Blood Father (Blood Curse Series)

by Tessa Dawn

  Gemini.

  Tiffany looked down at her arm.

  Then she looked back up at the moon.

  Then she looked back down at her arm—

  And she let out an appalling string of curse words.

  “Who is it?” she demanded, all hints of good nature gone from her voice. This wasn’t funny, not in the least. This was beyond upsetting. It was horrific.

  Impossible.

  It simply was not happening.

  Brooke strolled to Tiffany’s side and glanced at the sky.

  For a moment, the beautiful brunette simply stared at the stars in awe, and then she fell into immediate formal protocol. “We need to go find Napolean.” She spoke softly and deliberately. “Whoever the male is, he has to be close by. Close enough to find you…if he searches.”

  Tiffany spun around on her heels, her eyes darting back and forth across the room like frenetic lasers—she half expected to see Count Dracula himself hanging from the ceiling. “No!” she exclaimed, to no one in particular. There was absolutely no way they were going to go find Napolean in order to offer her up as the virgin sacrifice to a vamp. Okay, well, not necessarily a virgin, but a sacrifice just the same. “That is not going to happen.”

  Brooke nodded gravely and lowered her voice. “Okay, so what would you like me to do?”

  Tiffany glanced around the room and shuddered. “Give me your keys, Brooke. I need to get out of here.”

  “And you want to take my car?”

  Tiffany glowered at her best friend, and if looks could kill, Brooke would have been six feet under, with rigor mortis already setting in. “Damnit, Brooke! I’m not playing around. The guest house is three miles away! Do you want me to walk?” She spun around again, and eyed the back door of the parlor, the passage that led to Phoenix’s private portico. “Give me your keys.”

  Brooke took a slow step backward and sighed. “Sweetie,” she nearly crooned, “I get it—you’re scared. Believe me, I understand. But you and I both know that you can’t run away from this. What we need to do is—”

  “We?” Tiffany cut in. “Seriously, Brooke? We?” She took several steps back, gravitating toward the door. “No. There is no we in this. And I get it, too: You’re in love with the vampire king, and your life has been a thousand times better since Napolean claimed you, since you came to Dark Moon Vale. Bully for you.” She sighed, trying to catch her breath. “And so has mine—I’ll be the first to admit it—but that is as your graphic designer, your best friend, and your son’s impromptu nanny. Not as some creature’s destiny.”

  “Some creature?” Brooke looked mildly offended.

  “Don’t do that, Brooke,” Tiffany said. “Seriously, not right now. That’s not even fair. You know I have supported you…and Napolean…and Phoenix.” Her voice rose in proportion to her angst. “Hell, I’ve committed myself to living in Dark Moon Vale, knowing full well that I can never go back, not now that I know about the Vampyr, not now that I’ve placed myself under their protection and care. But”—she held up her hand to silence any protest before one could be made—“but this, I cannot do. I will not do. I’m not you, Brooke. These guys scare the hell out of me on a really primitive level, if you know what I mean. So please. Please. Just give me your keys.” She held out her hand and waited.

  Brooke looked positively ill. The turmoil in her eyes was unmistakable, the angst on her face, excruciating. “Oh, Tiff,” she whispered. “You are my best friend in the entire world.” She straightened her spine and raised her chin, although her confidence didn’t register in her voice. “And there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, but what you’re asking…” She glanced at the door to the hall and then the door to the portico, each one in turn. “As your friend, as someone who loves you, I know that you’re in danger if you go off alone.” She sighed. “And as Napolean’s mate, a member of the house of Jadon—hell, as the queen—I also know that whoever this male is, if I help his destiny escape—”

  “His destiny?” Tiffany interrupted, hardly able to believe her ears. “So is that what I am now…his destiny?”

  “No,” Brooke argued. “I mean, yes, obviously, but—”

  “Don’t, milady. The indecision does not become you.” Tiffany knew she was being cruel, but she just couldn’t help it—she was also running out of time. Gritting her teeth, she stilled her resolve and changed tactics. “At least tell me this: Who’s here, at the manse, right now? Which of your subjects? Which one of the males?” She instantly regretted the sarcasm, but it was too late to take it back.

  Brooke looked momentarily stunned, perhaps even hurt by the sharp delivery, but to her credit, she collected herself and tried to answer honestly. “Um…I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders in exasperation, her soft blue eyes clouding with distress. “There’s no one…no meetings…no counsels.” She dropped her head and ran her hands through her hair, as if physically seeking the answers from her mind. “The only one who stops by this time of night, unannounced, is Ramsey Olaru, the sentinel. He sometimes drops in to compare notes with Napolean, but it all depends on what’s up.”

  Tiffany felt her knees go weak beneath her. “Ramsey? Olaru? The six-foot-five walking pit bull? The one who fights with a pitchfork?”

  “It’s a trident,” Brooke mumbled weakly, “an archaic weapon that—”

  Tiffany leveled a spiteful glare at her friend. “The guy who spit out a toothpick on Napolean’s floor, the one who smashed his enemy’s head into smithereens by bashing it against the side of a cave wall?” She winked at her friend sardonically. “That’s just…lovely.” She nodded her head in quick, short bursts. “Remember, Brooke—it’s me—the one you tell all your secrets to.” Her eyes glazed over with tears, and her voice hitched in her throat. “Just give me your keys, Brookie. I’m begging you.”

  Brooke turned the color of stale, curdled milk. “Tiffany, listen.”

  “No.”

  “Please, just listen. Let’s you and I go somewhere together, anywhere you’d like. I’ll tell Carlotta that I’m going out, so she can look after Phoenix; and then I’ll get my car and come around the back. You can meet me by the trellis. We’ll go to a hotel or a cabin—hell, we can go to another town—and I won’t call Napolean until you tell me you’re ready. At least this way, someone will be with you.”

  Tiffany pursed her lips and nodded her head derisively. “Yeah, because Napolean Mondragon can’t just reach into your mind, or follow the trail of your blood, or just beam himself into any room you’re standing in like Captain Kirk, right? Because his queen can just walk away undetected…” Her voice trailed off. There was no point in exploring this angle any further.

  Tiffany was out of time.

  She wiped a single tear from her eye and reached for her jacket, a soft, form-fitting cloak hanging on a polished bronze hook beside the portico door, and she quickly shrugged into the garment.

  “What are you doing?” Brooke asked, her face an ashen mask.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “On foot?”

  “Can’t fly. I’m human.”

  Brooke lunged forward, and in that terrifying moment, her unnatural vampiric speed as well as her supernatural agility completely caught Tiffany off guard.

  “Don’t!” Tiffany shouted, raising her hands to ward off her friend as if she were about to tear out her throat with her fangs.

  Brooke drew back in surprise and gasped.

  And all the tears Tiffany had been holding at bay began to stream down her cheeks in desperate rivers. Her voice caught on a sob. “You’re stronger than me, Brooke, and you’re faster. You could stop me, but it would kill me. Do you understand what I’m saying? This is a line you can’t cross.” She swiped at her tears with the heels of her hands and sniffled. “I’m not asking you to break an oath, to help me get away, just turn your back and—”

  “Brooke!” Napolean’s deep voice rose in a thunderous crescendo as the ancient king began to make his way down the hall. Undoubtedly, he h
ad sensed his mate’s distress and was on his way to investigate the cause.

  Shit, shit, and more shit! Tiffany thought, glancing at the door. She had to get the hell out of Dodge…and now.

  As Brooke turned around to answer the king—her lethal, vampiric husband—Tiffany dashed for the door. She wrenched open the handle in a fevered rush and flew out onto the patio, frantic to make an escape, flinching as the door slammed shut behind her. She immediately eyed the trellis and gave it less than a moment’s thought before leaping over the rail and dashing down the steep hill toward the open meadow below.

  Oh, thank the gods of horses and war!

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she eyed the majestic Percheron still searching for patches of grass in the snow-covered meadow at the base of the hill. Nearly eighteen hands of muscle, strength, and speed awaited her devotion, and she couldn’t help but marvel at her sudden good fortune: Prince Phoenix had wanted to see da pwetty pony earlier that day, if that’s what one could call the magnificent, intelligent beast, and the king’s gift to his son was still saddled and neatly tied beneath a temporary shelter, awaiting Napolean’s private trainer to return him to the stables.

  Tiffany was not much of a rider—okay, so she could barely sit straight in the saddle—but what the hell: Desperate times called for desperate measures. She eyed the Percheron cautiously, approached with gentle ease, and slowly raised an outstretched hand, careful not to frighten the horse away: “Here, horsy. Here, horsy! Come, please. Just…come.”

  The horse looked up at her with luminous, haunting eyes. He tossed back his head and pranced in place, as if showing off his power and pride.

  And then he went back to eating.

  Tiffany’s heart sank into her stomach. Not now, Mr. Horse. Please…not now. She held out her hand, palm side up, as if she had a delectable piece of sugar resting in the center, and she tried again. “Here, beautiful prince”—maybe he preferred an appeal to his ego—“here, you gorgeous, magnificent gladiator. Come see Auntie Tiff…please.”

  She waited with bated breath.

  And to her utter surprise, the horse trotted over in her direction. Truth be told, he probably came out of pity.

  She waited until he was within an arm’s length before slowly reaching up to stroke his neck, just beneath his mane. “That’s a good horsy,” she murmured, feeling more than a little foolish. She sauntered up to his left side and eyed the dangling stirrup, marveling at the barely leashed power emanating from the horse’s breast, and praying all the while that he wouldn’t trample her, or worse, take off running while she tried to mount. She reached for the reins and softly slid a foot into the stirrup. Okay, so she had to jack her knee up to her chest just to reach the perilous leather hoop, but she did it as gracefully as she could. “Okay, Mr. Horse, I’m counting on you to save me,” she whispered.

  The stallion snorted in reply, and she took it as a yes.

  With that, she grabbed the shoehorn, pulled herself into the saddle, and kicked him in the flanks.

  Napolean Mondragon burst into the parlor in a maelstrom, his glorious long hair whipping behind him as if stirred by a mystical wind. His eyes were narrowed in concentration; his face was a mask of concern; and his no-nonsense tone made it abundantly clear: He wasn’t playing around.

  Brooke opened her mouth to speak, but she didn’t have a chance.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, staring at her with unconcealed concern. He reached out, took her hands in his, and then quickly released them. He ran his palms up and down her arms, while perusing her body from head to toe with a dark, penetrating gaze, his eyes scanning for gods-knew-what. “Are you hurt, my love?”

  “No,” Brooke answered. She tried to speak in a calming voice. “I’m…I… It’s just—”

  “Where’s Phoenix?” He immediately strode toward the back of the parlor.

  “He’s in his room. He’s in his crib. He’s fine.”

  Napolean turned back around and visibly eased up. “Then why are you so distressed?”

  Brooke took a deep breath and answered bluntly, “It’s Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany?” Napolean furrowed his brow. “Has something happened to your friend?”

  Brooke shook her head in denial. “Have you seen the moon, milord?”

  “Milord?” Napolean frowned, and then he reached out to gently stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. “That’s rather ominous, rather formal, coming from you.”

  “Have you seen the moon?” she repeated.

  “Of course,” he answered sternly. “A Gemini Blood Moon. It belongs to Ramsey Olaru, but his destiny is yet unknown. I was with the sentinel just moments ago in the living room, trying to figure it out. We were about to search for Carlotta when I felt your distress…”

  “It’s not Carlotta,” Brooke whispered cautiously.

  Napolean’s dark eyes alighted with instant understanding. “Tiffany?”

  Brooke bit her bottom lip and nodded in a barely perceptible gesture.

  Napolean drew back in surprise. “Where is she?”

  Brooke took a deep breath and shook her head. “Gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  Brooke turned to face the back of the parlor and pointed toward the still-open door. “I mean, she’s gone. She ran off. I couldn’t make her stay.”

  “And why is that?” Ramsey Olaru’s deep, husky tenor reverberated through the room as the huge, fearsome male sauntered into the parlor. “Forgive my bad manners, milord, but I felt the circumstances warranted the intrusion.”

  Napolean nodded. “Ramsey,” he said by way of greeting. “Then you heard?”

  Ramsey inclined his head. “I heard.”

  Brooke shuddered, recognizing the precarious situation for what it was: Not only had Tiffany taken off into the valley like some kind of escaped convict, but Ramsey Olaru was an Ancient Master Warrior, a dangerous and hard-nosed sentinel of Dark Moon Vale; and he was standing on the precipice of a perilous cliff, where his life hung in the balance beneath a centuries-awaited Blood Moon. The male was not only hyped up on adrenaline—if not downright feral—he was more dangerous than ever before, and his eerily calm exterior only emphasized that point.

  Brooke sought to diffuse the situation as tactfully as possible. “I’m sorry, Ramsey,” she whispered. “Tiffany was terrified, and I tried—”

  Ramsey held up a large, rugged hand to silence her as he turned to face the king. “Milord, have you taken Tiffany’s blood?”

  A low growl of warning rumbled in Napolean’s throat, and the king’s nostrils flared in disapproval. “What the hell was that?”

  Ramsey lowered his gaze, as respectfully as he could. He glanced up at Brooke and declined his head in apology. “Forgive me, milady. I meant you no disrespect.” Then he set his jaw and turned to Napolean. “Milord, by all rights, I should not even be standing here right now. A Blood Moon trumps all other protocol. So please, just tell me: Have you taken Tiffany’s blood?”

  Oh gods, he really sounds…upset, Brooke whispered to Napolean telepathically. She didn’t want to aggravate the situation, but she was growing increasingly concerned for her friend.

  It’s okay, angel, Napolean replied in a gentle but confident psychic tone. He is dealing with an overwhelming sense of urgency. It is to be expected.

  Of course, Brooke said. I understand. I just…are you sure he’s okay?

  Napolean nodded, and then he cleared his throat. “Miss Matthews is under the protection of the house of Jadon,” he said to Ramsey. “She has been initiated as a human loyalist. Of course, I’ve taken her blood.”

  Ramsey shifted his weight from foot to foot and slowly stretched his back. “And?”

  Napolean shut his eyes, as if trying to maintain his cool. His hand twitched almost imperceptibly, and his face grew taut—but his expression remained composed. “And she’s about three-quarters of a mile into the northern forest…on a horse. She’s heading due east.”

  “On a horse?
” Brooke cut in, immediately regretting the irrelevant outburst.

  Ramsey’s top lip twitched several times in a row, and the tips of his fangs began to extend from his gums before he quickly caught the involuntary reaction and reined it in. His eyes deepened to a darker hue, the hazel tones deepening to amber; but otherwise, he showed little reaction. “Phoenix’s Percheron?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Yes, on Viking,” Napolean confirmed.

  Ramsey nodded solemnly, and then his entire body stiffened; his spine grew straighter; and he appeared to grow two inches taller. “If that is all, milord.”

  Napolean inclined his head, and Brooke nearly swayed where she stood.

  Oh gods, Napolean; will she be okay? For the first time that night, she truly feared for her friend, and not because of the Dark Ones or any other supernatural creatures that went bump in the night. Brooke was afraid of Ramsey.

  She will, Napolean replied in her mind. He will find her and retrieve her…

  Faster than she can say his name, Brooke uttered, swallowing her fear. A blind man could see Ramsey’s determination—the sentinel would not be denied.

  Indeed, Napolean replied. And then he turned to face the powerful vampire before them. “Warrior, do you want—”

  Ramsey clenched his fists at his side and then slowly released them, but he held his tongue out of respect…and waited.

  “Julien…our tracker?” Napolean persisted.

  Ramsey sucked his teeth and exhaled. “Nope.”

  “Your brothers, Saxson or Santos?”

  He rolled his shoulders and popped his neck. “Nope.”

  When Napolean held out both hands, palms facing down, parallel to the floor, and then gently splayed his fingers as if to calm a wild beast, Brooke’s heart nearly skipped a beat.

  “You are one of only three valley sentinels,” Napolean said ceremoniously, “a member of my private guard, a warrior entrusted to protect this vale. So I need not express to you the many dangers that could arise.”