Blood Awakening (28 page)

 “
Feed
from my neck,
Kristina. And fine,
we will try it your way.”

Her arms stopped flailing, and she caught her
breath. “You will?”

“Yes,
I will
.”

“Don’t restrain me,” she bit out, suddenly racked
by a fit of coughs.

He smoothed her hair back with his hand as gently
as possible. “No restraint—I’m just going to move you,
okay
?”

She eyed him warily, and then she slowly nodded, relaxing.

Marquis moved cautiously, cradling her in his lap
like an infant. As her head fell back against his huge bicep, he extended his
fangs, tore open a gash in his wrist, and placed the wound to her mouth. “Drink,
Kristina,” he whispered, “take what you need.”

Kristina blanched and reflexively turned away…until
the scent of his blood drew her back like a moth to a flame. She grasped his forearm
in both hands, tentatively brought it to her mouth, and slowly let the blood-soaked
wrist touch her lips.

Her reaction was immediate.

Instinctive.

Her strike like that of a scorpion: swift, hard,
and deep.

Marquis jerked, caught off-guard by the power of
her bite. And then he relaxed as she began to take hard, drugging pulls from
his wrist, her body clearly starving for the life
giving
fluid pouring down her throat. The more she took, the more she wanted. And the
more she wanted, the more frustrating his wrist became.

Kristina twisted his arm this way and that, trying
to get a better angle. Three times, she withdrew her fangs and struck him
again, grinding her teeth as she attempted to get a better hold. Twice more,
she lost her grip and missed the vein altogether, having to strike him
repeatedly before she found it again.

She squirmed in his lap, tightened her grip like a
vise, clamped down with her molars in aggravation, and snarled. Finally, she
sat up and threw his arm aside, weeping in frustration, heavy sobs that wracked
her chest.

Marquis leaned over her trembling body and buried
his face in her hair. “
Kristina
”—he pitched his voice as gently as he
could—“you are torturing yourself.” He held up his arm, displaying his raw, mutilated
wrist. “And me as well, I might add.” He lightly stroked her hair. “Come,
little one. Take from my neck. Drink as you were meant to.”

When Kristina met his gaze, her eyes were a
strange mixture of need, desperation, and
humiliation
: She must have hated
herself for needing him so badly, resented him for creating such a primal need
within her.

Marquis sighed. There was so little trust between
them. No love or respect. Only a raw, animal instinct to survive that drew them
both to this moment. Yet, that was something Marquis understood. He knew as
well as she did what it was like to desperately need the one person in the
world you didn’t want. To need them in order to live.

Hefting her from his lap, he moved to the head of
the bed, reclined against a stiff pillow, and swung his legs onto the mattress.
He clutched her by her narrow waist, lifted her gently above him so that her
knees straddled his hips on either side, and then quickly let go, allowing her full
control in a dominant position. As he swept his heavy hair behind his ear and
tilted his head to the side, he was careful to avoid eye contact, wanting to
spare her some dignity.

And then he simply waited.

He remained perfectly still while Kristina climbed
up his massive warrior’s body, trembling from the intimacy of the act. He held
his breath as her pulse betrayed her fear, knowing she needed it too
desperately to turn away. She reminded him of Little Red Riding Hood,
reluctantly entrusting her well-being to the big bad wolf as she nuzzled his
neck, tears streaming down her face the entire time. Then gradually, warily, she
scraped her teeth against the pulsing artery, slowly gathering the courage to
strike.

And strike she did.

Sinking her teeth so deep that she struck bone.

Marquis suppressed a deep, erotic moan that had
nothing to do with the female above him. He couldn’t help it. He was what he
was. As she began to take long, ravenous pulls of his blood, he gently cradled
her back and held her tightly against him, flooding her with security as she fed
to her contentment and her body began to heal.

Although it was not the kind of love a man felt
for a woman, a small glimmer of affection stirred in his heart. Perhaps what a brother
felt for a sister—or an uncle for a niece. Thanks to the Blood Curse, Marquis had
no experience with either of those relationships.

But of one thing he was certain. He had sired this
female. He had brought her into his world. He had made her what she was, and it
was his obligation to take care of her.

It was his duty to see to her needs.

Holding her close in his arms, her body and mind
so fragile, her vulnerability so complete, he knew that he would always take
care of her…protect her.

Instinctively, he knew that he would kill anyone—human
or vampire—that ever threatened to harm her.

Nachari sank back into the soft cushions of his leather
sectional and put his feet up on the matching Raleigh coffee table. Home was
all about class and comfort for the five-hundred year-old Master Wizard, whose
four-story bachelor pad sat in isolation at the end of a dirt road, backing up
to the northern face of the forest cliffs.

There was nothing country or rustic about it.

Built in the style of a 1920s Park Avenue brownstone,
the forty-six-hundred square-foot retreat had a traditional brick face, four-levels
of front and back terraces, and a rooftop patio that was to die for: perfect
for a wizard who studied the stars through a high-powered telescope.

Glancing up at the fourteen-foot ceiling, Nachari
sighed and propped a loose pillow behind his head. He placed the palm of his
hand over the leather binding of the antique tome lying in his lap and whispered
a prayer to Perseus, the god of his own divine constellation, to protect him from
the malevolence embodied in the book he was about to open:
the Ancient Book
of Black Magic.
The carnal text, said to have been written by the dark
lords of the Abyss, themselves. It was hard to believe the evil artifact had
been in the hands of Salvatore Nistor all this time….

Nachari let out a deep, resonate sigh. He had
taken an incredible gamble. It had been all he could do to hide his surprise when
he had first seen the ancient tome hidden beneath the mattress of Derrian’s
crib, and it had required enormous concentration to show no emotion while
removing the book from the lair.

He absently stroked the leather, regarding the
text with awe. There was no way the ancient sorcerer would have allowed Nachari
to walk away with the hallowed artifact if he had suspected his intent. In fact,
for this treasure, Salvatore may very well have traded both Zarek and Derrian’s
lives.

Nachari chuckled softly. No matter. He had used
his magic to render the object invisible, and then strapped it to the inside of
his cloak, maintaining the threat to the infant the entire time. Nobody had
known. Not even Marquis. And Nachari had walked out of the lair completely
undetected.

Whew!
he thought, brushing his hair away
from his brow.
That
could’ve turned out much, much worse.
Just
how much worse, he refused to imagine. He turned his attention to a more immediate
subject: his brother’s recent behavior, the primal instinct Marquis had displayed
when rescuing Ciopori from the colony….

While Marquis was renowned for his calm, strategic
focus in battle, when it came to personal matters, such as those affecting
himself or his family, he was the single most impulsive, hot-headed vampire in
the house of Jadon: quick to act and slow to consider personal consequences, which
half the time he didn’t get anyhow, considering his social...challenges.

Nachari stirred uncomfortably.
Something wasn’t
right
. Marquis had allowed Valentine’s infant son to live in order to save
Ciopori. He had bartered with Salvatore Nistor, a mortal enemy, in order to
protect the princess. He had checked his own temper at the door and swallowed
his pride in order to put her safety first.

Not that Marquis wasn’t noble—or wouldn’t readily
die for any member of the house of Jadon, let alone one of the original females—but
not like that. The Marquis he knew would have lit up the whole colony, taken as
many Dark Ones out as he could, risked all of their lives if necessary, relying
upon his superior fighting skills to prevail in the end. Was he reckless? No. Was
he stubborn to a fault and utterly sure of himself? Absolutely.

But not this time—
not this time
.

This time, quite frankly, Marquis had acted like a
mated-male protecting his
destiny
. Sure, Marquis and Ciopori had clearly
been
involved
—that day he took her to Kagen’s clinic had said it all,
but this was…more. Marquis’s desire to save the female had surpassed all other
instincts.

Nachari thought about the way his brother looked
at Ciopori, the deep pain etched in his otherwise stoic face, and the complete
indifference he seemed to have for Kristina, despite the fact that such
indifference went against every strand of DNA in a male vampire’s body. He
shuddered to think about the crazed look on Marquis’s face the night he sat on his
porch, Kristina plopped in his lap like a rag doll, his fangs buried deep in
her throat. Marquis hadn’t shown the slightest hint of compassion or tenderness:
He had taken Kristina the way he would take a stranger off the street to feed, all
business, no emotion.

Granted, it was not like Marquis was all that connected
to his emotions to begin with, but even a hardened warrior such as he, one who
had seen too much and lived too long, had a heart when it came to his
destiny
.
No.
Something wasn’t right
.

“Wassup, homey!” A familiar voice interrupted
Nachari’s thoughts, and he glanced up from the couch as young Braden Bratianu entered
the living room. The kid’s shoulders were held back so far he looked rigid, and
his chin was tilted upward in an awkward angle as he did his best to strut across
the floor.

“What’s up, Braden.”

“Nata,” the youngster replied.

“Nata?” Nachari repeated.

“Not-a-damn thing.” Braden laughed.

Nachari resisted rolling his eyes.
Ah, hell
,
so the kid was going through yet another phase. He sighed. The handsome fifteen-year-old
boy had been placed in Nachari’s care less than one month ago by the esteemed fellowship
of wizards at the Romanian University as part of Nachari’s final task for
graduation. The wizards considered the relationship an opportunity for Nachari
to gain patience:
through repeated trials and endless tests
. And Braden
Bratianu had never failed to deliver. The boy was one ordeal after another.

As the son of a divorced human,
Braden had
been raised by his mortal mother until Dario Bratianu had found and claimed her
as his
destiny
. Having completed the Blood Moon ritual, Braden’s mom had
given birth to Conrad, their new Vampyr son, leaving Braden as the odd man out—a
human in a family of vampires.

Prior to Braden’s mom, there had never been a
destiny
claimed who already had a human child: Lily Bratianu was the first, and since
she and Braden shared the same celestial blood, Dario had been able to convert
him without incident.

And what an experiment that had been—a kid with
human memories, impulses, and tendencies suddenly turned into a supernatural
creature with abilities beyond his comprehension. Trying to merge the two histories
remained quite the challenge.

Nachari eyed the boy from head to toe, assessing his
new
warrior’s
outfit: Dark military fatigues hung loosely over a pair of
heavy black combat boots. A tight muscle shirt stretched over a body that was
still in need of a few more muscles, and a long black trench coat flowed to the
floor. Nachari’s eyes traveled up to the boy’s spiked hair—
all eight inches
of it—
and he tilted his head to the side, wondering how the child was
keeping it up.

“Aren’t you hot?” Nachari finally asked, gesturing
toward the coat.

Braden slipped his partially-gloved hands into his
pockets. “Nah, I’m good.”

Nachari smiled. “Braden, your hair is too long to
spike like that. If you’d like to have it cut, that’s one thing, but—”

“Hell no, I ain’t cuttin’ my hair!”

Nachari sat forward then. “Since when did you
start cursing, Braden?”

Braden shrugged his shoulders and held out his
hands. “Just a little nothin’-nothin’ that I picked up.”

Nachari chuckled. “I believe the vernacular is
somethin’-somethin’
,
and where did you pick it up?”

Braden huffed, indignant. “Man, why you always
sweatin’ me?”

Nachari shook his head. “No one is sweatin’ you,
Braden, but you do tend to be a little
over the top
with your changes. I’m
just trying to figure out who you are today.”

Braden’s burnt sienna eyes flashed a sort of…dusty
rose...as if they were on their way to turning red but couldn’t quite make it. They
settled back into their natural hue, and his inherent golden pupils darkened
with frustration. “I’m a warrior, and you know that! Like Marquis!”

Nachari held up both hands in apology. “Of
course,” he conceded, “I just hadn’t realized you were such an
urban
warrior
of late.”

Braden rolled his eyes, but more than likely, he
had no idea what
urban
meant.

“Anyhow,” Nachari continued, dismissing the
argument—
patience indeed—
“I want you to go wash all that gel, or mousse,
or whatever it is out of your hair, unless you want me to cut it.”

Braden threw back his head in theatrical disgust. “A
warrior needs the spikes, man.”

He drew a dagger out of his coat pocket,
considered flipping it in the air but thought better of it, and then started
pacing the room. “It’s part of the package.”

“Whoa, my man…” Nachari set the book aside and
jumped up from the couch. “Where did you get the knife?”

Braden flashed a broad smile, a mischievous look
in his eyes. “I found your collection.” He paused, unable to conceal his
excitement. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, but
dayuum,
Nachari
, that
shit is off the chain!”

Still across the room, Nachari quickly wrenched
the blade from Braden’s hand, using telekinesis. He laid it down gently on an
end table. “What have I told you about weapons?”

Braden rolled his eyes. “No weapons without proper
training. I know, I know, but dude, it’s just a knife.”

“Yeah, well, a knife is a weapon, and that
particular weapon belongs to me,
dude
.” Nachari sat back down. “And lay
off the cursing.”

Braden threw up his hands. “
Damn
—I mean,
dag
,
you are such a buzz kill.”

“And no more MTV, either.” Nachari let out a slow,
deep breath. Patience.
Patience
. He possessed an endless reservoir of
patience
.

Yeah, right
.

Vampyr males just did not experience adolescence
the same way this human-turned-vampire did. They were a lot more stable and self-controlled.
This kid was the flightiest thing Nachari had ever seen; although he had to
admit, all and all, Braden was a really good kid. He just tried too hard.

Taking a step back from his frustration, Nachari offered
a compromise: “I tell you what, if the spiked hair is the look, then why don’t
we go into town—get a professional hair cut—so you can wear it spiked...with
class.”

Braden shook his head adamantly. “That’s just it,
Nachari. No way am I cutting my hair.” He started to run a smooth hand through
his locks, got stuck on a stiff patch of gel, and quickly placed it in his
pocket, instead. Playing it off, he shrugged. “A brotha’s gotta be able to play
it both ways,
cool and classy
. Feel me?”

Nachari counted backward from ten to one. How in
the world did the fellowship consider
this
an important skill of
wizardry?
Whatever.
“Braden, I can assure you of one thing: you are
not
a brother. And why can’t one hair-style accomplish both?”

Braden chuckled then, trying to sound older than
he was. “The truth?”

“By all means.”

“Because, man, I need the spikes to be like
Marquis—you know, a warrior. But I also need the waves to be like you—pull the
women. ’Cause
that
, my brotha, oh man…”—he let out a deep, wistful
sigh—“that’s da shizzle for da rizzle.” All at once, his body jerked
unnaturally, and his right leg swung out from underneath him, causing him to
lose his balance.

Nachari jumped up, alarmed. “What’s wrong with
your leg?” Vampires did not get muscle cramps, and they certainly did not have
seizures.

Braden righted himself, frowned, and looked away. “Uh,
nothing. Nothing. It’s all good.”

“Braden?” Nachari raised his eyebrows.

Braden gazed at the floor and shook his head,
exasperated. “Just a little dance move I’ve been working on, ah’ight?” He paused,
and then looked up sheepishly. “Guess it needs a little more work.”

Nachari bit his lower lip.
Don’t laugh at the
boy. Do-not-laugh. Do. Not
—  “I’ll tell you what: If you want to keep your
hair long, then lose the spikes. If you want to keep the spikes, then you have
to get it cut. End of discussion. As for
da shizzle for da rizzle
and
the
new dance moves
, tone it down.
Way down
. Understand me?”

Braden moped and bobbed his head in reluctant
agreement. “Yeah...okay.”

“
Way down
,” Nachari repeated.

Braden nodded again and then folded his hands in
front of him, looking suddenly lost.

Nachari sat back down on the sofa and held out his
left arm. “Now then, when was the last time you fed?”

While most males in the house of Jadon only needed
to feed every six to eight weeks, Braden’s body could only consume small
amounts at a time—not because his system wasn’t fully converted, but because
his once-human brain still resisted the notion of living off blood. Consequently,
he had to feed a lot more often.

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Braden
huffed. “Fine, you don’t want me to have spiked hair, I won’t. And fine! You
don’t want me to talk like I’m cool,
whatever
, but dang, Nachari, why do
you have to treat me like a girl?”

Nachari stared at him, utterly perplexed. “What
are we talking about now, Braden?”

The kid sighed and began waving his arms emphatically
as he spoke. “No self-respecting vampire feeds off his step-dad and his
guardian
.
Off other males! That’s just embarrassing. All the other vampires my age hunt
already.”