Blood Awakening (19 page)

There was simply no objectivity: The loss of Nachari’s
twin, Shelby, was just too recent, too raw, and it made all of the brothers
over-protective.

And you are a real ass sometimes, Nathaniel!
Nachari
retorted, knowing darn well what the discussion was really about.

Marquis didn’t have time for this.
Enough! Nathaniel
will come as a warrior; Nachari will come as an advisor; and Kagen, you will
stay at the mansion with the women and children. The matter is closed.

Kagen’s anger was palpable, but Marquis had pulled
rank and that was the end of it.
As you wish, brother.

 
Kagen,
Marquis added, uncharacteristically
sympathetic.
Ciopori has been...abused... There is vampire venom as well as
snake venom in her bloodstream. She is not Vampyr. She cannot regenerate. You
are the most gifted healer I know. If we bring her out alive, I must know that
you are somewhere safe waiting to attend to her. I need you…unharmed.

Kagen sighed.
Your praise is an honor, warrior.
It was clearly the best he could do.

Very well. Nachari, summon the Olaru brothers and
Julian, our tracker; then go home and retrieve your weapons. I want everyone to
meet at Napolean’s in full battle armament—we have no idea what we’re walking
into, so leave no weapon behind. We will meet at the mansion in one hour.

Napolean slammed his fist straight through the
white brick wall of the library. For the love of Andromeda, the females had
only been with him for two days, and already, Ciopori was in the hands of a
Dark One.

And not just any son of Jaegar, but Salvatore
Nistor: a twelve-hundred-year-old sorcerer, a vampire as evil as the night was
dark and as cunning as a fox. Salvatore was no fledgling to be easily
out-maneuvered. And his capacity to hurt the princess was limitless.

Napolean gathered his composure and reined in his
emotions. Now was not the time for outbursts. The Silivasi brothers, along with
the sentinels and the valley’s best tracker, would be arriving within the hour:
Strategic plans had to be made to retrieve the princess.

He ran his hands through his waist-length hair and
grasped the holy amulet he always wore around his neck, sending up a fervent
prayer to Perseus, the victorious hero, asking for strength and triumph in
battle.

“Milord?” Vanya’s soft, musical voice interrupted
his thoughts as she peered in through the library doors. “Are you all right?”

Napolean spun around, his hard features cast in a
stern line. “I’ll be fine, Princess. Thank you.” He wanted to say more, but
somehow, he always found himself tongue-tied around the flaxen-haired beauty, his
behavior certainly unbecoming of a king.

She reached up and dabbed at her eyes, brushing
away a fresh set of tears, and his heart jolted in his chest. The pain she was
trying to hide was astronomical, and he had no idea how to comfort her, how to
reassure her that all would be well. She had lost her entire world, and now,
this thing with Ciopori, too?

“Your English is coming along well,” he pointed
out, wanting to kick himself the moment he said it. Who the hell cared about
dialect at a time like this? He bit his lip, waiting for a response. Gods, he
was a complete imbecile in the woman’s presence.

“Uh…yes…yes, it is,” she muttered. “It would seem
the information-transfer went very well.” She wandered into the library and
began looking over titles on the floor-to- ceiling book-shelves as a
distraction, no doubt feeling as awkward as he did.

“I...I wasn’t sure how you and your sister would
respond to the conveyance, considering that you are not…”  His voice trailed
off.

“Vampires?” Vanya smiled that lovely regal smile
she had that lit up her unique rose-colored eyes. “It would seem that much of
what your species considers to be a gift of your Vampyr nature is indeed a
remnant of your celestial ancestry. Perhaps we are closer to one another than
you think.”

Napolean nodded. It was true. So many centuries
had passed since the Curse was handed down; the males had almost forgotten the power
they wielded, long before they had been changed into creatures of the night.
Nosferatu
.

While the ability to speak telepathically and transmit
enormous amounts of information through visual images was a distinctly Vampyr
trait, Napolean had been able to transfer the language of this time—as well as
the history of its devices and modern conveniences—to both Ciopori and Vanya as
easily as one might download a new software program into a computer.

He had simply flooded their minds with enormous blocks
of information, transferring his own command of language and his knowledge of
the world around them into their consciousness, and the females had absorbed
the information like sponges.

Vanya had even heated something up in the
microwave earlier without asking a single question, and while Napolean knew how
to use the microwave, he couldn’t remember ever having done so himself. It was
truly remarkable. And it had bridged an enormous cultural gap between them,
enabling free-flowing communication.

The princess turned her back to him, and he heard
her sniffle, no doubt trying to conceal her fear. Napolean cleared his throat
and took a step in her direction, careful to check for poorly placed furniture.
“Vanya…I am truly sorry. We will get her back.”

Vanya’s slender shoulders began to tremble then,
though she continued to hold them back in her familiar, proud way. She nodded,
but she didn’t turn around.

Napolean lifted a tissue from a box on his desk, lightly
tapped her on the shoulder, and handed it to her.“Here. It’s a—”

“Kleenex? Yes, of course: a disposable
handkerchief.” She accepted the tissue and turned back around.

Napolean tried to swallow his awkwardness. Hell,
nothing in the last thousand years had rattled the monarch, yet this female
made him forget his own name. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently
stroked her arm, the feel of her soft, warm skin sending chills down his spine.
“Marquis is certain she is still alive.”

Vanya shattered then. Her head fell into her hands,
and her tears began to pour out like a river breaking through a rickety dam. “Oh
gods, but what is that monster doing to her, Napolean?”

Napolean thought about the other information
Marquis had conveyed—the bites, the venom, the manacles, and her shredded
clothing—but he knew better than to share any of it with Vanya. “I don’t know,”
he whispered, grasping her by a thin shoulder. He nestled his forehead against
her thick wealth of hair and pressed his body closer to hers.

And then he cringed.

Dear goddess of propriety, not now!

How completely inappropriate. What was he, a teenage
boy? For the love of Andromeda, her sister was in mortal danger and he was…aroused.
What in the galaxy was wrong with him?

He quickly took a step back, separating their
bodies before his very male reaction to their closeness grew any stronger. It
took all the composure he had not to drop his hand from her shoulder and just walk
out of the room.

Too late.

Vanya’s spine stiffened ever so slightly, and Napolean
cringed. She must think him an absolute cretin: What a poor excuse for a king.

She cleared her throat and stepped away from his
touch.

Oh, hell!

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Honestly, I wasn’t thinking
anything...inappropriate. I…it just…happened.” Could this get any more humiliating?
He sighed. “I’ll go.”

As he turned to walk out of the library, Vanya reached
out and caught his hand, pulling him toward her so hard that they almost
collided. To her credit, her eyes never drifted below his shoulders: She was far
too refined to point out his shame.

Napolean winced, but he managed to hold her gaze. “I
meant no disrespect, Vanya.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it has been too many
millennia since I have stood in the presence of a true female of worth.” Her
eyes softened, and to his dismay, his mouth just kept going. “It’s just that
when I look at you, Princess, I see the beauty of the gods themselves reflected
back to me in a mortal’s eyes. I am truly sorry for my inappropriate...reaction.”

Vanya’s breath hitched, and she clutched her hand
to her chest. “
Napolean
.” His name was a gentle whisper.

He looked away. “Again, I apologize; it won’t
happen again.” He drew in a deep breath and waited for her reprimand.

But the reprisal never came.

She took a tentative step forward and cupped his
face in her hands. “Look at me, milord.”

He slowly glanced up.

“It has been twenty-eight hundred years since I
have witnessed a man of such power and grace, bearing the weight of his people
on his shoulders with nary a protest or complaint. Not since my father have I
known a more proud or gentle warrior. Yet, even he had my mother to temper the
weight of the world which he carried. You have stood, alone, for centuries, milord;
and even now, you bear the full weight of responsibility for my sister’s abduction.
You are the heart and soul of the house of Jadon, yet you will risk your own life
to find her as opposed to sending soldiers in your place.”

She brushed his jaw with the back of her fingers,
the softness of her touch lingering against his skin. “You do not offend me, my
gallant king. You flatter me beyond words.”

Napolean stood as still as a statue, trying to
remember how to speak. He started to open his mouth but chose to keep it shut
instead, not wanting to stand there like a drooling dolt.

She smiled then and reached out to stroke his hair.
“By all the gods in heaven, you are the most beautiful male I have ever seen, Sir
Napolean Mondragon, descendant of the goddess Andromeda.”

Napolean took a step back then, not so much to
move away from her but to keep from swaying as her words sunk in. Despite his
best attempt at restraint, a primal growl escaped his throat. He reached out
and drew her to him, gathering her tightly in his arms. He buried his face in
her hair and deeply inhaled her sweet lilac scent. As she melted against him—like
she had been made to fit his body, alone—he closed his eyes and shivered.

Stop!
he urged himself. The king of the
noble Vampyr did not indulge in emotion, or touch, with his subjects. There
were boundaries.

As the Sovereign of the house of Jadon, his males
treated him with great deference, never reaching out to touch him, rarely
holding eye contact for more than a second, and their female
destinies
observed the same decorum. Over the endless centuries, he had stopped waiting for
his
destiny
, figuring that he probably didn’t have one. After all, his
responsibilities were enormous, and they grew as the house of Jadon
grew—leaving very little room for anything other than governing.

Napolean had become hardened by the endless wars
and sacrifices: placing the dark twins on the altar of atonement to spare their
parents the horror of their deaths, reading last rites to the males who were
claimed—and brutally murdered—by the ghost of the Curse, possessing omniscient knowledge
of the thoughts and actions of every male who served him, and always maintaining
the safety of the valley and the tradition of sacred ceremony.

No, the only time Napolean acted like a male was
when he fed in order to survive, or on the few occasions when he sought the
warmth of a human female’s arms in order to dull the endless, barren ache of
eternal existence.

Yet even that had never been satisfying.

The descendants of Jadon had to be extremely
careful with human relationships, especially sexual ones. As they had one and
only one
destiny—
a female
preordained by the gods—there could be
no emotional attachments made with any other. And since no other female could
be converted to their species without relinquishing her soul, there was no
potential future with anyone else.

Beyond the emotional ramifications, an accidental pregnancy
was unthinkable: Even though a male had to actually command a pregnancy—speak
it into being within seventy-two hours of planting his seed—the threat to the
woman was so grave that it was hardly worth taking the risk. What if the male
dreamed it? Wished it? Gods forbid, his primal instincts demanded it? What if the
thought came to his mind, unbidden? The female would die a hideous death giving
birth to his twins. The danger was simply too great.

And then there was the matter of becoming feral.

As Vampyr, the sons of Jadon were both light and
shadow. Unlike their dark counterparts, they still had their souls; but make no
mistake, they were vampires just the same—predators by nature. They were instinctual
creatures that lusted for blood and warred with the ever present desire to siphon
their prey until the weaker species fell lifeless at their feet, to conquer with
their overwhelming power and superior strength. To establish themselves as
dominant. A male was at his most vulnerable when caught up in the throes of
passion, and the potential to seriously hurt a human female was very real.

Napolean nuzzled Vanya’s neck, absorbing the
exquisite rhythm of her celestial heart-beat through her jugular. Dear gods, he
wanted this female like he had never wanted anything in all of his incarnation.

But she was not Vampyr.

And she was not his chosen
destiny.

And even the gods had to know that once he took
her, he could never let her go. Unlike the Ancient Warrior Marquis, he could never
make love to a celestial princess and then return to his duty without her. Moreover,
he was the king, the heart of the house of Jadon, as Vanya had put it: His soul
was not...negotiable.

Napolean slowly pulled away, his mouth lingering
over Vanya’s indefinitely, their lips lightly brushing each other’s before he
forced himself away. “I cannot take you, Vanya,” he sighed. “You are worthy of so
much more.”

Vanya nodded and stepped back. “There is much to
consider, I know.”

Napolean was blown away by her dignity and grace.

She took his hands in hers once more. “But know
this, great king, you are not alone anymore. You need not shoulder the burdens
of the entire world by yourself. I am here if you need me.”

Napolean dropped her hands, desperately trying to
resist now. Her words were too much. Her presence was too much. The temptation
was too great. He grasped the small of her back with one hand and fisted her
hair with the other, arching her beneath him as he claimed her mouth, ravaged
her lips, and tasted her tongue with his own, exploring with such urgent
passion that he feared he would explode right then and there.

And she returned it all: passion for passion, kiss
for kiss, bite for bite, taste for taste.

When her left leg bent at the knee and her thigh
began to ride up his own—her pelvis rocking in a hypnotic motion against his,
involuntarily—he gasped. If his body became any harder, it would be a
spear...and he would have to claim her right now. Right here. Taking them both
down to the library floor like a savage, uncaring about the warriors on their
way to the mansion—plummeting over the edge again and again as he filled her
with his seed.