Blood Echo: A Blood Curse Novel (Blood Curse Series Book 11) Page 3

  Kristina’s bright blue eyes clouded with moisture as she rose from her knees, stepped toward the three huddled vampires, and studied Braden in earnest for the very first time: His jeans were tattered and covered in muck; his boots were missing, and his feet were bleeding; his chestnut brown hair was littered with fragments—rocks, pine cones, and remnants of gemstones—and his smooth, tan skin was beleaguered with cuts. She gulped. “Bray, are you all right? You don’t look so good.”

  Marquis held up an implacable hand. “Later,” he mumbled, his tone brooking no argument. “There’ll be time for pleasantries later.”

  Deanna nestled beneath Nachari’s arm, even as Braden took Kristina by the hand. “I’m fine, Red,” he whispered, pulling her close. He pressed a tender, chaste kiss to the top of her head, and for the first time…ever…she didn’t object.

  “Tell me about this vampire.” Marquis scowled, scanning the mountain like a hawk. “Was he a Dark One, one of the elders, perhaps an evil twin from the house of Jadon who somehow eluded the sacrifice—someone who might have escaped the Curse?”

  Nachari shrugged. “Wish I knew, Master Warrior. Braden, what color was his hair?”

  Braden let out a drawn, ragged breath. “I dunno, but it was wild…wild as hell… I didn’t see any black-and-red bands, but then, Ian, Julien’s twin, was from the house of Jadon—he was a dark twin who knew magic, and he was able to mask his hair as blond for a while.”

  Nachari nodded, growing ever more pensive. “But why take Gwen? Why the human girl? Why did his power come alive when I looked at her?”

  Marquis furrowed his brows. “What the heck are you talking about?”

  Nachari sighed. “Before the storm, before all hell broke loose, we were studying the well, collecting samples, when I started to trace a random stone. At first, nothing happened, but then I glanced at Gwen—”

  Once again, Marquis held up his hand. “Permission to view your memories, Master Wizard. We don’t have time for this shit.”

  Nachari blanched, but then he quickly recovered. Okay, he thought, tactless as usual, but at least the Master Warrior had asked for permission. “Do whatever you need to do,” he said.

  Marquis inclined his head, closed his eyes, and just like that, the vampire was inside, beyond the gray matter—dissecting white matter—extracting information, playing back each memory like a video-recording: fast-forwarding when expedient, rewinding when necessary, recording Nachari’s knowledge as if it were his own. Finally, he blinked and took a generous step back. He turned toward Braden and cocked his brows. “Son, you had a completely different vantage, a very different experience. I need to hear what you heard and see what you saw.”

  Braden smiled, although his eyes looked wary. “Permission granted, Master Warrior.” He tried to sound both formal and brave as he released Kristina and stepped closer to the vampire.

  Marquis didn’t waste any time.

  He repeated the process in half the time, and then he cursed beneath his breath in Romanian. “Nachari, heal Braden’s wounds, then take your destiny and Kristina to Kagen’s clinic.” He appraised both women with a keen, watchful eye. “They don’t look like they’re injured, but I’d rather be sure—one never knows when dealing with magick.” His expression hardened, and his voice grew resolute. “Bring Father and Nathaniel into the loop—I’m going to share both sets of memories with the valley’s sentinels, and we’re going to need to call in the tracker. Let’s all meet back up in thirty minutes, and we may as well start where we’re going to end up—at Napolean’s manse. Maybe the king can shed some light on this vampire; maybe Julien can track his flight. Who knows, but he definitely poses a risk to the house of Jadon, and the sentinels will want to react accordingly. Thirty minutes. Napolean’s manse. And watch your fuckin’ back in the meantime.”

  Nachari was not about to debate…or object.

  He understood Marquis’ reasoning—and the Ancient Master Warrior’s need to take charge—even if his list of “next steps” was fairly obvious: Yes, the tracker was going to have to hunt like a demon, try to locate the ancient vampire…try to recover Gwen. And yes, the sentinels would have to protect the vale. Keitaro, Nathaniel, and Kagen would be intimately involved, if for no other reason than their family was involved…the vampire from the well had struck too close to home.

  And as for Napolean Mondragon?

  The thought gave Nachari chills…

  The power that had come out of that well.

  The storm that had cut through the valley.

  The magick…the might…the chaotic energy.

  Nachari wasn’t willing to go so far as to believe this vampire was as powerful as Napolean, but of one thing he was absolutely certain: If they did find this Ancient, if they managed to locate Gwen, Napolean Mondragon was the only living soul strong enough to bring her home.

  And even then, the king might need the assistance of sorcery—of all the house of Jadon’s wizards…

  Yeah, Marquis had made the correct—if not obvious—call.

  Chapter Three

  Gwen gasped, shrank back, and slammed her head against the rim of the ledge, stifling her screams in mid-wail.

  Oh.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  No. No. No-no-no!

  That wasn’t just a growl—it was a primitive, bestial snarl—and the vampire clearly meant it as a warning—freakin’ hell, he was wearing a blazing, supernatural fire like a blasted superhero’s cape!

  A fire he had built with his hands.

  Stoked with his magic.

  And painted over like some dark Picasso, changing the primary colors.

  The male had barked some foreign command—veniti inainte!—but Gwen had no freakin’ idea what that meant. And then he had ordered her to come forth—as if she would dare—before making the world’s most terrifying introduction: My name is Fabian Antonescu, the most powerful wizard that ever lived, and you will do my will—you shall obey me.

  Oh, no-no-no-no-no!

  She couldn’t obey—whatever he was. This creature was nothing like Nachari or Braden.

  He was the essence of nightmares, the inspiration of legends, some sort of demon, warlock, or sorcerer, in addition to being a vampire: My name is Fabian Antonescu, the most powerful wizard that ever lived…

  Humble much?

  This brute was incredibly arrogant—and dangerous. He was obviously accustomed to everything and everyone bowing down before him, and for whatever reason, he had emerged from that well like a mythical phoenix, broken through Braden’s barrier like it was nothing more than papier-mâché, and bit Gwen in the neck, guzzled from her vein, like she was his own personal human spigot.

  She still had the throbbing, open wounds to prove it.

  And now…

  And now he wanted her to obey him—you will do my will. That was never going to happen.

  Still, it might be wise to at least show a little deference…a little fear… There was no reason to further incite him. Trembling like a leaf, Gwen unwound her arms from her knees, placed her hands palms down in the dirt, and slowly scooted forward on her bottom. She ducked to make sure she cleared the ledge this time, and she kept her eyes submissively averted.

  Her only hope—her only prayer—was that if the creature intended to kill her, he would be merciful enough to do it quickly.

  Painlessly.

  Maybe he would siphon her blood until she died of exsanguination, and she would somehow sleep through it, pass out before the agony grew unbearable. One thing was for certain: This was nothing like being held captive in The Fortress, however horrendous that nightmare had been. At least at the Giovanni compound, the guards had been mortal, the enemy had been human. At least Gwen had possessed a chance to use her brains and her wit to contend for her life in the end. At least she had stood a fighting chance, no matter how slim…

  There would be no surviving this.

  She couldn’t outfight him, outlast him, outthink him, or outpower him.


  For all intents and purposes, he was invincible, and she was virtually defenseless.

  A bitter tear of helplessness streamed down her cheek as she summoned every ounce of courage she could muster, rocked forward onto her hands and knees, and closed the remaining distance, crawling. Halting two to three feet in front of the mystical campfire, she sat back on her heels, straightened her spine, and raised her chin in order to meet the vampire eye to eye. Humility and submission was one thing—she had given the creature his due—but if he wanted to dispatch his quarry, then he needed to look her in the eyes: At least she could force this indomitable wizard to slay a person instead of an object.

  He blinked three times, his fiery cloak now undulating behind his shoulders, and his haunting stare met hers; only she didn’t feel empowered—or emboldened. Her heart nearly seized in her chest. And now, as he stood illuminated by so much firelight, the male was even more captivating…extraordinary…and petrifying, all at once.

  Gwen had never seen anyone—or anything—like him.

  His indigenous clothes were antiquated and tattered, yet still somehow regal: His real shirt was nothing more than a plain ivory tunic with sleeves attached to the shoulders, a hole cut into the neck, and a leather thong dissecting the waist. His trousers fell just beyond his knees. They were made from some loose-fitting cloth and appeared to be cinched at the top and the bottom. Both garments were relics from a bygone era, and needless to say, they were drenched with water—and he wasn’t wearing an undergarment.

  Gwen gulped.

  Yeah…

  He was definitely superhuman.

  She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.

  Despite her modesty and her terror, there was also a sense of morbid fascination, and then a singular comparison flashed through her mind…

  Zeus.

  That was the only word that could adequately describe him: the god of sky and thunder from Mount Olympus, descended in human flesh and standing before her, reanimated in a twenty-first-century cave. Only, this ancient deity must have been glazed in burnished bronze because his coloring was nothing short of remarkable: Despite the soil and the grime still coating his hair and tunic, his entire being was emblazoned in shades of rust and gold. His almond-shaped eyes were an antique, burnt copper, each pupil rimmed in raven black and framed by two silken brows. His chiseled, angular features were the stunning hue of copper—they were perfectly symmetrical, etched into high, copper cheekbones, and imperial above a strong, defiant jaw. His full, sculpted lips were drawn into a frown, a timeless expression that one might almost call a scowl, yet the visage screamed power and majesty, more than anger or contempt. And his hair—that wild, thick, golden-bronze hair—it was dotted with crisscrossed locks of blond and interspersed with tendrils of burnt red. It fell at least six inches beyond his shoulders: wavy, untamed, and a dozen different lengths. For lack of any other portrayal, the wizard wore the mane of an archaic lion.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes still locked with Gwen’s, and the subtle display of might and power—his muscles, his physique, his entire bearing—was not to be upstaged by his peculiar coloring: The vampire was cut like a statue.

  Gwen’s throat convulsed, and her stomach fluttered, even as she continued to study his outline: Every hard-cut muscle was clearly defined; every tendon and striation was accentuated. Every valley and ridge was pure perfection, and standing there like a timeless artifact, a deity from another dimension, he had to be at least six-feet-four…maybe five.

  She felt the urge to scramble to her feet and run.

  To hell with awaiting her fate!

  But then her eye caught the flicker of a pale blue flame that was glowing like a lantern, illuminating a birthmark: a small, heart-shaped blemish etched subtly into the flesh of one shoulder and visible beneath a tear in the sleeve. For a moment, she was struck by the irony of the emblem—the birthmark was so simple…so benign…so organic, so at odds with the harshness of his aura, the power that emanated from his very pores, and the lost, feral look in his eyes.

  Who are you? she thought. And where did you come from?

  But she didn’t dare utter a word.

  She just knelt on the ground, frozen in front of him, as he studied her carefully in turn.

  “Cum te numesti?” The vampire’s voice filled the cavern, his tone still carrying a savage lilt.

  Gwen shivered and shuffled back.

  He stepped forward, and she jolted, her eyes darting frantically—up and down, back and forth—between the flames on the ground and the blazing cloak of fire still whipping about his shoulders.

  “Cum te numesti?” he repeated. And then he grasped the emblazoned cloak, removed it from his shoulders as if it were merely made of cloth, and flicked it into the fire, where, once discarded, it blended seamlessly into the original flames.

  Gwen couldn’t believe what she was seeing, yet the smallest glimmer of hope alighted in her chest:

  Was that a conciliatory gesture?

  Was the vampire offering an olive branch?

  Had he removed the cloak to lessen her fear?

  She lowered her eyes in a show of deference—or maybe just to shield her mind from such an audacious, paranormal display—and folded both hands in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, “but I don’t understand your language.”

  If he understood her words, his expression didn’t show it: He brushed his hair behind his shoulders, extended one arm to the side, then swept it outward in a graceful arc, moving the fire beneath it—yes, the fire obeyed his command; it may as well have been an extension of his fingers—and just like that, there was no longer an obstacle between them.

  Oh shit, Gwen thought as he took several steps forward, sank down onto his knees, and loomed like a mighty oak above her. “Cum te numesti: What…is…your name?” He spoke each word carefully…slowly…like he was trying them out for size.

  Gwen started.

  Holy shit!

  He had really been listening, and he was actually trying—he was attempting to speak to Gwen on her level. “Gwendolyn,” she answered warily, once again meeting his gaze.

  He tilted his head to one side—he seemed to do that a lot. “Destinul meu,” he grunted, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

  “Destinul meu?” she parroted, hoping for another translation.

  “My destiny,” he grunted.

  “Oh, no,” Gwen shot back. She had heard the word once or twice in the brownstone, but she wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. “My name is Gwendolyn…Gwen Marie…but everyone just calls me Gwen.”

  He made a guttural noise in the back of his throat, then reached out to finger her hair; and that was it—that was all—the moment Gwen lost her composure.

  The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Gwen flinched like the vampire had struck her, slapped his hand to the side, and flipped over onto her hands and knees to scurry away like a frightened mouse.

  He snatched her by the ankle and tugged.

  She kicked back at his face with her heel.

  He grabbed both ankles, one in each brawny hand, and flipped her over like a human pancake.

  She stomped at his face in earnest, clawing at the ground with her hands, trying desperately to gain purchase…to scramble backward…to break free of the vampire’s hold. “Stop!” she shouted, and then she whimpered, “Please…please, just stop. Stop!”

  He snarled—another one of his warnings—and she flung a handful of dirt in his eyes.

  Bad move.

  Really bad move.

  He descended over her body like a swarm of locusts swooping to devour a field, and in a matter of seconds—less than that, really—he had both her arms stretched over her head and both her wrists pinned in one hand. He anchored her body to the cool cavern floor with the weight and mass of his torso and fisted a handful of her hair.

  Gwen writhed, twisted, and grunted, desperate to break free, but he
r every effort was futile.

  One terrorized look into his burnt-copper gaze, and she knew she may as well stop struggling…stop grunting…stop hoping.

  Fabian Antonescu was no longer there.

  The male who had asked for her name; the wizard who had removed his fearsome cloak; the vampire who might reason or listen…or care…was lost in a feral haze. The simple truth of the matter: Gwen’s captor wasn’t sane. He was more like a rabid animal than a man, and she had just incited his beast.

  “Fabian.” She tried his name, hoping to break through the fog.

  No reaction.

  “Fabian,” she tried again.

  “Cease!” he grunted, his canines descending. “Light cleaves to light, and darkness cleaves to darkness.” He was speaking in English, but it made no damn sense! “The raven…the hawk…the blood of the ancients…”

  And with that, he lowered his mouth to her throat and sank his teeth—once again—deep into her sore, pulsing jugular.

  Chapter Four

  Napolean Mondragon paced around the conference room, eyeing each of his servants in turn—his brow was deeply furrowed, his back and shoulders were tense, and his jaw was set in a thin, hard line. Keitaro Silivasi and his four beloved sons were seated along the southern side of the oval mahogany table, their backs facing the front of the manse. The Olaru brothers were perched like restless lions bordering the opposite section, each balanced on the edge of their seats. Saber Alexiares and Julien Lacusta had chosen to stand in the east, leaning against the thick, paneled wall that divided the room from the king’s private office, and Braden Bratianu was seated next to Ramsey, closest to the head of the table…closest to Napolean’s empty chair.

  The king could not stop pacing.

  Thinking…