Blood Harvest (Blood Curse Series Book 12)

by Tessa Dawn

  Nachari paused, carefully considering his next words. “Like you, we will have to take it as it comes, but rest assured that we, as the Council of Wizards, are equally prepared to fight with spells and magick. We have long avoided an all-out war with our cousins of darkness—they outnumber us tremendously, and they are every bit our equals in combat—but if this night is the night when it finally happens, so be it. We are all ready and determined.”

  Prince Jadon closed his eyes, imagining the war…the carnage…the unconscionable loss of life, and the marrow in his bones calcified with both disgust and determination. All of this because Prince Jaegar was spiteful, vengeful, and hell-bent on murdering his own flesh and blood, even though the needless slaughter would ultimately bring him nothing.

  Nothing.

  No honor.

  No power.

  No godly reward.

  He was simply twisted, self-aggrandizing, and evil.

  “Very well.” He opened his eyes. “For what it is worth, I do not intend to fail.”

  Nachari’s stunning forest-green eyes softened with both compassion and understanding. “Your Grace?”

  Prince Jadon smiled wanly. “What is it, Master Wizard?”

  “Before you go, I was hoping…” His voice trailed off as he peered beyond Prince Jadon’s right shoulder and extended his hand toward someone or something ostensibly behind him. “My mate, Deanna. Our son, Sebastian Lucas. We weren’t here when you offered blessings to the Vampyr—we were retrieving the sword and assisting Dario and Conrad with something personal…meaningful…retrieving a special family heirloom, one they desperately wanted for Lily’s burial service.”

  Prince Jadon nodded solemnly, understanding the vampire’s request, and then his heart instantly lightened as he turned around and glimpsed the striking, exotic beauty standing at the end of wooden pew, holding a handsome toddler’s hand. Her resplendent blue-gray eyes met his, and she lowered her head in deference, causing a thick, cascading lock of ash-brown hair to fall along the front of her elegant, slender shoulders.

  The prince smiled. “You must be Deanna.”

  The destiny beamed from ear to ear. “Yes. And you’re…” She was too flustered to get the words out. She tried again. “You’re Prince Jadon.” She quickly recovered and placed her hand over her heart. “Your Grace.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “Prince Jadon, or just…Jadon will do.”

  She shook her head, bewildered, and then she gestured lovingly at the green-eyed toddler who just might, one day, rival his father for otherworldly beauty. His father and his mother. “And this is Sebastian,” she said.

  Prince Jadon bent over, settled down into a squat, and waved the child forward.

  “Go.” Deanna placed her hand on the child’s little back and gently shoved him forward.

  Despite the gravity of the night—the loss, the fear, the chaos—the house of Jadon had welcomed their ancient prince with unparalleled awe and reverence, and the prince, in turn, had taken the time to speak the names of each and every member aloud and to bless each one of the children: It was the least he could do in the time he had left. “It is so nice to meet you, Sebastian,” he crooned.

  “Yer eyes are bwown, like Unka Kagen’s,” Sebastian said, reaching out to touch Prince Jadon’s nose. “But dare’s no silva.”

  Prince Jadon glanced at Deanna and raised his brows in question.

  “Silver,” she said. “Uncle Kagen’s eyes are quite dark brown but filled with beautiful slashes of silver.”

  “Ah,” Prince Jadon said, reaching out to clasp Sebastian’s little hands. “Indeed, that’s true. And what color are your eyes, little one?”

  “Gween.”

  Deanna chuckled, and Nachari joined her, even as he sidled up beside his mate. “Sebastian, this is Prince Jadon Demir, the…namesake of the house of Jadon.”

  Sebastian scrunched up his brows. “What’s a names…ache?”

  “Namesake,” Deanna repeated. “It’s someone very, very important.”

  He seemed to be pleased with the answer. “Ooooo,” he breathed, staring at the prince more intently. “Like King Napol-un.”

  “Yes,” Prince Jadon said. “Just like that.” He picked Sebastian up, set him on his knee, and braced one hand against the small of the child’s back. The prince raised his other hand to his mouth, released his canines, and pricked his finger with blood before drawing a thin, vertical line along Sebastian’s forehead. “Sebastian Lucas Silivasi, I anoint you in the name of the royal house of Demir and by the grace of the celestial deities. May your life be filled with peace, triumph, and purpose. May your path always be blessed.”

  He ushered Deanna forward and waited for her to kneel.

  He drew a similar line along her flawless complexion and repeated the same refrain, taking her full name—Deanna Debois Silivasi—from Nachari’s mind. “Keep this little one safe,” he whispered in Deanna’s ear, referring to the anterior fortress, the diamond-embedded holding cell where the destinies and children would wait out the battle, safely locked in together.

  “I will,” she whispered back.

  Sensing the moment, or maybe understanding how much Prince Jadon needed it, Sebastian climbed down from his lap, wriggled between his strong arms and legs, and wrapped his tiny arms around the prince’s shoulders, nestling his head in the crook of Jadon’s neck.

  Prince Jadon accepted the hug with open arms and cradled the child in return, struggling to contain such deep emotion: He had lost his kingdom once before. He had lost his sisters and his loyalists. He had lost everything because of his faithless, wicked twin, and now he was losing a family…a community too precious and dear to fathom.

  But all was not lost, he had to remind himself.

  Napolean had kept the traditions and customs alive.

  The descendants of his loyalists had multiplied and thrived, and Prince Jadon’s sisters yet lived.

  At least for now—they lived.

  And Prince Jadon had an opportunity—one harrowing, singular, last opportunity—to finally make things right.

  No…

  He did not intend to fail.

  On the top tier of the underground colony, Prince Jaegar Demir stood in the Congressional Hall Auditorium staring out at the whole of the house of Jaegar from the center of the dimly lit stage. Though the Millenia Harvest Moon was still in full swing, the vampires in the house of Jaegar had managed to pull themselves away from their various…festivities in order to catch a glimpse of their legendary patriarch. True, the prince and the council had decided earlier that the majority of Dark Ones need not know of his presence, the occurrence of his reanimation—it was best to leave them none the wiser. However, all that had changed in Napolean Mondragon’s courtyard, following the female vampire’s slaughter, Prince Jadon’s challenge to one-to-one combat, and the ensuing battle yet to take place in the Red Canyons.

  Now, as Prince Jaegar stood on the strange platform dais, staring out at this odd underground arena with its glistening floors and high, carved-out ceiling, nerves were high, testosterone was flowing, and feral, predatory instincts were at an apex.

  Still…

  Young and old, soldier and guard, councilmen, fledgling, and ancient held their tongue and restrained their restless energy, hanging on the prince’s every utterance. “I wish you could have been there, long ago in Romania,” he began, “to witness the power of our movement: the fear we commanded throughout the land, the authority we wielded over the royal court, the noble class and peasants alike. I wish you could have attended the many glorious sacrifices. But alas, I find myself in this peculiar position, reanimated in the body of your infamous executioner whilst reflecting my own glorious persona and asking you—all of you, my faithful servants and distant progeny—to take up my cause yet again, to support me in battle and wage a war of Blood Vengeance.”

  His speech was met with guttural grunts, feral hisses, and vile expletives as the Dark Ones seethed with rage…and purpose.
Yea, they would follow him anywhere. They would fight—and kill—as if their own lives were on the line.

  Of this, Prince Jaegar had no doubt.

  “Will you join me in the Red Canyons this night?” His voice soared throughout the auditorium. “Will you slay your enemy, male and female alike—will you meet me in the Valley of Death & Shadows if necessary?”

  Strong, muscle-bound arms rose high above their heads as the sons of Jaegar pumped their fists in the air and chanted in rhythmic unity, until the combined din of their thunderous voices shook the auditorium in a murderous roar.

  Prince Jaegar took a large stride forward and smiled.

  Then Zeus approached the stage, head bowed low and shoulders curled forward in a submissive posture. He climbed the stairs to the top of the dais, laid a long, sturdy broadsword at Prince Jaegar’s feet, and swiftly backed away: From what Oskar Vadovsky had told him, the blade belonged to Achilles Zahora, and it had been tested in many battles, most notably during the dual beheadings of Damien and Dane Alexiares. Apparently, Saber’s adopted father and younger brother had died in the heart of the Red Canyons, eighteen months past—their hearts had been seized from their chests, right in front of the treasonous Dark One, during a perilous meeting with the house of Jadon following Saber’s capture.

  A good omen to be sure.

  Prince Jaegar dipped down lithely, never bowing the length of his back. He lifted the sword and stood up swiftly, his movement as fluid as water, then tested the weight of the sword in his hand. The corner of his mouth curved up in a devious smirk, and he lunged forward, thrust the blade through Zeus’ abdomen, withdrew it cleanly, and held it up in fascination…

  Rank approval and appreciation.

  Yes, this would do.

  He searched the first row of the auditorium until his eyes met Salvatore Nistor’s, then Oskar Vadovsky’s, each vampire in turn. Depending on what happened later that morn, both elder statesmen may—or may not—be dead males walking. “Chairman,” he said, addressing Oskar by his esteemed position as head of the Dark Ones’ Council, “heal this boy’s wounds, would you? Before he bleeds all over my boots.” He glared forward, addressing the entire auditorium. “And all of you need to be more wary, remain on your toes. Zeus should not have been so easily skewered.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Enchanted Forest

  Following the badge of forgiveness, Braden had felt emotionally drained and physically spent. He had sprawled beneath the Tree of Light to sleep a while, and his dreams had carried him back to another place and time…

  Dark Moon Vale.

  Two years ago…

  When he had first met Jocelyn Levi and the Silivasi family…

  When he had dressed like a ghastly, embarrassing rendition of Count Dracula—complete with the long, flowing cape, painted white skin, and a high, stiff collar atop a pale silk shirt—and directly gotten into a minor tiff with Marquis Silivasi. Weary of what Marquis had seen as insolence, the elder Ancient Master Warrior had promptly placed Braden in Time Out, sealed upside down and hanging in a “bat cave,” where he had then been discovered by a lycan named Tristan Hart and ultimately kidnapped and brutalized by both Tristan and his cohort, Willy Jackson. The lycans had nailed Braden to a crude, makeshift cross in a freezing, worn-down outbuilding behind an old, remote wooden cabin. They had tortured him and left him to die.

  The dream had seemed so real.

  Like he was living it all again for the very first time: being discovered by Jocelyn, watching helplessly as she had struggled to save him—to feed him—re-experiencing the effort it had taken to get down from that cross, and the way he had finally fought back, clinging to nothing more than a hope and a prayer, all the while both desperate and determined to prove himself, once and for all, to Nachari and Marquis.

  In the end, he had saved Nathaniel’s destiny.

  He had fought off a fearsome lycan.

  And he had managed to live to tell about it, thanks to the amazing healing talents of Kagen Silivasi.

  Having awakened from the visceral dream, Braden had sat up, stretched his arms, and arched his back, only to find a pair of fresh, perfect discs—two new badges of honor—lying on the ground beside him.

  Hope and Perseverance.

  That had made him smile.

  The forest was so strange…

  One minute, the branch was curling around his shoulder, leading him through a vision where he had earned the badges of patience and kindness; the next vision had led him to truth. In his mind’s eye, he had stood on a rooftop, once again, with his beloved mother and recalled how mercy, compassion, and understanding had healed them both—he had then been catapulted to the most brutal time of his life, where he had struggled and chosen to forgive his biological father in order to earn the badge of forgiveness. Still, the next moment, he had simply fallen asleep, entered a dreamscape, and awakened to find hope and perseverance, at which point, he had figured one never knew where their journey was really taking them, all the lessons and attributes they were learning, discovering…collecting along the way. With gratitude and a newfound humility, he had placed the fresh new discs in his pouch and risen from the ground to explore the forest a little bit more.

  Now, as he stood before an odd, gauzy curtain hanging down from the sky and billowing in an unseen wind, he felt both an overwhelming urge to part the gossamer panels and step inside as well as a foreboding sense of dread, warning him to stay put—do not go any further—remain on this side of the veil.

  He took a cautious step back and eyed it more carefully.

  The ethereal fabric was both silver and gray, like clouds gathering before a storm, peaceful yet turbulent at once, and nestled beside the center of each panel, both on the left and on the right, were two rhombus tiebacks, draped by two shiny braided ropes, each meant to secure its corresponding panel in place.

  Braden bent forward to look closer—no, not two rhombus tiebacks—two silver discs.

  The one on the left read, Protect.

  The one on the right read, Trust.

  He scrunched up his face and considered their meaning. “What is this?” he murmured absently. He tried to peer behind the curtains, between large, windswept billows, but the scenery beyond the veil was too obscured. “Do I just…take the discs?” he said to no one in particular.

  The disembodied voice of the Tree of Light floated to his ears on the forest-wind. “You protected Jocelyn in that cabin. You saved her from the lycan. And you protected Kristina when you challenged Ramsey Olaru, believing the Master Warrior was taking advantage of her innocence.”

  Remember and choose…

  Braden stood still and thought back, instantly retrieving the memory, and if he hadn’t been so spooked by the gossamer curtains—and whatever lay beyond them—he might have chuckled aloud: Yep, at fifteen years old, before the two had been promised to be mated, Braden had seen a page in Kristina’s diary, a page upon which she had waxed all poetic about Ramsey Olaru, wondering if he really cared for her…or just wanted to use her for sex.

  Even now, the memory made Braden’s blood boil.

  Kristina knew darn well that Ramsey would one day have a destiny of his own; still, she had still been willing to take a chance. She had been lonely, maybe a little bit desperate, and she had gotten furious with Braden for reading her journal.

  Yikes, he thought.

  Furious was an understatement, and he cringed at the memory…

  ’Cause yeah—after that—he had come at her like an angry lion, locked one arm around her waist, pressed his chest against her back, and grasped her chin with his other hand before tilting her head to the side…to expose her jugular.

  “Shit,” he said out loud. That had been his first real experience with dominant, male-vampire instincts, and his second had been even more reckless. He had confronted Ramsey Olaru, all six feet, five inches, and 240 pounds of the badass, ruthless sentinel, in Napolean’s front yard; more or less, directly antagonizing t
he GQ predator—on purpose—and then hurling a stone at his back in order to protect Kristina’s honor. Turns out, Ramsey had never touched her. Saber, who was still a Dark One at the time, had cloaked himself in Ramsey’s likeness, the sentinel’s persona, in order to do Salvatore and Oskar’s dark bidding, but point was: Kristina didn’t know that. Braden didn’t know that. And he had been willing to get torn apart, possibly limb by limb, in order to defend her.

  So yeah, the Tree of Light was right—go figure—protection was one of Braden’s core attributes. Feeling a bit more confident, he stepped forward, toward the left side of the gossamer screen, and removed the badge, protect, from the center of the left-hand panel, tying the curtain back with the braided rope beneath it. The badge glowed in his hand with golden light, and he placed it inside his satchel.

  Then he stared, hard, at the other disc—trust—and that deep, wary sense of foreboding rose again in his stomach. “Trust who?” he mumbled. “Trust what?”

  And that’s when he saw him, the magnificent figure bathed in light, every color of the rainbow radiating out from his aura, the single white cone protruding from his forehead, shimmering like a resplendent, living ray of sunshine.