by Maya Daniels
“I’m fine.” My voice is hoarse, like I’ve been screaming from the top of my lungs for hours. When he keeps looking at me as if I might go into hysterics at any minute, I glare at him. “I’m fine. You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that again.”
“I’ll remember that.” His lips twitch, the smirk fighting to pop out only deepening my scowl. “We need to move you to a safe place, come on.”
I let him pull me to my feet, following at his heels with our fingers intertwined, the blood making them stick together like glue. It’s as disturbing as it is hot as hell, sending all sorts of inappropriate thoughts flying through my head. When my thighs start getting slick, I know it’s just a matter of minutes before the scent of my arousal hits him. Zoltan may act like he doesn’t notice things, but he will never let me get away with something like that.
“You know they were not trying to get to me, right?” In hopes of keeping him busy enough that he won't pay attention to scents and smells, I tug on his hand to get him to look at me.
“Of course they were.” A line forms between his eyebrows when he glances at me.
“Actually, they were aiming at your head.” He stops walking so suddenly I bump into his back. “First at your head, then at your heart. With silver daggers.”
“Silver can’t kill me.” There is a barely-contained anger in his words and every line of his body.
“No, but it can keep you out long enough so they can snatch me away.” Giving him a taste of his own medicine, I smirk at him. “If I was the type that’s easy to snatch, that is.”
“Is that why you kept shoving me away?”
“What did you think it was? Foreplay?”
“I can play rough.” One side of those full lips cocks up, and I know in this moment that even a human with a sinus problem could smell my arousal, and probably from a mile away. The jerk is not playing fair.
“It was very ballsy of them to try and nail you with a couple of daggers.” Clearing my throat, I look at his chin to avoid seeing the knowing expression telling me he is aware that I’m changing the subject. “I would expect them to pull that on the Fae, or Astara…” my words trail off, and my eyes snap to his.
Both of us turn and bolt down the hallway, Zoltan still holding onto my hand, forcing me to run faster than I can remember being capable of. My free arm throbs in pain from slamming it on walls when we turn corners, so I don’t do it with my face. I’m not sure I take a breath the entire time, at least until Zoltan almost rips a door off the hinges, and both of us rush through it like Tasmanian devils on crack.
“What the fuck, Zoltan!” Fenrir snarls, his eyes flicking from their usual bright blue to red with white pupils before going back to normal. His hair changes from platinum blond to midnight black, like a picture on a TV with terrible reception.
Taking a deep breath so I can speak, I’m about to point it out, but expanding my lungs lets me know I have something very sharp pressed at my ribs. Turning my head slowly to the side, I meet Astara’s pissed-off glare.
“Making shitty moves like that could get you both killed,” she tells me pointedly, putting slight pressure on the knife she is holding.
“At least you are both alive,” I rasp, and they finally notice that I look like some psychopath that bathes in the blood of her enemies.
“What the hell happened to the two of you?” The sharp point of the weapon disappears, and Astara walks around me to look at both of us.
“They tried to hurt Zoltan.” Ignoring his glower, I push past his sister and plop on the one chair in the room. “I’m not sure if they were trying to incapacitate him for the time, or if they really have no clue that their silver daggers can’t kill him.”
“Did you recognize them?” At Fenrir’s question, I flick my gaze to Zoltan’s face.
“I didn’t stop to look.” Spearing his fingers through his hair, he grabs a handful of it, tugging it in frustration. “I wanted Francesca out of the open. I’ll check on them now.”
“I’m coming with you.” Fenrir is out the door before he is done talking, Zoltan right on his heels.
The sound of a key being turned when the door closes is like a bullet in the silent room.
“You okay?” Astara kneels next to me, face turned up, her gaze flicking between mine.
“I’m fine.” Blowing out a breath, I sag deeper into the chair. “With the adrenaline pumping, I didn’t have time to not be fine.” Her hand hesitates above mine, so I take it, squeezing her fingers to let her know I’m telling the truth. “I was scared for Zoltan. They didn’t try to hurt me, both of them were focused on him … Even the weapons were not meant for me. They were silver, not iron.”
“You are half vampire…” she trails off when I scrub a hand over my face.
“Neither silver nor iron can kill me, Astara. Iron weapons might slow me down or hurt me long enough so I can be killed, but on their own … well, they are useless.” Yanking on the braid, I remove the elastic band tied at the end and push my fingers through it, unraveling the long strands. “After Zoltan said silver can’t kill him either, I thought they were trying to slow us down so someone could get to the two of you.”
“We didn’t see a soul on our way here.” Sitting down on the floor, she hugs her knees. “You’d think Cassius and Roberti would know what can and cannot hurt my brother.” Her eyes are unfocused as she nibbles on her lip, but that comment gives me a pause.
“You think the Board is involved? Since they can’t touch me, they’ll go after you now?” I don’t know why I didn’t think of that sooner. Those three might not dare to go against Soren’s word, but the ancient Fae didn’t say anything about the ones helping me.
“I don’t think so.” Astara waves a hand dismissively, her pretty face scrunching up in disgust at the mention of the old farts, as she likes to call them. “Those three are powerful enough together—for now—to not need help from demons. If they wanted the job done, they’d do it themselves.”
“For now?” Latching on to the one offhanded remark, I turn my full focus on her face, and I don’t miss her flinch, letting me know it is a slip up as I think. “Why do I feel like I walked in in the middle of a war when I crossed those gates?”
“Everything will be clear to you in a couple of days.” Pushing off the floor, she looms over me. “Now, I think you need to wash off all that blood because you look like you’re about to go feral on me at any given moment. Not an attractive sight, I assure you.”
Remembering I look horrible, still tugging on the strands of my hair that are tangled and sticking together from the dried-up blood, I stand also, my eyes roaming the length of the room for the first time. A twin bed is pushed in one corner, and next to it sits a side table with a chandelles flame sitting atop of it. A partly open door to the right leads to a bathroom, the tiles on the floor giving it away even when I can’t see far inside it. A large window with sheer drapes stands between the bed and a small fireplace, the chair I was sitting on is placed in front of it. A little coffee table low to the floor is piled up with my bags. Another door is facing the bathroom from the opposite wall, one I’m assuming is a closet.
Simple and minimalistic.
I like it.
“You can keep looking after you clean up.” Astara’s voice sounds strained, and I turn to look at her with a frown.
My eyes widen when I see she’s taking small sips of air through her mouth so she doesn’t have to smell the blood. Groaning at my own stupidity, I rush to the bags, yanking on the zippers and shuffling the neatly-folded clothing inside. Pulling out what looks like comfy lounge pants and a long-sleeve top—all in black because fates forbid they let anyone wear a different color here—I rush to the bathroom slamming the door closed behind me.
“I’m sorry.” Like an idiot, I raise my voice as if she can’t hear me through the closed door, I peel the crusted-to-my-skin clothing away. “With everything that happened, I didn’t even think about how the blood would affect you.”
�
�It’s not the blood that’s the problem.” She sounds strangled, probably still holding her breath. “I can control myself around blood. There is something different about the one you’re bathed in.”
“I didn’t bathe…” Scoffing at her choice of words, I almost skip the critical part of what she said. Jerking the door open, I lean in so only my head is sticking out of it. “What do you mean ‘there is something different?’ I had my fangs in that asshole’s throat as he bled out. There is nothing different about his blood.”
“You can’t sense it?” Astara frowns, her arched eyebrows dipping low over her eyes. With her hands on her hips, she lifts her chin and takes a long, deep sniff in my direction.
Her eyes flash such a bright blue they look white as she stumbles back and clutches the chair behind her. Startled at her reaction, I duck inside the bathroom, closing the door with a slam, even going as far as leaning on it.
“No, I can’t sense anything different. What is it?” Lifting my arm, I sniff at it gingerly, and the same second I feel stupid.
It’s not like the scent has changed. If I couldn’t smell it a moment ago, chances are I won't be able to now either. Thumping my forehead on the door, I groan.
“Actually, hold that thought. Let me wash it off, and then we can talk.” My skin pebbles from having the dried blood on it now that I know something is wrong with it. I shiver when I turn, and flakes of it crumble down on the pristine tiles.
“Sure,” Astara calls out. “I’m not going anywhere until those two come back.”
The mention of Zoltan and Fenrir makes my heart skip a beat. How long has it been since they left? Were there more demons waiting for them back there? Anxiety eats a hole in my stomach, and I almost trip when I rush inside the shower.
7
My skin feels raw from the harsh scrubbing I give it, the scolding hot water dimming my natural golden glow. After roughly wiping the leftover moisture from it with a towel, I stab my legs in the pants as fast as I can. My head and one of my arms are pushed through the holes of the shirt, but I’m already yanking the door open, my gaze searching the room for Zoltan and Fenrir.
Stupid, I know.
I can feel Zoltan even if he is not very near, but I can’t help hoping I might’ve missed the awareness of him because of my turbulent thoughts. The room is silent; only Astara stands in front of the large window gazing through it with unfocused eyes.
Seeing her like that stops me in my tracks. Unlike her infuriating brother, she is always animated. Even when standing still or being focused, there is always some tell about how she feels or what she’s thinking. Right now, none of it is evident, with her arms folded over her stomach like she’s hugging herself, and the way she stands so unmoving you can mistake her for a beautifully sculpted statue. Midnight hair, glossy like oil, spills over her shoulders, starkly contrasting against her alabaster skin and making her red, pouty lips look like freshly spilled blood. She’s not even blinking.
“They’re not back yet.” For some reason, my words are but a whisper, my movements slower as I pull the shirt over my chest.
Astara blinks, drawing away from the thoughts pulling her under their spell. Turning her head slowly, she takes a deep breath and shakes off whatever had her in such a defensive pose. With a smile, she moves away from the window, coming around the chair and plopping on it ungracefully.
“They’ll be here any moment. My brother likes to be thorough when he is looking for something.” Tilting her head, she grins at me. “At least you look normal again. Well, normal for you anyway.”
“Who was the male?” Seeing her so lost in thought makes my own mind run on fast forward. Ignoring her lighthearted comment, I blurt out one of the things that has been bothering me.
“What male?” Her eyes narrow slightly, the smile slipping from her face.
“The pure blood.” Grimacing at the dumb explanation, I gather my hair over one shoulder, twisting it to squeeze out the excess water. “The vampire in Azgor’s class. First, he tried to get your attention in the hallway, where you literally shoved him out of your face, then you ripped a hole in his chest. That male.”
She purses her lips, eyeing me warily. With no intention of dropping the subject, I pick one of the bags, dropping it on top of the bed. Keeping myself busy will stop me from worrying about why the two idiots are not back yet. Focusing on the task at hand, I put my stuff away, giving Astara the time she obviously needs to provide me with the answer I seek. I was smart enough to hide my acquired knives and daggers before anyone noticed, so I’d rather unpack myself than risk anyone finding them. They may say I stole the weapons, but I like to say it is compensation for all the ones I lost—along with my bike—the day I walked inside this cursed place. If I sound peeved about it, it’s because I am.
“He is the son of Silas.” Astara finally speaks, her words forcing me to look at her, my hands gripping the shirt I am pulling from my bag and stopping midair. My arm hovers for a moment before I come back to myself and toss the clothing on top of the pile I made on the bed.
“And Silas is?” My left eyebrow lifts in an arch at her thinly pressed lips. Clenching my fist out of her sight, I wait patiently for her answer. With these people here, it’s like pulling teeth with my bare hands. “Listen, I know that it’ll take time for you to learn to trust me. If it makes you feel better, I don’t trust anyone either. But since we are all stuck here, any information that will make things easier on all of us will be much appreciated.”
“This has nothing to do with trust, Franky.” Leaning forward, she presses her forearms firmly on the armrests of the chair. “That male is trouble. You want some naked truth and a piece of good advice? Stay as far away from him as possible. And to answer your question, Silas is the vampire member of the Board.”
“And you thought punching a hole in his chest was smart?” My mouth hangs open as I stare at her incredulously.
“It’s one of the perks of being what I am. I guess,” she adds as an afterthought. “I could do without hearing anymore temper tantrums about it.” Her hand waves the air in front of her, dismissing my shock. “I hate that I can’t speak openly because of the damn oath. And before you start thinking I’m somehow honor bound to these assholes, I should tell you that I physically can’t talk about it. It’s like the moment I want to say something, the thought disappears, and I have no idea what I was talking about.”
“Very convenient.” Disappointment is evident on her face at my comment, but she can tell there is no real anger in my words.
The truth is, Soren, tricked me into an oath too. One that I refuse to think. In my mind, if I ignore it enough if will disappear. Plus, now really isn’t the time to think about things I can’t change. Instead, I need to deal with whoever is trying to kill me—and everyone else for that matter—right now.
“Listen.” With a tired sigh, I stop fussing with the clothing and meet her eyes. “If I have to wait two more days to find be told all the secrets being kept from me, I’m good with that. This whole thing just makes me feel like I’m chasing my own tail.” Nibbling on my lip, I search her face. “My entire life was a lie. I took everything for granted, and all the things I had in place to keep me centered, to make sure my feet stayed planted on the ground … it was all ripped away. I’m not a trusting person by nature. Never was. So this whole thing … it just made everything worse.”
“I know, and there is nothing I can say that will make it better.” Leaning back on the chair, she smiles sadly. “But”—She lifts her forefinger in the air—“remember that most secrets are kept for a good reason. I’m not sure if what you’ll hear will make things better or worse. At one point, I believed that this”—After she gestures around the room with her arms, her eyes fall on mine again—“what we do here, what we are … I thought it was for the good of all of us. Lately though, not so much.”
Mind spinning with everything she isn’t saying, I run the tip of my tongue over my teeth, watching her through slanted eyes. As far
as warnings go, this is a very vague one at best. Everything has already turned into a shit pile of epic proportions, so how much worse can things get?
A soft knock on the door has me twirling to face it, arms lifting while my knees bend slightly, ready for combat. From the corner of my eye, I note Astara standing from the chair, soundlessly moving out of sight. My lips part and I take slow, even breaths through it in hopes I won’t give my position away. That’s the last thing I need if the visitor behind the door is a would-be assassin.
“It’s me.” Fenrir’s voice is muffled through the walls.
Dropping my hands to my sides, I stride forward and yank the door open. Astara pops out of the closet the same time as the Fae steps inside my room. Not wanting to look eager to see Zoltan, I give Fenrir a once over, making sure he is not bleeding or anything before turning expectantly at the still open door. An empty hallway meets my gaze.
“Oh, excellent.” On the balls of his feet, Fenrir spins in a circle, a smile plastered on his face. “You’ve cleaned up the war paint.” I blink at him, unable to believe that is what he’s focused on, but I notice Astara poking her head out the door, probably looking for her brother. Fenrir only lifts one eyebrow at me in reply.
“Did Zoltan get lost on the way back, or did you leave him dead in one of the hallways?” My chin dips down to my chest as my gaze bores into his. “When two people leave and only one returns, it’s usually one or the other.”
“He is waiting for us in the training room.” Frowning at me, he folds his arms over his chest. “It’ll take more than a couple of guards to take one of us down.”
“If I didn’t push his ass out of the way, they would’ve taken him down already.” Pointing the obvious out through clenched teeth, I return his scowl.
“Children.” Astara steps between us, lifting both arms to ward us off. “Let’s not fight with each other, huh? It took you long enough to return, Fenrir. The least you can do is tell us why you came back alone.”
