Blood Betrayal Page 7

  If this one was in his head, then he was picking something up from another male, someone other than Napolean.

  Kristina rested her palms on his knees and softened her voice to just above a whisper. “Okay, so…any dreams? Any visions? Anything concrete?”

  “Nope,” he muttered. “Just a headache, and it’s not really even that. Just like a pulse in my temple that makes me a little dizzy.”

  Kristina studied him with concern. “So, breathe through it then. Let the impression come in fully so it can pass.”

  Braden’s eyes met hers before he closed them.

  “Breathe in through your nose,” she guided. “Now out through your mouth.” She watched as his chest began to rise and fall with deep, diaphragm breathing. “Good…keep going…now what do you sense?”

  He shook his head softly. “Nothing, really.”

  She tried to be more specific. “Do you smell anything?”

  “No.”

  “Taste anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Keep breathing,” she instructed, waiting through several more breaths. “What about physical imprints—can you touch, feel, grab hold of anything?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Okay, what about your hearing? What do you—”

  “A two-toned rose,” he muttered quietly.

  Kristina frowned. “Come again?”

  “A rose. Two tones. Black and red.”

  Kristina’s eyes grew wide, but she didn’t let her anticipation affect her voice. “Are you seeing it, or feeling it?”

  “Nah,” Braden said, “just…just picking it up…it’s just like…it’s there.”

  “Okay,” Kristina responded. “Anything else…about the rose?”

  Braden grew pensive: quiet and serene. “The red, it’s more like crimson…for passion. And the black, it’s death and foreboding.” He jolted backward. “The black is swallowing the red.”

  Kristina didn’t flinch.

  She waited for the knowing to pass…until Braden reopened his eyes. “Feel better?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That was eerie.”

  “No shit,” she agreed, flashing him a cautious smile. “What do you think it was about?”

  Braden stared off into the distance, then slowly shrugged his shoulders. “No idea, Kristina.”

  “Should we tell someone?” she asked. “Maybe Marquis or Julien…Nachari, at the least?”

  Braden shook his head. “If I reached out to one of my brothers”—he was referring to the entire house of Jadon—“every time I felt a twinge, saw an image, or had an impression…that’s pretty much all I’d do. It’s obviously something meaningful, but there wasn’t enough information. I think we should just monitor it—see if it grows or changes, if more information pops up. I think we should wait.”

  Kristina nodded, not missing his reference to we—to the two of them, monitoring the situation together.

  “It may just be jitters or some other dumb shit,” he added, apparently wanting to appease her. “You know: my parents’ upcoming visit.”

  Kristina nodded more forcefully then. Yeah, she definitely knew that was a sore spot, and whatever Julien Lacusta had said or done to Dario and Lily Bratianu, the couple was headed to Dark Moon Vale on Saturday to see about their son, to finally make an effort and visit.

  It was about damn time.

  She let the silence linger as Braden seemed to come back to himself, to shake off whatever had been plaguing him. “You okay to shop?” she finally asked.

  Before she could catch it or stop him, he reached out with one hand, lifted her jaw, and placed a soft, tender kiss directly on her lips. “Yeah. And thank you, Red.” He whispered the words against her mouth before slowly pulling away.

  Kristina froze. “Braden…”

  He waited for her reprimand.

  “You’re still too young. I’m still too old.”

  He chortled good-humoredly, deep in his throat, and murmured, “Young. Old. You’re mine, Kristina. And in case you didn’t notice, you’re also shivering.”

  She glanced down at her hands and flushed.

  Well, shit.

  Time to head for the mall.

  Chapter Ten

  Still caged like a captive animal in Owen’s warehouse, Kiera Sparrow shut the bathroom door behind her and drew a deep, fortifying breath for courage. As moonlight shined through the arched bathroom window, she peeked through the glass and counted the tiers, considering her looming fate: She was being held captive in a five-story warehouse, somewhere in downtown Denver, and no one was coming to save her. Hell, she didn’t usually call her parents—Jackson and Pam—until Friday or Saturday night, reserving their catch-up conversations for the weekends when she had more time to talk. Travis and Owen had abducted her on Sunday; it was now Tuesday night, and that meant her parents wouldn’t notice her absence for another four or five days. As for her job, she played violin with a local symphony and in several orchestra pits. She also taught private lessons, so unless and until she missed several practices in a row, or stood up a handful of students, no one would wave a red flag. If anything, she might get fired or replaced, and her private pupils would just get angry.

  As it stood, Kiera was on her own.

  And in this moment, the only moment that mattered, Owen had allowed her exactly thirty minutes to retreat in privacy and take a bath—he had probably grown weary with her unkempt appearance, to say nothing of the fact that she was likely beginning to stink. “Keep the door unlocked!” he had warned her. “Or I swear, I will break it down, and you won’t appreciate what happens when I snatch you out of that tub.”

  The threat had been clear and unambiguous, but Kiera didn’t have time to quake in her metaphorical boots: From the moment Xavier Matista had entered the lofty urban tenement on Monday morning, ordered Kiera to play her violin, and then hung around like a vulture—to the moment he had finally left, around noon—Kiera had done nothing but plot.

  She absolutely—positively—had to get out of that warehouse before that monster came back. She could not withstand another visit from the terrifying tyrant, the leader of the Midwest region of hunters.

  And just what the hell was that all about?

  While pretending to be browsing through sheet music, some dystopian assortment that Xavier had brought her, she had overheard the “Head Hunter” and Owen talking about things she couldn’t wrap her arms around: vampires and blood moons; stakes and diamond-tipped bullets; secret societies of regional hunters, and things that went bump in the night…

  To make matters worse, they had implicated Kyla in their crazy, far-fetched discussion—they had said she was a hunter on a vital mission; they had indicated that she was hiding out in Dark Moon Vale with some man—no, some vampire—named Saxson Olaru; and that she was going to ensure his death…and, possibly, murder the children of his friends. If Kiera hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that she was dreaming, maybe she’d entered the Twilight Zone, that her own mind had snapped, cracked, and broken, and she was several cards shy of a full playable deck.

  But that’s when Owen had whispered, in a chilling but insistent tone, “I really believe we can trust her, sir. Don’t forget; the moment she recognized that a Blood Moon was happening, she reached out and turned in her sister. She also got the tattoo and went home with the vampire—she’s determined to make the most of this opportunity. She’s been ready…and waiting…for years.”

  Kiera had shivered at the words. At least part of them were true: Kyla had been in on Kiera’s abduction, and that meant Kiera wasn’t altogether crazy. And neither were these men.

  But what…the…hell!

  She glanced down at her inner left wrist and trembled at the sight of the enigmatic markings: a flesh-and-blood pictorial of the constellation Cetus, the sea monster, engraved into her flesh—maybe it wasn’t an occultist tattoo at all. She remembered the color of that moon, that crimson, dark red moon, and how it had spurred her twin
into action, precipitated Kyla’s betrayal.

  Just what was her sister involved in, and what had she done to Kiera?

  The sound of the water, rushing out of the smooth bronze faucet and pouring into the sunken jetted tub, brought Kiera back into the moment—she needed to stay focused.

  Laser-focused.

  There would be plenty of time to ruminate later.

  Eyeing a couple inches above the jets, she measured the water line and nodded—there was enough water in the basin to turn on the pumps, and that would provide an extra layer of protection, a barrier against any sound. While she had to be super careful to remain beyond the sight lines of the open wrought-iron alcoves—and there would be nothing she could do if Owen sauntered into the bathroom and caught her in the act…of preparing—she had to take the chance. She didn’t believe Owen would harm her—okay, so she didn’t believe he would actually rape her—Xavier was much too possessive over Kiera, much too terrifying to oppose. But she didn’t doubt for a moment that Owen could, and would, make her life a living hell, fear of the Head Hunter notwithstanding…

  Still, none of that mattered right now, and she briskly shook her head to dismiss the thought.

  Focus, Kiera. Focus!

  The last two times she had been allowed to use the bathroom, she had rummaged through the drawers and peered beneath the cabinets, searching for something—anything—she might use as a weapon.

  Anything she might use to escape.

  And that’s when she had noticed the sheets: a stack of prim white bed slips, neatly folded within a narrow linen closet at the back of the upscale powder room, beyond the sight lines of the bathroom alcoves.

  That’s when the idea had fallen into place.

  Sheets could be torn into strips. Strips could be tied into knots. And knotted sections could be linked into a rope. That’s when she had studied the thin iron bars over the anterior bathroom window, leading out to a fifty-foot drop-off, ending at an alley floor. Knowing there was no way in heck she was going to walk—or run—out the front sliding door and escape through the access elevator, she had finally hatched a plan.

  The bars were secured with thick, sturdy bolts, about one-half inch thick each; and while she could never wrench them loose with her hands, a tuning fork might do the trick, a little at a time: one of the old-fashioned kind, thick and flat, the kind she had recently requested from Owen under the guise of fine-tuning the violin, wanting to get even richer sound out of the instrument…

  For Xavier.

  In the meantime, she had to tear the sheets, tie them together in knots, and then replace them at the bottom of the linen closet, carefully concealed, and she had to do it efficiently enough to still make time to take a bath. She could not begin to loosen the bolts on the windows until the tuning fork arrived, but she needed to make hay while the sun shined, so to speak, every time she was in the bathroom.

  There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it; Kiera had to escape.

  There was no way—absolutely no way—she could endure another meeting with Xavier, the bastard who had stroked his groin as she’d played her violin, the monster who had promised to siphon and test her blood, the beast who had nipped at her throat…with his teeth.

  Just what the heck was wrong with these people, anyway?

  What kind of drugs were they on?

  And Kyla…Kyla… Kiera’s heart was broken…

  How could she have betrayed her like this?

  The sheets!

  Damnit, time was running out.

  Her heart beating like a Celtic drum and quaking in her chest, Kiera scurried to the closet, dropped to her knees, and gathered the first sheet in her quivering hands. She began to tear it with her teeth…one long, even, narrow strip. “Courage isn’t having the strength to go on—it is going on when you don’t have strength,” she whispered, quoting Napoleon Bonaparte.

  Kiera would not be distracted by her twin’s betrayal.

  She would not be dissuaded by all the insane talk about dark, haunted valleys and creatures with fangs, vampires named Saxson Olaru…

  Saxson…

  Olaru…

  Why did that name strike a chord in her heart, a vibration that reverberated all the way down to her soul? Why, out of all the mystifying details she had heard, was his name the one thing that made Kiera want to weep?

  She shook her head and hurried her pace, moving to another fresh strip.

  Wrench. Tear. Repeat…

  Wrench.

  Tear.

  Repeat.

  She gritted her teeth and continued.

  Chapter Eleven

  Saxson Olaru swept his hand through his hair in an absent gesture, threw back his head, and laughed. “Inquisitorium?” he teased. “That isn’t a word.”

  Kyla smiled. “Sure it is.” She tapped the Scrabble board and laughed.

  Saxson leaned forward from his lazy perch on the living room rug and stared at his destiny intently—she was quite the spitfire, this female. “I’m really sure it isn’t.”

  Kyla snatched a nearby pencil and began to count the points, ready to tally them on her notepad.

  “Give me the definition,” Saxson demanded, still chuckling.

  Kyla shrugged. “Inquisitorium: a place one goes to ask a lot of questions.” This time, she was the one who laughed.

  The sound of her cell phone ringing in Saxson’s pocket brought them both up short. “Are you going to let me check my messages?” she asked in a semi-sheepish voice.

  Saxson thought about it…

  He could do better…

  He would do better.

  She had given him no reason not to trust her.

  Thus far, since pre-dawn Monday morning, when he had taken her phone away, she had remained completely acquiescent. She hadn’t objected when he had called his brother Santos and given him Kyla’s address, asking him to break into her apartment, pack a suitcase full of her things, and leave them in Saxson’s doorway. She had perused the online catalogue, purchasing everything else she might need, for next-day delivery. And she had allowed him to keep her phone…just as a precaution…until they grew to trust each other more. She had even agreed to leave messages, implicitly dictated by Saxson, with her various friends and family, later in the week, so her absence wouldn’t spark any suspicion.

  And as for her job?

  Well, that wasn’t going to be an issue.

  Apparently, Kyla had some strange sort of arrangement with a private investigation firm in Denver. She was a gopher of sorts, a jack of all trades, conducting research, taking photographs, staking out persons of interest on behalf of lucrative clients—she swore she wouldn’t be missed. Her boss, whom she’d never met in person, paid her a monthly salary as a direct deposit into her bank account, regardless of the amount of work she did or didn’t do. And he issued directives, which she referred to as orders, missions, or spur-of-the-moment assignments, via email or text as various jobs popped up.

  It sounded shady as hell, but Saxson wasn’t that concerned.

  He could—and would—trace the monthly deposits back to their owner, look into the firm, and eliminate any threat to Kyla, any underhanded dealings (or dealers), once they had moved beyond the Blood Moon. Right now, they had much more pressing issues, and Kyla was safe in Saxson’s care.

  He withdrew the phone from his pocket and glanced briefly at the screen. “It’s a text, not a call,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Someone named Owen.”

  She licked her bottom lip and waited.

  “You can read it, but you can’t reply—not unless you’re willing to show me what you’ve typed before you send…” He cocked one shoulder in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry, love; I just can’t take that chance right now. We’re not there…yet.”

  Kyla swallowed hard, sucking up any possible retort, her throat visibly constricting. “I understand,” she said in a monotone voice, reaching out to take the phone.

  Saxson placed it in her palm and waited while she
swiped the screen, entered her password, and read the text…a very, very long text…twice. “Everything okay?” he asked, once she had finally finished.

  She quickly closed the screen, turned off the phone, and handed it back to Saxson. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m positive.”

  Saxson flashed his sexiest smile. “Who’s Owen?” He would be remiss not to ask, especially if Kyla had some sort of…entanglement…before the vampire had claimed her. If so, they would need to address it…discuss it…take care of it.

  Kyla shrugged, appearing indifferent. “Oh, Owen? He’s just a colleague of mine, a guy I work with. He’s on vacation in New Zealand, and he was just telling me everywhere he’s been, everything he’s done, everything he’s seen. He tends to be a little wordy.” She smiled sweetly, and then she sighed. “Saxson…”

  He raised his brows.

  “Considering everything that has happened, everything you have told me, all the…adjustments…we both have to make, this should really be the other way around. You should be reassuring me, trying to win my trust, making every moment easier…for both of us.”

  “Kyla—”

  “Wait.” She held up her hand. “Let me get this out. If there’s an elephant in the room, we may as well address it. Saxson,” she repeated his name in a no-nonsense tone, “what can I do to earn your trust?”

  Saxson rolled lazily from his side to his back, executing an effortless sit-up with the strength of his muscular abs. He grasped Kyla by both hands and fell back into a prone position, bringing her with him, settling her on top of his chest. And then he wrapped his arms around her and met her seeking gaze. Her startled gasp did not escape his attention, but it didn’t deter him, either—he was committed to trying harder, and now was as good a time as any. “You can admit that inquisitorium is not a word,” he whispered huskily, tunneling his hand in her hair, tilting her head forward, and bringing her mouth to his…