Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (12 page)

Braden shook his head emphatically. “Hell no—I mean, heck no.” Even though Nachari wasn’t there, Braden was still slightly paranoid: Who knew what a wizard could hear. Hell—
heck
—Nachari might’ve crafted some curse-word spell just to catch him slipping or something.
 

Grigori chuckled once again and picked up both stones.
 

He placed them in the center of his left palm and rotated the fingers of his right hand over them in a repetitive circular motion. And then he closed his eyes, and heat began to radiate from his open palm. As he continued to caress the stones, almost like a dutiful lover, the pads of his fingers curled inward and energy shot from their tips. At last, he closed his fist over the stones, exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath, and then slowly reopened his palm. “Is the color to your liking?”

Braden glanced at the two perfect citrines resting in the vampire’s hand, and gasped. “No way!” he exclaimed. “You did that that easily?”

Grigori smiled and bowed his head infinitesimally. “As I’ve said, I’ve been on this earth a very long time, and precious jewels have always been a quick and efficient means of procuring income.”

Braden nodded, entirely impressed.
 

Eager to study the gemstones more closely, he reached out to take them from Grigori’s palm, and immediately drew back from the contact. In fact, Braden jerked his hand away so hard and so fast that the beautiful citrines went flying through the air and back into the river—all that hard work was lost. “Oh, man…
dude
…I’m sorry!” Braden clamored.
 

Grigori stood up and took a generous step back, studying the vampire closely.

Too closely.

Braden flashed a repentant smile and pressed the subject further. “Oh, man, that was so jacked up. I really am sorry. And after everything you just did? My bad! Seriously. I am so,
so
sorry.” He wasn’t about to say what he was really thinking:
What the heck just happened?

Grigori’s expression relaxed, and he held up both hands in dismissal. “What is it the young people say? It’s all good. No harm; no foul.”

Braden nodded, grateful for Grigori’s understanding. Truly, he had not meant to overreact or to offend the seriously strange vampire. It was just…it was just that there was something so wrong with those stones. The energy.
 

It was so foreign, so remote…

Braden could hardly make it out.

It wasn’t exactly evil, and it wasn’t exactly good.
 

For lack of a better word, it was obscure: hidden, concealed…

And consequently, terrifying.

This guy had a lot of secrets, and he had built a lot of barriers to conceal them, and all those layers were embedded in those stones.
 

All that hidden…
angst
.

Looking down at the ground, Braden noticed a stray strand of blond hair settled on a rock—the guy must have shed it when he bent to make the citrines—and he made a mental note to pick it up and take it home before he left. He didn’t know exactly why, just that all that glittered wasn’t gold. All that was citrine wasn’t brilliant. And something about this male was not as it appeared.
 

He had given Grigori his word that he would keep his presence in the valley a secret—well, he had at least implied that he would—and he would allow the mysterious vampire to take his time, make his presence known in his own way, at his own pace, out of mutual respect for the house of Jadon. After all, a vampire’s word was his bond, and it wasn’t Braden’s place to judge another male.
 

Just the same, that didn’t mean he was going to dismiss his common sense. That he would ignore a creepy vibe, or overlook his intuition. He had done that once before, and it had almost cost Kristina her life.

No.

Never again.

Braden would play it off, hang out for a while longer, and then he would head back to the brownstone, and to Nachari Silivasi, a Master Wizard, with a single strand of blond hair in his pocket: a token object that the wizard could easily divine…unravel and dissect…

If necessary.

ten

Three days later

Trevor Rainier double-checked the address on his smartphone as he stared at the gorgeous urban building in front of him: 1590 Wynkoop, in lower downtown Denver, also known affectionately as LoDo. Yep, he had the right address, and didn’t that just speak volumes about Rebecca’s VOSU support group? The fact that it was held in the upscale Mercantile Square Lofts, in the private home of some upwardly mobile, metropolitan bimbo who didn’t know how to keep—or please—her man?

He chuckled inwardly, retrieving the keycard he had lifted from Rebecca’s nightstand drawer in order to get past the secured entry, and made his way to the fancy elevator, all the while, reaching down, deep, for courage. Assuming Rebecca had found another way to gain access to the building—and surely, she could just call upstairs—he was going to walk right into the center of the meeting, stare Rebecca in the eyes, and ask her if she’d missed him.
 

He couldn’t wait to see her expression.

And if anyone made a move he didn’t like, said something he didn’t want to hear, like
I’m calling 911
, then the six-inch hunting knife tucked into his socks would probably do the trick.
 

Shut them up real quick.
 

For whatever reason, Rebecca had not been home since Sunday night, and God help the woman if she was sleeping with another man. But if he knew
his
Rebecca—and he did—then she would never miss something as important as a VOSU meeting, especially when she was the de facto leader.
 

Stepping out of the elevator onto the third floor, he quickly made his way down the long, narrow hall to the last loft on the right. Thank
his lucky stars, the door was propped open. Raising his chin and drawing back his shoulders, he marched right through the entrance, headed toward the professionally decorated living room in the center of the loft, and sauntered to the middle of the group, causing all the women in the circle to crane their necks and gasp.

His cocky grin quickly morphed into a blank, vacant stare, and then it curved into an angry scowl.
 

Where the hell was Rebecca?
 

There were five women sitting around the room, staring at him like he had pigeon poop
on his face, and not a single one of them had curly golden hair or gorgeous topaz eyes.

“Can I help you?” A tall, skinny blonde stood up, her restless hands betraying her anxiety.

Trevor took an abrupt deep breath and flipped his demeanor on a dime. Grateful that he had worn a Colorado Rockies baseball cap, put on his reading glasses, and dyed his hair black several weeks ago—
who knew if these chicks exchanged photos of their estranged lovers
—he held up both hands in a
submissive posture. “Uh, yeah,” he muttered shyly, trying to sound as nonthreatening as he could. “You must be…Sheila?” He already knew the answer. Her name was written in Rebecca’s address book, next to the loft’s address, and Becca, in all her wisdom, had a small black-and-white picture to the right of every entry.

The blonde nodded warily. “I am. How can I help you?” The entire room looked stunned.

Trevor plastered an ingratiating smile on his face and started to glance around the room, pretending to be too nervous to meet anyone’s incredulous gaze. “Um, Rebecca Johnston gave me this address, and this visitor’s pass.” He held up the plastic card. “By the looks on your faces, I take it you don’t get a lot of male…victims…in your group.” He tried to sound meek, if not outright afraid.

Sheila furrowed her brow.
 

Okay, so Rebecca would not have sprung a new member on the group like that. Oh well. Too late. Trevor would just have to go with it until his long-lost love showed up, and then, the jig would be up anyway. “Would you like me to leave?” He sounded utterly dejected.
 

Sheila held up a hand—she was clearly uncertain—and exchanged wary glances with the other skeptical women in the room. “Rebecca sent you?”

Trevor nodded. “Yeah.
Yeah
.” He spoke the second affirmation with a lot more confidence.

“Have you spoken to her recently? Talked to her, directly?” a short brunette chimed in from the middle seat on the sofa. “We got a couple messages, but that was it.” She spoke with an obvious lisp, and her mouth didn’t open like it should, almost like a part of her jaw was wired shut. Damn, that had to suck.
 

“Uh,” Trevor thought fast on his feet, “um, nah; it’s been awhile. It’s probably been a few weeks since I met her at the VOSU headquarters. She tried to convince me to come to the weekly meetings, but I was afraid…well…” He swept his arm around the room, indicating the assembly of women and their stunned, unwelcoming expressions. “I was kind of afraid of this.” He lowered his head and averted his eyes. “Of having to admit that I can’t break free of my ex-wife, that I’m actually afraid of a woman. Scared for my life, really.” He bit his bottom lip and took several steps backward, turning to walk away. “You know, this was a bad idea. Sorry if I caught you guys off guard or scared someone.” He pointed to the open door and began to walk away. “I’ll just go.”

A few seconds passed…and then: “Wait. What’s your name?” A chick with short, spikey hair, dyed hot pink.
 

Trevor turned back around. “Uh, Jacob. Jacob Rogers, but my friends call me Jake.”
 

“Well, if Rebecca sent you, then you’re welcome. I’m Kate, by the way,” Pinky said.
 

Trevor flashed an awkward smile. “Hi, Kate.”
 

And then, one by one, the pathetic women began introducing themselves, offering
Jake
a seat on the sofa, pointing out the salads, brownies, and beverages on the counter.

Well, wasn’t this just special.

Trevor helped himself to an extra-large helping of Asian salad, three delectable brownies, and a full glass of white wine before making his way to the couch and addressing the waiting women. “So, my story kind of goes like this…”
 

eleven

Rebecca was still, more or less, living in a fog.

She was still grappling with the extraordinary facts she had learned about the Vampyr; she was still processing all the details about the Curse, including the inevitability that she would have to be converted to another species in order for a pregnancy to work; and she was still trying to quell her overwhelming fear of Julien Lacusta, despite the fact that they had shared a tender moment.

One tender moment.
 

Over the past three days, Julien had given Rebecca a wide berth, such as it were, allowing her to wander about the large rustic home at will; leaving her alone to sit, think, read, or watch TV in the high-tech theater room, whatever it took to decompress; and encouraging her to purchase anything she needed—food, clothing, or toiletries via online vendors—in order to make her
stay
more comfortable. He had slept in the guest room, across the hall from the master bedroom, and he had generally kept a polite distance, with the exception of making himself available to hear her thoughts, answer her questions, and address her concerns as often as she wanted.
 

She didn’t want…

She didn’t want to be there.

She didn’t want any of this to be real.

And she didn’t want Julien Lacusta.

But she did want what the vampire had promised: to free all the unfortunate women in her VOSU support group from their tormentors. And she figured she could stick around long enough to see that through.
 

Now, as she stood in the far corner of the vampire’s great room, trying to shuffle out of the way as a late-night delivery crew lugged a heavy, distressed-leather sofa into the center of the room, she couldn’t help but wonder: Had she completely gone insane? Was any of this
really
happening? Was she truly the
destiny
of an immortal vampire?

Honestly…

How had any of this come about?
 

For all intents and purposes, Rebecca Johnston was sequestered inside a rustic mountain home, hiding away in Dark Moon Vale—as if her previous life and obligations were of zero consequence—and she had very little to
any
control over her immediate circumstances. And, as if
that
was not enough, she had actually gone along with the bizarre, nerve-wracking program by scrolling through an online furniture catalogue, choosing a half-dozen large-ticket items for a house she didn’t own, and following through by scheduling a preposterous late-night delivery.

Hell
, according to Julien, he had just gotten rid of a similar lot of furniture, a few weeks back, and the last thing Rebecca wanted to do was encourage him, overly accommodate or ingratiate him, make it look like she planned on hanging around once they had each fulfilled their end of the high-stakes bargain.
 

Yes, Julien would free the VOSU women from their tormenters, and in turn, Rebecca would free the terrifying vampire from the Curse of his kind, but after that, all bets were off. Rebecca planned on taking the baby and finding a place of her own.

Granted, Julien would probably object.
 

At the least, he would probably insist that she remain in Dark Moon Vale so he had daily access to the baby; but Rebecca could work with that. Did she really have a choice? Just so long as she could rebuild her life, return to some semblance of normalcy, and get back to the familiar, daily routine she craved—living and working on her own—she could adjust.
 

She would have to adjust.
 

There was nothing else she could do.

After all, she had no intentions of living in a secluded mountain retreat with a powerful, brooding vampire who had an affinity for heroin.
 

“Excuse me, ma’am…” A short, muscular, twenty-something guy, with a broad nose and a tightly shaved head, interrupted her thoughts. “Where do you want the sofa?”