Ritual Awakening – Chapter 1

Present Day

His eyes were on her as she let the dress of crimson silk slide down over her curves, hiding nothing, yet covering enough to make the walk to her car possible.  She could feel those eyes, intense, studying her every move as though she were his prey.  Of course, after three days – three passionate and powerful days – that would come as little surprise.

She had no illusions about her appearance; she looked like sex.  Where a dress should be, it looked like deep red liquid lust was poured over body and refused to dry.  Well, that was the look from Thursday night when her make-up was done and hair was windswept.  By this late hour on Sunday night, her hair was straight and make-up non-existent.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay the rest of the night?  It’s so late…I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let you leave right now.”

“Trace, nothing about your behavior this weekend says gentleman.”  Anya leaned over the bed where he still lounged to press a quick kiss against his lips.  “Besides, that was the line you used to get me to stay Friday night.”  She dodged away from the hand sliding up her back.  “I do learn.  Eventually.”

“Can you blame me for going back to what works?”

“No.”  She couldn’t.  Not even if she wanted to.  She didn’t.  “That doesn’t change the fact I have to go.”

And she really did.  Anya only meant to have a one-nighter with him when she followed him home from the bar that night.  Three solid days later, her muscles were happily fatigued from their exploits and she was tired of maintaining the façade of being a 22-year-old model every time they spoke – which hadn’t been much. But still…

When he realized he was fighting a losing battle, he sighed and tossed the sheet aside.  “Well, I’m sure you’ll think it’s out of character, since I’m not a gentleman, but at least let me walk you out.”

Anya shrugged, trying to seem unaffected by the site of those hard muscles in action.  “Okay.”  She watched him slide on his jeans and shrug into his shirt, not bothering to button it.  A shiver ripped through her body the moment they stepped outside into the chilled night, briefly making her wish she carried a jacket with her to the bar.

But why would she need a jacket when the Dallas night had been warm and she was looking for forgetfulness?

Her reaction to the night air was not lost on Trace.  He removed his shirt and wrapped it around her shoulders, letting his fingers linger, sending a different kind of shiver down her spine.  “Thanks.  I, uh…I had a good time.”

“Me, too…Oh, fuck.  Hold on a sec.  Don’t leave.”  He vanished back into the swanky condo and returned in almost no time with another shirt hastily tossed on and a business card in his hand.  “I want you to have this.  My cell number just changed so I had to write it on there.”

The contents of the business card were simple: name and number, nothing else.  “Well, Mr. Braedon, thank you.”

His smile faded.  “It occurs to me you never told me your last name.”

Anya tucked the card into her cleavage for safekeeping and started towards her car.  “Does it really matter?”

At the car, he pressed her back against the door.  “Probably not.”  His hands skimmed her hips.  “You’re really certain you have to leave this second.”

Her resolve faltered, dissolved.  “I’ve got, maybe, five minutes.”

“Now that’s something I can work with.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He went through the condo flipping off lights and making sure he had everything he’d come with – minus the hot chick who just left.  It was a good thing the maid was scheduled for a thorough cleaning the next afternoon or Trace would be pissed over the condition of things.  Nothing was in it’s place; that would drive Trace insane if he got home early.

But he would understand.  If he could have seen this chick, he would understand…

As he walked though the crisp night air to his car, he couldn’t remember why he’d given a fake name to begin with.  Maybe he’d finally hooked up with one too many hot – and unstable – chicks and learned his lesson.  Did this constitute paranoia or caution?  If he’d known Anya would be so addictive after that first taste, he might have been truthful up front.

Who was he kidding?  He never saw women a second time.  He still hadn’t found what he was looking for.

He whistled a few bars of the U2 song, staring up at the full bright orb in the night sky before unlocking his car door.  The full moon was always powerful.  This weekend was no exception.

Except for the aura problem.

Anya’s aura was there, weak, colorless.  That wasn’t right.  An aura should have color; color that would lead him to the key he sought.  The moon should have intensified his powers.  He should have had trouble seeing her through the vivid coloring of her aura.

Nothing.

Something wasn’t right.  All of his other powers were heightened, even before the time spent with her.  Now, the energy rolling through his body was humming, electric.  A glance at his hand revealed the ability to see auras hadn’t vanished.  His was thick, vivid…dangerous…the way he liked it.

Her weak aura did have its upside.  Nothing stood between him and what he wanted, not that even the best developed of auras could shield him out.  It had taken less energy to get through her defenses though and he put that saved energy to excellent use over the last three days.

The late night drive home from Trace’s condo was one he made often.  It was automatic.  Rather than focus on the tedium of street signs and shadowed ditches, he let his mind wander to the woman who only just left.  Great body, curves that didn’t disappoint once the slinky red film was peeled away from her skin.  Damn.

He could have done without the big Texas hair the first night.  It was better once the hairspray was washed away and the locks fell beyond her shoulders.  Her hair could have been poured straight from one of those bear bottles of honey, if it had ruby dust in it.

Hmm…ruby dust in her hair and emerald sparks in her eyes.

Looks weren’t everything.  It was deeper than that.  Much deeper.

With blood like that to feed on – even just once a week – he wouldn’t need to hunt at all anymore.  But he still would.  The only thing he loved more than the high after feeding was the thrill of the hunt.

He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror.  “Well Jacob, looks like time to break the cardinal rule and actually call a woman after sex.”

Now he just needed to track down her number.  Another hunt.  Excellent.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Anya was in a sour mood when she arrived home to the dark, empty house.  What was she thinking?  She didn’t go to bars, flash a fake ID and go home with complete strangers.  She hadn’t even known his last name until a half hour ago.

He still didn’t know hers was Lucasta.

She stripped off her clothes, gathered her robe and went to take a shower.  Water always had a way of bringing clarity.  She desperately needed that right now.  Nothing had been clear for two weeks.

All she wanted was to get Max out from under her skin.  She’d heard the best way to get over a man was to get under another one so that’s what she tried to do. No doubt about it, she hadn’t thought about Max for a single millisecond from the moment Trace came to her table at the bar and announced he was buying her a drink after they danced.

Every insecurity she had was replaced with newfound feminine confidence over the course of the weekend.  All inhibitions were gone.  If her sexual inexperience had shown then he didn’t seem to mind.

Her mind wandered as she carried out the perfunctory tasks of showering.  She could still feel his fingers tangling into her hair, his breath hot on her neck, his mouth on her skin.  As her soapy fingers moved across her shoulders, she remembered the shower she’d taken the previous night when she planned to head home after another day spent in his bed.  Her thoughts turned to the intensity of his gaze when he joined her under the spray of water and she could still feel the tremble in her knees at the way his mouth convinced her to stay yet another night with him.  When it came to his stamina…

Wow.

Looking up at him from her table took her breath away Thursday night.  Tall, fiery blue eyes, dark, tousled hair, black button-down shirt left untucked over a pair of well-fitting jeans.  He was handsome, but she hadn’t expected to be intoxicated by his very essence when he drew her into his arms during the first chords of the ballad being played.  There was so much confidence in the way he danced, the way his hands grazed the small of her back, the way his lips brushed hers without hesitation, as though knowing she couldn’t resist him.  He was a far cry from high school boys, that was for sure.

She knew before he suggested it that they’d be skipping the drink and going straight back to his place.

“Ouch.”

Her fingers went back to the strange spot at the nape of her neck.  Had she cut herself?  She didn’t remember, but that didn’t mean much.  There were few surfaces in that house she hadn’t been pressed up against.  Or maybe the rough stubble on his chin did it.  Anything could have caused it.  Maybe sometime after the first hit of X they’d done.

What had she become?  Drugs, drinking and sex…The rock bottom trinity.

Tears mixed with the water and swirled down the drain.  This wasn’t who she was.  She was supposed to be the girl okay with her best friend’s relationship with her ex-boyfriend.  Why had she confronted Monica that night after the football game?

None of this should have happened.  The light draining from Monica’s eyes as the color drained from her face was forever etched in her memory.  One moment they were fighting about Max; the next a jolt of invisible lightning charged through her body and Monica was comatose on the floor.

No one believed when she said she didn’t know what happened.  The entire school thought Anya had done something to her.  The week after that was pure torture to endure.  She was alone, utterly alone.  She alienated everyone she knew when she started dating Max and all the people from his circle were Monica’s friends.

The thought of living through another week of silent accusations was unthinkable.  So she cut class.  And she drank.

Once the last drop of water was toweled away, she snuggled into her robe.  Sleep.  Water hadn’t helped tonight.  Maybe sleep would.

An open palm struck her face, knocking her to the tile, when she opened the door.

“Slut!”

She tasted copper from where her teeth broke the flesh on the inside of her cheek.  Her father was home?  He shouldn’t even be in town.  “Dad…”

“Not a word.”  He took a single, menacing step in her direction.  Rage flashed across his face.  “All I want from you is to listen, and listen carefully.  I do not want to know how a man’s shirt found its way to your floor.  I do not want to know what you have been doing over the last week instead of going to school.  Do not tell me where you were all weekend.  I especially do not want to know how much you ran up on my credit cards this time.”  He rolled his eyes, annoyed.  “Get up.”

Anya was afraid to stand, but too afraid to disobey.

“All I want is for you to understand this simple fact.  You will never get your trust fund unless you graduate.  And you will not live here, either.  So, Anya, you will be in class in a few hours and you will pass all of your classes.”  He gave his head a bitter shake.  “The only good thing is that your mother never lived to see you turn out this way.”

“My…what?”  Had she changed so much in the ten months since her mother’s death?

“How much of a fool do I have for a daughter?”  His words bit through her.  “Did you really not figure out the woman who raised you was your step-mother?  You look nothing like her.”

Her jaw went slack.  There were no words.

“Apparently, I have been blessed with a dumb tramp of a daughter.  Lovely.”  He turned and started down the hall.  “Your mother died a few days after you were born.”  His feet paused.  “You killed her.”

Once the sound of the slamming front door echoed through the house, Anya dropped to her knees and fell on her side.  Her arms wrapped around her knees, hugging them to her chest; trying to hug away the hollow pain.  Her ears winced at the most mournful wail she’d ever heard; a wail flowing from beyond her own lips.

This was rock bottom and Anya wanted to die.

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