Blood Vengeance (Blood Curse Series Book 7) (30 page)

Ramsey’s breath caught in his throat as she pulled away, and he stammered over his reply. He had hoped for a more romantic moment, but—

“Thank you for this gift,” she whispered in his ear. “I have never felt more content than I do right now.”

He pressed his forehead to hers and simply drank in the moment.

What could he say?

He was at a loss for words.

Sometimes a moment spoke louder than a phrase, a thought was too expansive to condense into sound, and a feeling was too deep to identify with language.

This was one of those times…

And Ramsey could only hope that Tiffany felt it all, that she felt him all around her, within her, beside her.

That she felt the
forever
of it all.

twenty-eight

One week later

Tiffany could hardly believe that Princess Vanya had offered to take all of the babies for a day—
all
five of the babies, including her own
—in order to give Brooke and Tiffany, and their respective mates, a much-needed break. While Brooke had the whole nanny thing locked up, it would still be nice for the queen to have the manse to herself for a day. Tiffany, on the other hand, was quickly discovering that she was very hands-on, incredibly particular about Roman’s care, a little too possessive to share him with a nanny… just yet.

Things with Ramsey were coming along.

There were only brief moments of fear now, when she looked at him and saw a pitchfork-wielding predator, fewer and fewer instances of awkward silence or push-and-pull between them. In reality, the male had an incredible sense of humor and a heart that was larger than life, once one looked past the domineering, blunt exterior long enough to see the brother, warrior, and father within. He had agreed to let her take Roman with her to the Prime daycare a couple days a week,
without Ramsey present,
and she had agreed to let him implant a few extra memories in her parents’ minds so they didn’t freak the heck out when they learned of her “marriage,” which Ramsey and Tiffany were going to present as an elopement, and the newborn babe that went along with the blissful package.

There was really no other way around the conundrum.

Now, standing in the spacious, elegant living room, wearing only her stilettos, panties, and a bra, Tiffany sighed. The whole seduction scene was a little nerve-racking, but she was ready to show her vampire that she was truly
all in
.

As the back door opened—Ramsey was returning from dropping Roman off at Saber’s—she grasped the handle of his pitchfork in her right hand—it was the most appropriate prop she could think of—copped a sexy lean to the side, with one foot crossed over the opposite ankle, and tried to look inviting.

Ramsey rounded the corner like the crafty sentinel he was, moving in that silent, vulturine stride, and then he came to a sudden halt. His jaw went slack. His mouth fell open, and he literally purred in a deep, gravelly rumble. “What are you doing,
destiny
?”

She smiled, trying to match his wicked grin, decadence for decadence. “Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking”—she placed the tip of her forefinger in her mouth in suggestive contemplation—“someone once promised me some down-and-dirty, soul-searching, hair-pulling, name-calling, ecstasy
-inducing
animal sex.” She took her finger out of her mouth and sighed. “But I can’t remember who it was.”

Ramsey nearly swayed where he stood.
“Oh, gods of Gemini.”
His already wicked smile turned into a broad, wolfish grin, even as his fangs slowly descended from his mouth of their own accord. He immediately strode forward.

“Stop.” Tiffany held up her hand in playful protest. “
Wait
.”

Ramsey froze in mid-step, eyeing her from head to toe lasciviously. He shook his head in a rapid, brisk fashion, as if trying to clear his vision, and then swallowed hard, tightening his jaw. “For what?”

She laughed, playfully flicking her hair out of her eyes, and then she rotated her weight to the balls of her feet, gracefully raised the pitchfork off the floor, and started to twirl it at her side. Praying that her new vampiric dexterity would carry her through the whole twirling-seduction scene, she spun it faster and faster around her wrist. “Did I ever tell you that I used to twirl baton in my high school marching band?”

Ramsey’s gorgeous hazel eyes grew five shades darker with lust. “You did not,” he drawled.

She picked up the speed with her wrist and raised the pitchfork over her head. “Mmm… well… a pitchfork is hardly a baton, but I think it’ll do.”

Ramsey sank into a predator’s stance and began to stalk forward once more, growling as she started to back up. “It’s a trident,” he corrected her, his thick, sculpted lips growing feline and taut.

She squealed.

Despite the fact that this was precisely what Tiffany had wanted—she had planned on it, prepared for it, and even tried to incite this primitive reaction—his looming, animal presence was overwhelming… otherworldly.

Unnerving in its power and grace.

His heart was beating deep and steady, like a resounding bass drum, and his gaze had turned positively feral, crimson with hunger and desire.

Oh shit
, Tiffany thought, her own heartbeat increasing.

And that’s when her palms grew sweaty, the pitchfork began to wobble, and she lost control of the weapon. “Watch out!” she screamed, but her warning was too late. The ancient weapon shot through the air; pierced Ramsey through the palm of his raised right hand; continued to bisect his left bicep; and anchored both appendages to the living room wall, spearing the Master Warrior like a stuck pig to his own domicile.

He grunted in pain, and then he grew instantly still, trying to keep the prongs from vibrating.

Tiffany stared in horrified shock as three rivulets of blood seeped down the vampire’s arm, he rolled his head back, and he groaned.

She sprinted across the living room, trying like hell not to break her ankle or slide across the floor in her six-inch heels; she’d already made a colossal ass out of herself as it was. “Oh Ramsey,” she breathed in distress, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

Gods, he looked angry…

“Get it out,” he grunted, remaining perfectly still as she studied the prongs, traced the entrance wounds with her finger, and tried to figure out the best way to extract the implement without causing more pain.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she murmured, regretfully, “to spear you with a pitchfork.” Her voice grew in pitch as her heart grew in angst. “I’m so sorry,
sentinel
.” She hoped to appeal to his formal persona and invoke his professional nature. “Gods, you must hate me now.”

“Get it out,” he growled again, this time narrowing his gaze on her quivering lips.

She swallowed convulsively, grabbed the steel base, just above the prongs, with both hands, and started to tug—

And that’s when he jerked his shoulder, wrenched free from the wall, and spun them both around, slamming her back into the plaster. “What kind of weapon do I use?” he snarled.

She gasped.
Holy Mother of Grace, he was going to kill her.
“It’s… it’s a…
trident
.”

“That’s right,” he purred. He flexed his right arm in a smooth, backward motion, dislodging the
trident
from his bicep, and groaned as if in…

Pleasure
?

Tiffany’s eyes bulged as she gaped at the center prong—still protruding from his right palm.

He reached around the impalement with his free hand, grabbed the trident by the center tine, and wrenched it free, tossing it across the living room floor with a dismissive flick of his wrist. And then he slammed both palms against the splintered wall, pinning her between his arms, and pressed his hips into hers. “What’s my name, baby girl?”

Tiffany drew in a sharp breath and stared at his tensed, angled jaw. His lips were set in a harshly erotic line; his fangs were positively gleaming in the lamplight; and his eyes were glowing with primal need.

The male wasn’t ticked off…

He was
turned on
.

“Oh gods,” she groaned as he covered her mouth with his, kissed the thoughts right out of her head, and then pulled back to lock his gaze with hers.

“Wrong answer,” he murmured. “What’s my name?”

Before she could speak… or whimper… or even formulate a coherent thought, he grasped her by the waist, held her stationary against the wall, and tore through the center clasp of her bra with his fangs. And then he drew one breast after the other into his warm, punishing mouth, leaving her spinning and light-headed from the sudden sensation.

His lips were utterly possessed.

His technique was positively masterful.

And his teeth traded places with his tongue as he nipped and swirled and teased her peaks into taut, stringent flesh, and her hips began to buck against his hold.
Oh dear celestial deities
; was he mad, crazed, or divinely inspired?

She was practically mindless with pleasure, and he was doing it on purpose.

He drew away from her breasts long enough to lock their gazes once again, release her hips, and slice through the outer straps of her panties with his claws. As the lacy garment fell to the floor, he ripped open his jeans, tugged them down, shimmied out of his boxers, and kicked all the offending scraps away from his feet. He pressed his hand to her throat and massaged her larynx. “I want you to get something straight,” he said as he continued to work her throat, dipped down to kiss her lips, and growled into her mouth. “I don’t hate you.” He traced the contours of her lips with his tongue. “There is nothing you could ever do to make me hate you.” He pricked her bottom lip with his fangs and swirled the droplet of blood around his palate, savoring the flavor. “I love you, Tiffany Matthews
Olaru
. And I always will.”

She flung her arms around him, grasped him by the shoulders, and hugged him closer, burying her head in his chest. Despite her stoutest resolve, her eyes filled with tears, and she knew she was going to cry.

She wasn’t sad.

She wasn’t hurt.

On the contrary, she was completely overwhelmed…

Overwhelmed with love, overwhelmed with lust, overwhelmed with gratitude that this magnificent creature was hers.

All hers.

And he loved her.

She bent her knee, raising her thigh to his hip, and wrapped her leg around his waist as best she could. And then she arched into him in mindless invitation. Her body had never needed anything, or anyone, more desperately than she needed Ramsey Olaru
right now
. “Please,” she whispered breathlessly, allowing the tears to fall.

Without hesitation, he thrust into her, lodging every thick, magnificent inch into her core. He rotated his pelvis against her
pleasure
in a maddening series of harsh, erotic circles, and then he pulled back out, leaving her bereft. “What’s my name?” His voice was a raw, guttural hiss.

Tiffany groaned. She clawed at his back, pressed her heat against him, and strained, trying to force him back inside. He rocked away, and she actually whimpered.

“What’s my name?”
he growled.

“Please,” she whimpered, “I’m
begging
.” And then she released her own fangs and bit him in the neck.

It was more than he could stand.

He shouted in pleasure, shivered, and entered her again, this time remaining exactly where he belonged as he took them higher and higher, faster and harder, until they were both lost in a nirvana so profound only the gods themselves could have created it.

Holding on for dear life, Tiffany reveled in the taste, touch, and feel of her mate. She luxuriated in every scent, every groan, every thrust. This male was utter perfection, power and beauty personified. And to think, she had once run from him like a ninny, trying to flee their Blood Moon…
on a
horse
.

And yet, here they were.

Once
again.

Hovering on the edge of a cliff.

Only this time, they went over together.

“Ramsey.
Ramsey
. Ramsey!”

Epilogue

One month later

Julien Lacusta sank deep into the distressed-leather chair, letting the surrounding darkness envelop him, take him, soothe him.

Become him.

A soft knock sounded on the front door, and he slumped down further in the chair.

Come in
.

He pushed the compulsion into Shelly’s mind, knowing the door was unlocked, and then he waited to see her familiar face—would the gentle human servant be happy to see him, grateful to serve him, or scared out of her wits, like she often was these days?

No matter.

He tightened his fist around the crystal decanter, filled with 151-proof alcohol and liquid H, also called Liquid “O,” and waited for the untainted, fresh blood that Shelly Winters would provide. The short-lived cocktail would provide a much-needed escape, however temporary; and after all, that’s all life really was: one endless series of short or long moments, always mundane, each following the other.

Shelly’s footfalls were soft and timid as she crossed through the threshold, left the door cracked open, and padded through the wide entry, putting her hand out in front of her to feel her way through the unlit space. She knew better than to turn on the lights, and she stopped abruptly when she saw Julien, sitting so quietly in the middle of an otherwise empty room. “Where’s the rest of your furniture?”

He glanced around the cathedral-sized great room, thought about the huge, exposed wooden beams above him, the towering moss-rock fireplace behind him, and shrugged. “Got rid of it.”

She blanched. “Why?”

He slid down further in his chair, getting more comfortable. “Don’t need it.”

She blinked rapidly, appearing honestly concerned. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t reply.

Julien didn’t answer to humans.

Hell, Julien didn’t answer to anybody, except maybe Napolean, sometimes, when the king asked an occasional question. Otherwise, he just did his job, and he did it so damn well that no one asked any questions. No one ever really noticed his true… absence.

“Do you want me to call Kagen?” Shelly whispered, referring to the house of Jadon’s healer.

The corner of Julien’s mouth quirked up in a sardonic smile.
That was sweet.
Shelly was sweet. He shook his head slowly and beckoned her forward with his hand. “I’m fine,” he rasped. “Come here, baby.” He patted his lap.

Shelly’s tongue snaked out to lick her bottom lip, she fidgeted with the collar on her blouse, and then she glanced around the room nervously as if searching for an escape route. “Um, maybe I should go. Come back another time when you’re feeling better.”

For some reason, this made Julien more restless than angry.

Her voice was like a harsh, clanging symbol reverberating across the quiet room, the empty space, disturbing his fragile peace, when all he wanted to do was add some blood to his cocktail so he could zone out for a while.
Hells minions
, the H wouldn’t work without fresh human platelets, and it had to be now.

He needed it now.

Just five minutes of peace

Just one half hour with nothing turning inside his head.

“Sh,” he coaxed her softly, this time lacing his voice with a powerful compulsion. “Don’t speak, Shelly. Just come forward and obey.”

Her eyes glazed over, and her nervousness abated as the compulsion took hold. She kicked off her shoes, sauntered across the floor, and lowered her seat into his lap.

Damn.
This shit is jacked up
, he thought as he massaged the back of her neck.

He hated to treat her like this—see her like this—but once again, oblivion was calling his name, and he was all too eager to answer. Deciding that maybe
oblivion
was the best destination for Shelly, too, he wrapped one arm tightly around her waist, raised his decanter so he could tilt her head toward him, using the side of the glass, and locked his gaze with hers. “Sleep, angel,” he whispered, catching her falling torso as she crumpled sideways against his arm.

It was too loud.

The
situation.

The intensity of it all pierced the darkness.

He extended his forefinger, lifting it from the glass, and pointed at the stereo, which was nestled snugly atop a high, built-in ledge, turning the surround-sound on with an electric pulse from his fingertip.

Ah.

Yes…

Without preamble, he took a long, drugging pull from the decanter, testing the various properties of the alcohol and the H on his tongue, and then he sank his fangs deep into Shelly’s throat, savoring each drop of her life-giving blood. As the cocktail began to course through his veins, rapidly slithering along the intersecting passageways like a gentle, erotic snake, just waiting to strike—precious poison appeasing his heart—his head lolled back on the edge of the chair, and his lids grew heavy and dense.

Shelly slid further down on his lap, drooping in his arms, and he tightened his grip
on the crystal glass
. Dark, sonorous music began to blast through the speakers, saturating the air all around him, and he nearly moaned from the vibrations as his body absorbed the lyrics:

“There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun…

And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and god I know I’m
one.

My mother was a tailor, sewed my new blue jeans.

My father was a gamblin’ man, down in New Orleans… ”

Damn, the Animals could really sing that folk song—Burdon’s voice was all grit, angst, and brutal melody. A sweet jolt of cocktail rocked him at his core, and he started to drift even further away…

“Now the only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase and a
trunk,

And the only time he’s satisfied is when he’s on a
drunk.”

Something visceral seized Julien’s attention, and he pulled himself away from the music, temporarily:
Shelly.

Where was Shelly?

She was sliding down his lap, falling over his knees, slumping to the floor—
that wasn’t right, was it
?

“Oh mother, tell your children, not to do what I have
done,

Spend your life in sin and misery in the house of the Rising
Sun.”

Julien thought he reached for the female, but rather, he tightened his grip on the glass even more, shattering the crystal into a dozen serrated pieces, each one immediately embedding in his flesh.

As crimson rivulets trickled down his wrist, soaked the pads of his fingers, and stained his nails, he fell back into the chair and dropped the remaining glass.

Nothing mattered in this moment.

Not the pain in his hand. Not the woman on the floor. Not the emptiness in his soul.

There was only darkness, ecstasy, and peace.

That, and the hauntingly beautiful melody pulsing through the dark.

*

Rebecca Johnston tucked several golden-brown wisps of hair behind her ear, out of her tired eyes, as she checked her clipboard one more time. She crossed off the previous address,
619 Golden Antelope Way
, scribbling a messy note in the margin:
No one
home
.

What kind of a town was this anyway?

Didn’t anyone answer their doors?

She sighed, glaring at the paltry numbers in front of her, the pitifully low donations, and then she checked her watch, feeling the weight of the day as well as the chill of the night.

Yes, it was late.

They had been at it since 9 AM, knocking on doors, beating down streets, practically begging residents to donate to VOSU (Victims of Stalkers United), and she should really give it a rest… but she just couldn’t go home without a victory.

Just one
victory.

VOSU was an extremely worthy cause, and to be honest, Rebecca was hardly objective about the struggling non-profit organization. Not only had she spent the last five years of her life fleeing from one state to another, trying to escape a violent stalker of her own, but she had also taken a counseling position at a local Denver VOSU support group. At least once a week she donated her fund-raising time, as well as her valuable experience, trying to help victims of stalking.

She frowned, wishing desperately that her colleagues were still with her, still prodding her forward and providing encouragement, still knocking on potentially hopeful doors. As it stood, each one of them had bowed out the moment they had approached Dark Moon Vale. They had simply refused to go one step further than the Silverton Creek border.

It had been so,
so
strange…

Almost as if some invisible hand of doom had dipped down out of the sky and forced them back from their objective, as if it had physically stopped their progression. They hadn’t been just hesitant to go on; they had been utterly and inexplicably terrified of crossing the municipal line and entering the secluded valley.

It had made no sense at all.

None.

Dark Moon Vale was a booming tourist town. Hordes of people came each winter and summer to enjoy the ski resort or the spa, the hiking, river-rafting, or horseback riding. Heck, the casino was a huge draw all by itself. And the wealth? Oh good heavens, there was more money tucked away in these wooded acres than in Beverly Hills, the Hamptons, and Wall Street combined. For all intents and purposes, Dark Moon Vale had the potential to be a fund-raising haven, a virtual gold mine of limitless potential; yet and still, her colleagues had utterly refused to step one single foot in the valley.

A sudden gust of January wind swirled around her, tossing light crystal snowflakes into her hair and eyes, and Rebecca grasped the collar of her stiff wool coat, drawing it tighter around her slender shoulders. She hunched forward to preserve warmth, tucked her clipboard beneath her arm, and stared at the large rustic house in front of her—at the long, winding driveway that led up to the distant front door.

Oh, hell, can’t anybody live right next to someone else in this
place?

As she made her way up the steep, snaking slope, the oddest thing began to happen: The sky grew ten shades darker, almost as if someone had just turned out the galactic lights, and the most brilliant configuration of stars began to twinkle in the deepening sky, like spotlights projecting cosmic beams at the earth.

And the moon…

What in the world?

The moon looked like it was
bleeding.

It was fading from white to pale yellow; from pale yellow to rose; and finally, from rose to dark crimson-red.

Rebecca froze, suddenly wishing she had taken her coworkers’ advice, that she had never stepped foot in Dark Moon Vale. She was about halfway up the driveway, ready to turn around, when the magic in the sky ironically pushed her forward:
Forget raising funds for charity!

She needed to get inside.

Whatever was happening with the sky—and she had no idea what it was—it certainly wasn’t natural, and she was smart enough not to stand around and gawk. If comets were going to plummet from the heavens, leaving craters in the earth, she wasn’t going to stand there and wave, completely vulnerable and out in the open, hoping they passed her by. Surely, someone in this town would give her sanctuary, just until she knew what was going on.

She hurried up the remaining segment of the driveway and hopped over a narrow bed of unkempt vegetation, perhaps some sort of xeriscape, landing on the large, wide-planked front porch. She reached for the brass knocker on one of two thick wooden doors, and paused—

What the heck?

The door was partially open.

In fact, the panel was ajar, and there was a dark, brooding melody blasting through a set of crystal-clear speakers—
wasn’t that “House of the Rising Sun”
?—yet all the lights in the residence were off. There wasn’t a single flicker of illumination, not even the glow from a warm fire or the dim radiance of a pair of candles on a distant table. Yet the glitter from the dazzling stars above was so luminescent that it flashed inside the doorway like a pair of high-beams from an oncoming truck.

Rebecca crept slowly toward the threshold and then tapped the door lightly to force it further open. She leaned forward and peered inside…

Her breath caught in her throat.

Holy Mother of
God.

There was a man sitting in the middle of the front room like an ancient slave from the time of the Roman Coliseum: He was built like a gladiator, at least six-foot-two, all hard, unforgiving muscle, with chiseled granite-like features, and his crystalline, moonstone-gray eyes stared absently at the ceiling above him even as his head lolled back on a solitary chair. His right arm was hanging limply at his side, and his hand—
his
hand was bleeding!—
dripping steady droplets of dark red blood, like a leaky faucet, onto the coarse, wide-planked floors. There was no other furniture in the room, just the chair, the stereo, and—

Rebecca screamed
, her throat instantly burning from the raw, sudden abuse of her windpipes.

She dropped the clipboard, clasped her hands over her mouth, and gagged, frantically trying to back away from the door. There was a beautiful blond woman lying on the floor at the gladiator’s feet. She was clearly unconscious, and her neck was stained with dried, crusted blood.
Oh dear Lord, what had he done to her?

Rebecca had to get help.

She had to call 911.

She had to get away!

Now.

Before she could turn and run, the man’s head rocked forward; his smooth, constricted pupils met hers; and his lips turned up in a dark parody of a smile, as sardonic as it was savage. “Where are you going,
Rebecca
?”