Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (11 page)

He needed to play it safe.
 

History had taught him that appearing anywhere as a vampire was a non-starter. People freaked out; women screamed; men tried to attack, out of some intrinsic flight-or-flight impulse, and Ian invariably had to destroy them all…or make himself a god among men until he grew tired of the game. Even those who didn’t know who—or what—he was still sensed his errant energy, his vacant, demonic heart. And there was just something wicked, vivid, innately unsettling about his black-and-red banded hair. It had taken him a lot of centuries and a lot of trial and error to learn how to project it as blond, but he could.
 

He could.

And he could also travel as the mist.
 

He could scatter his molecules to the winds to mask his scent and hide his identity—he had used it for centuries to elude his brother, Julien, just in case the male was still alive. He could alter the chemical composition of his core and spread it out over miles and miles, if he chose, moving across the land as a fog. Perhaps it was shape-shifting. Perhaps it was something else. Did the proper terminology really matter? After many grueling trials and errors, Ian had finally mastered the craft.

And yes, Harietta had played an invaluable role:
 

Picture the brightest light you can see, Ian; now try to wrap it, like a cloak, around your mind.
The darkness is too stark, Ian; watch your brother, study your twin, try to sense Julien’s soul and emulate it. That’s not good enough, Ian; there’s still something wrong.
Be
the sunrise, Ian;
be
the rose as it blooms;
be
the mist that settles on the grass as dew. Study its innocence, son. Understand what makes it pure. And try…
try harder
…to do and be just that.

If Ian could’ve brought the woman back to life just to kill her again, he would’ve.
 

What that hag had never understood was that there was nothing
wrong
. There was nothing
missing
. There was nothing
too dark
. All that blackness, all that vacancy, all that
wrongness
—was him.

Ian Lacusta.

Exactly the way the Blood had made him.

Exactly the way the dark lords intended.

Yet and still, he had mastered the craft for his mother, and curse her rotting soul, he had learned to become a pure, undefinable, undetectable mist. He had learned how to hide his identity in the fog. And now, nearly thirty minutes after sunset, as he descended on the northern end of Dark Moon Vale to get his own lay of the land, so to speak, before contacting the house of Jaegar, he had the perfect opportunity to try it out.

The young male, perched on the bank of the river, was a vampire for sure, and his soul absolutely screamed house of Jadon. If Ian could pass himself off as whatever he chose to this male—if he could emerge from the mist and fool another of his kind into believing he was a harmless innocent, a pure and lovely soul—then he could afford to spend some time in the valley.

He could afford to be within one hundred miles of Julien, confident that he would remain undetected.

The young vampire sat up straight, stiffened his spine, and his burnt-sienna eyes began to glow a coral red, even as he lengthened his fangs and his claws and began to study the mist. And kudos to him, really; at least he knew that the vapor was unnatural.
 

Ian gathered his molecules to his core; donned his familiar black jeans and a light, dusky gray cloak; and made sure his hair was blond. And then he simply stepped out of the mist and curled his lips into the best imitation of a smile that he had.

“Greetings, fledgling; I am Grigori Antonopoulos, from the isle of Greece, a son of the Vampyr who has been too long away from his people. I greet you in the name of Prince
Jadon.”
 

nine

Braden Bratianu bounded to his feet, startled by the sudden appearance of the strange, enigmatic vampire—how the heck had he snuck up on Braden like that? And how the heck had he
transformed into the
essence of fog?
Outside of Nachari Silivasi, who could shift at will into a panther, and the fact that all vampires could cloak their appearances, become invisible, and even take the shape of a simple bird, like a raven or a bat, this was more than just a little bit extreme. It was a feat of mastery only attempted by a Master Wizard or an Ancient.
 

It was a phenomenal accomplishment and something Braden immediately wanted to learn. He wiped his palms on his jeans, a bit ashamed that he had been sweating just moments earlier. “What’s up?” he mumbled, still eyeing the guy warily. “Where the heck did you come from?”

The male took a generous step back as if he knew his presence was overwhelming. “I already told you, did I not? I’ve been traveling…in Greece.”

Braden frowned.
 

Traveling in Greece?
 

Did he run one of the vampire’s various resorts for Napolean, feeding the funds back into Dark Moon Vale? And why hadn’t Braden ever heard of Grigori Antonopoulos, a Greek surname, rather than Romanian?
 

Of course, there were a lot of vampires Braden didn’t know…

He cleared his throat, trying to sound older than he was. “Why…so why are you…I mean, why are you all like, just popping up on the bank of a river and shit?” Okay, so that didn’t sound very mature. “I’m just sayin’—why not head to Napolean’s manse or check in with your family or somethin’? Why…I mean…what the hell, dude?”

Grigori laughed conspiratorially. And then the oddest thing happened: Braden felt the lightest tap against his mind, almost like the vampire was trying to glimpse Braden’s thoughts, retrieve some specific piece of information, but nah, he wouldn’t do that, right? That was so against the laws in the house of Jadon, and the guy was definitely a vampire, and he definitely had blond hair—the Dark Ones couldn’t dye that stuff, or at least they were too arrogant and proud to want to—so, maybe, he was just really,
really
odd.
 

“How old are you, son?” the vampire asked.

Braden puffed out his chest and raised his chin, running his tongue over his upper canines. “Almost seventeen,” he answered defiantly.
 

Grigori’s expression deepened with regard. “Ah, and to think I would’ve taken you for at least twenty—you must work out.”

Braden smiled then. “Yeah, you know: I do what I can.”

Grigori nodded and held up both hands. “We all do; do we not?” He chuckled softly. “Can I tell you a secret, my friend?” He swept his hand in an apologetic arc. “I’m afraid I did not ask your name.”

“Braden,” he said warily.
 

“Ah, yes…can I tell you a secret,
Braden
?”

Braden cocked his eyebrows circumspectly, feeling a tad weirded out. “Sure, I guess.”

Grigori appeared undaunted. “I came to Dark Moon Vale—
at the bank of a river
—because I was simply hoping for some solitude, peace, and tranquility before making my presence known. My running into you, here, was purely coincidence, but my secret is this: I am not the greatest fan of this place…or our people.” He quickly held up both hands in a passive gesture to moderate any offense. “Don’t misunderstand me; I revere our king and our patriarch, Prince Jadon, but I have been gone for many, many years.” He shrugged as if it was an insignificant detail. “The truth is, my parents, who have long since passed away, had very little use for me when I was your age. And 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.”

Braden furrowed his brow.
 

Damn, that was kind of messed up.
 

He was just about to argue—surely no one would’ve treated this guy like an outcast, even if he was extremely weird—but then, the guy was pretty old. Who knew how the Vampyr behaved in 1100 AD or even earlier? Certainly not Braden. And besides, he totally got the absent parents thing. Been there. Done that. Still wore the T-shirt. “Ah man,” he said. “That’s too bad, ’cause it’s really a cool place, even if you don’t have your parents.”
 

The guy focused on the comment like an eagle homing in on its prey. “Forgive me, but it sounds as if you might have a personal acquaintance with the subject of missing parents. Am I…wrong?”

Braden stiffened, growing instantly alert. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn the vampire had read his mind or, more accurately, his history. But that wasn’t possible because Braden never thought about it. Braden never talked about it. Braden never mentioned to anyone, not even Nachari, that while his parents called him once a week and sent frequent gifts and letters, he often felt like he’d been abandoned. He had never told a single soul that his biological father used to abuse his mother before she filed for divorce, and Braden looked an awful lot like his human father. Maybe too much like his human father. He had never told a single soul what his mother had said, that one night, when she was drunk…
 

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Dario and Lily had given in so easily when Braden had asked to remain in Dark Moon Vale. Sure, the Academy was better than homeschooling, and as a wizard, Nachari could teach him things Dario could never explore—but to Braden’s way of thinking, his parents had Conrad now; Braden had a brother he hardly knew; and if they had really wanted him with them, they would have objected to such a long stay.
 

They would have come to visit.

Pitching his shoulders back in a proud, defiant stance, Braden raised his chin, angled his jaw, and succinctly changed the subject. He wasn’t about to
go there
with a stranger. “So, who’s your friend?” he asked, his tone making the shift in subject deliberate. “Maybe I know him.”

Grigori met Braden’s gaze with a pensive stare of his own, openly assessing the boy’s reluctance, and then, just like that, his countenance softened, he became generously amenable, and he smiled.
Subject change acknowledged.
“Excuse me?” he asked in an affable tone.

“Your friend,” Braden repeated. “You said you had a friend here, a
best friend
, a male you grew up with.”
 

Grigori’s eyes flitted to the side, waxing suddenly nostalgic. “Ah yes, my dear friend. His name is…or at least it was…Julien Lacusta.”

Braden sucked in a harsh breath of air. “The tracker?”

Grigori narrowed his gaze on Braden and slowly nodded his head, his lips turning up in a mischievous grin. “Ah, is that what he’s become?”

Braden nodded in kind. “Hell yeah, and he’s just about the best damn tracker the house of Jadon has ever seen. That, and a Master Warrior. In fact, he just had a Blood Moon, like no less than twenty-four hours ago, so now he’s got a
destiny
.”

Grigori smiled and threw up both hands. “Well, there you go. Of course, I saw the sky—don’t we all? And that is what prompted me to finally come home and visit.” He leaned forward and practically whispered his next, drawn-out words. “But I really do hope to surprise him, Braden. I think it would mean the world to…the tracker.” He practically gleamed with inner satisfaction. “In fact, now that I know what he does, 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.”

Braden frowned. “I guess, but I think he’s going to be pretty busy for the next twenty-eight days, if you know what I mean?”

Grigori’s eyes lit up with mirth. “Indeed. I know exactly what you mean. All the more reason not to bother him right away.”

Braden nodded, and the silence grew heavy. No question about it: The guy was weird.
Really weird.
Still, that wasn’t exactly a crime. “So, where are you going to stay? I mean, while you’re here?” He gestured in the direction of River Rock Road. “I’ve got a car. I can take you to the lodge or maybe a hotel.”

“I think I’d like to reacquaint myself with nature for a time, to rediscover the land. But thank you for the offer.”
 

Braden flashed a dismissive smirk as if to say,
suit yourself
. He started to ask Grigori for his cell number—maybe he could text him sometime—but then he thought, nah; dude probably had a tin can attached to the end of a string, or an old-fashioned telegraph machine:
tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap
. He chuckled inwardly, feeling guilty for mocking the peculiar vampire, even if the guy was unnaturally strange.
 

“What were you doing?” Grigori asked, making Braden feel instantly guilty. He pointed toward the flat, rocky ledge, at the polished, drying stones, and Braden sighed with relief.
 

“Oh, that?” Braden turned around to face the stones, grateful for the temporary
distraction
.
“I was just playin’ around with some energy, trying to turn water into wine, you know, that sort of thing.”

“You were trying to make gemstones?” Grigori asked.

Now this got Braden’s attention. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

Grigori cocked one shoulder to his ear in a facetious gesture and smirked. “What kind?”

Braden stared harder at the stones and frowned, knowing he probably didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the metamorphosis right. “Citrines,” he answered sheepishly.

“Citrines?” Grigori repeated. “Hmm.” He glided over to the stones, squatted down in front of the rocky ledge, and placed both hands, palms down, over the rocks. “Ah, you’ve done well, thus far. The stones feel pliant—you’ve already focused some energy.”

Braden raised both brows and took a step closer toward the ledge. “You think?”

“Oh, yes,” Grigori insisted. He bent closer to the stones. “Do you mind?”