Blood Possession (12 page)

Nachari smiled a wickedly tantalizing grin. The next entreaty would have to be hers alone, free of compulsion: “I would feel better if you invited me in.” A vampire could not enter the threshold of a human’s home without an invitation, at least not the first time.

Jolie paused but only for a millisecond. “Of course, please—
come in
.”

Nachari stepped past the entryway into the small living area, where he quickly surveyed the contents of the room. It was sparingly but tastefully decorated, mostly in creams and beiges, and the inexpensive furniture revealed the fact that the apartment was occupied by two young roommates starting out on their own for the first time. How did he know there were only two people living there? Because everything was purchased in doubles: two armchairs beside two matching end tables by the sofa, two bar stools just outside of the kitchen, two eating chairs tucked under a small dining room table, and two doorways facing outward toward the hallway, with one bathroom clearly at the end.

Nachari noticed several photos on the end tables and an ornately framed eight-by-ten photo of Jolie with her arm around another girl—the same height with blond hair—on the wall: It was Jane, her sister, and obviously, her roommate. By the look of their smiles, their body language, and the laughter they shared in the photographs, the two were very close. Nachari swallowed his bitterness. There was an address book next to a cell phone on the coffee table and a small pad of paper with names written in neat penmanship—and then crossed out—in a series of rows: Jolie had obviously been making calls—probably to everyone they knew—searching for Jane.

“You know something, don’t you?” Jolie’s faint, uncertain voice interrupted his thoughts. “About Janie?”

Nachari took a deep breath, focused, and stepped into his duty. “Yes.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She shook her head as if to dismiss his answer—as if she could dismiss the reality and stop the train wreck about to happen. “No,” she muttered, and the tears began to fall. She cleared her throat, raised her chin, and clearly summoned all of the courage she had. “Are you a police officer?”

“Something like that,” Nachari answered, hating that he had to lie. He knew that the human was too distraught to question him…to check his background. Besides, his position was irrelevant. What mattered was his information.

He extended his arm, holding out an open, beckoning palm. “Come to me, Jolie.” The words were a magnetic compulsion laced with compassion, his voice as deep as the ocean, as compelling as the night sky.

She swallowed hard, some primal part of her beginning to recognize that she was in the presence of a dangerous being—a predator—but his coercion was undeniable: an effortless feat for a five-hundred-year-old vampire and Master Wizard. She moved toward him, her eyes open wide and transfixed on his. Cautiously, she took his hand. “Where is Janie?” she whispered through trembling lips. “What’s happened to her?”

Nachari gave her hand a gentle tug, pulling her slightly off balance. As she fell into his enormous frame, he gently spun her about so that her back fell against his broad chest, and his heavy, muscular arm encircled her from behind, holding her tight to his body. She fit inside of his large frame like she had been molded to him. Her heart raced, and her legs quivered.

“Shhh,” Nachari soothed, his lips just above her right ear. He tightened his grip with his right arm while stroking her hairline with his left hand, all the while soothing her with his rhythmic voice. He hated this coercion, this ruse, knowing that in the breadth of one moment—the blink of an eye—Jolie Anderson’s world would change irreversibly. She would go from cautious hope—a life filled with her cherished sibling’s love and friendship—to deep, unrelenting grief. She would go from
together
to
alone
. From sharing a life to remembering one, lost. Her world would be forever, tragically changed.

Nachari’s amulet began to glow softly at his chest, and he felt a flood of reassurance envelop him. His own sibling. His own twin. Reaching out from the Valley of Spirit and Light to remind him that death was not a permanent separation but an entry into another realm. To assure him that the love between souls lived on.

Nachari inhaled Jolie’s scent, just above her jugular, and then he carefully coaxed her head to the side: Erasing a human’s memories was so easy, too easy; it required nothing more than a strong mind probe, psychic invasion. But to replace memories in a matter this complex—to create what was never there to begin with, rewrite the neuropathways—required a deeper connection, one that could only be forged through the exchange of blood and venom: her life force into him, his life force into her. The first would be painless and simple—feeding was an art form to a full-grown vampire—it could be accomplished in seconds, if desired, the prey never realizing what had occurred. But an inoculation of venom was always painful. Luckily, she would only require a few drops.

“Relax,” he whispered into her ear. “Lay your head against my shoulder, Jolie…and relax.”

Her head lolled back, and her eyes fluttered closed, even as her body grew limp against him. It was no effort, whatsoever, to hold her up with one arm; she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds.

Nachari tuned into the alluring sound of her pulse, a slow, steady thrumming in her neck. He parted his lips and let his canines lengthen into two sharp points. Jolie shuddered—as if she sensed his intention, but a soft nuzzle to her neck brought her quickly back to submission. Nachari struck with aged precision, sinking both fangs deep into her jugular in one smooth, flawless motion, his mind circumventing her fear—and her pain—before it could register through the complex somatosensory cortex of her brain.

She twitched violently and her body began to convulse, but that was a normal reaction, one that would subside in as little as thirty seconds.

Nachari drew several deep, heady gulps of the warm, rich substance from her vein and analyzed it as it slid down his throat: her character, her needs, her hopes, and her fears, the current DNA—as well as the timeless genetic memories—that made Jolie Anderson the distinctly unique person that she was.

And ultimately, what it would take to implant memories that would be real to her senses—to her distinctive way of being and knowing—that would stick. When he had taken enough, he gently retracted his fangs, allowing his incisors to lengthen in their place. The two drops of venom that leaked out sealed the puncture wounds, but there was no way to inject a larger dose that would be equally gentle or painless. Knowing that her suffering would cease the moment he erased the memory, Nachari chose to just do it—get it over with quickly.

He clamped both arms around her waist and held her tightly like a vise, seizing her vocal cords so she couldn’t cry out as he struck swiftly above her collarbone at the base of her throat. He pumped the venom out quickly—there was no point in prolonging it—and she began to struggle in earnest. Her eyes betrayed her panic, and her arms flailed, betraying her pain.

“No…stop…” She groaned the words, a stark look of desperation etched into her features.

Nachari closed his eyes and focused.

Just a little more…

He felt for the threshold—that magical place of bonding where his essence was intertwined deeply enough with hers to begin creating in her reality. Not only were human beings endowed with freewill by their creator, but their physical laws enabled them to create with their minds…with their thoughts and their words. Though they rarely knew they were doing it, they literally thought and spoke things into being over great periods of time; however, the ability to do so was limited to one’s own circumstances: Since a human could not create in any reality other than their own, a merging of essence—of souls as it were—was necessary to create in Jolie’s mind.

As the pain became unbearable and her resistance severe, Nachari felt a sudden surge of energy: the imprint of the soul that was Jolie flowing freely through his own DNA. He swiftly retracted his fangs, wiped the pain from her memory, and clutched her mind—her full consciousness—in his psychic grip. Like the Master he was, he began to weave new branches along old dendrites, imparting vivid memories of an accident, a horrible loss, a funeral, and a new life constructed without her beloved sister. He made it real, impressing each memory upon all five senses, weaving the essence of it into her soul.

Jane Anderson’s remains would be buried in the local cemetery, and when her family went to visit, they would remember several such trips that didn’t truly exist. Fortunately, the final resting place and the connection would be real from this moment on. Nachari appeased his conscience by reminding himself that the Dark Ones had taken Jane’s life—not him or his brothers—that she could not be brought back to life, and it was necessary for the safety and anonymity of his kind to continue cleaning up the Dark Ones’ messes…at least until they could be hunted to smaller numbers.

When he was done replacing Jolie’s memories, he erased any knowledge of his visit and actions, gave her a soft command to sleep, and carried her to her sofa, where he covered her with a nearby throw blanket. Tucking her in, he mouthed the words
I’m sorry
against her temple and slowly backed away.

It took less than five minutes to make the necessary changes in the apartment—to make it appear as if Jane had not lived there for months.

Ramsey,
he reported telepathically to the sentinel in charge of the house of Jadon’s clean-up teams,
I am done with Jane’s family.

Good,
Ramsey replied.
I’m afraid we have found two more bodies. Your work this night is not yet done, wizard.

Nachari sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was tired of all the death and grief; it still hit too close to home. His mind flashed back to the earlier warrior’s meeting with Napolean—and the king’s bizarre behavior. There had been something unseen—unspoken—in that room, a subtle taint of black magic…of evil. Whoever the practitioner was, they had tried to cover up their murky fingerprints, so to speak, but Nachari had felt…something…so amiss. And whatever this thing was, it was after their Sovereign. It was being used against Napolean.

And it was working.

Nachari had more questions than answers, certainly not enough information to go to his brothers with…just yet, but of one thing he was certain: If he continued to dilute his own blood and energy with the blood of so many humans—so many sad, grieving, and confused humans—his power would be diminished at the very time it was needed most.

Ramsey
, he said, his voice thick with resolve.
It has become too much for me to handle the difficult cases on my own. I cannot explain right now, but energetically, there is a growing danger to the house of Jadon with each human I bite. Let Napolean know that I wish to make an appeal to the Council of Wizards at the Romanian University. I wish to request the presence of two more Masters—my classmates Niko Durciak and Jankiel Luzanski—to assist me in serving until this crisis is over.

Damn.
Ramsey’s tone reflected the gravity of the situation.
Are you sure?
The sentinel had to know Nachari would not request assistance unless it was absolutely necessary.

Yes…I’m positive.

Very well then,
Ramsey said.
I will advise our Lord of your decision. Can you take care of the other families tonight? Until your colleagues get here?

Nachari glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping female on the couch. He clenched his eyes shut, stroked his amulet, and then slowly headed out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.
Of course; I will do whatever is required of me
.

Raising his eyes upward to the beautiful night sky, he added a prayer to his divine guardian, Perseus:
Grant me wisdom, Lord, to understand what is going on with Napolean. And until then, please—bring my fellow wizards soon!

eight

It was early Sunday evening, two days after Napolean had taken Brooke from outside the Dark Moon Lodge—two days since she had discovered her fate as the predestined mate to an ancient vampire king. Napolean rotated Brooke by the waist until her shoulders faced squarely east, and then he took a quick step back, wanting to give her ample room to breathe.

He had been doing just that ever since she had relaxed enough to take a shower at the manse: allowing her space to maneuver and silence to think. Beyond that, he had also given her full access to the annals of his people, the complete records in the Hall of Justice, recognizing that she was analytical by nature: Brooke Adams would do better reading the history of the house of Jadon than sitting through a detailed lecture. She would make more sense of the Blood Curse by sifting through the vital statistics records of marriages and births—of
destinies
and sacrifices—than listening to Napolean try to explain a strange and ancient people. It was a lot to take in all at once, and Napolean had gambled on the belief that Brooke would understand the story of Prince Jadon and Prince Jaegar best by reading a full account herself.

And being left alone to do so.

She had needed to process such a vast quantity of information, and Napolean had given her the peace, quiet, and space to do just that.

It seemed to have helped.

Brooke had digested, or at least consumed, more literature than Napolean had ever seen any human read in the space of two days. Donning an endearing pair of designer, black-rimmed glasses, she had nestled into his study beside a quiet fire and devoured every piece of literature he had brought her. It was almost as if reading the truth had kept her at arm’s length from having to face it. As long as she held it in a book, it might remain fiction.

But it wasn’t fiction.

And the beautiful human’s sporadic tears, occasional gut-wrenching pleas to be released…allowed to go home…to call her best friend Tiffany had tugged at Napolean’s heart-strings. A few pieces of furniture had been dented and a few priceless artifacts destroyed when the overwhelming urge to flee had struck her on two separate occasions, causing her to struggle valiantly for her freedom; but all and all, Brooke had handled the distressing situation with as much grace and civility as Napolean could have asked for.