Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (22 page)

Rebecca could hear and sense his shame.

Still, she saw something altogether different at his core, something she should not have been able to glimpse, but it was like…it was like a lightbulb had just turned on.

Julien Lacusta did not
hate
his father, and it wasn’t
guilt
that plagued his soul.

He loved the male he had never known, as any child would, and he mourned grievously over Micah’s loss.
 

Endlessly.

Destructively.
 

Julien Lacusta could not forgive
himself
for being born.
 

Perhaps, if there had been another child in Harietta’s womb, a different son of Jadon—one who was more worthy, more special, more inherently valuable—Micah would have made a better choice. He would have made the required sacrifice, and everything would have been different.

The heroin didn’t just subdue his rage and pain.

It numbed the unbearable
darkness of
being
, the unyielding guilt of his existence.
 

Rebecca gasped as the knowledge sank in. She blinked back tears of empathy and tried to offer the faintest of smiles. “Warrior,” she whispered softly, not sure where the word had come from. “You are worthy.”
 

Julien jerked back like she had burned him. “What?”

“You are worthy,” she repeated. “Of life…of existing…of one day fathering your own precious sons.” She leaned into him and took his large rigid hands in hers, and then she slowly rose from the floor. “There is something I need to show you.” She made her way across the living room to an old, tarnished bookshelf and began to pull a series of hard-bound volumes from the shelves:
Visions of Andalusia
, a manuscript all about ancient Spain;
The Practice of Medicine in the Middle Ages
, a volume that detailed everything from testing urine, to letting blood, to splinting deformed legs; and finally,
Earthquakes, Floods, and Other Natural Disasters: When Innocence Is Lost
.
 

She handed the volumes to Julien, and he studied them closely, furrowing his brow in obvious surprise at the titles.
While he thumbed through the copious pages, she turned her attention to a shelf, further down, and retrieved a leather-bound photo album, the cover embossed with a raised, red rose. “After I finally left Trevor, once I finally got away, I had this overpowering need to own something special, to cherish something beautiful that I could call my own. I ventured into a rare, exotic pet store, and they had these two amazing birds, monk parakeets—so I bought a beautiful cage, learned how to take care them, and brought them home. They were my pride and joy—hell, my heart and soul—for the next
three years. Whenever I was feeling down or overwhelmed, I would just watch them and listen to them sing, and something inside of me would grow peaceful, everything extraneous would go away, at least for a time.”
 

She opened the album, thumbed through several pages of photographs, and finally stopped, somewhere near the center of the book, reaching into the plastic sleeve to retrieve a picture of two bright-green birds. She extended the picture to Julien, and he took it hesitantly, unsure of what she was trying to convey.
 

 
“You…you want me to see your birds?” he asked, his mouth turned down in an awkward expression.
 

She nodded. “Turn it over.”

Julien turned the photograph over and jolted.

His hand grew lax and the photo fell out, landing upside down on the floor.
 

Written on the back, in flowery script, were two elegant words, the names of Rebecca’s birds:
Analise and Evangeline.

Julien read the names a second time and briefly shut his eyes, even as Rebecca rested her hip against the bookshelf.
“You don’t have to describe your pain, Julien. I already know it.” She bit her bottom lip softly in hesitation. “In here.” She placed her hand over her heart and sought his pensive gaze.
“And you don’t have to justify your actions or apologize…not to me…not anymore.” She sighed. “Five days ago, all I wanted in this world was to be free of the nightmare I was suddenly thrust into, to be free of you.” She laughed insincerely. “Five hours ago, all I wanted to do was figure out a way to fulfill our bargain and get whatever was required of me done, over with…behind me.” She snickered then, but the sound was distinctly hollow. “Hell, fifteen minutes ago, I just wanted to be someplace else,
anyplace else
, with anyone else. But now…”

Analise and Evangeline.

“But now?” he echoed, his haunting moonstone-gray eyes searching hers for sincerity.
 

“But now, I feel like something inside of me, something I didn’t even know was there, is awakening. Like maybe, on some inexplicable level, I’ve always been with you. And now…now I’m seeing you for the very first time. I’m hearing your words and feeling your pain, and I can barely even breathe…knowing.” Her voice trailed off on a whisper.

Julien’s throat noticeably constricted as he swallowed his
caution. “Knowing what,
ș
oarec micu
ț
?”

“Knowing that you have lived so long…with so much…alone. I am sorry, warrior.”

Julien scrubbed a large hand over his face before turning to face her more squarely.
 

After a brief hesitation, he raised his muscular arms and grasped Rebecca by both shoulders. His touch was as gentle as a lamb’s as he brushed her exposed skin with his thumbs. “Come to me, Rebecca. I want to taste your soul.” His eyes dipped down to survey her mouth, and they were filled with so much longing, so much indescribable need.
 

Rebecca shivered, shaken by the intensity of his gaze.
 

She took his left hand, brought it to her cheek, and angled her jaw into the warmth, leaning softly forward into his massive warrior’s frame. And then she kissed the center of his palm, not knowing what else to do…or say.

Julien exhaled like he had been holding his breath for a lifetime.

He removed his right hand from her shoulder and ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, slowly—tenderly—before cupping her face in both hands.
 

And then he bent to her mouth and kissed her with fevered abandon.
 

nineteen

Nachari stood behind Braden Bratianu as the youngster shifted nervously in his chair, eyeing all the sentinels in Ramsey’s formal living room: Santos, Saxson, Saber, and of course, Ramsey Olaru himself.

Ramsey leaned back against an adjacent wall and removed the toothpick from his mouth. “So let me get this straight: This Grigori Antonopoulos, this
vampire
, stuffed an invitation in your mailbox in the middle of the night—in other words, he didn’t come out in the day—yet Braden swears he had blond hair, not black-and-red coils.” He glanced askance at Saber and shrugged in apology. “No offense.”

Saber scowled, and flicked his wrist, dismissing the entire subject.
 

“But the male could travel as
mist
,” Saxson said to no one in particular. “Damn, that’s some serious power…or sorcery. I mean, we can all dematerialize, and we can all scatter our molecules to move through objects, pass through walls, but
becoming
the mist? Actually transforming one’s chemistry into chlorides and sulfates, becoming predominantly sulfuric acid? That’s shape-shifting, brother. That’s sorcery.”

“And the hair turned into a snake,” Santos added for good measure.

Nachari hissed beneath his breath. “That about sums it up.” He paced to the other side of the room and glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond the large wraparound deck, turning the conversation over in his head for the umpteenth time. “But here’s the thing…” He spun around to face the room. “No matter how I turn this over, it just doesn’t make sense. The Dark Lords marked the house of Jaegar—hell, the Blood marked the sons of Jaegar—the hair color isn’t optional.” He gestured toward Saber and raised an apologetic eyebrow. “I mean, shit. Saber isn’t even a Dark One, but he was consecrated to Lord S’nepres, and his hair is
still
banded.”

“You need to get over that shit,” Saber interjected, scowling. “All of you.”

Nachari chuckled. “Already have, brother. Just let me make my point.” He ran an absent hand through his own thick raven locks and continued. “So something does not add up. Unless…”

“Unless?” Ramsey grunted.

Saxson sat forward from his perch on the couch and braced his elbows on his knees, waiting.
 

“Unless he’s not from the house of Jaegar,” Nachari said quietly. He paused, letting the suggestion settle, allowing the words to linger.

Santos wrinkled his brow. “I’m sorry, but I’m not following you here, wizard. A Dark One, but not from the house of Jaegar?”

Ramsey snorted as the implication hit him with a start. “Born without a soul…to the house of Jadon. Is that why he could mask the hair, at least with several centuries of practice and a healthy dose of magic?”

Saber gawked at Nachari, grimaced at the insinuation, and then, despite himself, he chuckled—that was just Saber’s way. “A freakin’ dark twin? A sacrifice that was never made?” He raised his hand and grabbed a fistful of his own banded locks. “And before anyone opens his mouth; I ain’t no damn wizard or sorcerer. Despite where I was
truly
born, this shit is staying as it is.”
 

Nachari winked in reply. “Clairol, Nice’n Easy, brother. Number 2BB.”

Saber flipped him off.

“You know,” Saxson interjected, “when Saber was still a Dark One, impersonating Ramsey, he had to portray blond hair, and he was born in the house of Jadon.”

“That was different,” Saber snarled. “Salvatore used a spell. It was some sort of holographic image or something, had nothing to do with my house of birth.”

“Yeah,” Ramsey snorted, “but Salvatore
is
a sorcerer.” He eyed Nachari with a sidelong glance and cocked his brows in question. “Wizard?”

Nachari shook his head and shrugged. “Don’t know. Have no idea.”

Saber flashed a scowl. “Enough with the damn hair, already.
Move on
.”
 

Nachari raised his hand, extended his forefinger, and drew three clear symbols in the air:
2BB
.

Saber cut his eyes at the vampire and turned away, snickering.

“Fine,” Saxson said, his voice reflecting his own amusement at the banter, before returning to a more serious tone, “putting the issue of hair aside, but assuming Nachari might be right: Suppose this male is a dark twin, born to the house of Jadon. Who the hell—”
 

“Would consider himself a best friend to Julien?” Santos supplied.
 

“Exactly,” Saxson murmured.
 

“Oh…
shit
,” Ramsey snarled.

“Yeah,” Nachari said. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

The entire room grew quiet as the warriors let the association settle in.
 

Finally, Ramsey Olaru turned to face Braden. “Word for word, son. What exactly did this vampire say…about Julien?”
 

Braden seemed to be thinking it over, fishing for the memory, and then his eyes lit with recognition as he retrieved the conversation in an unbroken stream. “He said,
As an only child, I did not have many friends, save one: a boy I grew up with who became my best friend. I have come back to surprise him, to see him again, but I would prefer to take my time. To do it my own way. I have traveled the world for many centuries, young Braden, and I doubt that I’ve been missed. My role in the house of Jadon was never that…important
.
He said he saw the sky, and that’s what prompted him to come home:
But I really do hope to surprise him, Braden. I think it would mean the world to…the tracker
.”
Braden’s eyes grew wide with sudden understanding. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Nachari asked.

 
“He said,
In fact, now that I know what he does
—meaning Julien—
I think it would be fun to play a little game. Perhaps I can leave little traces of my essence here and there—you know, my psychic fingerprint, my individual vibration, my unique, distinctive calling card—and see if Julien picks it up
. I told him I thought Julien would be pretty busy for the next twenty-eight days—you know, because of his Blood Moon—and the guy said,
All the more reason not to bother him, right away
.”

Ramsey shook his head in disgust.
“The more we flesh this out, the more this sounds like Ian to me.”

“Which is exactly what Julien does not need right now,” Santos added.
 

Nachari nodded emphatically. “You didn’t see him, that day in his house. The tracker is walking on a razor-fine edge. I mean, he’s
this close
to snapping.” He snapped his fingers for effect.
 

“And he promised his
destiny
that he would clean some shit up for her, deal with some nasty loose ends in her previous life, something about a group of human women with stalkers—he was gonna track ’em down and, well, eliminate the problem,” Saxson said. “I’m not a hundred percent convinced he’s going to go through with the Blood Moon as it is, try to appease the Curse. The last thing he needs is to be told about his twin.”

“Not unless you wanna see him blow a gasket,” Santos said. “Truly come unglued.”

“Yeah, but if you don’t tell him…” Saber shook his head. “That’s bullshit. He’s a grown-ass male. He has a right to know. Good, bad, or indifferent, it’s his call to make. I couldn’t stand it when everyone was trying to decide for me and Vanya, tell me what I needed to do or who I was meant to be. At some point, a man’s gotta be a man, and a vampire’s gotta be free to choose.”

Nachari hung his head and sighed in irritation. “We need to bring Napolean in on this. If there’s even a chance that Grigori Antonopoulos is Ian Lacusta, then the king needs to know.”