Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (27 page)

Napolean snorted and frowned.

Apparently, that side-conversation was supposed to be off the record.

“Sorry, milord,” Saxson mumbled.

The tip of Braden’s nose twitched in anger, or maybe frustration. “So, what? I’m just a liability now? I’m not even a vampire? I’m not even a man? Forgive me,
warriors
, but this is bullshit—just sayin’ since I’m part of this council.”

Nachari hung his head. He waved his hand in an arc to silence any protests from the others and sighed. “Braden…” He spoke calmly. “We’ve been over this, son. I know how you feel. We all know how you feel. And we all get it. I promise; we do. But this”—he gestured once again, this time
denoting the table, the conference room, and all the vampires present. “This is the real deal. This is what being a man, a warrior, and a member of the house of Jadon looks like. Coming to the table with the sentinels and the king, agreeing on strategy and assigning roles, making sure the warrior beside you knows—without question or hesitation—that you are one hundred percent, all in. That you have his back. That you get the plan. That you’re completely on board with working as a unit. You want to be taken seriously? Then you take us seriously. Then you take obedience seriously. You want a place at the table with the big boys, with the king? Then you’d better learn to watch your mouth. Just sayin’.”
 

Julien drew back and grimaced as he watched the scene unfold: It was uncharacteristic of Nachari Silivasi to speak in such a harsh, unequivocal manner, especially to the sensitive, impressionable boy, but this was not a time to play around. He watched as Braden’s complexion grew sallow, and the fledgling averted his eyes.

“Sorry,” Braden mumbled.

And while the whole scene was instructive and touching, Julien had heard enough. Ian was his lifelong nemesis, the never-ending thorn in his side, and if Nachari was going to be in charge of keeping Julien breathing while he waited underground, then the last thing the wizard needed to worry about was a recalcitrant boy, a spirited young vampire who was eager to prove himself at the creek. “Look at me,” he snarled, locking his gaze with Braden’s and dilating his own pupils as a precursor to a compulsion. He had every intention of burning an unerring command into the child’s mind—
you will do exactly as Ramsey has bid you
—thus, removing the element of chance.
 

“Tracker.” Napolean’s deep, commanding voice brought him up short.

Julien’s intense gaze shot to Napolean, and he made no effort to conceal the disdain he knew was brimming
in his eyes.
 

“No.” The king’s word fell upon the table like an anvil. “That is not our code.”
 

Julien started to protest, but something in Napolean’s demeanor brought him up short, and he sank back into his chair instead. “Apologies, milord.”

Napolean nodded, and then he turned his attention to Braden. “Son, do we have your word? Your job is to lure Ian to the creek; if possible, to lead him to where Julien is hiding; and then, to put it in terms you youngsters understand, to get the hell out of dodge, post haste. No magic, no fighting, no improv. You follow Saxson’s lead—and his orders—as if they were my own. Your word?”

Braden nodded emphatically. “You have my word.”

“Very well,” Napolean continued. “Now then, read the missive once more so that we are all reminded of Ian’s treachery, what this simple, manipulative degenerate believes he can pull off.”

Braden reached into the hip pocket of his jeans and retrieved the crumpled missive, shaking it out a few times to unsnarl the page:
Greetings, my auspicious friend—
he paused to roll his eyes—
I have discovered nine perfect stones down by the stream, near River Rock Road, and I believe I have fashioned five perfect citrines, three perfect rubies, and one flawless diamond ~ all for my newfound acquaintance. Alas, I am still biding my time—you will keep our secret, won’t you? Meet me by the river, Sunday night. Same place as before. I am in great need of familiar company.
Grigori.

Braden tossed the missive in the center of the mahogany table, and Julien stifled a snarl.

They had less than thirty minutes remaining.

Thirty minutes before the sun went down.

Thirty minutes to get into position, and thirty minutes to solidify the plan.

Julien drew a deep breath of air in a gargantuan effort to control his emotions—he could not afford to lose it now—his mind had to be clear and free of opiates when he met his twin on the banks of the mountain creek.
 

In less than thirty minutes, Julien Lacusta would
finally
get the chance of a lifetime to settle a score as timeless
and primal as the cycle of life,
and death
, itself. He would finally get to unleash the demons that had taken root in his soul, tortured his psyche, devoured his sanity, and ruled his every waking moment for as long as he had drawn breath.
 

Yes…

In less than thirty minutes, Julien Lacusta would meet up with his twin.

Ian Lacusta.

The monster who had slain their parents: one, by default; the other, by intention.
 

At long last, Julien would have a chance to settle the score.
 

twenty-five

River Rock Creek ~ nightfall
 

The sentinels waited in the wings, about one mile downwind from the rushing river, carefully concealed beyond the shoulder of River Rock Road. Napolean watched from the manse, his psychic mind linked to both Braden’s and Julien’s, projecting the scene like an old-fashioned movie reel into the minds of the waiting vampires. The panther crouched, low and still, hugging the upper limb of a narrowleaf cottonwood, despite the sapling’s flimsy branches. And the tracker burrowed deeper into the ground, willing his body not to shake as he struggled to remain undetected.
 

The night was ironically calm.
 

The air was both damp and cool.
 

And despite slowing his heartbeat to a creeping rhythm, Julien could’ve sworn each beat, each slow, measured timbre, resounded like the clang of a symbol.
 

He held his breath and waited.

Listening, intently.

Tuning in to every reel of film, every clear, moving picture projected from the Sovereign One’s mind: Braden had taken an unhurried position on the bank of the river, just three or four paces beyond a smooth, rocky ledge at the bottom of the steep embankment. He was pretending to study a handful of polished river stones, and he was in the perfect position to take two large strides back and deliver Ian to Julien.

As the air began to thicken and a familiar mist settled in, Julien’s skin began to tingle, and his senses became hyper-alert. And then, just like that, the dark, wily vampire stepped out of the mist and sauntered along the banks of the river, his right hand extended to Braden in greeting.
 

Julien grit his teeth, narrowing his gaze on the image Napolean was projecting: Six-foot-four, the same height as Julien; peculiar, dark gray eyes, only Ian’s were slate-gray as opposed to moonstone, absent of compassion and vacant of life; and long, wild hair that fell to the middle of his back, crisscrossing in wavy bands of black and red, the signature coronet of a Dark One.
 

Whoa.
 

Julien did a double-take.

Apparently, Napolean was seeing Ian with second sight, and there were two images being projected, one superimposed over the other: Grigori Antonopoulos, the hoax with blond hair that Ian was presenting to Braden, and the true face of the monster, which Napolean was seeing clearly.
 

A dark twin, born to the house of
Jadon
.

It was eerie to say the least.
 

“Greetings, my auspicious friend.” That voice. It was deep, duplicitous, and guttural.

Braden reluctantly extended his hand and nervously cleared his throat. “What’s up, Grigori.”
 

The vampire bowed his head in a mockery of an old-world gesture, and then, without blinking or any hint of warning, he tightened his grip on Braden’s right hand; yanked the youngster forward, pulling him off balance; and thrust five claws at Braden’s chest, wielding his unencumbered hand.
 

He went straight for the kill.

Straight for the heart.

There was no hesitation.

Julien’s eyes grew wide as he sprang from the ground like a geyser, praying he wasn’t too late. With dirt and leaves clouding his vision, he gasped as Ian’s claws pierced young Braden’s chest, clutched at the flesh-and-blood organ, and drew back with a mighty tug.
 

The youngster grunted, flailed his arms, and tried to regain his balance.

And then, in what appeared to be a lightning-quick sleight-of-hand, the air filled with swirling feathers, and Ian drew back a sterling white plume, the penna of an eagle, instead of Braden’s heart.

Nachari pounced from the tree, landing on Ian’s chest, even as Julien encircled Ian’s shoulders from behind, palmed his forehead with an outstretched hand, and wrenched his head to the side in an effort to snap his neck.

A sharp pain shot through Julien’s side, causing him to lose
the element of surprise and the benefit of momentum—
what the hell?
—as his own head snapped back, a pair of lethal fangs sank deep into his jugular, and what felt like the sudden presence of a giant crowding behind him began to snarl in his ear.

He released his hold on Ian and punched backward, over his left shoulder, slamming his fist into the face of the new assailant—three times in quick succession—before spinning around in an arc and forcing the jagged fangs to dislodge from his throat.
 

Meanwhile, Nachari and Ian were going at it like two wild, mystical beasts, shifting in and out of vampiric form: One moment, the panther was lunging for the Dark One’s throat; the next, he was grappling with mist. One instant, Ian was landing a series of lethal, targeted blows—striking the green-eyed wizard in the gullet, pummeling his ears, and gouging at his eyes—the next, he was flailing at a black furry ball that twisted in midair like a serpent, while releasing a harrowing cry: a roar, a grunt, and a scream.

Through his peripheral vision, Julien caught a momentary glimpse of Saxson Olaru, cradling the bloodied breast
of an eagle in his hands, preparing to release and inject healing venom, but he didn’t have a chance to zoom in. The giant who had attacked him from behind was now coming at him like a tank, unleashing a full-frontal assault.
 

Julien reached down to the thigh of his cargo pants, retrieved his familiar battle axe, and began to hack, and twirl, and slice, removing sizeable chunks of flesh with each expert swipe.
 

The gargantuan vampire laughed.

He flew backward, just out of Julien’s reach, and curled his massive palms into fists, contracting the circular bands, the jewel-eyed black mambas that wrapped around each bulging bicep; and Julien knew exactly what—and whom—he was dealing with.

Achilles Zahora.

The Executioner.

The bestial soldier of the Dark Ones’ Colony Guard.

So, Ian had made an alliance with the house of Jaegar?

Before Julien could process the full meaning of that statement, the banks of the river filled with lethal vampires from the house of Jaegar: three additional Dark Ones, with bands around their arms, all members of the Colony Guard; one familiar, evil persona, Salvatore Rafael Nistor; and of course, his own wicked brother, Ian Lacusta.
 

The dark twin still remained.

Santos, Ramsey, and Saber shimmered into view as one, each deadly warrior armed to the teeth and prepared to take on the enemy in a violent, brutal clash, and it was clear as day how the combatants were matched: The sentinels were paired with the Colony Guard; the sorcerer had come for the wizard; and the two Lacusta twins were the match that would set the deadly inferno ablaze.

It was also as dark as midnight—the sky had filled with looming clouds.

The earth began to tremble beneath them.

And the water in the river began to rise in sudden, turbulent waves, the peaks spouting crescents of fire as the ancient, half-celestial beings prepared to go to war.
 

Ian immediately fell back into the protective arms of a semicircle, ensconced by his dark, twisted allies, and Nachari Silivasi did the same: He retreated like a ghost, falling seamlessly into line with the sentinels, and that’s when Saber Alexiares sauntered to the
zenith of the skirmish and smirked.
 

“Julien,” Saber snarled brazenly, “
brothers
”—he placed a special emphasis on the familial word—“a soldier should know the names of his enemies, those who are about to die.” He spat in the direction of the Dark One’s lineup, and then he pointed at each member of the Colony Guard, one by one. “Achilles Zahora, the bastard with the creepy orange eyes; Silas Slovinsky, the brain-dead mute with a ring in his nose; Nuri Bolasek, the demon with albino skin; and Falcon Zvara, the jackal with a Mohawk—watch your back with this one; he likes to hide poison beneath his claws.” He eyed each male from head to toe with unconcealed disdain, and then he turned toward Salvatore Nistor. “And of course, this one needs no introduction: Salvatore Egomaniac Nistor. Apparently, he never grows tired of being humiliated; he’s obviously addicted to defeat; and he’s far too stupid to recognize when he’s facing a superior magician. He shouldn’t be hard to take.”

Salvatore Nistor shook with rage.
 

His fangs descended like two venomous daggers from his gums, and he lunged at Saber’s throat.

Saber raised his forearm to block him and countered with a roundhouse kick that sent the sorcerer flying backward toward the sharp, gangly branches of a nearby tree, but before the limbs could impale the evil sorcerer, Salvatore extended both arms, spit out a curse in ancient Romanian, and threw back his head in raucous laughter as the coiled black mambas encircling each of the dark soldiers’ arms instantly came to life as living, hissing serpents, and dove into the fray.