He nodded slowly. “Don’t be afraid.” And there it was, a faint hint of compulsion laced within his voice: So he was going to take the plunge?
Tell her everything?
Kyla instinctively closed her eyes, wanting to hide from the moment. She needed to gather her courage—and remember her training—before diving, feet first, into such murky waters.
“I built this for my destiny,” he said. And just like that, the secret was out.
The vampire had spilled the beans.
“You are not who you think you are, Kyla. And I am not an ordinary man.” The compulsion in his voice grew thicker, heavy, and she felt its effect like a gentle but insistent wave, cascading inside her head. “Come. Walk with me. Look at your roses—there is so much I need to tell you, my love.”
My love…
Holy.
Hell.
She’d known he was a ladies’ man from the moment they’d first met: His way was just too easy; his voice was just too alluring; his game was just too smooth…
But this?
This was something altogether different: direct, intense, and primordial.
This was a vampire about to stake his claim.
On Kyla.
And whether she was 100 percent prepared to go through with her devious plan, or only 50 percent committed, feeling her way as she went, the shit was about to hit the fan. As they said in poker, she was pot-committed now.
There would be no backing out.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed at his strong, set jaw, noting his deep determination: his almost feral desire to bring her further into his world. “Okay,” she agreed, unable to respond in any other manner, if only because of the compulsion. “Show me your roses…my roses… I’m listening.”
Chapter Six
Later That Morning – 9:00
Xavier Matista paced along the banks of the Lykos River, on the other side of the portal, contemplating what was left of his beloved Mhier after the Silivasi brothers had decimated the leadership, rescued their father, Keitaro, and left the hierarchy in ruins.
He was the only Alpha General left from the late King Tyrus Thane’s original inner circle.
Cain Armentieres, the Alpha General of the northern pack, was dead at the hands of Keitaro Silivasi, his heart ripped out of his chest in an act of Blood Vengeance for what he had done to Keitaro’s wife, Serena. Teague Verasachi had been eviscerated with a scalpel, hacked up by Kagen in the ancient arena. Gavin Morel, the eastern pack general, had been murdered by Marquis; and Arielle Nightsong, the human slave, had escaped all of their clutches—but not before aiding in the slaughter of their king—by fleeing to Dark Moon Vale as Kagen’s beloved destiny.
Xavier was the only original Alpha General left, and he had not forgotten the insult.
No, he would never forget.
Alas, he would finally have an opportunity to seek revenge on his enemies, the Vampyr.
For nearly nine long months, he had bided his time, taking over Tristan Hart’s old position as regional Head Hunter for the Midwest Division, which included the Rocky Mountains and Denver. He had assumed responsibility for the metropolitan vampire-hunting militia, and that included directing its shrewd, ruthless leader, Owen Green, and all the inferior human minions who came with him. It was beneath Xavier’s dignity, and it was trite—a time-suck at best, a pain in the ass at the least—but as long as he could travel back and forth to Earth and at least pretend to be doing something fruitful, it was better than doing nothing at all.
Keitaro Silivasi and his blasted wizard son had saturated Dark Moon Vale with so many lycan-wards and traps that it was untenable to even consider stalking the vampire-infested valley. And besides, the lycans hadn’t rebuilt their numbers—they still weren’t large enough, or strong enough, to stage a full-scale war of vengeance. At least Xavier could take comfort in the fact that the vampires would never again open the lycan portal—let alone utilizing a pretty wizard and a bumbling neophyte. It was fortified like the gates of hell, virtually impenetrable. In addition, Xavier was the first Head Hunter willing to share all the mystical secrets of the Vampyr with the piteous, desperate humans: To arm them with information as knowledge—and knowledge alone—was power.
To give them the tools they required…
The history of the Blood Moon, the purpose of the destinies, the opposing, warring houses—who the nosferatu were, who they worshiped, and where they had come from.
How they lived.
How they fought.
And what it really took to kill one.
As it stood, that information had been instrumental in the hands of a broken, sociopathic woman named Kyla. She had been ready, willing, and able when dumb luck had lined up with preparation—and Xavier intended to make full use of her ingenuity.
He flashed back to his last memory of Keitaro in Mhier and reflexively ground his teeth: Xavier had been patrolling the grounds at the slave encampment, around seven o’clock at night, when he’d passed by Keitaro’s tent and thought he’d heard voices, a conversation taking place inside. He’d stuck his head inside the tent, and the Ancient Master Warrior had met his intrusion with a snarl, his face a mask of virulent hatred.
“Who are you speaking with, vampire?” Xavier had asked, when there had been no one with the slave in the tent.
“Unchain me, and let’s talk it over,” Keitaro had spat back, always so cocky and insolent.
Xavier had raised his clenched fist and held it in the air in a defiant, threatening manner—every bone in his lycan body had wanted to shift and gorge on the impertinent asshole’s heart—but he had chosen sarcasm instead. King Tyrus Thane would not have taken lightly to losing one of his most prized possessions: the vampire who could fight like a demon in the arena. “Haven’t you had enough pain for one day, slave?” Xavier had snarled at the captive, emphasizing the last word with contempt.
It hadn’t fazed Keitaro. “You’ve been torturing me for centuries, you useless bastard. I don’t even notice it anymore.”
At that, Xavier had laughed.
Oh, on the contrary, Keitaro had felt his pain, whether he’d been too proud to acknowledge it or not—King Thane had made sure of it. “You’re lying, vampire,” Xavier had countered.
“And you’re inferior, lycan,” Keitaro had replied. “So now, we both know where we stand.”
You’re inferior, lycan…
The insult still rankled.
Keitaro had goaded Xavier then, telling him to do something about it or get out of his tent, and by all the generals in King Thane’s service, Xavier had almost been willing to forfeit his life, just to shut the vampire up. He had spat on the slave instead, storming out of the tent in a fury. But even now, eight months and twenty-seven days later, the memory of that night still haunted Xavier.
If he had only followed his instincts, his king and his fellow generals would still be alive, and Keitaro would not be living—safe and sound—in Dark Moon Vale.
Keitaro would not have proven his insult to be true.
Indeed, the vampires had proven themselves superior, at least for a time.
At least for one battle.
But the war wasn’t over, not by a long shot…
Xavier had never forgotten the offense, and now, his recall—and his rage—would serve him well…as he dissected the human destiny and learned about her blood: Was there any way to reproduce it? As he manipulated her wicked sister, Kyla, and tried to gain a foothold in the vampire’s realm: Could she possibly get to Keitaro, or to one of the Silivasi brothers’ sons? He reveled in the inevitability that at least one son of Jadon would die by a lycan’s hands, if only indirectly. Saxson Olaru would not survive this Blood Moon—Xavier would use Kyla like a kamikaze pilot, directing her to kill, even if it cost her her life—and he would murder Kiera, himself, if he had to.
As he donned a pair of blue jeans, a casual, form-fitting shirt, and brushed his long, thick, wavy hair behind his shoulders, preparing to go b
ack through the portal, he smiled and steeled his resolve.
It was time to meet his waiting captive.
Chapter Seven
Kiera Sparrow stirred in a stiff, high-backed chair beside the bed in her warehouse prison. Travis had untied her, at least from the bed, just as Owen had requested, but he had quickly bound her legs and her torso to the hard, unforgiving chair instead.
And that was the first time she had seen her left inner wrist.
Holy hell!
What the devil was wrong with these bastards?
They had tattooed some intricate, archaic design—probably something occultist—deep into her flesh. And the longer she’d stared at it, the more she’d turned it over and studied it from every potential angle, the more it had begun to resemble an astrological sign: Cetus, one of the original forty-eight Greek constellations. The memory had come back to her in a flash—something she’d learned, and then forgotten, in her college astronomy class…
So what did that make them?
Some sort of coven of devil worshipers, obsessed with the ancient Greek Pantheon?
She couldn’t afford to think about it—not now—not until she was free. Maybe she could, one day, have the emblem removed, but until then, she needed to focus on where she was. On what was happening. On the fact that she had spent a long, restless night, devoid of sleep, strapped to a high-backed chair, reflecting on her state of captivity…
And how to win her freedom.
If such a thing were possible, the air in the loft suddenly grew dense—heavy, thick, and alive with electricity—as the door from the elevator slid open and a beast of a man sauntered in. Kiera craned her neck to see him, and then she winced in fear.
Who the hell was this?
Travis had returned to his own private residence, somewhere in lower downtown from what she’d overheard. The warehouse abode clearly belonged to Owen, and Kiera hadn’t expected to see anyone but him…
At least not for a couple more days.
Boy, had she been wrong.
The giant who stepped off that elevator was at least six feet, six inches tall, his body made of solid, heavy granite, and his hair—if a human being could don a lion’s mane: rough, wiry, and unruly, then that was what it was. The shoulder-length tresses were deep golden brown, interspersed with various black tendrils. And as he approached the back bedroom in that silent, stealthy prowl, Keira caught a glimpse of his eyes: pale, amber irises, rimmed in circles of onyx black.
Where the hell were his white sclera?
He didn’t have any.
She gulped and watched him come closer.
His muscles bunched and contracted with every lithe step, and there was a harsh, arrogant quality to his gait. His mouth was cruel, almost brutal, and he was humming a harsh, dissonant tune.
Holy Mother of Mercy.
His entire countenance was jarring.
Kiera began to tremble, and then she noticed his fisted right hand: He was carrying a new violin case in his massive palm, no doubt the updated instrument she’d requested from Owen.
She shivered and glued her eyes to his as he slowly approached her chair.
He stopped and licked his lips, a canine swipe of the tongue. “Kiera,” he drawled lazily, setting the violin down. “So this is a celestial, chosen destiny.”
She blinked several times.
What?
She didn’t dare ask.
She didn’t dare speak as he loomed like a medieval bell tower above her. Some part of her recognized that Owen was now in the room—he had entered from the conjoining bathroom—but her eyes were transfixed on the terrifying beast.
He placed his hand on her cheek, and his skin was rough to the touch. “I am Xavier Matista—your new master and your god. We are going to be spending a great deal of time together, Kiera Sparrow.” He raised his hand and drew a thin, straight line down her chin, along the length of her neck, and slowly, between her breasts. His spooky eyes alighted with salacious intent.
Kiera regurgitated in her mouth, clamping down on the bile to keep it from spewing out. She had been frightened before, unsure of her fate, but at this particular moment, she almost wished for death.
She could not spend time with this monster.
“What do you want with me?” she whispered, her voice faintly shaking. She was trying her best to be strong.
He smiled then, and the satirical visage was crueler than his words: “Oh, everything you can imagine. All that I ask. Whatever I envision.” He grabbed her left forearm, traced the odd Greek tattoo, and then pressed his nail into the bend above her elbow, right above her vein, where he pricked it, making it bleed. And then he stared at the droplets of blood like he was gazing at liquid gold. “I intend to discover exactly who you are.”
She tried to retract her arm, to pull out of his reach, but her binds were too tight to give. “Please,” she whimpered, hating herself for her weakness. “Please, don’t.”
He released her arm, took a generous step back, and glanced at the violin case. “I have a thing for music, Miss Sparrow.” He smirked. “I just happen to be tone-deaf myself.” He chortled, as if any of this were funny. “But if you are as good as I’ve heard, then you may be able to buy your next breath, one note, one private concert, at a time. Life is tedious,” he added, “and what must be done…must be done…but there’s no reason we cannot make it enjoyable, no?”
Was that really a serious question?
Surely he didn’t expect her to answer.
Kiera glanced at the long, mahogany violin case and shuddered. She could never play under these conditions.
“Untie her,” the evil bastard barked at Owen. “I want to hear her play.”
Kiera shook her head furiously. “I can’t,” she croaked, failing to provide any further explanation. “I just can’t.”
At that, the huge man’s eyes grew ten shades darker, and his lips turned up in a snarl. And God help her, because her eyes had to be playing tricks on her, but it looked like his canines sharpened.
Kiera stiffened her spine.
This was all about survival: nothing more, nothing less.
If this brute of a man wanted to hear her play—and if dragging out the music kept his hands, and his eyes…and his teeth…to himself, then Kiera needed to get a grip.
And right away!
She had not been able to formulate a plan to escape Owen, at least not yet, but as long as there was life, there was hope—and what had the monster said? You may be able to buy your next breath…
As the ropes fell away, Kiera pumped her fists, trying to get her circulation flowing. With laser-like focus, she padded to the case on the floor and slowly stooped to open it. The violin had been polished, it had a new bridge, and the bow had been re-haired, as requested. Thumbing through the various compartments, she withdrew the shoulder rest and the rosin, tightened the bow, affixed the former to the back of the instrument, and gave the bow a few passes with the latter. Then she stood on shaky legs, took a few steps backward, and nestled the lower bout beneath her chin, her left hand falling effortlessly into position as she cradled the neck. She was so, so tentative—she wasn’t sure if she could do this.
Nonetheless, she drew the bow over each of the strings, starting with the D-string, and much to her surprise, the instrument was still in tune—the luthier must have tuned it when he added the Evah Pirazzi Gold strings.
She sighed, grateful for one less task that she wasn’t sure she could perform under such harsh scrutiny—frankly, she didn’t know if Xavier had the patience to wait, or understood enough about the instrument to allow her to tune it.
And then she willed her mind to be quiet, and tried to come up with a song: something brilliant, something difficult, a caprice or a complex fugue.
Something that would impress her kidnapper.
As the fingers of her right hand fell into a natural, perfect position—resting lightly around the frog—she set the hairs on the E-string, preparing for a downward
stroke, and took one final deep breath.
And then the oddest calm swept over her.
Her soul expanded with a deep, otherworldly knowing, and all thoughts left her mind…
There was nothing but Kiera and the instrument.
The bow rocked subtly from the E-string to the D-string, without any conscious consideration, and her arm began to move, her left hand accompanying fluidly, as the most poignant, languid music she had ever managed to play resounded like liquid sound from the instrument.
As the melody grew wings and soared, filling the spacious warehouse with light and angst and manna straight from heaven, she swayed to the unexpected tune she had somehow, unconsciously chosen: “Song from a Secret Garden.”
Chapter Eight
It was about 10:30 in the morning when Kyla stood outside on the gorgeous cliffside balcony, recalling the night’s events, taking in the breathtaking, panoramic view, and trying to solidify her resolve. The smell of pine cones was thick in the air; fluffy white clouds hung low in the sky, and a pair of deer, a doe and a fawn, scampered beneath the terrace. It was a distracting juxtaposition to Kyla’s solemn mission.
Saxson had told her everything.
The fact that he was a vampire.
The history of the Curse.
What it meant to be his destiny, and what was coming next.
He hadn’t spared a single detail, and she had struggled to react appropriately: to show the proper amount of fear and dread; to register surprise and concern; to ask question after question about facts she already knew, while Saxson led her through it with infinite patience and candor.
And yes, with a vampire’s territorial instincts.
He had never posed it as a threat or crowded her in any way, but he had, at last, taken her cell phone and made it crystal clear in his tone and his words: From that moment forward, he had no intentions of letting Kyla go.
Not ever.
She was truly in this until the bitter end.
Eventually, the darkness of night had waned into the first light of morning, and Kyla had needed her sleep—apparently, Saxson could stay up for twenty-four hours if he chose—and he had led her to his bedroom. But like the gentleman he was, he had made no attempt to touch her, at least not sexually. He had given her a pillow and one of his shirts, covered her in a soft, downy blanket, and quietly shut off the light, retreating to a guest room across the hall.