Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (4 page)

Julien’s head fell a bit more to the side and his lids twitched, just a microscopic flutter, over his eyes.
 

Julien?

I don’t need this shit, Ramsey. Don’t want it. Didn’t ask for it.
His throat felt suddenly raw, which really made no sense, considering the fact that he wasn’t speaking with his voice. And
damnit
if that H wasn’t messing with the neurons in his hippocampus because his heart was all kinds of heavy, and his eyes were suddenly moist.
 

Just in the corners.
 

But still…
 

What the hell am I gonna do with a
destiny
?
he said almost absently.
We both know there’s no room in my world for anyone but me.
He paused to remember his original train of thought.
Besides, I have half a mind to tell the Blood to go straight to hell and just let the Curse take me in the end.
He chuckled, yet the impression was absent of mirth.
Maybe take a trip to hell, visit dear ole dad. Finally have that conversation. You know the one—yo, pops, what the blazes was your problem?

Ramsey immediately snarled, and his voice grew deathly
grave.
That’d better be the H talkin’, warrior. Don’t even play like that. Let’s not forget: The Blood can take you on a lifelong trip, an eternal, never-ending vacation.
To hell.
 

Julien exhaled slowly.
Yeah…I got it…believe me.

Ramsey Olaru grew quiet for the space of several heartbeats, and then he gentled his psychic voice.
All right, brother, I’ll call Nachari now.
He stopped talking, but he didn’t disconnect.

Thank you
, Julien murmured.
Be well.
He slurred his words.

Yeah
, Ramsey chimed back in,
be well, warrior.
And then the sentinel closed the connection.

Ramsey Olaru kicked his feet up as he stretched out in the luxurious lawn chair, next to the fire pit on his tranquil wraparound deck,
and reached out to Nachari Silivasi on a one-to-one telepathic bandwidth. He told the Master Wizard everything he needed to know, including the location of both human females in Julien’s great room, the condition of the zoned-out tracker, and the need to use a whole lot of caution and a heavy dose of discretion, the moment he entered the chaotic home.
 

Not to misrepresent the situation, Julien Lacusta was not a heartless or sadistic male, at least not with his friends and females. He had just been dealt a terrible hand in life. Just the same, Ramsey warned the insightful wizard to keep a
clear and generous distance between himself and the human
destiny,
letting Nachari know that Julien was channeling some raw, territorial instincts—whether he recognized them or not—and unless he wanted to fight the brutal son of a jackal, he had better proceed with caution. And then he broached a much more ominous and urgent subject.

Wizard
. His voice had a no-nonsense, almost solemn tone to
it—Ramsey fully intended to convey the full depth of his concern.
 

What is it, sentinel?
Nachari asked, immediately registering the tone.
 

Before you go, before you leave Julien to his
destiny
,
there’s something I need you to do…for me.

Name it
, Nachari said,
and consider it done
.

Ramsey did just that.

three

Ian Lacusta braced his forearms against the iron railing on the starboard deck of his sixty-meter yacht. He gazed out over the roiling ocean, noticing how the waves were really picking up, tossing, turning, practically churning now, and then he glanced up at the crystalline night sky.

He immediately drew back.

The moon was a stunning blood-red orb.

How odd, yet familiar.

The stark red globe was brutal with intensity; the entire sky was lit up like a bonfire; and the stars—
great sons of darkness, the stars
—they were meticulously aligned in a clear, deliberate pattern reflecting an unmistakable outline: the celestial constellation
Hercules
, kneeling with his foot on the head of Draco.

Drawn from someplace so primordial its origins were inscrutable, a feral snarl escaped Ian’s throat. He immediately stood up straight, clenched his fists, and slowly backed away from the railing. Like a lion retreating from a maggot-infested meal, he turned up his nose and scented the air with disdain. The moon was beyond reprehensible; it was an abomination.

It was an omen, a sign, a scourge.

And it evoked a feeling—
a memory
—that Ian had long ago buried.

“Huh,” he grunted, crossing his arms, leaning back against the balustrade, and forcing his emotions to heel. “Son of a bitch.” He shook his head briskly to disrupt the thoughts, and then he snarled. “So Julien is still alive.”

Certain that no one was home, Trevor Rainier clenched his gloved hand into a fist and slammed it straight through the back patio door of Rebecca’s third-floor apartment. He reached around the broken glass, unlatched the lock, and quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. And then he quietly slipped inside, emerging in the kitchen.

It had been five long years.

Five years of suffering, five years of rage, and five years of barren existence without Rebecca, while he had tracked, scoured, and hunted in a furious effort to find the
bitch
that belonged to him. And, honestly? He might not have ever found her if it hadn’t been for that one stupid charity event: a multi-campaign fund-raiser held along the 16
^th
Street Mall, where VOSU had hosted a booth.

A booth primarily manned by Rebecca Johnston.

Oh sure, she had worn a low baseball cap and a pair of ridiculously large sunglasses, but Trevor would’ve recognized those golden-brown, shoulder-length S-curls anywhere, that slender five-feet, six-inch frame…that long, elegant neck…especially when a local TV station picked up the story, and Trevor just happened to be watching from a Colorado hotel.

Rebecca had always preferred the western United States: The east was too cold; the south was too humid, and the Midwest was too unfamiliar for her comfort. Trevor had tracked her from Nevada to California, from California to Arizona, and finally, from Arizona to New Mexico, where he had eventually lost her trail. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she had moved on, or to connect the western dots. Rebecca was headed to Colorado next, and Trevor was right behind her, whether she knew it or not.

Despite her
holier than thou
attitude and her arrogant, misguided belief that she could outwit anyone, Rebecca had always been pathetically predictable. She had blown
her
misunderstanding
with Trevor completely out of proportion, turned it into a full-fledged crisis—like he was some crazy, rabid animal and she was some distressed, helpless maiden—like the two of them weren’t actually in love. Like she suddenly needed to fight for some greater cause: to save all women
everywhere
from the likes of Trevor Rainier.

He picked up a familiar coffee mug from the kitchen counter, one that
had an adorable picture of Snoopy dancing on the side, one that Rebecca’s mother had given her on her twenty-second birthday, and flung it across the room, shattering the stoneware into a dozen arbitrary pieces. And then he sauntered across the clean tile floor to the calendar and corkboard she always kept on the refrigerator, and he laughed.

Pathetically predictable.

As always.

He ran his forefinger over the calendar until he came to the correct date—Sunday, January 23
^rd
—and then he smiled at the elegant, perfect print: D2D/DMV. Door-to-door…
fund-raising
? And DMV. So, what or where was DMV?
Department of Motor Vehicles?
And why the hell would she be fund-raising there? He laughed uproariously as an image of a bunch of middle-aged hags flashed through his mind. Maybe she was linking up with Mothers Against Drunk Drivers. They could all be MADD together, in every sense of the word.

And then he practically snarled.

Beneath the calendar, pinned to the corkboard, was a neatly written quote:
“You are NOT powerless.”
And just below that one was another:
“It is okay to be angry. It is never okay to be cruel.”
Yet another one, still:
“Don’t ever stray away from yourself to get closer to someone else.”

What the hell was her issue?

Trevor ripped the quotes from the corkboard, crumpled them up in his hand, and tossed them in the same direction as the mug. That silly, stupid,
selfish
tramp. If she had just tried harder to listen, learned when to shut up and obey, made a greater effort to please him, she wouldn’t be in this predicament: feeling powerless, all alone, and like she’d strayed from herself.

Strayed from Trevor and the life she had
promised
to share with him.

He could hardly contain his fury.

He stormed out the kitchen, stalked through the living room, and headed toward the long, narrow hall, throwing open every door that he passed in a wild frenzy, desperate to find her bedroom. At last, he came to the last door on the right, and the moment he flung it open, he recognized, smelled, and remembered…Rebecca.

Her stamp was all over the elegant, tasteful furniture; her gentle spirit was tucked into the soft, fringed pillows, placed neatly on the bed; her eye for color, contrast, and symmetry was in the paintings, the lighting, the modern but understated décor. Yes, this had Rebecca written all over it.

He inhaled deeply, taking in the faint hint of her scent, the vanilla-spiced perfume that still lingered gently in the air—it was probably sprayed on the pillows—and then he made his way to the bed, reclined atop the comforter, rolled around on the pillows, and buried his face in the thick, folded throw that was nestled at the foot of the mattress.

Rebecca.

His baby.

He could almost taste her.

He was so very close to finding her…at last.

The thought was erotic, and he moved his hand to the fly of his jeans, slowly releasing the buttons.

Ah yes, Rebecca: He would leave his beloved a gift.

four

Rebecca sat quietly, perfectly still, in the soft leather chair, her knees tucked to her chest, her arms embracing her knees, staring warily at the giant man on the floor.

He appeared to be sleeping, but she knew he was not.

Every time she rose to tiptoe away, he grunted, or snarled, or told her to sit back down. She was growing feverish with anxiety, paralyzed with fear, when the door to the rustic, secluded house creaked open.

Rebecca sat forward, her ears suddenly perking up. Instantly alert, she could have heard a pin drop from a half block away.
 

Was someone coming in?

Hope washed over her in a silent wave, and she squinted to see into the foyer.

Yes!

Yes.

There was someone entering the house: a tall, dark man with thick, wavy hair and a similar countenance to Julien’s.
Sweet Mother of Mercy
, he moved like a panther, with absolute silence and grace. His shoulders were pulled back in a proud, almost arrogant bearing; his jaw was set in a determined line; and he prowled through the doorway more than he walked, scanning the entire room in the breadth of a second. As he headed toward her chair, Rebecca almost screamed—

For Julien
.

She almost wanted the gladiator to help her.
 

She pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle the impulse.

No.
No!
Don’t be an idiot
, she told herself. The odds of two serial killers working together in collusion were slim at best. This was Rebecca’s chance—a stranger—someone who could help her, even if he was scary as the day was long.

She gulped and gathered her courage, and then she raised her arm and waved her hand in a furious motion.

His eyes shot immediately to hers, and the breath rushed out of her body.