Blood Curse (27 page)

Culla Wasser was before the fireplace, frozen as though she'd just risen from the nearby chaise in an attempt to run. Her eyes were large and round, her mouth agape. Seta looked straight into the woman's eyes and knew the bitch felt her own impending death. It put a smile on Seta's face.

"No point in running, Culla.” She leered at the woman, watching her body shake with fear under her silky bronze-colored nightgown. “You've already been captured. Now I want to know exactly what happened, detail by tiny detail."

"I don't know what you're talking about.” Culla smoothed her mane of auburn waves with a quivering hand and stood at her full height of five-feet-ten inches. “Eron isn't here. You should come back—"

"Eron isn't here because you handed him over to a killer!” Seta swung a hand and a burst of energy shot out from it, plowing into the woman. She flew backward, hitting her head against the mantel jutting from above the lifeless fireplace before crashing to her knees. “I saw you. I saw you putting poison in his drink, taking blood from him as he slept.” Seta shook with the rage flowing through her veins as she recalled the vision that had sent her racing here.

Culla whimpered while she remained doubled over on the floor, wrapping one arm protectively around her middle and holding the back of her head with the other. Seta felt no compassion. “You knew his patterns, knew when he reached the deepest stage of sleep, knew just how to get to him. I know the how. What I want to know now is the who and the why."

Culla's head snapped up, a devilish smirk on her face. “Screw you, Seta. You and Eron thought you were so powerful, that no mortal was a match for your strength and wit, but I beat you. I outsmarted Eron, a king among his kind."

"Why? Why would you turn on the man who provided you with a life of luxury?” Eron's house was huge and richly decorated. He had money pouring in from several different sources and provided for the horrid woman as though she were his family. All she had to do was take care of a few daily business tasks for him. It was a dream job for a mortal.

"Because he wouldn't give me the gift."

It suddenly all made sense to Seta. “You want to be a vampire?"

"I want eternal life. I don't care how I get it. Or when."

"And what did you accomplish by hurting Eron?"

"Exactly what I wanted. There's a way to become a vampire without having the vampire's permission, and now I won't grow old or die."

"Are you sure that's true?"

"Yes.” Culla smiled so that her face beamed. “Eron's blood is being drained daily. Once the formula has been perfected he will be my donor."

Seta fisted her hands tighter, aching to kill the woman now and be done with her, but she needed to know who Culla was working with. “And who is creating this formula?"

"Like I would tell you.” Culla laughed haughtily, crossing her arms beneath her ample breasts. “You can't win, Seta. If you kill me you'll never get the name of Eron's captor, so why don't you be a good little vampire-witch and fly out of here."

"You have underestimated me,” Seta said coolly as she stepped toward the woman, gaining strength from the fear she saw in the traitor's once mocking eyes. Her smile grew as Culla's faded away on trembling lips. “I don't need you to
say
a word."

Seta reached out and grabbed Eron's enemy by the neck, sinking her long nails into Culla's flesh. With a simple command, the fireplace roared to life. Culla started to whimper as Seta spoke the words which would give her the answer she needed. “Blood and flesh and all wickedness therein, give me the name of the abductor of Eron."

"And to think you sold out such a fine man for a formula you'll never get to see developed,” Seta said to her victim before effortlessly ripping off her head and throwing it into the fireplace, letting the body drop to the ground.

Seta kneeled before the fireplace and watched as Culla's ashes drifted out of the fire and formed a name on the hearthstone.

"Who is Carter Dunn?"

Seta whirled around to see Rialto standing behind her, deathly pale and out of breath, studying the name provided by Culla Wasser's flesh and blood.

Aria paced the aisles of Christian's church, where Rialto had dumped her before running out into the night to find Seta.

"Aria, would you please sit? You're making me dizzy."

She cringed at the sound of Christian's voice although it wasn't the least bit harsh. She'd done her very best to avoid any and all eye contact with him since Rialto had dropped her off an hour and a half before. She couldn't shake the guilt of knowing she'd gotten him into trouble with Rialto.

"I know you feel bad about me getting my hide chewed off earlier. I forgive you."

Aria stopped mid-stride and turned to face Christian, who was busy lighting candles at the front of the church. “Are you sure you can't read my mind?"

He looked at her and smiled. “I'm sure, and I wouldn't have to. You wear your emotions."

"Oh, really?"

He nodded, his growing smile adding a twinkle to his eyes. “You could never be a good poker player, Aria. You feel things too strongly to cover up. That might be what drew Rialto to you, why you were mated to him."

Aria sat in one of the pews, her curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?"

Christian lit the last candle, laid down the lighter, and sat on the back of a pew a couple rows before her. He held her gaze for a moment before speaking. “Rialto shut himself off after Antonia. He didn't allow himself to feel anything for anyone. I think the dreams he started to receive upon your birth helped him to feel again."

"And now I'm killing him."

The glimmer in Christian's soft eyes faded. “He's been dead for many years. Decades came and passed, and he hadn't inhaled a single breath of life, but then you entered his dreams, and he awakened from death."

"He was not dead, Christian."

"In the physical sense, no. But he was like a zombie. No feeling, no emotions. He helped those who needed it, but it was a chore to him, something he simply did. He didn't care about the mortals he saved, until he met you. He doesn't want to catch your mother's killer so badly because it's the right thing to do for mankind or because he's trying to prevent drawing the attention of mortals to our kind. He wants to do this for you, to please you. He doesn't want your pain prolonged."

"And to pay him back for that I'm doing nothing while he slowly dies."

Christian said nothing. He didn't have to. The sadness in his eyes spoke volumes within the few seconds that passed before he shuttered them. Then the front doors opened and a group of parishioners entered, silencing them from any further conversation.

After Christian left her to greet the newcomers, Aria leaned her head back against the pew and thought about Rialto. She was tormented by the thought of what it would be like living without him, knowing he died because of her, but she was torn over what to do. It had taken her over two decades to come to terms with her own ancestry. Could she stand the secrecy of being part of the vampire world when all she wanted to do was break free of her own self-imposed prison?

She looked at her hands, noticed the subtle darkening already starting to take over her skin, and smiled. She was white and she was black, and she was finally comfortable with that fact. Pickahoe and its small-minded inhabitants couldn't hurt her anymore. She could claim more than her father's last name now. She could claim his heritage. Her heritage. She was free to be herself.

But, if she became a vampire, the secrets and lies would be reborn. The shame of knowing she was different, misunderstood, even hated, would burn through her once more. How long would it take to accept herself then? The world had changed during her twenty-six years in it. Biracial people were widely accepted now. Would vampires ever be?

She squeezed her eyes shut to fight back the tears welling there. If she became a vampire then Rialto would live. If she stayed in her mortal form he would die, along with the only part of her that had felt alive in years. Brad had been a silly, stupid high school crush, and the few men who'd come after him weren't much more. She never knew love before Rialto, never enjoyed lovemaking on any level deeper than the mere physical one, and even that had been unworthy of comparison to him.

Rialto was a great man. He helped mankind, knowing full well they would not accept him if they knew his identity. He destroyed the evil among them, saving their lives and those of their children, protecting their innocence despite the fact he and his kind were blamed of the opposite. But still he did it. Because he was that kind of man.

What kind of woman was she? She'd lived her life in fear, starting from the earliest days of her childhood. She hadn't even acknowledged her father publicly until he was dead and she was forced to leave town. Was it brave of her to take his name after she fled the only little town that knew him? No. It had been a weak tribute at the most. And she'd failed to protect her mother. If she was going to be truthful, she knew the killer would never be punished if it weren't for Rialto. She'd thought herself brave for one brief moment in time, all the way up until Rialto rescued her from two street thugs. If she hadn't met him that night, she knew she would have given up by now. She would have done what she always did—hide behind a canvas and an easel, her only weapons a paintbrush and a palette, and she would have continued to paint the thoughts and feelings she was too damn scared to express in any other way.

That's what she would do after letting Rialto die. She would hide away and paint, pouring her worthless heart and soul into her artwork. Then she would sell it to the first bidder, because she lacked the backbone to do anything else.

"I suck as a human being,” she murmured as she opened her eyes and absently gazed around her, glancing about the different paintings and sculptures adorning the room. None of the pieces appeared to be expensive which made perfect sense given the neighborhood surrounding the church, but even to her biased artist's eye, they were beautiful.

Her gaze fell on a painting of the adult Jesus and Mary in the far corner of the room. The artist hadn't portrayed them as being pale or smooth haired as most artists over the centuries had done. They were darker, with hair of coarse curls like the people in that time and place really were. But that wasn't what she'd noticed. She noticed the look of pure love on Mary's face.

Mary Ayers had worn that same look several times during her life. Aria smiled, remembering the few times her family was together in Pickahoe. Her father would come by with his tools, making sure to park his truck with the big MICHAELS HANDYWORK sticker on the side in clear view out front. To anyone who passed by, it appeared as though he were only doing his job. But inside the house they were laughing, playing, reading . . . being a family.

Aria clearly recalled a day when she and her father had danced in circles while her mother sang, her beautiful soprano voice filling the small shotgun house with its beauty. They'd danced until her seven-year-old legs could dance no more, and then they all sat together on the couch in the living room, listening to her father tell stories. She'd laid her head in her father's lap and closed her eyes, listening to the rich baritone of his voice until she grew tired.

"I had the dream again,” her mother whispered to her father, obviously thinking Aria was asleep. “She is destined for greatness. Just wait and see."

Aria had peeked through barely open lids to see Mary Ayers looking at her with all the warmth and awe that the artist had created in his portrait of Jesus and his mother Mary.

The memory suddenly changed. Aria was twenty-six again, lying in her bed, feeling the wind from the open balcony doors caress her skin. She realized she was no longer remembering but dreaming, having dozed off in the church pew.

She could no longer feel the hard wood beneath her, only the soft comfort of her own bed and the aching need in her body. Her eyes were closed, but she sensed another presence, a presence that could soothe the ache engulfing her body, fill the empty void in her heart. He was there with her.

Rialto.

She opened her eyes to see him standing at the foot of her bed, clothed in a billowy white dress shirt and black pants. Beneath those clothes she knew his body was rock hard, especially the part that bulged in the front of his pants

She was on top of him in a second, making passionate love to him as he lay beneath her on the bed. Words were said, actions taken, but they happened so fast she was barely aware that she was sipping his blood before she was rammed into the wall, their bodies still joined. He reared his head back, roared, and sank his long, pearly fangs into her throat.

Instantly, she froze in fear. He was a vampire. She had intended to kill them all, and now he was going to make her one of them. He was going to force her to endure another life of fear, another existence where she simply did not belong. “No!” She screamed as she used all the new power in her body, fueled by the blood she had already sipped from him, and pushed him away

Rialto stared back at her, the pain in his eyes unbearable to look at, but she fought to hold his gaze while her eyes watered. “I'm sorry. I can't do this.

He backed away, nodded, and fell to his knees.

"Rialto?” She dropped to her knees before him, but he pulled back at the feel of her touch, as though her hands burned him now. “Rialto! What's wrong?

He folded over into a ball, his body racked with tremors.

"You've killed him,” a familiar voice said from the balcony. Aria looked up and nearly choked on emotion.

"Mom?” Mary Ayers stood on the balcony, a vision of beauty and serenity in a long, flowing white dress. Her father stood next to her, and Aria felt her overjoyed heart drop as both their mouths turned down into disapproving frowns

"You were supposed to save him, and in doing that, save the world,” her mother said with a tone that shamed Aria to her core. “You were the first step in the plan and you failed.

"What plan? I don't understand."