Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (16 page)

Rebecca’s advocacy was predatory, and all the stalkers in the world were her prey.
 

But—
and wasn’t that really the crux of the issue
—it wasn’t a healthy fight.
 

As long as Rebecca had someone to save, she didn’t have to feel her pain.
 

Hell, her rage.
 

As long as she was fighting back—
somehow, some way, striking back
—she didn’t have to look too closely at the ghosts that truly haunted her life: the guilt she still harbored over her choice to date Trevor, remorse over the years she had lost, a deep-seated belief that she was responsible for her own victimization and, somehow, faulty by proxy, alone in the world. Like Julien, she was convinced that nothing—and no one—would ever change that fact.

Nothing and no one ever could.
 

And, frankly, she preferred it that way.

Because
that way
was safe.

Julien Lacusta knew that Rebecca was not capable of letting him in, of ever opening her heart—
at least not now, not like this
—and if he converted her tonight, she would only be one step closer to her goal of fulfilling their bargain; she would simply possess one more layer of armor to bury her heart within; and she would have one more excuse to do it all herself, to stand on her own two feet, at the expense of their future and their intimacy.
 

Julien grew ominously quiet and padded away, silently pacing the room.

Well, hell.
 

Wasn’t he just the pot calling the kettle black?

He was the exact same creature, just for very different reasons. Julien wasn’t an idiot—he knew damn well that he was haunted by a host of ever-present demons: guilt, rage, hatred, and maybe even…shame.
 

But there was one critical difference.
 

Julien’s damage ran so deep that it terrified him.
 

It wasn’t just a matter of not looking at it, not feeling it, turning down the noise. It was a matter of surviving, one day at a time.

A matter of life and death.
 

If Julien ever touched those shadows, if he ever felt that rage, if he ever let that hatred rise to the surface, the earth would split open beneath his feet, the rivers would overflow in violent floods, the heavens themselves would rain down ice, fire, and blood.
 

And Julien—
oh yes, he knew
—he could not turn it off.
 

Dozens of humans would die.

What lived inside of Julien was a natural disaster waiting to happen: a destructive volcano waiting to erupt. And while heroin might not have been the stable man’s choice, he was a vampire, a preternatural being, an immortal descendant of celestial gods. Neither his body nor his mind could be permanently corrupted—vampires couldn’t have physical addictions—and it was a helluva better choice than letting all that lava fly…releasing it on the earth.
 

Julien brushed a tense, curled hand through his tapered mahogany hair and sighed. So why was he trying to bring Rebecca into a relationship that he, himself, could hardly sustain? He honestly had no idea. “C’mon, little mouse,” he said, in an abrupt change of subject. “We are going to clean up the apartment—
I
will clean this room
—and then we’re going to pack your things for Dark Moon Vale and get the apartment ready for your guests, tomorrow. You still need to make a couple calls, at least leave a few new messages.”

Rebecca stiffened, and Julien knew he had thrown up a wall, made a final pronouncement with regard to her question…to her request for conversion. But to her credit, she didn’t push the subject. More than likely, his little mouse was grateful for another reprieve, another
out
, a cleverly placed escape route.
 

“Fine,” she finally mumbled, and then in an abrupt show of defiance, tempered with subtle obedience, she turned on her heel, spat on the mattress, and strolled through the bedroom door. “Burn that shit,” she snarled, glancing over her shoulder.
 

Julien drew back in surprise.
 

“
Considera ca si f
ă
cut
.”
 

Consider it done.
 

Trevor Rainier tossed and turned restlessly on the stiff hotel mattress. The room was nothing more than a hovel, a cheap, dirty, mismatched cubicle, one hundred yards from Colfax, in an extremely shady district, and the very air he was breathing made his skin crawl.

He had contemplated going back to Rebecca’s apartment, but he wasn’t willing to take a chance at getting caught, being discovered a bit too soon. Not when he could bide his time and ultimately terrorize her senseless, as well as threaten her friends. Not when he wanted to be the one to say where, when, and how.

Trevor Rainier desired the ultimate in orgasmic revenge, to prove a point in grand, shocking fashion, that Rebecca Johnston wasn’t so high and mighty, after all.

She wasn’t the world’s protector.

Hell, she couldn’t even protect herself.

And in the end, she would be the one to expose and jeopardize the VOSU women. She would be the one who was proven to be a coward.

He chuckled low, beneath his breath, imagining a dozen different scenarios:
Oh yes
, Rebecca might put up a fight—she would surely try to act defiant and brave—but none of it would matter.
 

Not one iota.
 

One way or another, Trevor would have his revenge, and Rebecca would leave Denver
with him.
Everything that happened in the meantime was just foreplay, leading up to the ultimate release: their permanent and inevitable coupling.
 

He checked the glowing light on the rickety, digital clock buzzing on the hotel nightstand like its internal parts were whistling a low-budget tune: It was one o’clock in the morning, and he still couldn’t sleep. Sighing, he opened his smartphone and scrolled to his photo album, where he kept several hundred pictures of Rebecca—and him—many of them spliced together in Photoshop.
 

He was just about to start the familiar litany, scrolling through the photos, one by one, when he noticed a small red-and-white number next to his green phone-icon.
Hmm, wonder who called?
He tapped the icon, selected
voice mail
, and scrolled to the most recent message. He didn’t recognize the number, but that didn’t really matter—it wasn’t like he had a host of friends in Colorado, and no one knew what he was up to. He swiped his thumb over the digits and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Jake; it’s Kate, from the VOSU support group. Sorry to call so late at night, but I just wanted to let you know that I got a message from Rebecca. She’s back in town for a couple of days, and she wants to get all the members together at her apartment, tomorrow. She said it’s really urgent. Anyhow, I didn’t know if she left you a message, your being so new to the group and all, but I figured if she invited you to Sheila’s, she would probably want you in the loop. Anyhow, the address is 556 Sycamore Lane, and we’re hooking up at six. Hope you’ll be there. Oh, yeah, and remember:
To escape fear, you have to go through it, not around it.
Talk to you later. Bye.”

Trevor set the phone down on the nightstand and folded his arms behind his head, sinking deep into the pillow and laughing, almost hysterically.
 

Oh, this was truly rich.
 

Could it get any more perfect than this?

He shut his eyes and practically meditated on the ripeness of the moment.
 

Oh, yes, Katie dear, I will be there with bells on.

And we will have the get-together of a lifetime!

fourteen

Dark Moon Vale

Ian Lacusta sank deep into the mist, spreading his molecules even farther apart, as he approached the secluded brownstone on the northern end of Dark Moon Vale, just beneath a formidable series of forest cliffs. The gorgeous brick-faced domicile was built in the tradition of a 1920s Park Avenue brownstone, and it had to be close to five thousand square feet, with its four impressive levels, rooftop patio, and opulent series of front and back terraces.

So Nachari Silivasi enjoyed his creature comforts.

Bully for him.

Ian thought about the quaint, simplistic card he had tucked into the lapel of his duster, and hoped that he had calculated everything correctly: It was one thing to dissolve his physical form and travel like a Vampyr of legend, streaming through the forest as mystic fog; it was another to incorporate an envelope with a written missive—ah yes, a written
message
—into the mix. Best-case scenario, the ink would be runny when he took his corporeal form. Worst-case scenario: the card would be unreadable, the envelope would have already dissolved, and his entire effort would be for naught.
 

He hovered above the old-fashioned mailbox and concentrated intensely on extending a single hand from the fog—if he didn’t have to materialize completely, that was just fine with him. Nachari Silivasi had some wickedly dangerous wards surrounding this house, and from everything Achilles had told Ian, he was a wizard of some notable talent. Ian had no doubt that the son of Jadon would pick up on his presence—and pronto—if he hovered around too long.

Extending a ghostly hand toward the singular red flag, he turned it upright and poured all his concentration into retrieving the letter.

Ah, and there it was.

A single white envelope, with a time-worn stamp, addressed to Braden Bratianu and made to look like it had gone through the human postal system, like it had come from Hawaii, like it was simply a familial letter from his not-so-adoring family, nothing suspicious to detect. Ian chuckled inwardly; the Dark Ones were nothing if they were not intelligent and resourceful—they had extremely detailed files on all of their enemies, all of the sons of Jadon, and he wondered if the bastards knew just how closely their enemy watched them.
 

Placing the letter inside the black conical box, Ian swiftly backed away. He rose upward into the sky, scattered the fog in many, diverse directions, and succinctly withdrew from the wizard’s residence.

Done and done.

The boy would get the message and meet him by the
creek—or he wouldn’t.

At least Ian had done his part.
 

Spiraling next, several miles north, Ian felt a feral growl rumble in his disembodied chest: After so many centuries in hiding, this was just way too close for comfort. His eyes took in the expansive valley below, and he snarled.

Julien’s rustic retreat.

He felt for the presence of his brother—
of his twin
—and sighed with relief when the tracker wasn’t there. Hmm, so where had Julien gone so late at night? And only six days after heralding his Blood Moon.

It didn’t really matter.

In fact, for all intents and purposes, this worked out much, much better.

The strength of the wards surrounding the long, winding driveway and the front porch were daunting to say the least, but Ian possessed something no other visitor could possibly possess: Julien’s shared DNA. The preternatural security system would recognize Ian’s imprint as Julien’s, at least to a lesser extent, and it would allow him to approach the front door.
 

Ian landed on the stoop with a whoosh, gathering his molecules together in lightning-quick succession, and then reaching for a leather bag. Thank the dark lords, the bundle had transported intact—he wondered just how many vampires could wield such magic, such skill, such well-honed expertise. Stroking the bundled letters lovingly, he rubbed them over his heart, hoping to impart his individual energy…
in droves
.

To my brother, on our eleventh birthday: Hope you have a sun-shiny day!

What the hell did that even mean?

Happy Twelfth Birthday to my best friend and brother: Let’s make today a great one!

Humans were so simple-minded and trite.
 

You’re eighteen now—let’s party!!!

Now that one made Ian laugh.

Of course, he had stopped at age twenty-one: There was simply nowhere he could go to find birthday cards for ages 101- 967, and frankly, it would become rather redundant at that point. In fact, it might lose its nefarious effect.
 

No
, Ian thought as he smiled,
providing a set of birthday cards from ages eleven through twenty-one is absolutely perfect
, especially considering how he had signed the last one:
I know our birthdays are still three months out, but I couldn’t wait until April 12
^th
to make up for so much lost time. How fondly I remember the last birthday we shared together. How deeply I desire to see you again. Soon, my beloved brother. I shall have to see you…soon. Love, Ian.

Wrapping the bundle in a delicate, silken bow—a bow his mother, Harietta, used to wear in her hair—he placed it in the doorway and slinked into the night.