Blood Possession

by Tessa Dawn

  “Sure,” she answered as expected, falling into easy step beside him. They remained silent for a while as they walked toward the creek, and then she finally cleared her throat and glanced at him from her peripheral vision. “The stables are run by a human family, right? Kevin Parker.”

  Napolean smiled. “You have a memory like a steel trap, Brooke.”

  She shrugged. “Not so much. I just remember reading about the recent death of that young girl—the stable manager’s daughter. What was her name?”

  “Joelle,” Napolean whispered.

  “And she was killed by Marquis?”

  “By Valentine Nistor,” he corrected. “Marquis saved her from a horrific fate.”

  She shook her head. Clearly, she still had trouble processing the complexity of all she had been exposed to: the Vampyr, the descendants of Jadon versus the descendants of Jaegar, and the endless battles and treachery that were perpetrated between the two groups of descendants. “And Nathaniel’s wife—Jocelyn—she actually saw one of those…birth rituals…up close and personal?”

  Napolean stifled a growl. The murder of Dalia Montano and the consequent loss of Shelby Silivasi was still a sore subject. “Yes, she did.” His answer was factual and without emotion.

  Brooke blinked and looked off into the distance, dismissing the subject as if she understood.

  Napolean stared at her then, studying her as she walked. He couldn’t help it. She had such an easy grace…such a curious spirit. Brooke Adams was tall for a woman, at least five foot, nine inches, and she was slender, no more than one hundred thirty pounds: Every muscle was toned; every curve was accentuated; every movement was easy and relaxed. Despite such a troubled childhood, she had a quiet confidence that hovered about her like a halo. Her ebony, shoulder-length hair framed her face like a pair of hands embracing the chin of a lover, drawing attention to her soft, precisely sculpted bottom lip—the one she bit whenever she was nervous. Her impossibly blue, heavily lashed eyes stood out like a pair of brilliant sapphires, stunning in a face already graced with unusual beauty. Everything about her screamed rare, exquisite... independent.

  She bit her bottom lip. “You’re staring.” There was no judgment in the statement.

  Napolean drew in a deep breath. “I am.” He stopped and reached for her hand.

  Reflexively, she took a step back, her eyes scanning his face in rapid, nervous sweeps—as if to discern what he wanted before she responded.

  “To kiss you,” he answered the question in her eyes.

  She blinked and swallowed. She opened her mouth to answer—perhaps to protest—but then she closed it without speaking a word. Instinctively, her eyes swept down to his lips before she quickly forced them back up to his eyes and blushed.

  She shivered, but not entirely from fear.

  Napolean reached out and brushed a soft but firm hand along her arm, tracing a gentle line down from her shoulder to her wrist, finally rubbing a small circle in the palm of her hand with his thumb. As the breath slowly left her lungs, he gently wove his fingers into hers and gave her a soft tug, pulling her into his body. Her breasts molded perfectly to his chest, and his breath hitched.

  Careful, he told himself. She was still very much like a captured bird, wanting to trust yet terrified of being wounded. “By all the gods, esti frumoasa,” he whispered, his voice husky against her ear, “you are so…beautiful.”

  She was holding her breath now, listening, her senses fully alert. Napolean felt her pulse increase. He heard her heart thundering in her chest, and he felt the prickling of her skin—the undeniable evidence of her mutual attraction toward him. Indeed, the gods had chosen well.

  He bent to her mouth slowly, his lips lingering just above hers, and their breath mixed as their eyes locked in a gaze of absolute vulnerability and need.

  “I can’t let you do this,” she whispered, although she didn’t pull away.

  Napolean understood. His hands tightened around hers. “Because consenting to my kiss would be consenting to our…destiny.”

  She started to speak, but her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes.”

  His right hand moved to the small of her back, and he cradled her more tightly against him, inhaling the scent of her skin as his eyes drifted closed. “But if I take it—without your consent—then once again, you will have no choice in the matter. Would that be easier for you, my queen? After all, you are still my—”

  “Captive,” she whispered, her lips nearly brushing his.

  “Indeed,” he breathed into her mouth as he closed the remaining distance between them, and his lips formed a soft seal over hers.

  The kiss was warm yet tentative…at first.

  He lifted both hands to cup her face, gently brushing the sides of her cheeks with his thumbs as he deepened the kiss, sought to taste her with his tongue, and let out a deep, feral growl in response to her pliant, almost inaudible moan.

  His hands moved down to her hips, and he felt his body harden in response to the supple, luscious curves. He didn’t try to hide his reaction. Pressed so tightly against him, she would feel everything, and he no longer cared.

  Gods, he had waited forever for this woman.

  A sudden snap-click-pop echoed in his head, and time slowed down into distinct, micro-increments: Snap—a thumb brushing over a safety. Click—a trigger cocking back. Pop—a bullet firing out of a chamber…speeding, whirring, sailing toward the back of Brooke’s head.

  Napolean spun their bodies around in a dizzying whir of speed, gasping as the bullet struck home right between his shoulder blades and penetrated his back. “Get down!” he ordered, shoving Brooke to the ground before spinning around to face the intruder.

  Hiding less than fifty yards behind the wide foliage of a juniper tree was a human male, and he aimed the barrel of his gun, once again, at Brooke.

  He fired: once, twice, three times in quick succession.

  Each time, Napolean reached out with his left hand and caught the bullet. Each time, a searing heat burned his hand, eviscerating skin, bone, and tissue. Rage swept up from his toes to his head, then swirled around in his body, building a fire of its own. Napolean could hardly see through the red haze of fury as he held out his right hand and pointed his fingers at the male behind the tree.

  The gun flew out of the male’s steady hands, drawn from his grasp as if a powerful magnet had simply stolen it away. And then the human came next. As if tied to a marionette’s strings, he rose off the ground and flew forward through the air toward Napolean. The king would not humble himself to go to his enemy. The enemy would come to him…

  To embrace his death.

  Napolean glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes took quick inventory of Brooke. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she croaked, her voice thick with fear, her body positioned wisely behind his. “What’s going on? Is that another vampire…one of those Dark Ones?”

  Napolean snorted. “No.”

  “Why is he trying to kill you?” Her voice raised an octave.

  “He was trying to kill you.”

  Brooke gasped. “Me! But why? Who is he, Napolean?”

  Napolean laughed then, a wicked, emotionless sound. “He is a dead man, my love. A walking corpse.”

  Ademordna, the twin demon to Napolean’s goddess Andromeda, allowed the haughty king to lift him from the ground and draw him through the air like so much rubbage: talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth! Gabe Lorenz’s body had served him well. It would have been nice to actually strike the woman with one of the bullets before his current form—Gabe Lorenz’s form—died, but in the end, this would be just as satisfying. The body Ademordna would soon inhabit would be more powerful than any other flesh currently animated on the face of the earth.

  He would soon walk, breathe, and exist as the ancient one, Napolean Mondragon.

  And until the end of Andromeda’s Blood Moon—until Napolean failed to make the required sacrifice of the Blood Curse—
Ademordna intended to take full advantage of Napolean’s powerful physique, get his full mileage out of it, so to speak. He smiled in sweet anticipation. Let his servants in the house of Jaegar continue to sacrifice their firstborn, adult sons, shedding their own precious, evil blood to keep Ademordna alive for the remaining twenty-four days of Napolean’s Blood Moon. Hell, it was good for them. It would teach them humility. And after all, Ademordna was a dark lord—every bit as divine as his ridiculous twin energy, Andromeda. He was owed the reverence. The homage was his due. Besides, the unbearable grief of those left alive would add an exquisite taste to this feast of supplication, a rare delicacy for his discerning palate.

  Ademordna eyed the ancient king, and his heart hummed with expectation: The male was beyond impressive. In fact, Napolean’s power was magnificent—unmatched—and it radiated outward from the vampire like the sun’s aura in a noonday sky, so much greater than he had anticipated.

  Much had been gained over so many centuries.

  He could feel Napolean’s magic pulsating all around him, his absolute command of the elements. He could practically taste his ancient knowledge of humanity and Vampyr alike. This male was more than a flesh-and-bone vessel. This king was very close to being a god.

  Ademordna shuddered and shook his head as he drew closer to the sovereign lord of the house of Jadon. He hadn’t expected to be so…aroused…at the thought of inhabiting Napolean’s body, and he knew that he would have to amend his plans: Yes, he would fulfill the terms of the blood possession, remain in the king’s body for the remaining twenty-four days of the pact. He would see to it that Napolean Mondragon was no more at the end of the Blood Moon, but he would also take something extraordinarily invaluable away from the experience. And in doing so, he would deeply reward his faithful servants in the house of Jaegar for all their blood and sacrifice.

  He would be a worthy lord, indeed, revered above all others.

  Ademordna licked his lips as the plan solidified in his mind: He would use Napolean’s body to mate with the human woman after all—just as the clueless king had intended to do, himself. He would allow the curse to proceed forward, using Napolean’s seed to sire the promised twin sons: one child of darkness and one child of light. Then he would hand over both newborn babes—but not to the essence of the Blood Curse, the wicked, vengeful aberration that still demanded its pound of flesh millennia after the original sin—he would hand both babies over to the faithful Dark Ones of the house of Jaegar. A hallowed gift from the dark lords of the Valley of Death and Shadows. And what did or didn’t happen to Brooke at that point would be of no consequence.

  He laughed inwardly. The sons of Jaegar could raise, torture, or kill the lighter progeny however they saw fit; either way, Napolean would fail to make the required sacrifice, and the Curse would come to claim him through a vengeful, painful…and final…death, destroying the powerful patriarch once and for all.

  And the evil child?

  He would live!

  Spawned from the essence of the Blood Curse, the child would be half abomination and half unadulterated power, the living essence of the greatest king—the greatest being—to have ever walked the earth. The child’s power would be undeniable.

  Unstoppable.

  Purely and insatiably evil.

  The Dark Ones would have a king of their own to worship one day—a male unrivaled by any other—a chosen, shadowed soul to lead them to infamy. And with Napolean gone, the child would one day launch the ultimate battle of evil versus good. The final destruction of the sons of Jadon.

  And all of this, courtesy of the Dark Lord Ademordna.

  The demon licked his lips, practically tasting the victory yet to come.

  Yes, this was beyond what even he had first imagined.

  sixteen

  Brooke huddled on the ground behind Napolean, still stunned by the sudden onset of gunfire—not to mention the fact that Napolean had caught each of the rapidly fired bullets in his hand, or that he had removed the gun from the assailant’s grasp using only his mind to do it. She could still smell the burns where the missiles had seared his flesh, yet he showed no sign of physical distress. It was as if he was impervious to pain.

  Looking up into his ruggedly handsome face, she was taken aback by the harsh, glowing red light that rimmed his dark eyes; the look of rage was so severe she almost felt sorry for their attacker.

  Almost.

  Survival was a powerful instinct—how well she knew. Only this time, she wasn’t alone. This time, she wasn’t helpless. This time, the towering male before her would make quick—and definitive—work of their enemy.

  Her enemy.

  The thought boggled her mind. Why would anyone in Dark Moon Vale want to harm her? It was the kind of thing that only happened in movies!

  As the body of the male drew closer—drawn through the air like a mere feather in the wind, helpless against Napolean’s barely restrained power—Brooke scrambled along the ground to hover directly beneath his powerful legs. The muscles in his back were bulging with pent-up aggression, and she had no doubt she was safe behind his towering frame.

  The assailant’s eyes were open wide in horror—and something else, something Brooke couldn’t quite name: Excitement? Anticipation? Surely not.

  As he lingered in the air, just above Napolean, he bent his head, straining to get a closer look at the woman kneeling behind the king—straining to get a closer look at her. The man’s dirty blond hair was slick with sweat, and it fell forward as his eyes sought hers. All at once, a pair of crimson-red beams—two harsh, buzzing lights—shot forth from Napolean’s eyes into the assailant’s, burning the man’s retinas until his eye sockets burst into flames.

  “You will not look at her!” Napolean commanded, and his voice echoed through the surrounding valley like so much thunder and lightning.

  Brooke drew back, astonished…terrified…mesmerized by Napolean’s enormous power.

  The man cried out in agony as Napolean reached up and grasped his throat in one unyielding hand. Talons shot forth from the ends of Napolean’s fingers as he squeezed even harder, yet the assailant remained eerily calm in the throes of Napolean’s rage.

  “Who are you?” Napolean demanded. “And who sent you?”

  The compulsion in Napolean’s voice was so powerful that Brooke felt an overwhelming need to respond to the question, even though she didn’t know the answer. Her tongue danced in her mouth with the desire to obey the king’s command.

  The man smiled.

  Smiled.

  In all that pain.

  “I am…Gabe Lorenz. I was sent by the Dark Ones’ Council to murder your destiny.”

  Napolean drew in a deep, discerning breath—as if he was scenting for truth. “There is no light left in your soul. It is no longer human. How is that possible?”

  The man laughed then, loud and unabashed, even as he pressed his hands against his smoldering eyes and shuddered in pain. “Would you believe that I sold my soul—so to speak—for the chance to get my hands on her delicate human flesh?”

  Napolean threw back his head and roared. Brooke covered her ears, and the ground shook beneath them. He placed a second hand on the man’s throat and squeezed, watching with unbridled fury as blood and tissue oozed out between his fingers and bone snapped like twigs. And then he tugged in two opposite directions, his left hand pulling downward, his right hand twisting upward, and the man’s head simply separated from his shoulders—blood spewing out like a geyser from the convulsing corpse.

  Brooke opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She covered her head with her arms in an effort to shield her face from the vile substance that rained down all around her.

  As Napolean released his hold—his hands no longer had anything to grasp—the body fell toward the ground, and then, in a movement so fast it was only a blur, a mere impression of an action, Napolean plunged his right fist through the man’s chest and withdrew his heart, tossing it aside before the torso hit the g
round.

  The body slumped, almost as if it were kneeling before the vengeful king, and then Brooke witnessed the most awful thing she had ever seen: The corpse began to shake violently. It jerked like it was being throttled by some great, unseen power, and a thick, inky darkness rose from the open wound at the neck, emerging as if from a tomb, copiously encased in blood and…malevolence.

  Evil—pure and intemperate—rose from the body in the form of a gigantic worm with two narrow, glowing eyes, and the apparition danced in the wind like a cobra performing for a snake charmer. Even though the entity clearly had no mouth, a high-pitched squeal rang out from its throat—and the sound was deafening.

  Soul wrenching.

  Alarming all the way to the bone.

  The worm rose up, poised to strike Napolean, and then it dove down with enormous strength and speed, piercing the king’s mouth in an act so vile it could only be described as rape. It wriggled its demonic body—pushing, shoving, thrusting its way in—until, at last, it could no longer be seen, the ghastly form vanishing inside Napolean’s throat.

  Brooke’s first instinct was to jump up and run.

  She was desperate to put some distance between her and Napolean…and the burrowed worm, but then she stopped several yards away to consider…and watch. What if the apparition killed him—what would happen to her then? She couldn’t possibly outrun so much evil. Her own heart was practically beating out of her chest, a feeling of desperation rising in her soul to the point of panic.

  Dear God, she had to help him.

  She didn’t understand what was happening, but on some elemental level—somewhere her conscious mind no longer resided where her soul took refuge—it was like watching a lunar eclipse: The absolute life-giving warmth of the sun had been usurped by utter and complete darkness.