by Tessa Dawn
Despite her panic, she slowly nodded, and her eyes were desperate with pleading.
Braden flew to the end of the hall in a heartbeat, snatched one of the gas masks off a plastic hook, and quickly zoomed back, setting the contraption inside of the duct where she could reach it. But she didn’t reach out to take it. As desperate as she was to live—as close as she was to passing out—she dropped the panties, her jaw fell open, and her expression registered pure horror. Then two bloodcurdling words shot out of her mouth as she pointed a trembling finger behind him:
“The demons!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Easy come, easy go.” A dark, dissonant drawl.
“Ten points for the fledgling; one point for the ho.” A deeper, more malevolent brogue.
Braden spun around just in time to see two lethal Dark Ones standing in the basement: one with slate-gray eyes and long, obsidian-and-red hair flowing halfway down his back, and another citrine-eyed monstrosity, at least seven feet tall, with the tattoo of the Colony Guard on his right bicep.
Braden tried to drop back into a defensive stance—he needed to call out to the other warriors!—but the Dark Ones struck like they shared one mind, one strategy, and one demonic purpose: In the blink of an eye, less than that really, the giant transported behind Braden, grasped both his arms, and wrenched them backward, shackling the vampire’s wrists. Braden’s chest bowed forward, exposing his heart, as the Colony Guard held him in an implacable, iron grip. At the same exact moment, the monster with slate-gray eyes drew back his right arm, released his claws, and thrust the wicked-sharp daggers forward.
The moment streamed in slow motion.
The inevitability of death was too sudden…too shocking…too surreal as Braden exhaled in defeat, braced both shoulders, and thought about Kristina Riley-Silivasi…
The fact that he would never get to mate her.
And that’s when the panther slammed into Oskar, catching his homicidal talons in its wide, powerful jaw, and flinging his body sideways. Nathaniel Silivasi shimmered into view, less than two seconds later, and the Dark One behind Braden let go of his arms in order to face off with the Ancient Master Warrior.
Nathaniel twirled his stiletto in and out of his fingers, whistling low beneath his breath, and then the devious vampire from the house of Jadon chuckled, his dark black gaze alighting with both mischief and excitement. “You want to play with a grown-ass vampire?” He spat the words in a thick, Romanian accent. “Atunci, hai sa dansam, motherfucker. Sunt aici.” Then let’s dance, motherfucker. I’m right here.
The seven-foot monster matched Nathaniel’s arrogance, cynicism, and eagerness with a wicked echo of maniacal laughter, withdrawing a long, serrated dagger from his belt.
Nathaniel didn’t wait for him to wield it—he lunged forward, caught the soldier off guard, and head-butted him so violently, Achilles’ skull split open. The Dark One stumbled backward, drew his hand through the blood, and countered with a lightning-quick throat punch, bayonetting Nathaniel’s trachea.
Nathaniel slathered his throat in venom, even as he swallowed the same—he feigned as if he were doubling over, trying to catch his breath, and rose like a Phoenix, with rocket-propelled wings, slamming his knee into the Dark One’s groin…then driving it up through his gonads.
Achilles hit the deck.
He puked on Nathaniel’s boots.
And his expression turned ashen and sallow.
But no sooner had he sunk to the ground than he grabbed the Ancient Master Warrior’s ankle, locked onto his flesh like a rabid animal, and began to tear at the tendons with his ungodly long fangs.
“Achilles!” A harsh, dominant bark from the other, angry Dark One, who had just wrenched free from the panther.
Achilles’ massive arms twitched, and his entire body shuddered, but he continued to ravage Nathaniel’s flesh.
“Achilles…” The second Dark One spoke his name again, this time in a quiet command.
The giant released his hold on the ankle, and just like that, the evil duo vanished.
A moment of silence—if not relief—filled the basement. Then Braden dropped his head in his hands and struggled to catch his breath. “Thank you,” he panted, to no one in particular.
Nathaniel Silivasi smiled and shook out his wounded limb. “You two good?” he asked Nachari.
The panther, who had already shifted back into a formidable Master Wizard, strolled over to the hole in the ceiling, floated up to retrieve the girl, and then glanced over his shoulder to regard his older brother. “Yeah, we’re good. Be outside in a minute.”
Nathaniel bowed his head in a surprisingly noble nod and disappeared from the basement.
“Nachari,” Braden said, watching as the wizard hoisted the naked woman, now wearing the gas mask, from the ceiling.
“You’re welcome, son,” Nachari answered.
Braden felt a hot, embarrassing tear well up in the corner of his eye. “No, really, Nachari.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I thought I was a goner.” If he kept on talking, he was going to start crying, and wouldn’t that just be the most pansy-ass thing he had ever done in front of the other vampires. At this point in his development, his body had filled out, he had shot up to six feet, two inches, and his voice was as deep and resonant as any other male’s in the house of Jadon. The last thing he needed to do was break down and sob like a little girl.
“You all right?” Nachari asked him.
Braden cleared his throat.
“We’ve all been there,” Nachari said. “That’s why we rely on a band of brothers.” He smiled then, that notorious grin. “Shake it off, Braden. Things aren’t always what they seem.”
Now this caused Braden to cock his eyebrows and frown. “What do you mean?”
Nachari took off his coat and wrapped it around the female’s slender shoulders—she looked like she was in shock.
“Your chest, vampire. Take a look.”
Braden glanced down at his sternum, his eyes fixed just above his heart, and he blanched at the sight of a swirling, incandescent light, a million streams and prisms pulsing outward.
Nachari shook his head in wonder. “Don’t know if that was some makeshift holding cell, adapted as body armor, or if you just made a psychic, energetic shield—but those claws weren’t getting anywhere near your heart, at least not on the first strike. And that right there, my acolyte, was the feat of a Master Wizard.”
Braden gulped.
Well, holy shit…
And then he heard it: the energy, the pulse, the heartbeat of the house of Jadon.
Thrum, thrum, thrum…
And he heard something else: a pure and absolute synchronicity pounding inside the human woman’s chest. He sighed. “Nachari…” He focused, trying to find the right words. “Not sure how to say this, but we need to take her back to the brownstone. She belongs to the celestial gods—she belongs with the house of Jadon.”
No sooner had he spoken the words than the terrified, disheveled blonde passed out, and Nachari caught her. Perhaps she’d been overcome by the vapors she’d already inhaled, or perhaps she’d been overcome by trauma.
Either way…
Didn’t matter…
Nachari’s expression grew exasperated. “Are you absolutely sure, son?”
Braden nodded. “Don’t know why…or what…or even how I know, but I’m absolutely certain.”
It was two o’clock in the morning when Santos Olaru slipped noiselessly through Natalia’s bedroom wall, traversing the physical barrier with ease, and found her sitting on the hardwood floor, her back up against a fractured section of plaster, shivering beneath a throw blanket with red bloodshot eyes.
“Natalia…cuore mio…” he whispered, hurrying to her side. Squatting down in front of her, he eyed the gaping hole behind her and asked, “What happened? Why have you been crying?”
She shuddered and clutched the blanket tighter, her dark brown gaze seeking his and carefully studying his
features. “Is it over?”
He exhaled slowly. “Mostly.” He ran the backs of his fingers over her high, angular cheekbones and lowered his heavy body onto the floor in front of her. “I’ll tell you everything, but first; tell me what happened.”
She glanced over her shoulder, indicating the splintered wall. “Domenico, one of my father’s most loyal henchmen—we often refer to him at The Reaper—tried to break through the plaster with an axe.”
A feral snarl escaped Santos’ lips, and he had to struggle to tone it down. “Why…when…how did you stop him?”
This time, it was Natalia who sighed. And then she simply began reciting the facts in a cerebral, unemotional monotone, as if she had no emotions left. “I found out what—or rather who—tripped the alarm, the one alerting my father to trouble in The Fortress. Domenico showed up for his late-night shift and found a note stapled to The Fortress’ front door. Santos, it was left by Oskar.” She started to cringe at the sound of the dark vampire’s name, but immediately pulled it back and returned to an even cadence. “I…I guess Oskar, and maybe some other vampires from the house of Jay—of Jaegar—broke into the building earlier, and they…they…”
“Shh, cara mia,” Santos interrupted.
Her eyelashes fluttered, still wet from tears. “Then it’s true?” she whispered. “They murdered—no, they massacred—dozens of the women?”
Santos nodded his head, feeling weary. “Yes, Natalia. It’s true. Oskar and a soldier named Achilles Zahora attacked the northern wing of high-end call girls; they executed all but one before we got there.”
Natalia’s hands shot to her chest, and she gasped as her eyes fell shut. Her body began to tremble, but she quickly contained it, forced her eyes back open, and stared blankly, almost absently, at the bed in front of her. “I see. Then it’s also true that they murdered the guards?”
Santos studied her carefully—she was hanging on by a thread. “Yes, it would appear, all but The Reaper.” Taking her hand in his, he clasped it gently and sent a stream of warmth, a calming energy, flowing into her palm. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
“Well, at least there’s that,” she murmured bitterly. “The fact that they executed all those worthless bastards.” She raised her shoulders as if hefting an impossibly heavy load and pushed forward: “At any rate, Domenico insisted that my father flee the country, get out right away on his private jet—he didn’t say where they were going, most likely Italy, but he informed Papa that he had initiated doomsday, that all the women would soon be gone.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I still can’t comprehend such wickedness—the fact that they were willing to kill every single woman in that building with nerve agents…” Her voice trailed off, and she had to take a moment to collect her thoughts. “You have to understand, the women were merely objects to Luca, monetary assets to be traded, sold…or disposed of. My father has billions in assets and dirty money, much of it stored in international banks. While destroying every soul in The Fortress would cost him millions, for him, it would barely put a dent in his holdings. Domenico was afraid of a federal raid, and he was also worried that Oskar Vadovsky and his hatchet men might attack the mansion as well…try to assassinate my father. They didn’t know they were dealing with vampires, but they definitely got Oskar’s message: He’s a far more powerful enemy than my father ever suspected.”
Santos licked his bottom lip, his brow creasing into a heavy furrow. He was anxious for Natalia to get on with the story, but he didn’t want to push her. Still, he had some important questions. “Baby,” he said, rubbing his thumb along the center of her palm in reassurance and calibrating her pulse to match his, “how do you know all this? Who gave you this information?”
She snickered then, a humorless sound. “My laptop of course,” she answered. “A year ago, I gave my father a framed picture of the two of us for Father’s Day. There was bug planted in the frame.”
Santos nodded with appreciation—Natalia had never been a clueless, wilting violet. She had been trapped, but she had never been a victim. “So, Domenico insisted on getting Luca out of here, and if I’m guessing correctly, that trip included you.”
“Yep,” she said dryly. Then she pointed at the hole in the wall. “When I refused to come out of my room to escape with my father, Domenico threatened to break down the wall.”
Santos shook his head in frustration…and fury. “How did you fend him off?”
She smiled then. “At first, I tried to reason with him. You know, to lie. I told him someone had to stay behind to manage the family’s image, deal with the staff and servants, that I’d meet them at whatever destination they chose in a couple of days.”
Santos brushed a loose tendril of her hair behind her shoulder and away from her eyes. “And clearly they weren’t having it.”
“Nope. Not any of it.” She sighed. “Finally, I told Domenico that I had a gun, which was true—I fired it into the ceiling to prove it—and that I’d blow his brains out if he came through that wall.”
Santos snickered. “And that backed him off?”
“No, not entirely. He backed off when I threatened to call the police.” She wrung her hands together. “If I recall, he called me a batshit crazy, traitorous, spoiled bitch, and then he dragged my father out of the house, kicking and screaming, because Luca refused to go without me.”
Santos grew still…pensive…trying not to conjure the image in his head.
He had bigger fish to fry right now than hunting—and executing—a piece of trash named Domenico. “Natalia, I want you to go through the mansion and gather anything that has significant or sentimental value to you: photographs, jewelry, keepsakes, personal effects, any important electronics. Then pack enough clothes for about one week. If there’s anything else you need, we can purchase it later. I’m taking you back to my lake house. We can sort everything else out later, but the bottom line is this: I’m not leaving you here any longer.”
She shook her head sadly. “Santos, you don’t understand. My father will never let me go. If he doesn’t come back for me personally, he’ll send someone else to find me—but he’ll never quit looking. He’ll never give in to Domenico, and he’ll never let you have me.”
Santos snarled, not bothering to mute it. “Oh, but he will. Trust me on that one.” He paused to temper his anger and muster his courage, unsure of how she would react to what he still had to tell her. “Natalia, right now, as we speak, there are a dozen more warriors descending upon the compound, including a tracker named Julien Lacusta. Before the sun rises in the morning, your father and Domenico”—now that Santos knew about him—“will be dealt with. By this time next week, those four mercenaries hiding in other countries, waiting to slaughter dozens of innocent women with a mere text and a code, will also be no more.” Before she could react or protest, he pushed forward, needing to get out the rest of the information. “As for the remaining warriors, they’ve created a perimeter to head off human interlopers, to make sure no one sees, hears, or knows anything happening within this compound, and they’ve begun the process of scrubbing the grounds and eliminating any remnants of the toxin. That said, we are also transporting all the surviving women to shelters and hospitals in Morrison, Lakewood, and Denver.” He softened his tone out of respect and compassion. “We’re delivering the corpses to the county coroners; we want to make sure their families can bury them. Either way, reports about The Fortress and tales of the women’s captivity are bound to get out—it’ll be all over the national news by morning—but there won’t be anything left for the human feds to find, at least not here in Morrison. The rainstorm notwithstanding, we’re going to incinerate the entire compound tonight, and as far as anyone else involved with Giovanni, Inc. is concerned, Natalia Antoinette died in the fire.” He tunneled his fingers in her hair, sensing her desperate and helpless energy. “Natalia Olaru, on the other hand, is just an immigrant from Romania.” He tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing with sympathy. “Yo
u know me, angel; you know what I can do: vital statistics, coroner’s records, pointing any humans who are meddling in a permanent, opposite direction—it’s all child’s play for me. Your staff, servants, and charity acquaintances will grieve the death of Luca’s daughter, and your life as it existed before will be wiped from the annals of history. At least on paper, it will be as if Natalia Giovanni never existed.”
Natalia let out a muffled sob. “Santos…”
“I’m sorry, love, but I have to protect you. And I’m sworn to protect the house of Jadon. Your father. The mercenaries. Destroying the compound and your history… These are all orders from Napolean Mondragon, the vampire-king, the male to whom I have sworn my eternal fealty. I can make no objections, and there can be no loose ends.” He knew that his words sounded harsh, that his delivery had been swift, if not almost merciless, but it was what it was. Natalia was living in a whole new world; the gods had seen fit to usher her into it; and he could do no other than fulfill his duty to Napolean, while trusting the celestial deities had chosen his forever partner wisely.
That Natalia would somehow come through this…
She swayed to the side, and he reached out to catch her, tucking her lovingly beneath a strong arm. Holding her tightly and nuzzling her hair, he whispered. “Cara…angel…Natalia girl, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry for everything. What your father has done, the life that you’ve lived, the weight you have carried on your shoulders all these years. I am sorry for the Blood Curse and all it has initiated—the fact that you weren’t given more time to make this transition…the fact that I couldn’t ease you into this. But at some point—at this point—you are going to have to trust me, allow me to help you shoulder your burdens. All you once knew is gone now, sweet angel, and I know it has to be terrifying. But there is a whole new world of life, love, and freedom awaiting you, a world beyond your imagining, if you’ll just take my hand and follow. You’re already Vampyr. There’s no going back. Baby, please; try to trust me. Give me a chance to win your heart and soothe your soul—I swear as a sentinel on the honor of my house, you will never live to regret it. I will live, exist, and breathe for your happiness.”
