Microsoft Word - 1606017438-Of-Night-and-Desire-Bailey.doc (42 page)

“So where is he now?”

“He awaits in a lower chamber. Sleeping, before
his
wedding night. I daresay, he admits to having a sleepless night as well.” The women laughed outright, tapering off to annoying tittering.

She gripped the sheet tighter, drawing it up to her chin. Becoming increasing uncomfortable with several people in the room while she lay in a bed naked save for satiny sheets to guard her modesty, she became a little stiff in her conversation.

“So why are you here?” she asked, a little more curt than she would have liked.

“Why, we are here to prepare you for the Beltane Feast.”

Yes,
Richelle thought.
Beltane, the celebration of new beginnings.

“And your wedding,” Preacher finished, clapping his hands. The three women emerged from the shadows, their arms outstretched bearing several gifts.

One carried a clear jar holding a liquid. From the scent of patchouli and cloves, Richelle surmised it was some type of scented oil. The strong scent permeated the room and served to further addle her disjointed thoughts and memories.

Another woman carried a red gown, draped over her arms so Richelle could not admire the style, although the color was as rich as rubies shimmering in the limited lighting of the chamber.

The third carried a red bejeweled crown. It had to be at least a foot tall with a widow’s peak in the front where a teardrop jewel hung.

Richelle frowned and her eyes darted back and forth from the gown to the crown and then back.

“Red? For a wedding? Aren’t brides supposed to wear white?”

“In this case, the red gown is in honor of the master’s lineage from the old country as well as your duty to carry on his
blood
line.”

* * * *

Preacher waved for the blonde carrying the tray to come forward. He poured red liquid from the decanter to the goblet, picked it up, and then

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offered it to Richelle. Hesitantly, she took the goblet, bringing it to her lips.

She stopped. Sniffing at the contents, she eyed him again.

“What is this, Victor?”

“It’s a special vintage from the master’s private cellars.” All she had to do was take one sip and then there would be no more need for explanations.

Her tentativeness was wearing his patience thin, not to mention amplifying his feelings of guilt.

“You’re sure to enjoy it. Drink.”

Again, she brought the goblet to her lips and stopped short.

“Thank you, Victor.”

Preacher swallowed hard. She was…thanking him? He was left

speechless. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. She just stared at the contents of the goblet as she spoke. “It’s very disconcerting, not being able to remember.

I’m…grateful…for your assistance.”

Preacher just continued to gape at her. If she had her memories, she wouldn’t be thanking him. She would be running from him in fear. She would hate him. And yet, in her vulnerability, when she was the most defenseless, she had shown a hint of trust, of faith that he had lost oh, so long ago. He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

He had been called to the priesthood to study and be a man of God.

Nevertheless, when his faith had been put to the test, he failed miserably.

Richelle had lost so much, her mother, the Scot from the mountains, her Guardian. Indeed, being on the run, she had lost most of her life largely due to him. And still, she had faith and trust in her fellow man.

In that moment, he despised what he had become. He fought an internal battle to turn away from Luka’s dominion and take Richelle away, returning her to the Immortals. But before he could do anything, Richelle took the decision away from him as she brought the goblet to her lips and drank. He leaned forward but it was too late. Preacher watched as Richelle suppressed the urge to gag while she drank. She lowered the goblet and began to sway.

Her head lolled from side to side. She looked at the liquid in the goblet again before she met Preacher’s gaze. Her hand began to tremble, and Preacher reached out and snagged the goblet before she dropped it.

“What was…what did you do?” Her speech was slurred and she fell back onto the bed.

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Preacher watched in silence. He idly swirled what was left of the liquid in the goblet as the Vampyresses took Richelle away to prepare her, both physically and mentally. Once they had finished their brand of brainwashing, Richelle would have no will left when she appeared at the Beltane Feast. There would be no fight as Luka took Final Blood and completed the bonding ritual. More’s the pity.

There was much about Richelle he was coming to admire. His self-loathing weighed heavily on him as he thought of what lay ahead for the evening.

* * * *

They lowered Richelle into the tub and began to wash her. The blonde poured some of the oil directly onto Richelle’s hair and then some into the water. Richelle struggled against the fog clouding her brain as some of the memories she recalled vanished into an unnatural haze. She closed her eyes and focused on one memory that gave her the most comfort—the man from the mist with the blazing dark eyes.

Heedful eyes peering from the darkness filled with passion and need watched over her. Strange as it was, though, it was almost as if she could hear him calling to her.
I am coming…remember me.

She tried to ignore the hands roaming over her body, stroking her hair, and the combination of her drink and heady perfume flooded her mind until all other thoughts had been pushed away, leaving her mind empty and needing to be filled. The women began to speak in her mind, their voices blending into to one.

“How fortunate you are, my dear.”

“Fortunate.”

“Luka is a handsome and powerful man.”

“Many have wanted him.”

“But he chose you.”

“Chose you.”

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“To become his bride.”

“To become mistress of Tower of the Red Dragon.”

“He is so very handsome.”

“Yes, handsome.”

“Powerful.”

“He will rule the world.”

“The world.”

“And you shall be his queen.”

The women stood her on her feet and began to massage the remaining oil into her alabaster skin, leaving it glistening and smooth. She spied Preacher glancing in her direction while the women caressed and stroked her body, seemingly enjoying her jerky movements and discomfort. He glared at the women before averting his eyes.

“Cease this moment!” he ordered.

They ignored him, giddily giggling as they continued.

“Cease this moment, or I will tell Luka of your disobedience.” His warning was effective and they stopped immediately but with deadly glares at him. Helping her from the tub, they wrapped a large towel around Richelle. Preacher turned and approached, offering her the goblet.

She looked up at him. She tried to concentrate, his features fading in and out of focus. Her mind was a whirling with disconnected thoughts tumbling in her head:
Where am I again? The tower…something…something. Who
are these people? What are they doing? What am I doing here? Yes, the
Feast. A wedding? My wedding. To whom? They told me…Luka. I am here
to marry Luka. But I don’t know him, do I?

She hadn’t taken the goblet from his hands so Preacher held it higher, nodding his head as she reluctantly accepted it.

“You must drink to your impending wedding and husband-to-be,”

Preacher insisted. “To Luka cel Rau, master of Tower of the Red Dragon, and soon, the world.”

“To Luka,” Richelle uttered softly before she drank more of the vile liquid. Her brows furrowed at the distaste of Luka’s “special vintage.” She didn’t finish it all but handed the goblet back to Preacher

Preacher handed the goblet to the redhead, who walked into the bedchamber and returned with the gown and crown. They removed the

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towel to let it pool at Richelle’s feet. Her unsteadiness was more pronounced as she swayed on her feet.

She gazed at Preacher, but he became misty, vanishing into a thick fog.

She heard him issue one more command before the haze engulfed her in mind-numbing darkness.

“Finish preparing her for the feast.”

* * * *

The night air sparked with agitated electricity. Valya was non-approachable, and anger roiled off him like surging ocean waves. Even Nicolae wouldn’t approach him. It was safer to let Valya pace from one end of his loft to the other while he growled his dissatisfaction. They awaited the arrival of the rest of their compatriots so they could plan their stratagem in their battle against Luka and his army.

Valya was unable to stay still and his constant movement further fed his vexation until his rage was ready to burst, lashing out at the nearest bystander. Fortunately for him, it was Nicolae who stood between him and his obsessive tirade. Valya could feel his frustration and fury rising like a tempestuous, tumultuous storm, devastating the land in its wake.

Nicolae was the eye of the storm.

He was the center, the control directing the force of the storm.

Nicolae was Valya’s lifeline, as his own control was slipping away the longer he was separated from Richelle, as long as she was in Luka’s clutches. But lifeline or no, in the throes of bloodlust, he hungered for the hunt, the kill. He bared his fangs. Hissing he lunged for Nicolae.

Nicolae merely held up his hand, and Valya was held immobile as if surrounded by an invisible wall holding him at bay. He snarled glaring at Nicolae, a trickle of saliva forming at the corner of his mouth.

“Release me!” he demanded trying to use his powers to free himself. It was an act of futility. Not only was he losing his emotional control, but also his powers lacked the focus needed to bring down a mortal, let alone an Immortal whose powers were of the magnitude of Nicolae’s.
“Release me!”

Nicolae’s smooth features became harsh as his brows furrowed and he directed a bolt of energy, striking Valya in the center of his chest. Valya closed his eyes and threw his head back. His body absorbed the deflecting

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blow. Slowly he opened his eyes to return Nicolae’s penetrating gaze. He lowered his head in weariness and resignation.

“You must remain steadfast,” Nicolae chided while he withdrew the energy surrounding Valya. “It is from
you
that Richelle will draw
her
strength.”

Valya nodded. His canines receded. He inhaled deeply to calm himself, letting the air fill his lungs, and then exhaling to release his pent-up infuriation. As he reined in his anger, his body shuddered in impatience. He groaned, struggling to steady his breathing and strengthen his will in preparation for the battle that lay ahead.

Richelle being in Luka’s possession was just the tip of the iceberg for Valya. His remorse and shame were embedded to the bone in the realization and acceptance that his inability to protect Richelle had led to this final confrontation. If the bonding ritual had been completed, Luka’s plot would have been thwarted.

But Valya had lost control. He had hurt Richelle and rather than stay and face it like a man, he up and left her. In his selfishness, he planned on facing Luka alone. It was a contemporary version of the gallant knight in a quest to slay the evil dragon and return to his lady fair bearing a trophy to lay at her feet and prove his devotion, his undying love.

To some degree, it was Valya’s long-developed sense of self-

preservation that prohibited him from going to Richelle after he had taken second blood so thoughtlessly. For centuries, he had been the sole defender of mankind against evil such as Luka. After the last bloody battle, so many Guardians were lost, it took centuries for other Immortals to be trained. He did as he wanted with no questions and no consequences. His judgment was final, and his decrees became law.

Then he found Richelle.

He was no longer alone.

After centuries of fighting for right, fighting for duty, there was now another reason to fight.

For love.

But after so many centuries of seeing crime, war, and death, how could
he learn to love?
His soul was tainted by his exposure to iniquity and vice, seeing only the worst in life, while she was a wide-eyed ingénue who found solace in the care of the animals she treated. Unaccustomed to emotions, he

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lacked the ability to control the emotions elicited by Richelle. Perhaps it would have been better if he had never found her.

But then he remembered her face as she looked at him so tenderly. Her eyes, filled with trust and love, were windows to her gentle soul, overflowing with understanding and compassion. He didn’t even give her the chance to forgive him for using her so thoughtlessly. And in hindsight, he realized only too late she would have. She would have taken him into her embrace and forgiven him everything.

Even now he could feel her touch on his skin, smell her unique scent, reminding him of night and moonlight, taste the sweetness of her blood on his tongue, inflaming his passion as his body hardened. His fangs descended and his body was gripped in painful longing for his mate. He balled his hand to a fist and smacked it into the other to try and dispel the hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach that wanted, no demanded, his mate.

Nicolae approached and placed his hand upon Valya’s shoulder, the warmth seeping into his body to help ease back the desire threatening to overtake him again. He needed to maintain his control and not let the beast dominate the man.