Blood Awakening

Prologue

Marquis Silivasi stood silently in the shadows. He watched as the last of the humans made their way from the graveside ceremony following Joelle Parker’s funeral. He had come to pay his respects but was unable to face the human family whose lineage he had known for centuries. Having to tell Kevin Parker the news of his daughter’s death had been one of the worst moments of Marquis’s life, and he had lived a very, very long time. His regret was insufferable, his shame for being unable to save her…almost unbearable.

Shimmering out of view, he materialized deep within the Dark Moon Forest at yet another recent grave site—that of his little brother, Shelby. It was the first time he had visited the final resting place since the tragic loss. The first time he had seen the simple white granite marker lying over the desolate plot: Shelby Silivasi. Honored Brother and Beloved Twin.

Marquis ran a trembling hand through his thick black hair. The pressing moisture of tears stung his deeply troubled eyes. Shelby had only been five-hundred years old when he died, the same age as his twin, Nachari, but the difference was, Nachari had lived to graduate the Romanian University. Nachari had lived to reach the status of Master Vampire.

Shelby, on the other hand, had stopped just short of receiving such an honored distinction because he had found his blood destiny: the one human woman chosen by the gods to be his mate, Dalia Montano.

His one opportunity to avoid the ultimate curse of his kind.

Fulfilling the demands of the Blood Curse and securing his future with the human female had been far more important to Shelby than completing his studies. He had planned to return to Romania as soon as the blood sacrifice was made, yet the young fledgling had failed at both tasks.

Marquis knew he was the one to blame.

He should have been more vigilant.

He should never have let down his guard.

Things had just gone so smoothly—so unbelievably seamlessly—between Shelby and Dalia that no one had foreseen Valentine Nistor’s wicked scheme.

It wasn’t an excuse.

Marquis was an Ancient. He should have known better.

Marquis balled his hands into two tight fists, struggling to contain the rage—the gut-wrenching heartache—that threatened to consume him. The sky above him had already turned as black as night, and the wind was picking up into a fierce howl. He had to keep his emotions in check.

He kicked at the cold forest ground, causing a not-so-subtle tremor in the earth beneath him in an effort not to cry out. The vengeance he had finally exacted on Valentine was nothing against the breadth of this loss.

Celestial gods, how could this have happened!

And it wasn’t just that Shelby would have been a Master, an achievement borne of four-hundred years of studies; he would have been a Master Warrior, like Marquis. And that meant Marquis would have been in charge of his little brother’s ongoing training: It would have been the first time in four-hundred and seventy-nine years—since their father’s death—that Marquis would have shared his day-to-day existence with another being.

The first time in four-hundred and seventy-nine years that Marquis Silivasi would not have been alone.

Marquis knelt before the simple white slab of granite and bowed his head in reverence. So much loss.

He had seen so many warriors needlessly slain over his lifetime as a result of the wretched curse—a pronouncement made upon generations of males for a sin committed so long ago that the fallen warriors didn’t even remember the crime. They only knew that when the Blood Moon came, they had thirty days….

One opportunity in an otherwise eternal existence to claim the one human woman who could save them from the ultimate fate of their kind. One month to obtain a chance at life, create the possibility for love, and acquire the blessing of a family.

Thirty days to live or die.

Marquis shook his head. What was the purpose of being a warrior...of being an Ancient...if he couldn’t even protect the ones he loved? What was the purpose of surviving this long when his life had been nothing but time, education, endless battles, and loss? And why hadn’t that one opportunity to love—to share such a barren existence—ever been given to him?

He was so very weary of living.

Like a slowly boiling cauldron of water, Marquis’s body began to tremble with the depth of his anguish. His lungs labored, and his heart pounded from so much rage and injustice, until finally, he could no longer contain his grief, and the pain of a lifetime spilled over.

Hands pressed tightly against his temples, Marquis Silivasi threw back his head and shouted his rage, his grief, in one gut-wrenching cry: a lion’s roar that shook the heavens, sending balls of fire the color of blood crashing down upon the earth, hail the size of baseballs battering the valley floor.

As the Ancient Master Warrior’s crimson tears fell like raindrops, the rivers overflowed and the heavens shook. Giant boulders perched atop nearby canyons crashed to the earth’s floor in violent rockslides, even as the sides of the mountains split open.

And then all was silent.

The anguished cry of the male reverberated through the Rocky Mountains. It echoed through the rising hills, rose to the blackened sky, and stirred deep beneath the cavernous valley, until it finally settled as nothing more than a subtle tremor buried deep within the earth’s crust.

Ciopori Demir stirred.

Her resting place disturbed.

Deep golden eyes, dotted with amber-sparkles like sun-drenched diamonds, blinked once...twice...a third time. Heavy, dark lashes fanned ancient cheeks as eyes that had been closed for centuries fluttered open. A sleeping mind awakened. A soul became aware.

The echo of the male’s call stirred Ciopori’s heart as she slowly sat up. His anguish penetrated her soul. The cadence of his cry restored her eternal heartbeat. Somehow, his rage reanimated her pure, royal blood...primordial, innocent, and unblemished...even as his grief broke the ancient spell.

Ciopori rubbed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. She pushed a heavy lock of her hair from her face and struggled to remember: Where was she?

Who was she?

The memories came back slowly, one scattered piece at a time: She was the daughter of greatness, the first-born female-child of the Great King Sakarias and his beautiful wife, Jade. She was the caretaker of her youngest sibling, Vanya, and the sister of the royal twins, Jaegar and Jadon. So what was she doing buried deep within the earth? Surrounded by so many layers of rich minerals, crusted soil, and clammy moisture?

The ancient princess suddenly felt entombed in the endless layers of evolution. Trapped in a timeless grave. Think, Ciopori, she urged herself, as the dirt walls of her grave seemed to close in on her. How is it that you find yourself in this predicament? And what must you do to get out of it? The memories began to creep in incrementally, like water through a leaky dam: all the killings, the endless sacrifices, the loss of so many females.

The last of their great kind, the Celestial Beings, had been reduced to ashes by the moral depravity of their men, their ravenous hunger for power. Their culture had been decimated by a wicked, insatiable thirst for blood that had become unquenchable.

Ciopori sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking in a smooth, rhythmic motion, trying to calm her mind. Who was the last person she remembered seeing? Ah, of course, Jadon, her beloved older brother. Now she remembered.

Jadon had whisked them away—herself and Vanya—at great risk to his own life. In the midst of a violent storm, he had come into their castle bedchamber like a thief in the night, imploring them to flee Romania at once, explaining that they had to get out of the castle immediately if they hoped to live: Jaegar and his warriors were coming for them.

The men had finally crossed the last and final boundary: They had gone mad from their endless blood-lust, and were ready to make the ultimate sacrifice, the virgin daughters of the great king himself, Jaegar’s very own sisters.

Determined to see his siblings live and his society survive, Jadon had whisked them across the vast, open countryside, taking them deep into the heart of the Transylvanian Alps, where he had met up with a convoy of traveling warriors, a secret group of mercenaries led by the infamous wizard, Fabian. Eventually, Fabian had secured passage on a ship across the great sea, taking himself, Ciopori, and Vanya to a foreign land far across the ocean, an uninhabited refuge where they would finally be given sanctuary from their own kind.

Sanctuary in the form of a living death.

A deep, dreamless slumber where their bodies would remain alive—immortal, yet asleep—until such time as it was finally safe to awaken them again.

Until Jadon came back to get them.

Ciopori wondered what time it was. What year it was. She began to thrash around, frantically searching for her sleeping sister in the darkness of the shallow chamber. She must find and awaken Vanya! How long had it been? How many years had they slept? Had Jadon finally come back for them?

And whose anguished cry was that?

Her heart felt heavy from the torment in his voice. Had his sorrow awakened her? Ciopori didn’t know why, but she had to find that male.

She had to go to him!

Desperately, she began to claw at the ground, digging in frenzied circles as her body scraped against the walls of the earthen tomb.

“Vanya! Vanya!”

She cried out until her voice grew hoarse, digging...turning...clawing...twisting her body this way and that in a frenzied effort to uncover her baby sister. “Vanya, where are you!”

After what seemed like hours, Ciopori dropped her head in her hands and started to weep. The earth was suffocating her. She was about to panic. She had to get out of the ground. Now that she was awake, she could no longer stomach the shallow grave: The smell of damp earth was all around her, the blanket of rich soil encasing her like the burial shroud of a mummy.

Ciopori took a long, slow, deep breath and worked to calm her mind. She was a Celestial Being. Picture the earth. See the sky above you.

She shifted until she was on her knees.

“Ancestors, Great Ones, I humbly beseech you: From deep within the earth I pray, my tomb as dark as night; for freedom from this lowly grave…awaken heaven’s light.

Place my feet along earth’s path, the sky above my head—where flowers bloom and children laugh; release me from earth’s bed.”

All at once, Ciopori was standing in a clearing, her feet on solid ground. Towering pines and fir trees surrounded her, and the sky transformed right before her eyes from a darkened gray to a brilliant aqua blue. Her eyes swept over the land, taking note of the simple granite markers. It was a circular, hallowed clearing.

This was sacred earth.

A burial ground.

Ciopori stepped backward, removing her shoes reverently from her feet as she paid silent homage to the dead. She wondered who they were. Were these her father’s soldiers?

And then she saw him.

The powerful, stunning warrior.

The one whose cries had awakened her.

He was an enormous male, clearly a fighter, with long, thick hair the color of midnight: the color of hers.

His eyes were like the depths of the ocean, so black they gleamed blue. And his remarkably handsome face was stricken with sorrow as he knelt before a simple white stone marker. Ciopori knew immediately that he was a warrior of some standing. It was in the proud set of his shoulders, the way he crouched above the ground with both stealth and purpose, the arrogant slant of his chin. There was a hard certainty in his demeanor...in spite of his sorrow.

Ciopori had spent very little time with her father’s guard growing up, but she knew enough etiquette to approach the warrior with respect.

She padded silently around the periphery of the grounds, stopping roughly four feet behind him. As was proper when addressing a male of authority, she averted her eyes, cleared her throat, and awaited his attention.

The male sprang to his feet like a predator, rising and whirling to face her in one smooth motion. He looked startled to find her standing there, as if no one had ever snuck up on him before. His face was a hard line of menace as he stared her down with those hauntingly beautiful eyes.

“Greetings, warrior,” Ciopori whispered in the old language.

one

Startled by the impostor, Marquis sprang to his feet and crouched into a warrior’s attack stance. Great gods, he must be losing his mind. No one had ever caught him unaware before.

As soon as he realized the intruder was a female—a strikingly beautiful, very unusual female—he began to relax. Her hair was the color of the Vampyr, a deep raven black that shone with highlights of midnight blue. Her eyes were like nuggets of pure gold with amber diamonds in the centers, sparkling like the noonday sun. They were clearly not human, and her countenance was positively regal: The woman stood before him like an Egyptian queen, drunk with nobility, as if she owned the entire world. Yet at the same time, she bowed her head and averted her eyes with great deference. She had obviously been raised to behave in such a manner.

Marquis took a step back. He wasn’t at all sure who or what he was dealing with.

The female squared her shoulders and declined her head once again in the slightest gesture. “I have startled you, warrior. Forgive me. Once again, I bid you greetings.”

Marquis blinked several times. He had been so taken aback that he hadn’t even noticed—she was speaking in the Old Language. But unlike himself—or his brothers for that matter—her accent was pure. Her tongue, absolutely flawless. The cadence was hypnotic.

He cleared his throat. “Be at ease, milady. Should it please you, this warrior would know your name...and your lineage.” Whoa, where did that come from? He knew, intuitively, that it was the proper response, although he had no idea how.

The female raised her head then, and her smile was positively radiant. “I find your inquiry satisfactory, warrior. My name is Ciopori Demir, begotten of the goddess Cygnus and the human ancestor Mateo Demir. Daughter of our noble King Sakarias and his gracious wife, Queen Jade.”

Marquis cleared his throat and stared at the female like she was an alien from another planet. He opened his mouth to respond, but when no sound came out, he simply cleared his throat a second time and continued staring. He was positively dumbfounded.

The female looked momentarily confused. “’Tis I who would hear your lineage now, warrior. Do you belong to my father’s guard?”

Marquis shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. His grief had finally consumed him. He was hallucinating. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You claim to be the daughter of King Sakarias? The King Sakarias? As in the father of Prince Jaegar and Prince Jadon: the ruler of the Celestial Beings before the Blood Curse?”

Ciopori’s shoulders stiffened and she raised her chin. “I make no such claim;‘tis an assertion of fact, warrior. And I am beginning to find your attitude almost as wanting as your command of our native tongue, far too relaxed for my liking. Do you not have more respect for your kingship? Do you or do you not serve my father’s guard?”

Marquis licked his bottom lip and stifled a laugh, although the situation was hardly amusing. “No, milady; I can assure you that I do not serve your father’s guard…as King Sakarias died twenty-eight hundred years ago—thirteen-hundred years before I was even born. And even if he hadn’t, serving is not my thing.”

Ciopori staggered backward. Her eyes grew big, and she cried out before abruptly catching herself. She brought her hands to her mouth to stifle the sound. It was as if such a display of emotion would be undignified in front of a...commoner. Despite her gallant effort, her face became gaunt and her body started to sway back and forth as if she were about to faint. The female was shocked...terrified…and clearly grief-stricken.

Marquis felt as overwhelmed as she looked. Surely, she wasn’t…she couldn’t be...

She did appear to be of their race, though, and she spoke their native tongue—obviously better than he did, as she found his dialect offensive. But there were no female Vampyr, only human destinies who were sired by their mates. So what else could she be…if not a Celestial Being? Marquis delved gently into her mind, quickly scanning her thoughts, unraveling her memories. He followed the pathways back...back...to—

Holy mother of Cygnus!

As tears began to pour down the beautiful woman’s face—Princess Ciopori’s face!—Marquis glanced around the forest. He wasn’t at all sure what he was looking for, but given the impossible turn of events, he half expected to see a god or goddess saunter out of the trees, perhaps someone better suited to handle the astonishing revelation than he. Gods knew, he was anything but tactful on a good day, and today was a very bad one.

And then Ciopori fainted.

Marquis moved with all the fluid, supernatural speed of the Vampyr race, catching her just before her elegant form hit the ground. As his hand slid beneath her waiste, a bolt of awareness shot through him like a sudden surge of electricity. Memories—no, dreams—began to flood his mind at record speed...

They were memories of his own dreams, ancient pictures that had come to him again and again over the centuries. Dreams that had sustained him through battles and losses. A face that had haunted him with eternal loneliness...

They were fantastical visions he had almost forgotten over the endless years: images of a woman with raven black hair and golden eyes with amber irises, dreams of a woman he had always known...

And loved.

Marquis looked down at the frail body slumped peacefully beneath him. Was he really holding a living, breathing female of his race in his arms? After all these centuries—his people believing not one had survived? And was the angel from his dreams—the raven-haired beauty who had come to him so many times in the night—actually a real woman?

Or was he just going mad?

His arms tightened around her waist, and he pulled her closer to his chest, deeply inhaling her scent.

It was familiar.

Dear gods, it was her.

And she felt exactly as he...remembered...exactly as she had felt in his dreams.

Marquis stared down at Ciopori’s face, studying every detail, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to awaken her, but it had been so long...so many years since he had touched a woman, held a woman in his arms...or his heart. So many years since he believed he even had a heart. Her beauty stole his breath away, and he knew the moment she awakened, he would have to let her go.

Marquis thought about calling out to his brothers telepathically. He had to tell someone what was happening. After all, this had monumental implications for their race. But not yet.

Not yet.

Right now, he would hold this angel from his dreams safely in his arms and remain in whatever fantasy-world he had drifted into. Right now, he would imagine she was his.

Time seemed to stand still. It was as if the sun had simply ceased its journey across the sky and all of heaven was holding its breath, while Marquis basked in the glow of Ciopori’s exquisiteness…gloried in the feel of her slight frame tucked so reverently beneath his own. Felt alive for the first time in centuries.

And then the princess slowly opened her eyes.

Dear gods, she was breathtaking.

She looked up at him but did not appear afraid. And then she lifted her elegant hand and placed the palm ever so gently against his cheek.

“Marquis?”

Marquis froze. Her voice was like a robin’s song as she spoke his—

Dear gods in the heavens, she knew his name!

Marquis’s lips curved into a tentative smile. “Yes.”

She blinked several times. “You are the warrior...from my dreams.”

Marquis began to tremble as he slowly let his forehead rest against hers. He had never met this woman, yet he knew her intimately: everything about her. The way she moved. The way she talked. The sparkling sound of her laughter. The elegant fall of her hair against her bare shoulders when she...undressed before bed.

Marquis closed his eyes, afraid to hope. He had been alone...forever. Born alone with a Dark One for a twin; cast into solitary existence following his father’s disappearance; cursed as a male who had never been given a female destiny...in fifteen hundred years. The only peace he had ever known had been in his dreams—loving a woman he could never possess—throughout the endless centuries of his life. Yet, here she was...

When he opened his eyes, his gaze locked with hers. Her own recognition was reflected in their light: She knew him, too.

Marquis exhaled slowly. “I have waited over a thousand years for you.” His voice was not his own.

Ciopori studied his face. She softly traced the hard slant of his jaw to the masculine angles of his cheeks, her fingers gently brushing the chiseled lines as she traced the outline. All at once, she drew back her hand and smiled. “And I, you, warrior. And I, you.”

Marquis drew her close to his heart, and held her like she was the very air he breathed—the most precious thing on earth—because she was. When he finally released her, there were tears rolling down her cheeks. He gently brushed them away. “Where did you come from, angel of my dreams?”

Ciopori shook her head. “I...I’m not sure. What year is this? What is this...Blood Curse...you speak of? And where am I?”

Marquis shook his head. Wow. Where to begin? Perhaps the less traumatic information should come first. “You are in Dark Moon Vale.”

“Dark Moon...what? Is this place in Romania?” Her eyes swept the forest floor, the distant canyons, and the high mountain peaks. “We are yet in the Transylvanian Alps, then?”

Marquis blanched. “No, Ciopori; you are in North America. The Rocky Mountains.”

Ciopori sat up then, and Marquis helped her to her feet. She slowly turned around. “Then we did cross the great sea as I remembered.” She rubbed her eyes as if awakening from a dream. “And the strange, uninhabited land, it is called...North America? Yes, of course, that’s right. Fabian brought us here. Myself and Van— Oh dear gods, Vanya!” Her tone became frantic. “You must help me find my sister. At once!”

Ciopori explained how she and Vanya had escaped Romania prior to the Curse—how Fabian had placed them both in an enchanted sleep to await the return of their brother Jadon. The story was almost impossible to believe.

Marquis followed Ciopori to the site of her awakening and scanned the earth’s crust for anomalies. Fortunately, it was early autumn, and the ground was growing cold. While he couldn’t see beneath the surface, he could easily detect the slightest variation in temperature. It was a lot like having a built-in, infrared heat detector. Wherever Vanya was, her body would put out a clear, recognizable signal.

Sure enough, the undisturbed sleeping chamber was directly ten feet beneath them, about five feet to the east of where Ciopori had lain…for twenty-eight hundred years. As the original Celestial Beings were neither gods nor humans, but the prodigy of the two species intermixing, they had very long life spans. But they were not immortal.

No, immortality had been a cruel punishment enacted upon the males when they were turned Vampyr at the time of the Curse. It had been done to prolong their suffering—to make sure they experienced it...indefinitely. Consequently, Fabian’s feat had been nothing less than astounding: keeping two females suspended in animation—alive yet not aging—for this many years. Casting a spell that could only be broken by the return of their beloved brother, Jadon.

Marquis shuddered at the thought. Jadon would have never returned. What if Marquis’s own cry had not awakened her? He refused to allow the thought.

“She is here,” he said matter-of-factly, indicating the ground with his foot.

Ciopori turned toward him. “How will we get her out?” Her face paled. “Dear gods, what if she’s—”

“She’s alive; just as you were.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I can hear her heart beat.”

Ciopori shook her head in disbelief. “Whatever did my sisters turn you into?”

Marquis ran his tongue over the tips of his fangs, wondering if she knew—from the dreams, that is. He studied the ground intently. “The fastest way to reach her is to dig in a straight line.”

Ciopori nodded. “Very well. Where shall we find a spade?”

Marquis smiled then. “A shovel? We don’t need one.”

“You intend to use a digging fork or some other lesser tool?” She scoffed.

Marquis chuckled. “I’m going to use my mind.”

Ciopori frowned.

“I can move matter with my mind,” he explained.

“Matter?” Ciopori raised a brow.

“Yes: objects, things…materials.” He eyed her sideways. “Never mind.”

Ciopori sighed. “Even if one could do such a thing, it would take forever.”

Marquis shook his head. “No. Not with enough speed behind it.”

Ciopori cocked her head to the side, like a canine studying a confusing human, lost somewhere in the translation between species. “Marquis, this curse that was wrought upon the males...what did it do to them? You say you are still related to our people, the Celestial Beings, yet you are a separate race altogether: Vampyr. What all can a vampyr do?”

“A vampire,” Marquis supplied.

Ciopori nodded. “What all can a vampire do? What powers do you possess, warrior?”

Marquis rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking. “We have heightened senses: sight, hearing, taste, smell. We can fly or simply move through time and space at will. We can read the thoughts and memories of others, or change them if we choose. We can control the actions of others, speak to one another telepathically, and harness fire or electricity in our hands.” He paused, trying to think of anything else. “Our strength is tremendous, and our speed is...well, beyond anything you have witnessed, I’m certain.”

Ciopori blinked several times. “Wow, is that it?”

Missing most attempts at wit or humor as Marquis often did, he shrugged. “No, we can also walk through walls and self-regenerate...heal ourselves of almost any injury. We’re more or less just better at everything.”

Ciopori cleared her throat. “Humble as well, I see.”

“No, not really.”

When Ciopori stifled a laugh, Marquis stood quietly, not sure if he should go on.

“Well, I can do magic,” she offered playfully.

Marquis shifted uncomfortably. “Yes...so can my younger brother, Nachari.”

Ciopori laughed heartily then. “Were vampires not given a sense of humor, warrior?”

Marquis frowned. So that was the source of her amusement. “I guess one man’s humor is another vampire’s...headache. If vampires got headaches, that is. Which we don’t. Get headaches.”

Ciopori wrinkled her forehead. “Pardon me?”

Marquis shook his head, irritated. “Nothing. It was just something stupid my brother Nathaniel said not long ago. Uh...no...we have humor. I mean, they have humor—other vampires—apparently, it’s just me.” He turned away and began studying the ground in earnest. Princess or no, he would not continue to make a fool of himself for a female. “I’m going to lift the dirt from here.” He made a circle with his hands. “And move it over there.” He gestured toward a small grove of birch trees. “The circumference should probably be...at least ten feet around, so that nothing falls in on her.” He glanced up then, to see if she was still laughing.

Ciopori sauntered closer, her eyes sparkling like rare jewels, and he could have sworn his heart literally skipped a beat when she cupped his face in his hands. “Know this, warrior: I have not traveled across oceans—and survived for centuries—in order to enjoy your brothers’ humor. You are the one I have dreamed of.”

Marquis sighed and drew her to him. His hands fell down to the small of her waist. His grip was strong and possessive. “You will come to understand me, Ciopori.” He cupped her chin in his hand and raised her head to meet his gaze. “And I will come to understand you...if such a thing would please you.”

Before she could answer, he bent his head, his mouth suspended just above hers. “Vampires are extremely passionate,” he drawled. “Some of us are better with our bodies than our words.” He brushed her lips with his, kissing her ever so gently. “And all of us are enormously protective.” He pulled her tightly against him, overwhelming her body beneath his own until she was forced to arch her back. When he looked down at her seductive curves, he groaned. “And fiercely possessive.” He fisted his hands in her hair, carefully tilting her head until she gasped, and her lips unwittingly parted.

It was then that he kissed her: the full hunger of fifteen-hundred years unleashed in one erotic brush of passion. He flirted with her mouth, tasted every texture of her tongue, nibbled on her lips, and drank in her taste. He loved her with the hunger of one who had never before been sated. Yes, he had experienced a few romantic affairs with human women before, but such couplings had never satisfied his deeper longings. Not to mention, they were always so dangerous. Vampires were primarily animals—powerful, instinctual predators—and a passionate interlude could easily turn deadly for a mortal woman. Males had to exercise extreme restraint.

In his loneliness, Marquis had imagined his destiny many times over the centuries, until he had finally given up believing she would ever come. But this woman—this angel he had loved in dreams long since forgotten—she was his every erotic fantasy, and his body craved hers like his species craved blood: to sustain, quench, and regenerate until he was replete.

His hands rose to cup the weight of her breasts, his thumbs instinctively finding her nipples. “I know how to protect what is mine.” His mouth found the hollow of her throat, and he teased her pulse with his tongue until she shivered. “I know how to defend and avenge that which I hold dear to my heart.” And then he pressed the hard length of his arousal against her quivering stomach. “And make no mistake; I know how to please a woman.”

Ciopori went limp in his arms before stuttering an incomprehensible reply. And then she cupped his face in her hands and returned his kiss, matching him passion-for-passion, desire-for-desire, need-for-need.

When Marquis finally pulled away, his eyes were burning, and they must have been glowing red because Ciopori looked startled. “Your sisters gave us these feral eyes, but the heat you see—that is your doing.” His fangs elongated against his will, and he scraped them gently along her carotid artery. “We use these to feed...but I will use them to bring you to your knees with pleasure.”

Ciopori groaned as he nicked her skin, then swirled his tongue over the wound, creating the dual sensation of pain and pleasure. “This is who and what I am, Ciopori. Can you accept me?”

Ciopori took a step back and rubbed the small wounds on her neck. She stared at him then…taking in everything.

Her eyes missed nothing.

After what seemed far too long for his comfort, she smiled a mischievous grin. “Only if I am to be the one to please you...and feed you...warrior.” She stepped forward and laid her head against his chest, just above his heart. “And love you…if you will have me.”

Marquis bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes. He didn’t dare breathe. Warriors did not shed tears. Marquis Silivasi did not shed tears. Yet, for the first time in his life, his heart wept with joy and gratitude. “The gods themselves could not take you from me now, Ciopori.”

Stroking her long raven hair, he motioned toward a tall quaking aspen that still had its summer leaves. “Stand over there, my lost angel. Let us find and awaken your sister.”

two

Marquis and Nachari stared at the ancient sovereign king of their people with more than a little concern in their eyes. In all their years of living, they had never seen the powerful ruler so rattled. The male could hardly pull himself together.

He paced a quick lap around the formal receiving room of his four-story manse—for the fifth time. He glanced down the hallway toward the bathroom, where the females had retreated to bathe before dinner, and then he glared at Marquis and Nachari as if he had half a mind to throttle them both. For what, they had no idea.

“Jadon and Jaegar’s sisters,” Napolean rambled. “Alive after all this time.” He wrung his hands together and sat back down on the sofa. “Remarkable, don’t you think?”

Just as Marquis started to speak, the sovereign lord jumped back up.

Lap six.

“Nachari,” Napolean spoke gravely, “you are a wizard now, are you not?”

Nachari glanced at Marquis. “Yep, last time I checked.”

Marquis shifted uncomfortably and shook his head, regarding his little brother harshly. Do not be so arrogant, he admonished telepathically, wondering where the question was headed. After all, Napolean had already posed the same query. Twice.

Sharing Marquis’s sentiment, Napolean spun around, the silver slashes in his deep onyx eyes growing harsh: “Watch yourself, son. Do not think to be that informal with me, even under circumstances such as these.”

Nachari paled. His strong shoulders drew back as he bowed his head. “Forgive me, milord; I meant no offense.”

Napolean turned to look out the window then. His waist-length, black-and-silver hair shifted along his back. His proud frame became rigid. “You know, Marquis…” He didn’t turn around to look at the Ancient Warrior. “The county fire department is still extinguishing several blazes as we speak; public service has been pumping water back into the rivers all afternoon; and there are several cleanup crews removing boulders and debris from the roadways.”

Marquis was too old and too hardened to placate the sovereign lord, although he knew exactly what he was referring to: his earlier outburst at Shelby’s grave. The dangerous results of his unchecked emotions. Marquis remained quiet, waiting to hear what the king had to say.

“If it was anyone else, there might be consequences.” Napolean turned around to regard the warrior then. “But I know the weight of what you carry, and how long you have carried it. Marquis,”—he said his name with veneration—“there were several humans injured.”

Marquis frowned. “Were there any deaths?”

Napolean sighed and turned back toward the window. “No…fortunately.”

Marquis remained quiet. There was nothing to say. Don’t let it happen again was implied, and Marquis already knew the gravity of his actions. He also knew that their king had far too much respect for him to reprimand an Ancient Master in front of his younger brother of lesser status. He and Napolean were two of the oldest males in the house of Jadon. Though Marquis understood clearly who his Sovereign was, the two were more like equals than king and subject.

Realizing that Napolean had said all he was going to say, Marquis distracted himself by looking around the room. As many times as he had stood in the foyer or entered the Hall of Justice, this was the first time he had ever sat in the king’s private living quarters: Napolean kept his personal life primarily hidden from his subjects, and seeing the interior of the house for the first time was fascinating.

The sovereign lord’s manse was certainly a home befitting a king: dignified, formal, and reflective of all twenty-eight hundred years of the Original Male’s life. There were four levels to the private rectory, which was linked to the public Hall of Justice by a sealed tunnel that gave the king easy access to the three, ceremonial chambers: the chamber that held the tomes of the Vampyr race, containing the laws, histories, births, and deaths of their people; the chamber where the first-born sons were relinquished to atone for the sins of their forefathers; and the chamber containing the insufferable circular hall, where the sons of Jadon—those who failed to satisfy the Blood Curse—spent their last, agonizing hours.

The chamber where Marquis’s beloved younger brother Shelby had so recently spent his last unthinkable hours.

Marquis shifted once more on the sofa, forcing the memory from his mind: That was not a safe place to go. Looking up at the ceiling, he gazed at the artistry, his eyes taking in the intricate detail of the hand-painted mural at the top of the dome: It was a scene from the ancient Greek myth about the god Zeus and his son Apollo. Now that was certainly fitting, Marquis thought. Glancing at Napolean, he could envision the king in the exact same pose, a lightning bolt shooting from his royal hand. Hell, he’d actually seen that vision a time or two in battle, already.

As his gaze drifted from the ceiling to the walls, he noticed that every corner—every window, niche, and archway—was encased in hand-carved white moldings, and the actual windows themselves were made of frosted glass, adorned with scenes of battlements and pictures of the gods etched skillfully into the iced canvases.

While the walls were painted in soft hues of grayish blue, the furniture was far bolder, displaying deep royal blues with red and green accents.

There were art-niches and custom inlays everywhere, each one containing a timeless treasure, items dating back as far as the Barbarian Migrations to the east Roman Empire…when it was still ruled by Constantinople. And the mementos were as eclectic as they were valuable: reflecting the varied cultures of Greece, Persia, and Egypt, as well as North America. Marquis shook his head: The place was equal parts museum and monastery, which just meant that Napolean lived as he ruled—always a king first, an individual second. It was a good thing their king was so private: If a human being ever got wind of these treasures…

Marquis smiled. Now that would be a sight to see: Napolean versus an army of humans. Just as Marquis began to play out the scene in his mind, the ancient lord began to speak.

“I asked you here for a purpose, Nachari.” He placed his hand on the glass window and declined his head with a seriousness of purpose.

Nachari sat up straight. “As always, I am at your service, milord.”

Napolean nodded. “Good...because there is a great deal we need to do in a short amount of time.”

Nachari raised his eyebrows but remained, respectfully, silent.

“As a wizard, you are one of the few among us who might be able to make sense of what Fabian did to the women.” He rubbed his jaw. “We do not yet know if they share our immortality, whether or not they are impervious to human disease, what strengths and vulnerabilities they possess. There is much to be learned in a little amount of time if we are to adequately protect them.” With that, the king turned back to the window and became absorbed, once again, in his own thoughts.

Nachari waited to be certain Napolean was done speaking before he replied. “I am honored, milord, and I will do my best to serve you and the daughters of our ancient king.”

Marquis glanced sideways at his polished younger sibling. King or no, Napolean Mondragon was the greatest warrior among them, and his knowledge of magic was legendary...frightening. Indeed, it was a great honor for him to request Nachari’s assistance. And, of course, Marquis could not have agreed more: The safety of the two original females was paramount.

Nachari smiled, and his eyes seemed to twinkle. You seem to have taken a rather...personal...interest in all of this, my brother.

Marquis snorted: I’m glad you’re so amused, Nachari; I see no humor in the situation.

Nachari leaned back, crossed his legs, and chuckled. Of course you don’t, Marquis.

Stay out of my business, boy, Marquis warned.

Nachari patted him on the knee and sighed with satisfaction. Oh, I’m afraid I just can’t do that, Master Warrior. I have waited over four-hundred years for this: You have no idea.

Waited for what? Marquis scowled.

Before Nachari could answer, a door at the end of the hall opened, and a single set of footsteps advanced along the polished marble floors. It was the princess Vanya, and she was wearing a garden motif dress with a draped bodice and a flowing sash in the center: one of several garments Napolean had requested delivery of earlier that afternoon. She looked like a walking Monet painting: both stunning and timeless.

Nachari leaned forward on the sofa, and Napolean turned away from the window. Both males were unmistakably breathless. And despite his best resolve, Marquis exhaled slowly. No offense to human women, but the Celestial gods certainly knew how to perfect a female.

Vanya Demir was a princess in every sense of the word. Her body was slender with sleek, regal lines and she sashayed as she moved, her head held at a slight upward angle, her shoulders pulled back and straight. Her soft, sculpted lips were set in a gentle but stern line, and her keen, attentive eyes took in everything around her with noble acuity.

The young celestial female had long, flaxen hair with light blond highlights that fell well below her waist, and her eyes were an unusual pale rose: as stunning as they were unique. She knew she was beautiful. She knew she was royalty. And she knew she commanded the moon and the stars. It was in her every movement, her every breath.

The princess stopped at the entrance to the hall and gracefully curtsied as Marquis and Nachari stood. Napolean quickly advanced across the room, and then all at once, he stumbled over an antique coffee table—nearly falling over.

Nachari swallowed a gasp and shot a bewildered glance at Marquis. What the—

Not a word, Marquis growled. Not a single word.

Napolean shot them both a harsh, reprimanding glare, and Nachari took a step back. Tell me we are not broadcasting our thoughts on a public bandwidth, Marquis. Please...

Marquis frowned. Of course not, brother. I do not believe he can hear us speak to one another—but he can certainly perceive our visual images and read our emotions.

All at once, Marquis sensed a powerful shift in his younger brother’s energy, and then he caught the deliberate, fixed image of the ocean planted in Nachari’s mind. Four hundred years at the Romanian University to become a Master of Wizardry, and you conjure an image of the ocean to conceal your thoughts? Well, that makes sense—coming from a male who lives in the Rocky Mountains.

Nachari rolled his perfect eyes.

“Good evening, princess.” Napolean spoke in the Old Language, motioning toward a cushioned, high-back chair. “Are you feeling any better?”

Vanya took a seat, her elegant back arched with imperial posture. “A bit.”

Despite her response, her eyes were swollen, and her words came out hollow: Marquis knew that she had been crying off and on ever since they had awoken her. Ever since she had learned that all she once knew was gone. That she had outlived her brothers, her parents, her people...and her civilization. It was an enormous amount of grief to carry, and Vanya was clearly still in shock.

Napolean took a seat beside her and gestured toward Nachari. “You have already met the Ancient Master Warrior Marquis, but this is his youngest brother, the Master Wizard Nachari. He is here to help us sort through this...situation.”

Vanya looked up at Nachari and smiled faintly. “’Tis an honor to meet you, wizard. How do you and thy brother fare this evening?”

Nachari gulped. “Very well, thank you.”

Marquis took a seat. “Is Ciopori...is your sister...okay?”

“Indeed,” Vanya replied. “She will be joining us soon, warrior.”

Nachari sat back down as well, and put his hands in his lap.

As the king cleared his throat to speak, his severe silver-pupils were fixed on Vanya’s face like lasers. “I took the liberty of bringing in a temporary chef to cook for you and your sister until we figure out something more permanent. You will both be staying here for the immediate future.”

And no doubt, the security will be greatly increased, Nachari commented absently to Marquis.

Vanya nodded. “Thank you. I’m sure the accommodations will be lovely. You did not yet have a chef to your liking, I take it?”

Napolean wrung his powerful hands together like a teenage boy fidgeting, and then he promptly...stuttered: “We...uh...we...we don’t eat...food.” He swallowed an obvious lump in his throat.

“I see,” Vanya responded cordially, pretending not to notice.

Nachari put his arm along the ridge of the sofa and leaned back as if taking in a very interesting show. I believe our king is...drooling...Marquis: I swear, in all my years, I have never seen Napolean react like this…to anything.

Marquis didn’t respond.

Although, I can hardly blame him; she is breathtaking, is she not? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful creature in all of my life.

All at once, Napolean’s head snapped to the side in a wicked, serpentine movement. His eyes flashed from onyx to red—then back again—the warning so swift it was almost imperceptible. His top lip twitched in the same rapid manner, displaying a lightning quick flash of fangs.

Nachari shot back on the sofa and looked down. I don’t care what you say, Marquis; he can hear us!

Well, perhaps you should shut-up then, little—

Of course I can hear you! Napolean’s eyes never veered from Nachari’s. I have the blood of every male in the house of Jadon in my veins, including your own: I know where each one of you is and what each one of you is doing...at all times. Trust me: I can do far more than intercept your private communication at will. I am your Sovereign, and I can reach into places you do not even know exist, youngster. There was a clear note of warning in his voice.

Oh gods—Nachari shrank down on the sofa—I’m sorry...milord.

Napolean smiled then. You are young and proud, wizard. There is no offense taken...yet.

Just then, Nachari’s cell phone went off, and he reached into his back pocket so fast one would have thought the thing was on fire. “Excuse me,” he said, opening a screen to read a text. He immediately turned to Marquis. “Brother, Chad has been trying to reach you for the last hour; is your cell phone off?”

Marquis shrugged. “I don’t know...maybe.” He checked all of his pockets. “I must have left it in the truck.”

Having the ability to either fly or materialize at will, vampires rarely drove their vehicles. Unfortunately, Marquis had needed a way to transport Ciopori and Vanya to Napolean’s, and it wasn’t possible for a vampire to materialize carrying anything more than fifty-pounds at one time. As for flying, he could have easily carried them both, even cloaked their appearances for safety; however, soaring through the air at supernatural speed might have been a bit much for Vanya at the time. Of course, learning about the automobile had been an adventure in its own right for both females.

“Well, it looks like there’s a situation at the casino,” Nachari explained, showing Marquis the text.

Marquis took the phone from Nachari. Chad Baxter, his security chief at the Dark Moon Casino, rarely, if ever, tried to get a hold of Marquis at home, unless there was something really pressing going on. “Do you mind if I step outside and make a call?” Marquis asked, addressing his Sovereign.

“Not at all,” Napolean answered.

“Thank you.” Marquis headed for the door. On his way out, he heard Vanya whisper to Napolean—

“What’s a...call?”

Marquis just shook his head. Communication was going to be a major challenge between himself and Ciopori for a while. He was hoping like hell he could simply transfer huge blocks of information to her at one time: the same way he could with his Vampyr brothers. Otherwise, she was looking at relearning everything—including a new language.

Marquis dialed the casino and smiled at the thought of spending that much time with Ciopori.

“That you, boss?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounded anxious.

“You texted Nachari: What is it?”

Chad sighed like he had something to say but was afraid to say it.

“I haven’t the time, Chad,” Marquis warned his employee.

“It’s Kristina...and Dirk.”

“Again?”

“Yeah...”

“How bad?” Marquis asked.

“Well, she certainly can’t work her shift tonight, and I’m afraid if she goes back home...he’s gonna kill her this time.”

Marquis frowned. Kristina Riley was more than just the casino’s most productive cocktail waitress; she was a close friend and ally to the Silivasi family: Only eight years earlier, the human female had been a homeless runaway when Kagen Silivasi had brought her into the house of Jadon. He had been flying over the outskirts of Silverton Park one night when he heard a woman cry out from the back end of a dark alley. Though vampires rarely got involved in human affairs, the unmistakable scent of a Dark One had permeated the air, and Kagen had known, instinctively, that one of two things was about to happen: Either a Dark One was about to feed on a human—draining her of every drop of blood she had—or worse, he was going to take her back to his lair, impregnate her, and force her to undergo a gruesome ritual which would end in her agonizing death and the birth of his twin sons.

Marquis shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to remember his youngest brother’s recent death at the hands of Valentine Nistor—a son of Jaegar who had done the exact same thing with Shelby’s destiny, leaving the youngest Silivasi brother to die at the hands of the Blood Curse.

Fortunately for Kristina, Kagen had slain the son of Jaegar and brought her back to the Dark Moon Health Center before the Dark One could carry out his plan. After learning of her circumstances, he had given her a temporary place to stay and worked with Marquis to find her a job at the casino.

Kristina had worked out beautifully.

And over time, she had become an ally if not a friend.

Due to her deep gratitude and absolute ability to keep a confidence, Kagen had not erased her memories. He had allowed her, instead, to retain full knowledge of who and what the sons of Jadon were, knowing that every now and then, having a human who could go human places, do human things, and move undetected in the deepest arenas of the human world came in handy. Having a second set of eyes at the casino had proved to be especially useful.

Marquis scowled, thinking about Kristina’s idiot boyfriend, Dirk. The man was a human menace, or at least he wanted to be. He rode around on a purple Harley with a tattoo of a scorpion on the side of his neck, another of a python on his steroid-enhanced left bicep. He smoke, drank, cursed like a sailor, and tried way too hard to convince the world that he was the scariest thing next to Satan. Marquis scoffed. He could have squashed the human like a bug on several occasions, drained the blood right from underneath that ridiculous scorpion, but Kristina had strictly forbidden it. In fact, she had begged Marquis to stay away from him. What she saw in the imbecile, Marquis would never know. Still, he had always respected her wishes—

Until now.

Enough was enough.

“Where is Kristina now?” he asked.

Chad sighed. “She’s in your office. We cleaned her up, but she needs to see a doctor.”

Marquis restrained an instinctive snarl. Chad had no idea he was a vampire. “Where’s Dirk?”

“Don’t know—probably down at the bar getting drunk. He’s not in the casino, but that’s just a matter of time, especially if she doesn’t come home after her shift.”

“Well, keep her in my office; I’ll be right there.”

“Will do. Oh, and boss—”

“What?”

“Sorry to bother you away from work.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Marquis hung up. He placed the phone in the inner pocket of the light-weight jacket he wore over a well-fitted, black muscle-tee and turned around just in time to catch the beautiful sight of Princess Ciopori stepping out onto the front veranda.

Her hair was twisted to one side, the ends collected in a thick, looped braid that hung enticingly over her bare shoulder, and she was wearing a sleeveless, ruffled dress that hugged her curves like it had been made just for her—another thoughtful contribution from Napolean.

Marquis placed his hand over his heart. There were no words.

Ciopori instantly brightened. “Do you see something you like, warrior?”

Marquis stepped toward her and purred, a deep throaty growl rising from his broad, muscular chest. As he bent to taste her lips, his hands found their way to the small of her back and he pulled her tightly against him. “Mmm,” he moaned, his tongue sweeping over hers. “Yes, I do.”

Ciopori smiled, and then she took a step back. “Something troubles you, warrior, and it is more than the concern you share for myself and Vanya.”

Marquis shook his head, not wanting to let go. “It’s nothing—just business...work. Just something I need to take care of. Believe me, I will handle it as quickly as possible and return to you this night...I promise.”

Ciopori’s eyes positively sparkled. “And I will hold you to your word.” She rested her hand on her stomach and became all at once serious. “I must confess, I am fearful of falling asleep again. After twenty-eight hundred years in the ground, I am terrified that the spell might—”

Marquis pressed his finger against her lips. “Shhh. None of us will let you slip away, Ciopori. Don’t worry about such things.”

The princess smoothed out her dress then. “I’ll try.” She looked off into the distance, took a deep breath, and turned back once more to look at him. “Now then, as for your proprietary affairs. Be it known, warrior, that I do understand a man’s obligations. Do not forget that my father was the king”—she stumbled over the word father, her losses too great to comprehend, and then, she simply collected herself with an ingrained dignity and continued—“but if you do not wish to share the details of your business, that is acceptable as well.”

Marquis reached out to take her hand, still enamored by the way she spoke. He gently pulled her back into his arms. “It’s not that, Ciopori. It’s just that it’s ugly business...nothing you need to concern yourself with right now. Trust me: You will see more of my life than you care to, soon.” He gently nipped at her throat, nibbled just beneath her ear, and kissed his way forward from her jaw to the corners of her mouth. Blessed gods, he couldn’t help himself. The door suddenly opened, and they quickly broke apart.

Nachari poked his head out. His deep, forest green eyes appeared darker in the natural light, and his thick mane of hair fell forward as he glanced around. “Did you get a hold of Chad?”

Marquis shot him an annoyed glance. “Yes. What do you need, brother?”

Nachari looked at Marquis, glanced over at the princess, and then stared at Marquis again....smiling a huge cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.

Marquis sighed. “Do you have a purpose, Nachari?”

Nachari blanched, feigning insult at Marquis’s blunt dismissal. “Do you mean right now—or as in life in general?”

Ciopori cleared her throat.

Marquis turned to regard the princess then. “Forgive me; have you met my youngest brother?”

“No, I have not yet had the pleasure.” Her voice was deliberately kind. “I believe he was speaking with Napolean when I passed through the room.”

Marquis gestured in Nachari’s general direction. “This is my brother, the Master Wizard Nachari. He was born of the last set of my mother’s twins.”

“’Tis a pleasure to meet you, wizard,” Ciopori said.

“The pleasure is all mine, princess. And I have to tell you, it is a gift from the gods to have you and your sister back where you belong.”

Ciopori nodded and smiled, her manner gracious.

And Marquis waited...while the angel of his dreams took her first real, in-depth look at his little brother.

There was no question: All of the Silivasi brothers were handsome to a fault, and Marquis’s harsh beauty had a powerful effect on females, but Nachari Silivasi was in a class all to himself. And unfortunately, he knew it. Whenever he flashed that radiant, flawless smile—and his ridiculously perfect features lit up like he was more god than man—women lost their composure. They swooned. Stuttered. And sometimes just stood dazed with their mouths gaping open, until eventually, they got used to the sight of him. His masculine beauty was arresting.

Ciopori looked back and forth between the two brothers. “While the adjustment is overwhelming, we are fortunate to have been found by my brother’s descendants.” She quickly turned her gaze back to Marquis, her eyes glistening with adoration...for only him.

Marquis glared at Nachari. “Well?”

“My phone,” Nachari said.

“What?”

“My phone. You asked me, what do I need—I need my phone back.”

“Oh.” Marquis retrieved the phone from his jacket and tossed the thing so hard it became a missile, the casing shattering upon impact with Nachari’s hand.

Nachari cursed and glowered at Marquis, incredulous. Fortunately for the Master Warrior, all vampires had lightning quick reflexes, or the phone might have entered the house and struck the king—or worse, Vanya.

“I’m sorry,” Marquis quipped. “I—”

“Yes, I know,” Nachari snarled, “you underestimated your own strength.”

Marquis peered at the hundreds of little pieces of metal in Nachari’s palm. “Did the SIM card make it?”

Nachari frowned. “You need therapy, my brother; you really do.”

Marquis waved a dismissive hand. “Our kind does not...do therapy. Why do you always say such...inconsequential things?”

Nachari rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Why, indeed, Marquis.”

Marquis pulled back. “You are angry now, wizard? I can buy you another phone.”

Nachari just shook his head and turned to face Ciopori. “Good luck with him,” he mused. And then he pulled his head back inside and shut the door.

When Marquis looked over at the princess, she was standing several feet away with one hand on her hip, the corner of her mouth turned up in a scolding smile. “So, I take it vampires are not only passionate...and protective...but they are also extremely jealous and territorial. Is that not right, warrior?”

Marquis bared his fangs and stalked over to the beautiful female, moving very, very slowly, his gait the easy shift of a predator, his large, muscular frame expanding and contracting with every step. “Extremely territorial,” he snarled.

Ciopori laughed and covered her mouth with one hand. “You mustn’t be concerned about other men, Marquis.” And then she eyed the strong warrior from the tip of his head to the bottom of his toes and let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of, my love. Trust me.”

three

Marquis threw open the door to his office at the end of the main foyer on the top, executive floor of the Dark Moon Casino. The elegant suite took up both sides of the hall, the center facing outward toward the eight remaining offices. It was decorated in rich, dark colors and sparsely fitted with refined cherry-wood furniture.

Marquis’s desk faced the entry, overlooking a black leather sofa, which was flanked by two, matching high-backed chairs with dual cherry-wood end tables. The east and west walls were made of floor-to-ceiling windows—the back wall, a series of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Kristina Riley sat on a burgundy chaise in front of the window, her small frame slumped over, her knees tucked tightly to her chest. Her face was shielded behind her shoulder-length, naturally-curly red hair, but Marquis could smell the bruises...as well as her fear.

As was typical for Kristina, she was wearing a suede mini-skirt with a fitted top and a pair of three-inch heels; her legs were scratched and bleeding as if she had tried to crawl away from her attacker across a rough patch of ground. There were fingerprints marring her throat and a cigarette burn on her left arm.

Chad Baxter immediately jumped up when his boss entered the room: The stalwart employee went through the same series of adjustments each time Marquis showed up for work. There was an initial scent of fear, an instinctive reaction to the presence of such a powerful creature—whether Chad knew what Marquis was or not—then his adrenaline would level off as he remembered the trust between them; and finally, he would shift from his natural dominant personality to a more appropriate submissive one.

It all took place lightning-quick, on an unconscious level, yet none of it escaped Marquis’s awareness. It was simple, really. Marquis Silivasi was an intimidating male, even to other vampires. To humans, his presence was like having a wild animal in their midst: His predatory nature seeped through his pores, the threat of aggression simmered just below the surface, and his calm, sculpted exterior did very little to hide the unconscious projection of what he was.

To her credit, Kristina displayed no fear. Her reaction to Marquis was always the same—one of casual acceptance and absolute safety.

“Evening, boss,” Chad greeted.

Marquis looked in the male’s direction and inclined his head before stalking over to Kristina. “What happened?”

Kristina slowly looked up beneath a black-eye and brushed a trickle of blood away from her busted lip. And then she simply shook her head.

“Where is he?” Marquis demanded.

Kristina shook her head more adamantly this time. “Don’t, Marquis...please. It’ll only make things worse.”

“Not this time.” Marquis scowled. “This time, when I am through with Dirk, he will never touch you again.”

Kristina looked up and studied her boss with scrutinizing, deep blue eyes. Her heart-shaped lips quivered as she recognized the truth of what he said. “Do you mind if I talk to Marquis alone?” she asked Chad.

Chad took a step toward the door. “Not at all.” He regarded Marquis. “I’ll be right outside if either of you need me for anything.”

Marquis nodded. “Thank you.”

Once the door was closed behind Chad, Kristina stood up and tried to walk to the other side of the room, but Marquis caught her by her arm and turned her to face him. He raised her chin with his hand. “If I don’t put an end to this, Kristina, he is going to kill you. Is that what you want?”

Kristina frowned. “No…no, of course I don’t. But I don’t want him dead, either.”

Marquis remained silent.

Kristina sighed then, her bright eyes becoming dim. “Marquis, we both know you can’t deal with Dirk—after everything he’s done—and not kill him. What are you gonna do? Warn him? Break an arm or a leg? He’ll say something smart. I know he will...and that’ll be the end of it.” She reached out and took his hand. “Please, boss…let me handle it: I’ll figure somethin’ out. I swear.”

Marquis surveyed the bruises on her neck, Dirk’s fingerprints. “Kristina, you know that I respect you, that my family cares for you, and that it is not our way to interfere in the affairs of...mortals. But this thing with Dirk...it’s over. Your relationship with him is over.”

Kristina put her head down in her hands and sighed with frustration. She was fighting to hold back tears. “What do you mean by over?”

Marquis refused to be more specific. “Just...over.”

Kristina began to shake. “Oh, God, Marquis, this is way out of hand. You can’t just—Marquis, if you took Dirk outta the picture, you’d have to erase all my memories, or I’d go insane. So, what then? You’re just gonna wipe-out the last five years of my life? No way! Please...don’t. Please. I’m asking you not to—just let me call the police.”

“Again?” Marquis asked.

Kristina nodded. “They’ll lock him up this time. I swear, they will.”

“For how long?” Marquis scowled. “How many restraining orders has he violated already, Kristina?”

Kristina shook her head. “That was my fault...I took them all back.”

“Yes…so you could go back to him.”

Kristina nodded and averted her eyes. “I know.”

“Kristina,” he said sternly, “it really doesn’t matter if it’s Dirk’s inability to stop hurting you or your inability to stop letting him, the end result is the same. And I don’t see either one of you stopping.”

Kristina started to protest, but Marquis held up his hand. “The thing of it is this: When you came into our world, when you were given the choice to keep or relinquish your memories—your knowledge of Dark Moon Vale—you made a covenant to honor and serve the house of Jadon in exchange for our shelter, protection, and care. We are not as you are. I am not as you are. I have tried to view this from a human point of view, but Dirk has crossed an irreversible line: As a male who is bound by a covenant to protect you, I no longer have a choice in the matter. These are the laws of my kind.”

Marquis walked over to his desk and sat down in the large burgundy chair. He placed his elbows on the desktop and folded his hands; his chin rested on his fingers while he considered his next move.

Kristina waited quietly, her body visibly trembling.

After several minutes had passed, Marquis raised his head and regarded Kristina with resolve. He knew his eyes were cold, like two hollow coals, as they always appeared vacant when he made up his mind to enact final-retribution. “I will allow you to keep all of your memories, as long as you show me that you can handle them. But Dirk’s time with you has—how shall I say?—come to an end.”

Kristina gasped. “No, Marquis! No! Please, just listen. I have this—”

Marquis raised his hand again, this time taking abrupt control over Kristina’s body. For a fleeting moment, her vocal cords no longer worked, and her tongue was paralyzed. It was just long enough to halt her speech—like flipping an off-switch on her protest—while still forceful enough to show her the discussion was over.

Marquis meant business.

Kristina sat down in one of the high-backed chairs across the desk and began to cry, her face growing white as a sheet.

Marquis hit the intercom and asked Chad to return.

When Chad came in, he took one look at Kristina, glanced over at Marquis, and winced, his soft, hazel eyes narrowing with compassion. “It’ll be all right, Kristina,” he offered.

“No, it won’t,” Kristina sobbed.

When Marquis didn’t bother responding, Chad’s face turned the same shade as hers. Only, he wasn’t about to question his boss.

“So, has her schedule been taken care of?” Marquis asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Chad cleared his throat and ran his hand through his short, dirty-blond hair. “Uh...yeah, Lacy is covering her shift for tonight, and José was able to get Emily to cover for the rest of the week.”

Marquis nodded. “Good. And security? How are you handling that?”

Chad sat down in the remaining chair across from his boss. “Well, you said you wanted us to allow Dirk to come in if he showed up; so right now, we’ll know the minute he breaches the perimeter, and at least two guards will stay tight. But no one’s gonna confront him or call the police...not without your go-ahead. Unless of course, he acts like the ass he is, and we have to deal with him in the interest of our other patrons.” He immediately turned to Kristina and shrugged. “Sorry.”

Kristina began to sob all over again.

“Good. That’s fine.” My brother...

Kagen Silivasi answered the telepathic call immediately. Greetings, Marquis: How are you?

I am well, Kagen, and you?

Very well.

Kagen simply waited then.

Marquis didn’t call out to his brothers often. Usually, if he wanted something, he just demanded it, or took it, or put the command directly in their minds. If Marquis was calling him now, Kagen had to know it was important.

I am at the casino with Chad and Kristina, Marquis explained. Dirk has made a real mess of her this time. I would like to bring her by the health center.

Kagen sounded puzzled. You want me to treat her? Why not just use a human doctor, as usual?

Not this time, Marquis argued. As soon as Dirk shows his face, I’m going to remove the problem once and for all; the less contact we have with humans, the less potential drama...or mess.

Kagen cleared his throat. I see. He paused for a moment. Well, I must say, I’m glad you’re going to finally put a stop to this.

It is long overdue, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with it anymore—which is why I have an additional favor to ask of you.

‘Ask?’ Kagen sounded surprised.

Marquis sighed telepathically. Yes...ask...unless and until you say no, of course. There was no hint of humor in his voice...because he meant none.

Kagen laughed anyway, although his laughter sounded primitive, both amused and irritated. But then, that was Kagen: the kindest and the meanest of the Silivasi brothers at the same time. Luckily for the rest of them, the easy-going persona took up ninety-five percent of his character; however, when that five percent came out, even Marquis knew enough to clear a path...although not because he feared him. Marquis feared absolutely no one and nothing—save, perhaps, Napolean Mondragon—but when Kagen got that damn-mean, it just wasn’t worth all the energy it took to try and calm him down.

I’m listening, Kagen drawled, Mr. Nice Guy spilling over.

I want you to keep Kristina for the next week or so. I don’t want her staying anyplace where Dirk might find her, and if for some reason, he does happen to track her to the clinic, then you are to…take care of him…for me, long before he gets anywhere near her. No human involvement.

I have no problems with Kristina—or handling Dirk—I’ll keep her.

Good. Be well, then, Kagen.

And you as well, my brother.

Marquis looked across his desk at Chad, who was still waiting patiently for his boss’s directions. “I’m going to take Kristina to the health center, where she’ll be staying for a few days.”

Kristina looked up, startled. Her eyes grew wide, and her face hardened like stone. If there was any doubt that Marquis meant to kill Dirk, it was gone now. She was being placed under the supervision of a Master vampire until her boyfriend was in the ground. By the look on her face, she knew it was final. The situation had been removed from human hands.

“Absolutely no one is to know where she is,” Marquis admonished, staring at Chad. “And the moment you see Dirk, you call me. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, boss.”

“Good.”

Kristina dropped her face in her quivering hands, defeated.

It was dark when Marquis pulled his H3T Hummer onto the private dirt road that led to Kagen’s health clinic and private residence. The graphite metallic truck—with its eighteen-inch chrome wheels and ebony leather seats, encased with cashmere inserts—made easy work of the rough terrain, and it took them less than ten minutes to pull into the front lot of the clinic once they made the final turn.

Kagen Silivasi was a true loner—preferring to live as far back into the mountain as possible. The high-tech clinic was virtually hidden within a dense forest of pine and spruce trees, anchored into the base of a steep mountain. Kagen’s own personal residence was about one mile west of the center, also built half-in, half-out of the steep, rocky crevice.

Both properties were accessed by a single dirt parking-lot that bordered the southern branch of the winding Snake River. To get to either one, visitors had to go forward on foot, crossing an archaic stone bridge that arched across the deepest branch of the white-water tributary; then follow a steep, inclining path that finally took them to the structures. In the event of a severely injured patient, there were stretchers and wheelchairs available, but the difficult environment served a purpose: Vampires could materialize, and humans weren’t welcome.

Like every other structure in the house of Jadon, the clinic was on private property. With human hunting societies, Dark Ones, and lycans always posing a threat, it was important that the community remain well-hidden.

Marquis parked the Hummer just to the right of the bridge and got out of the truck, leaving the keys in the ignition. He never worried about such things; after all, gods help the soul who decided to steal from him. Although...it might make interesting sport: fun to track, easy to dispose of. He opened Kristina’s door and waited while she slowly climbed out of the vehicle, her eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying.

Marquis frowned. He was good with his fists and his guns—and his trident, stilettos, and sling—but words were simply not his forte, which was ironic considering he spoke twenty-one languages.

“Do you need a minute before we go in?” he asked. It was all he could think of.

Kristina looked up at him, incredulous. “What difference would that make?”

“None at all,” Marquis answered factually.

“Well, why not take one then,” Kristina quipped sarcastically. She crossed her arms in defiance and leaned back against the graphite, metallic truck, wincing from the pain of moving her battered muscles. And then she stared straight ahead at the bridge as if it were the final walkway to the gallows—the last journey of a condemned woman. She said nothing, so Marquis peered into her mind...

It was more or less blank. She was listening to the roaring sound of the rushing water, trying her best not to think or feel anything.

Marquis crossed his heavily muscled arms and leaned back against the truck next to her; he figured he’d give this whole reflective-silence thing about three minutes, and then he was taking her inside.

As the two of them stood side-by-side, waiting for time to slowly tick by, the air around them began to fill with strange electricity. The night suddenly became eerily dark, almost as if someone had turned out a light in the sky. Instinctively, they both looked up, and their mouths dropped open in unison.

The sky above them was transforming. From a clear, solid blue to a deep, infinite black. It was as if the moon and the stars had simply burned out—as if light no longer existed—and then, just as unexpectedly, the celestial lights began to come back on. One after the other, the most brilliant, iridescent stars shone in the sky like a thousand torches in the hands of the gods. The heavens were positively...and unequivocally...breathtaking.

And then the moon reappeared, shifting along its lunar path, dipping down until it hovered behind the stars, beaming like a spotlight trained on the most magnificent constellation. The spotlight began to change color. From grayish white, to pinkish rose, to a deepening shade of wine...until it finally emerged the color of fresh blood.

A crimson moon beckoned in a backlit sky, shining its haunting light on a single constellation.

Draco...the Dragon.

If Marquis had not been leaning against his truck, he would have fallen over. Awestruck by the incredible sight. Fascinated by its beauty. Stunned by its meaning.

After fifteen-hundred years—living alone, walking alone, sleeping alone...existing alone—he had all but given up on the idea that the gods even remembered who he was. Yet now, his princess had awakened after so many centuries, and in the blink of an eye, they had rediscovered a love beyond the confines of this world.

Marquis drew in a deep breath and almost...smiled.

He had to get back to Ciopori right away. He had already explained the Blood Curse to her, but he had failed to tell her his own constellation. She would be thrilled to know that the gods had blessed them—that they had made it possible for them to truly be together.

Marquis ran his hands through his thick raven hair and looked at Kristina. “We need to get you inside right away; there is someplace else that I need to be.”

Kristina’s deep blue eyes blinked several times, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. She looked up at the sky, over at Marquis, and then back at the sky a second time.

And then she repeated the whole process again.

She nodded quickly, tucked her injured arm behind her back, and began walking at a strange angle so that she continued to face him even as she attempted to walk beside him.

Halfway over the stone bridge, Marquis stopped. Cold spray from the rushing river misted his face. “Why are you walking like that?” he asked—straight to the point as usual.

Kristina shook her head way too rapidly. “Oh...was I? I didn’t realize. Yeah...I think my injuries are just...yeah. I didn’t realize that I was...walking strange.”

Marquis frowned. He noticed that her left arm was still tucked behind her back—the arm Dirk had burned with a cigarette. “Is that burn still causing you pain?”

Kristina visibly trembled. “No, not anymore...I mean…yeah, but not if I hold it like this.” She tried to smile. The warmth didn’t reach her eyes.

Marquis took a step back then. There was a pungent odor in the air. One he had never scented around Kristina before: fear. More specifically, fear of him.

He wrinkled his forehead. “What is wrong with you?”

Kristina shook her head and looked toward the clinic. “The pain is just…we should hurry and get inside so you can go on and get to...wherever you need to be.”

Marquis’s stomach lurched. All at once, a powerful sense of dread swept over him. “Show me your arm, Kristina.”

Kristina showed him her right arm.

“The other one,” he barked, holding his breath.

Kristina blanched and took a step back.

Marquis heart did a back-flip in his chest. “Kristina, you will show me your left arm now.” He pitched his voice an octave lower, the tone as smooth as velvet, making the command impossible to refuse.

Like a puppet on a string, Kristina’s left arm came out from behind her back and dangled in front of him as if he were working her limbs from above.

Marquis took one glance and staggered back, catching himself against the solid stone railing. His head spun in circles like he had just stepped off a carnival ride.

It was right there in front of him. As clear as the sky. Every marking, every line, every unmistakable contour—creating one inevitable image: on Kristina Riley’s inner wrist. Draco, the Dragon. Marquis’s own birth constellation.

The woman was terrified now, and frankly, Marquis could not have cared less. His mind was in a free-fall, as if he had just been in a terrible accident and was still trying to regain his equilibrium, figure out where he was—what had just happened—whether or not he was going to survive.

Marquis shook his head adamantly. “No, this is not possible.” He looked at Kristina’s arm again, and then he stared into her petrified eyes. “Do you know what this means?”

The petite redhead croaked out an incoherent sound.

Marquis spun around and stared at the river, his powerful hands closing into two hard fists...

And then just like that, an iron gate closed in his mind.

It closed in his heart, shut out all thought, and locked out emotion. It allowed only instinct and obedience. He couldn’t afford anything else right now.

Marquis looked up at the sky, then at the parking lot behind them, and finally, at the shadows among the trees. “It is not safe for you to be outside anymore, Kristina.” His voice was monotone.

The skinny red-head visibly wilted, too afraid to speak.

Just then, Kagen Silivasi shimmered into view, standing on the bridge directly in front of them. His glorious dark brown hair rustled in the wind like fine spun silk. His commanding brown eyes, with their unusual silver reflections of light, stared straight through the Ancient Master Warrior with wonder and concern. As he took a step forward, Kagen’s muscles shifted like the powerful haunches of a black panther stalking toward prey. It was the signature walk of a male vampire. “My brother…” His raspy voice trailed off.

Marquis met the healer’s gaze but said nothing.

Kagen looked up at the moon then. “I just saw the sky.”

Marquis’s mouth was set in a hard line as he refused to respond.

Kagen looked completely taken aback. “It’s Draco.”

“I know this!”

Kagen frowned. “Who is she, Marquis? Do you know yet? Do you think the princess—”

Marquis held up his hand and just shook his head.

Kagen looked at Kristina then...and all the pieces fell into place. There was a moment of stunned silence while the three of them stood on the bridge, desperately trying to process the enormous turn of events.

Finally, Kagen spoke to Marquis telepathically, his worry readily apparent. My brother, are you okay?

Marquis scowled then. You and Nachari—you both ask such inconsequential questions!

Kagen didn’t respond to the derisive remark. More than likely, he understood.

All of Marquis’s brothers understood him—even if they didn’t always appreciate his personality—and they were smart enough to know when to back off, that there was nothing they could do when he didn’t want their help. Marquis prayed Kagen would just leave it alone.

Kagen turned to Kristina then. “Welcome...little sister...it is nice to see you again; we need to get you inside so we can attend to your wounds.”

Kristina looked like a deer caught in the headlights as she slowly nodded and began to follow Kagen inside.

“I’ll be there in a while,” Marquis whispered.

Kagen stopped walking then. He squared his shoulders to Marquis and just glared at him...speechless.

Though it was very poor manners—if not downright disrespectful—Marquis didn’t have the time…or the ability…to deal with Kagen’s confusion right now. Desperate to head any inquiry off at the pass, he delved into his brother’s thoughts, hoping to put the healer’s concerns to rest before an uncomfortable conversation ensued.

Kagen was thinking about the one—and only—opportunity a male vampire had in a lifetime to start a family. To find a mate. To atone for the sins of his forefathers and once and for all live free of the Curse. Following the Blood Moon, a male had only thirty days to secure his female...to live or die...and consequently, the territorial instincts of a male who had just discovered his destiny were as powerful as they were overwhelming. It was simply unheard of for such a male to leave the female’s side so soon after the Omen. And as for leaving her alone in an enclosed space with another male? Whether that male was a friend or a brother, it just wasn’t done.

Ever.

As far as Kagen was concerned, Marquis should have been edgy, defensive, and overbearing right now. If anything, he expected Marquis to shackle his destiny to his wrist, to drag her indoors, cursing and fighting every step of the way, especially considering the warrior’s complete lack of tact. Kagen knew something was wrong.

Terribly...terribly...wrong.

And because it was such a volatile time, he was worried to death about his eldest brother.

Do not waste your energy concerning yourself with such things, Kagen, Marquis advised. Please, just take my destiny inside and see to her wounds. I will be there shortly: I promise.

Kagen looked surprised, and then he nodded. Very well, Marquis…but hear this: You are the most honored amongst our family, and I understand that this is a very pivotal…and difficult…night for you. And I also know that you have a habit of checking up on all of your brothers by brushing our minds from time to time. That is simply your way, and we all accept it. However, should you ever retrieve my thoughts again without my permission, you and I will have a very serious problem.

Marquis snorted and frowned. Kagen was right, of course. Etiquette amongst the males in the house of Jadon was paramount. Sacred.

Oh well, his silence was the only acknowledgment Kagen was going to get and as close to an apology as Marquis would go.

Understanding, Kagen turned to Kristina and gestured toward the clinic. “Shall we?”

As they began to walk away, Kristina looked over her shoulder at Marquis, her deep blue eyes wide with shock. When their gazes finally met, a deep sorrow passed between them.

Marquis quickly looked away. This was all wrong. This was all so absolutely, positively...inexcusably...wrong!

After all this time—serving his people honorably, living for his brothers, enduring century after century alone; after watching his beloved mother, Serena, die; his best friend and father, Keitaro, disappear; and the joy of his heart—his youngest brother, Shelby—slain by the Blood Curse; this was simply...

Wrong.

And it was cruel.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the princess in her beautiful summer dress. He heard her infectious laughter and remembered the tantalizing sway of her hips—the way that she looked at him with so much love in her eyes—and his heart wept at the enormity of what the gods had just done. Why now? Why to him?

Marquis watched as Kagen and Kristina made their way up the path toward the clinic, and he couldn’t help but think…for just one day...

Out of hundreds of thousands...

He had actually been—happy.

four

Ciopori spun around on the back terrace of Napolean’s majestic home, marveling at the beauty of the sky. As one of the original Celestial Beings, observing such an event was the equivalent of witnessing a miracle, a rare blessing bestowed upon them by the divine god, Draco, and her emotions varied from reverence to awe...to disbelief. Despite their ultimate extermination, the females of her race had once been very powerful, indeed. Powerful enough to fashion a curse that was still carried out by the gods twenty-eight hundred years later.

A soft breeze blew through her hair, rustling a wall of towering aspens that flanked the back porch, and Ciopori closed her eyes, taking in the magic of the moment. Her last memories, before Marquis had found her, had been of a dark ship taking port in a strange land, her brothers being left behind in the Old World, her culture being decimated...her life forever changed. When Fabian placed the two remaining females under the spell, Ciopori knew she would awaken to a completely different life, but in her wildest dreams, she could have never imagined this. She could never have imagined Marquis.

The warrior from her dreams had been real all along. And he had found her.

Ciopori felt a chill shoot up her spine, even as goose bumps appeared on her arms. Marquis was such a proud and sure warrior, a leader by both nature and birth, as passionate as he was intense...the celestial epitome of a wild animal. Yet there was a rare, indefinable beauty beneath his harsh exterior, a spiritual quality that hinted of something much deeper. He had a soul that had been honed through fire, a wisdom that had been refined through experience, a strength that was deeply anchored in primordial law, and yes, a love for his brothers that surpassed all else. A love that now included her.

Ciopori smiled, lost in her daydream, swimming in the memory of Marquis’s impossibly beautiful blue-black eyes...and that gorgeous, thick raven hair. She could still hear the velvet tenor of his voice as it played again and again in her mind, a haunting melody, pure and hypnotic. When she concentrated, she could still see the hard cut of his jaw, the sculpted perfection of his lips, the perfect angles of his face, and the rock-hard lines of his body—a body that appeared to have been chiseled out of granite by the hands of a master artisan. Truly, her sisters had created a magnificent, unparalleled species…even as they had sought to curse them.

Ciopori laughed aloud then, as she also remembered the warrior’s complete lack of social grace, and his cerebral analysis of simple wit: The male didn’t have a clue when it came to humor or subtle nuances; yet oddly enough, Ciopori found those traits adorable. In fact, they were the qualities she admired most because they softened what might otherwise be a far too overwhelming male.

She regarded the sky once more. What an amazing night. She had found the mate of her soul, the man of her dreams. And now, another warrior in the house of Jadon—her beloved brother’s direct line of ancestry—was being given the same chance to find eternal love. She was so caught up in her musing that she didn’t realize Napolean Mondragon had joined her on the veranda until he spoke.

“Greetings, Princess.” Napolean remained formal, as usual, speaking to her in the Old Language. “It is an incredible sight to behold, is it not?”

Ciopori turned toward the monarch and bowed her head ever so slightly. “Milord.” She turned back to the sky. “Indeed, it is magnificent. I don’t believe I have ever seen anything more spectacular in all of my life.”

Napolean smiled, his shimmering silver irises casting light like crystals against the moon; his gorgeous, waist length hair swaying with his regal movements. “I’ve seen the Blood Moon sky a thousand times over my long life, yet every time it appears, it is as if I am viewing it for the first time. I am pleased that you are able to see it.”

Ciopori gave him a curious glance. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Napolean shrugged his broad shoulders. “The Blood Moon is an omen—a sign which only appears to the male descendants of both Jadon and Jaegar—”

“My brothers,” Ciopori clarified.

“A sign which only appears to the male descendants of your brothers,” Napolean corrected, still clearly in awe of her lineage. “Yet, it was a mercy given to the descendants of Jadon, alone, following the Curse. And for that reason, humans have never been able to observe the phenomenon: The sky looks perfectly normal to them right now. The moon looks the same as always.”

He came to stand beside her and paused, as if searching for the right words. “As you are not...a product of the Curse...I wasn’t sure if you would be able to behold it or not.”

Ciopori sighed and gazed toward the forest, both of them now leaning against the banister. “I can see your point, milord. However, I am a Celestial Being of pure blood, one of the remaining descendants of the goddess Cygnus and her human mate, Mateo; so of course I can view the Omen: All that occurs in the heavens occurs in my ancestral home.”

Napolean looked at her wistfully—clearly studying her face. “You know, I remember you, Princess Ciopori…from before.”

“Pardon me?” She looked surprised.

Napolean’s smile was exquisite. “I remember you from Romania.”

Ciopori turned to face him then, her hands clasped together in front of her. “I’m afraid I don’t share this memory, Sir Mondragon; please, elaborate.”

Napolean laughed, his voice a rich baritone. “You wouldn’t, Princess—being that I was only ten-years old when the Blood Curse occurred.” He sighed. “I saw you only once. It was right before...the sacrifices began...when our world was still a fair and just place to be...

“It was after a particularly successful harvest—at one of the honoring ceremonies: You were there with your father, the king, although I don’t recall seeing your sister or your mother. But you—you were standing behind your father on the platform, wearing one of the most exquisite gowns I had ever seen. Well, for a five-year-old.” He chuckled lightly. “It was lavender—like the lilies of the field—and I remember staring at all that silk as it swayed in the wind. The sun cast a shadow beneath you, causing the effect of a halo above you. I was but a child then, and I believed our king to be a god. Gazing at you on that platform, I was certain you were a goddess as well.”

Ciopori laughed. “Well, that is quite a compliment coming from one who grew up to be such a powerful leader himself. I’m sure many of the children here think the same of you now.” After a moment of silence, she ventured, “If you don’t mind me asking: What house are you from? I mean your lineage before the Curse.”

Napolean looked off into the distance. He raised his eyebrows and sighed as if he rarely thought of such things anymore. “I am the only one of my family that has survived—the last remaining pure-blood Celestial Being of our people.” He glanced at her and smiled. “At least until now.”

Ciopori nodded.

“My direct descendants were begotten of the goddess Andromeda and her human mate, Demetrius Mondragon.”

Ciopori caught her breath. “You come from a very powerful house of magic, milord: I did not realize...”

“That’s quite all right,” Napolean replied.” There is little time for practicing enchantment anymore, ruling the house of—leading your brother’s house is a full-time job.”

Ciopori crossed her arms in front of her. “Then I must say, as difficult as all of this is, I am glad we are here with you, Lord Mondragon of the house of Andromeda. It is not a good feeling to be all alone.”

Napolean declined his head but didn’t answer.

“Speaking of which”—Ciopori gestured toward the sky—“I am quite curious about the male who is being honored tonight by the gods. Who does our Lord Draco smile upon? Do you already know his mate?”

Napolean cleared his throat, and then his face became a blank slate, completely devoid of emotion. “Ciopori...how shall I say this?” He turned around to face her. “The duty of my kingship is this: I see everything that happens in the house of Jadon, both good and bad. I know the thoughts, intentions, and fears of all the males, and all of the choices they make the moment they make them, but I am not permitted by the gods to act upon—or even reveal—such information. To interfere in the lives of my subjects would be to...tamper with the future…or alter the hands of fate. To change destiny or obstruct free will.

“Not to mention, it would be a severe violation of the privacy of our males—certainly unworthy of the respect each one has earned. Verily, I may act only upon a direct request, a matter of law and order, in the interest of our survival, or the earth’s protection...but my reach ends there.”

Ciopori declined her head in deference; perhaps she had violated some sort of tenet. “Forgive me, milord: Was I wrong to inquire about this matter?”

Napolean smiled and shook his head. “No, Princess—not at all. A male’s constellation is common knowledge in the house of Jadon; however, the identity of his mate is not. Therefore, I can answer your first question but not your last.” He drew in a deep breath. “It is the warrior Marquis whose constellation illuminates our sky this night. He is the chosen one of Draco.”

Ciopori hesitated. “You don’t mean Marquis Silivasi?” As if she knew more than one vampire named Marquis.

Napolean nodded, his face serene. “Yes, the Ancient Master Warrior, Marquis Silivasi.”

Ciopori caught at the rail, her knees buckling beneath her. She froze as she turned away from Napolean, dumbfounded. He had repeated the name twice, yet she still could not believe she’d heard him correctly. “You mean...the male who was here earlier today…Nachari’s brother…that Marquis Silivasi?”

Napolean’s calm demeanor appeared deliberate. “Yes, the constellation is his.”

Ciopori’s hand flew to her mouth in a desperate attempt to restrain from asking a third time. It took every ounce of composure she had to stand on the deck and look at the king…as if the entire world had not just collapsed around her. “If you would be so kind, I would require a moment alone.” Her voice sounded hollow and far away, as if the words were coming from someone else’s mouth.

Napolean bowed ever so slightly, his expression betraying nothing. “Of course.”

Ciopori held up her hand. “I would, however, like to have a word with the wizard, Nachari, if you wouldn’t mind. Please send him out as soon as possible.” She swallowed a lump in her throat and fought to keep from trembling.

Napolean placed a comforting hand on the small of her back but refrained from speaking. And Ciopori knew it was just as he had said: The sovereign leader of the house of Jadon already knew everything, and he would ask no further questions because providence had to play itself out—good, bad, or indifferent. The wizened king was faultlessly neutral, an observer at best.

“I will go fetch Nachari now,” he said in a soothing tone of voice.

Ciopori waited restlessly, pacing back and forth across the veranda. Although it had been less than five minutes since she had asked to see Nachari, it felt like an eternity. Finally, the wizard appeared, and like a swan gliding across a lake, his proud gait carried him effortlessly to her side.

“You asked for me?” His voice was deep with concern.

Ciopori tried to hold his gaze, but her own eyes glazed over with tears, and she had to turn away. It was written all over his face—Nachari knew everything—but then, of course he would: Marquis was his brother, after all, and he had seen the two of them together. Ciopori searched for words but found none.

“I am so sorry,” he finally whispered, “not just for you—but for my brother as well.”

Ciopori drew in a deep breath and forced herself to face him. “Then you know who the...female...is then?” She nearly choked over the words.

Nachari nodded, the soft lines of his face hardening. “Yes, when I reached out to my brother just moments ago, I felt her energy in the air around him. As she is someone well known to our family, I recognized her right away.”

Ciopori began to cry, and she brought her hands up to cover her face, ashamed.

“Please do not be embarrassed.” Nachari sighed. “Whatever you are feeling, I’m sure my brother is as well…”

Ciopori wiped her eyes. “Nachari, does he have to—”

“He does, Ciopori.”

She sniffled and tried to regain her composure. “But why? Why can’t it be changed? Has anyone ever tried?” She knew she sounded desperate, but she no longer cared. “Surely, I am not bound by this curse. There must be some kind of exception, some way for Napolean to intercede with the gods. He is from the house of Andromeda; if anyone can do it, he can.”

Nachari looked out toward the forest, carefully considering his next words. “Honestly, Ciopori...I wish it were so.” He shook his head and ran his hand through his silky mane of dark hair. “It is true that there are a lot of unknowns in this situation, but, Princess, the Blood Curse—that just isn’t one of them. Nor is the sacrifice my brother must make at the end of the Blood Moon.” He paused then and took a deep breath before going on. “Kristina Riley—the destiny the gods have chosen for him—is the only female who can give him what he must have right now.”

Ciopori felt his words like a knife slicing through her gut. Although she knew he meant no offense, no words had ever wounded her more deeply. Unwilling to give up so easily, she gathered her courage once again and defiantly squared her shoulders to the handsome wizard. “Forgive my insistence, Nachari, but you simply do not know that. From what Marquis had already told me, there is only one woman who can bear your children...without suffering a horrible fate...and that is your chosen destiny. But there are things you don’t know, reasons why Marquis and I believe we are meant to be together...”

Her voice trailed off. There was no point in trying to convince Nachari of the rightness of her union with Marquis. She needed to stick to the facts, the logical argument. “Is it not true that the woman who ultimately bears the imprint of a male’s constellation on her wrist actually has small traces of celestial blood in her veins? And is it not true that it is the celestial blood that makes them compatible...in terms of having children?”

“Yes, that’s part of it,” Nachari conceded, “but—”

“Then do I not possess more celestial blood than any destiny the gods have ever chosen?”

Nachari hung his head. The compassion in his eyes was as maddening as it was painful. “You have pure celestial blood, Ciopori. No one would argue such a thing. But your blood is that of the goddess Cygnus, is it not? Marquis’s destiny was chosen at birth by Lord Draco, and it is Draco’s blood his mate will have running through her veins. The blood of the dragon god is the only blood that is compatible with Marquis’s.”

Ciopori stared at the wooden planks on the veranda for quite some time before regaining her courage. She lifted her head and tried one last time. “Again, wizard, with all due respect: You just don’t know if it can be done...because your males have never tried any other way. Until now, there has never been any other possibility.” She sighed and held up her hand. “But for the sake of argument, let us assume that what you say is true, and I cannot give Marquis...children.

“I can still argue for him—at the end of the Blood Moon—when the curse comes to claim him.” Her voice was beginning to waver. “Nachari, surely those who have cursed you would not punish me. I am one of them. One of the original females—the very reason the curse was enacted in the first place. Even the gods would have to concede to that point.”

Nachari glanced at the sky. “Ciopori, being who you are, you must be a woman of great faith, are you not?”

“Of course I am. That’s just my point—”

“Do you believe that the gods know all and see all?”

“Of course I do. Of course they do. Yes.”

Nachari looked her in the eyes. “Then they know you are here, don’t they? They know that Marquis...loves you...and you, him. They know exactly who you are and where you are from, yet they do this anyway.” He gestured at the heavens. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but after fifteen-hundred years of making him wait, why did the gods choose now? It is almost as if they acted in haste to prevent the two of you from joining. If you believe in divinity, then there is no coincidence.”

Ciopori blanched at his reasoning. He was right.

She shut her eyes and clutched her arms tight to her stomach. If the gods truly knew all, then they had to know she couldn’t possibly let go of Marquis now that she’d found him: They had to know that she would fight for this warrior to the bitter end. She would never let such a punishment stand.

Ciopori Demir was willing to enter the Valley of Death and Shadows with him if necessary.

five

As if Nachari had read Ciopori’s mind, he held out his hand. “Will you walk with me, Ciopori? There is something I need to show you.”

Ciopori took Nachari’s hand and followed him back into the house. They passed through the receiving room, entered a main hall, and eventually made their way to the rear of a large mud-room that sat just beyond the kitchen. The door to the mud-room opened up to a dark, circular tunnel with a hand-laid cobblestone floor.

“What I’d like to show you is just on the other end of this hall,” Nachari said, ushering Ciopori in front of him. And then with the sweep of his hand, he lit a long row of torches, each one anchored in rows at the top of the arched wall.

Ciopori drew in a deep breath as she followed the wizard through the long, damp tunnel.

When they finally got to the end, there were two heavy, wooden, arched doors—like one might find in an ancient castle. Nachari gestured to the one on the left. “This entrance opens up to the Hall of Justice as well as the Ceremonial Hall of our people.” He placed his hand on the thick iron handle of the door on the right. “And this one leads to the Chambers of Sacrifice and Atonement.” He cleared his throat. “You should prepare yourself for the...energy.... It is a place of great mourning and death.”

Ciopori took a slight step back, braced herself, and then nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

Nachari was the one to pause then—lost in a frozen moment in time. It was as if the weight of the entire world were sitting on his shoulders, and he couldn’t bring himself to open the doors. As if his hands were frozen in place.

When he finally summoned his courage, he swung the heavy door open so hard that it slammed against the wall behind it, sending a resounding echo through the already creepy room. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Come on.”

The moment Ciopori entered the chamber, she felt a sudden drop in temperature. The room resembled a small, 1800s church: There were several rows of pews, all lined up, each one facing a single platform where a pulpit would have been, and the energy of the place was indeed heavy with sorrow. On the solitary platform was a small altar made of multi-colored granite. It had a smooth, hollow surface at the top, and an extremely dark energy swirled around the base.

Nachari pointed to the altar. “At the end of the Blood Moon, each male has two sons: one child of light to carry on the race, and one child of darkness—the soulless one—who is brought here as demanded by the Curse.” He pointed toward the hollow groove at the top of the structure. “The child is placed on the altar by his father or Napolean, depending upon the circumstances. Sometimes the mother attends, as do other family members, but more often than not, Napolean performs the ceremonies himself.”

Ciopori felt sick to her stomach, but she didn’t question the gods. The universe was a place of balance: Light cast a shadow. Day gave way to night. Birth and death mirrored one another. The good could not exist without the contrast of the bad to make it so. However difficult, the disparity of two sons—one good, one evil—was a balanced punishment, and she understood her ancient sisters’ reasoning...even if she didn’t agree with it.

Nachari and Ciopori walked silently through the space. When they got to the other side, they were met by yet another door. This one had crossbones on the front and an ancient warning written in the Old Language: Behold the portal to the Corridor of the Dead.

Nachari bit his bottom lip, opened the door, and ushered the princess inside. “Don’t worry; that doesn’t apply to us.”

Princess Ciopori took a quick step back. “And you are absolutely certain of this, wizard?”

Nachari’s expression was deathly serious. “Yes, absolutely. I am not ready to leave this earth quite yet, Princess.”

Ciopori followed him through the macabre door into what she realized was a confined entry-way: Just beyond the cramped space were two steps leading up to a hatch, the final entrance to the death chamber, and the hatch was covered with an enormous iron bolt that locked it in place. It was obviously meant to keep whoever was inside the cavity from escaping.

The lingering energy of torture and agony was almost tangible as Nachari reached up, took a large iron key from a rusted hook, and unlocked the hatch.

Ciopori recoiled.

The interior was shaped like a cylinder—about twelve feet tall, twenty-feet in circumference—and it reeked of the smell of death...

And vengeance.

And malevolence.

Without a doubt, she knew that the souls of her slain sisters had become the very evil they had sought to punish. As all energy only multiplied and attracted unto itself, every act of hatred and revenge—every death meant to atone for their extinction—had simply added to their own darkness and depravity. What happened here in this chamber was not justice, and it was not penance.

It was unholy.

For the first time since she’d met him, Nachari’s proud swagger faltered, and he stumbled back as if he could barely stand. His hands and arms trembled uncontrollably.

Ciopori followed his eyes as he took in the contents of the room: There were dozens of oval shower-heads perched around the upper perimeter of the ceiling, and they were clearly positioned to wash the sterile-looking walls. But...of what?

“Blood,” Nachari answered, easily reading her mind. “The shower-heads are needed to wash away all of the blood.”

He pointed to a large drain in the middle of the floor, which dipped down at the center. “It has been said by our people that when the souls of our female ancestors are done punishing some of the males, there is nothing left of them to bury or incinerate. What little that remains flows down that drain like liquid. Others are left intact as a reminder to those who must bury them...as was the case with my twin.”

Ciopori caught her breath and shrank back from the door. His twin?

Nachari forced himself to continue. “The male enters the chamber on the last night of the Blood Moon: the night he failed to provide the sacrifice of the Dark Child.” He shivered. “It is also said that the walls are sound-proof because the cries are too agonizing to bear by those outside. The punishment is too cruel. The death too prolonged.” He took a slow, deep breath and steadied his voice. “The death curse has been known to take up to twenty-four hours when the male is incredibly strong—never less than twelve.”

He turned away and placed his hand over his stomach. His perfect face grew pale. His voice quivered despite his effort. “My...twin”—he stopped and clutched at the wall—“and Marquis’s brother…died in here…less than two months ago. For no other reason than he did not have a son to hand over at the end of the Blood Moon.”

Ciopori winced. She had no idea what to say. Dear gods…what were these males being put through? “Why didn’t he have a…sacrifice?” she finally asked.

Nachari glanced at his trembling hands. “One of the Dark Ones, a descendant of your brother Jaegar…” He exhaled. “Wow…this is harder than I thought…his name was Valentine Nistor, and he stole Shelby’s destiny before they could complete the ritual.”

Ciopori’s hand went up to her mouth and a tear escaped her eye. “Dearest gods…”

Nachari slowly backed away from the chamber. “Ciopori, you may be right about arguing with the gods. You may even be right about there being some possibility—some way—for you and Marquis to conceive children together that does not end so…badly. But if you are wrong—if there is even the slightest chance that you are wrong—then this is where Marquis will end up at the end of this moon. This is what he will endure if your argument fails.”

He turned to meet her gaze, and she saw everything he couldn’t say in his eyes.

Bringing her here had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. The grief and pain he was shouldering were beyond imagination. Standing so close to the place where his twin had died was taking something good, something elemental, out of him, but he was pleading for his living brother’s life.

“Ciopori,” he whispered, “I do not often make requests. In fact, I am forever chastised for my pride and arrogance, my inability to humble myself before others...but with the gods as my witness, I am begging you right now—do not interfere with Marquis’s destiny. I know that you love him, and that my plea is purely selfish, but I cannot survive the loss of another brother.”

Nachari turned away, locked the hatch, and rushed out of the chamber.

Nachari Silivasi was in the tunnel retching when Ciopori finally caught up to him. He hated that he had left her like that, but she was in no immediate danger—and he couldn’t bear for her to see him fall apart.

As most vampires rarely ate food, there was nothing for him to throw up, so his stomach just heaved painfully, convulsing until he truly believed his ribs might crack.

Why had he done such a thing?

What had made him believe he was strong enough to see Shelby’s last destination? Dear gods, the males in the house of Jadon never had to witness the punishment—or see the death chamber. Napolean had always sheltered them from the worst of the Blood Curse, and for good reason.

Try as he might, Nachari could not get the image of his adventurous, good-natured brother—kneeling and screaming, flailing or fighting, ultimately being murdered—in that cold, sterile chamber out of his mind. And for what reason had he been so brutally slain?

His stomach started a new round of dry-heaves, and he doubled over.

It was then that the princess approached him. She placed her hands on his trembling shoulders, bowed her head, and began to chant in a slow, repetitive cadence...her voice a haunting echo of the Old World. The song was unfamiliar but beautiful, and even though it contained words Nachari could not understand, as a wizard, he knew the presence of power when he felt it. Ciopori was commanding the energy around him, and he felt her healing compassion seep into his soul, relax his stomach...and ease his burden.

When the princess was done singing, Nachari stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I apologize for my…reaction.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she insisted. “I have been so selfish in all of this…” After a long, pregnant pause, she added, “If I might, I would ask you one more question.”

Nachari raised his eyebrows and waited.

“Why in the name of all that is holy would a male willingly submit to such an evil punishment? Why would he come here—turn himself over—even if he had failed to make the sacrifice?”

Nachari leaned back against the tunnel wall. “The punishment is not escapable, Ciopori: The only thing a male can control is where he spends eternity. If he gives his life up with honor, then his soul remains intact, and he will live on in the Valley of Spirit and Light. However, if he runs and hides from the punishment, his soul is lost as well, and he will spend eternity in the Valley of Death and Shadows. It is not a matter of dying or not dying—the execution is inevitable. It is a question of where he will spend the afterlife.”

Ciopori brushed a tear from her eye and took Nachari’s hand. “Look at me, wizard.”

Nachari smiled as graciously as he could and stared into Ciopori’s amazing golden eyes; it was easy to see why Marquis had fallen so hard, so quickly. Although he had the feeling that there was far more to the story than he knew.

Ciopori stroked his arm. “You have asked me not to interfere with Marquis’s destiny, and I give you my word as a princess: I will do nothing that might endanger your brother’s life. But in return, I must ask something of you.”

“What?” Nachari held his breath.

“Please do not deny me the opportunity to speak with him once more...to know his heart...to say good-bye. Nachari, take me to Marquis now, wherever he is. I have no way of finding him without you.”

Nachari closed his eyes and considered Ciopori’s words. The last thing Marquis needed right now was to have Ciopori show up while he was with Kristina, but there was simply no way he could deny her this one request. For whatever reason, the princess clearly loved his brother, and the two of them deserved a chance to say good-bye.

Nachari opened his eyes, squeezed her hand, and managed a faint smile. “If we can get past Napolean, I will take you.”

Ciopori shrugged. “Oh, the king will object, but it is of no consequence. I am not bound by his rule.” She paused then. “If anything, he is bound by mine.”

six

“Why is that infant still crying!”

Salvatore Nistor glared at the worthless human nanny he had captured to care for his newborn nephew, Derrian. Ever since his youngest brother, Valentine, had disappeared five days ago, the eight-day-old infant had done nothing but scream. Vampire infants grew at a much more rapid rate than humans, at least psychologically. They knew their parents right away and were aware of even the smallest change in their environment; unfortunately, this one wanted his father.

Salvatore was seething as he stared at the trembling human female he had abducted from a daycare parking-lot four nights ago on her way home from work. Snatching, cloaking, and transporting the human had been as easy as walking and breathing for the twelve-hundred-year-old male, and he knew deep inside that it wasn’t truly her inability to calm the baby that was causing him such rage: What really had his blood boiling was the ever-increasing realization that Valentine wasn’t coming home...

Not ever.

True, Salvatore had expected the sons of Jadon to seek vengeance for his brother’s crimes, and the heart of the matter was—Valentine had never really known when to say when. His arrogance and love of the game had always preceded his better judgment, and the Dark One had simply gone too far when he used Shelby Silivasi’s destiny to father his son, ultimately murdering both Dalia and Shelby.

And as if that hadn’t been enough, he had impregnated Marquis’s housekeeper by pretending to be Marquis in the hopes of achieving the same result. Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked out quite like Valentine planned.

Salvatore rubbed the bridge of his nose, still fuming. Joelle Parker had been laid to rest earlier that day, which meant her body had been returned to her family, and that meant she hadn’t given birth to Valentine’s sons. It was simply impossible to go on believing Valentine was off having a good time somewhere—perhaps feeding or enjoying human women—celebrating the birth of two more offspring. The cocky son of Jaegar would have incinerated Joelle’s body immediately after the birth, leaving no trace of her demise for her loved ones to bury.

No, someone had gotten to Joelle first—and someone had gotten to Valentine. Most likely, Nathaniel or Marquis Silivasi, one of the detestable Ancient Master Warriors in the house of Jadon. Salvatore refused to believe that the wizard, Nachari, could have managed such a feat, and Kagen, the healer, was kept as far away from battles as possible because of his value to his people. No, the warriors had sought blood-vengeance. And in doing so, they had started a feud that Salvatore intended to finish.

Salvatore raised his arm and backhanded the stupid female the moment she lay Derrian down in his crib, sending her flying sideways into the cavern wall. As her head cracked against the limestone, she put both hands up in front of her defensively. “Please…” she groveled, her high-pitched voice only irritating him more.

Salvatore stalked over to where he had thrown the five-foot-six wisp of a human. Her dirty auburn hair had become a tangled mass over the last week, and her long bangs partially shielded her eyes from view. “Please what!” he thundered, towering over her—his own feral eyes burning with rage. His fangs exploded from his mouth, and he ran his tongue over them slowly, moaning as his eyes swept over her body.

Her knees came up in a defensive posture, and she folded her arms around them, hugging both legs tightly to her chest.

Salvatore snarled and snatched her by the hair. He had left her clothed in her raggedy blue jeans and rock-band tee, not because he cared about her dignity, but because if she had been naked, the temptation to take her would have been too strong to resist. And there were several good reasons Salvatore did not want to rape the female...yet.

First, she would get pregnant, and after taking care of Derrian for twenty-four hours, he knew he was not ready to be a father; besides, he had matters of vengeance to attend to which took precedence over all else. And last but not least, the birth would kill her, and he would just be forced to search for another nanny—which also meant he would have to take care of his nephew by himself in the interim.

Salvatore let go of her hair and stepped back, not trusting his own rage. “What did you say your name was again?”

The human shook so hard her teeth rattled. “S…S…Susan.”

Oh, to hell with it. Her weakness irritated him. Maybe she wasn’t worth keeping, after all. Salvatore crouched down, his feet floating just inches above the ground, and grasped her by the back of her neck, fisting another handful of hair—this time hard enough to rip some out.

She cried out in pain and clutched at his hands, trying to wrench free.

“Why can’t you make my nephew content, Susan?” he hissed.

She struggled to speak through her fearful sobs. “Pl…please…he…he doesn’t want me...I...I think he misses his mother.”

Salvatore threw back his head and laughed. His thunderous voice shook the walls of the lair and rattled the heavy antique chandelier looming above their heads. “Oh, I can assure you, Susan, he does not miss his mother!” He leaned in closer, so that his hot breath brushed against her ear. “He killed his mother the day he was born.”

He licked the side of her jugular, and she fainted.

Salvatore moved away from the woman then, taking a perch on the platform just in front of his heavy iron bed. He paused and looked around the room: The lair was one of hundreds in the underground fortress, a limestone and granite masterpiece carved out of rock and clay, built far beneath the earth, revealing centuries of brilliant architecture. The ancestral females of his race might have cursed the vampires’ souls, but they had not taken away their minds, their talents, or their brilliance. And make no mistake, the Vampyr race as a whole was brilliant.

While the Light Vampires lived and thrived above the surface, walking in the sun and interacting with humans in their precious Dark Moon Vale, the Dark Ones had built an entire colony deep underground, utilizing thousands of acres just to the west of the Red Canyons, creating an elaborate system of tunnels, lairs, and structures that stretched all the way beneath Dark Moon Vale itself.

It had been both a necessary and defensive plan: Should the Light Ones ever discover the true scope of their civilization, the sons of Jadon would be forced to destroy their own empire, economy, and way of life in order to eradicate the colony of the sons of Jaegar. The two were intrinsically connected.

No, unbeknownst to their arrogant brothers of light, the Dark Ones lived—and thrived—miles underground, right beneath their own domain. And they had for over two-thousand years.

Salvatore watched as Susan woke up, scampered to the crib, and gently began to rub Derrian’s back. Her trembling hand jerked back every time the babe hissed, as if the child might bite her. It only took a few minutes for the boy to fall asleep, after which time, Salvatore relaxed and sat down on his bed. The female was anchored to the wall by a thick length of chain, manacled to her ankle. She had enough room to move around, but couldn’t possibly escape; therefore, Salvatore didn’t have to watch her that closely. She moved to the small stone-bench that sat just a few feet beyond Derrian’s crib, wrapped the thin blanket Salvatore had given her around her shoulders, and nervously rubbed her tired arms.

Salvatore swung his legs onto the bed, stretched back, and closed his eyes—just as the door to his lair swung open so hard a piece of the wood splintered against the wall.

“What the—”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Zarek Nistor—Valentine’s twin and Salvatore’s only remaining brother—snorted as he stalked into the room.

A narrow bolt of blue lightning shot across the lair, hurtling from Salvatore’s hand to Zarek’s, clipping the tips of two of his fingers right off.

Zarek grabbed his injured hand and howled in indignation. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Salvatore snarled. “Next time, knock!”

Zarek shot him an evil glare and raised his hand to his mouth. He released his incisors and dripped healing venom over the cauterized fingers, a process that would quickly grow the digits back.

“Now what was it you came to tell me?” Salvatore barked.

Zarek turned his head as if he had just noticed Susan for the first time, and a low, demonic hiss escaped his throat. He turned back to Salvatore. “The Blood Moon—have you seen it?”

Salvatore nodded. He’d seen it, all right, even though he hadn’t been outside when the phenomenon occurred.

Salvatore’s command of Black Magic had become so powerful over the centuries that the Omens now presented themselves to him in a crystal cube he kept on a night-stand beside his bed: Whenever the cube glowed, Salvatore examined it for information. Why the cube could not reveal what had happened to Valentine, he wasn’t sure. Unfortunately, the information it had relayed on the subject was spotty at best: fire. Whatever that meant…

Valentine had been headed toward the Dark Moon Lodge on the night of his disappearance; that much, Salvatore had discerned. But shortly after that, the energy field had become static, as if someone had intentionally caused a rift in the quantum waves. In fact, the entire thing reeked of the presence of another sorcerer; well, in the case of the Lighter Vampires, the male would be viewed as a wizard...

No matter. Their time would come.

Salvatore glanced back at his brother and sat up on the bed. He folded his hands in front of him. If Zarek only knew...

“Draco—the dragon?” he drawled.

“Yes, brother. Not only do they have the two, original females now, but the warrior Marquis will soon be permanently immortal.”

Salvatore waved his hand in dismissal. “No more immortal than Valentine was—”

“Is!” Zarek corrected.

Salvatore shook his head. Zarek was having a really hard time accepting that his twin was not coming back, and it was beginning to border on delusional.

“Was...or...is,” Salvatore said, “you and I both know that immortality is the natural order for a vampire...unless that order is severely interfered with. Trust me, brother; I intend to run interference with Marquis Silivasi. As far as I’m concerned, he is the one responsible for Valentine’s dea—disappearance—and I have no intention of letting it go.”

Zarek glared at Salvatore, his own rage building. His dark eyes narrowed into two tiny red slits of hatred. He undoubtedly knew what Salvatore was about to say, and for a minute, it looked like he was going to challenge the older vampire. Luckily, he thought better of it.

Just the same, seeing Zarek so worked up was extremely unsettling.

Salvatore sighed. While the vast majority of vampire twins were fraternal, every now and then, two identical sons were born—and such was the case with Zarek and Valentine. They both had identical black eyes and the same wavy hair; their straight noses were sculpted in the exact same shape; and even the way their thick lips turned up in a snarl when they smiled was the same. But that was just it, unlike Zarek, Valentine had rarely smiled. Unless, of course, he had been hurting someone, plotting to hurt someone, or celebrating the fact that he had just succeeded in hurting someone. Seeing Zarek with such a cold, empty look in his eyes only made the loss of Valentine more real to the ancient vampire. It was like looking into the face of his lost brother.

Salvatore looked away. “Regardless...believe me when I tell you, Zarek; I am intimately aware of what is happening with Marquis Silivasi.” He absently stroked the hard leather cover of an ancient tome lying on the top of his bed, and a wicked laugh rumbled in his throat. “Is that all you came to tell me?”

Zarek frowned. “No, brother—I also sensed your hunger: Do you need to feed?”

The question was asked without emotion or intent—just a simple yes or no inquiry.

Salvatore threw back his head and shook out his long black-and-red banded hair, the signature crown of a Dark One. While cut in different styles and lengths—some wavy, some straight—all of the sons of Jaegar had it. His fangs began to throb, and his gut ached. Ah, Zarek had been diligent after all, just as a youngest sibling should. Indeed, he was extremely hungry; he had just been too wrapped up in Valentine...and Derrian...to notice.

“Your sense of duty pleases me, little brother. Come.” He motioned his hand forward.

Zarek’s gait was proud and unafraid as he sauntered over to his eldest brother, his shoulders back, his head held high—whatever differences they had, unimportant.

Although all vampires needed to feed every five to eight weeks, unlike the sons of Jadon, the Dark Ones preferred to kill their human prey, innocent or not. And the tendency to always give into blood-lust had created serious problems with the humans over the centuries: Wherever they chose to hunt, dead bodies were left in their wake like carnage behind a plague of locusts, often riling up humans into hunting parties. Eventually, the house of Jaegar had found a suitable remedy:

The youngest male of every family would join with his brethren to hunt together in packs—sometimes traveling hundreds of miles away to find new prey—and then they would return to the colony and feed their elder brothers and fathers. Not only did it keep the body count down, but it taught the youth how to fight...and how to submit to the natural hierarchy of the Vampyr world.

Over time, it had become a significant rite of passage: Upon a male’s twenty-first birthday, the Dark One would hunt alone for the first time ever, consuming as much blood as he possibly could, and then he would return to feed all of his brothers, including his father. Although none was allowed to drain the male dry in blood lust, each feeder was required to take his full measure—the normal amount he would consume if feeding alone. If the male had not hunted enough, killed enough, or fed enough, he would come close to death in the process and be shunned by his brothers, who would be forced to save him. However, if the male fed them all—without weakening or flinching—he was officially inducted into the house of Jaegar.

As the second born of the last set of twins, Zarek Nistor had been feeding both Valentine and Salvatore for the past eight-hundred, seventy-nine years, so the process was as routine as sleeping or walking.

Zarek stopped just short of touching his brother, chest-to-chest, their eyes locked in an inevitable gaze of predator and prey, neither one blinking or turning away. Satisfied, Salvatore nodded, and Zarek spun around, presenting his back to his respected elder while kneeling down on one knee.

Salvatore crouched down slowly, his hands going to each of Zarek’s shoulders. His dagger-like fangs elongated to their full length, and a slow, sultry hiss escaped his lips. With a gentle hand, he brushed Zarek’s hair out of the way and tilted his head to the side until it sat at an angle he liked. The moment he released him, Zarek held the position, his muscles completely relaxed—his heart-rate never increasing.

And then Salvatore struck. The bite was clean and hard, inflicting the kind of pain that would honor a warrior. Zarek’s muscular body began to convulse for about fifteen seconds as Salvatore took his first deep pulls of the rich, heady substance, and then he went limp, falling back against Salvatore’s chest.

Salvatore’s hands remained on Zarek’s shoulders, yet for some reason, the act was unusually pleasurable this time: perhaps because Salvatore needed so desperately to feel the presence of his one remaining brother so close—and safe—in such a dangerous time. Whatever the reason, a deep moan of ecstasy escaped his lips, and his hands tightened on Zarek’s shoulders.

Salvatore felt Zarek’s body instantly stiffen, and he knew it wasn’t just his chest, arms, and legs that were turning hard in response to his deep groans of pleasure: No matter how one turned it, feeding was a highly erotic act for a vampire—as was the pleasure of being struck by a piercing set of fangs—and arousal was a natural, physiological response.

Sexual orientation had absolutely nothing to do with it.

However aroused a vampire became during the process of feeding, the males in the house of Jaegar never acted on their sexual impulses with each other. While it wasn’t unheard of for one or the other to climax during the ritual—sometimes both, and sometimes more than once—the release was understood. And accepted. And never, ever mentioned.

Because of the Blood Curse, the innate need for a male to reproduce with a female in order to provide the required blood sacrifice—to live and remain immortal—heterosexuality was deeply ingrained in the Vampyr DNA. The drive to reproduce was overwhelming and irresistible. Yet over time, feeding had become an altogether different erotic need. It was the pinnacle of uninhibited ecstasy, sexual or otherwise, the one time when males were allowed to simply let their bodies fully enjoy the exchange of blood.

Salvatore held back his release, although it was difficult: The blood Zarek had recently consumed was especially sweet, and it lit him up like a fire burning from the inside out. Reluctantly, he released the seal he had made over his baby brother’s vein and slowly removed his fangs.

The moment Zarek stirred, Salvatore knew precisely where he was going next: to the Chamber of Cobras. To the one place where he could take pleasure in as many venomous bites as he desired, invite as many strikes to his body as he craved.

Release his pent-up sex in private.

Or maybe not.

As Zarek rose from the floor, sporting the same proud gait in his retreat, the male turned directly toward Derrian’s crib—and his new nanny.

Susan.

Oh, shit! Salvatore swore to himself. Now that was an inexcusable oversight.

Salvatore rubbed his eyes. His grief over Valentine was worse than he thought: He was missing things he would have never missed before. Females didn’t stay alive very long around the sons of Jaegar, not unless they were sired vamps who had willingly relinquished their souls for the promise of immortality. And even then, the moment they became pregnant, the relationship was over. Well, technically, forty-eight hours after they became pregnant, but why split hairs?

Thinking he could feed from Zarek in the presence of a female and still keep her alive afterward was...well, unworthy of an ancient. Salvatore shook his head in frustration, but he made no attempt to stop his younger brother. It wasn’t worth the battle. Rather, he simply sat down on the bed and prepared to watch. No doubt, Zarek’s performance would be better than the movie of the week.

The sexed-up vampire stalked toward the human female like an African lion approaching a zebra. He snatched her up from the bench by the waiste and threw her face-first into the stone wall, securing her there with a callous forearm across her back.

The nanny wailed a blood-curdling scream and turned her head toward the bed, her eyes desperately pleading with Salvatore—for what, he had no idea. If anything, her terror only aroused Zarek more—which meant, at this point, trying to remove the female from Zarek’s grasp would be like trying to wrench a piece of meat out of the mouth of a pit bull. Not something an intelligent being did.

As she begged and pleaded—reminded Zarek of his nephew’s need for a nanny—the vampire ripped her tattered clothes from her body in one harsh movement and shredded them to pieces with his talons, watching as they curiously drifted to the ground like snow.

The female was practically hyperventilating.

Damn, could that girl scream or what?

And struggle.

Oh, bad move!

In desperation, the nanny tried to head-butt Zarek, cracking the tip of his nose with the base of her skull. Salvatore winced before laughing.

Zarek growled in anger...and ecstasy...at the female’s unexpected assault, and then he fisted her hair, jerked her neck back, and sank his fangs so deep into her jugular that Salvatore heard his fangs scrape against her bones.

Salvatore grimaced as an unnatural howl of pain echoed through the lair, and the female’s body began to convulse, making her a rather difficult target to nail. With a guttural snarl, Zarek wrenched her hips away from the wall, kicked her jerking legs apart, and speared her so hard with his shaft that the air left her body.

And then he groaned...as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Salvatore was positively enthralled, watching Zarek ride the nanny with such brutal force and primal desperation, drowning out her pain-filled cries with his own raspy groans of pleasure, turning her heart-wrenching pleas into metrical grunts, and clamping down even harder on her neck as he pounded her body against the wall with violent thrusts.

Salvatore had to give credit where credit was due.

Zarek had quite the rhythm.

His powerful, muscular physique was truly something to behold as it drove in and out of the female, going deeper and deeper with each plunge. And considering all of the grief they had been dealing with lately, Zarek certainly deserved the distraction.

Salvatore lay back on the bed, turning away from the side-show long enough to consider the blood war Valentine had started with the Silivasis. He had barely begun to replay the events when he heard a hoarse shout, and the floor shook beneath him. When he looked up, Zarek was moaning against the female’s neck and—damn it all to Hades—releasing every bit of the powerful orgasm into the worthless nanny’s body.

For the love of the Dark Lords.

“You really want kids right now, my brother?” he barked across the room.

Zarek rested his head on Susan’s back, panting, while holding her up with one arm. He slowly withdrew from her body. “What?” he groaned. He was clearly still feeling the effects of the orgasm.

Salvatore cleared his throat. “A son? Now? Is that what you want?”

Zarek met his brother’s gaze, and his body shook one last time. “Not really.” He moaned and closed his eyes. “Although I have to admit, it would be nice to be safe from the Blood Curse once and for all.” He slowly exhaled, and when he opened his eyes again, they were glossed over.

Salvatore shrugged his shoulders. The Blood Curse was hardly something to worry about, not for the sons of Jaegar, anyway. For the sons of Jadon? Yes. They had to find—and keep—one woman over an entire lifetime, and the mating had to be accomplished in a single moon, or they were doomed. But the sons of Jaegar could use any female to reproduce, and it didn’t matter one lick whether or not she wanted what was about to happen to her. Time was of no consequence. As long as an immediate sacrifice was made from the male’s first set of twins, it was acceptable. For the Dark Ones, fulfilling the demands of the Blood Curse was as easy as counting to three.

As if Zarek had read his mind, he grunted, “You’re right. It is enough that we have Derrian to take care of right now.” He glanced toward his nephew’s crib. “It’s important that we give him the same attention Valentine”—he swallowed hard—“would have given him.”

With that said, Zarek turned to Susan, kissed her thoroughly on the mouth, then placed one hand on top of her head, the other on her chin, and twisted in opposite directions. There was a quick snap before her lifeless body slumped to the ground. As he zipped up his pants, he sighed. “You know, brother, I think I love that kid like he’s my own.”

Salvatore smiled. “As do I, Zarek.” He frowned then. “However, I am sorry for your grief. I do know how hard this is, but I give you my word: Even if it takes an eternity, Valentine will be avenged.”

Zarek nodded. “Be well, my brother.”

Salvatore watched as Zarek sauntered out the door.

All in all, he was such a good kid.

“Be well, Zarek.”

seven

Nachari pulled his vintage Calypso Coral 1970 Ford Mustang—which was in mint condition—into the parking lot of Kagen’s clinic and slowly turned off the roaring engine. Ciopori had absolutely no idea what all those words meant, but Nachari had mentioned them several times on the way to the clinic. Apparently, he liked to collect the Ford Mustang automobiles and was extremely passionate about all the special features of the machines as well. Especially the mint condition.

“Stay put,” he said, exiting the driver’s side door.

Ciopori cocked her eyebrows. “Pardon me?”

Nachari smiled then—that breathtaking smile he undoubtedly used to charm females of the human race into letting him feed. “Sorry. Please, don’t go anywhere. Remember, you agreed—I have to clear it with Marquis first.”

Ciopori took a deep breath and nodded. Her chest felt like the weight of the entire world was sitting upon it. She had given the wizard her word, and she never broke it. “I will wait, but you must convey how desperately I need to see him.”

“Of course.” Nachari held up the keys and pointed to the dark panel he called a dashboard. “Would you like the radio?”

“The what?”

Nachari shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll be right back.”

Marquis stood in the back of treatment room number three, watching as Kagen meticulously attended to Kristina’s wounds. His mind was still in a fog when he heard a gentle knock on the door.

“What is it?” Kagen sounded irritated. “I’ve told the staff a dozen times not to interrupt me when I’m with a patient.”

The door slowly opened, and Nachari stuck his head around the corner.

“Brother,” Kagen greeted, his concentration remaining on Kristina.

“Greetings, Kagen,” Nachari responded, and then he turned to Marquis. “May I have a word with you?”

Marquis blinked several times as if coming out of a trance and snorted. “We’re busy right now, Nachari.” He had no intention of answering his baby brother’s inquiries about what had happened.

Nachari immediately switched to telepathic communication: I realize that, Marquis, but there’s someone with me who desperately needs to see you.

Marquis eyed the doorway. Who?

She’s in the car, Nachari explained.

She?

Yes…Princess Ciopori. She insisted, Marquis, and frankly, if you don’t agree to see her, I think she might just have the nerve to walk right into this room—even with Kristina sitting right over there. Nachari glanced at Kristina for the first time, and her responding blush revealed more than a little appreciation for the wizard’s beauty.

Marquis looked back and forth between the two. Unlike Ciopori, Kristina didn’t have the grace to hide her reaction: She saw a stunning male, and she looked momentarily stunned. How many times had she seen Nachari before? Hundreds?

Marquis cleared his throat, and Nachari lowered his eyes respectfully. “Greetings, sister,” he said, as was proper in addressing one’s brother’s destiny.

Kristina blanched and quickly looked away, not bothering to respond.

She’s taking this well, I see, Nachari commented.

Kagen looked up at him then. Why don’t you bring the princess around back to the patio, just outside of my office; my door is unlocked, so Marquis can meet her there. He looked up at Marquis. Take as long as you need; I’ll make sure Kristina doesn’t go anywhere.

Marquis hesitated, while both of his brothers stared, waiting for a response. He turned to Kristina, more out of courtesy than need: “I’ll be back.”

She jolted at the sound of his voice but never looked up.

Nachari let out a low whistle as he held the door for Marquis, clearly realizing how bad things really were. As soon as the door closed behind them, he whispered, “Wow, you two have quite a ways to go.”

Marquis shot his youngest brother a heated glare that would have melted ice, and Nachari quickly dropped the subject.

“Bring her up the outside steps to the second-floor deck. I’ll cut through Kagen’s office and meet you there.” Marquis ran his hands through his hair, feeling suddenly weary.

Nachari frowned. “Uh…yeah, I think we already established where—” His voice abruptly cut off. “No problem.” He headed out the clinic front doors, and Marquis dropped his head in his hands.

He was not prepared for this. For any of it. Seeing the princess right now was the last thing he really wanted...because he wasn’t at all sure he could go back to Kristina afterward. Maybe death was preferable. He wondered: Could he exchange a lifetime with someone he didn’t love for thirty-days with someone he did? Could he refuse the demands of the Blood Curse and spend his last remaining days with Ciopori instead? He sighed, headed up the stairs, and then shot through Kagen’s office to the deck, where he waited for Nachari to bring the princess.

The moment Ciopori came into view, his heart skipped a beat, and he had to steady himself with the railing. Don’t get caught up, he warned himself, knowing it was already too late.

Nachari gracefully averted his eyes and shimmered out of view, leaving the two alone to talk. As soon as he was gone, Ciopori melted into a pool of tears.

Marquis held out his arms, struggling for breath. “Do not cry, Princess. Please, do not cry. I don’t think I can bear it.”

Ciopori fell into his arms and clung to him so tightly her body trembled. She clutched at his back as if she would never let go, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Gods, I didn’t intend to do this.”

Marquis rested his chin gently on the top of her head and brushed back her hair. His own hand trembled. “You have no idea how sorry I am,” he whispered. “When I first saw the moon, I thought it was...for us.”

“I saw it as well, but I never imagined it was you.” Ciopori sniffled and pulled back to look him in the eyes.

“Who told you?” Marquis was already lost in the golden amber of her eyes, even though the sparkle was clearly gone.

“Napolean.” She brushed away a tear.

Marquis nodded and pulled her close once again. He didn’t know what to say…or do. Like her, he just wanted to hold on. Forever.

He had no idea how much time had passed, the two of them locked in each other’s arms—thinking, feeling, grieving—trying to come to grips with what had happened. And what was yet to come.

Ciopori finally broke the silence. “I understand the blood sacrifice.” She steadied herself. “And I know what will happen if you and your new...” Her words trailed off. She simply couldn’t say the word destiny aloud.

Marquis cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her head to meet his gaze. “At risk of offending the gods, I have turned this over in my head a dozen times, Ciopori, searching for a way out, but there isn’t one. Outside of my own death in thirty days—”

“No!” Ciopori sounded horrified. “Absolutely not! That is not an option!” Her entire body began to quiver.

Marquis sighed and looked away. “Okay,” he whispered, holding her head to his heart and stroking her hair. “Okay, my love. I will not speak of it again.”

Ciopori slowly calmed down. “What I was trying to say is that I understand what you have to do—what you and Kristina have to do.” Her voice faltered. “And I came to tell you that you must.” Her voice grew stronger, and she took a step back in order to face him squarely. “You must make the sacrifice, Marquis. You must be with your destiny—and you must live.” She lowered her voice. “I would rather love you from afar than try to live in a world without you. Do you understand?”

Marquis felt moisture swell in his eyes, and he blinked it away. He instinctively glanced at the sky, noting how it was becoming ominously dark. Rain clouds were forming in response to his tumultuous emotions; he had to hold it together.

Napolean had already warned him about his last outburst—too many humans had been injured as it was. He reached deep inside, drawing on the seasoned warrior within, and a familiar strength answered. “If that is your decision, then I will abide by it, but know this: If it were up to me, I would choose thirty days with you.”

Ciopori turned as pale as a ghost. “’Tis not an option warrior; ‘tis never an option!”

Marquis shook his head and regarded the sky once again. “The gods are cruel,” he whispered. “I never questioned why they allowed the Curse...but this?” He took a slow, deep breath. He kissed the princess on the forehead and clasped her by both shoulders. “Ciopori, I cannot see you again after today. There’s just no way...”

Ciopori’s courage dissolved like an icicle on a summer’s day, all the air suddenly leaving her body. The look in her eyes was one of both shock and desperation, and she seemed on the verge of panic. Trembling, she reached up, cupped his face in her hand, and shook her head aggressively. Stretching to the tips of her toes in order to reach him, she pressed her lips to his.

Marquis told himself to stop.

To just pull away.

To honor Lord Draco’s choice and Kristina, the woman he was expected to turn Vampyr, the destiny who would soon bear him twin sons. But his ageless soul could not. In that moment there was only her: Ciopori. The sweet taste of her mouth, the intoxicating scent of her skin, the soft curves that molded so perfectly against him as he pulled her closer. There was only an aching, empty void, and his heart was so bereft—so filled with grief and loneliness—that it overpowered his every sense of duty. Good and bad no longer existed. Right and wrong were abstract concepts.

No…all that was good was in his arms. All that was right had been taken from him. Marquis Silivasi owed the gods nothing.

Never again.

He had paid his dues. For fifteen-hundred years. And this was his reward?

As the earth fell out of focus, all other life drifting away into the ether, Ciopori opened her love-filled eyes and whispered, “We don’t have thirty-days, but we have right now, warrior. Give me this one moment—before you and Kristina come together. Let me have this one memory to hold onto before you are mated.”

As her enchanting eyes pled with his, Marquis could hardly believe she was real. Where had this woman come from? When had their love become so strong? And why did he feel it—trust it, know it—all the way down to his soul?

His mind said, No.

His discipline said, Absolutely not.

His sense of loyalty and duty said, Go inside and find Kristina.

Marquis tried to push Ciopori away, desperately willing his legs to move, urgently commanding his body to dematerialize...

And then his fangs extended as if they had a mind of their own. He traced the alluring pulse along the side of her neck with his finger, up and down...once, twice, three times. Marquis shivered as the last vestige of his control slipped away, and his fangs sank deep into the soft hollow above Ciopori’s shoulder.

She shuddered beneath him, and he drank like a man possessed.

He would take everything she wanted to give—her blood, her heart, her body—before he walked away. And when he finally did, he would leave all that he was with her.

His heart. His body. His seed...

His soul.

And as for the gods? Well, they could just be damned.

Ciopori looked deep into Marquis’s eyes, certain he was going to leave her—that he would simply melt away right then and there—without responding to her plea. And then she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her neck followed by a pleasure so intense that it robbed her of breath.

Her body shook for about fifteen seconds as Marquis took long, greedy pulls of her blood, and then she simply melted into a pool of liquid heat in his arms. Dear gods, the man felt like silk, power, and perfection at her throat, and she prayed it would never end.

When Marquis finally withdrew his fangs, he moaned deep in his throat as if the adjustment were painful, and then Ciopori felt two thick-drops of liquid closing the puncture wounds…and the pleasure was gone. She slowly lifted her head to protest, but when she parted her lips to speak, he caught her words with his mouth, devouring her protest with his tongue—seeking with fevered urgency.

His taste was hot and exotic, and Ciopori met him kiss for kiss, passion for passion, as their lips explored and their tongues tangoed in a powerful dance of love. Her breasts began to feel heavy, and her nipples ached in a way she had never experienced before. And even deeper…lower...at the junction between her legs, a pulsing warmth began to build into a slow fire that caused her womb to contract and her body to move against his.

She cried out from the unexpected intensity and grasped at his shoulders, his hair, anything that might hold her up as her knees gave way.

Marquis caught her effortlessly, lifting her gently into his arms as if she were weightless. And then just like that, they were in Kagen’s office, and he was laying her down, ever so softly, against a wide, velvet chaise.

She had no memory of Marquis walking—or even flying, for that matter—but as his lips descended once again to claim hers, she forgot all about the miraculous change of scenery. She felt and knew only one thing: Marquis.

“Marquis…”

His name escaped on a throaty groan, wrapped in a voice far too seductive to be her own, yet his reaction was immediate. He moaned in response, and his warrior’s body blanketed her own.

Propping himself up by his powerful arms, he gazed down into her eyes, his own changing pupils glazed over with desire. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he whispered. His eyes drank her in like a man dying of thirst. He sat up then, his deep, heavy breaths increasing as he eyed her from head to toe. “Undress for me, Ciopori. Let me watch you...slowly. I want to remember every part of you. Do this for me...now.”

Ciopori felt suddenly self-conscious. Having been raised a princess, modesty had been part of her required decorum. Few females had ever seen her body nude, let alone a male, yet the look in Marquis’s eyes drew her like a magnet. His blatant desire made her want to please him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

Ciopori sat up and leaned toward the arm of the chaise, slowly unzipping the back of her sleeveless dress. Her eyes remained locked with his, and she smiled when a deep, almost indiscernible growl escaped his slightly parted lips. Oh yes, he was going to enjoy her as much as she was going to enjoy him.

Emboldened, she unfastened the remaining clasps and slowly let the top fall away, knowing there were no undergarments between her smooth skin and the fabric. And just like that, her breasts were exposed to his hungry gaze.

Marquis’s breath hitched, and he shuddered. “Ciopori...”

His husky voice poured over her like liquid silk, his eyelids growing heavy with carnal need. She knew he couldn’t stay away. He grasped her by the narrow of her waist and pulled her to him, simply drinking in the sight of her for what seemed a lifetime, his eyes leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands cupped the weight of her breasts with a lover’s tenderness, slowly kneading the sensitive flesh as his thumbs swept up to brush the peaks in taunting, exhilarating circles.

He traced her areola with his forefinger and hissed when the nipple hardened in response to a quick, hard pinch, a gentle tug, and release. Ciopori cried out at the brief pain and then sighed as his thumb gently massaged it away. His eyes were like lasers locked to hers, his mouth turned up in a wickedly sinful smile.

“You like that?” he whispered, his voice no more than a deep, raspy purr.

He caressed her other nipple in the exact same manner and watched as she squirmed, moaning his approval, and then he bent his head and took the first aching peak into his mouth.

Ciopori felt the jolt all the way down to her toes, an electric stream of energy pooling in her core. Unable to control it, she began to roll her hips beneath him like waves following a commanding tide, and she instinctively arched her back, offering more of herself to his seeking tongue.

Marquis began to suckle in earnest as she cried out with pleasure, his lips exploring one nipple while his fingers explored the other. And then she grabbed him by his glorious mane of hair and held him to her.

Dear gods, she wanted this man inside of her…

Marquis snarled a low, approving growl as he remained deftly lodged in her mind, obviously reading her thoughts, as well as her reactions, for the sake of increasing her pleasure.

He seemed to know everything she craved the moment she craved it, and as his hands began to explore the rest of her body, he adjusted the pressure…the motion…the intensity in accordance with her every whim. He was creating a whirlwind of passion, a growing storm of need that was driving her out of her mind.

And then a large, commanding hand gently stroked the base of her ankle and slowly began to slide up the inside of her leg, his fingers tracing the contours of her calf as it approached her inner thigh, where he began to knead the flesh with increasing pressure. She gasped at the unexpected advance when he caught at her legs and eased them apart.

He smiled and dropped his head, blowing warm air over the lace panties that lightly covered her core, and then he licked right through the thin material. Ciopori moaned and shifted on the chaise. Her body slid down, and her legs eased apart.

Marquis sat back then, all at once leaving her bereft. “The rest of your dress,” he instructed as his eyes swept over the apex between her legs.

Ciopori held her breath as she awkwardly removed what remained of the garment, leaving only her panties between them.

Marquis smiled and cupped her, rotating the heel of his hand against her cleft, groaning as she raised her hips and pushed back against him. “Da, dragostea mea—danseaza pentru mine.”

Ciopori’s heart skipped a beat, and her womb clenched as the familiar Romanian words rolled off his tongue: Yes, my love—dance for me. She was as aroused as she was startled by her own powerful responses.

In her relatively young life, she had never thought of herself as sexual, erotic. As the king’s daughter, her virginity had been guarded like the castle treasure; to even think of a male in such a way was to endanger his life. But lying here now, beneath Marquis, every carnal desire she had ever buried awakened beneath his hands, stirred in response to his words, trembled at the sight of his smoky eyes and smooth skin. The heat he was generating was almost painful, and she found herself wanting him…wanting things…that were as shocking as they were exciting.

Marquis purred like a jungle cat. “What is it you want, my love?”

Ciopori inhaled sharply, unable to speak, and Marquis shook his head back and forth. “No. That is not an answer.” He slipped two fingers beneath her panties and began to massage the heat of her desire. “Tell me what you want, Ciopori.”

Ciopori arched her back and writhed beneath him. She tried to talk—she really did—but the sound was trapped beneath a growing inferno of heat and sensation and swirling colors. Her mind was engulfed in pleasure.

Marquis stared down at her through heavy-lidded eyes as he slowly removed her panties. His fingers traced every curve and angle of her long, sexy legs as he went along.

When he finally knelt on the chaise above her, she felt so incredibly vulnerable and exposed. He was still completely dressed, while she was laid out before him like a banquet on a palace table. Before she could ask him to undress, he slipped two fingers inside of her and probed in a sweet, thrusting motion, pressing against her with his hand, even as he teased the same spot with his thumb.

“Do you want this?”

Ciopori whimpered like a child.

“Or this?” He replaced his fingers with his tongue.

Marquis groaned into her core, sending shuddering vibrations deep into her womb as he slowly tasted her essence. And then, his tongue took on a life of its own. “Dear gods,” he moaned, “you taste like…the moon and the stars, themselves…a goddess.” His body shuddered. “I could love you forever.”

His tongue dove back in, this time bringing his lips, his fangs, and his sweet, sensual mouth with it, as he ravaged her like a hungry animal: grazing, tasting, suckling…drinking.

Ciopori cried out, her harsh scream filling the room. Oh gods, she had to be quiet...but how? When Marquis stopped abruptly, she almost cried out again—only this time, with need. She couldn’t have stopped now if she wanted to. Was he angry?

She opened her drowsy eyes to peek at him and saw nothing but love—and desperate need—dripping from his chiseled, handsome face. “I am afraid you still haven’t told me what you want,” he admonished, “so I have no idea what to do next.” He laughed a wicked, sinful laugh.

Ciopori was breathing in short, rapid breaths as she forced her mind to focus. “I want…” She panted some more. “I...oh gods…I want…I don’t know.” She clutched at him, but he moved out of reach. “I want you,” she whimpered. It was all she could think of.

Marquis’s eyes burned into hers. “How, prinţesa mea?”

Ciopori shivered as her eyes involuntarily swept down to the center of his trousers and the thick, straining sex that pressed against them, now jerking in response to her gaze. He slowly licked his full bottom lip and stroked the enormous shaft through the silky material with his hand. “Is this what you want, Ciopori?”

She writhed beneath him in response and groaned.

Marquis smiled then, his perfect white teeth gleaming beneath his full, sculpted lips. “I didn’t hear you.”

Ciopori sighed. “Yes.” It was a mere whisper, but it seemed to please him.

“Where?”

Ciopori’s eyes grew big.

“Where?”

Ciopori held his gaze, knowing her eyes were pleading. “I want you inside of me,” she capitulated. “Dear gods, I’ve never wanted anything so badly.”

Marquis bent over and slowly kissed her, his passion so intense she felt like her heart might stop beating. His desire was only eclipsed by his tenderness as he massaged and tasted her breasts, swept his hands down and around the flat of her stomach, and finally drew his fingers up over her core...again and again...until she was nearly weeping.

“Why are you teasing me?” she uttered, breathless. Her voice hitched from the torture.

Marquis shook his head. “Not teasing you, Princess. Preparing you.”

He leaned back then and removed his shirt, exposing muscles like a granite statue, a stomach made of layered bricks. And then, in a slow, languid movement, he began to unzip his pants. As he dropped the black silk slacks along with his boxers to the floor, his magnificent erection sprang into view, and Ciopori froze beneath him.

The male was positively enormous and oh-so-incredibly beautiful. His sex was like a steel rod sheathed in pure velvet: hard and invincible, yet smooth and refined. The blunt, curved head was only slightly smaller than her fist, and the sight of it gave her pause. She wanted him, but...

Her eyes moved down to the thick shaft itself—at least the width of her forearm—and she shuddered. Marquis shook his head and slowly traced her bottom lip with his fingers before gently inserting his thumb in her mouth. Instinctively, she began to suckle.

“I would never hurt you, Ciopori,” he murmured. “I need you to trust me—completely—to give yourself fully over to my control.”

Ciopori stared into the eyes of her timeless lover, and her heart filled with him even as her body grew warmer. Whatever hesitation she had felt melted into absolute assurance as she relinquished her concerns, and her body became fully, irrevocably, his. “I do trust you completely, warrior.”

Marquis smiled then and gently blanketed her, his powerful erection pressing tight against her stomach as he continued to kiss her and explore her body. As Ciopori groaned, his sex jerked and expanded, small drops of arousal leaking out of the tip to coat her belly. Reaching down, Marquis caught one of the pearls on his forefinger and placed it on her tongue, grinding his thigh into her sex at the same time...

And she fractured.

Unsure of what was happening, Ciopori clung to his broad shoulders, her nails digging in for support, as her body spun out of control, contracting and releasing in shocking waves of ecstasy. From her thighs to her womb, she became a spiraling comet, the vibrations in her inner and outer core causing her to cry out like she was mad, her mouth buried in the thick of his arm.

Taking full advantage of the moment, Marquis repositioned his hips and gently pushed her legs aside with his thigh. In one fluid motion, he thrust his heavy sex into her, sheathing himself halfway.

Ciopori cried out as the enormous shaft broke through her maiden’s barrier and began to stretch her impossibly from the inside out, but the powerful waves of the orgasm carried her through the pain on an inexorable peak of pleasure. Before she could lose one to the other, Marquis began to rock back and forth, gently at first—stretching, opening, seeking deeper and deeper with each careful thrust—until he was finally surging in and out of her with total abandon.

His head was thrown back, his glorious, wild hair spilling out around him. And in his primal nature, he grunted and growled...and groaned...as he took her with such primal power.

With absolute control.

Ciopori thought that she might die from the pleasure.

This was where she belonged: lying beneath Marquis, existing only for his pleasure…while drowning in the same. The intensity was overwhelming, and she began to weep.

Marquis brushed away her tears and dipped down to kiss her lips even as his hips kept up their furious thrusting, taking her higher and higher with each passionate stroke. He understood her tears to be exactly what they were, and they seemed to only heighten his response. His need.

Marquis’s eyes were half-open, half-closed, his handsome face stamped with a look of such pleasure that it almost appeared pained. “I want to come inside of you,” he groaned into her ear. “I want to fill you, and I want you to take all of me…to keep inside of you even when I’m gone.”

Ciopori cupped his face in her hands. “Will I be in danger of getting pre—”

“No,” he assured her, his thrusts becoming shorter and faster, his pounding harder. “Not unless I command it. You can’t—” His voice cut off in midsentence as he suddenly inhaled and shuddered. His back stiffened; his body froze; and his face became harshly beautiful in a way Ciopori had never imagined a male could be.

Marquis shouted his release, his body trembling as stream after stream of his essence spilled into her core. He plunged deeper and deeper even as he climaxed, almost as if he wanted to crawl inside her and hold her there forever.

Ciopori clung to the magnificent warrior as her own body came apart a second time. She held on for dear life, riding out the waves of pleasure with him until they slowly came down together.

Finally spent, Marquis fought to catch his breath, his head falling forward against her chest. Careful to shoulder the bulk of his weight with the strength of his arms, he slowly withdrew and rolled to his side, gathering Ciopori close to his heart.

The moment was too delicate.

Too sacred.

Too timeless to interrupt with words.

Everything and nothing was said at the same time, both of them knowing this was their final good-bye.

After at least an hour had passed, lying in each other’s arms, Marquis moved. “I have to go, my love; I’m surprised my brothers have not come for me yet.”

Ciopori exhaled and sat up. “And Kristina, she’s probably wondering—”

Marquis held up his hand to cut her off. “She’s probably resting. Please…don’t go there, Ciopori.”

Ciopori sniffled and climbed off of the chaise. They both dressed side-by-side in silence. When finally, there was no more excuse to linger, Marquis opened his arms one last time and bid her into them.

Ciopori fought to maintain her dignity, struggled to preserve her composure.

While she should have felt guilty over what they had just done, she could not. The female downstairs had no feelings for Marquis whatsoever.

Ciopori had pressed Nachari for information on the way to the clinic, and according to him, there was no existing relationship between the two of them. While Marquis’s future was dependent upon them building one quickly, that process had not yet started. For all intents and purposes, Ciopori was his past. And this new woman...Kristina...would be his future. The two points were linear, and never would their destinies intersect. No, Ciopori would not taint the only part of Marquis she would ever have—her memories—with guilt.

Marquis’s arms tightened around her as if he had read her thoughts. And truth be told, he probably had. She felt his throat constrict against her forehead as she nuzzled into the hollow of his neck. He, too, was swallowing his pain.

“I will miss you always, warrior.”

Marquis stood as still as a statue. “And I, you, Princess.” He stepped back swiftly and caught her by the shoulders. “Look at me.”

Their eyes met, and an unspoken grief passed between them.

“I love you, Ciopori.” He stroked the side of her jaw, allowing his fingers to linger over her chin before his arm fell back to his side.

“I love you too, Marquis.” She choked over the words, unable to stop her tears. When she reached out for his hand, he backed away…swiftly, defiantly.

Resolutely.

Ciopori felt the blood rush out of her face the moment she looked into his eyes. Her stomach turned queasy, and her heart sank in her chest. Marquis looked like a granite statue: dark, cold, and lifeless.

Hardened to the core.

Whatever passion or life had been in the warrior just moments ago—just an hour ago—was irretrievably gone.

Ciopori reached out to him once more in an effort to take his hand, but he pulled it away, his eyes completely devoid of emotion. “From now on, stay away.”

The arctic words caught her off-guard, sending shivers of ice down her spine. She tried to force his gaze, but it was as if she wasn’t even there. Her warrior—her lover—was no longer standing before her. There was only a vampire. A creature with ghostly, obsidian eyes. A male who was cold and cruel…and empty.

Her heart beat a mile a minute. She had to reach him. “Marquis,” she whispered, “don’t do this to yourself—to us—to me. To never see you again would be a fate...” Her words trailed off. He was looking straight through her as if he didn’t even see her now.

Dear gods, she was as dead to him as his little brother.

“Be well, Princess.” His words drifted into the empty space, and then he simply disappeared, vanishing from her view before she could respond.

Ciopori stumbled back to the chaise and sat down, her mind a cauldron of jumbled thoughts, her stomach tied in knots.

Her heart irreparably broken.

She stared at the space where Marquis had been—where the empty shell that had briefly been her world had just stood—and shuddered.

Dearest virgin goddess, how will I go on?

She had lost him forever.

eight

“You can stay in the guest room tonight. I’ll retrieve your things tomorrow.” Marquis spared Kristina a sideways glance as they pulled up to his house on the northern edge of the Dark Moon Forest.

Kristina blinked several times but said nothing as the rugged Hummer came to a complete stop in front of the old-fashioned, three-story home. She stared at the wide wraparound porch, thinking it reminded her of something one might find on a farm, absently imagining it filled with dogs and cats. She tried to make sense of the fact that this was now her new home, but she just couldn’t grasp it.

“Did you hear me?” Marquis asked.

“Huh?” She turned her gaze to the huge, intimidating vampire who had been her boss for the last eight years.

“I said you can stay in the guest room tonight, and we’ll go get your things tomorrow.”

Kristina nodded like an obedient child. “Yeah…okay.” Boss.

Marquis came around to the other side of the truck and opened the door for her. Well, wasn’t that just all gentlemanly and stuff. At first, she tried to fold in on herself, making her body as small as possible, and then she quickly ducked by him, putting several paces between them. Please, God, don’t let him touch me.

Marquis didn’t appear to notice...or care.

Good.

Kristina followed the angry-looking vampire to the front door and stopped just short of the threshold. She didn’t want to go in. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Marquis Silivasi right now. She knew exactly what the Blood Curse was—what it required of her—and frankly, she wanted no part of it.

Kristina shivered at the mere thought of having sex with Marquis Silivasi, wishing her mind would quit wandering like that.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t good-looking or anything: The man was fine as hell, actually, but he was a vampire, after all! And he was three times her size. And ten times meaner than the meanest man she’d ever met...Dirk.

Marquis frowned and held the door open: the door to his lair. “Come inside, Kristina. I’m not going to bite you.”

Kristina blanched and took a step back. She hadn’t thought of that possibility…yet. Oh, hell, was she going to have to start drinking blood now too? “I...I think I left my purse in the car.” While it sounded like a pitiful excuse to get away, it was actually true.

“I’ll get it,” Marquis barked. He sounded more like a bloodhound than a man, and apparently, she was his new bone.

“No! I can get it myself. I’m not helpless.”

Marquis’s frown deepened, his freaky blue-black eyes turning as dark as the night. “I will not have you arguing with me at every turn, Kristina. I am entrusted with your safety now, and I will retrieve your—”

“Look, Mr. Silivasi…” Kristina held up her hand to shut him up, clearly catching her boss by surprise—well, her former boss, anyhow. What was she supposed to call him now, anyway? She cleared her throat and continued: “In the last three hours, you told me my relationship with Dirk was over—all but admitted you were going to kill him...” Her voice began to falter, so she quickly changed the subject. “And now you’re forcing me to give up my life completely and come live”—she pointed at the house—“here in this Victorian mausoleum.”

“It’s not Victorian,” Marquis said matter-of-factly.

Kristina rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever! The point is, forgive me if I need a few seconds alone right now without you hovering over me like…like Freddy Kruger or Jason Voorhees or something.” She gestured toward the thick surrounding trees and mountains. “This place is already creepy enough, don’t you think?”

Marquis shook his head, clearly annoyed. “I can assure you, Kristina; I haven’t the faintest idea what—or who—you’re talking about.” He waved a cocky hand through the air like a king dismissing a slave. “And frankly, I don’t care to know.” He leaned back in the doorway and stared at her, looking totally like the big bad wolf in that story about the girl who liked to wear red.

Hmm, did the wolf actually eat Red Riding Hood? Or—

Kristina’s heart sank into her stomach. Blessed Mary, mother of God, the guy was scary. Even as her boss, he always had been. But at least then, their interactions had been limited to Hi—yes, boss—are the paychecks here yet?—and good-bye. Now that she thought about it, he acted like he wanted to keep it that way: the boss-employee power structure. Well, maybe except for the paying her thing, ’cause that would make her a prostitute, wouldn’t it?

She forced herself to meet his scary gaze and tried not to show her fear. Damn, but the man was fine, though. His body was cut…like iron…like some kind of sex god decided to reproduce himself as a vampire. And his face was freakin’...well, perfect.

Except he was just too harsh.

All those sculpted features were just like the man: rough, cold, and hard as stone. There was no give or take in Marquis Silivasi, just absolute command and control.

Kristina stared at the ancient vampire like she had never seen him before as he stood in the doorway with his rock-hard arms crossed over his chest and his dark, demon eyes boring into her skull. And then it suddenly occurred to her, Marquis didn’t just look like a demon; he had all the powers of one too.

Oh, shit!

The man was dangerous as hell…

Maybe she needed to chill—just a bit.

She cleared her throat. “Please,” she said as nicely as possible. “Just five minutes? Then I’ll be right in.”

Marquis pointed at the truck. “Fine. Take ten if you like, but I’ll be right here watching.”

Kristina was just about to argue when his land-line rang inside the house. She closed her eyes and threw out a quick Hail Mary—who the hell still had a land-line?—praying he would just go and get it. She could hardly breathe with the old geezer hovering over her like that.

Marquis looked back and forth between the truck and the kitchen, and then he growled deep in his throat like a tiger. “To the truck and straight back,” he snarled. And then he leaned in so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Don’t even think about running, Kristina; it would only serve to irritate me.”

Kristina restrained herself from rolling her eyes and nodded. Yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do—outrun a vamp—and in high heels, no less. She forced a smile. “To the truck and back.”

Marquis didn’t return the smile—not that she was surprised. The moment he turned his back and headed down the hall she swore beneath her breath…

And then the cursing really got good to her.

Apparently, she was channeling her inner sailor.

She kicked at the ground on her way to the truck, blinking back a fresh onslaught of tears. How in the hell had this happened? Her. Kristina Riley! Marquis Silivasi’s destiny? The vampire gods had to be smoking crack or something.

As she got closer to the truck, she tried to calm down. She took a few deep breaths, noticing how cold the mountain air had become with the changing seasons. She tried to collect her thoughts.

Steady as a drum, Kristina. Just breathe.

She had all of eternity to get ticked-off and freaked out. Right now, she just needed to take it one minute at a time.

She opened the heavy door to the H3T—damn, her boss had a sweet ride, though. She leaned over to pick up her purse, when all at once, a big hand snatched a handful of her hair and yanked like there was no tomorrow.

Kristina started to scream, but the other hand clasped over her mouth before any sound could escape. “So, you’re sleeping with your boss now, Kristi?” The fist in her hair tightened. “How long?”

Kristina froze at the sound of Dirk’s voice. How in the world had he found her so quickly? How could he possibly know that she was with Marquis?

Oh, shit…Marquis!

“Dirk. Dirk! Listen to me,” she cried against his hand. “You gotta let go and get out of here.” The words came out muffled: Why she was trying to save his sorry-butt in that moment, she had no idea.

Dirk hauled her out of the car, slammed the door shut, and started to drag her across the lawn toward a grove of trees. Her head splintered from the pain. She kicked with her legs—trying to regain her footing in order to ease the pressure—all the while, thrashing her arms wildly in a wasted effort to break free.

“I asked you a question!” Dirk shouted. “How long!”

He stopped dragging her and threw her carelessly to the ground. He knelt over her and slapped her crisply across the face. “How long have you been screwin’ your boss, Kristi?”

Kristina was too stunned—and too scared—to speak. She was scared for herself, scared for Dirk, and scared what would happen if Marquis found them. “I’m not,” she whimpered.

Dirk frowned and put his hand to her throat. “Don’t lie to me, bitch! Tell me now, or I swear I’m gonna kill you this time.” He leaned over until his nose touched hers. The smell of alcohol was thick on his breath as he whispered, “And then I’m gonna kill that arrogant bastard you work for.”

A deep, sinister laugh rumbled behind them. “Really? Well, this should be interesting.” Marquis’s voice was dark and deadly. His eyes glowed feral red. “By all means, Dirk, kill me if you can.”

The human piece of trash released Kristina’s throat and spun around like a madman. He was violently enraged and completely...off balance. Marquis was just about to strike when he pulled back. This was just too easy. The fool couldn’t even stand up straight. Besides, he preferred to play with his prey a little longer.

Taking his time, Marquis stepped back and allowed Dirk to regain his footing, and then he reached out with supernatural speed and slapped him so hard he flew back five-feet before slamming into the tree behind him.

The foolish human never even saw it coming.

“Get up,” Marquis drawled calmly. “We’re not through.” He turned to Kristina. “Are you okay?”

Kristina slowly sat up and grasped her throat. She rubbed her head at the scalp. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Can you walk?”

Kristina tried to stand up and weaved. Marquis caught her, holding her upright, while she fought her disorientation. She steadied herself on his arm and then took a step back. “Yeah...yes...I can walk.”

Marquis nodded, keeping one eye on the tattooed idiot by the tree. For the love of Perseus, how long did it take to get up? “Then you need to go inside, Kristina. Go inside and stay there.”

Kristina glanced at Dirk, who was kneeling on the ground, on all fours now. When she looked back at Marquis, her face was pale. “Mr. Silivasi,” she pleaded, “please.”

Marquis spared her a glance. “Please what?”

“P-p-p-please don’t…” She cleared her throat. “Please don’t. Just send him on his way and come inside with me, please.” She looked back and forth between the two men and cringed when she saw the same thing Marquis did—Dirk pulling a huge, serrated hunting knife out of the inner pocket of his leather jacket. She swore under her breath. “Better yet, let’s just go in and call the police.”

Marquis seared a powerful command directly into Kristina’s mind, leaving no room for error: As long as you live, Kristina, you will never think to bring a human into our affairs again. Do we understand one another? Vampires never involved humans in their affairs. Never. And Kristina should have known this.

Kristina blinked at the psychic intrusion and nodded her head.

“Are we clear?” Marquis repeated aloud, just to be sure.

Kristina started to cry. “Don’t do that, Marquis,” she whimpered. She was obviously referring to the power he had just exerted over her mind, knowing she was helpless to defy him. Still, her desire to save the human cretin was strong. She looked up into his eyes. “Yes, we’re clear. No police...ever. But please, just let him go.”

Marquis frowned. “Get inside, Kristina.”

She hesitated.

“Now.”

Kristina took a healthy step back, but she held her own. “Marquis, look—”

“Now!”

She took a long, deep breath and fidgeted with her hands. The smell of fear permeated the air. “I’ll trade…okay? I’ll trade.”

Marquis suddenly had a very bad taste in his mouth. “You’ll trade what, Kristina?”

She swallowed hard.

“Trade what?”

“Myself.”

Marquis stared right through her.

Her hands trembled, but she stood her ground. “Me…my body...okay?” She looked away then, embarrassed. “I won’t fight you on this whole…curse thing. You can have whatever you need from me. Just let him—”

Before she could finish speaking, Dirk let out a crazed war cry and lunged at Marquis with his knife in hand. Marquis welcomed the battle—well, the annoyance—but he was equally sick to his stomach, Kristina’s words still swimming around in his head.

Freezing the human in suspended animation, he turned to face his destiny. “Words are funny things, Kristina. Once spoken, they’re very hard to take back.”

Kristina blanched. “I...I just meant that—”

“I know exactly what you meant, you foolish child,” he hissed and grabbed her by the arm, trying not to squeeze too hard in his anger. “You are my destiny—my mate—yet you offer yourself to me like a common street-walker…and for this human?”

Kristina shook her head. “No, I—”

“Be quiet!” Marquis was about to lose it.

Not only had he found—and lost—the only woman he had ever really wanted in all of his life, but he was now stuck with a virtual child, a female who had little education, even fewer manners, and no formal upbringing whatsoever in how to behave like a lady. On top of that, she was under the protection of the house of Jadon yet repeatedly insisted upon letting some pitiful excuse for a human being—he checked to see that Dirk was still suspended in midair—beat her like a punching bag.

His voice dropped to a low growl. “Know this, Kristina: If Dirk had never laid a hand on you before tonight, he would still be a dead man for trying to take what belongs to me. He would be a dead man because of his arrogance. And he would be a dead man because you dared to defend him—to offer your body—in exchange for his life.”

Kristina caught her breath and then quickly squared her shoulders. She raised her chin in defiance, even as she trembled. “If you kill him, Marquis, I will never let you touch me.” She swallowed, as if gathering all of the courage she could. “You will have to rape me to have your sons.”

Marquis took a step back then, not at all certain if he was impressed by her courage or floored by her stupidity. He drew back his lips in derision, the tips of his canines now showing. “Is that what you think, Kristina? That I would have to rape you to get you pregnant?”

Kristina’s eyes dimmed, and her face turned gaunt.

Marquis laughed. “Woman...” He shook his head. “You truly are a silly human female…” He felt his eyes heat up and his fangs begin to elongate. “If I wanted you to crawl across the ground like an animal, weep at my feet, and beg me to take you, I could make it happen with the wave of my hand.” A deep, feral growl emanated from his throat. “Woman, I could make you need me so badly that the only time you were not in pain was when I was inside of you.”

Kristina recoiled, stunned by his words.

“Oh, trust me, Kristina: I could make you beg for it...sob for it. Luckily for you, I may be a lot of things, but I have never been a rapist—nor have I ever taken a woman who offered her body to me in barter.”

His voice dropped an octave lower and all but dripped with venom. “And as for what you will or will not do: You will do whatever I tell you to do, Kristina Riley Silivasi. Now. Get. Inside.”

Kristina took off like she had seen a ghost. Her eyes were as big as saucers, and her mouth hung open in stunned horror as she kicked off her heels and ran toward the house.

Marquis was just about to release Dirk when he heard the loud pop of a gunshot in the distance. As he whirled around in the direction of the high-pitched drone, his eyes narrowed into two tiny slits that could perceive heat, motion, and light in infrared. The world began to move in slow motion as he listened for the trajectory of the bullet, his hand coming up automatically to shield his face from impact.

He ducked with preternatural speed as the blazing red metal soared right at his head, the missile searing straight through his hand instead. He looked down at the hole in his palm and hissed like a snake, his lips turning up in a smile: Dirk’s biker gang was approaching his house on their Harleys, all leathered up and loaded with weapons. As they rode in like the cavalry, some fool had caught Marquis off guard and shot him.

So, that’s what Dirk had been doing under the tree for so long—calling his biker buddies for help before he got up. The stupid...cowardly...fool.

He had just led seven uninvolved men to their deaths.

The moment Marquis released Dirk—so that the dim-witted human could watch what he had wrought—the short, muscle-bound cretin flew at him with his knife still over-head. He was almost like an ancient, Apache warrior; well, except for the strength, skill, courage, or element of surprise. Marquis chuckled, thinking that if anything, the idiot should have approached him thrusting upward, coming in low from the ground.

No matter.

Marquis caught Dirk by his wrist and then snapped his arm like a chicken bone, easily breaking the radius in half. He lifted him by the collar of his dirty leather jacket and paused to read the lapel. “Scorpion, huh?”

Dirk howled in pain.

Marquis extracted one of his razor-sharp claws and slowly traced the matching tattoo of the insect on Dirk’s neck, being sure to cut deep into his skin as he went along. “You did not feel as if the artistic representation of the scorpion on your throat was enough of a statement?” He shrugged. “You felt the additional need to have the name sewn into your jacket, huh? Hmm. Interesting.”

Dirk kicked his legs wildly in an attempt to break free, his eyes dilated and fixed on the three-inch talon shooting out of Marquis’s hand. “What are you?”

Marquis smiled, and his fangs exploded from the roof of his mouth. A deep, feral growl rose from his throat even as his eyes began to heat like molten lava, undoubtedly glowing crimson red. “I’ll give you three guesses...before I kill you.” He snarled for added effect.

“Ohhhhh...shiiiittttt!”

Dirk squealed like a pig.

He kicked his legs, twisted his body, and flailed his arms frantically in a desperate attempt to break loose. Somehow, he managed to slide right out of his jacket, although Marquis had no idea how—considering Dirk’s ample size. And then he hit the ground running, sprinting toward his buddies like a banshee out of hell, waving his one good arm in the air as he went.

“Run! Run! Runnnn!”

A filthy-looking mortal with a blue bandanna wrapped around his head and a goatee that flowed into a five-inch beard stepped off his bike and stomped his steel-toed boot into the ground. “What’s that you say, Scorpion?” he spat, looking annoyed at his friend’s sudden lack of manliness.

“I said run, Spider!”

Marquis smiled: spider…scorpion…a few more insects and he’d have enough for a Discovery documentary.

Apparently Spider couldn’t hear Dirk over the seven—well, now six—roaring engines behind the men. “I can’t hear you, buddy.”

Marquis waited until Dirk was about twenty-yards away from the men. He launched himself in the air—allowing his six-foot wings to unfurl for added effect—flew across the yard, and hovered just above Dirk’s head. Through five-inch fangs, he snarled, “I believe he said run!”

He snatched Dirk up by the waist before he could react—twirling him around until he folded in on himself in a fetal position—at which point, he tossed him at the row of bikes like a bowling ball speeding down a lane. The men dove from the bikes as they fell over and crashed into one another, and then they stared up at Marquis—and froze—almost in unison.

All then all hell broke loose.

Grown men stuttered and yelped like baby seals. They ran into each other, kicked at their bikes like they were stomping divots in a wild frenzy, and reached for weapons they no longer believed would work. They cursed and screamed, and a few even threw up. It was a hell of a thing to watch, really.

Marquis let his wings recede.

Like the magical quality of his fangs—or his claws—they simply retreated into the powerful, sculpted muscle of his back, leaving no visible sign that they were ever there, unless and until he needed them again.

He stalked slowly toward the men, breathing in the acrid stench of fear and desperation, which only grew stronger as he approached. A dagger came hurling through the air at his heart, but he simply stopped it in mid-flight and reversed it. Unfortunately, his heart-level was the other man’s eye-level: The clean pierce to the skull made the death instant and painless.

And then he heard the tell-tale sound of two rifles being cocked and looked up just in time to see Spider simultaneously level two sawed-off shotguns, one in each hand, right at Marquis’s torso.

Whoa…Spider was serious.

Not a bad decision, really. The body made a much better target than the head. Marquis smiled and tilted his head to the side. “Now, Spider: Why would you want to do that?”

The man actually snarled, “Go back to hell, vampire!” He aimed both rifles and pulled the triggers.

Marquis threw up both hands at the same time, the tips of his fingers pointing toward the guns as he unleashed two powerful bolts of electricity in the oncoming path of the bullets. Both missiles exploded in the air, and the sizzling arcs of fire burned the shotguns right out of Spider’s hands. “What the—”

Marquis leapt the remaining distance, lifting Spider off the ground by his throat.

“I don’t come from hell, Spider. In fact, my people are actually from the heavens. Now, pick your poison, Wyatt Earp.” He unsheathed his four remaining claws. “Would you prefer that I dislodge your heart? It is horribly painful, but relatively quick.” He ran his tongue over the tips of his fangs. “Or I could rip out your throat—extremely nasty business.” And then he shot two narrow beams of light—two glowing red lasers—out of his eyes, pulling them back just before they made contact with Spider’s skin. “Or I could simply burn out your brain: clean and effective.”

Spider started to jerk like a man having a seizure, and Marquis heard a curious, unsteady rhythm coming from his chest like the erratic beat of a drum. It sped up, paused, and then quit altogether. The man was having a heart attack.

Marquis shrugged. “Very well then, the heart it is.”

He dropped him to the ground, allowing nature to take its course.

Just as Spider fell, a tall, lanky, bald guy with a curved mustache, two-inches long on either side of his mouth, came at Marquis with a pair of spinning nunchucks in his hands. He shouted as he swung a high, powerful round-kick right over his head.

Ah, martial arts.

Marquis sighed and weaved backward, avoiding the well-placed kick and catching the man with a clenched fist right between the legs. And then he twisted as the biker squealed like a soprano. Doc Holiday disguised as Bruce Lee released the nunchucks, and Marquis caught them effortlessly with his free hand. He spun the center chain around the biker’s neck, releasing his grip on his groin, and catching—then pulling—each wooden handle in an opposite direction with a quick, hard snap. The man’s head shot up in the air like a rocket being launched into space before tumbling back to the ground, absent of his body.

Marquis grunted and spun around to face the remaining five men.

And then he stood in quiet curiosity.

They were huddled together like a small herd of cattle, the smallest one—a kid with spiked blond hair—standing in the front. The kid held up his arms in a gesture of surrender and then promptly...wet himself.

Marquis frowned. “Is this your representative?” He snarled and snatched the kid’s jacket right off his chest without removing the sleeves, ripping the leather like it was mere paper, and then he read the center emblem aloud: “The Pagan Brotherhood. Is that the name of your club?” he asked. “Can just anyone join, or do they all have to be cowards?”

The blond kid was shaking from head to toe now. “N...n-n...no,” he quivered. “I mean…I...I...I mean...we’re not really that organized.”

Marquis sighed in annoyance. He was just about to strike when the kid started talking a mile a minute, rambling like his life depended on it—because, well, it did. “L...l-l...look...” he stuttered, “we...we...we…we...we’ve been talking it over, and you don’t have to kill us because we’re willing to serve you.” He gestured toward the other men. “All of us.”

Marquis shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and the kid immediately hit the deck like a grenade had just been launched. Marquis scowled, growing impatient.

“S...s-s...sorry,” he squeaked, once he had collected himself.

When Marquis leaned over to look at him, the man flinched and covered his head. “I’m listening.” Marquis crossed his arms and waited while the kid slowly stood back up.

“L...l-l...like I’ve been saying...we...we...we would like to be your...puppets…or minions...or whatever it is you call human servants”—the boy knelt down on the ground then—“and I swear to you, we would never tell anybody.” He looked over his shoulder, and the other men bobbed their heads up and down, encouraging him to keep on talking. “We can bring you things, lots of things. Anything you want. Whatever you need.”

“Women,” one of the other cattle whispered.

“Y...y-y...yeah...women,” Blondie offered.

“Or blood,” a slovenly male urged, poking the kid in the back.

“Or...or...or blood...or…women to drink blood...I mean so you…you can drink the women’s blood.” He scratched his nose. “When we bring them to you.”

When Marquis didn’t answer, the kid became desperate, and his voice raised an octave higher. “We could do things for you...you know...in the day. Like whatever you can’t do for yourself. Like go to the bank maybe...or even pick up your dry cleaning.”

The short, bald guy beside him slugged him in the arm. “Damnit, Donnie, don’t adlib!”

“What?” Donnie snapped, his nerves clearly frayed. “He might have dry cleaning…maybe for his cape or something.”

“Shut up already, Donnie,” the male who had reminded him of the women shouted. And then they pushed him forward. “Go with the coffin.”

“What?” Blondie whispered.

“Cleaning his coffin.”

Donnie turned back around to fully face Marquis. “Oh yeah...” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s-apple protruding from his throat. “And we can clean your coffin at night—and guard it when you sleep.” He ran a trembling hand through his ruffled hair, now damp from perspiration. “And if you’re afraid to let us go, then that’s cool too. Yeah, we don’t mind living...you know...in your lair...or wherever. Just let us know—whatever you want, man…” He ducked then, waiting for the blow he was sure was coming.

“Master,” his sidekick whispered.

“Huh?”

“Say master!”

“Oh yeah…yeah…just let us know, master.” Donnie knelt down then and bowed his head.

Marquis exhaled before he slowly bent over, drew back his hand, and slapped the kid across the face, cuffing him so hard that his eyes bulged out for a second before snapping back into his skull.

Donnie looked up and began to wail like a three-year-old girl, groveling in his own puddle of urine. “Wh...wh…what did you do that for?” he sobbed. And then he whispered, “master” again.

Marquis snarled, “That was for your horrible taste in movies…or books.” He stood up straight. “Great gods, where do you humans get this crap?”

He stepped back and viewed the herd as all of the men quickly fell down into a kneeling position next to Donnie, their heads bowed so low that they rested in the dirt. Marquis began to probe their minds, one at a time, and just as he suspected, these weren’t the hard-core members: These were the followers, the rejects, and the wannabes—none of them willing to die for their girlfriend-beating buddy, Dirk.

“Will you sing me to sleep?” Marquis asked, suddenly amused.

Donnie looked up from the ground. Surprised, he quit crying. A faint light of hope illuminated his gray eyes. “Oh...yeah...yes! Absolutely. Anything you want!”

Marquis took a step back. “The Star-Spangled Banner?”

Donnie eyed the other men; they were all bobbing their heads up and down like a chorus of synchronized yo-yos. “Yes!” he exclaimed, pleading with his eyes.

Marquis cleared his throat. “Well, stand up and show me then.”

The men stood up slowly, clearly afraid that it was some kind of trick, that the vampire was going to play with them before he ate them.

“Turn your backs to me,” Marquis ordered, unable to stomach their pitiful expressions a moment longer.

The men slowly turned around and began to quake, a couple of them outright crying. And then Donnie led the charge: “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light...”

The male who had offered the brilliant coffin idea joined in then, even though he was clearly tone-deaf. “What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming...”

Reluctantly, the last two got on board. “Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watched—”

Marquis swept his hand over the tops of their heads, silencing the obnoxious noise and wiping out their short-term memories at the same time. As far as any of the idiots knew, they had gone to a wild party, had way too much to drink, and left the next morning a few buddies short. As they would not remember where they had gone, they could not come back to search for their missing comrades. When Dirk, Spider, and Doc Holiday—aka Bruce Lee—never returned, they would just assume they had left the gang.

Glad to be rid of them, Marquis watched as one by one, they returned to their banged-up Harleys, searched for bikes that still worked, and started to ride off. The four of them had to ride double as there were only two working bikes left.

As the last of the Pagan Brotherhood rounded the bend, Marquis turned his attention back to Dirk, wondering if the pitiful excuse for a man was still alive. He rustled through the remaining heap of metal, bikes, and corpses until he found Dirk’s mangled body and then pulled the gasping imbecile from beneath a dark purple Sportster.

He was still breathing.

Snarling, Marquis knelt over Dirk, grabbed him by the shirt-collar, and forced him to meet his angry gaze. “You will never touch another woman again, Dirk. You made your last mistake when you touched mine.” Hissing with disgust, he added, “I hope your god has mercy on your pathetic soul.”

With that, he drew back his arm, struck through the chest cavity, and grasped the feeble human heart—

Just as a series of jacketed, hollow-point bullets sliced painfully into his arm—three, to be exact. Marquis winced as one of the bullets went straight through its target, and the other two lodged painfully in the muscle.

“What the hell—”

“Let him go!”

He turned his head just in time to see Kristina standing on the porch like a crazed lunatic, holding a gun in her hand.

She raised it a second time. “Don’t do it, Marquis! Let him go. Take your hand out of his chest, now!” She aimed the gun right at him, and then, holy hell, she pulled the trigger again.

Marquis reacted with preternatural speed, his predatory instincts kicking into high gear. In one fluid motion, he ripped the heart out of Dirk’s body, hefted the corpse up like a shield, and caught the next round of bullets with the carcass.

Kristina cried out in horror. “No!”

Marquis was flabbergasted.

Was it even possible for a male’s destiny to try and kill him, let alone love another male—a human man—so much that she would actually prefer him? Never in his fifteen-hundred years had he seen anything like this. What in all of Hades was going on?

Marquis squatted down, staring at the bullet-ridden body beneath him. His anger boiled over in a fevered haze. His powerful shoulders trembled with rage.

How dare she defy him like this!

After all the Silivasis had done for her over the years: the job, the apartment, the ridiculously high salary—rescuing her from the Dark One who would have ripped her throat out and bled her dry. Even allowing Dirk to live when they should have killed him long ago...

He threw his head back and roared like an enraged lion, leaping to his feet with equal stealth and grace. Like it or not, this female belonged to him. And if she couldn’t love him, then she would most certainly obey him.

Marquis’s muscles rippled and his joints popped as he turned to face his destiny. She had tried to kill him.

Kill him!

His predatory eyes narrowed on the female’s terrified face as he embraced his iron resolve. Well, didn’t this make things easy? Etiquette and words were simply no longer necessary. All the playing nice-nice was over.

Kristina Riley was his to do with as he pleased, and he intended to make that crystal clear. A feral hiss escaped his lips as his tongue swept over his fangs.

She had tried to kill him…

nine

The Ancient Master Warrior stalked across the front yard of his remote mountain home like a native cougar homing in on its prey. The pain in his arm spurred him on. He glared at the wisp of a woman standing on the porch, still holding the gun she had used to shoot him three times in her hands. She was shaking like a jackhammer as she watched his approach.

Good!

She needed to be afraid.

Maybe she was finally starting to get it.

This wasn’t a game. His life was on the line. Her life was on the line. That piece of trash she had just shot him over had fully intended to kill her.

Marquis had read Dirk’s mind as easily as a billboard on the side of the freeway, and his intentions had been crystal clear. But then, she knew that, didn’t she? She just didn’t care. She would rather kill Marquis than the fool that had wanted her dead.

Kristina stepped to the side as he came closer, her deep blue eyes as wide as saucers, but Marquis adjusted his position accordingly, keeping the defiant female directly in front of him. She quickly stepped in the opposite direction. He just as quickly made another adjustment.

Back and forth they went, his stealthy approach becoming a slow waltz of madness between the two of them. Yet Marquis had no intention of dancing with Kristina. He had tolerated more than enough of their dancing.

The Ancient Warrior was resolute.

They were never going to love each other. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even like each other after this night. So that just left the basics: thirty-days to convert her. One full moon to produce twin sons and provide the required sacrifice.

That was it.

That was all.

And the process was going to begin right here and now.

Marquis leapt onto the porch from ten feet away, easily wrenching the gun from Kristina’s hand. By the way she screamed, one would have sworn he had just tried to wrench her head off her shoulders. Marquis could not have cared less.

Let her scream.

He snatched her up by the waist, turned her around, and sat down hard on the porch. Her slight form flopped into his lap like a rag doll, and she fell back against him, her back instantly molding to his powerful chest. As her derriere sunk into the cradle of his hips, he encircled her upper body with his injured arm and locked her to him like an iron vice.

And then he did the same with his legs. Sweeping two powerful thighs over her weaker, lean ones, he anchored her down in an unbreakable hold. Involuntarily, her head fell back against his shoulder, and she began to struggle, her voice shrill with panic.

“Marquis! Marquis! Please—”

The sound of his long, snake-like hiss cut her off midsentence. Marquis could have heard a pin drop as he smoothed her wild red hair away from her neck with his free hand, and slowly tilted her head to the side in pursuit of a more favorable angle.

The pulsing artery taunted him beneath her creamy white skin as the vein rose and fell with her frantic gasps of hysteria. The beat of her heart rose to a thundering crescendo like the bass of a rock song that had just hit the chorus. “No!” she wailed. “Oh God, Marquis—don’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I swear it, I’m so sorry…”

Marquis may as well have been deaf.

He lowered his head and licked her jugular...once...twice…as he slowly released his incisors, the razor-sharp teeth vampires used to inject their powerful venom—the teeth the sons of Jadon used to convert human destinies to their species.

And then, without hesitation or apology, he sank the twin ivory fangs deep into Kristina’s neck and began to inject the poison that would change her forever.

Nathaniel Silivasi materialized on the front lawn of his eldest brother’s home about ten seconds before Nachari joined him.

“You felt it too?” Nachari asked.

Nathaniel frowned, his dark eyes scanning his surroundings. “Absolutely, and it wasn’t his typical I just mopped the floor with someone who crossed me energy. Something is really wrong with—”

His voice cut off abruptly as his eyes swept the front porch. Marquis was perched in deadly silence, bent over the limp body of Kristina as she lay across his lap like a flimsy doll. The feral vampire’s jaw was locked on her throat, and his eyes were glowing crimson red.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. Releasing a low whistle, he inclined his head in Marquis’s direction, urging Nachari to take a look.

Nachari eyed the scene on the porch and blanched. He took a few tentative steps toward Marquis and then stopped abruptly in his tracks as the warrior’s head snapped up ever so slightly, his eyes darting back and forth between his brothers in warning. A low, territorial growl rumbled in Marquis’s throat, and his top lip twitched several times. Instinctively, he tightened his arms around his female and scooted further back on the porch.

Kristina appeared to be either unconscious...or dead.

Nathaniel listened for a heartbeat and sighed in relief when he heard two distinct sets: the vampire’s and his mate’s. Slowly nodding at the Ancient Warrior, he put his arm out to motion Nachari back. “Whoa there, little brother; you need to step away.”

Nachari swallowed a lump in his throat and did as Nathaniel suggested.

It was obvious that Marquis was in no state of mind to deal with his family right now. In fact, the male didn’t appear to be in any conscious state of mind at all. He was pure instinct. Wholly predator. And he would perceive any move in his direction as a threat against himself and the female he wasn’t about to relinquish.

In reality, he couldn’t.

Once a male began the process of converting his destiny, it was too dangerous to stop before the procedure was finished: Short of completion, the female would have too much venom inside of her to survive as a human, but not enough to sustain her as a vampire. And during the process, the male couldn’t speak—not verbally or telepathically. He couldn’t let up, and he couldn’t give in to the female’s pleas for mercy.

Conversion was an incredibly painful event. Nathaniel ought to know.

As if on cue, Nathaniel’s mate entered his mind, her psychic voice heavy with concern. Is everything all right, Nathaniel? Is Marquis okay?

Jocelyn’s steady, loving presence soothed him as always. He had only had his destiny for a couple of weeks now, yet he could hardly remember life without her or their new baby son, Storm.

It depends on how you define ‘all right,’ my love.

Jocelyn sighed. What’s going on?

Nathaniel knew the water was frigid, but he dove in anyway. He’s converting Kristina—

No way! Tell me you’re lying, Nathaniel. Already?

He cringed. Yes, already—and on the front porch.

Jocelyn gasped, no doubt remembering the extreme pain of her own recent conversion: Even when one’s mate was gentle and had his partner’s full love and devotion, it was a traumatic event.

I can’t believe she consented so quickly, Jocelyn quipped. I mean...maybe she’s a helluva lot stronger than me, but there is no way I would’ve come willingly into your arms less than twelve hours after meeting you, let alone given you control over my heart, life, and body…accepted what was going on as my true destiny.

Nathaniel knew that Jocelyn was referring to the sacred siring ceremony that took place between mates before conversion, the reverent words that were spoken to one another, as well as the gods, as part of the sacred mating. He sighed. I can assure you, Iubirea mea, there was no consent or ceremony between these two.

Jocelyn became deathly quiet.

Darling?

He wouldn’t!

Nathaniel knew better than to respond.

He didn’t!

Again...nothing.

Oh God...that poor girl! Is she hurt?

Nathaniel glanced over at the porch and frowned, choosing once again to say nothing.

Nathaniel, please tell me he hasn’t hurt her. I mean, I know he’s a bit…severe…but even I didn’t think—

She’ll be fine, Jocelyn. I don’t think Marquis is going to let anything happen to Kristina—

Anything but him! Jocelyn snapped, her tone daring him to argue.

Jocelyn…darling...I did no such thing to you, remember? He is my brother.

She took a slow, deep breath. I’m sorry, Nathaniel: You have enough to think about without adding me to the mix. I just…wow...honestly, I feel sorry for both of them.

Nathaniel sighed, searching for a way to change the subject. Is our son still awake?

Jocelyn’s voice eased then. Is that a trick question? Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! This kid isn’t going back to sleep for hours.

Nathaniel snarled. He is beginning to disrupt our...private time...together. That kid.

Jocelyn laughed. Good grief, Nathaniel; we made love three times today, already. What more do you need?

A deep, sultry growl rumbled in Nathaniel’s throat.

Jocelyn cleared hers. I see, she murmured. Well, I’ll tell you what—you take care of your brother, and I’ll go make some warm milk, see if I can’t get this boy back to sleep.

Nathaniel hissed and sent a visual image of him sinking his fangs into the smooth shelf between Jocelyn’s neck and shoulder, his hands slowly roaming lower and lower… Try hard, my love.

Jocelyn purred a soft invitation to her aroused mate and closed the communication.

When Nathaniel turned around, Nachari was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, a look of disinterest in his eyes. “Not the time or the place, brother.”

Nathaniel grunted.

Nachari rolled his eyes and gestured toward the porch. “What are we going to do about that?”

Nathaniel gave him a stern glare and shrugged. “Stay the hell out of it, that’s what.” He turned his back and started to walk the boundary of the yard, pointing out the large pile of metal, rubble, and bodies strewn about at the apex of the looped, gravel driveway. “This must have been a lot of what we felt.”

“No doubt.”

When Nathaniel squatted down over a mangled body, Nachari simply materialized at his side and crouched down beside him. The young wizard frowned. “Is that Dirk Warner?”

Nathaniel lifted the head by the back of the neck, careful to keep the blood off his hands. Jocelyn didn’t need to know the full extent of what had taken place at Marquis’s estate earlier that night, and even if he tried to wash the blood off, with her new and improved vampire skills, his mate would smell it on him. “Looks like it.”

“Damn.” Nachari stared at the gaping chest cavity, which was clearly missing a heart. He stood up and walked toward the pile of metal. Then he bent over and picked up a bald, severed head by the two-inch mustache hanging off the mouth. He held it up in the air. “You know this guy?”

Nathaniel shrugged and tilted his head to get a better look. “Never seen him before.”

“Hmm.” Nachari gave the head a good once-over himself.

“Maybe you can try and read Marquis’s energy...wizard,” Nathaniel said, emphasizing the last word with mock contempt.

Nachari sneered. “I’ve just about had it with this warriors-are-superior crap, brother.”

“Yeah, well, by the looks of this yard, we are.”

“Oh, please,” Nachari jeered. “Storm is what? Four or five days old now? Given another year or two, he could’ve taken care of these humans himself.”

Nathaniel laughed.

“Hell, even Braden—”

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows and just stared at his baby brother.

“Yeah...you’re probably right,” Nachari conceded.

They both knew that Braden Bratianu—bless his little human-turned-vampire heart—would have been strung up in a tree somewhere. And that would have been the best possible outcome.

Nachari dropped the head, held his hands out level to the ground, and closed his eyes...then frowned. “Unless his mother named him Bruce Lee, aka, Doc Holiday, Marquis didn’t know him, either.”

Nathaniel chuckled then. “Marquis always did enjoy his battles.” Although clearly, this had been more of a slaughter.

Nachari kicked at some metal. “He ruined some really nice bikes, though. My guess is that Dirk’s riding buddies decided to come lend a hand.”

Nathaniel winced. “Poor souls. Are you getting anything else?”

Nachari closed his eyes again, held out his hands, and made a funny face.

“What?” Nathaniel asked.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Nachari looked annoyed then. “Trust me, it’s nothing.”

“Nachari...”

Nathaniel pulled rank with the mere tone of his voice, eliciting a harsh glare from the young wizard. Even though Nachari had recently earned the title of Master for his four-hundred years of study at the Romanian University, Nathaniel was both a Master and an Ancient. And he was also Nachari’s elder—which meant that if Nathaniel decided to exercise his rights by hierarchy, Nachari had to answer, whether he wanted to or not.

Nachari threw up his hands. “You are so completely inappropriate, brother. You know that?”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Perhaps. Never-the-less, I’m waiting?”

“The Star-Spangled Banner,” Nachari snapped. “That’s what I’m getting.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Nathaniel growled then. “I think you need to go back to school for a while, little brother. Your divination could use some work.”

Nachari flipped him off. After several minutes had passed, he swept his hand over the yard and asked, “So, what do you want to do with all of this, elder?”

Nathaniel stood up and eyed the mess. Then he turned to look at the porch again. “Ah, hell...Marquis is going to have his hands full for a while. Let’s incinerate the bodies and move the remaining garbage back to the shed until we can send someone to haul it off.”

Nachari nodded, and then he hefted up two mangled Harleys, one in each hand. He released his spectacular black-and-emerald wings and flew to the shed with such amazing speed that the metal in his arms left a buzz in the air like a small jet flying overhead.

Nathaniel made quick work of incinerating the bodies. Although he couldn’t gather molten red fireballs the size of boulders in his hands like Marquis, he had no problem generating fire or lightning from his fingers, and the scalding heat left nothing behind, not even teeth.

Closing his eyes, he began to concentrate on the connection all Vampyr—whether light or dark—had with the earth: the power of union through emotion. He concentrated on a light rainstorm, just enough to wash away the smoke and ash, to cleanse the scent of death from the air, and tried to visualize the feelings connected to the phenomenon: gray …wet… contentment. Cleansing.

He pictured Jocelyn giving Storm a bath and allowed the simple emotion to swell within him until the earth responded to the focused intention and began to create matching clouds and moisture, at last, letting loose a gentle rain.

Nachari materialized at his side. “The rest of the yard is clean.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Good.”

He turned to look at the couple on the porch. Kristina was awake now, her eyes as wide as saucers, a look of pain so intense etched on her face that Nathaniel had to turn away, stunned that she wasn’t crying out. He cloaked his appearance so that she wouldn’t see him, not wanting her to believe that he could be so callous as to refuse to help her when, in actuality, there was nothing he could do. Not without endangering both her and Marquis’s lives.

“What must she have done to provoke him like that?” Nachari asked. “To make him go that far?” The wizard immediately cloaked his own appearance as well.

Nathaniel just shook his head. “I’m not sure, but something is really wrong here.”

Nachari nodded. “I agree.”

Kagen Silivasi’s voice resounded loud and clear on a common family bandwidth that both brothers could hear: Are you two going to stay and watch over him through the night—at least until he finishes the conversion?

We could, Nathaniel offered, responding quickly to his twin.

Kagen’s voice was congenial. Go home to your wife, brother; I will come and stay with Nachari in your stead. Nachari, is that all right with you?

Before either of them could answer, Marquis drew back his lips and let out a snarl so menacing that it shook the leaves on the trees and hung in the air like electricity. His next growl was even louder and more feral.

I don’t think he wants us here, Nachari said, pointing out the obvious.

Agreed, Nathaniel retorted. And the last thing we need to do is rile him up with Kristina lying in his arms.

Kagen sighed. Wow…this has been one crazy night, hasn’t it? What in the hell were the gods thinking…to do this to him?

A third growl ripped through the night, and the earth beneath them began to shake.

I’m out, Nachari said, unwilling to ignore any further warnings. He bowed his head slightly to Nathaniel. Be well, my brother. Catch you later, Kagen. And then he dematerialized.

Kagen sighed as he addressed Nathaniel. Call me if you need me, my twin.

Nathaniel didn’t respond, although he knew his silence was easily understood.

He turned one last time to regard his Ancient brother and just shook his head: Indeed, why had the gods been so cruel? It wasn’t just that Kristina was a mere child, or that the two of them were about as compatible as oil and water; it was the fact that no one had served the house of Jadon more valiantly over the centuries than Marquis. The warrior had lived for his family, for his people, and for the earth. Yes, he was rigid, and even difficult to get along with sometimes, but underneath all of it was a fierce love and protectiveness.

A love that had only been returned with loss.

His feelings for the princess, Ciopori, were no secret. Hell, the energy between them was palpable, and the Silivasi brothers were far too close to evade one another in matters of such deep emotion.

It just didn’t make sense.

And after all that had happened with Shelby and Dalia...

With Joelle...

So much loss.

Nathaniel was not at all sure that Marquis was going to make it through this with his usually impenetrable grit and endurance. He had lived so long. He had waited so long. He had seen so much tragedy.

His brother deserved more: He deserved better.

Heck, Kristina deserved better than this union as well.

Letting out a deep breath of frustration, Nathaniel placed a shield of comforting energy around the two beings on the porch and said a silent prayer to the gods, beseeching them to bless and watch over his beloved older brother.

Be well, Marquis, he whispered in his mind, and then just like Nachari, he faded away.

ten

Ciopori woke up in a cold sweat, the image in her mind too incredible to be real.

Marquis was sitting on the front porch of his beautiful, farm-style home with both of his arms and legs wrapped tightly around Kristina, his mouth latched firmly on her throat. His eyes were the color of dark rubies, and his brow was etched with exhaustion. The look on Kristina’s face was one of shock and agony. Utter despair. And they had been like that for hours.

Marquis was converting Kristina. Bringing her into his world against her will. And what was done could never be reversed.

Ciopori sank back into a large, fluffy pillow in the lavish, guest bedchamber at Napolean’s manse. She rubbed her eyes, trying to erase the disturbing image from her mind, her heart still racing like it wanted to leap out of her chest.

Was this to be her fate, then?

To continue to see Marquis in her dreams for the remainder of her life...with another woman? If so, then she couldn’t bear the thought of falling back asleep.

Ciopori threw back the covers and sat up once again; this time, tears ran down her cheeks. How could the gods be so cruel? For over two-thousand years she had lain in a suspended state of animation—neither dead nor alive—with nothing to sustain her outside of her dreams. Dreams of a dark, handsome lover who had worshipped her, waited for her, existed for her from the moment he was born.

The instant she had looked into Marquis’s dark eyes, she had remembered everything about him: his masculine scent, the timbre of his voice, the feel of his touch…the familiar, steady beat of his heart. They had already shared eternities together, and great celestial gods, when they had made love, the earth had stood still as if no one and nothing existed outside of the two of them.

Ciopori stood up and shrugged into the long, silk robe that was lying on the edge of the bed. She had to get out of there. Quietly opening the door to the veranda, she stepped into the brisk night air and looked down at the ground. She might not be able to materialize and dematerialize like the Vampyr, but she could move herself small distances with magic. “Ancestors, Great Ones, I humbly beseech you...

Beneath the stars and moonlit sky,

the gentle breeze that passes by—

Beyond the threshold of this door,

place now my feet on nature’s floor.”

All at once her feet touched down on the cool damp earth, and she sighed. It wasn’t as if she was tired anyhow. She had only gone to bed as a means of escape: to quiet her thoughts of Marquis and Kristina. It was a pitiful attempt at buying a moment’s peace.

Peace.

What was peace anyway?

Ciopori began to wander into the forest, hoping to get lost in the giant pines. Did she really believe she would ever know peace again? Without her parents, her brothers, her familiar civilization? Without Marquis? Why had the gods even allowed her to awaken?

She wiped her eyes as she continued to wander, flashing back to that fateful night that had changed everything, when her brother Jadon had shaken her awake in the middle of the night.

“Sister! Sister! You must wake up; we haven’t much time!”

Ciopori shot up from her sleep, her heart racing in her chest. “What troubles you, brother? Why are you here?” She looked around the large, stone chamber searching for her sister. “Where is Vanya?” The panic in her voice rose quickly. “Vanya!”

“Shh!” Jadon placed a firm hand over her mouth. “You mustn’t make a sound, Ciopori. Vanya is just outside in the hall with my men. We must make haste. Please, heed my warning. You must leave Romania at once!”

Ciopori climbed out of bed, disoriented and confused, reaching out to accept the simple blue gown Jadon extended to her.

“Dress quickly.” He turned around, his pitch-black hair shimmering in the reflection of torchlight from the walls. His body shook with urgency...and fear.

“What has happened, Jadon?” she asked, as her fingers fumbled to clasp the dozens of buttons on her bodice.

Jadon hung his head, and the chamber became deathly quiet.

“Jadon?”

“Please…just hurry, sister.”

“Jadon, what has happened?”

He cleared his throat, obviously gathering courage. “You and Vanya are no longer safe.”

Ciopori inhaled sharply, her throat suddenly constricting. “What do you mean—no longer safe? How...how is that possible? We are...the monarchy.”

Jadon turned around then and simply shook his head. “No, you are the only remaining females. Virgin daughters of the King. The most valued sacrifice of all.”

Ciopori clasped her hand over her heart and tried to ease her trembling. “Yes...” She swallowed hard. “But…you and Jaegar...the men respect you; they obey you. They dare not take us without your consent.”

Jadon’s eyes bored into hers, the truth revealed before he could speak it.

“No!” Ciopori cried, taking a step back. “Jadon!” Her voice was racked with sobs. “Tell me it isn’t so.”

Jadon shut his eyes. “It is Jaegar who leads the men to the castle.” He shook his head. “My loyalists are few, but they would die for me. They are willing to die for you, but we must get you out of Romania if we are to have any chance at all—there are not enough of us to fight Jaegar’s men. He commands the whole of our father’s army.”

Ciopori staggered back. Dear gods, she and Vanya were to be sacrificed along with the others! Captured like common criminals—murderers and thieves—made to kneel before the executioner’s stone with their hands manacled to the sides, their heads turned to face the east, the direction of newness and rebirth. They would be held down against the cold, rough surface as the men chanted and cursed—and slit their jugulars—causing them to bleed out over the stone, spilling rivers of torment onto the barren ground.

And as they lay there dying, the remaining vestiges of their lives pouring out upon the crimson earth, the high-priest and her brother Jaegar would drink the first of their spilled blood.

Ciopori clutched Jadon’s arms, finding it hard to breathe. “Oh gods, Jadon! Do not let us die like that.”

Jadon’s eyes glazed over, but he squared his chin with defiance, his shoulders held firm with resolve. “Never, Ciopori. You have my solemn vow.”

Ciopori caught her brother by his strong, angular chin and turned his head to meet her gaze. By all the gods, her brother was as handsome as he was kind. “Tell me, do you carry your blade?”

Jadon declined his head in the proud manner of the aristocracy.

“Then promise me: Should Jaegar find us before we reach safety, you will take our lives, yourself, with honor.”

Jadon recoiled. Then he grabbed his sister by the arm and gave it a hard tug. “It won’t come to that, Ciopori. Come now. We must hurry!”

All at once the chamber lit up with an eerie glow from a powerful bolt of lightning. A piercing clash of thunder shook the castle walls. The whole world seemed to be coming apart. “Promise me, Jadon. Swear it. Now!”

Jadon looked incredulous.

Lost.

Horrified.

His deep, sad eyes dimmed before her gaze, and his words were a mere whisper. “I promise.”

She watched him finger the hilt of his blade and knew that he was imagining the act he would have to perform, making certain he could carry out his vow. Retrieving a torch from a sconce on the wall, he ushered her out of the chamber.

Ciopori stood quietly, staring up at the moon from beneath the small clearing she had wandered to in the forest. The memory of that night would never leave her. The sting of Jaegar’s betrayal would always be fresh. The grief never far behind.

She had thought that nothing under the sun could ever hurt her worse, but she had been wrong. The gods were crueler than Jaegar had ever been. At least with Jaegar, there would have been an end to her suffering.

With Marquis now bound to Kristina, her anguish had only just begun.

Ciopori put her face in her hands and wept.

Salvatore could not believe his good fortune. He had to blink several times to convince himself that he was actually seeing what he thought he was: the princess Ciopori—one of the original celestial females—standing all alone under the night sky, less than a mile from Napolean’s compound, with absolutely no escort or protection.

Incredible!

A wicked laugh rose up from his throat and echoed through the night. His appearance already cloaked, he landed noiselessly just beyond the clearing in a thick grove of trees and crouched low into the stance of a predator.

His taut, lean muscles rippled as he moved, the thrill of the hunt rising with every step he took toward his unsuspecting prey. His feet glided over the ground with graceful ease, his eyes never straying from his quarry. She was weeping. And completely unaware of her surroundings.

Completely unaware of him.

Now, less than ten feet away, he crouched even lower, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, his powerful arms dropping to his side. His body twitched as he readied himself to spring.

Dark Lords, what a prize she would be.

As a princess and a woman.

His shaft hardened at the mere thought of touching her, taking her, the sweet taste of her royal blood. But he would have to be careful: This woman was a rare artifact, and one of great significance to the sons of Jaegar. The possibilities were endless. Too much was unknown to simply use her to feed...or breed...to risk killing her prematurely in the process.

No, he would need to consult the Darkness. Study the Blood Canon—the ancient book of black magic. Princess Ciopori might very well be the bridge to a new future for his kind. Lord Jaegar’s very own sister!

Not wanting to waste another fortuitous second, Salvatore sprang into action like the dark predator he was, grasping the princess by the waist, covering her mouth with his hand, and pulling her tight against his chest before she even registered his presence. His body shook from arousal—the scent and feel of a celestial female in his arms—and his fangs exploded in his mouth as he took to the skies, hefting her like she was no more than a feather in his arms.

A golden celestial feather from the time of antiquity.

Ciopori shook from head to toe. Her mind spun with confusion. As she soared across the sky at unbelievable speeds, her stomach turned over, and she fought the urge to vomit. She looked beneath her and eyed the distant ground. Dear gods, she was going to die.

Instinctively, she clutched at the neck of the male that held her, her arms encircling his broad shoulders in a death grip, and then a feeling of unbelievable darkness swept through her. The feel of his cold flesh against her hands made her skin crawl, and the air suddenly became dense. It was hard to breathe. Something was missing in his soul. She was in the presence of…evil.

Without thought or deliberation, Ciopori recoiled from the darkness, drawing back her arms and pushing hard against his chest. Caught off-guard by her reaction, he loosened his grip, and she tumbled out of his arms.

Ciopori let out a blood-curdling scream as she plummeted toward the ground, her death imminent, the air sucked out of her body. She wanted to pray, but she was too afraid. She was paralyzed with fear. And then out of nowhere, the vampire reappeared beneath her, moving at unimaginable speed: a dark blur shooting across the sky.

He snatched her back up with a grip so unyielding that his hands felt like shackles on her arms. His hard body pressed so tightly against hers that she could feel every contour of his erection straining against her quivering stomach as they flew across the sky like a shooting star.

“Do not do that again!” he warned.

The chilling, demonic voice vibrated against her ear, and Ciopori shuddered. What was he? What male in the house of Jadon would dare to treat her so harshly? Who would defy Napolean so openly? And why did he positively reek of malevolence, death, and sin?

Ciopori quivered in his arms as awareness flooded her consciousness: He wasn’t from the house of Jadon. He was a descendant of her brother Jaegar.

Fear seized her heart like an iron vice.

And then the world went suddenly black.

eleven

When Ciopori opened her eyes, she was in an underground chamber—a large stone master bedroom—and she was chained by the wrists and ankles to a four poster bed, her torn silk robe barely covering her thighs.

She tried to lift her head and look around the room, but it was too dark to make out details. With the exception of one lit torch in the far corner and a few black candles scattered about the marble floor, the space had the quality of a tomb.

She heard the sound of an infant whimpering and strained her neck to get a look at a small bassinette just to the right of the bed, up against the cavern wall. As she turned away, her eyes began to adjust to the light, and then she saw him for the first time: the vampire who had taken her from the forest.

The creature looked jarringly similar to the males she had met from the house of Jadon, yet terrifyingly different at the same time.

His banded black and red hair fell in thick, wavy locks past his enormous shoulders, and his dark sapphire eyes seared into her like he was staring straight through her. He had a high widow’s peak at the juncture of his hairline and thin arched brows that were perpetually curved into a frown. His features were chiseled in a sharp, unnatural manner, and he would have almost seemed handsome—stunning, in fact—if an aura of evil didn’t hover about him like a swarm of bees to a honeycomb.

Ciopori struggled against the chains. “Where am I?”

The male sauntered to the foot of the bed, practically gliding above the ground as he walked. And then he stopped and smiled a wicked, soul-piercing grin. “Allow me to introduce myself, Princess Ciopori.” He stretched out his arm and bowed low at the waist in an Old World gesture. “I am Salvatore Rafael Nistor. And you are my guest.”

Ciopori’s eyes grew wide. The male was mad. “Do you always chain your guests to your bed?”

Salvatore lowered his head and briefly shut his eyes. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I needed to be sure you would behave.” He stalked around the length of the bed then, reaching down to drag the back of his hand along her body as he went. He brushed her toes, traced her lower legs, and kneaded her inner thigh, a primal groan of pleasure escaping his throat as his fingers swept over her stomach, through the valley between her breasts, and stopped to grip her throat. “You are most exquisite, Princess. I must admit, in all my years on earth, I have never seen anything quite so...delicious.”

“Don’t touch me!” Ciopori trembled and tried to pull away.

Salvatore laughed a low, evil hiss. “Spoken like a true aristocrat.” His hand tightened around her throat, pressing down until it sealed off her airway, and then he sat beside her on the bed and leaned over, glaring into her eyes. “Unfortunately, you are in my castle now, and I am the only king in this room.” He relaxed his hand, nicked her jugular with the nail of his right thumb, and licked his lips at the sight of her blood.

Ciopori stifled a scream. She would not give him the satisfaction. “What do you want with me?”

Salvatore sat back. His eyes swept over her body, his nostrils flaring as he deeply inhaled her feminine scent. “Ah, but that is the question of the millennium, is it not?” He laughed again. And then he stood and paced around the room, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“At first glance, I would have to say to drink your celestial blood until I become drunk with it. And then, of course, to screw you to death when I’m finished...or perhaps at the same time.” He sighed. “Mmm, do you think I could break your pelvis with my groin, Princess?” His hand traced his lower belly and then he spun around and eyed her again with his head cocked to the side. “Yes, I’m certain that I could. A most exquisite death, no?”

Ciopori winced and looked away.

“But then, that would be such a waste of a precious jewel. You are the sister of our Dark Lord, Jaegar, himself—are you not?” He rubbed his chin as if deep in thought. “There is, of course, the more pressing temptation: to sire children with an original female, to watch my young tear their way out of your glorious body, knowing they will grow to be powerful beyond measure, but again, that would most certainly kill you. And you are far too precious to exterminate...yet.”

He glided over to a nightstand beside the bed and rubbed his hand in soft, sensuous circles over an old tattered tome, stroking the leather like a long-lost lover. “But here’s the thing: I believe that with the proper magic, you might be made immune to the curse of your sisters. You might be able to live through a live birth. You might even be able to conceive female offspring.” He bent over and kissed the cover of the book. “You are part goddess and part human, are you not? And I can feel the ancient wizard’s—Fabien’s—magic all around you. He changed you somehow, and I intend to find out exactly what he did.”

He leaned over the bed and gave her a slow, lingering kiss on the mouth, his tongue piercing so deep that she gagged.

She spat when he pulled away.

“No, Ciopori; you are not going to die right away, and unfortunately, I dare not risk getting you pregnant...at this juncture. It is my hope that in time—and with enough experimentation—you might be used to breed the most powerful vampires ever born for the whole of the sons of Jaegar. Perhaps you will be the queen ant of our civilization.” His laughter echoed off the walls, making Ciopori sick to her stomach.

“In the meantime, however...” He gestured toward the small red crib at the side of the room. “There is the immediate matter of my nephew, Derrian. His nanny recently—how shall I say?—passed away. And I am in need of a caretaker to provide for him until I can find a replacement.”

Ciopori raised her chin in defiance. “I’d be happy to watch the little monster. Bring him to me, Salvatore, so I can snap his little neck!”

Salvatore shot backward like a reptilian bird of prey. He ascended into the air and hovered directly above her on the ceiling, his eyes glowing red, the tips of his fangs gleaming in the candlelight. “Will you, now?” he growled, trembling from head to toe.

Oh goddess… Ciopori held her breath.

He descended so quickly, his motion was a blur. Then, one by one, he reached for her chains and tore them free with his bare hands, placing his arm around her waist so she couldn’t escape. Hefting her over his shoulder like an insignificant sack of potatoes, he walked right through the chamber wall into a long, dark hallway.

Ciopori gasped, terror beginning to seize her, as Salvatore stormed down the endless tunnel—half walking, half flying—growling like an angry lion the entire way.

“We will see about that, Princess. We will see about that!”

He took her through an endless maze of tunnels, weaving this way and that, walking right through walls, passing straight through heavy wooden doors, with her body in his arms as if the obstacles weren’t even there.

Dear gods, what kind of magic does this male possess?

As they moved through the underground fortress, she heard male voices and shrill laughter, grunts, and groans—sounds that were as disturbing as they were animalistic—coming from behind doorways, down distant hallways, both above and below. There were many, many more males just like him inhabiting the space, but somehow, he managed to avoid coming in contact with any of them as he whisked her through the tunnels.

When they finally reached a set of pitch-black, double-arched doorways, Salvatore set her down roughly and seized the back of her neck in an iron grasp. “Open the door!”

Ciopori clenched her robe at the sides, her hands balled into two stubborn fists. “No.”

He slapped her in the back of the head so hard that her face hit the heavy door and bounced off, causing her to bite her own tongue. “Open it!”

Ciopori glared at the handles and frowned. They were made of interwoven cast iron and ivory, each one bent into the shape of a coiled snake, with several of the ivory bands painted red to give the appearance of cobras guarding the entryway. Their eyes were inlaid with dark rubies, and their tails were coated in solid gold. She cringed as she gripped the reptilian handles and slowly opened the door.

Salvatore shoved her inside, remaining close behind, and then he waved his hand to light the twelve candelabras placed evenly around the room.

Ciopori stared at her surroundings. There were two man-sized granite beds situated in the center of the space with large hand-sculpted statues of gargoyles at the head and foot of each, the creatures glaring down over the benches. The hideous monsters resembled a cross between an angry lion and a mythical lizard, with large, bulging eyes framing their faces and huge upper and lower canines distending from their mouths. Along the walls were rows of tunnels—like miniature caves carved into the limestone—and the ceiling was painted marble with ghastly renditions of snake-heads covering every square inch, all of the eye-sockets inlaid with gemstones.

Ciopori grimaced and tried to hide her fear. “What is this place?”

Salvatore crept up behind her and bent to her ear. “It is a chamber of exquisite pleasure, Princess. However, for you, I do not believe that will be the case.” He snarled, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand up. “Come,” he ushered, dragging her toward one of the beds.

Ciopori tried to resist, but the male possessed ungodly strength, forcing her compliance with casual ease. Attached to the wings of the gargoyles were chains with manacles on each end, and the moment she saw them, she broke away in a sudden burst of terror, fleeing toward the doors.

The vampire merely waved his hand, and her body froze, midstride. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Ciopori stifled a scream and fought back her tears. She raised her chin, summoning as much dignity as she could. “Take me out of here at once, Salvatore.” The command came out far weaker than she intended.

Salvatore shook his head slowly, his sapphire eyes glowing with intensity. “You still do not understand your place, do you?” He sauntered over to her, snatched her by the arm, and dragged her back to the granite bed. “But you will.”

As if she were nothing more than a limp doll, he shackled her arms above her head to one gargoyle and her feet, crossed at the ankles, to the other—laying her out on the bed like a pagan sacrifice. And then he cruelly removed her robe with one hard tug, ripping it to shreds.

Ciopori shrieked as she eyed the salivating creature above her, her thin silk nightgown all that remained between herself and the cold stone beneath her.

“Relax,” Salvatore hissed, “I said I wouldn’t kill you—or rape you—yet.” He took a seat on the bench opposite her, and with the wave of his hand, removed his own clothes.

Ciopori gasped. “What are you doing?” Her voice was thick with disgust.

Salvatore lay down on the stone parallel to her. “You shall see soon enough.”

With that, he took a deep breath and waved his hand. A strange ethereal music began to play in the chamber, and a dense black smoke began to rise from the floor, swirling around the gargoyles and the beds in a sultry, serpentine motion.

Ciopori blanched and blinked her eyes. The feel of evil was so thick in the darkness that her throat was constricting.

“You will want to regulate your breathing, Princess...to slow down the venom.”

Ciopori’s eyes shot open. Venom? What venom?

Before she could ask Salvatore what he meant, the room began to come alive: The walls began to undulate like the hips of a male making love to a woman, thrusting back and forth in slow, seductive gyrations, and the flames in the candelabras danced, swaying from side to side, the tips of the flames burning crimson red.

And then the cobras appeared.

One after the other.

Slithering from the entrances, the hollows in the walls, dozens upon dozens of gliding black-and-red serpents slinking out of the tunnels and dropping to the floor. Gliding toward the benches.

Ciopori screamed so loud her vocal cords burned. Her chest heaved up and down beneath her erratic heartbeat. “Salvatore!”

Oh, dear gods, please make him—

“Salvatore! Stop this! At once…” At this point, pride was a wasted emotion. “I’m sorry, Salvatore. Please, just make them stop.”

The languid vampire simply chuckled low in his throat and groaned in anticipation of what was to come.

Ciopori shook from head to toe, eyeing the floor as a large flat-headed snake slithered toward her. “Please…” Her voice was a hollow plea.

Salvatore snarled then. “You were going to do what to my nephew, Princess?”

Princess Ciopori shook her head vigorously. “Nothing. Nothing! Unchain me, Salvatore. Get me out of here.” Her cries rose in direct proportion to the approach of the snake.

And then she heard a deep, guttural groan, and her eyes flew open in shock.

Salvatore was lying on the stone, his back arched, his head tilted back, panting in ecstasy as a half-dozen cobras slithered up his naked belly and found their way to his chest, arms, and throat.

Ciopori watched in stunned horror as the first snake struck him hard, sinking long, pointed fangs into his chest right above his heart, releasing venom on a hiss. And then, as if the first snake had cued the others, they began to strike one after the other, causing a frenzied reaction in the other snakes in the room. Like a sea of red and black, the snakes began to descend upon the vampire’s quivering body, striking wildly, latching on with death grips to release their poisonous venom.

“The first strike incites the demons,” he moaned, gyrating beneath the slithering creatures, his enormous sex jutting upward with fevered arousal. He bent his head back as far as it could go, offering his throat to a giant beast that had wrapped around his arm, his own tongue practically hanging out of his mouth, swiping back and forth over the tips of his fangs.

Ciopori looked away, horrified.

She tried to pray, to chant, to remember her magic—how to push the snakes away—but she couldn’t concentrate. Oh goddess, help me! She couldn’t remember the incantations.

As a large reptile meandered up the side of the gargoyle and slithered across her shackled feet, Ciopori began to panic. Oh gods! “Salvatore! Please. Please. Stop this! I’m begging you.”

She watched in revulsion as Salvatore began to climax, shouting his release even as his body began to seize in reaction to the enormous amount of poison attacking his system. He was having multiple orgasms while enduring excruciating pain.

How is he living through it? she wondered. Sweet Cygnus, how would she?

Waiting a couple of seconds to come down from the high, Salvatore struggled to speak. “My own venom is stronger.” He hissed and moaned like a love-slave being taken by his master. “Over centuries, we have built up antibodies—”

His voice dropped off suddenly. On a sharp inhale, his sex jerked several times with another release.

Ciopori recoiled as warm tears rushed down her face. Marquis. Where was Marquis? Did he even know she was missing? Would he come for her? Dear gods, what would happen when he found her like this, dead and mutilated from a hundred snake bites?

She whimpered in frustration—and terror—as the snake made its way down the gargoyle, slithered up her belly, drew back its iconic, flared neck, and stared at her with dark, piercing eyes, its tongue darting in and out. “No,” she pleaded beneath her breath, trembling like she was about to come apart. “No, no, no…please…” She struggled frantically against the chains.

And then it struck right above her collar bone, its fangs sinking deep.

Ciopori cried out in horror and mind-numbing pain as the venom passed through the bite, and her heart immediately constricted in her chest. Then just like they had with Salvatore, the remaining snakes descended upon the stone. A hard strike to her inner thigh made her jerk even as a third set of fangs entered her stomach. Her cries were primal and unrelenting; her terror hovered on the edge of madness; her soul pleaded for a merciful, swift death.

And then a deep male voice thundered through the chaos. “Retreat!”

The snakes swayed back and forth, hissing their displeasure, their hypnotic heads weaving back and forth with the threat of another strike, yet slowly...one by one...they began to draw back, even as the three already attached withdrew their fangs.

Ciopori sobbed in pain and desperation.

And then Salvatore held up his hand, and the snakes turned back toward Ciopori, renewed hope gleaming in their demonic eyes. He leaned over her trembling body until she could feel his rancid breath against her face. “Will you take care of my nephew, Princess?”

“Yes,” Ciopori sobbed. “Yes!”

“Good care?” Salvatore asked.

Ciopori gasped for air as her tongue swelled and her throat began to close in reaction to the venom. “Yes…oh, gods…please…”

Salvatore smiled then and bent over to press a soft kiss against her lips. “You do realize you are dying? Rather quickly, I might add.”

She stared at him in abject horror, unable to speak, unable to think, her body convulsing as a pain unlike any she’d ever known seized her muscles, and her organs began to shut down.

Salvatore cupped her face in his hands and nuzzled her neck. “Would you like my assistance, sweet princess?”

She pleaded with her eyes.

And then he knelt softly beside her, lifted her head in his palms—allowing it to fall back, and struck her jugular quick and hard with his own razor-sharp fangs. Venom a thousand times more painful than that of the cobras’ assaulted her blood stream.

Ciopori prayed for death.

But it didn’t come.

It felt like hours—though it was probably only seconds—before Salvatore withdrew his fangs and her voice slowly returned, the swelling in her throat receding. Her body began to heal as Salvatore’s venom overpowered the cobras’. “Will I become a vampire?”

Salvatore laughed. “No. Only the destinies of the lighter vampires can be so easily converted. You would have to willingly relinquish your soul first. The unfortunate word being willingly.”

Ciopori swallowed hard and tugged at the chains. “Release me, Salvatore”—she paused—“Please.”

Salvatore looked around the room and eyed the waiting snakes. “You will do as I say, or there will be no mercy.”

“Yes.”

“You will come willingly into my arms. You will acknowledge that I—not you—am the master of this domain. And you will obey me from this moment forward, or I will keep you here all night, allowing every snake in this pit to strike you, providing you with just enough venom to keep you alive so that you cannot escape the torture. Do you understand me, Princess? Your insolence will not be tolerated.”

Ciopori looked up at the wicked being now standing above her, his hard, muscular body naked and soiled with his own pleasure. Reluctantly, she nodded.

Salvatore unchained her hands first, still allowing the snakes to hover.

“Please,” she begged, hugging her arms to her chest. “Get rid of them.”

He unchained her feet, and she stood up on the bench as if she could avoid the vile creatures by stepping out of their range. They slithered around her feet.

“Salvatore!”

He held out his arms. “I’m waiting.”

Ciopori swallowed hard and leaned toward the repugnant son of Jaegar. He moved his body even closer to hers. As a large snake began to climb her leg, she kicked it off, threw her arms around his neck, and crawled into his arms.

“And?”

Ciopori squirmed, trying to keep her body out of the reach of the snakes. She clung to Salvatore’s gigantic frame like a thrashing boat tethered to a buoy in a storm. “And you are…” She struggled to say the words.

As Salvatore lowered her slowly toward the serpents, she dug her nails into his shoulders, grasping for sanctuary.

“You are the master of this domain.”

Salvatore bent his head. He sniffed her fear and moaned. “Whose master?”

Ciopori brushed away a burning tear and buried her head in the crook of his neck. It was of no use. She was terrified…defeated.

Humiliated.

“Whose master!” he thundered.

“Mine,” she whispered, unwilling to die for pride. “You are my master, Salvatore.”

Salvatore waved his hand at the snakes. “Leave us.”

One by one, the cobras slowly retreated, slithering away from the bed, up the walls, and back into their hell-holes.

Trembling like a child awakened from a nightmare, Ciopori relished the safety of Salvatore’s arms. Her body still suffered the effects of the snake and vampire venoms. Her heart still pounded erratically in her chest. The slick, viscous substance of Salvatore’s pleasure clung to her tattered gown and skin.

Salvatore purred deep in his throat. “You are mine, Ciopori.”

With the wave of his hand, he clothed himself. And then he gently stroked her hair and headed back to his lair.

twelve

Marquis stood outside of the guest bedroom early Monday morning, gathering all of the courage he could muster. He had fought in countless battles over the centuries, defeated formidable enemies, and led respectable armies, but he knew that he was in for the fight of his life now.

He knocked gently on the bedroom door. For the third time.

“Go away!”

Another large object smashed against the wall and splintered into pieces: This one sounded like the Renaissance vase he kept on the armoire.

Marquis cringed.

Well, at least there was nothing left of value for Kristina to destroy. Anything else she got her hands on was at least from the current century, and thus, possibly replaceable.

“Kristina,” he grumbled, even though he tried to whisper. At least he didn’t growl. “I’m coming in...okay?”

“Don’t you dare open that door, you cretin son of a…”

The string of words was as long as his arm, and he winced. “Kristina, please—”

“Please what!”

Please what, indeed.

What had he expected after that primitive demonstration he had put on the night before? A Hallmark card and breakfast in bed? Marquis leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. Dearest Lord Draco, what had he done?

As a male vampire, even in the house of Jadon, his nature was both civilized and untamed. He possessed equal parts light and shadow, and like any primitive being, there was a breaking point, a threshold beyond which caution and reason gave way to pure primal instinct. Where judgment became impulse, and the animal became too feral to restrain.

He chided himself on his complete lack of control. Never—well, rarely—in his great expanse of life had he allowed himself to go that far over the edge, and now he was paying the price. Converting her like that? On the porch? Without her consent? The pain and suffering she had endured...

It was extreme, even for him.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself. She had tried to kill him, after all.

Twice.

He knocked again. “Kristina, îmi pare rӑu.” He leaned his forehead against the door. “I had a...very bad day.” I’m sorry.

“What!” she squealed as another heavy thump resounded, this time against the door: definitely a shoe this time. “You had a bad day? Go to hell, Marquis!”

Marquis shook his head. He’d had more than enough. They had been at this for hours. This standoff had to end. Using the supernatural speed of his kind, he flung the door open, entered the room, and quickly waved his hand, paralyzing her arms.

To his surprise, as he started toward his mate, a large, heavy object launched off the bed and barely missed his head. He ducked back out of the room and slammed the door. Wow, she had kicked an old Webster’s dictionary with her foot. He hadn’t seen that coming. Perhaps the woman had missed her calling; she should have played soccer.

“Kristina!” Marquis snarled, slowly reopening the door, this time immobilizing her legs as well. “That is quite enough.” When he looked over at the bed, her face was beet red, and her bottom lip was quivering like a toddler’s, just moments away from a god-awful wail. He held up his hand. “Please, don’t.”

Her eyes bored into his skull like daggers as she sucked back air, too proud to cry in front of him. “Yeah, those words sound familiar, don’t they?”

Marquis shook his head and slowly approached the bed. She was just a human and a small one at that—paralyzed—but for the love of Perseus, the female looked scary. “Can I release you now? Will you behave?”

Kristina blanched at the word behave and glowered at him with pure, unadulterated hatred in her eyes. “Will you?” she retorted.

Marquis shrugged his shoulders. “Yes.”

Kristina rolled her bright blue eyes. “Well then come on in, honey dumpling, sweetheart, baby. Let’s get this marriage rolling!”

Marquis blinked several times, absolutely lost. Under normal circumstances, he had absolutely no idea what to do with a woman—outside of making love—and these circumstances were strained at best.

Kristina laughed aloud. “You should see the look on your face, boss. Damn, and I always thought you controlled the universe. You’re clueless, aren’t you?”

Marquis huffed, indignant.

“Yeah, well, let me give you a hint. What you did last night? First, to Dirk…” Her voice trailed off as tears welled up in her eyes. She fought them back. “And then to me? You may as well save the rest! This it-shay is too broke to fix. Ever.”

Marquis took a few steps toward the bed, then stopped. He dropped his head in his hands and smoothed back his hair, pushing it away from his face. “Kristina, I regret the way things…unfolded last night.”

She chuckled. “Oh, well then, what was I thinking? Being so angry and all?” If looks could kill, he would have been six feet under.

He sighed. “How are you feeling this morning?”

She reached for a glass paper-weight beside the bed, but Marquis was too quick. Using only his mind, he whisked it out of her hand and gently floated it across the room, lowering it smoothly onto an antique dresser before she could launch it at his head. “We need to talk, Kristina. There is much—”

“Oh, shut up, Marquis!” Her voice was sharp with anger. “Just. Shut. Up.”

Marquis felt his top lip begin to twitch and quickly closed his eyes, willing his fangs to stay where they were. Do not kill the human, Marquis. Do not kill the human, Marquis. Do not kill the human…

“Kristina—”

“I agree,” she interrupted a second time. “There are some things that need to be said, but it’s your turn to listen while I talk.”

Grateful for the reprieve—and because he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say next, anyway—Marquis took a seat in a high-backed, upholstered arm-chair adjacent to the bed and waited. This was a far better strategy anyhow. Learn your enemy’s position and then counter with—

Enemy?

Had he just said enemy?

The reality struck him. Dear gods, this woman was not supposed to be his enemy; she was his destiny. His eternal life mate.

As quickly as the thought entered his mind, the princess’s beautiful face flashed through his memory; he rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked away. “I’m listening, Kristina.”

Kristina sat up and pulled the covers all the way up to her chin. “So, here’s the deal: Have you ever heard of IVF?”

“IVF?” Marquis asked.

“Yeah, IVF! In vitro fertilization. It’s when—”

“I know what it is, Kristina.” Marquis scowled.

“Good. Because—”

“And if I know where you’re going with this”—it was his turn to interrupt—“then I think what you mean to say is artificial insemination. Unless of course, there is some reason you are unable to become pregnant, which”—he took a deep sniff of the air—“there isn’t.”

Kristina gasped, incredulous. “OMG! You are disgusting! Damn! You are way too much for me, Marquis!”

“Too much what?” he asked, contemplating. “Oh…is this what you fear?”

Kristina’s hand shot up in the air. “Stop! Don’t even go there. Holy shit!” She took a deep breath. “Remember, you’re supposed to be listening. Just listen, Marquis!”

Marquis leaned back in the chair, stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles, and folded his hands in his lap. “Very well. Have I ever heard of artificial insemination? Yes, I have.”

“Well, good,” Kristina snapped, trying to regain her composure, “because that’s the closest you’re ever going to get to me. And that’s assuming I agree to do this whole...baby thing...because let’s just both be honest, that’s the only reason I’m here. You sure as hell don’t love me or want me. And I sure as hell don’t love or want you! And I never will.”

Marquis was surprised at how badly her words stung.

They were true, but after so many years of waiting for one’s destiny—imagining, believing, hoping—the whole situation was like a horrible nightmare, too awful to be true. “Go on,” he mumbled.

“If I have to live here”—she waved her arms around the room—“then there are going to be some changes...some additions.”

“Like what?” Marquis snarled.

Kristina sat up straight and glared at him. “Like any damn thing I want! A home theatre! A sauna! A covered swimming pool out back—anything I want!”

Marquis stared at her, swallowed hard, and bit his lip. “Continue.”

“And that’s just the house,” she stormed. “There are a whole lot of other things...like my own Hummer to drive in the winter, and maybe a pink Corvette for the summertime: a convertible. And clothes. Jewelry. A new iPod. A few gold cards to spend at my leisure—”

“Is that what you wished to tell me?” Marquis growled in frustration, his temper growing short. “Make a list and write it down, Kristina. I haven’t the time for this nonsense.”

“Excuse me?” She sounded mildly surprised.

He sat up and leaned forward. “Will all of those things shut you up? Make you cooperative? Get you out of my hair?” To heck with trying to be cordial. The female was right—they had nothing in common, and they never would.

Not to mention, this was the second time she had tried to trade her body for favors; and frankly, it disgusted him. It was the second time she had treated something as sacred as bringing life into the world as an abomination to be bartered over—and the second time she had acted as if whether he lived or died was of no consequence whatsoever. Very well, then. Forging an understanding up front would make life a lot easier on both of them.

“Money is of no consequence to me,” he quipped. “Go on.”

Kristina cleared her throat, suddenly a little less cocky. “And I don’t want children,” she whispered, straightening her spine as she delivered the words.

Why was he not surprised?

“So that means a nanny twenty-four-seven ...maybe several…whatever it takes to keep the kid out of my hair. I won’t raise our son, Marquis. And trust me, the one we have to have is the only one we’re ever going to have.”

A low growl escaped his throat as he tried counting backward from ten to one. “Go on,” he spat through gritted teeth.

“I don’t work unless I want to, and you let me go wherever I want and do whatever I feel like, even if I have to have a bodyguard—one of those sentinel dudes with me all the time.” She crossed her arms in front of her.

“Is that it?”

“No,” she sighed. “We sleep in separate rooms, and if I want...” She took a deep breath. “If I wanna...get with…someone else, another guy, then you’ve got nothin’ to say about it, so just turn the other way.” Feeling emboldened, she added, “It’s none of your biz, feel me?”

“Are you through?”

Kristina looked down then. “Maybe, but if I come up with something else, I’ll let you know.”

Marquis rose slowly from the chair. His heart-beat was eerily steady, his demeanor far too calm. As he stalked to the edge of the bed, his fangs began to elongate on their own accord, and he felt the primal heat of rage burning in his eyes. But he made no attempt to soften their intensity: Let them burn the color of blood. It was better than spilling hers.

Kristina scooted as far back against the headboard as she could, her throat working in anxious swallows, her hands now clutching the covers like a drowning man grasping a life jacket.

Marquis didn’t blink.

He stopped with his face a few inches from hers and then knelt with one knee on the mattress, his powerful frame towering over her miniscule one. Slowly and evenly, he began to speak: “Kristina, you will take the remainder of this day and tomorrow to recover from the conversion, and then you will go to Kagen’s clinic tomorrow night for the insemination. I will command the pregnancy, and we will get it over with.”

He shifted his weight, his muscles rolling in silent waves of contempt as his warrior’s body contracted. “You may have your swimming pool, theatre, and sauna—and whatever else you desire—once my own contractors have seen to the plans: You will not make a pretentious eyesore out of this home…or this land…and you will not obstruct the natural views or compromise the architectural integrity in any way.”

He stopped to lick the tips of his fangs, drawing a single drop of blood from his tongue and swallowing it. “Drive whatever you wish, Kristina, and I will see to it that you have a credit card with an inexhaustible balance—but not because you have extorted it out of me. As I said before, I can make you want…and do…whatever I wish. No, you will have your precious possessions because as my mate, there is nothing I would have denied you anyhow.”

Kristina’s face paled, and she didn’t dare speak.

Marquis cleared his throat. “You may also travel with a sentinel escort and seek your own entertainment, within reason, but I will not have you demean the honor of our house—or the house of Jadon—so choose your activities wisely, lest you lose all freedom forever.”

He leaned closer then, their noses touching, and then he chuckled, though the laughter did not come from humor. “As for your sexual desires and what is or is not my business: Should you ever avail yourself of the pleasures of another man, I will rip his throat out while you watch, and then I will force you to kneel in his blood and feed from his dying heart. So, again, I say—choose wisely.”

He backed away then, stalked to the door, reached for the handle, and turned around. “Oh, and Kristina...”

Her eyes opened wide.

“You will have your nanny, and the less you have to do with our child, the better. But know this: Should you ever do anything to compromise our son in any way, I will put you in the ground myself! Feel me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply walked out the door and shut it behind him.

thirteen

Marquis leaned forward on the back stoop and stared out at the river. It was so peaceful, so unassuming.

So unconcerned.

How could there be so much turmoil going on all around it? He sighed. But that was the way of nature, was it not.

He walked down the short set of stairs and meandered toward the bank, wanting to draw closer to the water. Hell, with Kristina living here, he might not ever go inside again. He shook his head, trying not to think about it, wishing he could control the constant images of Ciopori that flashed through his mind like an incessant stream, disrupting his thoughts with its ceaseless interruption.

Ciopori.

The regal daughter of King Sakarias and Queen Jade. The hauntingly beautiful sister of Jadon and Jaegar—one of the last remaining females from a people thought to be extinct.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her lying beneath him, her stunning golden eyes gazing up at him with such innocence and love, her beautiful, pouty mouth slightly parted, swollen with pleasure, moist with arousal.

The way she had opened her heart to him. Her mind. Her body. So completely. So willingly. Marquis closed his eyes, reveling in the memory, the scent of all that luscious black hair, the feel of her breasts in his hands…

What the heck was he doing?

He had pushed her away—warned her to stay away—and he needed to close his mind to her as well.

He looked back toward the house and frowned. Kristina might not be his first choice—oh, hell, she wouldn’t even be his last choice—but she was his only choice; and Marquis was a male of honor. Now that he had claimed her and converted her, they were as good as mated. He would not cheat on her, even if it meant a lifetime of celibacy.

Even if it meant staying away from the princess.

Against his better judgment, Marquis sought to reach out to Ciopori one last time, to simply brush her mind with his, unnoticed. He just wanted to know that she was all right. Having taken her blood the night they made love, he would forever have access to her whereabouts, to her state of mind.

Marquis closed his eyes and began to follow the DNA backward, reaching out beyond the physical structure of the molecules now circulating within his own blood stream in order to trace their deeper energetic footprint: the quantum waves themselves. As he projected further and further out, allowing the energy that was Ciopori to gather unto itself, an image began to form in his mind. Ah, yes, she was lying down, her wavy, waist-length hair cascading all around her, her arms stretched high above her head in—

Manacles.

As if he had been stunned by a bolt of electricity, Marquis jolted, instantly losing the image. Pushing down his panic, he quickly quieted his mind and followed the waves once more to the vision. And then his heart began to beat with a fierce urgency. There were, indeed, manacles around her wrists. And she was chained to a bed. A large, four-poster monstrosity in some sort of cold, dark room—no, a cavern—an underground chamber.

Marquis swallowed hard, his heart now racing in his chest as he projected his own essence forward in an attempt to see through Ciopori’s eyes. Damnit, nothing else was coming through!

Ciopori wasn’t telepathic, and the two of them had not established a common bandwidth as life mates would do, so aligning to her exact frequency in order to see through her eyes just wasn’t happening.

But he could feel her.

Their tactile connection was strong.

Marquis relaxed his muscles and tuned in to the feel of Ciopori’s body beneath him, the softness of her skin, the contours and curves of her form…

As the image became stronger, he was finally able to pick up on the palpable signals being sent through her blood. As if they were one, he was suddenly there: lying on a hard mattress, his arms stretched above him in manacles, his legs chained as well. Dear gods, the thin silk covering her body was shredded, leaving her practically naked.

Marquis swallowed his rage and held onto the signal.

What else could he feel?

It was damp, cool, and his skin was chilled. There was a peculiar throbbing just above his collarbone, in the center of his stomach, and another over his right inner thigh. Holy deities, it was painful. Like the sting of a scorpion or worse. There was definitely venom surrounding the bites, yet there was something familiar occurring in his body as well...

Regeneration.

The wounds were healing themselves. Poison attacking poison.

Vampire venom attacking…snake venom.

Marquis startled. Where in the name of Lord Draco was she? What in the hell had happened? And then all of a sudden he felt a clammy hand—a rough, heavy male hand—brush against his stomach, and a jolt of malevolence shot through him. Marquis broke the connection at once, his body recoiling from the touch. The unmistakable energy of evil.

The sons of Jaegar.

Marquis ran his palms down his face, then folded them behind his back. Nachari! He almost came unglued when thirty-seconds passed without a response. Nachari! Answer me, now!

Brother, what is it?

Marquis fought to remain calm. Are you still at Napolean’s?

Yes, I am. Why, what’s going—

Where is Napolean?

Sleeping. He—

Why the hell is he sleeping! Marquis’s psychic voice rose to a thundering crescendo, and he felt Nachari blanch.

Our Sovereign fed last night, Marquis. It had been almost eight-weeks, and with the women here, he knew he couldn’t risk getting sick or weak. Brother, what is going on?

Marquis spat a string of curse words. Could this get any worse? The sons of Jadon only fed every six to eight weeks, but when they did, they slept—and they slept hard—for at least twelve hours, almost impossible to wake up. Damnit, how could Napolean compromise himself like that with the females there?

Picking up on Marquis’s powerful thoughts, even though he had not purposely projected them, Nachari argued, On the contrary, Marquis; he was far too compromised before he fed. That’s why he couldn’t put it off.

Check on Ciopori! Marquis demanded without explanation.

Ciopori?

Now!

Hold on...

Time seemed to stand still. Nachari?

Hold on...

Where are you now?

Silence met him. Seconds felt like hours, minutes like days.

Nachari!

I’m in her room. I just knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She was supposed to be sleeping...hold on...

Marquis paced up and down the river-bank, waiting for his brother to tell him what he already knew: Ciopori was gone. Dear gods! His hands began to tremble.

When Nachari returned, his demeanor had changed from curious to deathly serious. She’s not in her room, Marquis. Vanya is searching with me now. Are you going to tell me what happened?

Marquis cleared his throat and spat. She’s gone, Nachari! That’s what happened.

What do you mean ‘gone?’ Nathaniel Silivasi entered the conversation, no doubt having sensed his brothers’ distress. You guys are both sending out powerful waves of alarm. Marquis, what’s happened to Ciopori?

Marquis shook his head. Ciopori is still alive, Nathaniel, but she’s with… He could hardly bring himself to speak the words. She’s with one of the Dark Ones, and whoever has her, he’s an extremely powerful entity. In fact, based on the strength of his energy, I would almost venture to say that she’s with Salvatore Nistor.

How can you possibly know this? Kagen Silivasi asked, joining his brothers on the shared family bandwidth.

Last night, at your clinic, Marquis explained, I took her blood.

Silence filled the airwaves for a moment while the brothers processed the full meaning of what Marquis had said. Finally, Nathaniel asked: What exactly did you see, Marquis?

She’s in a cave somewhere. Underground. He let out a slow sigh, trying to keep his temper from erupting. Brothers, he has her manacled to his bed.

If someone had dropped a pin, it would have sounded like a boulder.

After a prolonged, uncomfortable silence, Nachari swore in Romanian. She went to bed late last night, right before Napolean left to hunt. I stayed in the hall the entire night, Marquis, just outside her and Vanya’s doors. So I know she never came out. Gods, she’s on the third floor, and there are no stairs leading down from her balcony. He took a deep breath. I would have felt the energy immediately if a dark presence had entered this house; in fact, I don’t think it’s even possible: There are too many powerful wards surrounding this mansion.

Well, Salvatore had to have entered the room somehow, Kagen said.

No, I’m telling you, Nachari insisted, our Lord’s orders were to stay in the hall; not to disturb the women; allow them to sleep unless they requested assistance. But no dark entity entered this house on my watch! And there’s no way out of this bedroom except—

She can project herself short distances, Marquis interrupted.

What do you mean? Nathaniel asked. How is that possible? She’s not Vampyr; she’s human.

She’s celestial, and she doesn’t use dematerialization; she uses some sort of magic. I’m not sure how she does it, but she could definitely get down from a balcony.

Son of a bitch! Nachari snarled. Hold on…

All three of the males waited in tense silence for what seemed like eternity.

When Nachari finally reconnected, an aura of rage permeated his energy. That’s exactly what she did, brothers. Her footprints appear just below her balcony and lead into the forest. I tracked her about a mile and a half into a clearing and—

And what? Kagen demanded.

And Marquis is right. There was a second energy in the clearing before her trail went cold, and it was definitely dark.

Salvatore? Nathaniel asked.

Nachari paused. I’m not sure. He studies black magic, right?

Yes…absolutely, Marquis answered. Why?

Because the energy here is beyond darkness, my brother. There’s a demonic feel to it. The evil here isn’t just individual—it’s collective. So, yeah, whoever it was, he’s heavily into the dark arts.

Marquis shut his eyes, and Nathaniel sighed before speaking as the voice of reason. Okay, so it’s most likely Salvatore who has her; frankly, that’s probably a good thing.

How so? Kagen asked, clearly as curious as the others to see where his form of logic was taking him.

Valentine was both arrogant and impulsive, Nathaniel explained. And Zarek is like a child, beholden to his every dark impulse, as many of the Dark Ones are—completely instinctual—driven only by their base nature and immediate desires. But Salvatore is a sorcerer, one who values learning and thinking...one who employs strategy. He will not act in haste and must have a dozen questions about the princess—just as we do: Is she immortal? Can she bear children with the Vampyr race? Could she give birth to a female?

Nathaniel has a good point, Kagen said. Salvatore will keep her alive until he discovers her…highest use. And because the others fear his magic, he just might be able to keep her safe from them, for the time being. At any rate, he won’t rape her right away because that would kill her within forty-eight hours, and Salvatore is not that stupid.

Agreed, Marquis grumbled, beginning to view the situation as a tactician. But you should each know that he’s already tortured her. There is no time to waste.

Nachari swore again beneath his breath.

The twins remained silent.

And then Marquis simply shifted gears and became who and what he was—an Ancient Master Warrior. Nachari, wake Napolean. Nathaniel, bring Jocelyn and Storm to the mansion; I will bring Kristina. Kagen, my brother, I am sorry, but I am going to have to ask you to sit this one out. We must take Nachari because of his knowledge of magic, and we also have to take the sentinels for tracking. Nathaniel’s mastery as a warrior is as essential as mine; but the truth is, that leaves only one person I trust enough to guard Princess Vanya, our mates, and Storm: my own blood.

Kagen was incensed. There are plenty of males to watch the women, Marquis!

Kagen—

You know damn well that I can fight every bit as well as the sentinels, and I am far older and more experienced than Nachari. You will be compromised with your attention on Ciopori—which is as it should be—but someone needs to have Nachari’s back. He is a gallant fighter, but he is a wizard first. And if he’s concentrating on divination… I would like to be there to see after our youngest brother.

Nachari grumbled. I’m a wizard—not an invalid—Kagen. How many battles have we fought together? I think I can hold my own!

Yes, Nathaniel said, but we’re talking about entering the lairs of our enemy, fighting on their turf—while using you for second sight. You are a new Master, Nachari.

There was simply no objectivity: The loss of Nachari’s twin, Shelby, was just too recent, too raw, and it made all of the brothers over-protective.

And you are a real ass sometimes, Nathaniel! Nachari retorted, knowing darn well what the discussion was really about.

Marquis didn’t have time for this. Enough! Nathaniel will come as a warrior; Nachari will come as an advisor; and Kagen, you will stay at the mansion with the women and children. The matter is closed.

Kagen’s anger was palpable, but Marquis had pulled rank and that was the end of it. As you wish, brother.

Kagen sighed. Your praise is an honor, warrior. It was clearly the best he could do.

Very well. Nachari, summon the Olaru brothers and Julian, our tracker; then go home and retrieve your weapons. I want everyone to meet at Napolean’s in full battle armament—we have no idea what we’re walking into, so leave no weapon behind. We will meet at the mansion in one hour.

fourteen

Napolean slammed his fist straight through the white brick wall of the library. For the love of Andromeda, the females had only been with him for two days, and already, Ciopori was in the hands of a Dark One.

And not just any son of Jaegar, but Salvatore Nistor: a twelve-hundred-year-old sorcerer, a vampire as evil as the night was dark and as cunning as a fox. Salvatore was no fledgling to be easily out-maneuvered. And his capacity to hurt the princess was limitless.

Napolean gathered his composure and reined in his emotions. Now was not the time for outbursts. The Silivasi brothers, along with the sentinels and the valley’s best tracker, would be arriving within the hour: Strategic plans had to be made to retrieve the princess.

He ran his hands through his waist-length hair and grasped the holy amulet he always wore around his neck, sending up a fervent prayer to Perseus, the victorious hero, asking for strength and triumph in battle.

“Milord?” Vanya’s soft, musical voice interrupted his thoughts as she peered in through the library doors. “Are you all right?”

Napolean spun around, his hard features cast in a stern line. “I’ll be fine, Princess. Thank you.” He wanted to say more, but somehow, he always found himself tongue-tied around the flaxen-haired beauty, his behavior certainly unbecoming of a king.

She reached up and dabbed at her eyes, brushing away a fresh set of tears, and his heart jolted in his chest. The pain she was trying to hide was astronomical, and he had no idea how to comfort her, how to reassure her that all would be well. She had lost her entire world, and now, this thing with Ciopori, too?

“Your English is coming along well,” he pointed out, wanting to kick himself the moment he said it. Who the hell cared about dialect at a time like this? He bit his lip, waiting for a response. Gods, he was a complete imbecile in the woman’s presence.

“Uh…yes…yes, it is,” she muttered. “It would seem the information-transfer went very well.” She wandered into the library and began looking over titles on the floor-to- ceiling book-shelves as a distraction, no doubt feeling as awkward as he did.

“I...I wasn’t sure how you and your sister would respond to the conveyance, considering that you are not…” His voice trailed off.

“Vampires?” Vanya smiled that lovely regal smile she had that lit up her unique rose-colored eyes. “It would seem that much of what your species considers to be a gift of your Vampyr nature is indeed a remnant of your celestial ancestry. Perhaps we are closer to one another than you think.”

Napolean nodded. It was true. So many centuries had passed since the Curse was handed down; the males had almost forgotten the power they wielded, long before they had been changed into creatures of the night. Nosferatu.

While the ability to speak telepathically and transmit enormous amounts of information through visual images was a distinctly Vampyr trait, Napolean had been able to transfer the language of this time—as well as the history of its devices and modern conveniences—to both Ciopori and Vanya as easily as one might download a new software program into a computer.

He had simply flooded their minds with enormous blocks of information, transferring his own command of language and his knowledge of the world around them into their consciousness, and the females had absorbed the information like sponges.

Vanya had even heated something up in the microwave earlier without asking a single question, and while Napolean knew how to use the microwave, he couldn’t remember ever having done so himself. It was truly remarkable. And it had bridged an enormous cultural gap between them, enabling free-flowing communication.

The princess turned her back to him, and he heard her sniffle, no doubt trying to conceal her fear. Napolean cleared his throat and took a step in her direction, careful to check for poorly placed furniture. “Vanya…I am truly sorry. We will get her back.”

Vanya’s slender shoulders began to tremble then, though she continued to hold them back in her familiar, proud way. She nodded, but she didn’t turn around.

Napolean lifted a tissue from a box on his desk, lightly tapped her on the shoulder, and handed it to her.“Here. It’s a—”

“Kleenex? Yes, of course: a disposable handkerchief.” She accepted the tissue and turned back around.

Napolean tried to swallow his awkwardness. Hell, nothing in the last thousand years had rattled the monarch, yet this female made him forget his own name. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently stroked her arm, the feel of her soft, warm skin sending chills down his spine. “Marquis is certain she is still alive.”

Vanya shattered then. Her head fell into her hands, and her tears began to pour out like a river breaking through a rickety dam. “Oh gods, but what is that monster doing to her, Napolean?”

Napolean thought about the other information Marquis had conveyed—the bites, the venom, the manacles, and her shredded clothing—but he knew better than to share any of it with Vanya. “I don’t know,” he whispered, grasping her by a thin shoulder. He nestled his forehead against her thick wealth of hair and pressed his body closer to hers.

And then he cringed.

Dear goddess of propriety, not now!

How completely inappropriate. What was he, a teenage boy? For the love of Andromeda, her sister was in mortal danger and he was…aroused. What in the galaxy was wrong with him?

He quickly took a step back, separating their bodies before his very male reaction to their closeness grew any stronger. It took all the composure he had not to drop his hand from her shoulder and just walk out of the room.

Too late.

Vanya’s spine stiffened ever so slightly, and Napolean cringed. She must think him an absolute cretin: What a poor excuse for a king.

She cleared her throat and stepped away from his touch.

Oh, hell!

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Honestly, I wasn’t thinking anything...inappropriate. I…it just…happened.” Could this get any more humiliating? He sighed. “I’ll go.”

As he turned to walk out of the library, Vanya reached out and caught his hand, pulling him toward her so hard that they almost collided. To her credit, her eyes never drifted below his shoulders: She was far too refined to point out his shame.

Napolean winced, but he managed to hold her gaze. “I meant no disrespect, Vanya.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it has been too many millennia since I have stood in the presence of a true female of worth.” Her eyes softened, and to his dismay, his mouth just kept going. “It’s just that when I look at you, Princess, I see the beauty of the gods themselves reflected back to me in a mortal’s eyes. I am truly sorry for my inappropriate...reaction.”

Vanya’s breath hitched, and she clutched her hand to her chest. “Napolean.” His name was a gentle whisper.

He looked away. “Again, I apologize; it won’t happen again.” He drew in a deep breath and waited for her reprimand.

But the reprisal never came.

She took a tentative step forward and cupped his face in her hands. “Look at me, milord.”

He slowly glanced up.

“It has been twenty-eight hundred years since I have witnessed a man of such power and grace, bearing the weight of his people on his shoulders with nary a protest or complaint. Not since my father have I known a more proud or gentle warrior. Yet, even he had my mother to temper the weight of the world which he carried. You have stood, alone, for centuries, milord; and even now, you bear the full weight of responsibility for my sister’s abduction. You are the heart and soul of the house of Jadon, yet you will risk your own life to find her as opposed to sending soldiers in your place.”

She brushed his jaw with the back of her fingers, the softness of her touch lingering against his skin. “You do not offend me, my gallant king. You flatter me beyond words.”

Napolean stood as still as a statue, trying to remember how to speak. He started to open his mouth but chose to keep it shut instead, not wanting to stand there like a drooling dolt.

She smiled then and reached out to stroke his hair. “By all the gods in heaven, you are the most beautiful male I have ever seen, Sir Napolean Mondragon, descendant of the goddess Andromeda.”

Napolean took a step back then, not so much to move away from her but to keep from swaying as her words sunk in. Despite his best attempt at restraint, a primal growl escaped his throat. He reached out and drew her to him, gathering her tightly in his arms. He buried his face in her hair and deeply inhaled her sweet lilac scent. As she melted against him—like she had been made to fit his body, alone—he closed his eyes and shivered.

Stop! he urged himself. The king of the noble Vampyr did not indulge in emotion, or touch, with his subjects. There were boundaries.

As the Sovereign of the house of Jadon, his males treated him with great deference, never reaching out to touch him, rarely holding eye contact for more than a second, and their female destinies observed the same decorum. Over the endless centuries, he had stopped waiting for his destiny, figuring that he probably didn’t have one. After all, his responsibilities were enormous, and they grew as the house of Jadon grew—leaving very little room for anything other than governing.

Napolean had become hardened by the endless wars and sacrifices: placing the dark twins on the altar of atonement to spare their parents the horror of their deaths, reading last rites to the males who were claimed—and brutally murdered—by the ghost of the Curse, possessing omniscient knowledge of the thoughts and actions of every male who served him, and always maintaining the safety of the valley and the tradition of sacred ceremony.

No, the only time Napolean acted like a male was when he fed in order to survive, or on the few occasions when he sought the warmth of a human female’s arms in order to dull the endless, barren ache of eternal existence.

Yet even that had never been satisfying.

The descendants of Jadon had to be extremely careful with human relationships, especially sexual ones. As they had one and only one destiny—a female preordained by the gods—there could be no emotional attachments made with any other. And since no other female could be converted to their species without relinquishing her soul, there was no potential future with anyone else.

Beyond the emotional ramifications, an accidental pregnancy was unthinkable: Even though a male had to actually command a pregnancy—speak it into being within seventy-two hours of planting his seed—the threat to the woman was so grave that it was hardly worth taking the risk. What if the male dreamed it? Wished it? Gods forbid, his primal instincts demanded it? What if the thought came to his mind, unbidden? The female would die a hideous death giving birth to his twins. The danger was simply too great.

And then there was the matter of becoming feral.

As Vampyr, the sons of Jadon were both light and shadow. Unlike their dark counterparts, they still had their souls; but make no mistake, they were vampires just the same—predators by nature. They were instinctual creatures that lusted for blood and warred with the ever present desire to siphon their prey until the weaker species fell lifeless at their feet, to conquer with their overwhelming power and superior strength. To establish themselves as dominant. A male was at his most vulnerable when caught up in the throes of passion, and the potential to seriously hurt a human female was very real.

Napolean nuzzled Vanya’s neck, absorbing the exquisite rhythm of her celestial heart-beat through her jugular. Dear gods, he wanted this female like he had never wanted anything in all of his incarnation.

But she was not Vampyr.

And she was not his chosen destiny.

And even the gods had to know that once he took her, he could never let her go. Unlike the Ancient Warrior Marquis, he could never make love to a celestial princess and then return to his duty without her. Moreover, he was the king, the heart of the house of Jadon, as Vanya had put it: His soul was not...negotiable.

Napolean slowly pulled away, his mouth lingering over Vanya’s indefinitely, their lips lightly brushing each other’s before he forced himself away. “I cannot take you, Vanya,” he sighed. “You are worthy of so much more.”

Vanya nodded and stepped back. “There is much to consider, I know.”

Napolean was blown away by her dignity and grace.

She took his hands in hers once more. “But know this, great king, you are not alone anymore. You need not shoulder the burdens of the entire world by yourself. I am here if you need me.”

Napolean dropped her hands, desperately trying to resist now. Her words were too much. Her presence was too much. The temptation was too great. He grasped the small of her back with one hand and fisted her hair with the other, arching her beneath him as he claimed her mouth, ravaged her lips, and tasted her tongue with his own, exploring with such urgent passion that he feared he would explode right then and there.

And she returned it all: passion for passion, kiss for kiss, bite for bite, taste for taste.

When her left leg bent at the knee and her thigh began to ride up his own—her pelvis rocking in a hypnotic motion against his, involuntarily—he gasped. If his body became any harder, it would be a spear...and he would have to claim her right now. Right here. Taking them both down to the library floor like a savage, uncaring about the warriors on their way to the mansion—plummeting over the edge again and again as he filled her with his seed.

His canines exploded in his mouth, and he groaned, scraping them gently against her neck.

Vanya tightened her arms around his shoulders and let her head fall back completely unabashed, exposing her vein. “Take what you need, Napolean.” Her breath was a series of shallow pants.

Napolean fought the primal urge with everything he had. Thank the gods, he had fed last night, or he would have drained her. She was far too innocent, and he was—exactly what he was—the sovereign lord over a house of vampires. He pulled back and gazed at her, knowing his eyes were glowing red, feeling his fangs grow sharper at her request.

“This is what I am, Vanya!” he hissed, allowing her to see the transformation. “You are better than this.”

Vanya didn’t yell or cry out, but the shock registered in her eyes just the same, and the sweet smell of fear, mixed with adrenaline, permeated the room. Her heart was racing—and not just from passion. He dropped his head, allowing his long black-and-silver banded hair to conceal his face.

Vanya challenged him then. “Do I, Napolean? Do I deserve better than the human destinies that you join to your males? Better than the sons that you revere and take hundreds of years to train as masters? Better than the warriors that you lead...and love? Why is your species beneath mine, dear lord? How could anyone be better than you?”

Napolean shook his head. “You forget, I was there, Vanya. Before. Before all of this. Before the Curse. I know what we once were.”

“And still are, Napolean.”

Napolean shook his head. “You are the daughter of our true king; you are pure and untainted. Vanya, I have the blood of a thousand men on my hands. I do not even remember the names of the human women I have taken to my bed, regardless of how seldom I may have done so. I carry newborn infants to their death, evil or not. I clean up the remains of our healers…and our warriors…and our wizards after the Curse has claimed them. I drink the blood of every member of the house of Jadon, and I absorb their every emotion—their hate, their fear, their lust...even their love. You were placed in an enchanted sleep at the tender age of twenty. My angel, I have lived for over twenty-eight hundred years. Oh Vanya, you are innocence incarnate compared to me.”

All at once, the serious discussion was interrupted by a heavy set of footsteps approaching from the hall.

Vanya smiled knowingly. “We will continue this discussion later, my dear king.”

When an ensuing loud knock resounded against the library door, Napolean frowned with frustration. “I apologize for the interruption, Princess.”

“Milord?” The deep resonant voice belonged to Nachari Silivasi.

Vanya placed both hands on Napolean’s shoulders, stood up on the tips of her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. “Do not let this matter distract you, Napolean. Go now, and bring back my sister.”

Napolean kissed her forehead and stepped back. “I will do all that I can under the sun to make it so, Vanya. You have my solemn vow.”

Vanya nodded. “I know this, Napolean.” She brushed his cheek once more. “And as for you...come back to me unharmed.”

Napolean laughed a little then. “I am very hard to kill, Princess. Believe me, there is little chance of that happening.”

Vanya declined her head and gestured toward the door. “Go meet with your subjects, milord. And may the gods grant you victory and guide you with a steady hand.”

Napolean bowed slightly at the waist and turned toward the door. She was right; the matter at hand required his full, undivided attention. Yet the woman he was leaving had rattled him beyond any danger he had ever faced.

“Her scent disappears in the clearing.” Marquis Silivasi regarded his brothers as well as the menacing-looking warriors who sat quietly in Napolean’s dining room, each one tightly situated in a circle around the table, all staring at a map of the local terrain. “Once he takes her into the air, it is very hard to follow a set trail.”

“Can you not triangulate her position using the blood that runs in your veins?” Napolean asked.

The twins, Ramsey and Saxson Olaru, exchanged an inquisitive glance. “You fed from the princess?” Ramsey asked, staring at Marquis with a faint hint of disbelief. “What the hell, Marquis?”

Marquis growled and turned back to the map. None of your business, my friend.

Ramsey’s light hazel eyes darkened for a moment, the scattered specks of gold flashing crimson before they returned to their normal hue. “I meant no disrespect, warrior.”

Even as a ruthless—and rightfully feared—Master Warrior and sentinel of Dark Moon Vale, Ramsey Olaru had only seven-hundred years to Marquis’s fifteen-hundred: less than half. Marquis severely outranked him, and consequently, did not have to explain a thing to the younger warrior, even under circumstances such as these.

Ignoring Ramsey’s apology, as was proper etiquette meant to imply that no offense was taken, Marquis shook his head. “I can pinpoint her whereabouts within a couple of miles: The problem I’m having is her depth. She’s miles underground, Napolean. So deep that I’m losing her signal.”

Nachari rapped his knuckles on the table, releasing nervous energy. “There is an anomaly in the position of the stars.” His tone was thoughtful and deliberate.

“What do you mean?” Marquis raised an eyebrow.

Nachari pulled out a small iron device that resembled a protractor and laid a transparent map of the heavens directly over the map of the valley. The two maps matched each other perfectly in coordinates and dimensions. Turning to Napolean, he began to point out various abnormalities in the constellations, abnormalities that could never be seen by human eyes, but were easily detected by a Master Wizard descended of Celestial Beings.

“She is descended of the goddess Cygnus; is she not, milord?”

Napolean nodded hastily.

Nachari placed the stationary edge of the iron device on the tail of the divine constellation and moved the point toward the beak. “Cygnus is known as the Northern Cross or the Swan, but if you look closely, the beak has moved. Albireo is pointing further south.” He drew a small dot at the new coordinate.

All of the males leaned in closer to see what Nachari was showing them.

Napolean viewed the map quietly for a few minutes. “Nachari, trace Marquis’s constellation: Draco.”

Nachari smiled. “You see it, too?” He lifted the iron device and set it back down over the celestial dragon with the base at the dragon’s head, the point at its tail. “The tail has dropped toward Polaris.” He drew another small dot to indicate the change.

“Hmm.” Santos Olaru leaned in closer, his crystal blue eyes focused on the second point. “The gods are moving the stars. That’s amazing.”

Saxson cleared his voice. “I bet there are a few scientists at NASA having a coronary about now.”

“No doubt,” Nachari agreed. And then he drew a line straight through the North Celestial Pole.

Napolean sat back. “It’s an arrow.”

“Yes, it is.” Nachari lifted the top map. “Marquis, circle the region where you believe the princess to be.”

Marquis picked up a red pencil and drew a circle equal to about two miles in diameter. Nachari laid the second map back on top of it. The arrow pointed directly to the center of the region Marquis had circled.

“Holy Serpens,” Santos whispered.

“She’s right there,” Nachari said. “The gods are showing us her position.”

Marquis grunted. “Good work, little brother.”

Interesting work, Nachari responded telepathically.

What do you mean?

Why is your constellation connected to hers? Nachari asked. Why does the goddess Cygnus work with our Lord Draco on this?

Excellent question, Nathaniel interjected, sharing the private bandwidth.

Napolean turned to Julien Lacusta, the valley’s best tracker. “So the question is: If she’s several miles underground—at that location—how in the world did Salvatore get her there? There are no abandoned mine shafts in that area.”

Julien ran his hand over his short mahogany hair and stared down at the map, his moonstone-gray eyes surveying every mile one quadrant at a time. “I’m getting a terrible feeling about this,” he said, squinting. “There’s no way she could be that deep underground...unless….” His gravelly voice trailed off.

“Unless?” Napolean prodded.

“Unless there’s already some sort of tunnel system or underground structure there, and we’re talking about a big one.”

Ramsey Olaru exhaled and stared at the tracker. “Are you suggesting that our dark brothers have some sort of cavern system built underground, directly under Dark Moon Vale?”

Saxson caught his breath, and Santos shifted nervously in his chair.

Nathaniel looked at Marquis. Do you know what that would mean?

Marquis frowned. “What are you saying, Julien?”

Julien shook his head, looking perplexed. “I’m saying that the nearest underground tunnel is about five miles away in the Red Canyons, the steep cliffs in the old sacrificial chamber.”

“I know the tunnel you speak of,” Marquis said. “It’s in the cavern we destroyed in our short battle with the Nistor brothers not so long ago.” Marquis’s lip turned up in a snarl as he remembered the night he had tracked Valentine to the sacrificial chamber.

It had been shortly after Nathaniel had discovered what had happened to Dalia, their youngest brother’s destiny. Nathaniel had searched the memories of his new mate, Jocelyn, only to discover the full extent of what Valentine had done to their family: He had kidnapped the destiny of Nachari’s twin and impregnated her. He had forced her to give birth to his own evil sons in a hideous ritual that caused her untimely death, ultimately causing Shelby’s death as well when the young vampire could no longer fulfill the demands of the Blood Curse.

Marquis had cornered Valentine in the chamber the same night, but before he could finish him off, Salvatore had shown up to save him, and then Nathaniel had joined in the battle, which only encouraged Zarek and Kagen to show up as well. The standoff had almost turned into a full-fledged vampire war, but luckily, Napolean had put an end to the skirmish before the entire valley could be destroyed, along with most of its human inhabitants. In any event, the sacrificial chamber had been all but destroyed in the process.

Valentine got what was coming to him, Nachari reminded Marquis.

Marquis shrugged. Yes, they had killed the evil scourge, but not before Shelby, Dalia, and even his innocent housekeeper, Joelle, had fallen victim to the maniacal vampire’s schemes.

Nathaniel placed a hand on Marquis’s shoulder, which Marquis abruptly shrugged off, a typical reaction that didn’t seem to insult Nathaniel one bit.

“Has anyone here ever explored the cliffs?” Julien asked, bringing Marquis back to the subject at hand.

One by one, the males shook their heads.

“Those corridors go down for miles,” Ramsey snorted.

“I always thought they were meant as safeguards, to trap and kill any females who tried to escape the chamber,” Santos added, standing up, his crystal blue eyes turning cloudy.

Julien shrugged. “But what if they’re not just straight, vertical corridors? What if they connect to—or lead to—somewhere else?” He picked up the pencil and began to trace a line across the map connecting the Red Canyons to the area Marquis had circled. “What if they lead to an underground passage?”

Napolean’s canines began to lengthen, and the males instinctively moved away from their fearsome leader, whose legendary power was enough to incinerate any of them right where they stood simply if he lost his temper and glared at them.

No one spoke a word for the next five minutes.

Finally, Julien continued: “To go from there”—he pointed to the Red Canyons—“all the way to here”—he pointed to the area circled by Marquis—“would require a virtual colony of tunnels.”

Nathaniel inhaled sharply.

“Holy. Shit.” Santos sat back down.

“Their lairs are right beneath us?” Ramsey asked, indignant. “How could they hide such a thing?”

Nachari frowned. “With enough diamond and crystal built into the walls—enough steel to enforce the chambers—they could completely block their energy. And that far underground? They could mask their presence from any of us.”

Napolean slammed his fist into the table, and all the males, save Marquis, literally leapt backward, exiting the room. “And our valley has more than enough of those resources.” He looked around the empty table and grumbled, “I’m fine.” He sighed. “Get back in here.”

Ramsey approached slowly and cleared his throat. “You okay, milord?”

Napolean frowned.

“Whatever gems we don’t have, they could manufacture,” Santos added.

Napolean pushed the map away and nodded. “And if they’ve been using diamonds to mask their presence, then we really have a problem.”

Ramsey nodded. “We can’t materialize down there.”

“If we really are going into an underground...colony”—he practically choked over the words, his eyes cloudy with skepticism—“we’ll have to go in through the tunnels, and only the gods know what we might be walking into. They’ll have security. Surveillance. And there could be—”

“Hundreds of them?” Nathaniel spoke the common fear aloud.

“Perhaps thousands,” Julien added, causing the entire room to blanch. “Think about it: Do you know how easy it would be for them to reproduce if they’ve been existing right under our noses, unchecked, for gods know how long?”

“Damn.” Nachari shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Do we need a larger army?”

Napolean frowned. “Absolutely not. The larger the team, the more likely we are to be detected, to have to engage the enemy. We don’t want an underground war, not in their territory or on their terms. They would pick us off like flies. No, this is reconnaissance only: Get in undetected; get to the princess; and get her out. And then, we can regroup, start thinking of ways to deal with this new threat. If, indeed, there is one.”

Marquis snarled. “We’re not going to get her away from Salvatore without a fight.”

“Of course not,” Napolean agreed. “We’ll have to make a few kills, but, warriors, we do not want to start a battle, understood?” He steadied his gaze at Marquis and then glanced at his watch. “It’s about ten-thirty now. It’ll be at least noon before we reach the target area, now that we know we’re going in on foot—”

“Blind,” Ramsey reminded him.

“One way or the other, we have to be out of there by sunset,” Napolean continued. “As it stands, we have the advantage: The vast majority of our dark brothers will be sleeping, and they cannot follow us out of the tunnels into the sunlight. But should the sun go down…”

Nachari rested his chin on his folded hands. “Then we’re all dead...and the princess is lost.”

Napolean nodded, and the room became silent, each male processing the new information.

Holy Pegasus, Marquis, Nathaniel said angrily. I’m not so sure I want Nachari going on this mission, after all.

Kagen chimed in from the other room, where he waited with the females; clearly, he had been listening to the entire discussion: Let me trade places with our youngest brother.

Nachari spun around and glared at Nathaniel. There’s no way in hell I’m staying here now! And Kagen, if you’re going to listen to everything, then why not just join us in the room?

Kagen materialized at Nachari’s side with a smirk on his face, and Marquis held up his hand to silence them both. Nachari is right; we need him. We’re walking into a den of Dark Ones, countless unknown traps, and a host of black magic. The first two threats we can combat; the last one…we need a wizard.

Napolean has powerful magic, Kagen insisted.

If the Dark Ones are living right beneath us and discover that our sentinels are in their territory—leaving Dark Moon Vale unprotected—then our females will be in more jeopardy than ever before, Kagen. We need a seasoned fighter with the women! Marquis was losing his patience. We have already lost one princess; I don’t want to have to go after another.

Nathaniel sighed then. Kagen, there is no one else I would leave Jocelyn and Storm with, especially knowing what we now know. Please, brother...

Marquis waved his hand to indicate that the discussion was over. His words were his brother’s law, and that was that.

Napolean turned to the sentinels, his countenance lacking his usual patience. “Let’s get working on a strategy.” He glanced at the window. “Because as it stands, brothers, we’re burning daylight.”

fifteen

The males surveyed the oddly-shaped underground cavity in silence. Having entered the mountain beneath a thin, arched doorway at the back of the Red Canyon cliffs, just beyond a waterfall, they had followed the familiar limestone tunnels to their destination: the ruined sacrificial chamber of the Dark Ones.

Marquis watched as Nachari moved about the cavern, gathering and reading energy. When his little brother’s eyes scanned the ancient limestone birth-slab, he knew exactly what he was thinking of: Shelby and Dalia. The last place his twin’s destiny had lain before her brutal death. To his credit, he betrayed no emotion. His deep jade eyes simply regarded all of the damage to the gigantic chamber with cool objectivity.

While several of the white limestone columns still stood like statues, randomly erected about the chamber, the ceiling of the cave had collapsed in on itself, scattering jagged pieces of stalactites about in hazardous piles of debris. The smell of blood still mixed with the musty scent of sulfur in the stagnant pond at the back of the cave, and two of the three, low-lying ledges that led to the steep cliffs remained intact.

Napolean gathered the males at the rim of the eastern-most ledge. “Marquis, Julien, Ramsey, and Nachari: I want you to split up into one team and take the eastern tunnel. You are to proceed in the order I have called you, and as the senior warrior of the team, Marquis will be in command.” He glanced at the remaining vampires. “Myself, Nathaniel, Santos, and Saxson will descend the western cliff and proceed parallel to the first team.” It went without saying that Napolean would lead the western charge. “From this point on, maintain cloaked appearances and speak only with telepathy.”

The males nodded in unison. So be it.

With that, Napolean and the second team dematerialized.

Marquis waved his warriors close, carefully eyeing the males on his team. They were each dressed in black fire-retardant leather with diamond-inset collars around their necks, wrists, and ankles to help maintain their invisibility as they approached the Dark Ones. While vampires could easily cloak their personas from humans, other Nosferatu—especially those who were ancient—could easily pick up on subtle shifts in the energy field around them, or measure slight variations of temperature in a cold room to detect the presence of a warm body. The diamond collars would block infrared detection and provide a secondary barrier from energetic projection.

Julien shifted his taut, muscular frame, twitching in anticipation as he fingered the edge of his M4-carbine and deftly slid the handle of a time-worn battle ax into the palm of his hand. The others followed suit, adjusting sickles, spiked bolas, nine millimeters, and one AK-47, along with numerous hidden daggers for hand-to-hand combat. While guns were virtually useless when used by humans against vampires—the species was simply too fast to hit—all bets were off when they fought each other: Bullets had their use as a tactical decoy, and fired in rapid enough succession, they could stun an enemy long enough for another vampire to step in and take the head or heart.

Marquis balled his right hand into a fist, testing the perfect fit of his ancient cestus, the gladiator version of brass knuckles, which employed sharp iron spikes as opposed to hard brass for impact. The leather was dyed a dark inky brown, from all of the blood that had seeped into it over the years, and the fit had become like a second hand. His steel-toed boots had matching spikes along the toe and heel, and there was hardly a square inch of his body that didn’t conceal an easily accessible stiletto or throwing star.

When Ramsey pulled out a three-pronged, barbed trident, Marquis blanched and stepped back. What the hell, Ramsey!

Ramsey smiled and shrugged, his golden eyes lighting with mischief. The weapon was too large and cumbersome for Marquis’s taste, but Ramsey could wield the thing like a switch-blade, and one good stab from a trident could tear an enemy’s torso in half, extracting the vital organs in one blow. The sentinel was known for his ruthlessness and strength.

Do you have something special, too? Marquis asked sarcastically, eyeing Nachari.

Nachari opened his long, flowing trench coat to reveal a simple medieval scabbard sheathing a perilously-sharpened sword, always good for beheading. Not to mention, Nachari had taken a special interest in fencing while at the Romanian University. That and a curved sickle, which he deftly maneuvered like an extension of his own hand, were typically his weapons of choice.

Marquis rolled his eyes. Wizards!

The other males chuckled, releasing some nervous energy as they stepped off the ledge and began floating downward, a slow descent into the pitch-black precipice. While their eyes adjusted instantly to the darkness, the going was slow because they had no idea what they were heading into. The smell of sulfur and wet earth grew stronger as they went deeper, and the air grew colder as they passed several clusters of bats and other strange troglophiles.

Nachari winced as he flicked a strange insect off his jacket only to come face to face with an albino-looking reptile with no eyes. What the hell—

Welcome to subterranean life, Julien teased.

As they passed the one-mile mark in depth, Julien’s light-hearted countenance became all at once serious. This isn’t natural, he commented to no one in particular.

Marquis slowed to a halt and ran his hands against the shaft wall. Julien, come feel this.

The tracker shook his head in disgust as he ran his hand against the smooth, precise surface. Man-made.

Vampyr-made to be precise, Ramsey countered. Those sons-of-hyenas built this place. It must have taken—

Centuries, Julien supplied.

Nachari held up his hand. Yes, they did, and the deeper we go, the more I’m beginning to feel the influence of magic in the architecture.

Meaning what? Marquis asked.

Meaning there are energetic booby-traps in the cave walls.

Napolean’s psychic voice joined the conversation from the western shaft. There are kinetic trip-wires, if you will, all around us. In other words, don’t touch anything as we descend further.

Marquis nodded. Understood. He gave his little brother a separate nod of approval.

The next two miles went painstakingly slow as the shaft occasionally narrowed into a tube so small only one male could fit at a time. As they slowly passed mile number three, they began to hear a distant clip-clop, clip-clop coming from several different directions.

Footsteps? Julien asked.

Marquis nodded and held up his hand to still the warriors. Napolean, what do you see over there?

We’re approaching an entrance. It looks like an arched doorway, leading off into a westerly direction.

Marquis looked off to the east and noticed the same thing—a horizontal corridor leading into the mountain.

Sentinels at two-o’clock! Napolean’s harsh voice snapped them all to attention.

I’ve got them in my sights, Nathaniel assured his Sovereign from the westerly tunnel, no doubt referring to the sight on his favorite semi-automatic weapon, a polished, nine-millimeter Beretta.

Good, Napolean said. Fire only at my command. He turned his attention back to the males in the eastern tunnel. Marquis, these entry points will lead us in opposite directions. Where do you sense the princess?

Marquis stilled his mind and began to concentrate, using his finely-honed senses. He followed the essence of Ciopori’s life as it ran through his own veins. The pulse grew steadily stronger and stronger, like a radio wave, a central beacon leading into the mountain. She’s definitely east, he said.

Napolean sighed. Very well. We are going to take out these guards, enter from the western vantage, and as soon as possible, try to make our way over to your team. Keep going. We’ll catch up to you as soon as we can.

Very well. Marquis waved his warriors forward. Stay in tight formation.

Julien palmed his battle ax as they made their way into the vertical shaft. And then all at once, the warriors heard distinct voices:

“With Valentine gone, both Demitri Zeclos and Milano Marandici are battling for his seat on the council,” a deep male voice echoed from inside the corridor.

“Yeah, so I hear,” a younger male answered. “If you ask me, Valentine never belonged on the council to begin with. He was only there because of his brother.”

“Salvatore.”

“Exactly.” The younger male laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, Valentine was definitely twisted enough to do the whole political office gig, but he was straight-up incapable of leading, know what I’m sayin’?”

The older male cleared his throat, hawked, and spat. “Didn’t have the patience for it.”

The second male snarled, “Who the hell would? I sure wouldn’t want to spend all my nights locked up in some freaky council room with a bunch of pissed-off ancients. Good way to lose your head, if you ask me.”

Sneaking up behind the younger male, Marquis swung one arm around the vampire’s chest and held his head steady, using the other arm as a vise. He swiftly slit his throat from ear to ear. “And this is also an excellent way,” he whispered.

The older male lunged at Marquis, his jagged canines exploding from his mouth, but not before Ramsey caught him dead-center with the trident—plunging, twisting, and retracting in one smooth motion. The male’s innards fell to the floor as the top half of his body severed from the bottom.

Bleed them out, Marquis commanded, knowing full well that both males were still alive and could still regenerate with a powerful injection of vampire venom. Who knew how many of their brothers were just around the corner.

Nachari slit both wrists of the older male vertically before turning his attention to the popliteal artery next. With cool precision, he sliced a lethal gash in both of the vampire’s thighs. Just as quickly, Julien crouched down and sliced the jugular of the male Ramsey had taken down.

Marquis probed the Dark Ones’ minds, searching for information about Ciopori. Gossip, innuendo; that was all he could find, a quickly spreading rumor that Salvatore Nistor had captured one of the original females and was keeping her in his private lair. Marquis withdrew enormous blocks of information from each male’s mind, one at a time; then he swiftly sorted through the knowledge in order to acquire a firsthand blue-print of the colony. He needed a mental map of the halls leading to Salvatore’s private chamber.

Good gods, he exclaimed as the information unraveled. There is an entire ...organized... civilization down here!

The colony was built in a huge three-story circle, the east quadrants flowing under Dark Moon Vale, the centers existing directly beneath the Red Canyons, the remaining quadrants extending to the west—where the sons of Jadon had believed, all of this time, that the Dark Ones kept their lairs: haphazardly carved out of caves or empty mine shafts.

Not hardly.

In the center of the circle, on the middle level—the level which they were now on—there was a series of four intersecting chambers, all four linked like Olympic rings: the council hall, a snake pit, a breeding and birthing room, and a torture chamber that also served as a courthouse. What the hell? Did these bastards follow some rule of law amongst themselves? Marquis found it hard to fathom as the Dark Ones didn’t possess a soul or a conscience, but apparently, they possessed a powerful need for organization.

He continued to study the colony.

There were hundreds of halls leading out from the center four chambers like the spokes of a wheel, each spoke ultimately leading to a private lair before breaking off into a suite of ten rooms, five on each side, as they went along. Families lived in “spoked” clusters, in thousands of lairs.

Linked to Marquis’s mind, Ramsey, Julien, and Nachari gasped: One-hundred halls bearing five rooms along either side, with one large lair at the end, meant there were at least eleven-hundred lairs on the main floor of the colony. Surely, they couldn’t all be filled.

Holy hell! Ramsey exclaimed.

Marquis let out a deep breath and tried to concentrate. No, they weren’t all lairs. Two of the ten rooms in each hall—or along each spoke—were set aside for other purposes. Some were used for storage. Others were wood shops, weapons caches, or nurseries. You name it, they had it. Marquis recoiled at the sight of human slave quarters, both sex-slaves and blood-slaves. As he looked closer, he saw that, under special circumstances, they even restrained and punished each other in ritualistic stations.

He cleared his mind and studied the second level. There were no lairs up there, but the evil ones had built a congregational hall, several teaching and sports facilities, sparring quarters, a library, and several laboratories for the practice of black magic.

He had never felt so foolish in all of his life.

Why had they just assumed that the descendants of Jaegar were less intelligent, less driven—less sophisticated—than the descendants of Jadon? Just because they were evil?

He dipped down to the lower levels. The nerve center of the colony was held below: surveillances centers, security equipment, generators, electrical grids, and anything else needed to keep the colony functioning smoothly. With a newfound respect, he analyzed the flow of the entire structure, calculating what they would have to do to move around undetected.

He noted that the inner, outer, and center cross-sections of the wheel were dissected by circular hallways, passages that wound around the entire circumference of the colony. And there were exit-entrance points on all three levels at the outer and inner four-directions. As they had entered from the south—on the main level at the inner-most cross-section of the wheel—they would find Salvatore’s lair at the far end of a hall just to the east, along the farthest, outer cross-section.

Marquis nodded, satisfied, and then he gave the command to finish the guards. Ramsey stepped forward, grasped the older male by a fistful of his black-and-crimson hair, and proceeded to slowly slice off his head with a serrated dagger.

Nachari stepped back to avoid the spurting blood and held out his sickle, frowning. One swipe, my friend. Is all that really necessary?

Ramsey cocked his head to the side and shrugged, waving off the sickle. He stood up, now holding the dislodged head in his hand.

We need to incinerate that, Julien pointed out to Marquis, or he could still come back...albeit, only with some serious assistance.

Very serious assistance, Nachari added.

Marquis shook his head. We can’t risk making fire or drawing the amount of energy needed to incinerate it with electricity. He started to look around for an alternative, but he was brought up short by a splintering crack, the Dark One’s head exploding against the limestone wall. Ramsey drew the head back a second time and flung it twice as hard, splintering what little remained into a thousand pieces of cranial…slop.

If they can put that back together, the ruthless vampire spat, the male deserves to live. He brushed a piece of bloody cartilage off his shoulder and snorted.

Nachari looked down at his filthy, slop-spattered cloak. Thanks, Ramsey.

The sentinel proceeded to dispatch and destroy the head of the second guard in the same manner, as well as removing both hearts from their chests, before they continued on. That’s about as good as I can do without risking detection, he said, frowning. No doubt, he would have preferred to leave nothing but a pile of ash in his wake.

What about the bodies...the remains? Julien asked. We’ve got quite a ways to go; I would hate to get caught this early.

Marquis nodded and gestured toward a door just inside an intersecting hall. Put them in there.

Julien and Ramsey nodded, each hefting a corpse as if it weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, Ramsey carrying the younger male’s corpse in two pieces while Nachari carefully placed his hands on the hilt of his sword and stood just outside the door. Marquis took Julien’s M4-carbine from the inside of the sentinel’s jacket and pointed it toward the door, giving Nachari a brisk nod.

With his sword drawn and in hand, Nachari kicked open the door. As it swung fully open, he and Marquis flew inside first, their eyes quickly sweeping the room for enemies.

Holy mother of Lyra.

Marquis barely managed to pull back on his trigger finger—to keep from lighting up the chamber—as his eyes took inventory of the room. Julien and Ramsey snarled as they dropped the headless, heartless bodies in a heap on the floor.

Their collective mouths fell open.

They were standing in the middle of a nursery, surrounded by at least fifty-cribs, each one filled with a living infant: an infant with crimson-and-black banded hair.

A human female was standing in the center of the cribs, shaking like a leaf. She appeared to be only hours away from death’s door. Along the far side of the room was another female—younger, healthier—but she was manacled to the wall with thick, heavy chains attached to her feet and arms.

Marquis motioned for Ramsey to shut the door behind them while he checked for security cameras. Although the warriors were still technically invisible, the sight of a door suddenly splintering open—followed by a couple of mutilated bodies magically appearing, then piling on the floor—wasn’t exactly business as usual.

Marquis noticed one eye-cam in each corner and quickly sent a blast of blue electricity into all four devices, short-circuiting the wires, hopefully, before anyone had a chance to see them.

What do you want us to do? Nachari asked.

Marquis frowned. He had come for Ciopori, and he wasn’t leaving without her. These humans were an unwanted complication. He sighed. Check the females.

As Nachari approached the sickly woman standing in the middle of the room, she began to shake so badly she threw up. Her feet were stationary, frozen to the floor in terror, and she was gazing, stupefied, at the pile of dead vampire parts the warriors had dragged in from the hall. Undoubtedly, her spirit could sense the presence of the living males around her, but her eyes saw nothing. Nachari waved his hand, paralyzing the vocal cords of both females to keep them from crying out, and then he slowly shimmered into view, projecting his appearance to the terrified woman.

She staggered back, releasing a silent cry.

“Are you okay?” Nachari whispered as she once again spilled her guts onto the floor. He released her vocal cords so she could answer.

Well now, that was a stupid question, Marquis quipped, quickly growing impatient with his little brother’s empathy.

The female shook her head furiously, and Nachari held up both hands. He put his fingers over his mouth as he stepped closer. “Shhh. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She shook her head even more vigorously and began to cry. Frustrated, she finally opened her mouth.

Nachari grimaced. Marquis, they’ve cut out her tongue.

Marquis shut his eyes. This wasn’t good. This woman was too far gone to save without Kagen’s help, and too sickly to bring with them.

Blanching, the female placed her hand over her womb and glared at Nachari.

“You’re pregnant?” he asked.

Marquis held his breath, knowing exactly what that would mean, remembering Dalia and Joelle…

The woman shook her head. Look.

She was trying to communicate telepathically.

Marquis leaned forward. Nachari stepped back.

You can read my thoughts, right? The woman’s psychic voice was quivering but clear.

Marquis watched as Nachari nodded in the affirmative, all of the males listening intently.

Weeping, the woman repeated, Look inside of me.

While vampires did possess extraordinary talents, x-ray vision wasn’t one of them. However, they could scan a body for health or disease, much like an ultra-sound used sonar waves to create images. In addition, all of the males possessed the innate ability to read the exact phases of a female’s reproductive cycle.

Marquis nodded his consent, and Nachari began to scan the woman’s womb, projecting the information to the other warriors as he examined her internal structure.

He stopped suddenly and dropped his head, out of propriety or pity, Marquis wasn’t sure: The human’s insides were a virtual wasteland, littered with maggots, cancer, and worms. In fact, the only reason she was still alive was because the Dark Ones were using repeated injections of venom to keep her that way—no doubt, a desperately cruel attempt to keep themselves from raping her. If her womb was ruined, it could hardly be used to create life, which meant the female could take care of the babies a little longer.

The human slowly nodded as if she understood what the males were thinking. Kill me, she pleaded, forcing herself to take a step toward Nachari. Please, don’t leave me here like this...with them.

Nachari looked over his shoulder to measure Marquis’s eyes.

Marquis slowly exhaled, then nodded. Do it.

The female was beyond human medicine, and the amount of venom she would require to repair her rotting organs was too great a risk: They would have to turn her Vampyr, which meant she would have to willingly relinquish her soul. No one but one’s destiny could safely be converted without jeopardizing their eternal being.

Nachari turned back to face her and slowly inclined his head. He mouthed the word, Yes.

Despite her resolve, her courage faltered, and her body began to sway.

“It won’t hurt,” Nachari whispered, reaching out to steady her by her elbow.

Wait. She held up her hand. Maryann.

“Who?” Nachari asked.

She pointed to the young female shackled to the wall at the back of the room. They just brought her in last night. She hasn’t been raped or...ruined yet. Take her with you, please. Or kill her, too.

Marquis snarled, but he gestured toward Ramsey, who immediately went to work on the girl’s chains as Nachari stepped up to the dying female. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She nodded, trying desperately to stop her trembling. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…

Nachari winced as he pulled her to him. His six-foot, two-inch frame towered above her. He cupped her face in his hands with exquisite gentleness.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters… She was almost in a full-fledged panic now.

Those cursed bastards! Marquis knew this was not easy for Nachari, but to his little brother’s credit, the wizard showed no visible signs of emotion as he released one of his hands from beneath her chin and placed it on the top of her head.

He restoreth my soul…

Nachari twisted—quick and hard—in opposite directions, instantly snapping the woman’s neck, gently lowering her body to the floor.

Marquis pointed to a closet in the back of the room. Put her in there with the other bodies, and let’s go! I had to use a substantial surge of energy to take out the cameras; we have no time to waste. Ramsey, do you have the other female?

Ramsey turned around and held up the chains, indicating that the female was free. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and she, too, was frozen in place like a statue, clearly in a state of shock.

Marquis shook his head. I can’t afford to have you carry her, Ramsey. You must be free to fight. He frowned. The woman will unnecessarily slow us down, and as for placing her in a trance, Zombies don’t travel well. He snorted. Leave her. His decision was pragmatic. Gag her so she doesn’t scream and—

Wait, Nachari said.

He walked across the room and took her face in his hands, staring deep into her terrified eyes. And then he began to softly chant a rhythmic series of words in Latin. As his eyes dimmed to a subtle shade of green, his voice took on a sultry lilt, like water trickling down a river. All at once, the female stood up straight, flashed a serene smile, and gently took the wizard’s hand.

Enchantment spell, he explained. She’s fully alert. She’ll follow on her own, and she’ll obey willingly.

Marquis nodded. Very well. He paused to survey the room one more time and frowned.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Ramsey asked.

I’m thinking I wish like hell we could use fire, Marquis grumbled.

To take out the infants?

Yes.

There’s always the old fashioned way…

Do it, Marquis ordered. Quickly.

Ramsey turned to the other males. Snap the necks, remove the heads, and stake the hearts. He broke off a piece of wood from one of the crib spindles and demonstrated with the infant closest to him.

The warriors nodded and immediately went to work, destroying the children of their enemies. Although the babies howled and hissed, flailed their arms and legs in protest and desperation, there was no sympathy to play upon. Evil was evil, at any age, and the sons of Jadon were ruthless.

Marquis tucked Julien’s M4-carbine away for safe keeping and went to work with the rest of them. Keep it quiet and make it quick, he reiterated.

In a sudden blur of movement, the vampires picked up the pace, traveling from crib to crib with preternatural speed. The vulgar pop of snapping spines and splintering wood echoed like drum-beats—a gruesome lullaby—as one by one, the dark sons of Jaegar died at their hands.

In less than two minutes, they had slaughtered the entire room and were standing once again by the door, weapons in hand.

Marquis gestured forward. Let’s move out. He looked back at the room. And pray to the gods that our dark brothers don’t find this insult before we find Ciopori.

Ciopori lay perfectly still, not wanting to awaken Salvatore again. She was chained at his side in his large, four-poster bed, her arms shackled above her head, her left ankle shackled to his right, so that she couldn’t even adjust her position without rousing the sinister vampire. She had learned that the hard way—almost getting raped the last time she stirred the monster from his sleep.

It had taken a great deal of pleading and reasoning to get the male to back off, but not before he had siphoned at least a pint of her blood from her carotid artery. Ciopori winced as she recalled the pain; it was nothing like the gentle, erotic pleasure she had felt with Marquis....

Dear gods. Marquis.

How would he ever find her?

She fought back the urge to cry. It certainly wouldn’t help the situation any.

Looking around the room, she continued to scan for something she could use as a weapon. She continued to brainstorm ways to escape. If she could only get to the hallway, she might be able to call out to the gods for assistance…without setting off that cursed orb Salvatore kept beside the bed. The damnable cube was as evil as he was, sensing her every prayer, glowing bright orange every time she even thought to use her magic. She was completely crippled without the ability to call upon the heavens for assistance.

Salvatore stirred, and Ciopori held her breath, remaining perfectly still. Oh, please, go back to sleep, she willed. The cube flashed once. And you, too! she snarled in her mind, glaring at the abominable thing. She quickly looked away before it tried to vaporize her or something.

Great Cygnus, why had she chosen to go for a leisurely stroll through a dark forest without taking Nachari or one of Napolean’s guards with her? It wasn’t like she didn’t have experience with danger or understand the need to be careful. For the love of heaven, before Jadon had whisked her and Vanya away from their home in Romania, danger was all she had known.

Ciopori sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. She forced her mind back to the present, contemplating how she was going to escape. A subtle breeze brushed her cheek, and she instinctively turned her head in the direction of the cool air.

Salvatore’s lair was air-tight.

There were no windows to welcome the sun, no fresh source of air to break up the damp, musty smell that mixed with the strong scent of incense, constantly burning from the base of a hideous demon statue. Each statue was erected in one of the four directions, an aberration of the original religion.

The liquid blood that ran from each demon’s eyes represented the element of water. The unnatural flames that burnt beneath the stone urns, heating the incense, represented the sacred element of fire. There were ashes—from burned human corpses—scattered about the demons’ clawed feet: a deviant tribute to earth. And the unholy breath that coursed like smoke in and out of the demons’ mouths, as if the statues were actually breathing, paid homage to the element of wind.

The gentle breeze brushed her cheek again, and she blinked, still trying to identify its origin. There was something different about the element: a kind, if not gentle, spirit creating the phenomenon. Whatever it was, it was a sharp contrast to the energy Salvatore Nistor projected, even in his sleep.

The breeze began to take form.

The fingertips of a strong hand brushed her cheek and then traced her arms upward toward the manacles that kept her bound to the head of the bed. Her breath caught as the outline of two mystical hands began to fill in. She watched them grasp the chains in an unyielding grip, tightening until the thick steel simply crumbled into dust beneath their enormous strength.

Ciopori exhaled her relief as her taut muscles relaxed, and she slowly brought her arms down to her side. And then his face flashed before her—so quickly she wasn’t even sure she had seen it with her eyes. She was almost afraid to hope….

Marquis.

She started to reach out to touch him but quickly caught herself. He was slowly peeling back the covers, gently sliding his hands beneath her waist so that he could lift her quickly, removing her from Salvatore’s reach before the evil male awakened. And awaken, he would.

“No!” Ciopori mouthed, praying that Marquis could see her face. “No, you can’t!”

His hands froze beneath her. He bent to her ear. “Why not?”

His words were barely audible, yet she heard them clearly, his deep, sultry voice breathing life back into her terrified heart.

“My ankle is—”

Marquis pressed his finger to her lips to quiet her. “I can read your mind. Do not speak aloud,” he cautioned.

Ciopori nodded. My ankle is shackled to his.

She felt the air around her bristle with anger, but he removed his hands from beneath her and slowly peeled back the covers from around her feet.

Still unable to view Marquis’s physical form, she watched in fearful anticipation as a sharp twelve-inch dagger appeared in the air, wielded by the warrior’s semi-transparent hand, and slowly rose above Salvatore’s ankle. In a harsh sweep downward, the blade caught the male’s foot and sliced deep through bone and tendon, effortlessly hacking the limb from his leg. Marquis leapt nimbly onto the bed in a crouch, the dagger sliding up his sleeve as he released his claws and plunged at the sorcerer’s heart.

Ciopori scrambled out of the way. She leapt to the side of the bed and inadvertently glanced upward. As her eyes focused on the horror above her, a blood-curdling wail filled the room.

Whatever it was that Marquis was fighting, it wasn’t Salvatore Nistor.

The dark son of Jaegar hovered beneath the ceiling like a black widow spider, dangling from an evil web. His pointed fangs extended at least seven inches in length, and his body twisted into an angry funnel—about to touch down as a tornado of wrath.

His own claws were extended into hideous talons as his arm shot forward in a mad thrust to puncture his enemy’s back…to extract Marquis’s heart from behind.

sixteen

The moment Marquis heard Ciopori scream, he instinctively reached into her mind and leapt to the side. The image of Salvatore hovering just beneath the ceiling and reaching out to take his heart had transmitted not only to him but to the other four warriors as well.

What the hell is on the bed? Marquis demanded as he spun around to face his opponent, who was now crouched low in front of him.

Astral travel, Nachari answered. The body on the bed is Salvatore’s, but he removed his soul in order to strike you.

Marquis took a step back, confused. What the hell was he up against? Then this is a spirit standing before me? He sounded incredulous as he and the ancient Dark One began to slowly circle each other, claws retracted into fists. How can a spirit attack a physical body, and what the hell do I kill? The soul or the body on the bed? Speak quickly, brother!

Marquis could feel Nachari’s energy expanding as the Master Wizard worked furiously to interpret the spell Salvatore was using to position himself in two places at once.

Salvatore laughed then, a harsh, wicked sound reverberating from deep within his chest. “Perhaps you are out of your league, warrior.”

Marquis snarled, a full set of fangs flashing in warning. “Not from the likes of you, Salvatore.”

I don’t know how he did it, Nachari interjected, but he switched the essence of his soul and his body. The solid form on the bed is actually ethereal, yet his foot has already grown back. The spirit in front of you is solid and can kill you as sure as if it had a body. I’m honestly not sure....

Marquis would have to accept that.

Salvatore was an ancient, and he had dabbled in black magic his entire incarnation: Who knew what forces he was calling upon to achieve such a feat. Very well, brother, then we will have to learn as we go. Seal this room now! Do not allow any thought transmissions to go out from Salvatore—spirit or body!

Nachari hesitated. Perhaps I should contact Napolean first. Perhaps he has knowledge of Salvatore’s spell.

Marquis shook his head. We don’t have time.

Very well—as long as you understand that no thought will go out or in. Napolean and his crew will not be able to locate us or hear what’s going on if I do so, brother. Is this still your command?

Marquis nodded. If Salvatore calls for reinforcements, we will have the whole damn colony down on our heads, and all the knowledge of magic in the world won’t save us. Yes, I’m sure. Seal the lair. Now!

Marquis immediately felt the energy in the room grow dense, and the presence of his brother became stronger and stronger as the wizard became one with the elements in order to alter the kinetic grid.

Salvatore’s head snapped to the side in a sharp, serpentine movement, and he glared at Nachari, who he had obviously detected in spite of the wizard’s invisibility. “So, you bring this pitiful excuse for magic into my lair, Silivasi?” He spat on the floor, and the spittle began to coagulate, take form, until the body of a snake arose and slithered across the floor toward Nachari.

Nachari shimmered into full view then, no longer having reason to hide.

“Julien!” Marquis motioned toward Ciopori, no longer bothering to speak telepathically. It no longer mattered if the ancient sorcerer knew of the other warriors: He could no longer call for help.

The tracker flew across the room, materializing into view even as his image was blurred by his speed. He grasped the princess by the waist and flew back toward the door of the lair, moving her far away from both Salvatore and the serpentine apparition.

As the snake approached, Nachari held out his hand, palm facing up. It was almost as if he was encouraging it to strike. His dark green eyes transformed into glowing white as he shot twin beams of pure energy into the snake’s eyes. All at once, the cobra reared back and struck at the wizard’s hand, but before the strike could land, Nachari opened his fist and a large python swallowed the cobra whole. The python retracted back into Nachari’s hand. The hand retracted back into a clenched fist, and Salvatore Nistor suddenly grasped at his throat, struggling for air.

Marquis didn’t hesitate. He swiped at the dark vampire’s jugular, missing the artery by less than an inch as Salvatore leapt away. Still struggling for breath, the vampire flew backward toward the bed and landed in his own body. And then, like mist from the sea, the fully combined figure rose, hovering once again in the air as an orange and red glow surrounded him, and his eyes blazed like fire. He was a fully embodied sorcerer now, drawing infinite power from the universal forces of darkness.

The son of Jaegar drew in a deep breath, filling his once constricted lungs with fresh air. Then he hurled two balls of fire across the room in quick succession: one at Nachari, the other at Marquis.

While the brothers dodged the lethal missiles, the last invisible warrior struck the Dark One from behind. Ramsey Olaru drove a clawed fist through Salvatore’s back, penetrating deep into the chest cavity, barely missing the heart. He quickly retracted his arm and prepared to strike again, but Salvatore spun around before the warrior could take action, sending two scorching beams of fire from his blazing eyes into Ramsey’s flesh, even as he howled in agony from the gaping chest wound.

The sentinel’s flesh began to burn, but he didn’t cry out. He launched himself at Salvatore’s front just as Marquis launched himself at his back, pinning the wounded Dark One between them like a vise. Marquis quickly spun the sorcerer around, drew back his fist—still coated with the spiked cestus—and blasted the arrogant prick in the jaw, splintering the bone into pieces, sending several teeth flying from his mouth. The sorcerer flew back against the wall, where Ramsey then rushed him with a dagger, his arms still smoldering from the burns Salvatore had inflicted upon him earlier.

“Go to hell, Dark One,” Ramsey bit out as he plunged the dagger into Salvatore’s chest.

“Not quite yet, Ramsey!” Salvatore snarled.

He dissolved his body into molecular form, causing the dagger to pass right through him, and then he solidified with his hand around the dagger’s grip, wrenching it away from Ramsey and counter swiping in one smooth motion.

Ramsey drew deftly away from the blade, taking only a nick to his stomach as Salvatore spun the handle, crouched down into an attack stance, and began to circle the two warriors counter-clockwise.

Marquis retrieved his own black-handled, silver-tipped dagger from its scabbard and matched the Dark One’s stance. “He’s mine!” he growled.

Salvatore’s blood-red eyes lit up with a feral glow, and his lips twitched incessantly as his fangs grew longer and longer. “Tell me what happened to my brother, warrior.” He swiped at Marquis’s arm, but Marquis spun out of the dagger’s path before it could strike.

Marquis laughed. “What didn’t happen to your brother, Salvatore?”

The vampire snorted viciously. “Tell me!”

“We cut out his eyes, his ears, and his tongue,” Marquis taunted. “We skinned him alive and removed his limbs. We wrapped his intestines around his neck—after we sliced off his manhood. And then we set him out for the sun to take him. Oh, but not before we scalped him…just for the fun of it. Would you like to view the memories?”

Salvatore howled, shaking violently from head to toe. Crackling whips of blue lightning danced from his fingers into his blade and shot out the tip.

Marquis matched the feat, his own dagger spitting red fire in response. “Shall we end this today, Salvatore?” he hissed. “Or just continue showing off?”

A slow smile replaced Salvatore’s scowl. “No weapons,” he whispered. “No magic. No fire. Just you and me, hand to hand. The strongest male wins.”

Marquis threw back his head and laughed. “You would fight me vampire-to-vampire, Dark One?”

“Why not!”

Marquis shook his head. “Why not, indeed. It’s your funeral.”

He tossed his dagger aside, careful to watch for a trap. This would be the perfect time for Salvatore to lunge, but the sorcerer tossed his dagger as well and motioned Marquis forward with his hands.

Marquis shut his eyes for a split second. The primal pleasure of what was about to take place—what the fool was about to do—made him heady. It felt almost erotic. They slowly danced around each other, stepping sideways in perfect harmony, gliding frontward and backward in a lethal tango, until at the same exact moment, both vampires lunged forward, grasping each other in a death lock.

The ground opened up beneath them, and the granite walls crumbled as the two powerful beings smashed around, each taking a turn flipping the other onto his back. Violent blows landed to jaws and ribs. Arms twisted. Claws slashed skin, and puncture wounds bled out. The lair echoed with guttural grunts and snarls like the roars of ravenous lions feasting on a kill as the two ancient males sought to destroy each other.

And then Salvatore made a mistake.

He plunged his clawed fist at Marquis’s heart in a desperate attempt to end the brutal battle, leaving his throat exposed. Moving with the same preternatural speed as his enemy, Marquis blocked the fist with his forearm and lunged at the vampire’s throat. He locked his canines onto his jugular and wrenched like a rabid animal. As blood began to spurt from the wound, he went after the heart—and not to rip it from the chest with his bare hands but to gnaw his way through it—to extract the organ with his teeth. This male had protected Valentine: the evil rogue who had killed his baby brother. This male had taken Ciopori and subjected her to gods knew what. He had burned Ramsey and sent a mystical snake after Nachari. And even if all of that were not true, Marquis was just generally ticked off. He would gorge on this demon’s heart as the evil one lay dying.

“Marquis, no!” Ciopori cried from across the room, her voice heavy with revulsion. “His heart is evil. Do not consume it!”

Marquis raised his head and turned in the direction of her voice, but he was too far gone to process the princess’s words. He was too immersed in blood-lust to stop. He sensed nothing but the powerful taste and feel of the organ pumping blood through the Dark One’s body: a vampire’s champagne. Snarling, he dipped his head back down and began to tear away the layers of flesh.

And then the door to the lair exploded from the hinges, thick pieces of wood scattering everywhere like haphazard missiles.

Zarek Nistor, along with three other enormous males, flew into the room with glowing red eyes, spittle spraying from their twisted mouths, fangs gnashing back and forth in unbridled fury. The three soldiers let out a primal war cry and attacked, each one leaping at one of the sons of Jadon, claws swiping as they connected.

As Nachari, Julien, and Ramsey tussled with their dark brothers, Marquis let go of Salvatore and went for Zarek. Ciopori was no longer guarded, and he knew the Dark One could take her life in a matter of seconds if he chose to.

Sure enough, Zarek went straight for the princess.

He grabbed her from behind, placed one arm around her waist, and seized her throat with his free hand, razor-sharp claws pressed tightly against her jugular like a knife. He was ready to slice her throat at the smallest provocation.

“Back off!” Zarek commanded, turning to face the room. “Back off, or I’ll slit her throat and rip out her heart before you can call her name.” He glared at Nachari. “You might be able to block transmissions, wizard, but did it ever occur to you that I would wonder what was up when my brother refused to answer my psychic calls?”

Marquis stood up and tried to catch his breath. He had to calm down.

And fast.

Every muscle in his body twitched, aching to attack. He knew he could move five times faster than the young son of Jaegar, just as he knew he could take Zarek’s head in the blink of an eye—but Ciopori might not make it.

He spit out a piece of Salvatore’s flesh and snarled, “Let her go, Zarek, and your death will be quick and painless. Hurt her, and you will suffer far worse than your brother Valentine suffered.”

Zarek’s eyes registered his surprise before returning to a solid, smoldering red, and Marquis saw it clearly then: The stupid son of Jaegar still held out hope that Valentine was alive. He shook his head in disbelief. Just how arrogant were these demons to think that such crimes would go unpunished by the sons of Jadon—their superior cousins, as it were. “Did you really think that Valentine could take my brother’s wife and live?”

Zarek hissed and drew a sharp line in Ciopori’s throat, careful not to cut her artery just yet. He bent down and licked the blood, his free hand tracing the contours of her waist before groping her breast. “Did you really think you could waltz into my brother’s lair, take his bride, and still walk away with your life?”

“Bride?” Marquis growled low in his throat, his enormous muscles bulging and contracting with such fury that Zarek instinctively removed his hand from Ciopori’s breast and took a step back, still holding the princess firmly against him. He glanced across the room. “Tell your boys to stand down.”

“Boys?” Marquis hissed.

Zarek scraped a fang against the princess’s shoulder, drawing both blood and a whimper. “Now!”

Marquis held up his hand, signaling his warriors to back off. The fighting stopped abruptly as all eyes in the chamber remained fixed on their respective leaders.

Nachari, Marquis muttered, using their private family bandwidth just to be absolutely certain no Dark One could hear. Can you do what Salvatore did on the bed? Separate your body and your soul into two different places so that it appears as if you’re still standing where you are?

Nachari sounded uncertain. I don’t know, brother. I was able to unravel the spell he used, so I might be able to duplicate it, but even my training does not approach such power. Can you buy me some time?

Marquis grunted and turned to Zarek. “Salvatore is dying.” He gestured toward the bloodied, broken vampire on the floor. “He is too badly wounded to use his venom to regenerate.”

Zarek snorted and assessed his older brother. “Don’t play games with me, vampire. His heart and head are still intact. We can bring him back no matter how much blood he loses.”

Marquis smiled a wicked grin. “Perhaps, but you cannot take the princess’s life and save your brother faster than I can kill either him...or you.” He looked at the other Dark Ones, each soldier glaring at him from behind a set of soulless eyes. “Not even with your warriors.”

Julien, Ramsey, and Nachari remained as ready as ever.

Although they may have momentarily stood down, the heat in their eyes told him everything he needed to know: They were not only ready to react at the drop of a dime, but each male had already planned an offensive against their dark counterpart.

Zarek’s arm tightened around Ciopori’s waist, but he didn’t speak. He was obviously considering his options.

“Just how did you think this scenario was going to play out, Zarek?” Marquis pressed, refusing to give him a moment to regain his bearing. “Think about it: Whose life are you willing to relinquish today? Yours? Or Salvatore’s? Because there is simply no way you both walk out of here alive.”

Zarek exhaled a long, slow hiss, sounding more like a snake than a man. He nodded at one of the dark soldiers. “Go to Salvatore and give him your venom.”

The male hesitated, looking a little annoyed, like it either wasn’t his job or he didn’t care that much about the dying vampire. “He’s your brother. Why don’t—”

“Do not forget that he sits on the council!” Zarek snarled. “You would be wise to extend your service now...while you can.”

Marquis watched as the two males eyed each other with a bit of disdain. Interesting. The discord was certainly worth keeping in mind, but then again, it was to be expected. The Dark Ones were without souls or conscience; ultimately, their loyalty to each other was tied to family—blood—and an obvious adherence to hierarchy in order to survive as a group. As these males were clearly not family, hierarchy was Zarek’s only leverage.

And apparently it worked.

The male soldier reluctantly turned away from the visual stand-off and went to Salvatore’s side. Marquis adjusted his own body, careful to keep the soldier in front of him at all times, seething as he watched the male release his incisors and inject Salvatore’s wounds, one by one, with healing venom. The ancient sorcerer would regenerate quickly.

I’ve got it! Nachari exclaimed, careful to keep his gaze focused ahead. I cannot create two entities that are both solid enough to interact with matter, but I can leave the illusion of one body in one place, while using astral travel to go to another.

Marquis considered his brother’s words. Yes, but can you leave the ethereal body where you stand and take the corporeal body across the room?

Nachari sighed. That would be difficult. Why? Do you want me to try and take Zarek down while he still holds Ciopori? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be easier to just dematerialize?

Marquis grunted. No, that’s far too risky. Our dark brothers are as fast as we are. I was thinking about the crib.

Nachari scanned the room with his energy rather than his eyes, careful not to alert his enemy. Oh...wow.

Marquis nodded, faintly. There was a raised temperature in the crib, which meant there was an infant sleeping inside.

Nachari bristled. He bit his bottom lip so hard he drew blood, and his expression turned to stone.

Yes, Marquis thought, Nachari gets it now: The infant sleeping in the crib was the child sired by Valentine—with their brother’s wife, the child Valentine had raped Dalia, and ultimately killed Shelby, to father.

Nachari’s psychic voice betrayed his barely-restrained fury. I can maintain my image here for about two or three seconds after I dematerialize. By then, I will already have the infant in my arms.

Marquis looked over at Salvatore, who was already struggling to his feet. Do it!

Just as Nachari promised, he maintained a solid image beside his dark counterpart as his body dematerialized across the room. Before anyone could register his ruse, he reached into the crib, seized the baby, and locked his jaw around the infant’s neck, his four-hundred years of discipline the only thing keeping him from destroying the evil spawn right then and there.

The child squealed, and both Zarek and Salvatore spun around to face the crib. “Stop!” they cried in unison, the ancient sorcerer’s sudden vulnerability exposed in his faltering voice: “Nachari, stop!”

“Move and my brother will rip that little demon’s head off,” Marquis snarled.

Nachari hissed, fangs trembling, as he clearly fought the impulse to slay the child, holding it instead like a mother cat transporting a kitten.

Now standing fully upright, Salvatore held up his hands in a plea for caution. “Do not be impulsive, wizard. We may all leave this situation with what we desire, yet.”

Good. Marquis shifted his weight. The child meant as much as he believed he would. Marquis spun around in one fluid motion, struggling to restrain his own rage as his smoldering eyes met Salvatore’s once again. “Perhaps we make a trade then? The princess for the demon?”

“You touch him, and I will rip her heart out!” Zarek roared, unable to keep his cool. “Or worse!” He ripped at the thin material that was covering the princess from the waist down and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans with one hard tug. “How fast do you think I can enter her and release?” He laughed and glared at Marquis. “Will you be the one to put her down, warrior, when she’s pregnant?”

Marquis understood the threat for what it was: severe.

The sons of Jaegar were not given the four mercies allotted the sons of Jadon when the Blood Curse had been handed down so many centuries ago. The Dark Ones did not have destinies. They could not love or father children with eternal mates. And the women they did impregnate died a horrendous death in the process of giving birth. Pregnancy was a torturous death sentence.

Provoked by Zarek’s threat, Nachari grasped the baby’s ankle and twisted, leaving a broken foot hanging off the leg by a tendon. The child shrieked an ear-piercing howl that echoed throughout the room.

Zarek threw back his head and roared. He bit down hard against Ciopori’s shoulder, and the princess cried out in turn.

Nachari crushed the baby’s leg and snarled in response, his teeth bearing down hard against the kid’s throat. The situation was quickly escalating out of control, yet Marquis resisted the urge to censure his brother. He knew the standoff was necessary. Zarek had to understand: If he raped the princess, the child was as good as dead.

Nachari pushed the envelope a step further by biting down on the infant’s neck until he drew blood.

“Derrian!” Zarek shouted, kicking Ciopori’s legs apart with his knee.

Ciopori choked on her outrage. She was fighting to hold back tears.

“Enough!” Salvatore thundered, glaring at his little brother. “Button your pants!” He snapped his head to the side and glared at Nachari. “Relax on the baby’s neck, my friend. My brother is temperamental. Let’s not get hasty.”

Nachari relaxed his jaw but continued to glare at Zarek, the threat crystal-clear in his eyes.

Marquis looked at Salvatore then and an understanding passed between them.

Salvatore was not willing to trade Derrian’s life, not even for Ciopori. And Marquis would not risk the life of the princess he loved for a vengeance that could always come tomorrow.

“Can you control your males?” Marquis growled, needing to know what he was dealing with.

Salvatore sneered. “Of course. Can you?”

Marquis refused to dignify the question with an answer. Rather, he surveyed the room and rapidly weighed potential tactics: As it was, Zarek was positioned toward the door with Ciopori, whereas, the crib was toward the back of the lair to the right of the bed. “Move your males to the back of the room, but keep a safe distance from Nachari. I want their backs against the wall,” Marquis snorted. “And in return, I will move mine toward the door, but a safe distance away from Zarek.”

Salvatore surveyed the room, his eyes missing nothing. After a short pause, he nodded. “Do it.”

The three dark males slinked noiselessly to the back of the lair like a pride of angry lions, their tense muscles twitching in grudging retreat.

“Ramsey! Julien!” Marquis ordered.

The tracker and the sentinel took perches by the busted door, their hands still fingering their weapons.

Salvatore smiled then, a thinly veiled smirk of contempt. “Now, how shall we exchange our…loved ones?”

Marquis took a calming breath. He knew the moment they left the lair with Ciopori, all hell was going to break loose in the colony, so they not only had to make a clean exchange, but buy some time as well. As a warrior, there was nothing he wanted more than to go to his death slaughtering as many Dark Ones as he could, but that wasn’t his objective.

Ciopori’s safety was.

Salvatore shrugged his shoulders. “Surely you do not expect me to trust this wizard”—he gestured toward Nachari—“anymore than I can expect you to trust Zarek.”

“No,” Marquis grumbled. “Trust is not something the two of us share; however, strategy is another matter. As you must realize, we will require a head start to get Ciopori safely out of the colony. That means we cannot allow any of you to call directly for help—or to pursue us. In addition, we must have some assurance that Zarek will not renege on our agreement and hurt the princess during the exchange—”

“Nor will Nachari hurt my nephew!” Salvatore growled.

Marquis nodded impatiently, trying to contain his contempt. “I will have my warriors exit the lair before we make the exchange. This way, they pose you no threat. They will notify me when they are free of the colony so that I know they made it out safely—”

“There’s no way in hell we’re leaving you and Nachari in here,” Ramsey bit out, indignant.

Marquis waved his hand to silence the male. “You will do as you are ordered under my command.” Without pausing to look at the sentinel, he continued speaking to Salvatore: “This should be acceptable as you realize my objective is to get out safely with the princess, not to come back and fight with you and Zarek. This removes two threats to you and two concerns for me.”

Salvatore regarded him warily, and Marquis sighed. He looked at Ciopori and swallowed his pride, wondering if the princess had any idea how much he loved her. Did she have any idea what a sacrifice it was for a warrior to make such concessions? Under any other circumstances, he would have rather died here in the lair—and allowed his men to die as well—before submitting anything to the likes of Salvatore Nistor.

“Search my mind, Dark One,” Marquis bit out, “and know that I speak the truth.”

Salvatore’s shock was palpable, and Marquis winced as the evil sorcerer penetrated his psyche and stripped his thoughts.

“Satisfied?”

Salvatore grunted. “You may do the same.”

Marquis shook his head. Unbeknownst to the ancient son of Jaegar, he had already pierced his mind to read his intent. Despite all of Salvatore’s years of black magic, the fool was still no match for Marquis’s cunning...or skill. “No need. You will not let Derrian die.” He gestured his confidence with his hands. “I have seen your affection for your family.”

“Very well, then. What is your plan?”

Marquis studied the Dark One’s eyes. The whole scenario was killing him, too. “First, you will have your soldiers slash their wrists and bleed out to the point of weakness before sealing the wounds, so they pose no threat to me and Nachari. With all of our soldiers removed from the equation, you and I will take positions—at the same time—behind Nachari and Zarek, each of us behind our own brother.”

Salvatore made a tent with his hands, then linked his fingers, listening intently.

“I will then take the infant from Nachari,” Marquis continued, “and you will take Ciopori from Zarek so that the final exchange is left between us: cooler heads.”

You? Cooler than me? Nachari mocked. Dearest virgin goddess, you might be the best warrior here, but emotionally speaking—you are the least stable among us!

Be quiet, Nachari! Marquis warned, giving him a hard look of reprimand. He returned his gaze to Salvatore. “Then our brothers will step away.” His eyes swept over Nachari, gauging the wizard for signs of resistance—the potential for disobedience. He knew how badly Nachari wanted the infant dead, and what an affront submission was to any male in the house of Jadon. “Nachari will leave the colony and notify me when he is back on solid earth, just as Julien and Ramsey did ahead of him. He will pose no threat to you at the time of the exchange, and we will each have one less thing to worry about.”

Brother, please don’t ask such a thing, Nachari pleaded, all jest and humor gone from his psychic voice.

You know this is the only way, Nachari. I haven’t time to barter…consider it my Spoken Word.

Nachari briefly shut his eyes, and Marquis’s heart skipped a beat. Was he asking too much of the wizard? As Shelby’s twin, would Nachari at last choose to disobey a senior command? Great Perseus, Victorious Hero, Marquis prayed, you are the guardian of my brother’s soul. I beseech you: Make him compliant in this command. He turned his attention back to Salvatore and awaited an answer.

Salvatore frowned. “And with all your warriors and your brother gone, you would leave me and Zarek—alive and well—to pursue you and the princess the moment the exchange is made? Why is it I’m having trouble believing you, warrior?”

Marquis shook his head. “Because you haven’t let me finish.”

Salvatore bit his bottom lip. “By all means, continue.”

Marquis dug deep inside, searching for a calm he wasn’t sure he possessed. Gods, this was a bunch of horse shit. “Once Nachari is gone, Zarek will slice his carotid artery and bleed out”—he took a deep breath—“until he flat-lines.”

“Are you insane, son of Jadon!” Salvatore’s curses shook what remained of the chamber walls, and fire shot out from the tips of his fingers as he gestured wildly with his hands.

Marquis held steady. All lives depended on this barter. “How else do I insure our safe exit, Salvatore? Be reasonable. You know as well as I do that Zarek does not have the self-control to abide by our agreement, or to keep from coming after the princess the moment we walk out the door. And once you have your nephew, there will be no reason for either of you to honor our bargain.” He held up his hands. “Consider this: You have a two-minute window to bring Zarek back to life once his heart stops beating—all it requires is enough of your venom and a great deal of blood.” He raised his eyebrows. “You can hardly pursue us and save Zarek at the same time: I am quite certain that you will choose Zarek. Whereas, we will have two minutes to leave this colony.”

Salvatore snarled and began pacing in a tight circle, his breath wafting in and out in hard, angry pants. “And what if you don’t make the exchange, huh? Then what, warrior? What if you kill the child, instead, or try to take Zarek’s head while he is helpless? I cannot defend them both at the same time. What if you force me to choose between Derrian and Zarek’s life?”

Marquis shook his head. “There is still the matter of Ciopori, Dark One. Do you think I would go through all of this just to let her die at your hands in order to double-cross you? If I attack your nephew or your brother, I will lose the princess, and I will have to fight you to the death as well; of that, I am quite certain.” He waved his hand around the room. “However, should you choose to double-cross me—considering where we are—remaining behind without my warriors would be suicide. You are not the only one taking a risk, Salvatore. This is a reasonable solution to a difficult problem. Do not be foolish. We all wish to walk away alive.” He sighed. “Again, search my mind if you must, but let’s get on with it.”

Salvatore waved his arm through the air and growled a low, angry rumble. “Give me your word as a warrior—on the life of your king—you will not delay the exchange. The instant Zarek flat-lines, you will place Derrian safely in his crib and leave with the princess.”

“On the life of my king, I will.”

Salvatore pulled at his own hair, taking a large chunk out in sheer frustration, and then he spun around to square off with Marquis. “Know this, son of Jadon: If you fail to keep your promise, I will not allow you an easy death. You will be captured in this colony and restrained. And you will be forced to watch while every male in the house of Jaegar takes his turn with your princess. You will witness her death, birthing my offspring. Do I make myself clear?”

Marquis bit a literal hole through his tongue, meditated on the pain, and struggled to restrain himself. Salvatore Nistor was the walking dead. He had sealed his own coffin with that threat. Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Today, just get the princess out of here. With a strength he didn’t know he had, he growled the word yes.

“Very well then,” Salvatore spat. “Send your warriors away, and let’s do this. My nephew is injured.” He turned to face the three blistering Dark Ones. They were leaning against the wall, their harsh faces contorted with disgust. “Slit your wrists, brothers. And don’t seal the wounds until I tell you to.”

The males eyed one another warily, and then glared at their councilman with stunned fury.

“Do it!” Salvatore barked. “And don’t bleed all over my bed.”

Incredulous, the closest male removed a dagger from the back of his jeans and sliced his wrist all the way to the bone, glowering at Salvatore as the blood shot forth. The remaining two released their canines and tore the veins open with their teeth.

As they sank down to the floor, arms rested against bent knees, the blood began to pool, and Marquis became deathly quiet: He would not trust Salvatore to make such an important determination. Summoning his extra-sensory hearing, he monitored each soldier’s heartbeats as his blood pressure fell.

He then turned to Julien and Ramsey. “Go swiftly, my friends. And transmit to me the moment you are back above ground.”

As Julien and Ramsey turned to leave, Marquis addressed them privately, telepathically: And call Napolean at once. Alert him to our position. Explain what is happening. Tell him to prepare an ambush!

The sentinel cleared his throat. The tracker nodded almost imperceptibly.

And then they sauntered out of the room.

seventeen

“You know this is not over, this thing between you and me,” Salvatore snarled in Ciopori’s ear, a deep threat reverberating in his voice. He nodded at Zarek. “Release her and take your place across the room so the wizard can walk out unscathed.”

Zarek’s eyes were two gleaming balls of hatred as they bore into Salvatore’s, his entire body trembling with contempt. “You risk my life for this worthless son of Jadon?”

Salvatore reached out and cuffed him, knocking his head so far to the side that his neck popped before snapping back in place, and then he grasped a fistful of Zarek’s black and red hair. “Do not speak to me of the choice I’ve been forced to make when Valentine has already perished at this warrior’s hands. Should you and Derrian fall this day, I would gladly follow you into the Corridor of the Dead: How can you doubt my loyalty?”

Zarek wrenched his hair free and stalked across the room, still seething. “You are not the one about to die on the floor!”

Salvatore’s claws bit into Ciopori’s waist, and she fought not to cry out. The last thing she needed was Marquis losing his cool and having to fight the entire colony because he went after Salvatore without any back-up.

“See what you’ve caused,” Salvatore hissed.

Ciopori didn’t respond. She simply watched Marquis and Nachari exchange the baby—the evil little fiend—and held her breath as Nachari left the lair, slowly walking backward, his eyes never leaving Zarek or Salvatore.

The minutes seemed like hours as they waited quietly for word from Nachari that he had made it out of the colony safely. Dear gods, what if something went wrong? Ciopori quickly pushed the thought from her mind. No. Nothing would go wrong. The plan had to work.

Aware that she was wearing what amounted to no more than the remaining lace of a camisole and panties—thanks to Zarek’s obscene display earlier—she shivered, keeping a straight face as the enormous erection behind her jerked repeatedly against her lower back. This was definitely not the thing to bring to Marquis’s attention, and vomiting wasn’t a much better idea. She swallowed her bile and squared her chin. She could endure the foul being for a little longer. Mother of Aries, where was Nachari?

When it seemed like time had literally stood still, and both males had become dangerously antsy, Marquis finally waved his hand at Salvatore. “He is back in the valley.”

“Show me,” Salvatore spat.

Marquis must have projected a powerful image into the Dark One’s mind because Ciopori felt Salvatore tense and then relax behind her as a sudden surge of energy flowed through him. His gaze turned back to Zarek. “You know what must be done, my brother. Do not waste time. Let us get this over with.”

Zarek crouched down like a wounded animal, and his eyes shot back and forth between Marquis—whose fangs were scraping softly against the infant’s neck in lethal warning—and Salvatore, who now had Ciopori’s neck in both of his powerful hands, ready to snap it at a moment’s notice.

“Easy, Zarek,” Salvatore warned, indicating the baby with a nod. “He is all we have left of our brother.”

Marquis visibly bristled, and Ciopori’s heart ached for him. He had nothing left of his brother Shelby, and now, he would be forced to release the child, born of Dalia’s rape, to the rapist’s brother. Her soul wept knowing that he did it for her.

“Zarek,” Salvatore repeated, his stare fixed on the anxious vampire. “Just do it.”

Zarek took a deep breath. He reached behind his back and drew a long silver stiletto, with crossbones engraved in the pommel. He placed the tip against his carotid artery and hastily slit his own throat, his eyes never leaving his brother’s.

As the blood began to spurt out, he staggered backward, bent over, and braced his hands against his knees, remaining in that position until at last he began to choke on his own blood. With one final impassioned plea from his eyes, he toppled over onto the floor and sank into the crimson puddle.

Ciopori glanced back at Salvatore as he became eerily still. His heart raced beneath his massive chest, and his eyes remained glued like two hot coals on the crimson pool of blood expanding beneath his brother’s unconscious body. “That is close enough,” he snarled at Marquis, pressing a sharp claw against Ciopori’s own artery.

Marquis didn’t flinch as he shook his head. “Flat-lined, Salvatore. Deceased. That was our agreement.”

Salvatore began to sweat as both warriors waited, listening for the sound of silence. The complete absence of a heart-beat.

And then just like that, it happened.

Zarek died.

Salvatore spun to face Marquis, his heart pounding so furiously Ciopori could see the rise and fall of his chest. “Put Derrian in the crib, take your witch, and go!” He was shouting, his voice frantic. “Now!”

Marquis did not waste time. “Step away from Ciopori, and I will place Derrian in the crib.”

Salvatore looked like a crazed madman as he sidestepped a yard to the right of the princess, finally releasing her neck.

Marquis nodded and placed the baby in the crib. “Go to your brother, and we will take our leave.”

Salvatore started to rush to Zarek’s side but apparently thought better of it. Turning to face the warrior, he slowly stepped backward, circling in the opposite direction of Marquis as the son of Jadon approached Ciopori.

At last, he was at her side.

Marquis reached out and clutched her to him like she was the last remaining soul on earth. His arms trembled as he cradled her against his chest, his hands sweeping over her body all the while to check for broken bones and injuries. As she allowed herself to go limp in his arms, tears began to stream down her face for the first time. She couldn’t believe he was there, holding her…that he had actually come for her.

Marquis nestled his head in the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply. “Oh, my love, I thought I had lost you.”

She fisted his thick, silky hair and drew him even closer, afraid to let go.

“What the hell did he do to you?” His hand swept over one of the bite marks on her stomach.

“Nothing, my love.” She stroked his cheek. “Nothing I couldn’t withstand. I’m fine. Believe me.”

Marquis growled deep in his throat, his canines emerging even longer. “It doesn’t look like nothing.” He steadied his voice. “Did he…did Salvatore—”

“No!” Ciopori insisted, pulling away from him in order to look him in the eyes. She cupped his face in her hands. “Look at me, Marquis!”

His eyes bored into hers.

“No.”

Breath he didn’t seem to know he was holding released from his body, and he pulled her, again, to his chest. “I swear to you on my honor, I’m going to rip his bowels from his body. He will die for this insult.”

Ciopori raised her chin. “Do not lose your focus, warrior. I am counting on you to get me out of here. Understood?”

Marquis closed his eyes momentarily, and then a pair of snarls passed between him and Salvatore as he hastily led Ciopori to the busted door, carrying her over the threshold to prevent her from cutting her feet on the rubble.

Thank the gods, she murmured to herself.

She was finally leaving the lair.

She was just about to lay her head on his chest when she heard a loud, explosive boom, the sound of Marquis punching a hole in the cavern wall, his fist penetrating at least twelve inches deep.

“What is it, warrior?” she asked, taken aback. The limestone exploded, sending bits of stone flying in every direction.

Marquis pointed back to the lair.

Salvatore had retrieved Derrian, draaged Zarek to the bed, and pulled a small brass lever on the headboard, causing a solid diamond enclosure to descend from the ceiling, fully encasing the three of them. It was the vampire equivalent of a safe room: a diamond fortress that could not be breached.

“We can’t touch him now!” Marquis spat. He cursed in an unrecognizable language.

“We?” Ciopori asked.

Before Marquis could answer, the sovereign lord of the house of Jadon approached from the end of the hall: There were three warriors flanking him, two at his sides, and one at his back. Ciopori instinctively drew into herself, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She was acutely aware of her miniscule clothing.

Marquis shook his head with disgust as he met Napolean’s gaze. “Don’t bother,” he snarled. “Salvatore has managed to place himself and his family inside a diamond cell. We don’t have time to deconstruct it.”

Napolean’s eyes flashed deep amber, but he showed no further emotion. “Very well.” He gave a hand signal to his men.

As the males fell into formation, a shrill alarm began to ring overhead; the entire colony filled with a painful, pulsating drone.

Marquis clutched Ciopori by the arm. “Son of a bitch! He already set off the alarms.”

Napolean remained calm, motioning the males in front of him. “Move out quickly.”

“Milord?” A perilous-looking male, with eyes much like Marquis’s, glanced inquisitively at the king. “You wish to take the rear? Forgive me, but your life is far too important. Please, allow me in your—”

“Move out, Nathaniel!” Napolean ordered. “Santos, you take the lead. Marquis, you keep the princess in the middle. Saxson, you get Marquis’s back. I will take the rear.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before the king growled low in his throat. “I said move out!”

The warriors sped through the underground tunnels like comets racing through a night sky. They were headed in the direction of the eastern-most elevators, the ones that would take them to the surface, when all of a sudden they heard a loud whooshing drone behind them, like an enormous body of water rushing toward them.

“What is that?” Santos eyed Marquis nervously. “You think they’re gonna try to flood us out?”

Marquis frowned and began searching the tunnel for signs of an indoor irrigation system. Gods, he hoped not. Vampires could slow down their breathing, even hold their breath for long periods of time if necessary, but Ciopori would drown under such an assault. He carefully assessed the limestone wall, analyzing how long it would take him if he had to barrel through it, using only his body as a rotary to dig their way to the surface.

As the men slowed down, each one evaluating the danger, Napolean shouted from the end of the line. “It’s not water! It’s an army.”

Marquis spun around, mystified: The Dark Ones were flying through the tunnels at such enormous speeds that their collective wings gave off the sound of rushing water. And holy hell, if they didn’t look like an approaching swarm of black and red locusts. Hate-filled, glowing eyes pierced through the darkness even as wild banded hair flapped in the furious wind.

Marquis released Ciopori. He shoved her toward the nearest warrior and withdrew his nine-millimeter. “Santos, take the princess and go!” The remaining warriors would just have to do their best to buy the princess and Santos time.

They could shoot at the eyes of their enemies to slow them down, but they would eventually have to engage in hand-to-hand combat if they wanted to give the two any real chance of escape.

Saxson pulled out an AK-47, and Nathaniel reached for a pair of grenades. “We’re with you, brother.” His eyes lit up with harnessed fire.

Napolean held up his hand, a commanding gesture. “Do not fight! Get to sunlight!” He eyed Marquis intently. “You take the princess out of here, warrior.”

Marquis shook his head. “I am the oldest, most experienced fighter here, Napolean. You know I will not leave you.”

Nathaniel snarled, “Each warrior here is worth a hundred Dark Ones. Not to impugn, milord, but we will stand with you.” His blue-black hair fell forward, partially concealing his glowing eyes. Death radiated around him. A red haze of intensity framed his face, giving him the ominous appearance of a dark angel.

Napolean held out his arms and threw back his head, his own feral eyes ablaze with fury. His body trembled as it rose off the ground, and then he began to glow, his surrounding orbit emanating such intense heat that the limestone around them began to melt.

The warriors stepped back, retreating with caution, as their Sovereign’s head pivoted to the side, and his ghostly black-and-silver hair caught fire.

The male was a blazing inferno, yet he neither smoldered nor burned.

A hint of madness filled his dark eyes as unchecked rage dilated his pupils. “There are thousands coming.” His voice echoed through the hall like thunder, sparks ricocheting off the walls as the space around him vibrated with electricity. “You will go into the sun, as I command, my warriors”—his fangs descended beyond his jaw, casting the startling appearance of a saber-toothed tiger—“and then I shall command the sun to come to me. Now go!”

Marquis cleared his throat and glanced at Nathaniel. Holy hell.

Nathaniel whistled low beneath his breath as a swarm of males approached less than fifty-feet away. Time to go.

Marquis reached out for Ciopori, held her tight to his chest, and released his own magnificent wings. The rest of the males were already soaring furiously through the hall, rapidly approaching warp speed. As he turned back one last time to view their Sovereign, his mouth fell open in awe.

Napolean had indeed harnessed the sun.

In fact, for all intents and purposes, Napolean Mondragon had become the sun.

The ancient vampire was a luminous ball of fire, his aura so intense it hurt Marquis’s eyes to gaze directly at him.

Glowing beams of orange and blue light shot out like missiles from every cell of the ancient’s body as he hurled UV radiation in circular waves, slinging death from a nuclear hand.

The hallway filled with howls of agony.

The air grew dense with the odor of burning flesh.

The rushing sound of water had all but vanished as no one else dared to approach the burning mass of fire that was Napolean Mondragon—the awesome king of the house of Jadon.

All those who had dared to enter the tunnel were now making their way through the Corridor of the Dead.

Marquis stood breathless.

Transfixed.

Unable to take his eyes off the king.

Although the two of them had been in many battles together, throughout the ages—and the ancient lord’s prowess in war was legendary—Marquis had never seen anything like what he gazed upon now. And he knew, instinctively, there would be a heavy price to pay: Such a huge conversion of energy would surely make Napolean sick, and if he didn’t stop soon, he would die.

Marquis bowed his head in reverence, stamping the vision of the magnificent king into his memory. As he turned away, he covered Ciopori’s eyes. “Do not look back, angel. You will most certainly go blind.”

eighteen

Marquis stood in silence as Ciopori entered Napolean’s kitchen. His breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped a beat.

Upon returning from Salvatore’s lair, the princess had excused herself to shower. She had been exhausted and shaken up, desperate to scrub the filth of both Salvatore and Zarek from her body. It had been just as well. Marquis had needed a moment to collect his thoughts.

Now, staring at the regal female before him, he was at a complete loss for words.

She seemed to understand.

Her damp, raven locks fell about her shoulders like a cascading waterfall, and though her golden eyes were sad, she managed a faint smile. “You waited for me?”

Marquis cleared his throat. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” She wrung her hands together nervously and took a step in his direction, careful to keep a respectful distance between them. “So, have you seen Kristina yet?”

Marquis looked away. “Ciopori, don’t.”

She shrugged and threaded her fingers together. “All right, warrior. I was just trying—”

“Come here.” He reached out and pulled her to him, wrapping his heavy arms around her slender frame, careful not to crush her. “Tell me what happened to you, Ciopori. Please.”

She buried her head in his chest. “You don’t want to know, Marquis. Honestly, you don’t.”

“I need to know,” he whispered. “Napolean needs to know—in case there’s something that needs to be done for you.”

Ciopori sighed and took his hands in hers. “Then take the information from my mind, Marquis, because I don’t care to remember it all right now.”

Marquis closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. He held his breath as the images flooded his mind: Salvatore snatching her from the forest; cruel, insidious torture in the chamber of snakes; the precise moment Marquis had come into Salvatore’s lair to free her…

“Gods,” he whispered, trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

She stepped back then. “No, I’m the one who chose to take a stroll through the forest at three-o’clock in the morning. It was careless, and I am so grateful you came for me.”

Marquis shook his head. “In all my centuries of living, I have never been so frightened.” She regarded him with compassion and he felt his stomach turn over with pain…and desire.

With longing.

The amber sparkles in her bright eyes warmed him like rays of sunlight, slicing through the pain of such a long, tedious existence, wrenching his thoughts from the future that awaited him, anchoring him to the moment. Gods forgive him; he couldn’t help but replay their time together in Kagen’s study, the feel of her soft skin beneath his hands, the sound of her heated voice when she cried out in ecstasy, the touch of her—

“Marquis…” Seeming to sense his thoughts, she leaned into him and rose to the tips of her toes. Her beautiful lips parted ever so slightly to receive his kiss…and she waited.

Marquis shuddered.

He bent down, grasped her face in his hands, and lingered—his mouth just a breath away from her own—and then he turned his head to the side and gently kissed her on the cheek.

Crushed, she exhaled slowly and turned away. “I’m sorry.”

Marquis wanted to punch a hole in the wall as the frustration burned inside him—the injustice of it all—but he struggled, instead, to remain calm. “No, Ciopori. Don’t ever be sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

Ciopori swallowed and took a step back, wringing her delicate hands together once again. “You’re right. I know…it’s not like anything has changed.” She hesitated then. “Has it?”

Marquis hung his head. “Who can undo what the gods have done?”

Ciopori nodded and ambled across the kitchen to absently pour a cup of tea from a brass kettle on the stove. “Indeed.”

Uncomfortable silence settled around them as each waited for the other to say something—anything—that might make the insufferable tolerable. Neither could bear to leave the other’s side, yet they both knew they couldn’t be together.

“Vanya was very happy to see Napolean return,” Ciopori finally said in a clumsy attempt to change the subject. “Even though he was very weak and in need of blood.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I mean Vanya was very happy to see Napolean return.”

Marquis raised his eyebrows. “Napolean?”

“He is a male, is he not?” Ciopori managed a faint laugh.

Marquis shook his head. “After what I saw earlier, I’m not sure what he is.” He hoped their leader would not make the same mistake he had—falling in love with a woman who was not his destiny. The consequence was sheer agony.

Ciopori set her mug down on the counter. “Truly, that was the most terrifying yet spectacular thing I have ever seen: Napolean, I mean.”

Despite his good intentions, Marquis growled low in his throat, his territorial instincts getting the best of him.

Ciopori rolled her eyes. “It is good to know that at least you still care, warrior.”

Marquis felt utterly powerless. “Ciopori...I will always care.”

She nodded and began to fiddle with a stack of silk napkins, carefully unfolding and refolding each one before replacing them in their stainless-steel holder. She held one up in her hand. “Funny, isn’t it? How a male that doesn’t eat keeps so many unnecessary things around.”

Marquis walked over to her side, removed the cloth from her delicate fingers, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He bent to her ear. “You will always be the only woman I love. Never forget that. Never.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away. “I know I should feel guilty, Marquis, especially now that you are married—”

“Mated.”

She sighed. “Now that you are mated, yet even knowing…I pray that your words of love are true. And my heart breaks to know that there will come a day when you will also…love your wife.”

“My destiny.”

“Oh hell, Marquis!” Ciopori spun back around to face him. “Who cares what you call her. She’s yours. And I’m not!”

Marquis leaned forward then. He placed both hands palms-down on the counter and stared out the window. What more was there to say? “I will stay away from you, Princess...I promise.”

Much to his surprise, Ciopori punched him in the arm. “Is that what you think I want?”

He shrugged. Gods, what more could he do? Did she desire to watch him bleed before her?

“And how will that make things better, warrior?” she continued. “To never see your eyes again? To never hear your laughter…well, your piteous attempts at laughter.” She smiled despite herself, yet the warmth never reached her eyes. “I don’t know which would be worse: seeing you, while knowing I could never have you, or trying to exist in a world without you.”

“I understand.” His words were a mere whisper.

“No,” she argued, “I really don’t think you do. My heart is sick, Marquis. It’s breaking. And for the life of me, I can’t understand it.” She paled. “Yes, I realize that you were the one that was there with me all those years, all those long centuries, lying in the ground, waiting for a brother that was never coming to awaken me—all those years when your voice was the only sound I heard, your face the only escape I had...in my dreams.” She sat down on a high bar-stool and stared at him with such deep sorrow in her eyes he feared his heart would break in two. “But this”—she placed both hands over her heart—“this is something else entirely. It is almost as if I can’t breathe without you, Marquis.” She looked away. “Almost as if I don’t want to.”

Marquis stared at the inconsolable woman before him, wishing he had a gift for words. Hell, wishing he knew how to speak to a female at all. He understood her pain. More than she knew. But, unlike her, he hadn’t spent the last fifteen centuries asleep in the ground with only dreams to sustain him. He had spent the last fifteen-hundred years living what had been a hard life, fighting in countless wars, killing, and feeding, and protecting his brothers…watching his parents die. He had spent the last fifteen-hundred years waiting on a destiny that never came—and learning how to harden his heart.

Marquis had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of shutting down all but the breath that sustained him. “You will not die, Ciopori.” It was all he could think to say.

Ciopori cupped her hands over her face and said nothing.

“Brother.” A deep, rich voice reverberated from the kitchen entrance. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Marquis turned to find Kagen standing beneath the arched door-frame. He was glancing back and forth between him and the princess, trying to hide his concern.

“Can this wait, brother?” Marquis asked.

Ciopori blinked and brushed away her tears, plainly embarrassed.

Kagen regarded the princess with a kind glance, his eyes soft with compassion, and then he quickly looked away out of respect. He cleared his throat. “No, Marquis, I’m afraid it can’t.”

Marquis turned to face his brother squarely, switching to telepathic communication. It has been a trying day, healer. I will seek you out when I am finished here.

I’m afraid it really can’t wait, Kagen insisted, the silver centers of his dark brown eyes deepening with intensity.

“What is so important?” Marquis demanded, forgetting to speak privately.

Kagen indicated Ciopori with a nod, looked back at Marquis, and then shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“Well?” Marquis prodded.

Kagen sighed in frustration. “It’s Kristina.”

Marquis frowned. “What about her?”

Kagen hesitated for a moment. “She’s very ill.”

“Ill? What do you mean, ill?” Marquis had already converted Kristina to their species, and vampires simply did not get sick.

“This morning, right after you departed with the other warriors, she retreated to one of Napolean’s guest rooms.” He paused, seeming uncertain as to how much to say in front of the princess.

“Go on,” Marquis prodded.

“At first, I thought she just needed some time alone. You know, considering the nature of your mission.”

Ciopori glanced down at the floor. Her tousled hair fell forward, intentionally shielding her face from Kagen’s view.

Kagen frowned. “But when I went to check on her, she had a fever—”

“A fever?”

Kagen nodded. “Yes, brother. And as the day progressed, she began having severe muscle pains and cramps, weakness and nausea. It almost appears as if—”

Marquis held up his hand to stay his brother’s words. Despite the situation with Ciopori, he felt like a complete jerk for not checking on his destiny the moment he arrived at the mansion. Like it or not, she was his first responsibility now. “Where is she?” he asked hastily. The concern in his voice was genuine, and Ciopori lifted her head to regard them both. Her face was stricken with grief, though she tried desperately to hide it.

Kagen sighed. “Last door on the left. Front hall.” He turned his attention to Ciopori. “I’m…sorry.”

Marquis waved a dismissive hand. Whatever was happening between him and the princess was a private matter. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Kagen. I will attend to her shortly.”

Clearly in a hurry to leave, Kagen declined his head and instantly dematerialized.

Regretting what he was about to say, Marquis turned to Ciopori. “Princess—”

“Don’t.” She held up her hand and nodded, a tear of sorrow escaping her eye. “I know...but I’d rather not hear you say it.”

Marquis couldn’t help himself. He came around the counter, lifted her from the barstool, and gathered her in his arms. “Gods forgive me; I have so much to atone for.”

“No,” Ciopori insisted. She shoved against his chest to gain her freedom but refused to back away. “You cannot help what you feel for me, and still, you remain a male of honor.” The resignation was plain in her eyes. “Marquis, we both know you must do what is right. Go to your mate, warrior…where you belong.”

Marquis held her gaze, wishing he could stay there forever, wishing the two of them could just disappear, but he did not challenge her words. “You will always be in my heart—”

“No.” Ciopori pressed her fingers to his mouth. “Words have far too much power, Marquis. Do not damn your future with Kristina, not for me. You must find a way to love her. And I must find a way to move on.”

As true as they might be, her words cut him like a knife.

She forced a smile. “In spite of everything, I do want you to be happy, Marquis. Please, if you can do nothing else for me, at least be happy.”

Marquis allowed himself one last indulgence as his head fell forward and he nuzzled her neck. He reveled in the feel of her thick, silky hair and deeply inhaled her scent, hoping to store it in his memory until the end of time. And then, drawing on every ounce of strength he possessed, he stepped away. “And I pray for your happiness as well.”

Ciopori caught at the edge of the counter as if it were all that was holding her up; she was trying so desperately to be brave. When Marquis reached out to steady her, she drew away. “Go, Marquis. This has to end now. Just go.”

Marquis turned and left the kitchen, refusing to look back.

With the quiet resolve of an ancient warrior, he forced his thoughts to the back of his mind, buried his emotions behind an iron wall, and closed the door to his heart.

Propelled by duty alone, his feet carried him through the mansion toward the guest bedroom.

Where his destiny was waiting.

nineteen

Marquis threw open the heavy bedroom door. His eyes immediately searched out Kristina, and what he saw sickened his stomach. The pint-size female was lying on the enormous cherry-wood bed, doubled over into a fetal position. Her wild, curly hair was damp with perspiration. Her body trembled with fever.

“Dear gods,” Marquis exclaimed, rushing to the bed.

Kagen glanced up from Kristina’s side and nodded his greeting. He leaned over the frail wisp of a female and began taking her blood pressure. “She’s getting worse.”

Marquis blanched. Instinctively, his hand went to her forehead, and he pulled it away when it burned his skin. “She’s burning up. Kagen, what is this?”

Kagen smiled warmly at the quivering female and whispered in her ear. “We’ll be right back.” He gestured at Marquis and walked over to the window.

“Is she dying?” Marquis’s voice revealed his alarm.

“Yes and no,” Kagen answered.

His temper flared. “Yes and no? What the hell is that supposed—”

“If you don’t take care of her immediately, she will die. But if you see to her needs, she will be just fine.”

Marquis’s lips drew back in a snarl. “I’m not a healer, brother. Speak plainly.”

“She needs to feed, Marquis. And right away.”

Marquis took an inadvertent step back. “Feed? Are you kidding me?” He glanced at Kristina, suddenly recognizing all of the signs of his species’ severe hunger, but still not understanding: Newly converted destinies did not have to feed for at least six months following their conversions. Even then, the female would have to endure months of neglect to become this ill. “How is this possible?” he asked.

Kagen looked down, his eyes solemn. “Normally, that is true, but Kristina wasn’t well when you converted her.”

Marquis slumped against the wall, a sudden wave of guilt washing over him. “What do you mean, she wasn’t well?”

Kagen placed his hand on Marquis’s forearm and gave him a firm grasp before releasing it. “Do not take it so hard, brother. I didn’t catch it either—that day at the clinic. And I was her doctor.”

Marquis snarled, “Enough of the riddles! Tell me what is wrong with her, Kagen!”

Kagen squared his chin and raised his shoulders in a cocky shrug as if to point out that Marquis’s words were water rolling off his back. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and waited patiently…for Marquis to show some respect.

Marquis appraised his little brother then. The healer had always been the epitome of kindness and good manners—until he wasn’t. And now was not the time to rub him the wrong way. With everything that had gone on that day, Marquis was in no mood for a heated brotherly argument. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he would throw the arrogant ass right out the stained-glass window if Kagen pushed him too far. And then Kagen would turn into Mr. Hyde.

And then...

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “What happened during the conversion, Kagen?”

Kagen crossed his arms over his chest leisurely, a point of emphasis that he would not be intimidated. “When Dirk...hurt her...he caused several internal injuries that I didn’t catch in my exam. She was bleeding internally the entire day.”

Marquis stepped back. “Good gods. And I converted her in that state?” He glanced at the bed, feeling deep regret for the first time over how he had turned her.

Kagen’s eyes grew serious. “You saved her life, actually.” He stared at his brother, refusing to blink. “Marquis, if you had waited to convert her, she would’ve died from her internal injuries, perhaps the same night.”

A deep, feral growl escaped Marquis’s throat. If he could raise the dead he would bring Dirk back just to kill him again.

“Your venom has been sustaining her,” Kagen continued, “and she did convert successfully, but she needs to feed right away. At least a couple of pints.”

Wonderful, Marquis thought. She’s going to love that.

Marquis nodded and visually assessed the tiny, suffering female in the too-large bed. “Leave now, Kagen.”

Kagen smirked. “You’re welcome, brother.” He ambled over to the bed, retrieved his bag, and headed toward the door. “Marquis,” he whispered on his way out, “all pettiness aside, do not forget your life is tied to hers.” He smoothed his hair away from his eyes. “Please, don’t wait.”

Marquis nodded. While his own life didn’t seem all that important right now, there was absolutely no way he was going to let this female—his female—die as a result of being claimed by him. “Do I have time to take her home?”

“Honestly?” Kagen stared at Kristina for an intense moment and then turned back to Marquis. “No.”

He turned and left the room.

Marquis approached the bed slowly, understanding just how much the sickly woman hated and feared him. “How are you feeling, Kristina?” His voice was deliberately matter-of-fact.

“I think I’m dying,” she muttered. Her deep blue eyes fluttered upward, and she shivered. “Good thing for you, huh?”

Marquis frowned. “Kristina, this is no time to amuse yourself. Did Kagen explain to you what was wrong?”

Kristina doubled over in pain and grimaced. “Sort of. He said I need to feed, but I can’t eat anything. I swear; I’d just throw up if I tried.”

Marquis placed his hand on her shoulder and gently rubbed the back of her neck. “You are no longer human, Kristina. While you can eat food if you wish, your body does not require it anymore. You do not need to eat. You need to feed.”

“Feed? What the heck does that mean?” Her voice held a hint of fear in it.

“It means—”

“You mean blood? Drink blood? Oh, hell no, Marquis. No! I can’t.”

“You can,” Marquis argued, “and you must.”

Kristina sat up; her body rocked with spasms at the sudden movement. She clenched her stomach as she shook her head adamantly. “Are you crazy? What am I supposed to do? Go hunt like some little vampire warrior or something? Have you seen me, Marquis? I’m not big enough to kill anything. And I couldn’t even if I was.” She ducked her head under the pillow. “No!” The sound was muffled.

Marquis almost smiled. Almost. “Kristina, you are a vampire now, but our females do not hunt. And you’re right, you couldn’t kill a fly… Unless—”

He stopped himself.

“Unless what?” she demanded, lifting the pillow.

He offered a lopsided smile. “Unless you did it with your mouth.”

Kristina glared at him. “To hell with you, vampire! I bet I could bite you if you made me mad enough, you jackass.”

Marquis smiled broadly then. “Now that’s the Kristina Riley I know. And that is precisely what I am going to let you do.”

Kristina positively recoiled, jerking away so violently she slammed her head into the headboard. “Ouch!” She sneered at him. “Are you insane?”

Marquis took a slow, deep breath. “Kristina, this is no joking matter.”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“You’re dying.”

Now that got her attention.

“I’m dying? Just because I’m not out murdering humans and sucking their blood?”

Marquis frowned. “I repeat, our females do not hunt, nor do we expect them to murder humans. You are dying because Dirk hurt you far worse than we realized, and for that, I apologize. We should have caught your injuries sooner.”

Kristina’s eyes flashed with anger. “Kind of hard to do with those saber-tooth fangs lodged in my throat, huh?”

Marquis didn’t blink. “I am not proud of my behavior, Kristina, although it did ultimately save your life. But think of it this way: This is your chance for revenge.” He knew he would have sounded more convincing if he could have smiled—or even put an air of teasing into his voice—but Marquis Silivasi just didn’t do lighthearted. And he was hardly going to pick up the nuances of humor now.

The two of them sat in utter silence for an interminable amount of time before Kristina finally looked up at him beneath slightly hooded—and extremely frightened—eyes. “Marquis,” she whispered in a tone that sounded far too much like defeat, “I can’t. I mean...I really can’t.”

Marquis took her hand in his and forced himself to hold on solidly. “Kristina, you must. You know I will not allow you to die.”

Kristina shook her head and rolled her eyes. “No, I mean, I can’t. Let’s say, even if I wanted to drink someone’s blood, which I don’t, then no offense, but it probably wouldn’t be yours. And even if there was someone else more my type—like really young and sexy—like maybe Nachari or something…I still wouldn’t know how. I can’t.”

Marquis blinked several times, trying to process that his destiny had just referred to his little brother as young and sexy. And preferable to him. Despite his utter lack of affection for the female, his haunches stood up, and a deep, territorial growl rumbled in his throat. “Be careful, floricica mea. I will not have you speak that way of other males, especially not my own brother.”

Kristina rolled her eyes again. “Oh yeah, ’cause that would be like...rude or something...as opposed to pawning your mate off on your brother, the doctor, in order to run off and save the woman you really love? And then not even coming to check on her when you get back. Yeah, Marquis, I’ll have to keep that in mind. Whatever!”

Marquis blanched.

Kristina held his gaze. “I might not be all educated or anything, but I’m not stupid either, boss.”

Marquis frowned then. “I never said you were. Then again, I’m not the one who just referred to a five-hundred-year-old male as young.”

“And sexy,” Kristina added, sneering.

Marquis’s lips twitched, but he held back his fangs.

Kristina crossed her arms over her laboring chest. “That really does irritate you, doesn’t it?” She laughed between coughs. “I will have to keep that in mind.” And then, once again, she doubled over in pain.

Marquis scowled. “Kristina, look at you. You need to feed.” He reached out and stroked her arm. “As in right now.”

She shook her head again, all at once becoming frightened. “I can’t! Besides, I don’t even know how.”

Marquis leaned forward and caught her face in his hands. “You do know how.”

She glared at him then, her blue eyes boring an are-you-really-that-stupid look into his, and then she turned away. “As if.”

Marquis cleared his throat. “When you were born—as a human—you went from an environment where you did not breathe oxygen to one that immediately required it, yet no one taught you how to breathe. You simply opened your mouth and began to take in air. So it is with your rebirth as a vampire. Feeding is essential to life. You need not be taught. Trust me, Kristina, the moment you smell my blood, you will know how to feed.”

Kristina winced. “That is so gross, Marquis. You have no idea how gross that is.” She started to make a face but was racked by a series of painful cramps.

“Enough!” Marquis took her by the hand. He brushed his hair to the side and pulled her forward. “Come to me, Kristina. Take what you need.”

Weighing less than one-hundred ten pounds, Kristina flew effortlessly into Marquis’s arms. Her head fell into the hollow between his shoulder and neck, and she began to cry. “I can’t.” She pushed at his chest like a distressed child, desperate to be free of his restraining arms.

Marquis exhaled. “Kristina...”

She shook her head and wiped her nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Wait! Don’t force me!” She struggled to catch her breath. “If you’re going to make me do this, then at least let me...do your wrist. Your neck is way too...eww. No offense.”

Marquis shut his eyes and cursed beneath his breath. “None taken, but Kristina, my wrist won’t be enough for you. Your need is too great.”

It was then that she truly started to panic.

She swung at him wildly, breaking his grasp in surprise, and then she jumped from the bed in a desperate attempt to flee from the room.

Marquis rose fluidly, heading her off before she could reach the door. He lifted her like a sack of weightless potatoes and carried her back to the bed. She punched and kicked the entire way.

“Stop, Kristina. Stop!” He restrained her arms to keep her from hurting herself.

“No!” she cried, hysterical.

“Kristina!”

“I won’t eat your neck,” she squealed, continuing to struggle.

“Feed from my neck, Kristina. And fine, we will try it your way.”

Her arms stopped flailing, and she caught her breath. “You will?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Don’t restrain me,” she bit out, suddenly racked by a fit of coughs.

He smoothed her hair back with his hand as gently as possible. “No restraint—I’m just going to move you, okay?”

She eyed him warily, and then she slowly nodded, relaxing.

Marquis moved cautiously, cradling her in his lap like an infant. As her head fell back against his huge bicep, he extended his fangs, tore open a gash in his wrist, and placed the wound to her mouth. “Drink, Kristina,” he whispered, “take what you need.”

Kristina blanched and reflexively turned away…until the scent of his blood drew her back like a moth to a flame. She grasped his forearm in both hands, tentatively brought it to her mouth, and slowly let the blood-soaked wrist touch her lips.

Her reaction was immediate.

Instinctive.

Her strike like that of a scorpion: swift, hard, and deep.

Marquis jerked, caught off-guard by the power of her bite. And then he relaxed as she began to take hard, drugging pulls from his wrist, her body clearly starving for the life giving fluid pouring down her throat. The more she took, the more she wanted. And the more she wanted, the more frustrating his wrist became.

Kristina twisted his arm this way and that, trying to get a better angle. Three times, she withdrew her fangs and struck him again, grinding her teeth as she attempted to get a better hold. Twice more, she lost her grip and missed the vein altogether, having to strike him repeatedly before she found it again.

She squirmed in his lap, tightened her grip like a vise, clamped down with her molars in aggravation, and snarled. Finally, she sat up and threw his arm aside, weeping in frustration, heavy sobs that wracked her chest.

Marquis leaned over her trembling body and buried his face in her hair. “Kristina”—he pitched his voice as gently as he could—“you are torturing yourself.” He held up his arm, displaying his raw, mutilated wrist. “And me as well, I might add.” He lightly stroked her hair. “Come, little one. Take from my neck. Drink as you were meant to.”

When Kristina met his gaze, her eyes were a strange mixture of need, desperation, and humiliation: She must have hated herself for needing him so badly, resented him for creating such a primal need within her.

Marquis sighed. There was so little trust between them. No love or respect. Only a raw, animal instinct to survive that drew them both to this moment. Yet, that was something Marquis understood. He knew as well as she did what it was like to desperately need the one person in the world you didn’t want. To need them in order to live.

Hefting her from his lap, he moved to the head of the bed, reclined against a stiff pillow, and swung his legs onto the mattress. He clutched her by her narrow waist, lifted her gently above him so that her knees straddled his hips on either side, and then quickly let go, allowing her full control in a dominant position. As he swept his heavy hair behind his ear and tilted his head to the side, he was careful to avoid eye contact, wanting to spare her some dignity.

And then he simply waited.

He remained perfectly still while Kristina climbed up his massive warrior’s body, trembling from the intimacy of the act. He held his breath as her pulse betrayed her fear, knowing she needed it too desperately to turn away. She reminded him of Little Red Riding Hood, reluctantly entrusting her well-being to the big bad wolf as she nuzzled his neck, tears streaming down her face the entire time. Then gradually, warily, she scraped her teeth against the pulsing artery, slowly gathering the courage to strike.

And strike she did.

Sinking her teeth so deep that she struck bone.

Marquis suppressed a deep, erotic moan that had nothing to do with the female above him. He couldn’t help it. He was what he was. As she began to take long, ravenous pulls of his blood, he gently cradled her back and held her tightly against him, flooding her with security as she fed to her contentment and her body began to heal.

Although it was not the kind of love a man felt for a woman, a small glimmer of affection stirred in his heart. Perhaps what a brother felt for a sister—or an uncle for a niece. Thanks to the Blood Curse, Marquis had no experience with either of those relationships.

But of one thing he was certain. He had sired this female. He had brought her into his world. He had made her what she was, and it was his obligation to take care of her.

It was his duty to see to her needs.

Holding her close in his arms, her body and mind so fragile, her vulnerability so complete, he knew that he would always take care of her…protect her.

Instinctively, he knew that he would kill anyone—human or vampire—that ever threatened to harm her.

twenty

Nachari sank back into the soft cushions of his leather sectional and put his feet up on the matching Raleigh coffee table. Home was all about class and comfort for the five-hundred year-old Master Wizard, whose four-story bachelor pad sat in isolation at the end of a dirt road, backing up to the northern face of the forest cliffs.

There was nothing country or rustic about it.

Built in the style of a 1920s Park Avenue brownstone, the forty-six-hundred square-foot retreat had a traditional brick face, four-levels of front and back terraces, and a rooftop patio that was to die for: perfect for a wizard who studied the stars through a high-powered telescope.

Glancing up at the fourteen-foot ceiling, Nachari sighed and propped a loose pillow behind his head. He placed the palm of his hand over the leather binding of the antique tome lying in his lap and whispered a prayer to Perseus, the god of his own divine constellation, to protect him from the malevolence embodied in the book he was about to open: the Ancient Book of Black Magic. The carnal text, said to have been written by the dark lords of the Abyss, themselves. It was hard to believe the evil artifact had been in the hands of Salvatore Nistor all this time….

Nachari let out a deep, resonate sigh. He had taken an incredible gamble. It had been all he could do to hide his surprise when he had first seen the ancient tome hidden beneath the mattress of Derrian’s crib, and it had required enormous concentration to show no emotion while removing the book from the lair.

He absently stroked the leather, regarding the text with awe. There was no way the ancient sorcerer would have allowed Nachari to walk away with the hallowed artifact if he had suspected his intent. In fact, for this treasure, Salvatore may very well have traded both Zarek and Derrian’s lives.

Nachari chuckled softly. No matter. He had used his magic to render the object invisible, and then strapped it to the inside of his cloak, maintaining the threat to the infant the entire time. Nobody had known. Not even Marquis. And Nachari had walked out of the lair completely undetected.

Whew! he thought, brushing his hair away from his brow. That could’ve turned out much, much worse. Just how much worse, he refused to imagine. He turned his attention to a more immediate subject: his brother’s recent behavior, the primal instinct Marquis had displayed when rescuing Ciopori from the colony….

While Marquis was renowned for his calm, strategic focus in battle, when it came to personal matters, such as those affecting himself or his family, he was the single most impulsive, hot-headed vampire in the house of Jadon: quick to act and slow to consider personal consequences, which half the time he didn’t get anyhow, considering his social...challenges.

Nachari stirred uncomfortably. Something wasn’t right. Marquis had allowed Valentine’s infant son to live in order to save Ciopori. He had bartered with Salvatore Nistor, a mortal enemy, in order to protect the princess. He had checked his own temper at the door and swallowed his pride in order to put her safety first.

Not that Marquis wasn’t noble—or wouldn’t readily die for any member of the house of Jadon, let alone one of the original females—but not like that. The Marquis he knew would have lit up the whole colony, taken as many Dark Ones out as he could, risked all of their lives if necessary, relying upon his superior fighting skills to prevail in the end. Was he reckless? No. Was he stubborn to a fault and utterly sure of himself? Absolutely.

But not this time—not this time.

This time, quite frankly, Marquis had acted like a mated-male protecting his destiny. Sure, Marquis and Ciopori had clearly been involved—that day he took her to Kagen’s clinic had said it all, but this was…more. Marquis’s desire to save the female had surpassed all other instincts.

Nachari thought about the way his brother looked at Ciopori, the deep pain etched in his otherwise stoic face, and the complete indifference he seemed to have for Kristina, despite the fact that such indifference went against every strand of DNA in a male vampire’s body. He shuddered to think about the crazed look on Marquis’s face the night he sat on his porch, Kristina plopped in his lap like a rag doll, his fangs buried deep in her throat. Marquis hadn’t shown the slightest hint of compassion or tenderness: He had taken Kristina the way he would take a stranger off the street to feed, all business, no emotion.

Granted, it was not like Marquis was all that connected to his emotions to begin with, but even a hardened warrior such as he, one who had seen too much and lived too long, had a heart when it came to his destiny. No. Something wasn’t right.

“Wassup, homey!” A familiar voice interrupted Nachari’s thoughts, and he glanced up from the couch as young Braden Bratianu entered the living room. The kid’s shoulders were held back so far he looked rigid, and his chin was tilted upward in an awkward angle as he did his best to strut across the floor.

“What’s up, Braden.”

“Nata,” the youngster replied.

“Nata?” Nachari repeated.

“Not-a-damn thing.” Braden laughed.

Nachari resisted rolling his eyes. Ah, hell, so the kid was going through yet another phase. He sighed. The handsome fifteen-year-old boy had been placed in Nachari’s care less than one month ago by the esteemed fellowship of wizards at the Romanian University as part of Nachari’s final task for graduation. The wizards considered the relationship an opportunity for Nachari to gain patience: through repeated trials and endless tests. And Braden Bratianu had never failed to deliver. The boy was one ordeal after another.

As the son of a divorced human, Braden had been raised by his mortal mother until Dario Bratianu had found and claimed her as his destiny. Having completed the Blood Moon ritual, Braden’s mom had given birth to Conrad, their new Vampyr son, leaving Braden as the odd man out—a human in a family of vampires.

Prior to Braden’s mom, there had never been a destiny claimed who already had a human child: Lily Bratianu was the first, and since she and Braden shared the same celestial blood, Dario had been able to convert him without incident.

And what an experiment that had been—a kid with human memories, impulses, and tendencies suddenly turned into a supernatural creature with abilities beyond his comprehension. Trying to merge the two histories remained quite the challenge.

Nachari eyed the boy from head to toe, assessing his new warrior’s outfit: Dark military fatigues hung loosely over a pair of heavy black combat boots. A tight muscle shirt stretched over a body that was still in need of a few more muscles, and a long black trench coat flowed to the floor. Nachari’s eyes traveled up to the boy’s spiked hair—all eight inches of it—and he tilted his head to the side, wondering how the child was keeping it up.

“Aren’t you hot?” Nachari finally asked, gesturing toward the coat.

Braden slipped his partially-gloved hands into his pockets. “Nah, I’m good.”

Nachari smiled. “Braden, your hair is too long to spike like that. If you’d like to have it cut, that’s one thing, but—”

“Hell no, I ain’t cuttin’ my hair!”

Nachari sat forward then. “Since when did you start cursing, Braden?”

Braden shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands. “Just a little nothin’-nothin’ that I picked up.”

Nachari chuckled. “I believe the vernacular is somethin’-somethin’, and where did you pick it up?”

Braden huffed, indignant. “Man, why you always sweatin’ me?”

Nachari shook his head. “No one is sweatin’ you, Braden, but you do tend to be a little over the top with your changes. I’m just trying to figure out who you are today.”

Braden’s burnt sienna eyes flashed a sort of…dusty rose...as if they were on their way to turning red but couldn’t quite make it. They settled back into their natural hue, and his inherent golden pupils darkened with frustration. “I’m a warrior, and you know that! Like Marquis!”

Nachari held up both hands in apology. “Of course,” he conceded, “I just hadn’t realized you were such an urban warrior of late.”

Braden rolled his eyes, but more than likely, he had no idea what urban meant.

“Anyhow,” Nachari continued, dismissing the argument—patience indeed—“I want you to go wash all that gel, or mousse, or whatever it is out of your hair, unless you want me to cut it.”

Braden threw back his head in theatrical disgust. “A warrior needs the spikes, man.”

He drew a dagger out of his coat pocket, considered flipping it in the air but thought better of it, and then started pacing the room. “It’s part of the package.”

“Whoa, my man…” Nachari set the book aside and jumped up from the couch. “Where did you get the knife?”

Braden flashed a broad smile, a mischievous look in his eyes. “I found your collection.” He paused, unable to conceal his excitement. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, but dayuum, Nachari, that shit is off the chain!”

Still across the room, Nachari quickly wrenched the blade from Braden’s hand, using telekinesis. He laid it down gently on an end table. “What have I told you about weapons?”

Braden rolled his eyes. “No weapons without proper training. I know, I know, but dude, it’s just a knife.”

“Yeah, well, a knife is a weapon, and that particular weapon belongs to me, dude.” Nachari sat back down. “And lay off the cursing.”

Braden threw up his hands. “Damn—I mean, dag, you are such a buzz kill.”

“And no more MTV, either.” Nachari let out a slow, deep breath. Patience. Patience. He possessed an endless reservoir of patience.

Yeah, right.

Vampyr males just did not experience adolescence the same way this human-turned-vampire did. They were a lot more stable and self-controlled. This kid was the flightiest thing Nachari had ever seen; although he had to admit, all and all, Braden was a really good kid. He just tried too hard.

Taking a step back from his frustration, Nachari offered a compromise: “I tell you what, if the spiked hair is the look, then why don’t we go into town—get a professional hair cut—so you can wear it spiked...with class.”

Braden shook his head adamantly. “That’s just it, Nachari. No way am I cutting my hair.” He started to run a smooth hand through his locks, got stuck on a stiff patch of gel, and quickly placed it in his pocket, instead. Playing it off, he shrugged. “A brotha’s gotta be able to play it both ways, cool and classy. Feel me?”

Nachari counted backward from ten to one. How in the world did the fellowship consider this an important skill of wizardry? Whatever. “Braden, I can assure you of one thing: you are not a brother. And why can’t one hair-style accomplish both?”

Braden chuckled then, trying to sound older than he was. “The truth?”

“By all means.”

“Because, man, I need the spikes to be like Marquis—you know, a warrior. But I also need the waves to be like you—pull the women. ’Cause that, my brotha, oh man…”—he let out a deep, wistful sigh—“that’s da shizzle for da rizzle.” All at once, his body jerked unnaturally, and his right leg swung out from underneath him, causing him to lose his balance.

Nachari jumped up, alarmed. “What’s wrong with your leg?” Vampires did not get muscle cramps, and they certainly did not have seizures.

Braden righted himself, frowned, and looked away. “Uh, nothing. Nothing. It’s all good.”

“Braden?” Nachari raised his eyebrows.

Braden gazed at the floor and shook his head, exasperated. “Just a little dance move I’ve been working on, ah’ight?” He paused, and then looked up sheepishly. “Guess it needs a little more work.”

Nachari bit his lower lip. Don’t laugh at the boy. Do-not-laugh. Do. Not— “I’ll tell you what: If you want to keep your hair long, then lose the spikes. If you want to keep the spikes, then you have to get it cut. End of discussion. As for da shizzle for da rizzle and the new dance moves, tone it down. Way down. Understand me?”

Braden moped and bobbed his head in reluctant agreement. “Yeah...okay.”

“Way down,” Nachari repeated.

Braden nodded again and then folded his hands in front of him, looking suddenly lost.

Nachari sat back down on the sofa and held out his left arm. “Now then, when was the last time you fed?”

While most males in the house of Jadon only needed to feed every six to eight weeks, Braden’s body could only consume small amounts at a time—not because his system wasn’t fully converted, but because his once-human brain still resisted the notion of living off blood. Consequently, he had to feed a lot more often.

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Braden huffed. “Fine, you don’t want me to have spiked hair, I won’t. And fine! You don’t want me to talk like I’m cool, whatever, but dang, Nachari, why do you have to treat me like a girl?”

Nachari stared at him, utterly perplexed. “What are we talking about now, Braden?”

The kid sighed and began waving his arms emphatically as he spoke. “No self-respecting vampire feeds off his step-dad and his guardian. Off other males! That’s just embarrassing. All the other vampires my age hunt already.”

Nachari considered the child’s words. “I understand your frustration, Braden, but do you really think you’re ready to hunt?”

“Yes!” the kid exclaimed, his face flushing red.

Nachari sighed. “Okay, then tell me this: How well can you discern a human spirit?”

Braden’s top lip curled up in question. “What?”

Nachari held his gaze. “Can you tell evil from good?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean…I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I think so! Why?”

“Because it’s against our laws to take the life of an innocent, Braden. And even if you could identify a completely corrupt soul—verify that he or she is a predator against other humans—you would have to be able to isolate the person without being seen, attack so swiftly that they go down without a struggle, siphon enough blood to insure the kill, and then harness the necessary energy to incinerate the body. You think you’re ready for that?”

Braden looked down, dejected, and shook his head. “No, but I was thinking more like...maybe I could hunt like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah, you know, forget the bad guys, just lure the pretty females.”

Nachari sank back into the cushions and smiled. “Braden—”

“Why not? I mean, you should see when some of us guys from the academy go into town—man, the human girls flip out!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled-up pieces of paper. “See this? They’re phone numbers, Nachari. Chicks giving me their phone numbers! And I don’t even have to ask.”

Nachari sighed. “Braden, there is no question that you are a handsome young man.” Far more striking than the child realized, actually: thank the gods. “And even if you weren’t, your vampire DNA would still attract women to you. It’s a powerful magnet, but the danger is far too great, especially for someone as inexperienced as you.”

“Oh, ’cause now you think I’m gonna try and have sex with the female.”

“No,” Nachari argued, “I was speaking in terms of manipulating kinetic energy and honing your hunting skills, not of having sex—even dogs can do that. But since you’re bringing it up, do we need to go back over the consequences of having sex with humans? The fact that pregnancy would kill your partner?”

Braden rolled his eyes, clearly irritated. “Have vampires ever heard of condoms?”

Nachari snarled a deep warning. “And if the condom breaks, she dies. Are you really that reckless—”

“First of all, I’m not like a Dark One. I would never speak a pregnancy into being, knowing what could happen.”

“What would happen! And you could kill her with just your strength alone, Braden! The power of a vampire, unleashed...unrestrained...you have no idea. Not to mention, you would most assuredly drain her of every last drop of blood even if you didn’t command a pregnancy. I repeat: you have no idea—the impulse to bite, the need to feed, how integral it is to the sex act.”

Braden rolled his eyes.

“Braden?”

The kid huffed.

“Braden?”

“What!”

“Are you listening to me?”

He stomped his foot, his lips pursed together in aggravation. “Yeah…I’m listening.”

“Good, then let’s just say, for the sake of argument, you go ahead and take one of those phone numbers out of your pocket—give a human girl a call. The next thing you know, the two of you are sitting on a bench somewhere, maybe side-by-side at the movies, and she whispers in your ear…or rubs up against you…or has a few too many buttons undone on her blouse: As sure as the sun sets in the west, every cell in your body will ache to drain her, right then and there, and we’re not even talking about being in some bedroom half-undressed. Trust me, Braden, you are not ready.”

“Nachari,” Braden sighed, throwing up his hands, “I’m not—”

“You’re damn straight you’re not!” Nachari snapped, his fangs beginning to advance in his mouth. “You’re fifteen years old, Braden. And while our species might mature faster than humans, you have had less than one year to adapt. Not to mention, a human female? Fifteen years old? That’s a child! With great power comes great responsibility—”

“Damn!” The kid was practically jumping up and down now. “Nachari!”

Nachari stared a hole right through him. “What?”

“I’m not even thinking about having sex. Sheesh! I wasn’t even gonna call anyone.”

Nachari looked at him warily. “Then why are you holding onto those numbers?”

Tears of frustration welled up in the boy’s eyes, which clearly made him even more upset. “Because it makes me feel good”—he crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders—“about myself. Okay?”

Nachari met his gaze.

Braden sighed and turned away. “Did it ever occur to you that it might be kind of nice to think that—maybe somewhere—someone sees me as better at something? Here, everything I do sucks. I’m like the worst vampire ever, no matter how hard I try. But to humans, I’m like a god. So yeah, I hang out with them sometimes, and yeah, I like it when the girls flirt with me. But I’m not stupid enough to try and have sex. Geez. You think I don’t know that I would probably suck at that, too? How much humiliation is one guy supposed to take? I just wish I could feed from human females instead of always having to take from you and my dad…that’s all. Forget it, already.” He sat down on the floor and crossed his legs, fighting to keep his tears at bay.

Nachari felt like an idiot. He ran his hands through his thick mane of hair and took a deep breath. “Hey…Braden…I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Braden shrugged. “Forget it.”

Nachari shook his head. “You know, the last time I checked, you and Marquis were getting along pretty well, and if I recall, he said he was going to help you start working out—teach you a few weapons.”

“Yeah, so.”

“And if I recall, you were also feeling pretty good about everything you did to help save Jocelyn from Tristan and Willie—which means saving Nathaniel and Storm, too.” He looked at Braden and smiled. “And I must admit: You have been dressing like a righteous warrior instead of a... throw-back from the Dracula era. Major improvement.”

Braden laughed then.

“…which we’ve all been pleased with. So when did all that change?”

Braden shook his head. “I guess it hasn’t. I mean, I can’t wait to hang out with Marquis sometime—although I’m kind of scared he’s gonna try and fry me with some lightning again if I mess up. When I mess up. But I do like my new wardrobe.” He smiled and raised his chin. “It is righteous, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Nachari replied.

“I just...it’s just…man, you feed from like five or six females at once when you hunt, and you don’t kill any of them. I just wish I could do that, too.”

Nachari smiled then. “You will one day, Braden, just not right now. You forget, I’ve been a vampire four-hundred ninety-nine years longer than you, and I spent four-hundred of those years at the Romanian University studying to become a Master. I feed from females because I prefer the softer taste of their blood. And I use so many because I don’t want to hurt any one individual by taking too much. And you’re right: I’d rather seduce pretty women than kill evil men—just my preference—but it takes a lot of concentration to put someone under a trance, bite a female and not take her…or kill her, know when to stop siphoning, and replace her memories with something else. I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t absolutely sure of my control.”

Braden cocked his head to the side. “So, are you telling me that you never go all the way with any of the females?” He smirked.

Nachari shrugged. “All the way where, Braden?” He waved his hand, dismissing the question. “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, son.” He patted the sofa next to him. “Now then, I think part of the reason you’re getting so upset is, truly, because you need to feed.” He pointed at the leather-bound tome sitting on the couch next to him and picked it up. “Do you see this book?”

Braden’s eyes grew wide as he leaned forward to take a closer look. “What is it?”

“It’s the Blood Canon: the Ancient Book of Black Magic. It’s the Bible for those who practice Dark Magic. I took it from Salvatore’s lair.”

Braden’s mouth flew open.

“Do you know how important that secret is, Braden? In fact, you are the only person I’ve told so far.”

Braden’s entire countenance changed. His features came alive. His shoulders, once again, fell back, and he held his head up high. “Cool!”

“Yes, very cool. And I’m going to look a few things up right now…in absolute silence…because I need to concentrate. And I have a hunch or two.” He pointed at the sofa beside him. “And you, my young warrior, are going to come feed without any embarrassment whatsoever. Think about it this way: Our power is in the blood we consume, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Then you are not consuming the substance of a weak human but of a Master Wizard. So take advantage of the opportunity while you have it. I am never too ashamed to take from my brothers if I need it, nor are they ashamed to take from me. Do you understand?”

Braden nodded, and Nachari could see the wheels turning in his head as he weighed the possibilities. He walked over to the couch with as much stealth as he could—for a boy who was a bit challenged when it came to being smooth—and knelt down on the floor in front of Nachari.

Nachari avoided eye contact in an attempt to preserve the young man’s dignity. He pulled the book onto his lap, cradled it with his right arm, and laid his left hand, palm facing up, on the couch for the kid. “Go for it, buddy,” he murmured, opening the book with his free hand.

Braden took Nachari’s forearm in both hands and struck a deep, clean blow. He was getting much better at biting, leaving far less of a mess to clean up. Nachari feigned a wince. “Ouch!”

Braden snarled with satisfaction and began taking long, drugging pulls from the wizard’s arm.

He switched them.

Braden’s telepathic voice was barely a whisper in Nachari’s mind, his mouth still firmly attached to the wizard’s arm.

Excuse me? Nachari asked.

He switched them, Braden repeated. Salvatore: He switched the women.

Nachari looked up from the passage he was reading in the dark text, and his heart skipped a beat. He stared at the young kid next to him and regarded his keen eyes. What Braden had just said surpassed the insight of a typical vampire. To divine such a thing was...well, unheard of...especially from a fifteen-year-old, use-to-be-human novice.

Nachari’s curiosity piqued.

He had already come to the same conclusion, but he was curious to know how Braden had determined such a thing. Explain yourself, he coaxed.

Braden slowed his siphoning, released the suction-hold he had made with his mouth, and slowly withdrew his fangs from Nachari’s arm. His body swayed gently to the left as he tried to stand, still a tad bit drunk from the heady substance.

Nachari caught him by the arm and eased him down onto the couch. As a stream of bright red blood trickled down his forearm, he realized the boy had forgotten to seal the wounds: Okay, so Braden’s brilliance was case-specific. Releasing his own incisors, he raised his arm to his mouth and dripped venom over the puncture wounds to seal them closed.

“My bad,” Braden slurred.

Nachari smiled and steered him right back to the previous subject. “What you just said, Braden, about Salvatore—explain.”

Braden wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned toward the book.

“Do not touch it,” Nachari warned.

Braden nodded and pointed to a circled stanza. “Read this.”

Nachari read it aloud in its original Romanian form: “Lumina lui Dumnezeu atunci când apare în ceruri pentru a apela mai departe de sânge luna, umbra lui se stârni în abis.”

And then, as if he had been born to the language, Braden interpreted the passage: “When the light god arises in the heavens to call forth the Blood Moon, his shadow shall stir in the Abyss.”

Nachari was impressed as he continued: “În cazul în care lumină şi întuneric, împreună fi turnat, sânge torturaţi în nevinovăţie, sigilat, prin oferirea de ars; numele Sfintei se stornează.”

“Should the light and the dark be poured out together, blood tortured in innocence, sealed through burnt offering; the name of the holy shall be reversed,” Braden repeated in English.

“Lumina devine întuneric, şi întuneric devine lumina.”

“Light shall become dark, and dark shall become light.”

“Sigiliul de lumina se aplice la un suflet torturat şi de suflet, au obligaţia de a respecta întuneric se sigilează cu tortura.”

“The seal of the light shall affix to a tortured soul, and the soul bound by darkness shall be sealed with torture.”

Nachari looked at Braden like he had been born on another planet. “You were able to interpret all of that just by residing in my mind?”

Braden shrugged. “Yep. You’re not that hard to read…wizard.”

Nachari chuckled, impressed. “Very well then, explain to me how you came to your conclusion.”

Braden rubbed the peach fuzz on his chin as if he was deep in thought, searching for the right words: “Well, for every Celestial Being in the heavens—every god or goddess in the galaxy—there’s a dark shadow twin in the Abyss, right? Down below in the Valley of Death and Shadows?”

Nachari nodded. “Yes, there is. A dark lord or lady who can be called upon through the use of Black Magic, the shadow essence or deity of the original god or goddess.”

“Right,” Braden said, “like when I was human, my dad believed in heaven and hell; so it’s like, for every angel in heaven there’s a matching demon in hell, only we’re dealing with gods and goddesses, and the heavens are literally the heavens.”

Nachari shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. The youngster beside him no longer sounded like a confused little boy. “Very well said, Braden. Go on.”

“Well, when the light god arises in the heavens to call forth the Blood Moon refers to one of the good celestial gods; in this case, Draco, right? Since that’s the god of Marquis’s constellation?”

Nachari nodded.

“Okay, so Draco, the light god, calls forth the Blood Moon for Marquis to finally give him his woman: his destiny.”

“Go on.”

“His shadow shall stir in the Abyss just means that Draco’s evil twin, down in the Valley of Death and Shadows, got all stirred up when Draco started to make things happen for Marquis. Like it woke him up or something.”

“Hmm,” Nachari said, “I think you might actually have the gift of knowledge; you certainly have a talent for explaining things.”

The kid’s eyes positively beamed beneath his broad smile, and he became even more energetic as he went forward with his theory. “Okay, so Draco made the Blood Moon for Marquis—to show him his destiny—and his evil twin in the Abyss sat up and started paying attention. Well, should the light and the dark be poured out together: blood tortured in innocence; sealed through burnt offering just means that if some assho—” He caught himself in time. “Some jerk, like Salvatore, wanted to mess things up, then he could do it as long as he used the right ingredients, sort-of-like making a witches brew with the things connected to Marquis’s life: blood tortured in innocence and blood sealed through burnt offering.”

Nachari winced and took a deep breath.

Braden looked away. “Do you want me to stop?”

Nachari shook his head. “No, Braden: I know where you’re going with this, and it’s okay. I need to hear your theory.”

Braden frowned and nodded. “The blood tortured in innocence was your twin’s—Shelby’s. Marquis’s little brother was innocent, yet his blood was spilled through torture anyway.”

Nachari closed his eyes and concentrated on a neutral image—the sunset—trying to shift his focus away from the picture the young vampire had just painted. The truth hurt way too much, yet this was too important to avoid. “Go on,” he muttered, his eyes blinking back open.

Braden swallowed. “Sorry.”

Nachari put his hand on his shoulder. “Go on.”

“The blood sealed through burnt offering was the dude you and Marquis killed—Valentine.” He shrugged. “Sorry, I picked it out of your mind when you were reading the stanza because you were thinking about it. Wow, you guys messed him up bad and then left him to burn in the sun...cool. Yeah, that’s definitely a burnt offering.”

Nachari shook his head, contemplating Salvatore’s intelligence. The sorcerer could not have possibly known what they did to Valentine at the time he crafted the spell. But apparently, he didn’t have to: If he had divined even the hint of fire or smoke—Valentine’s last moments being taken by the sun—it would have been enough to add to the curse. The thought gave him chills. Salvatore was, indeed, a powerful adversary. “Then the name of the holy shall be reversed means what to you?” Nachari asked, urging Braden on.

“The reverse of the holy god, Draco, is Ocard—his unholy, dark twin in the Abyss.”

Nachari held out his hand and placed it over Braden’s heart. He spoke three quick incantations, and a flow of golden light leapt from his fingertips into the boy’s chest, radiating outward in a seal of protection. “Braden, you are correct. The reverse name of a god or goddess is the name of their dark twin, but such names should never be spoken aloud. Speaking them invokes them.”

Braden’s skin turned ghostly white, and his heart began to race.

Nachari smiled reassuringly. “Do not worry; I have placed you in a seal of protection that will remain until the energy of the name you spoke is no longer drawn to you. If I would’ve known you had the ability to discern all of this, I would’ve warned you ahead of time, but you’re fine now. Trust me. Go on.”

Braden swallowed a huge lump in his throat and eyed the white aura around him. “You sure?”

“I’m positive.”

Braden nodded slowly. “Okay. So anyway, when the name of a god is reversed, then light shall become dark and dark shall become light.” He looked around the room warily.

Nachari gripped his shoulder. “Braden, you’re fine. Hey, think of it this way—you also invoked the name of Draco, right? The good god. The powerful one.”

Braden nodded and looked up toward the sky. “Draco, Draco, Draco,” he repeated quickly.

Nachari laughed. “There you go.”

Braden smiled, feeling instantly better. “Okay, so if light is dark and dark is light, that just means that everything is reversed. Everything is backward.”

“And the seal of the light shall affix to a tortured soul?” Nachari asked.

“Well, the way my dad explained it, the male’s constellation appears on the arm of his destiny at the same time the Blood Moon is in the sky so that the male is absolutely sure he’s got the right woman. ’Cause that would really suck...getting that wrong.”

“You’re not kidding,” Nachari agreed.

“And the woman is always within his sight at the time it appears—no matter what.”

Nachari nodded. “That’s correct.”

“So if Marquis’s constellation is Draco, then the seal of the light would be the seal of Draco—the markings of Draco on his woman’s arm.”

“I agree.”

Braden beamed with self-satisfaction. “I don’t know the whole story about what happened the other night, but I do know what torture is: hurting someone real bad to make them do or say what you want. Kristina’s boyfriend beat her up a lot, didn’t he?”

Nachari nodded, solemn. “Yes, he did.”

“Well then, she was definitely a tortured soul, and she was obviously in Marquis’s sight at the time of the Blood Moon. So the seal of Draco was affixed to Kristina instead of Marquis’s real destiny.”

“And the soul bound by darkness shall be sealed with torture?”

“Well, I think the soul bound by darkness would have to be Marquis’s real destiny because she was supposed to be bound to him, bound by the light of Draco. Instead, she’s walking around in darkness, and from what my dad said, being separated from one’s life mate—their true destiny—is torture. They could even die. So if Salvatore switched it all up, his true destiny would have to be hurting really bad.”

Nachari sank back into the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, Braden, I believe she is.”

The kid cracked his knuckles then. “So, how did Salvatore do it?”

Nachari shrugged his shoulders. Although he knew exactly what Salvatore had done, there was no need to share such gruesome details with the youngster. Salvatore had taken advantage of the spell the moment he saw Marquis’s Blood Moon. He had probably read the stanza aloud three times while offering a sacrifice to Ocard—more than likely the blood of some innocent female whose throat he had slit. Wow. Well, no wonder things had been so crazy lately.

Glancing at his young protégé, he couldn’t help but feel an enormous sense of pride. How in the world had the kid deciphered so much, so easily? He laughed aloud then, considering the fellowship of wizards back in Romania. They had given him the kid as a test of patience, knowing that he would come across as a bumbling young boy, awkward and insecure.

But the real test had been something altogether different.

Braden Bratianu was a seer.

And a powerful one at that.

A natural who didn’t have a clue about the scope of his abilities. He was a diamond in the rough, and the old guys had placed him with Nachari to determine whether or not the wizard could see past the clumsiness. Could Nachari see beyond all the theatrics, spiked hair, and pouting, and still recognize the genius inside?

Amazing: A lot of things were beginning to make sense all of a sudden, and Nachari shuddered to think what could have happened if Braden had not been feeding at his wrist at the precise moment Nachari had been reading the dark book. But then again, wizards didn’t believe in coincidence. The gods revealed what they wanted to reveal for a reason. In this case, not just for Braden, but also for Marquis.

Nachari jumped up from the couch and headed toward the stairs, his heart lighter than it had been in days.

“Where are you going?” Braden asked.

“To the roof, my friend. To check my telescopes.”

Braden raised his eyebrows in question, his body quivering with excitement.

“Now that we know,” Nachari explained, “it should be right there in the sky—as plain as day.”

“What should?”

“Draco reversed. The other night, I noticed that the tip of the constellation was in the wrong position, pointing to the place where we would find Ciopori, but I never bothered to measure all of our Lord’s stars. At the time, Draco just looked like Draco—still intact. But what do you bet, our dragon lord was reversed?”

Braden’s eyes grew to the size of quarters. “Can I come?” He quickly looked away, trying to appear cool, afraid to sound too eager.

Nachari regarded the young seer appreciatively, his wisdom well beyond his years.

“Absolutely, Braden. Absolutely.”

twenty-one

Marquis was sitting on the bank of the river, just beyond his back porch, when he heard Kristina approach from behind, her soft footsteps padding quietly along the deck. As he turned to watch her approach, he assessed her color and the fluid way she moved. It had been mere hours since he had fed her at Napolean’s manse, yet she was already healed.

“How are you feeling?”

Kristina shrugged. “All right, I guess.”

Marquis recognized the long, heavy robe she was wearing, dark blue, swallowing her frame whole—it was his. He made a mental note that he would have to do something about it immediately, either take her shopping or stop by her apartment to retrieve the remainder of her things. So much had happened in such a short time, he hadn’t had an opportunity to properly attend to his destiny. Like it or not, that had to change.

“So, whatcha doing?” she asked, looking around and scrunching up her face as if she couldn’t figure out why in the world anyone would sit on the bank of a river.

Marquis sighed. “You should be sleeping.”

Kristina frowned. “So should you.”

“Is the guest room not comfortable?”

She shrugged once again, her bouncy red hair falling slightly forward from the motion. “It’s cool, I guess. You know, kind of uptight for my taste, but then considering the source...” She stopped her own ranting. “Sorry.”

Marquis just shook his head. “I didn’t know rooms could be uptight.” He quickly waved his hand to dismiss the comment before a sparring-match ensued. He was exhausted and not at all in the mood for twelve-rounds with Kristina. Ciopori’s earlier rescue had disrupted his normal daytime sleep-schedule, and it was much too late to go to bed now. He knew if he slept through the night, it would just make things worse—kind of a hazard of being a nocturnal creature.

“So...” Kristina shrugged and clutched her arms to her stomach. She took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. “So...you wanna do it, or what?”

Marquis shut his eyes.

“Well?” she asked.

“Do what, Kristina?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what. Do it.”

Marquis fought not to blanch. Do it? Gods, what had been his crime? And was there no other worthy penance? He raised his head to meet her eyes just to see if she was serious.

Apparently, she was.

He was just about to give her a tongue-lashing when he thought better of it, curiosity getting the best of him. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

Kristina plopped down beside him, nearly tripping on the long hem of the robe. Her dainty arms disappeared in the sleeves as if she had none. She blew a piece of curly hair away from her eyes and sighed. “The way I figure it, we should just go ahead and do it like normal people, and the sooner we get it over with the better.”

Marquis resisted the urge to get up and walk away. “And why would that be?”

“Lots of reasons.” She forced a missing arm down through a massive sleeve and began to chew nervously on her fingernail. “First of all, you promised me my own pink Corvette, clothes, jewelry, an iPod. And I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna let me out of this house until everything’s squared away and you’re safe—you know, from the whole curse thing. So, a month being cooped up? Yeah, that doesn’t really do it for me. Plus, it’s not like I have to feel anything, I mean, in terms of the pregnancy and birth, right? You can put me to sleep or in some kind of trance, can’t you?”

Marquis considered it a rhetorical question. He’d like to put her to sleep for the next century.

“And you promised a full-time nanny, so I don’t really have to bother with the kid, either, right?”

Marquis grunted, nodding his head.

“Well, then why make ourselves crazy and sick thinking about it for the next however many days, when we can just get it behind us and go on with our lives? Honestly, boss, I’d rather get it over with…if you don’t mind. And you know, if you wanna use that mind control stuff to make it easier, that’s cool. It’s only one time; we’re both adults. And you’re obviously not letting me go—” She bit her tongue to stop her rambling.

Marquis ran his hands through his thick dark hair and wished he could be anywhere but where he was. “Well, that was certainly the most passionate seduction I’ve ever encountered.”

“Ha. Ha.” She rolled her eyes.

“Kristina...” He spoke slowly. “I am sure you are right: If we forego invitro, then eventually, it will probably come down to just that. But as for tonight, I’m just not ready to go forward like this. Forgive me if I need a little more time to adjust to the inevitability of our situation.”

Kristina looked surprised and mildly offended. “You don’t want me, do you?” She turned away.

Marquis’s head snapped to the side. What in all of creation did that have to do with anything? He was at a complete loss for words.

“Yeah,” she whispered, “that’s what I thought. It’s cool. I understand.”

Marquis cleared his throat. “Kristina, you have made it crystal clear that you would rather slide down a razor-blade into a tub of alcohol than be with me—that you despise me and this whole situation. And I can’t blame you. No, I don’t spend my nights pining away for you, if that’s what you’re asking.” He tossed a rock into the river and watched it skip in perfect increments all the way to the other side. “What is it that you want from me this night, Kristina?”

Kristina stared down at the ground. A single tear crystallized in her eye, and she quickly brushed it away. “Look,” she said softly, “I know this whole thing has been totally whack. And the thing with Dirk”—she held back her sniffles—“shit, Marquis, that was so messed up, how you killed him right in the front yard as if he was nothing—as if I’d never even loved him or known him.”

Marquis stared at her intently. “He was dragging my mate across the front lawn by her hair…and threatening to kill us both. If I had been a mere human, I would have killed the man for the insult. But being a vampire and a warrior? Be realistic, Kristina—”

“I know. I know.” She held up her hand. “Let’s not go there again. I know!”

They sat in silence for what seemed like forever before she tried her own hand at skipping a rock, only to watch it sink like a cement block the moment it hit the water. “So much for increased power and skill.” She scowled.

Marquis frowned. He picked up a smooth rock and placed it in her palm. Holding his much larger hand over hers, he drew back and demonstrated the smooth, forward motion of a throw several times in a row, working her arm in a soft, easy glide. On the last repetition, he let go, and the rock flew out of her hand, skimming across the top of the water.

Kristina threw back her head and laughed. She picked up a pair of rocks and tried again. The first one started to bounce but quickly sank. She looked back at him with interest.

Marquis demonstrated the smooth, easy toss again with his own arm, only this time, she watched carefully, imitating the movement on her own. And then she threw the second rock, skipping it all the way across the river.

“Did you see that!” She began searching the ground for more stones.

The corner of Marquis’s mouth turned up, but it wasn’t really a smile—perhaps a step in the right direction. Kristina was like a child. And being mated to her was going to be like raising one: a one-sided deal. If he was being honest, she reminded him a lot of Braden Bratianu, Nachari’s young charge, just a little bit older and a lot more cynical. Hardened.

“Listen,” she said as she continued to toss stones across the river, some skipping, some sinking, and some ricocheting off larger rocks, “I know that Dirk was bad, and I should’ve left him a long time ago. And I know that none of you guys were gonna let that go on forever, but I just wasn’t ready...and especially not for all this.” She swept her arm around the two of them, gesturing next toward the property and the house. “And I know that he would’ve killed me, that you saved my life the other night, even if you were an evil, evil monster to convert me the way you did!” She glared at him for a minute before softening her gaze. “And well, yeah, today—what you did earlier, helping me feed and letting me save face and all—yeah, that was kind of cool of you. So I guess I kind of owe you, ya know? I mean, if saving your life is that easy to do, then sure; why not?” She swallowed hard, her expression betraying her underlying anxiety.

“Thank you,” Marquis said evenly, trying to be noble. “But those are all the wrong reasons, Kristina—”

“Marquis! Stop! Just stop.”

He swallowed his words and waited.

“Don’t you see how hard I’m trying? Don’t you get it?” She shook her head and dropped the handful of stones. “I’m all messed up in the head to begin with...behind Dirk...and that ain’t gonna change any-time soon. You and me, we have about as much in common as a polar bear and a giraffe—”

“A polar bear and a giraffe?” The words slipped out. It was just…gods, where in the world did she get this stuff?

“Okay, a lion and a chimpanzee. Is that better?”

“Uh, yeah—much better. Thanks for the clarification.” Good gods.

She huffed, indignant, but ignored the sarcasm. “And you might not like the situation anymore than I do, but at least you’re not scared all the time. And at least you’re not helpless.”

“You’re not—”

“Yes I am, Marquis!” She stomped her foot against the ground and threw up her arms in exasperation. “Damn. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid! Why do you always do that? Why do you have to take away every little bit of control I might have? What do you want from me? For me to get down on my knees and admit that you’re bigger, you’re stronger, you’re faster—and smarter—you can kill me anytime you want? Well, fine, I said it!” She was shaking from head to toe and struggling to make it stop. “At least let me say when. At least let me say how. Why can’t you just let me do what I’m ready to do while I still have the courage?” Her trembling stopped, and she steadied her voice. “Maybe that’s my way of handling things: Did you ever think of that? Maybe that’s just how I deal.” She parked her hands on her hips. “Maybe I want this behind us because it’s like a dark freakin’ cloud hanging over my head, and every day we wait, I just get more scared. And you just get more powerful.”

Despite his lack of appreciation for the female, her words hit home.

“This time two weeks from now, I’ll be incapable,” she added, sounding defeated. “And I won’t even care what the consequences are: your life or mine. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. That’s just how messed up I am. So I’m offering this to you, now.” She clenched her eyes shut. “At least give me that much control, Marquis.”

Marquis studied Kristina carefully, and then he gently probed her thoughts: She didn’t want him, not by a long shot, so what was it she was after? Because this was about a lot more than fear. As he moved silently through the recesses of her troubled mind, he saw the trepidation and confusion she spoke of—and her determination to survive. But he also saw something else.…

He saw a girl who had never felt safe a single day in her life, not even when she was working at the casino under the protection of the house of Jadon. Marquis frowned. They should have taken care of Dirk much, much sooner. But her insecurity went deeper than that. There wasn’t a single day in her hard, young life when she had felt peace. And that was something he understood.

Very well.

Staring into her deep blue eyes, he knew they would never share passion or Eros love. Theirs would be more of a brother-sister, father-daughter relationship, if they even achieved that—and how disgusting was that thought in light of what she was offering?

Marquis shook his head to clear his thoughts.

She couldn’t give him anything—because she had absolutely nothing to give. But he could give her something. Not love, not passion, not even eroticism, but safety, security, and peace. And wasn’t there some way to make love that wasn’t about the ultimate, primal ecstasy—bite and release—but more about those deeper, more meaningful things? If there was, he needed to find it and harness it…just this once.

He sighed and held out his arm. “Kristina, come here.”

As she hesitantly folded her body beneath his arm, nestling against his much larger frame, he sent her a deep sensation of warmth and security. He wrapped her from the inside out in a feeling of well-being, from her heart to her soul, down to the very toes of her feet. And then he watched as she let out a deep exhale—like someone who had been holding her breath since the day she was born.

Gently running his hands through her hair, he bathed her in unconscious images of safety and security, ensconcing her in a thick cocoon of light.

Tears escaped her eyes as she nuzzled in closer like a baby being held for the first time. It was as pitiful as it was sad, and certainly not the appropriate time for a man to seek pleasure from a woman…but this was what she had asked for. And Marquis did not see a deeper, more passionate connection ever occurring between them. No. This was all they had to exchange. She would give him twin sons, provide him with the requirements of the Blood Curse, and ultimately save his life, and he would give her one night of safety and security in exchange, with a promise to provide all of those things outside of the bedroom for the rest of their lives.

Their very, very long lives.

Marquis clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t think of that right now.

As Kristina gave into the warmth of his ministrations, she became like butter in his hands: not so much on an erotic adventure but melting, falling into a deep, spiritual trance.

Marquis made his every touch gentle, distributing ever deeper waves of security as he softly stroked her arms, her neck, and the sides of her jaw with his thumb. Until he was finally able to bend down and kiss her without resistance.

The kiss was short and soft. Just a flutter. A test.

The depth of passion he needed to deepen or sustain the kiss just wasn’t there, but it still imparted trust and warmth, which in turn allowed her to relax even further as he gently laid her down on the ground.

She was definitely in a spell of sorts, just not the kind she had expected. As tears rolled down her face—tears that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with how she felt about herself—he gently kissed them away, one at a time, slowly peeling back the robe to expose her soft flesh. His hand swept gently across her narrow waist and over the small, flat expanse of her belly, willing her into even deeper serenity. He was nothing more than a conduit now, using his body to illicit the spiritual healing she had craved all of her life. Taking nothing. Making no demands. Simply giving a starving soul the sustenance it craved.

As Marquis continued to concentrate on her inner being, it became easier to touch her, caress her…kiss her. Nothing was about him.

Nothing was about them.

He would not enter her harshly or thrust away as he would a female he desired to pleasure...and be pleasured by. Rather, he would give her the experience of being cherished, of feeling worthy, until she completely surrendered for the first time in her life, and then he would gradually—carefully—enter her welcoming body. Careful not to hurt her with his size. Stretching her so slowly that she wouldn’t even notice.

He would fill her with peace, tenderness—and seed—without a single thrust being necessary, and then he would just as gently withdraw.

The preparation might take an hour. The sex, maybe thirty seconds. As she fell off into a peaceful sleep, he would command her to conceive, awakening her only when it was time to call forth his sons to materialize from her womb.

And both of them could live with what had been done between them.

Marquis had ascended to another level entirely.

Like an artist with a canvas, or a poet with a pen, his own state of mind had elevated to semi-conscious awareness as the female beneath him parted her legs to accept him willingly. Her head tilted back, her eyes drifted shut, and warmth radiated from the core of her body like sunshine through a plate-glass window.

As Marquis subtly shifted his body in order to blanket hers, he felt an odd, uninvited stirring in the energy around them.

No. Not now! They were so close.

He placed a strong barrier around Kristina, insulating her from the disturbance, and tried to refocus.

Brother. The telepathic call slammed into his head.

He ignored it.

Brother!

Marquis tried to quiet his mind. Ignore it, and it will go away.

He used the massive strength of his thighs to gently push Kristina’s wider so he could gain entrance. And then he began to lower his pelvis to hers.

Marquis!

Marquis pulled up, threw back his head, and grimaced. Yes, he was providing an incredible spiritual service, and yes, he was detached from any deeper, erotic relationship, but hell, he was still a man. And this close to release, his body wanted to finish!

Go away, Nachari! he demanded. I’m busy! I will contact you in a few minutes.

But this is important.

Later!

Very important!

Marquis slammed down a mental barrier and lowered his hips once again, the head of his shaft pressing firmly against Kristina’s moist core of heat. Despite his sage-like control, a low groan escaped his throat.

Now, Marquis! Nachari pushed right through the mental barrier. What the heck are you doing?

Marquis felt his face flush, and anger heated his resolve. He looked down at Kristina to make sure she was still feeling the enchantment. Brother, go away; or I swear, I will kill you! He tried to close the telepathic bandwidth, but was met with a strong current of resistance.

And then he felt...a mind probe.

Had Nachari lost his mind!

Male vampires never invaded the thoughts of other male vampires. It was unheard of. Rude! Taboo. And rank was everything.

Nachari was his junior, barely beyond a fledgling at five-hundred years old: a recently graduated Master Wizard who was still working on his final project! Marquis, on the other hand, was an Ancient. He had been a Master for over one-thousand years, and he was the elder male of the two, not to mention the head of the family now that their father was gone.

This was heresy.

Marquis would throw the arrogant fool through a wall when he saw him next. He catapulted Nachari out of his mind, severed the telepathic line, and turned back to Kristina, whose eyes had now opened.

Ah hell.

He sent her a strong beacon of warmth and relaxation, and then he stroked her cheek with his hand. “Are you all right?” he drawled seductively, praying she was still with him.

Her peaceful smile told him all he needed to know.

As her arms wrapped around the steel cords of his back, her legs fell fully open. “I think I actually want this, Marquis.” Her eyelashes fluttered closed, and her deep blue eyes disappeared behind heavy lids.

“No you don’t!” A commanding male voice sliced through the enchantment, echoing throughout the deep expanse of mountain behind the house.

Kristina gasped in shock, and Marquis spun around so quickly he forgot he was naked. His manhood standing at full attention, he landed in an attack stance in front of his brother.

Nachari blanched and covered his eyes. “Damn! I did not need to see all that!”

Marquis growled in fury, waving his arm over Kristina to put her to sleep. He reached for his pants, using levitation to draw them into his hands, and pulled them on with preternatural speed. And then he hurled himself across the four feet of expanse between himself and Nachari, snatched the wizard up by the throat, and threw him into the air.

Dark raven and emerald wings shot out of Nachari’s back as he hurled backward, flapping furiously in an attempt to stop his trajectory before he slammed into a tree. Hovering in the air, he reached for his throat to massage it.

“Have you lost your mind!” Marquis thundered. “Do you have any idea what you just interrupted?”
Nachari looked down at the sleeping, naked woman lying on Marquis’s robe. “Yeah, I would say I have a pretty good idea.”

“You think this is funny?” Marquis picked up a stone and hurled it at his younger brother, hitting him so hard in the chest his collarbone snapped. “You have no idea!”

Nachari looked stunned. “What the hell is wrong with you?” His breath came in short pants as he released venom into his hand, packed the healing serum against the protruding bone, and waited for the fissures to fuse back into place. The moment they were sealed, he waved his arm in front of him, constructing a magical ring of fire around his body. “I’m not going to fight you, Marquis.” He gestured toward the ring of fire. “I know I’m no match, but even you don’t want to cross a ring of magic.”

Marquis chuckled loud and sinister. He hurled his own blazing arc of fire from his fingertips, struck the magical ring dead in the center, and added to its power. And then he pulled the combined conflagration back, like a cowboy with a lasso, and bathed in the scorching heat. Looking down at his own glowing body, he smiled at Nachari.

And then he lunged.

Nachari screamed like a girl. “Stop! Brother, please!”

Marquis met Nachari in mid-air and threw him down to the ground. “You invaded my thoughts, little brother! And disobeyed a direct command!” This was the last straw. How much more could one vampire take?

Marquis had lived a long, painful life.

His twin had been sacrificed at birth, he had lost his parents to the lycans, and his cherished little brother had been indirectly murdered by his mortal enemy. And now, the only woman he had ever loved was gone as well. He glared into Nachari’s petrified eyes. The unlucky bastard had just pulled the pin out of a grenade.

Apparently, Nachari realized exactly what was happening. Scrambling to his feet, he fell into formal protocol. He bowed his head, descended to one knee, and crossed his arms over his chest...waiting. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, a bead of sweat escaping his brow.

Marquis stalked around him slowly, growling in disgust, trying to calm himself down. When he finally held out his right hand, Nachari took it tentatively. He bent to the ring on Marquis’s fourth finger—the one with the crest of the house of Jadon engraved in it—and kissed it with deference.

Marquis snorted. “Speak.”

Nachari raised his head but kept his eyes averted. “I would humbly ask this fellow descendant of Jadon, an Ancient Master Warrior, honored elder, and esteemed son of Lord Draco—for his forgiveness. I meant no offense, my brother.”

“You entered my thoughts!”

“Yes, my brother.”

Marquis leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “In five-hundred years, you have never shown me such disrespect, Nachari. What in the world—”

“Kristina is not your true destiny.” The words came out in a rush, and Nachari quickly dropped his head back down.

Marquis froze then. He cocked his head to the side as if he had heard him incorrectly. “What did you say?”

Nachari looked up but still avoided direct eye contact. “I said Kristina is not your true destiny. Ciopori is. Salvatore used the Ancient Book of Black Magic to switch them.”

Marquis staggered back. “Look at me.” It was a harsh command, and Nachari met his brother’s stare head-on. Without pause, Marquis returned the offense and forced his way into Nachari’s mind, extracting everything but the gray matter.

And then he sank to his knees, trembling.

Slowly, Nachari approached the Ancient Master Warrior—who was too stunned for words. “Is it too late?” he whispered, gesturing toward Kristina. “Did you already...have you commanded her pregnancy?”

Marquis looked up and slowly shook his head from side to side. “No.” He thought about the implications and almost collapsed. “Oh, gods,” he exhaled slowly.

And then, without warning, he snatched his little brother up by the collar and pulled him into the strongest hug he had ever given another male. Unable to pull away, he buried his head in the wizard’s shoulder and shook. “Thank you, my brother.” He squeezed him even harder. “For being a wizard. For invading my thoughts. For coming here to stop me. For…for…oh hell, just thank you!”

Nachari struggled for breath, and Marquis relaxed his hug. The wizard sighed with relief. “You’re welcome, warrior. And I love you, too.”

twenty-two

Salvatore Nistor watched as Stefano Gervasi, the ancient Chief of Council, shook his long, bony finger at the males seated at the table and then pounded his fists into the worn, limestone tabletop, drawing his own blood. “How many dead?” he thundered, sucking the blood from the wound.

The council table remained quiet.

“Demitri, what’s the final count!” Stefano demanded.

Demitri Zeclos stirred in his high-backed leather seat and took his time answering, which made Salvatore smile...inside: Yes, there was a time and place for insolence and a time and place for obedience. And this was the time for the latter.

“At final count, there were twelve guards, fifty children, one worthless nanny, and eighty-seven soldiers,” Demitri answered respectfully

Stefano fell back into his chair, the burden of his seat clearly weighing heavily upon him. “Eighty-seven soldiers?” he repeated uselessly. “How?”

Milano Marandici, another young hopeful councilman, leaned forward. “The guards were killed by our enemies’ teams. It appears they entered from both the east and the west tunnels while the colony slept. The children were slaughtered by the squad led by Marquis, and the soldiers were killed by Napolean.”

“Single-handedly?” the chief asked, incredulous.

Salvatore sighed with annoyance: The chief had heard the story a dozen times. They all had. Yes, Napolean Mondragon was far more powerful than any of them knew. And yes, he had melted a damn army of Dark Soldiers right in their own hallway by harnessing the light of the sun. Blah. Blah. Blah. Now could they just get on with it?

“Yes, sir,” Milano answered.

Stefano leaned forward, placed both elbows on the table, and glared at his second in command, Oskar Vadovsky. “Oskar, tell me you have crafted a plan in response.”

Before Oskar could answer, Stefano turned back to Salvatore, so angry that spittle shot from the corners of his cruel mouth. “And the Ancient Book of Black Magic—the Blood Canon—it’s gone as well, is it not?”

Salvatore growled. Now that ticked him off, too. He had possessed that book for nearly eight-hundred years before it was stolen. Fortunately, he knew most of the contents by heart, but still, the thought that some pretty little wizard boy could have stolen it right out from under his nose made him seethe. He glared at Milano, who unfortunately shared Nachari’s deep green eye color, and scowled. “Yes, Chief. I am sorry to report”—for the millionth time—“that Nachari Silivasi appears to have taken the tome from my lair when he exchanged my nephew.”

Stefano stared at each man, one at a time, lingering a little too long over Milano, which was just plain creepy, before turning back to Oskar. “Your plan?”

Oskar cleared his throat and made a tent with his fingers. As a fourteen-hundred-year-old ancient and a dangerous adversary, he was only slightly outranked by Stefano and not someone to be toyed with...not even by their reigning chief. His eyes roamed between Stefano and Milano, and he growled with disgust.

Ah, so he had caught the strange vibe coming from the old geezer, too. True, Milano was rather disturbingly beautiful for a male, even with his short, disheveled hair, so typical of youth under five-hundred years old, but that was certainly not how the colony operated—males staring like that at other males, that is.

Oskar stood slowly. His raspy voice dropped to a low-pitched hum like a bass guitar. “The plan is simple: We restore our numbers and hit back hard by going after the king.” His eyes roamed from male to male, boring holes through their skulls with the voracity of his hatred. “Fifty infants were killed, so I want two-hundred and fifty filling our nurseries within the next seventy-two hours!”

Demitri gasped and then quickly regained his cool, exchanging a knowing glance with Milano.

Salvatore laughed inwardly. Poor kid. Didn’t he know that council was exempt from colony-wide mandates, their duties being too important to group with the general population? Salvatore studied the pale wash of Demitri’s skin and couldn’t say he blamed him—he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of a son at three-hundred years old, either. In fact, he was still yet to reproduce, but then, he had Derrian to look after now. And as for Milano, the young buck was as wild as they came, nowhere near ready to be saddled with a kid.

“Is there a problem?” Oskar demanded, glaring at Demitri.

“Not at all.” The kid showed the proper respect.

“Good,” Oskar flared, “because by this time tomorrow night, I want our lairs filled with the sounds of screaming, groaning women. I want the chorus of rape and the death-song of birth to be a symphony playing in my ears until every soul we lost is replaced. Is that understood?”

Demitri nodded along with Milano and Salvatore, and then he began writing on a piece of parchment.

“Now then, every male over the age of five-hundred who does not have offspring must...contribute. Those under five-hundred may choose to reproduce now or wait, and those with at least one son already may also pass on the festivities by choice.” He began to pace around the table. “As for feeding, I do not want the males to eliminate the local food supply, but I do want them to drop enough bodies in the streets to terrify the local humans. I want pandemonium in Dark Moon Vale, enough to rile up the hidden vampire hunting societies. Let them come after our foolish brothers on the surface while we remain safely hidden away beneath the earth.”

Every male at the table smiled.

“And as for the book…” Oskar glared at Salvatore and then clasped his hands behind his back. “Nachari Silivasi must be made to pay for this insult!”

Stefano, the chief of council, scowled in disgust. He stood, held out his arm to silence his second in command, and then neatly took the reins. “For Salvatore’s foolish, foolish oversight!”

Oskar nodded and took a seat as the council chief trembled, slowly stoking the fire of his rage.

Salvatore bit his tongue and waited.

“But not before we avenge our fallen,” Stefano hissed, slowly cracking his knuckles in true theatrical fashion. “I would have Napolean Mondragon broken! Humiliated! Little by little, brought to his knees in shame. I want the male ruined!”

No shit, Sherlock, Salvatore thought, any plans on how to get there? “And what would you have us do, your excellence?” he asked.

“Are you not our sorcerer?” the council chief thundered, striking him unexpectedly across the face with an open hand.

The force of the blow rattled Salvatore’s teeth, causing his upper canines to pierce his bottom lip. He spat out the blood and glared at their leader, his body trembling with the need to strike back.

He restrained himself.

“Torture him, you fool!” Stefano shouted. “Cast a spell! Haunt his dreams! Find his weakness and exploit it!” He purred deep in his throat, an evil, rumbling hiss, and his eyes grew dark with menace. “I don’t care what you have to do, just make the male suffer! For once in your miserable life, prove your reason for existence, Nistor! Or I shall have your council seat.”

The room reverberated with a collective gasp.

Oskar sat forward with interest.

Salvatore cleared his throat and forced a smile. “My apologies, your excellence. I was unaware that my service was so lacking.” His eyes shot between Demitri and Milano and then flashed quickly, two harsh red pulses, before returning to an endless void of black.

This was the opportunity they had discussed.

The chance to seize power they had each hungered for.

Ever since Valentine’s death, both males had postured for his vacant council seat, each proving himself to be worthy in different ways. With the chief gone, there would be two standing vacancies instead of one.

Salvatore’s mouth turned up in a sly grin. “Your excellence,” he snarled, “you hurl such a powerful accusation, yet you stop short of corrective action. Indeed, should any male on this council fail to prove his reason for existence, he should be removed at once.” And then he winked.

Demitri and Milano flew up from the table like two malevolent black tornados whipping through a barren field, gathering momentum as they approached the chief, daggers drawn, fangs bared, the adrenaline of youth coursing through their veins. The element of surprise was all that saved the bold soldiers from a certain death as Demitri’s dagger sliced the chief’s artery and Milano’s found its way into his heart before the chief could blink.

Stefano’s fangs exploded from his mouth, and he howled in rage, bringing pieces of the ceiling down upon them, but the power-thirsty males kept up their attack: swiping, biting, twisting, and attacking like madmen as the three flew around in a whirlwind at the head of the table.

When Oskar rose to go to Stefano’s aid, Salvatore placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are our new chief now, Oskar. You do not want to do that.”

Oskar looked astonished. “Are you threatening me, Salvatore?” He hissed a clear warning, his eyes narrowing in an unmistakable promise of retribution.

Salvatore bowed his head but kept his eyes focused on his quarry. “Only threatening to serve you, your excellence.”

Oskar wasn’t impressed. He leapt up on the table only to dodge the flying head of their chief as it rolled off his shoulders. Demitri and Milano had sunk their fangs into opposite sides of Stefano’s neck, ripping it from his torso with their bare teeth. The males salivated like wild animals, staring at the decapitated head with a wicked blood-lust flaming in their eyes. Great lords of darkness, they looked like two possessed, rabid dogs: Blood and gore hung from their teeth, ravaged skin covered their mouths, and saliva dripped from their fangs.

Oskar growled a low, unmistakable warning: Attack me, too, and die.

Both males took a step back.

Salvatore turned calmly to Oskar. “What’s done is done, your excellence. It would be a shame to waste this ancient one’s blood when the dark lords of the Abyss—and Napolean Mondragon—are waiting. We should make a sacrifice, ask the dark lords for assistance in besting our enemy…while we still can.”

Oskar looked as revolted as he was stunned, staring at the treacherous trio with utter disgust. He cleared his throat. “His son, Sergei, will seek vengeance.”

Salvatore shook his head. “His son, Sergei, will not know. Perhaps our illustrious chief was so enraged by the attack on the colony that he attempted to go after Napolean alone. Unfortunately, Napolean was the stronger of the two. We were able to retrieve his remains for incineration and will, no doubt, need to decorate Sergei with his honors.”

Oskar stepped back against the wall and ran his hands through his long, twisted hair. He glared at Milano. “Clean this mess up and move his body to the hall of sacrifice. Salvatore, prepare for an offering ceremony to the dark lords, and Demitri, you will be the one to notify Sergei once all is said and done.”

The three males nodded in unison and were just about to move when their new leader held up his hand to still them. His piercing, angry eyes were the color of blood. “Stefano was caught unawares,” he scowled. “In a million years, he would never have conceived of such treachery.” He glared at the two young bucks. “Trust that you are only breathing because of the audacity of your coup. But know this; I will have both eyes open at all times, and from this day forward, the punishment for treason shall be eternal torture. By this new decree, one enforcer and one healer shall remain at either side of the traitor in the torture chamber—the former to inflict unimaginable suffering, the latter to ensure the traitor’s survival…for all time. With all of the males in the house of Jaegar—and all we are about to create—each soldier need only serve one day every few years to keep the torture going forever. The cycle would never end.”

The tips of his fingers caught fire, and he leapt across the table, decking Milano first, and then Demitri, with a scorching fist—before either male saw him coming. Both traitors hit the ground, scalps smoldering, jaws busted open, and bits of fang scattered about the floor. “Do we understand one another?”

Gulping, the two males nodded.

He then lifted Milano by the lapels of his shirt, released a sharp claw, and carved it along the left side of his face, from temple to mouth, removing his left eye in a single swipe. “If you dare to heal that scar or regenerate that eye, you will meet the fate of a traitor. Your days of beauty—and your ability to catch anyone off-guard—are both over.”

Milano held his face in his hand and shook, but he nodded in submission. “Yes, your excellence.”

Oskar then bent over Demitri, who was trying not to tremble. “Stand up, boy, and drop your pants!”

Demitri’s eyes grew to the size of silver-dollars as he looked to the other two males for support. None was coming. They had already pressed their luck as far as it could go.

Oskar withdrew a dagger from seemingly nowhere and held it to Demitri’s throat. “I won’t ask you again.”

Trembling, Demitri unzipped his jeans and let them fall to his ankles.

“Which do you prefer to keep? The left or the right?” Oskar spat.

Demitri gulped.

Too late.

His right testicle was sliced from his body so swiftly, a couple of seconds passed before he registered the pain and then buckled to his knees. “Cauterize the bleeding,” Oskar ordered, “but do not regenerate it. Ever.”

Salvatore winced. There was a time-limit on regeneration. After a couple of months, both males would be irreversibly damaged, and they’d stand out in the house of Jaegar like sore thumbs. Oh well, at least they were council.

Oskar approached Salvatore then, a look of pure contempt in his eyes, hatred dripping from his upturned lips. “I know these young fools could not have coordinated such an act of treachery on their own, sorcerer. Nor was it a moment’s impulse.”

Salvatore knew better than to speak.

He declined his head in reverence and waited to see what was coming. Whatever it was, it would be worth it to bring down Stefano Gervasi, to gain the dark lords’ assistance in besting Napolean Mondragon—to get at the family that had killed his brother and attempted to harm his nephew. The council was as it should be: They needed Oskar’s leadership and his cunning, and all actions had consequences. He would take his punishment like a man.

Incensed by his arrogant resolve, the new chief caught him by the throat and squeezed until Salvatore’s eyes bulged in his head, and his body started to convulse. Salvatore refused to plead for mercy even when the elder snatched him by the hair, jerked back his head, and fed on him like a worthless human in the ultimate act of disrespect, tearing out huge chunks of his throat as he gulped.

Salvatore winced, but he didn’t cry out. There was no regret for his actions. Unbidden, a small, maniacal chuckle escaped his lips.

Oskar released his throat with a disbelieving snarl. “Do you find sedition funny, sorcerer? Never in the history of our colony has such a thing been done!”

Salvatore shook his head. Despite his attempt at humility, he struggled to suppress a smile.

Their new chief was beside himself with rage. His body shook with his fury. “Demitri…Milano…stand up!”

The two gravely injured vampires struggled to their feet and braced themselves on the table. The wretched look of agony on Demitri’s face was beyond description.

“Good! Now watch—as your arrogant mastermind learns humility.”

Oskar threw Salvatore against the table and ruthlessly bent him over. A pair of harsh, angry hands ripped his trousers—a set of jagged claws pierced his skin at the hips.

“What the—”

“Shut up!”

Now this had Salvatore’s attention. You have got to be kidding!

This just wasn’t done.

This was never, ever done!

Salvatore’s eyes scanned the council chamber door in desperation, searching for…

What?

He had no idea.

Something!

Time stood still as his trousers dropped to his ankles and he felt Oskar kick his legs apart. Okay, fine—the new council chief has made his point. This has gone far enough!

What the hell...

As panic began to set in, Salvatore’s eyes darted around the room hysterically. He thought about fighting…resisting. Attacking!

Hell, dying.

But he knew he could not best the ancient one now that Oskar had drained him of so much blood. He was far too weak and disoriented. And what was it Oskar had just said? He wanted Demitri and Milano to watch?

If Salvatore had only seen this coming, he would have fought Oskar to the death before the crazy freak of nature could have siphoned him...but then, that was Oskar’s point, wasn’t it? Treachery…sedition…taking unfair advantage against one’s enemy. The punishment was fitting.

As his mind struggled to comprehend the horror, Salvatore felt a hard thrust against him, and his hands instinctively gripped the table as an unspeakable pain ripped through him.

He shouted his agony.

Twisted this way and that.

Tried to mentally escape the torture.

The pain was unbearable, the humiliation beyond comprehension.

And then he heard his own voice, as if it belonged to someone else, groaning and whimpering like a wench, his cries thrust out of him to the rhythm of Oskar’s pounding.

Oh dark lords: the disgrace.

The pain.

Make it stop!

The male had made his point already! This had never been done! But then, neither had the assassination of a sitting chief of council by his own members.

Salvatore’s body shook from the invasion, and then Oskar wrenched Salvatore’s head back by his hair, bit out a raspy command, and moaned with pleasure. “Look at each other!”

Demitri and Milano were simply stunned stupid, their broken, bloody mouths hanging open, their pained faces reflecting the shame they felt—both for themselves and the ancient sorcerer being defiled before them—as they forced themselves to hold eye contact with Salvatore.

Bile rose in Salvatore’s throat, and he began to dry heave—unfortunately, still to the rhythm of Oskar’s gyrations—as he watched their piteous eyes fixed on his, the revulsion on their faces.

No one said a word as the vile act went on…and on.

And on.

At some point, Salvatore considered holding his breath in order to pass out, but he knew it wouldn’t work. He gripped the edges of the table harder, instead, trying to sustain the harsh, relentless thrusts, gritting his teeth against every vile surge, biting back his own angry tears. He wanted to rip the bastard’s throat out, but there was nothing he could do but take it.

This was inconceivable.

Murder was one thing. Treachery, another. But this?

All at once, Salvatore heard a hoarse shout and felt Oskar relax behind him. Oh great demons of hell. He refused to even think it. Demitri lost his dinner, and Milano followed right behind him.

As the chief backed away, Salvatore collapsed on the table, no longer able to walk. His stomach wrenched as he caught the scent of his own blood mixed with the scent of—

How did one regenerate from such a thing?

Salvatore panted from exhaustion and agony, the chief panting from something entirely different.

Oskar zipped up his pants and took a step back. “The next time we meet, boys, there will be a master at arms posted to the left and right of my seat, and a body of guards just outside the door. What you did tonight in this room will never be spoken of again. What I did tonight in this room will remain here as well. Are we clear?”

The soldiers grunted, still in shock, as Salvatore fell from the table, groveled on the ground, and tried to nod. There was little he could say—especially without an intact throat. He didn’t even possess the strength to release his fangs.

“Now get yourselves together so we can get on with the offering. We have a king to destroy.” With that, the furious new chief of council stalked out of the chamber.

Salvatore stared at the ground, too ashamed to look up. At least it was over. The coup had succeeded, and they had all lived through it.

Such as they were.

Yes, he thought, with profound disgrace and a new grudging respect for their leader, Oskar Vadovsky was not one to toy with.

twenty-three

Marquis brushed a sweat-soaked lock of Ciopori’s hair away from her forehead and softened his seal on her throat, careful not to dislodge his fangs.

Dearest virgin goddess, when would the suffering end?

Trying to disguise his own trembling, he brushed her arms with his hands and held her tightly to his chest, continuing to send the life-changing venom deep into her veins.

It was two a.m., and they had been at it for twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours.

What amounted to an entire day of muscles stretching, joints realigning, organs failing then regenerating, blood pooling like acid in reconstructing veins, and unimaginable pain, bringing merciful bouts of unconsciousness only to jolt her awake with a new surge of agony. It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. And the hardest thing Ciopori had ever endured. Although Kristina’s conversion had been difficult, it had only lasted a few hours. This was beyond comprehension.

Apparently, Ciopori’s pure celestial blood, as well as the fact that she was an original female and exempt from the Blood Curse, had caused her very essence all the way down to her DNA, to fight the change like a soul invasion, as if her eternal existence depended upon it. And in all actuality, it did. There were more than a few occasions when Marquis had wondered if her body would take to the change at all.

Once Napolean and Nachari had performed the necessary ritual to reverse Salvatore’s trickery, calling upon the powerful god Draco to endow Ciopori with her birthright as Marquis’s true destiny—and to free Kristina from a fate that was never hers to begin with—Napolean had assured Marquis that he could go forward with the conversion. That the requirements of the Blood Curse remained the same as they had always been. But considering the length and hardship of Ciopori’s transition, Marquis couldn’t help but wonder if they hadn’t pushed fate too far.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her. To explain why he couldn’t stop, no matter what: Her human body could not survive the changes that had already taken place, and her Vampyr body could not survive still being part human. No. Once a conversion began, it could not be halted, and telepathic communication was next to impossible due to the sheer amount of concentration required to circulate the venom. If Marquis had known how much the conversion would cost the woman he so dearly loved, he would have left things the way they were.

As if sensing his growing desperation, Ciopori drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, her rigid muscles relaxing for the first time. Marquis felt a final surge of resistance discharge from her body, and there was a tangible shift in her countenance. His incisors retracted of their own accord. He mentally scanned her composition, wanting to be absolutely sure that the transfer was complete, and then he pulled away, slowly lowering the exhausted female to the bed in his master chamber.

His tension eased with relief. “My love, how do you feel?”

It was the first time in an entire day that he’d heard his own voice.

Ciopori licked her bottom lip and ran her tongue along the top of her teeth as if she was feeling for fangs. She smiled weakly. “Like I’ve just been run over by a thousand chariots.”

Marquis smiled. “Chariots, my love? I thought Napolean transferred our culture and language directly into your mind: Did he not?”

Ciopori laughed. “He did. But honestly, to say I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus just doesn’t cut it. It leaves out the two-thousand pounding hooves that just stomped the life out of me.”

Marquis frowned. “I cannot express how sorry—”

“My love,” she whispered, holding her finger to his lips, “I’m not. Just tell me this; is it over?”

Marquis smiled then. “I believe so.” He became deathly quiet, listening to the forest around them. “Tell me what you hear.”

Ciopori tried to sit up a bit, and Marquis quickly placed a pillow behind her back. “I hear the sap running through the trees behind the house, like blood coursing through someone’s veins.”

Marquis smiled broadly. Dear gods, could it really be? “What else?”

She closed her eyes, and then she laughed, excited. “I hear the water rushing through the river out back—and the different tones it projects depending upon the size of the rock it is sweeping over. Dearest Cygnus! I can hear the flap of a hawk’s wings soaring overhead.” She placed her hands over her ears. “How does one keep from going mad?”

Marquis laughed and slowly removed her hands, staring down into her amazing gold and amber eyes, the sparkling diamond centers gleaming with newfound wonder. “Think of the dial on a stereo, my love, or the mute button on a remote control.”

Ciopori concentrated, clearly drawing from the wide base of knowledge Napolean had imparted to her as if the memories were her own.

“Now simply turn it all down.”

She giggled. “It’s softer.”

“Yes. Now shut it all off and enter silence.”

It took her a little longer to manage his last command, but once she did, she sat straight up with excitement.

Can you hear me in your head, my beautiful wife?

The sparkle in her eyes said it all. Yes! Oh my gods—yes!

Now tune in again to the river, but keep all else shut out.

Her laughter was as radiant as her smile as she continued to follow Marquis’s instructions, trying out her new, profound sense of hearing. One by one, he took her through exercises to introduce her to her heightened senses. He taught her how to distinguish scents so faint she could name every animal that had walked across the lawn in the past month, all the way down to the squirrels, rabbits, and mice.

He taught her how to see in multi-dimension and to sense movement at the speed of light. He taught her to move her hand through the pillow and then the mattress as if both objects were mere liquid. Now that she had the ability to rearrange her molecules at will, he began to transfer small bits of wisdom regarding the laws of physics to her, for it would be these laws that would govern not only what she could do with her newfound power, but how she would ultimately focus thought to accomplish each and every feat.

Thrilled, if not a bit overwhelmed, she rested her head against his chest and simply allowed him to hold her, both of them taking in the magic of the moment. And then she looked up at him and smiled a mischievous grin. She waved her hand elegantly above them, and the ceiling rolled back like a scroll, the full glory of the heavens shining above them in a canopy of sparkling ice. Ciopori closed her eyes and held out her hand, and then she chanted in a sing-song voice so melodious Marquis thought his heart might just stop beating in his chest:

“Behold the stars that shine so bright: the gods of time, the lords of night.

Behold their glory, strength, and grace: the makers of our fearless race.

Behold the song the goddess sings; bow down to heaven’s mighty kings.

May love abound and peace arise, beneath the glory of these skies….

Within our hearts, a new wind blows; behold the beauty of the rose.”

Laughing, she held out her hand and presented him with the most perfect, long-stem red rose he had ever seen. He accepted the flower, bowed his head, and offered a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess Cygnus and his lord Draco: They had not stripped away her powers as a celestial being. As an original female. Ciopori Demir—Silivasi—was now the living embodiment of all they had been before the Curse and all they had become after it. She had the powers of a celestial being as well as all those of a vampire. And instinctively, Marquis knew that their children would too.

If only through their offspring, the original peoples would live again.

Not wanting to disturb such a private moment, but unable to contain such an important revelation, Marquis sent a telepathic communication to Napolean. He knew the fearless leader was not going to rest until he was assured that Ciopori had come through the conversion safely anyway: He had felt the Great One’s push against his mind several times over the last twenty-four hours and knew that he was waiting….

The moment the most powerful living being of their kind received the information, Marquis felt a strange void—the complete absence of the Sovereign’s presence. As the keeper of the house of Jadon, Napolean carried the blood of every member in his veins—males, their destinies, and even their children. His pulse was the electrical current in all of their heartbeats, so even when he was far away, they felt him. Just as Napolean always felt them.

Never before had Marquis felt an absence of that pulse—not even for a fleeting moment—and he wondered if the great king’s heart had failed. But then again, that simply wasn’t possible. He gently pushed back against the current, hoping to sense their leader once again, and felt a barrier so powerful the gods would have trouble getting through it. And then he knew. As sure as he knew the love of the woman before him, the noble king of the house of Jadon—the only remaining male from the time of the Blood Curse—had briefly closed himself off from his people for the first time in twenty-eight centuries.

The Great One was weeping.

Ciopori reached out and stroked Marquis’s face. “What is wrong, my love?”

“Nothing,” he replied, taking her hand in his. He turned it over and kissed the center of her palm. “Everything is right.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Do you have any idea what you mean to me? What you mean to our people?”

Ciopori smiled a wise, knowing smile. “I do, warrior.” And then she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. “But tonight, on this blessed occasion, I want to think, feel, and know nothing but you.”

Marquis growled deep in his throat, his body coming instantly alive. He looked down at the beautiful woman before him, sighed with contentment, and quickly stood, sweeping her up in his arms. He carried her to the large white marble bathroom and, holding her effortlessly in one arm, turned on the 360-degree row of large shower heads in the master shower with his free hand.

Ciopori watched him, her eyes glazed over with something much deeper than love, and he felt his fangs stretch against his gums. Gods, he had waited so long to have her in his arms again. He had imagined this so many times. He had grieved the loss of her as if their love would never be again. Now, with her lying there so trusting and malleable in his arms, he could hardly restrain his desire to take her. But she deserved to be loved like the princess she was, and it would be rude to just throw her up against the wall and feed from her the way his mind was begging him to do.

Be patient, he told himself. You have...forever.

Testing the water once again, he stepped into the large shower, not bothering to remove their clothes. As the powerful jets washed over them, he gently set her down and grasped her by the waist, more forcefully than he intended, but hell, what did the gods expect of him?

Ciopori laughed, reading his mind. “Do you always take showers with your clothes on, warrior?”

Marquis tried to answer but snarled instead. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I don’t ever want to see these clothes again—the ones you’ve suffered in.” He reached down and grabbed the bodice of her wet silk blouse and ripped it in two. Pearl buttons flew in all directions, bounced off the shower walls, and echoed as they hit the floor.

She gasped, and his manhood jerked in response, heating his blood another few degrees. Releasing his claws, he drew a line from her beautiful, pulsing jugular all the way down to her soft, ample breasts stopping at the front clasp of her silk bra. With quickness and dexterity, he shredded it into a dozen pieces using nothing but the flick of his wrist, never nicking her flawless skin.

She shuddered and her rose-colored nipples grew hard in response. The flat, silky expanse of her stomach quivered with anticipation beneath her narrow waist. He dropped to his knees then and tugged at the soaked, ruffled skirt, pulling it deftly away from her body, along with her thin, matching panties, in one hard pull. His head fell back and he moaned as his eyes swept over the soft black triangle before him. His hands gripped her thighs hard, his fingers kneading in rough, sensuous circles, as he slowly spread her legs.

Ciopori inhaled sharply and let her head fall back, gripping the sides of the shower with two open palms, her legs quivering in his hands. “Marquis,” she groaned, her voice low and seductive.

He gently brushed the back of his hand against her core, drawing out liquid heat as he repeated the motion, and then he turned his hand palm facing up, allowing his fingers to trace her inner folds. His head fell forward against her thigh, and he struggled for breath as he swept his hand over her warmth again and again, each time adding more pressure.

She fisted her hands in his wet hair and then grasped again at the shower wall as if she didn’t know which one to hold onto. Marquis stood up then. He gripped her slender waist with his powerful hands and bent to claim her mouth, his kiss alternating between tasting, probing, enticing, and claiming. When he ran his tongue over the soft fullness of her bottom lip, he couldn’t keep himself from nipping it gently. His tongue swept over the small droplet of blood, and he gently pulled her lip into his mouth, suckling the taste of her.

His hand found the back of her neck and held her head in place as he deepened the kiss and clutched her with a force he was fighting to restrain.

This female was his.

The gods had given her to him to keep, to pleasure, to stroke, to taste...to love.

And to claim.

The male warred with the vampire, the intellect with the instinct. One desired to gently make love to his wife; the other was desperate to claim her for all time, to mark her with his scent and his touch, to command her into full submission so that she never thought of another male again. He wanted to give her everything: his heart, his blood, and his seed. And he wanted to take everything from her.

Dear gods, he wanted to drain her of every drop of her pure, celestial blood until he passed out from the strength of it; and now that she was no longer human, there was no danger of harming her. She would simply strike him back and siphon what she needed long before she would allow herself to be harmed. Her instinct would war with his.

His shaft became so hard at the thought it felt like a spear of granite straining to push its way through his pants, and the restricting cloth grew painful against the sensitive head.

He quickly shrugged out of his shirt and ripped at his trousers, kicking them from his feet. Smiling, Ciopori removed his remaining undergarment and ran her hand back and forth over the length of him, purring as she stroked him.

Purring.

His woman had just growled in lust.

Marquis’s fangs shot through his gums like a firecracker exploding on the fourth of July, and he dipped his head, his hands riding up her shapely curves to cup the weight of her breasts. His thumbs found the sensitive nipples and flicked, caressed, making circles before he finally bent to taste them. His sigh was so deep and primitive that the glass on the shower door rattled.

Slow down, he told himself.

Before Ciopori could move against him, which he knew would shatter his control, he fell back on his knees and pulled her velvety thighs apart. His hands grasped her at her middle, his thumbs at her hips, his palms at her buttocks, clutching and massaging the shapely curves as his head fell forward and his tongue took its first taste.

He almost lost it right then and there.

Holy Pegasus. How embarrassing would that be? He trembled, trying to regain control. He slowed his breathing, and then he dipped lower to get a deeper taste. His tongue traced every outline and curve, his lips opening to press his mouth to her warmth and suckle; he swallowed all he could like a man dying of thirst. He flicked his tongue over her cleft before taking it into his mouth and gently sucking, tracing…teasingly scraping his teeth against her core.

Ciopori cried out, fisting his hair in both hands, her body building to a rapid climax. Her hips moved in sweet, passionate circles against him, taking all he could give her and pleading for more. Her leg came up time and time again, the inside of her beautiful thigh brushing against his hair as she arched to give him better access.

Marquis was like a man possessed. The more she moved, the deeper his tongue dove. The harder she squirmed, the louder her pants and sighs. The rougher his lips became, the more she whimpered—and the fiercer he claimed her with his mouth. Sensing the inevitable, he released one of his hands and buried two fingers inside of her, careful not to lose the rhythm of his tongue, his own moans barely drowned out by the rushing water.

Ciopori thrashed against him in ecstasy, calling out his name until finally, her eyes filled with tears and she tried to pull away. “I can’t take it! Marquis, stop.”

Enfolding her hips with a powerful arm, he pulled her to him and held her still. As three fingers entered her, he took her cleft into his mouth and suckled hard, the thrusts of his hand demanding and urgent. She struggled to move, but he held her still as she screamed the names of the gods.

And then she went over the edge.

Trembling from head to foot, her body shook and her womb contracted over and over as powerful waves of pleasure took her. Marquis used his mental powers to send electrical currents into the sensations already overwhelming her, and he held her steady as the powerful bolts shook her body along with her orgasm. Catching it at its peak, he suspended time and held it there, allowing the primal pleasure to go on and on for well over a minute. When finally, her cries became sobs and her sobs became a pleasure so agonizing that she fought to get away, he released the peak and allowed her body to unwind.

The prolonged orgasm, along with the harsh restraint, had left her so physically and emotionally exposed that she trembled from the vulnerability. She had surrendered her control in a way that was difficult for any soul to do—for a length of time that had broken down every barrier she possessed, and tears streamed down her face. She was part of him now. He had marked her, claimed her, taken her beyond the edge and held her there with total authority while she gave herself up to his absolute command.

Marquis massaged her hips and stayed with her, taking long, lazy laps with his tongue, gently scraping his fangs along her thighs, teasing her and pleasing her gently while she came down. When all of her tremors had finally ceased, he stood, grasped her face in his hands, and kissed her long and slow. And then his eyes heated, and he knew they were glowing feral red. A deep, primordial growl began in his chest and rose to his throat, vibrating against his tongue as he felt his fangs lengthen even farther. His shaft swelled to a heavy, painful ache.

Ciopori reached down to catch the first drops of moisture as they seeped from the weeping head, rubbing the swollen tip with her thumb. Her lips parted, and she bent to take him, to return the favor, her glorious eyes catching his with a wickedly sexy glance, but he wasn’t having any of that. His need was too great. He did not possess the restraint necessary to keep from heavy thrusting.

Shaking his head, his eyes bored into hers and his lips twitched in a snarl. It was instinct not menace…passion not anger…but a warning just the same. And Ciopori took it exactly as it was intended. She stood back up. Her body became liquid compliance, her eyes begged for his touch, and she threw back her head, offering him her throat.

Marquis bent to the magnificent offering, his fangs etching soft lines into her milky skin as he drew them up and down the length of her jugular, and then he made a tiny pin-prick with the tip of a canine and tasted the blood on his tongue.

A deep moan of ecstasy escaped his throat, and he seized her by the shoulders and quickly spun her around. Clutching her waist with one arm, he pulled her hips away from the tiles and bent her slightly forward, using his free hand to place her arms high above her head, against the shower walls. Gently kicking her legs to the sides, he splayed her spread eagle. Ah, yes. Her arms and legs were exactly where he wanted them.

His erection was too large to take her with force, so he took the thickness in his hand and slowly eased the head against her, opening and caressing while testing her readiness at the same time. When she moaned and pushed back against him, he let go, gripped her hips, and slowly surged forward, filling her just beyond her perimeter in one smooth stroke. He rocked slowly back and forth against her, thrusting carefully, easily, as her body stretched impossibly to try and accommodate him.

Even though she had taken him before, Ciopori stiffened with hesitation. “Marquis,” she whispered, “I don’t know what...what’s different this time, but I can’t—you’re too big like this. It’s too—”

Marquis bent over and suckled her neck, kissing his way up her ear then down her jaw, before reaching to turn her head back so he could kiss her. All the while, he continued to work his shaft in and out, slowly pushing deeper and deeper.

She gasped when he pulled his mouth away, panting, and there was a tinge of desperation in her voice. “Dear gods, I...I—”

“Relax, my love,” he murmured, kissing the back of her neck. “Let your body stretch for me.”

“I’m trying,” she panted, pushing back against him with pleasure despite her protests.

Marquis held her hips down so that his body went even deeper on the next stroke, and then he held himself still, growing thicker inside her.

Ciopori whimpered.

“Ciopori,” he coaxed, “relax your thighs; relax your stomach; just fall back against me and trust.” Ciopori’s body went lax, and like liquid butter, he felt her inner core mold and give way, making space that had never been there before as it adjusted to his size. He moaned. “That’s it, baby. Oh yeah, that’s exactly it.”

The water washed over them both, and she looked so amazingly sexy as she laid her head to the side against the cool shower tiles, her long, thick hair falling forward, water cascading from her back. Her breasts jutted out like mounds of perfection, tantalizing his eyes as her body rocked to his rhythm, and she took all he could give her with complete surrender.

Marquis swept Ciopori’s hair aside. His fangs brushed over the smooth skin where her shoulder met her neck, and he gently sank them into her flesh, forming a tight seal over the bite and locking his jaw in order to hold her in place. The whimpers that followed were crises of pure satisfaction as her body instantly splintered into another powerful orgasm.

Marquis moved faster and more deeply then, thrusting into her orgasms as she lay against the shower wall, weeping with pleasure. His own arousal grew to the point of ecstasy, and then he went over the edge with her in a cosmic explosion. He trembled, riding it out, loving her more in that moment than he had ever loved anything or anyone in his life. As he withdrew his fangs, he knew that he would kill for her, die for her.

Live for her.

And follow her to the Valley of Spirit and Light if ever she should be taken from him.

“I was dead before you came,” he whispered in a deep, raspy voice, still breathing heavily. “And I was resigned to existing for all of eternity that way with Kristina.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion. “I may have sired her body, but you have sired my soul. You have given me life again, Ciopori.”

Ciopori reached back with one arm to encircle his neck. She turned her head to the side in order to capture his mouth. Her kiss told him all she couldn’t say. When she finally pulled away, she turned to face him and gazed into his eyes. “You are my world as well, Marquis. In Romania, we lived in such fear, only shadows of our former selves. As a woman, my fate placed me in the ground, alone, with only my sister and the hope of some day finding salvation through awakening.” Her smile was dripping with love. “You were that salvation, and the thought of not having you with me, beside me...inside of me...for the rest of my life…” She let the words trail off. “There is nothing I would not do for you, nothing I would not give you. Nothing that could ever repay you for what you have given me.”

Marquis wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. After all the centuries, the wars, the losses, living so painfully alone—after a millennium, learning to shut down his heart and emotions, forcing himself into continued existence, and truly believing the gods had scorned him—he had finally been given a gift equal to his sacrifice. The restoration was greater than the loss.

Balance had come full circle.

Granted, it had taken fifteen centuries, but oh-how-sweet-it-was now that he could finally taste it. He nuzzled her hair, meditating on her words: He would never be a soft man. He would never have the easy humor, style, or wit of Nathaniel or the laid-back nature of Nachari. He would never have the gentleness of Kagen, and there would always be hard, rough edges around him—a quick fuse beneath a domineering personality—simply because of who he was and all he had been through. But somehow, this woman saw through it all. She saw the soul that he was unable to reveal. And she loved him.

She would give him anything.

To repay him?

Didn’t she know that he had gotten the very best of this deal? Didn’t she realize that now that he had her, he had everything? What else could a male possibly want?

And then the brutally obvious came back to him.

Of course there was something that he needed.

Desperately.

And the fact that he could have forgotten, for even a moment, spoke volumes about the peace his destiny had brought into his life.

Marquis Silivasi needed a son.

He needed a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of his ancestors—to be free, once and for all, from the shadow of the Blood Curse.

Gazing down into the eyes of his beautiful mate, he took her face in his hands and locked his gaze with hers. He turned his head to view the small digital clock on the bathroom sink and made note of the time: three a.m.

“Ciopori,” he whispered, pausing to brush a soft kiss against her lips, “I would have you conceive now.”

twenty-four

There was a light knock on Marquis’s master bedroom door, and Ciopori turned her head and smiled. “Come in,” she called, unable to shift her massive weight into a more comfortable position on the bed.

The door slowly opened and a tussled head of red hair peeked through a narrow breach. “You guys wanted to see me?” Kristina called meekly.

Marquis stirred and turned toward the hesitant female. “Kristina, come inside,” he ordered, as if he were still her boss.

Ciopori placed a gentle hand on his forearm, willing him her softness—or at least hoping for a little tact. “Be gentle, my love.” She flashed an endearing, welcoming smile at the female who had almost become her soul mate’s partner. “Yes, please; come in, Kristina.”

Kristina looked down at the floor. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Ciopori assured, motioning the young female toward the bed.

Kristina walked in hesitantly, gazing around Marquis’s bedroom as if it were the first time she had really seen it. Even though Ciopori knew Kristina and Marquis had never made love—thank the benevolence of the gods—it was still a relief to see how uncomfortable she was in his bedroom. “Have a seat,” she insisted, patting the mattress beside her.

Kristina looked up then and almost recoiled at the sight of the enormous belly protruding from Ciopori’s middle. “Holy shhhiiit—I mean, wow.”

Ciopori didn’t have to use her new mind-reading powers—which would have been an inexcusable slight to another vampire anyway—to read Kristina’s mind: That could have been me. She laughed and rubbed her belly. “Marquis assures me this is perfectly natural and will go away the moment the babies are born.” She rolled her eyes and took in a slow, deep breath. “I can only hope.”

Kristina offered a disingenuous smile and fidgeted with her hands. “So, uh—why’d you guys wanna see me?”

If Ciopori didn’t know better, she would have sworn she detected a hint of resentment, and maybe even jealousy, in the young girl’s voice. Odd, considering how deeply Kristina had detested Marquis. But then again, he had told her that things became quite…intimate...beside the river, just before Nachari had stopped them from going past the point of no return. Oh, how she loved her new brother. Just the same, Marquis had refused any other details out of respect for the young female he had believed to be his wife, and by the looks on both of their faces, it was a lot deeper than he had revealed. Ciopori swallowed hard and briefly shut her eyes; this was a difficult situation for all of them. She needed to act with grace, not jealousy, over a female Marquis had been forced to embrace.

She reached out for Kristina’s hand, but the female quickly tucked it behind her back, pretending not to notice the gesture. She sat down on the bed, as close to the edge as possible, and then she stared ahead at the wall, refusing to look at either Ciopori or Marquis, who was still protectively nestled beside his mate on the other side of the bed, holding her hand in order to block all uncomfortable sensations from her body.

“Thank you for coming,” Ciopori whispered.

Kristina shrugged. “Yeah, sure. So what’s up?”

Marquis appraised the petite redhead carefully then, and Ciopori knew he was reading whatever was beyond the surface quite clearly. He sighed heavily and looked directly at her, his magnificent dark eyes boring into hers. “Kristina, we felt it was important to discuss your circumstances as soon as possible. There are several things—”

“Oh yeah, well…thanks but no thanks. I’m good. I’m cool, ya know. Assuming you let me have my job back at the casino.” She forced an insincere laugh. “And now that Dirk—now that the apartment is free and clear, I should be fine over there. So, like I said, thanks, but I should really be going.” She shot up from the bed and rushed to the door, leaving Ciopori momentarily speechless.

Staring at her mate, Ciopori raised her eyebrows. She’s hurt, Marquis. Her newfound psychic voice revealed her compassion.

Her pride is hurt, my love, Marquis responded. And she is scared.

You have to go after her.

Marquis nodded. “Kristina,” he called, just as she reached for the polished crystal doorknob, “wait for me in the hall. We really do need to discuss a few things.”

Ciopori shut her eyes. She felt like such an ogre. How absolutely stupid and insensitive of her to think that Kristina would want to have such a personal conversation with her there. Whether or not she hated Marquis, he had irrevocably changed her life, sired her into the Vampyr race, and promised her a world far more beautiful than the one she had come from. Considering her low self-esteem, the loss had to be devastating—not to mention, humiliating. Love him or hate him, she had been cast aside for another woman.

Ciopori held her tongue out of respect.

Nothing she could say would be wanted.

Kristina nodded and quickly shuffled out the door, leaving the two of them in uncomfortable silence.

Marquis turned to face his new wife. “Do not concern yourself with Kristina right now.” He patted her belly. “This is to be your only concern.” The ancient male appeared to be concentrating, perhaps speaking telepathically, but if he was, it was on a bandwidth Ciopori was not familiar with.

When Nathaniel Silivasi materialized inside of their bedroom, she knew exactly who Marquis had been talking to.

“Yes, brother?” Nathaniel spoke in a smooth, satin drawl, his blue-black hair swaying gently as he sauntered across the room toward Marquis, the epitome of power and grace.

Ciopori hid her appreciation.

She knew the territorial instincts of Vampyr males, but hell’s bells, she was only human, after all. Well, actually, she wasn’t human anymore, was she? No matter. She was still female, and Nathaniel Silivasi was a sight to behold: Like a black panther stalking through a jungle, the male was all raw power, coiled and peacefully restrained, wrapped in a sensuous package that just screamed danger...and sex. What a family she had married into.

A low growl emanated from Marquis’s throat. His lips twitched, and he turned his head to glare at her. Ciopori’s eyes grew wide, and she quickly sent him a vivid image of what she intended to do with him later, once their son was safely sleeping in his bassinette. Unfortunately, Marquis didn’t seem all that impressed. Instead of smiling at the decadent olive branch she had offered him, he flashed his fangs in warning. Respectfully, Nathaniel pretended not to notice any of it.

“What do you need?” Nathaniel pressed on, his arms crossed over his sculpted chest.

Marquis’s eyes flashed red and he snarled at Ciopori, “Would you rather I call Braden to assist you, woman?”

Ciopori blinked. And then she laughed.

Marquis rolled his eyes and turned to regard Nathaniel. “I must deal with Kristina for a moment, but I don’t want to leave Ciopori alone.” He glared at her—again—his jaw set with a hint of genuine irritation.

Oh my, she teased, feigning fear—as if he were really going to do something to a hugely pregnant woman, one who happened to be carrying his sons. Not likely.

Marquis ignored the quip and kept his aggravated eyes on Nathaniel. “Since you have already been through this with Jocelyn, can you contain Ciopori’s discomfort for me—keep an eye on her while I step out?”

Nathaniel smiled a relaxed, easy grin and lightly bowed his head. “It would be an honor, my brother.”

Marquis stood and placed his hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, and a strong surge of energy passed between them.

What was that? Ciopori asked Marquis. What are the two of you doing?

I am transferring my knowledge of your physiology to him, and yielding him my...authority...over your body. Temporarily! Do not disgrace me, woman!

Ciopori laughed aloud. Oh, Marquis. You are so funny. I hardly think Nathaniel has eyes for anyone other than Jocelyn: I have seen her beauty, you know. And if our time in the shower did not convince you of my devotion to you—and if this enormous belly blowing up right before your eyes can’t convince you—then I don’t know what will.

Then keep your eyes to yourself, he grumbled. Must I remind you that vampires are animals—not humans—Ciopori. Territory is territory. Do not make me hurt my own brother.

Marquis released Nathaniel’s shoulder and stalked toward the door. “I’ll be back shortly,” he called, without turning around.

Ciopori looked up. “Wow. Did you catch any of that?”

The corner of Nathaniel’s mouth turned up in a smile, but he didn’t respond.

“Will he always be that intense?” she persisted. “Maybe it’s just all the stress, but that was a bit much, don’t you think?”

Nathaniel shrugged his shoulders.

“You don’t agree?” Ciopori asked, noting the stark intelligence and cunning just beneath the surface of Nathaniel’s eyes.

“You are his, Ciopori. You belong to him now. Just as Jocelyn belongs to me. He is only doing what is natural for a male of our species. In all truth, you must be careful; you almost got me bitten.”

Ciopori looked away both surprised and embarrassed. “Bitten? How? You’re kidding me! What would he have done?” Despite her embarrassment, her curiosity was piqued. Marquis loved his family more than his own life. These were some powerful instincts, indeed, if he could be provoked to go after one of his own brothers.

Nathaniel sighed. “He would not have tried to kill me, Ciopori.” Then he smiled a wickedly male smile. “Raw power, coiled and peacefully restrained? Thank you.” He laughed. “However, wrapped in a sensuous package that just screams danger...and sex?” He raised his eyebrows. “One more thought like that and Marquis would have leapt across the room and tried to take a pint of my blood just to show his dominance—which I am not conceding by the way.”

Ciopori wilted, certain she was turning pale. “You read my thoughts?” She was positively mortified. “But I...I thought vampires were not allowed to do such a thing to each other—it’s against custom, if not law!” Humiliation fueled her indignation.

Nathaniel looked at her then, like a father appraising a wayward child, far too sure of himself and far too aware of her for her comfort. “It is rude, and among warriors, it may even violate law. But I did not invade your mind; you were broadcasting your thoughts quite clearly for all to hear.”

“I…I…” She didn’t know what to say. Dear gods, she had a lot to learn—and quickly. “Well, you must know I wasn’t serious: I didn’t mean anything improper.” She looked away, humiliated. “I certainly wasn’t trying to flirt with you or anything.”

“Of course you weren’t, little sister,” Nathaniel drawled. He reached for her hand and took it firmly in his own.

Immediately, Ciopori felt a surge of new male energy flow through her body. Whoa, he was powerful. As soon as the thought came, unbidden, she quickly clasped her free hand over her mouth, as if that might somehow shield her thoughts from his awareness. Dear gods, what was wrong with her? She was madly in love with Marquis! About to have his children, for heaven’s sake. And she had absolutely no intention of continuing to humor her already confident enough brother-in-law.

“But that, of course, is not the point,” Nathaniel said aloud.

“What is not the point?”

“Whether or not you intend to flirt with me…or humor me…is not the point. And of course you have eyes only for Marquis. You’re his true destiny. For you, as long as he is alive, truly desiring another male is not even possible.” The slight twitch of his nose was almost imperceptible. “Especially now that he has marked you the way that he has.”

Ciopori reached for the covers and pulled them all the way up to her chin, her eyes growing wide with surprise. “Are you always this forthcoming, brother?”

Nathaniel’s smile was sinful...and shameful. “If you wish, I can be as quiet as a church mouse, sister. What is it they say? See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil?” His dark black eyes held a glimmer of amusement in them.

Ciopori shook her head. “Well, I would hardly call any of my thoughts—or what Marquis and I do in our own time—evil. But by all means, don’t bite your tongue on my account.”

His smile lit up his eyes.

“Well?”

“Well what?” he asked.

Ciopori exhaled slowly and rolled her eyes. “Well, if whether or not I intended to flirt with you isn’t the point, then what is the point?”

“The point is…” He scooted closer to the bed. “You would be wise not to look at, touch, or even think about another male, not even in passing appraisal. And should you ever do so with a human, do not be surprised if you are the cause of his death. Marquis is not known for his mercy. Why grab a tiger by its tail, sister?” His voice was absolutely serious.

“Are you kidding me?”

Nathaniel frowned. “I would never kid about such a thing.” It was obvious that he meant every word.

Ciopori was momentarily speechless, searching for a reply, when all at once a firm but gentle female energy surged in the room. Would you shut up, knuckle-head! You’re scaring the poor woman. She is too new to this family to be subjected to all that cave-man nonsense right now. For heaven’s sake, she’s pregnant, Nathaniel.

No doubt, this was Nathaniel’s beautiful wife, Jocelyn, and she was speaking on a public family bandwidth just to make her point.

You would do well to watch your tone, female, Nathaniel snarled in response. Do not forget who the master of our house is.

Jocelyn sighed loud and long. How could I possibly? He’s squirming in my arms and demanding to be fed even as we speak.

Nathaniel’s drawn-out hiss was positively frightening. His sculpted muscles contracted and released in a series of waves that started at his shoulders, moved down his arms, and ended at his torso. His dark eyes turned even darker—if that was possible.

When I return home and tie you to our bed, perhaps then, you will remember who the true master is. Or perhaps, should you continue to try me, I might just have to teach you the difference between male and female—dominance and submission. Make no mistake, woman, I can have you calling me master for the next thirty days—in public—should I choose. Now tend to our son, and leave us be.

Jocelyn’s answering snarl shook the overhead lighting. Nathaniel Jozef Silivasi!

Nathaniel’s eyes flew open wide at the mere tone of Jocelyn’s psychic voice, though he tried to hide his reaction. Ciopori bit her bottom lip in an effort not to laugh.

Listen here, oh great male vampire: Do not make me come in that room and slap you upside your head right in front of our new sister—because I will if I have to.

Nathaniel laughed heartily then, both his sense of humor and his tenderness for his mate getting the best of him. I’m afraid you are neither that strong nor that quick, my beautiful love, but you inspire my soul. Tonight, colega mea de sexy, save it for tonight.

Jocelyn giggled then, the love in her voice apparent. Ma asteptam, de masterat.

Ciopori knew exactly what the words meant—I’ll be waiting, master—and the look on Nathaniel’s face was priceless. He was no longer a stern, domineering vampire, but a grinning ten-year-old boy with glazed-over eyes, looking much like he had just discovered candy.

“Yes,” Ciopori said, laughing, “I can see you have things well under control at home, my fearsome brother.”

Nathaniel chuckled and tightened his grip on Ciopori’s hand. “Ah well, a male has to try.” Concentrating, he continued to absorb the full range of sensation from Ciopori’s pregnancy, shielding his new sister-in-law from even the slightest tinge of discomfort.

Marquis leaned back against the sturdy railing of the back porch, his legs crossed casually at the ankles, his arms folded in front of his chest, waiting for Kristina to stop pacing.

“I still don’t know what you could possibly have to say to me, but fine, I’m listening. What now, boss?”

Marquis raised his eyebrows and smiled. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black and gold rectangle of hard plastic and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” She snatched it out of his hand.

“It’s a credit card...with a two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollar limit on it.”

Kristina’s eyes grew enormous as she read the name on the bottom of the card: Kristina Riley Silivasi. “You’re still giving me money? And you want me to keep your name? I don’t get it.”

Marquis shifted his weight from one foot to the other and re-crossed his legs. “Of course I’m still going to take care of you, and why wouldn’t I? It’s your name now, too. The bills for the card will come to me, and on the first business day of every calendar year, any outstanding balance will be paid in full. Then the original two-hundred-fifty thousand limit will be restored, so consider it an annual...salary of sorts.”

Kristina looked stunned. “But how? When? Why?”

“Nathaniel took care of the details for me.”

Kristina tried to suppress her excitement but failed, which pleased Marquis greatly. “Kristina, I may not be your mate, but I am still your sire. You will be taken care of for the rest of your life.”

Her large blue eyes widened with surprise...and appreciation. “Wow, that’s really cool of you, thanks.”

Marquis nodded. “As for living arrangements, you will not be going back to the apartment you shared with...that human. I wish I could give you a place with more privacy, but as your safety is my utmost concern, I am having one of the executive suites at the lodge renovated as an apartment. I think you will be quite satisfied with the accommodations when they are through, and there will always be guards and security within reach. You will stay in a guest room until the suite is finished.”

Kristina’s lips parted like she was about to ask a question, but then she slowly pursed them back together. For the first time since he’d claimed her, the female was speechless.

Marquis chuckled. “Yes, there will be a theatre room in the suite and a large Jacuzzi as well. A wet bar should be no problem, but be careful—vampires must never lose their inhibitions...for obvious reasons.”

Kristina frowned then. The news that she would no longer be mated to Marquis had clearly been a relief, but the caveat that she would never be human again must have been devastating. “So then, uh, how will I—”

“Feed?”

Kristina looked down. “Yeah.”

Marquis sighed. “Kristina, you will become accustomed to your new life in time; it will not always be so difficult. I want you to understand something very important, un pic—little one. When I sired you, my blood became your blood, my DNA part of your DNA. You are a true Silivasi now—by name and blood—despite our not being together. That cannot be reversed.”

Kristina tilted her head as if trying to absorb the information.

“That means that you now have four living brothers, and trust me, as rare as females are in the house of Jadon, the idea of having a sister is an extraordinary treat. You couldn’t get away now if you tried. Not to mention, as you know, vampires can be a bit overprotective.”

Kristina sighed, finally getting it. “They wouldn’t.”

“Oh, they will.”

She shrugged. “Well, it’s not like there’s anyone for me to date anyhow.”

Marquis shook his head. “That is not necessarily true. There are widows in the house of Jadon just as anywhere else. Between vampire hunting societies, wars with our dark brothers, and our natural enemies, the lycans, many males have lost their destinies over the long centuries. The problem, however, will be getting any one of these males past your new brothers.”

Kristina shook her head. “Oh, great.”

“You also have two sisters by blood now as well,” he offered as a consolation, “Ciopori and Jocelyn. Three, if you count Vanya. Perhaps they will assist you.”

Kristina just stared at him.

“And you will soon have two nephews, so you are no longer alone in this world, sora mea.”

“Sora mea?”

“My sister.”

Kristina looked down at the ground.

“And all of your brothers will see to your feeding.”

She looked up, a subtle flash of fear in her eyes.

Marquis shook his head. “It’s okay. Your needs will not be as urgent as they were when you became ill right after the conversion. A wrist should suffice. And if that is too difficult, any one of us can siphon into a wineglass for you as long as the blood is fresh when you get it.” His eyes narrowed and fixed upon hers. “You will call one of us the moment you feel hunger, understood?”

She nodded...unconvincingly.

Marquis took a step forward then. “We will keep track of your feeding cycles, little sister. Do not think you will be left alone from this point on by any stretch. In fact, I think I already heard Jocelyn mention something to Nathaniel about your upcoming birthday—something about planning a party.”

Kristina looked shocked, an odd mixture of both dread and wonder. “What if I don’t want all this family?”

Marquis shrugged. “It’s a little late for that.”

“Yeah,” she glowered, “I know.” She put her hands over her neck, indicating the place he had bit her during the harsh, forced conversion. “How could I forget?”

Marquis shook his head slowly. He was extremely regretful for the harsh way he had converted her, but she had shot him after all. “Look,” he said, “what is done is done. What matters now is the future.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a set of keys. They were dangling on a custom key ring with the crest of the house of Jadon on it.

Kristina’s eyes flashed with excitement, and she began jumping up and down, trying to reach the keys as Marquis held them higher and higher. “What is it, Marquis! Let me see!”

After a minute of toying with her, he finally dropped them in her hand. “You must be sure and thank Nachari. You have no idea how difficult it is to get a pink Corvette in the space of five days—even for an auto-enthusiast vampire.”

Kristina’s eyes teared up, and she quickly brushed the drops away. “I can’t believe this…” Her voice trailed off.

“If you are still inclined to have a Hummer as well, Kagen has agreed to take you car shopping this coming weekend.”

Her smile was positively radiant as she held up the keys to the Corvette. “Where is it?”

“In Nachari’s garage, of course. You may claim it whenever you like.”

Kristina fisted the keys and nodded her head, trying to play it cool. “Thanks, boss. You know what? You’re not as bad as I thought.” She looked out toward the river behind the house and immediately averted her eyes, trying to shield her face with her hair. She was battling tears—for reasons beyond the car and family—and trying like hell to hide them.

“Kristina,” Marquis whispered.

“Don’t go there.”

“That day by the river—”

“Marquis, please...just forget it.”

“I want you to know that I wasn’t using you. I wasn’t...pretending.”

Kristina held up her hand. “Don’t, Marquis. I mean, the way I see it…you know...hey, it’s all good, right? You did what you had to do, and well, I’m not all that hard to manipulate...for guys, anyway...so, whatever. It’s cool.” She tried to force a smile.

He held out his arm and shook his head. “I will not make light of this with you, Kristina. Nor will I allow you to believe that what happened between us was a mistake.”

She looked up at him then, and her blue eyes held a pain so stark that their reflection startled him. “Nah, it’s okay…you know? I mean, you’re with the woman you’re supposed to be with.” She laughed insincerely. “And lord knows—you and me—that was a disaster.”

He smiled. “Then tell me why you are crying.”

She rolled her eyes and looked away. “Dag, you are so pushy!”

He stood firm, staring at her without any anger or impatience—just waiting.

“I just…it’s just...no big deal really.”

He continued to wait, the silence absolute.

She huffed in exasperation. “It’s just that, you know…no one ever treated me that special before.” She turned her back to him. “Dirk never touched me like that...and neither did any of the others...but hey, it was a mind control kinda thing anyway, right? So more like a dream—nothin’ that you actually meant.”

Marquis reached out and took her by the hand. When he spun her around to pull her slight body into his own, the short female measured well below his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his chin against her soft, curly hair. “You are special, Kristina. I chose to…make love…to you in that manner because it was the only way I could approach it that would be authentic. And I refused to use you or lie to you involving something so intimate. I meant every moment of it.”

She shivered, her heart soaking up his words like a dry sponge dipped in the ocean.

He felt her tears against his arm. “You know…there’s one thing that I wasn’t able to finish, though.”

She cleared her throat, and they could have both heard a pin drop from a mile away. “What?”

“There was something else I wanted to give you, but Nachari showed up before I could…finish.”

She jerked away then, looking up at him with an ashen expression. “Uh, I’m pretty sure Ciopori’s not havin’ any of that.”

Marquis laughed low in his throat. “You misread me, little one.” He pulled her back into the comfort of his arms. “You are thinking of the physical aspect. I am thinking of the spiritual.”

“I don’t want your charity.” She tried, once again, to pull away, but he wouldn’t allow it.

He growled. “And I’m not very charitable, so there’s no problem there.” He held her until she quit struggling, and then he began to surround her body with a warm, glowing energy until she relaxed into him. Lightly stroking her hair, he placed a gentle image in her mind: that of a perfect white canvass bearing the reflection of her eternal soul.

Marquis reflected back to Kristina the spirit she had been at birth.

The perfection that had been created by her human god long before she entered the world.

He revealed her immeasurable value and beauty to her, while displaying her strength of character—her unique wit and charm, the determination she had used to survive. He presented her with her divine reflection and showered her in the light of her infinite being: a perfect woman without scars, failures, or regrets.

He showed her who she truly was beneath all of the tragedy.

Kristina twisted and turned, trying to wrench away from the overwhelming light of her being. The pure experience of self-love clashed with so many years of self-degradation, but Marquis held firm until she finally let go and began to weep. He tightened his arms and held her until the warmth had washed all of her tears...and shame...away.

He had not only shown her a side of herself she had been lost to, but in doing so, he had shared a compassionate side of himself that no one had ever seen. Not even his brothers or Ciopori. It was the least that he owed her—and the most powerful gift that he had to give her.

Kristina slowly pulled away and wiped her eyes. She tried to utter thank you, but the words stuck in her throat. Finally, collecting herself, she whispered, “You and me, I guess we’ve got a couple secrets of our own now, huh?”

Marquis smiled. “Most certainly.” He would never betray such a private moment.

She nodded then and started to turn back toward the house.

“Kristina...”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“There will always be a special place in my heart for you.”

Kristina sniffled and nodded. “Yeah…I know what you mean.” She let out a deep breath. “So there’s no hard feelings…about...anything...then?”

Marquis smiled a mischievous grin. “S’all good,” he said, emphasizing her typical vernacular.

Kristina’s smile was absolutely glowing, her soul shining through. “Indeed, warrior. Indeed.”

The two of them laughed out loud.

twenty-five

Marquis checked the time on his black, Corum, stainless steel watch: three a.m. Exactly forty-eight hours since he had commanded Ciopori’s conception. “Are you ready, my love?” he asked, hardly able to contain his excitement.

Ciopori looked down at the unsightly monstrosity that had become her midsection over the last two days and nodded decisively. “Yes! Because if this keeps on growing, I’m going to explode.”

Marquis bent down and nuzzled her cheek, stopping to place a soft kiss on her lips. His very own wife. His very own soul-mate. His destiny. And now, it was time to meet his son. How had life gone from so barren to so full in the blink of an eye? How could he have believed the gods had forgotten him, when all along they had been preparing such a rare and beautiful gift?

He sighed, and then he began to gather his energy into a focused stream of light, connecting it to the two beating hearts in Ciopori’s womb. With an eloquent prayer, spoken in the ancient language, he called his sons from the cramped chamber they had so briefly shared to the full breadth of the world, commanding them to come to their father.

Small prisms of light filled the bedroom like a thousand shimmering rainbows, the interconnected colors hovering in a radiant arc until a distinct halo formed above the bed, and then a rhythmic, hypnotic sound filled the room: white water rushing in a river, the steady drumbeat of life humming in harmonic, expanding waves. From beneath the crest of the halo, gold dust began to gather, swirling in soft circles above Ciopori’s pregnant belly, turning like a soft funnel, the ether connecting above, below, and within.

Ciopori propped herself up on her arms and stared in rapt wonder at the phenomenon occurring before them, while Marquis held his concentration steady, gently urging the children from their slumber with his will, intending them into the world with his power.

The first of the two infants began to crystallize. The clear outline of a child appeared in gradual waves of light directly above the protruding belly, and then steadily, the outline began to fill in. The rushing sound of water increased, and the heartbeat grew louder, more insistent, as light became tissue and ether became flesh.

Instinctively, Ciopori reached toward the child, her eyes filled with tears of wonderment, but a stern growl from Marquis forced her retreat. The midnight black hair was as familiar as his own, but the blood-red bands running through it left no question as to which child had chosen to emerge first: It was the Dark One—the one who would remain nameless.

“Look away, my love,” Marquis commanded. His voice was as steady and calm as the night.

Ciopori blanched, staring at him in shock. “No,” she argued defiantly, “I at least want to see—”

Without hesitation, Marquis closed her eyes and gently turned her head to the side. Although she tried to resist him, her fledgling vampire skills were no match for his enormous powers. “Please, do not resist me.”

The baby cried then, a loud insistent wail, his eyes glued to his mother as if he knew she was his only hope for salvation. But there was no salvation for the one born of darkness, created without a soul, the property of a curse that sought to draw its own essence back to itself in an eternal cycle of vengeance.

And there could be no compassion.

“Marquis?” Ciopori’s voice was trembling with uncertainty. “This is insane. He’s a child. A baby. How could my sisters do such a thing?” Her powerful maternal instincts pushed back against his control. Her eyes opened, and her head turned just enough to allow a side-long glance at the howling infant. “Look at him! He’s beautiful. Oh Marquis, he looks like you.”

Marquis reached out and took the infant into his arms before Ciopori could make the mistake of touching him. A similar thing had happened with Nathaniel when Jocelyn gave birth to Storm, and the incident had quickly escalated out of control.

Nachari, Marquis called out telepathically to his youngest brother, not wanting to involve Nathaniel, whose own memories of sacrifice were still too raw, Ciopori is resisting; I require another set of arms.

Nachari materialized beside the bed so quickly that Marquis had to do a double-take. The look in the wizard’s eyes was all business. He glanced momentarily at Ciopori and inclined his head. “Greetings, sister.” He turned to Marquis and held out his arms. “Brother.”

Having been released from Marquis’s restraint, Ciopori looked back and forth between the two brothers and frowned. “Marquis, let me see our son.”

Marquis handed the babe to Nachari without emotion and turned to his mate. “You will see him the moment he is born, iubirea mea. I assure you, I will place our son in your arms immediately.”

Ciopori sighed and glared at him hard. “Do not play games with me, warrior. I know full well what and who this baby is, and I repeat—let me see our son.”

Nachari looked questioningly at Marquis but kept a firm hold on the infant, who was now squirming, crying, and kicking his legs.

“Nachari!” Ciopori snapped. “Do not act as if you are deaf. I am not some neophyte to be coddled. Hand me the child.”

Nachari’s stern eyes met hers for a brief moment before turning back to Marquis. “I am sorry, little sister; I am bound by obedience to my brother.”

As if understanding the dilemma, the child began to dematerialize right in Nachari’s arms, pulled by the powerful intent of the Celestial Being on the bed. As his form began to take shape in Ciopori’s arms, Marquis swept a hand around the body in a hasty circle, building an impenetrable holding cell around the newborn, and then he swiftly handed him back to Nachari. He is surprisingly powerful. You must take him from the room before he draws any further on her compassion.

Nachari nodded. Shall I call Napolean to take him to the chamber on your behalf?

“Stop talking in front of me!” Ciopori’s eyes flashed dark with anger. She was clearly aware that the brothers were using a private bandwidth to communicate.

No, Marquis answered, ignoring his mate’s protest. I will do my duty as soon as your nephew is born and Ciopori is at ease. Wait for me in the front room.

Nachari frowned, appearing uneasy about spending too much time alone with the infant, but he wasn’t about to argue. “As you wish,” he said aloud, and then he dematerialized from the room with the infant in his arm.

“How dare you!” Ciopori shouted.

Marquis hurried to the side of the bed and placed his hand on her cheek. “Ciopori...please. I am not trying to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? You insult me!”

“Never—”

“You assume I am not strong enough to handle seeing a child that I know we must relinquish. You assume that I am not in my right frame of mind to make such a request. And you use your superior powers to force your will upon me? Oh yes, Marquis, you insult me! How dare you think and decide for the both of us.” Her eyes bored into his. “And don’t you ever take control of my physical body again without my permission. Do you understand me, warrior?”

Marquis was stunned. This was not the time for an argument. This was supposed to be the second happiest day of his life.

Women.

What did she expect?

Of course his powers were superior to hers; and of course he would always use them to protect her—as was his duty as her mate and a warrior. Why would such a thing be an insult? And if he ever sensed she was in danger, he would not only take control of her body, but of her mind and spirit as well, if he thought it was in her best interest. Did she not understand who she had mated?

Marquis looked away. Despite his resolve, her words cut him to the bone. He would never, ever wish to hurt her. And as for insulting her? Dear gods, she was his superior in every way. What was he to do with this?

Ciopori sighed and bit her bottom lip. She reached out and took his hand. “My love, I know you mean well, but we will have to...work on some of your ways. I wanted to see the child because I wanted to understand what this curse has done to our males over the years…what kind of abomination my sisters created. I needed to see the absence of his soul for myself, to feel it, in order to know that there was no sin in turning him over.”

“But you said he was beautiful, and you didn’t understand what your sisters were doing when they made such a curse. You said that he looked like me. I thought you might want to keep him.”

Ciopori frowned. “He is beautiful, and I do not understand such a hideous thing, but I do not pretend to be a goddess or to have the power to undo an ancient curse that has stood for millennia, nor have I forgotten my time with Salvatore in the colony. I would not have asked you to spare him. I would not have risked your life. Could you not have given me one minute to reconcile what must be…within my own soul?”

Marquis shut his eyes. “I do not like this, but if you wish, I will call Nachari back.” He sighed. “But before I do, I want you to understand something: In my family, I am the first-born.”

She held his gaze with intensity and cleared her throat. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“When my mother had Nathaniel and Kagen, she and my father celebrated both births. When she had Nachari and Shelby, the same was true. But when I was born, I shared her womb with a dark spirit, and the nameless one who was my brother—my twin—was taken from my mother in the same way...was taken from me. Do you think I have never wondered about him? Never wished to have at least seen his face—to at least have the memory? Do you think I have never wondered what if—what if things were different? I, too, have questioned the cruelty of such a curse, but it is imperative that my faith remains absolute. There can be no question as to what must be done now—or what my parents did then. To see you hold that child...to once again think about my own twin.... I, too, must live with this curse, Ciopori.”

Ciopori closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were soft with compassion. “I’m sorry, warrior. I forget the history…the depth of this curse.” She shook her head. “It is done. And you will do what is required of you with strength and honor.” She placed her hand on her stomach and rubbed it. “Now then, this one is having a fit, if you haven’t noticed. I think he is in there screaming. What’s the delay! So, no, there is no reason to return to the nameless one. Let us have our son.”

Marquis ran his hands through her soft hair. “Are you sure? There can be no regrets—no resentment between us.”

Ciopori cupped his face in her hands. “This is a bitter-sweet moment. How could a curse be anything else? But your words have given me all the assurance I need, and there is only peace and love between us, warrior. Now call our son, Marquis.”

Marquis stared into her beautiful eyes and felt the wonder of her spirit all over again. “You are my peace,” he whispered, and then he tuned in to the remaining child. With a soft apology, he repeated the ancient prayer, and called him forth.

As the gold dust settled this time, and the outline began to fill in, any question or worry was replaced with reverence and awe. The male that materialized into his father’s waiting arms was positively stunning. Like his mother’s and his father’s, his hair was the color of a raven’s wing, blacker than the night, as refined as pure silk. But his eyes—his eyes were positively captivating. A mixture of both parents, they were amber and gold with swirls of blue in the centers like an exquisite painting—the color of the setting sun beneath the horizon in a clear blue sky—and his features were chiseled like his father’s, with his mother’s nobility. This male’s beauty would one day rival even Nachari’s.

Marquis smiled, suddenly unsure of what to do with the squirming entity before him. He tested his arms and legs for strength and laughed when the child kicked and flailed his arms in response to his touch. “He’s strong.”

Ciopori giggled. “Of course he is.”

As she struggled to sit up, Marquis reached out to help her with his mind. “Does that offend you?” he asked, still unsure of the rules.

Ciopori just shook her head. “No, you silly man. Boy, do we have a ways to go—good thing we have all of eternity to get there.” She reached out and made a cradle with her arms. “May I?”

Marquis nodded quickly. “Absolutely.” As he placed the baby in her arms, her face lit up with pride and love. Two angels. And both belonged to him.

“We haven’t chosen a name yet,” she said, offering her pinky to the infant’s strong grip and then nuzzling his nose. Tears streamed down her face as she laughed and smiled and made faces at the beaming little child.

Marquis placed his hand on his son’s head and gently stroked his satiny hair. “While the names of today are…colorful…I much prefer those of the Middle Ages. Strong, proud, solid names.”

Ciopori smiled. “And what did you have in mind?” The baby hiccupped, and they both laughed.

Marquis shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps something with meaning: warrior or conqueror.”

Ciopori sighed. “But of course. This child really doesn’t have a chance at being anything else, does he? Perhaps a wizard or a justice?”

Marquis frowned. “Are you kidding me, woman? Absolutely not. By age five, he will be an expert marksman.”

Ciopori tickled his tiny belly, and he squirmed. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in a soft voice, “I will make sure that you get to choose your own path.”

Marquis snarled and the infant giggled.

Ciopori jumped back, startled. “Can they do that already?”

Marquis nodded. “Vampire babies are born at a higher level of maturity, and they progress much faster than human infants. He thinks that what you said was nonsense.”

Ciopori laughed with abandon. “No, warrior, I think he thinks what you said was nonsense!”

The child laughed again, and Marquis frowned. “Give me that kid; you’re already spoiling him.”

Ciopori rolled her eyes and tightened her hold on the infant, still laughing. “A name, husband? Middle ages? Warrior…conqueror…victorious?”

“Nikolai.”

“Nikolai.” Ciopori let the word roll off her tongue. “I like it.”

Marquis nodded, pleased. “Would you like to choose his middle name?”

Ciopori shut her eyes. “There is nothing to think about: Jadon.”

Marquis stared at her then. Jadon. The ancient patriarch of the house of Jadon. The original male of their kind. No one had ever used his name before out of reverence, but if anyone had a right to invoke it, it was Ciopori. Jadon Demir was more than just a powerful legend to Ciopori, one who had brought mercy to his house and his descendants at the time of the Blood Curse. He was not just the father of a species, an ancient prince, or the original ruler of a new civilization and way of life: Jadon Demir was her beloved brother and Nikolai’s uncle. The reality was almost too much to comprehend. “Nikolai Jadon Silivasi. It is done, then.”

Ciopori pressed her forehead to the child’s and whispered something private, which Marquis was careful to mute out of respect. Sighing, he placed one hand on his mate’s back and gently ran the other along his son’s soft cheeks. “I don’t want to leave you, but I have to go now. I cannot leave Nachari with—”

“Of course not,” Ciopori whispered. “Will you be okay? If you’d like, I can call Jocelyn or Vanya to take Nikolai for a moment, and we can go together.”

Marquis kissed her on the forehead, his head resting against hers. “I love you for asking, but no. It would be a sacrilege: an original female bowing down to the male’s curse. No, this is my punishment—my atonement—it is my life that will be forever spared as a result.” He sighed. “I will return to you shortly.”

The baby’s eyes shot from his mother to his father, and his face warmed with the most gentle, radiant smile Marquis had ever seen.

Marquis would get through this.

Oh yes, after fifteen hundred years of endless existence, he would definitely get through this. The required sacrifice was all that stood between himself and eternity with this beautiful woman and their newborn son.

To return to them, he could get through anything.

Marquis entered the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement with singular focus, carrying the struggling infant in his arms. The child was no longer cooing and crying but hissing and spitting and trying to score his father’s hands with the tips of his tiny fangs. Compassion was a ploy the newborns often tried with their once-human mothers, but as soon as it failed, the darkness inevitably came out. Marquis tried not to think about the fact that he had been conceived along with a similar entity—that he had existed side by side with a Dark One in his mother’s womb.

The temperature in the chamber was eerily cold, and the energy of rage, mourning, and sorrow grew with every step Marquis took beyond the neat rows of pews toward the granite altar. He stepped up on the platform and placed the squirming baby in the smooth, hollow basin at the top, careful to keep his feet from touching the dark, swirling mist at the base. And then he stepped back and knelt on the floor, prostrate, as required. But when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out.

The required words—and their subsequent meaning—ran through his head in an endless loop, but he couldn’t seem to speak them...not in Romanian or English: Pentru tine, care au fost drepţi şi fără vină; pentru tine, care au fost sacrificate fara mila: am venit pentru a rambursa datoria mea. Pentru păcatele de stramosii mei, am oferi primul nascut fiul meu şi vă implor de iertare. Ai mila de pe sufletul meu şi să accepte acest copil viaţa în schimbul meu….

To you who were righteous and without blame; to you who were slaughtered without mercy: I come to repay my debt. For the sins of my ancestors, I offer my first-born son and beg of you forgiveness. Have mercy on my soul and accept this child's life in exchange for my own.

Marquis’s head tilted to the side as if someone else was working it with puppet strings, his eyes fixated on the other side of the room—on a heavy wooden door with crossbones and an ancient warning inscribed in the Old Language on the front: Iată de portal pentru a coridorului de morţi.

Behold the portal to the Corridor of the Dead.

He knew there was a double entry-way just beyond that door, containing two steps that led up to a hatch: the chamber of sacrifice for the males who failed to do what he was doing now. The last place his baby brother, Shelby, had stood alive.

Marquis’s heart clenched and his arms trembled. Shelby had kneeled before this same altar, bowed before the swirling black mist, and repeated such similar words: To you who were righteous and without blame; to you who were slaughtered without mercy: I come to repay my debt. For the sins of my ancestors, and because I have failed to sacrifice my first-born son, I offer my own life in atonement. Have mercy on my soul and accept this sacrifice.

To you who were righteous and without blame?

To you who were righteous and without blame!

Marquis trembled with rage even as the baby began to scream, and the swirling mist became agitated. No one had been more righteous than Shelby. No one had led a life with less blame, and still, they had murdered him cruelly and without mercy for a crime his ancestors had committed. And they had forced him to kneel and beg for his own soul before they did it.

To call such an entity righteous and without blame, he couldn’t get the heretical words out of his mouth.

Marquis stared back and forth between the chamber he was in and the one just beyond that door and considered his options: If he failed to sacrifice the child, he would have to enter that evil place and offer his own life, instead. In other words, he would still have to utter the nonsense. The only way to defy the Blood of the Slain was to refuse either, in which case, he would be slaughtered anyway, and his eternal soul would go to the Valley of Death and Shadows as opposed to the Valley of Spirit and Light. Eternity was a very long time to endure just to make a point.

Marquis lowered his head, opened his mouth, and tried once again to offer the supplication. Once again, nothing came out. By now, the swirling mist had transformed into a black, angry cloud. Taking the shape of mangled claws, it rose from the ground, perched over the altar, and reached out to claim the infant, who was now screaming at such a high pitch that it hurt Marquis’s ears. Red stains, like blood, dripped down from the sharp talons, and the room began to shake as Marquis concentrated…and forced the words.

“To you who were righteous and without blame, to you who…” His voice trailed off, and the apparition exploded in anger. The dark cloud formed a dangerous funnel, swirled around the altar, and sucked the baby up into its spiraling fury: It was waiting, demanding the supplication.

Dear gods.

Marquis looked on with horror: Now he was the one without mercy. Evil or not, the child was suffering between life and death, battered about, awaiting the pronouncement of his body as a sacrifice.

And then a strong hand settled on Marquis’s shoulder, and he spun around to find Nathaniel standing behind him, a look of startling intensity in the warrior’s eyes. “Brother, let me help you. Release your voice to my control, and let me help you.”

An arc of lightning shot out from the cloud. It struck the tip of the altar, bringing a horde of snakes to life. They began to slither along the ground toward Marquis, hissing and rising up to look him in the eyes with demonic stares. When a fissure split through the ceiling, Marquis knew he was running out of time.

Nathaniel tried to reach into Marquis’s mind then—to take control without his permission—but it was sealed like an iron vault. What under heaven was wrong with him? He had a mate now. A son! Nikolai. He couldn’t die like this. Not here. Not today.

Kagen and Nachari materialized in unison; one stood before him, the other behind him.

“Brother,” Kagen implored, his eyes wild with trepidation, “give Nathaniel your voice!”

Marquis stared up at his brown-eyed brother, noting the hard set of his jaw, and slowly shook his head. Kagen didn’t understand. It wasn’t that he was unwilling to do it; he simply could not. In that fateful moment, there was only Shelby—his beloved younger brother—and the injustice of his murder. Marquis’s indignation—his guilt—was a living thing, and his voice would not betray him. Gods in heaven, he was going to die.

“Look after my son,” he muttered as the reality began to sink in. He could not speak those words.

Nachari knelt before him. He began to chant a hypnotic spell, while weaving a golden aura around his throat. He intended to force Marquis’s words with magic.

“No!” Marquis yelled. “No.”

Momentarily stunned, Nachari lost his place. He rushed to start over, but it was too late. The mangled claw came out of the cloud and grasped Marquis by the throat. Determined to pierce the golden aura, the razor-sharp talons slashed deeply, three times, tearing through Marquis’s jugular like a knife through butter. The snakes began to strike, and a high-pitched shriek shook the chamber walls.

Napolean was there in an instant. He pumped his hand full of healing venom and quickly thrust the soothing balm against the ancient warrior’s throat. As the king was the only male, outside of a child’s father, who could make the Blood Sacrifice, he hastily began the Supplication: “Pentru tine, care au fost drepţi şi fără—”

“Cease!” A thunderous voice rang out in the chamber, halting the king in his tracks. “His heart will not yield. Your supplication will not be accepted!” A bolt of fire flew out from the cloud and struck Marquis in the heart. It melted instantly into liquid acid, launching a slow burn inside of his body. Despite his resolve, he cried out in pain; his energy waned from the steady loss of blood.

“We are only getting started!” the Blood roared. “We will bleed you out until you are helpless; we will sustain your torture for weeks! You will beg for death before we are through!” The rage shook the building, and Marquis felt his bones begin to break, one after another.

My love! What is happening! Ciopori’s voice cut him deeper than the slayer’s, yet he still could not find the words. Please, warrior, do not leave me alone to raise our son. Say what must be said and come home. Please, Marquis!

Using the last amount of energy he possessed, Marquis shoved Ciopori out of his mind. She could not witness his pain.

He could see his brothers’ lips moving, and he could feel the urgency in their commands, but their words no longer registered. The Blood would not allow Nathaniel to take Marquis’s voice or Nachari to use his magic, and Kagen looked…more helpless than he had ever been.

Nachari grasped Marquis’s face in his hands, his indescribable eyes filled with tears and pleading.

Pleading.

Marquis held his brother’s gaze with a warrior’s stare as he felt his liver and his kidneys begin to twist inside. Bile rose in his throat, and he pushed Nachari aside just before he vomited all over the floor. The look of terror and grief on the wizard’s face was the most horrific sight Marquis had ever seen, but before he could crawl away, a slimy hand grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him along the floor.

He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the torture to come. Where were they taking him? Ah yes, of course, to the sacrificial chamber—where they could do their worst. The pain in his body was already unbearable: Days? Weeks? How could he endure such a thing? Nikolai’s face flashed before his eyes, and his heart filled with regret. Yet as sure as he was a warrior, he knew that such words of contrition would never leave his lips: He was an Ancient Master, trained in the art of war, the leader and protector of his family. Honor was everything. Duty was supreme. Shelby was his brother, and to speak such words would be to dishonor Shelby’s life—to once again fail to live up to his duty.

What he could not give Shelby in life, he would give him in death.

Marquis could not go back and place himself in those fateful moments: when Valentine took Dalia, when he brutally raped Shelby’s destiny and denied the fledgling a son. He could not go back and save his brother’s life, but he was here now.

And this was no longer about an ancient sacrifice, an infant soul already lost, or a baby who would surely grow up to kill him if given the chance. It was about a male from the house of Jadon who had been wrongly accused and murdered: a sibling he had vowed—and failed—to protect.

The Blood had murdered Shelby Silivasi, and it was not innocent.

Marquis closed his eyes in resignation: He could feel his body being torn apart, his skin peeling back from the bone. Consumed in the delirium of his pain, he heard his brothers shouting words he could no longer understand. He was what he was, and he had been wrong to believe that he could ever stand in this place, see where Shelby had died, and dishonor him to save his own life. Not even for Nikolai. Not even for Ciopori. He held onto the knowledge that his brothers would raise his son as if he was their own. They would take care of his princess.

And then all at once a strange sense of peace overtook him, and the pain slowly abated.

Had he died...so quickly?

Despite the promise of torture, his heart felt elevated, and his insurmountable grief began to lift. Perhaps it was absolution. Perhaps he was finally to be given the forgiveness he so desperately needed—not that of a bunch of twisted, dead females, for a crime committed centuries before him, but that of one pure soul whom he had failed.

Marquis sighed, almost afraid to hope. “Can you forgive me now, Shelby?” His words were broken and pitiable. A white light surrounded him, and his clarity returned in rapid waves. Everything in the room fell into sudden, sharp focus.

The doors to the back of the chamber flew open, and Ciopori rushed in carrying Nikolai in her arms. Her face was gaunt with pain and tears, and the grief-stricken eyes of his brothers reflected the same agony…yet he felt no urgency. There was only peace.

And then he felt it: a firm, warm hand gripping his shoulder.

He slowly turned his head in the direction of the touch, only to find a radiant male standing before him. His mouth dropped open and his lips trembled, but no words escaped.

Shelby.

Flawless, luminescent features shone with pride and grace beneath a wealth of blond curls, and deep green eyes, the same shade of Nachari’s, glowed with compassion. There could be no question, Marquis had to be dead. But when he looked around the room, he saw the same look of awe on the faces of the others. Even the king looked stunned.

“Brother.” Marquis tested his voice, and it worked fine for a throat that had been so viciously cut.

Shelby smiled, and his radiance lit up the room like the noon-day sun. “Greetings, my eldest and most honored brother.” He knelt beside the shaken warrior and grasped him by the shoulders.

The Blood roared in defiance and lunged at the ghostly visitor, but the mystical outline of a dragon suddenly appeared, blocking its path.

Marquis gasped. “Lord Draco!” He blinked several times, gaping at the silhouette of the blazing celestial dragon—the sacred god of his constellation.

The dragon spoke through a ring of fire, and the very foundation beneath them shifted to the cadence of its words. “Marquis is from my line, and as such, he is under my protection while we sort this out!” The fire became as liquid gold before transforming once again to ether and settling over Marquis’s body. His peeled skin slid back in place; his broken bones fused together; his twisted organs healed, and the blood spurting from his ravaged arteries simply ceased to flow.

“You have no right!” the Blood hissed.

The dragon spun around and squared off with the ghostly entity, eyes the color of the sun glowing in its skull. “I have every right! By the laws that govern the afterlife, the Valley of Spirit and Light has jurisdiction over the Valley of Death and Shadows. And by our law, a blameless soul, one who has lived a life of innocence, may be called upon in prayer to intercede on behalf of another. Should any such prayer be accompanied by a gift of ultimate sacrifice—the willingness of one being to lay down his life for another—then the gods may hear his petition.” Draco’s eyes shot across the room and landed on Nachari. “The wizard prayed to his twin for the life of their brother, even as Marquis resigned to give his life for the same. Shelby has interceded on the wizard’s behalf, and the gods have granted him audience.” He gestured toward the altar where the battered child still lay, mercifully unconscious. “You will still have your sacrifice—or your vengeance—but not before this Blessed One has his say.”

The Blood howled its rage. It screeched and released its fangs. Its gnarled, ghostly hands curled into fists.

Draco stood to his full height then. His tail slashed back and forth through the air, sharp-edged scales glowing with the threat of retribution. He laughed a menacing snarl. “Do not test me. You may be powerful, but I am a god. You will not win.”

Enraged, the entity retreated.

Marquis looked up into his baby brother’s face, ashamed. “Shelby,” he uttered, “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

Shelby’s grip tightened on Marquis’s shoulders, and his eyes held him in an unyielding stare. “It was not your fault, brother.” He looked up and one by one met Nathaniel’s, Nachari’s, and Kagen’s eyes. “It was nobody’s fault.”

The brothers drew nearer, tears falling without reservation.

As if he could no longer restrain himself, Shelby stood, turned around, and embraced Nachari. “Brother,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion, “flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, heart of my heart; twin of my soul, I have heard your prayers—today and every day. You must forgive yourself for not being here...for not saying good-bye.”

Nachari wept into his brother’s shoulder, clinging to him like his life depended upon it. The two shared an intimate exchange of words, using a private bandwidth, and then Shelby stepped back and removed an amulet from his neck. “Take this,” he implored. “I will not be able to walk with you anymore—not until you come home to the Valley of Spirit and Light—but you can call me with this amulet, and wherever I am, I will hear you. And whenever I can, I will answer you. You are the twin of my soul; death will not keep us apart.”

Nachari clutched the amulet, slid it around his neck, and pulled his brother back into his arms. When they finally let go, Shelby placed his hand over Nachari’s heart, and a soft yellow light entered. “My peace is yours, brother. Live for both of us.”

He then turned to face Nathaniel, but the Master Warrior’s emotions were too intense to appease—his anger too great, his pain too raw. Shelby held out his arms, and Nathaniel stepped back, moving away from the brother he so adored.

“It’s okay,” Shelby whispered.

Nathaniel shook his head. His grief and regret—his apology—was so powerful that it leapt between them. “No.” Nathaniel continued to shake his head.

“I have seen your wife and your son,” Shelby said softly, holding Nathaniel’s tortured gaze. “They are beautiful! And you named my nephew after Father: Keitaro Storm Silivasi. I am pleased for you.”

Nathaniel put his head in his hands. “No!”

Shelby took a tentative step forward. “I forgive you—although there’s nothing to forgive.”

“NO.” Nathaniel slumped down onto his knees, and Shelby followed in one fluid motion.

“Nathaniel…brother…”

When Shelby wrapped his arms around the proud Master Warrior, Marquis held his breath. Like everyone else in the room, he was overwhelmed by the intensity of Nathaniel’s anguish. The male’s heart-wrenching sobs racked his powerful chest in endless waves of sorrow, and it seemed like an eternity before Shelby whispered in Nathaniel’s ear and, once again, placed his hand over a troubled heart, imparting peace.

And then he stood and turned to Kagen. “Dr. Jekyll,” he teased, “my brother, the healer.” His broad smile sent waves of warmth into the ancient’s heart as the two slowly approached each other and met in a warm embrace.

Kagen stroked Shelby’s hair like he was holding a child, gripping him like he was the most precious thing on earth. “By the gods, I have missed you, Shelby.” Kagen’s voice caught. “I wanted to follow you into the next life.”

Shelby nodded, his deep green eyes sparkling with kindness. “I know, Kagen, I know. But you’re far too important; your gift is needed here. Brother, I will wait for you in the Valley of Spirit and Light, and we will be together again one day—but not now. It is not yet time for you. Live in peace, brother. For me…live in peace.”

Kagen held on until Shelby finally, gently, pried him away, and then he simply stared at him as if he were memorizing every line and detail of his face. “I love you, Shelby.”

Shelby smiled, perfectly content. “And I, you, brother.”

And then he turned back to Marquis.

He approached the Ancient Master Warrior slowly, calmly kneeling down on the floor. “Marquis...” His voice held the cadence and purity of a song. “I knew if any would try to follow me, it would be you. If any would stop living, it would be you. If any would lose his way, it would be you. And then I watched as events unfolded—the vengeance you and Nachari took on Valentine.” He lifted his head and regarded Nachari, holding out his hand to give his twin a well-deserved fist pound. “Thank you, my brother; that was righteous justice if ever I saw any.” And then he once again turned to Marquis. “But it did not ease your suffering.”

Marquis just stared at him, unable to answer.

“I watched as you found the females.” He gestured toward Ciopori. “Greetings sister.”

“G…g...greetings,” Ciopori stuttered.

“May I see my new nephew?”

Ciopori came forward and knelt before Shelby, her hands trembling. She brushed a quick kiss along Marquis’s temple as she showed Shelby the baby.

“Whoa, Marquis,” Shelby muttered appreciatively. “I think Nachari might finally have a contender.”

Marquis wished he could answer, but his guilt simply would not allow him the reprieve.

“He is absolute…perfection,” Shelby said, bending over to kiss the child on the forehead.

Marquis felt his eyes gloss over with tears, and then Shelby grabbed him firmly by the lapels of his shirt. “You absolutely cannot die here today, my brother! Do you hear me? I forbid it.”

Marquis grumbled, finally shaken out of his stupor. “I have no wish to die, Shelby, but I cannot dishonor you with those words.”

To Marquis’s amazement, Shelby laughed. “What is past is past. You cannot bring me back by dying with me. You cannot change the Curse by defying it. You cannot honor me by leaving our brothers, your nephew, your mate, and your son to suffer without you.” Shelby lifted his hands from Marquis’s lapel to brace him by his jaw, not caring that it was a tender act rarely displayed between males. “Do you think that I question your dedication for a moment? That I don’t know you would die for me? That you would kill for me? That you would sacrifice anything—everything—your very life for me?” He swept his hand around the room. “For any of us?” He shook his head. “Marquis, you have been a teacher, a father, a stronghold in times of trouble, and a wise counselor since the day I was born. You have always been my refuge, my pride, and my honor. Do you understand?”

Marquis swallowed hard and held Shelby’s gaze, even as hot, searing tears trickled down his face.

“But it is your turn to live now. Your turn to love. Your turn to receive.” He gazed at Ciopori. “For the love of the gods, do you not see what they have given you?” He touched Nikolai on the head. “Would you deprive this child of all you gave to me?”

Marquis looked down at his son.

Shelby took him by the arms and shook him gently. “Brother, if you do this thing—if you die here today—then you will kill me all over again. What Valentine did is not your fault, and his soul pays dearly every day in the Valley of Death and Shadows. I came here, and I bowed before that altar and spoke those words because I understood that there is a debt to be paid—whether or not we see it as fair—and because I knew the love of my life, Dalia, would soon meet me in the afterlife once she had completed her own lessons. We are free now, and we are together. And eternity is far too long to give up your soul.” Shelby sat back on his heels and sighed. “Marquis…brother…if I asked you to, would you kill for me?”

Marquis was momentarily confused. “Of course.”

“If I asked the gods to allow us to change places, would you exchange your life for mine? Would you truly die for me?”

“I will—”

“Then be of greater courage and give me the last thing I will ever ask of you: Live for me. Marquis, I am begging you. Live for me, my beloved brother. Live pentru mine!”

Marquis placed his hands over Shelby’s and fought to remain stoic. As blood-red diamonds, fashioned from their tears, covered their linked hands, Marquis considered Shelby’s words: Since the day he was born, his brothers had followed his commands, as was the way of the house of Jadon. But this time, he would do as he was bid. His brother had come back from the grave to save him, and it broke his heart that it could not have been the other way around.

Shelby placed his hand over Marquis’s heart and infused it with peace. “Let it go, great warrior. Let it go.”

Marquis slowly stood and approached the altar, kneeling once again before the damaged platform. Taking in a long, deep breath, he slowly exhaled and bowed his head:

“To you who were righteous and without blame; pentru tine, care au fost sacrificate fără milă: Am venit pentru a rambursa datoria mea. Pentru păcatele de stramosii mei, şi pentru că eu nu au reuşit să-şi sacrifice primul nascut fiul meu, am oferi propria mea viata în ispăşire. Have mercy on my soul and accept this child's life in exchange for my own.”

With an angry scowl, the entity hovered over the altar and snatched up the now sleeping baby, retreating with a long drawn-out cry.

It mattered not. It was over.

“Shelby,” the dragon god’s voice cut through the silence like thunder piercing a clear blue sky, “you have done what you came to do. It is time to go.”

“Wait!” A desperate female voice echoed through the chamber as Nathaniel’s wife, Jocelyn, shimmered into view holding a now plump and growing baby in her arms. “Your nephew,” she panted.

Shelby stared at the beautiful woman, no doubt taking in her magnificent multi-colored eyes, and then he looked down at the child—his entire countenance glowing with pride and joy. “Greetings, Storm,” he whispered, brushing his hand over the smiling infant’s cheek. He leaned over to kiss Jocelyn on the temple. “And to you as well, my sister. Thank you for this treasure.”

Jocelyn exchanged a knowing glance with Nathaniel. “You’re welcome.”

For a fleeting moment, Shelby’s features reflected a deep sorrow, though he tried gallantly to hide it. He nodded as he looked around the room, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I will watch over you all.” He turned to Nachari. “My twin, call out to me; our souls cannot be separated. I need the communion.”

Nachari nodded and clutched the amulet.

And then he addressed Napolean. “Milord, thank you for staying with me at the hour of my death.” His voice became barely audible. “I cannot imagine what that took out of you—what you have given to our people over the years in such sacrifice.”

Napolean simply nodded his head. “You are deeply missed, Shelby. Go with honor and peace, my son.”

Shelby nodded, walked over to Marquis, and embraced him one last time. “Live, pentru mine. Live!”

Marquis wiped a tear from his cheek and placed his hand over his heart. He swept his arm around Ciopori and looked down at his newborn son. Truly, he was blessed beyond measure and had much to live for.

Peace was a balm Shelby was offering, if he was only willing to take it.

Love was a gift he had waited a lifetime to receive, and now it stood loyally at his side in the heart of a princess.

The future was alive in the bright amber-blue eyes of his son: Nikolai Jadon Silivasi, heir to the house of Jadon, divined of the god Perseus, nephew of a prince, grandson of a king, and the embodiment of two worlds—celestial and Vampyr.

He looked around the room at the faces of his brothers. Life with him might not be easy, but they had come to his aid so quickly, pleaded so mightily…

They loved him deeply.

Yes, he was a blessed male with much to live for.

He scooped up a handful of crimson diamonds, his own blood tears, and placed them in Shelby’s hand. “Until we meet again, beloved brother, I will live.”

Epilogue

800 BC

“Napolean, run!”

The ten-year-old child stumbled backward, his eyes wide with fright. His father’s commanding voice shook him to his core.

“Run son, go quickly!”

“No, Father. I don’t want to leave you! Father, please—”

“Go now!” Sebastian Mondragon clutched his stomach and fell to the ground. His hands and fingers curled into two twisted balls, and his body contorted in an agonizing spasm. The transformation had begun. Writhing in pain, the once-fearless warrior panted the warning a third time. “Napolean…son…please, run! Hide!”

Napolean heard his father’s words as if from a distance. He wanted to flee, but he was frozen in place. Mesmerized by the horror that surrounded him, he swallowed hard and simply watched as the thick, inky fog swirled around his father’s writhing body. Long, skeletal fingers with hooked claws and knobby knuckles clutched at his father’s throat, raked deep gashes along his chest, and dug mercilessly toward his innards. Blood seeped from Sebastian’s mouth as, inexplicably, his canine teeth began to grow, assuming the shape of—

Fangs.

But it was his father’s unrelenting cries of agony that finally forced Napolean’s retreat.

Napolean ran like he had never run before, his little heart beating furiously in his chest, the need for air burning his lungs. He weaved through the morbid courtyard, dodging fallen bodies and clasping his hands to his ears to block out the endless wails. All around him, males fell to the ground, cursed, and moaned. Some died immediately from the shock…or pain. Others drew their swords from their scabbards and took their own lives. Still others succumbed to the brutal torture, helpless as the darkness embodied them.

They were being punished.

Changed.

Transformed into an aberration of nature by the ghostly spirits of their victims.

The Blood Curse was upon them.

Napolean focused his eyes straight ahead, never losing sight of his destination: the imperial castle, a would-be fortress. He and his friends had hidden there so many times in the past, playing hide-and-seek, avoiding angry parents, hoping to catch a glimpse of a member of the royal family. Napolean knew the grounds like the back of his hands, and so he pressed on, desperate yet determined to get there, resigned to hide as his father had bid him.

At last, he arrived at the familiar gray castle gate.

He scurried into a small hole beneath the fortified wall and drew himself into a tight little ball. He tried to become invisible. Although he could no longer see the carnage in the village, the haunting cries continued to batter his ears like thunder against a stormy sky.

Napolean shook, remembering the moment Prince Jadon had emerged from the castle, his dark onyx eyes glazed with fear. He had gathered his loyalists to his side to explain the pronouncement—their punishment—what was soon to become a new way of life.

With so little time to prepare his men, Jadon had tried the best he could. Napolean had understood none of it, save one thing: The followers of Jadon needed to pledge their loyalty to the twin monarch as quickly as possible, before the transformation began, or they would meet a much worse fate.

Though Napolean’s father had served for years in the royal one’s secret guard, fighting to defeat the ever growing armies of Prince Jaegar, Napolean had been too young to join. Consequently, it had been imperative that he formally align himself with the right twin— for those who followed Jaegar were to receive no mercy.

And so, like all of the others, Napolean had knelt to kiss Prince Jadon’s ring, recited the sacred pledge of loyalty—before it was too late—and braced himself against what was to come….

Napolean shivered, bringing his attention back to the present moment.

He wanted to be brave, but fearful tears stung his eyes.

Then all at once, he heard cruel, disembodied laughter, the sound coming closer and closer, assaulting his ears.

“No. No. No,” he whimpered, drawing further into the hollow cavity for protection, quivering so hard his bones rattled in his skin.

The fog swirled into a miniature cyclone, rose up from the ground, and dipped low as if it had eyes that could see…

Him.

Hiding.

“You think to escape, child?” the ghostly aberration hissed, laughter ricocheting through the small cavity. Flames exploded from the center of the darkness. “Die, little one! And be reborn the monster that you are!”

Napolean screamed so loud the sound became a cosmic explosion in his ears, yet the fog kept coming. It wrapped itself around his meager body, entered his mouth, and descended into his chest.

And then the pain began.

The excruciating, unrelenting, unbearable pain.

Acid flowed freely through his veins. Fire consumed his internal organs. Bones reshaped. Cells exploded. His entire composition changed, transformed…died.

He heard his own shouting as if it belonged to someone else, someone wretched and pitiable. He clawed at his skin, hoping to tear it from his body. He bit through his hand and pounded the ground. He writhed, thrashed, and tried to crawl away, but nothing stopped the assault.

Dear Celestial Gods!

He prayed for death, but it wouldn’t come.

How much time had passed before the agony had subsided, he had no idea. Had it been minutes? Hours? Perhaps days? It could have been a lifetime for all he’d endured before it had ceased…and the craving had begun.

A gnawing, all-consuming, primal thirst.

For blood.

It was the craving that had brought him out of the hole, crawling along the ground like an animal, stumbling through the darkness, searching for his father.

Now, as bitter tears stung his eyes, he absently wiped them away only to find smears of blood on his hand.

Great goddess Andromeda, what had he become?

Finally reaching the village square, he staggered to a halt beside an aged stone well. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye: No, it couldn’t be.

Please gods, no!

The grisly scene unfolded in slow motion as Jaegar Demir, the evil prince, hunkered over his father’s body. The prince’s eyes were wild with insanity as he bent to Sebastian’s throat, tore into the flesh—as if it were mere parchment—and drank his fill of…blood. Napolean could neither move nor turn away as the macabre scene unfolded before him. As the evil prince drained his father’s already-gored-and-tattered body of life.

And then…

Horrified, trembling, and defeated, Napolean watched like a coward as Prince Jaegar withdrew his sword and took his father’s head.

When at last the terror released him, he fisted his hands and howled at the heavens.

“Noooooooo!”

He shouted until his throat bled: “Father! Father! Father! Father…”

Buzzzzzz.

Napolean Mondragon hit the button on the alarm clock hard. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his brow. Great gods, not again. He swung his feet over the edge of the large canopy bed and rested his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.

This was the third time this week he’d had the nightmare.

As the sovereign lord of the house of Jadon, the only remaining male living from the time of the Blood Curse, the memories occasionally plagued his sleep, but never this often. Hades, the nightmares must have been provoked by the sight of the male he had seen in the shadows just a few weeks back: the one who, impossibly, looked just like his murdered father.

The father who had been dead for twenty-eight hundred years.

Napolean rubbed his eyes and wrinkled his brow. Gods, he could use the sweet affection of the princess right now—the touch of her gentle hand, the gaze of her compassionate eyes, the warmth of her soft lips against his.

“Ah hell, Napolean. Why torture yourself?” He wrung his hands together and shook his head. Vanya Demir had been a bright light in an otherwise dark, unending life. Her presence in the mansion had brought song and laughter and joy to a heart that had known nothing but duty and solitude for twenty-eight hundred years. The attraction between them had been magnetic, undeniable. She had become the best reason he’d had for rising in the morning in centuries.

And that was part of why she had left.

That, and the invitation she’d received to go live with Marquis, her sister, and their newborn baby. Family was everything to Vanya, and she was not about to pass up the chance to help raise her nephew…or to be with her sister. In addition, Napolean had begun to mean far too much to the female, and she had been afraid that she might fall in love with a male she couldn’t have—a male who was destined to only one woman in an eternal lifetime.

A woman that wasn’t her.

Vanya was not Napolean’s true destiny, and she had lost too much in her life already to risk losing once again.

Napolean shrugged, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. What difference did it make—why Vanya had left? She was gone. She wasn’t coming back. And that was that.

Rising from the bed, he headed toward the shower and turned on the water. No, he would not obsess over the princess again. He had far too many pressing concerns with the recent discovery of the Dark Ones’ colony. With the recent string of dead—no, murdered and drained—human bodies showing up all over the place in Dark Moon Vale.

And hell and brimstone, if that damnable nightmare was not beginning to unnerve him. Why now, after all these years, would his memories come back to haunt him so? Would he never be free of the guilt? Would he always feel ashamed of the day his father died?

And just who was that male he had seen in the shadows?