Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8)

by Tessa Dawn

  Yet and still, the look in Rebecca’s eyes, when Julien had finally left her in the lavish guest room, had tugged at his heart like an anchored cable. She had drawn inward like a wilted wildflower, one he had suddenly plucked from the side of a mountain, stuffed into a cold glass vase, and placed on a barren, dark shelf set in an abandoned room, like he had left her to readjust to her new surroundings alone, in a world absent of her familiar roots.

  The entire situation sucked.

  There was simply no other way to put it.

  “Tracker.” Napolean’s deep, resonant voice cut through his internal reverie, bringing him back to the conference room and the various players at hand, all those gathered for one singular purpose, one grave resolution: to help Julien find and destroy his evil twin, once and for all.

  “Sorry, milord,” he mumbled absently, meeting the monarch’s onyx gaze. “I was…I was someplace else.”

  “She’s going to be fine, warrior,” Napolean said candidly, making it abundantly clear that he was reading Julien’s thoughts, or at least he was reading his countenance, since mind-invasion was considered rude among fellow vampires.

  Julien nodded. He cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair, all at once switching into strictly business mode. “So,” he projected, “will someone run this plan by me again? Any adjustments you might have made while I was helping Becca settle in?”

  Nachari Silivasi’s eyes brightened, if only for a second, as he caught the intimate reference, the shortening of Rebecca’s name. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, sideways at the knee, and then placed a firm, supportive hand on Braden Bratianu’s left shoulder. “As everyone here already knows, I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of using this fledgling as a decoy, but—” Braden stiffened in reaction to the word fledgling, and Nachari quickly amended his statement. “I’m not exactly thrilled about using this courageous and determined neophyte as a decoy, but since we don’t know where Ian is and have no sure way to flush him out, the plan makes sense to me.” He softened his tone to a reflective tenor. “I spoke with Dario and Lily earlier—they needed to know what was going on—and while Braden’s mother registered some pretty strong objections—in fact, she more or less said no way, no how—his stepfather was more understanding as a warrior. In the end, they gave us their blessing, just so long as we have all bases covered. Just so long as Braden’s backup includes not only the sentinels, but the king.”

  At this, Napolean stiffened, and then he simply took over the conversation. “As all of you know, I do not make a habit of hunting Dark Ones—my duties lie elsewhere, and I am reluctant to use my unique celestial powers because of the risk they pose to the house of Jadon. When I am weakened, ill, or depleted, anything could happen. One never knows what the cost of such an energy surge might be. However…” He cleared his throat for emphasis. “I believe this situation is unique, and therefore, it may require an exception.” He held up his hand to silence any protests or remarks before the council of warriors could make them. “That said, Ian would surely recognize the unique power of my presence, the sheer force of my energy, in an instant, should I be physically present at the creek. He would never appear to young Braden. For that reason, I will link to Braden’s psyche and watch through Braden’s eyes from the manse, prepared to materialize at the scene in an instant. I do believe, however, that Ian would fail to notice a panther blending in with the night, camouflaged within the shadows, and Julien”—he turned to lock gazes with the tracker—“in the middle 1800s, I witnessed a ferocious ambush between a small band of Chiricahua Apache and a regiment of unsuspecting US soldiers: The Apache literally burrowed beneath the ground, making themselves one with the landscape, and when the soldiers passed by, they arose like ghosts from an unmarked grave, part and parcel of the land itself, overtaking the enemy before the enemy even knew they were there. If you can slow your heartbeat to a mere crawl, the wizard has assured me that he can control your breathing with a spell, replace the need to acquire oxygen through your lungs so you don’t have to hold your breath. Your body will continue to transfer the hemoglobin through your cells and deliver it throughout your body, maintaining the functionality of your brain—”

  “You can do all that while you’re in panther form?” Julien asked dubiously, not meaning to interrupt the king.

  “Yes, I can,” Nachari said bluntly, casting a sidelong glance at the tracker.

  Julien shrugged his shoulders, and the king continued: “As I was saying, Nachari will see to your breathing so that you can arise like an Apache warrior and take your brother by surprise. You can be there at the creek, ahead of young Braden, already burrowed in. Nachari will be there also; the sentinels will be waiting in the wings; and I will appear if needed, to end the whole sordid affair with a glance.”

  Nachari nodded in affirmation, and Julien sucked in a harsh breath of air. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts and measure his words, he stated: “Just so you know…” He leveled a cautionary gaze at every warrior at the table. “You weren’t there on my tenth birthday—I was. Ian can move like the wind. He can strike swiftly and definitively in the space of a single breath. Braden will be in danger if he’s there with Ian alone, in closer proximity than Nachari or myself, if only for a heartbeat. We can counter whatever Ian does, but we can’t stop him from striking. The male is like a scorpion, and he packs a powerful sting.”

  Nachari swallowed his trepidation, although it was evident in his dark green eyes, and then he nodded once again. “We’re aware,” he said matter-of-factly. “But Braden can also move swiftly.” He tightened his grip on the youngster’s shoulder. “No, he may not be able to fight in a way that is equal to a centuries-old male, but he can shift into a bat—”

  “In less than three seconds,” Braden supplied, drawing back his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “I can also shift into an eagle, almost instantaneously.”

  Nachari eyed him suspiciously, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

  “I can,” Braden insisted, nodding his head several times. “I’ve been working on it, like…forever.”

  Nachari held his tongue out of what appeared to be great restraint and deference. “So you can swiftly fly away if needed?”

  “Yep,” Braden responded, and then his lip quirked up in a snarl. “Or I can rip his throat out with my talons, or peck his eyes out with my beak.”

  “Um, that would be a no,” Ramsey Olaru chimed in, leveling a stern, heated gaze at the teenage vampire. “Braden, if there’s even a chance that you’re gonna go off-script, that you could become a liability in all of this, then it’s a non-starter. Sorry, but you fighting Ian is not an option. You either stick to the plan, without wavering, or we come up with another strategy.”

  Santos Olaru linked his hands in front of him and then extended both forefingers toward Braden in a targeted gesture. “Agreed.”

  Saber crossed his arms over his chest and stared the fledgling down, even as Saxson leaned gently toward him. “For the record, my role in all of this is singular,” Saxson said. He leveled his gaze at Braden and raised both eyebrows. “To keep my eye on you. To jump in, the second anything goes down, and remove you from the fray. That’s it; that’s all. Your parents said it’s non-negotiable. The king said it’s a wrap. If I get involved in any other way, outside of having your back, he’s gonna kick my ass, himself.”

  Napolean snorted and frowned.

  Apparently, that side-conversation was supposed to be off the record.

  “Sorry, milord,” Saxson mumbled.

  The tip of Braden’s nose twitched in anger, or maybe frustration. “So, what? I’m just a liability now? I’m not even a vampire? I’m not even a man? Forgive me, warriors, but this is bullshit—just sayin’ since I’m part of this council.”

  Nachari hung his head. He waved his hand in an arc to silence any protests from the others and sighed. “Braden…” He spoke calmly. “We’ve been over this, son. I know how you feel. We all know how you f
eel. And we all get it. I promise; we do. But this”—he gestured once again, this time denoting the table, the conference room, and all the vampires present. “This is the real deal. This is what being a man, a warrior, and a member of the house of Jadon looks like. Coming to the table with the sentinels and the king, agreeing on strategy and assigning roles, making sure the warrior beside you knows—without question or hesitation—that you are one hundred percent, all in. That you have his back. That you get the plan. That you’re completely on board with working as a unit. You want to be taken seriously? Then you take us seriously. Then you take obedience seriously. You want a place at the table with the big boys, with the king? Then you’d better learn to watch your mouth. Just sayin’.”

  Julien drew back and grimaced as he watched the scene unfold: It was uncharacteristic of Nachari Silivasi to speak in such a harsh, unequivocal manner, especially to the sensitive, impressionable boy, but this was not a time to play around. He watched as Braden’s complexion grew sallow, and the fledgling averted his eyes.

  “Sorry,” Braden mumbled.

  And while the whole scene was instructive and touching, Julien had heard enough. Ian was his lifelong nemesis, the never-ending thorn in his side, and if Nachari was going to be in charge of keeping Julien breathing while he waited underground, then the last thing the wizard needed to worry about was a recalcitrant boy, a spirited young vampire who was eager to prove himself at the creek. “Look at me,” he snarled, locking his gaze with Braden’s and dilating his own pupils as a precursor to a compulsion. He had every intention of burning an unerring command into the child’s mind—you will do exactly as Ramsey has bid you—thus, removing the element of chance.

  “Tracker.” Napolean’s deep, commanding voice brought him up short.

  Julien’s intense gaze shot to Napolean, and he made no effort to conceal the disdain he knew was brimming in his eyes.

  “No.” The king’s word fell upon the table like an anvil. “That is not our code.”

  Julien started to protest, but something in Napolean’s demeanor brought him up short, and he sank back into his chair instead. “Apologies, milord.”

  Napolean nodded, and then he turned his attention to Braden. “Son, do we have your word? Your job is to lure Ian to the creek; if possible, to lead him to where Julien is hiding; and then, to put it in terms you youngsters understand, to get the hell out of dodge, post haste. No magic, no fighting, no improv. You follow Saxson’s lead—and his orders—as if they were my own. Your word?”

  Braden nodded emphatically. “You have my word.”

  “Very well,” Napolean continued. “Now then, read the missive once more so that we are all reminded of Ian’s treachery, what this simple, manipulative degenerate believes he can pull off.”

  Braden reached into the hip pocket of his jeans and retrieved the crumpled missive, shaking it out a few times to unsnarl the page: Greetings, my auspicious friend—he paused to roll his eyes—I have discovered nine perfect stones down by the stream, near River Rock Road, and I believe I have fashioned five perfect citrines, three perfect rubies, and one flawless diamond ~ all for my newfound acquaintance. Alas, I am still biding my time—you will keep our secret, won’t you? Meet me by the river, Sunday night. Same place as before. I am in great need of familiar company. Grigori.

  Braden tossed the missive in the center of the mahogany table, and Julien stifled a snarl.

  They had less than thirty minutes remaining.

  Thirty minutes before the sun went down.

  Thirty minutes to get into position, and thirty minutes to solidify the plan.

  Julien drew a deep breath of air in a gargantuan effort to control his emotions—he could not afford to lose it now—his mind had to be clear and free of opiates when he met his twin on the banks of the mountain creek.

  In less than thirty minutes, Julien Lacusta would finally get the chance of a lifetime to settle a score as timeless and primal as the cycle of life, and death, itself. He would finally get to unleash the demons that had taken root in his soul, tortured his psyche, devoured his sanity, and ruled his every waking moment for as long as he had drawn breath.

  Yes…

  In less than thirty minutes, Julien Lacusta would meet up with his twin.

  Ian Lacusta.

  The monster who had slain their parents: one, by default; the other, by intention.

  At long last, Julien would have a chance to settle the score.

  twenty-five

  River Rock Creek ~ nightfall

  The sentinels waited in the wings, about one mile downwind from the rushing river, carefully concealed beyond the shoulder of River Rock Road. Napolean watched from the manse, his psychic mind linked to both Braden’s and Julien’s, projecting the scene like an old-fashioned movie reel into the minds of the waiting vampires. The panther crouched, low and still, hugging the upper limb of a narrowleaf cottonwood, despite the sapling’s flimsy branches. And the tracker burrowed deeper into the ground, willing his body not to shake as he struggled to remain undetected.

  The night was ironically calm.

  The air was both damp and cool.

  And despite slowing his heartbeat to a creeping rhythm, Julien could’ve sworn each beat, each slow, measured timbre, resounded like the clang of a symbol.

  He held his breath and waited.

  Listening, intently.

  Tuning in to every reel of film, every clear, moving picture projected from the Sovereign One’s mind: Braden had taken an unhurried position on the bank of the river, just three or four paces beyond a smooth, rocky ledge at the bottom of the steep embankment. He was pretending to study a handful of polished river stones, and he was in the perfect position to take two large strides back and deliver Ian to Julien.

  As the air began to thicken and a familiar mist settled in, Julien’s skin began to tingle, and his senses became hyper-alert. And then, just like that, the dark, wily vampire stepped out of the mist and sauntered along the banks of the river, his right hand extended to Braden in greeting.

  Julien grit his teeth, narrowing his gaze on the image Napolean was projecting: Six-foot-four, the same height as Julien; peculiar, dark gray eyes, only Ian’s were slate-gray as opposed to moonstone, absent of compassion and vacant of life; and long, wild hair that fell to the middle of his back, crisscrossing in wavy bands of black and red, the signature coronet of a Dark One.

  Whoa.

  Julien did a double-take.

  Apparently, Napolean was seeing Ian with second sight, and there were two images being projected, one superimposed over the other: Grigori Antonopoulos, the hoax with blond hair that Ian was presenting to Braden, and the true face of the monster, which Napolean was seeing clearly.

  A dark twin, born to the house of Jadon.

  It was eerie to say the least.

  “Greetings, my auspicious friend.” That voice. It was deep, duplicitous, and guttural.

  Braden reluctantly extended his hand and nervously cleared his throat. “What’s up, Grigori.”

  The vampire bowed his head in a mockery of an old-world gesture, and then, without blinking or any hint of warning, he tightened his grip on Braden’s right hand; yanked the youngster forward, pulling him off balance; and thrust five claws at Braden’s chest, wielding his unencumbered hand.

  He went straight for the kill.

  Straight for the heart.

  There was no hesitation.

  Julien’s eyes grew wide as he sprang from the ground like a geyser, praying he wasn’t too late. With dirt and leaves clouding his vision, he gasped as Ian’s claws pierced young Braden’s chest, clutched at the flesh-and-blood organ, and drew back with a mighty tug.

  The youngster grunted, flailed his arms, and tried to regain his balance.

  And then, in what appeared to be a lightning-quick sleight-of-hand, the air filled with swirling feathers, and Ian drew back a sterling white plume, the penna of an eagle, instead of Braden’s heart.

  Nachari pounced
from the tree, landing on Ian’s chest, even as Julien encircled Ian’s shoulders from behind, palmed his forehead with an outstretched hand, and wrenched his head to the side in an effort to snap his neck.

  A sharp pain shot through Julien’s side, causing him to lose the element of surprise and the benefit of momentum—what the hell?—as his own head snapped back, a pair of lethal fangs sank deep into his jugular, and what felt like the sudden presence of a giant crowding behind him began to snarl in his ear.

  He released his hold on Ian and punched backward, over his left shoulder, slamming his fist into the face of the new assailant—three times in quick succession—before spinning around in an arc and forcing the jagged fangs to dislodge from his throat.

  Meanwhile, Nachari and Ian were going at it like two wild, mystical beasts, shifting in and out of vampiric form: One moment, the panther was lunging for the Dark One’s throat; the next, he was grappling with mist. One instant, Ian was landing a series of lethal, targeted blows—striking the green-eyed wizard in the gullet, pummeling his ears, and gouging at his eyes—the next, he was flailing at a black furry ball that twisted in midair like a serpent, while releasing a harrowing cry: a roar, a grunt, and a scream.

  Through his peripheral vision, Julien caught a momentary glimpse of Saxson Olaru, cradling the bloodied breast of an eagle in his hands, preparing to release and inject healing venom, but he didn’t have a chance to zoom in. The giant who had attacked him from behind was now coming at him like a tank, unleashing a full-frontal assault.

  Julien reached down to the thigh of his cargo pants, retrieved his familiar battle axe, and began to hack, and twirl, and slice, removing sizeable chunks of flesh with each expert swipe.