Blood Ecstasy

by Tessa Dawn

  Julien.

  His ears perked up at the telepathic call: Whose voice was that?

  Tracker.

  Holy hell. It wasn’t every day—or night—that the noble king of the house of Jadon just appeared inside one’s mind. Milord?

  We have a situation, the king said bluntly.

  Julien stiffened, drawing to instant attention. Has something happened to one of the sentinels? It was the only thing he could think of.

  No, Napolean said brusquely, putting that fear to rest.

  Is there some sort of threat to the house of Jadon? Are my services needed in Dark Moon Vale?

  The king paused, perhaps for a while longer than was natural. No more—or less—than usual. No, warrior. I’m afraid this has to do with you…on a personal level.

  Julien furrowed his brows, growing increasingly wary. I’m listening.

  The king cleared his psychic throat, which was unusual for the implacable male. Is your destiny close by? he asked.

  She is. She’s in my arms. Julien glanced down his nose at Rebecca’s sweet, placid features and grew inwardly still. Her visage was inexplicably calming.

  Ah, Napolean said, with an approving exhalation, that’s good, tracker. That’s good. He immediately reverted to a more serious tone. However, I need you to be calm.

  At this, Julien’s forefinger twitched, and he removed it from Rebecca’s hair. If it’s all the same, milord, and with my deepest respect, please; just get to the point.

  Napolean paused again, but only for a heartbeat this time. Very well. We have reason to believe that Ian is in Dark Moon Vale.

  Julien drew in a sharp inhale of breath and his fangs began to throb. Ian, who? It was a ridiculous question—he knew only one Ian—but still, after so many centuries of searching, the statement seemed impossible, if not surreal.

  The king answered his question with silence, and he knew.

  And son of a hyena, he had felt it the night of his Blood Moon, when he had awakened in his master bedroom, that eerie night when a dark, errant energy had jolted him out of his slumber. What’s happened? he asked, biting down so hard on his tongue that his teeth pierced his flesh.

  Napolean relayed the past events in a concise and no-nonsense summary, hitting all the major points, conveying all the pertinent information, without displaying even the barest hint of preconception or emotion.

  Julien nodded slowly. I see.

  The king filled the awkward silence for him. We had quite a heated discussion as to whether or not to alert you at this precarious time, considering your destiny and all, but there was no way—

  Julien growled across the connection, cutting the king off in the middle of his sentence, and then he quickly reined in his beast. Forgive me, milord. In spite of his desire to sound deferential, he clipped the last two syllables, almost with disdain.

  Yet to his enormous credit, the king proceeded with his usual grace.

  No need for apologies. He lowered his voice and spoke in a deliberate, soothing tone. I have already spoken to Saxson Olaru and Nathaniel Silivasi about your situation and your reason for traveling to Denver. I wasn’t spying on you, son, but Ramsey relayed the reason for your trip, the promise you made to Rebecca. He paused, presumably to allow Julien to digest the information. At any rate, if you bring the files and transfer your mental data and impressions to the warriors, they will be happy to follow up. They may not be seasoned trackers, but they can find and dispatch an assorted batch of human excrement without any difficulty.

  Julien closed his eyes, grateful for the momentary change in subject, an opportunity, however brief, to discuss tactics instead of evil brothers. Why Nathaniel Silivasi? he asked curiously, even though he had considered the Ancient Master Warrior, himself.

  Napolean snickered, albeit in the most dignified manner. On one hand, I am not willing to divert more than one of my trusted sentinels from Dark Moon Vale. On the other hand, Nathaniel rather enjoys this type of…sport.

  Julien grunted.

  True, that was definitely true.

  Fine, he said, steadily—at this juncture, he really didn’t care. Rebecca and I will return in the morning. She’s sleeping right now.

  The king grew ominously quiet, as if he was the one who needed to digest the full implications of the conversation this time. Finally, when the silence had lingered too long, and the subject had grown explicitly awkward, Napolean murmured, Very well, warrior. And then he lowered his voice. Are you…okay?

  Julien smiled in a satirical mockery of all things holy.

  He measured his heartbeat, assessed his pulse, and regulated his next three breaths.

  Yeah, he was okay…

  Right as rain.

  Yes, he lied, not wanting to delve any deeper into the subject of his emotional or mental health.

  The king exhaled slowly.

  They both knew the deal.

  Very well, Napolean practically whispered, ignoring the elephant in the psychic room. We will speak in the morning. Be well, Master Warrior.

  Be well, my king.

  Julien closed the connection in an instant.

  There was nothing else to say.

  He opened his eyes; slid his arm out from underneath Rebecca; and slowly climbed off the bed, feeling curiously light-headed and strangely disembodied, like he was viewing the entire scene from an odd, impartial distance. And then he watched in morbid fascination as the bedroom chandelier began to sway back and forth, rocking above his destiny’s head.

  What the heck?

  He checked his vitals a second time.

  He was fine.

  In fact, he was deathly calm.

  His ears weren’t even ringing.

  The ground began to oscillate beneath his feet, and he took a stutter-step sideways to maintain his balance. They did not have earthquakes in Colorado, at least not anything measurable. When the plaster on the bedroom wall behind Rebecca’s ocher headboard began to split apart, tearing into a deep, jagged, vertical fissure, he hung his head and bit out a string of curses in Romanian.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  Not when he was supposed to be protecting his female.

  When the fissures began to glow volcanic red, as if bordered by unseen flames, he bolted from the room, darted across the hall, and headed for his black canvass duffle bag, still propped on the guest room bed. Gods be merciful, but what else could he do?

  He wasn’t feeling anything.

  Not rage.

  Not elation.

  And certainly not the gnawing hunger of revenge.

  Yet the earth was shifting, three stories beneath his feet, and the walls were about to burst into flames.

  He hastily unzipped the side pocket of his duffle, retrieved a decanter of alcohol, and withdrew a packet of liquid O, and then he bit out another caustic curse:

  Damnit all to hell…

  In order to make the Chiva work, he would have to feed from Rebecca.

  twenty-one

  Dark Moon Vale ~ The next morning

  Rebecca watched in cautious silence as Julien placed a faintly trembling palm against the panel of his right front door, just above the sturdy brass knocker, and somehow unlocked an invisible ward before turning the heavy, ornate handle and shoving the partition open. And she winced as she recalled the drive back to the valley—the journey had been tenuous at best.

  Needless to say, Julien had been wound as tight as a drum, and Rebecca had been reeling from the overwhelming infusion of troubling information, trying desperately to digest everything Julien was telling her. On one hand, he had informed her that two other vampires, warriors by the names of Nathaniel Silivasi and Saxson Olaru, were going to take over the tracking of the VOSU women’s stalkers. They would hunt them down and make sure that matters were settled with swiftness and alacrity: a fact that made Rebecca feel cautiously secure. Yet, on the other hand, he had told her that Ian had returned: Julien’s long-lost brother had apparently appeared out of nowhere, and t
hey were returning to Dark Moon Vale to meet the threat head-on, a fact that had filled her heart with terror.

  Adding to her angst had been the knowledge that Julien was dangerously ill-equipped to handle the confrontation… emotionally.

  Although the gladiator had assumed Rebecca was sleeping the entire time he’d carried on his telepathic conversation with the fearsome king of the Vampyr, in truth, Rebecca had been slipping in and out of consciousness. When the chandelier had shaken, the floor had shimmied back and forth, and the wall had begun to split down the center, she’d been wide-freakin’-awake, awake enough to watch Julien dash out of the room, head for his cache of heroin, and scramble to ingest the liquid O in time to shut down his emotions.

  The tracker had been desperate to make the ensuing earthquake—or fire—stop.

  And yes, Rebecca had followed Julien into the guest room and watched the distressing scene play out. Despite her fears, despite her reservations, despite her God-given common sense warning her to stay fifteen paces away from the lethal warrior at such a precarious time, she had been concerned enough to follow; and while the sight of such a proud, powerful male being reduced to a necessary, if not piteous, addiction had wrenched at every chamber of her heart, she’d had no impulse to stop him.

  And there had been no need for words.

  Rebecca Johnston had simply…and indelibly…understood.

  Him.

  His pain.

  His rage.

  And his need.

  All of the above were greater than her sense of propriety, and there was simply no place for petty judgment: Drug addiction be damned. The earth itself was trembling! What was she supposed to do?

  She had padded quietly to Julien’s side, extended her wrist to the vampire, and offered him her vein in silence, and as he had taken it, the look of gratitude, the pallor of shame, that had swept over his expression, that had illuminated those beautiful moonstone eyes, had pried what remained of her resisting heart wide open.

  She didn’t welcome this fate.

  She couldn’t welcome this man—this vampire—at least not entirely.

  But she could no longer deny that she was inexplicably drawn to the shadows in his soul, that he was not a simple or unfeeling being, and that the two of them shared an undeniable connection, perhaps even a divine appointment. Like it or not, their paths and their fates were inextricably connected.

  And now, as she stood once again on the front porch of his secluded mountain home, waiting to enter his foyer, she could only hope and pray that whoever the celestial gods were, they were more in control than they seemed, that wherever this Ian Lacusta was hiding, he would not—could not—kill them both before they had a chance to unravel their fate, before she had a chance to get to know the soul beneath the terrifying vampire.

  “Are you okay?” Julien’s deep, raspy tenor jolted her out of her musings.

  Rebecca nodded meekly. She was only sort of okay. In truth, she was terrified all the way down to her bones and trying valiantly to keep her knees from knocking together. She was just about to say something to that effect when Julien held up a hand to silence her.

  His intense gray eyes swept across the planks of the porch, fixed on a large terra-cotta planter, and froze like two concentrated lasers on a thick bundle of letters, wrapped within a delicate silken bow. His mouth turned down into a wicked frown, and his expression crystallized like granite. “Go inside, Rebecca,” he snarled, not so much out of anger, but conviction.

  Rebecca eyed the mysterious bundle for a few moments longer than she should have, measured Julien’s expression a second time, and then scurried into the house. Stopping in the foyer, she glanced over her shoulder. “Do you want me to—”

  “Shut the door,” he answered, before she could finish the question.

  “Should I—”

  “Lock it behind you.”

  She started to ask him what was going on, but instantly changed her mind: Whatever was happening with those letters, she didn’t want to know. Rubbing her palms briskly over her arms to stave off a sudden chill, Rebecca closed the door to the foyer, spun around to grasp the bolt, and swiftly set the latch.

  Julien took several deep, calming breaths before prowling toward the mysterious bundle.

  Hell’s bells, Ian’s filthy scent was all over it.

  He hadn’t smelled anything so rotten in years.

  And the bow, that delicate, pale pink, silken bow, it was the ribbon his mother used to wear in her hair!

  He clenched and unclenched his fists several times before bending over to retrieve the package, and then he extended a claw on his right forefinger and tore into a random envelope:

  To my brother, on our eleventh birthday: Hope you have a sun-shiny day!

  Bile rose in Julien’s throat as he tore into another.

  Happy Twelfth Birthday to my best friend and brother: Let’s make today a great one!

  He hocked up the phlegm and spat into the dying xeriscape, trembling as he thumbed through ages thirteen through seventeen.

  And then he opened the next one: You’re eighteen now—let’s party!!!

  “Let’s party?” he growled beneath his breath. “Oh, yes, brother: Let’s definitely party.”

  Burying his emotions somewhere deep inside, somewhere so dark, vacant, and vaulted that not even the celestial gods could retrieve them, he made his way through the remaining cards, until at last, he came to the final greeting.

  “I know our birthdays are still three months out, but I couldn’t wait until April 12th to make up for so much lost time. How fondly I remember the last birthday we shared together. How deeply I desire to see you again. Soon, my beloved brother. I shall have to see you…soon. Love, Ian.”

  A blood-red tear swelled in Julien Lacusta’s right eye, and it was not a tear of pain or anguish…or regret.

  It was a scarlet badge of rage.

  As Julien swiped the sanguine fury away, palming the perfect ruby in his fisted hand, he bowed his head and prayed: “Lord Hercules, my keeper, my protector, my divine, omniscient god, I beseech you before all of the celestial beings: Even as you kneel in the heavens with your foot on the head of Draco, let me kneel over Ian’s body with my fist—and this ruby—encasing his blackened heart. Give me the one thing you have denied me for over nine hundred years. Let me dine on my brother’s blood and be done with it.” With that, he tucked the ruby into his front hip pocket, crumpled the letters in his open palm, and headed toward the front door to unlock it once again…and go find Rebecca.

  Gods be merciful, she was just beginning to trust him.

  Just beginning to see him for who he truly was.

  Just beginning to open up.

  And now…and now…he had to do the one thing she might never forgive him for: He had to convert her without delay.

  Not in a week, not in a day, not in another hour—

  But now.

  Sure, she had asked him for the same when she was reeling and terrified of Trevor, but that had been an outlier, reactive and compulsive; this was a completely different deal.

  Nevertheless, Rebecca Johnston was still human.

  She was slow; she was weak; and she was as vulnerable as a newborn kitten when compared to an ancient vampire, a dark, malevolent foe.

  Yes, Julien would defend her with his life, but as sure as he was a Master Warrior, born and bred to be a gladiator in the house of Jadon, his soul would not rest until his destiny was safe.

  Until she was Vampyr.

  Until she at least had a fighting chance against the likes of his evil twin.

  twenty-two

  Rebecca’s knees buckled beneath her as she fell back onto the new distressed-leather sofa in Julien’s great room, dropped her head into her hands, and struggled to breathe. “But…” The words got lost in the ether, and she had to try again. “But I’m really not ready, Julien. I mean, not even close.” Yes, she understood that just two days ago, she had actually asked the vampire to convert her,
but that had been an anomaly: Trevor was still alive, and she had been feeling vulnerable, angry…desperate to regain some control. She had wanted to seal her end of the bargain, and she had needed to be brave. Now, she just felt completely overwhelmed.

  The towering hulk of a vampire squatted down in front of her, ostensibly to appear less threatening, and reached out to take her hands.

  She pulled them away and tucked them beneath her thighs.

  “Șoarec micuț,” he murmured, “I know. I do. But you’ve seen these letters.” He gestured toward the pile of crumpled envelopes scattered about the floor by her feet, and he frowned. “The bottom line is this: Ian is gunning for me, angel. And he’s not going to stop, not until one of us is dead.” He rocked back on his heels, and his vivid gray eyes clouded with emotion. “I’m not trying to scare you, and the gods know, I wouldn’t ask this of you now if it wasn’t imperative; but Becca, if something happens to me—”

  “Nothing will,” she interrupted frantically, withdrawing her hands from beneath her and wringing them together in her lap. “I mean, you’re a warrior.”

  “So is he,” Julien said sternly.

  “But you’re a tracker…a vampire…you’re lethal.”

  Julien appeared to swallow a curse, and then he rolled his shoulders to release some tension. “So is he, angel.”

  Rebecca blinked several times to clear her vision. What was the vampire saying? “You don’t think you can beat him, do you?”

  At this, Julien chuckled, deep, low, and sinister. “Oh, iubito, my darling; I am going to beat him. I am going to end him.”

  She shivered at the ice in his words. “Then, maybe…maybe we can wait?”

  Julien shook his head. “No. Too dangerous, angel. Nothing about this can wait.” He rose, rotated his massive body, and took a seat next to her on the couch. Despite the fact that she shied away, he placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to his heart. “As much as I want you with me, as much as this Blood Moon demands that you be with me, I need to take you to the king’s manse until all of this is settled. You’ll have the greatest protection imaginable at Napolean’s compound, and I need to convert you today.”