by Tessa Dawn
The realization was stunning.
What the hell was going on?
And then it struck him: the Delphinus Blood Moon.
They had all seen it the night before, stark as a neon sign above a Vegas hotel, and it hadn’t taken any deep psychic intuition or undue research to discern which vampire—which cocky, self-righteous, undeserving male in the detestable house of Jadon—the ominous moon belonged to.
Oskar had known it was Santos.
But up until this very second, he hadn’t put two and two together, and Salvatore Nistor’s blasted, worthless cube had been silent. There had been no leaks out of the house of Jadon, no leaks from any of the light vampire’s human servants, nothing to give away the identity of the sentinel’s destiny.
At least not until now.
Natalia’s long, sleek, satin gloves…
She had worn them to cover her wrists.
She had donned the clever accessories to hide the truth from Oskar—she was Santos Olaru’s preordained destiny. Well, no wonder the bastard was fighting like this night was Armageddon, he was the last angel standing, and all of humanity was threatened by the devil. The male was fighting for his soul, his destiny, and his eternal life.
To hell with the dumb shit.
Oskar had no intentions of going out like this…not now…not here, and not over a human woman. Not at the hands of Santos Olaru, Napolean Mondragon’s sentinel. Oskar’s death, defeat, and humiliation would be legendary.
Reaching out on a familiar dark bandwidth, he called to the Colony Guard, searing his SOS into the minds of Achilles Zahora, a brute of a bastard; Silas Slovinsky, a brain-dead mute with a ring in his nose who could fight like a drug-crazed maniac; Nuri Bolasek, the demonic-looking freak with albino skin; and Falcon Zvara, the jackal with a Mohawk: I’m ten miles west of Morrison, being attacked by one of Napolean’s sentinels. Follow my signal—get your asses here now!
The four deadly slayers appeared beside the river in less than thirty seconds, their huge, straining biceps encircled with the familiar venomous black mamba tattoos, their ruthless fists wielding both modern and medieval weapons: hatchets, daggers, an AR-15…
Achilles stepped forward first, his pale, citrine gaze locked like a laser on Santos.
And wouldn’t you know it—but just like that—the five-to-one odds equalized.
Ramsey Olaru, Saxson Olaru, Julien Lacusta, and Saber Alexiares—the traitorous bastard turned house of Jadon sentinel—appeared in the meadow, armed to the teeth and ready for whatever the Colony Guard desired.
Santos must have called them the moment he saw the Dark Ones.
“Pick your poison, you genetic mutant,” Ramsey grunted to Achilles, raising his trident to obscure the Dark One’s path to Santos. “Blood sport, iron, or just plain fists and knuckles—we don’t really give a shit, but you’re not getting anywhere near either one of them.” He gestured with his chin toward Santos, Natalia, and the garish, raised platform. “This is vampire to vampire, soldier to warrior, Colony Guard to HOJ Sentinel. May the baddest bastards win.” He snickered, and Oskar could almost taste the hunger on Ramsey’s tongue. The sentinel was salivating like a wild animal, practically gnashing his teeth in anticipation.
Achilles Zahora sneered, and the chuckle in his chest rumbled like thunder, even as the lightning storm all around them began to pick up. And then the seven-foot-tall giant made an unexpected shift and turned his full attention on his council chair. “Oskar, my liege. What say you as our council chair? Blood, death, and war—or protection, security, and retreat?”
Oskar was momentarily baffled by the question: protection, security, and retreat?
Kill the worthless bastards! he wanted to shout, but Achilles was not a neophyte, a coward, nor an idiot—and the male must have had his reasons for posing the question the way that he had…choosing the alternatives he’d chosen.
True to Oskar’s supposition, Achilles continued, his right hand tightening around his bola, his massive shoulders trembling from the primal, nearly overwhelming desire to strike. “The way I see it is this,” he barked, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it at Ramsey’s feet. “We can give these cock-sucking, whore-loving, sycophant pieces of shit a run for their money, probably take a couple hearts and heads”—he shifted his murderous gaze to Saber Alexiares, scanning the ex-Dark One from head to toe, and there wasn’t a vampire in the meadow who didn’t catch his drift: If all four of us have to attack as a unit to make it happen, we can at least slay that particular bottom-feeding slime—“or we can work as a unit toward a singular purpose—to get Natalia Giovanni back underground—to take her to the Colony.” He glared at Ramsey again. “Can’t take on all five of us and protect that woman. At some point, something—or someone—has to give. There’s always at least one casualty of war.” He licked his bottom lip in a lascivious fashion, then shrugged it off with a snarl. “Or we can accept the inevitable, avoid the gamble, and return with what we came for: the irreplaceable head of our colony’s council. Accept the fact that Napolean Mondragon is going to be here any moment, worried about his precious Homo sapiens, insisting on stopping the battle, and able to channel the sun, however weakened under the cloak of darkness.”
Measuring Oskar directly, again, he added, “Frankly, I don’t give five fucks about the storm or a thousand humans dying. It’s a Friday night, and I’ve got nothin’ better to do than kill an enemy or die while trying, but the final call is up to you: What is the woman worth? How far do you want us to take this?”
All eyes shot to both Oskar and Santos, but the question was summarily answered when Marquis and Nathaniel Silivasi shimmered into view at the head and the foot of the makeshift platform. The warriors in the house of Jadon must have been broadcasting the conversation, and the threat to Natalia was immediately answered.
Saber Alexiares’ nose began to twitch; his lips curled back involuntarily; and he exposed his lethal fangs beneath a snarl. The male wanted to fight so badly, he looked like he was in pain.
Julien Lacusta shifted in place, the implacable mountain widening his stance, while running a brazenly defiant hand, the middle finger extended, through his short, mahogany trim. “Damn, you bitches can talk all night. I think we all agree—there isn’t an actual fuck given by anyone here, so let’s do the damn thing.”
Oskar felt an icy shiver run from the top of his spine to the bottom of his toes. He wanted to teach these arrogant swamp dwellers a lesson more than he wanted to take his next breath. Yet and still, he wanted to live, and he wasn’t sure a war with the house of Jadon this night was prudent…advisable…worth the reward of Natalia Giovanni.
He hadn’t even had a chance to shag her.
Damn, this shit was jacked up.
Nevertheless…
He straightened his back, smoothed his collar, and finished fastening the last three buttons of his trousers.
Achilles was right.
This wasn’t the night, the place, or the time.
A war with Napolean—with the entire Colony and the house of Jadon—wasn’t something to be initiated on the fly over a spoiled, recalcitrant slut. There would be other opportunities to get back at the enemy; after all, eternity was a very long time.
Resolved to return to the Colony alive, to live to fight another night, Oskar pressed one hand to his stomach and bent at the waist in an old-world mockery of a bow. “Alas, Achilles, you are as wise as you are strong. While I haven’t any doubt we could best these sons of bitches, that whore on the platform isn’t worth it. Besides, she’s all broken and bloody, not half as sexy. I wouldn’t want to soil my cock.”
An orange-and-red flash exploded in the background as Santos launched his body at Oskar, detonating like a rocket. Fortunately for the council chairman, Marquis Silivasi was right on Santos’ tail. He caught the sentinel in midair, and he wrenched his body back by the shoulders, even as Achilles dove in front of his liege to protect him.
Oskar figured enough was enough.
> These sentinels were way too amped up.
And Achilles was ultimately correct: There was always at least one casualty of war, and Santos was gunning for Oskar. “Until we meet again,” he snarled, knowing he was going to regret this decision, “may all those present from an inferior house rot in the Valley of Death and Shadows. One of these days, your king will fall, and we will all get our bloody battle, but for this night, we shall take our leave.” With a wink and a nod, Oskar vanished from sight, confident that his kindred in darkness would follow.
Chapter Nineteen
Santos Olaru somberly approached the obscene bed atop the makeshift platform. Now that Oskar, his minions, and the house of Jadon’s warriors were gone—with the exception of Saxson and Ramsey, who were still standing watch in the meadow—Santos could place his entire focus where it needed to be: on Natalia and her injuries.
“Natalia girl,” he whispered softly, kneeling beside her broken body. “Oh, my darling, I am so, so sorry…” His words trailed off. There would be plenty of time for apologies later. “Let me check your injuries.”
She moaned in pain, and her eyelids fluttered weakly. She was in and out of consciousness and clearly in shock as she mumbled something incoherent: “Oskar…fiancé…the driver disappeared. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have—”
“Shh,” Santos intoned, cradling her head in his hands as he shuffled closer beside her on the bed. “Don’t try to talk; just let me attend to you.” He had already surveyed her ankle, her hand, and her jaw, and the damage was appalling. Not to mention, her blood pressure was low; her breathing was rapid and shallow; her skin was cold and clammy; and her pulse was growing weaker by the minute. Even if her injuries weren’t life-threatening, the shock could certainly kill her. And yes, Santos could treat the condition. He could call Kagen Silivasi or Kagen’s protégé, Navarro Dabronski, to come attend to Natalia’s injuries. He could treat the same with his venom, but one disconcerting fact remained: In order to protect the women in The Fortress, he would still have to allow Natalia to stay at Luca’s compound until Sunday, albeit with an invisible vampiric guard at all times, if not Santos himself standing sentry. As much as it sucked to consider the agonizing alternative—and as eerily as it reminded Santos of Saxson and Kiera, what had happened in Owen Green’s urban warehouse apartment—Santos knew what he had to do.
What he should do.
What would give his destiny the best advantage.
And that unconscionable thing was conversion.
“We were supposed to be married,” Natalia mumbled, cringing in pain and panting. “I…I thought I could just get through this date and—”
“Quiet, my love,” Santos urged her, the muscles in his jaw tightening at the very thought of Oskar Vadovsky playing Luca Giovanni for a fool and claiming his only daughter. So this was the Prince Oskar Zayda had mentioned; the thought made Santos sick to his stomach. Just how long had this been going on? How many times had Oskar touched her? When was he planning to take her back to the Colony…and rape her…kill her…breed his dark, soulless spawn from her virtuous body? Don’t go there, vampire, he told himself. Concentrate on the task at hand.
“Angel,” he whispered, “you are very seriously injured. And while I could work to heal you, it is not the safest…the most advantageous option. I am going to do something you may not understand, and it is going to make your pain worse for a while…” Shit, now wasn’t that just the understatement of the century. What if Natalia never forgave him? “But it will give you an arsenal of defenses between now and Sunday; it will save your life and heal your injuries. It will allow you to return to your father’s home in one piece and keep up the ruse until I can take you out of there.” Forgive me, love, he added, but he couldn’t speak the words out loud.
Natalia turned her battered face listlessly to the side, and her hypnotic eyes met his. And in that pure, suspended moment, they were so completely absent of cunning—so filled with need…and trust…and longing. The glance was both a plea and a prayer: Save me. Make the pain go away. Take me away from this nightmare.
Santos wanted to gather every warrior in the house of Jadon—past, present, and future—blast a black hole into the Dark Ones’ Colony, and wage war until there was only one vampire left standing. If that just happened to be Napolean Mondragon, and the king had to rebuild the house of Jadon from inception, so be it: The world would be a better place for it.
He forced himself to dismiss the thoughts. They weren’t going to help Natalia.
Without further ado or explanation—he didn’t even reach out telepathically to inform his brothers; what was the point? They’d figure it out soon enough—he braced both palms on either side of Natalia’s waist, drew her into his lap, and held her tightly against him. He hooked his legs over, and around, her thighs, then shackled her shoulders with his powerful arms, anchoring her frame to his…holding her close to his heart. “Try to breathe, sweet girl. I will make this as fast as I can.”
Pain was pain.
Agony was agony.
And Natalia was about to descend into hell.
There was no point in prolonging the journey when the end goal was to emerge on the other side.
With that in mind, Santos released his incisors and sank them deep into Natalia’s jugular. Taking a deep breath for courage and pausing to offer a short prayer, he began to pump his venom in earnest. She stiffened, and he tightened his hold. She groaned, and he tuned it out. She began to jerk and writhe and protest in earnest, and he concentrated on pumping more venom.
She screamed so loud, the garbled cries so full of angst and terror, that Santos felt a barrier go up in the meadow, and he knew—he just did—Saxson and Ramsey were containing the sound, blocking it from escaping the area. As the luminescent dome of a cloaking cell enveloped the platform all around him—once again, compliments of Saxson and Ramsey—Santos began to pray: Dearest Delphinus, I beseech you to have mercy on Natalia. My destiny has already suffered enough. Please bring her comfort; take her mind somewhere else; and hold her close in your celestial arms. May mortal death come swiftly as you transform her human body. Resurrect this chosen female as Vampyr as painlessly as you are able.
Chapter Twenty
Twenty-four Hours Later ~ Saturday, 11:00 PM
“So, Oskar Vadovsky was a vampire too? And that’s how his driver disappeared from the limo?”
“Yes, my love.”
“They were both…dark spawns in the house of Jason?”
“Dark Ones in the house of Jaegar,” Santos corrected.
Natalia nodded slowly. “Jaegar,” she repeated, in a low, incredulous voice. “And you think the Dark Ones…they’ve purchased women from my father for decades…to breed. To violate. And to kill? You believe that’s what Oskar ultimately wanted from me?” Santos looked away, and Natalia shivered. It was better that he didn’t answer. She leaned against the soft, pillowed headboard in her private bedroom suite; wrapped her arms around her knees; and closed her eyes, trying to take it all in.
Santos had been by her side since late last night.
Ever since the unspeakably painful conversion: a grueling, unholy, seven-hour descent into hell, an assault against every human cell in Natalia’s mortal body, one that had left her mindless with agony, cursing the day she had been born, and wishing death and damnation on Santos—as well as every vampire the Blood had created—a process that had left her whimpering and wasted, but ultimately perfect.
Healed.
Changed.
Forever immortal.
It had been child’s play for Santos and his brothers—Saxson and Ramsey—to slip past her father’s guards, take her back to her bedroom, and compel all the servants and henchmen in Luca’s manse to stay away from her room: Do not knock on the door; do not ask any questions; do not disturb Natalia until further notice.
It still gave Natalia the willies to contemplate the enormous powers Santos’ species possessed—her species possessed—and while Santos had h
elped her turn down the noise, moderate her now heightened senses, and acclimate, at least a little, to her far more powerful body, what he couldn’t help her with was the mental adjustment.
In the past forty-eight hours, give or take a few, Natalia’s entire world had been flipped on its axis: turned upside down and altered irrevocably. Until she’d come back to clear, lucid consciousness in that meadow—until Santos had explained all he had done and all that had happened—she had still held out some measure of hope that she could change the trajectory of her future. That once the women in The Fortress were freed on Sunday, she could find a way to avoid The Curse, avoid the vampire’s clutches, and slip away into obscurity to live a solitary life of freedom.
That was never going to happen now.
No pun intended, but the nail was well and truly secured in her coffin.
Natalia Antoinette Giovanni was a vampire, and she belonged to a warrior-sentinel named Santos Andrei Olaru. And like it or not, this Blood Moon was happening, all of it, over the next twenty-seven days. Somehow—some way—she had to make sense of it, or least begin to accept it.
“You still with me, Natalia girl?” Santos’ deep, alluring tenor caressed her ears, bringing her out of her contemplation.
She exhaled slowly and opened her eyes. “I’m here. Just…still…processing.”
He nodded solemnly. “How are you feeling?”
Since six o’clock that morning, when the hellish conversion had finally ended, Natalia had rested, off and on all day, taking intermittent naps between Santos’ patient tutorials; testing her new body and her heightened senses; then withdrawing into the solace of her mind. “I’m fine, as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
His gorgeous, crystal-blue eyes deepened with compassion. “I am sorry for the way I chose to proceed, Natalia. I hope you know that was never my intention…to force this new life on you the way that I did. I had hoped to bring you into my world more gently.”
