Ascension - The third book of The Gates Legacy
Rohnert comes from a long line of pure-blooded vampires, but he has broken away from the Vampire Council, which is being run into the ground by Goran, a former friend and ally. With the vampire race in upheaval, he allies with a group of freedom fighters. However, nothing could have prepared him for their determined human doctor.
Shelly Anderson vowed not to fall in love, but her resolve quickly changes upon meeting the enigmatic vampire. After their one night together ends in a nightmare, Rohnert’s unexpected reentry into her life derails her plans once more.
Rohnert soon realizes the lengths he is willing to go to keep Shelly and their child close and safe, even if it means violating a long-standing decree among pure-blooded vampires to keep their bloodlines alive. When harsh reality comes knocking, Rohnert must fight to save the people he loves before he loses them forever.
Reckoning- Available June 2015 (link this to new tab- New Releases)
Sneak Peek
Chapter 1
“Please don’t hurt him,” the woman pleaded.
Cyrus stepped out of the darkened patch in which he’d been hiding and broke into a sprint. The air was stifling, and even at midnight the summer heat was on full blast. He moved quickly, passing parked cars and rundown establishments, while his boots slammed on the pavement with dull thuds. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gentry streak across the street in pursuit of their newest project.
The female’s plea echoed in his head.
The male vampire Cyrus was pursuing was fast, considering his ailment. It made Cyrus wonder what in the hell he was worried about. In the six months since Jones had introduced the idea of a cure, a flood of diseased vampires had lined up on their doorstep. Well, that wasn’t exactly accurate. They had been given an address where they could sign up. After attending a few counseling sessions, they were deemed worthy of little Malin’s gift.
It had now been six months since they’d discovered the gift Malin’s birth had brought them. The son of the Vampire Council’s new leader, Rohnert, the half-vampire, half-human child, had no idea how precious his blood was to their race. From the time he was two months old, he had been contributing small amounts of blood, which was used to cure those infected with Incomis Sippanus.
Tack Enterprises certainly had come a long way. What had begun with one man’s search to cure his infected daughter was now an organization dedicated to protecting and treating the diseased vampires who had, until recently, been hunted down and reviled. No matter how slow the production of the antidote, the positive results spoke for themselves. Harrow Gates, the unwitting source of the contagion, had taken over Tack Enterprises upon the death of its founder. He led the Tack team in its efforts to respond to the countless requests for help from the vampires who suffered from his legacy.
“He’s going to jump.” Gentry’s warning broke into Cyrus’ rumination, and he refocused. The male they’d been pursuing had reached the harbor. He stopped, looked over his shoulder with a laugh, and plunged into the water.
That was where Cyrus drew the line. He wasn’t going swimming. Skidding into a halt by the edge of the waterfront, he traced the man’s trajectory.
There was no sense in wasting precious time and resources on someone who didn’t want their help. It was time to move on.
“Have fun swimming,” Cyrus muttered under his breath.
“Where to now?” Gentry asked from behind him.
The soldier had been an excellent addition to their group. A vampire loyal to Rohnert and the Council, he had been relegated to serving as the royal babe’s bodyguard since the child’s human mother had been killed. When he found some downtime away from his prime responsibility, he served as the point of contact for those who sought the cure.
“Back to the facility.”
They turned to the deserted street and found the woman waiting for them. Her face fell when she realized her runaway son was not with them.
Cyrus offered an apologetic smile. “If he doesn’t want our help, we can’t force him. I’m sorry.”
“He doesn’t know what’s good for him,” she said, her voice breaking.
“That is why we prefer they come to us on their own.”
“Will you give him another chance?”
How touching. If all mothers were like this female, then there might be some hope left after all. At least Rohnert’s reign had stopped the shunning and slaughtering of the infected ones that had been carried out under Goran’s orders.
“Of course. Gentry here will take care of him.” Cyrus turned to leave.
The woman caught his arm, and when their eyes locked, she offered a feeble smile. “Thank you. You’re heaven sent.”
Cyrus didn’t bother telling her that he and heaven were poles apart. The truth was he was living on borrowed time, and his sworn vendetta against Zane, the man who had robbed him of his humanity, cast a shadow over whatever was left of his soul. Once Tack Enterprise’s new venture was up and running, he planned to heed the dictates of his heart and follow a different path. He wanted revenge.
It was easier said than done, of course. There were a million things that needed his attention before he could pursue Zane.
Rayce paged him with a summons to the control room the moment they reached the underground facility. Then his phone beeped with a message from Harrow to meet him in the I-room. Yeah, he was everyone’s go-to guy.
“Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.” He slapped Gentry on the shoulder and made a beeline for the control room.
Before Goran had been defeated, he had ordered his grandson, Zane, to take them out. The damage had been substantial, and Cyrus’ blood boiled whenever he thought of the asshole who had changed him. His daddy, as Tor never failed to remind him. With Goran’s downfall, they had returned to the Tack Enterprises’ original underground facility. The place had been retrofitted and given an extensive make-over after a security breach and infiltration.
During that dark time, they’d had to abandon the facility and set up shop in a refurbished warehouse. However, the Vampire Council had begun to move in a positive direction under Rohnert’s guidance. Since their lives weren’t threatened anymore, returning to their first home had been an easy decision to make.
“You need me?” Cyrus asked when he entered the control room.
Rayce spared him a quick glance before returning his attention to the bank of ten monitors. His mop of brown hair was sticking out in all directions, which made Cyrus wonder if the man had trouble sleeping—or just grooming. If it was the former, that would make two of them.
The tech guy punched the keyboard, and several monitors flickered then zoomed. “Look at this,” Rayce said.
Cyrus directed his attention to one, and his heart skipped. Isidora was inside the shooting range, firing a Sig. Her form was perfect. Her stance wide enough to withstand the recoil, and her focus was intent on the target.
She had been a diligent student—always on time, never missing a session—but she preferred one-on-one instruction, which still baffled him. Not that he was complaining.
“Um . . . what made you think I needed to see this?” he asked, eyeing the younger man with annoyance.
Rayce gave him a sheepish grin. “Well, she’s your student. I thought you might be interested in keeping tabs on her progress.”
And there you are, folks. The teasing has already started. Cyrus regulated his breathing before flashing his fangs at the human. “Stop hanging out with Tor. He’s turning you to the dark side.”
Cyrus took one last look at the monitor before exiting the room. Rayce’s laughter followed him on his way to the I-room. Blast the damn human. He was lucky his control room was such a godsend.
Harrow and Tor had complained about the lack of privacy before, but Cyrus had thought it was silly. After all, it was for their own protection. But now that he, too, was under the microscope, he realized he wasn’t too crazy about the cameras pointing in every direction. Their fallen leader, Pritchard Tack, had been too engrossed with his people’s affairs.
Cyrus opened the door of the I-room and found Harrow watching the same segment. “You guys are not funny,” he said, marching straight to the libation station. He picked his favorite bottle and poured.
Harrow turned and snickered. “You’re like a brother to me, and you know I only want what’s best for you. Right—”
“Cut the crap, Gates. What do you want from me?”
Harrow turned somber, which made Cyrus roll his eyes. Here we go.
“I want you to be happy . . .”
“Oh, please. Not that speech again. Can we just skip the sentimental bullshit and tell me what you want to do with the Naples account.” That should shut the boss up. Slap Harrow with business decisions to take the focus away from Cyrus. It always worked.
Harrow gave him a knowing look—no doubt the man had caught on to his evasion tactic. “You have a meeting with the CEO tonight?”
Cyrus nodded and pulled the glass to his lips, downing the first of many drinks of the night. At the rate he was going, he might as well buy stock in Caol Ila. He’d been drinking the single malt whiskey like it was water.
“I’m meeting him at his home. I told him I have an early flight, and that was the only open time in my schedule.” That was bullshit, of course, and Harrow knew it. He had reserved his daytime hours for scouring the city for traces of Zane, who had vanished without a trace.
Harrow gave him a dubious glare but said nothing. Cyrus waited while he pulled a sheet of paper from a folder, signed it, and handed it to Cyrus.
“That should seal the deal. Tell Jack that his order is guaranteed to ship in four weeks.”
Cyrus scanned the contract, and after a thorough check, got to his feet. “I’ll pass it on.” He turned to the door.
“Hey, man, are you sure you’re all right?” Harrow asked, removing his sunglasses to look him in the eye.
Despite the cure, the damage to Harrow’s eyes had been too extensive to reverse. Looking into his whitish eyes was a bit creepy, but this was getting old.
“I’m great. Couldn’t be better.”
Cyrus left him shaking his head and marched straight to his bedroom. Any more questions about his state of mind and he was going to scream. He slammed the door and collapsed on the sofa. If everyone kept treating him like a live grenade, he really would explode. He glanced at the digital clock on the wall and gritted his teeth. His appointment with the guy from Naples was in an hour. If he wanted to make it on time, he’d better get in the shower quick.
***k***
Isidora worked the mouse and moved her target closer. On inspection, it was riddled with bullets, which were concentrated around the chest area. This made her smile. She moved the target back then reloaded.
This had been her nightly ritual since she began training with Cyrus eight months ago. Once her teacher left for the night, she would engage in nonstop practice, further developing the skills she wouldn’t have in her wildest dreams imagined she possessed. Under Cyrus’s tutelage, she had tried several different weapons, and the guns seemed to be the ones that worked for her. They also spent countless hours sparring, which had produced dismal results, in her opinion. Though Cyrus continued to encourage her, she wished he would give up on ever teaching her hand-to-hand combat.
She had been cooped up inside ever since she arrived—first in the warehouse, and then in the underground facility. It wasn’t much different from the conditions she’d left behind except that instead of being hidden away in a mansion, she was thirty feet underground, in the company of both humans and vampires.
However, this time it was no one’s doing but her own. She hadn’t expressed a desire to go out to anyone at the facility. The first and the last time she had ventured outside her sanctuary, her world had been turned upside down. Her beloved Finn had been killed trying to defend her, and the little hope she had of a normal life had blown away with his ashes.
Pushing aside her gloomy thoughts, she focused on the target once more. Isidora cleared her mind of all the clutter, zooming in on the limbless, headless torso and firing. The sound exhilarated her, and the force of the recoil pulled at her strengthening muscles. She was getting better.
The door suddenly opened, and Jordan, Harrow’s mate, walked in. Her red hair was pulled into a severe ponytail, but her eyes were much kinder than they’d been the first time they met. After Goran’s defeat, Jordan’s personality had undergone a drastic change. The female had been one of Goran’s many creations, and her life’s purpose had been to eradicate the vampire. Her mission had since been accomplished, and the facility inhabitants reaped the benefits of her new positive outlook.
“Issy, you’ve already proven yourself with the guns. I think you’re ready for the Kalimetal,” Jordan said. Her eyes had same the familiar twinkle they held whenever she suggested the idea to Issy.
Isidora put down the gun and removed her protective goggles and ear plugs. “I’m not as graceful as you want me to be. We both know it.” She smoothed her long floral skirt and headed to Cyrus’ desk. Without him around, she took comfort in spending her quiet hours using his desk to read.
“Well, let’s see. Recalling my first time, I wasn’t exactly well coordinated. Ask Rohnert—he’ll tell you how many times he wound up smacking my hands with the Arnis.” Jordan shed her jacket to reveal a well-formed upper body that hadn’t lost its feminine curves. “And you have to lose the skirt. I believe in freedom of movement, and dresses and skirts would be a liability during a fight.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” Issy said.
Allison, the coheir of the Tack fortune and Pritchard’s daughter, had asked her several times what she needed. Too timid to impose on her benefactors, Issy had asked for the type of clothes she had been used to wearing at home.
“If you’re serious about this, I’m going to get you the proper clothes, although I think it’ll be better if you choose what you prefer.” Jordan sat on the chair, grabbed a pen and paper, and scribbled down something. “Here—it’s the link to a site that carries every style you can think of. We have an account with them, so all you have to worry about is finding what you want.”
Issy glanced at the paper and grimaced. She hadn’t been taught how to use the computer, let alone go shopping on the Internet. Her father hadn’t believed in modern technology, preferring to raise his daughter according to the old traditions.
“Hey, what’s with the long face?” Jordan was too perceptive.
Isidora shook her head. “Nothing.”
Jordan studied her for a moment and then sighed. “Tell me if I’m overstepping my boundaries here. I’m going to make a wild guess and say that you’re not quite sure how to use a computer.”
Issy looked down, feeling suddenly small. For Christ’s sake, they were in the twenty-first century, but she’d been left behind after being sequestered all her life. She slowly nodded. There was no use hiding it. When she looked up again, Jordan was watching her with those kind, amber eyes.
“You have nothing to worry about. I’m going to teach you everything you need to know.”
Grateful, Isidora could only smile.
Chapter 2
Rohnert collapsed on the chaise after concluding his fourth official Council meeting. He had retreated to his personal chamber in the hopes of getting a short reprieve from the never-ending demands of his position. Being the head of the illustrious group was just as tough as he’d imagined it would be.
The Council had been through rapid and extensive changes. This growth pleased him, but at the same time, his energy was at an all-time low. Even so, the repeated pleas for him to take a break had fallen on deaf ears.
As long as he was working, he couldn’t think, so he spent all his time with his child, running the Vampire Council, and training. He didn’t want to remember why he was taking care of a growing child single-handedly—didn’t want to think of the hole in his heart his mate had left behind when she died. Teaching and training gave him the chance to impart his knowledge of martial arts, but they also gave him an outlet for his pent-up rage. He was hurting more than he let on.
Parenthood had its rewarding and frustrating moments. Jordan and Allison had both been a great help to him, as well. When the two female vampires had offered their babysitting services, Rohnert took them up on their offer, knowing his little boy would be in good hands. They would give their lives for Malin and protected him as if he were their own.
A loud knock sounded at his chamber door. There was no need to look to know who was waiting outside. Such a loud inner voice could only belong to someone with an equally big mouth.
“Come in, Tor,” he called out and leaned against the chair to wait.
Tor opened the door with his usual flourish, chuckling. “You’re one piece of work, you know that?”
No matter how long they’d been friends, Tor still couldn’t come to terms with his mind-reading skills. Rohnert gave a hearty laugh.
It went without saying how grateful he was for Tor and Cyrus’ help with the new soldiers’ training. Tor had been a mean machine, working the troops to the ground under the watchful eye of Wendell, the newly appointed tactician and weapons expert. Cyrus also had been pitching in whenever his schedule permitted.
Tor sat on the ornate chair opposite him and glanced around. “You know, I still can’t believe that you’re actually here. This place is creepy. All those wood carvings, heavy curtains, and artsy-fartsy paintings don’t suit your style.”
“What is my style, if you would be so kind as to enlighten me?” Rohnert lifted his legs and rested them on the table.
“Well, first of all, the robe makes you look fat,” Tor said and then laughed.
Rohnert shook his head. Some people would never change. “And what kind of clothes should I be wearing?”
Tor pretended to think. “Jeans, black shirt, and your Kalimetal.”
The vampire might have been an ass, but he was also an integral part of the group, especially when things got rough, so Rohnert was willing to tolerate his endless witticisms.
“And what about the decor?” he asked, looking forward to a good laugh.
“It’s grandpa-ish—makes you look old.”
“What should we do about it?”
“Um, I have the newest issues of SI and Playboy. The centerfolds could breathe life into this lonely place.” The moment he said the words, Tor drew back. “Man, I’m sorry. Foot-in-mouth disease is next in line for a cure.”
Rohnert faked a laugh. Indeed, he was lonely, and he feared he’d never find a reason to really smile again. It might have been six months since the dreadful day of his mate’s murder, but not a minute had gone by that Shelly didn’t make an appearance in his mind.
Every memory he had of her only strengthened the pain of knowing he’d never get over her. Time didn’t heal some wounds. He couldn’t stop the longing in his gut, erase the memories from his mind, or fill the void in his heart.
He learned the art of faking it, just to appease those around him. It was easy to pretend that he was all right instead of answering questions about his mental well-being. In truth, he was sick of it—sick of his whole goddamned life without Shelly.
“It’s okay, my man,” he finally said.
Tor watched him with those concerned purplish-red eyes, staring long enough to make Rohnert uncomfortable.
“Rohn, you’ll have to talk about it at some point, you know.”
Talk? Talking would make it more real, and he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that Shelly was gone. His very soul refused to accept the finality of it.
“Excuse me, but I have some important Council matters to attend to,” Rohnert said by way of dismissal. He didn’t look Tor in the eye, afraid the vampire would see right through him.
Well, he did, but thankfully he didn’t prod further. “I’ll be in the training room if you need me.” Tor left in total silence.
Rohnert bolted to his feet and walked off the anxiety. He didn’t want to go there—not to the place where darkness, sadness, and isolation shackled him. His muscles were coiled tight while he paced the room like a caged lion.
***k***
Bretania stirred from a short, nightmare-ridden sleep. Her lids fluttered open, and the piercing glow of the light, no matter how insignificant, stung her eyes. For some time now, darkness had been her constant companion. It didn’t take a genius to discern the problem. She had been hoping the great Shaman could aid her, but alas, Lukan had failed to respond to her summons. With difficulty, Bretania pushed her body out of bed, feeling her energy seep out her with the slightest movement. She braced her hand on the nightstand.
“Greta.” Her voice came out strangled.
Her loyal housekeeper answered her call but then stopped dead in her tracks. Judging from her expression, the sight before her was gruesome. The scent of the lesions was far from her preferred Chanel No. 5, and the thoughts swirling in her servant’s mind confirmed what Bretania already knew. She was a card-carrying member of the diseased.
Despite Greta’s qualms, she rushed forward to steady her mistress. Fire raged down Bretania’s throat when her faithful servant’s scent grew stronger as she moved closer. The hunger didn’t listen to reason nor adhere to proprieties or scruples. If she denied its call, she would go mad.
“Madame, you must not exert yourself.” Greta hefted her onto the bed.
Blocking out the guilt and pushing pride aside, Bretania eyed her servant’s jugular hungrily. This was her life now, and there was no denying what she had become. With the element surprise on her side, she was able to grab the woman by the shoulders and pin her against the mattress. Bretania mustered enough energy to overpower her victim, despite the fight the woman tried to put up.
“Ssh, this is going to be fast,” she whispered in a voice that sounded foreign to her ears.
In quick movements ignited by the hunger she had denied for months, she punctured the skin, probing deeper until she caught the sweet taste of blood.
Her salvation.
Bretania sucked at the vein with greedy pulls, taking what she needed to build her strength. Then she did the unthinkable. She utilized her talent for manipulating weak minds to insert thoughts into Greta’s cerebrum. The one person who had been aware that she possessed this gift had taken his knowledge to grave with him.
The suicide mission on which Goran had sent her and the group of new vampires had spelled trouble from the get-go. Their little rebellion was no match for the Elders’ army of disciplined fighters. Had she not used her gift, she would have perished in the battle.
Seizing Greta’s mind, she planted vicious images, ruthless ideas, and added a fondness for butchery into the mix. Life had handed Bretania lemons, so she would squeeze everything to a pulp and leave a trail of bitterness and carnage in her wake.
With one last look, she got up from the bed, marveling at her renewed strength. The night was far from over. While her servant went through the writhing and pain of the transition, she had better things to do and questions that required answers.
Energy coursed through her veins. Gone were the dreary nights spent cooped up in her apartment. This was her time to shine and deliver a blow to the belly of the beast. She would take down those who had thwarted and denied the legacy of her beloved. Hatred burned inside her while she wrapped her body in a black-hooded robe. She holstered her weapons around her waist and took one last glance in the mirror, pleased to have the chance to regroup and build her army.
Centuries of solitude, following the rules governing their race, had been her life. Motivated by her infatuation with the leader who had finally noticed her adoration, she finally came to a conclusion. Rules bored her, allies often led to betrayal, and survival meant looking at the big picture.
Bretania smiled at the mirror, studying her disease-ravaged features. Her once-onyx eyes held a tint of whitish discoloration, and her formerly smooth, silky skin had taken a light pallor, with painful lesions running across her limbs, torso, and face. Her pale, full lips still held a drop of blood from the feeding, and she greedily licked it off, savoring the taste of the temporary reprieve.
She would go to whatever lengths were necessary. After all, she was married to the ruling blood line, and by the grace of that union, she would take what was rightfully hers. The tip of her sword would ensure this path, and damn anyone who dared step between her and her goal.
