Jacob whimpered and squealed like a cornered, tortured animal as the smell of his burning flesh filled the air.
“Would you like me to stop?” Saxson asked, cocking his brows in question.
Jacob nodded briskly, his eyes pleading with the vampire for mercy.
Saxson nodded. “No problem.” And then he allowed all remaining vestiges of civility to slip away. His felt his soft hazel eyes deepen to red from his rage; his canines descended from his gums; and ten sharpened claws elongated from the tips of his rugged fingers as he dropped the cigarette to the ground.
His civil tone became a feral growl. “What do you think I am?”
Jacob blanched, his skin becoming cherry, then pink, then ghostly white. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out but a squawk.
“Your kind has many names for my species, many of them quite colorful: vampire, nosferatu, demons, the undead. I prefer blood-sucker; would you like to know why?” Jacob peed his pants, and Saxson grimaced in disgust. “Hmm.” He wrinkled his nose. “I guess it’s self-explanatory.”
With that, he fisted Jacob’s hair in his left hand, bent his neck at an unnatural arc, and struck so hard that he chipped the bone. As he began to feed, his rage and his inner turmoil mingled with the blood. One long, greedy pull after another, Saxson let go of his humanity, allowing his inner savage to not only rise, but take over.
Time stood still.
Confusion waned.
Until there was only blood and instinct.
He was only mildly aware that Jacob was now lying on the ground, his legs no longer twitching, his throat no longer convulsing…his whimpers no longer resounding.
His heart was no longer beating as Saxson continued to tear at his flesh, bite by bite, piece by piece, spitting it out on the pavement.
The warm, crimson fluid coated his mouth and his chin—it soaked his cheeks and his nose—even as it ran down in rivulets, dyeing his manicured goatee.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
He lowered his claws from Jacob’s hair and scored them over his chest before impaling the flesh-covered cavity and retrieving the dripping heart. He brought it up to his mouth to gorge, moaning at the taste. He wanted more, so much more, and he no longer cared if his quarry was guilty or innocent. He rose like a panther from the alley, leaving his victim where he lay, and started to head for the street: to a nearby apartment building where he could enter the units, one at a time, and feast.
And then he heard the music playing, as if from a very great distance, the sweet, enchanting notes of a violin, echoing in his head…calling to his soul like a siren.
He cocked his head to the side and listened.
Where was the music coming from?
And by all the celestial gods, what was that otherworldly song?
He sniffed the air, retreating into the nuance of his senses, trying to smell the wood…the rosin…the distinct, infinitesimal scent of a singular, particular instrument—a violin—amongst all the aromas of the city.
He couldn’t make it out.
There were several stringed instruments nearby, but he couldn’t distinguish between them.
Besides, the music wasn’t coming from the alley, nor was it coming from an apartment in the area—it was originating from his soul.
He didn’t know how he knew.
He just did.
And as his savage nature gave way to benevolence, he swept his hands through his hair, took a long, deep breath, and halted at the axis of the street and the alley.
What the hell was he doing?
What the hell had he been just about to do?
He closed his eyes, trying to hear more of the song, to stay with the haunting melody as long as he was able, and then he scrubbed his hand over his face, drawing back a palm drenched with blood. “Lord Cetus,” he mumbled beneath his breath, “help me, lord. I feel like I’m lost. I don’t…I don’t feel as if I belong with Kyla. I…I feel like I belong…as a note within that song.”
Realizing the absurdity of his words and the futility of his prayer, he sank back into the shadows, scrubbed his face clean with the sleeve of his coat, and tried to consult his rational mind. For reasons he couldn’t quite name, he knew what he had to do next—and it wasn’t to consult with his king, or a wizard, or even one of his brothers.
He needed to visit Marquis Silivasi: the Ancient Master Warrior.
Although Napolean’s Blood Moon had been marred by an insidious possession, taken over by a vengeful dark lord—and while Nachari’s Blood Moon had also been tainted, with Saber Alexiares impersonating Ramsey in order to strike at the wizard’s female—Marquis’s Blood Moon had been truly convoluted. Marquis had mistaken Kristina as his mate, and he had converted her under the power of the dark lord Ocard.
In other words, stranger shit had happened.
And while waking Marquis at two or three in the morning would not change the trajectory of Saxson’s fate, it was at least a place to start, someone Saxson could potentially talk to. It was better than standing in an alley in Phoenix, devouring a human’s flesh like a jackal, or taking innocent human lives, something that would have violated Napolean’s laws.
It was better than marching home and scrubbing Kyla’s memories completely—taking decades of her private recollections just to satisfy his psychotic sense of displacement.
While Saxson didn’t mind skimming Kyla’s mind for bits and pieces of information when necessary, he didn’t want to probe too deeply, not without her permission.
Human beings had preserved few divine qualities endowed upon them by their creator, but free will was one of them. And it was not to be tinkered with lightly. There were too many potential unintended consequences, not the least of which could be a sense of learned helplessness, and in the worst-case scenario, a diminishing of the will to live.
Saxson couldn’t do that to his destiny.
An item, here or there; a glimpse, now and then—especially if Kyla was afraid, or in danger—that was fine. But unless and until she offered—or Saxson no longer cared about the outcome—it would require a healer or a wizard to go in that deep, to take that much out: safely, carefully, and thoroughly.
Saxson sighed as the music finally ended, and his soul grew more peaceful…and quiet.
He knew what he had to do next…
It was time to speak with Marquis.
Chapter Fourteen
Having called out to Marquis telepathically, Saxson waited patiently on the Ancient Master Warrior’s wraparound porch. The males in the house of Jadon occasionally referred to Marquis Silivasi’s home as The Farmhouse, but the term was woefully inadequate in terms of describing the grandeur, size, and immaculate architecture of the estate: While Marquis did live on the northern edge of the Dark Moon Forest in a traditional three-story, farm-style house, there was nothing worn down or “country” about it. Every room contained a custom-built fireplace; it was furnished and appointed like something from a designer’s dream magazine; and it was fringed by a gorgeous crystal river meandering out back, making the property alone worth over a million dollars in the picturesque mountain area.
Tonight, the moon was especially dim, casting a soft yellow glow across the land, and the air was thick with the smell of juniper and pine—the river could be heard as clear as a bell.
Saxson ran his hands through his hair and sighed, silently rehearsing his words, trying to figure out what he wanted to say to the Ancient Master Warrior once Marquis appeared.
“What the devil?” Marquis’s deep, powerful voice resounded in the night, the vampire appearing as if from the mist, standing four or five paces in front of the sentinel.
“Marquis,” Saxson said, by way of greeting. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”
The rugged warrior shrugged. “The princess and I were awake…”
Saxson frowned. “Really? At three thirty in the morning? What the heck were you doing?” Then, Oh, damn, he tho
ught. Bad timing. “Oh…my bad. Sorry, Marquis.”
The vampire’s nostrils twitched. “Everything all right with the king?” Of course he would assume it was official sentinel business.
“Yeah,” Saxson answered quickly. “Everything’s fine. This is…this is more of a personal visit.”
This time, it was Marquis who frowned, and who could blame him? He and Saxson had always been cordial, respectful—they had fought many times, side by side—but they didn’t exactly hang out on the weekends. With the exception of his brothers and his mate, Marquis was a bit of a loner. His demeanor turned stoic, his expression inscrutable. “What’s this about, warrior?”
Saxson glanced to the side. It was difficult to meet the warrior’s gaze, and he was suddenly having second thoughts about coming—what the heck had he thought Marquis could do?
“Well,” Marquis pressed him, “spit it out.”
Blunt as usual.
Saxson retrieved the words he had just rehearsed. “I wanted to ask you about Kristina…your Blood Moon.”
To his credit, Marquis didn’t make a snide or insensitive remark. Rather, he studied Saxson a bit more carefully. “You found your destiny a few days ago, correct?”
Saxson nodded.
“Is everything going well?”
At this, Saxson chuckled and shook his head, but there was absolutely no humor in the sound. “Everything is going right as rain from the outside looking in.”
“But?” Marquis prompted.
“But nothing is okay from my vantage point. I’m wound as tight as a drum.”
Marquis continued to stare at him thoughtfully, and then he finally nodded. “Looks like you fed well this night. Necessity or angst?”
Saxson leaned against a post next to the railing. Of course Marquis would recognize the evidence of his recent…gorging: His skin was likely glowing, his muscles were primed and almost pulsing, and his pupils were likely dilated. “Both,” he answered honestly.
Marquis simply nodded. “So what does any of this have to do with Kristina?”
Saxson took a deep breath and dove in with both feet. “Not sure,” he began. “I just…kind of wanted to know what you felt when you claimed her—what was going through your mind when you brought her home?”
Marquis snorted. “I wanted to wring her little chicken-neck, still do sometimes.”
Saxson laughed to himself. Kristina still drove all the Silivasi brothers crazy, even as their sister. While the fates had intervened, sparing Marquis from mating the wrong destiny, the damage had already been done—the once-human female had been converted to Vampyr under the protection of the dark lord Ocard, the one who had screwed with the Curse at the behest of the powerful son of Jaegar, Salvatore Nistor. It was a very long story, but in a nutshell: Ocard had reversed the Blood Moon, presenting Kristina in Ciopori’s place, and the entire ordeal had been hell on Marquis. Once the Blood Moon was over, they had adopted the fledgling girl as their sister and had vowed to take care of her until the bitter end. Annoying or not, they had ultimately grown to adore her.
“Right,” Saxson said, “but I meant more…what did you feel in your gut?”
At this, Marquis stirred fitfully. “What’s going on, sentinel? What happened with me, with my Blood Moon, was nothing short of an insurrection by the dark lords of the underworld, a rare, cosmic event. If you’re feeling something like that—”
“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” Saxson interjected. “Just a sense that something isn’t…as it should be.” He paused to consider how to phrase his next statement. “I thought, maybe, if you could tell me what was going on with you…what it felt like to be with Kristina, I might have something to compare things to, some sort of context for what I’m experiencing.”
Marquis regarded him sideways, genuine concern etched into his brow. He drew back his powerful shoulders, straightened his broad, intimidating frame, and looked off into the distance. “Kristina and I were like oil and water. We just rubbed each other wrong. At the same time, I had already met Ciopori, so the difference was night and day. With Ciopori, I felt alive, fiercely protective, and well, constantly turned on. With Kristina, it was more like a slow, painful death, going through the motions and being constantly pissed off. Didn’t help that the redhead was so defiant and insolent—she did blast me with a shotgun, you know?”
Saxson grimaced, remembering the tale. “Yeah, I’d heard.” He didn’t care to comment on the rest; it was too close to home: a slow, painful death, going through the motions, and being constantly ticked off. The big difference? There was nothing defiant or disrespectful about Kyla—she couldn’t have been more accommodating.
“Look.” Marquis’s gravelly voice drew Saxson out of his thoughts. “How is your destiny—with you? It’s not unusual for a human female to be scared or defiant; it’s a whole new world for them. We’re a predatory species, and they sense that.”
Saxson nodded. “I know. And the thing of it is: There’s nothing going on with her. She’s bent over backward to meet me halfway.”
“Hmm.” Marquis harrumphed. “Yet you want to wring her neck?”
Saxson looked down at the ground, ashamed, focusing his vision on a dark brown pine cone. “Worse, Marquis…that’s why I had to feed.”
The Ancient Master Warrior cracked his knuckles. “Damn, Saxson.”
Saxson got it. There was nothing else to say to such a serious and jacked-up confession. He took another deep breath and quickly changed the subject: “Um, Kristina’s inner wrist, the Blood Moon insignia—did it look like it was off…not right…like something was wrong with the markings?”
“How so?” Marquis asked.
Saxson crossed his arms in front of his chest, settling into the conversation. “More like a wound than a work of art. Red, bruised, freshly made?”
If Marquis was daunted by the description, he hid it well. “No,” he said brusquely, shaking his head. “None of that.” He paused as if thinking it over. “But it did recede over time, go away, when the spell was no longer active.”
Saxson nodded, considering the warrior’s words: Kyla’s insignia looked better each day. The redness had faded, the bruises were healing, and its permanence was setting in—maybe their Blood Moon, the spell of Lord Cetus, was finally taking hold. Maybe the etchings were just indicative of the inner turmoil Saxson was feeling, and as the markings appeared stronger, more permanent, so would he. It was imprudent to question the will—or the methodology—of the gods.
Marquis scrubbed his hand over his face, and for the first time, Saxson could see that the warrior was weary. It was late. Saxson should really let the vampire get back to his sleep…or his mate…whatever the case may be. “I’m not a wizard,” Marquis finally blurted, almost out of the blue. “Probably the last male in this valley to give anyone advice, especially on dealing with women. But the way I see it, if she’s that accommodating, go with it. Follow where she leads, and see what pops up.”
Saxson furrowed his brow. “Come again? Not exactly sure what you’re saying.”
“What I’m saying,” Marquis growled, sounding more like his grumpy, tyrannical self, “is if all this shit is just about the adjustment period, it’ll work itself out. But if there is something up, some kind of interference or foul play going on, then give the female enough rope to hang herself…to let whatever dark lord or power is interfering show itself, and see what your destiny does. Just watch your back. One way or another, you need to come through this Blood Moon still standing.” He drew his shoulders back and stared right through him. “The house of Jadon needs you, sentinel. You serve the king directly.”
Saxson nodded, understanding the stakes. The last thing he wanted to do was screw something up so badly that he didn’t fulfill the Curse. He had no intentions of spending eternity in the Abyss, apart from his king or his brothers.
“And say something to the other sentinels,” Marquis added, almost as if he had read Saxson’s thoughts. “Sometimes another pair of eye
s is exactly what you need. Nachari and Braden figured my situation out, not me, so don’t keep shit to yourself. Let your brothers be your keepers. You never know…”
“Warrior? Is everything okay?” Ciopori’s lyrical voice drifted across the moonlit landscape as she strolled onto the porch and glanced at her mate, her raven-black hair falling gracefully beyond her regal shoulders as it framed her golden eyes. “Greetings, sentinel. How are you this night?” she added, the moment she recognized Saxson. “Is all well with the king?”
Saxson lowered his head in deference. Princess Ciopori was a legend, after all: the blood-sister of Prince Jadon and Prince Jaeger, the daughter of their race’s legendary king. “Everything’s fine with Napolean,” he answered, putting the most important concern to rest. “And I’m fine. I just needed to speak with Marquis. I apologize for disturbing the two of you, so late at night.”
Ciopori waved her graceful hand and smiled. “Don’t think of it, sentinel. You are always welcome, day or night.”
Marquis harrumphed. “No, he’s not.” He turned to Saxson and grimaced. “I mean, you are, but just…only if it’s important. Which it was.”
Saxson smiled then. “Thank you, I think.”
Ciopori rolled her beautiful eyes. “Ignore him; I believe he was raised by wolves, although Keitaro might object to that characterization.”
Saxson’s heart warmed, a wave of longing washing over him: Now that’s what mating was supposed to look like.
A loving woman with an adoring, protective male.
Two souls that completed each other, without even trying…
Maybe Marquis was right: Saxson just needed to give it a little more time. It had only been four days, after all. Or maybe he needed to give Kyla…more rope. Give her back her phone. Ask her what she wanted. Let her take the lead…then follow.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready, or willing, to involve his brothers…just yet.
Not unless he had to.