Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (31 page)

He was no less imposing at half his height.

Terrifying, really.

Julien immediately bowed his head out of deference and averted his eyes out of terror.

“
Recede
,” the mighty god commanded, glaring at the Blood.

The apparition snarled as it warily drew back, allowing Julien some room to breathe, but it did not retreat from its claim. “The child of Hercules is ours! This son of Jadon, who you seek to protect; he failed to fulfill his Blood Moon. We have come to take him to the Valley of Death and Shadows.”

Hercules threw back his head and laughed, the deafening retort shaking the deck beneath them. “You foolish necromancers. He isn’t dead!” The last word echoed like a clap of thunder.
 

“Ah, but he will be soon,” the Blood crooned softly.
 

Hercules drew back his shoulders and raised his chest. “Not necessarily,” he spat. “And even if he dies, that doesn’t necessarily give you a claim. There are yet
twenty-two days
left in his Blood Moon.”

This time, it was the Blood that chuckled. “Perhaps, my lord, perhaps.
But
he was not faithful in his desire to fulfill his obligation—he took his own life. That is not the same as being killed or dying of natural causes, something he couldn’t prevent. He can neither present the required sacrifice, nor turn himself into the Chamber. From where we stand, he forfeits his birthright to the Valley of Spirit and Light. He has tried to circumvent the Curse, and now, he belongs to us.”
 

Hercules rose to his full, imposing height and stepped forward toward the Blood, causing the entity to draw back in fear. “Allow me to remind you of the rules, the rubrics you created when you masterminded this infernal curse!”
He gestured angrily with his hands as he spoke, his powerful voice dripping with mockery. “From this day forward, you shall be cursed! And your sons shall be cursed. And their sons after them…unto all eternity.” He softened his voice just a bit, as he were lecturing a child. “But do not forget that you gave the sons of Jadon
four mercies
; you allowed them to retain their souls. Thus, they reside for eternity in the Valley of Spirit and Light.”

The Blood undulated and swayed—to the left, then the right—as if to an internal song.
“’Tis true that we allowed them their souls, and we gave them the sun. We did not require them to kill the innocent when consuming their much-needed blood; and we gave them
one opportunity
to procure a mate, and thirty days to do so. But we demanded a sacrifice in return, the life of a soulless son. The Valley of Death and Shadows will not be denied. Whether it was the child or the father, by choice or by challenge, it made no difference to us; but make no mistake, a soul is required, and this one has circumvented the law. He tried to take his own life. He tried to avoid the Curse.”
 

Hercules shook his head, and his golden hair framed his massive shoulders like a royal cloak. “My son is standing on the Bridge Between Worlds for a reason. He is neither alive nor dead, and his final destination is yet to be determined. But I say this to you—and you will hear me clearly—his final choice was one of honor; it was an act of valor; and he did not seek to violate your law. He did not consciously choose to die, nor did he desire to do so. He was simply willing to give his life in order to stop an eternal scourge: his brother, Ian. So the question we weigh is one of degrees—suicide versus natural death—what did the tracker
intend
to do?”
 

The Blood hissed again, and dark red plasma sprayed outward, perversely staining the snow. “And what court shall decide this dilemma? To whom should we plead our case?”

Hercules tightened his fist in anger, and the three-headed staff shook from his rage. “You may be a powerful entity, grown strong from iniquity and sin, but I am a celestial god, an original omniscient being: I need no tribunal to rule; I require no jury to measure my words; nor do I demand an assembly to weigh my thoughts. There is no power greater than my own. And I have already decided. Should this warrior live, he still has twenty-two days. Should the son of Jadon perish, his soul belongs…to me.”
 

The Blood jolted backward and dipped in what could only be described as an unholy curtsey, and then, without warning or pause, a million crimson cells began to coalesce. They danced, they expanded, and they grew, until they coagulated into a dozen cerise arms and latched onto Julien like tentacles, snatching the tracker to his feet, and drawing him into their mass.
 

With a rage-filled screech and a final flash of fury, the abomination withdrew from the icy bridge.

Taking the tracker with it.

thirty

As swiftly, yet as carefully, as she could, Rebecca cut through Julien’s bandages and turned her full attention to his toes. She wrapped the palms of her hands around each charred, melted digit and waited as the blackened flesh turned pink, as the connected metatarsals realigned. The tracker stirred in the bed, twisting and turning this way and that, but only by small haphazard increments. When she reached his heels, and then his ankles, when she began to massage his calves—all the while breathing, willing, transferring life into his rigid muscles—he began to flex and tense.

It didn’t matter.

She couldn’t stop to try to read him, to discern what was going on, to call Kagen or Arielle and ask the healers for assistance. For whatever reason, the clock was ticking, and she had to continue…quickly.
 

In fact, she had to move faster.
 

Much, much faster.
 

She covered his kneecaps with her palms and tried to infuse more light, and he kicked in a violent response. For the first time, he actually reacted reflexively to Rebecca’s touch, but it wasn’t an encouraging response.
 

It was a panicked, defensive start.
 

And then he moaned.

And then he shouted!

He jerked his head forward, yanked it free from the medical restraints, and strained the muscles in his neck, as if he intended to get up and run. His once-vacant eyes were wild with fury and fright, yet he still stared fixedly ahead.
 

Rebecca shivered. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!” She glanced over her shoulder at the door—maybe she should go get Kagen Silivasi, after all—but something more imperative, more important, more imminent drew her back to the immediate task: healing Julien
now
.
 

Infusing his flesh with light.
 

Breathing him back to life.

She worked feverishly on his thighs, and then his narrow hips—his ribs, his chest, his shoulders—making her way down his broken arms, until at last she reached his hands. And that’s when a sound—
a snarl
—so savage, so vicious, so fierce, emanated from his throat and nearly jolted her from the bed.
 

She screamed, withdrew her hands, and watched in mounting horror as his fangs punched free from his gums, his claws shot forth from his fingers, and his head twisted in a sharp, serpentine motion, his rage-filled eyes locking onto hers.
 

“Rebecca!” he roared like a wounded lion.
 

And then, utilizing the full measure
of his strength, he snatched her by the hand and tugged her forward.
 

Julien twisted and turned.

He flexed his biceps, expanded his chest, and tried to break free from the Blood’s unholy clutch, ripping tentacles out of his flesh as he struggled. He reached for his familiar battle axe, but it wasn’t there. They were soaring backward at an incredible rate of speed, spinning, falling, and flying through space, traversing the bridge in an instant. And then, just like that, he was surrounded by a terrible, eerie fog, and the ground beneath his feet began to ooze with demonic sludge, roiling in thick, pasty waves over his suddenly bare feet.
 

He kicked in a futile effort to break free.

The sky was as black as night, utterly absent of light or goodness, and there was no horizon as far as the eye could see, only smoke and mirrors, vapor and mist, and the appearance of charred, calcified earth. The very air around him seemed to scream with terror, to moan with incessant electrical currents, creepy-crawly gusts of wind that whipped at his skin and tugged at his soul as if it wished to rip it out of his chest.
 

Julien Lacusta was standing in the Valley of Death and Shadows.

“Welcome, brother.” Ian’s disembodied voice brought him up short, and holy hell—
may the gods have mercy
—he looked like he had swallowed a dragon. He must’ve stood at least ten feet tall; he had a spiny extremity shooting out of his tailbone; and he was literally enveloped in fire, as if they were both still burning. Only, these flames did not consume the vampire’s otherworldly flesh—they magnified it, invigorated it, illuminated his silhouette with blazing, preternatural light. His fangs were the length of a saber-toothed tiger’s, and by the look in his savage eyes, he intended to shred Julien to pieces.

The tracker took a wary step back, glancing to his left and then his right.
 

Where was the Blood now?
 

It was no longer seizing his limbs.
 

Where was his ruling celestial god, Hercules?
 

The lord had spoken clearly—he had made his pronouncement known—Julien did not belong here in the valley of the lost, the eternal resting place of absent, wayward souls!

“I don’t…I don’t belong here!” he protested feverishly, angered at his desperate opposition. He did not want to give Ian the satisfaction.

As expected, Ian roared with taunting laughter. “Apparently, you do.” He swept his arm in a wide arc, indicating the barren gorge all around them. “And isn’t this just a delicious twist of fate: I was not the sacrificial twin, after all.
You were
.”

Despite his defiance, Julien gasped.
 

No.

No!

This could not be happening.

A part of him was stricken with horror: He wanted to live; he wanted to survive! What had he ever done to deserve such a fate? Yet another part of him was resigned to his karma, both the punishment and the chance for revenge. He knew exactly what he had done to deserve this: He had failed to save that village, to appeal to his father’s love, and he had failed to atone for the most basic, original sin…

Surviving as a ten-year-old child when he should have perished along with his mother.
 

He dropped down into a defensive squat, prepared to fight this demon for all he was worth, even knowing that he couldn’t prevail. His fangs punched through his gums; he somehow released his claws; and he channeled every ounce of rage he had ever felt—or repressed—into that one critical
moment.

And that’s when Ian’s eyes transformed.

From glowing orbs of crimson, masking hints of deep, slate gray, to bright reflections of topaz, like gemstones, sparkling in a cave.

Julien jolted and blinked three times.

Rebecca?

Ian snarled, and the valley shook.
 

He took one giant step in Julien’s direction and zeroed in on his chest. He was going to seize the tracker’s soul.
 

Julien instinctively threw up his arms, creating a makeshift cross, and shielded his breast from the blow, and that’s when Ian’s claws became flesh: soft, feminine, and entreating, reaching out to…take his hand?
 

With feral desperation—and raw, unconcealed rage—Julien ignored his defensive instincts and groped at the outstretched palm. “Rebecca!” he bellowed like a madman, linking his hand in hers. He grasped it like a lifeline and tugged, practically willing his soul to funnel through her arm. Ignoring the demon before him, the inevitable embrace of death, he plunged straight into the fray.

thirty-one

Rebecca fell forward onto Julien’s chest, still startled by his savage cry. She tried to brace her palms against his breastbone and frantically push away, but the feral vampire was far too strong and much too aggressive to restrain. His crazed eyes grew wide with horror; he encircled her waist with his arm and tugged her hard against him.

“Bring me to life!” he snarled, sounding more like an animal than a man.

Rebecca flailed in panic, absorbed in a primal struggle of her own, and tried to restrain his hands. “Wh…what’s happening?” she whimpered, trying desperately to understand.

“Breathe me to life,” he insisted. “Give me your soul. Give me your
blood
.”

She opened her mouth to cry out or protest—she really wasn’t certain which one—but the warrior moved too fast. With his free hand, he swept her golden-brown hair to the side, clutched a fistful of curls in his palm, and hauled her neck forward to his mouth. And then he bit into her jugular, sinking both of his piercing fangs deep into her vein.
 

He didn’t stop there.

He released her hair, tugged at the buttons on her blouse, and ripped the bodice open. He twisted around in the bed—
bandages be damned
—and pinned her effortlessly beneath him, clutching at the fly of her jeans.