Blood Harvest (Blood Curse Series Book 12)

by Tessa Dawn

  And then the branch disappeared.

  The tree was no longer there.

  And Braden was standing in a clearing, in a beautiful, plush green meadow on a warm, arid day, in the center of Dark Moon Vale…

  “Braden,” Nachari Silivasi said softly. “You remember what we discussed, right? For the next thirty days, no matter what, you will return to this meadow, every hour on the hour, to this exact spot, and you will reopen this portal. Understood?”

  Ah yes, Braden remembered.

  Sixteen months past, the Silivasi brothers had slipped through the portal in order to enter the land of the lycans, the bizarre dimension of Mhier. They had embarked on a terrifying, dangerous journey in the desperate hope of finding and retrieving their father, Keitaro, and Braden, not knowing if or when the brothers would come back, had returned to that spot to reopen the gateway—every hour on the hour—dozens and dozens of times, for five straight days.

  Following Nachari’s instructions to the letter, he had drawn a crude circle on the ground, then placed the bark from a tree in the north and stones from the eastern cliffs in the east. He had emptied a vial of clear water from the Winding Snake River in the south and tossed a chunk of uneven rock from the Red Canyons in the west. With each placement, he had repeated a rhythmic Latin phrase he had heard Nachari speak the first time they had opened the portal, and then he had placed a piece of the lycan’s hair in the center of the haphazard circle, careful to bury it just below the surface, exactly as Nachari had shown him.

  Though the Silivasis were never there when Braden opened the portal, and everyone in Dark Moon Vale had grown restless, concerned, and even bereft, Braden had not given up. He had opened that damn portal time and again, counted backward from ten to one, then closed it.

  Rinse and repeat…

  Rinse and repeat.

  On some level, he had wanted to prove his worth to the warriors—Marquis and Nachari had trusted him, and all the Silivasis were counting on the acolyte’s faithful allegiance to ensure their safe return to the vale. On another, more personal level, it had simply been Braden’s…duty.

  He was a male in the house of Jadon—displaying honor was not something special.

  But more than that—more than any of it—he had loved Nachari like a brother, and opening that portal, day after day, hour after hour, had been Braden’s special way of showing it.

  The meadow faded, the memory dimmed, and Braden shook his head, coming back to the Enchanted Forest and the Tree of Light behind him. He exhaled slowly, and the curled end of the branch released his shoulder.

  Remember and make a choice…

  “I remember,” Braden said, “but what is the choice? Is there something I need to do to prove my honor—or my loyalty—once again, to the Silivasis?” His forehead creased as he frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  And just like that, the ground in front of him began to glow with a golden light, and slowly, yet distinctly, two silver oblong discs appeared in front of him, the edges filling in before the centers. Braden bent to one knee and leaned over to study them, even as the branch of the tree, the limb that had just cradled his shoulder, extended in length, like a wiry arm with elongated kindling for fingers.

  The forefinger burst into flames, a gold-and-purple blazing stylus, and began to scribe letters on the first of the two discs, until at last, it had written the word patience. It moved seamlessly, like flowing water, to the second of the silver plates and inscribed the word kindness over the silver.

  And that’s when Braden got it.

  It was suddenly so clear…so obvious.

  These discs were his badges, and he had collected each of them, one choice at a time.

  Tears filled his eyes, and he blinked to remove them: All those long days, those fear-filled nights, wanting so desperately to prove himself—praying that the Silivasis would return—had not been an exercise in futility, nor had it been about duty or proving his worth as a vampire. Every hour on the hour—day after day—had been orchestrated and necessary for the lessons to be learned. The strongest swords were forged in fire, and the gods had forged patience in Braden’s character—they had cemented kindness deep in his heart. And these attributes, these hard-earned characteristics, were badges he would carry for the rest of his life, whether on earth or in the spirit world.

  He tapped the top of each forged disc, testing the temperature with his forefinger, then scooped them up, one at a time, and held them up to the light of the tree, to get a better look.

  Beautiful.

  Perfect.

  His heart swelled with pride and gratitude, and then he silently slipped the badges into his pouch and cinched it shut with reverence. “I remember,” he whispered softly. “I get it now.”

  And in time—with patience—he would come to understand the elusive…choice he would need to make.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dark Moon Vale

  Kristina stood toward the outskirts of the courtyard, once again clasping her wrist and Braden’s bracelet, only at this point, she absently held both against her heart. She was shrouded in the pale haze of a dangling tree lantern, watching the mesmerizing, eloquent Homage Ceremony, when all at once, the peaceful milieu exploded with frantic activity,

  It was already 11 p.m.

  The ceremony was only half over, yet males and females, warriors and destinies, young and old vampires from the house of Jadon began to appear in the outdoor square, joining the service from every region of the valley: First came Jankiel’s audience from the circle of drumming, then Niko’s attendants from the Rites of Magick, and from what Kristina could tell, or overhear, many families who had otherwise been at home, performing their own Rites of Peace, Prosperity, & Protection, had also materialized at Napolean’s compound.

  Many simply shimmered into view.

  Still others, especially those with children, came in their cars and SUVs—one by one, two by two, or family by family—all flowing into the lantern-lit yard, gathering in chaotic, chattering circles, and ushering the children—all of the children—swiftly into Napolean’s manse. Apparently, they were to be watched by the queen’s nanny and a handful of destinies—Jocelyn, Gwen, Brooke, and Tiffany—as well as two of the warriors, Mateo Devera and Tyce Tanase, the latter being one of Braden’s closest friends at the local Academy, a vampire no older than Bray.

  Dear gods, what is happening? Kristina wondered.

  She strained to hear more of the chatter—more of Napolean’s orders…

  Something about Prince Jadon!

  Something about protection in numbers.

  A passing murmur about the Dark Ones—holy shit!

  Where the hell was Braden?

  The Millenia Harvest Moon shone high in the sky, its orange- and red-tinged light illuminating the pavilions as Kristina again scanned the furthest rotunda, narrowing her gaze on Keitaro Silivasi. He was speaking attentively with Aric Zander, Kristos Nastase, Dario Bratianu, and Arielle Nightsong, while Conrad, Lily, Colette, Zayda, and Natalia hung back—little Zeri and Shelbie Ryder were already inside the house.

  And gods have mercy—Arielle had her bow and quiver!

  What the hell was going on?

  Kristina knew she should’ve made a beeline across the courtyard to Keitaro’s pavilion—asked her adopted father what had happened to Braden, what was happening in the vale—but she backed further into the shadows instead, her fear warring with regret, her concern warring with her shame…

  In truth, she didn’t want to know—

  Not yet!

  If Braden was gone…

  If something horrible had happened…

  She wasn’t ready to deal with the possibility of never seeing Bray again.

  She stomped her foot against the ground in frustration, dirtying the toe of her high-heeled pump against a divot filled with pine needles, and fought against an onslaught of tears: How many times had she walked beside Braden through the upper halls of the casino, the top few floors which house
d the penthouse apartments? How many times had they hung out casually, outside Nachari’s brownstone, on their way into town to go shopping, or while exploring a new path through the forest…a scenic trail around one of the valley’s crystal lakes—just once, why hadn’t she taken his hand?

  His hand!

  How hard would that have been?

  How improper or inappropriate was it, just to hold someone’s hand?

  How many times had Braden stood inside her walk-in closet, matching her shoes to her skirts like a professional fashion designer. She could have flirted, she could have kissed him—hell, they could have fooled around just a little on the closet floor.

  They didn’t have to go…that far.

  She could’ve waited for Bray to come of age, while still acknowledging the strong, handsome, loyal male he was becoming. The best friend she had ever had. She could’ve wrestled her own inner demons—told him she didn’t know how to love!—told him she had scars that no one ever saw or knew about.

  She could have told him she believed he was destined for greatness…

  To become one of the greatest warriors or wizards—maybe both—the house of Jadon had ever known, that he would one day become so powerful, so exceptional…so gorgeous…that she believed she would no longer turn his head. And she could have admitted that when she looked into his burnt sienna eyes, and those golden pupils stared back at her, they were so damn beautiful—so damn amazing—that her heart hurt just to look at him. She could have at least tried to explain that the situation, being promised to each other by Napolean, scared her shitless because she knew, deep down inside where there were no Band-Aids, that one day, Braden would see all of her too, and he would know—he would find out—that she was both damaged and unworthy.

  Braden was infinitely kind and endlessly patient—she could have told him the truth.

  He would have understood.

  And now, she might never have the chance.

  Why the hell was half the house of Jadon gathering at Napolean’s manse, in the courtyard? Why did Arielle need her bow and quiver? And why were the Vampyr whispering about Prince Jadon, when Braden was the one who had swallowed the prince’s blood? Oh gods…her chest ached, and she felt…ashamed.

  “Kristina…”

  She heard her name and she spun around.

  “Kristina Riley Silivasi?”

  It was spoken more as a question than a familiar shout-out, and the hairs on her arms stood up. “Who’s there?” she called into the darkness, peering behind the base of a large, leaning ponderosa pine. Her head began to tingle, the tightness matching the ache in her chest, almost as if her thoughts were being extracted and replaced with cotton, and her entire body felt suddenly weak…limp…as if it had just been drained of energy. Kristina took a cautious, staggered step back. “Who’s there!” she demanded.

  A tall male, maybe six feet even, stepped out from behind the tree, his stark onyx eyes as dark as midnight, his mouth curved into a wicked, self-satisfied smirk. “Nice to meet you…Red.”

  Her stomach lurched, and her eyes shot immediately to his hair—the vampires in the courtyard had been whispering about Dark Ones!—but it was oddly shrouded, eclipsed like a mirage in the ponderosa’s branches, and Kristina couldn’t make out any colors. “Do I know you?” Keitaro! the voice inside her head clamored loudly. Call out to Keitaro…now!

  “Shh,” the male whispered. “You don’t want to do that. Don’t be afraid, just listen to my voice.”

  The compulsion in his tone was thick as honey, and Kristina shook her head in an effort to break the spell. She was Vampyr now. That shouldn’t work on her so easily. She had to keep her wits about her…try to push him out of her mind. “There are a dozen warriors in this courtyard!” she warned him. “And they will all come running if I call.”

  “But you aren’t going to do that,” he purred.

  Shit.

  His voice was so…alluring.

  And there was something dark, ancient, and irrefutable in his tone, like he commanded the entire night sky: the canvas, the stars, and the Millenia Harvest Moon. Why couldn’t anyone else see him? Hear him? And what did he want with Kristina?

  “Come to me. Quickly.” He held out his hand.

  Kristina drew back and shivered.

  She tried to cry out, but her voice was constricted.

  No way! she thought, but she couldn’t say it—this could not be happening, not right here in Napolean’s courtyard…not with half the house of Jadon a stone’s throw away.

  “Come to me, Kristina. Take my hand, Princess Red.”

  Princess Red?

  Oh, fuck!

  Achilles Zahora…

  But this male was a foot too short—

  Before she could process this new information, figure out what was happening, and reason her way out of it—come up with a plan—she picked up one foot, placed it in front of the other, and reached for the Dark One’s hand.

  How perfect was this?

  How timely and fortuitous!

  Having made his decision to enact timeless vengeance and having directed the Colony Guard on how to best serve him, Prince Jaegar Demir had set out on a reconnaissance mission of sorts: to survey the valley, learn more of his brother, and alas, to find his long-lost sisters.

  The latter had been fairly easy as Oskar, Salvatore, and half the house of Jaegar knew exactly what the sons of Jadon were doing for the Millenia Harvest Moon celebration. Among several trite, predictable rites and ceremonies, they were offering homage to the gods, right out in the open, in the courtyard of that ten-year-old boy who had eluded being murdered by Ravi Apostu over two and a half millennia past.

  Napolean Mondragon…

  Go figure.

  Needless to say, Prince Jaegar and his Guard had rendered their bodies invisible, and they had flown, swift as the wind, silent as the night, cloaked in the scent and energy of the native vegetation and wildlife, courtesy of Salvatore’s sorcery. The prince had landed just outside the courtyard’s perimeter—go big or go home, a phrase borrowed from Achilles’ vernacular—blending his form and anima behind a thick, pyramidal pine tree. And wouldn’t you know it, less than five feet away stood a captivating, pretty redhead in soft, sheer stockings, shoes placed on stilts, a form-fitting kilt—the current word was skirt—and an ivory, long-sleeved tunic, a shirt made of something akin to wool that hugged her breasts and waist like a bodice. She stood deliberately apart from the fray, surveying the courtyard and eavesdropping on conversations, while hiding like a fox in the brush, masked in lantern light and obscured in shadows.

  The obfuscation made no difference.

  The moment she tilted her head and craned her neck in order to peer inside a distant structure, she revealed her profile, and Prince Jaegar recognized her…instantly.

  “Kristina…” He tried her name on his tongue, and she whirled around like a frightened rabbit. Oh yes, he was correct in his identification. “Kristina Riley Silivasi?”

  “Who’s there?” she had called into the darkness, and Jaegar had immediately assessed the situation like a seasoned foot soldier, like a strategic prince, like an ancient, instinctive vampire. He had delved into her mind, quickly extracted both thoughts and memories. She was distracted by musings and plagued with worry…with regret…over a boy named Braden, a boy who had consumed a vial of blood preserved by Fabian Antonescu and given to the lad without his knowledge.

  Oh…

  Dark lords.

  This impossible rebirth—this enigmatic, extraordinary phenomenon—had been orchestrated by the ancient High Mage, starting as far back as 799 BC: So Jadon had given Fabian a vial of his blood before the mage had sailed to the New World with their sisters…before that fateful night in the Transylvanian mountains? Well, bully for him! And the wily wizard had also stolen a second vial, long before the Curse had been enacted, from King Sakarias’ castle apothecary. You seditious little devil…

  Prince Jaegar had never been dull of wit or lacking
reason, and he understood, instinctively, all that had happened, who had swallowed the second vial—Achilles Zahora, of course. And in truth, if he were being fair, the ancient mage’s actions made sense: The universe always demanded balance, and while Prince Jaegar did not know the when, where, or why of the whole sordid occurrence, he frankly didn’t give a shit.

  It was no longer relevant at this juncture.

  So who cared?

  They were both here now—they had both been reanimated—Prince Jaegar and Prince Jadon were alive and well and free to move about a glorious new world. They were legends, living patriarchs, the leaders of two thriving societies, each created by their surviving successors in a valley called Dark Moon Vale.

  Shiiiiit.

  This is wild…

  They were gods among men—well, gods among vampires.

  No sooner had he made the connection between the past and the present than he noticed his sisters’ fingerprints—they were clear and unmistakable, prominent in fact, and littered all over Kristina’s body in the fashion of a spell-cast ward.

  Delightful, he had smirked inwardly.

  So the girls were still practicing the original, celestial magick, and they had coated this female in protection, some sort of energetic snare, set to snap the moment she felt dread or fear, set to alert a family of vampires—and sentinels—with knowledge or Kristina’s prior dealings with Achilles and, far more important, of her exact position in the valley.

  Jaegar had rolled his eyes and sneered.

  He had spent millennia in the Valley of Death & Shadows—the silly ward was child’s play to him. He had unraveled it in under a minute.

  “Who’s there?” she’d repeated, taking a cautious step back.

  Time to play, he’d thought. “Nice to meet you…Red.”

  To her credit, her eyes had shot directly to his hair—she was trying to discern his allegiance, his house—a Dark One, marked by the Blood at the Curse, or a son of Jadon, spared from the red-and-black banded coloring?

  Jaegar had shrouded his hair in darkness.