The Death Series, Books 1-3 (Dark Dystopian Paranormal Romance): Death Whispers, Death Speaks, and Death Inception

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Rage surged through Matthew. They would die. Or he would die making them sorry.

  His eyes landed on one male, then another, whom he recognized. The past decade had not dimmed his memory.

  Margaret’s attackers.

  A large male dismounted, keeping his gaze locked on Matthew. “Well, what do we have here?” His eyes flicked from Matthew to Clara.

  Clara looked at the obviously abused girl and knew instantly that it was Evelyn. She looked upon each cruel face and saw no mercy, only evil intent. She knew that look. She knew it very well. The fragment looked upon them as the Queen looked upon her. As Prince Frederic did. Good Guardian, this was a horror.

  “Ralph, does this breeder look familiar to you?”

  “Aye, he does, healthier though...” Claude chuckled.

  Matthew eyed them both, calculating his dagger thrusts as they bantered back and forth. His mind was already gutting them like the swine they were.

  Suddenly, from the other direction, horses approached. Matthew knew the gait, the cadence of those horses.

  The Band... his brothers.

  Matthew straightened as Bracus, Jack, Jacob, James, and Philip came into sight. Their steedsʼ sides heaved, glistening sweat wrapping the horsesʼ bodies.

  Clara could not believe her eyes. The Band. She dared to hope.

  Bracus laid his eyes on Matthew, then Clara behind him. What was happening here? He saw the fragment with Evelyn and realized the Band's surprise entrance into the heart of the fragment foothold had been for naught. They had not been there. Having taken Evelyn, they had led a hunting party. She had yet to be taken to their stronghold. His eyes touched on Clara again.

  What was Clara doing out of the clan?

  Bracus's heart hammered so hard in his chest he thought it might escape. He drank in the sight of her. She was beginning to heal but looked as if she had traveled hard, her hair falling about her in a riot of burnished copper. Her eyes widened at the sight of them, scared and trembling, on the verge of shock.

  Bracus shook off his questions about why Matthew and Clara were here instead of inside the safety of the clan. One disaster at a time. And right now, his priority was Evelyn. He glanced at Matthew. Their eyes met, and an uncanny understanding flowed between them. Matthew nodded his acknowledgment of Bracus's unspoken directive.

  Matthew would protect Clara. The Band would concentrate on the fragment.

  The Band stood behind Bracus, fluidly dismounting as a single unit. They had no time to tie the horses down. But then neither did the fragment, who had also dismounted.

  Ralph tied the girl to the reins of the horse. Let the hellion try to escape. She had needed quite a spot of discipline for them to come to an understanding. She'd be a fine breeder when she came of age, he thought, licking his lips. He looked into her upturned face and should have known what was coming next as she reared her head back and spat directly in his face.

  Rage surged through him, and he backhanded her hard enough that it threw her small body against his horse, which staggered a step backward, neighing nervously.

  Evelyn slid down the horse's flank, landing with an indelicate plop beside one of the horse's hooves. Her ears rang and bile rose in her stomach.

  Bracus roared. The Band surged forward, Bracus in the lead, Philip on the far corner. They would tame the fragment's flank.

  Clara watched the Band advance, their muscles flexing as they moved against the fragment in an elaborate, violent dance. Even with their superior size, they were outnumbered. How would they prevail?

  Ralph met the large one with his dagger extended, swiping forward, slashing a great swath. Bracus stepped into the swinging metal, meeting it with his dagger. The sound of clanging weapons was a painful thrum in Clara's chest.

  Two of the fragment circled around Philip. Half a head taller than both, he brought his weapons away from his body, one dagger clockwise, the other counter. They swung in a semi-circle as one of the fragment came forward. Claude, Clara thought, wondering if he had been the one to lay hands on the small girl who lay in a crumpled heap at the feet of a horse.

  Everywhere Clara looked, there were males entangled with one another. The noise of fists striking flesh, the meaty sounds of impact underscored by striking metal churned the silence into a clashing frenzy.

  Claude distracted his opponent, eyes trained on the strange gills. The were fully open with a bright pink interior. Claude feigned a lunge and another fragment grabbed the breeder from behind, leaping on his back and looping a forearm around his neck.

  This only seemed to enrage him. With a roar, Philip used the male's momentum, grabbing the forearm about his neck. He swung him over the top of his shoulder and launched him as far as he could. At the same time, he felt a deep burning in his side. He looked down and saw the hilt of a dagger buried within him.

  Claude felt an evil smile fill his face. He had him now.

  Philip ignored the dagger, leaving it in place, knowing there would be more blood loss at its removal. With a war cry, he launched himself at Claude, his dagger arcing above him, the shine off the blade momentarily blinding Claude who sidestepped.

  Philip instinctively curved his body toward his opponent, slashing downward at his neck. Then, with a vicious twist, he buried and turned the blade in one movement. The dagger pierced his side deeper as he landed. The pain turned into a roaring inferno. He lay on his back, slowly turning his head to look at his opponent, who lay cooperatively bleeding out.

  Clara watched the horror unfold before her as two of the fragment approached Matthew. Not wishing to distract him, she shrank against the trunk of the tree, making herself as small a target as possible. With blades clenched in his hands, he prowled toward them.

  Matthew was keenly aware of Clara behind him. The first male of the fragment lunged at him, and he swung his head to the side as the male's blade pushed air against his face. The second male advanced. He did not turn. Hearing the movement of the second male's arm, he reflexively lashed out behind him, punching with his left dagger and, at the same time, thrusting his right dagger in his right hand up and into the underside of a jaw in the forward position.

  Clara watched blood pour out of one of the males of the fragment on Matthew's right side. The male who had been circling to attack from behind was nursing a slashing wound that had opened an eight-inch gash from collarbone to shoulder, narrowly missing the tender flesh of the neck.

  Matthew’s eyes caught Clara's at the same time that two more of the fragment advanced on him. The male with the wounded shoulder seemed to shake off the pain. Blood ran freely from the sucking hole. He came at Clara, who looked around frantically for the closest Band. She saw Philip was down. Bracus was actively working his way to Evelyn. Two fragment were on the ground. The other Band were sorely outnumbered.

  No one noticed that Clara was in desperate trouble.

  She whipped her head around for a weapon. The male smiled with grim joy and came nearer.

  Clara lost her nerve and fled.

  She heard the male crashing after her but felt confident that she would be able to escape. His wound should slow him down.

  It did not.

  She felt strong arms wrap around her waist, and her feet popped off the ground. She fought for her life, swinging and flailing, trying to gain time. Time for the Band to find her.

  Finally, she kicked behind, and her foot found his shin. With a grunt, her captor loosened his hold, and she was free. She started to run and was shoved from behind. Only her arms slowed her fall. Clara started to scramble away and was kicked in her side. Air left her body, her lungs began to burn, and her eyes watered.

  She could see him above her, blood soaking his tunic, no longer pale, but a bright tomato red. He wasted no time. Grabbing the top of her bodice, he tore it open. The seams gave way with a powerful rip. Clara's breath came back in a rush. Finding her voice she screamed, “Matthew!”

  The male jerked her upright by her hair, and she yelped. He dragged her
close to him. His sour breath poured over her face. “Shut up, or I'll beat you senseless.” His strange accent drug like grated glass across her eardrums.

  It felt like he was tearing her hair out of her scalp, but she stayed still as he let her head fall back and started to undo his breeches.

  Clara could only think of Prince Frederic.

  She was tired to the bone from the beatings and the attempted rapes. She would die before allowing herself to be abused ever again.

  She scrambled quickly to her feet with the male's blood covering her. The top of her blouse was hanging open where he had torn it. It flapped loosely with her movement. She saw a bleeding and battered Matthew appear with Bracus behind her attacker, who had not heard their approach.

  The male of the fragment would have this female while the others battled, none the wiser. There were not enough females, and he liked his females with a bit of fire. This one had spirit, he thought as he took out his dirk, hidden in a small sheath inside the waistband of his breeches. Maybe she needs a little encouragement. Yes, that was the answer. What female could say no to the blade?

  Clara was relieved for exactly one moment before catching sight of a small sword-like dagger that the male removed with a practiced hand from the waist of his breeches. She flicked her eyes to first Matthew's then Bracus's in warning as the male lunged for her. She threw herself just out of reach, stumbling then falling backward down a small slope. As she tumbled, Clara kept herself as loose as she could, hoping to avoid injury.

  Finally, she came to a stop and lay there on her back, staring at the dappled light spearing through the forest. She cautiously wiggled her toes and fingers, taking stock of her limbs. It felt like everything was still working. She sat up and saw Bracus and Matthew navigating the small slope to get to her. Matthew heaved the broken body of the fragment down the ravine like so much garbage.

  Bracus looked grim and Matthew relieved.

  Matthew reached her first, and a moment later, two different hands were extended to help her up. Bracus and Matthew glared at each other, but Clara took both hands that were offered. Bracus's cool and dry. Matthew's was a thing of liquid heat, making her gasp slightly. She knew that he felt it too.

  Bracus's eyes narrowed on them.

  “Let us get back to the others,” Bracus said.

  “Yes, Captain.” Matthew stared intently at Clara as he added, “Why did you leave my side? I said, no matter what occurs, to remain.”

  They walked up the hill together. When it became apparent that Clara was weaker than she wanted to admit, Matthew scooped her up and carried her the rest of the distance, walking as if she were weightless. Bracus glared at Matthew the entire time.

  Cresting the hill, they headed quickly through the small patch of woods she had fled through, stepping out of the forest into what was now a small battlefield. Clara stared at the Band. Jack stood straight and unharmed. Clara thought briefly of Lillian, and relief flowed over her. Jacob and James both had minor wounds, and Philip was sitting up with a dagger sticking out of his side like an obscene flag. His skin had a grayish pallor, and his breathing was shallow.

  Bracus rushed over to his side. “My brother, let me take the blade.”

  Philip nodded, and Bracus turned to James. “Fetch the healing sack.”

  James was already rummaging through the odd knapsack when he pulled out some gauzy material made of fine-colored beige linen and a small apothecary bottle which held amber-colored liquid. A large needle and thread were gathered and brought to Bracus.

  Jacob stepped forward. “I will do it. I have the steadiest hand, Captain.”

  Bracus nodded, taking up position behind Philip's head, cradling it while Jacob raised a leather belt to his mouth. “Open up brother. This will give you something to bite down on.”

  Phillip did.

  Matthew put his arm around Clara's shoulders, and she leaned into his body. Bracus's eyes took them in, a cold shadow residing where none had been before. Clara shivered, and Matthew drew her in tighter.

  In one smooth movement, Jacob pulled out the knife. With a shrieking shout, muffled by the belt, Philip began to sweat in earnest. Rivulets ran down his face. Jack and James were on either side of him, their hands gripping his that were white-knuckled. Clara saw with real alarm that it was four-inch blade. The gaping hole looked like an open mouth. As they stood staring, the whiteness of the hole filled with bright blood, and Jacob poured some of the liquid from the vial into the gash, the needle and thread moving in and out of the deepest part of the wound. He dabbed at the slash, pouring the fluid inside, stitching, then repeating the process. All the while, precious blood poured out.

  It was a miracle that Philip remained awake.

  Jacob worked feverishly, his mouth set in a grim line.

  Clara looked around her.

  Evelyn looked pale and ill. Her small body lay wrapped in a blanket not five feet from where they repaired Philip. Clara nudged Matthew, and he looked down at her, his expression a mixture of stress, relief, and something she could not name. “May I check on Evelyn?”

  Matthew nodded, reluctantly releasing her. His hand lingered on her waist as she slipped out of his grasp. She had felt so right against his side. He watched her as she made her way through the bodies of the fragment, their limbs entangled, throats slit, some with cuts under their knees to slow their escape. Matthew thought of all this dispassionately. He was only sorry that he could not kill Ralph and Claude himself. For Margaret.

  But there were others.

  Eventually, they would all die under his blade for what they had done.

  Bracus watched Clara and Matthew from his vantage point on the ground, becoming more disturbed as time passed. How was a man like Matthew, quiet to the point of being taciturn, suddenly so intimate with Clara? She had treated even, Bracus, her rescuer, with extreme caution. It galled him, and he intended to find out. He looked down at Jacob, who would heal this wound. It took much to kill one of the Band. As Bracus watched, the wound stopped bleeding. Some color returned to Philip's cheekbones, the sickened color leeching away.

  Jacob finished his ministrations and nodded, mostly to himself. “That will do. I think his major organs were missed.”

  “Fool, it does not feel as though anything was missed. Feels like the sod got a bit of everything,” Philip said sourly.

  The tension broke as the Band laughed.

  Philip would live to fight another day.

  James fetched an additional blanket and rolled up another for under his head. Jack got the water flask for Bracus to give Philip a pull of water.

  The Band looked at Matthew, and he fought not to reveal his discomfort. Then they looked at where Clara was, talking softly to Evelyn.

  “What say you?” Bracus asked fiercely, as a flush of red colored Matthew's cheeks.

  Matthew could not stop his body's betrayal. He was awkward with these new emotions coursing through him. He understood what he had done was wrong. It was only a matter of time before Stephen and Joseph would find them and speak of his betrayal.

  But they were not here now. He would stall, gain some time to organize his thoughts, which at present, were a riot inside his head.

  Matthew opened his mouth to formulate a semblance of an explanation.

  Two men appeared out of the woods.

  Matthew recognized one immediately.

  Sphere-dweller.

  Instantly, the Band stood and faced the two men as Clara slowly rose from her crouched position next to Evelyn.

  When Charles and Clarence appeared out of the forest Clara felt as a woman that sees a mirage in a desert and with it, a relief so profound she sunk back to the ground covering her face as she wept in blatant relief; Charles was here.

  That is not how the Band responded to Charles and Clarence's appearance. Daggers unsheathed, they surrounded the pair.

  Charles spotted Clara right away, on the ground, crying like her heart was broken. Taking a step toward her he felt a strong ha
nd encircle his forearm.

  He looked at Clarence. “Let me go. I must go to her.”

  “Caution, my friend, look yonder,” Clarence said quietly, inclining his head in the direction of the Band.

  Charles saw what he meant. The Band surrounded them. Every one of them had a similar stance. Charles's eyes flicked to a huge male laying on the ground, apparently injured with another savage beside him, weapon naked in his hand.

  They were ready to kill him. Charles looked at Clara, who had stopped sobbing and was moving toward him, picking up her skirts, she ran.

  Clara had finally gotten a hold of her emotions. It would not do to have the Band kill Charles and Clarence for mistaking them for the fragment or some such. She hiked up her skirt and ran faster.

  As she neared them, she sailed past Bracus, who grabbed her and pulled her against his body. With a gasp, she was held in a grip that was almost painful. She was so close to Charles, only two horse lengths, yet she was held by the Band. Did they not remember him as her companion? He meant her no harm!

  Matthew turned to Bracus and growled, lowering his stance as if to attack, and Bracus looked back at Matthew flabbergasted. What was this? And then Clara's bare flesh touched his wrist, and he felt it. The heat climbed his body, and he knew.

  A select.

  “Unhand her!” Charles roared, taking a menacing step toward the savage holding Clara against her will. A movement to his right caused him to duck just as a fist grazed his head. The glancing blow made his ears ring.

  “No!” Clara screamed, tearing herself out of the dazed grasp of Bracus, who stumbled back as if tapped between the eyes with a hammer.

  She stepped into the middle of the fray. Matthew was grabbing Charles by the shirt and hauling him off the ground by its neck. Matthew was at least six inches taller, and Charles was no small man. Dismissing the danger, she threw herself between them, pushing a hand against the middle of Matthew's chest.

  The heat of Clara’s palm warmed Matthew, leeching the aggression out of him. He had the male within his grasp, his face a foot from his own. But as he looked down, it was Clara's face that filled his vision, captured his mind, made him realize he was going to kill this male simply because he was near her.