Blood Possession (11 page)

He let out a slow, deep breath—one he had been holding metaphorically for centuries—and briefly shut his eyes:
Gods, he had been so alone for so long.

He ran his hands through his long hair and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. In all his long centuries, he had shared his bed less than two dozen times with a human woman, and then, only when the loneliness—the existence of a life without any physical contact—had become unbearable. The relationships had all been short-lived, ending with his guilt and the woman’s memory erased for both of their protection. And the sex? Well, it had been hollow at best, a physical release, an emotional larceny. He had always had to use such enormous restraint, such incredible concentration, to avoid hurting the human; and the care that had to be taken to avoid an accidental pregnancy was beyond daunting. Such an error with any woman who was not a male vampire’s true destiny was an unspeakable tragedy, ending in her ultimate death.

The idea of it had been one of the reasons he had finally let go of Vanya—let go of the idea that they might have a future. He had lived so long, had seen so many blood moons, he had known from the beginning—deep in his soul—that she was not his true
destiny
. But their attraction had been so magnetic. So powerful. So intense. They had shared a yearning based on a common history, an understanding of loyalty and duty, a longing to stand in greatness with another being. And of course, a physical hunger to touch the core of what each one of them was in another: original beings begotten of the celestial gods and their human mates.

But to chance hurting Vanya?

It had been just too much to risk.

Injuring her body—or breaking her heart—would have been unfathomable.

Unforgiveable.

Napolean tuned into his senses and let the sound of running water—of Brooke merely breathing—fill his soul and touch the emptiness.

She was real, and she was here.

Gods forgive him, because in that moment he wanted nothing more than to open that door, make a beeline to the shower, and take her from the spray to his bed. To make love to a woman he could not hurt. To feel complete abandon. To satisfy her fully…again and again. His groin hardened and he shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable stance.

Blessed gods, it would be so easy to take her…to have her.

With his considerable powers, it would require nothing more than his desire—a single word from his lips—to place her in a trance. With one suggestion—and perhaps a well-placed touch of his hand—she would be longing for their union…on fire for him.

He cursed beneath his breath and shook his head.

No.

Absolutely not.

That wasn’t what he wanted.

If nothing else, Vanya had shown him that much…

Napolean wanted a woman who came to him of her own accord. An equal. He wanted a mate that he could rule with, someone who would truly understand him…and stand at his side. And he wanted to give her the same.

He heard Brooke turn off the spray in the shower, and he stepped away from the door. She would be out again soon, and they had a very long way to go. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and raised his hands in supplication: a Vampyr king beseeching a celestial queen: “Goddess Andromeda, help me touch her heart. Show me how to reach her.”

He knew Brooke Adams would continue to resist him…try to escape if she could. The beautiful human would protest and struggle, but, ultimately, to no avail: Napolean Mondragon had never been defeated in his long life. And in this, he knew he would remain implacable, no matter what occurred. His will had been like iron for twenty-eight hundred years, and in this matter it was absolute—

Napolean would die before he would ever let Brooke Adams go.

seven

Tiffany Matthews sat up abruptly, grasped the messy covers at her waist, and anxiously scanned the dark corners of her bedroom. She was trying desperately to reorient herself in time and space. As her eyes shot wildly from the left to the right, scanning for only god-knows-what, her mind finally began to separate the elements of her dream from her reality.

Tiffany was what her grandmother had called a
Dream Weaver
: someone who walked through dreams in a purposeful manner. Someone who could dream the future, sort out the past, and uncover endless secrets through the process of dreaming.

It really wasn’t as cryptic as it sounded.

She simply had a gift for
knowing.
And that knowing came through information she received in her dreams—a universal language of symbols—the unconscious mind delving into the collective universe and making sense out of it in a night-time, moving picture.

She drew in several deep breaths and listened to her heart pounding in her chest.

Vampires.

Existed.

And they had the ability to erase memories…implant new ones…control the minds of humans.

Brooke had been taken by one of them the last night of their convention, stolen away from the cab like nothing more than a door prize waiting to be claimed. And the one who had taken her was dangerous—formidable—someone with more power than Tiffany’s human mind could possibly comprehend. He had been beautiful, fierce, and absolutely determined.

The thought made her stomach churn in fearful waves of dread. She ran a dainty hand through her short, harshly layered hair and shook her head as if clearing out the lethargy. She had seen it all in her dream. Her Dream Weaver had illuminated it all so vividly. But her mind was still having a very hard time grasping what it had seen…

When Tiffany had returned from the Dark Moon Vale convention, it had been with a fuzzy recall of the last day’s events, the belief that Brooke had decided to stay on for a couple of weeks to simply unwind, enjoy the scenery, and figure out what her next professional move was going to be with regard to PRIMAR and where she wanted to take her career. It had seemed odd at the time. More than that, really. It had been out of character for her best friend, but Tiffany had accepted it without question, almost as if her mind had been programmed to accept it.

And it had.

She shivered at the knowledge. At the memory of dark, feral eyes boring into hers, telling her what to think and what to remember, commanding her to go home…without Brooke.

“Oh God,” she whispered, feeling lost and overwhelmed. What was she going to do? That man…that vampire…had ripped the door right off the cab. He had wanted Brooke, but why? Where had he taken her? What had he done to her?

Every movie she had ever watched—
Dracula, Nosferatu, The Lost Boys
—played through her mind at record speed, almost propelling her into a full-fledged panic. She reached for the bottled water beside the bed on the nightstand and took a sip, desperate to regulate her breathing.

Think, Tiffany. Think!

If vampires were real—and she had been dreaming too long to doubt the accuracy of the information that came to her through her subconscious, especially when it was played out so vividly—then others had to know about their existence. Somewhere, somehow, someone knew about these mythical beings and could help her.

She swallowed a large gulp of water and steadied her resolve. Brooke was like family—the sister she had never had. She couldn’t simply leave her to the whims of some undead monster. She hugged her knees to her chest and shook, but she resolved not to let fear stop her. Brooke would never leave her to such a fate. Never.

She had to be careful who she approached, who—if anyone—she told. Not only was her story unlikely to be believed, but she could hardly back it up with, “But I saw it all so clearly in my dream.”
If her Nana was still alive, she would believe her; she would know what to do. Or would she?

Tiffany bowed her head and said a silent prayer, and then she did something she rarely chose to do out of respect for her gift: She decided to consult her dreams intentionally—to seek the information she needed. Opening the top drawer of her nightstand, she withdrew a small writing tablet and a pencil, and she wrote down a question:
Is there anyone else who knows that vampires exist? And if so, who are they and where are they? How do I find Brooke?

She underlined each word slowly, meditating on each question one at a time before stuffing the tablet underneath her pillow—a reminder to her subconscious mind that the questions were there. Then she reclined on the bed, pulled the covers tight, all the way to her neck, and tried her best to get comfortable. One way or another, she had to fall back asleep. She had to dream. The answers she needed were somewhere in the universe, floating freely out there in the collective unconscious.

She had to reenter the Dream Weave.

Nachari Silivasi stood on the porch of an old pastoral duplex in Silverton Park and double-checked the address: 219 Horsetail Lane, #A. Yep, he had the right address; although, since when was “A”
considered a number? He kicked the dirt off his heavy boots and drew in a deep breath. He hated this part of his duty, having to deal with the family members of those the Dark Ones killed so randomly…so needlessly. He had already taken care of the woman’s parents—Jane Anderson’s mother and father—replacing their memories of a living daughter with the memories of a child who had died several months back in a skiing accident, implanting recollections of a wake and a funeral, knowing that the grief would be a source of great confusion to them, despite his expert magic: The memories would be months old, but the grief would be fresh and unbearable.

And now, here he was, ready to do it again. Ready to erase the memory of an innocent human and replace it with something false. Only this time, he would do it to Jane’s sister.

Nachari swore beneath his breath. He knew all too well how precious one’s memories were, especially of a sibling. He couldn’t imagine losing one single moment of his twin’s life, let alone someone changing any of the events surrounding Shelby’s death, however horrible it had been. Knowledge was power, after all, and it was the knowledge of Valentine’s wicked scheme to take Shelby’s
destiny
, Dahlia—to impregnate and kill her—that had allowed Nachari and his eldest brother Marquis to ultimately seek vengeance…to finally put an end to the evil one’s life. Nachari shook his head, causing his heavy raven hair to sway. He clutched the amulet around his neck—the one Shelby had crossed over from the Spirit World to give him—and took courage. Then he knocked three times on the door, three steady, long drums echoing in the otherwise quiet night.

The girl who answered was thin and slight. She had medium-length auburn hair, cut in a side bob, and large brown eyes that were red and puffy from crying.

“Jolie?” Nachari asked, pitching his voice in a deep, hypnotic cadence. “Jolie Anderson?”

She stared at him as if she were transfixed. Her mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. Her eyes swept over his face, memorizing his features—each one in turn—then down to his toes and back up to his intimidating shoulders. Her lips quivered in surprise.

Nachari waited.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t witnessed the reaction of human females to his presence a thousand times before. His mother—may she rest in peace—had called it
arresting
:
“Nachari, you must be careful not to abuse your power where women are concerned. You are my son, which makes me a little less than objective, but trust me when I tell you, your beauty is arresting. It is as shocking as it is surreal, and it will give you undue influence over the fairer sex. Do not misuse such a gift.”
Nachari had laughed at his mom and responded to his brothers with mock arrogance when they had called him
pretty boy
, always teasing. But over the centuries, his mother’s words had come to be as wise as the woman who spoke them. With practiced ease, he averted his eyes, breaking the hypnotic stupor he had over the human female; then he gently sent a short wave of energy into her heart region, a lightning-quick zap of electricity that shocked her Anahata—her heart chakra—back into the present, jolting her out of her fog.

“Um…y…y…yes,” she murmured. “You’re…Jolie. I mean,
I’m
Anderson.
Jolie
.”

Nachari nodded and smiled. “Do you have a sister named Jane?”

All at once, Jolie’s eyes became dark with trepidation, and her brow creased with concern. “Yes,” she whispered, visibly holding her breath. “Do you know something about Janie?” Her already red eyes glazed over with the onset of fresh tears.

She knew.

Somehow, deep in their souls, on a level known only to their unconscious minds, humans always knew.

“Can I come in?” Nachari asked.

Jolie looked uncertain. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, and her eyes darted around the porch as she considered his question.

You desire to let me in,
Nachari suggested, pressing a light nudge against her mind. There was no need to go too deep…yet.

Jolie blinked three times. “Uh, yeah…sure.” She took a step back from the door, clearing the threshold for his entry.