Blood Echo: A Blood Curse Novel (Blood Curse Series Book 11) Page 6

  At least until Prince Jaegar had risen to power, and the High Mage had opposed his tyranny, choosing to align with a band of rebel warriors and mercenaries instead; to hole up in the Transylvanian Alps as their leader and to take guardianship of Ciopori and Vanya soon after they had escaped the castle.

  Fabian had secured passage for the princesses on a ship to North America, nine months after the Curse, in 799 B.C., and undoubtedly, his magic had played a pivotal role in both navigating and securing the vessel—human pilgrims would not make the voyage until 1620 A.D.

  Arriving in May of the same year, he had acted as their ward: protecting them, feeding them, leading them to what was now Dark Moon Vale, until at last, he had placed them in an enchanted sleep in order to await the return of their brother, Prince Jadon. According to Ciopori, the High Mage had been horribly vexed by Jadon’s delay, and he was often forced to leave the girls alone in order to fly as a vampire, to survey the coast—to watch, again and again, for the arrival of the remaining Vampyr males. His food supply was scarce, though not nonexistent: a scattering of ancestors, the descendants of Paleo-Indians, had inhabited the strange, distant land for centuries, their progeny believed to have crossed the Bering Strait many millennia earlier.

  Yet and still, Fabian had to hunt and toil.

  He had to find food for Ciopori and Vanya.

  He had to find blood for himself.

  And he was thus far new to the scourge of his kind, still adjusting to the rigors of the Curse. His greatest fear was of the native beasts—that the women might be set upon by a wild animal, or worse, that Fabian, himself, might harm them whilst swept away in bloodlust. The enchanted sleep had been an agonizing decision, but he had been confident in his skills as a wizard: He knew he could keep them alive, and he knew that Prince Jadon could awaken them. The two had already made a worst-case-scenario pact, and to that end, Prince Jadon had taken Fabian’s blood, and Fabian had procured a vial of Prince Jadon’s. It was one of two cryptic amulets the High Mage wore around his neck, should he ever need to imbibe it.

  However, what happened to the male was another story, still yet to be told.

  Upon awakening in the twenty-first century, the princesses had assumed Fabian had died. Though Prince Jadon had never shown up, the cursed, banished males of his house had indeed followed Fabian to North America, for they had long since chosen the Rocky Mountains as a final destination, following many distant and arduous explorations, not long after the Curse. They had chosen the Rockies for their similarity to the Transylvanian Alps, and because relocating to such a faraway land would ultimately appease the Blood. Between 801 B.C., when the females had escaped the castle, and 799 B.C., when they had sailed to the new, foreign land, Fabian had kept in contact with Prince Jadon, though the princesses did not know how: perhaps through clandestine meetings; perhaps through their new telepathic skills; perhaps he had done it with alchemy or through the use of a scrying mirror…perhaps he had communed with their souls.

  The point was: the first of the males from the house of Jadon had arrived in 791 B.C., eight years after Princess Ciopori and Princess Vanya, and Prince Jadon had not been with them. The history from there was well-known to all—they studied it extensively at the University—and Fabian Antonescu, the infamous wizard who had served two generations of the Demir monarchy, was not mentioned from that point forward. His legend was anchored in Romania, and had it not been for Marquis Silivasi awakening Ciopori from her sleep, the house of Jadon would still be none the wiser—they would’ve never known what happened to the royal daughters, either.

  Nachari knew that the lapse in time—and information—deeply bothered Napolean.

  He was their king.

  He was their leader.

  He was sworn to protect them, and he had all but created the house of Jadon: its laws, its mores, its legacy.

  Napolean was the only reason the lighter Vampyr had survived.

  And now, he was struggling with a ghost from the past—

  They all were.

  But for the sake of the gods, the king had only been a child: ten years old at the time of the Curse, nineteen years old when he arrived in Dark Moon Vale. He could not be expected to know everything…

  “Will you be able to see through the girl’s eyes?” Princess Vanya leaned forward in her chair, beside Napolean, and grasped Nachari by the arm, presumably in an effort to pull him out of his musings. “Is there any chance that you will get a look at the High Mage?”

  Ciopori swept the balls of her thumbs beneath her lower eyelids, brushing away another pair of teardrops. “Can you tell us if he’s well, if he’s injured…or seems lost? I still cannot believe he would harm the girl.”

  Marquis put his hand over his mate’s. “Not now, my love.” He spoke tenderly. “I know you have questions, but now is not the time to seek answers. Nachari’s goal is to locate Gwen. From there, we will play it by ear.”

  Saber shifted restlessly, from his perch at the back of the room—he was standing in front of the eastern wall, leaning against the panel, with both arms crossed over his chest and one leg bent, his right foot flush with the millwork, and for all intents and purposes, the male looked angry. Something about the whole situation just wasn’t sitting right with the sentinel.

  Nachari flashed a warm, reassuring smile at Vanya, then Ciopori, hoping to reassure them both. He was exhausted and anxious, eager to get on with it, but he understood their angst: Fabian may as well have been a second father to the females, and he had been missing—presumed dead—all this time. The princesses had never insisted that the house of Jadon comb the forest, the meadows, the canyons, or the waterways in search of the High Mage’s remains. But hell, they had lost their parents, their brothers, their civilization; they had lived through the slaughter of their ancient sisters; they had been awakened from slumber after 2,800 years; and so many vampires had died since the Curse. At the end of the day, they had accepted Fabian’s loss as one of many, many others. “At this point,” Nachari told them, “I am just hoping to pinpoint the girl’s location.”

  Napolean cleared his throat. “Are you ready, son?”

  Nachari stood up from his position beside Keitaro, who was on his left, and Nathaniel, who was on his right. He made fleeting eye contact with Saxson, who was seated directly across the table, near the middle of the long, mahogany slab, and he nodded his head. While tracing one’s blood was instinctive for a vampire, Nachari intended to project a hologram of all that he saw…or sensed…so the entire room could witness the psychic tracking. Instantly, every male around the table sat to attention—those standing grew tense and alert, and the women wove something…curious…in the air with their hands—but Nachari didn’t have time to start another round of questions. “I’m ready,” he said, and then he went right to it.

  He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and began to focus his attention.

  His awareness…

  On Gwen’s hair, her eyes, the slope of her throat…her pulse as it thrummed in her veins.

  He flashed back to feeding, the first night she had arrived at the brownstone, until the memory became vivid and clear. Gwen had been under compulsion, none the wiser, and the feel of her blood, the scent of the plasma, the texture as it snaked through his fangs had been distinctive: strength, vigor, indomitable will…

  Nachari had tasted the female’s rare courage.

  His awareness deepened.

  His heartbeat quickened.

  Until he could actually hear the faint pitter-patter of foreign platelets traveling through his veins.

  Gwen’s essence.

  Gwen’s anima.

  Gwen’s singular footprint in the universe…her spiritual essence, coming to life.

  And then the hologram began to glow: Gwen at the well, sliding off the rock. Gwen being snatched by the arm and hauled from a broken holding cell; water—cold, deep, and murky—then mud, the sense and feel of tunneling up, through the earth.

  And then, at last, a dark, quiet cavern: a fire, a sundry pile of objects, the carcass of a rabbit cooking on a spit—Gwen was sitting by a fire, staring up at the High Mage!

  Nachari gasped, and the hologram shuddered.

  The male’s visage was as stunning as it was captivating.

  “She’s alive,” Nachari said out loud, not addressing anyone particular, and then he focused his energy in a different manner—he backed away from the fire and channeled all his intention into entering Gwen’s body through the third-eye chakra. Once there, he meandered until he was lodged behind her retinas and intercepting the electrical impulses going to her optical nerves.

  In other words, he was seeing through Gwen’s eyes.

  Where are you? he asked internally, hoping to stir the energies. Where is this cave you find yourself in? Longitude and latitude each had a vibration, as did one’s position within the meridians.

  His head fell back as he felt the moon’s tug on the earth and the tides, and he zeroed in on the celestial data: west of the Red Canyons; southeast of Santos’ hidden lake; close to the border of Dark Moon Vale, where it intersects with the Snake Creek River. Gwen was in the heavily forested canyon, about thirty-five miles from the old sacrificial chamber, the one once used by the Dark Ones. She was less than five miles from the old stone well.

  Which cave?

  Which burrow?

  Which tunnel did you go through?

  Nachari continued to focus his questions and intent.

  And then, all at once, the table shook, the hologram sparked, and the lights in the conference room went out. “Tu indraznesti sa-mi vanezi destinul!” the ancient mage snarled in the cave: You dare to hunt my destiny!

  Nachari jerked back, trying to retreat from the two burnt-copper orbs now glowing in the darkness: The formidable, angry vampire was staring right at him, and Fabian was seeing Nachari, both in the cave, and in the manse. “Fabian,” Nachari whispered. He might as well try speaking…try reasoning…the powerful High Mage had already caught him. “I am not here to harm her; nor am I here to harm you. You are welcome in the house of Jadon, my brother. We are only trying to locate your cave.”

  The fist that closed around Nachari’s throat felt more like an iron vise than ancient fingers, as the stunned Master Wizard shot off the floor, kicked wildly at the conference table, and sent his leather chair flying backward, behind him.

  The Ancient One tightened his grip and released his fangs, and then he tore through the Master Wizard’s throat with his claws, punctured his chest, and grasped his heart. “Stay away!” he bellowed, sounding half rabid and half amused. “And let this be a warning to all who might come for me…or mine…that this is what awaits them when they get here.”

  He seized the organ and wrenched back with his fist.

  Chapter Seven

  One minute, Gwen was sitting by the fire, waiting for the rabbit to finish cooking—Fabian had taken her to use the bathroom, refilled the makeshift gourd with water, and even collected a pile of pine needles to help her build a sleeping pallet later—when all of a sudden, his eyes had widened, his pupils had narrowed, and his mouth had curved downward into a vicious snarl.

  “Tu indraznesti sa-mi vanezi destinul!” he had shouted, glaring at Gwen like he wanted to kill her. He had cocked his head to the side like he was listening to something—perhaps hearing voices—and then he had lunged at her so quickly, she had never seen him move.

  He’d snatched her by the throat, raised her off the ground, and closed his fist around her larynx, squeezing for all he was worth.

  At first Gwen had gasped.

  She had kicked and tried to fight.

  But then she had simply dangled her arms and allowed him to do his best.

  No, she wasn’t stupid.

  And no, she wasn’t ready to die, but the oddest thing was: She couldn’t feel a thing—there were simply no sensations, no pressure, and no pain.

  She was hanging in the air, suspended by his fist, yet her airway was not constricted, and she wasn’t in any pain.

  And that wasn’t even the half of it, the strangest part…

  He released his claws and dug them into her neck—he literally put his hand right through her—and from the trajectory of his forearm, the angle of his elbow, it was clear that he had punctured her chest as well, yet still…no blood, no pain, and no gore. His wicked fangs were gleaming in the firelight, and he was reaching for her heart to dislodge it; yet all she felt was an odd, funny tingle—like the tickle of a feather—as his claws seized her organ.

  And then he practically foamed at the mouth: “Stay away! And let this be a warning to all who might come for me…or mine…that this is what awaits them when they get here.”

  He yanked back his arm, and she fell to the floor.

  She didn’t have a single scratch on her.

  “Nachari! What the fuck?” Marquis’ angry bellow.

  Keitaro lunged toward Nachari’s chest, both palms extended outward, even as Napolean Mondragon shifted into some preternatural, molecular vortex, dived into the Master Wizard’s mouth, and tunneled down his throat.

  Nachari jerked and gagged, but he didn’t have time to spit the king out.

  He felt a tear on his aorta, the High Mage seizing his heart, and immediately shifted into his panther. The mystical hand fell away as the black cat twisted, clawed at the Ancient’s face, and roared in pain and fury.

  Fabian responded immediately by conjuring a magical cat of his own, and while the large, savage snow leopard was terrifying and fierce, Nachari knew the beast wasn’t real. It was an illusion, a projection, a feat of extraordinary sorcery, but damnit all to hell, it felt like flesh, bone, and blood.

  The massive cats lunged in the cave and met in midair, trading brutal swipes, vicious bites, and merciless tears to the throat. The panther pounced on the snow leopard, but it faded like a mirage, suddenly re-emerging on the black panther’s back. The leopard’s claws dug deep; it locked its jaw on the panther’s neck, and then the bestial apparition shook its enormous head furiously from side to side, emitting a primal snarl.

  Flesh ripped.

  Blood gushed.

  And bones popped like brittle twigs.

  And then Napolean Mondragon, the king of the Vampyr, took over the black panther’s body, directing Nachari to wrench free from the leopard’s lethal grasp.

  Nachari’s jugular tore in the process, but Napolean wouldn’t let him be.

  The panther came up clawing, biting, and locking its jaw around the circular protrusion in the snow leopard’s snout—and then the panther bit down and crushed the leopard’s bones, ivory fangs gnashing against ivory.

  The snow leopard grunted, jerked back its head, then transmuted back into a vampire.

  And that’s when Napolean, in the body of the black panther, forced Nachari to retreat.

  The black panther loped away from the Ancient, bounded to the mouth of the cave, and leaped off the high, rocky ledge, summersaulting into the night. And all the while, the king was manipulating, weaving…unraveling ghostly threads…freeing Nachari’s soul from the clutches of the ancient mage and the power that had allowed Fabian to seize Nachari through the blood-link he shared with Gwen.

  Just like that—they were back in the manse—Napolean catapulting out of the panther’s body; the panther shifting back into a vampire; and the dazed Master Wizard swaying in front of the conference table.

  Nachari’s legs gave out. His knees buckled beneath him, and he hit the floor with a thud, but not before catching a glimpse of Napolean and regarding the king with awe: Everyone knew Napolean Mondragon could thrust his soul outside his body, travel through space and time—even kill with his ethereal form. The legends in the house of Jadon abounded. But it was also well-known that the feat cost him dearly: in strength, in exposure, in vital life energy. Yet, the king hadn’t hesitated to follow Nachari, to leave his corporeal body and risk his life to free the youngest Silivasi brother from the lethal clutches of Fabian.

  Nachari must have been bleeding profusely because he couldn’t organize his brain to say, thank you. His vision was fading, the ceiling was spinning, and Keitaro was shouting something at Kagen. And then Nathaniel sped away in the direction of the kitchen, the sentinels surrounded Napolean, and Marquis straddled Nachari’s body.

  “I’ve got his legs.” Was that Julien Lacusta?

  “Braden, clear out those damn chairs!” Marquis commanded. The Ancient Master Warrior slid one hand beneath Nachari’s upper back and cradled his neck with the other, and then the two giant males lifted Nachari from the ground and set him gently atop the conference table.

  “Perseus!” Nachari cursed as Marquis grasped the wizard’s chin, tilted his head, and struck his throat so swiftly that the vampire’s incisors burned as they sank in. And then Marquis started pumping venom into Nachari with such intensity—at such a high volume and with so much velocity—that Nachari’s body began to jerk on the table. It felt like his insides were boiling from acid.

  “I’ve got ’em!” Nathaniel returned—from the kitchen?—and tossed something at Kagen that looked like a set of knives, several silver blades in a velvet-lined box.

  “Napolean’s venom?” Kagen asked Nathaniel.

  “He’s filling the bowl right now.”

  “Good,” Keitaro barked, rushing to the side of the table. He reached down and ripped Nachari’s T-shirt. “Start working on that damn aorta, now!”

  “What…the…hell?” Nachari slurred his words. “I’m fine. I’m good. I’m just a little dizzy.”

  Braden stepped up to the table next, and his burnt-sienna eyes were glazed with moisture. He reached for Nachari’s hand. “Hey, Master Wizard”—his voice betrayed a quiver—“don’t worry about it, okay? Just hang in there…you know…stay with us, Nachari.” He choked back a sob as he voiced the last few words, and that’s when Nachari finally got it: Holy shit, this was really serious.