by Tessa Dawn
Braden, is that your new report card? His mother’s voice when he was seven years old, Lily smiling as she removed the folded slip of paper from the front pocket of his superhero backpack.
Boy, put that damn train set away, or I’ll toss it in the fire and burn it! His biological father on Christmas morning—Braden was only three years old.
I’m so sorry I couldn’t help him…there was just no way. He saved me. Jocelyn’s voice. You should have seen how he went after Tristan. They were inside the old, dilapidated cabin, secluded in a remote, pristine basin in the Dark Moon Forest, and the Silivasis were about to wage war with the lycans.
Then, Braden! Braden! Nachari’s frantic voice, closer, like it was anchored to the present. Son, can you hear me?
The sound of an oncoming freight train whooshed by him—through him—the light of a thousand suns flashed like a burst from a cannon, and the thick, welcoming, dense black cloud all around him exploded with power and vibrant, living energy.
Braden’s heart leapt in his chest.
He stood up, straight as an arrow.
And then he simply left his corporeal body behind him, slipped gracefully into his ethereal matter, and stepped out of the void—the clouds, the light, the multidimensional tunnel—into the most brilliant yet tranquil, enchanting forest.
His eyes had never beheld anything like it.
“Braden! Braden!” Nachari Silivasi stared frantically into Braden’s ever more vacant burnt sienna eyes, wide pupils swiftly transitioning into two deep, dark brown orbs, the former giving way to the latter as the Master Wizard shook him by the shoulders. “Son, can you hear me? Look at me!”
Their gazes met for a fleeting second: life recognizing life, friend reaching out to friend, and then, as if someone reached into the seat of Braden’s soul, snatched it, and yanked it backward, the transient moment passed.
Dark brown orbs grew vivid, haunting…solid as the ascending harvest moon.
Braden cocked one strong, muscular shoulder in a sharp get-off-me gesture, breaking Nachari’s hold. He took a tentative step backward, blinked three times, and swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked left, then right, before raising his left pointer finger, gently flicking his wrist, and fixing his gaze, once again, on Nachari. Though he didn’t speak a word, the message in the commanding wave and autocratic stare was unmistakable: Step back.
Instinctively, Nachari averted his eyes and took a cautious step back.
Braden’s broad shoulders seemed to rise, inflate, in a proud, almost regal manner, and confidence—nay, certainty—the innate projection of self-assurance drew a line around his lower jaw and settled into his stance. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice a steady tenor. He followed up, before Nachari could answer, immediately surveying the shore and the warriors all around him. “Where am I?”
Nachari opened his mouth. Closed it. Cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”
“Warrior, I would know your name and your lineage?” He paused, cocked his head to the side, and amended, “Nay, not warrior…mage.”
Nachari heard the words, and in his formal HOJ brain, they made sense, but his heart was still reaching for his acolyte. “Braden?” He answered the question with a query of his own.
The boy—no, the man—shook his head.
And that’s when Nachari knew…
He took another step back, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head in reverence. “Prince Jadon?”
“Aye,” the austere monarch said. “Your name, wizard?”
Nachari cleared his throat, trying not to stutter. Holy Perseus, the Victorious Hero, he was kneeling before a legend—but where was Braden? What had happened? “I am known as Nachari Silivasi. I hail from the ancient line of the god Canes Venatici and his human consort, Ophelia. Chosen by our lord Perseus; the youngest son of the Ancient Master Warrior Keitaro and his once-human destiny, Serena; a Master Wizard and member of the esteemed fellowship of the same in the venerable house of Ja—” His breath caught, and he had to reform the words. “In the venerable house of Jadon, the communal society of your ancestry.”
The male seemed to mull it over for a moment, as if trying to make sense of the various nuances while straining the English through a Romanian filter, perhaps relying on his soul’s timeless Transylvanian awareness while depending upon a relatively young North American brain to sort it all out. He processed very quickly. “Silivasi.” He tried the word once more on his tongue. “Silivasi…” His eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed ever so slightly. “From the house of Canes Venatici and his human mate, Ophelia.” He flicked his wrist yet again, this time in an almost self-deprecating, unpretentious manner. “House of Jadon…yes.” And then his eyes lit up. “Are you…of relation…to Timaos Silivasi?”
Nachari opened his mouth to answer but only stuttered, and Marquis Silivasi stepped forward.
The Ancient Master Warrior placed his hand on Nachari’s shoulder. “Descendants,” he barked, his own voice sounding hoarse. “We are the very distant descendants of Timaos Silivasi.”
Now this gave Prince Jadon pause. “Descendants,” he whispered, swiftly deciphering the meaning of the word. His eyes swept the totality of the males now gathered around him, and he slowly nodded his head. “Your name?”
“Marquis Silivasi, eldest son of Keitaro and Serena.”
Short and sweet, Nachari noted, still straining to unscramble his brain.
“And you…the two of you?” Braden—no, the prince—pointed loosely…generally…at Nathaniel and Kagen.
“Brothers,” Nathaniel answered for both. “Twins. I am Nathaniel Jozef Silivasi, and this is my brother Kagen; we are chosen of the goddess Cassiopeia and Lord Auriga, the Charioteer, each in turn.”
“Twins,” Prince Jadon repeated, and then he briefly closed his eyes. “Chosen…” He opened them again. “Ah, but of course; you were all born after the Curse, then? And you are each Vampyr?”
Nathaniel nodded solemnly.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Kagen whispered, his tone reflecting his stupefaction.
Prince Jadon gazed upward at the night sky. “Gathered together under the cover of darkness, on this rarest of occasions—the Millenia Harvest Moon.” His spine elongated, he stood up straight, and his hand shot swiftly to his hip, as if feeling for a blade or a scabbard that was no longer there. “You!” he bellowed, his voice both chilling and commanding, “to which house do you pledge your loyalty?” He took a swift, stealthy step backward, incredibly light of foot, and rocked subtly from the balls of his feet to his toes. “All of you, each male here: To which sovereign prince do you swear your fealty?”
Nachari’s eyes shot quickly across the shoreline, following Prince Jadon’s fixed, wary gaze, and he winced the moment he caught sight of the tall, muscular vampire the ancient monarch was focused upon: Saber Alexiares. Six feet of hard, taut muscle; wild black-and-red hair falling just below his shoulders; and that characteristic, upper right corner of his mouth turned up, as usual, in that automatic, distinctive smirk.
“Saber Alexiares.” The sentinel spoke for himself. “And I have pledged my loyalty to you and your house.” He swept his hand through his wild, bicolored locks. “Trust me,” he said on the trail of a snarl, “I know how it looks, but I was born to the house of Jadon, son of Rafael Dzuna and his destiny, Lorna Madison, chosen by the celestial god Serpens.” He flicked the ends of his hair with two flippant fingers. “This,” he added, “is a really long story.”
Prince Jadon studied him carefully, and then his deep brown eyes turned upward and to the left. He was clearly accessing a memory—Braden’s memories—and Nachari’s heart constricted in his chest. “Yes,” he murmured softly, “I have a…faint sense of this.”
As if of one accord, every warrior on the shoreline descended to one knee and bowed his head in reverence—the gesture in perfect unison—and the communal demonstration spoke louder than words.
Prince Jadon shifted his weight and widened his stance. “Look up,�
� he commanded, and the warriors obeyed. “You.” He gestured toward Julien Lacusta, whose moonstone gray eyes were practically glowing with veneration.
“I am Julien Zechariah Lacusta, son of Micah and his destiny, Harietta Noel, chosen by the god Hercules, and I too serve your house, both as a tracker and an Ancient Master Warrior.”
Prince Jadon nodded with deference before turning his attention to Ramsey. “And you?”
“Ramsey Demetrios Olaru,” the sentinel said. He swept his hand to the side, indicating his brothers. “And these are my brothers—my twin, Saxson, and our eldest sibling, Santos. All three of us serve in the house of our lord as warrior-sentinels to our ancient king.”
To his credit, Prince Jadon remained silent as Saxson and then Santos introduced themselves to the original monarch, each relaying their titles and their lineage before reaffirming their fealty to him. And then, without preamble or hesitation, he leveled his gaze on Napolean Mondragon, having had no trouble whatsoever singling him out—whether through Braden’s memories or Napolean’s unmistakable regal bearing and prominent presence, Nachari couldn’t say.
“Our ancient king…” Prince Jadon repeated Ramsey’s words. “Please, come forward.”
Napolean rose with all the grace and dignity of his title, his own broad shoulders drawn majestically back, and he strode forward with both dignity and purpose, wearing his own station like a royal cloak. “Your Grace.”
Prince Jadon took the king’s full measure. “My Lord.” He held both palms up and outward, acknowledging the full…stature of the male before him. “King…of the house of Jadon.” He paused, his stoic manner giving nothing away. “From whose line do you hail, King Napolean?”
While steady, even proud, Napolean’s deference and awe were apparent in the subtle, almost subservient, downward cast of his head. “My Prince, I am Napolean Mondragon, born on the third day of May 810 BC, to my father, Sebastian, and my matron, Katalina Constantin. Our house descended from the goddess Andromeda and her human mate, Demetrius, and I was chosen by the former celestial deity, having survived the Curse. I am an Ancient Master Justice, and yes, the leader…the founder…of all those who, alas, survived the brutal pronouncement and torment, all those who eventually—through great hardship and over time—migrated to North America.”
Once again, Prince Jadon’s discerning eyes flashed upward and to the left but only for an instant—he was accessing Braden’s memories more swiftly now, almost instantaneously. “Mondragon.” He nearly exhaled the word. “I know this house!” He stared at Napolean in rapt fascination. “And I know…I knew…your father, Sebastian. He was one of my loyalists. He was there at the Curse. He was—” His voice cut off abruptly.
“Yes,” Napolean said sadly. “He was murdered. Beheaded. By your brother, Prince Jaegar, immediately following the change.”
If eyes could reflect both empathy and gratitude, Prince Jadon’s pupils glowed with each, and then he tilted his head to the side. “Words are inadequate to express my depth of sympathy—my soul…the monarchy weeps for your loss. And congruently, it is beyond the skill of the tongue to express the immense—nay, staggering—gratitude you are owed for all you have done. For leading our soldiers across the sea, for holding my house together, for founding a society that has survived so long—nay, I cannot do such fealty justice with words, but with all my heart, I thank you, King Napolean.” The words lingered as if they were living entities, and then Prince Jadon’s eyes lit up with enhanced awareness. “Napolean,” he repeated, his voice thick with wonder. “Sebastian’s young son.” Yet again, he paused. “You are not the same child who was saved by Timaos from the wrath of Ravi Apostu, are you?”
“I am.”
Prince Jadon nodded crisply, and then he suddenly switched gears and spun around. “Oh gods! My brother! Prince Jaegar! Where is he now? What…when…what year is this? My sisters!” His eyes swept the shoreline, and his voice rose with angst. “The princesses, Ciopori and Vanya! They boarded the vessel with the High Mage, Fabian. They voyaged across the great sea.”
“Yes, they did. We did,” Fabian Antonescu said bluntly as he both shimmered into view on the sands of the shore and strolled unapologetically to Prince Jadon’s side. “Your Grace…Your Highness…my beloved friend. By all that is holy, it is good to hear your voice.”
Once again, Nachari shivered inwardly: Fabian couldn’t say, It is good to see you, because the face he beheld was Braden Bratianu’s, even as the voice belonged to another being, another vampire. Nachari closed his eyes and whispered in his mind, into the vast, uncertain silence: Braden, son…where are you? He stared longingly at Prince Jadon, studied each and every one of Braden’s fine, angular features, hoping for a sign...
Anything.
A wink.
A nod.
A twitch of his fingers…
But nothing subtle nor exceptional happened, nothing that might indicate Braden had heard him.
“Fabian!” Prince Jadon’s tone took a familiar, almost human lilt. His hands shot up to his jaw, and his eyes lit up with pleasure. “You’re here. You’re alive. Then my—”
“Sisters?” Fabian interjected. “Aye, your sisters are alive. The royal princesses yet live.”
Prince Jadon closed his eyes—ostensibly, and once again, scanning Braden’s memories—only this time, rather feverishly. When at last he opened his lids, his eyes were moist with tears, and he exhaled with deep emotion. “My gods…” He placed both hands on Fabian’s shoulders, and Fabian covered the prince’s hands with his own. “Then you made it,” Prince Jadon said, sounding both relieved and astonished, “all three of you.” He gestured with his chin to indicate the shoreline and all the warriors still kneeling before him. “What of the others, the whole of my loyalists? You not only survived the Curse but all the tumult that followed? My males? My loyal subjects? What of the house of—”
“Whoa…” Fabian interrupted. He shook his head slowly. “No, my prince. Few of the original soldiers survived. I’m sorry, but much has changed over the long, hard years, the many centuries since we left Romania.” He cupped Prince Jadon’s face firmly in his hands, and the gesture was uncharacteristically intimate. “It’s all there, in your memories, the memory of the vampire whose body you inhabit, and whatever is missing, I will supply. But for now, this moment, this fateful night, there is much we need to attend to…much, I’m afraid, that is terribly urgent.”
Prince Jadon drew back and held up one hand, silencing Fabian with one gesture. “Wait,” he said, “before you go on. Fill in these blanks right now…three queries.”
He must have sent the questions through a private, telepathic bandwidth because the two men stood silently while Fabian nodded. After the space of several heartbeats, perhaps a minute, the High Mage stepped back and spoke aloud, so that all who were present could hear the answers. “We boarded the vessel on February first, 799 BC. We arrived in North America, now Dark Moon Vale, on May first, three months hence. The soldiers, your loyalists—the Vampyr—began arriving in May of 791 BC, but the full migration took many years, spanned several decades in time. And even then, many of the remaining males scattered across the mainland—it took centuries for Napolean to gather them together and create the society we know now. As for your second question, the answer is more painful, the truth more difficult to confess: Fearful that your sisters might never awaken, I panicked while in a…volatile…state of mind. While sleeping…dreaming…I traveled in the breast of a dark brown hawk and fed your blood to the male whose body you now possess. Your Grace, I stole a second vial from the castle apothecary, a vial containing your brother’s blood, and while traveling in the body of a midnight-black raven, I fed it to a Dark One in the house of Jaegar. The universe demands balance, and I feared the spell might not work—your sisters might never be awakened—if I had not done both, provided the celestial sphere with balance by paying homage to both the light…and the darkness.”
“And my third query?” Prince Jadon a
sked, showing no hint of judgment or disapproval.
“In answer to your third question: This night, the Millenia Harvest Moon—it has now fully risen, and it will wane at 3:34 a.m. The young one’s name is Braden Bratianu, and he now embarks on a journey of his own, a journey that will, one way or the other, prove consequential to the entire fate of the house of Jadon. While I do not know where he is for certain—divination is an imprecise art—I feel…I sense…or perhaps I just hope that he is somewhere in the realm of spirit, yet sentient, somewhere far beyond our grasp. And I believe, although I cannot be certain, that he battles forces, engages…spirits…that are neither earthborn, nor made of flesh.
“No, I did not know what to expect—I had no idea what would happen when the full moon rose at 8:59 p.m., when your blood awakened in the vampire’s body—but now I am fairly certain at least of this much: The body you inhabit will remain in your care until such time as the Millenia Harvest Moon wanes. After that, it is anyone’s guess. Perhaps it depends upon the young one’s journey.”
Prince Jadon considered Fabian’s words thoughtfully, taking a moment to process all the High Mage had said.
He rubbed his chin and bit his lower lip.
He turned his back on Fabian and the nearby vampires and strolled along the bank of the shore.
He turned around and rejoined his comrades.
And then he beckoned the kneeling males to rise with a regal lift of his hand.
Once all were standing, quiet and waiting, he angled his shoulders toward Fabian. “One more question, my wise, forthright friend…”
Fabian raised his brows.
“Who”—Prince Jadon said softly—“is Kristina Silivasi?”
