Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8)

by Tessa Dawn

  “Not that.”

  He chuckled again. “And what is that?” Before she could answer, he slid a huge, splayed hand over her waist, then down, to her lower stomach, and pulled her back against him.

  She gasped in surprise and alarm.

  “Your heart is racing, Rebecca.”

  She snorted. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

  His voice vibrated in her ear. “Mm. And that is why your palms are sweating, your knees are growing weak, and your scent is changing in response to my touch?”

  She placed both palms over his wrist to keep his hand from straying in any…untoward direction. “Julien…”

  “Tu îmi aparți mie șoarec mic.” He repeated the infuriating phrase—you belong to me, little mouse. “Say it.”

  Rebecca clenched her teeth together and nearly snarled, “I will not say that. Not in English or Romanian.”

  He growled into the crook of her shoulder—well, maybe he actually purred. “You will, Rebecca. I promise you. Before this moon is over, you will.” He bent over, leaning so deeply into her that she curved toward the bed, despite her fervent desire not to, and then he reached around her, deftly zipped the duffle with one sure hand, and hefted it from the bed. “Come, little mouse. We have a long drive to Denver, and I have some…tracking and hunting to do for my angel.”

  Rebecca sucked in a generous breath of air.

  The man was insane.

  No, the vampire was completely off his rocker.

  He was an arrogant, terrifying, domineering beast who spoke out of turn, took far too many liberties, and retreated from life into the world of heroin. Who the heck did he think he was?

  As she turned to follow him out of the master bedroom, her knees gave out beneath her, and she almost hit the deck.

  Julien caught her in an instant and tugged her back onto her feet. “Careful, little mouse.”

  Holy hell.

  Who was Rebecca kidding?

  He was the most powerful, exquisitely beautiful, unequivocally masculine creature she had ever seen, and she could barely breathe in his mind-numbing presence. She had made a deal with the devil, and she hated him for that. Yet, heaven help her, some primitive, unconscious fragment at her core was beginning to respond to him like metal to a magnet, constantly reacting to his presence.

  She didn’t want him, did she?

  Surely she couldn’t…she wouldn’t…she didn’t.

  Oh hell, she had eyes, didn’t she?

  And she did have a pulse, at least last she’d checked.

  And he was…

  Magnificent.

  Still, on every conscious, rational, cognitive level she feared him more than she had ever feared Trevor. Rebecca stopped walking. She shut her eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath, and simply tried to regroup, while he waited.

  The situation was crazy.

  Of course her emotions were all over the map, but she would sort it out in time.

  She had to.

  For now, she would go with the vampire to Denver; she would introduce him to the women in her VOSU group; and she would let him do what he was born to do, what he was infamous for doing in the house of Jadon: hunting unsuspecting prey. She would give him all the files, let him read the backstories, and ply him with information; and then she would let him track, like the predator he was. She owed it to the women. She owed it to herself. She owed it to a world that had been absent of justice for far too long.

  And the rest would come to fruition in time.

  After all, a deal was a deal, as supernatural, crazy, and impossible as it was. And Rebecca had given her word.

  She opened her eyes and followed him to the bedroom door, her legs finding a newfound strength. “I’m right behind you, tracker.”

  twelve

  Achilles Zahora was a giant of a vampire, a seven-foot savage with a bronze complexion, citrine-colored eyes, and a wicked tattoo of a black mamba wrapped around his upper right bicep: the band of the formal Colony Guard. They called him the executioner, and he was a force to be reckoned with: That was really all there was to it.

  And as for the Dark Ones’ Colony?

  Holy lords of darkness!

  Ian was beyond impressed.

  The circular, underground fortress was built in three solid layers: The basement contained surveillance equipment, generators, and a massive electric grid—it functioned as the nerve center of the settlement, and it was an incredible sight to behold. The main level was the central hub of nightly life, containing one hundred hallways, each divided into four sections of twenty-five, consisting of a northern, eastern, western, and southern quadrant. And each quadrant housed 275 units, clusters of vampires arranged by family and occupational ties. Each individual unit housed eleven residential lairs—five on both sides of the hall, and one focal lair at the apex—with a sufficient amount of storage built into the opposite end.

  In addition to the Dark Ones’ private residences, their clusters of individual lairs, the main floor also contained a courthouse, a torture chamber, and a council hall. There were breeding and birthing rooms for human, female captives, and the infamous snake pit as well: a cavity of carnal pain and pleasure, affectionately referred to as the Chamber of Cobras.

  On the top tier of the colony, the third and final floor, there was everything a community of vampires could have dreamed of: a congregational hall, which served as an auditorium; a library, sports facilities, and a teaching facility, which was used for formal education; and several small cryptic chambers, erected for the purpose of practicing black magic. And all of it, every impressive underground floor, was built in a stacked, circular design, accessed from the four primal directions by a pulley-system of elevators and surrounded by a single unobstructed outer hall, which made traversing any part of the colony both efficient and easy.

  Now, as Ian Lacusta sank deep into the bluish water of a hot sulfuric pool situated toward the back of Achilles Zahora’s private limestone lair, he appraised a nearby column of stalagmites and sighed.

  “So I take it you are enjoying the accommodations?” Achilles asked, his gruff, boorish voice sounding like it was amplified through gravel.

  Ian took another deep, calming breath, reveling in the thick, pungent scent of the dank, sulfuric air, and eyed his new host warily. “I am still having trouble believing that this is how the Dark Ones live,” he said, with appreciation.

  Achilles chuckled, and the evil sound ricocheted off the granite walls. “The Dark Ones?” he echoed. “You mean the house of Jaegar, your people, as it were.”

  Ian shrugged. He needed to tread carefully. After all, this brute of a vampire could probably crush Ian’s skull with one flick of his wrist, so he chose his words precisely. “As you know, I was neither born to the house of Jaegar, nor the house of Jadon. I was a cursed one, the dark twin to a brother of light, meant only to be sacrificed. I cannot say that I have a…people.”

  “Are you not a Dark One?” Achilles snarled.

  Ian smiled. “Indeed, I am that.”

  “Then that is all that matters,” Achilles said. “And frankly, if you bring that bullshit up one more time, that ignorant-ass crap about the circumstances of your birth, I’ll drag your ass to the sacrificial stone myself and see to it that the Blood gets what it wanted. We clear?”

  Ian held his breath, growing instantly quiet. After a pregnant moment had passed, he whispered, “Crystal,” and then he sank deeper into the pool, careful to avert his eyes. “And if I choose to stay here…a bit longer,” Ian ventured, cautiously, “where would I be housed? And what would the house of Jaegar—what would my house—ask of me in return?”

  Achilles shifted his position in the water, resting both massive arms behind him against the granite ledge, and the subtle movement sent a wave of water sloshing out of the organic tub. “In terms of staying a bit longer: Where the hell else would you go? Back to your yacht in Greece? Brother, that makes no damn sense. Nah, you need to relocate, vampire. And we already ha
ve a room for you: Saber’s old lair. Believe me, it’s poetic, ironic, and perfectly fitting.”

  Ian nodded, remembering the sordid tale Achilles had shared about the child stolen from the house of Jadon and raised among the Dark Ones, the one who was now a valley sentinel and working closely with Ian’s twin. “I see. And as for what you would desire in return?”

  Achilles snorted. “Pledge your fealty to the house of Jaegar; become the low vamp on the totem pole in a familial hunting pack; and swear your allegiance to the Dark Ones’ council. That is all we would ask of you.” He shrugged a gigantic shoulder and cocked his head to the side. “Well, that, and maybe one other thing.”

  Ian practically held his breath. “And what would that be?”

  Achilles’ fangs began to lengthen as if the very thought of the final condition inspired feral longings in his blood. “The boy, the one you met near River Rock Road.”

  “Ah yes,” Ian said, “Braden Bratianu.”

  Achilles nicked his tongue on a fang and sucked on the subsequent blood. “Meet with him again—and kill him.”

  Ian sat up straighter, turned his head to regard Achilles squarely, and raised his brows. “The child? The one trying to create gemstones for a silly female?”

  Achilles frowned. “You got a problem with killing, brother?”

  Ian flicked his wrist in irritation. “Of course not. I have a problem with making my presence in this valley known to anyone else in the house of Jadon. I have a problem with inciting an enemy whom I have avoided for centuries without knowing the reason why. I don’t do things indiscriminately, Achilles. Will that be a problem for you?” He could hardly believe he had dared to go there, but there it was. Ian Lacusta was nobody’s lackey, and he wasn’t a natural-born fool.

  Achilles seemed utterly unfazed by Ian’s objection or his rebellious words. “We don’t suffer fools in the house of Jaegar, Ian, so that’s a good thing in my opinion.”

  “You read my thoughts?” Ian could hardly believe his ears.

  Achilles sat upright and leaned forward then, his deep citrine eyes glowing crimson red. “Do you think I would bring you into this colony, share our history, our laws, and show you our lairs without scouring every neuron in your reclusive mind first?” He bit back a savage snarl. “Do you think you would be sitting here in my private residence if I hadn’t already determined that I can trust you? I am a formal soldier of the Colony’s guard, Mr. Lacusta. I would rip your head from your shoulders with my bare hands if I thought you posed the house of Jaegar any kind of threat, however small or insignificant.” He leaned back and began to relax. “But as it is, I have seen your intentions, as well as your thoughts. You desire only to destroy your brother and to remain alive…and unseen…to be free to hunt, to rape, and to live as you please. You can do all of that in the house of Jaegar; and frankly, now that you’ve been here, you no longer have a choice. If you would like your thoughts to be respected, then show this house some respect. What we ask of you is a simple matter: Destroy the child for the council. Salvatore Nistor has his reasons, and that’s all you need to know.” He leveled a lazy, sidelong glance at Ian and whispered, “What say you, brother?”

  Ian gulped, and then he shrugged.

  Checkmate.

  He had not seen that ultimatum coming.

  Ah well, there were far worse places he could be, and the way he saw it, if he joined with the house of Jaegar, then their enemies became his.

  And his became theirs.

  “I will butcher the fatted calf, as it were, and we will feast on the boy’s remains.” He winked conspiratorially. “The prodigal son has returned.”

  thirteen

  Denver

  It was just shy of midnight when Julien and Rebecca approached the door to Rebecca’s small apartment, and the hair stood up on the back of Julien’s neck. “Angel,” he whispered brusquely, “get behind me.”

  Rebecca blinked several times, betraying her confusion. “Why? I—”

  “Don’t question me, baby girl,” Julien interrupted. “Not when it comes to this, not when it comes to hunting an enemy. If you want my protection—and you will always have it—don’t question me when we’re away from the safety of Dark Moon Vale.” He furrowed his brow. “Not even then.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes and took a generous step back.

  “Give me your keys,” he prompted.

  Rebecca handed her Minions key chain to Julien, seeming grateful that he hadn’t decided to break down the door, and swiftly sidestepped behind him. Glimpsing the ridges on the stems of her keys, then peering inside the locks, he slipped the largest key into the top lock, a second key into the middle set, and the smallest key into a third opening, and turned each one, clockwise, in succession, pushing the heavy panel open. One sniff told him all he needed to know. “Just as I suspected: Someone has been here as recently as Sunday or Monday.” He stepped boldly into the front room. “I can smell him…everywhere. And the evidence he left behind is vulgar.”

  Rebecca gulped, and he immediately glimpsed her thoughts. It was simply more efficient than conversation, and Julien made no apologies when it came to his destiny’s safety: Someone’s been in here? she pondered. As recently as Sunday or Monday? That’s not possible. And what does he mean—the evidence is vulgar?

  Julien hoped he wouldn’t have to explain the latter.

  In a matter of seconds, he scanned the dark room, using his errorless, infrared vision as well as his heightened sense of smell: There was shattered glass near the back patio door, the obvious point of entry, where someone had broken in. There were larger fragments of stoneware on the kitchen floor—someone had broken her dishes. And there was an incredibly foul odor coming from her master bedroom—someone had pleasured himself on her bed. He knew it was her master bedroom because he could also smell her scent, her shower gel, the faint hint of vanilla-spiced perfume, and a light dusting of her sweat, mixed with sheets: cotton, polyester, and fabric softener. He was a meticulous tracker, and his mind could identify, organize, and analyze a space in the time it took most vampires to retrieve their weapons.

  Julien reached out his left hand, entreating Rebecca to take it. “I require a sensory impression from your mind,” he said bluntly. “Forgive me, but I need you to think about the last time you saw Trevor, your stalker; simply picture him in your mind.” When she opened her mouth to object, he pushed harder. “Rebecca, if you don’t assist me in this, I will simply have to dig deeper to sort through a maze of possible memories. By retrieving the memory I need, yourself, we will save a lot of time.”

  Rebecca’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t shy away from the task. Her amazing topaz eyes glazed over with a hint of fear, or trepidation, and in that moment, she looked so incredibly vulnerable that Julien wanted to reach out and run his fingers through her hair, place both of his hands on her narrow shoulders, brush the underside of her jaw with a kiss.

  He couldn’t help it…

  But he did moderate it.

  Rather than press his lips to her flawless skin, he brushed the pads of his fingers over her softly rounded jaw and caressed her cheek with his hand “Șoarec micuț, you are safe in my keeping. You know this, right?”

  Rebecca tilted her head away from the intimacy of his touch, but she nodded.

  “I require only three seconds.” He placed either hand on each side of her head, cupping her ears in his palms, and then he waited for her to retrieve the memory.

  The Arizona desert.

  Some sort of botanical garden and a rock-band concert.

  A human male standing behind a tall, arid tree, waiting for Rebecca to walk past it. Her heart was thundering in her chest as she rounded the corner and saw him standing there, glowering at her with malice—

  Julien cut off the memory abruptly.

  That wouldn’t be helpful.

  Not right now.

  He needed to keep his wits. Stay focused on the apartment. Remain in the here and now.

  “
Got it,” he whispered.

  He pulled every sensory detail he would need from Rebecca’s mind in the space of a heartbeat: Trevor’s eye color and the style of his hair; his height and his build; the sound of his voice and the pattern of his speech; the smell of his skin and the feel of his energy, even his body language.

  His aura.

  His countenance.

  And his psychic stamp—the energetic imprint of his chaotic thoughts.

  Julien stepped away and tried to conceal his fangs, waiting for the canines to retreat. That son of a bitch, he thought. Trevor had masturbated on Rebecca’s bed, and he had done it quite recently, probably on Sunday, the day Julien had met her. Despite his Herculean attempt at control, a feral snarl escaped his throat. He would stuff that maggot’s entrails down his sick, perverted throat and watch as he choked on his own intestines.

  “Julien?” Rebecca’s voice cut through the growing red haze.

  “He has been in your apartment, my love.” He took her by the hand and led her to the back patio doors. “Watch the glass.” He pointed at the scattered shards beneath their feet, just inches away from the latch. “Look at the trajectory of the scattered pieces: He broke in with his fist, and he probably used a glove. There are no traces of blood on the floor.” Julien shuddered inside at the thought of what would have happened if Rebecca had been there. The brute strength and rage it required to punch through that door…

  The human was clearly insane.

  He sniffed the air once more and nodded, and then he led her through the kitchen, toward the refrigerator, and pointed at the shards, beneath the kitchen counter. “He had some sort of hissy fit and started breaking dishes.” And then he slowly guided her, although he hated to do it, down the narrow hall to the master bedroom. Choosing the correct door, unerringly, he paused to modulate his voice. “He’s been sleeping in your room, rolling around in your bed.”

  Rebecca bit down on her lower lip and grimaced. “Oh…shit.” She tried to force an insincere smile, to appear as if she wasn’t that rattled, but Julien saw right through it.