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

  Wondering…

  Hoping…

  That Kristina, Deanna, and Brooke were having luck in the public Hall of Justice, the chamber that held the ancient tomes of the Vampyr race, where the destinies were researching the historic annals, trying to find a similar psychic storm; probing for a reference to colossal-sized lightning and blazing sonic echoes; combing through the house of Jadon’s genealogy in order to uncover a wild, missing twin…a dark, ancient child of the Curse who had somehow eluded the sacrifice.

  But something in the king’s gut told him they wouldn’t find anything, at least not in so far as a missing sacrifice was concerned. The events that had recently transpired had antiquity written all over them: King Sakarias, the Old World, and the ancient castle of Napolean’s homeland. It somehow just screamed, Romania!

  That kind of power.

  That level of sophistication.

  Such mastery of the elements—and the arrogance required to reach out and take it.

  Napolean had seen similar things as a boy, when he had walked down streets of cobbled stone and intermingled with the original progeny of gods and men, when he had lived among kings and princes and almighty wizards…when he had…when he had…

  When he had…

  Oh gods, when he had lived among kings and princes and almighty wizards.

  His stomach lurched, his hands curled into fists, and his black-and-silver banded hair nearly crackled with energy as he turned to face Nachari. “Master Wizard,” he commanded, “describe his powers again, and not what you saw—tell me what you felt.”

  Nachari’s deep green eyes darkened with purpose as the vampire rested both elbows on the table and leaned forward as if into his thoughts. “Milord, I’m not sure if I can adequately describe it. I’m not sure if I know how to put it into words.”

  “Try, son,” Keitaro urged him, placing one hand on his beloved son’s shoulder.

  Nachari nodded. “It all happened so fast, and then we were hunkered down…hiding beneath the veil of the holding cell…but before that moment, before he emerged, when I was tracing the stones in the well, it felt like my finger had become a conduit for electricity, at least every time I glanced at Gwen. The air was humming, my skin was tingling, and then just as miraculously, the flesh was burning. But that wasn’t it…that wasn’t it.” He ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair, and the king could see how hard he was concentrating.

  “Go on, wizard. You say he drew from your power, leached from your magic—did it feel like a tap on your mind? Like that subtle sensation—or even harsh interference—when another male enters your thoughts…opens a bandwidth…or takes from your blood? Did it feel like when you feed your destiny, when you release your venom? Or was it something altogether different?”

  Nachari shook his head, and his brows creased in consternation. “It wasn’t anything like that, milord—it was a thousand times more intrusive, more powerful, more insidious. It felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest, like my blood was being siphoned from every artery, at once. It felt like my breath, my very core, had been stolen from my lungs so someone else could breathe them in. And the craziest thing, perhaps the most unsettling realization, is it didn’t feel like he was trying very hard. I could sense that he was only using a fraction of his power. It felt like he was seconds away from draining my anima, extinguishing that spark that keeps me alive…emptying my corpse like a gourd filled with liquor. He was just drinking, milord, taking one sip at a time, imbibing on whatever he wanted.”

  Marquis Silivasi shifted restlessly in his seat. Ramsey stopped chewing on his toothpick, and the remainder of the males grew deathly quiet.

  Napolean Mondragon pinched the bridge of his nose, and then he took several strides closer to Braden. “Son,” the king said, “describe him again, every detail you remember from his physical appearance.”

  Braden gulped and began to recite the same characteristics he had already shared fifteen minutes earlier: wild, twisted, maybe golden hair—it was hard to tell when it was wet—dark, strange-colored eyes, maybe copper or bronze, but definitely rimmed in black; and a tall, powerful, muscular frame, maybe six-foot-five in height. “Do you want me to try to project a hologram? I think my memory is only in bits and pieces. It happened so fast, and we were scrambling to—”

  “Stop.” Napolean raised his hand to silence the lad; they weren’t getting anywhere with this line of questioning. Marquis Silivasi had already viewed the boy’s memories, and he had shared them with the sentinels and the tracker. Although the images were cloudy, and some of the impressions were muted or jumbled, the king was quite certain the sentinels had gone over it…again, and again…and again. Drilling the boy a dozen more times was not going to spark any clearer information, and the king was weary with tales of wild hair and wild eyes. He was looking for something…different.

  Something that might demark time or place, something more clearly identifiable.

  And then his jaw grew slack, and his brows shot up. “Son, you never mentioned what the male was wearing.” He turned toward Marquis, the sentinels, then Julien. “None of you did. You said he was dirty…grungy…he had come out of the water, and he was covered in mud and filth; but none of you described his clothing. Was he naked? Was he cloaked in any sort of protective armor? Could he have been wearing any jewelry? Were there any visible tattoos or unusual markings?”

  Julien Lacusta cleared his throat, and the guttural bark almost sounded salty. “With all due respect, my king, I am the valley’s tracker. I’ve gone over the memory two dozen times—there’s just an impression of ivory, like a slab of color, from his collarbone down to his knees. His shoulders…you can’t see beyond the mud…definitely no jewelry around his throat or ears. If he has any markings, if he’s sporting any tattoos, they’re not clear in the image the young vampire shared.”

  “I concur,” Santos added. “He may have been wearing some sort of belt…or a thong…beneath his ribs, but the algae…the memory…it’s just dark green and brown.”

  At this, Braden shot up in his chair, his back stiffening and his countenance lightening. “Oh, shit,” he burst out, turning to eye Marquis. “You took my direct memories—the pictures in my head—but you didn’t dabble in my thoughts.” He lowered his gaze and stared at the table. “I know it was a sign of respect—you didn’t want to glimpse my fear or witness my panic—you just wanted to get at the facts, but I did have a thought, an impression, when he first came out of the water, in that immediate millisecond when he was coming right at us, like something about his clothes was all wrong. Like he had just stepped out of a period movie: you know, those ones where the guys wear some sort of knickers and tunics, instead of real shirts? Like he should’ve been wearing a pirate’s eye-patch, and he should’ve had a sword tucked into his belt.”

  “Then he was wearing a belt?” Napolean asked.

  Braden held both palms upward in a dubious gesture and sighed. “I dunno…I don’t know. But what I thought in that moment, the second I saw him, was yeah…an ancient pirate with knickers, a tunic, and a leather belt.”

  Napolean closed his eyes.

  Knee-length knickers.

  An ivory tunic.

  And a leather belt—the boy had just said leather, and the clothing he described was from another time.

  Napolean tuned out the room and tried to concentrate, to go back…back…far back in time, until, at last, he had conjured the visage of an ancient village and a humble, one-room domicile: until he had retrieved the memory of his own handsome father getting dressed in his ceremonial finery.

  The Mondragons had neither been wealthy, nor elite, despite their prominent progeny, and their shifts felt more like gunnysacks than silk—they would not have been dyed to look ivory. Nonetheless, Sebastian Mondragon had worn one such garb to the Harvest and other religious rituals.

  Content that the image was fixed in his memory, Napolean sent it out as a hologram, projecting the visage behind a glowing back light hovering above the conference table. “Is this what he was wearing—at least, was it similar?”

  Marquis rocked forward in his chair and grunted. “I could see that outfit…superimposed…it fits with the outline Braden gave us.”

  “Yes,” Saxson drawled, leaning back and thumbing his chin warily.

  Santos nodded, and Ramsey harrumphed.

  Saber popped his neck. “In the Dark Ones’ Colony, the library where we kept the physical and digital historic annals, where we also stored the likenesses of the ancient monarchs—Prince Jaegar, Prince Jadon, my mate, and Princess Ciopori—there were paintings that looked like that.”

  Braden Bratianu smiled. “Looks a lot like a pirate’s outfit to me. Feels a lot like my first impression.”

  Julien’s keen, moonstone gray eyes seemed to sharpen. “It’s almost exact,” he grunted. “If you look at the lines in the shoulders, the way the sleeves are cut in, then look at the murky, ivory background in Braden’s hazy memory: The brown…the mud…near the top of his shoulders—that’s stitching—that’s where the sleeves were attached. And the lighter gold, just beneath the throat, that isn’t dirty cloth; it’s his golden-colored skin. The neck hole has been cut out.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Besides, stop looking with your eyes for a second, and use your sense of smell. Every fabric has a different scent. And these two cloths—they’re not just the same color; they were made from the same material. And unless my senses aren’t as sharp as I think they are, my guess is they’re equally aged.”

  Napolean’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. “Come again, tracker? Are you saying what I think you are: You can pick up the scent in my memory—and in Braden’s—clearly enough to discern the age of the garments?”

  At this, Julien d
eclined his head. “Permission to enter your mind, milord—I need to experience the memory, firsthand, without the interference from the hologram. Am I sure? Eighty…maybe ninety percent, but if you allow me to—”

  “Permission granted,” Napolean barked.

  And then he waited while Julien examined the memory.

  One, two, three seconds passed before the most skilled tracker the house of Jadon had ever produced backed out of the king’s hippocampus and nodded. “Give or take a decade…maybe two…the cloth is from the same era.”

  Nathaniel Silivasi whistled low, beneath his breath, even as Kagen, his twin, just shook his head. “So, what gives, milord?” Nathaniel asked Napolean. “Who is this Ancient? What are you thinking?”

  The king strolled quietly to the head of the table and lowered his weight into the finely upholstered seat: kings and princes, and almighty wizards; ancient, wild eyes and hair; knee-length knickers—no, ivory trousers—with a matching tunic, bearing sewn-on sleeves and a hole cropped out of the neck.

  The power of an ancient god.

  The sky…

  The thunder…

  The majesty of lightning…

  All his to wield and command…

  No, the male could be no other than the progeny of the celestial god Hercules and his human mate, Arylia; the greatest wizard to have ever lived; the High Mage who had served King Sakarias and, ultimately, his sons and his daughters too, the latter having been his reason to travel to Dark Moon Vale..

  At least a millennium earlier.

  “His name is Fabian Antonescu,” Napolean said with awe, “son of Fortino Antonescu and Koryn Anne Rosa, High Mage to the royal king Sakarias and his noble queen, Jade. I was just a boy when he lived in Romania. I was only ten at the time of the Curse. And, needless to say, we didn’t travel in the same circles, but even as a lad, I heard the legends…” His voice trailed off and he regarded Nachari circumspectly. “Master Wizard, you were wise to build the holding cell out of diamonds, and Braden, you were wise to retreat. He could have slaughtered both of you, as well as your beloved companions, in a matter of seconds, but it would seem he wanted the girl.”

  Nachari nodded solemnly, then waited on his king.

  Braden grimaced, shook his head, and let out a slow, deep breath.

  “Nachari,” the king continued, “I am assuming you have taken Gwen’s blood—I know you and Braden have been acting as her wards. Am I right to conclude that you secured a way to track her, if necessary?”

  Nachari leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Yes, milord. I can track the human female.”

  “Good. That’s good. At least I hope it’s good. One way or another, I want to know if she’s alive. I want to know where Fabian has taken her…where the ancient wizard is hiding. How is he living…how is he existing…and how great is this threat?” He held up two fingers, lest the wizard act too fast, then trained his noble gaze on the newest sentinel in his private inner circle. “Saber…” The dragon’s coal-black eyes met his. “I am going to need you to awaken your mate and summon her to the manse. And Marquis”—he shifted his attention to the Ancient Master Warrior—“I would have you do the same. Vanya and Ciopori are the only souls yet living who can provide any insight into this wizard’s state of mind: why he would endanger his fellow vampires from the house of Jadon, what he might want with the human girl, and what the hell he could have been doing all this time that would lead him to leap out of a well.”

  The hairs on the back of the king’s neck stood up as he struggled to process the myriad layers of the problem: “A king is only as wise as his counsel, and we need to understand what we’re dealing with before we seek to locate Gwen.” He shuddered to think that the girl might be dead…or that Fabian might be coming for the princesses next. “Assuming that Miss Hamilton is still alive, it is not as if we can simply take her back. Based on Braden’s description—how Fabian behaved at the well—I think it unlikely he would give her up.” He paused to consider his next words more carefully. “No, we not only need the princesses’ insight, we may very well need their celestial magic.”

  As his last words lingered and his heart filled with dread, he turned toward Ramsey, Saxson, and Santos. “I know that Saber will wish to stay close to Vanya, and I have no objection to the same. Just as we all know Julien will be instrumental in any tracking expedition we embark upon. That said, I will leave it to the three of you to divide the remaining responsibilities: At some point, once Fabian has been located, I will need you to cordon off a wide area, to keep all in this valley away from his travels…or escapades. No one in the house of Jadon is to approach or go near the Ancient until we figure this conundrum out.”

  Chapter Five

  What time was it?

  Two AM; three AM; maybe four?

  Where was she?

  And why did she feel so weak?

  Gwen rolled from her back onto her stomach and tried to slide off the bed—she needed to use the bathroom—only, her leg didn’t fall off a mattress, and her cheek didn’t slide off a pillow. Rather, she ended up banging her knee on the cold, hard ground and dragging her mouth through the dirt.

  Oh…

  Yuck…

  What the hell?

  And then the memory came back like a wrecking ball, slamming squarely into her chest and jolting her into full, waking consciousness: Fabian. The vampire. The mystical fire. Trying to fight him off as he pinned her to the ground.

  Blood.

  Feeding.

  The ache in her neck.

  She was still in that damnable cave, only the fire had gone out, she was enshrined in darkness, and she had to get out…or perish. The scent of distant, fresh dew on mountain grass wafted to her nostrils, even as her ears perked up, and she tuned into her sense of sound: rustling leaves, perhaps quaking aspens; an owl hooting in a faraway tree; other than that, only deafening silence. It had to be the middle of the night…

  Oh Lord, where was he?

  Could he possibly be sleeping?

  Or had lady luck finally shown Gwen some favor and sent Fabian out of the cave…maybe hunting…nocturnal shapeshifting…wandering around aimlessly, attacking helpless animals—she really didn’t care just so long as he was gone.

  She spun around on her hands and knees, blinking furiously like a ninny, straining to see in the dark. And then she heard the low, guttural snarl coming from the back of the cave.

  No.

  No!

  No-no-no!

  Why couldn’t Gwen catch a break?

  Exhausted, defeated, and distraught, she slammed a clenched hand against the ground, and then she fisted her own hair and began to weep. To hell with it—she wasn’t that strong. She was cold. She was tired. She was hungry, thirsty, and filthy. And for heaven’s sake, she still needed to pee!

  “Destinul meu?” The vampire’s deep, satiny voice.

  Gwen choked back a sob. Oh, shit! Be quiet, she told herself. He’s using those foreign words again…the ones that sound all sweet and endearing, right before he pounces and tears out your throat. Just be still…and quiet…and maybe he’ll leave you alone.

  “Destinul meu,” he said again, only this time it was more of a statement—he knew exactly where she was, and she knew the utter futility of resisting his supernatural supremacy.

  “I’m here,” she mumbled, resenting the very air she was breathing.

  “Gwendolyn,” he entreated, “my destiny, come.” A light began to glow around his fingers as he quirked them in a come-here gesture.

  Yeah, Gwen thought. Come. Sit. Stay.

  Feed me; humor me; live, if I allow it; die when I say.

  She absently rubbed her throat before scooting along the floor of the cave—and then she noticed an odd, lumpy pile of mysterious stuff stacked next to the vampire’s leg. She sat crisscross, about three feet away. If he wanted her closer, he could drag her by the ankle—it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done it before.

  The vampire cleared his throat and fixed his piercing, copper gaze directly on Gwen. “I wish”—his voice sounded like it had been ground to broken glass, and he paused to try again. “I would ask your forgiveness”—he was speaking in English again!—“for my occasional…bouts…of boldness.” He closed his eyes like he was really concentrating—perhaps he was searching for words—and then he added: “I’m not entirely…present…or rational.”