by Tessa Dawn
“Shh,” Brooke whispered, patting Tiffany’s hand to calm her. “I know. I heard.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m just so surprised—and grateful—that you’re still alive.”
Tiffany sagged against the pillows. “Yeah, me too.”
Brooke smiled then and glanced at Tiffany’s cast. “Your arm will heal very quickly, trust me. Kagen sealed it in plaster, but not before—”
“He spread some kind of nasty slobber all over my skin?”
Brooke smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess that sums it up nicely.”
Tiffany’s expression all at once became serious, and she slowly shook her head. “Brooke, what in the hell? These things are vampires.”
Brooke looked away. “Not things, Tiffany. Males and females. They’re not so—”
“The man who took you, Brooke? He was a vampire! What did he want with you?”
Brooke considered the question, all the while wondering just how much of the truth her friend could handle. She measured Tiffany with a scrutinizing gaze while remembering a previous conversation she’d had with Napolean. They had spoken about the importance of bringing Tiffany fully into their lives, and Brooke had made her position crystal clear: Under no uncertain terms would she be willing to give up all the elements of her past.
Some things were just too important…
But they had hoped to have more time to ease Tiffany into it.
Brooke cleared her throat. “There’s so much you don’t know, Tiff. So much you have to learn.”
Tiffany squeezed Brooke’s hand. “Then tell me, Brooke. Because I swear, I’m going to go crazy if you don’t.”
Brooke nodded slowly and sighed—she owed her friend at least that much—perhaps she should just let the chips fall where they may. After all, fate had already guided them this far. She withdrew her hand from Tiffany’s, wrapped both arms around her sides, and stared nervously ahead. “I hardly know where to begin.”
Tiffany set her jaw in a stern slant. “How about at the beginning...the last night of the conference…that Friday night in the cab: What in the heck was that?”
Brooke took a slow, deep breath and pushed forward. “That was the man—the male—who was intended to be my … husband … my other half … finding me and claiming me.”
Tiffany’s mouth hung open, her forehead wrinkled in consternation, and her eyes narrowed with disbelief, but to her credit, she did not interrupt.
Brooke swallowed hard. She squeezed her midriff tighter for comfort while wondering just how one set about telling an outrageously fantastical, undeniably terrifying story without making it sound…well, outrageously fantastical and undeniably terrifying. “His name is Napolean Mondragon, and he’s been a vampire for a very, very long time.” She paused, trying to think of the best way to explain it. “He wasn’t always that way, and pretty much everything we have ever heard about vampires and the myths that surround them isn’t true…”
Her speech drifted into an easy rhythm, and a hollow echo filled the room as she relayed the story, the words reverberating all around her as if told by someone else. Her own voice seemed foreign to her ears as she told of the celestial beings and the original people. The crimes committed and the resulting Curse. Jaegar’s arrogance…and Jadon’s mercy. She was surprised at the firm grasp she had on the history, and her cadence took on a slight singsong lilt as she continued to explain Napolean’s past, the structure of the house of Jadon, and the varied roles of its many members.
The way the Vampyr lived.
The successful industries they ran…
And the families they raised and loved.
She knew that it all sounded like a bizarre fairy tale—or perhaps a never-ending nightmare, depending on one’s point of view—as she shared the events that had taken place, starting the night Napolean had taken her from the cab. Several times, Tiffany had looked overwhelmed, and Brooke had stopped talking in order to let her friend process the incredible events…regain her perspective. It was a lot to absorb, but Tiffany maintained an attentive, calm demeanor throughout the entire story, especially when it came to the part about how the curse ultimately played out for a male and his destiny—and the necessary conversion.
Finally, Brooke said, “But all that stuff about garlic, holy water, and coffins…it’s not even like that. Really. Well, the sunlight can be a problem—but only if you’re a Dark One…which I’m not. We’re not. So…” She eyed her friend nervously, twiddled her thumbs, and smiled sheepishly. “Uh … comments? …questions? …psychotic meltdowns or religious tirades?” She laughed insincerely. “Feel free to interject anytime.” Despite her pitiful attempts at humor, she practically held her breath, praying she hadn’t just lost her dearest friend. The mere thought of having to ask Napolean to erase Tiffany’s memories—to somehow alter her brain to insulate her against her dreams—to send her on her way in peace was, well, unthinkable.
Tiffany stared at Brooke like she was an alien.
She cleared her throat and tried to speak, but nothing came out.
She tried again. “So, then, you’re…you are…you’re a…” Her voice trailed off.
“Vampyr,” Brooke supplied, careful not to blink. “Like the ladies in the basement.”
Tiffany nodded and stared at the ceiling…the walls…the door handle, anything but Brooke. “Alrighty then. So uh, yeah. Okay.”
Brooke placed her hand on Tiffany’s shoulder. “Tiff, I’m the same person I’ve always been.” She smiled then, trying to lighten the mood. “Just way faster and stronger.” She tossed her head in a mock hair-flip and smiled as if posing for a camera. “And way, way sexier, don’t you think?”
Tiffany laughed insincerely, and then she raised her hand to cover her throat protectively. “Are you going to bite me, Brooke?’
Brooke sighed loudly. “No, Tiffany. Never. I swear—”
“But then, how—”
“Anything…I need…I’ll get from Napolean.”
Tiffany blanched and wrinkled her nose. “No offense, but eww.”
Brooke laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Trust me, Tiff. You didn’t get a good look that night. When you see him…well, let’s just say, you’re gonna want one for yourself.”
Tiffany raised her eyebrows. “Uh…don’t think so.” Her face suddenly paled, and a look of deep concern shadowed her eyes. “Oh God, now that I know, do you have to…convert…me, too?”
Brooke laughed. She couldn’t help it. “I already said I would never bite you. And no, it’s not even possible. Only a male’s destiny can be converted…or I guess in rare instances, like the boy you met in the basement, if the woman already has a child of her own blood, then the kid can be converted. But regular people? Can’t be done. At least not unless the person being converted willingly relinquishes their soul.”
Tiffany held up her hand. She had clearly had enough. “My brain can’t absorb any more of this,” she said. “Just stick to the facts—me, you, and Napolean.” She ran her hand through her short blond hair nervously, leaving the sharp, precise layers mussed in its wake. “So, if he’s a king, then that makes you a…queen.” She laughed, and the laughter soon rose to hysterics, a much-needed release of nervous energy. When she had finally spent all of her anxiety, she looked at Brooke, tilted her head to the side, and frowned. “What about PRIMAR? You’re going to leave me alone with those vultures now, aren’t you?”
Brooke laughed softly. “Well, I haven’t completely decided. I’m pretty sure I won’t be going back to work in San Francisco.” She shrugged. “Not only is my home here now…with Napolean…but it really wouldn’t be safe.”
“The Deep Ones?” Tiffany asked.
“Dark Ones,” Brooke corrected.
“Yeah, yeah. The demon spawn.” She shivered.
“Exactly,” Brooke said. Crossing both arms in front of her stomach in a gesture of determination, she addressed the original question. “I’m not going to let go of all my hard work—or my recent project. Napolean be
lieves I can work independently as a contractor, and that we can negotiate fair terms for my ideas and contributions: In other words, PRIMAR can finally pay me what I’m worth, and to hell with their titles and promotions. I’ll have my own marketing business.”
A sly smile curved the corners of Tiffany’s mouth. “And if they don’t want to give you what you’re asking for, then you can just send hubby to do a little Vulcan mind-melt.” She giggled conspiratorially, and Brooke couldn’t help but join her.
“I’d rather not,” Brooke said. “I want to earn everything I get fair and square.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Since when do Jim Davis and Lewis Martin play fair and square?”
Brooke shrugged her shoulders and held up her hands, knowing she looked mischievous. “I said that I want to try and earn everything fair and square. I didn’t say that I might not…have a little fun…if the good ole boys still refuse to play ball.”
They both snickered then, and the mirth cut through the remaining tension.
“And,” Brooke added, “if I do go into business for myself, then there’s a certain graphic artist that I would love to hire right off the bat.”
Tiffany’s eyes lit up. “Would you pay me a fair wage?”
Brooke frowned. “No.” She shook her head vigorously. “Absolutely not.”
Tiffany pouted, confused.
“I would pay you a ridiculously obscene wage—just because.”
Tiffany laughed, and then she sighed. “So, you’re not gonna just leave me then? Toss me aside for some dark, handsome blood-sucker?” She smiled ruefully.
Brooke rolled her eyes. “No, silly. Never.” She held up her hand. “But there would be a lot to talk about before we could go forward with something like that.” She stood up from the bed and stretched, grateful to be past the worst of it now. “It’s not a small thing…coming here as a human…having full knowledge of the community and who lives here. I’m not even sure if Napolean would agree to it. It would depend on just how loyal and committed you were willing to be to the Vampyr—whether or not they felt they could trust you implicitly.” She sighed. “Whether or not you would even want to assume the risk—or danger—that comes with knowing. Whether you could accept the level of protection—and let’s face it, intrusion—that would be necessary. It’s a lifelong decision and a lot to think about.”
Tiffany looked overwhelmed, and Brooke reached out to smooth her friend’s hair back into place—the fierce, dramatic style still looked good even mussed up in a hospital bed. “But enough of that for now. I can’t do any more of the serious stuff.” She bit her bottom lip, trying to stifle her enthusiasm as she stood up, backed toward the door. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Napolean?” Tiffany asked warily.
“Just wait,” Brooke answered.
She opened the door, held it steady with her hip, and gestured toward Katia, who stood just outside with her beautiful newborn baby. Taking him carefully into her arms, she formed a secure cradle around his delicate body and wondered, once again, what in the world she was going to do with him. The love that swept through her rendered the questioning insignificant. She was going to ride the blessing all the way to heaven.
She slowly spun around, took a careful step into the room, and let the door close behind her. Smiling like a giddy clown, she gently approached the bed. “Look!” she exclaimed proudly.
Tiffany’s eyes grew wide with wonder. “Oh my God, what a beautiful baby.” She reached up with her healthy hand and offered her index finger to the infant, then giggled when the baby took hold of it with a firm, steady grasp and smiled at her. “I don’t think I have ever seen such a beautiful baby. Whose is he?”
Brooke hesitated and took a deep breath. “He’s mine. Remember?”
Tiffany’s eyes swept from the baby’s face to Brooke’s, then back again. “Come again?”
Brooke swallowed hard and raised her chin, hoping to project more confidence than she felt. The whole situation was simply overwhelming—no matter how she presented it. “He’s mine. My son. Mine and Napolean’s.”
“Oh, yeah…” Tiffany nodded…and she almost smiled.
And then she fell gently back on the bed, her good arm dangling to the side, and passed out.
thirty
Napolean looked out upon the remarkable sea of powerful males, the destinies of those who had mated, and all the children who had been born to the house of Jadon and stood silently. As his eyes swept the grand Ceremonial Hall, he couldn’t help but think, All is well.
Despite so much turmoil, the incessant battles—the endless centuries since the original Curse—the lighter Vampyr had flourished.
When he turned to regard his destiny, who was standing beside him holding their baby—his thriving newborn son—he took a quick intake of breath, and his heart fluttered in his chest.
Brooke was a sight to behold.
Beautiful.
Majestic.
As stately as any female born to royalty. As genuine as the night sky. As beautiful as the sunset.
Her ebony hair shone like silk against her flawless skin, even as her dazzling blue eyes complemented her elegant gown—from the filmy, split-cap shoulders all the way down to the gracefully flared hem. Her smile was positively radiant, and the only clue that betrayed her nervousness was the soft bite of her upper teeth against her lower lip.
Napolean suppressed a smile.
In the short time he had known Brooke, he had come to love that quirky habit—and that full bottom lip. His lower body stirred at the thought, and he quickly redirected his thoughts: not the kind of show he had come to put on.
Standing to his left, Ramsey cleared his throat. Damn hyper-intuitive vampires! On his right, Julien and Saxson smiled knowingly. A low, almost inaudible warning growl checked all three males in an instant, three sets of eyes respectfully finding the floor.
That was better.
Napolean drew back his broad shoulders and squared his body to the audience. When his eyes surveyed a special set of attendants, he couldn’t suppress his smile: Marquis and Ciopori stood in the front row with Nikolai held lovingly in Ciopori’s arms. Beside them, Nathaniel and Jocelyn held hands, and young Braden Bratianu stood proudly holding Storm.
And the wizards—Niko Durciak and Jankiel Luzanski—those who had come to Dark Moon Vale to aid Nachari in saving their king, stood next to Braden in a show of solidarity, representing both Nachari and his absent brother, Kagen.
Napolean placed his hand on the small of Brooke’s back, and together, they took a step forward.
The room fell deathly silent.
Not even a breath could be heard.
Once the anticipation had grown to an agonizing peak, Ramsey Olaru raised his chin, swept a hand out over the audience, and began to speak in a proud, commanding voice: “My brothers; fellow descendants of Jadon; Ancients, Masters, and Fledglings; our beloved children and revered mates; the soul of our house—our destinies—I welcome you to one of the most important occasions we will ever witness.” He chuckled softly then—well, as softly as a severe male such as Ramsey could. “After more time than Napolean would like me to mention, I have the distinct honor of finally presiding over our sovereign and very, very ancient lord’s marriage ceremony as well as the naming ceremony of his newborn son.”
The crowd chuckled, and Napolean smiled graciously—hoping to maintain some semblance of dignity in the sacred ceremony: He knew Ramsey Olaru would never be able to stick strictly to the script, and, honestly, he was so filled with pride and joy that he just didn’t care. He nodded his approval, and Ramsey continued.
Turning to face the royal couple, Ramsey swallowed nervously. “It is with great joy, and on behalf of the entire house of Jadon, that I greet you this day, milord, my brother, a fellow descendant of Jadon and Ancient Master Justice, mate to the daughter of Andromeda, father to this newborn son of Aries the Ram, who makes his home along the celestial stars Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. What na
me have you chosen for this newborn male?”
Napolean swelled with pride. “Should it please the house of Jadon and find favor with the Celestial Beings, the son of our lord Aries is to be named Phoenix Lane Mondragon.”
Brooke’s exquisite blue eyes glazed over with tears at the mention of their son’s middle name, and Napolean reached out to take her hand. They had chosen his middle name in honor of Brooke’s grandmother, the woman who had raised her with so much love and care: Lanie Adams.
It is a worthy name, he whispered telepathically to his destiny.
Brooke smiled.
And Ramsey nodded. “The name pleases the house of Jadon, and since you are the one who intercedes directly with the gods, I will assume that there is no objection from the Celestial Beings.”
Napolean chuckled and shook his head. “There is no objection.”
Having formally accepted the name, Ramsey took Phoenix from Brooke’s arms and handed him to Napolean, who held him firmly in front of his body. As Napolean’s fangs elongated, he slowly bent his head and drank for the first time from his son’s wrist.
There was a soft inhale from the crowd.
As far as anyone knew, it was the first time a child had remained silent—had not instinctively cried out—in response to the brief but intense pain of Napolean’s bite. It was an unexpected confirmation of royalty—a regal show of restraint from one so young—and it pleased the house of Jadon immensely.
Napolean gently withdrew his fangs and met his son’s happy gaze with overwhelming pride. He knew in that moment that a lifelong bond had been formed, a connection far beyond that of sovereign and subject: the priceless bond of father and son.
