Tiffany sat up and held her best friend’s gaze, trying to process all she was hearing. “So, you want to get pregnant again, at the same time as me?”
Brooke’s smile was radiant. “Our men can and do command the condition at will, you know? They can name the hour and the minute: Why not?”
Tiffany sank back into the steamy water and simply let the idea percolate in her head. “Huh.” Why not, indeed? “Do you realize that a few weeks ago, I was just your employee, Phoenix’s unofficial nanny, and your consummate best friend forever, of course; and now—”
“Oh, hell, Tiffany,” Brooke interrupted. “Less than two weeks ago, you were a total flake who took off into the forest on a giant horse, trying to outrun a vampire. I would say progress has been made on all fronts.”
Brooke’s words elicited more than a little laughter out of Tiffany, and then she grew suddenly quiet, glanced up at the magnificent sky, and stretched her back. “What do you say we just soak for a while and let it all sink in?”
“Sounds perfect,” Brooke said.
As the strong scent of pine rose on the breeze, and the crystal-clear water enveloped them in its tranquil, soothing arms, both women fell into a companionable silence as deep and abiding as their friendship.
*
Napolean leaned forward in the overstuffed living room chair and braced his strong forearms on his legs.
Ramsey squirmed just a bit.
It was odd having the king in his living room, like one of his brothers or the tracker, and since Ramsey wasn’t accustomed to social calls from the sovereign ruler, he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He cleared his throat for the second or third time and then reached for his trusty, monogramed case to extract a toothpick.
Napolean’s dark, penetrating eyes grew even darker with purpose. “I remember.” There was no preamble, just those two ominous words: I remember.
Ramsey stuffed the toothpick between his teeth and sank back into the sofa, regarding his king with newfound curiosity. “Come again.” He immediately remembered his manners. “Milord.”
Napolean chuckled. “Awkward, I realize.” He swept his hand in a leisurely arc, indicating their current surroundings. “We don’t often meet like this.”
Ramsey forced a genial smile. More like never, he thought. Not that there was anything wrong with the two males sitting down for a heart-to-heart, but Napolean was a notoriously busy male—ruling the house of Jadon kept him ceaselessly occupied. His stature and his position kept him somewhat aloof.
He repeated the phrase. “I remember, Ramsey. That day in the park—I still remember.”
Ramsey’s mouth grew momentarily slack around the toothpick as he finally registered the king’s words. Holy celestial goddess, so time had rolled back; the ramifications had been undone; yet Napolean remembered everything. Ramsey winced as he realized the full implications of the king’s words: Napolean remembered how Tiffany had died. He remembered how his son, the prince, had nearly been attacked, how his wife, the queen, had been placed in mortal danger. He remembered how Ramsey had failed to protect them all. Napolean was acutely aware of Ramsey’s unforgivable lapse in judgment. He lowered his gaze inadvertently.
Napolean shook his head, seeming to read Ramsey’s thoughts. Truth be told, the ancient vampire was more than capable of doing just that, and doing it with such a feather-light touch that Ramsey would never feel it. After all, he was the most powerful being on the planet. “I don’t have to read your mind to discern your expression, warrior,” the king said softly. “And I’m not here to relive the past or to pass judgment. We are not perfect, Ramsey. None of us.” He settled deeper into the chair—and the conversation—thoughtfully. “I am more concerned with the ongoing repercussions, the lingering, persistent energy that still reverberates from the original event.”
Ramsey frowned. He hated when the king spoke in scientific riddles, and frankly, he was still stuck on the fact that Napolean remembered.
He remembered.
How could that be?
“Andromeda,” Napolean said, never missing a beat. “The goddess allowed me to retain the memories for two reasons.” He pursed his lips, considering how to proceed. “First, because the question she answered for me was too important to take away. She didn’t want me to lose that knowledge, that wisdom. And second, because manipulating time, altering the past and, thus, the future, is a very tricky thing. The memories are my burden to bear, Ramsey, not yours.”
Ramsey was having trouble following Napolean’s line of reasoning: Why would his actions—his incredibly poor choices—be Napolean’s burden to bear? “What do you mean?” His tone was blunter than he intended.
Napolean sighed. He rose slowly from the chair and strolled toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where he glanced out at the alluring night sky. “Ramsey, have you told Tiffany about that day in the park, about what happened? Have you told her that she died?”
Ramsey sat forward, removed the toothpick from his mouth, and twirled it absently between his thumb and first two fingers, debating what to say. “No. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Napolean nodded, still glancing out the windows. “Indeed, that would be a very heavy burden for her to bear.” He folded his arms in front of his chest. “As it stands, it is a fairly heavy weight for you to carry now.”
“I’m handling it,” Ramsey murmured.
“Are you?” Napolean asked. He turned around to face the sentinel, and his long, regal hair fell forward, framing his ancient features like an ebony crown. “How many times a day do you dream of hunting and killing Salvatore Nistor—how many specific plots have you hatched in your mind?”
Ramsey didn’t answer. Well, hell, so the king knew him well.
Napolean flicked his wrist in a slow, dismissive gesture. “Beyond that, how many times a day do you find yourself guarding your words, stopping abruptly, or catching yourself just before you say something careless to Tiffany, something that would reveal the secret?” Before Ramsey could answer, Napolean took several steps forward and regarded the sentinel with scrutiny, making him feel a bit like a bug underneath a microscope. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it sucks to start a new mating with a secret, to begin a new life by withholding something so important.”
Ramsey frowned: Did Napolean just say sucks?
“What happened in that park may very well define your future bond with your mate; surely the horror of it all is like cement, adhering to the very foundation of your communication and interactions.”
“English,” Ramsey prompted, feeling like his head was beginning to spin.
Napolean smiled, and the kindly gesture softened his otherwise serious features. “I would not have it so, son. You do not need to remember something your brothers have forgotten. You do not need to carry something the entire house of Jadon is unaware of, and you don’t need to start a new life with Tiffany based on a secret. While we would all like to see Salvatore dead, you do not need to make his demise your own personal mission of vengeance. At some point, it will lead to taking unnecessary risks.”
Ramsey’s spine stiffened as he sat upright on the sofa. “Milord, if what you’re implying, if what you’re saying, is that I’d be better off without my memories, then with all due respect—”
“I’ve already made my decision, Ramsey.” Napolean waved his hand in polite but firm dismissal. “When the time is right, I will take those memories from you. They will be my burden—and my burden, alone—to carry.”
Ramsey choked back a sharper retort. “But I haven’t asked you to do that. I don’t want you to do that. And how is that any different, you keeping a secret from Brooke… from the queen?”
Napolean shook his head and shrugged. “I keep centuries’ worth of secrets from the entire house of Jadon, Ramsey, some from Brooke, some from my inner circle, all by necessity. It is part and parcel of who I am as a Justice, as your Sovereign… as your king. You have to understand: I am privy to every desire, every fear, every sorro
w and misgiving of every member in the house of Jadon. I carry each male and female’s blood in my veins, and I feel you, all of you, in my soul.” He sighed, almost as if he didn’t quite have the words to express what he truly wanted to say. “Yet, I am largely at peace, Ramsey. I have never known any other way. You, however, have a choice. You don’t want this burden, warrior, even if you think you do. But more importantly, you don’t have to carry it.”
Ramsey studied the tips of his fingernails, trying to form his own appropriate words, trying to restrain his rising ire. “Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice,” he mumbled, thinking out loud, and then his anger flared. “Then why tell me, milord? Why not just come over to my house, sit in my living room, and violate my mind at will? Why not just take the damn memories and leave me none the wiser?”
Napolean grew as silent as a monk, and then the entire room lit up with pale gold, electric energy. “Watch your tone, son.”
Ramsey ran both hands through his hair and took a deep, measured breath, trying to do just that. “I’m sorry.” He shut his eyes and counted backward from ten to one. “I’m sorry.”
Napolean sighed, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “So incredibly strong-willed, warrior. You always have been.” He crossed the room to the sofa and squatted down in front of Ramsey. “I like that about you, son. It’s one of the reasons I placed you in my inner circle. I always know where you stand. I always know that if and when you disagree with me, you will clearly speak your peace. And since a king is only as wise as his counsel, it’s an extremely important trait. However, we both know that my word is final, that all decisions begin and end with me.”
It was a gentle but powerful reprimand, and Ramsey had no intention of pushing the envelope any further. He still remembered vividly what had happened the last time he had pushed the king too far—and in a public way. Napolean had swiftly and definitively corrected him in front of all the other warriors, and that torturous correction still hurt when he thought about it…
No, Ramsey definitely did not want a repeat.
“Nor do I,” Napolean said.
Ramsey furrowed his brows. “King or no, you’re not supposed to read my mind, milord. Not unless it’s life or death, absolutely necessary.”
Napolean chuckled softly, and then he winked. “You have expressive eyes, warrior.” He stood back up and cocked one shoulder in a sharp, are-you-kidding? gesture. “Besides, that was pretty obvious.” He strolled back to the armchair and took a seat, looking entirely at ease. “Now then, there are two other matters we need to discuss, and each one is equally important.”
Ramsey shook his head. The king still surprised him after all this time. Shifting to the subject at hand, he waited respectfully for Napolean to continue.
Napolean linked his hands in his lap and stared off into the distance at some point beyond Ramsey’s shoulders. He was obviously contemplating his words carefully. Taking a deep breath and then slowly exhaling, he began speaking in a measured but serious tone. “Despite Andromeda’s miracle, turning back the hands of time so expertly, there were still some… ripple effects… from that day in the park.”
Ramsey raised one eyebrow. “Ripple effects?”
Napolean nodded. “Yes, some energetic repercussions that still linger. And I’m hoping you can do something to correct them before I remove those memories.”
“Like what?” Ramsey asked.
Napolean met his gaze directly. “Like your brothers, to begin with.”
Ramsey sat up straighter, immediately concerned. “What about my brothers?”
Napolean gestured absently with his hands as he spoke. “They’re not doing well.” He held up his palm to halt any interruption, asking silently for an opportunity to convey his thoughts. “I have felt a powerful sense of loss and apprehension in both of them, something that borders on irrational fear, illogical uncertainty. Perhaps the impending loss of one so close cannot simply be erased, no matter how cleanly time is manipulated. I think they are each still grieving the tragedy in some indelible way, like some marginal part of their consciousness still expects to lose you at the end of your Blood Moon. Yet they have no idea why they feel as they do, why the fear won’t go away, or what it even means.” He softened his voice. “I don’t know how it happened or why it’s still present. I only know that they need to be reassured by you. They need to see your face, hear your voice, get a gut-level feeling that you’re here, that you’re solid, real, that you aren’t going anywhere—at least until the pattern finally breaks. Perhaps you could involve them in some of your decisions with Tiffany or invite them to stay with you for a while, make their soon-to-be nephew an excuse. I don’t know. It’s not my place to tell you how to make this happen. I just wanted you to know that it’s needed.”
Ramsey rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling like an idiot.
Napolean should not have had to bring this to his attention, not with a matter concerning the two beings closest to him in all the world, his own brothers. Ramsey had noticed something strange over the past eight days. He had thought it was odd, the way both of his siblings kept texting him around the clock, disturbing his thoughts almost randomly, whenever they had the urge, and with such unimportant, telepathic interruptions. Santos had offered to come by the house no less than five times, and Saxson had actually invited Ramsey to check out a movie, a movie, knowing good and well that Ramsey had a new destiny to bond with, to convert—heck, to get pregnant.
He clenched his fists and cracked his knuckles, each one in turn, trying to relieve some tension. It all made sense now. Perfect sense. His brothers weren’t being obnoxious or clingy. They were being brothers. They were trying to hold onto something they feared they were losing. They were trying to deal with emotions they couldn’t begin to understand.
He sighed, wishing he could get a do-over.
Damn, he wasn’t the most observant male in the house of Jadon, was he?
Meeting Napolean’s penetrating gaze head-on, he slowly nodded his head. “I can do that. Thank you.” He let a moment of silence linger between them before asking about the second subject—did he really want to know? “There was something else?”
“Yes,” Napolean said. And this time, the king’s expression turned positively sober. “Saber Alexiares.”
“What about him?” Ramsey asked.
“Similar situation. Much deeper turmoil.”
Ramsey thought about that day in the park and cringed, remembering the way he had gone after the vampire, tossing his crest ring at his chest, blaming him for Tiffany’s death. He had been so relieved that the goddess had erased all that madness, but now, it looked as if it still remained. At least some of it. “Sounds as if the goddess left a few celestial traces behind.”
Napolean quickly glanced skyward and then narrowed his eyes at Ramsey. “Watch yourself, son. Be careful.”
Ramsey held up both hands in supplication, also glancing skyward in reverence. “No disrespect intended. None whatsoever. I owe Andromeda everything.” He uttered a quick prayer of gratitude to the goddess before returning his attention to the king. “I’m just saying I thought it was completely erased.”
Napolean leaned forward. “I think it was, but I also think that some events are so deeply felt; some conflicts are so deeply rooted; some experiences are so life-changing that they have a resonance all their own. In a sense, you plucked a string that day in the park. Andromeda silenced the note, but the vibration continued to chime.”
Ramsey nodded. What could he say?
“He came to the mansion the other day to speak to me.”
“About what?” Ramsey asked.
“About that crest ring, about his place in the house of Jadon. He’s ready to wear it, but there’s more: He wants to be a sentinel.”
Ramsey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Seriously? I thought he was going to travel with Vanya to Romania, six months each year?”
“He is, but he wants his six months here to be purposeful.
” Napolean scratched the tip of his nose before lounging further back in the chair. “He wants to serve the house of Jadon. He wants to be the soldier that he is. And I think—he wants to make things up to you.”
Ramsey frowned. Shit. Just… shit. “Okay, so… what can I do?”
Napolean sighed, tapping his fingers absently along the arm of the chair. Clearly, the king had already given the matter a great deal of thought. “I already spoke to Saxson and Santos, just before coming over tonight, and they’re both on board with the sentinel angle—what say you, warrior? Do you trust him… implicitly?”
Ramsey gave the question the serious consideration it deserved, refusing to answer in haste. After several pregnant moments had passed, he nodded. “I wouldn’t be here without Saber Alexiares. Tiffany wouldn’t be here. Yes, I trust him completely.” He linked his fingers together and placed his hands behind his head. “Do you?”
The king smiled unabashedly then. “With the life of my destiny and child, as well as my own. Yes, I trust him.” He chuckled softly. “Besides, he’s a lot like you. He speaks his mind rather clearly.”
Ramsey joined in the king’s laughter—truer words had never been spoken. “So I gather there’s more to this question than a simple yes or no. What role can I play in mending invisible fences, making all this happen?”
The king looked pleased by the question. “Here’s the thing: We both know how critical your Blood Moon is, how important it is for you to stay focused and fulfill the demands of the Curse. I would never ask you to stray from that purpose, not even for a moment. However, I will simply say to you that Saber needs this as soon as possible.”
Once again, Ramsey mulled over the king’s words, weighing all the various implications carefully. The decision seemed so obvious—the right course of action was abundantly clear. Today was Wednesday. The preparations for an induction ceremony could be made in twenty-four hours, by Friday night, and every vampire in Dark Moon Vale could be gathered together by then.