Vampire Dragon (36 page)
“No. Yes. That thug who brought me down to lock me up at Castello Sanguedolce, he tried to defend himself against me. Imagine!”
“How dare he. But you knew I would save you?”
“I did know. I . . . trusted you.”
“Whoa, Bronte, you said the T word.”
“I won’t say I’m not scared.”
“I can’t promise never to let you down, but I do promise always to do my best by you and Zachary.”
She tilted her head, her half smile an arrow to his heart. “Darkwyn Dragonelli, it’s like you’re proposing all over again, but better this time.”
“Can we have another honeymoon?”
“We haven’t had the first one yet, dragon man.”
“Right,” he said. “Besides, I want more. I want a lifetime where we adopt Zachary and give him brothers and sisters.”
“That calls for a
lot
of trust,” she admitted.
lot
of trust,” she admitted.
“You’ve got it. I know you have. You just have to practice by letting me have my wicked way with you.”
The kiss they shared, sweet and tender, a rising of bound souls, became their ultimate release from darkness into light. She fulfilled him, healed his heart, took him from the brink of chaos to a splendid peace in her arms.
He would spend the rest of his life doing the same for her.
Lila, their white kitten, landed on the balcony, meowed, and morphed, in a sprinkle of light, into Andra, the Goddess of Hope, a beautiful sorceress dressed in stars. “My Darkwyn,” she said, “you have done well.”
He took Bronte’s hand. “Andra this is Bronte, my heart mate. Bronte, Andra sent me to you.”
“Thank you.” Bronte curtseyed. Goddess, he loved her.
Andra raised her diamond wand. “May the hail in your life melt with ease, the sun shine long and warm, the good times become more numerous than the difficult, and may your family be loving, and as close, or far, as you want them to be. Thank you, Darkwyn, for returning my magick. Killian is out of your lives for good. She will plague the next Dragonelli, but not you. Meanwhile she
does
toy with Jaydun in the form of a leaf pixie.”
does
toy with Jaydun in the form of a leaf pixie.”
Darkwyn chuckled.
Andra raised her wand. “Live long and happy.” She disappeared in a burst of crystal sparks.
The wind screamed Killian’s final lament, a shower of hail becoming violets that a white kitten with lavender wings tried to catch.
Bronte chuckled. “You have an unusual family.”
“Thanks to Killian. However, if not for her curse, I would never have made it to earth to meet you and Zachary.”
“Dare I say nice Killian?
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.”
Bronte stroked his lips with the tip of a finger. He kissed it, their eyes meeting, speaking volumes without words. “It’s time,” Darkwyn whispered, reaching for her mask.
She nodded and he removed it, saw her face for the first time. “As beautiful as your heart,” he said, “the finest work of art.” He adored the shape of it with his fingertips, his lips, and cupped her cheek in his palm. “I want you in every way. I love you enough for both of us.”
Bronte turned her face into his palm and kissed it, then she looked deep into his gorgeous violet eyes. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you. Ultimate and forever.”
“Bronte, we’ve learned the greatest of lessons. Love can’t happen until the masks come off.”
Keep reading for a special preview ofCHOSEN BY BLOODby Virna DePaulComing May 2011 from Berkley Sensation!
Kyle Mahone, director of the FBI’s Special Ops Tacti
cal Division, quietly hung up his phone instead of slamming it down the way he wanted to. He’d expected Dex Hunt to be suspicious of the Bureau’s job offer. What Other wouldn’t be? The rest had certainly proceeded with caution, asking one question after another.
cal Division, quietly hung up his phone instead of slamming it down the way he wanted to. He’d expected Dex Hunt to be suspicious of the Bureau’s job offer. What Other wouldn’t be? The rest had certainly proceeded with caution, asking one question after another.
The werebeast, however, had done something the others hadn’t.
He’d laughed his ass off.
Swiveling in his chair, Mahone looked out his window, clenching his fists until his knuckles were white. He’d gotten where he was by being smart, working hard, and maintaining his cool. But something about the werebeast’s taunting had hit home.
Infuriating. Smart-assed. Cocky SOB. The epithets didn’t come close to describing Hunt. Still, he was the best marksman in the nation, human or Other. He was also skilled in the martial art of Karakai, a combination of Karate and crazy-ass gymnastics the Others had come up with. That made Hunt lethal from a distance and in close quarters. Add the fact he could shift into something that would make Freddy Krueger look cuddly and Hunt would be invaluable to the success of Team Red, the FBI’s first special ops team to recruit both humans and Others. In addition to Hunt, Mahone had already offered spots to a human, a human psychic, a mage, and last but not least, a wraith.
Wraith, as in ghost. The dearly departed.
A no-longer-living, d-e-a-d person who swore like a trucker, adored ABBA, wore four-inch stilettos, and unlike the other handful of wraiths that were known to exist, refused to take a real name. Instead, she’d sworn to answer only to “Wraith” until she discovered her true identity. Her surly attitude wasn’t ideal, but she was a survivor to the extreme—incapable of being killed by any known methods. She also happened to be an expert in ammunitions and explosives.
Twenty years ago, Mahone would have checked himself into an insane asylum before admitting he believed in any of the Others, let alone a wraith. Now the future of the world seemed to rest in their hands.
Wearily, Mahone rubbed his hands over his face. According to the crazy dream he’d had two weeks ago, the fate of the world, or rather the fate of its inhabitants, actually rested more in
his
hands than anyone else’s—on his ability to choose the right combination of six individuals, humans and Otherborn, to serve on a
new
type of special ops team—a Para-Ops team.
his
hands than anyone else’s—on his ability to choose the right combination of six individuals, humans and Otherborn, to serve on a
new
type of special ops team—a Para-Ops team.
Talk about pressure.
If it had been up to him, a Para-Ops team would have been formed years before, as soon as the President and all the Otherborn leaders had signed the Humanity Treaty. Instead, the U.S. government had left things up to local law enforcement agencies, which, while usually well intentioned, were simply unable to deal with the lingering prejudice and suspicion that naturally followed half a decade of civil war. Another five years had passed since peace was declared, yet the nation and its citizens were still recovering. Some days, Mahone doubted they’d ever find peace again. For that to occur, he knew the United States people needed help—a team dedicated to ensuring the rights of humans and Others alike, both domestically and internationally.
The dream had obviously been a manifestation of his growing unease and frustration with the President’s unwillingness to step up to the plate. But in the end, the dream had also given Mahone the cajones to force the President’s hand. Either give him the green light to form the FBI’s first Para-Ops team comprised of humans and Others, or accept Mahone’s resignation.
Now he had no one to blame but himself if the team turned out to be a disaster. Unfortunately, the call with Hunt wasn’t exactly promising and he still had one more offer to make—the position of team leader to a dharmire. And not just any dharmire, but Knox Devereaux, the son of a vampire Queen and an infamous French revolutionist human, Jacques Devereaux.
This morning, Mahone had e-mailed Knox, his message concise:
Teleport to headquarters as soon as possible. Nora will buzz you in
.
Teleport to headquarters as soon as possible. Nora will buzz you in
.
Knox’s reply had been even more concise.
Three
. For Knox, that was code for, “I’ll be there at three o’clock, you bastard, just long enough to make you squirm.”
Three
. For Knox, that was code for, “I’ll be there at three o’clock, you bastard, just long enough to make you squirm.”
Mahone checked the clock. Less than an hour away. Which meant Mahone needed to focus. It would be foolish to face Knox while he was still distracted by crazy dreams or a smart-ass were. Once again, he replayed the conversation with Hunt, trying to determine the point that annoyance had shifted into more.
Yes, he’d laughed at Mahone’s offer, but the werebeast’s laughter had barely died down before he’d gone for Mahone’s throat. “A team to help both humans and Others, huh? Tell me, Mahone, how many Others do you call friend? How many do you drink a beer with when you’re watching a game?”
Mahone’s answer had been in his silence, just as Hunt had obviously expected. Even so, he’d persisted, giving Hunt both the parameters of the team’s purpose, as well as a brief description of its first mission. When he was done, Hunt hadn’t been laughing, but he hadn’t jumped to accept Mahone’s invitation, either.
No, he’d said he’d think about it.
Mahone snorted and shook his head.
Think about it.
As if they weren’t discussing one of the most elite teams in the world. As if riding a motorcycle to nowhere and back was half as important as things like justice or survival, or hell, even revenge.
As if they weren’t discussing one of the most elite teams in the world. As if riding a motorcycle to nowhere and back was half as important as things like justice or survival, or hell, even revenge.
But it was all bullshit.
Hunt didn’t just want revenge, he craved it. What Mahone had proposed would give it to him in spades, complete with a “get out of jail free” card.
The werebeast could think about it all he wanted; in the end, he’d accept just as the others would.
Feeling marginally more settled, Mahone flipped Hunt’s file shut and secured it. He swiped his hands over his face. When a spark of memory hit him, however, he froze.
How many Others do you call friend?
The question, virtually identical to the one posed by Hunt, drifted through his mind in a decidedly more feminine voice. Mahone frowned as he connected the voice to his dream.
How many Others do you call friend?
The question played over and over, until he finally managed to form an image of the creature that had asked it of him in the dream. A creature he instinctively cringed away from remembering.
The question played over and over, until he finally managed to form an image of the creature that had asked it of him in the dream. A creature he instinctively cringed away from remembering.
But he couldn’t help remembering it, either.
Closing his eyes, he recalled how, in his dream, he’d dozed off at his desk. The sky had been dark. The building deserted. Then he’d been blinded by a flash of light and the sudden appearance of a creature at the light’s center. A creature he’d never seen before nor ever wanted to see again.
She had hair that was comprised of colors both familiar and unfamiliar, floating around her in undulating waves, each strand a living, breathing entity.
A face that, instead of eyes, a nose, and a mouth, had hollow, cavernous sockets, bottomless and dark, terrifying and hypnotic, yet so beautiful it had made his own life force try to push itself out of his body to get to her.
A body that, underneath her diaphanous, flowing gown was neither female nor male, but both and so much more than he could understand.
After that first shocked look, he’d turned away from her and that’s when she’d asked him, “How many Others do you call friend?” When he’d answered, “None,” too scared even to think of lying, she’d told him her intentions and lamented the failure of an ancient prophesy. She’d listened when he’d told her about his idea for Team Red. And then she’d told him to form the team, explaining in shocking detail what would happen if the team failed to serve its purpose. If Mahone failed to deliver what he promised.
When he’d asked her who she was—
what
she was—she’d merely said “a divinity.” In other words, she was a goddess. And a pissed-off one at that.
what
she was—she’d merely said “a divinity.” In other words, she was a goddess. And a pissed-off one at that.
Thank
his
God it had been a dream.
his
God it had been a dream.
Mahone opened his eyes, disgusted at the feel of sweat trickling down his temple. With a shaky hand, he grabbed a glass of water and chugged it down. Then he heard a voice, no longer in his memory but as if the speaker was standing directly beside him.
It wasn’t a dream, Mahone. Thanking your God won’t make it so.
You have one year to prove the team can do what you said.
One year and not a second more.
Whirling around to scan his empty office, Mahone dropped his glass and the traces of water within it poured out, staining the remaining files on his desk.
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