Blood Possession (33 page)

Perhaps God—the celestial gods?—had programmed the response into her DNA. Who knows? She only knew that she couldn’t stop staring at the child she and Napolean had created together just over forty-eight hours ago. She shook her head as if to dismiss the thought: The awareness of the horrors that took place in that small cabin, the way her son had actually been conceived, was not something she cared to think about. But even as she fought to insulate herself from the memory, she already felt completely divorced from it. Napolean had plucked her soul from Ademordna’s grip and held her far away—safe and untouched, as it were—using nothing more than his sheer will to do it. And he had somehow absorbed every bruise, every injury—every memory of the event—at a cellular level.

There was simply nothing there to recall.

It was like telling someone with amnesia that they had been in a terrible car accident. While they could still see the evidence of the mangled vehicle, in the absence of any memory or remaining physical injuries, the depth of trauma just wasn’t there. On a gut level, she knew that she should be broken inside—shattered—and probably in need of many years of therapy, but the feeling-place of the event had been completely removed from her consciousness at the most rudimentary level: Her mind would never replay the terror or torment her incessantly. She would never be haunted by visceral nightmares…or fear. She would never remember the incredible suffering.

For all intents and purposes, it was as if the horror had never happened.

And her baby—the evidence of that horrific circumstance—could not possibly be compared to a mangled car. Looking at him now, she felt oddly thankful—not for the past several days, the disgusting Blood Curse, or the way she had been taken from her previous life—but for the gift of something so incredibly precious and innocent.

She smiled.

She wanted to just sit for hours and listen to him breathe. In fact, she craved the touch of his little hands and fingers so much that she was almost tempted to wake him. Good Lord, what would Tiffany think? What would she say? She could hardly wait to tell her, but she knew that they needed to wait just a little bit longer—she actually agreed with Napolean on that fact: Until Brooke understood her new powers…her body…the world she was now immersed in, she wouldn’t be able to merge it with her former life. And she did want to reconcile the two as best she could. She needed to know how to answer Tiffany’s questions before she exposed her innocent human companion to too much at once. Whether or not her best friend could ever know the full extent of the truth—whether Tiffany would be trusted by the Vampyr to keep such a critical secret—still remained to be seen.

In deference to her better judgment, Brooke stepped away from the bassinette. The child had only been in the world for four hours—since 6:30 p.m. on Friday, October sixteenth:
her son’s
birthday—surely his miraculous body knew what it needed. If he was sleeping, he probably needed to sleep. Besides, Brooke really didn’t have a clue what to do with a newborn baby, let alone a vampire. Of course, Napolean had promised to provide her with help, and Jocelyn and Ciopori had been downright generous with a myriad of their own offers, promising everything from baby clothes and furniture for the nursery to hands-on tutorials on what they had learned in their short time as new Vampyr mothers. And Brooke fully intended to take them up on it…once she had settled in.

She wandered back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She held her breath, leaned forward, and bared her teeth, half expecting to see a set of fangs gleaming back at her. When nothing but her traditional pearly-whites sparkled in the reflection, she tried growling low in her throat.

Okay, now that just sounded ridiculous.

Not to mention embarrassing.

She ran her tongue along her upper front teeth and tried her hand at the best Transylvanian accent she could muster: “I vant to drink yer blood.” She quickly glanced around the room, nervous. Although she knew no one was there—no one could possibly have seen or heard her idiocy—she still needed to be sure. She peeked into the bedroom and sighed, vowing inwardly to never, ever do that again—what if Napolean had caught her? God, she would have to curl up and die.

She took a step back from the mirror then and brought her hand in front of her face—no claws at the ends of her fingers. Thank God. She steadied herself, remembering what Jocelyn had told her: The males of the species were the more aggressive ones. They were far more likely to display primal characteristics such as glowing eyes, fangs extended in anger or lust, and the emergence of claws and wings. In fact, the female
destinies
did not get wings—although no one knew why. While they had gained the same perfect health, the same tremendous power, and the same need for blood—as well as immortality—the females’ instincts were softer, and their hunger could be sated by their mates. Unless truly angered or provoked, they weren’t nearly as combative or primitive. Perhaps something of their human nature survived the transition after all.

Brooke closed her eyes and thought about the way vampires traveled when they weren’t using their wings—and where did those glorious feathers come from, anyway?—their backs looked as smooth as anyone else’s through their clothes. In fact, when Napolean had held her that day in the meadow, she hadn’t felt anything rough or unusual. She sighed: just another question to add to her list.

She glanced at the hand in front of her face and tried to concentrate on the bedroom, visualize the bassinette the way Jocelyn had explained transportation—well…sort of. As she thought of the room and pictured her son, she began to imagine herself beside him. And as the image became clearer and clearer, she tried to relax, releasing her connection to the physical world. Somehow, she tried to intend her
being-ness
somewhere else. In an instant, her hand began to fade in front of her eyes—going all pliable, soft, and misty—until distinct sections shimmered completely out of view.

Brooke shrieked and jumped back. She waved her arm in the air and shook her hand wildly, as if she could somehow knock the spell loose. “Holy cow!” she muttered. She grasped her hand and squeezed it, begging the limb to stay on her arm.

And then she swore beneath her breath.

In the throes of her panic—the midst of her antics—she had cleared off the entire bathroom counter, scattering spray bottles, a curling iron, and an open case of makeup all around the room. The disturbance had made quite a racket—not to mention quite the mess. She stared at the chaotic pile of toiletries and grimaced.

Shit, Brooke, are you crazy?

What if she had managed to transport only one part of her body into the other room—or worse yet, several random parts? What would have happened to the rest of her? Or what if she had disappeared somewhere in never-never land, beamed up into outer space, or dematerialized beneath the ocean—and no one had ever found her? The thought gave her chills.

What if she had taken her body apart and then couldn’t put it back together?

She swallowed a lump in her throat.

There was a loud knock at the bedroom door, and her heart sank into her stomach.

Oh, damn.

Ramsey.

The imposing sentinel had been stationed right outside the bedroom door since the moment Napolean left to go to the clinic—to see Nachari and the Silivasis.

“Yes?” Brooke called, trying to sound calm and in control.
As if…

“Is everything all right, milady?”

Brooke frowned—my lady?
Really?

She tried to put some reassurance in her voice. “Yeah, sure—I mean, yes.”
You betcha, Mr. scary-as-hell-warrior! I just almost beamed my butt up to Mars, but everything is hunky-dory.
She shuddered then, thinking of the fearsome male on the other side of the door…

Ramsey Olaru was truly one of the most menacing-looking men she had ever laid eyes on. She had feared the spooky guy from the first night she had seen him driving Napolean’s Land Cruiser. There was just something…harsh…in his eyes, something that said the vampire would gladly eat you for breakfast, spit you out if he didn’t like the taste, and devour your quivering children—all before he finished his morning coffee—while never missing a bite of crumb cake in the process.

“Should I come in?” Ramsey asked in that rough, nearly baritone voice.

Now she really did wish she could beam up to Mars.

“No!” she insisted. “Really, I’m fine.” She paused and forced herself to smile—she had given enough presentations to know that smiling was a sure way to put a reassuring note in one’s voice. “Thank you, though…Ramsey.”

The vampire was quiet for a moment, and Brooke half expected him to rip the door from the hinges and fly in on angry wings, but then, of course, he could just materialize into the bathroom if he wanted to, couldn’t he?

The thought scared her to death.

She needed ample warning in order to deal with something like that—a big, husky vampire suddenly appearing in the bathroom, hovering like a velociraptor, flexing giant muscles in her face…and towering over her with big, bad
fangs
. The Stephen King movie about a slobbering, rabid Saint Bernard suddenly came to mind.
Cujo
—yeah, that’s what it was called—the one where the crazy dog tried to eat all the actors, and—

She quickly dismissed the thought and checked herself in the mirror, measuring the number of buttons fastened on her pajama-top to make sure she hadn’t left one undone—because that really mattered…why?—and then she shook her head.

Calm down, Brooke: It isn’t going to happen! He won’t just…materialize…in here.

Ramsey was the devil-in-blue-jeans type, a two-hundred-forty-pound raging bull with lethal horns charging through a china shop, not because he was clumsy—in fact, quite the opposite—but just because he could. If this male decided to come into the room, he wouldn’t politely…quietly…appear. He would do it with a sufficient amount of force.

Brooke bit her bottom lip and waited.

Nothing happened.

“Very well then,” Ramsey finally grunted.

She let out a deep, relieved sigh. “Yep, very well then,” she responded, wondering why she couldn’t just shut up. As if her tongue had a mind of its own, it kept going: “Yes, indeedy…very well…everything is super…very…well.” She clasped her hand over her mouth.
Everything is super very well? What does that even mean? Stop talking, Brooke!

Ramsey didn’t appear to notice. Or maybe he noticed, but he was just too ornery to care. “Napolean asked me to tell you he is on his way home,” he added.

Brooke’s heart literally skipped a beat.

Her eyes grew wide and she spun around, staring at the mess she had made of the bathroom. She looked down at the front of her clothes, and then fingered her wet hair. Oh, hell… “How do you know?” she asked. “I didn’t hear the phone ring. Did he say how soon he’d be here?”

“He didn’t call,” Ramsey grunted. “He”—the spooky vampire paused, as if searching for the right words—“spoke to me directly.”

Brooke gasped. “Then he’s already here?”

Ramsey chuckled then—actually
chuckled
—as if he found the whole situation amusing. Clearly, he had no idea just how sinister his laughter actually sounded. “No, milady—in my mind,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Napolean spoke to me directly,” he repeated, “in my
mind
.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “Telepathically.”

“Oh,” Brooke answered, sighing. She wondered absently why Napolean hadn’t chosen to speak to her, instead. After all, she was a vampire too, now, wasn’t she? “Okay, thanks.”

“Is there anything else you need, milady?” This time, his voice was both polite and respectful.

Brooke chewed on her bottom lip. “
Brooke
,” she said, in an equally pleasant tone.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

Brooke smiled. “You asked if there was anything else I needed—just for you to call me Brooke.”

Ramsey cleared his throat. “Oh…” He snorted. “As you wish…milady.”

Wow
.

Brooke held up her hands, shrugged, and rolled her eyes. “You’re going to make someone a very attentive husband someday, Mr. Olaru,”
she whispered beneath her breath, sarcastically.

“Pardon me?” he growled.

Brooke blanched.

Was he in her head? Could he read her thoughts? Shit! She held her breath, too afraid to answer, unwilling to think…anything.
Blah, blah, blah, blah—blah, blah, blah…

After a time, Ramsey walked away from the door, and his heavy footsteps could be heard slowly receding down the hall.

Brooke exhaled. This was all going to take some getting used to.

She felt positively faint and more than a little dizzy—the way she sometimes became when she was under an enormous amount of pressure. She peeked into the bedroom one more time, glanced at the bassinette, and heaved a sigh: By some stroke of luck, their son was still asleep. And then she looked in the bathroom mirror—at the mess that was her appearance. For reasons she couldn’t comprehend, she almost felt like crying.

What the heck is wrong with you?
she wondered.
You are acting absolutely…idiotic…childish.

Positively insane.

She gazed at the face in the mirror, feeling mildly queasy at this point. And then she realized what was wrong…

Napolean was coming home.

To her.

To their son.

To their bedroom…and their new life…together. For all intents and purposes, the man was her husband now.

Brooke had already been converted. She was no longer human, and there was no going back. The demands of the Blood Curse had already been fulfilled, and as far as his kind was concerned, they were well and truly mated. And she got what that meant—she knew what came next…

In that eager, frightened, excited-yet-overwhelmed way that women had, Brooke knew that their relationship was about to go to another level.

The level
.