Blood Harvest (Blood Curse Series Book 12)

by Tessa Dawn

  Achilles Zahora was over a thousand years old, but the Colony Guard and the illustrious council were exceptions to the edict, as were many other males whose seed was not ultimately needed, as 250 women were impregnated rather…quickly.

  As far as Achilles was concerned, it was just as well.

  He had always craved something better…different…worthy of his rank and file.

  Perhaps a female human, corrupt to her core, who would relinquish her immortal soul for the promise of everlasting life on earth—immortality—a woman drenched in iniquity: a dark, soulless vessel who could bear Achilles offspring, again and again.

  Or perhaps a blue-eyed redhead who was already Vampyr…

  A cherished daughter to the Silivasi clan; a loyal servant of Napolean Mondragon; a hot, ditzy, prime piece of ass who strutted around in stiletto heels and whose soul would taste like honey, whose innocence…goodness…ultimate light would supersede and overshadow the familiar taste and taint of an already immoral soul.

  Yeah…

  Achilles would rather claim a female from the light than convert a soul already lost to darkness.

  He was perverse that way.

  The thought of defiling her innocence…again and again…forcing her to bear children for the house of Jaegar, taking her away from those arrogant, worthless, motherfucking halfwits from the house of Jadon was just too damn tempting…

  First, he would take her away from Nachari Silivasi, a bastard who had once almost bested Achilles in battle outside Saber Alexiares’ cave when Diablo had shown up to kill the “dragon”: Achilles had stabbed the Master Wizard with a ten-inch-dagger. Nachari had shifted into that detestable black panther, and the cat had nearly eviscerated Achilles’ throat.

  And second, he would take her away from Braden Bratianu, who had eluded Ian Lacusta’s nefarious plot to kill the youngster at River Rock Creek: Ian had managed to grasp Braden’s heart, and he had almost extracted it from the kid’s adolescent body, but not unlike Nachari, Braden had shifted just in time, leaving Ian with a fistful of eagle feathers instead.

  And last, but not least, Achilles would take the female from Napolean-freakin’-Mondragon’s collection of faithful servants, from the monarch who had single-handedly slaughtered eighty-seven dark soldiers during that first Colony raid…

  Using only his eyes and his power…

  So yeah—shit yeah—it would be worth having a ditzy bitch for a consort, just to irritate, insult, and outwit the house of Jackasses…

  And that’s why Achilles had no intentions of siring offspring tomorrow night.

  While he would join his dark brothers in celebrating all the bloody sacrifices Prince Jaegar, their forefather, once performed in Romania—while he would take his fair share of innocent lives in the most brutal and imaginative ways possible, slaking his itch and assuaging his restless, brutal nature—he would opt out of the procreation…

  For now.

  He would wait to claim a richer prize…

  Kristina Riley Silivasi.

  Chapter One

  They were waiting for him in the Ceremonial Hall of Justice.

  All of them: Marquis, Nathaniel, Kagen, Nachari, and even Keitaro; all four sentinels, including the notorious fifth-wheel tracker, Julien Lacusta; and of course, Napolean himself and the closest thing the king had ever had to an equal, the infamous High Mage, Fabian Antonescu.

  Way too formal.

  The whole ominous setting.

  Braden would have just as well preferred the outdoor terrace, a bunch of Master Warriors, sentinels, wizards, a Master Healer, and the supreme Master Justice huddled around the veranda’s fireplace; hell, roasting a few marshmallows over the pit just to keep it simple…to keep it real…somewhat normal. It wasn’t like they actually had to eat them—the low-key ambiance would have at least been inviting, maybe even relaxing. As it stood, Braden was keenly aware that his stepdad, his mother, and his little brother, Conrad, were waiting as well at the Dark Moon Lodge. They had been in the valley since early August, and yeah, didn’t that just underscore the ultra-serious nature of the whole situation—the Bratianu family back together, at least in theory and definitely in urgency. In truth, the reunion had gone well. Everything was the way it should be: Braden had never been closer to his mother, Lily, and he and Conrad were making some great brotherly inroads.

  He blinked away the distraction.

  He had to maintain his focus on the immediate cluster of hardcore vampires at hand, the imminent crisis before him—well, conference, not crisis—but why parse words. He had to keep his full attention on the upcoming meeting.

  As he approached the two heavy, wooden arched doors at the end of the long, circular, underground tunnel, the cobblestone floor feeling uneven beneath his boots, he paused just for a second before reaching to grasp the thick iron handle on the left. That door on the right—the one that led to the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement, the one that abutted another door bearing crossbones and an eerie warning inscribed in the Old Language, Behold the portal to the corridor of the dead, the one that ultimately ushered one into the Death Chamber—caused a chill of pure ice to prickle along Braden’s spine. It had never really bothered him before, knowing it was there, knowing all that creepy shit was there. But he was riding a razor’s edge tonight.

  He grasped the handle on the left more firmly and yanked it open with sheer determination and iron will, stepping confidently into the safe and benign Hall of Justice, and the breath he didn’t know he was holding left his body.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  For all intents and purposes, Braden may as well have been the biblical Moses, placing the tip of his staff into the Red Sea, the way the vampires on the other side of the door suddenly rose, stepped back, and parted. Like equal halves of the same body of water, rolling in two fluid waves, they ascended from their various perches in the middle pews of the hall and stood in some reflexive formation, falling to the left and the right: Ramsey, Saxson, Santos, and Saber lined up against the nearest anterior wall, with Fabian at the head of the line, closest to the stage; and Keitaro, Marquis, Nathaniel, Kagen and, oddly, Julien lined up opposite, on the farthest posterior wall, closest to the king. Was it Braden’s imagination or was Saber’s characteristic smirk just a little bit less sarcastic?

  Braden didn’t meet the dragon’s eyes as he passed the sentinel by.

  And shit, his imagination continued to work overtime as he caught a glimpse of both Julien on the right, and then Ramsey on the left, catching each male in turn in the crosshairs of his peripheral vision. The tracker’s typical caustic nod was definitely a bit subdued, and Ramsey Olaru, that hard-ass rebel, actually removed the toothpick from the corner of his mouth, twirled it beneath his fingers, and folded it into the palm of his hand, concealing the small wooden stick as if it were somehow disrespectful to suck on it in Braden’s presence.

  What the actual hell…

  Braden drew back his shoulders and raised his chin, determined to appear both relaxed and proud—just a few more strides until he reached the king and Fabian—he could do this.

  Just breathe…

  Just breathe.

  “Welcome, son.” Napolean stepped forward, his proud noble features appearing serene, and his calming, authoritative voice helped to settle Braden’s nerves. Well, at least a little.

  Braden nodded because he couldn’t speak, and that’s when Nachari stepped forward, smiled, and placed a warm, loving hand on Braden’s shoulder. “Good to see you, fiule.”

  He called him son in Romanian.

  Shit.

  Just shit.

  A hot, moist tear pooled in the corner of Braden’s eye, and he tried to blink it away.

  Nachari inhaled slowly, angled his head to the side, and bent a little lower to study Braden’s eyes, deep forest green seeking glassy burnt sienna, and then the Master Wizard let all pretense go as he drew the six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, two-hundred-pound fledgling into a full-bodied embrace and lo
cked his powerful arms around Braden’s stiff, resolute shoulders.

  Keitaro placed a firm, steady hand on Braden’s back, even as Julien sauntered to the front of the room, cut to the top of the line, and sort of palmed Braden’s head, mussing his hair in a gesture of affection.

  Damnit…

  The last thing Braden wanted to do was cry.

  He was not the same young neophyte he had been when he first came to the vale. At a minimum, he was showing signs of not only burgeoning maturity and power but promising wizardry and the traits of a warrior—blubbering like an idiot or a child would not help…or change…a thing.

  The king expected more of him.

  Hell, he expected more of himself.

  He drew back from Nachari’s welcoming embrace and sighed, this time, stiffening his back.

  “It’s all good,” Nachari reassured him, no doubt reading Braden’s emotions effortlessly.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” Braden muttered. “Thanks. I just…I think…the shit’s just getting real, isn’t it?” He shook his head in wary exasperation. What had happened to that focused, stalwart male vampire, the one who had just turned his back and walked away from Kristina, when all he had wanted to do was take her in his arms and explore her…soul?

  “Very real indeed,” the king chimed in, ushering an open palm toward an open pew a few rows forward at the front of the hall. “Sit.” His statuesque mouth curved up in a smile. “Stay a while.”

  Braden didn’t have to be asked twice.

  He ambled quickly to the front row, and his knees nearly buckled beneath him as he sank down onto the wooden bench, stretched out both legs in front of him, and crossed his boots at the ankles. Nachari followed suit on his right, Keitaro took a seat to his left, and all the other warriors, sentinels, and the healer crowded into the pews behind him. The king scanned the hall until he eyed a pair of extra upholstered, high-backed, armless chairs—he pointed in their general direction and crooked his fingers forward. The chairs floated softly through the air, sliding into place just so, both across from and facing Braden, about three to four feet apart. The king took his seat silently, across from Braden and to the vampire’s right, while Fabian Antonescu just sort of appeared like a desert mirage in the seat adjacent to Napolean’s.

  Braden blinked a few times and inadvertently shook his head.

  It was always a little disconcerting when the High Mage did that, just sort of moved or appeared out of the ether. True, vampires could travel faster than the speed of light. They could fly, flash in and out, transport anywhere they liked. And their motions were often so fluid, so seamless, so animalistic in nature, one didn’t always see them approach. But this was something different. Fabian had a way of willing things into being—it was more like he had a fleeting thought, released a desire or intention into the universe, and then manifested it instantly.

  I’d like to sit in that chair…

  Done.

  The ancient wizard cleared his throat. “Just for the record—and so that we may concentrate fully on the most pressing matters at hand—we already discussed tomorrow’s festivities, the formal and informal rites and celebrations taking place for all in the house of Jadon, the prayers and worship, the ceremonies and events, the traditions which accompany this new millennium…” His voice trailed off, and he waved a dismissive hand through the air, his burnt-copper, almond-shaped eyes narrowing with purpose. “The princesses will lead the people in the Homage Ceremony; the Master Wizards will see to the valley’s sacred Rites of Magick, Renaissance & Renewal; and the Vampyr at large, all the families and individuals in the vale, those not directly present in this hall tonight, will complete the sacred Rite of Peace, Prosperity & Protection on their own, as usual.” He waved his hand again, this time in a wide arc to indicate all those present in the Ceremonial Hall of Justice. “We, however, are primarily at your disposal, available at all times should the need arise.” He allowed a moment of silence to punctuate the gravity of his words. “Now then, the moon will rise at 8:59 p.m. tomorrow.”

  Braden blanched—talk about getting straight to the point—and then he struggled to suppress a shiver: Blessed Monoceros, Braden’s ruling lord, despite the gravity and great historical significance of the moon at hand, the High Mage, the sentinels, Julien, the Silivasis, and even the king were all at Braden’s disposal? They had divested of their prominent roles and divided their conventional duties in order to attend to…whatever Braden might need.

  Damn.

  If Braden thought the shit was real before, it just got critical.

  Hell, severe.

  The High Mage closed his eyes as if listening to the elements around him; maybe listening wasn’t the right word… “This night’s moon will fully set by 10:49 tomorrow morning…at two hundred ninety-three degrees.” He paused for the space of several heartbeats. “Then the next night’s moon—tomorrow’s blood-tinted moon, the Millenia Harvest Moon—will rise at 8:59 p.m., sixty-five degrees, Meridian Passing at 3:34 a.m., and moonset, the next morn at 11:46.”

  Braden drew back in his seat and gave Napolean a quizzical glance.

  The king smiled warmly. “Any changes that might occur as a result of your imbibing Prince Jadon’s royal blood could begin as early as 10:49 tomorrow morning, but they will be at their peak, reach their zenith as it were, by nine o’clock tomorrow night—”

  “Eight fifty-nine p.m., ” Fabian interjected.

  The king regarded him with an impatient glance. “Yes, 8:59 to be exact.” He refocused his attention on Braden. “If nothing happens, or if the moon loses its power, we should start to see the waning around 3:30 a.m.”—he eyed the High Mage crosswise—“3:34 a.m. to be exact. And the full cycle of the moon’s rotation will be complete by 11:46 the next morning. In other words, today is the fifteenth, tomorrow is the sixteenth, and if all is…unchanged by 11:46 on the seventeenth, then I think—we think—that nothing is going to happen.”

  At this, Braden’s countenance lit up. “You think that’s actually possible?”

  “No,” Fabian said brusquely. “But it gives us a timeline to follow.”

  Julien, who had become a sort of mentor if not a faithful friend to Braden over the past seven months, ever since the tracker had pulled Braden aside to dig deeper into the young vampire’s past by way of the history with his parents, leaned forward in the pew behind him and placed a hand on Braden’s upper arm. “We think you’re good to go tonight. You can stay at the brownstone, the king’s manse, wherever you like, but we don’t want you to be alone come 10:49 a.m. tomorrow.” He glanced down the row toward the four seated sentinels. “Ramsey, Saxson, Santos, and Saber are going to be close at hand, at least within earshot if you get my drift, and as the day progresses, as we approach 8:59 p.m., the king, Fabian, Nachari, and myself are probably gonna be riding your six like an old drunken one-night stand—that poor, misled girl you can never get rid of.”

  “Like white on rice,” Ramsey amended.

  Julien sat back, just a little, and held up both hands, even as Braden twisted on the pew, straining his neck to see him. “Pardon the crude mixed metaphors,” Julien pressed on, “but point being: You’re not gonna be alone.”

  At this, Santos Olaru chimed in, his typically crystal blue eyes shadowed with intensity. “Just a precaution, Braden. Napolean needs to be right in the mix for obvious reasons—I think the same holds true for Fabian, who will also have the Master Wizards, Jankiel and Niko, at his beck and call. And as for Nachari, we know the two of you share an especially close bond, and well, after riding out more than four horrible months in the Abyss himself, Nachari has his own set of special skills. Intuition. The panther. We’re just trying to cover all bases.”

  Braden swallowed a lump in his throat and fidgeted with his fingers, rubbed the back of his neck, then shifted his weight in the pew. “So, you guys will all be there, pretty much through the night? At least until 11:30 the next morning?” Acutely aware of Fabian, he paused to search his memory—he wanted to
be precise. “At least until 11:46 the next morning?”

  “Yep,” Ramsey Olaru said, brusque and to the point. “And if everything’s still copasetic at 3:30 a.m., we might even let you get some sleep.” He chuckled, deep and low, from the back of his throat, trying to interject some much-needed humor in the moment, and a few of the warriors joined in. But all in all, the sound rang hollow—the humor was forced, and everyone knew it.

  Braden swiveled back around in his seat.

  He appreciated everything everyone was doing, and he knew instinctively that the warriors, the sentinels…his Vampyr family and friends had likely discussed things—and in such great detail—that they had never dared to share with him. They probably had a plan B, plan C, and plan D through X. Hell, they had shared a lot of it with Braden over the past two months, but right now, this night, on the eve of the Millenia Harvest Moon, he just wanted it straight. All of it. Simplified, of course, but straight as an arrow. “Fabian,” he said, reaching for courage, “what do you really expect? I mean, all of it. Best-case scenario to worst.”

  The High Mage rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing within rims of black, and the heart-shaped birthmark on his right shoulder seemed to glow in contrast to his copper skin. “You already know the answers to those questions, young Braden. Best-case scenario: Nothing occurs. The celestial gods do as they always have—they pour their power upon the earth and aid in our rites and celebrations. The dark lords of the underworld drench the earth with their malevolent powers as well, and the house of Jaegar performs its own depraved observance—but nothing out of the ordinary. And Prince Jadon’s blood, the life-giving elixir of our revered patriarch himself, awakens in your veins, but your soul does not succumb to its ancient powers. It is not overtaken…overwhelmed…by the same. Your essence stays put. Perhaps you become wise beyond your years. Perhaps you share a rare, enlightening fusion, absorbing the Ancient One’s wisdom, history, talents…but nothing material happens.” He shifted in his seat, betraying his true discomfort. “Worst-case scenario: The sheer power of such an ancient soul, of such a mystic and supernatural occurrence, is far too much for your mortal body, vampiric as it may be, and your soul departs this world. You return to the Valley of Spirit & Light…forever.”