Blood Web: A Blood Curse Novel (Blood Curse Series Book 10)

by Tessa Dawn

  Santos had already heard the alarms. “I hear it, angel—where is it coming from?”

  She shot up in bed, her eyes wide with terror. “My father’s study and the central control room in the basement. Oh God, Santos, that’s not the home security system. I’ve only heard it once or twice during carefully controlled tests, but I’d know that high-pitched shrill anywhere—it’s the sound of my nightmares. That’s the panic siren for The Fortress. The one that triggers… containment.”

  Santos cocked his brows. “Containment?” He reached over her shoulder, placed his hand on her jaw, and turned her gently to make eye contact. “Be very clear, Natalia: By containment, you mean what?”

  She choked back a sob. “The Fortress has been breached. I have no idea by what or whom—perhaps a federal raid, perhaps my father’s enemies—but the mercenaries, the ones I told you about, the hired killers in other countries… Santos, they just got their marching orders. By containment, I mean they will kill them all. Tonight. Right now.”

  Santos shot off the bed like a rocket.

  In the space of ten heartbeats, he shoved Natalia’s armoire, desk, and chest of drawers against the only door to her bedroom. In the space of a fifteen heartbeats more, he wrenched several metal slats off the frame beneath her bed, bent them to fit snugly inside a five-by-seven frame, and secured them against her bedroom window. “Do not move the furniture or open this door to anyone but me or my brothers,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “Stay here, inside this room, until we come for you. Do you understand me, Natalia? Let no one in.”

  She nodded emphatically. “Yes. I understand, but what—”

  He didn’t have time to listen…or answer… He was already transporting through the bedroom wall. Ramsey! Saxson! he shouted on their common, family telepathic bandwidth. Alert the other warriors—The Fortress has been breached! The clock is already ticking. We can’t wait for Sunday night. The raid goes down right now.

  Santos, Saxson, and Ramsey Olaru; Nathaniel, Kagen, and Nachari Silivasi; Braden Bratianu and Blade Rynich all materialized in less than two minutes, appearing beneath a dense, shadowed grove of cottonwood trees a couple of feet behind the ten-foot-high wall that surrounded the enormous fortress.

  The moonlight glistened against the silhouette of olive-green leaves.

  The wind whispered secrets of duplicity and danger.

  And the garish, white brick structure within the robust wall beckoned to the warriors like a lonely siren: dangerous, deceptive…and taunting.

  Wordlessly, the vampires chambered, cocked, and checked their weapons: Ramsey handed Santos his familiar iron stake, although the sentinel was just as comfortable fighting with his hands, even as the hazel-eyed vampire rotated and fingered his own beloved trident. Saxson sheathed his medieval axe in a worn, leather belt loop, while Nathaniel shouldered his M4 carbine—one glance beneath the devious Ancient Master Warrior’s cloak, and it was clear that he was also carrying his polished silver stiletto, the one with the custom handcrafted grip. Kagen, on the other hand, was wearing a peculiar makeshift holster, outfitted with every manner and size of wicked-looking surgical implements and scalpels, while true to form, Nachari brandished his beloved sword.

  Braden was wearing a set of brass knuckles, and he had an Old West Colt 45 tucked in the back of his belt, while Blade appeared to be strapped with nun chucks and several Shuriken—throwing stars. He had studied Okinawan martial arts and Ninjutsu at the local academy this past semester, and he was clearly eager to try them out.

  The circle of vampires lit up with a faint iridescent light, and a host of translucent colors danced through the air, narrowing into a stream of prisms that hovered before each HOJ male, save Braden and Blade—the fledglings were not yet adept with the creation of a communal hologram, something that took an inordinate amount of energy to sustain and project during a battle against lycans or other vampires, but would be easy enough to maintain against humans.

  One by one, the Master Warriors projected their images, each one adding his individual imprint into the string of holograms until the impressions linked, and then they brought Braden and Blade’s individual auras into the common mix. From this moment forward, as the Vampyr entered The Fortress, they could call up the collective screen and see each and every vampire’s individual position, opponent, and stage in the fight.

  In other words, the eight were intrinsically connected.

  No one was alone or blind.

  And while Santos momentarily regretted the fact that they had not had time to bring two more warriors into the raid, they would just have to make do with what they had.

  “Braden, Blade,” Santos spoke with lethal purpose, “while you can’t create your own holograms yet, can you hold this…can you call it up? You good with the communal projection?”

  Braden Bratianu nodded, and his now six-foot-two iron frame tensed with electric energy and purpose. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “And you, Blade?” Santos asked.

  Blade Rynich opened his mouth to speak, and his taut lips curled back over his fangs so that his affirmation was no more than a guttural grunt.

  Good enough, Santos thought. Both of these fledglings are ready. “Then let’s do the damn thing,” he barked with authority, and all eight warriors vanished from the shadows of the cottonwoods, scattering to take their predetermined positions.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The instant Santos materialized in the northern wing of The Fortress, he knew something was terribly wrong.

  The stench of blood and death permeated the dark, dank structure.

  What might have been an odorless chemical to humans assailed his hypersensitive nostrils.

  And the wing was way too quiet.

  Nothing was as the warriors had anticipated.

  Switching his vision to infrared, he immediately began to search for heat signatures, even as he tuned into the cacophony of faint and fading heartbeats and pulled up the communal hologram.

  Ramsey! he called out on a telepathic line. What’s happening in the southern quadrant?

  Damn, brother, Ramsey grumbled, you need to take a look at this shit. Three guards dead, their limbs literally ripped off their bodies: one is missing a head; the other two are missing their hearts. The sons of bitches never knew what hit them.

  Santos zoomed in on the hologram, rapidly scanning Ramsey’s field of vision. “Damn,” he whispered, and then, one by one, he zoomed in and out of all the other warriors’ projections. Saxson had entered the facility in the west, and he had stumbled upon the same thing: six dead sentries, their disemboweled corpses stacked in a gruesome flesh-and-bone pile. Nathaniel Silivasi was patrolling the halls, and they were empty with the exception of three more dead bodies, all belonging to Giovanni’s guards: one male was hanging from the ceiling by his intestines; one was slumped against a wall, his vacant eyes still open; and on the other end of the corridor, near the back of the building, the last guard in the hall had been impaled through the sternum by his own rifle. These aren’t human executions, Santos murmured.

  No shit, Ramsey replied, undoubtedly scanning the collective hologram as well.

  Nachari was slinking through the eastern wing as a silent, graceful black panther, sniffing dead guards—looked like two—and searching for captive women, while Kagen stood as a sentry, stationed at the front door. The Ancient Master Healer’s orders had been to head off and destroy any enemy stragglers or human guards trying to escape, while guiding panicked women out of the building—Blade had been given an identical mission at the rear door of the structure. Yet there were no rebel fighters, no enemy combatants trying to flee The Fortress. No guards to engage in combat. No desperate women, panicking. No screaming, no scrambling, no one trying to escape.

  Just rivers of blood, dead guards, and the pungent odor of chemicals…

  Further below, in the compound’s basement, Braden Bratianu had stumbled upon five more dead henchmen. By the looks of things, they had been t
rying to escape the facility, but Santos didn’t have time to inquire further—he needed to check his own post, survey the cages in the northern quadrant, and enumerate any remaining dead guards. More urgently, he needed to check all the northern women: Was anyone still conscious? How many were passed out? Blessed Delphinus, let somebody still be breathing…

  He needed to shift into light speed now.

  Wings punching out of his back, he raced in the direction of the ghastly cages, darting feverishly in and out of each cell, and his stomach twisted into sickening knots.

  Indeed, there were five dead guards in total, spread out among the many cages, but these bastards had died trying to protect their chattel. They had died defending the northern women, who clearly hadn’t stood a chance—the females had been cornered and decimated like pigs in a slaughterhouse, along with their worthless protectors. And judging by the telltale fang marks on their necks, the sharp indentations of claws gouged into their thighs, and the numerous pools of blood beneath them, clearly formed by arterial spray, there was no longer any question as to what had happened.

  They’re all dead, Santos reported, sending the observation across a communal, telepathic bandwidth, addressing no one in particular. All the women in the northern quadrant are gone, but they didn’t die from poison chemicals. They were brutalized…ruined…ripped apart. They were definitely slain by vampires. And to my way of thinking, this has Oskar Vadovsky written all over it—he didn’t go quietly into the night.

  Mine are still breathing! Saxson thundered, interjecting a voice of hope into the mayhem. At least thirty souls, still in their cages, all but three are unconscious. We can still get them out.

  It’s the same in the south, Ramsey chimed in. The guards are dead, but the women are still breathing. I’m counting twenty-five.

  Thirty-two girls. Nachari’s calming voice. All still alive, but barely.

  And that’s when Ramsey Olaru took charge: Santos, Nathaniel, Blade: Forget your previous assignments and posts—we need to carry as many of these women as we can, as fast as we can, out of this toxic cesspool. Santos, join Saxson. Nathaniel, get over here with me, and Blade, hump your ass over to the eastern wing to help Nachari with the unconscious females. Kagen, you need to do your thing, Healer; try to keep these gods-forsaken women alive. We’ll lay ’em on the ground as fast as we can fly them out, but you’ve gotta work some serious magic. And for what it’s worth, Healer, you might want to make it rain!

  Braden! Try to locate the pumps—if you can’t stop the nerve agent, at least obstruct the flow in the pipes. And warriors, one and all, blast as many man-sized holes in these walls and the roof as you can. We need to get some fresh air and water into this bitch. Oh, and keep your eyes out for Luca and his henchmen; you never know when they might show up. Same goes for Oskar Vadovsky and our dark, soulless cousins—more than likely, the cowardly bastards went home, but just the same, watch your six. I doubt anyone in Giovanni’s employ has called the human police—they probably have the compound locked down, tight—still, stay aware. There are innocent servants on this property as well as some really bad actors, so play it by ear. Scrub memories when you need to, snap necks if it’s called for, and call out to another warrior if you need some backup. Now let’s move like the dark hounds of hell, themselves, are breathing down our necks.

  At Ramsey’s telepathic command, Braden Bratianu began to survey the basement: scanning the corners for containers or drums; checking the ceiling for strange, exposed pipes; and generally avoiding the creepy-ass, bloodstained stone situated in the middle of the floor. No doubt, the Dark Ones had been birthing their children in this basement for years…using Luca’s captives to spawn them.

  Shit…just shit…the house of Jadon sure had some jacked-up enemies.

  Trying to keep Nachari’s earlier instructions in the back of his mind, he worked to reset his preternatural gas mask. “When we enter the structure, Braden,” Nachari had told him, “you might encounter any number of threats: a hail of bullet fire, an explosion, or even toxic chemicals. You need to be prepared to deflect any oncoming bullets; to scatter your molecules and recollect them in the event of an explosion; and to block any lethal toxins. With regard to the latter, do not panic. Remember, the Vampyr race descended from humans and celestial gods—we are interconnected with the elements; they react to our emotions, but they also do our will. With that in mind, the moment you sense the presence of toxic vapor, reach out to the universe and call forth the base elements of charcoal—as you’ve learned at The Academy, these are carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and sulfur. Break them down into the exact atomic structure of charcoal, then hold them in the back of your throat. Heat them with a stream of oxidizing gas—steam, CO2, and air—to activate the compound. This will create a barrier like chicken wire, a filter of sorts, and any toxins you inhale will become bonded to the holes in the activated charcoal net before they can reach your lungs. Once you’ve set it in the back of your throat, leave it there—literally command the filter to hover if you need to. Once it’s in place, you won’t even notice it—it’ll sit there until you remove it.”

  Thank the gods, Nachari had made Braden practice…

  The filter was still holding strong.

  Turning his attention to the first of two long, narrow halls, Braden eyed a series of four large cannisters, and sure as shit, they were wired to a simple control pad. The control pad was wired to both a cell phone and a timer, and it looked as if the timer had gone off—the apparatus had clearly been triggered. Drawing nearer to the barrels, he eyed them up close: Each tank was stamped with a skull-and-crossbones, and beneath each symbol were three bright red words—

  POISON—TOXIC CHEMICALS.

  Yeah, well, no shit, Sherlock, Braden thought. It’s not like this neat little row of hanging gas masks, right beneath the effin’ control pad, doesn’t give that obvious fact away.

  He followed the interconnecting pipes, those that snaked out of the cylinders, and it looked like they were linked to four main supply lines: to an obvious series of pumps. He dropped down into a squat, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and tried to figure out how the system worked.

  He didn’t want to act too impulsively, to bend or crush the pipes prematurely—where would the toxic agent go if it was sidelined? Was there something in the chemical makeup that could explode under pressure, thus setting the whole damn building on fire? Same thing if he screwed with the actual pumps: For all he knew, he would blunder, screw something up, and end up streaming the poison out faster. He returned his attention to the four main supply lines: Yep, all the chemicals were funneling into those pipes before branching out into the various wings of The Fortress…

  Nodding with decision, he sidled up to the first main supply and braced both hands around the iron, about four or five inches apart. Grunting with effort, he tightened his fists, flexed his muscles, and rotated both wrists outward. Sure enough, the pipe snapped in half, and toxic chemical agent began pouring into the basement. Remembering Nachari’s words—remembering not to panic—he quickly sealed the outflow shut, then repeated the process three more times. The poison already in the pipelines would continue to flow to the upper floor, but no new vapors would join it. As for the open streams now flooding the basement, he would leave those alone to avoid the potential of an explosion—better they pumped into the basement than the entire noxious structure.

  He jumped to his feet in a dexterous bound and began to high-tail it to the other end of the basement, to the second, identical hall, in order to repeat the process. No doubt, he would find another set of cannisters linked to another set of main supply lines, but at least he knew how to disable them. And he wasn’t going to lie—not to himself or the gods. He was chomping at the bit to get out of that poisonous basement.

  Plus, he wanted to help the other warriors.

  And that’s when he heard a mousy scratch, an almost inaudible sound, coming from the center of the cellar, high above, in the ceiling’s ductwork.
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  His heartbeat sped up; he dropped down into a crouch, rocking onto the balls of his feet; and he retrieved his Colt 45 from his waistband, silently cocking the trigger. Then he narrowed his gaze at the celling and listened intently, trying to discern the origin of the sound.

  There it was again.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  Then a frantic gasp for air, followed by muffled breathing—a woman’s pitiful whimper.

  Braden zoomed in on the faint, distant sounds until he was standing directly beneath them. Releasing the trigger, he rotated the Colt in his hand and gripped it by the barrel. With a strike as fast as lightning, he leaped from the ground and slammed the butt-end of the weapon into the ceiling. He ducked and shuffled backward as plaster, wood, and a sheet of galvanized steel rained down all around him. And then he flipped the weapon back into position, cocked the trigger a second time, and pointed the barrel toward the gaping hole—just in case—as he waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Just another desperate gasp for air, this time followed by a wheezing cough, then more muffled breathing.

  He levitated off the floor, floated into the opening, and peered cautiously inside the decimated ceiling—and then he jolted: A filthy, yet beautiful blond-haired woman was huddled inside of the ductwork, her pale green eyes as wide as saucers. Her breasts were exposed; her hip was bleeding; and she was breathing into a wadded-up pair of panties. A quick glance—up and down, back and forth—made it clear where she had gotten the underwear.

  Braden cringed in embarrassment and stretched out his hand. “Crawl forward.” His voice sounded gravelly, too deep to be his own, and the woman practically hyperventilated, trying to shuffle backward. She was this close to passing out, maybe even dying. “Hold up,” Braden commanded, instinctively lacing his voice with compulsion. Stunned when her body froze in mid-motion, he blew out a breath and softened his delivery. “Just hold up; stay right there. I’m not going to touch you. Let me go get you a gas mask, all right?”