Blood Echo: A Blood Curse Novel (Blood Curse Series Book 11) Read online

  And he was no longer in that rotting ship, being tossed about at sea.

  He was…

  He was in North America, awaiting Prince Jadon’s return.

  No!

  He was lying beneath a well.

  Starving.

  Ah, yes…yes…yes!

  He was Vampyr.

  His hunger overcame him, and he called to the four cardinal winds. He tunneled one hand into the dirt and extended his grimy fingers, reaching for that wizard’s power, the one who had spoken to the stone, and he suckled on the magick like a newborn babe, growing stronger, more determined…more alive.

  He threw back his wild hair and embraced the elements all around him, gave vent to his feral nature, and became the untamed storm, lashing out in all directions. And then he exploded from the belly of the well, emerged into waning sunlight, and recoiled from the unbearable glare of the light.

  Where was she?

  That woman…

  His woman!

  The one who would feed him her blood?

  He scanned his surroundings like a stalking predator, sinking down onto his haunches as he prowled.

  Domes.

  There were two carefully constructed domes…

  Carbon.

  Intricate bonds.

  Powerful, magical weaving…

  He tossed his head back and laughed.

  Flicking his wrist in the direction of the nearest conical structure, he sent an explosion of diamonds scattering across the mountain, then reached inside the collapsing rubble and snatched the female by her arm. Her legs kicking and dangling beneath her, he drew her to his mouth, sank his fangs deep into her convulsing throat, and groaned in exquisite pleasure.

  Ah, yes…

  Blood.

  Release.

  Destiny.

  Still drinking to his heart’s content, he wrapped a firm, unyielding arm around the female’s waist and dove back into the well.

  Chapter One

  Gwen Hamilton let out a shriek of pure, unadulterated terror as the conical dome above her exploded into thousands of pieces; a large, powerful, grimy hand shackled her bicep; and her torso dangled in the air, her legs kicking and squirming frantically beneath her. The memory of the Aspen ski lodge and her subsequent abduction—being kept as a human slave in that hideous fortress—flooded the prefrontal cortex of her brain, but she didn’t have a chance to grasp it beyond one initial, overwhelming instinct: Not again!

  Dear God, please; not again!

  She was prepared to fight for all she was worth—surely the Dark Moon Vale vampires would help her, wouldn’t they?—but she didn’t have a moment to catch her breath, nor to follow that train of thought: Spikes…nails…some ungodly sharp implement pierced the flesh of her throat, and she gasped in shock, staggered by the intensity of the pain.

  Oh God, those were fangs—not nails or spikes!

  And she was somehow in the arms of a foreign vampire, a supernatural monster, who was groaning in pleasure even as he tightened his forearm like a powerful, unyielding clamp, constructed of iron, around her waist: grasping…bracing…cleaving her to his rock-hard chest.

  And then the entire world went topsy-turvy.

  The sky flipped upside down; the ground seemed to undulate beneath her; and vertigo assailed all five of her senses.

  She was flying…

  No, she was diving...

  She was traversing a pool of dank, murky water; tunneling downward into noxious smells; tumbling through swirling eddies of plants, earth, and algae; drifting…sinking…into cold, wet oblivion.

  The vampire’s forearm tightened like a vise, knocking the wind right out of her, and her arms and legs flailed like a child’s, a newborn babe falling from a crib. Without conscious thought or reason, she jerked to the left, twisted her torso in a circular motion, and grasped desperately at her captor’s arms—she had to encircle his shoulders before she sank or floated away. If she didn’t cling to the monster, she would surely founder and drown.

  Gwen didn’t know how long she could hold her breath, but she knew she had to try. She bit down hard on her upper and lower lips and told herself not to panic. Surely, vampires couldn’t breathe under water—surely, the monster would seek air soon—because if he didn’t, then Gwen was as good as dead.

  Humans could not sustain life under water!

  No sooner had the thought entered her mind than the vampire began to tunnel sideways.

  He removed three or four stones from the side of the well as if they were nothing more than plastic bricks—a block of flimsy Legos to be snapped apart by a child’s thumbs. He scattered several more in earnest, and then he began to dig.

  Swiftly.

  Earnestly.

  At a furious pace.

  His free hand was crooked like a blade as he swept it, again and again, in a scooping motion, deftly excavating an emerging trench…faster and faster…until a steady drone vibrated in the water, buzzing and humming like a churning engine. And then he began to twist like a cyclone, spinning his body—and Gwen’s—around and around in dizzying circles, one hand acting as a drill-bit, still excavating the earth, the other functioning as a shield, protecting his captive’s head from flying and splintering debris.

  They must have tunneled—and traveled—a mile or more, burrowing their way through the earth until, at last, they turned upward, shot through the surface, and emerged in a dark, cryptic cave.

  The moment the vampire withdrew his arm, Gwen scampered like a spider to the wall of the cavern, ducked beneath a low, rocky outcropping, and tucked her knees to her chest. Gasping for air and hugging her stomach, she finally let her fear…and her anger…get the best of her: “What the actual fuck!” she shouted.

  Fabian Antonescu released his hold on the human woman.

  The odd, beautiful, frightened female who dressed in strange clothing—and heavy trousers—like a man. And then he remembered…ah, yes…he remembered…

  Blood.

  Release.

  Destiny.

  The power of another wizard grounding energy to the well.

  The overwhelming need to seize her, claim her, taste her, to rise from the watery grave and awaken the ancient memory…or perhaps it was inborn instinct…driving him unerringly to the old, familiar cave.

  As quickly as the lucid thoughts came, they vanished.

  His canine teeth throbbed in his mouth as the last remaining essence of the female’s life-force snaked down the back of his throat, and his hunger began to rise anew. He tilted his head to the side, narrowing his pupils into thin, vertical slits in order to see clearly in the darkness—the overwhelming, all-encompassing darkness—and watched as the human female scampered beneath a low-hanging ledge.

  He sniffed the cavity for traces of dung or recent carrion, evidence of a lurking carnivore, lest his own prey scamper into the waiting jowls of another predator, unknowingly. Satisfied that they were alone in the cave, he tried to reach for his magick…for his understanding…to divine where he was, why he had stirred from his slumber, what had just happened to his body…

  How had he come to be in that well?

  “What the actual fuck!” the female shouted.

  And Fabian recoiled from the sound.

  Nonsense.

  Gibberish.

  The words had no meaning.

  He closed his eyes and sent his power outward, seeking, reaching, as he peered inside her mind.

  Of course…

  English.

  An odd, bastardized form of English.

  Nonetheless, he couldn’t make naught nor reason of it. “Veniti inainte!” he commanded in his native Romanian tongue. Come forth…come forward!

  She didn’t obey.

  Perhaps she couldn’t see in the darkness; perhaps she couldn’t hear from beneath the craggy ledge.

  He waved his hand through the void in front of him, conjuring the elements and commanding the ether to do his will. A small flicker, like that of a single candl
e, alighted in the dark, vacuous space and hovered in midair. And then the flame sputtered, as if bowing in reverence, and Fabian nodded.

  The candle became a torch.

  The torch became a blaze.

  And the blaze took on the reflection of orange, yellow, and gold.

  Too much light!

  He recoiled…

  He had spent far too much time in darkness to adjust to such noxious glare—with the wave of his hand and a flick of his fingers, he dialed it down to dark honey, ambient red, and blue.

  Better.

  Much better.

  Then he lowered the blaze to the cavern floor and circled the palms of his hands in a smooth, graceful arc, directly above it—the flames spread out into an oblong circle and began to sway, crackle, rise, and ebb. There was no wood or kindling to sustain the conflagration, so he ordered the carbon atoms all around him to offer their essence in a continuous dance with the air, only he didn’t call them carbon atoms—they were simply one of a dozen energies he had manipulated since he was a child. He wasn’t sure how he knew this—but he knew.

  The fire dancing, the cavern warming, he turned his attention back to the female and repeated the command once again, this time in her familiar English. “Come forth!”

  She jolted, tightened her arms around her knees, and shimmied even farther back beneath the angular ledge.

  Fabian snorted as his ire got the best of him. “Numele meu este Fabian Antonescu, cel mai puternic vrajitor care a trait vreodata, si vei face voia mea.” He repeated the refrain in English: “My name is Fabian Antonescu, the most powerful wizard that ever lived, and you will do my will.” He paused, before adding, “You shall obey me.”

  The odd, insubordinate female began to wail like a distraught, wild banshee.

  And that’s when the wizard rose to his feet, cloaked his shoulders in a long, flowing tunic made from—and of—the fire, and growled an unmistakable warning.

  Chapter Two

  Nachari Silivasi rolled onto his back, still safe within the diamond-encased holding cell, but he couldn’t say the same for Braden and Gwen—

  What the devil had just happened!

  He turned toward his destiny and reached for her hand. “Deanna, are you okay, my love?”

  She shook out her hair and slowly sat up. “Yeah…yes…I’m okay.”

  “Kristina!” he called next, eyeing the redhead with concern as she crawled along the ground, searching for a missing shoe. “Sister, are you hurt?”

  Kristina grumbled beneath her breath, spit some pine needles out of her mouth, then reached for her missing heel and slipped it back on. “No, I don’t think so…what the hell?” She spun around, placed both palms against the interior of the dome, and squinted to see out the enclosure. Her eyes grew wide with fright. She pounded against the barrier and let out an ear-piercing shriek. “Braden!” She pummeled the dome with her fists. “Nachari, his holding cell is gone!” She rolled onto her back, tucked her knees to her chest, and started kicking the top of the barrier.

  Stomp! Stomp! Stomp-stomp-stomp!

  She kicked, and she shouted.

  She shouted, and she kicked.

  “Braden! Oh my gods, what happened to Braden?”

  “Whoa!” Nachari crooned, softening his voice to conceal his own distress. “Slow down…ease up…you can’t unravel a holding cell by stomping it.”

  She made temporary eye contact with the Master Wizard, then went right back to stomping the conical dome.

  “Kristina…” Nachari restrained her legs, and then he dropped his tone to a deep, silken tenor and spoke with command in Romanian—no, she hadn’t mastered the ancestral language, but she would have to grow quiet to listen. “Liniste,” he whispered, which meant be quiet. “Fi linistita,” he commanded. Be still. “Kristina, this is not helping Braden.” And beyond that, all her frantic, chaotic energy was making Nachari’s inner panther restless—every instinct in his body wanted to release the lethal cat, bound from the cell, and stalk the foreign vampire who had leached from Nachari’s magical essence.

  Kristina panted to release some tension.

  She drew in a steady, deep breath of air and finally stopped screaming.

  Then she crawled onto her knees and braced both hands on her hips, at last growing calm. “I’m okay…I’m okay.” She scooted to the edge of the cell and peered out once more. “Where are they, Nachari? Braden and Gwen? The holding cell is in a million pieces.”

  Concealing his rising concern, the Master Wizard closed his eyes, muted his emotions, and reached for a private, telepathic bandwidth in order to search for his acolyte: Braden? Can you hear me? He spoke clearly and evenly. What happened, son? Where are you? When his entreaty was met with silence, he told himself not to panic—the boy was likely rattled, maybe injured, maybe wandering about the mountain in a state of confusion, but it was highly unlikely that he was dead. Nachari added a heavy layer of compulsion to his next command: Say something, fledgling—speak to me now.

  Gwen is gone, Braden mumbled. His psychic voice sounded ragged.

  Son, are you okay?

  One heartbeat.

  Two heartbeats.

  Three heartbeats passed.

  Then, Yeah, yeah…I’m not hurt or anything, just a little shaken up. Another delay as eerie silence lingered on the line. Nachari, I couldn’t stop it…I couldn’t stop him. I promised Gwen that we’d protect her. I told her that neither one of us would let anything hurt her, but there was nothing I could do. That vampire…his power…the way he blasted out of the well—

  I know, Nachari interjected. It’s going to be okay. You did everything right; you did as you were told. Where are you now? Are you somewhere safe?

  Yeah, Braden said. I think he’s gone. I’m on the other side of the well, just surveying the damage. I think I must have shifted into the form of an eagle and flown to the other side of the hill when the dome exploded, maybe a few seconds after the vampire took Gwen.

  Nachari shut his eyes. He could hear the guilt, remorse, and fear in the fledgling’s psychic voice, and he understood it intimately; after all, they had both been responsible for their human ward—they had both been honor bound to protect her. Did you see what happened? Did you see which way he took her?

  No idea, Braden whispered. He exploded out of the well like a rocket, dropped down onto his haunches like a freakin’ hyena, and then he flicked his wrist at our dome—like the sight of it seriously annoyed him, or maybe it actually humored him—and the whole freakin’ cell exploded. Nachari, he snatched Gwen so fast, I barely knew what was happening, and then before I could react, he dove back into the water.

  Nachari’s eyes shot back open. He dove back into the water—you mean into the well? With Gwen?

  Yes, Braden answered. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He took her back into the shaft…back underground…back to wherever he came from. But I can’t feel his power…or register her presence…there’s no longer any energy, any imprint, coming out of that well, not a single ripple in the water. It’s like they freakin’ vanished into thin air. Nachari, I have no idea where they’ve gone.

  The Master Wizard analyzed Braden’s words, trying to come up with a theory or a rational explanation, but the more he turned it over, the more confounded he became—nothing about the situation made any sense.

  And then a gruff, no-nonsense bark shook him out of his reflection. “Back away from the perimeter, Nachari!” Marquis Silivasi’s angry, commanding brogue. “What in the name of Lord Draco,” he grumbled as he towered over the remaining holding cell and glared inside.

  One look at the Ancient Master Warrior’s expression, the tension in his shoulders, and the furrow in his brows, and Nachari backed away as ordered.

  Big Brother was not there to play games.

  He was dressed in his dark leather duster; his right hand was cloaked in a cestus; and his phantom blue eyes were gleaming blood red. “One minute I’m sitting on the bank of the river, behind the house w
ith Ciopori, and the next, I’m getting this flurry of shit: You’re telling me you’re building a cell made of diamond—a cell that’s going to sap your power and trap you inside—and then half the Dark Moon valley is shaking. A bolt of lightning the size of a small city pierces an otherwise clear blue sky, and then World War III breaks out in the heavens—thunder, explosions, and an echo that sent half the water in the river onto the bank. Next thing I know, I can hear trees falling, rocks sliding, and the crackling of fire, miles away. If this was some sort of wizardly experiment—you and Braden trying to open that damn portal or playing with some spell in that damn Blood Cannon, that creepy-ass book of black magic—I swear, I’m going to kick your ass, little brother.”

  Nachari waited patiently as the warrior ranted and raved, all the while unraveling the holding cell—membrane by membrane, carbon by carbon—uncoiling the powerful magick that had built the supernatural dome. When at last the sparkling walls fell away, Nachari rose to his full, graceful height and sighed. “Brother,” he said pointedly, “this wasn’t about the portal, and it wasn’t about a spell. An ancient vampire flew out of that well”—he gestured absently at the disheveled, cobbled structure, at least a quarter of its stones now strewn about the mountain—“and as he ascended, he extracted my power—siphoned my magick—like he was simply draining water from a faucet. He destroyed Braden’s holding cell with the flick of his wrist, snatched Gwen off the ground, and dove back into the water. That was the echo you heard. That was the storm you witnessed. That is what—and who—caused all this destruction.” He swept his arm in a wide, circular arc, allowing the Ancient Master Warrior to take in the devastation. “If we hadn’t built those cells when we did, the wave alone would’ve taken our heads, and somehow, I just don’t think it would’ve been any great feat for that Ancient to have extracted our hearts if he wanted them.”

  Marquis recoiled and took a generous step back, but before he could speak, Braden Bratianu finally joined the other vampires and sidled up to the Master Warrior. “Hey, Marquis,” he said in a hushed, solemn whisper. “Nachari’s telling the truth—I’ve never seen anything like it. That dude was hella powerful, and he looked wild as hell!”