by Rebecca Main
They like to play with their food, and tonight, I’m on the menu.
Unfortunately for them, I know their game and how to spin it. My animal instinct gives me the edge I need to stay alive… for now.
Fresh blood fills my mouth, along with a hunk of cold, dead skin. I spit it out at the lackey’s feet, watching him whirl back and press a hand to his shoulder. Grim satisfaction washes over me, stifling the pounding pain in my side. And ankle. And left shoulder. The lackey hisses, his beady eyes sizing up me and the stiletto heel in my hand. Its pair is discarded somewhere around us.
I try not to let the disturbed chuckling of Omar distract me—nor the crunch of bone succumbing to one of Nova’s vicious kicks at the other end of the room—but my eyes flicker away from the lackey. In the millisecond it takes to glance away, the heel is whisked out of my hand, and Omar is suddenly behind the lackey with my shoe.
The deep baritone of his laughter grates along the walls, leaving me with the desperate urge to stab something. Too bad I’ve just lost my stabbing implement.
“By the fang,” Omar taunts.
I run at him and manage to get a hand around his neck, slamming his back against the rough wall. His laughter only shrieks louder as his lackey peels me off. I growl, but not in frustration. No, my growl is one of savage triumph as I use the momentum to flip us around. The nameless vampyré is flat on his back before he can comprehend he’s been outsmarted.
His neck snaps like a toothpick beneath my fist.
My victory is short-lived. The heavy pant I execute and the rush of blood pounding in my ears momentarily cover the sound of Omar’s rage. Then he is on me, shoving me off his vacant-eyed comrade and barreling forward. I’m only just balanced on the balls of my feet when he spins me around and latches an arm around my middle. His fangs pierce my neck an instant later.
I holler and spasm, fighting against the fevered warmth that the vampyré bite brings along with its searing pain. A clench of his jaw and I am more securely in his purchase, my knees buckling as I grapple with the flood of sensations striking me. Only the crude slurping and moaning noises that Omar makes keep me from falling under the fang’s spell. With a raised foot and an elbow, I free myself.
“You taste of ichor,” he heaves, eyes crimson and unfocused. “You taste of glory.”
I stumble away, pressing a hand against the flow of blood as it continues to gush from my neck. I dare not take my eyes off the vampyré, even if he is lost to his own manic pleasure. His hands are doused in my blood, and he takes his time licking away every last drop from each finger.
Sounds of fighting still sound nearby, Nova’s cries of pain mixed with the sound of flesh hitting stone, but I cannot afford to be distracted again. A flutter of dizziness sweeps over me, and I force my eyes to stay open. To remain on Omar, even if the sight makes me want to retch. I push all my panic and fear and hate through the bond, trying with what energy I have left to reach Jakob.
The block remains on his end, as tight as ever, and my intentions fall short.
I am buzzing, whether from the blood loss, the terrifying reality of our situation—where did the box of rings fall to?—or the uncontrollable anger at Jakob for shutting me out. Again. My eyes slip closed. When they open, nothing has truly changed.
Nova still occupies the other vampyrés.
Omar still sucks and licks my lycan blood from his fingers.
But I have. Iron hardens my bones. Fire strengthens my resolve. The wolf inside me howls, and so do I.
The noise stops the room short at my unexpected and jarringly primal battle cry. It draws wonder to Omar’s bloodshot eyes and also a measure of fear. Good.
Anger throbs through me now, as well as a torrent of violence, hot and furious and dying to get out. To break through the dam I have kept so patiently in place all these weeks. No more behaving.
There is a hesitation—a breath taken to absorb the ending about to occur—between Omar and me. An unearthly breeze snakes around my ankles, that whispering wind calling to me like a breathy lullaby. It says to me, “Your time has not yet come. Not yet.”
I can’t agree more.
Another howl shatters through our silent understanding. Omar flinches. I smile with perverse glee.
“Time’s up, Mubark.”
Panic is unflattering on him. It is on anyone, I think. It draws the color from your face and pulls at all your tightly knit seams. Your fight-or-flight response is so quickly called to the front, the only reasonable response is to run, run, run—only when you’ve been winning does doubt flicker inside and steal your precious time.
Too late for you, I ruminate and shoot in front of one of the two exits. Down the other path sounds a heavy-footed pounding.
Omar runs.
He vanishes out of sight, down the narrow corridor from which he arrived, without a thought to his family’s well-being. I scowl at his retreat, but can’t trouble myself to give chase. No matter how badly the wolf yearns for it. The rush to block the other exit has left me lightheaded. I slump against the nearest wall to gather my bearings, watching in grim satisfaction as Nova corners the last of her adversaries.
Good.
William walks in from the other entry point, Omar caught in his hulking arms and spitting like a cat.
Better.
The sight leaves the last of the lackeys slack-mouthed and frozen. Nova slams a hand through his chest and then back out with his heart in hand. The vampyré crumples to the ground, sliding off Nova’s arm with a sickening sound.
“Bit dramatic, aye?” William says. His copper eyes drag over the damage littered around Nova.
“He stabbed me,” she reasons through gritted teeth, teetering back and slumping against the nearest wall. Her hands tremble around the handle of the blade protruding from her stomach. “Fucker.”
“Don’t touch it,” William barks. “And you can stop your squirming,” he snarls down at Omar. “You aren’t going—”
Omar bites the arm that restrains him, and with a strangled howl, William relaxes his hold. It is more than enough for Omar to force his release. The hatred in his eyes is trained straight at me. Time slows as he speeds toward me, a look of pure feral hunger bound by his corded muscles and unleashed jaw.
He stops a hair's breadth away from me, the stench of blood reeking from his mouth. There is only so much I can do to prepare for the blow I am about to receive, but what happens next is nothing I could have thought to predict. William is behind the old vampyré once more, copper eyes turned to pure mercury as he snaps Omar’s neck.
“Fucking fanger,” he spits with disgust, letting Omar’s body fall to the ground. The color of his eyes retreats to copper. “Sorry 'bout that,” he says. “I meant to let you have him.”
I nod back dumbly, then start to shake my head at the absurdity of it all. “Thank you,” I say hoarsely through the burning in my throat.
William scans the scene again, not meeting my eye. “Best to take the heads now, before they come back,” he tells me gruffly, but his brow furrows as he zeros in on Nova. I make my way toward her as fast as I can.
My legs are like jelly, wobbling unsteadily with each movement as my ribs scream in protest to every step and breath.
“Let me see,” I say
Nova slides to the ground, face stained and beading with sweat. “Don’t worry about it. Just get the rings back to—”
“We came down here together, and we are going back together,” I growl as she attempts to curl in on her wounded stomach. “Let. Me. See.”
She does so with the utmost reluctance, uncurling with grinding teeth and a pinched brow. Her night’s ensemble, a double thigh split dress, tears away easily enough for me to inspect the entry point. Her skin and dress are soaked in blood, but it is the faintest hint of black veins licking at the puckered flesh around the blade that stop my heart.
“Is it bad? The blade is serrated,” she says. “It’s going to be a bitch t
o pull out.”
I remain silent. Soon, the only sound in the room comes from William’s efforts.
“I believe these are yours,” William interrupts, his heavy footsteps rattling my senses and perhaps covering my erratic heartbeat. I look over my shoulder just in time to see him toss the jewelry box my way. I snatch it out of the air before it can sail into Nova, wincing when the action pulls my side and shoulder.
“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping the box in Nova’s lap. “You didn’t have to come… Why did you come?”
I’m unable to look at either of them as I ask the question. She needs Jax, but can she be moved? Can William be trusted?
“Your friend and I have an understanding.”
I go still. “What kind of understanding?”
My question goes unanswered. My fingers, which probe the areas around Nova's other wounds, press more firmly.
“Argh!” Nova tosses her head back. It thunks against the rock, and a curse drops from her mouth.
“Tell me.”
“Turns out we have similar interests when it comes to blades,” William says. He lingers on that last word. Blades. The Scottish burr stresses the middle and runs the end out long. Nova looks away guilty.
This time I curse. “You idiot,” I seethe, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. Vogart's blade. “Okay. Okay. Everything is going to be fine,” I mutter, standing back up and taking a painfully long breath. “Nova, guard the rings and don’t take the blade out. Not yet. William, you guard Nova. You're at least fit to fight should anyone come here and start more trouble.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to get Jax.”
My gaze falls to the knife and the almost imperceptible blackness beginning to taint her skin. Nova lets out a whoosh of breath that sounds an awful lot like another curse word, but I’m too far gone to care, striding out of the Pits without missing another beat.
++
Maybe it’s the blood loss. Perhaps it’s the hum rocking my bones. But I swear someone is following me.
Their presence lingers in the shadows I stick to. Right at my heels they graze the flesh and bring my spine ever straighter. No amount of looks shot over my shoulder through passing gilded mirrors or scenting the air can suss out the source. I take a wrong turn. Then another.
I am not lost… but I am nowhere familiar. As many times as I have walked these deserted corridors and hallways in favor of the crush of more popular circuits, the one I wind down has me unsettled. I am being herded.
A wolf turned to lamb.
I stifle my anxiety with a wheezing breath, even if my heart bleats out helplessly while I attempt to usher deep breaths between my broken ribs. The heel of my hand presses into uninjured skin to remind myself that not all of me is broken—just most. I shuffle onward, one injured foot twisting in front of the other. Limp is a better description, but with my spine drilled as straight as a column, my movement is no doubt misconstrued.
There is a voice nearby. I swear it.
The more I attempt to flee from its siren quality—soft and alluring, deadly—the closer it gets. My decision to leave Nova and William behind riddles me with regret. I should have stayed back. I should have made William go ahead.
But that just wouldn’t do.
I can’t protect Nova like William can, not with the injuries I’ve sustained. It’s best that I went ahead… even if it feels like I’m walking into a trap. I slip into an alcove, letting the minutes pass as I strain my lycan hearing for any trace of sound.
Nothing.
Is it my mind playing tricks on me? The blood loss? The persistent grinding of my broken bones?
Though there is nothing to hear, let alone see, my gut guides me down another unfamiliar hallway. I enter into a foreign room when my paranoia begins to build to a crescendo. I have to keep a clear head. I have to get back and fetch Jax. I scan the room with barely a glance, noting the dusty furniture and empty birdcages framing the circumference of the room.
I do a double take when I see a body.
“Claire?”
My heart hammers so painfully inside my chest I wonder if I’m suffering a heart attack. She turns sharply at my exclamation, eyes wide and red-rimmed.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask.
“I… I wanted to be alone. I come here sometimes when I’m having a bad night.”
Claire takes me in, and I her. She sports not just red-rimmed eyes, but purple half-moons too. Her lips, even from here, look parched.
“Are you all right?” I ask, tentatively moving forward, resting my hand and considerable weight onto a stout chair. Claire observes me, both blue and green eyes drifting over my obvious injuries in assessment.
“Are you?” Her voice is raw—the kind of raw that tells of too much use.
“I’ll survive.” I wave off her concern and let the silence simmer. “I hate to burden you with more trouble… but, I could really use some help getting back to my apartment suite.”
Claire looks away. Her usually tangled and frazzled white hair is scooped up into a severe bun. She is dressed modestly in a sleek midi dress with a boat neckline. It’s a little more to what tastes I assume Claire might like. Less ostentatious and “vampy,” more unassuming and subtle in its fitting.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers hoarsely. The refusal stings, but there is little I can do to refute. Too tired to argue, or even beg, I let my shoulders sink and begin to slink away. Why did I come here in the first place?
Before I can exit back the way I came, a low, melodious voice croons after me. I stop in my tracks, feeling the unsettling breeze of otherworldliness drift across my ankles. Slowly—oh so slowly—my pulse drops. The blood drains from my face, and I cast a frightened look over my shoulder.
Fear has never held me so closely.
“Claire?”
Her name cracks on my tongue, and when she returns my look, tears are streaming down her face. I know without a doubt that now is my time. Someone steps out of the shadows behind Claire.
“I told you I don’t always scream.”
Berlin | Autumn 1896
He took a decade to mourn. Another to plot and plan. And yet one more to stage all of his pieces. But what came next would be the hardest yet… for Jakob to begin anew and rebuild his family.
Jakob could not press into the Americas without help. He needed those who would be faithful to his cause and loyal to him. He needed a childe. Perhaps two. Jakob was uncertain how to begin his search, but as fate would have it, he needn’t look far.
Rain trickled from the gloomy sky onto the tourists below who sought out their next amusement at the Große Berliner Gewerbeausstellung—the Great Industrial Exposition of Berlin. Jakob was among them. He prowled the streets with his coat fastened tight against the October chill and his cane rapping against the slick stone streets.
He was drawn to the exposition as he was to the World’s Fair held in Paris in 1889. Yet, he found Berlin’s exposition was lacking that certain… je ne sais quoi. Nevertheless, it produced many magnificent inventions and pieces of wonder, such as the electrification of the grounds. The incandescent glow made the dreary nighttime rain somehow more enchanting.
“Warten! Wait, wait!”
A tall and lanky gentleman stopped a few meters from where Jakob stood. Bent at the waist, the twentysomething-year-old panted. His pained gaze followed a group of youths running farther and farther away. They laughed gaily as they threw parting looks over their shoulders at him.
Jakob watched the fellow compose himself. He clutched several books to his chest, and a rosy flush stained most of his face. Jakob thought the man might make an excellent dinner when he caught sight of two things.
First, the books he held, which were those of the occult.
And second, how the lad's eyes held a look of stony resolution... and revenge.
On secondhand, Jakob thought, he might make something far greater.
++
Paris | Summer 1925
Sebastian Krause was an eager learner and fast study. The night of their first encounter seemed like only yesterday to Jakob. Their friendship was quick to take, and with little effort, Jakob had seduced Sebastian’s interests to the darker side of the occult. In 1899, on the cusp of the new century, Jakob turned a willing Sebastian into a vampyré.
Now they prowled the rejuvenated streets of Paris. The war had left it crippled for some time until it found its feet again in 1921. Upon which time, there was nothing to stop the glimmering city from bursting forward. “Les Années Folles”—The Crazy Years—boasted art, music, literature, and cinematic pieces that would forever change the world. Of this, Jakob knew for certain.
Together they took in the splendor of the International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts, and much later in the night, the seedier delights of the Moulin Rouge. Sebastian watched the show, his chocolate eyes a gleam at the vibrant movements and flesh. Jakob was tempted to ruffle the young vampyré's curly hair, but could not find it in himself to destroy the youth’s style. Tonight they expected to dine on a beautiful woman, one who was lush with curves and silky pale skin.
What they did not expect to find was a girl.
Her scent reached them first. It wound down some forgotten back alley and into the bustling street, greeting Sebastian’s fledgling senses first. Jakob—mere seconds later—discovered the scent as well.
The elder had the younger by his suspenders before Sebastian could attempt to take off.
“Easy, son,” Jakob murmured. He watched as Sebastian’s nostrils flared and his eyes sank to red. “Not here.”
Sebastian nodded stiffly and took several deep breaths through the mouth until he reined in his temper. Jakob gave a stout nod back, pride lurking in the dark depths of his eyes. He released the young vampyré and delivered a sharp pat to his back.
