Blood Harvest (Blood Curse Series Book 12)

by Tessa Dawn

  “Achilles?” Salvatore queried, his dark sapphire eyes wide with horror.

  The Executioner listed to the side.

  Was he dead?

  Alive?

  Or trapped in a nightmare?

  “Achilles!”

  He stared at the bloody floor, feeling oddly…disembodied.

  “Vampire!” Salvatore roared, both angry and confused. The Executioner was covered in blood, and his eyes were thoroughly vacant. “What is wrong with you? Get up!”

  Achilles’ nostrils flared, he took a long, slow, deep breath, and the corners of his mouth curved upward in a smile. He raised his head—ever so slowly—then his massive, barrel chest inflated with a fresh breath of life—of power—and he levitated to his feet.

  He turned his head to the left, then the right.

  He surveyed the dimly lit hallway.

  And then he licked his bottom lip like a Cheshire cat.

  Salvatore took several cautious steps backward, which only inflamed Achilles’ predatory instincts—The Executioner took three tyrannical steps forward, snatched the sorcerer by the throat, and raised him high off the ground, before tossing him fifteen feet through the air into a sharp, protruding stalactite. The preglacial outgrowth, formed from epochs of calcifying salts, pierced Salvatore’s back, and he winced in pain…and rage. “Are you insane?” he growled, staring down at his dangling feet.

  “Two seconds,” Achilles snarled, and his deep, chilling voice snaked along the walls of the stony hall, reverberating like icy thunder.

  Salvatore’s eyes bulged in their sockets, and he clenched his jaw in pain. He stared at Achilles like he was beholding a ghost and began to shiver from head to toe. “Two seconds to do what?” he queried warily, his voice no longer defiant.

  “To come down from that archaic cross and kneel before your prince!”

  Chapter Nine

  Braden!

  Kristina sat forward in her chair and gasped. She grasped her left wrist with a strained right hand and anxiously thumbed the gemstones in her bracelet. Despite the weather remaining fairly warm—the day’s high was seventy-five degrees at noon, sixty-six degrees around 6 p.m., and somewhere around fifty-five, now, at 9:00 p.m.—a cold chill gathered at the base of her spine and slowly traveled upward toward her neck.

  Something felt off.

  Something was wrong.

  Something terrifying, bigger than life, and supernatural was happening.

  She glanced around the outdoor audience, eyeing several of the familiar guests as they convened in their various pavilions: Deanna Silivasi shifted nervously in her elegantly decorated folded chair, Sebastian in her lap, playing busily with a tiny toy figurine; yet she didn’t appear unduly alarmed. Gwendolyn Antonescu sat beside Deanna, her son Falcon asleep in a portable child carrier, nestled snugly by her feet; again, the pretty blonde destiny seemed relaxed. Across the arched wooden walkway, in an adjacent pavilion, the queen, Brooke Mondragon, shared the space with a loyal human governess, Brooke’s bestie, Tiffany Olaru, and their collective gaggle of kids: Phoenix Lane, Paris, Parker, and Santiago “Roman,” Ramsey’s high-strung, rambunctious son—nothing appeared amiss.

  One by one, Kristina glanced inside each pavilion, evaluating the facial expressions and body language of all the guests, until she finally settled on the farthest rotunda, the structure encasing Aric Zander, Kristos and Colette Nastase, Natalia Olaru and baby Zeri, Keitaro Silivasi and his companion, Zayda, as well as Dario, Lily, and Conrad Bratianu. If anyone else could feel the stark unease, it would be Braden’s blood-kin, his immediate family. She strained her eyes to see more clearly, even though she could have simply zoomed in with her vampiric vision. Dario looked restless but not overly distraught, Lily was wringing her hands in her lap, and Conrad—his brow was moist with sweat, and he kept glancing anxiously around the courtyard.

  Bingo, Kristina thought.

  He feels it too.

  She shifted her attention to the front of the gathering, the decorative stage, festooned with hay bales, sage-green vines, and harvest fruits in every autumn color, and she may as well have been staring into her own reflection: Ciopori Demir was doing her best to lead the majestic, sacred ceremony, to pretend she was fully present in the moment, but the raven-haired princess looked rattled. Her eyes darted left, then right, scanning the courtyard every couple of minutes. She would occasionally pause, right in the middle of a sentence, her eyebrows would furrow, and then she would continue. And Princess Vanya, her sister? Her lips were gently parted, and they would move from time to time as if she were whispering beneath her breath—yet she wasn’t uttering a sound. Her pale rose eyes were transfixed beyond the audience, sometimes above the tree line, cast upward toward the sky, and she appeared to be scanning…something…nothing…searching the forest for clues…or boogeymen.

  Yeah, the sisters were rattled, all right.

  They were picking up the same energy as Kristina, and concern was written all over their faces.

  Just the same, Kristina had to hand it to the royal females—Ciopori kept right on speaking in a lyrical, almost mesmerizing lilt, and Vanya’s hands kept moving, gesturing eloquently, as the two women continued to deliver a reverent soliloquy, paying homage to the six directions, weaving in and out of celestial history, and teaching about the elements—earth’s mysteries—as they went along. Their royal upbringing still served them faithfully. Their parents had taught them well.

  As if her first pang of worry had not been enough, another errant thought flashed through Kristina’s mind, even more unwelcome and disturbing—

  Achilles!

  Shit, where had that come from?

  Kristina shook her head, clenched and unclenched her fists, then shook out her fingers to discharge some energy. She forced herself to sit back in her chair, smoothed out her skirt, and slowly turned her head, once again, to peek inside Keitaro’s pavilion. There was no doubt in her mind, the watchful patriarch would stay in touch with his family, and that meant his sons would be reaching out, all night, telepathically. That meant Keitaro would have secondhand access to both the king and Fabian. It meant, if anyone would receive up-to-date news about Braden—and consequently, about Achilles Zahora—it would be Keitaro Silivasi. She tried as subtly as possible to catch his attention, turn his head, and force some eye contact.

  He didn’t respond.

  She leaned forward, then rocked back, hoping the motion would trigger his predatory vampire instincts and cause him to follow the movement.

  Still nothing…

  Father. She sent out the word on what she hoped was a private, telepathic bandwidth and watched as he settled deeper in his chair, raised his left arm, and placed it protectively, if not possessively, along the back of Zayda’s seat. Hmm, Kristina thought absently, wondering if the two of them were growing…closer. Still, his hand didn’t actually touch her shoulder…

  Her mind was wandering.

  Then—oh, shit—the entire pavilion, including Keitaro, turned and looked right at her.

  Well, hell…

  Apparently, she had sent the telepathic word as well as her entire train of thought about Keitaro and Zayda to the whole damn pavilion.

  Oh, well…

  Keitaro smiled warmly, and Kristina felt her face flush. “Sorry.” She mouthed the word and shrugged.

  He raised his dark, sculpted eyebrows and chuckled softly beneath his breath. And then he sat up straighter. No word yet from my sons. Unlike her own, his telepathic voice was clear, concise, and laser-focused, appearing in only one person’s mind.

  Kristina nodded her head.

  Are you sure you wouldn’t rather join us? Keitaro asked. He had invited her to sit with the guests in the farthest pavilion earlier, but Kristina had politely declined: She had so much on her mind. She was carrying an explosive secret. And the last thing she needed was the close-up-and-personal scrutiny of an Ancient Master Warrior, who could probably read her like a book with one warm, cozy, intimate glanc
e. The last thing she wanted was to say or do anything that might get back to Braden before the harvest moon had passed. Yes, she desired the protection of the paternal vampire, but she still felt solitude was best.

  She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it.

  Keitaro was on the other side of the courtyard, and knowing herself, she would blurt something out, and it would be way too flippant and loud. She tried to focus her telepathic vocal cords but figured, what the hell was the point? She wasn’t very consistent with the whole telepathy thing—Keitaro would understand her silence.

  Very well, he said, instantly proving her point. I promise, I will let you know the moment the boys send any word.

  Now this made her smile.

  The boys…

  Kristina could think of a lot of ways to describe Marquis, Nathaniel, Kagen, and Nachari, but the boys wasn’t one of them. She closed her eyes, folded her hands in her lap, and concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths, placing her full attention on the rise and fall of her chest. This kind of worry didn’t become her. Besides, it was pointless—it wouldn’t change anything. Kristina had lived through far worse uncertainty and much, much darker nights. Hadn’t she?

  “Kristina! Kristina? Come out of that closet.” Kiki Riley’s hoarse, gravelly voice, compliments of two packs a day for just as many decades.

  Mommy Dearest was calling, but Kristina wasn’t answering.

  “I swear to you, girl; you come out or else!” Kiki pounded her fist against the wall. “You disobedient little redheaded bitch—come out of there, Kristina! Right now!”

  How old had Kristina been…that time?

  Seven?

  Maybe eight?

  And who was the boyfriend, the unhinged, brutal, one-sided lover, the latest drug partner, this night? Was it Tom, or was it Joe? No…no…it was the guy who stacked boxes in the back of the corner liquor store, the one with three missing teeth, a grimy goatee, and filthy, tattered blue jeans with a broken zipper—Chuck, short for Charlie—the one who also didn’t wear any underwear and loved to flash his toothless smile whenever his junk was hanging out.

  Kristina cringed in her seat as the memory came flooding back: Kiki, stumbling around the fetid motel room, searching for a used, misplaced syringe. Chuck, cursing like a sailor, threatening to do things to Kiki no child should ever hear—that is, if Kiki had used up all the heroin before he got there—and Kristina, cowering in the three-by-three-foot-deep closet, dirty knees pressed to her chest, bony arms encircling her shins, dainty hands pressed over her ears, shivering.

  She had fetched Old Lady McGuire’s groceries for five weeks and, one day, scrubbed her toilets and mopped her floors, with a mop that was almost too tall and heavy to push, all in exchange for leftover food and whatever loose change Old Lady McGuire was kind enough to give her. And she had managed to save up nine dollars and thirty-eight cents. She had stuffed three pleated skirts, three pairs of undies, and one pair of socks in a brown paper grocery bag, along with her bright-pink mermaid toothbrush, her bubble-gum-flavored toothpaste, and her old, ratty hairbrush—just in case something really terrible happened, and she had no other choice but to run.

  Kiki kept telling her that Chuck was her new dad, that he was a misunderstood genius and a brilliant inventor. She’d said that one day they would all move in together, once he got a patent for his hands-free beer-bottle opener, and then Chuck would buy the Rileys a house.

  The Rileys…

  That would be Kiki and Kristina, as Mother had suffered too many miscarriages to have any more kids, and she never missed an opportunity to remind Kristina that her real dad was a lowlife scum who had left her mother while she was eight months’ pregnant, that her real dad drank himself to death on the floor of a roach-infested motel after being robbed by a prostitute and her nineteen-year-old pimp.

  Still, even at seven or eight years old, Kristina knew that Chuck wasn’t anyone’s dad, that he could never afford a real house, and that a hands-free beer-bottle opener didn’t make any sense! Who the hell wanted to bother with some moronic contraption when they could just twist off the cap, or use a regular bottle-opener, with one flick of the wrist? And how was that supposed to work, anyway? Hands-free! Stupid. That’s what it was. And Kiki was just as dumb for believing him.

  Kiki was silent now, compliments of Charlie’s fist, and he was rattling the closet doors.

  Damnit.

  Kristina trembled from head to toe.

  He knew she had some money in her grocery bag, but this time, she wouldn’t give it up.

  She couldn’t give it up.

  This time, she would use it to get away!

  She shook like a dried-out leaf in autumn as she unraveled the neck beneath the hook on a wire hanger, straightened the wire out, and grasped it in her tiny fist, the tip of the wire sticking out between her first and third fingers. She shifted her weight onto her knees and waited.

  “Open the door, Kristina! Your mother’s asleep, and I need to borrow some money.”

  Borrow some money! Her cheeks felt hot, and she grit her teeth in anger. “Go away!” she’d cried out, still hoping to avoid a fight, still hoping to avoid getting hit, like Kiki. But she had already made up her mind: Old Lady McGuire had a dark, empty attic just above the tiny back kitchen, and Kristina had already made herself a bed in the loft with a bath towel rolled up as a pillow, and one of the panels from the motel curtains. She had already removed the screen from the ground-floor window and left the pane unlatched, and if she had to leave Kiki and set out on her own, then at least she knew where she could go for the weekend. The rest? Well, fear became the huge invisible monster in the motel closet, haunting the darkness and a little girl’s soul—but anger, red-hot and steamy, stamped it out.

  She tightened her fist around the wire hanger, kicked open the door with two bare feet—if she ever got out of this chaos and filth, she would only wear shoes fit for a queen, or maybe a model, sparkly, pretty, high-heeled treasures, just like she’d seen in a magazine—and sprang from the closet with a shout.

  Chuck’s eyes bulged wide, and his hands shot up, which gave Kristina the perfect target.

  Stab!

  Wrench back.

  Stab again, even harder.

  Hit the bull’s-eye, between the whites of the bulges.

  Chuck screamed like a stuck pig, and Kristina bolted around him.

  Holy crap!

  It had worked.

  She snatched her bag, choked back her tears, and barreled out of the motel, running as fast as her tiny naked feet could take her, along an empty concrete city sidewalk.

  Kristina opened her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, and tried to refocus her attention on the beautiful princesses now leading an ancient prayer from the stage. She bit her bottom lip and stiffened her spine. Where had that memory come from? And who the hell cared? She had been on her own since the day she had left that motel room, and she had grown up in the streets, pulled herself out of poverty, taught herself to read and write, even enrolled in some classes to get her GED. Point being, Kristina was no one’s babe in the woods, and she was no stranger to dark nights, overwhelming worry, or being cast out into the world alone.

  Braden…

  Achilles…

  The house of Jadon…

  Thoughts of the former two were terrifying—the questions, the uncertainty, the invisible monster still in the closet—but the latter was her home. Once again, she glanced over her shoulder at Keitaro, her more-or-less adoptive father, and her eyes swelled up with tears.

  Keitaro was her dad now.

  He seemed to genuinely love her, and either way, he was far enough removed from her daily life—safe enough—to love in return without risking rejection. Without setting herself up for abandonment.

  And the Silivasis were her brothers. They had rescued her—literally and figuratively—time and time again. Jocelyn, Ciopori, Arielle, and Deanna were her sisters, and they also had her back. Hell, Kristina lived in a penthous
e apartment above a classy, upscale casino, and Marquis provided for her every need. He had even bought her a pink Corvette. Staring down at her feet, she smiled—five-inch-high platform black pumps with a thin, dainty ankle strap—she was wearing one of her favorite raspberry wine-colored skirts, her feet were covered, and her clothes were clean.

  She raised her chin and refocused on the stage.

  Braden would come through the Millenia Harvest Moon just fine—he had to!

  He had to…

  And the HOJ warriors, the sentinels, her brothers—maybe even Napolean, the king—they would deal with Achilles Zahora. Everything was going to be all right.

  You disobedient little redheaded bitch—come out of there, Kristina…

  The voice echoed in her head one last time as she sat back, relaxed her shoulders, and crossed one shapely leg over the other. “Fuck you,” she whispered beneath her breath, covering all the old scars with fresh Band-Aids.

  Chapter Ten

  The rumble of the feral roar filled the night sky.

  The sharp, piercing pain along the side of Braden’s neck ceased abruptly, all sensation gone, and the all-pervasive, unrelenting void collapsed into an ocean of stark but welcoming darkness.

  One minute, Braden had been standing on the shore, lurching, reeling, and moving in and out of past then present memories. The next, he had been enveloped in oblivion, and now he was simply roaring…and falling.

  Falling…

  Falling.

  Only, he didn’t sink down to his knees in the sand, nor topple over into the still, silver-blue water; it was more like he merged into an endless sea of thick black clouds, and the vapor closed in all around him.

  Tight.

  Dense.

  But also comforting…familiar?

  And then he began to spin and spiral, tunneling backward in a fetal position, curiously traversing a parallel dimension, traveling across eons of time in a narrow tunnel. He could hear snippets of his life pass by him, streaming into his consciousness like short, cascading spools of moving pictures, three-dimensional videos…floating, swirling movies: