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

  Gwen gulped.

  And then she swallowed her temper: occasional bouts of boldness?

  Did he mean regular episodes of brutality?

  He waved his hand in a semicircle, and the glow from his fingers created a backlit halo, illuminating the corner of the cave like a lantern. “You are hungry, no? Thirsty? Cold.” Was the vampire reading her thoughts? He reached into the sundry pile, fisted something furry, then tossed it unerringly into her lap.

  Gwen squealed and jumped back!

  She clutched her stomach, quelled her trembling, then stared down at the—

  Dead, crusty rabbit…

  “A rabbit!” she shouted, losing her cool. “You brought me a fucking rabbit?” She flicked it away like it was covered in maggots and tried to banish the heebie-jeebies. “It still has the fur on it!” she cried. “What the hell do you expect me to do with a rabbit?”

  He tilted his head to the side and frowned, and that’s when she noticed the obvious—her shirt was absent, her jeans were missing, and her trembling shoulders were bare and exposed. Well, no wonder she was practically freezing! The rabbit had been resting on a naked inner thigh, and Gwen was wearing nothing more than her bra and her panties—how had she missed this before?

  “What did you do with my clothes?” she squealed, her stomach roiling in waves of nausea. She was beginning to feel lightheaded. In fact, Gwen was about to faint. What did you do to me? she wanted to whisper, but she couldn’t bear to hear the answer.

  This time, the corner of his upper lip quirked up, like he was trying to replicate a smile. “I washed them in a stream that meanders beyond a waterfall—'tis also where I found the rabbit.” His cadence was unnatural, if not a bit robotic. “Then I placed them beside the fire while you slumbered, and I watched you as you slept. I studied your dialect—took various linguistics and phrases from your memory—until the fire eventually burned out. You see, I replaced the elements of magic with kindling, pine needles, and juniper—it infuses the garments with a fresher scent.”

  Gwen was truly at a loss for words.

  So, he had pinned her to the ground, sucked her blood until she’d blacked out, then stripped her of all but her underwear. He had scampered off into the forest to a meandering stream—beyond a waterfall—before washing her clothes in a river. Then he had returned with some kindling, pine, and juniper—some prehistoric version of fabric softener—before returning to the cave to stalk her, read her mind, and ultimately, sulk in the dark.

  Oh, and one shouldn’t forget the fucking rabbit.

  No, Gwen had no rejoinder for that one.

  She watched, dumbstruck, as he reached into the pile a second time and retrieved her soft, cotton T-shirt. It didn’t look worse for the wear, but when he reached a third time for her blue jeans, she almost gasped out loud.

  What-the-actual-hell-was-that?

  He was displaying the denim creation like he had just fashioned a diamond necklace, but for the life of her, Gwen couldn’t figure out what it was.

  The waist was still there.

  Well, sort of.

  But there were strips of material wound through the belt loops.

  And the longer she studied it, the more it became clear: He had ripped the legs of her jeans into pieces, laced the strips through the material hanging from the belt loops, and then more or less woven the fabric in and out until it had formed a crude, interwoven dress. The freakin’ Neanderthal had turned her pants into a miniskirt! Despite her trepidation, she lunged forward, snatched it out of his hand, then quickly shimmied back where she could study it in the shadows.

  “The…dress…displeases you?” He sounded irritated.

  Gwen barely knew how to reply. “Oh, no, not at all.” She spat the words with heavy sarcasm. “If I were planning to camp in a cave, indefinitely, I would certainly pack a miniskirt! Great for climbing, and crawling, and sleeping in the dirt—who the hell would prefer a pair of blue jeans?” She shimmied into the garment and huffed: “But at least it’s clean…and smells like juniper.”

  He sniffed and waved his hand through the air. “Gwendolyn, I care not that your family is indigent.”

  She coughed. “Excuse me?”

  He frowned.

  “No, really,” she urged, “please explain.” This one was going to be priceless. When he didn’t reply, she challenged him further, no longer caring that he could rip her throat out. “My family isn’t indigent, Fabian. I didn’t grow up poor.”

  He furrowed his brows and scrutinized her features. “You do not hail from a meager upbringing? The…Hamiltons…are not impoverished? Yet your father is forced to dress you in trousers?”

  She literally felt the tips of her ears grow hot.

  The Hamiltons?

  The Hamiltons!

  What? All two hundred thousand of them, worldwide?

  “My father doesn’t dress me at all,” she practically snarled.

  He flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “’Tis just a matter of speech, Gwendolyn. He provides what he can for the family, does he not?” Before she could answer, he shook his head. “It is of no matter, the state of your upbringing. Should the shadows ever recede, should we ever get out of this cave…together…I will see to it that you dress like a lady. You may have whatever you like.”

  Dumbstruck had risen to stupefied.

  And stupefied was quickly approaching dazed!

  His English was getting better and better, but his words were nothing but gibberish.

  That wasn’t entirely true—

  They were shocking, ominous, and terrifying at once: Should the shadows ever recede…should we ever get out of this cave…together…what the hell did that mean?

  Gwen bit her tongue and resolved to ignore him—it would do her no good to pull a tiger by the tail, even if that terrifying tiger had her cornered and she was swiftly losing her mind. She pointed at her T-shirt, held out both hands, and waited for the vampire to place it in her palm.

  He tossed it in her lap.

  “Nice throw,” she murmured beneath her breath. Great toss, she continued, but only in her head. That was almost as clean as the rabbit bank shot! She kept the defensive sarcasm to herself. Oh, Lord, she was really cracking up…

  The tips of his fangs descended from his gums, and all humor instantly vanished.

  In fact, Gwen’s reasoning and her clarity returned in a millisecond: She pulled the T-shirt over her head and smoothed the hem over the top of the skirt. Keep your freakin’ mouth shut, Gwen, and don’t look him in the eyes. Just focus on the only thing he’s said that truly matters—he left the cave while you were sleeping...

  He left the cave while you were sleeping!

  And if he did it once, he might do it again.

  Shut up, and try to stay alive…

  Silence permeated the space between them, even as Fabian continued to watch her like a hawk. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached into the pile and retrieved a hollowed piece of wood. The center had been carved into a cavity, and the hollow was several inches deep. Gwen’s heart skipped a beat as she finally put two and two together—the cavity was filled with fresh, sparkling water, and she wanted it so badly, it hurt.

  He motioned her forward with the crook of one finger. “Drink,” he snarled, as he extended it outward.

  Gwen’s instinct to survive was stronger than her revulsion: Despite the fact that he was a snarling tiger, his fangs poised and ready to bite, her raging thirst drew her forward. She scooted along the ground, ever so slowly…cautiously…the hem of her skirt riding up on her thighs, until she was practically sitting in his lap. And all the while, her eyes remained fixed on the hollow and the life-giving water.

  He placed the tip of the gourd against the rim of her mouth, and she grasped both sides of the container, tipped it until the liquid flowed, and greedily guzzled the contents. She drank until the last drop had been swallowed, and then she slowly raised her lashes and met the wizard’s eyes.

  Oh…

  No.

  Not again…

  He was changing…growing feral…displaying clear signs of primitive bestiality.

  His copper irises were gleaming red, and he was staring at her mouth like a hungry, carnal animal. His deep, burnished pupils were fixed on a drizzle of water as it trickled from the corner of her mouth, beaded along her bottom lip, and dribbled down to her chin. He reached out and brushed it away with his thumb. Gwen froze for the space of several heartbeats.

  “Thank you,” she finally whispered. She lowered the bowl and set it on the ground. “For the water…for your kindness…for washing my clothes. And thank you for bringing me a rabbit.” At this point, she would’ve said anything to distract him, to draw his gaze away from her mouth, and to erase that feral longing…

  And then it hit her—the rabbit!

  Oh Lord, she had almost forgotten the crusty bunny—the kill had been a peace offering, a gift, the caveman equivalence of a half-dozen roses. She wasn’t sure if she could successfully redirect him—or if she would only incite his savage instincts—but it was worth the old college try!

  She spun around swiftly and pointed toward the lump. “Fabian, could you please build another fire?” Her tone was delicate and even. “I’m starving, I’m cold, and I’d like to cook that bunny.” She glanced at him askance, pretending not to be utterly terrified, and then she gestured toward some kindling in the pile. “Could you make some sort of spit…or spear…maybe some kind of skewer”—she had no idea which word would resonate—“something I could use to cook with?” And then out of nowhere, an antiquated term came back to her—a male of high rank in a feudal society: “Please, milord: I am so very hungry.”

  He studied her eyes, her cheekbones, and her lips—and then he cupped her jaw in his powerful hand. “I’ve treated you harshly—it was not intended.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded, too afraid to even breathe.

  This was good.

  Wasn’t it?

  If nothing else, it was progress…

  If the vampire was aware of his cruelty, then he might be able to control it. If he was sorry for his…harshness…then he might actually have a conscience. “It’s okay,” she lied, reopening her lids and forcing herself to maintain eye contact. “You seem to be feeling…better now. You no longer seem as agitated.”

  He chuckled, and it was a wicked sound: hollow, distant, and deeply tormented. “Am I not?” he murmured. “As agitated.” His eyes glazed over, the blood-red gleam darkening into far-away embers. He reached out to finger a lock of her hair, brushed the side of her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and lowered his gaze to her breasts. A moment later, he raised his eyes again; this time, fixing them squarely on her jugular. “I will build you a fire to keep you warm, and I will skin the rabbit and cook it for you. The next time I hunt, I will bring you a more…palatable…fare, and when the sun rises, I will take you to the waterfall to bathe. Will this please you, Gwen?”

  Letting me go would please me more. She kept the rejoinder to herself and bit her lip, instead.

  She wanted to hope, but she didn’t dare.

  The vampire’s fangs were still extended, and he was dipping his head—lower and lower—resting the tips of his fingers along the nape of her neck, while tracing the fall with his lips. His canines were way too close for comfort, way too close to her vein.

  Please…

  Just this once…

  Not again.

  She stiffened, and then her bladder contracted—holy hell, it was about to burst!

  She grabbed both of his wrists in a firm, unyielding grasp and wrenched them away from her neck. “Fabian!” She tried to startle him. “I have to pee…right now.”

  He jerked back, and his golden-bronze, silken brows furrowed in consternation. “What is this word? You have to do what? I know not the meaning of this outburst.”

  “I have to empty my bladder,” she repeated.

  Fabian stood watch in the woods while Gwen relieved her bladder, the shadows in his soul growing deeper…and deeper.

  The girl didn’t understand.

  The odd human woman.

  Not if she thought she could manipulate him with quiet words and kindness, cut through his darkness with her light. Not if she thought she could call him milord and magically vanquish his demons.

  She had no idea how lost he truly was.

  The extent of Fabian’s confusion; the power in her blood; the loss of time, memory, and sentience—how he moved in and out of the fog like a specter.

  When he had awakened in the well, there had been no conscious thought, no awareness of period or place, just hunger, stark and raw.

  Destinul meu.

  Destinul meu!

  My destiny, floating on the wind.

  The thunder, the lightning, the need to take her—the others, hiding in their piteous diamond domes—Fabian had acted out of instinct, pure and primal, when he had snatched the girl and taken her back into the water…when he had fed from her vein until his starvation had abated and his vision had eventually returned.

  Yes, his power had come back, though it had likely never been gone. He had called to the four cardinal winds, after all, and commanded the powerful storm. But the fates had not returned his understanding, and his judgment had not been clear. He had tunneled through the mud, traveled to the cave; he had been led, instinctively—unerringly—by some sort of inner compass.

  Some sort of imperious directive.

  And now he had her, the strange human woman, and the compass continued to guide him sluggishly: Hide her in the dark, feed from her vein, place her in a mystic sleep, and return to the meandering spring. Fetch water and food; tend to her dress; extend an olive branch—offer kindness—you speak Romanian, Latin, English, and French; retrieve the dialect from her mind if you must, but seek to win her trust. She has answers. Information. She knows where you are, what period you now live in—she knows the current customs and the green-eyed wizard from the house of Jadon. You may need him…you may need him…you may require his awesome magick.

  But did the female know the truth beyond the fog?

  Did she know of the raven…or the hawk…or the vials filled with blood?

  Did she know of the Millenia Harvest Moon and what was coming?

  The power; the scourge; the epic battles?

  A pain like that of an axe splitting wood assailed the back of his skull, and he retreated from the notion like a son of Jaegar fleeing the sun—

  A son of Jaegar?

  Where had that thought even come from?

  For in truth, Fabian had flashes of awareness, not comprehension. He had moments of clarity, not blocks of time. He could emerge from the fog for an instant, here and there, before the darkness, once again, swallowed him. And in all actuality, he was as likely to drain the human female as to learn from her—her fresh, enchanted blood was all that brought him solace for a time—a short, transient, precarious sum of time.

  He was as apt to slay her as to care for her, as likely to ravage her body as romance her. He had left her hungry, thirsty, terrified, and cold—he was in no position to look after anyone, not if he couldn’t break through the fog and remember…

  Celestial Gods, why couldn’t he remember!

  Everything.

  The Curse.

  The ship.

  The females in his charge?

  Sleeping for centuries, dreaming all the while, traveling through an endless night with a piece of his disembodied soul veiled in the body of an immortal hawk…or hidden in the breast of a raven…a vial of sacred blood—no, two vials—grasped within his talons. Light cleaves to light, and darkness cleaves to darkness…

  Ahhhhhh!

  The unbearable pain assailed him again, and just like before, he retreated from the memory.

  Gwendolyn was returning from behind a grove of trees—he could see her feminine outline.

  Destinul meu.

  Destinul meu!

  This odd human woman was his destiny.

  How did he know that? What did it mean?

  No matter; he just needed to focus and take care of her. He had to keep it together, just a little while longer.

  Chapter Six

  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning, and Nachari was still waiting to track Gwendolyn’s blood—he had yet to even try. Deanna had returned to the brownstone, hours ago, to relieve the nanny and look after Sebastian; Kristina had headed to the farmhouse to watch Nikolai and Lucien; and the queen had retired to bed.

  Meanwhile, Marquis and Saber had gone to retrieve their original celestial mates. Wary of Fabian’s presence in the valley, they weren’t about to let them travel alone—and Nachari couldn’t say that he blamed them. Apparently, the initial shock had been enormous, a mixture of regret, disbelief, grieving, and excitement. Needless to say, the princesses had needed some time to process the shocking turn of events: to speak to each other alone, sort through their emotions, and regain their composure before they could address the vampires at the manse.

  And even then, they had both appeared extremely rattled.

  And then the history lesson had begun…

  Much of it was familiar from Nachari’s time at the Romanian University, but the detail, the descriptions, the living accounts and remembrances; the women’s tales were as enchanting as they had been bone-chilling.

  Fabian Antonescu was now the oldest living being in the valley, more ancient than Napolean, Ciopori, or Vanya. In fact, he had actually been born twenty years before Prince Jadon and Prince Jaegar, and he had served King Silvano before he had served King Sakarias, the latter being only five years older than Fabian.

  As a child, the wizard had been born to a noble family, sired from a long line of powerful mages, and he had studied alchemy in the royal palace, at first, tucked away in the castle’s undercroft, a vaulted crypt or cellar, beneath the lowest levels, where he practiced his craft and learned from his elders. Later, during the reign of Sakarias, he had been elevated to High Mage and relocated to the castle’s oratory, a chamber attached to the royal chapel, nearest the Great Hall and palace life—he had always communed with the monarchy, and he had always commanded their respect…and their fear.