by Tessa Dawn
Laughter ricocheted through the small cavity.
It surrounded the child and engulfed the vortex…until at last, Napolean and the child began to merge, to see through a single pair of eyes. Flames exploded from the center of the darkness, and in one last desperate act of resistance, Napolean manufactured cold icicles all around his body—the boy’s body—in an effort to lessen the scorch of the flames.
“Die, little one! And be reborn the monster that you are!”
The child—Napolean—screamed until it felt as if his ears were bursting, yet the fog kept coming. Napolean felt his bones snapping, his organs reforming, his skin peeling back from his flesh like a pared apple. A gnarled, ghostly hand tore at his heart.
Napolean opened his mouth to command the spirits—surely, the gods would help him this time—but the fog entered his mouth and descended into his chest. He gagged and grappled for air.
“No! No! No!” There was acid flowing through his veins!
His very soul was on fire!
Napolean stared at the scorching flames consuming his childhood body—raging in spite of the perfectly formed icicles he had struggled to create—and for the first time, he let go…completely.
Welcoming death, he became the child, and they were lost together.
Suffering…praying…enduring…transforming.
Dying.
And then they were hungry—so very, very hungry.
They lapped at the blood on their hands like animals, gnawing on their own flesh in a crazed frenzy to devour more…
Blood…
They needed so much more blood.
And then just like that, they were transported forward in time until they stood as one, stunned and confused, in the village square, beside a familiar aged stone well.
“Napolean!” His father’s voice beat in his head like a bass drum, ricocheting here and there in an endless, painful echo.
Napolean staggered to a halt beside the well and prepared to watch his father’s murder all over again. He stared in resigned horror as Prince Jaegar hunkered over his father’s body and bent to his father’s throat. The evil prince’s eyes were wild with insanity—a familiar madness—as he drank his fill of Sebastian’s blood.
Napolean couldn’t help but wonder: What kind of son would just stand still for such a thing? Where in the name of the gods was his sword? Blessed Andromeda, why did he not have the courage to draw it and save the man? Sebastian was his father, for heaven’s sake!
His beloved sire.
“Father.” Napolean mouthed the words just like he had as a child. Only this time his father heard him.
Sebastian raised his head and met the child’s eyes, and a desperate plea for mercy contorted his tortured face. “Save me!”
Napolean trembled. “I can’t…”
“You can!” His father gurgled and choked on his blood. He spit out chunks of his own flesh—pieces of a battered throat that had caught in his mouth as he regurgitated in pain. “Please…son.”
Napolean could stand it no longer.
He had lived the anguish of this very moment for twenty-eight hundred years—regretted it…buried it…tried valiantly to justify it—always knowing in his heart that his own death would have been preferred to his cowardice.
No more.
“Yes, Father,” he promised, his words a solemn vow. “By all the gods, I will save you or die trying. Just tell me how.”
His father’s eyes opened wide, and a faint glimmer of hope flickered in them for the first time. “Your life for mine,” he whispered. “It is the only way, son. You must make a trade.”
Napolean paused, momentarily confused, but before he could question his father’s words, Prince Jaegar withdrew his sword and yanked his father’s head back by the hair, extending his neck as he brandished the glittering iron.
Napolean’s life for his father’s?
It was a trade he would gladly make, but how?
He was immortal—a vampire! Dispatching both the head and the heart was the only way, yet such a suicide would be nearly impossible.
Napolean steadied his resolve.
His head was spinning with confusion, but there simply was no time for reasoning why. It would take incredible strength, speed, and unwavering concentration to remove one’s own heart while remaining focused enough to dispatch the head in the space of a single second—less than that, really—before the body toppled over and the heart ceased its beating.
But if anyone could do it, it would be him.
Prince Jaegar’s sword rose high in the air, the male’s strong arm flexing at the bicep with graceful, fluid power as he hefted the heavy iron with ease.
“Help me, son!” Sebastian’s words were as desperate as they were imperious in their command: “Napolean…please; do it now.”
There was no time for contemplation.
The moment was now…or never.
Napolean Mondragon lodged the tip of his dagger just below his heart and gathered every ounce of his being into focused concentration: He would have to thrust the blade—hard and fast—deep into his sternum in an exacting, powerful thrust—a violent, sweeping, upward motion—meant to penetrate, dislodge, and break free all in one fluid movement—the final swipe being a horizontal slash along the throat. Powerful enough to remove the head.
Prince Jaegar’s arms tensed, threatening to come down in one final, wicked slash, even as a child’s plaintive wail echoed in Napolean’s memory: “Noooooooo!”
Bracing himself, Napolean counted backward: “Three. Two. One.”
“Noooooooo!” Brooke Adams shouted at the top of her lungs.
She lunged for the sharp, archaic blade nestled against Napolean’s breastbone, grasped the hilt with both hands, and tugged in the opposite direction just as he was beginning to thrust inward. If it had not been for the element of surprise, she would have never stood a chance against his brutal strength; but as it was, she surprised him and he relaxed his grip for just a fraction of a second. Long enough for the blade to slip. Just enough for it to slice sideways across his chest as opposed to impaling his heart.
He glanced down at his chest and tightened his hold on the blade.
With both hands glued to his shoulders, Brooke shook him as hard as she could while repeatedly calling his name. “Napolean! Napolean! What’s wrong with you? Look at me!”
He was like a block of iron.
Relentless and unmoving.
He was no longer opposing her, but he wasn’t releasing the dagger either. In fact, he had it locked in a death grip—it was as if he was stuck in some sort of trance.
“Napolean, snap out of it!”
He looked up at her then and snarled with unrestrained menace, his eyes turning a beastly red. Feral fangs shot out of his upper gums, and his lips twitched back as a savage hiss escaped his throat. “Go!”
She froze.
“Now!” he ordered, punctuating the word with a harsh, velvety growl.
The warning in his eyes was unmistakable.
He wasn’t playing, and he didn’t give a damn if she was his destiny.
In fact, he didn’t appear to even recognize her, which made him—unquestionably—the most dangerous being on the planet…
And that was when—and how—she knew that she and this vampire were truly, inexorably, linked.
Brooke could have gotten up and run.
She should have gotten up and run.
Every intelligent instinct in her body insisted that she do just that—take this perfect opportunity to escape, let this violent vampire die and finally gain her freedom—yet something far more basic inside of her simply could not let him go. Something so elementary it might have been primordial absolutely refused.
Brooke was terrified, but she would not let Napolean kill himself.
She released her death grip on his shoulders, drew back her right hand, and with all of the strength she could muster, struck him firmly across the face.
He didn’t even bud
ge. But it did get his attention.
Napolean blinked, let go of the blade, and slowly reached up to touch his inflamed cheek, stunned. And then he glanced left and right. “Father?”
Brooke knelt down in front of him, for the first time noticing the state of the patio, the disheveled furniture and décor; it looked like a tornado had swept through the yard. “No,” she answered, keeping her voice steady and firm. “It’s me, Brooke.”
Napolean dropped his head in his hands and massaged his temples. “My father is here,” he whispered, lowering his hands and scanning the deck. “Somewhere…”
“No,” Brooke insisted. “It’s just me...and you. Napolean?”
He stared blankly ahead.
“Look at me,” she said.
He turned his head in her direction, but his eyes remained decidedly vacant—as if fixed on something that wasn’t there.
Brooke swallowed hard and mustered her courage. She might regret this decision for the rest of her life, but she was still going to make it. God help her; she just couldn’t let him suffer. She stood up, rose to her full height, and crossed her arms over her chest in a firm, unyielding stance. And then, in an authoritative, no-nonsense voice, she shouted his name: “Napolean!”
He jolted.
“That is enough!”
He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes finally making lucid contact.
“Get up! Now!” she insisted. Her heart was beating a mile a minute as she whispered, “Please…come back to me, milord. I need you.”
twelve
Salvatore Nistor picked up the heavy—expensive—crystalline vase from the center of the council chamber table and threw it across the room, hissing as the heavy object exploded into a thousand little pieces. And then he slammed his fist through the table.
“Are you done yet?” Oskar Vadovsky inquired, staring at his nails as if he were bored.
“Done?” Salvatore spat. “Done? No, I’m not done! I’m hardly getting started.” He picked up his chair and smashed it to smithereens on the concrete floor, and then he grabbed a metal leg and snapped it in half just to punctuate his sentence.
“Very well—then you will stand for the remainder of our meeting.”
Salvatore clenched his fists at his sides, threw back his head, and roared like a lion, shaking the light fixtures not only in the room but all the way down the hall. “How many women have we sacrificed?” He began pacing. “How many bodies have we drained? How much blood have we offered to the dark lord, Ademordna, in exchange for his malevolent blessings?” He spun around quickly, causing Demitri Zeclos to jump back in his seat, startled.
“I understand, Salvatore,” Oskar murmured.
“No,” Salvatore argued, feeling like steam was about to rise from his ears. “I honestly don’t think you do. Magick spells are not like…McDonald’s hamburgers,” he ranted. “You can’t just get another one around the corner!”
“McDonald’s hamburgers?” Milano Marandici echoed. “Dude: You really need to chill!”
Salvatore met Milano’s eyes with an icy glare. He appreciated his dark brother’s presence on the council—after all, he, Demitri, and Milano had orchestrated a masterful coup to overturn the previous council chief not all that long ago—but now was not the time to screw with him.
He wasn’t in the mood.
“Napolean Mondragon was this close”—he held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“to killing himself!”
No one spoke.
“And that…bitch! What in Hades was she thinking? She had her freedom! All she had to do was walk away.”
Oskar slammed his gavel down on the uneven part of the table that was still standing. He had clearly had enough. “Are we going to replay the events all night, or are we going to hatch another plan?”
“Sure,” Salvatore snarled. “Would you like that plain or with cheese? Perhaps I should hold the pickles!”
Milano shook his head and rubbed his temples. “Do you eat food or something now?” he asked, perplexed.
Salvatore folded his hands in front of him. “Sure I do—right after I consume a pound of flesh!” He dove across the table, snatched Milano up by the collar, and lunged at his neck. His fangs gnashed together as Milano flew back, barely causing him to miss.
“What the hell, man?” Milano shouted. “Damn, Salvatore!” He levitated backward and rose upward, his back brushing the wide expanse of the wall until he was at last hovering safely near the ceiling. “Pick another whipping post!”
Oskar sighed. “The next male who acts up in this room will have me to answer to.” His eyes met Salvatore’s squarely, and Salvatore quickly looked away. Everyone knew that Oskar Vadovsky was not one to toy with. He had been so incensed the day they had orchestrated their coup—at the audacity of a male in the house of Jaegar to actually attack another male for political purposes, to commit high treason—that he had punished each of them severely. Milano still had the scars where his missing eye had once been—Oskar had refused to let him regenerate—and Demitri, well, what he was missing kept him from comfortably riding horseback…or women.
And Salvatore…
He swallowed hard.
Salvatore had been the most insolent and defiant of the band, so proud of their treachery, in fact, that he had refused to show any remorse, not even a hint of repentance. He had taunted Oskar—flaunted his arrogance—until Oskar had eventually snapped…
And then the crazed, ancient Dark One had broken him.
Right there on the table.
In front of all the men.
Committing the ultimate act of violation and degradation … upon Salvatore.
Salvatore shook his head. It had been horrendous … unthinkable. An act so shocking and vile that no one ever mentioned it. He prayed no one ever thought of it. Such a thing had never happened in the house of Jaegar before, and it would never happen again.
They were all straight: heterosexual.
In fact, they had made a regular Olympic sport out of brutalizing human women—complete with organizing teams and keeping score—and he could only hope that everyone still held him in the highest regard…as a male. After all, he was still the most advanced sorcerer in the house of Jaegar—or at least that was his opinion—and his violence against human females was legendary.
Oskar narrowed his eyes and Salvatore looked away.
“Now then,” Oskar said, “what do you have in mind to correct the situation, Salvatore?”
Salvatore snorted and ran his tongue over his teeth: Dark lords, what he wouldn’t give for payback. “He’s never going to kill himself now—not since he’s found the woman…his destiny…bitch!” He closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine. “Do you know what I would give for five minutes with Napolean Mondragon’s woman…in a dark alley?”
The other males laughed.
Salvatore shivered. “I would probably be too worked up to perform. I don’t even know if a method of murder has been invented that is graphic enough for what I would do to that whore.”
Milano nodded. “There’s got to be a way to break Napolean.”
Oskar raised his eyebrows. “Yeah…you and whose army? We tried that, and how many did he leave dead?”
He was referring to the day the warriors had come to rescue Ciopori from Salvatore’s lair. Napolean had faced off with them in the hall, leaving eighty-seven soldiers—all strong Dark Ones, all once-powerful warriors—dead in his wake. Salvatore had to give credit where credit was due: The male was fearsome.
“It would take a dark lord himself to do it,” Milano said.
Demitri nodded. “And even then, Napolean would have to cooperate.”
Salvatore held up his hand. “Wait a minute.”
Oskar sat forward. “Yes?”
“What would it take…” He started pacing as he considered the new dilemma, mentally consulting the Blood Canon in his head—now that Nachari Silivasi had stolen it, he could no longer open its dark pages. Thank the dark lords he
had memorized it word for word.
A new idea began to unfold.
Smiling, he spun around and quit pacing. “Possession,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me?” Milano asked.
“Possession,” Salvatore repeated, practically purring the word. “We call upon the Dark Lord Ademordna to enter, say, a human host in the form of a snake or a worm—and then we somehow get the human close enough to Napolean’s body to transfer the worm. Ademordna takes over Napolean and kills his destiny—a far easier task than killing the whore ourselves.”
“Then Ademordna relinquishes Napolean’s body, and the king dies a very slow, painful death as a result of the Blood Curse.” Oskar smiled. “I love the idea—the ancient king of the house of Jadon is taken out by the Curse for failing to make the required sacrifice: Of all the males to screw that up, it’s poetic.”
“It worked on Shelby Silivasi,” Salvatore offered, remembering his late brother Valentine’s successful plan to destroy the youngest Silivasi male by destroying his mate Dahlia—but not before he had used her well to produce a son of his own. “There you have it—since no one has a chance in hell of actually getting anywhere near Napolean’s destiny to kill her, we simply let the love-struck king do it himself.”
Everyone nodded except for Demitri. “Yeah, okay. It all sounds great in theory, but how the hell do we get this human—who is now possessed by a worm—anywhere near Napolean Mondragon? And even if we do, how the hell do we get Napolean to kill the human and swallow the worm? Doesn’t the transfer have to take place at the exact moment of the host’s death? Assuming we can beseech Lord Ademordna to grant such a thing—when was the last time any sorcerer in the house of Jaegar conjured a spell powerful enough to invoke Blood Possession?”
Oskar nodded and leaned forward, indicating that he was taking over the floor. “That is true, Salvatore. Assuming we could get close enough to Napolean to plant the worm—and assuming Napolean would actually cooperate by killing the human—how would you gain Lord Ademordna’s assistance?”
Salvatore rubbed his chin, where a distinct three-o’clock shadow was beginning to grow. He had been too busy concentrating on destroying Napolean to shave lately. “I’ll admit,” he said cautiously, “the price for such a thing would be extremely high. Blood. Sacrifice. More blood than we’ve ever offered before. But with Oskar’s recent directive to kill humans in Dark Moon Vale”—he nodded his regard to their council chief—“and to leave them in plain sight for the humans to find, we have collected more vials of sacrificial blood than ever before. Our storehouses are full.”
