Blood Awakening

  Kristina rolled her eyes again. “Oh yeah, ’cause that would be like...rude or something...as opposed to pawning your mate off on your brother, the doctor, in order to run off and save the woman you really love? And then not even coming to check on her when you get back. Yeah, Marquis, I’ll have to keep that in mind. Whatever!”

  Marquis blanched.

  Kristina held his gaze. “I might not be all educated or anything, but I’m not stupid either, boss.”

  Marquis frowned then. “I never said you were. Then again, I’m not the one who just referred to a five-hundred-year-old male as young.”

  “And sexy,” Kristina added, sneering.

  Marquis’s lips twitched, but he held back his fangs.

  Kristina crossed her arms over her laboring chest. “That really does irritate you, doesn’t it?” She laughed between coughs. “I will have to keep that in mind.” And then, once again, she doubled over in pain.

  Marquis scowled. “Kristina, look at you. You need to feed.” He reached out and stroked her arm. “As in right now.”

  She shook her head again, all at once becoming frightened. “I can’t! Besides, I don’t even know how.”

  Marquis leaned forward and caught her face in his hands. “You do know how.”

  She glared at him then, her blue eyes boring an are-you-really-that-stupid look into his, and then she turned away. “As if.”

  Marquis cleared his throat. “When you were born—as a human—you went from an environment where you did not breathe oxygen to one that immediately required it, yet no one taught you how to breathe. You simply opened your mouth and began to take in air. So it is with your rebirth as a vampire. Feeding is essential to life. You need not be taught. Trust me, Kristina, the moment you smell my blood, you will know how to feed.”

  Kristina winced. “That is so gross, Marquis. You have no idea how gross that is.” She started to make a face but was racked by a series of painful cramps.

  “Enough!” Marquis took her by the hand. He brushed his hair to the side and pulled her forward. “Come to me, Kristina. Take what you need.”

  Weighing less than one-hundred ten pounds, Kristina flew effortlessly into Marquis’s arms. Her head fell into the hollow between his shoulder and neck, and she began to cry. “I can’t.” She pushed at his chest like a distressed child, desperate to be free of his restraining arms.

  Marquis exhaled. “Kristina...”

  She shook her head and wiped her nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Wait! Don’t force me!” She struggled to catch her breath. “If you’re going to make me do this, then at least let me...do your wrist. Your neck is way too...eww. No offense.”

  Marquis shut his eyes and cursed beneath his breath. “None taken, but Kristina, my wrist won’t be enough for you. Your need is too great.”

  It was then that she truly started to panic.

  She swung at him wildly, breaking his grasp in surprise, and then she jumped from the bed in a desperate attempt to flee from the room.

  Marquis rose fluidly, heading her off before she could reach the door. He lifted her like a sack of weightless potatoes and carried her back to the bed. She punched and kicked the entire way.

  “Stop, Kristina. Stop!” He restrained her arms to keep her from hurting herself.

  “No!” she cried, hysterical.

  “Kristina!”

  “I won’t eat your neck,” she squealed, continuing to struggle.

  “Feed from my neck, Kristina. And fine, we will try it your way.”

  Her arms stopped flailing, and she caught her breath. “You will?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Don’t restrain me,” she bit out, suddenly racked by a fit of coughs.

  He smoothed her hair back with his hand as gently as possible. “No restraint—I’m just going to move you, okay?”

  She eyed him warily, and then she slowly nodded, relaxing.

  Marquis moved cautiously, cradling her in his lap like an infant. As her head fell back against his huge bicep, he extended his fangs, tore open a gash in his wrist, and placed the wound to her mouth. “Drink, Kristina,” he whispered, “take what you need.”

  Kristina blanched and reflexively turned away…until the scent of his blood drew her back like a moth to a flame. She grasped his forearm in both hands, tentatively brought it to her mouth, and slowly let the blood-soaked wrist touch her lips.

  Her reaction was immediate.

  Instinctive.

  Her strike like that of a scorpion: swift, hard, and deep.

  Marquis jerked, caught off-guard by the power of her bite. And then he relaxed as she began to take hard, drugging pulls from his wrist, her body clearly starving for the life giving fluid pouring down her throat. The more she took, the more she wanted. And the more she wanted, the more frustrating his wrist became.

  Kristina twisted his arm this way and that, trying to get a better angle. Three times, she withdrew her fangs and struck him again, grinding her teeth as she attempted to get a better hold. Twice more, she lost her grip and missed the vein altogether, having to strike him repeatedly before she found it again.

  She squirmed in his lap, tightened her grip like a vise, clamped down with her molars in aggravation, and snarled. Finally, she sat up and threw his arm aside, weeping in frustration, heavy sobs that wracked her chest.

  Marquis leaned over her trembling body and buried his face in her hair. “Kristina”—he pitched his voice as gently as he could—“you are torturing yourself.” He held up his arm, displaying his raw, mutilated wrist. “And me as well, I might add.” He lightly stroked her hair. “Come, little one. Take from my neck. Drink as you were meant to.”

  When Kristina met his gaze, her eyes were a strange mixture of need, desperation, and humiliation: She must have hated herself for needing him so badly, resented him for creating such a primal need within her.

  Marquis sighed. There was so little trust between them. No love or respect. Only a raw, animal instinct to survive that drew them both to this moment. Yet, that was something Marquis understood. He knew as well as she did what it was like to desperately need the one person in the world you didn’t want. To need them in order to live.

  Hefting her from his lap, he moved to the head of the bed, reclined against a stiff pillow, and swung his legs onto the mattress. He clutched her by her narrow waist, lifted her gently above him so that her knees straddled his hips on either side, and then quickly let go, allowing her full control in a dominant position. As he swept his heavy hair behind his ear and tilted his head to the side, he was careful to avoid eye contact, wanting to spare her some dignity.

  And then he simply waited.

  He remained perfectly still while Kristina climbed up his massive warrior’s body, trembling from the intimacy of the act. He held his breath as her pulse betrayed her fear, knowing she needed it too desperately to turn away. She reminded him of Little Red Riding Hood, reluctantly entrusting her well-being to the big bad wolf as she nuzzled his neck, tears streaming down her face the entire time. Then gradually, warily, she scraped her teeth against the pulsing artery, slowly gathering the courage to strike.

  And strike she did.

  Sinking her teeth so deep that she struck bone.

  Marquis suppressed a deep, erotic moan that had nothing to do with the female above him. He couldn’t help it. He was what he was. As she began to take long, ravenous pulls of his blood, he gently cradled her back and held her tightly against him, flooding her with security as she fed to her contentment and her body began to heal.

  Although it was not the kind of love a man felt for a woman, a small glimmer of affection stirred in his heart. Perhaps what a brother felt for a sister—or an uncle for a niece. Thanks to the Blood Curse, Marquis had no experience with either of those relationships.

  But of one thing he was certain. He had sired this female. He had brought her into his world. He had made her what she was, and it was his obligation to take care of her.

  It
was his duty to see to her needs.

  Holding her close in his arms, her body and mind so fragile, her vulnerability so complete, he knew that he would always take care of her…protect her.

  Instinctively, he knew that he would kill anyone—human or vampire—that ever threatened to harm her.

  twenty

  Nachari sank back into the soft cushions of his leather sectional and put his feet up on the matching Raleigh coffee table. Home was all about class and comfort for the five-hundred year-old Master Wizard, whose four-story bachelor pad sat in isolation at the end of a dirt road, backing up to the northern face of the forest cliffs.

  There was nothing country or rustic about it.

  Built in the style of a 1920s Park Avenue brownstone, the forty-six-hundred square-foot retreat had a traditional brick face, four-levels of front and back terraces, and a rooftop patio that was to die for: perfect for a wizard who studied the stars through a high-powered telescope.

  Glancing up at the fourteen-foot ceiling, Nachari sighed and propped a loose pillow behind his head. He placed the palm of his hand over the leather binding of the antique tome lying in his lap and whispered a prayer to Perseus, the god of his own divine constellation, to protect him from the malevolence embodied in the book he was about to open: the Ancient Book of Black Magic. The carnal text, said to have been written by the dark lords of the Abyss, themselves. It was hard to believe the evil artifact had been in the hands of Salvatore Nistor all this time….

  Nachari let out a deep, resonate sigh. He had taken an incredible gamble. It had been all he could do to hide his surprise when he had first seen the ancient tome hidden beneath the mattress of Derrian’s crib, and it had required enormous concentration to show no emotion while removing the book from the lair.

  He absently stroked the leather, regarding the text with awe. There was no way the ancient sorcerer would have allowed Nachari to walk away with the hallowed artifact if he had suspected his intent. In fact, for this treasure, Salvatore may very well have traded both Zarek and Derrian’s lives.

  Nachari chuckled softly. No matter. He had used his magic to render the object invisible, and then strapped it to the inside of his cloak, maintaining the threat to the infant the entire time. Nobody had known. Not even Marquis. And Nachari had walked out of the lair completely undetected.

  Whew! he thought, brushing his hair away from his brow. That could’ve turned out much, much worse. Just how much worse, he refused to imagine. He turned his attention to a more immediate subject: his brother’s recent behavior, the primal instinct Marquis had displayed when rescuing Ciopori from the colony….

  While Marquis was renowned for his calm, strategic focus in battle, when it came to personal matters, such as those affecting himself or his family, he was the single most impulsive, hot-headed vampire in the house of Jadon: quick to act and slow to consider personal consequences, which half the time he didn’t get anyhow, considering his social...challenges.

  Nachari stirred uncomfortably. Something wasn’t right. Marquis had allowed Valentine’s infant son to live in order to save Ciopori. He had bartered with Salvatore Nistor, a mortal enemy, in order to protect the princess. He had checked his own temper at the door and swallowed his pride in order to put her safety first.

  Not that Marquis wasn’t noble—or wouldn’t readily die for any member of the house of Jadon, let alone one of the original females—but not like that. The Marquis he knew would have lit up the whole colony, taken as many Dark Ones out as he could, risked all of their lives if necessary, relying upon his superior fighting skills to prevail in the end. Was he reckless? No. Was he stubborn to a fault and utterly sure of himself? Absolutely.

  But not this time—not this time.

  This time, quite frankly, Marquis had acted like a mated-male protecting his destiny. Sure, Marquis and Ciopori had clearly been involved—that day he took her to Kagen’s clinic had said it all, but this was…more. Marquis’s desire to save the female had surpassed all other instincts.

  Nachari thought about the way his brother looked at Ciopori, the deep pain etched in his otherwise stoic face, and the complete indifference he seemed to have for Kristina, despite the fact that such indifference went against every strand of DNA in a male vampire’s body. He shuddered to think about the crazed look on Marquis’s face the night he sat on his porch, Kristina plopped in his lap like a rag doll, his fangs buried deep in her throat. Marquis hadn’t shown the slightest hint of compassion or tenderness: He had taken Kristina the way he would take a stranger off the street to feed, all business, no emotion.

  Granted, it was not like Marquis was all that connected to his emotions to begin with, but even a hardened warrior such as he, one who had seen too much and lived too long, had a heart when it came to his destiny. No. Something wasn’t right.

  “Wassup, homey!” A familiar voice interrupted Nachari’s thoughts, and he glanced up from the couch as young Braden Bratianu entered the living room. The kid’s shoulders were held back so far he looked rigid, and his chin was tilted upward in an awkward angle as he did his best to strut across the floor.

  “What’s up, Braden.”

  “Nata,” the youngster replied.

  “Nata?” Nachari repeated.

  “Not-a-damn thing.” Braden laughed.

  Nachari resisted rolling his eyes. Ah, hell, so the kid was going through yet another phase. He sighed. The handsome fifteen-year-old boy had been placed in Nachari’s care less than one month ago by the esteemed fellowship of wizards at the Romanian University as part of Nachari’s final task for graduation. The wizards considered the relationship an opportunity for Nachari to gain patience: through repeated trials and endless tests. And Braden Bratianu had never failed to deliver. The boy was one ordeal after another.

  As the son of a divorced human, Braden had been raised by his mortal mother until Dario Bratianu had found and claimed her as his destiny. Having completed the Blood Moon ritual, Braden’s mom had given birth to Conrad, their new Vampyr son, leaving Braden as the odd man out—a human in a family of vampires.

  Prior to Braden’s mom, there had never been a destiny claimed who already had a human child: Lily Bratianu was the first, and since she and Braden shared the same celestial blood, Dario had been able to convert him without incident.

  And what an experiment that had been—a kid with human memories, impulses, and tendencies suddenly turned into a supernatural creature with abilities beyond his comprehension. Trying to merge the two histories remained quite the challenge.

  Nachari eyed the boy from head to toe, assessing his new warrior’s outfit: Dark military fatigues hung loosely over a pair of heavy black combat boots. A tight muscle shirt stretched over a body that was still in need of a few more muscles, and a long black trench coat flowed to the floor. Nachari’s eyes traveled up to the boy’s spiked hair—all eight inches of it—and he tilted his head to the side, wondering how the child was keeping it up.

  “Aren’t you hot?” Nachari finally asked, gesturing toward the coat.

  Braden slipped his partially-gloved hands into his pockets. “Nah, I’m good.”

  Nachari smiled. “Braden, your hair is too long to spike like that. If you’d like to have it cut, that’s one thing, but—”

  “Hell no, I ain’t cuttin’ my hair!”

  Nachari sat forward then. “Since when did you start cursing, Braden?”

  Braden shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands. “Just a little nothin’-nothin’ that I picked up.”

  Nachari chuckled. “I believe the vernacular is somethin’-somethin’, and where did you pick it up?”

  Braden huffed, indignant. “Man, why you always sweatin’ me?”

  Nachari shook his head. “No one is sweatin’ you, Braden, but you do tend to be a little over the top with your changes. I’m just trying to figure out who you are today.”

  Braden’s burnt sienna eyes flashed a sort of…dusty rose...as if they were on their way to turning red but
couldn’t quite make it. They settled back into their natural hue, and his inherent golden pupils darkened with frustration. “I’m a warrior, and you know that! Like Marquis!”

  Nachari held up both hands in apology. “Of course,” he conceded, “I just hadn’t realized you were such an urban warrior of late.”

  Braden rolled his eyes, but more than likely, he had no idea what urban meant.

  “Anyhow,” Nachari continued, dismissing the argument—patience indeed—“I want you to go wash all that gel, or mousse, or whatever it is out of your hair, unless you want me to cut it.”

  Braden threw back his head in theatrical disgust. “A warrior needs the spikes, man.”

  He drew a dagger out of his coat pocket, considered flipping it in the air but thought better of it, and then started pacing the room. “It’s part of the package.”

  “Whoa, my man…” Nachari set the book aside and jumped up from the couch. “Where did you get the knife?”

  Braden flashed a broad smile, a mischievous look in his eyes. “I found your collection.” He paused, unable to conceal his excitement. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, but dayuum, Nachari, that shit is off the chain!”

  Still across the room, Nachari quickly wrenched the blade from Braden’s hand, using telekinesis. He laid it down gently on an end table. “What have I told you about weapons?”

  Braden rolled his eyes. “No weapons without proper training. I know, I know, but dude, it’s just a knife.”

  “Yeah, well, a knife is a weapon, and that particular weapon belongs to me, dude.” Nachari sat back down. “And lay off the cursing.”

  Braden threw up his hands. “Damn—I mean, dag, you are such a buzz kill.”

  “And no more MTV, either.” Nachari let out a slow, deep breath. Patience. Patience. He possessed an endless reservoir of patience.

  Yeah, right.

  Vampyr males just did not experience adolescence the same way this human-turned-vampire did. They were a lot more stable and self-controlled. This kid was the flightiest thing Nachari had ever seen; although he had to admit, all and all, Braden was a really good kid. He just tried too hard.