Blood Vengeance

by Tessa Dawn

  Ramsey didn’t just spit words.

  He might not be the most sensitive male in the house of Jadon, but he meant what he said and he said what he meant—he owed Saber Alexiares his life. “Tiffany will understand.” He spoke without preamble. “The pregnancy can wait until Saturday. My Blood Moon can wait until Saturday. Saber has waited eight hundred years to come home.”

  The king regarded Ramsey with unconcealed admiration, almost too moved to speak. “Are you sure?”

  Ramsey nodded. “Nothing I said in that park was true. So the male has wrestled with his identity? So he needed some time to sort it all out, redefine his place in the world—so what. The sooner we make this happen, the better.”

  Napolean’s determined expression reflected his equal conviction. “Very well, consider it done. I’ll get the ball rolling as soon as I return to the manse tonight.” He leaned back in his chair and nodded, looking immensely satisfied. And then he began to twiddle his thumbs. His eyes darted this way and that around the room, and he practically squirmed in his chair.

  What. The. Hell?

  He blew out a long, anxious breath, and the air whistled as it left his mouth. “Ah, hell,” he said, sounding suddenly embarrassed. “There is one more thing.”

  Ramsey wasn’t about to chime in on this one. At least not yet. He sat there, silent as a church mouse, waiting…

  Napolean rolled his dark, regal eyes and stuck out his lips like a child. “Your queen has a plan.”

  Ramsey waited with bated breath. Oh hell, well, no wonder the king had been reduced to adolescence. This was about Brooke, his female, and more than likely, it included Tiffany… “What kind of plan?” he asked, practically willing the king to just spit it out.

  “Babies,” he said.

  “Come again?” Ramsey said.

  “Babies,” the king said more firmly. He stared at his hands as he continued. “We are all going to have more babies.” He glanced out the tinted glass in the direction of the hot tub, even though the women were securely tucked out of sight. “But the thing is”—he leveled a helpless gaze at Ramsey, his dark onyx eyes almost pleading for sympathy—“we’re going to have them together.”

  Ramsey stroked his jaw and looked askance at a particularly bright tile on the floor. What the heck kind of plan was this? He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it. Finally, wrinkling up his nose, he said, “With all due respect, milord, that just sounds kind of kinky.”

  twenty-five

  Friday night

  Ramsey knew he was breaking with tradition by approaching the exterior door to the Ceremonial Hall of Justice in order to see his destiny one more time before Saber’s induction. The ancient rite would take place in an outdoor clearing, about six hundred acres behind Napolean’s manse, while the indoor ceremony, which was really more of a reception, would follow immediately after the initiation.

  Traditionally, the males took part in the actual sacrament while the females waited in the ceremonial hall to receive the males when the ritual was over. It wasn’t a sexist thing. Rather, it was deeply steeped in centuries of lasting tradition: Long ago, when Napolean began to gather the house of Jadon together, to mold it into a formal, organized entity, there were few destinies present, and those who did attend the bestial rite of passage didn’t have the stomach for the process. True, it was a different time. These days, women were no longer prone to swoon, nor were men obliged to protect their “delicate sensibilities” at every turn. And Ramsey had no doubt whatsoever that every destiny in the house of Jadon could stand proudly through the ceremony, today. Just the same, tradition was tradition. The house of Jadon was born from a Curse, and that Curse followed the male line of descendants, unerringly: “From this day forward, you shall be cursed. And your sons shall be cursed. And their sons after them… unto all eternity.” Bottom line: Females didn’t die a horrific death in the sacrificial chamber if they failed to offer the required sacrifice.

  Males did.

  Ramsey shook his head, quickly dismissing the thought. This was a night of celebration, not morbid reflection. He sent a telepathic request to Tiffany, asking her to come to the outer door—they could speak clairvoyantly now, ever since she had been converted—and then he waited rather impatiently for the heavy iron door to swing open.

  Tiffany looked like the goddess she was when she finally opened the door open and stood before him. Her sleek, layered hair was perfectly groomed, expertly styled, and the stark, golden-brown highlights accentuated the natural blond in a way that made her sea-green eyes sparkle and her soft, delicate features stand out. She leaned forward and scanned the darkness, turning her head to the left, then the right. “What are you doing here?”

  Ramsey braced a heavy, muscular arm against the upper doorframe and leaned in to get closer. “Just one more kiss.”

  Tiffany blushed—she actually blushed—then she shoved him none too gently in the chest, causing his arm to fall to his side. “Ramsey! You are not supposed to be here right now.” She glanced over her shoulder and promptly lowered her voice. “Besides, if Princess Vanya sees you”—she made an executioner’s gesture beneath her throat with her hand—“it won’t be pretty.”

  Ramsey frowned. “Why? What’s going on with Vanya?” He leaned forward to peek inside the hall, but Tiffany blocked his line of vision with her body.

  “I’m warning you,” she whispered coarsely, “she’s wound as tight as a drum.” She rose up on her toes to speak conspiratorially in his ear. “She just told Brooke that this separation of males and females is both stupid and unnecessary, that traditions were made to be broken, and that if Saber gets injured in this ceremony, she’s going to—and I quote—‘unleash a magical can of whoop-ass on the king that will rival the Blood’s fury.’” She stepped back and punctuated her words with a nod.

  Ramsey grimaced. “Damn. She said whoop-ass?”

  Tiffany put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “Yep. Then Kristina told her to chill the hell out before she upsets Saber’s mother.”

  Ramsey chuckled. “Now that sounds like Kristina.” He paused. “Why don’t you just tell Vanya that Saber’s going to be fine: In fact, he’s going to be better than before. He needs this.”

  Tiffany shook her head adamantly. “Just tell Vanya, hell! I’m not going anywhere near that woman until this induction thing is over.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the doorway. “She may be beautiful, and she may be sweet, but that woman does not play around when it comes to Saber. No, thank you. Besides, she knows entirely too much magic for my comfort.” She gestured emphatically with her hands. “So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll keep my distance, mister.”

  Ramsey cocked one eyebrow. “Mister?”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes.

  “Say my name,” he whispered.

  Tiffany looked away, feigning annoyance.

  He chuckled. “Oh, okay. So it’s like that?”

  Tiffany bit her lower lip and stifled a giggle. “Do you ever stop?”

  Ramsey gave her a sly, devilish wink in reply. He knew he really shouldn’t tease her like this, but he couldn’t help it. She was just so cute, so adorable, so sexy with her one-step-forward, one-step-back behavior. One moment, she thought Ramsey was the devil. The next, she found him irresistible. Still, a few minutes later, she treated him like some hybrid between the big bad wolf and her own personal centerfold. And all the while, she remained an intriguing enigma: impossible to conquer yet willing to please.

  His ultimate challenge and his greatest reward.

  He absolutely adored her.

  She was everything he could have ever asked for in a destiny, and the more he got to know her, the more he believed their personalities were simply a perfect match. “Fine,” he said, trying to mimic a pout, and then he dipped down to tempt her. “Kiss me, and I’ll go.”

  Tiffany angled her neck to give him a light peck on the cheek, and he snatched her by the waist, pulled her firmly against his c
hest, and planted a solid, erotic kiss on her mouth, leaving her gasping for air when he finally pulled away.

  Smoothing out the front of her skirt, she groaned: “You’re going to be the death of me, Mr. Olaru. I swear, one day, you really are.”

  He flashed a wicked yet appreciative smile. “And you’re going to be the life of me, Mrs. Olaru. I swear; you already are.”

  Clearly surprised, she averted her eyes. “We’re not married.”

  “Wanna be?”

  She glared at him, and then she shooed him away with her hand. “Would you go, already? Geez!”

  Deep, resonant laughter rumbled in his chest as he consented with a nod, and then he swept his gaze over her body, one last time, tracing the obvious contours of her feminine form oh so slowly, from head to toe, with blatantly hungry eyes. “Later,” he said in a dark, husky voice, allowing the word—and its connotation—to linger.

  “Maybe,” she quipped, quick-witted as always. “Maybe not.”

  He could hardly contain his laughter as she shut the door in his face.

  *

  Ramsey entered the sacred clearing behind Napolean’s manse from the west, his demeanor as solemn as he was silent. The night was absolutely perfect for the upcoming ceremony: The moon was at full zenith; the air was crisp, cool, and clean; and the copious scent of pine, burning in the towering bonfire, permeated the meadow like swirling fog rising off an ancient sea. The densely wooded forest provided an ominous backdrop for the ceremony, setting a stage reminiscent of Ramsey’s beloved homeland: Romania.

  Saber Alexiares was already standing on the raised platform, wearing a thick mahogany robe with the letters HOJ embroidered across the breast in brilliant gold thread, and the combination of texture and color looked positively bewitching against his wild, two-toned hair. To the right of the vampire was an elevated bench made of pure ebony, and resting on the bench were four priceless implements: an ornate bronze tray, forged by King Sakarias’s blacksmiths in 820 B.C.; a matching bronze goblet, prefilled with Napolean Mondragon’s venom; a thin, iron stylus with a razor-fine tip; and a solid gold dagger with precious jewels embedded in the shaft, purported to have belonged to Prince Jadon a decade before the Curse.

  Ramsey copped a lean against a nearby pine tree, tucked a sharp, dry reed between his teeth, and began to survey the crowd: The vampires were gathered in loose, informal rows, fashioning multiple semicircles in front of the stage, like the common tiers of an old-fashioned theatre. They were gathered according to rank or family—or a combination of both.

  His heart warmed as he eyed Marquis and Keitaro Silivasi standing nonchalantly in the front row like two peas in a pod. Marquis was not only smiling, but laughing. The Ancient Master Warrior had never seemed more at ease, and Ramsey knew instinctively that the burly vampire had gained far more than a father when he’d ventured into Mhier. He had returned with his best friend.

  Before Ramsey could begin to feel the loss of his own departed father, Nathaniel and Kagen closed in on either side of Marquis and Keitaro, circling the pair like a team of buzzards, vying for the patriarch’s attention. Nachari was right behind them.

  Ramsey chuckled beneath his breath, his heart growing light with amusement. It was the darndest thing he’d ever seen, the way the Silivasi brothers, a family of bad-ass vampires, vied for their father’s affection: just a wink, a nod, or a glance of approval. There was no insecurity in their actions, just blatant respect and overt admiration. It wasn’t about competition or even loss, being apart for so long; they just clearly worshipped the ground Keitaro stood on and were overjoyed to have him back in their lives. Ramsey swore, one day, if he watched long enough, he was going to see one of them raise their hand and exclaim, “Hey, Dad! Look at me!” And Keitaro would oblige them.

  Damn, they were lucky as hell.

  Across from the Silivasis, Julien Lacusta slinked back into the shadows, taking an unobtrusive position between two parallel trees, close—yet not too close—to Santos and Saxson. No doubt, the happy reunion was a bit much for Julien to take, and not because he wasn’t happy for the family—gods knew, Julien had a heart of gold—but his own tragic history with his father was just so brutal, so catastrophic.

  So completely unresolved.

  It had to open some very nasty wounds.

  Ramsey turned his attention back to the dais. It stood like a towering column of mystery, looming in the firelight. Rising at least twenty feet high, it ascended above the bonfire, and Saber looked like an otherworldly ghost, adjusting the ties on his robe with the help of his nervous father. Hell, they both looked pretty edgy.

  Finally, Napolean Mondragon shimmered into view, adorning the stage with his regal presence—leave it to the king to make a dramatic entrance—and he held up his hands to silence the throng. The vampires quickly settled down, taking their official places, as Napolean cleared his throat.

  He was dressed in an exquisite golden robe with crimson ropes sewn around the edges and intricate celestial symbols embroidered into the lapels. His long, black-and-silver hair fell unevenly about his shoulders as he glanced at the four accoutrements, nodded informally at Saber, and then stepped to the edge of the platform and waved his hand over the fire, turning the hot yellow flames to a deep, scarlet red.

  Ramsey inhaled sharply, suddenly reminded of the Ancient One’s mysterious, mystical powers; and to think, Ramsey had just sat down with the monarch over the weekend, chatting about destinies, pregnancies, and the need for this ceremony. He watched the king like a hawk as the sovereign ruler began to speak.

  “As all of you know, this ceremony is long overdue.” Napolean glanced at Saber and smiled softly, his expression as fatherly as it was regal. “A male’s induction usually takes place on his twenty-first birthday, following his graduation from the Dark Moon Vale Academy.”

  Braden Bratianu stirred in Ramsey’s peripheral vision, swaying uneasily on his feet, and Nachari Silivasi steadied him with a reassuring palm on his lower back. No doubt, the youngster was thinking about his own induction ceremony, just five years away.

  “So I guess it’s safe to say that we’re only about 780 years late,” Napolean continued, drawing a chorus of chuckles from the crowd, “but we’ll make do with the circumstances we have.” He turned to Saber and addressed him playfully: “Graduate.”

  Saber laughed, his mouth turning up in that characteristic smirk that was as much a snarl as a smile. He shrugged, and the crowd chuckled again.

  At once, Napolean’s voice turned profoundly serious as he turned to face Saber directly. “State your given name before this assembly, as it will be recorded in the annals of history for all time.”

  Saber turned to glance at his father, who was still standing beside him, and Ramsey nearly held his breath. Holy hell, this was an awkward moment. Everyone knew that Saber had kept the name Damien Alexiares had given him at the time of his abduction, and everyone understood why—it was his identity, his very persona for eight hundred years. Still, Napolean had to keep to the letter of the ceremony: Graduate, state your given name before this assembly.

  Saber cleared his throat and looked out from the dais, addressing the crowd in a strong and certain voice. “My name is Saber Dzuna Alexiares.”

  Rafael let out a surprised gasp, and then he quickly regained his composure and nodded his head with pride: Dzuna was Rafael’s surname, the name he had bequeathed the child at birth. His son had just changed his name from Saber Mikhael to Saber Dzuna.

  Napolean turned back toward the crowd, and his pupils were glowing with approval. “Once again, I find myself at odds with orthodoxy.” He sighed. “Typically, I would announce the field of study this vampire has chosen for his coming years at the Romanian University.” He eyed Saber sideways and shrugged, apologetically. “But I think, in this case, we won’t be sending Saber back to school.” He tilted his head to the left, and then to the right, in a lighthearted gesture. “Well, other than a few remedial courses.”

  This time,
Ramsey snickered. The king was really putting on quite a show, clearly making an effort to mitigate any awkward moments in the ceremony, for Saber’s sake. And actually, he was telling the truth: Saber’s mate, Princess Vanya, was deeply committed to the Romanian University. She had elected to record the oral history, revive the magical incantations, and share the ancient spiritual practices that were once only known by the original females. Her dedication was extraordinary, and her work was invaluable. She would singlehandedly return a lost legacy back to the Vampyr, and Saber would be present for all of her classes. He could probably get away with skipping Antiquity 101: The History and Foundations of the House of Jadon.

  Napolean smiled freely. “All kidding aside, it gives me enormous pleasure to announce to this assembly that Saber Dzuna Alexiares has made a decision to join the house of Jadon’s formal Sentinel Guard. From this night forward, he will belong to my inner circle, and he will dedicate his life to the protection of my family… as well as our people.”

  The crowd responded with a perfectly timed chorus of three thunderous shouts, and Rafael Dzuna, Saber’s father, virtually beamed with pride.

  “With that said,” Napolean continued, “it is time to move forward with this induction.”

  Rafael made his way to the steep nearby staircase and quietly descended the stage, making his way across the first row to stand before the dais, front and center, just adjacent to the bonfire.

  Everyone knew what was about to take place.

  As a son of Jadon, Saber would be required to shed his blood in a symbolic act of sacrifice for the people. As a pledged sentinel, a sworn protector of Napolean and the royal family, he would be expected to do much, much more.

  Ramsey, in particular, understood the power, pain, and significance of the second half of the ceremony; and he waited with bated breath as Napolean ambled to stand directly behind Saber, lowered the mahogany robe from the vampire’s shoulders, and gestured toward the bonfire. Without a sound, Rafael Dzuna approached the raging fire, reached into the flames, and removed a red-hot implement, an iron stylus, to be used for Saber’s induction. He ascended the dais once more and set the sizzling implement on the edge of the tray, beside the golden dagger.