Blood Harvest (Blood Curse Series Book 12)

by Tessa Dawn

  Tranquil…

  Cottonwood trees stood as still as statues, surrounded by random sprinklings of reeds and bramble, the latter gathered around like eager children waiting to hear an evening story, and as the pale red moon shone higher…brighter…more portentous in the sky, replacing the 7 p.m. sunset, Braden stifled a shiver.

  Nothing had happened at 10:49 a.m.

  Nor at noon, or at two, or even early evening.

  For all intents and purposes, the day had been anticlimactic, pleasant, and wholly uneventful.

  Marquis, Nathaniel, Kagen, and Nachari had joined Braden, the sentinels, and the tracker at the private oasis around 4:00 p.m., and they had sat on the beach passing time like family, sharing company, laughter, and nostalgic memories: Nathaniel had told the story of Jocelyn and the lycans, how Braden had saved his destiny during a terrible winter blizzard when he had crouched behind a heavy door at the back of an old, dilapidated shed and pounced on Tristan Hart—a hulking, fearsome werewolf—actually going for the lycan’s jugular. Marquis had chimed in, more than once, recanting his own chilling tale of Draco’s Blood Moon, the confusion surrounding Kristina and Ciopori, and how Braden had divined the mystery from the Blood Canon, the ancient book of black magic, interpreting the spell that had been cast by Salvatore Nistor—how Braden had been the one to realize the dark vampire had switched the women. Kagen, a masterful storyteller in his own right, had practically waxed poetic about his journey through Mhier, a land beyond a portal where he had found Arielle, and how Braden had virtually saved all of them by coming to the grove every day—in fact, every hour on the hour for twelve hours a day at first, and then eventually at noon and midnight—to open the portal and await their return.

  Saxson had given Braden credit for his future with Kiera, emphasizing the fact that Braden had once again unraveled an omen: a two-toned rose that was crimson and black, the black petals swallowing the red. The female who had been at Saxson’s side from the rising of his Cetus Blood Moon had not been his destiny, Kiera Sparrow, but her dangerous, conniving twin, Kyla.

  And then Julien had chimed in, on behalf of himself and the wizard Fabian, thanking Braden for luring Julien’s dark twin, Ian, to River Rock Creek and acting as a decoy, while Julien hid beneath the ground, ready and eager for the violent confrontation. He had thanked him for possessing the courage to help set the trap in the first place and for ultimately creating the conditions which had at last freed the tracker from a lifetime of haunting inner demons. He had thanked Braden, as well, for saving Gwendolyn Marie Hamilton, the High Mage’s strong-willed destiny. Braden had been the one to find the captive female in The Fortress, to rescue her from the ductwork, and to immediately recognize something in her soul and bring her back to the house of Jadon. Braden had been the reason Gwen’s path had ultimately intersected with Fabian’s.

  Ramsey, in his own blunt, brutish style, all the while speaking around a mint-flavored toothpick, had lightened the mood just a little with his tale of how Braden had confronted the Master Warrior in defense of Kristina Riley Silivasi’s honor. The fledgling had only been fifteen years old, three months shy of his sixteenth birthday, yet he had beat his chest like a primal ape, hurled a stone at Ramsey’s back, and lunged for Ramsey’s throat—fangs released, claws extended—determined to provoke the six-foot-five, 240-pound pit bull. Yet in the end, his courage and his honor had likely saved Nachari’s destiny, Deanna, from a wicked plot devised by Salvatore Nistor and Oskar Vadovsky, and carried out by Saber Alexiares, pretending to be Ramsey Olaru—well, at least before Saber had known he was actually a son of Jadon.

  Kristina Riley Silivasi…

  Her name had carried to Braden’s ear and lingered in the air like the distinct dewy scent of the hidden lake’s deep waters. He had placed his hand over his back hip pocket and absently felt for his cell phone—Dear Gods, how he had wanted to text her…

  Call her…

  Reach out to her.

  Just check up on her and tell her…he was sorry.

  Nothing about the night before—he did not want to bring up their time together, how he had kissed her, how badly he had wanted her, how…or why…he had turned and walked away.

  He had only wanted—

  Only wanted….

  Gods, he was just so…sorry.

  So confused.

  And in that moment, it had finally hit him—he might never get another chance to tell her, another opportunity to explain his behavior.

  Luckily, Nachari had abruptly rescued him from his self-pitying musings by recalling several intimate tales of his own: He’d shared how Braden had likely saved King Napolean Mondragon himself during the monarch’s horrific Blood Possession by once again channeling mysterious, cryptic information. The way Nachari had told the story, something had happened on that day, on the side of the road, two or three miles east of Tall Pines, where the Snake Creek River forked just outside the county line. A gateway of some sort had opened, a bridge between Braden and the collective house of Jadon, the genetic memories, the living history…the shared celestial origins. And while his body had been racked with pain—he had nearly thrown up his guts—he had also managed to utter several critical facts that had given the warriors the power to rescue Napolean: the sickness wasn’t Braden’s—it was Napolean’s. The king had been possessed by a worm. And the worm had a name: the dark lord Ademordna. He was going to violate Napolean’s destiny, and he was going to kill the king.

  As if instinctively knowing that the tale was too dark and depressing, in spite of its happy ending, Nachari had seamlessly switched to reciting happier memories: how Braden had once accidentally erased the memories of a twelve-year-old girl named Katie Bell but also, how he had shown endless patience, kindness, and compassion with Deanna when she had first arrived in the valley, by regaling her with facts, stories, and information about Nachari while he was away…unconscious…trapped in the underworld.

  And then Nachari had ended with the best tale of all: the first time he had introduced Braden to his family. Braden had cringed through the entire description of a fifteen-year-old fledgling, dressed in black trousers and a silk white shirt, trailing a cape behind him, his face painted ghastly white in order to look like Count Dracula, while he’d dragged a half-formed wing behind him, having failed miserably in an audacious attempt to shape-shift “for the Ancient Master Warriors.”

  Even Braden had to chuckle when Nachari mentioned the “bat cave,” a clever form of time-out devised by Marquis Silivasi. Yet through it all—perhaps out of empathy, perhaps out of propriety—no one had spoken a word about the prevailing, underlying thread.

  No one had pointed out the obvious.

  No one had mentioned the why, what, or how beneath all these divine, almost karmic occurrences.

  That kid with the painted face and the broken wing, the one who had accidentally erased the memory of a child, had played the hero in all these stories—that five-year-old human, not even a descendent of the original progeny, who had been sired, not born, into vampirism, had rescued warriors, interpreted omens, dreamed the future, saved many destinies, and somehow just magically shaped the entire house of Jadon.

  Hell no, it wasn’t a coincidence.

  Braden peered once again at the moon, studying the shadows, divots, and murky surfaces.

  Shit.

  Just shit.

  It had been smooth sailing so far, but there was no denying what was irrefutable: The spirit of an ancient prince had been with Braden, even as the prince’s blood was now running through his veins, for a really long time. Truly, there was no other explanation.

  Braden knew himself.

  He knew his thoughts, his blunders, and all his hidden insecurities.

  He knew all that care, divine intervention—hell, insight and wisdom—the courage, strength, and decisions of a hero that had popped up here and there since day one had to have come from an outside source…a greater power.

  It had to have come from…Prince Jadon.
>
  “How are you doing, son?” Napolean Mondragon shimmered into view, appearing on the beach like a Viking from the past, his dark onyx eyes contrasted with the moonlight, the silver irises gleaming like the stars, his waist-length hair blending with the black of his shirt, his slightly faded jeans, and his heavy tactical boots. He stepped forward from the apex of the loosely knit circle of warriors and squatted to meet Braden’s eyes. “Still no change?”

  Braden smiled wanly. “So far, so good. Are the ceremonies kicking off?” The king and the High Mage had promised to arrive at the lake by 8:45 at the latest—before the full rising of the moon—and based upon the position of the stars, their proximity to the celestial poles, it was nearing 8:40, and the king had probably completed his rounds.

  “So far, so good,” Napolean echoed, dipping slightly lower to study Braden’s features.

  “What?” Braden asked. Thump-thump, thump-thump. His heartbeat slowed down.

  “Your eyes,” the king said cautiously, “they’re glowing like lanterns, and the golden pupils, they’re enveloped in glowing light, like the rings of…Saturn.”

  Braden furrowed his brows.

  Thump-thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  His heartbeat evened out, slowed down, six to eight breaths per minute, and then a whirring drone, a faint white noise growing louder…coming closer…ringing in his ears.

  The king was asking him…something…but he couldn’t make out Napolean’s words.

  Braden instinctively glanced up at the sky, once again searching the heavens for answers: The moon was growing darker, more crimson, more oblique…more ominous. And for lack of a better description, the sky was filled with colors—white, silver, eddies of gold…black, red, faint hints of green—swirling in soft neon waves like the Aurora Borealis. “Do you see that?” Braden asked.

  “See what?” Napolean said.

  Or maybe that was Nachari…

  Maybe it was both.

  A current of air, like a chill winter’s wind, swept through Braden’s lungs, and he tilted his head to the side, listening…feeling… The constant drone was not white noise—it was the sound of his blood circulating through his veins.

  His senses heightened, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

  Cold, ragged, dark gray rocks closed in all around him.

  Blistering snow.

  Howling wind.

  Dense, low-lying clouds hovering, settling…constricting.

  “Say something, Bray,” Kristina nearly whimpered as she twirled a lock of curly red hair around her finger and sank back into the cream-colored sofa.

  Then lightning, danger, the overwhelming stench of rotting corpses and burning juniper.

  Kristina crossed her ankles in front of her, interlocking the spikes of her familiar stiletto heels, while Braden swayed in the darkness, listing from blood loss and blindness. He felt for the pommel of his sword, slid his hand downward to the familiar grip, and drew the heavy iron from its sheath.

  Another blade!

  Slicing downward…

  Drawing closer, nearer, about to fall against his throat…

  Kristina!

  Kristina…

  So damn beautiful. So damn vulnerable. Her voice so alluring as she spoke: “The way you look at me…that time you kissed me, that time you stole my breath…we’ve always been more than friends.”

  Braden’s back arched, his spine stiffened, and he choked on a gurgle of blood, gasping for air. The band on his forearm seemed to tighten, and his bicep flexed as he drew back his sword, raised it over his head, and brought it downward with the full strength of his will, slashing through flesh, blood, and bone…his brother’s flesh, blood, and bone!

  His eyes began to water. He blinked several times, then jolted, his chest caving inward. He was now strolling across the living room floor, eyes transfixed on Kristina. He braced one knee on the cushion beside her, leaned in, cupped her cheeks, and bent down to kiss her.

  Passion.

  Frustration.

  Two years of pent-up desire…

  She gasped and grasped at his shoulders before he pulled away—pulled away and stole away—without looking back. She had returned the kiss with equal ardor and clung to his shoulders as if he were her lifeline, while he, on the other hand, had fled to the balcony, leaped over the banister, and sailed on the wings of an eagle, his only cleaving embrace the cool night air.

  The cool night air…

  The cold, bitter, frigid Transylvanian air…

  A sharp, piercing pain along the side of his neck and then silence—all-pervasive, unrelenting, and hallow—paired with finite darkness.

  The snow stopped falling.

  The lightning ceased.

  And Braden tossed back his head and roared.

  Achilles Zahora catapulted off the cold stone slab in the snake pit, also known as the Chamber of Cobras, feeling both hyped up and rejuvenated from the numerous fresh snakebites, exciting his nerves, scoring his flesh, and the ensuing, erotic venom now flowing through his veins. Not only had the session heightened his senses for the night’s festivities, but it had also given the brutal vampire one hell of a powerful orgasm, which had been his goal from the moment he’d entered the chamber.

  After all, it was the night of the Millenia Harvest Moon…

  And now, despite the impending carnage to come, however he chose to celebrate the auspicious holiday, he would at least be able to restrain his carnal urges and forego any frenzied, craven acts that might lead to reproduction…accidentally inseminating some poor, wretched bitch and siring an heir forty-eight-hours later—an heir he really didn’t want.

  Nah, not for him.

  Not like that.

  And not this night.

  He had his sights set on a much grander prize…

  Kristina Silivasi and the blue-eyed offspring she might one day provide him.

  He jogged down the back circular hallway on the main level of the underground Colony, turned sharp left when he reached the narrow vestibule that led to the inner council chambers, and picked up the pace down another diagonal passage, on his way to a particular family cluster of lairs: the Dragavei family unit; only, minus a father, a grandparent, or any siblings.

  So…minus the “family” part.

  Achilles chuckled.

  Zeus Dragavei had the entire cluster of lairs to himself.

  At four hundred years old, the savage beast of a male was as wild as a hungry wolf. With a gnarly, pointed beard and multiple piercings in his eyebrows, ears, and upper lip, he looked as crazed as he behaved, and he was also joining the formal Colony Guard on this most auspicious of nights, finally taking the place of Blaise Liska, who had been killed by Saber Alexiares nearly seventeen months past in a battle outside the dragon’s isolated cave in the Red Canyons. Right about now, Silas, Nuri, and Falcon would be finishing up Z’s tat: a circular band, wrapped around Z’s upper right bicep, of a black mamba with jeweled red eyes. The least Achilles could do was welcome the inglorious bastard into the fold and make it crystal fucking clear that he, The Executioner, was the de facto leader of the pack.

  No questions asked.

  No delusional aspirations.

  No bullshit or ballsy plots to one day challenge Achilles’ authority.

  At 1002 years old, Achilles was not about to cede his prestige or his commanding influence to a savage but wily whelping pup, who for all intents and purposes was still wet behind the ears.

  The Executioner slowed his roll as he approached the tail of the cluster—the storage rooms, wood and metal shops, nurseries, and human slave quarters at the end of every family unit—and that’s when the vertigo hit him.

  One moment, he was staggering back; the next, his chest felt like it might cave in; still, a few seconds later, his feet left the floor, his body rotated upward and back, and he cartwheeled onto the cold, prehistoric floor, the vertebrae in his lower back snapping like flimsy, brittle twigs, even as an unholy pain pierced his jugular—i
t felt like someone was ripping his throat out.

  Achilles shook his head wildly and grunted.

  What the actual fuck…

  He caught his breath, grasped his throat, then released his jagged incisors, excreting a handful of venom into the palm of his hand, before arching forward to press it against his lower spine.

  The vertebrae knit back into place.

  His torso shot upward, and he was catapulted, retrograde, onto his feet, almost as if someone had yanked him off the floor by a pully or a crane. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted, spitting a lump of phlegm onto the cold stone beneath him—another sharp, piercing stab along the side of his neck. “Fute-m-aş!” he cursed in Romanian; it felt like an icepick dissecting his flesh.

  And then an even stranger phenomenon: The natural, jagged, prehistoric limestone, dotted with calcite formations all above him, gave way to dense, low-lying clouds, and fire shot out of the vapor and gas—hail pinged like haphazard pinballs, ricocheting off the colony walls.

  Then snow…

  Bitter cold.

  The overwhelming scent of rotted corpses and burning juniper filled the underground cavern hall.

  Achilles hit the floor with a thud, his legs swept out beneath him.

  He jackknifed off the ground, brought his knee to his chest, and clutched his femoral artery. “Salvatore!” he bellowed angrily, calling for the Colony’s sorcerer. This shit was getting way out of hand, and it had supernatural, underworld, lethal black magic written all over it.

  The sensation of blood—spurting, gushing, spewing from his thigh.

  The mirage of ice and snow—falling, swirling, then settling like morning mist on wild mountain grass.

  What manner of witchcraft was this?

  The six-foot-tall Dark One materialized in the hall before him, Salvatore’s stark widow’s peak mapping a line to the crown of his long, black-and-red hair, his dark sapphire eyes gleaming with surprise, then purpose, his thin, arched brows curved into a frown.

  “Counselor!” Achilles barked. “Now might be as good a time as any to step the fuck up and do something!” He lumbered to his knees and raised a heavy, blood-soaked hand toward the powerful ancient vampire. And then he jolted, his body seized, and his jaw dropped open, as the flesh, bone, and sinew on the side of his neck shredded like a flimsy piece of paper.