Blood Redemption (6 page)

Vanya Demir thanked her limo driver for bringing her to Napolean’s home safely, and
instructed him to go to the lodge and get some sleep. He would be heading back to
the airfield in less than twenty-four hours to return to Romania, and his services
were no longer needed at her side. By all that was holy, it was too late to come calling
on the ancient king, nearly ten PM in Dark Moon Vale, but she had made a decision
and she intended to follow it through.

The vampire pilot, a Master Warrior by the name of Sloan, had landed the radar-deflecting
plane nearly two hours early, making unusual progress without any headwinds, and she
had called Ciopori and Marquis to let them know there was no need for them to pick
her up from the airport: She would procure one of the king’s limousines from the airfield,
allow the pilot to drop her off at Napolean’s compound, and catch a ride to Marquis
and Ciopori’s home in the morning. Either that, or one of them could come fetch her
after they awoke. Staying at the mansion might be a little awkward—okay, so maybe
it would be more than a little awkward—but it was late; Brooke and Phoenix would surely
be sleeping, should the gods be merciful; and she and Napolean could discuss her dream
in private, leaving very little need to get bogged down with conversation pertaining
to other, more trivial matters. The visit would be short and sweet, directly to the
point.

Vanya sighed, remembering her brief conversation with Marquis. She had called the
Silivasi household the moment she had landed, and Marquis had tried to raise holy
hell with her over her decision to call on Napolean rather than wait on him and Ciopori.
Not that Marquis didn’t raise holy hell over just about everything, but she’d had
to be very firm in order to get the Ancient Master Warrior to back off. She chuckled
to herself; after all, she understood Marquis’s objections, even if she didn’t agree
with them: It was late; the sun had already set; and Dark Moon Vale was a valley ripe
with potential dangers and enemies. Nevertheless, Vanya was not a child. She would
be at the king’s house overnight, and what could be safer, when Ramsey, Saxson, and
Santos were, as always, ever near? Not to mention, Napolean Mondragon was not about
to let any harm come to one of the original princesses.

Vanya felt quite safe, really.

However, now that she actually stood before the massive, arched doorway at the front
of Napolean’s compound and prepared to knock on the king’s front door, she felt the
first real pangs of uncertainty.

She tucked a long, flowing lock of her tousled hair behind her shoulder, straightened
her back, and then glanced downward in a last-minute appraisal of her physical appearance.

And then she cringed.

Her dress was a mess; her hair was positively unruly; and she more or less looked
like a disheveled vagabond. At the very least, she should have taken the time to braid
several locks of her hair, bind the interwoven braids in silk ties, and change into
something more formal, perhaps her sapphire-blue gown with the cross-laced bodice
and ankle-length hem, in order to make herself more presentable for the king.

She smoothed the front of her asymmetrical skirt—a modest black swirl made of light
cotton cloth in a simple layered pattern—and unraveled a thin piece of twisted lace
along the collar of the cream-colored vest. She sighed. Was all of this nitpicking
really about propriety, or was it about something else entirely?

Perhaps Napolean Mondragon still held a very special place in her heart—perhaps she
merely wanted to appear beautiful when the king saw her again, and that was simply
wrong.

Not okay.

Inappropriate on so many levels.

The king was happy now. He was mated to a beautiful, intelligent, independent woman,
Brooke Adams, and the two of them had a child, a son they called Phoenix, the future
king of the house of Jadon. He deserved to be happy, and she was happy for him. Truly,
she was.

Vanya grasped the tattered journal tighter in her hands and tried to summon her courage.
It wasn’t like she was still a maiden—well, in some ways she was—but she wasn’t petty,
insecure, or unable to handle the more awkward aspects of life. She winced as she
thought about how the king might view her impulsive, nocturnal behavior. It was bad
enough that she had ventured into the night alone—Napolean would scold her as mercilessly
as Marquis had for daring to be so independent; and that, she could handle—but what
if he found her impetuous visit in poor taste? What if he did not see the immediate
urgency of her nightmare? After all, she wasn’t the only female to ever have a recurring
bad dream—why should she demand the attention of the king the instant she felt…unsettled?

What if he viewed her behavior as not only unsuitable but self-indulgent?

Vanya sighed. She knew the dream was significant,
very
significant, and Napolean would see it the same way. Still, what if she woke up Brooke
and the young prince? Could this not wait until morning?

Vanya quickly withdrew her hand from the door, placed her palm against her stomach
to steady her nerves, and exhaled slowly with relief. Of course it could wait. Stepping
slowly away from the door, she sought to formulate a new plan, a compromise that might
work better for all.

She opened the well-worn journal to the section she had so recently penned and turned
back the corner of the first page. She would not disturb the fearsome leader in the
middle of the night, not at his home with his wife and his child. She would simply
take it to one of the nearby sentinels and ask them to deliver it to Napolean in the
morning with a message:
C
ontact Vanya the moment you read this
.
And then she would ask one of the sentinels to chauffeur her to the Dark Moon Lodge,
where she would stay for just one night. She could meet up with Marquis and Ciopori
tomorrow, as planned, after meeting with the king in the light—and propriety—of the
day.

Yes, that would do just fine.

It was a much better idea.

Turning on her heel, she raised the collar of her vest for warmth and headed toward
the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement—more specifically, to the guard watch-room,
where the Olaru brothers secured the recent prisoner twenty-four hours a day, keeping
a careful eye on the holding cell and the newly detained Dark One.

Saber Alexiares sat up on the damnable cot in his cell and stared out one of the two
windows above him. It was about ten o’clock at night—don’t ask him how he knew, he
just did. As a Dark Vampire, he was the descendant of Jaegar Demir, and while Jaegar
may have been an evil prodigy from a once-pure race, he had also been the offspring
of celestial gods and humans, before he had bowed down to the demons. In other words,
evil or not, Saber still belonged to a race of beings who were intrinsically connected
to the earth and stars, the planets around them, and no matter how evil or ruthless
he had become, he retained each and every one of those otherworldly abilities. Not
to mention, he had lived deep beneath the ground in the dark colony for hundreds of
years, where no light or reflections ever crept in; and in the process, he had honed
his skills of intuition to a tee. He could divine the time of day or night within
seconds of any clock simply by feeling the subtle shifts in the universe around him.
It was as easy and natural as breathing.

He stared up at the moon and sky and thought of his brothers. Where were they now?
Were they deep in the colony hanging out with other warriors, perhaps shooting pool
or sparring in the gym—the Dark Ones almost never slept at night; they preferred to
take their repose in the day—or were they out hunting, even as he thought of them,
prowling the streets of the surrounding towns in search of fresh blood?

He licked his lips, wishing…dreaming.

Oh, what it would be like to call on his youngest sibling, Dane, to feed—just once
more. To reject the meager and ridiculous vials of blood he was given by his captors
and feast like a lion in the house of Jaegar. He shrugged his shoulders, wondering
what the self-righteous males of the house of Jadon would think of the Dark Ones’
custom, the way they fed: The youngest sibling in every household was a hunter, and
the
hunters
roamed in packs. They stalked their prey from one end of the earth to the next, careful
not to leave too many dead bodies in any one city or town in order to avoid detection
by humans, and then they gorged on their victims, feeding their feral appetites beyond
the point of satiation in order to return to the colony and feed their elder brothers
and fathers. It was easier to hunt that way, in smaller, less obvious numbers, and
it helped to preserve the population of their prey, leaving more food alive for future
generations to consume.

As Saber’s thoughts drifted, branching off from one memory to another, he was suddenly
drawn to the sky: The image in the window was changing, metamorphosing, becoming something
entirely foreign yet eerily familiar.

Saber swung his feet off the side of the cot, stood on slightly unstable legs, and
meandered to the nearest window, stretching his neck to see more clearly. Indeed,
the sky had transformed into a slate-gray canvas, deepening by the second, until it
emerged an iridescent black. The moon followed suit, transforming in dazzling waves
from ivory to seashell white; from white to burgeoning rose; and from rose to deep,
scarlet red.

Saber let out a full-throated laugh, reacting to the utter absurdity of it all.
T
hose favored, undeserving bastards
, he thought, referring to the males in the house of Jadon. Like them, he was now
waiting like a spoiled child playing with a Rubik’s cube, hoping to solve the puzzle:
Who would the chosen male be tonight? Which of the cursed celestial gods would bestow
some hapless human woman on her new, overbearing, testosterone-laden mate? How would
the whole damn Curse play out?

At least it would be entertainment—a distraction in a world that was rapidly becoming
unbearable to live in—and what the hell did they plan to do with him anyway? Convert
him to the good side? Save his blackened soul? He scoffed irreverently as he continued
to stare out the window.

And then he took an unwitting step back.

What. The. Hell.

A globular cluster had appeared across the blackened sky, like a paint-by-number picture
filling itself in; and the stars in the cluster were very distinct and familiar: Serpens
Caput, the head of a snake, and Serpens Cauda, the tail, both wrapped neatly around
Ophiuchus—it was a Serpens Blood Moon.

Saber looped his hands behind his head. He leaned back and roared with laughter. Oh,
this was rich! You couldn’t even make this shit up—it just kept getting better and
better! Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at Ramsey Olaru. The stoic male was
staring through a larger window in the watch room, viewing the celestial show from
his more comfortable, privileged vantage point. But surely, even he hadn’t expected
this.

“Hey, son of Jadon,” Saber called mockingly.

Ramsey blinked several times, acknowledging that he had heard Saber speak, but he
didn’t respond or turn in his direction.

Saber gestured toward the window, knowing the sentinel’s peripheral vision worked
just fine. “What the hell is that?” he chided. He pointed at the sky. “That looks
like…hell, I don’t know…my astronomy’s a little rusty—we don’t really study the celestial
gods too much down in the bowels of the earth, but…” He cleared his throat and took
a step closer to the window. “But I could swear that looks like a snake to me. What
do you call that again?” He snapped his fingers several times as if trying to remember.
“You know, that one god you worship? Oh yeah, Serpens.” He licked his lips in anticipation,
and a taunting snarl escaped his throat. “Shit,
brother
, isn’t that mine? I mean, if I’m this stolen child you think I am.” He leapt from
the window to the cell door and snarled at the insolent warrior, his fangs fully extended.
“So, where’s my wifey then? Who’s going to get her for me? Because she has to be close
by, right? I mean, that’s how the Curse works for you light vampires, true?” He turned
around to regard the cell and gestured toward the narrow, unkempt cot. “Can I actually
take
her in here?” The thought made him audacious. “You guys gonna watch? Learn something?”

Ramsey Olaru twitched, almost imperceptibly. The rage in his hazel eyes shone in an
emerging, heated glow. He turned his head slowly in a serpentine motion and scowled
with disgust. “Glad you’re enjoying the show, Chief. Because you know what it means,
right?”

Saber shrugged, completely unaffected. “Yeah, I’ve been blessed by your gods…twice.”
The sarcasm in his voice was abundant.

Ramsey smiled a sinister grin and sauntered toward him. When, at last, they stood
on opposite sides of the bars, their eyes locked in a parody of lethal, spiritual
combat. “It means I only have to put up with you for thirty more days.” He pointed
at the sky through the window. “Napolean will
never
give the likes of you a human woman, a cherished
destiny
; and in thirty days, when the blood comes calling—and oh, I think we can both agree
that it
will
come calling—your sorry, meaningless life is going to come to a truly brutal and
fitting end.” He leaned forward and winked. “How d’ya like them apples, Chief?”

Saber didn’t even flinch.

There was no way he was going to give the smug bastard the satisfaction.

So what if his life came to an end? As far as he was concerned, it was over anyhow.
He swallowed the rising taste of bile in his throat as he thought about the ritual
sacrifice, the way in which the Blood would claim him, the endless pain and torture
he would be forced to endure on his way out of this world, and then he drew a deep
breath, dismissing the thought.

Whatever.

He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

For now, he was far more curious as to how this whole thing would play out. What had
Lorna said? Napolean is a just king who rules with a fair hand. The Ancient One wouldn’t
be so quick to dismiss tradition and thumb his nose at the will of the gods, and who
knew, maybe Saber could play this whole thing to his advantage, work his way out of
this claustrophobic cell, spend a few days in the fresh air before he met his final
demise.

Right now, there was only one thing burning a hole through his curious mind: Who the
hell was the female?

And where was she?

Vanya Demir stood in stunned silence, her fingers still wrapped firmly around the
outside handle of the door to the Chamber of Sacrifice and Atonement. On one hand,
she could hardly pull her eyes from the sky, the magnificent splendor of the stars
and the unmitigated power of the gods. On the other hand, she could hardly look away
from her wrist.

A feeling of overwhelming excitement…and dread…enveloped her.

It couldn’t be.

It just couldn’t be!

Had the celestial god, Serpens, chosen
her
, an original female from a time so far removed, to be the mate of one of Napolean’s
males? Had this been her fate all along? Had she been chosen that long ago to be the
mate of a vampire? But how was that even possible? She had been born before the Curse
even happened.

She released the door handle and clasped her head in confusion. And then she held
her arm up once again to stare at the strange, enigmatic symbols etched into her flesh.

Serpens
.

The god of rebirth.

There was simply no denying it. But how? Who? Where was the male?

Was he a Warrior, a Healer, or a Justice?

Surely, in her case, he would almost have to be a Wizard. She wasn’t sure what she
felt, and her body began to sway from the overwhelming emotion and confusion.

She reached once again for the door handle, this time using it to maintain her balance.
She was just about to tug on the handle, when all at once, a terrifying voice cut
through the silence like thunder. “Do not open that door, Princess!”

Vanya spun around. She would know that alluring tone anywhere. The voice belonged
to Napolean Mondragon. She released the handle and squared her shoulders to face the
ancient king, her mouth dropping open. “Milord,” she uttered breathlessly.

“What are you doing out here…in the night…all alone?” he asked, his tone revealing
his disapproval.

“I…I was—” She stopped short, preferring to query the ancient king instead of being
interrogated by him. “I believe, the question, milord, is what are you doing out here
in the night, all alone?”

Napolean frowned, clearly having little patience for her diversion. “Marquis called
me when you arrived at the airfield to let me know you would be coming to the manse.
When you didn’t show up, I became worried. Then I tracked you here.”

Vanya sighed. Of course. She should have known that her family would alert Napolean,
and the king would keep careful track of the time. As was his right, the sagacious
ruler carried the blood of every member of the house of Jadon in his veins in order
to maintain a connection with his subjects, and Vanya was no exception. In fact, he
had practically demanded the blood offering as a concession in order to allow her
to travel to Romania. As if she could not have pulled rank and insisted. She absently
turned over her wrist, remembering the day Napolean had drunk from her vein, and she
was immediately reminded of the sky—and the Serpens Blood Moon. She glanced upward.
“Have you seen the moon, milord?”

All at once, Napolean looked as if someone had slapped him across the face. Indeed,
as if someone had murdered his firstborn child. In a rare moment of unrestrained emotion,
he reached out, grabbed her arm, and rotated her wrist. His touch was not at all gentle.

“Your Grace!” she exclaimed in admonishment. “Please.”

He dropped her arm as if she had burned him, and then he took an unwitting step backward,
his usual calm and regal demeanor disturbed. “Dear gods, Vanya.”

Vanya placed her open palm against her chest and fought to collect her breath. “What
is it?”

When he didn’t answer—looked as if he
couldn’t
even maintain eye contact, let alone answer—she knew something was wrong.

Really, really wrong.

Napolean Mondragon was the embodiment of a noble king, an unshakable warrior, and
a hardened ruler—nothing fazed the 2,800-year-old male, and there was no challenge
he did not meet head-on. Only now, he looked more like an angry tiger than the king
of the Vampyr. Almost robotically, he reached out a second time and took the princess’s
wrist. His grip was softer, almost hesitant in nature, but his searching fingers revealed
his confusion. He traced the celestial etchings and lines with disbelief. And then
he slowly exhaled, his face a mask of both sorrow and determination. “I am so sorry,
Princess…for this.”

Vanya drew back in immediate alarm this time. “For what?” she asked. Whatever could
this
mean? “Napolean? What is it—why are you so upset?” Surely, he wasn’t angry because
she might belong to another male, not now, when he had Brooke. She began to lose her
patience then. “I demand that you tell me at once, milord.” When he still didn’t speak,
she raised her voice. “Say something, Napolean; you’re scaring me!”

Napolean met her eyes with a steely gaze and held up both hands in an act of contrition.
It was as if he were apologizing and trying to calm her down at the same time. His
lips parted, as if he were about to speak, but then he obviously thought better of
it and looked away. Eventually, he planted his feet and squared his broad shoulders,
and when, at last, he met her gaze again, there was a hard, unyielding resolve in
his eyes. His jaw was set in a hard line, and his sculpted lips were drawn taut. “Do
not be afraid,” he whispered. “Everything is going to be fine. You will not be mated
under this Blood Moon, and nothing adverse will happen to you as a consequence. I
won’t let it.” He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly and added, “This may be
a rough
thirty
days—indeed, it
will be
a difficult thirty days for many—but your life will not be changed.”

Vanya was just about to respond when a beautiful, tall brunette with long, purposeful
strides and stunning sapphire eyes approached the two of them, her limber hands working
feverishly to finish tying the knot on the heavy white bathrobe she was wearing. Her
feet were clad in soft slippers, and her hair was mussed from sleep. “So, you have
already sealed the fate of so many?” she said. Her voice was soft but challenging.
“You have unilaterally decided that the gods are wrong and you need to overrule them?”

Napolean took her full measure. “Brooke, you shouldn’t be out in this cold.”

Brooke frowned and shrugged off his words. “Neither should you. Neither should Vanya.
But that’s neither here nor there.” She bit her bottom lip while considering her words.
“I was in our room, waiting for you to check on the princess, waiting to talk a bit
more about the Blood Moon and the male…” Her voice trailed off, and then she cleared
her throat. “And then I started thinking about the Curse, the necessity of proximity,
and I put two and two together.” Her eyes were full of a deep compassion as they swept
briefly downward over Vanya’s wrist. “I thought you might need me.”

By all the gods, it was still hard to witness the undeniable love and rightness of
Brooke and Napolean’s union. The king swallowed hard and nodded at his mate. “Thank
you.”

Brooke declined her head in a gesture that could only be described as stately; and
then she turned her attention to the princess. “Hi, Vanya.”

Vanya regarded the beautiful mate of the Vampyr lord with a slight nod of her head
and tried to maintain at least some semblance of dignity under the circumstances.
“Greetings, milady.”

Brooke’s expression became all at once serious. “How are you?”

Vanya frowned. “Well, isn’t that the question…” She eyed Napolean warily. “I don’t
really know. Perhaps someone would like to tell me what’s going on?”

Brooke appeared completely taken aback, and her hand went up to her chest. “Oh, God,
I’m sorry. I thought—” She pressed her lips tightly together and held her breath for
a moment, refusing to say another word. When any one of them could have cut through
the silence with a knife, she turned toward her mate. “Napolean?”

The king gave his
destiny
a cautionary glance. “Brooke, I appreciate your support—you know I do. But I need
to handle this myself.”

Brooke nodded her head and took a deep breath. “Okay…if that is what you need, but
I think…” She was so very careful with her words: far, far
too
careful. “I think you might want to
sit with this
for a while. There’s still time. Maybe slow down. Bring Vanya inside. Let’s all just
take a step back and analyze the situation together.”

The situation?

Vanya didn’t know if she should be terrified by the cryptic way they were talking
or mad as hell at the way they were treating her with kid gloves. Was it because she
was an ancient princess, or was she perceived as a woman scorned? Fire began to stir
in her belly, and she leveled her gaze at Napolean. “I would like to know what
situation
your mate is referring to.” She tried to soften her tone and failed. “And I would
like to know now, milord.” She pointed directly at the moon then. “For what it is
worth, I am not a half-wit, so I gather it has something to do with the moon”—she
pointed at her wrist—“and my arm.” She immediately regretted the clip in her demeanor,
but truth be told, she was afraid.

Napolean stiffened in surprise, clearly caught off guard by her overt aggression.
“Vanya…” He inhaled sharply. “It’s not…personal. I’m not trying to avoid the subject.”
His deep onyx eyes, with their rare silver irises, narrowed in concentration. “I am
simply trying to think of a way to protect you, as well as the house of Jadon, and
all those with a…personal interest in this matter.”

“Protect me from
what
, Napolean?”

Napolean started to respond, but before he could, Ciopori Demir materialized in the
courtyard and quickly rushed to her sister’s side. She swept an anxious arm around
Vanya’s waist and laid her head gently on her shoulder. “Sister, are you okay? Napolean
just contacted us telepathically; I can hardly believe this is happening.”

Marquis Silivasi followed in quick succession, appearing beside his mate with their
son Nikolai still squirming in his arms. “We need to get her out of here”—he spoke
directly to Napolean while inclining his head toward the door to the chamber of Sacrifice
and Atonement, and then he growled—“away from that door…and that male…
now
!”

Napolean cleared his throat. “Watch yourself, Warrior. Remember to whom you’re speaking.”

Marquis averted his eyes out of respect, but he continued to simmer just below the
surface.

Vanya threw her hands up in frustration and snorted. “So, you find it acceptable to
converse with my family telepathically about the matter, but not me?” She could hardly
believe what she was seeing and hearing. By all that was holy, what were they all
so afraid of, and why didn’t they trust her to handle it?

Ciopori stepped in front of Vanya. She nervously smoothed the hem of Vanya’s blouse
with her fingertips, and then she met her gaze with a look of such trepidation that
it shook Vanya to the core. “Napolean hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what!” Vanya insisted.

Ciopori reached out to take her hand, and Vanya slapped it away, overwhelmed by all
the frenetic attention.

Brooke frowned. “Let’s all go back to the house,” she said. “Let’s sit down and discuss
this indoors.” She glanced nervously at the heavy metal door behind them.

“Discuss what?” Vanya repeated, staring down the beautiful woman whom the gods had
so honored with Napolean’s heart.

Brooke’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Vanya. This has got to appear so incredibly rude:
You’re absolutely right—someone needs to tell you what is happening. Right away. We
are all just a little bit on edge right now. Would you mind coming inside, to the
house, where we can all sit down and talk?” She paused to remember her etiquette.
“Please, Princess.”

Vanya knew she should just go with them inside and talk it out, but the apprehension
was getting the best of her. “With all due respect, Brooke, I can very well see what
is happening.” Despite her attempt at courtesy, she gestured wildly at the sky. “I
do have eyes, you know.” She held out her wrist. “And I can feel my own skin tingling…and
I can even match the shapes with the stars.” She glared at Marquis and Ciopori in
turn. “What I cannot discern is why the lot of you are acting so defensive and crazy.
Surely this is not the first Blood Moon the house of Jadon has ever seen.”

Marquis Silivasi took a bold step forward. “The male,” he grumbled, “the one the gods
have bound you to; it is Saber Alexiares. The Dark One.”

The words drifted past Vanya’s ears, but they didn’t quite settle in her consciousness.

“Marquis,” Ciopori groaned.

“We don’t know exactly what he is—Dark or Light—or what he’s capable of becoming,”
Brooke added thoughtfully.

“Forgive me, My Queen,” Ciopori intoned, “but by any standard that matters, we most
certainly do. The male is wholly dark—unapologetically evil—and frankly, abhorrent!”
By the look on her face, Ciopori was not about to be challenged on her assessment.

The night seemed to settle into a distant, quiet void, the beauty of the sky a sudden
paradox: If the earth had opened up and swallowed her whole, Vanya could not have
been more stunned.

Or silent.

Napolean Mondragon growled deep in his throat, and the ground shifted briefly beneath
them. He waved an imperious hand in front of them all and spoke three short words:
“Stop. Everyone.
Now
.” His voice traveled like vapor on the wind, wrapping itself around all those who
were present and commanding their obedience.

Marquis eyed the king warily, awaiting his next command.

Brooke took a gentle step back, allowing him space.

And Ciopori averted her eyes in a show of submission and respect.

Vanya, however, took a tentative step toward him, her eyes acutely focused on his
serious face. “Napolean? Is this true?”

He regarded her gently. “Yes, Vanya. It is.”

Her mind felt as if it could handle the revelation, but her body staggered sideways.