Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Credits & Acknowledgments
The Blood Curse
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Books In The Blood Curse Series
Also By Tessa Dawn
Join The Mailing List
About The Author
Blood Ecstasy
by Tessa Dawn
A Blood Curse Novel
Book Eight
In the Blood Curse Series
Published by Ghost Pines Publishing, LLC
http://www.ghostpinespublishing.com
Volume VIII of the Blood Curse Series by Tessa Dawn
First Edition Trade Paperback Published May 26, 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Tessa Dawn, 2016
All rights reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1-937223-20-5
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher, is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Author may be contacted at: http://www.tessadawn.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ghost Pines Publishing, LLC
For my Uncle Pete ~ “Love you to the end.”
Credits & Acknowledgments
Ghost Pines Publishing, LLC., Publishing
GreenHouse Design, Inc., Cover Art
Lidia Bircea, Romanian Translations
Machovi Creative, Layout & Design
Reba Hilbert, Editing
House of the Rising Sun – This song was recorded several times by various artists prior to the most-recognizable version by the Animals in 1964 (sung by lead singer, Eric Burdon). There is some controversy as to who wrote the lyrics, with one theory being Georgia Turner and Bert Martin. The song is in the public domain.
The Blood Curse
In 800 BC, Prince Jadon and Prince Jaegar Demir were banished from their Romanian homeland after being cursed by a ghostly apparition: the reincarnated Blood of their numerous female victims. The princes belonged to an ancient society that had sacrificed its females to the point of extinction, and the punishment was severe.
They were forced to roam the earth in darkness as creatures of the night. They were condemned to feed on the blood of the innocent and stripped of their ability to produce female offspring. They were damned to father twin sons by human hosts who would die wretchedly upon giving birth; and the firstborn of the first set would forever be required as a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of their forefathers.
Staggered by the enormity of The Curse, Prince Jadon, whose own hands had never shed blood, begged his accuser for leniency and received four small mercies—four exceptions to the curse that would apply to his house and his descendants, alone.
ᴪ Though still creatures of the night, they would be allowed to walk in the sun.
ᴪ Though still required to live on blood, they would not be forced to take the lives of the innocent.
ᴪ While still incapable of producing female offspring, they would be given one opportunity and thirty days to obtain a mate—a human female chosen by the gods—following a sign that appeared in the heavens.
ᴪ While they were still required to sacrifice a firstborn son, their twins would be born as one child of darkness and one child of light, allowing them to sacrifice the former while keeping the latter to carry on their race.
And so…forever banished from their homeland in the Transylvanian mountains of Eastern Europe, the descendants of Jaegar and the descendants of Jadon became the Vampyr of legend: roaming the earth, ruling the elements, living on the blood of others…forever bound by an ancient curse. They were brothers of the same species, separated only by degrees of light and shadow.
Prologue
Julien Lacusta sank deep into the distressed-leather chair, letting the surrounding darkness envelop him, take him, soothe him.
Become him.
A soft knock sounded on the front door, and he slumped down further in his seat.
Come in.
He pushed the compulsion into Shelly’s mind, knowing the door was unlocked, and then he waited to see her familiar face—would the gentle human servant be happy to see him, grateful to serve him, or scared out of her wits, like she often was these days?
No matter.
He tightened his fist around the crystal decanter, filled with 151-proof alcohol and liquid H, also called “liquid O,” and waited for the untainted, fresh blood that Shelly Winters would provide. The short-lived cocktail would provide a much-needed escape, however temporary; and after all, that’s all life really was: one endless series of short or long moments, always mundane, each following the other.
Shelly’s footfalls were soft and timid as she crossed the threshold, left the door cracked open, and padded through the wide entry, putting her hand out in front of her to feel her way through the unlit space. She knew better than to turn on the lights, and she stopped abruptly when she saw Julien, sitting so quietly in the middle of an otherwise empty room. “Where’s the rest of your furniture?”
He glanced around the cathedral-sized great room, thought about the huge, exposed wooden beams above him, the towering moss-rock fireplace behind him, and shrugged. “Got rid of it.”
She blanched. “Why?”
He slid down further in his chair, getting more comfortable. “Don’t need it.”
She blinked rapidly, appearing honestly concerned. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t reply.
Julien didn’t answer to humans.
Hell, Julien didn’t answer to anybody, except maybe Napolean, sometimes, when the king asked an occasional question. Otherwise, he just did his job, and he did it so damn well that no one asked any questions. No one ever really noticed his true…absence.
“Do you want me to call Kagen?” Shelly whispered, referring to the house of Jadon’s healer.
The corner of Julien’s mouth quirked up in a sardonic smile. That was sweet. Shelly was sweet. He shook his head slowly and beckoned her forward with his hand. “I’m fine,” he rasped. “Come here, baby.” He patted his lap.
She
lly’s tongue snaked out to lick her bottom lip, she fidgeted with the collar on her blouse, and then she glanced around the room nervously as if searching for an escape route. “Um, maybe I should go. Come back another time when you’re feeling better.”
For some reason, this made Julien more restless than angry.
Her voice was like a harsh, clanging symbol reverberating across the quiet room, the empty space, disturbing his fragile peace, when all he wanted to do was add some blood to his cocktail so he could zone out for a while. Hell’s minions, the H wouldn’t work without fresh human platelets, and it had to be now.
He needed it now.
Just five minutes of peace.
Just half an hour with nothing turning inside his head.
“Sh,” he coaxed her softly, this time lacing his voice with a powerful compulsion. “Don’t speak, Shelly. Just come forward and obey.”
Her eyes glazed over, and her nervousness abated as the compulsion took hold. She kicked off her shoes, sauntered across the floor, and lowered her seat into his lap.
Damn. This shit is jacked up, he thought as he massaged the back of her neck.
He hated to treat her like this—see her like this—but once again, oblivion was calling his name, and he was all too eager to answer. Deciding that maybe oblivion was the best destination for Shelly, too, he wrapped one arm tightly around her waist, raised his decanter so he could tilt her head toward him, using the side of the glass, and locked his gaze with hers. “Sleep, angel,” he whispered, catching her falling torso as she crumpled sideways against his arm.
It was too loud.
The situation.
The intensity of it all pierced the darkness.
He extended his forefinger, lifting it from the glass, and pointed at the stereo, which was nestled snugly atop a high, built-in ledge, turning the surround-sound on with an electric pulse from his fingertip.
Ah.
Yes…
Without preamble, he took a long, drugging pull from the decanter, testing the various properties of the alcohol and the H on his tongue, and then he sank his fangs deep into Shelly’s throat, savoring each drop of her life-giving blood. As the cocktail began to course through his veins, rapidly slithering along the intersecting passageways like a gentle, erotic snake, just waiting to strike—precious poison appeasing his heart—his head lolled back on the edge of the chair, and his lids grew heavy and dense.
Shelly slid further down on his lap, drooping in his arms, and he tightened his grip on the crystal glass. Dark, sonorous music began to blast through the speakers, saturating the air all around him, and he nearly moaned from the vibrations as his body absorbed the lyrics:
“There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun…
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and god I know I’m one.
My mother was a tailor, sewed my new blue jeans.
My father was a gamblin’ man, down in New Orleans…”
Damn, the Animals could really sing that folk song—Burdon’s voice was all grit, angst, and brutal melody. A sweet jolt of cocktail rocked him at his core, and he started to drift even further away…
“Now the only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase and a trunk,
And the only time he’s satisfied is when he’s on a drunk.”
Something visceral seized Julien’s attention, and he pulled himself away from the music, temporarily: Shelly.
Where was Shelly?
She was sliding down his lap, falling over his knees, slumping to the floor—that wasn’t right, was it?
“Oh mother, tell your children not to do what I have done,
Spend your life in sin and misery in the house of the Rising Sun.”
Julien thought he reached for the female, but rather, he tightened his grip on the glass even more, shattering the crystal into a dozen serrated pieces, each one immediately embedding in his flesh.
As crimson rivulets trickled down his wrist, soaked the pads of his fingers, and stained his nails, he fell back into the chair and dropped the remaining glass.
Nothing mattered in this moment.
Not the pain in his hand. Not the woman on the floor. Not the emptiness in his soul.
There was only darkness, ecstasy, and peace.
That, and the hauntingly beautiful melody pulsing through the dark.
Rebecca Johnston tucked several golden-brown wisps of hair behind her ear, out of her tired eyes, as she checked her clipboard one more time. She crossed off the previous address, 619 Golden Antelope Way, scribbling a messy note in the margin: No one home.
What kind of a town was this anyway?
Didn’t anyone answer their door?
She sighed, glaring at the paltry numbers in front of her, the pitifully low donations, and then she checked her watch, feeling the weight of the day as well as the chill of the night.
Yes, it was late.
They had been at it since 9 AM, knocking on doors, practically begging residents to donate to VOSU (Victims of Stalkers United), and she should really give it a rest…but she just couldn’t go home without a victory.
Just one victory.
VOSU was an extremely worthy cause, and to be honest, Rebecca was hardly objective about the struggling nonprofit organization. Not only had she spent the last five years of her life fleeing from one state to another, trying to escape a violent stalker of her own, but she had also taken a counseling position at a local Denver VOSU support group. At least once a week she donated her fund-raising time, as well as her valuable experience, trying to help victims of stalking.
She frowned, wishing desperately that her colleagues were still with her, still prodding her forward and providing encouragement, still knocking on potentially hopeful doors. As it stood, each one of them had bowed out the moment they had approached Dark Moon Vale. They had simply refused to go one step further than the Silverton Creek border.
It had been so, so strange…
Almost as if some invisible hand of doom had dipped down out of the sky and forced them back from their objective, as if it had physically stopped their progression. They hadn’t been just hesitant to go on; they had been utterly and inexplicably terrified of crossing the municipal line and entering the secluded valley.
It had made no sense at all.
None.
Dark Moon Vale was a booming tourist town. Hordes of people came each winter and summer to enjoy the ski resort or the spa, the hiking, river-rafting, or horseback riding. Heck, the casino was a huge draw all by itself. And the wealth? Oh good heavens, there was more money tucked away in these wooded acres than in Beverly Hills, the Hamptons, and Wall Street combined. For all intents and purposes, Dark Moon Vale had the potential to be a fund-raising haven, a virtual gold mine of limitless potential; yet and still, her colleagues had utterly refused to step one single foot in the valley.
A sudden gust of January wind swirled around her, tossing light crystal snowflakes into her hair and eyes, and Rebecca grasped the collar of her stiff wool coat, drawing it tighter around her slender shoulders. She hunched forward to preserve warmth, tucked her clipboard beneath her arm, and stared at the large rustic house in front of her—at the long, winding driveway that led up to the distant front door.
Oh, hell, can’t anybody live right next to someone else in this place?
As she made her way up the steep, snaking slope, the oddest thing began to happen: The sky grew ten shades darker, almost as if someone had just turned out the galactic lights, and the most brilliant configuration of stars began to twinkle in the deepening sky, like spotlights projecting cosmic beams at the earth.
And the moon…
What in the world?
The moon looked like it was bleeding.
It was fading from white to pale yellow; from pale yellow to rose; and finally, from rose to dark crimson-red.
Rebecca froze, suddenly wishing she had taken her coworkers’ advice, that she had never stepped foot in Dark Moon Vale. She was about
halfway up the driveway, ready to turn around, when the magic in the sky ironically pushed her forward:
Forget raising funds for charity!
She needed to get inside.
Whatever was happening with the sky—and she had no idea what it was—it certainly wasn’t natural, and she was smart enough not to stand around and gawk. If comets were going to plummet from the heavens, leaving craters in the earth, she wasn’t going to stand there and wave, completely vulnerable and out in the open, hoping they passed her by. Surely, someone in this town would give her sanctuary, just until she knew what was going on.
She hurried up the remaining segment of the driveway and hopped over a narrow bed of unkempt vegetation, perhaps some sort of xeriscape, landing on the large wide-planked front porch. She reached for the brass knocker on one of two thick wooden doors, and paused—
What the heck?
The door was partially open.
In fact, the panel was ajar, and there was a dark, brooding melody blasting through a set of crystal-clear speakers—wasn’t that “House of the Rising Sun”?—yet all the lights in the residence were off. There wasn’t a single flicker of illumination, not even the glow from a warm fire or the dim radiance of a pair of candles on a distant table. Yet the glitter from the dazzling stars above was so luminescent that it flashed inside the doorway like a pair of high-beams from an oncoming truck.
Rebecca crept slowly toward the threshold and then tapped the door lightly to force it further open. She leaned forward and peered inside…
Her breath caught in her throat.
Holy Mother of God.
There was a man sitting in the middle of the front room like an ancient slave from the time of the Roman Coliseum: He was built like a gladiator, at least six-foot-two, all hard, unforgiving muscle, with chiseled, granite-like features, and his crystalline, moonstone-gray eyes stared absently at the ceiling above him even as his head lolled back on a solitary chair. His right arm was hanging limply at his side, and his hand—his hand was bleeding!—dripping steady droplets of dark red blood, like a leaky faucet, onto the coarse, wide-planked floors. There was no other furniture in the room, just the chair, the stereo, and—