Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) by Tessa Dawn Page B

the valley. Just the same, it was no secret that a vamp’s energy could turn tears into blood-red diamonds if his pain ran deep enough; that his hopes or fears could materialize as pearls or sapphires under just the right circumstances; or that if he tried real hard, he might be able to craft whatever gemstone he chose, at will. The bottom line was this: Kristina had recently found a perfect pair of tangerine pumps—although, honestly, they just looked orange to him—and she had practically waxed poetic about how spectacular they would look with citrine gemstones embedded in the crisscrossed toe-straps, how awesome they would look with her suede apricot miniskirt.  
    Braden didn’t know a damn thing about women’s fashion—and frankly, he could not have cared less—but he had noticed how that particular skirt hugged her hips, and if having citrines over her toes made her wear it more often…well…game on.  
    He would do his best.
    So here he was, on the northernmost end of Dark Moon Vale, just thirty minutes after twilight, fishing stones out of a river in the hopes of making two perfect citrines for Kristina, in the hopes of drawing power from the rising moon.  
    Realizing that his shirt wasn’t enough, he polished the stones with a microfiber cloth, set them on a flat, rocky ledge to dry, and then sat down on the bank of the river to watch the water churn…and to concentrate.
    And that’s when he saw the peculiar mist.  
    Rising off the river like a fog: swirling in unnatural circles, spreading out like smoke from a dampened fire, and settling across the ravine like a ghost.  
    He sat up straight and heightened his vampiric senses, listening, feeling, trying to see through the fog. Even though it was early January, six o’clock at night, it wasn’t cool enough for the condensed water droplets to form—the dew point just wasn’t right. As a vampire, Braden could inherently sense the temperature and discern the chemistry of the surrounding elements, so he knew that something was… off .
    Not wanting to be a baby or involve his brothers—or gods forbid, the king—in his every waking thought or encounter, he hit the psychic disconnect button on his telepathic receiver, even as he continued to watch the mist rise and fall, sway and dip, swirl and dance before him.  
    He slowly released his fangs.  
    He sharpened a few of his claws.
    And he felt his vision heat, knowing his eyes were glowing red, as he shifted to infrared vision.  
    Whatever the phenomenon, whatever this was, he could handle it…
    All by himself.  

    Ian Lacusta had given a lot of serious thought to Achilles Zahora’s entreaty: Come home . And he had decided to do just that.
    But in his own time.
    And on his own terms.
    He had no idea what he might be getting into, whether or not he could trust the house of Jaegar any more than he could trust the house of Jadon. He only knew that he had been a solitary entity for far too long to simply pack up his bags and move into a colony of strangers. To present himself as the latest sacrifice in a never-ending, twisted Curse that had never intended him to live.
    Relying on thehard-earnedlessons of his past, he could only be sure of one thing: Wherever he went in this world, however he traveled, and whomever he met, he needed the protection of his powers: his carefully crafted, lifelong skills.  
    He needed to play it safe.  
    History had taught him that appearing anywhere as a vampire was a non-starter. People freaked out; women screamed; men tried to attack, out of some intrinsic flight-or-flight impulse, and Ian invariably had to destroy them all…or make himself a god among men until he grew tired of the game. Even those who didn’t know who—or what—he was still sensed his errant energy, his vacant, demonic heart. And there was just something wicked, vivid, innately unsettling about his black-and-red banded hair. It had taken him a lot of centuries and a lot of trial and error to learn