Blood Possession Page 5

  It was easier to reconcile her past—and all the pain she had had to find a way to live with—when she chose to rise above the fray, so to speak, when she reminded herself that there was a wonder and a design to this life, a purpose that reached beyond one’s circumstance of birth.

  As she looked out the cab window at the towering mountains around her, she marveled at the magnificent peaks dotted with snow and their expansive bases thick with pine. There was simply no way to doubt the power of the universe around her. She could feel it as much as see it, and the knowledge—the possibility—of such greatness gave her hope for her own life.

  Sighing, she patted Tiffany on the thigh and gave her best friend a reassuring smile. “Good week in the end, huh?”

  Tiffany patted her back, a gesture of camaraderie. “I think so.” And then she turned to look out her own window.

  Knowing each other as long as they had, Brooke knew that Tiffany had learned to flow with her quiet, contemplative moods, to simply understand her sudden bouts of silence or introspection, and to share the space without the need to fill it with noise. All qualities Brooke appreciated immensely.

  As the cab slowly made its way along the extended, curved driveway, Brooke sighed with contentment.

  Napolean stood at the edge of the Dark Moon Lodge loop, waiting for several rental cars and a slow yellow cab to pass. The crystal lake shimmered in the moonlight behind him as he thought about the body of the human female he was about to view…and all that it meant for his kind: the ongoing scourge of their Dark Brothers. He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed the sky blackening above him, until the moon visibly dipped in the sky.

  Instinctively, he looked up.

  Indeed, the moon was dancing as it were…changing…from a brilliant halo of white to the softest dusty rose. His stomach did a strange flip, and his pulse increased as the unconscious awareness registered in his body before his mind.

  The dusty rose was deepening now.

  It was growing darker. Much darker. Into a deep, burgundy red.

  Was this simply an astrological event, or was he actually viewing the start of a Blood Moon, the ancient Omen that signaled to his people—the males in the house of Jadon—the arrival of their destinies…the one human woman in a lifetime chosen by the gods to be a vampire’s mate?

  Napolean shut out the world around him. He closed his eyes and sent all of his senses seeking outward, heightened and alert. He was the sovereign lord over the house of Jadon, the only remaining male from the time of the original Blood Curse. And as the king, he knew the lives…the very heartbeats…of every male under his command. He had taken the blood of every Fledgling, Master, Warrior, Healer, Justice, and Wizard in Dark Moon Vale, and he knew each one intimately as a result: He could feel their very DNA.

  Napolean felt for the identity of the male. He tried to read the energetic imprint of the moon, yet nothing clear came to him. Odd, he thought, opening his eyes. He looked toward the sky. If it was indeed the Omen, then the stars would soon reveal the chosen one in the formation of a distinct constellation.

  He watched in anticipation as the dark canvas began to take shape, and one by one, the brilliant stars began to weave an intricate pattern in response to the beckoning of the Celestial Gods. Twenty-eight hundred years, and the phenomenon never ceased to amaze him. Enthrall him.

  And then all at once, he drew in a harsh breath, unbelieving. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his heart began to pound in his chest, even as his mouth went dry. It couldn’t be.

  It simply couldn’t be!

  It had never happened before, and as far as he was concerned, it was never going to happen. Napolean was an…exception to the Blood Curse, at least he had come to believe he was. After so many years of wishing, waiting, hoping—after having found the princess Vanya and knowing he could never act on his deep feelings for the original Celestial female—Napolean had convinced himself that he was meant to be one thing—and one thing only—the leader of the house of Jadon.

  He was meant to be alone.

  Forever.

  His blood heated as the stars nestled into their final resting place and the inevitability of what he was seeing settled upon him, although it still did not quite register: Andromeda.

  Napolean Mondragon’s own birth constellation was shining as bright as the noonday sun in a clear sky, illuminated by the most beautiful shade of red he had ever seen. It was his own Blood Moon that appeared in the sky above him.

  His head turned instinctively to the left and then the right. His vision became even more acute as he scanned the nearby environment. Who was she? Had they met before?

  Where was she?

  And then, like a gleaming spotlight piercing a dark stage, the moonlight filtered into a narrow cone and shone down on the backseat of the yellow cab slowly inching its way along the Dark Moon Lodge driveway. Slowly taking her away from Dark Moon Vale.

  Time stood still.

  Napolean had to act quickly, but there were people around. His hand went reflexively to his mouth in an effort to cover—to restrain—his elongating fangs: the primal instinct that was quickly rising within him. His inner voice screamed, Claim her, take her, stop her!

  Now.

  He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, prepared to move in an instant, even as he sent an imperious telepathic command to his sentinels, Ramsey and Santos Olaru. Warriors, you are to come to the lodge courtyard at once. I need your assistance with the humans. Not only would he require their help in keeping order—considering what had to be done—but he would need them to erase the memories of everyone present, to take control of the scene.

  After all, he had only one objective, one dire edict, to claim his mate and get her to safety as quickly as possible. His very life depended upon it, as did the welfare of the house of Jadon. This was not like any other Blood Moon. There was no room for error, no time for niceties. He was the king of the Vampyr, and his queen would be the most coveted prize his enemy had ever sought.

  We see the sky, milord. Ramsey’s deep, raspy voice penetrated Napolean’s thoughts. It is true then—your destiny has finally come. Do as you must; we will contain the area.

  Even before the warrior finished speaking, Ramsey materialized in the courtyard, tall, strong, and proud. His brother Santos appeared quickly behind him. The warriors gave Napolean a silent nod, and he responded in kind.

  Taking a deep breath, he leapt the distance between himself and the cab, perching perilously in front of it just as it began to accelerate out of the drive. The driver hit the brakes, causing them to squeal as he wrenched the wheel to the side, trying to avoid striking the man who had just appeared in front of him. Napolean placed his hand on the hood of the vehicle, bringing it to an instant halt and, unfortunately, leaving a palm-size dent in the metal.

  It mattered not at all.

  His eyes focused like laser beams on the backseat of the cab, where he observed two women: a skinny, well-dressed blonde, and a tall brunette with haunting blue eyes. His gaze dropped to their left arms, furiously scanning their wrists…

  And there it was.

  Andromeda.

  Holy Celestial Beings, this just couldn’t be!

  Every intricate line of the ancient constellation was etched indelibly into the brunette’s wrist, and she was holding it up, staring at it with a look of wonder—as well as terror—in her eyes.

  Great gods, was this really happening?

  The brunette looked up then, and her eyes met Napolean’s through the front windshield—even as her mind began to process what had just happened to the cab. Reflexively, she reached over and locked the door, barking a harsh command to the other woman to do the same. As Napolean rounded the cab, her mouth fell open and she scooted away from the window toward her friend.

  Gods, this is awful, he thought. What a way to meet one’s destiny.

  Humans were beginning to gather around now, gawking at the scene, pointing and whispering at the dent
in the cab. A tall man with broad shoulders started to walk briskly toward the chaos, shouting a command at Napolean to leave the women alone, but he was quickly intercepted by Santos, who sent him in the other direction with nothing more than a tap on the shoulder and a mental suggestion. Napolean shook his head to clear his mind. The people around him were not his concern right now. This woman was. And based upon the look of sheer terror on her face, she wasn’t about to answer a polite knock on the door.

  Napolean took a deep breath, glided to the side of the cab where the woman sat, reached for the handle, and wrenched the door open, trying mightily not to rip it from its hinges.

  He failed.

  And the woman gasped in fright.

  And then she flailed wildly, trying to back-pedal away from him as if she were running on an invisible treadmill. He could hear her heart pounding in her chest, and it sounded like a bass drum thrumming in a five-hundred-watt subwoofer.

  “Come to me,” he beckoned, reaching out his hand.

  He wasn’t sure if her response constituted a shriek, a yell, or a growl—but he pretty much got the gist: No!

  “Please,” she whispered, her magnificent blue eyes glazing over with the onset of panicked tears, “take our money. We don’t want any trouble. Just take whatever you want and go. Leave us alone.”

  Napolean’s upper lip twitched, no doubt revealing a hint of fangs, and he felt the heat in his eyes—knowing they were glowing red. He could hardly speak. “Come, or I’ll take you.” His voice was pitched low in an imperious command, removing any ability she had to refuse. He was an Ancient—his power unmatched among all the Vampyr—and knowing this, he tried to soften what he did.

  She was trembling uncontrollably now as she began to scoot toward the door, her body betraying her will.

  “Brooke! What are you doing? Get away from the door!” The blond woman grabbed her friend by the arm and tugged her back, pulling her into the center of the cab. “Go away!” she yelled at Napolean, her sea-green eyes ablaze with defiance. “Leave us alone!”

  The door to the other side of the cab opened, and Santos reached in and placed his hand on the blond woman’s shoulder. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes fell shut, and he laid her back gently against the seat. She was fast asleep.

  The brunette screamed a god-awful cry as her friend fell silent. Leaning back, she kicked at Napolean, screaming for help all the while.

  Damnit. This was simply too public of a scene. “Shhh,” he whispered. “I am not going to hurt you. Come now.” He ushered her forward again, and like a programmed robot, she got out of the cab, her eyes wide as saucers as she lost her ability to resist his voice.

  Napolean froze then, his eyes taking her in.

  She was lovely.

  Positively stunning.

  Her hair was ebony silk, the length of her shoulders. It was impossibly thick and straight as an arrow, expertly cut in a soft, modern sweep so that the pieces in front were angled slightly longer than the back, accentuating her stunning features. And her eyes—they were so outrageously blue—as brilliant as sapphires with such incredible depths. This woman was neither simple nor shallow. She had lived through much in her lifetime, and there was a stark wisdom and keen intelligence in her gaze, despite her fear.

  Napolean reached out to touch her.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  “I am Napolean,” he said, his fingers gliding through the wisps of her hair. “What is your name, milady?”

  Brooke swallowed hard and blinked, as if coming out of a trance.

  When she refused to answer, Napolean gave her a gentle thrust with his mind.

  “Brooke,” she whispered.

  Napolean closed his eyes and repeated her name like a prayer: “Brooke.”

  Brooke.

  Napolean opened his eyes again just as Ramsey pulled up behind them in Napolean’s black Toyota Land Cruiser. He pitched his voice low and made his tone as soothing as he could. “Brooke, you will come with me now, and all will be explained to you soon.” He bent to her ear to speak a gentle but powerful compulsion. “Please know that I will not hurt you.”

  The stunning woman—Brooke—swayed. Her face grew ashen and pale, and Napolean had to steady her before they could begin walking. “Be at ease, milady,” he purred, taking a firm grasp of her arm.

  And then he quickly led her to his truck.

  five

  As the Land Cruiser made its way along increasingly narrow, steep dirt roads, Brooke scooted as far back into the beige seats as she could, and molded her body against the cold, unyielding leather. The night had grown intensely dark and ominous, and the looming mountain peaks, with their endless trails and hidden chasms, seemed to be closing in around her. Her eyes darted around the inside of the cabin like a frightened deer’s, taking in her surroundings and studying her abductors: The driver was an imposing-looking blond with chin-length hair that fell in paradoxical soft waves around the frame of his face. He had the body and intensity of a pit bull and the stalwart will of a Rottweiler. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  Sitting next to him in the passenger seat was another male with an unusual mixture of black-and-blond hair beneath a soft widow’s peak. Several of the blond tendrils gleamed snow-white, and his eyes were a sharp, crystal blue, harboring a deep chasm of intensity in their depths.

  Swallowing hard, she brought her attention to the backseat and the giant of a male who sat as silently as an owl beside her. Like a wizened bird of prey, he glanced at her often—staring straight through her eyes to the seat of her soul with his penetrating gaze—and it was as if she knew on some fundamental, cellular level: These men were not human.

  She blinked rapidly and struggled to dismiss the thought.

  No.

  Do not go there.

  Her sanity would not survive going there.

  So what if the one the driver had called milord—he had called himself Napolean—had strange, vivid eyes that alternated between a deep, galaxy black—with odd silver speckles in the centers—and an otherworldly…red? That didn’t mean he wasn’t human. Of course he was human! What else could he be?

  And so what if Napolean’s harshly beautiful face, with all of its sculpted planes and smooth angles, was accentuated by a strong, purposeful mouth that sometimes revealed a hint of…fangs.

  Fangs!

  Oh, hell…

  What were these men?

  Brooke shut her eyes and forced her attention on her breathing.

  In and out.

  Deep breath in.

  Slow breath out.

  Do. Not. Hyperventilate.

  As long as there was life, there was hope, and she wasn’t dead yet. She had to keep her wits about her. Any chance of survival depended upon it.

  Slowly, and with deliberate intent, she opened her eyes and forced herself to hold the Great One’s gaze. Great One? Where in the world had that come from? Her eyes swept down from his magnificent face to his long, flowing hair—impossibly beautiful, straight hair—that fell all the way to his waist yet appeared in no way feminine. The very strands seemed to sway in silent motion, imbued with kinetic energy, flowing gracefully as if entwined with a gentle, unseen wind.

  As if they were a living part of the nature of wind, itself.

  Brooke cleared her throat and looked away.

  Okay, she really was losing it.

  Elemental creatures with inhuman beauty…eyes that sometimes glowed…and fangs?

  He reached out his hand to touch her, and she almost flew backward through the window, banging her head sharply against the glass. “Ouch!” she cried, stretching her neck to avoid his touch. “Don’t touch me!”

  He leaned toward her then, and his eyes captured hers in a chillingly hypnotic gaze. His powerful hand swept the length of her jaw, traced the curve of her mouth, and gently tipped her chin to maintain their eye contact. And then he focused on her like a snake-charmer, mesmerizing with his stare: “Look at me, Brooke.” His voice was beaut
iful, powerful, so deep and alluring…

  So very, very dangerous.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the inherent potency of it with all of her will. No. Don’t do it, Brooke. Do not look at him.

  He pitched his voice an octave lower and repeated the words: “Look at me.”

  Though her every instinct protested, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  And then, he threaded his fingers through her hair, and heaven help her but she could have sworn a current of electricity shot through his fingers, and she wanted to crawl into his lap and immerse herself in the peace he was offering. He began to rub soft, gentle circles along the base of her scalp, directly over the area she had thumped against the door, and the pain subsided instantly—as if it had never been. What was this power he had? This inhuman ability to soothe, heal, and coerce? It had to be bad. Some sort of voodoo or sorcery.

  “Don’t,” she whispered again, the sound drifting softly from her lips. “Let go of me.” Even as she spoke the words, her head lolled back against his hand, betraying the fact that she wanted more of his touch.

  And then a deep wave of serenity flooded her entire body.

  It swept down from the top of her head, spread out through her neck and shoulders, and traveled along the length of her torso, grounding at her feet. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn someone had just pumped an IV full of Stadol into her veins—and he had done it with only his touch. No one should have that much power. No man. No animal. No earthly being should possess that much control. And she knew, instinctively, that he did.

  Oh, did he ever—

  Far beyond what she was seeing now.

  It was painfully evident in his countenance—in his eyes and his mannerisms—that the man possessed some sort of raw, uninhibited power. He wore it like some men wore clothes…in the proud way he held up his head, in the hard, absolute set of his jaw, in the strength and regal stature of his shoulders, and in the infinite wisdom reflected in his eyes.

  Who was he?

  What was he!

  Brooke shifted her weight and gently shoved at his arm to break their contact, hoping she would not provoke his wrath. Dear God in heaven, what would anger look like in a man like this? “Please, don’t touch me,” she said, wishing there had been more authority in her own voice.