulmark Series
by Rebecca Main
www.RebeccaMain.com
http://www.ViaGraphia.com
© 2018 Via Graphia. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Prague | Spring 1784
Chapter 1
Prague | Spring 1784
Chapter 2
Prague | Winter 1794
Chapter 3
Prague | Summer 1814
Chapter 4
Prague | Autumn 1824
Chapter 5
Brussels | Autumn 1830
Chapter 6
Vienna | Summer 1832
Chapter 7
Vienna | Spring 1833
Chapter 8
Vienna | Spring 1834
Chapter 9
The Dark Court | 1837
Chapter 10
The Dark Court | 1841
Chapter 11
The Dark Court | 1846
Chapter 12
The Dark Court | 1851
Chapter 13
The Dark Court | 1858
Chapter 14
The Dark Court | 1866
Chapter 15
The Dark Court | 1866
Chapter 16
The Dark Court | 1866
Chapter 17
Berlin | Autumn 1896
Chapter 18
California | Spring 2002
Chapter 19
Montana | September 2018
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Lycan Legacy
Acknowledgements
Connect with Rebecca Main
Prologue
“Say it to me again,” Xander demands, his voice cutting out and back in. Reception in the forest is not good.
I take a breath to steady my irate nerves and adjust the grip on my cell phone. Though we are only half-siblings, Xander acts as if we are blood, and tends to err on the over-the-top protective side, even if I’m more than capable of the handling the mission. I can imagine him in his study, his body taut and radiating stress. If he were in the van with me now, I know he'd have my hands in his—the grip too tight for comfort and yet perfect all the same.
I release the breath with a small sigh. “I run south and stick to the forest. I don’t split ways with O’Riley and Mathis until we’ve hit Yellowstone.”
“And then?”
My fingers tighten, and the sound of the phone’s plastic casing fracturing reaches both our ears. I let out another breath and remind myself that Xander is only concerned for my well-being and that of the Adolphus pack. Our pack. He's just doing his job as the alpha and ensuring I know what to do. After all, if I fail, there is no telling what the consequences might be. I must keep the Amethyst of the Aztec and Vogart's blade out of the Wselfwulf pack’s hands, as well as the vampyrés, at all costs.
“Then I keep running. I know the plan, Xander, all right? No one is getting their hands on me, the ring, or Callie’s little knife.” Though, little is hardly the word to describe the wicked sickle-like blade. “The car is pulling up to the drop point. I need to go.”
A beat of silence, and then, “Be safe.”
I swallow. The thick coating of emotion in his voice triggers a wave of uncertainty in my gut. “I will be. I won’t let you down or the pack.”
“Stay alive, Irina.” The weight of his command, even through the phone and at this distance, is immense. I feel the burden of his words wrap around me like a vise and suck in a sharp breath to steady myself.
“I will,” I say, not liking one bit the way my vision begins to cloud with tears. “I’ll be back in no time, brother.”
“Be smart,” he whispers.
“Always.” The line goes dead just as a surge of adrenaline floods the pack bonds. Something is happening north of here. A confrontation. A chase.
Our car pulls to a stop on the dirt road, and O’Riley and Mathis exit the car alongside me.
“Good luck,” Valerie says from the driver's seat, before driving away back toward the real action. I watch for a moment longer than necessary to steel my nerves one final time. Rolling my shoulders back, I tilt my chin up high.
“Shall we, then?” I spare a quick glance at the towering men accompanying me on my mission. O’Riley and Mathis aren’t ranked terribly high in the pack, but they are fast, which is why they were chosen to go with me.
Not as fast as me, but passable nonetheless.
“You’ve got everything you need?”
I nod at Mathis, mentally listing off the items in my possession. Ring, check. Blade, check. Cash, check. Burner phone, check.
“It’s a long run to Fort Collins.”
“I’m aware of the distance, Mathis. I’ll make it to the Lovota pack in no time at all.” O’Riley snorts at the bored expression I pass to the other man, while I stretch my legs one last time. The Lovota pack is small and tends to keep out of the disputes of the larger packs, but they made an exception for us thanks to Atticus’s smooth negotiations. “Ready, boys? Let’s see if you can keep up.”
And then we are off. The earth disappears beneath our feet as we race along the familiar terrain of our territory. We weave through the flora with ease, soon finding ourselves near the most southern end of our land. The men flank me on either side, the sound of their breathing matching my own as our feet dig more deeply into the earth. Soon the world blurs past me in vignettes of greens and browns.
Our pace doesn’t slow when the rain begins to fall. If anything, it urges us on faster. When the ground becomes slick with mud, I find myself panting from the exertion to maintain both speed and balance.
“Come on, then!” I shout over my shoulder, teetering momentarily, only to correct myself with a grin.
A clap of thunder sounds from afar, and I slow my speed to search the tree line for O’Riley. He’s nowhere to be seen. My heels slam into the ground. I shoot a look over my other shoulder. No Mathis either. Shit.
“I was wondering when you would notice.”
The velvet voice sends a shiver down my spine. I whip my head around to face the mysterious man, my ivy-colored eyes narrowing on him. He is dressed to impress with Oxford shoes, a black tailored suit, and pale blond hair swept artfully back out of his face. The rain does little to hamper his style. My active wear is a stark contrast to his outfit.
The man takes a step forward, the tilt of his lips mocking me with false sincerity.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I say.
A gust of wind tosses the rain against my back and into the man’s face. I don’t bother to smother my smirk. Upon catching my look, he drops his facade of pleasantry. In the blink of an eye, he is in front of me, only a few feet away, well within range to strike out with his fist or feet.
“The ring, if you please.”
My eyebrow hikes upward, and I shift my feet to stand shoulder width apart. “You’re the vampyré?” I ask.
He inclines his head, his eyes never leaving my face. This is the elusive Mr. Vrana, I think, after the Amethyst of the Aztec
ring so he can walk in the light. At least he isn’t after Vogart's blade. The magical blade is a powerful weapon and is rumored to turn vampyrés back into humans. What would Vrana do if he got his hands on it?
“I thought you would be taller,” I finish after my long and contemplative silence.
Surprise gleams behind his eyes at my unimpressed tone.
“My apologies,” he murmurs. His crystalline blue eyes are fanned by thick eyelashes, enough to make a girl notice and be jealous. Lucky for me, I know precisely what devil I’m speaking with. The silver flecks in his eye give away his trade secret: his true age.
“My apologies as well,” I say, adrenaline seeping into my veins as I keep my cool facade. “I’m afraid I can’t give you the ring. It belongs to a friend of mine. You understand, don’t you?”
He sneers. “That ring is mine.” The flash of Mr. Vrana's fangs is all the warning I get before he attacks.
He moves like lightning, but I am quick enough to defend myself against his vicious assault. Until I'm not. One well-placed strike to my torso, and I become momentarily paralyzed.
Hit after hit lands, his blows pushing me back and toward the ground. I grit my teeth as another of his punches lands in my side, then another to the bottom half of my cheek. Black spots burst in symphony across my vision as I tumble to the ground. I am well versed in combat, but the vampyré is proving quickly to be out of my league.
Stay alive.
I cannot decipher whether the thought is my own or Xander’s lingering command, but it is enough to keep me moving. I roll into a crouch, my hand withdrawing the blade from my side holster. The vampyré shoots me a glare, and the wolf inside of me rises to the challenge. It pushes at the bounds of its control within my body, but the lycan curse holds it back. It cannot seize control and guide my movements, nor can I shift at will to even the playing field. But I can listen to the instincts it drives into my mind and limbs.
A surge of wild abandon courses through me.
“You’re not getting this ring,” I say, a pant falling past my bloody lip.
The vampyré laughs humorlessly and begins to circle. He removes his jacket, tossing it onto the forest floor without care. Next, he unfastens his cufflinks, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. I watch with unease, mirroring his movements with smaller steps of my own. His skin is alabaster, even more so than mine.
“As I said before, the ring belongs to me. If you want to see your friends alive, I’d advise you to hand it over now.”
My mouth opens to reply, but the words catch at the back of my throat. There, near the crease of the vampyré's elbow and half-hidden by his rolled sleeve, lies a dark impression on his skin. A mark. I school my features and inhale. The vampyré’s last blow must have distorted my vision for the mark on his skin looks similar to the one upon my right wrist. Too similar.
“I’d advise you to find a different ring. Purple really isn’t your color, leech.”
Mr. Vrana takes my bait and hurtles toward me with incredible speed. I wait until the last possible second before diving low and striking out with the blade. The vampyré lets out a curse as the curved edge slashes through his clothing and flesh. Blood pumps through my veins at an accelerated pace at the sight, the wolf inside me howling at the small victory.
“I did offer to be lenient,” he rebukes. I catch the steely undertone in his words and force my body to remain loose and at the ready. Yet when he strikes next, I am wholly unprepared. My speed is no match for his, my strength a pathetic comparison.
My back hits the forest floor, and my breath is lost in a painful whoosh. With a hand around my neck, Mr. Vrana keeps me pinned, the pressure of his fingers increasing with each passing second. I struggle to regain control.
Stay alive.
My lungs burn with the effort to capture the scantest of breaths, but to no avail. I lash out at his arm only to be thwarted.
“There’s no use fighting it,” he says, snagging my hand with the ring on it. He pries open my fist and works the ring off my middle finger. All the while, black spots begin to dot the sides of my vision.
Stay alive.
I turn wild eyes to the arm pinning me down, tracing a path toward the mark I saw before.
Stay alive.
He doesn’t notice my intent, too consumed by his victory. I don’t have time to second-guess myself. My hand shoots out, not to knock the ring from his hand or force away his chokehold, but to lay a hand on the mark. My soulmark…
Our reactions are instantaneous. The vampyré releases his hold on me and attempts to retreat, but my grip is ironclad. I arch my back with a mighty gasp, gulping in air like it’s my first breath. It only heightens the sudden sensation of liquid fire encapsulating me. Us. The vampyré eyes me with astonishment. His lips part, and his eyes widen as he absorbs the truth.
I sink my nails further into his skin, jaw clenching as I do as my alpha commands: stay alive. “Let it be known that thy are found,” I say, voice hoarse. “My soul awakened. The stars incline us, my love, and so we are sealed.”
A shock of electricity draws a whimper from my throat. My body thrums with energy as some intrinsic part of me ties together with this… devil. Trembling with unexpected want, I release him. He falls to the side on his knees, staring at me aghast, before a sneer, full of hate and disgust, covers his face so completely I am at a loss for words.
“You’re going to regret that,” he promises darkly. His fist flies at me without restraint, and then there is only blackness.
Prague | Spring 1784
The air was filled with a grand atmosphere. Couples strolled at their leisure with tender and soft-spoken words passed between them. Parties of bachelors practiced polka on their way to their next social engagement. Artists posted themselves along the pavement: writers, painters, and musicians. It was a scene much like every other night, yet no less enchanting than the last.
Oh, but the city of Praha was in its prime. The kindling of a national revival was in full effect, with the people of the country pouring into the capital with great pride. The once provincial town had rediscovered its stride after a century of quiet existence—a feat managed by Joseph II and the nobles of the land, whose love for the arts culminated in a feast for the senses all around the city.
Jakob Kysely loved his home.
He loved its passionate and educated people. He loved its heartwarming food. But most of all, he loved being witness to its magnificent transformation. After countless wars and rebellions, the city had found its footing again and again. Nothing could keep his beloved Praha down.
Jakob was homebound. Having spent the evening dining with a colleague’s family, he had excused himself after his second helping of plum dumplings. Hackney coaches rambled past, the click-clacking of the horses' hooves adding to the night’s jovial melody. Jakob deliberately chose not to flag down the transport, for he was enjoying his walk home and it did not seem so terribly long in the crisp night air.
As the fair-haired man wove his way through cobbled streets, his mind turned to replay the events of dinner. What gracious hosts the Novak’s were, he thought. His colleague—a fellow banker—boasted an excellent attitude toward life and had caught himself a lovely wife. Jakob aspired to as much and was of the opinion that he would make an excellent husband one day. A bit of color dashed his cheeks he would very much like to be a husband.
Thankfully, Jakob did not face the pressure of duty that marred his older siblings to be first married and henceforth to ensure the Kysely name lived on, and second, be successful. Indeed, Jakob lived a life free of tenuous responsibility as the third son. Though he sorely envied the life of his younger, and final, brother, Charles.
Charles was the unanimous favorite in the Kysely family. His vigor for life left those in his vicinity quite affected with the same enthusiasm. The enthusiasm was an endearing quality not one of his brothers could be persuaded to drive from him with the realities and sensibilities of
life.
The eldest brothers, twins, stood in stark contrast to the youngest. Their polished and somewhat stuffy demeanors fit well with their careers as textile manufacturers. As for Jakob, he fell oddly in the middle—not as refined as his elder siblings, nor as enthusiastic as the youngest. Jakob, with his icy and ever-calculating blue eyes, found joy in numbers and his family. Whereas his vice was vengeance when either of the formers was slighted.
The streets grew quieter as Jakob neared home where he lived with his widowed mother. Only Jakob remained in the familial home, too loyal to leave her behind. He picked up his speed as the lively people once crowding the sidewalks were replaced with the odd man down on his luck. He kept his gaze politely averted and felt the keen presence of night surround him.
Only his footsteps echoed within the empty streets.
Jakob scanned the shuttered windows and gilded buildings with little interest. He wanted to be home and warm in his bed. He prepared to cross a deserted intersection when a side street caught his eye. Stopping, he adjusted his jacket and then strode toward the side street. Jakob and Charles had walked its path before when Charles had still lived at home. It was the faster route. It was the logical choice. And so he went to meet his fate. Not halfway down the brick-lined lane, Jakob realized something was amiss.
He was not alone.
Of that, Jakob was confident. The route might have been faster, but it was also—he concluded with chagrin—the more dangerous choice. Too much good wine and sherry at tonight's dinner had emboldened Jakob.
Footsteps. Behind him.
The sound was faint but distinguishable. Whoever was in pursuit of Jakob was swiftly gaining and making no move to hide his or her intentions. Fight was not an option—not for Jakob. So he fled. He sprinted down the narrow, spindling side street. Panic gave way to hope when he spotted the end of the lane in the distance, a most manageable range for the thirty-year-old. But it was much too late for hope now.
The assailant sprang and latched upon his neck, the sharp teeth driving through his flesh with such fervor and intensity Jakob cried out. But the beast upon him was ready for such a response. A cold hand smothered Jakob’s cries, while the other encircled his arms and torso like a metal band.
