Blood Awakening (31 page)

Their very, very long lives.

Marquis clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t think
of that right now.

As Kristina gave into the warmth of his
ministrations, she became like butter in his hands: not so much on an erotic
adventure but melting, falling into a deep, spiritual trance.

Marquis made his every touch gentle, distributing ever
deeper waves of security as he softly stroked her arms, her neck, and the sides
of her jaw with his thumb. Until he was finally able to bend down and kiss her without
resistance.

The kiss was short and soft. Just a flutter. A test.

The depth of passion he needed to deepen or
sustain the kiss just wasn’t there, but it still imparted trust and warmth, which
in turn allowed her to relax even further as he gently laid her down on the
ground.

She was definitely in a spell of sorts, just not
the kind she had expected. As tears rolled down her face—tears that had nothing
to do with him and everything to do with how she felt about herself—he gently
kissed them away, one at a time, slowly peeling back the robe to expose her
soft flesh. His hand swept gently across her narrow waist and over the small,
flat expanse of her belly, willing her into even deeper serenity. He was
nothing more than a conduit now, using his body to illicit the spiritual healing
she had craved all of her life. Taking nothing. Making no demands. Simply
giving a starving soul the sustenance it craved.

As Marquis continued to concentrate on her inner
being, it became easier to touch her, caress her…kiss her. Nothing was about
him.

Nothing was about them
.

He would not enter her harshly or thrust away as
he would a female he desired to pleasure...and be pleasured by. Rather, he
would give her the experience of being cherished, of feeling worthy, until she
completely surrendered for the first time in her life, and then he would gradually—
carefully—
enter
her welcoming body. Careful not to hurt her with his size. Stretching her so
slowly that she wouldn’t even notice.

He would fill her with peace, tenderness—and seed—without
a single thrust being necessary, and then he would just as gently withdraw.

The preparation might take an hour. The sex, maybe
thirty seconds. As she fell off into a peaceful sleep, he would command her to conceive,
awakening her only when it was time to call forth his sons to materialize from
her womb.

And both of them could live with what had been
done between them.

Marquis had ascended to another level entirely.

Like an artist with a canvas, or a poet with a pen,
his own state of mind had elevated to semi-conscious awareness as the female
beneath him parted her legs to accept him willingly. Her head tilted back, her
eyes drifted shut, and warmth radiated from the core of her body like sunshine through
a plate-glass window.

As Marquis subtly shifted his body in order to
blanket hers, he felt an odd, uninvited stirring in the energy around them.

No. Not now! They were so close.

He placed a strong barrier around Kristina, insulating
her from the disturbance, and tried to refocus.

Brother.
The telepathic call slammed into
his head.

He ignored it.

Brother!

Marquis tried to quiet his mind.
Ignore it, and
it will go away
.

He used the massive strength of his thighs to
gently push Kristina’s wider so he could gain entrance. And then he began to lower
his pelvis to hers.

Marquis!

Marquis pulled up, threw back his head, and grimaced.
Yes, he was providing an incredible spiritual service, and yes, he was detached
from any deeper, erotic relationship, but hell, he was still a man. And this
close to release, his body wanted to finish!

Go away, Nachari!
he demanded.
I’m busy!
I will contact you in a few minutes.

But this is important.

Later!

Very important!

Marquis slammed down a mental barrier and lowered his
hips once again, the head of his shaft pressing firmly against Kristina’s moist
core of heat. Despite his sage-like control, a low groan escaped his throat.

Now, Marquis!
Nachari pushed right through
the mental barrier.
What the heck are you doing?

Marquis felt his face flush, and anger heated his
resolve. He looked down at Kristina to make sure she was still feeling the
enchantment.
Brother, go away; or I swear, I will kill you!
He tried to close
the telepathic bandwidth, but was met with a strong current of resistance.

And then he felt...
a mind probe
.

Had Nachari lost his mind!

Male vampires never invaded the thoughts of other
male vampires. It was unheard of. Rude!
Taboo
. And rank was everything.

Nachari was his junior, barely beyond a fledgling
at five-hundred years old: a recently graduated Master Wizard who was still
working on his final project! Marquis, on the other hand, was an Ancient. He had
been a Master for over one-thousand years, and he was the elder male of the two,
not to mention the
head
of the family now that their father was gone.

This was heresy.

Marquis would throw the arrogant fool through a
wall when he saw him next. He catapulted Nachari out of his mind, severed the
telepathic line, and turned back to Kristina, whose eyes had now opened.

Ah hell.

He sent her a strong beacon of warmth and relaxation,
and then he stroked her cheek with his hand. “Are you all right?” he drawled
seductively, praying she was still with him.

Her peaceful smile told him all he needed to know.

As her arms wrapped around the steel cords of his
back, her legs fell fully open. “I think I actually want this, Marquis.” Her
eyelashes fluttered closed, and her deep blue eyes disappeared behind heavy
lids.

“No you don’t!” A commanding male voice sliced
through the enchantment, echoing throughout the deep expanse of mountain behind
the house.

Kristina gasped in shock, and Marquis spun around
so quickly he forgot he was naked. His manhood standing at full attention, he
landed in an attack stance in front of his brother.

Nachari blanched and covered his eyes. “Damn! I
did not need to see all that!”

Marquis growled in fury, waving his arm over
Kristina to put her to sleep. He reached for his pants, using levitation to draw
them into his hands, and pulled them on with preternatural speed. And then he
hurled himself across the four feet of expanse between himself and Nachari, snatched
the wizard up by the throat, and threw him into the air.

Dark raven and emerald wings shot out of Nachari’s
back as he hurled backward, flapping furiously in an attempt to stop his trajectory
before he slammed into a tree. Hovering in the air, he reached for his throat
to massage it.

“Have you lost your mind!” Marquis thundered. “Do
you have any idea what you just interrupted?”
Nachari looked down at the sleeping, naked woman lying on Marquis’s robe. “Yeah,
I would say I have a pretty good idea.”

“You think this is funny?” Marquis picked up a
stone and hurled it at his younger brother, hitting him so hard in the chest
his collarbone snapped. “You have no idea!”

Nachari looked stunned. “What the hell is wrong
with you?” His breath came in short pants as he released venom into his hand, packed
the healing serum against the protruding bone, and waited for the fissures to
fuse back into place. The moment they were sealed, he waved his arm in front of
him, constructing a magical ring of fire around his body. “I’m not going to
fight you, Marquis.” He gestured toward the ring of fire. “I know I’m no match,
but even you don’t want to cross a ring of magic.”

Marquis chuckled loud and sinister. He hurled his
own blazing arc of fire from his fingertips, struck the magical ring dead in
the center, and added to its power. And then he pulled the combined conflagration
back, like a cowboy with a lasso, and bathed in the scorching heat. Looking
down at his own glowing body, he smiled at Nachari.

And then he lunged.

Nachari screamed like a girl. “Stop! Brother, please!”

Marquis met Nachari in mid-air and threw him down
to the ground. “You invaded my thoughts, little brother! And disobeyed a direct
command!” This was the last straw. How much more could one vampire take?

Marquis had lived a long, painful life.

His twin had been sacrificed at birth, he had lost
his parents to the lycans, and his cherished little brother had been indirectly
murdered by his mortal enemy. And now, the only woman he had ever loved was
gone as well. He glared into Nachari’s petrified eyes. The unlucky bastard had just
pulled the pin out of a grenade.

Apparently, Nachari realized exactly what was
happening. Scrambling to his feet, he fell into formal protocol. He bowed his
head, descended to one knee, and crossed his arms over his chest...waiting. His
heart pounded furiously in his chest, a bead of sweat escaping his brow.

Marquis stalked around him slowly, growling in
disgust, trying to calm himself down. When he finally held out his right hand,
Nachari took it tentatively. He bent to the ring on Marquis’s fourth finger—the
one with the crest of the house of Jadon engraved in it—and kissed it with
deference.

Marquis snorted. “Speak.”

Nachari raised his head but kept his eyes averted.
“I would humbly ask this fellow descendant of Jadon, an Ancient Master Warrior,
honored elder, and esteemed son of Lord Draco—for his forgiveness. I meant no
offense, my brother.”

“You entered my thoughts!”

“Yes, my brother.”

Marquis leaned back and crossed his arms over his
chest. “In five-hundred years, you have never shown me such disrespect, Nachari.
What in the world—”

“Kristina is not your true destiny.” The words
came out in a rush, and Nachari quickly dropped his head back down.

Marquis froze then. He cocked his head to the side
as if he had heard him incorrectly. “What did you say?”

Nachari looked up but still avoided direct eye
contact. “I said
Kristina is not your
true destiny
. Ciopori is. Salvatore
used the
Ancient Book of Black Magic
to switch them.”

Marquis staggered back. “Look at me.” It was a
harsh command, and Nachari met his brother’s stare head-on. Without pause,
Marquis returned the offense and forced his way into Nachari’s mind, extracting
everything but the gray matter.

And then he sank to his knees, trembling.

Slowly, Nachari approached the Ancient Master
Warrior—who was too stunned for words. “Is it too late?” he whispered,
gesturing toward Kristina. “Did you already...have you commanded her
pregnancy?”

Marquis looked up and slowly shook his head from
side to side. “No.” He thought about the implications and almost collapsed. “
Oh,
gods
,” he exhaled slowly.

And then, without warning, he snatched his little
brother up by the collar and pulled him into the strongest hug he had ever
given another male. Unable to pull away, he buried his head in the wizard’s
shoulder and shook. “Thank you, my brother.” He squeezed him even harder. “For
being a wizard. For invading my thoughts. For coming here to stop me. For…for…oh
hell, just thank you!”

Nachari struggled for breath, and Marquis relaxed
his hug. The wizard sighed with relief. “You’re welcome, warrior. And I love
you, too.”

Salvatore Nistor watched as Stefano Gervasi, the ancient
Chief of Council, shook his long, bony finger at the males seated at the table
and then pounded his fists into the worn, limestone tabletop, drawing his own
blood. “How many dead?” he thundered, sucking the blood from the wound.

The council table remained quiet.

“Demitri, what’s the final count!” Stefano
demanded.

Demitri Zeclos stirred in his high-backed leather
seat and took his time answering, which made Salvatore smile...
inside
: Yes,
there was a time and place for insolence and a time and place for obedience. And
this was the time for the latter.

“At final count, there were twelve guards, fifty
children, one worthless nanny, and eighty-seven soldiers,” Demitri answered
respectfully

Stefano fell back into his chair, the burden of
his seat clearly weighing heavily upon him. “Eighty-seven soldiers?” he
repeated uselessly. “How?”

Milano Marandici, another young hopeful councilman,
leaned forward. “The guards were killed by our enemies’ teams. It appears they
entered from both the east and the west tunnels while the colony slept. The
children were slaughtered by the squad led by Marquis, and the soldiers were
killed by Napolean.”

“Single-handedly?” the chief asked, incredulous.

Salvatore sighed with annoyance: The chief had
heard the story a dozen times. They all had.
Yes, Napolean Mondragon was far
more powerful than any of them knew. And yes, he had melted a damn army of Dark
Soldiers right in their own hallway by harnessing the light of the sun. Blah.
Blah. Blah. Now could they just get on with it?

 
“Yes, sir,” Milano answered.

Stefano leaned forward, placed both elbows on the
table, and glared at his second in command, Oskar Vadovsky. “Oskar, tell me you
have crafted a plan in response.”

Before Oskar could answer, Stefano turned back to Salvatore,
so angry that spittle shot from the corners of his cruel mouth. “And the
Ancient
Book of Black Magic
—the
Blood Canon—
it’s gone as well, is it not?”

Salvatore growled. Now that ticked him off, too. He
had possessed that book for nearly eight-hundred years before it was stolen. Fortunately,
he knew most of the contents by heart, but still, the thought that some pretty
little wizard boy could have stolen it right out from under his nose made him
seethe. He glared at Milano, who unfortunately shared Nachari’s deep green eye
color, and scowled. “Yes, Chief. I am sorry to report”—
for the millionth
time
—“that Nachari Silivasi appears to have taken the tome from my lair
when he exchanged my nephew.”

Stefano stared at each man, one at a time,
lingering a little too long over Milano, which was just plain creepy, before
turning back to Oskar. “Your plan?”

Oskar cleared his throat and made a tent with his
fingers. As a fourteen-hundred-year-old ancient and a dangerous adversary, he
was only slightly outranked by Stefano and not someone to be toyed with...not
even by their reigning chief. His eyes roamed between Stefano and Milano, and
he growled with disgust.

Ah, so he had caught the strange
vibe
coming
from the old geezer, too. True, Milano was rather disturbingly beautiful for a
male, even with his short, disheveled hair, so typical of youth under five-hundred
years old, but that was certainly not how the colony operated—males staring
like that
at other males, that is.

Oskar stood slowly. His raspy voice dropped to a
low-pitched hum like a bass guitar. “The plan is simple: We restore our numbers
and hit back hard by going after the king.” His eyes roamed from male to male,
boring holes through their skulls with the voracity of his hatred. “Fifty
infants were killed, so I want two-hundred and fifty filling our nurseries within
the next seventy-two hours!”

Demitri gasped and then quickly regained his cool,
exchanging a knowing glance with Milano.

Salvatore laughed inwardly. Poor kid. Didn’t he
know that council was exempt from colony-wide mandates, their duties being too
important to group with the general population? Salvatore studied the pale wash
of Demitri’s skin and couldn’t say he blamed him—he hadn’t wanted the
responsibility of a son at three-hundred years old, either. In fact, he was
still yet to reproduce, but then, he had Derrian to look after now. And as for
Milano, the young buck was as wild as they came, nowhere near ready to be
saddled with a kid.

“Is there a problem?” Oskar demanded, glaring at
Demitri.

“Not at all.” The kid showed the proper respect.

“Good,” Oskar flared, “because by this time
tomorrow night, I want our lairs filled with the sounds of screaming, groaning
women. I want the chorus of rape and the death-song of birth to be a symphony
playing in my ears until every soul we lost is replaced. Is that understood?”

Demitri nodded along with Milano and Salvatore, and
then he began writing on a piece of parchment.

“Now then, every male over the age of five-hundred
who does not have offspring must...contribute. Those under five-hundred may
choose to reproduce now or wait, and those with at least one son already may
also pass on the
festivities
by choice.” He began to pace around the
table. “As for feeding, I do not want the males to eliminate the local food
supply, but I do want them to drop enough bodies in the streets to terrify the local
humans. I want pandemonium in Dark Moon Vale, enough to rile up the hidden
vampire hunting societies. Let them come after our foolish brothers on the
surface while we remain safely hidden away beneath the earth.”

Every male at the table smiled.

“And as for the book…” Oskar glared at Salvatore and
then clasped his hands behind his back. “Nachari Silivasi must be made to pay
for this insult!”

Stefano, the chief of council, scowled in disgust.
He stood, held out his arm to silence his second in command, and then neatly took
the reins. “For
Salvatore’s
foolish, foolish oversight!”

Oskar nodded and took a seat as the council chief
trembled, slowly stoking the fire of his rage.

Salvatore bit his tongue and waited.

“But not before we avenge our fallen,” Stefano
hissed, slowly cracking his knuckles in true theatrical fashion. “I would have Napolean
Mondragon broken! Humiliated! Little by little, brought to his knees in shame.
I want the male ruined!”

No shit, Sherlock
, Salvatore thought,
any
plans on how to get there?
“And what would you have us do, your
excellence?” he asked.

“Are you not our sorcerer?” the council chief
thundered, striking him unexpectedly across the face with an open hand.

The force of the blow rattled Salvatore’s teeth,
causing his upper canines to pierce his bottom lip. He spat out the blood and
glared at their leader, his body trembling with the need to strike back.

He restrained himself.

“Torture him, you fool!” Stefano shouted. “Cast a
spell! Haunt his dreams! Find his weakness and exploit it!” He purred deep in
his throat, an evil, rumbling hiss, and his eyes grew dark with menace. “I
don’t care what you have to do, just make the male suffer! For once in your
miserable life, prove your reason for existence, Nistor! Or I shall have your
council seat.”

The room reverberated with a collective gasp.

Oskar sat forward with interest.

Salvatore cleared his throat and forced a smile.
“My apologies, your excellence. I was unaware that my
service
was so
lacking.” His eyes shot between Demitri and Milano and then flashed quickly,
two harsh red pulses, before returning to an endless void of black.

This was the opportunity they had discussed.

The chance to seize power they had each hungered
for.

Ever since Valentine’s death, both males had
postured for his vacant council seat, each proving himself to be worthy in different
ways. With the chief gone, there would be
two
standing vacancies instead
of one.

Salvatore’s mouth turned up in a sly grin. “Your
excellence,” he snarled, “you hurl such a powerful accusation, yet you stop
short of corrective action. Indeed, should any male on this council fail to
prove
his reason for existence
, he should be removed
at once
.” And
then he winked.

Demitri and Milano flew up from the table like two
malevolent black tornados whipping through a barren field, gathering momentum
as they approached the chief, daggers drawn, fangs bared, the adrenaline of
youth coursing through their veins. The element of surprise was all that saved
the bold soldiers from a certain death as Demitri’s dagger sliced the chief’s
artery and Milano’s found its way into his heart before the chief could blink.

Stefano’s fangs exploded from his mouth, and he
howled in rage, bringing pieces of the ceiling down upon them, but the power-thirsty
males kept up their attack: swiping, biting, twisting, and attacking like
madmen as the three flew around in a whirlwind at the head of the table.

When Oskar rose to go to Stefano’s aid, Salvatore
placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are our new chief now, Oskar. You do
not want to do that.”

Oskar looked astonished. “Are you threatening me,
Salvatore?” He hissed a clear warning, his eyes narrowing in an unmistakable
promise of retribution.

Salvatore bowed his head but kept his eyes focused
on his quarry. “Only threatening to serve you,
your excellence
.”

Oskar wasn’t impressed. He leapt up on the table
only to dodge the flying head of their chief as it rolled off his shoulders. Demitri
and Milano had sunk their fangs into opposite sides of Stefano’s neck, ripping
it from his torso with their bare teeth. The males salivated like wild animals,
staring at the decapitated head with a wicked blood-lust flaming in their eyes.
Great lords of darkness, they looked like two possessed, rabid dogs: Blood and
gore hung from their teeth, ravaged skin covered their mouths, and saliva dripped
from their fangs.

Oskar growled a low, unmistakable warning:
Attack
me, too, and die.

Both males took a step back.

Salvatore turned calmly to Oskar. “What’s done is
done, your excellence. It would be a shame to waste this ancient one’s blood
when the dark lords of the Abyss—
and Napolean Mondragon—
are waiting. We
should make a sacrifice, ask the dark lords for assistance in besting our enemy…while
we still can.”

Oskar looked as revolted as he was stunned,
staring at the treacherous trio with utter disgust. He cleared his throat. “His
son, Sergei, will seek vengeance.”

Salvatore shook his head. “His son, Sergei, will
not know. Perhaps our illustrious chief was so enraged by the attack on the
colony that he attempted to go after Napolean alone. Unfortunately, Napolean
was the stronger of the two. We were able to retrieve his remains for
incineration and will, no doubt, need to decorate Sergei with his honors.”

Oskar stepped back against the wall and ran his
hands through his long, twisted hair. He glared at Milano. “Clean this mess up
and move his body to the hall of sacrifice. Salvatore, prepare for an offering
ceremony to the dark lords, and Demitri, you will be the one to notify Sergei once
all is said and done.”

The three males nodded in unison and were just about
to move when their new leader held up his hand to still them. His piercing,
angry eyes were the color of blood. “Stefano was caught unawares,” he scowled. “In
a million years, he would never have conceived of such treachery.” He glared at
the two young bucks. “Trust that you are only breathing because of the audacity
of your coup. But know this; I will have both eyes open at all times, and from
this day forward, the punishment for treason shall be eternal
torture. By
this new decree, one enforcer and one healer shall remain at either side of the
traitor in the torture chamber—the former to inflict unimaginable suffering,
the latter to ensure the traitor’s survival…
for all time
. With all of
the males in the house of Jaegar—and all we are about to create—each soldier need
only serve one day every few years to keep the torture going
forever
. The
cycle would never end.”

The tips of his fingers caught fire, and he leapt
across the table, decking Milano first, and then Demitri, with a scorching fist—before
either male saw him coming. Both traitors hit the ground, scalps smoldering,
jaws busted open, and bits of fang scattered about the floor. “Do we understand
one another?”

Gulping, the two males nodded.

He then lifted Milano by the lapels of his shirt,
released a sharp claw, and carved it along the left side of his face, from
temple to mouth, removing his left eye in a single swipe. “If you dare to heal
that scar or regenerate that eye, you will meet the fate of a traitor. Your
days of beauty—and your ability to catch anyone off-guard—are both over.”

Milano held his face in his hand and shook, but he
nodded in submission. “Yes, your excellence.”

Oskar then bent over Demitri, who was trying not
to tremble. “Stand up, boy, and drop your pants!”

Demitri’s eyes grew to the size of silver-dollars as
he looked to the other two males for support. None was coming. They had already
pressed their luck as far as it could go.

Oskar withdrew a dagger from seemingly nowhere and
held it to Demitri’s throat. “I won’t ask you again.”

Trembling, Demitri unzipped his jeans and let them
fall to his ankles.

“Which do you prefer to keep? The left or the
right?” Oskar spat.

Demitri gulped.

Too late.

His right testicle was sliced from his body so
swiftly, a couple of seconds passed before he registered the pain and then buckled
to his knees. “Cauterize the bleeding,” Oskar ordered, “but do not regenerate
it
. Ever
.”