by Tessa Dawn
Saxson watched as the magnificent figure receded into the night, illuminated by the light of the moon, and once again, he prayed…
Until nothing but silence, regret, and what was left of the forest surrounded him.
twenty-seven
Three hours later
Rebecca Johnston felt numb and disoriented as she sat in the passenger seat of Brooke Mondragon’s car and watched the Cimmerian darkness go by. They traversed the private, rocky terrain that led to Kagen’s hospital; made their way through the dense, pine forest; and finally came to a halt in a simple, unpaved lot that preceded an archaic stone-bridge.
The surreal moment was bathed in shadowed moonlight, and her heart was cocooned in her chest.
Dazed.
Sleeping.
And curiously, lukewarm.
She glanced through the front windshield at the cliffs beyond the passage, the steep, inclining path that would take them by foot to the hidden facility, the Dark Moon Vale Clinic, and she tried to tune in to the winding Snake River.
She needed the resonance of the whitewater rushing beyond the car to soothe her troubled soul. Because this—all that had happened over the past seven days—was far too much to absorb.
Far too much to comprehend.
“Rebecca?” Brooke’s kind, gentle voice interrupted her thoughts. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
Rebecca furrowed her brow. “So tell me again—what happened? He was burned in a fire, during the fight?”
Brooke cleared her throat, shifted in her seat to meet Rebecca’s gaze, and the depth of compassion that shone in her eyes was almost too much to bear. “Yeah, he was hurt pretty bad.”
“Burned?” Rebecca repeated.
It was a stupid question.
Brooke nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
“But…” Rebecca wrung her hands together. “But he’s a vampire, right? I mean, like me, at least now. So he’ll heal…or regenerate…or come out of it, in time? He just needs a lot of venom and attention, and maybe some…some surgery?”
Brooke bit her bottom lip and tried to present a reassuring smile that she couldn’t quite fake. “He…” She paused to measure her words, oh so carefully, way too carefully. “He lost a lot of his density…his mass…due to the fire. A lot of it was burned away.” The queen’s voice faltered, and Rebecca wanted to scream in frustration: Stop, just stop! But she waited, silently, instead. “The thing is,” Brooke continued, “what’s most vital is the heart, the brain, and the blood. As long as he can regenerate his chambers and absorb fresh blood, as long as he still has sentience, then Napolean’s venom is very powerful, and Kagen is as skilled as they come. They’re going to do all that they can, but I think that you should be…prepared.” Her speech slowed in cadence, reflecting a hollow drone, and Rebecca closed her eyes.
So, Ian had finally won.
He had destroyed Julien’s parents, terrorized two innocent little girls, and caused the massacre of a village. He had turned the tracker into a hostage, enslaved to a vile drug, and now he had left Rebecca a widow?
Was that the right word?
Or would she die from the Curse?
She didn’t really understand how it all worked.
She only knew that she was no longer human, that she had made a deal with an immortal vampire, and now, she could very well be on her own for the rest of her life.
A very long, confusing, immortal life.
And God forgive her because that was a terribly selfish thought.
Julien had jumped into a fire—a freaking wall of flames—in order to destroy his twin, and now, something buried deep inside of Rebecca’s heart, something more sentient, more vital than the organ itself, felt like it was being ripped out through her throat.
She didn’t understand how.
She didn’t understand why.
She only knew she could hardly breathe.
And she didn’t want to see him, not like this, her powerful gladiator, burned and charred.
Gone.
Dying.
Destroyed.
“So, what next?” she asked, as if something robotic was animating her mouth, ruling her reflexes, and spurring her on.
Sensing her deep, conflicting angst, Brooke reached across the seat, grasped Rebecca by the hand, and squeezed, her own elegant fingers trembling. “We get out of the car. We put one foot in front of the other. And we walk into the clinic.” She began to rush her words, as if she was afraid of losing her courage. “And then, we take it one step, one breath, at a time. Kagen will meet us at the door, and his mate, Arielle, will be with him—she has a very gentle soul, a very healing presence. They will sit you down and explain everything, bring you up to speed, and you don’t have to see him until you’re ready.” She inhaled sharply, clearly rattled by her own carefully chosen words. “Nachari is here, too. He came back early from Silverton Creek. He can explain some of the deeper aspects, the spiritual or metaphysical concerns. And Saxson—he’s one of the sentinels who was there during the battle—he’s waiting for us, along with the others. He can tell you anything you might want to know about what happened down by the river, or shortly after, when he and Napolean found Julien. The point is…” She paused to stare at her fingers, and it struck Rebecca as odd. Despite Brooke’s gentle, supportive nature, the queen was truly distraught. “You are not alone, sweetie. You will never be alone again. We are here, the entire house of Jadon, my family, myself, and the king. We are here with you, and with Julien. And we’re going to help you see this through. No matter what occurs.”
Rebecca drew back her hand and flicked it in the air, almost as if she could wring out her emotions through the gesture, soften the intensity, and magically, subdue the fear. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she knew she was going to lose it if she didn’t get out of that car, get away from the queen…
As fast as she could.
She groped for the handle on the door, tugged it open with a jerk, and leaped out of the vehicle, slamming the heavy panel behind her. And then she made her way to the archaic bridge, all the while walking through a fog, where she paced back and forth and stared at the churning river beneath her.
Julien Zechariah Lacusta.
Tracker for the house of Jadon.
A vampire.
The gladiator who had ravaged her life.
And her soul.
The male who had kissed her so passionately, touched her so gently, that day in her apartment when she had told him about her birds: Analise and Evangeline.
The liquid H and “The House of the Rising Sun”: such terror, such fear, such confusion.
Trevor…
And the VOSU women.
He had taken her nightmare away.
Her conversion, and the pregnancy that was soon to ensue: the Curse, the sacrifice, and the twins.
Ian!
That monster!
And the house of Jadon.
Julien had rushed into a fire!
Her thoughts were like smattering raindrops tossing in the wind, pouring down in random, icy currents, striking where they may, leaving puddles and pools and cold, frosty streams, flowing like random, tumultuous rivers in their wake.
“Oh, sweetie.” She heard the queen’s voice…again. “It’s going to be okay. Somehow. Someway.” And then the woman, the vampire queen, the one with the ebony hair, wrapped her graceful arms around Rebecca and sat with her on the ground—when had Rebecca slumped to the ground?—and rocked her in her arms.
“It’s okay, angel. It really is. Let it all out. It’s going to be okay.”
twenty-eight
Rebecca had taken her time and coddled her heart.
She had allowed Kagen and Arielle to describe Julien’s horrific condition in graphic detail, to explain all of the procedures he’d already had, those he still had scheduled, and his overall precarious prognosis. She had listened as Saxson recalled each and every event that had occurred at the creek, in chronological order, offering as many—or as few—pa
rticulars as she desired. And she had done her best to follow Nachari Silivasi’s explanation of the spiritual aspects of the injury: Julien’s deeper, intrinsic wounds; the life beyond the life; the battle the tracker would have to wage with his body, mind, and soul in order to heal completely.
And once all the discussions were through, she had remained for at least a half an hour in the clinic’s serenely appointed anteroom, simply digesting all she’d heard.
Processing.
Feeling.
Accepting as much as she could.
Now, as she stood outside of Julien’s medical suite, positioned at the end of the hall, she dug down, deep, for courage. She buried the turmoil, ignored the prognosis, and disposed of the clinical facts as she reached for the handle on the door. No reservations; no fears; no confusion, she told herself one last time, stuffing all her chaotic emotions in a small, tidy compartment to reopen and digest later.
You can do this, Becca.
She tugged on the handle, stepped inside the room, and immediately took three long strides in the direction of the bed, determined to be brave and strong. The door swung shut behind her, and she jerked—but only for a moment. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin, and then she gasped, stifled a scream, and scrambled backward, stunned by the tragedy before her. Both hands shot to her mouth as she strangled a horrified cry and gawked, straight ahead, at the vampire.
Julien Lacusta was propped up in the bed, his head supported by the neck and raised by some mechanical mechanism. The majority of his limbs were wrapped tightly in bandages, and for all intents and purposes, he looked like a gruesome paradox of nature: both burned and frozen, both awake and asleep, both healing and dying at the same time. His gorgeous moonstone eyes were open, but vacant, utterly absent of life, staring blankly forward as if he was gazing into space. His thick, sculpted lips, at least what she could make of them, were an impossible shade of blue and littered with multiple bloodstained cracks, and his beautiful mahogany hair was singed to the roots, like a really bad skull-trim or an uneven fade.
And his torso?
That glorious, powerful body that had always been strapped with muscle and imbued with preternatural strength?
It was like an ashen, petrified log, calcified and mangled, hollow and hard.
Rebecca sank to the floor, fell to her knees, and averted her eyes.
She braced her palms on the cool, sterile tiles and tried to regain her bearings. Just get up, she told herself. Slowly. Carefully. Just get up and make your way to the bed.
What the heck was she feeling?
Horror?
Loss?
Anger or fear?
She couldn’t sort through her feelings; this was all too much.
Way too much.
On one hand, this male, the vampire wrapped in the bed like a mummy, had once been her captor: a strange, primordial being who had taken her from her life and forced her to face an unimaginable future, a destiny chosen by gods…
And monsters.
But on the other hand, she knew, somewhere deep inside, where the truth could neither retreat nor hide, that the vampire on the bed—the male, the tracker, the warrior—was her soul mate: the other half of her heart. And everything inside of her reeled from the horror of what had been done to him, what had occurred in that blazing forest.
For the first time since she’d met him, she felt an overwhelming pang of impending loss, knowing that, should he fail to pull through, her life, her future, her…everything…was over.
Gone.
The revelation was unexpected and stunning.
Nothing made any sense.
Biting down on her lower lip, she rose gingerly from the floor, ascended to her knees, and simply knelt there until she stopped shaking. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in everything but him. She couldn’t bear to look. And then, as she slowly climbed to her feet, holding her arms outstretched and to the sides in order to maintain her balance, she forced herself to meet his eyes.
Only his eyes.
Just his eyes.
“Tracker,” she whispered softly. “It’s me. Your little mouse.” Unwitting tears blurred her vision, broke free from her tear ducts, and ran down her cheeks, and although the drops were innocuous, she felt the weight of their sting like trickles of acid. He had been right, after all; she would say it one day—she just had.
She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to rustle his bandaged body, and warily cleared her throat. “Kagen, the doctor-guy, he said you still have a chance.” She paused to draw a deep, cleansing breath for courage. “He said he was alternating infusions of venom with skin grafts, and that the tissues beneath the burns will come back as each layer is treated. He said your heartbeat is faint because you’re still growing new chambers, and that things are healing slower than usual. But that’s because…well, because…your soul seems somehow splintered, like maybe they snatched you back from the brink of death just in the nick of time. Just…barely.” She sighed, not really understanding a thing the vampire-doctor had told her. “I don’t really understand it,” she whispered, refusing to say any more—she wasn’t about to tell him the truth. After all, what could she possibly say? That they had told her he was burned, all the way down to his bones, and while Napolean had been able to stop the complete disintegration of his heart…and his brain…by packing his body in ice, they weren’t entirely sure if his cells would regenerate, if he wasn’t already gone?
His spirit, that is.
Nachari, the wizard-guy, the one who had given him the crystal that first day in his house, he had said something utterly incomprehensible, something about Julien’s soul, like it was battling between dimensions. The fire had forced it out of his body, causing it to flee as if in death; but the ice and the prayers had called it back, and it was trying to realign, once again.
All of it was beyond her comprehension.
Her realm of understanding.
What she did get, loud and clear, was the fact that Ian was gone.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
And she was ecstatic about that fact on a level that barely made sense.
The monster had tortured Julien…all of his life.
And by extension, he had also tortured Rebecca.
She knew, without question, that Julien had not made a rash decision at all, when he had chosen to dive into that fire. He had made an absolute calculation, sought a brother’s vindication, and exercised his final judgment as both a warrior and a son.
And he had done so with the courage and the heart of a lion.
But what did that mean for them?
What did that mean for her?
What did it mean in terms of the Curse?
Rebecca was Vampyr now, part and parcel of the house of Jadon; there would be no going back for her. And honestly, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to—go back, that is—Rebecca wanted Julien to live.
By all the gods, why hadn’t she understood this earlier?
Rebecca wanted Julien to live!
To stay…with her.
She sighed and inadvertently reached out to take his hand, instantly drawing hers back: there was nothing concrete to take hold of. And then she jolted as a burst of light shot forth from her fingers, gravitated toward his palm, and then just as quickly withdrew, following the trajectory of her hand.
She turned her palm over and stared at it.
There was nothing obvious there.
Yet and still, she could feel a pulsing energy gathering in her fingertips, originating in her soul, and the darkness, the charred, mangled fragments that substituted for his fingers, began to twitch…or stir. Like fish in a bowl, swimming toward the promise of food, they gravitated toward Rebecca’s energy like they were eager to gobble it up.
To devour her light.
She leaned forward and tried again, this time, splaying all five fingers wide, and allowing her palm to simply hover over his damaged limb. The charred layers began to peel back, revealing raw, reddened flesh ben
eath burns that were capable of…healing.
She pressed her hand even closer.
The bones in his fingers, the phalanges and metacarpals, began to straighten out.
She gasped and drew back her hand.
And then the oddest impulse struck her.
She stared into his vacant, moonstone eyes and slowly bent her head forward. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, she lowered her mouth to his and hovered over his frozen blue lips, and then she released the breath, slowly exhaling…exchanging…imparting her life-force into his. And all the while, she invoked a prayer.
His lips turned pink!
She drew back and giggled, and then she began to cry, uncertain where the tears were coming from. She only knew that something magical, something powerful, something life-giving was passing between them. Her spirit was calling to his, and for whatever reason, however nonsensical, she knew she had the power to bring him back.
And then, for reasons she could hardly understand, her heart suddenly thudded in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat. She glanced up at a solar clock hanging on the wall and cringed in desperation.
Something imminent was happening.
Something cryptic and something dangerous.
Something was threatening Julien, and time was of the essence.
She didn’t know how she knew. She didn’t know why she believed this would work. She only knew that the vampire’s soul was in peril, and she had to break through the charred, bandaged barriers and find him…wherever he was. She had to reach him, quickly.
Rushing from the bed, she sprinted to a nearby counter and began to open drawers. She flung miscellaneous objects to the side in a frenzy, searching frantically for scissors, a scalpel, anything that could cut through the myriad of dressings that enveloped him like a mummy.
She had to have access to his skin!
She knew Kagen Silivasi might think she was crazy if he caught her. And who knew? Maybe the entire house of Jadon would bar her from the tracker’s room, believing she had finally flipped her lid, but Rebecca needed to start at Julien’s toes and work her way up his torso, however improper that seemed. She had to try to heal him, one touch at a time; each breath, in succession; one magical caress on the heels of another.
