Blood Destiny (27 page)

He scoffed at their weakness. They were hardly a step above humans, always having to suppress their true power.

They would never understand the rush of the kill, the gratification of taking one's pleasure from a helpless woman...the supremacy of black magic.

Valentine turned in jubilant circles as he plunged toward the ground. Maybe it was time to consider siring a human.

With three sons to raise, he would need a nanny who could stick around for a while. In the past, such a thing was impossible. The thrill of the kill, the insatiable draw of bloodlust, was always too hard to resist.

The nannies never lasted.

They never lived long enough to provide proper care.

Valentine sighed. Perhaps it was time to find a dark mate, a human woman hungry enough to relinquish her soul for the promise of immortality. A woman he could convert...and 253

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keep. A woman he could control. A woman he could force and brutalize, and take his pleasure from at will.

His heart beat strong in his chest. What did it matter?

Whether he sired a human woman or went through fifty nannies? His son Derrian was thriving, and soon, in just forty-eight hours, he would have two more offspring.

Life was good.

The ancient one, Jaegar, would have been pleased.

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Tristan and Willie had been gone for at least an hour by the time Jocelyn found the keys to the shed. The storm had become so violent, the temperature so cold, and the snow so heavy, there had been no need to restrain her. As it was, they were already facing white-out conditions: a situation where one could get lost within ten feet of their own home and never make it back.

Tristan was smart enough to know that any attempt at escape would mean certain death at the hands of the elements. Without a satellite phone or two-way radio, Jocelyn posed no threat. And she clearly stood no chance of escape.

The only remaining chance she had was to get to the arsenal in the shed, but Tristan and Willie had been careful to make sure it was securely locked before they headed out...to hunt.

To find...and kill...Nathaniel.

Fortunately for Jocelyn, she had known Tristan for three years, and she knew how he operated. Tristan always had a backup plan. And Jocelyn was certain he wouldn't have taken the only set of keys to the shed with him: It was just a matter of finding the spare set. After a great deal of searching—and more than a little thinking—Jocelyn was able to locate Tristan's hiding place by figuring out the most unlikely place she could think of: the one spot no one would ever dare look unless they absolutely had to. The keys were attached to the underside of the septic tank, neatly taped to the lid in a small plastic bag.

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Wincing from the bitter sting of the frigid air, Jocelyn jiggled the last of three keys inside the keyhole of the small, dilapidated outbuilding, less than twenty yards from where the Snake Creek River met the base of a steep, rising cliff.

The key turned and the latch gave way so that it only took one shove to force the heavy wooden door open. The odor that rushed out from the shed's interior almost took her breath away, and she struggled to keep her balance in the face of the assault. In an effort to breathe, she covered her nose with her hands.

What was that stench? A dead animal? Rotting meat? Had the shed been used as a butcher house?

Jocelyn pulled her heavy wool scarf up from her neck to shield her face, wrapping it tightly around her nose. She needed her hands free while she explored the shed but knew she wouldn't make it far unless she could control that awful smell.

The wide arc of her flashlight cast shadows throughout the dingy building as she slowly crept forward. She needed to find a good weapon. Maybe even some materials she could use to rig a booby trap before the men returned. She didn't dare hope to find a radio, but she was determined to search every square inch of the rundown shed anyway, just to make sure.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the interior, she began to take in its contents: A waist-high, dilapidated wooden bench stood on the right-hand side of the shed with a myriad of rusted tools and assorted items laid out on top.

There were several boxes of bullets, one large box of matches, three or four different rolls of tape, and a small 256

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carton of flares laid out haphazardly over the surface. All materials that had potential.

There were several pieces of old, rusted farm equipment spread out along the floor throughout the front of the building, and various tools hung from the ceiling along with several sealed boxes, most likely containing outdated supplies. There were two small tires piled on top of a dented red wheelbarrow with a broken handle; and two doors stood at the back of the shed, erected side-by-side, each one hinged in the opposite direction of the other, opening to adjacent rooms.

Jocelyn carefully made her way to the first door on the left, hoping to find what she was looking for on her first try. When she swung the heavy door open, her heart slammed into her chest with a heavy thud, and a shriek of absolute horror escaped her throat as her eyes fixed on the horrific scene in front of her: It was Braden Bratianu. Nachari's young charge.

Hanging lifeless and bloodied against a thick wooden cross.

His body was savagely torn and badly bruised, his hands pierced all the way through the palms with heavy iron spikes.

His chest wall was impaled by a large wooden stake, and he looked more fragile than any victim she had ever seen.

Jocelyn's heart shattered into a thousand pieces as she thought about what the poor young man must have endured.

Had Tristan done this? The thought was as sickening as it was hard to believe. And if so, why? Why would anyone take pleasure in inflicting so much suffering on a helpless boy?

Even if Tristan were a vampire hunter, what reason could he possibly have to brutalize a helpless child?

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And Braden of all people.

His heart was as pure as gold.

The reverberation of Jocelyn's scream must have roused the child because he slowly inclined his head and turned his tear-stained eyes in her direction, struggling to bring her into focus.

Jocelyn gasped, shocked that he could still be alive. It seemed impossible.

"Braden!"

She ran to the heavy cross, trying desperately to prop him up, to lift the heavy weight of his body off the piercing stakes that were tugging at his skin, continuously using his own mass to cause him further agony. But Braden was far too heavy to lift. His entire body was dead weight.

As Jocelyn tried once more to move him, a strangled cry ripped from his throat. It hovered in the air like the echoing howl of a wounded animal, a young bear caught in a trap.

Braden's tears began to flow uncontrollably, his pleading eyes suddenly matching his ghastly makeup.

"Jocelyn?" His voice was a mere whisper.

He blinked several times in an effort to remove the blood that was trickling down his forehead from a deep gash in his scalp. Some of it had already dried and clotted in his hair, yet much of it still ran in small rivers of anguish down his face.

Jocelyn had to fight to restrain her own tears. "It's me, Braden," she crooned. She stroked his cheek as gently as possible. "Do you remember me? Jocelyn, Nathaniel's...wife?"

She couldn't think of any other way to explain who she was. To make it clear that she was a friend, not an enemy.

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Now was not the time for pride or propriety. Now was the time for making Braden's world as simple as she could.

"Help me," he whimpered. "Please get me down before they come back." His voice was heavy with desperation, and the sound fell like a heavy weight on her heart.

"I'm trying, Braden. I'm trying."

Jocelyn surveyed the entire scene, her mind racing frantically in a whirlwind of thoughts. Feelings of helplessness, desperation, and rage churned in her gut. All the while, her stomach fought the impulse to heave. How in the world was she going to help him? She couldn't lift him.

And she couldn't leave him.

A harsh moan escaped Braden's throat, and he sniffled, fighting back more tears.

Jocelyn studied one of the heavy metal spikes in his hands: If the stake had pierced him all the way through, a mallet would only pound it half-way back. Maybe there was some way she could pull the stake out. She knew the pain would be unbearable if she tried, but the alternative seemed far worse.

Leaving him for Tristan and Willie to finish the job.

To complete their sick, depraved torture.

Jocelyn could not allow that to happen. She would not allow that to happen.

Taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Hold on, Braden."

And then she reached up to test the heavy pin, needing to get a measure of its strength, trying to figure out what kind of tool she might need to remove it. She was hoping against 259

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hope that the wood was rotten, or the nail was bent, that it would somehow give way against the strain.

"Stop!" Braden cried, his agony halting her dead in her tracks. His voice was hoarse with misery.

"Please...please...stop." His chest heaved with sobs. "Don't touch the spikes. You'll never get them out. Please, just go get Nachari. Please..." He coughed between words.

"I can't, Braden." Jocelyn shook her head apologetically.

She closed her eyes and placed her hands over her face. "I'm a prisoner here, too." She glanced through the open door of the back room toward the front of the shed, her heart beating rapidly. "I don't know how much time we have before they come back, but I promise—I'll get you out of here...somehow.

Unfortunately, it's probably going to hurt."

Braden managed to lift his head and look around the shed, as if trying to come up with a solution for her. Every movement brought more unbearable pain. "You can't undo these pins, Jocelyn." It was a statement of fact...of defeat.

"I'm gonna die here."

Her heart was breaking. "No! No, you're not, Braden! We just have to think."

The longer she considered his wounds and his predicament, the more she feared he was right. It would take super-human strength to get him down from that cross, and those pins were not going to budge. Jocelyn rubbed her forehead at the bridge of her nose. Think. Think! Maybe she could get him down without removing the pins. What if she sawed through the boards around the stakes, leaving his 260

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limbs attached to the wood, but freeing him from the bulk of the cross?

"I'll be right back."

"Don't leave me!"

"I'm not going to leave you, Braden. I have to go look for a tool." She frantically searched the shed for a chainsaw, but the only thing she found was an old tarnished hacksaw.

"Damnit!" She clenched her fists in frustration and struck out at the wall. It would take a month of sawing to get through that thick wood with such a rudimentary tool.

She found a straight razor and an ice pick in a small red tool-box and groaned, considering the alternatives. What if she could cut him free? Enlarge his wounds so that his hands could slide over the spikes? She peered into the back room and cursed beneath her breath. Great idea, Joss! And just how is that supposed to work? What was she planning to do after she carved out the center of his hands? Cut into his chest to remove the thick wooden stake as well?

Jocelyn shook her head. She wasn't thinking rationally anymore: Cutting up the poor boy's body in an attempt to get him off of a cross was hardly a reasonable alternative.

"Jocelyn... Jocelyn? Jocelyn!"

Braden was calling out to her now, a new surge of panic beginning to set in. Tears welled up in her eyes as his groans and his suffering—his endless pleas for help—increased.

Stop this right now, Jocelyn! she said to herself.

Concentrate. Just slow down and think! Use your brain. What can Braden do to help you? Jocelyn went back to Braden's side, calmer now: determined to find a solution.

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"Braden, I need you to pay attention for a minute. I'm going to ask you some questions. Try and figure out a way to help you. I need to know about your...powers. The things you can do. The other night at Nathaniel's house, Nathaniel was in trouble and Marquis came to him in the form of a hologram.

Can you do anything like that? Could you go to Nachari like that?"

"I can't do holograms yet." His voice was growing weaker, and he sounded so defeated.

Jocelyn sighed. "Nathaniel can also read other people's thoughts. What about that? Can you send a thought to Nachari? Or maybe shape-shift? Colette said vampires could dissolve in order to pass through walls and solid objects. Can you do anything like that with your body, Braden?"

Braden shook his head, slowly, looking unbelievably sad. "I don't have the skills to shape-shift. You already know that.

You saw me earlier. And especially not in this much pain." He choked out the words.

Jocelyn frowned. "You know what I saw earlier?" she asked defiantly. "I saw a very strong, courageous young man—

that's what I saw. I saw you challenge Marquis when he pushed you too far, something I would never have the courage to do. And I saw you turn yourself into a perfect little...vampire bat...and storm out of the room. So, don't tell me you don't have any special powers when I know full well that you do!"

She hated speaking to him so sternly when he was suffering so badly, but she had to give him hope. She had to push him to try.

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A faint light appeared in his eyes. "I...I might be able to link our minds...mine and Nachari's. If I could reach him, he could help me shape-shift, even from a long ways away.