The BLOOD CURSE
THE BLOOD CURSE
In 800 BC, Prince Jadon and Prince Jaegar Demir were banished from their Romanian homeland after being cursed by a ghostly apparition: the reincarnated Blood of their numerous female victims. The princes belonged to an ancient society that sacrificed its females to the point of extinction, and the punishment was severe. They were forced to roam the earth in darkness as creatures of the night. They were condemned to feed on the blood of the innocent and stripped of their ability to produce female offspring. They were damned to father twin sons by human hosts who would die wretchedly upon giving birth; and the firstborn of the first set would forever be required as a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of their forefathers.
Staggered by the enormity of The Curse, Prince Jadon, whose own hands had never shed blood, begged his accuser for leniency and received four small mercies—four exceptions to the curse that would apply to his house and his descendants, alone.
Ψ Though still creatures of the night, they would be allowed to walk in the sun.
Ψ Though still required to live on blood, they would not be forced to take the lives of the innocent.
Ψ While still incapable of producing female offspring, they would be given one opportunity and thirty days to obtain a mate—a human destiny chosen by the gods—following a sign that appeared in the heavens.
Ψ While they were still required to sacrifice a firstborn son, their twins would be born as one child of darkness and one child of light, allowing them to sacrifice the former while keeping the latter to carry on their race.
And so…forever banished from their homeland in the Transylvanian mountains of Eastern Europe, the descendants of Jaegar and the descendants of Jadon became the Vampyr of legend: roaming the earth, ruling the elements, living on the blood of others…forever bound by an ancient curse. They were brothers of the same species, separated only by degrees of light and shadow.
meet the characters from the blood curse series
The House of JadoN
Nathaniel Jozef Silivasi ~ BLOOD DESTINY
Bold, defiant, and fiercely protective, this Ancient Master Warrior is destined by the Blood Moon, Cassiopeia. He is one-thousand years old and the twin of Kagen Silivasi. Nathaniel is considered to be straight-forward, fierce when angered, and highly-skilled as a warrior. He is loved and respected by those who know him.
Marquis Silivasi ~ BLOOD AWAKENING
Proud, stubborn, and often brutal, this Ancient Master Warrior is destined by the Blood Moon Draco (the Dragon). He is fifteen-hundred years old, and as the firstborn of the Silivasi family, his dark twin was sacrificed at birth. Marquis is often thought to be emotionally troubled. He is sometimes cruel and socially inept, yet he is deathly loyal to his family. Although he always commands with an iron fist, there is more to Marquis than meets the eye.
Lord Napolean Mondragon ~ BLOOD POSSESSION
Powerful, fierce, and wise, the sovereign monarch of the house of Jadon is an Ancient Master Justice whose destiny is tied to the Blood Moon, Andromeda. Over 2800 years old, he is the oldest—and only remaining—male from the time of the Blood Curse. He has no twin or living relatives. Napolean rules with supreme authority…and for good reason. Extremely dangerous, he is feared by all, yet he is also deeply respected for his shrewd mind and even handedness. His prowess in battle is legendary.
Nachari Silivasi ~ BLOOD SHADOWS
Intelligent, mischievous, and somewhat arrogant, this Master Wizard is linked to his destiny by the Blood Moon, Perseus (the Victorious Hero). He is five-hundred years old and the twin of the slain warrior, Shelby.
Perhaps the only thing larger than Nachari’s heart is his ability to decipher mysteries. Despite his even temper and laid-back nature, his kindness should never be mistaken for weakness.
Kagen Silivasi ~ BLOOD FATHER
The twin of Nathaniel Silivasi, Kagen is a one-thousand year old Ancient Master Healer whose destiny is linked to the Blood Moon, Auriga (the Charioteer). He is reliable, skilled, and good-natured until he is…not.
Often considered by his brothers to be a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality, Kagen is immensely patient until he is pushed too far. Once angered, he can be treacherous and without mercy.
Destined by the Blood Moon, Moniceros (the Unicorn), Braden is a fifteen year old fledgling, the first ever converted from human to vampire. He is desperate to impress the ancient vampires and eager to prove that he is no longer a child. Unfortunately, his repeated attempts to gain acceptance usually end in disaster.
As Nachari’s protégé, Braden appears to be a hopeless project. However, things are not always as they seem: This is one adolescent who should not be underestimated.
Ramsey Olaru ~ BLOOD VENGEANCE
The House of Jaegar ~ the Dark Ones
Born to the dark house of Jaegar, Valentine Nistor is a nine-hundred year old vampire without conscience, reason, or remorse. His lethal nature is only surpassed by his brazen disregard for rules; he has an insatiable appetite for danger. There is nothing Valentine would not do—and no one he would not hurt—to destroy a son of Jadon.
Salvatore Rafael Nistor
As Valentine’s older and shrewder brother, this ancient Dark One is potentially even more cunning and deadly than his younger sibling. He is a twelve-hundred year old sorcerer, trained in the dark arts, and unlike Valentine, he is patient enough to lie in wait for the enemy. With a coveted council seat in the house of Jaegar, Salvatore does not hesitate to use or abuse his position to further his own agenda.
Saber Alexiares ~ BLOOD REDEMPTION
Stolen at birth from the house of Jadon, Saber Alexiares was raised for eight-hundred years in the Dark Ones’ Colony. He is arrogant, wrathful, and deadly: a "Dark One" who would challenge the devil himself for a place in hell. He is afraid of nothing. He is beholden to no one. And he lives to feed his dark appetites. As intelligent as he is cruel, he is a dangerous adversary. However, as the name of his book implies, there is more to Saber’s journey than first meets the eye.
The women of Dark Moon Vale ~ the Destinies
Chosen by Cassiopeia, this beautiful homeland security agent is smart, competent, and courageous. She knows who she is and is willing to fight for her independence. As an only child who grew up in foster care, she is empathetic but careful with her heart. She has an over-developed sixth sense and a powerful will to survive.
Classy, elegant, and unassuming, Ciopori Demir is fundamentally connected to the ancient history of the Vampyr. Her blood is both royal and celestial, placing her in a rare and important position among all the players in Dark Moon Vale.
This ancient beauty is as savvy as she is proud. Born to greatness, her sense of duty is powerful. Unfortunately, the world in which she finds herself is decidedly out of step with the world she came from. Finding a place within it will not be easy.
Kristina Riley is a street-wise human who is nursing some very deep wounds. As a teenage runaway, she was saved by a son of Jadon from the clutches of a Dark One; as a result, she grew up around the Vampyr. She is defensive, slow to trust, and speaks her mind without censor, often to her own detriment.
Brook Adams is smart, practical, and driven. Careful to stay one step ahead of her tragic past, she pours all of her energy into her career. Her quick wit and heartfelt humor make her as loveable as she is talented, but it is her inability to rely on others that will challenge her in Dark Moon Vale.
Deanna Dubois is artistically talented and undeniably brave. In fact, her courage is only surpassed by her intuition and instinctive good judgment. However, Dark Moon Vale is a world unlike any she has ever known: Learning to trust her inner voice will be her greatest challenge.
Raised in Mhier as a slave to the lycans, this fiercely independent woman is as strong as she is vulnerable. As a member of the rebel resistance, she is determined to remain free at all costs. As a destiny to an immortal vampire, she will have to learn how to open her heart.
Read an excerpt from Blood GENESIS
800 BC ~ Romania
“One more night,” the pitiless royal guard snickered, puffing out his barrel chest in an unnecessary display of power. “Are you ready to die with the sunrise, female?” He spoke the last word with derision.
Jessenia closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath for courage, ignoring the annoying smirk on the simpleton’s face, shutting out the sound of his obnoxious baritone voice—yet, it echoed still, ricocheting around the barren room like thunder in a violent storm, refusing to be silenced, refusing to give her a moment’s peace.
In an act of contrition, she shrank into a submissive posture and shuffled to the back of the chamber on her knees, hoping to avoid inciting the guard’s unpredictable wrath or provoking his violent temper. As she pressed her narrow back against the damp, craggy wall and bowed her head even lower, she tried to ignore yet another garish reminder of her circumstances: the piteous sight of Timaos Silivasi, hanging from the ceiling like a prized slab of meat. He was still unconscious from an earlier lashing, and he appeared as nothing more than a freshly slung carcass, hung out to dry…waiting to be butchered.
Timaos wasn’t dead.
But perhaps if the gods were merciful, he would pass in his sleep.
It would be a much kinder fate than dying at the hands of Prince Jaegar’s men.
As it stood, his broken wrists were anchored to a rusty hook; his bloodied back was beginning to show signs of infection; and the weight of his dangling torso acted like a cruel, cadaverous anchor, spinning its helpless vessel around and around in slow, macabre circles, the hideous display illuminated by the dungeon’s torchlight.
Try as she might, Jessenia could not avoid the heart-wrenching visage of her lover, nor could she avoid the guard’s still-echoing question: Was she ready to die?
At seventeen summers?
In the prime of her life?
And for what crime—being born a female?
No, Jessenia was not ready to die.
She was not content to go to her grave with the knowledge that Timaos would die as well, simply because he had loved her, simply because he had refused to hand her over to Jaegar’s savage henchmen. She was not ready to accept her fate—or her lover’s. And if, in this barren moment, she allowed herself to think about either consequence any further, especially the horrendous manner in which Jaegar’s loyalists intended to slay her, she would surely go insane. For what was still to come—in the morning—was far too horrific to contemplate, let alone imagine.
Jessenia bit her lip and grasped her head between her hands, rocking back and forth in a soothing, primal motion, desperate to interrupt the momentum of her thoughts. Stop it, Jessenia, she admonished herself. Do not think about it! Just…don’t.
Read an excerpt from Blood Destiny
Jocelyn couldn’t believe the power of his voice: She felt compelled to answer the question. In fact, she wanted to answer it. She needed to tell this man exactly what she had seen, but something inside of her struggled to resist the impulse as she continued to make the connection between the man who stood in front of her and the creature she had seen in the chamber. She couldn’t help but remember the horrific fate of the woman the creature had captured.
And there could be no doubt that they were the same species.
This man’s voice was just too seductive and enchanting, exactly like the creature’s had been. His height and body shape were almost identical, and he carried himself with far too much confidence, wearing a silent badge of authority on his sleeve. Power practically seeped through his pores as he stood there before her like some kind of mystical black panther, crouched in waiting.
And despite the fact that she was the one holding the gun, he was the one commanding the situation.
And then there was that hair: a perfect head of blue-black locks that fell just below his shoulders in glistening waves of perfection, accenting his chiseled features.
Everything about him gave him away.
The man wasn’t just handsome: He was flawless.
No, there could be no doubt.
Jocelyn fought the overwhelming urge to answer his question. She knew precisely what he was. Not human. Vampire. She squared her stance, tightened her grip, and tried to come up with a plan.
Read an excerpt from Blood awakening
Marquis Silivasi stood silently in the shadows. He watched as the last of the humans made their way from the graveside ceremony following Joelle Parker’s funeral. He had come to pay his respects but was unable to face the human family whose lineage he had known for centuries. Having to tell Kevin Parker the news of his daughter’s death had been one of the worst moments of Marquis’s life, and he had lived a very, very long time. His regret was insufferable, his shame for being unable to save her…almost unbearable.
Shimmering out of view, he materialized deep within the Dark Moon Forest at yet another recent grave site—that of his little brother, Shelby. It was the first time he had visited the final resting place since the tragic loss. The first time he had seen the simple white granite marker lying over the desolate plot: Shelby Silivasi. Honored Brother and Beloved Twin.
Marquis ran a trembling hand through his thick black hair. The pressing moisture of tears stung his deeply troubled eyes. Shelby had only been five-hundred years old when he died, the same age as his twin, Nachari, but the difference was, Nachari had lived to graduate the Romanian University. Nachari had lived to reach the status of Master Vampire.
Shelby, on the other hand, had stopped just short of receiving such an honored distinction because he had found his blood destiny: the one human woman chosen by the gods to be his mate, Dalia Montano.
His one opportunity to avoid the ultimate curse of his kind.
Fulfilling the demands of the Blood Curse and securing his future with the human female had been far more important to Shelby than completing his studies. He had planned to return to Romania as soon as the blood sacrifice was made, yet the young fledgling had failed at both tasks.
Marquis knew he was the one to blame.
He should have been more vigilant.
He should never have let down his guard.
Things had just gone so smoothly—so unbelievably seamless—between Shelby and Dalia that no one had foreseen Valentine Nistor’s wicked scheme.
It wasn’t an excuse.
Marquis was an Ancient. He should have known better.
Marquis balled his hands into two tight fists, struggling to contain the rage—the gut-wrenching heartache—that threatened to consume him. The sky above him had already turned as black as night, and the wind was picking up into a fierce howl. He had to keep his emotions in check.
He kicked at the cold forest ground, causing a not so subtle tremor in the earth beneath him in an effort not to cry out. The vengeance he had finally exacted on Valentine was nothing against the breadth of this loss.
Celestial gods, how could this have happened!
And it wasn’t just that Shelby would have been a Master, an achievement borne of four-hundred years of studies; he would have been a Master Warrior, like Marquis. And that meant Marquis would have been in charge of his little brother’s ongoing training: It would have been the first time in four-hundred and seventy-nine years—since their father’s death—that Marquis would have shared his day-to-day existence with another being.
The first time in four-hundred and seventy-nine years that Marquis Silivasi would not have been alone.
Marquis knelt before the simple white slab of granite and bowed his head in reverence. So much loss.
He had seen so many warriors needlessly slain over his lifetime as a result of the wretched curse—a pronouncement made upon generations of males for a sin committed so long ago that the fallen warriors didn’t even remember the crime. They only knew that when the Blood Moon came, they had thirty days….
One opportunity in an otherwise eternal existence to claim the one human woman who could save them from the ultimate fate of their kind. One month to obtain a chance at life, create the possibility for love, and acquire the blessing of a family.
Thirty days to live or die.
Marquis shook his head. What was the purpose of being a warrior...of being an Ancient...if he couldn’t even protect the ones he loved? What was the purpose of surviving this long when his life had been nothing but time, education, endless battles, and loss? And why hadn’t that one opportunity to love—to share such a barren existence—ever been given to him?
He was so very weary of living.
Like a slowly boiling cauldron of water, Marquis’s body began to tremble with the depth of his anguish. His lungs labored, and his heart pounded from so much rage and injustice, until finally, he could no longer contain his grief, and the pain of a lifetime spilled over.
Hands pressed tightly against his temples, Marquis Silivasi threw back his head and shouted his rage, his grief, in one gut-wrenching cry: a lion’s roar that shook the heavens, sending balls of fire the color of blood crashing down upon the earth, hail the size of baseballs battering the valley floor.
As the Ancient Master Warrior’s crimson tears fell like raindrops, the rivers overflowed and the heavens shook. Giant boulders perched atop nearby canyons crashed to the earth’s floor in violent rockslides, even as the sides of the mountains split open.
And then all was silent.
Read an excerpt from Blood Possession
His head turned instinctively to the left and then the right. His vision became even more acute as he scanned the nearby environment. Who was she? Had they met before?
Where was she?
And then, like a gleaming spotlight piercing a dark stage, the moonlight filtered into a narrow cone and shone down on the backseat of the yellow cab slowly inching its way along the Dark Moon Lodge driveway. Slowly taking her away from Dark Moon Vale.
Time stood still.
Napolean had to act quickly, but there were people around. His hand went reflexively to his mouth in an effort to cover—to restrain—his elongating fangs: the primal instinct that was quickly rising within him. His inner voice screamed, Claim her, take her, stop her!
He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, prepared to move in an instant, even as he sent an imperious telepathic command to his sentinels, Ramsey and Santos Olaru. Warriors, you are to come to the lodge courtyard at once. I need your assistance with the humans. Not only would he require their help in keeping order—considering what had to be done—but he would need them to erase the memories of everyone present, to take control of the scene.
After all, he had only one objective, one dire edict, to claim his mate and get her to safety as quickly as possible. His very life depended upon it, as did the welfare of the house of Jadon. This was not like any other Blood Moon. There was no room for error, no time for niceties. He was the king of the Vampyr, and his queen would be the most coveted prize his enemy had ever sought.
We see the sky, milord. Ramsey’s deep, raspy voice penetrated Napolean’s thoughts. It is true then—your destiny has finally come. Do as you must; we will contain the area.
Even before the warrior finished speaking, Ramsey materialized in the courtyard, tall, strong, and proud. His brother Santos appeared quickly behind him. The warriors gave Napolean a silent nod, and he responded in kind.
Taking a deep breath, he leapt the distance between himself and the cab, perching perilously in front of it just as it began to accelerate out of the drive. The driver hit the brakes, causing them to squeal as he wrenched the wheel to the side, trying to avoid striking the man who had just appeared in front of him. Napolean placed his hand on the hood of the vehicle, bringing it to an instant halt and, unfortunately, leaving a palm-size dent in the metal.
It mattered not at all.
His eyes focused like laser beams on the backseat of the cab, where he observed two women: a skinny, well-dressed blonde, and a tall brunette with haunting blue eyes. His gaze dropped to their left arms, furiously scanning their wrists…
And there it was.
Holy Celestial Beings, this just couldn’t be!
Every intricate line of the ancient constellation was etched indelibly into the brunette’s wrist, and she was holding it up, staring at it with a look of wonder—as well as terror—in her eyes.
Great gods, was this really happening?
The brunette looked up then, and her eyes met Napolean’s through the front windshield—even as her mind began to process what had just happened to the cab. Reflexively, she reached over and locked the door, barking a harsh command to the other woman to do the same. As Napolean rounded the cab, her mouth fell open and she scooted away from the window toward her friend.
Gods, this is awful, he thought. What a way to meet one’s destiny.
Humans were beginning to gather around now, gawking at the scene, pointing and whispering at the dent in the cab. A tall man with broad shoulders started to walk briskly toward the chaos, shouting a command at Napolean to leave the women alone, but he was quickly intercepted by Santos, who sent him in the other direction with nothing more than a tap on the shoulder and a mental suggestion. Napolean shook his head to clear his mind. The people around him were not his concern right now. This woman was. And based upon the look of sheer terror on her face, she wasn’t about to answer a polite knock on the door.
Napolean took a deep breath, glided to the side of the cab where the woman sat, reached for the handle, and wrenched the door open, trying mightily not to rip it from its hinges.
And the woman gasped in fright.
And then she flailed wildly, trying to back-pedal away from him as if she were running on an invisible treadmill. He could hear her heart pounding in her chest, and it sounded like a bass drum thrumming in a five-hundred-watt subwoofer.
“Come to me,” he beckoned, reaching out his hand.
He wasn’t sure if her response constituted a shriek, a yell, or a growl—but he pretty much got the gist: No!
“Please,” she whispered, her magnificent blue eyes glazing over with the onset of panicked tears, “take our money. We don’t want any trouble. Just take whatever you want and go. Leave us alone.”
Napolean’s upper lip twitched, no doubt revealing a hint of fangs, and he felt the heat in his eyes—knowing they were glowing red. He could hardly speak. “Come, or I’ll take you.” His voice was pitched low in an imperious command, removing any ability she had to refuse. He was an Ancient—his power unmatched among all the Vampyr—and knowing this, he tried to soften what he did.
She was trembling uncontrollably now as she began to scoot toward the door, her body betraying her will.
Read an excerpt from Blood shadows
Deanna drew in a sharp breath as her eyes swept over the barren earth. It had been cleared away, no longer natural, leaving evidence that something…or someone…had, in fact, been right there. And there was a dark, ominous stain in the center.
She squatted down to touch the dirt. What was this? She immediately backed up with a jolt and stood upright.
It was blood.
Earth that had been soaked—no, practically bathed—in blood.
For reasons beyond her comprehension, she felt like crying.
Falling to her knees and weeping.
What the hell?
There was such an overwhelming sense of grief enveloping her that she staggered where she stood. Unable to bring it under control, she knelt in the dirt and placed the flat of her palms over the bloodstained earth. “What are you?” she whispered, distraught. “Who are you?”
She lifted her hands and brushed the bloodstained dirt through her fingers. “And why do I feel like I’m going to die because of you…like I wish I could?”
She wrapped both of her arms tightly around her middle and started to rock back and forth, inexplicable tears streaming down her face. When finally she had shed her last teardrop, she wiped her eyes with the back of a dirty hand and stood. “Come back to me.” She mumbled the words nonsensically. “Please…oh, please…come back to me.”
Fearing for her sanity, she turned to run to her car but was stopped short by the presence of a skinny, brooding redhead sitting on the hood of her SUV. The woman had parked a pink Corvette behind Deanna’s Ford Explorer and was watching her with piercing, angry eyes like those of a tiger. Everything about the otherwise small woman screamed danger.
Just one more thing that made no sense.
Deanna appraised the stranger from head to toe as she raised her chin, held out her keys, and approached with caution. She hadn’t grown up in a perfect suburban world, and she knew how to handle herself if necessary. Under ordinary circumstances, she would never fear another female of such small stature, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances. And somehow, although she didn’t know how she knew, the woman sitting so brazenly on the hood of her truck was no ordinary person.
“Hello,” Deanna called pleasantly, figuring it might be best to get on the woman’s good side up front.
The girl popped a piece of gum, pushed away from the hood, and took a large, measured stride toward Deanna, kicking off a beautiful pair of spiked black heels as she stepped forward.
Oh shit, this isn’t good.
The redhead narrowed her eyes. “Two questions: Who the hell are you? And what the hell were you doing underneath that tree?” She took out her gum and tossed it on the ground. “Speak now, skank, or forever hold your peace.”
Read an excerpt from Blood redemption
Saber had never wanted to destroy anything in all his life—to kill anyone—more than he wanted to kill this haughty being in front of him. There was no way he was going to agree to such absurdity. He knew who he was, and the entire house of Jadon could be damned. Bring on the sun…again. Bring on the Valley of Death and Shadows. He was Saber Mikhael Alexiares, firstborn son to Damien Alexiares, brother to Diablo and Dane, and soldier in the house of Jaegar. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever change that. And these light vampires, these scourges of nature who strutted around as if they were entitled to all the favors the gods had bestowed upon them, they could weave all the fanciful tales they wanted trying to convince him otherwise. He knew better.
Saber Alexiares was the devil’s son, and that’s who he intended to remain.
“You may as well kill me now,” he snarled. “I’d rather descend into the pit of hell to live as a slave to demons than ascend to this mockery of manhood you call the house of Jadon. I don’t believe you. Not one word. And given half a chance—any chance—I will kill the first of your kind that I can: man, woman, or child. It makes no difference to me.”
Napolean looked off into the distance before slowly turning back to regard the Dark One. He nodded slowly and then smiled ever so faintly. Smiled. “Perhaps,” he said coolly. “Perhaps. But the hour of your death—or the content of your life—will be up to me, not you.” With that, he reached out and grabbed Saber’s forearm. When Saber tried to wrench it away, his entire body froze, paralyzed; and he was suddenly seized by indescribable pain, racked with an agonizing sense of nothingness, the utter absence of personal power.
As the infamous king of the house of Jadon slowly released his fangs and bent his head to Saber’s wrist, everything in Saber’s soul rebelled. No! This could not be happening. This simply could not be real.
Two lethal canines sank deep into Saber’s wrist, Napolean’s jaw locking down with such force that the radius bone beneath it split in two, while the unyielding king drank Saber’s blood.
The room spun in maddening circles.
The pain brought him up short.
The power that swirled around him crashed against him in violent waves of nausea, yet he sat there, helpless, locked in the compulsion of the greatest being to ever walk the earth, as the king took his due from what he believed to be one of his subjects.
When at last the king withdrew his fangs, licked his taut lips, and released Saber’s arm, a scourge like fire burning through a grass field coursed through Saber’s veins. “I carry the blood of every child born into the house of Jadon in my veins,” Napolean explained. “And you are no exception.” He leaned forward then, and his piercing eyes flashed with an intensity Saber had never seen before: a clear and unmistakable warning. “Know this, Sabino Dzuna. The sun cannot kill you. Its rays cannot scorch you, but should you harm one hair on the head of one of my subjects, I will destroy you one cell, one strand of DNA, at a time; you will pray for mercy, but none will be forthcoming. You believe you know what pain and suffering are, but you do not. Pray you do not have to find out.” With that, the ancient king rose, nodded his head as if they had just been talking about the weather, and strode to the edge of the cell, without ever looking back.
Read an excerpt from Blood father
Kagen Silivasi had been a faithful servant to the house of Jadon, a loyal brother to his beloved siblings, and a consummate healer to his noble race, the Vampyr. He had tended broken bones, mended wounded flesh, and always, always, saved lives.
At any cost.
It was the least he could do.
Yet, it was never enough…not even close.
And therein lay the rub: that unidentifiable ember that burned at the center of his soul, masking, if not outright hiding, something so combustible and profound that he didn’t dare confront it, let alone try and name it.
It just was.
And his carefully controlled life—indeed, his seemingly perfect persona—concealed it like a pile of cooled gray ash, cleverly masking whatever lay beneath the slag, cloaking the nameless pain, concealing the anonymous rage.
Disguising the red-hot coals glowing just beneath the surface.
For reasons he couldn’t name or even comprehend, Kagen Silivasi worked tirelessly to remain detached from his past, to stay ahead of a memory he didn’t even possess, and he healed fervently in an attempt to avoid that mysterious, marginal part of his soul that frightened him the most, the part that wasn’t a healer at all.
The part that, given have a chance, would seek to take life rather than sustain it.
The part that wanted to hunt…and claim…and devour.
Until all the rivers ran crimson with blood.
Until somehow, those same blood rivers—those sanguine pools of righteous retribution—eventually swept away the original sin.
Read an excerpt from Blood vengeance
Tiffany spun on her heel and walked as briskly as she could without running out of the parlor, toward her office. She had to get away, if only for a moment. She had to gather her wits and collect her thoughts. Maybe it was just the entire situation, the Blood Moon, the inherent apprehension she felt as a human female in the presence of so many powerful, dangerous males, but at that moment, she was certain she had just stumbled into a den of hungry lions—and it was more than she could take.
Ramsey was close on her heels.
In fact, he caught up to her in the hall before she had a chance to step into her office. “Hey,” he called brusquely, his voice no longer reflecting any humor or light-heartedness. “Blondie, stop.”
Read an excerpt from Blood ecstasy
He hated to treat her like this—see her like this—but once again, oblivion was calling his name, and he was all too eager to answer. Deciding that maybe oblivion was the best destination for Shelly, too, he wrapped one arm tightly around her waist, raised his decanter so he could tilt her head toward him, using the side of the glass, and locked his gaze with hers. “Sleep, angel,” he whispered, catching her falling torso as she crumpled sideways against his arm.
It was too loud.
The intensity of it all pierced the darkness.
He extended his forefinger, lifting it from the glass, and pointed at the stereo, which was nestled snugly atop a high, built-in ledge, turning the surround-sound on with an electric pulse from his fingertip.
Without preamble, he took a long, drugging pull from the decanter, testing the various properties of the alcohol and the H on his tongue, and then he sank his fangs deep into Shelly’s throat, savoring each drop of her life-giving blood. As the cocktail began to course through his veins, rapidly slithering along the intersecting passageways like a gentle, erotic snake, just waiting to strike—precious poison appeasing his heart—his head lolled back on the edge of the chair, and his lids grew heavy and dense.
Shelly slid further down on his lap, drooping in his arms, and he tightened his grip on the crystal glass. Dark, sonorous music began to blast through the speakers, saturating the air all around him, and he nearly moaned from the vibrations as his body absorbed the lyrics:
“There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun…
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and god I know I’m one.
My mother was a tailor, sewed my new blue jeans.
My father was a gamblin’ man, down in New Orleans…”
Damn, the Animals could really sing that folk song—Burdon’s voice was all grit, angst, and brutal melody. A sweet jolt of cocktail rocked him at his core, and he started to drift even further away…
“Now the only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase and a trunk,
And the only time he’s satisfied is when he’s on a drunk.”
Something visceral seized Julien’s attention, and he pulled himself away from the music, temporarily: Shelly.
Where was Shelly?
She was sliding down his lap, falling over his knees, slumping to the floor—that wasn’t right, was it?
“Oh mother, tell your children not to do what I have done,
Spend your life in sin and misery in the house of the Rising Sun.”
Julien thought he reached for the female, but rather, he tightened his grip on the glass even more, shattering the crystal into a dozen serrated pieces, each one immediately embedding in his flesh.
As crimson rivulets trickled down his wrist, soaked the pads of his fingers, and stained his nails, he fell back into the chair and dropped the remaining glass.
Nothing mattered in this moment.
Not the pain in his hand. Not the woman on the floor. Not the emptiness in his soul.
There was only darkness, ecstasy, and peace.
That, and the hauntingly beautiful melody pulsing through the dark.
Read an excerpt from Blood BETRAYAL
Saxson Olaru had traveled about ten-and-a-half blocks from the lower-downtown bar when he felt a sudden surge of electricity, course through his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled; his skin began to tingle; and his field-of-vision narrowed, which only meant one thing—his pupils had just constricted.
Being over seven-hundred years old, he recognized the physiological changes for what they were: manifestations of a primal instinct, his feral nature rising, something happening to his body on a purely primordial level.
Something that called to his inner, nocturnal beast.
He slowed his pace, tilted his head to the side, and tuned in acutely with all five senses: He could hear songs streaming through various headsets; music playing on apartment stereos; lovers in their lofts, whispering sweet nothings, enticing one another to bed. He could smell perfume and cologne, shampoo and body-wash, all intertwined with the stench of carbon, being emitted from various tailpipes. There was a hot-dog stand, ten blocks away, and a small coffee-spill on the corner. Someone was firing calzones in an old-fashioned, brick oven, and someone…needed stronger deodorant.
He could sense moisture in the upper atmosphere, a bitter cold-front developing rapidly, but it was moving quickly east—it would likely arrive as a winter storm, in Kansas, no later than Tuesday morning. Yet and still, as he tuned in to all the various stimuli, there was nothing he heard, smelled, or felt that explained his rising tension, the feral heat igniting his blood.
And then he glanced at the sky.
Great celestial gods of his ancestors, the moon was shining crimson: cerise, saturated, and luminous. Like the lens of a camera, slowly zooming out to capture a much wider picture, he broadened his focus to the sky, as a whole, and gawked at the brilliant, black canvass: The celestial constellation, Cetus, the sea monster, was illuminated above him, blazing like a heavenly bonfire.
Saxson Olaru was staring at his own Blood Moon.
His fangs began to throb in his gums; his naturally-manicured nails lengthened; and his vampiric nature took over. A low, feral growl rose in his throat as he spun around, lithely, and stalked back in the direction he’d come from.
Read an excerpt from daywalker - the beginning
I shoved him hard then, punching a fist into his broad chest, and he actually flinched a little before he whispered my name…and the earth stopped moving.
He stopped snarling, and I stopped screaming.
He stopped pushing, and I stopped resisting.
My heart stopped pounding.
I just froze in his arms, waiting, as he pressed his mouth to mine and inhaled.
I couldn’t fight him anymore.
I didn’t want to fight him anymore.
All of a sudden, all I wanted was to go to sleep in his arms, to submit to his will and let him have me. Somehow, I had to be his, if that makes any sense. I wanted this dark man to love me…to need me…and to kiss me.
I don’t know how long it lasted, this bizarre, psychotic romantic-interlude, or why he suddenly had so much control over me, but whatever had happened, it was the beginning of the end. As our lips pressed together and our tongues tangled, my breath left my body in a slow, drowsy exhale. And so did that essential part of me that makes me…me.
I was without identity as I felt my life force slowly drain out of me. As I felt death slip into me. And maybe that’s what he was, this Jozef Palezia.
He was Death.
In pleated black pants.
With truly creepy eyes.
Lacy Logan, Paranormal Investigator, I thought.
Read an excerpt from dragons realm
Mina clenched her fists and her arms began to tremble. She was this close to taking a swing at Pralina’s jaw when the room suddenly grew cold, and the air grew inexplicably still. It was as if someone had thrown open a window in a dark, creepy attic and a glacial mist had swept into the room. As the eerie, otherworldly wind swirled about the foyer, a tall, imposing male stepped out of the fog.
Great ghosts of the original dragons, Mina thought. This was not someone to toy with.
The male had to be at least six-foot-two, and he was dressed in form-fitting breeches and a silk black shirt, one that bore the unmistakable emblem of the dragon in the upper left corner. The royal sigil was a deep blood red; the dragon itself was embroidered in gold; and in the center of the dragon’s eye, just below his angry brow, there was a polished inset diamond. It was roughly cut and blazing with light. In fact, it almost appeared alive, as if it were waiting…and watching…guarding the dragon’s heart.
The male was just as cryptic.
His angular features were drawn so taut they appeared to be chiseled in stone, and he practically glided when he walked, slinking forward in the most inhuman manner. His muscles contracted and released in waves, rising like the haunches of a predatory cat, descending like an ocean’s foam, as his rich onyx hair shifted in the preternatural breeze, cascading around his proud, broad shoulders. Power radiated from his hidden aura; danger settled in his wake; and all the while, his midnight-blue eyes shone like dark sapphires, emerging from hidden flames.
His movement, his very essence, was chilling yet deceptively calm.
He was utterly terrifying in his animal grace.
Read an excerpt from Zanaikeyros - son of Dragons
“District attorney’s office; this is Jordan.” Jordan Anderson twirled her mechanical pencil between her thumb and forefinger and tapped the eraser impatiently against the desk. It was Friday night, only five-more minutes until quitting time, and she really didn’t want to take another call.
“Is this Jordan Anderson?”
She rolled her eyes. Being that the call had been put through on her private line, and she had just given the caller her first name, who else could it be? “Yes, it is. How may I help you?”
The voice on the other end of the phone dropped to an eerie, demented purr. “Do you know what happens to witches in Salem, Jordan?”
Jordan held the phone away from her ear and stared blankly at the receiver. She cleared her throat and pressed it back to her lobe. “Uh, no; I don’t. And since this happens to be Denver—and the twenty-first century—I can’t say that I’m really interested.” She was just about to hang up, perhaps deliver a few choice words to her secretary for putting the call through, when something made her pause: All day long she’d had the oddest, sinking feeling in her stomach, like something major in her life was about to change, like the axis she had always stood upon was about to shift beneath her feet, and she had no idea where the feeling was coming from. Perhaps this call was somehow related; the vibe was oddly the same.
When the caller began to chuckle in a crass, deranged chortle, she shivered. “Well, you’re about to find out,” he said.
“Who is this?” Jordan demanded.
He whistled the introductory tune to the Twilight Zone in the receiver. “It’s your death calling.”
Read an excerpt from Christmas in dark moon vale
She darted across the formal parlor, sprinted through the kitchen, and dashed up the rear servants’ staircase, taking the steps two at a time. She bolted down the upstairs hall, careened into the first open doorway, and tried to lock the bathroom door, even as she realized a flimsy lock would never stop Marquis.
Alas, she made a critical error.
A rookie mistake against a Master Warrior.
Prior to locking the door, she tried to spin around and throw the candlestick at Marquis, and that small lapse in judgment—that infinitesimal pause in momentum—had been all the vampire needed to take full advantage of his superior agility and speed.
Marquis’s blue-black eyes flashed red. He swatted the trivial implement aside and switched into hyper-predator mode, lunging so quickly, his motion was a blur as he grasped her by the hips, hauled her out of the door frame, and hefted her off the ground like a weightless sack of potatoes.
“Release me this instant!” she screamed. “I forbid you to take this nonsense a single step further!”
Marquis was not deterred.
view a map of dragons realm
Read an excerpt from dragons reign
Dragons Realm takes place in the month of May, during the 175th year of the Dragonas’ Reign, the season of the diamond king. Dragons Reign begins in June, during the 206th year of the Dragonas’ Reign, also season of the diamond king. During the thirty-one years that transpire between stories, the Realm, as well as the country of Lycania—the perilous domain of long-lived shifters across the restless sea—enjoy a tentative truce and a season of relative peace.
In addition, Prince Drake Dragona continues to rule Castle Commons with his Sklavos Ahavi, Tatiana Ward, whom he has gifted with immortality, and the Malo Clan giants are mostly in check.
Mostly, but not all.
There is still a covert faction, embittered by their distant history of slavery, who would like to receive reparations and who grow ever restless in the Realm.
Prince Damian Dragona, who is inhabited by the soul of Matthias Gentry, continues to rule Castle Umbras with Mina Louvet at his side as they raise Dante and Mina’s three children: Aurelio (also known as Ari), Azor, and Asher. All three dragon sons are now grown, and Mina has also been gifted with immortality.
Finally, Prince Dante Dragona, next in line for the throne of Castle Dragon, continues to rule Castle Warlochia with Cassidy Bondeville as his “public” Sklavos Ahavi—but she is anything but his consort in private. Nonetheless, they are raising Dario Dragona as their own flesh and blood, despite the fact that he was sired during Cassidy’s illicit affair with King Demitri. In the thirty-one years that have passed, Dante has come to honor, admire, and respect his ward, Dario—he loves him like a son, and Dario knows nothing of his secret paternity.
Alas, there is the not-so-small matter of the prophecy: “Three children; three decades; three lads with green eyes.”
All have come to pass.
And now, book number two in the Dragons Realm Saga: DRAGONS REIGN.
Read an excerpt from Blood WEB
Natalia pulled away from the enchanted kiss and stared into the vampire’s feral eyes. She had done more than process all she had seen, heard, and felt—she had gotten it on a primordial level.
She knew it.
She believed it.
She felt the certainty of the history, deep in her bones.
Santos was telling the truth.
He was a vampire, and she was his destiny—an enigmatic pantheon of ancient deities had chosen it long before their births. It was beyond comprehension, but it was simply and indelibly true.
None-the-less, that didn’t make it palatable.
Natalia Giovanni felt flustered, overwhelmed, intrigued…and trapped.
And everything in her soul wanted to weep—she had led the vampire right to her door with all her artful hacking and her childish flirting. She had danced with a ghost inside her machine, and the ghost had come out of the shadows to claim her.
Read an excerpt from Axeviathon
She stared blankly ahead at the break-room wall, placing both hands, palms down, on the cheap industrial table, and fought through a wave of nausea.
And why had he come into the credit union?
Like an oscillating fan whirling in circles, her mind continued to churn and spin as she replayed the unsettling encounter: “Ambrosia Carpenter, but you go by Amber on account of the color of your eyes and your hair.” He knew who she was! “What time do you get off…where do you live…who is Tony?” He had read her thoughts—but how?
Her stomach tightened as another wave of vertigo assailed her—was the guy a detective, maybe a bounty hunter? Were Zeik and Grunge ticked off at Amber? Had Tony finally turned her in? She felt like she was going to vomit.
Read an excerpt from Blood Echo
Fabian had to know, if only to satisfy his own sense of morbid curiosity, whether Paul McNeil had ever experienced a moment of regret, shame, or remorse. And the vampire did not have time to play tiddlywinks with the terrified Homo sapiens.
The urge to feed…
The desire to kill…
The impulse to shred, maim, and annihilate was too overwhelming.
Fabian wouldn’t last much longer.
And then he found the absence of what he was looking for in the human’s long-term memory: Indeed, Paul had no discernible recollection of Gwendolyn or her mother. The man had extorted so much money in his lifetime, taken advantage of so many helpless women, that he didn’t even remember Mary Hamilton or her husband. They were nameless, faceless scraps of meat, unsalted and tossed in an overcrowded silo.