by Tessa Dawn
But one thing was for sure: He would watch his back.
He would sleep with both eyes open.
A slow, painful death.
Going through the motions.
Being constantly pissed off.
Damn…
Just damn.
Chapter Fifteen
Kyla sat up in bed and rubbed her tired eyes, wanting to take full advantage of this rare time alone. While Saxson had continued to sleep across the hall, leaving the master bedroom to her, tonight was different from previous nights: Kyla had the estate to herself. She didn’t have to worry about the energy of her thoughts…or even the sound of her voice if she mumbled.
Saxson had left the house.
For reasons Kyla wasn’t privy to, there was another vampire posted out front, guarding Kyla from the expansive front veranda, and the entire changing of the guard, so to speak, had been handled in hush-hush fashion.
Nonetheless, if Saxson had thought Kyla was sleeping that deeply, he had underestimated her watchfulness…her years of vigilant training.
Kyla was always aware of her surroundings, and her mind was always turning…
Thinking.
Plotting.
Deciding…
And she knew what she had to do to keep the ball rolling forward.
Somehow—some way—Kyla had to get the primary targets together: Nathaniel and Jocelyn; Marquis and Ciopori; Nachari and Deanna; Kagen and Arielle; and their sons. She had overheard Saxson speaking to another male, named Santos, who she now knew was his brother, briefly on his cell phone before they had started to play Scrabble, before she had decoded Owen’s message; and now, the conversation took on a whole new meaning. Saxson had mentioned a couple by the names of Dario and Lily, and from what Kyla could piece together, the couple was coming to Dark Moon Vale, arriving on Saturday morning.
And the house of Jadon, on behalf of their arrival and in honor of their son, Braden Bratianu, was throwing them a small welcome-home party at the wizard’s house…presumably, Nachari’s. Kyla didn’t know who was on the guest list, but from the sounds of it, the Silivasis were a close-knit family, so most of them would likely be there.
Now, if she could only get herself—and Saxson—invited.
Kyla conjectured that, as a sentinel, Saxson would probably attend most formal and informal gatherings, if only to provide added security, but she also figured that his Blood Moon had given him a pass for a while.
She needed to take another tack.
A social, inclusive angle…
Kyla needed to convince Saxson that she was growing stir crazy, eager to meet other female destinies, and desirous of learning more about their social customs…meeting her future kin. Was that how the house of Jadon referred to itself?
It didn’t matter.
There was only one goal: to get to that house on Saturday; to blend into the woodwork—gain access to the Silivasi family—and to pray that the vampires would bring their kids.
Braden Bratianu strolled onto the rooftop terrace above Nachari’s secluded brownstone, wishing he could sleep. As each day drew closer to Saturday, his excitement—and anxiety—increased: He hadn’t seen his parents, let alone his little brother, Conrad, in a very long time, and there was a lot of history, angst, and insecurity swirling around the relationships, not the least of which had to do with his uncanny resemblance to his biological human father: the fact that Braden’s hair, his eyes, and his features reminded his mother of years of abuse…
Before she had filed for divorce.
Before she had been claimed by Dario Bratianu and ushered into the house of Jadon.
Yet and still, Julien Lacusta had given Braden some pretty good advice, and he intended to take it: Braden, call your mother. Sit down with Dario. Hash this shit out before it festers. It may be the case that nothing changes on their end, that maybe they’re just not good parents, but it’s not about them, not in the end; it’s about you and how you perceive things. How you feel about yourself. It’s about those demons that haunt you in the dark coming out into the light. It’s about owning your own shit so you can be free of it.
Beyond his apprehension over his parents’ upcoming visit, there was also the psychic-impressions thing, that indelible cord that stretched from Braden’s soul—like an IV port that he couldn’t unhook—into the vein of the house of Jadon.
The vision was getting stronger, and it was changing.
Or was it more like a hallucination?
He plopped his rear into the upholstered divan and stretched his legs out on the matching ottoman, folding his fingers behind his head as he gazed up at the sky—dark, endless, and vast; the canvas was littered with stars—and then he concentrated on his latest vision.
The first few times he had seen the rose, it had been a singular flower with two distinct tones, crimson red and raven black, one exuding passion, the other, death and foreboding. But as the construct lingered—and it was more of a feeling than an image in his mind—the paradigm had slowly shifted. The single stem split in half, becoming two conjoined parts, two separate roses that were connected, not at the stalk, but at the roots. The flower on the left retained its crimson petals, while the flower on the right remained jet black. But unlike the earlier visions, when the black hue had swallowed the color red, the black rose grew stronger, more vital, while the red rose began to wilt on the vine.
Death and foreboding grew ever more powerful, while passion slowly died.
Braden pinched the bridge of his nose, then massaged his temples, anticipating an oncoming headache, but the cranial throbbing never ensued. He was no longer plagued—or assailed—by the image, just constantly aware of its presence, like a mirage or a silhouette in the background, a part of the landscape all around him.
“What the hell,” he whispered, wishing he could shed the baggage. “Is someone fighting with their mate? Remembering a painful event from their past? Is someone about to have twin sons—one dark and one light?” And if so, then the only son of Jadon Braden could think of was Saxson Olaru, at the end of the Cetus moon.
He never heard the wizard’s footsteps—Nachari walked like a panther, even in human form. “Can’t sleep?” the intuitive vampire asked him, strolling silently across the veranda.
Braden sat up straight and slid his feet off the ottoman. “Oh, damn, Nachari—sorry if I woke you up.” Nachari chuckled, and Braden quickly amended his statement. “I meant…darn.”
Nachari flicked his wrist in a casual, dismissive gesture. “No worries. A word or two here or there; it’s not a major infraction.”
Braden nodded, waiting patiently as Nachari took a seat across from him. “So what are you doing up so late?” the Master Wizard repeated.
Braden sighed and shook his head: no answer.
“Worried about Saturday…your parents’ visit?”
“A little,” Braden confessed.
Nachari nodded, allowing the silence to linger for a time. When at last he spoke, his voice was thick with compassion. “I think it’s going to go better than you imagine. Just a feeling,” he added.
At this, Braden smiled. If the Master Wizard had a feeling, then Braden could take it to the bank—Nachari’s powers were becoming legendary. “Good to know,” he mumbled, rocking forward in his seat and bracing his elbows on his knees. “What’s it like being a wizard?” Braden asked next. “I mean, as opposed to a warrior, a justice, or a healer? What does it feel like carrying all that magic around…inside your head?”
Although the question was seemingly out of the blue, Nachari relaxed in his chair with infinite patience, his forest-green eyes darkening in contemplation. And then he shrugged. “Hard to say. I’ve always had this bent…the magic swirling around inside of me…so I don’t know any other experience, but I’d imagine it’s not unlike being a warrior or a healer, in theory. Marquis is always aware of his surroundings, who’s coming and who’s going, what natural objects can be used as a weapon. He’s always alert and prepared. Kage
n, on the other hand, is always analyzing mysteries—what makes things tick, how to change them, fix them, alter their organic properties. I guess I’m saying it’s like a second skin. You just wear it without really thinking.” He braced two fingers beneath his chin in a gesture of contemplation. “Why? What’s on your mind, son? Still trying to figure out what route to take when you go to the University?”
Braden pursed his lips and tapped his foot on the deck, thinking. “Yeah, that, I guess. And something else…”
Nachari raised his brows and waited, once again demonstrating that infinite patience.
“And, well, you know how I reacted when Napolean was assaulted by Lord Ademordna? How I was able to interpret the spell when the dark lord Ocard switched Kristina and Ciopori? How I just sometimes get those feelings?”
At this, Nachari drew to attention. “Yes. Why?”
Braden let out a long, fatigued sigh. “Because it’s happening again.” Before Nachari could overreact, Braden quickly rushed the words: “Don’t get me wrong—it happens all the time, in one form or another—like you said, it’s just…a second skin. But lately I’ve been having headaches, too.”
Nachari frowned and appraised him forthrightly. “Does your head hurt now?”
“No,” Braden answered, “not tonight.”
Nachari nodded. “But it has been…for how long?”
Braden thought it over. “It’s not constant or anything, just every now and then, a twinge, sometimes when I see…or feel…images.”
Nachari interlocked his fingers and spoke in a gentle, calming tone. “So, you’re asking if this is part of your personal magic—something you will always contend with? Or are you asking me something more specific?”
Braden glanced down at his hands, noticing how much larger, rougher…stronger they’d become. “Both, I guess: If I choose to study wizardry, will I eventually get a handle on it, learn to control it? And if there’s something specific floating in and out, what do I need to do with it?”
Nachari pondered the question. “I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to control it, Braden. Not exactly sure how that works. But I can tell you that as a Master Wizard you will learn to recognize it, flow with it…incorporate it. And yes, even master it, at times: use it to your own ends, for your own purposes, channel it and focus it, in the direction that you choose. As for something specific…something you can do right now?” He paused to consider his words more carefully. “You might try to manipulate the energy of it…disperse it before it congeals in your head…or your gut.”
Braden’s ears perked up, his heart growing lighter with hope. “How would I do that?” he asked.
“First,” Nachari stated, “use your deep breathing, like I’ve already taught you—imagine taking light in through your nose and out through your mouth, and see the light catching the image or impression and dispersing it back into the universe. That should help with the day-to-day premonitions, picking up on the small, incidental nuances… They’re not yours, so release them.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the patio chair. “As for the more persistent stuff, pay attention, but not as a passive observer. Go back into the feeling or the vision and give it shape and substance; draw a clearer picture, even if you have to override it to do so. Speak to it; ask it questions—who are you? What are you? Why are you here?—and expect to get an answer. Manipulate the scenes or the action, move the pieces around, and see where the visualization takes you. My point is: You have more power than you know, son. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
Braden rubbed his forehead, digesting Nachari’s words.
He could do that.
Or at least he could try.
“And Braden?” Nachari added, drawing Braden out of his musings. “Don’t ignore your feelings, son. Remember what happened when Saber was impersonating Ramsey—you knew that something was wrong…was off…something important to the whole house of Jadon. If you aren’t certain, then bring it to me. Two heads are sometimes better than one.”
At that, Braden chuckled. “Yeah, especially when one is a Master Wizard.”
Nachari shrugged, his harmless, arrogant swagger showing.
“Okay,” Braden said, “guess there’s no time like the present.” He removed his elbows from his knees, sat back, and rested his hands on his thighs, meeting the vampire’s paternal gaze. “Check this out, Nachari.” With that, he closed his eyes, concentrated on his latest vision—the faint impression of the dual, evolving rose—and sent it like a stream of information into the wizard’s mind.
Nachari grew restless in his chair, his spine noticeably stiffening.
“The red one, it’s passion,” Braden offered, concentrating all his attention on the rose to the left. “And this one,” he moved his vision like a filmmaker might move a camera, zooming in, “this black one is death and foreboding. When I first had the impression, it was one rose with two colors, but now—”
“They’re two separate roses sharing one vine,” Nachari supplied.
“Yep,” Braden said, his heart feeling lighter.
“And how long have you been seeing this?”
Braden glanced up and to the right. “It started on Sunday night.”
At this, Nachari tilted his head. “The same night as Saxson’s Blood Moon?”
Braden thought about the timeline. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe a couple hours earlier, but yeah…since then.”
Nachari nodded thoughtfully. “Hmm. Have you said anything to anyone?”
Braden shook his head. “No, Kristina is the only one who knows. And she only knows because she was there when I got a wicked headache—she walked me through the breathing.”
Nachari’s expression softened with approval. “And other than the colors…and the words…you haven’t gotten anything else? No other meaning? No other impressions?”
“Nope,” Braden said, “just a daily pain in my ass…figuratively speaking.”
The contemplative vampire laughed aloud. “Oh, Braden…touché.” And then his voice grew ever-more serious. “I want you to play with this vision for a while. Since the energy is yours, the knowledge is inside of you. Ask questions, try to change the picture, redirect the energy, expecting a response, and let me know what happens. It isn’t letting go because it’s important, but it could mean almost anything…and apply to anyone. Dig a little deeper; don’t just let it pass.”
Braden nodded in agreement. “And in the meantime?”
Nachari sighed. “In the meantime, I’m not going to take this to Napolean—not just yet. We don’t have enough to go on. And I’m not going to bother Saxson in the midst of his Blood Moon—hell, this could be anything: a Dark One plotting; a difficult Blood Moon; a rocky relationship between a couple in the vale; even you, reliving memories from your childhood or your past. Still, I’m going to play around with a couple of spells, myself. And I’m also going to give a cautionary heads-up to Ramsey and Santos, maybe turn them into helicopter brothers.”
“Helicopter brothers?” Braden asked, quirking one brow.
“Yes,” Nachari affirmed. “Make sure they hover like a nuisance over Saxson and his destiny, just until he’s fulfilled the demands of the Curse. One never knows—you can’t be too careful.”
Braden’s chest rose and fell, visibly relaxing; he felt like weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.
He would have to keep this in mind for future reference.
After all, what had Julien Lacusta told him the night they had talked in these same, exact seats? “Maybe there were times in my life when I could have—when I should have—reached out to someone else, when just maybe, it might have made a difference.”
Braden braced his feet squarely on the deck and stood up from his chair. “Thanks, Nachari,” he said sincerely. “I guess I should let you go get some sleep.”
The vampire shrugged. “Hey, we’re all nocturnal by nature—it really isn’t a problem.”
Braden smiled, understanding, and then he murmured quietly, “You kn
ow what?”
“What?” Nachari asked.
“I like having you for a helicopter brother. Kind of makes life easier.”
Nachari rose in such a smooth, fluid glide that Braden never saw him stand up. He was just…suddenly taller. He held out his fist in a demonstration of comradery, and Braden gave it a fist-bump.
Chapter Sixteen
“No! No-no-no-no! Please…stop.”
“Sit down!” Xavier barked.
Kiera Sparrow felt for the edges of the stiff metal chair behind her and slowly lowered her body into the seat, trying not to hyperventilate. The blindfold was too tight, and Xavier was too menacing. He had taken her from the warehouse around ten o’clock that morning, and the rough-riding, musty van had trekked for at least an hour before it had finally come to a stop.
Based on what she could feel—and then smell—Kiera was quite certain they were in the country: in a barn, to be exact. The sounds of traffic had receded about a half hour into the ride; the roads had changed from pavement to dirt; and when she had finally climbed out of the van, with Xavier’s assistance, she could smell hay and moist soil…fresh, clean air. The creaking of the wood when he had opened the barn doors, as well as the uneven earthen surface beneath her feet had solidified her assessment.
Now, as she sat trembling on a cold metal seat, waiting for whatever Xavier had planned for her, her stomach turned over in queasy waves, and she felt like she might just faint.
Xavier stepped behind her, began to fumble with the knots, and just like that, he removed the blindfold. “Welcome to my lab,” he snarled.
Kiera blinked several times, trying to clear her vision. They were, in fact, in a barn, and the floor beneath them was definitely dirt. But this place wasn’t meant for horses. There was an old wooden bench to her right, about the size of a kitchen island, and behind it, there were several rickety shelves stocked with glass vials, mysterious containers, and an assortment of medical equipment—half of it looked rusted.
