Blood Possession (9 page)

Angus spun around. “Who’s there?” He turned rapidly in every direction, his wide eyes searching the corners of the room anxiously. “What the hell?” He got up and headed toward the kitchen, where he peeked around the corner and glanced low, beneath the table and chairs. When he still saw nothing, he checked behind the soiled garbage can, opened several cabinets, and then headed for the bathroom. Before returning to the living room, he flipped the dead bolt on the front door and latched the chain lock, peeking through the eye hole for good measure. His heart was still beating rapidly when he returned to the television and slowly ran his finger over the burnt power cord. “How the hell…” He grimaced and gave it a hard tug, quickly yanking it out of the wall.

He cocked his head to the side like a confused canine as he measured the broken glass along the front of the screen and sniffed at the remaining wisps of smoke. “Shit, I need another drink.”

Low, taunting laughter echoed through the room.

It crept up the walls, swirled along the ceiling, and dropped down again to envelop the man where he stood. Angus jumped back and threw up his fists. “What the hell kind of game is this? Who’s there! Show yourself, you asshole.” He hurried back to the kitchen, threw open a cabinet door, and retrieved what appeared to be an old Smith & Wesson revolver, and then quickly returned to the living room, waving it in front of him. “I’ve got a gun, you prick. Still want to play with me?”

Still invisible, Napolean silently approached the filthy man and then abruptly slapped him across the face with an open hand. Angus’s nose shattered like a walnut beneath a nutcracker, and several teeth shot out of his mouth as his feet rose up from the carpet and he flew backward into the wall. The revolver flew out of his hand as he hit with a thud, and something in his hip snapped, crackled, and popped.

He screamed in pain. “What are you? Where are you? I don’t believe in ghosts!” The words came out gurgled as he choked on his own blood and struggled for air.

Napolean chuckled, although the lethal sound was devoid of humor. Having divided his life-force into two separate spaces, he now projected his image into the ethereal energy that stood in Monahan’s apartment. “I’m right here,” he whispered, coming into full view with deadly fangs, protruding claws, and glowing eyes.

“Holy shit!” Angus’s eyes shot open and he scrambled about the floor, favoring his broken hip, searching the room for his weapon.

Napolean took one step forward and stomped the revolver with his foot, reducing it to smithereens as if it were nothing more than a puny insect.

“You’re not real,” Angus panted. He rubbed his eyes and then patted the center of his face where his nose used to be. He stared at the empty beer bottles on the floor by the couch. “I’ve had too much to drink.”

Napolean closed the distance between them in three stealthy strides and towered over the human with fury in his eyes. “Oh, I’m very real,” he taunted. He snatched him by the neckline of his shirt and yanked him onto his feet. “Stand up!”

Urine trickled down Angus’s leg, and tears poured out of his eyes, making it next to impossible for the man to breathe. “Please, please, man…I mean, what the—”

“Shut. Up.” Napolean pressed the heel of his hand to Angus’s windpipe, and the man’s remaining teeth literally chattered.

“Please…” He wept like a baby.

Napolean scowled. “Is that how Brooke cried? Did she say
please
?”

Angus’s eyes narrowed and his brow creased as he appeared to search for meaning in the words. “What? Who? Brooke?” He shook his head furiously. “No…no…no, man; you’ve got the wrong guy!”

Napolean froze then. He closed his eyes and held his breath, taking most of the air out of the room with him. The bastard didn’t even remember. “You don’t know the name of your stepdaughter?” He lowered his head until his fangs brushed against Angus’s throat, and then he growled against his skin. “You don’t remember what you did…
to Brooke
…at the cabin…by the lake?” He met Angus’s blank stare and then forced his way into the human’s mind like a surgeon, rousing the memory with such precision and strength that it must have felt like a scalpel slicing into his brain.

Angus clasped his head on both sides and cried out. When his eyes met Napolean’s, they were so laced with dread—and understanding—that the pupils had dilated. “How do you know Brooke?” he whispered, shaking.

Napolean considered the question for the briefest of moments, wanting to couch the answer in terms the man would understand. “She is my wife.”

Angus slumped against the wall. “Oh, hell…shit…look…I’m sorry. I never meant…I just…” His eyes bounced around the room haphazardly, unable to meet Napolean’s scrutinizing gaze. “Look, man, I’m sick. Really, I didn’t…I never meant to hurt her. I mean, it’s just…honestly, I’m glad Brookie finally found someone…nice…like you. She was always such a good girl.” He nodded furiously, clearly so frantic to talk his way out of the situation that he would say just about anything—however absurd. “What…what’s your name? I mean, I’d really like to be friends…you and me. It’s probably best for Brooke…so I can make amends…with you…you know, together—”

“Shh.” Napolean placed his finger over Angus’s mouth. “I’m afraid I have very little time for new friends these days.” He ran his tongue over his fangs and smiled.

Angus whimpered like a wounded animal—the pitiful sound growing increasingly high-pitched and desperate—as Napolean bent ever so slowly to his neck to enact his final wrath. In one feline motion, Napolean ripped out the human’s larynx with his teeth and spit the hunk of flesh on the ground. “I have been called many things over the years; however,
nice
is not one of them.”

Stunned, Angus grasped at his throat. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a gurgle as he choked.

Napolean did not prolong the end.

He drove his fist through Angus’s chest, extracted the still-beating heart, and held it up before him. “My name is Napolean.” He tossed the offensive organ aside and watched as Angus’s life slipped away. “But my enemies call me
justice
.”

As the heartless body toppled to the floor—a worthless heap of blood and flesh—Napolean withdrew his spirit from the room. He entered the same swirling vortex he had followed to get there and swiftly traveled back…

Back to his body.

Back to the SUV.

Back to the avenged
destiny
that awaited him.

six

Brooke held the steaming cup of tea in her hands and tried to control her trembling. The last thing she needed was to scald herself with a hot brew of chamomile, mint, and jasmine tea. She risked a glance at the imposing figure sitting across from her in a huge, dark blue chair—the size of a love seat—and quickly looked away.

He was just too intimidating. The entire situation was just too horrifying. Here she was, in the heart of the Dark Moon Forest, sitting in the living room of a fierce stranger’s mansion, afraid to speak…afraid to remain silent. She decided to distract herself by studying the details of the room...

The ceiling was an intricate dome of moldings, textures, and coffers, framing a hand-painted mural of Zeus and Apollo seamlessly crafted onto the grayish-blue canvas. The furniture was exquisite, plush, and clearly custom-made, no doubt costing more than her entire house, and there were tastefully placed art nooks as far as the eye could see, each one boasting a softly lit treasure from an evident time gone by, many of the possessions undoubtedly priceless artifacts.

The windows were made of frosted glass, also adorned with scenes from battlements and pictures of what appeared to be Greek or Roman gods, each depiction etched beautifully into the glass.

For a psychopathic lunatic—who thought he was a vampire—the man had incredible taste. And obviously, a shitload of money. Brooke cleared her throat and gathered her courage. “So…” The word came out hoarse, so she cleared her throat, steadied her hands, and tried again. “
So
.”

Her kidnapper, who called himself Napolean Mondragon, leaned forward in his chair, his every movement graceful and smooth like that of a predatory animal. “So?” he repeated.

Brooke forced a smile. So far, he hadn’t killed her, molested her…
or
tried to bite her neck.
Rather, he had offered her a blanket, kindled a fire in the enormous hearth, and brought her a steamy cup of chamomile tea. Better to try and worm her way out of her predicament with words and niceties than confrontation and struggle. The mere thought of a physical altercation made her wince: The man was a Viking. Never mind his solid, six-foot-four frame, made of all hard muscle and impassive girth, his face—
his eyes
—said more than his body ever could…

Napolean Mondragon looked as if he could drop someone right where they stood with no more than the blink of an eye.

Like he could kill with his intention alone.

His features were wickedly handsome, and his smile was subtle and kind…but just beneath the surface—and not so deep that one would have to go very far to find it—there was something else, something absolute and harsh, something unforgiving and implacable. He was very much like the god he had painted on his ceiling, and Brooke half expected to see a bolt of lightning shoot out of his hand any moment now.

No, discretion was definitely the better part of valor now. She didn’t stand a chance in a physical struggle with this man.

“So?” Napolean repeated. His voice was infinitely gentle, like a soul who had practiced patience in a dozen lifetimes until he had mastered it as a mind-body-spirit art form, and he purred his words when he spoke in that characteristic deep, husky drawl.

Brooke swallowed hard and set her mug down on the coffee table. Then she quickly snatched it back up, replaced it on a coaster, and grimaced. “Sorry.”

Napolean smiled a devastating grin. He gestured toward the teacup and chuckled. “You need not worry about the furniture—or anything else around here, Brooke. Make yourself at home.”

Brooke blinked rapidly.

Okaaay.

She nodded. “Thanks…I think.”

He sat back, shifting in that sultry, animalistic way again. “You’re welcome.”

She cleared her throat…again. “So, let me get this straight: You think you come from an ancient race of people—celestial
gods
, is it? And humans who sacrificed all of their women—and I really don’t even want to know how—to the point of extinction, and then they were cursed?”

“Correct,” he said in a clear, matter-of-fact tone.

She laughed then, a humorless sound. What episode of
The
Twilight Zone
had she landed in? “So, you don’t have anything to…clarify…about the ancient race of celestial people thing?”

He shook his head and held her gaze.

It was too unsettling. She had to fight the urge to get up and run. “Or the fact that your race was then punished and turned into…vampires?”

He sat quietly, impossibly still, just waiting—watching.

Brooke shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. They weren’t getting anywhere. “And now each of you has a
destiny
—a woman the
gods
have chosen for you, and over the last twenty-eight hundred years you have been waiting for…me?”

Napolean nodded and sat forward again, his eyes darkening with intensity, his forehead creased with seriousness. “Brooke…” He practically purred her name, and she had to catch herself from being swept up by the hypnotic cadence of his words. “You are unbelievably intelligent and have memorized all that I have told you impressively, but I think we are at an impasse…” He held out his hands, palms facing up, as if offering her…what? “Until you can merge your ability to memorize the information I give you with an even faint belief in its authenticity, we aren’t going to get anywhere.”

Brooke swallowed her fear.

Get anywhere?

That was just the point: She was not his long-awaited bride, and—
God help her, please
—he was not going to
get
anywhere with her.

Despite a valiant attempt to remain emotionless, her eyes began to fill with tears…again. If he was going to kill her, she almost wished he would just get it over with and end her suffering, because the not knowing, the anticipation, this whole insane hospitality routine was unbearable. God, where was Tiffany? Where were the police?

How was she ever going to get out of this?

Her eyes swept deftly around the room, measuring the windows, making note of the locks—judging the distance between Napolean and the front door. If she could just get to that door. If she could just scream loud enough. But then, where in the forest were they? Was there anyone close enough to hear?

Napolean stood up abruptly, and she almost jumped out of her skin. “Stop!” she cried, instinctively holding out her hand. “Sit back down. Let’s talk. Really—we should talk some more.”

Napolean ran his hands through his long hair and shook his head in what appeared to be frustration. He did not sit back down but very slowly, carefully, backed away from the sofa, leaving an even greater distance between the two of them in what appeared to be an effort to reassure her.

Brooke watched his every movement like a hawk. “Please, can you just…call me a cab…
please
.”

He sighed. “Brooke, look at the fireplace.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Look at the fireplace.”

Brooke slowly turned her head to the giant hearth situated on the other side of the living room; a roaring fire blazed in a large pit beneath a hefty marble mantel. Above the mantel was an ancient bronze statuette of a horse and rider, and it appeared to be watching over them.

Napolean waved his hand, and the dancing flames became shards of ice, cracking into a hundred little pieces before crumbling to the fire-pit floor.

Brooke inhaled sharply and gawked at him. She looked back at the hearth—where the fire had just been—then back once more to Napolean. “What…what is this?…some kind of magic trick?”