Blood Vengeance (Blood Curse Series Book 7) (6 page)

And then, just as rapidly, his face grew deathly calm and severe. “Oh, indeed, I can.” He waved his hand absently through the air. “And before all that is unholy, I promise you the exact three things you have asked for: power unlike anything a human may possess, absolute domination over the planet’s mammals, and a body that is capable of living forever. All three are mine to give.”

Tawni could hardly believe her ears. She knew there was a catch—there was always a catch—but so what? If she had that kind of power, who could stop her? If her body was immortal, then what could she possibly have to fear? And if she was at the top of the food chain, then well, that kind of said it all. Granted, he had called himself a vampire, some kind of Nosferatu, or something like that, but that wouldn’t pose a challenge, not if she was one, too. She swallowed hard and asked her last remaining question. “And in return?”

“In return?” He licked his lips like they were coated in honey.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat again. “What do you want from me in return?”

Salvatore Nistor pursed his lips and furrowed his dark brows magnanimously. “Everything,” he answered plainly. “From the moment you consent, you are mine: your body, your soul, and your allegiance. And there is no going back.”

For a split second, something in Tawni’s spirit registered an infinite and lethal warning:
Danger!
There are words beneath his words; there is a threat beyond the fantasy; duplicity, brutality, and deception are laced on his forked tongue
. But as it stood, all she heard was the promise of power: the allure of a future without vulnerability; the ability to take and destroy and dominate, at her leisure, each carrot dangled so temptingly before her as if suspended from a golden string. “I understand.” She spoke firmly.

“Oh,” he snickered, “I don’t believe you do, but you will.” He winked as if they were partners in a devilish conspiracy, and then he waved his hand to dismiss both the words and the gesture. “That is of no consequence: All that I need to know right now is whether or not you
consent
.”

Tawni thought about it.

She
really
thought about it for a moment. And then she slowly arched her back, squaring her shoulders to this terrifying being. “And just out of curiosity, if I don’t? Consent, that is? What then?”

“Then… ” He drew out the word. “Then I will kill you, Miss Duvall.” He spoke without pretense. “Slowly, painfully, simply for wasting my time,
but
”—he reached out and placed his forefinger over her lips to make sure he had her full attention—“and it’s a very important
but
; fear of death cannot be the justification for your decision.” He shrugged as if his promise to kill her was no more significant than the weather. “You should have thought that through before you
summoned
me. No,” he warned, “it is far better to die with your soul intact than to relinquish the one thing you can never reclaim out of fear of temporary suffering. If you trade your soul for what I have to offer you, you do it freely and without reservation. You do it because it is your true heart’s desire, or you don’t do it at all.”

Tawni’s knees grew weak beneath her, but fortunately, they didn’t buckle. She marshaled her strength and sidestepped past him, praying that he wouldn’t swat her like a fly for the insult. And then she wandered into the living room, where she felt like she had a little more room to breathe, and began to pace in tight little circles, all around the cluttered space. To her utter surprise, he left her alone. In fact, he simply watched like an innocent bystander.

And waited.

As if even he, in all his dark, brooding malevolence, understood the gravity of the decision, the sacredness of the moment.

She ran her hands through her hair and thought it over: True, she did not want to die. And there was no question in her mind that Salvatore would kill her, and when he did, it would be a grisly and painful death. But he was right. It was better to die than to make the wrong decision. No, she had to do this because it was truly what she yearned for, truly what she wanted, not because the six-foot lethal demon would torture her mercilessly.

She drew in a deep breath and returned to the question: Was this what she wanted? Not just now, but for all eternity? A chorus of nervous laughter escaped her throat, and she bit down hard on her tongue to make it stop. May propriety and convention be damned:
It was
.

This was exactly what Tawni wanted, and she didn’t need to think it over any further: Salvatore Nistor was the stroke of luck Tawni had been waiting for her entire life. Since the day she had turned five years old and drowned her birthday kitten, since the time she had entered the third grade and begun setting things on fire, since the day she had been mocked and ridiculed and called a witch by a group of teenage girls in the cafeteria—the day she had let the hatred burn, fester, and develop into a full-fledged obsession for vengeance—she had wanted nothing more. From the day she had begun listening to jarring music and imagining wicked scenarios, the day she had chosen hate over forgiveness, self-pity over survival, and to use her imagination to create pain rather than possibility, she had made the decision. Truth be told, Tawni Duvall had relinquished her soul a long, long time ago. Whatever happened today would be a mere formality.

“I do want this,” she said with absolute certainty. “And I freely give my consent.”

There.

She had said it.

She rubbed her hands together nervously, turned toward the kitchen, and waited for Salvatore’s reply.

*

Salvatore stared at the ridiculous human woman in utter
stupefaction.

He could hardly believe what had just happened, the words that had left her mouth, and every muscle in his body was twitching to react: to strike, mutilate, and punish, just for the hell of it. He wanted to fly into the living room and tear her skin from her body, one bloody strip at a time, just to hear her scream. He wanted to rip out her throat with his fangs, drain her body of blood, while sucking, biting, and guzzling, just to watch her writhe. He wanted to take her back to the colony, chain her to his huge iron bed, and violate her ever-so-slowly, creatively,
painfully
, in order to teach her a lesson, her
true
position on the food chain. And then he wanted to draw out her conversion for days, perhaps weeks, just because he could. He wanted to watch her plead for mercy. He wanted her to beg the god she clearly despised for salvation, knowing all the while that it was much too late, her plea would be denied, for she no longer housed a soul.

Salvatore practically salivated over the endless possibilities as he watched her, waiting so patiently for his reply.

And honestly,
how stupid could one person
be
?

He sighed, forcing all of his instincts to heel, clamping down on the need to terrorize.

As badly as he wanted to sacrifice the lamebrain offering before him—she did
consent
to relinquish her soul, after all—he knew he had to be careful. He knew he had to be smart. Right now, in this present moment, this woman could still walk in the sun, and that meant she was a valuable commodity, indeed.
Very valuable.
He needed to act with both wisdom and deliberation. This was not an opportunity that knocked every day.

Salvatore shut his eyes and imagined himself wading in a calm, peaceful stream…

Perhaps he could split the difference.

Perhaps he could take Tawni home, back to his lair, and enjoy her later, within limits.

Perhaps he could give her a mission to complete, a simple but effective task to demonstrate her
enthusiasm
, something that involved the house of Jadon, before he gifted her with immortality.

Perhaps Tawni needed to prove that she was worthy of her torment… first.

Yes
, Salvatore mused: a simple but demonstrative task was precisely what Tawni needed.

five

Tiffany leaned forward in the large, overstuffed armchair, placed the back of her hand against her forehead, and tried to discern her temperature… or something like that. She was unusually hot, or was she cool, clammy, perhaps catching a cold? She shook her head to clear the cobwebs, and the room began to spin around in wild, dizzying circles. Okay, so maybe downing four drinks in a row had not been the best idea. What time was it anyway? It had to be at least one o’clock in the morning.

Ramsey squatted down in front of her chair and stared at her intently. The ground seemed to rise up to meet his booted feet, before shifting back and forth, then settling in place. “Hey, baby girl,” he drawled in that infuriating, far-too-masculine voice, “I think you’ve had one too many. Can you stand up? Think you can walk?”

Tiffany furrowed her brows, deeply pondering the question. She placed her forefinger on her chin, inflated her cheeks with air, and then slowly blew it out, right in Ramsey’s face. He didn’t flinch. “Hmm?” she finally asked. “What was the question?”

His pouty lips turned up in a smile, and she leaned in closer for a better look, marveling at the sheer perfection of the lines, the way they accentuated his perfectly sculpted mouth. And then reality sank back in: Oh yeah, this wasn’t some Adonis kneeling before her in supplication. It was Ramsey Olaru, the pitchfork dude, and he was using his deep, gravelly voice to do something sinister to her. Just what, she wasn’t sure.

“Don’t you play games with me, Farmer John.” She slurred the words, all the while pointing a stern, accusing finger in his general direction. “’Cause I need it.
See it.
I mean, I know what you are doing.”

Ramsey nodded his head, leaned back on his heels, and bit the inside of his cheek, continuing to stare at her like she had cake, or frosting, or something on her nose. She knew that she didn’t.

So, ha!

“Damn,” he grumbled. “I wish you would’ve told me you were such a lightweight, Blondie. I would’ve made you something else.”

Now this felt like a direct assault… or an insult… something clearly nefarious. Tiffany sat up straight and tried to hold his iron stare with one of her own. “You can’t make me
anything
, Mr. Olaru!” There.
She’d told him!
She sat back in the chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and huffed. “Besides, my mother made me, not you! So, deal with that.” Although she meant every word in earnest, this somehow made her giggle.

Ramsey averted his eyes and simply nodded, again. “All right, Blondie,” he said, his voice absent of challenge or insult—peculiar, that. “Tell you what: I think we need to find some pj’s, maybe head for the shower, and then tuck you into bed.”

Tiffany gasped. “Don’t you dare put the shower in my bed! I know how to do it
all
by myself.” She stood up abruptly and almost toppled over sideways before he caught her in his arms, his large, rugged hands anchored, once again, on both sides of her waist. She knew where this was headed, right down to her… bottom!

“Is that a fact?” he said, before she had another chance to speak. He lifted her as effortlessly as he might have hefted a sack of potatoes and then gently tossed her over his shoulders, so that she was now hanging upside down.

“Ohhhh,” she moaned, reaching for the pockets on his blue jeans and tugging in earnest. “I think I’m gonna puke on your butt.” He quickly set her down, steadying her on her feet by her shoulders. She leaned forward and rested her head against his chest. “Oh, God… why did I drink so much?”

“Tiffany,” he whispered, taking one hand off her shoulder to place it on her cheek. “Look at me. Maybe I can help.”

She drew her face away from his hand and held it at an awkward angle, tilted to the side, and then she narrowed her eyes into a squint and glared at him from her peripheral vision—yet she said nothing.

He moved both hands to the ridge of her elbows, providing moderate but surprisingly effective support, and then he frowned. “What the hell is that?” he asked, scrunching up his face in confusion.

“What?” she demanded.

“That look. Your face. What the hell are you doing?”

She grit her teeth, pursed her lips, and tried to glare at him like a vampire—it seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time—and then she snorted. “I’m giving you a warning,” she said tersely. “You. Are. Not. Going. To. Get. Away. With. This.”

Ramsey whistled low beneath his breath, almost sounding like Nathaniel Silivasi, and then he slowly shook his head. “Wow… okay. I think we’re done for the night.” He placed one hand beneath her knees, the other around her waist, and lifted her to his chest. “C’mon, baby girl; it’s time to go night-night.” He started toward the hallway… and the bedrooms.

“Hey! I thought I toooold youuuu—”

“Yep, you told me, all right. C’mon, Miss Matthews.” He continued down the hall until he reached the second master bedroom, the one across from his own room, and then he used his telekinesis to open the door. “It’s time to hit the sack.”

Tiffany tried to protest, but it wasn’t worth the energy. All she wanted was for him to stop walking, stop moving, so the room would stop spinning.

He somehow managed to hold onto her with only one arm, while pulling back the covers with the other, and then he gently laid her down on the soft memory-foam mattress—well, as gently as Ramsey did anything. Put it this way: He didn’t throw her or drop her on her head.

Tiffany moaned and crawled further onto the mattress, trying to quiet her stomach. She so did not want to vomit. “Ohhh, Godddddd,” she repeated.

“Sh, Blondie,” he said, and then she heard him walk away. All of a sudden there was water running in the en suite bath, and a few minutes later, he was back with a cool washcloth. “Roll over,” he said, waiting as she rolled gingerly onto her back.

“There,” he grumbled. His bedside manner left a bit to be desired, but all in all, he was pretty gracious.

He placed the cool cloth on her forehead, and she sighed. “Thank you.”

He grunted something unintelligible, and she assumed he probably nodded, but her eyes were closed and she had no intentions of opening them again, not until, maybe, the next century. Perhaps he could convert her and get on with the whole nasty business of the Curse while she slept, blissfully unaware. The thought drifted off into the same fog as her mind, completely enveloping her consciousness and ushering her into an alternate, hazy plane. Several minutes passed by, and she could have sworn she heard something, someone, making another trip to the bathroom and running the faucet again. She no longer remembered exactly where she was or who, precisely, she was with. And for some reason, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was sleep: blessed, peaceful
sleep
.

The washcloth was placed on her forehead again, and she welcomed it. When she felt her legs elevate above the bed, her pants slide over her hips, and her blouse slip off her arms, she thought she should probably say something, maybe protest, but it was far too much effort to try. Instead, she wriggled out of the garments and luxuriated in the most glorious sensation in the world: crisp, clean sheets enfolding her body, being tucked up to her chin, and a soft but heavy blanket enveloping her in its comforting warmth. “Mmm,” she murmured. And then she turned onto her side. “Ramsey,” she said absently, wondering if it was the brutish Master Warrior who was actually tucking her in.

“Yeah, babe?” The deep, silken voice seemed to drift from the ether. Perhaps Ramsey was somewhere else. Perhaps he was somewhere using his supernatural powers to communicate like a vampire—could they actually do that? She thought she mumbled a reply, but maybe it was just a dream.

When the mattress depressed beside her, a large hand supporting the weight of an even larger body as it bent over her languid frame, she burrowed deeper into the pillow, placed her arm beneath her head, and nestled against the crook of her elbow.

A pliant but firm set of lips brushed her cheeks, and then the weight was gone.

“Sleep with the angels, baby girl,” she heard from that same, foggy distance. She raised her knee to get even more comfortable and slid her free hand under the pillow.

Sleep with the angels?

Nah, that was definitely
not
Ramsey Olaru.