The group of Sanguinatores strode forward. Each step they took, they took slowly, with swagger, letting their arrival drag. Each foot spiked another resurgence of fear in Graciela.
When she felt four arms wrapping around her legs, she sheltered both of the children in her arms. “It will be okay,” she stuttered. Lies, she was learning, were sometimes necessary.
She turned back to Santiago for reassurance. But all she found was the stranger who’d been seated on the opposite side of him. Santiago was gone.
A flood of panic enveloped her. “Santi!”
Unfortunately, her call would not be answered. Dozens of other screams drowned it out.
A small hand tugged at the hem of her shirt. Graciela turned to see Adelaide standing at her back. “Maybe he went for the gun?”
“The gun? What gun?”
“The one they shot at the beginning of the games.”
Graciela’s first inclination was to protest. Surely her brother wouldn’t be foolish enough to run headfirst into a hornet’s nest. Then again, he hated the Sanguinatores for what they’d done to Graciela at a time when he was so defenseless. For all she knew, it was entirely within the realm of possibility that he would see this as his moment of redemption.
Leave it to Santiago that the first time he’d feel an ounce of selflessness he’d throw himself into the most dangerous situation they’d ever experienced. It was a conflicting moment for Graciela, proud that her brother was finally discovering his instincts to help people but also fearing for his life. Why did he always have to be so reckless?
The Sanguinatores would kill him. Zane would kill him.
It felt like her world was spinning. “Which way did he go?”
Adelaide pointed at the arena, to where the roider who shot the gun at the beginning of the event had been standing, but no one but Sean and Mara stood there now. No doubt her brash brother hadn’t taken the time to realize this. Probably figured he’d find the gun and save the day, a piece of cake—even though Graciela was sure he had never fired a gun, nor held one, ever in his life.
“Stay here,” she instructed and neither Caleb nor Adelaide followed.
If Santiago was running for the gun, which was presumably on the field, then he’d be running closer toward danger, not away from it. The swell of fear now filled her entire core.
Contrary to her name, she hopped down the bleachers with little to no grace at all, knees still weak from the impact. Upon hitting the bottom, she nearly fell but regained her balance just before smashing face-first into the dirt. The Sanguinatores had fully emerged from the south entrance and were taking their final steps toward Sean.
Any movement on the field would draw attention. Graciela decided it was safer to circle around behind the bleachers, out of sight.
She crept to the nearest entrance, the one they’d just finished coming through, body low to the ground. Though Sean and Zane had begun to talk, no words were distinguishable from her location. Maybe they’d keep each other distracted. It bought her time.
She had to find Santiago before he did anything stupid. Before—
Graciela skid to a halt. Standing before her was a familiar figure, but someone who didn’t belong. The shadows left in the sun’s wake were like flickering flames compared to the darkness of the young man’s locks. Skin so pale, she was sure it would feel chilled if she were to touch it. But it was the tattoos she remembered most. The drowning sailors, a devious siren.
“Bram?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Sean
“There’s the man we’ve been looking for!” The curling of Zane’s smug lips was like puppet strings to Sean’s fists. The higher his smile hiked, the tighter Sean’s grip became.
Only Mara’s presence beside him kept him grounded, reminded him that hundreds of people were depending on him.
“You can imagine our surprise when we decided to pay you a visit and found Hope to be as desolate as all the other communities we’ve blown through.” With a show of insincere defensiveness, Zane added, “Not by our hands, I swear it.”
“Leave now.” Whereas Zane put on a show for all those watching, Sean kept his voice low. Only Mara, Zane, and a few other nearby Sanguinatores could hear him. “You are not welcome here.”
“I can see that. No invitation to the party. It’s like my childhood all over again,” he quipped. Only his people laughed. “Well, aside from that lovely letter you left us back in Texas.”
At first, Sean was stumped, until he remembered Surviving & Thriving and the sign he’d written for anyone who might come across the fallen haven in search of community. He’d led them right to them.
It was a game though, Sean reminded himself. Cat and mouse—or more like viper and mouse, given the way Zane liked to coil around his prey before devouring it. The only way to win was to take an offensive move, rather than always being forced into the defensive. There were over seven hundred members of Hope, so based on numbers alone, were everyone battle-ready, they could’ve taken this group of Sanguinatores. With ease.
But one glance around the bleachers reminded Sean that most of the community was not ready. A third of them had been downed by one blow, and half of the ones remaining just cowered in fear or hovered over their pained loved ones.
“If we had been invited, we would’ve chosen a different day to come. Please believe me, crashing a party was not our intention. But we’re here, so we might as well get down to business.”
“And what business is that?” Sean sneered.
Mara hissed, “We don’t do business with murderers.”
Something flashed behind Zane’s eyes at that notion. “No? But you take orders from one?” He signaled to Sean.
Spine rigid, Sean could think of only three people whose lives he had taken. Early on. The ones responsible for Samson’s death. Without his decision to do so, they likely never would’ve been brought to justice.
Dubious dawning unraveled Zane’s words. “I’m right. All Masters of Blood have killed, at some point or another.”
Mara flared, muscles taut. Just before she sprang forward, that blue aura already trickling from her fingertips, Sean caught her shoulder. “My patience is thin, Zane. Tell us what you came here for.”
“Touchy, touchy, Seany-boy. And you, dolly, shouldn’t have done that.”
Everything fell into slow motion as Sean looked over to Mara. A bloodied tear trailed her cheek as she shrieked. More blood dripped from her chin. Mara choked on the red plasma.
With a low-pitched purr, Zane commanded the scarlet gel pooling in Mara’s mouth outward, levitating it in the air.
It all happened so fast, Sean could hardly register Zane’s actions, too focused on Mara’s agony. And he only had himself to blame. If he would’ve thought to call to her blood, take control of it himself, she would be safe under his protection instead of in the clutches of a bloodthirsty tyrant.
Zane stepped closer to Sean, their noses practically touching, and spoke in a seductive whisper. “You should teach your pets respect.”
Zane’s call grew louder, and Mara’s terror became his delight, while becoming Sean’s rage.
Zane held his gaze, likely hoping for a reaction. Sean gave him a steely look, despite the fury brewing within him. He searched for his Awakened ability, for the power he so desperately needed to unleash upon them all. But it was lost in a void, a solid wall of titanium blocking him from using it against his enemy. It was as expected. Most blood guides—Sanguinatores—kept their own blood on a tight leash so that no one else could ever hold it in their grasp.
Another purr from Zane, and the second red ribbon of Mara’s life danced to Sean. It tickled him beneath his nose. Instead of fighting, Sean found himself spellbound by the twirling particles of blood that swayed before him. Nothing was as beautiful as this sweet ruby milk. And like Zane, despite himself, he wanted it all.
Zane held the tune, and Mara’s blood hovered farther from her mouth, parting her lips with calculation
to approach its new master. The small stream of it weaved up and down like a ribbon pirouetting in the wind.
Entranced. Both cotton-mouthed and salivating, Sean found himself wanting what Zane was taking.
Slowly, with all his might, Sean shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. This was his friend’s life hanging before him. He had to be strong.
When her blood was only a few centimeters from Zane’s face, he changed his melody, suddenly inhaling and sharpening his tone into a deafening whistle. The fluid swiftly entered his mouth and he indulged in her essence eagerly. It was so vile, so brutal, that Sean almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Zane was drinking her blood.
Zane’s eyes flashed as red as an ember. His entire body seemed ablaze.
Sean took another slight step. This was his chance. He could fight Zane and end this madness, rescue his people. But another thought interrupted any plan of attack, one that had him thinking of shoving Zane to instead resume what he’d started. Sean could take him. Then the blood could be all his.
No longer was he aware of screams or cries, just the pounding drum of the vessel that had enslaved this luscious red river.
A resonant crack in the air caused Sean to blink and drop to the ground, shielding his head. The echo of it fizzled over the arena, catching everyone’s breathe. Heavy silence followed.
Gunfire.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Santiago
Finally, Santiago found the gun, stashed in a hard-plastic case next to some of the other supplies they’d used for the festival. Now armed, he no longer felt useless.
Not too far from where he stood now, Mara collapsed beside Sean, every part of her tense. No introduction was necessary for the perilously large man towering over her. His tattoos matched the description of the leader Graciela described from Mexico: Zane.
Up this close, Santiago realized how much the tattooed man resembled the snake in that first dream, the one where he’d seen Hope for the first time. It was the eyes, the serpent-like way they seemed to scan everything without ever actually moving.
Zane’s icy-blue eyes flickered with lethality at the sight of Mara writhing on the ground. Those eyes had more vibrancy than the blazing sun. A ravenous hatred burned within them. Those crystal irises told a captivating, frightening story of the man inside, and Santiago couldn’t pry them from his gaze. They were the eyes of a stone-cold murderer; someone who shared no semblance to the humanity that others possessed. This man was someone who had long ago lost touch with reality, possibly even before the Awakening. They were the eyes of someone who lusted for the kill, someone who relished in watching a person as they lost their life, in seeing how far he could push them until they were nothing more than a memory.
And they were directing their mal intent at Mara.
Consumed by wrath, Santiago took a step forward. His only thoughts were of rescuing Mara—his soul mate—of ending the pain this Sanguinatore was causing her. Now more than ever, Santiago understood his true purpose at Hope: to save Mara and to kill Zane once and for all.
But contrary to his initial instincts, he didn’t charge after the man.
Careful not to make a sound, Santiago hunched into a crawl, ducking behind a series of stacked glistening pots. Hopefully their shadows were enough cover to avoid detection. He caught a glimpse of his fauxhawk in the reflection of one of them, plastered flat against the top of his head from sweat and running.
Not even the sight of his disheveled hair could rip his attention away from the task at hand though. Mara was depending on him. Maybe they all were.
Santiago almost didn’t notice himself drawing the gun from his waistline.
One by one, Santiago extended and curled a finger around the tough grip of the gun that hung heavily in his left hand. Admittedly, he had never held a gun before, let alone fired one, but he didn’t think it looked all that difficult. Load, aim and shoot.
The weapon’s weight, unexpected at first, had since started to grow on him. At least while he kept it pointed at the ground. A sheen layer of sweat formed between his death-grip and the pistol.
Hoisting the handgun level to his face, he tested the sight with both a bent and straight elbow, unsure which felt more secure. Of course, in the movies everyone knew that a gun was held with an outstretched arm, but it felt so far away from his eye that he wasn’t sure he would have an accurate shot. The last thing he needed was to accidentally shoot Mara.
With her on the ground though, she wasn’t exactly an obstacle, so Santiago aimed for Zane’s head.
His focus settled at the top point of the notch. It didn’t appear to matter how he adjusted his aim. Everything looked like it was centered. Tilt up, move slightly to the right, he could always line up with his target. Santiago shook away the doubt trying to burrow within him. He was no marksman, and it was obvious he wasn’t holding the gun correctly. The grip pinched some of the skin on his hand, making it uncomfortable to hold.
Crimson ribbons poured from Mara’s face. The red streams glided through the air like sails on a ship, waving carelessly in the wind.
Zane looked exceptionally frightening now, hungry to feed his murderous appetite, three others feasting on her blood alongside him.
No time to lose, Santiago took aim at the man, following the center of his head as he chatted Sean’s ear off. Despite a valiant effort to repeatedly recite “wrist up” in his head, his hand kept bending forward from the weight of the weapon. One last time, Santiago resituated his grip. The worst thing he could do at this point was miss.
A puddle of red formed before the Sanguinatores. And what was Sean doing? Just standing there, staring at it like he was in some kind of trance. Fury didn’t even begin to describe the emotion roaring inside Santiago at the lack of action.
Every nerve began to quake now. He didn’t have time for accuracy. He could feel it in the air. The moment was now.
Straightening his wrist one last time, Santiago closed his right eye and flexed his index finger back toward his body. The gun bolted, smacking him square in the cheekbone with a mighty roar.
Zane flew back, head intact, shoulder leading the way. Though Santiago felt defeated for missing his head, hitting him anywhere was better than nowhere.
Zane’s grasp on Mara ceased on impact. Her breathing, once constricted, resumed in heavy pants. Nothing could keep Santiago from running to her, to make sure she was all right.
When she peered up, his heart dropped. Still alive. That was good.
Revenge lurked behind her eyes as she wiped the trails of blood from her chin and nose weakly.
Sean was on the ground with her. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—”
“You were just standing there!” The words unleashed themselves, and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. Santiago released the rest of his anger in a shove, and Sean stumbled back a step. “Why weren’t you doing anything? You were just going to let them kill her?”
“I tried, I…” Sean’s eyes were wide, hollow. There was a haunted look to him. “I couldn’t do anything…”
Santiago felt his muscles relax in shame. He didn’t know much about anything Awakened-related. Sometimes he forgot they weren’t all-powerful. Every Awakened had their limits.
“It’s fine,” Mara said flatly. “There are more important matters at hand.”
Santiago couldn’t agree more. Like how now that everyone knew he had a gun, he had to act fast. And at this close of range, there was no way he’d miss again.
Straightening his arm, wrist firm, he pulled the trigger again as Zane pushed himself to his knees. The gun clicked, but nothing sparked. No bullet blasted forth.
How could he be so stupid not to make sure a bullet was ready in the chamber. He felt the weight of them, there were other bullets he was sure of it. But he hadn’t cocked the gun.
And now the moment had passed.
Zane whirled with a snarl, the bullet plucked from his bicep. The wound healed in a matter of seconds, willed by
Zane himself. It was one thing Santiago had forgotten but should’ve remembered after all the stories Graciela had shared about Dr. Gallagher: Sanguinatores could heal people, including themselves.
“You’re lucky for that shield, boy,” Zane growled, no longer the cool, collected king, but an enraged vagrant.
A shield? Santiago didn’t know what Zane was talking about.
But Sean didn’t skip a beat as he resumed his leader’s stance, erected and strong beside Santiago, and lied effortlessly. “There’s more where that came from. Consider it your one and only warning. Leave now and don’t come back.”
“Leave?” It boiled Santiago’s blood to see Sean standing like a coward and suggesting they get away with what they’d done to Mara. To his sister weeks prior. “You can’t just let them go again!”
“We’ll leave as soon as we have what we came for.”
Santiago cocked the gun to ready another bullet.
Zane’s intense glare didn’t falter, and if looks could kill, Santiago would probably no longer be among the living. Come to think of it, Zane’s glare basically could kill him. All it would take is one of those low-pitched hums and, in a matter of seconds, all of Santiago’s blood would turn against him. So why was he still alive?
Whatever. It didn’t matter. Zane would die here, now. He’d never hurt Mara, or Graciela, or anyone else, ever again.
“Shoot me again, boy, and my men will kill this lovely creature.”
All resolve left Santiago. His shoulders slouched, but still he held the firearm tightly. He needed to think it through, what his next plan of action would be. There wasn’t enough bullets to take them all out and, even if there was, it was doubtful he could fire the gun quickly enough to kill everyone before any of them made their move on Mara’s life.
Zane cricked his neck and looked back to Sean, some of his arrogance returning. “This is the last time I’ll offer, Seany. Join us.”
Confusion swept over him, even more so when Sean let a small laugh escape him. So that’s why they were there, because this was some kind of recruitment mission.
Blood Awakens Page 28
