Bitten (The Graced Series Book 2)

by Amanda Pillar

  Guilt slammed her. Fin had also helped drag the vampires down to the cells, while she’d just stood there holding Randall’s heart. Fin had only taken one — Montrose and Byrne had taken two each, with Montrose returning for the final traitor — but Fin was a human and she a vampire. She should have helped, but she couldn’t. So she’d just watched, holding onto the organ like a fool. It was only when Montrose had offered to take the heart and throw it away, that Hannah had let go of it.

  Montrose gestured toward the two chairs positioned opposite her, indicating Fin and Byrne should take one each.

  “What about Hannah?” Fin asked, his body wavering.

  “What about her?” Montrose turned to look at Hannah.

  “She needs a seat, too.”

  Montrose looked put upon. “Hannah is a vampire and can stand for hours. However, she has a special chair behind that door.” The vampire pointed a long finger at a closet to the right of her desk. “If you open it, she can retrieve the seat herself.”

  Fin walked over, opened the door and grabbed the chair. He grunted a little at the weight of the metal seat, and Hannah stepped forward to help. He met her gaze and shook his head. “I’ve got it.”

  “But you’re hurt.”

  “I said I’ve got it.”

  “But I don’t have broken ribs. Give it to me.”

  “No.”

  Hissing in impatience, Hannah shoved forward and wrestled the chair from the protesting Fin. She accidentally brushed hands with him, and jolted away out of habit, but nothing happened. Taking a deep breath, she held his annoyed Hazel glare. “You need to be careful of your injuries. You’re human.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really? That wasn’t what you were saying yesterday.”

  Byrne snorted.

  Montrose stood, anger flashing in her eyes. “What are you doing? Why did you touch that chair?”

  Fin let out a low growl, which was impressive for a human. Hannah darted forward and stole the chair, taking it back to the desk and placing it between the two larger leather seats. Byrne and Montrose frowned at her and the idiotic human. Pride. It was a harmful emotion.

  Fin took a seat in one of the wingbacks. He let out a low groan. “I was helping Hannah out.” He looked like he was pouting.

  “She can’t sit on that now,” Montrose said. She turned a glare on Hannah who was about to take a seat. “You can’t sit on that!”

  Hannah froze, halfway down to the seat.

  “You said you’d been traveling with her.” Montrose jabbed a long finger at Fin. “How can you not know she can’t use things touched by other people?”

  Hannah let her butt drop the rest of the way down to the chair. Montrose’s eyes went wide, but when Hannah didn’t collapse, she too sat down and eyed the young vampire thoughtfully.

  Byrne took the other wingback, his large body making the furniture look small, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and folded his arms across his chest. Even though she wasn’t sure if she could touch him, Hannah was still glad for his presence. Byrne made her feel calm. He was solid like the earth, and just as dependable.

  Hannah’s chair was a spindly affair, made from wrought iron. It wasn’t the prettiest, but her mother had made it for her, with Hannah assisting. It’s how she learned how to make her own hearth and tools. The seat cushion had terrible embroidery of a bird and flowers on it; it had been the best Hannah could do at the time. She never really did have the patience for needlework. Neither did her mother, for that matter. Hannah was bigger now than when she’d made the chair, so she felt a bit like a giant trying to settle on human-size furniture.

  Maybe that’s how Byrne felt normally.

  “Fin has a natural mental shield that prevents the memory transfer,” Hannah said.

  Montrose ran a hand over her face. “Do you know the statistics of you meeting someone with a natural mental shield?”

  “Pretty low,” Hannah admitted, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

  “Beyond ‘pretty low.’ You took a risk by touching him — he could have taken advantage of the situation.”

  “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “No!”

  Hannah wasn’t sure which protest came from whom. “Fin and Byrne have done nothing but help me and Rena,” Hannah said. “I only touched Fin because he mentioned he had the shield and I wanted to see if he was immune. He didn’t want to touch me.”

  It was embarrassing admitting that last part, like she was diseased and he hadn’t wanted to catch her illness.

  Montrose peered at Fin. “Who’s Rena? How did you know about the shield, anyway, human? You’re not Graced — well, not one hundred percent.”

  Surprise flitted across Fin’s face when she used the word ‘Graced.’ “I was born into a Graced family. I’d ask how you know about the Graced, since vampires and weres aren’t meant to know, but I suppose having Hannah around would have made it pretty obvious.”

  Montrose barked a laugh. “I’ve been around for a long time, and your people have tried to wipe my memory on a number of occasions, but it doesn’t...take...for some reason. It lasts for a while, but then everything comes back eventually.” Montrose’s expression settled into something that Hannah couldn’t interpret — wryness, annoyance, amusement...anger?

  “But how does the bear know about the Graced?” Montrose asked Byrne.

  Hannah looked from Fin to Byrne. She’d never really thought about that; she just assumed Fin had spilled the beans to Byrne about his ancestry. But Fin wasn’t really a blabbermouth; he talked a lot, and most of that about himself, but he’d never really discussed being Graced, not unless it related to Hannah or Rena.

  “He just does,” Fin said, chin jutting out slightly.

  Montrose leaned forward. “That is not an explanation.”

  “It’s as good as you’re going to get.”

  “Does the bear not speak for himself?”

  “He does,” Fin said, “but he doesn’t need to explain himself to you.”

  Montrose let out a sigh and looked at Hannah. “Is he always like this?”

  “Usually it’s funnier when he argues,” Hannah admitted. Fin glared at her.

  “I was held captive for one hundred years by a group of radical Graceds.” Byrne’s deep voice cut through the conversation. Shock zapped through Hannah. He’d been kidnapped?

  “Byrne—”

  “It’s fine, Fin. Hannah would have found out eventually,” Byrne said “They could read my emotions and throw me around a room easily enough, but when they tried to read my mind, it didn’t work. They just figured that I had some natural ability to deflect telepathy. Eventually when they tried to wipe my memory and nothing happened, they realized I have a mental shield; it just doesn’t protect me against Grays or Blues.”

  Hannah couldn’t stop staring at the huge were. He’d been held prisoner for a century? Hannah couldn’t imagine it. He was so vital and strong and well, large. It would be hard to hold someone like him captive for that length of time. And it would have meant that generations of Graceds had done this to him, not just one set of crazy people.

  “Shields don’t protect you from Blues and Grays; at least, mine doesn’t either,” Fin said. “Mine works against my twin, Faith, who is a Green, but not my other sisters. I guess mine developed because of having to share a womb with a telepath.”

  “I’m so sorry, Byrne,” Hannah said as she mulled over Fin’s words. His shield only protected him from telepaths, which meant that while she didn’t have Green eyes, her ability must be related to it, somehow.

  Byrne gave an awkward shrug. “It happened. I’m free, thanks to this idiot human. And now I know about the Graced. I would never have had any idea about them, if they hadn’t taken me. Such is life.”

  Montrose rested her chin on her hand. “So we’re in a bit of a mess her
e. For some reason, this human can touch you without your ability triggering. While useful, it does not particularly clarify why you ripped out Randall’s heart. He’s been with the duchess for a very long time and I don’t think she’ll be too happy that you killed one of her employees.”

  “He touched Hannah,” Fin said.

  “Explain.”

  Chapter 43

  Pinton City

  Alice knocked on the door of her aunt’s apartment. Aunt Zara lived in a one-bedroom flat on the outskirts of the city. The building was a five-minute walk from the Thyme River, which was unfortunately smelly in this part of town. On the opposite bank were the warehouses that housed the city’s tanners and dyers, with the overflow from their industries causing the river’s stench. It was strange that the reek of the river bothered Alice, considering she spent a considerable amount of time around corpses; but she was used to the smell of decaying flesh, not urine mixed with chemicals.

  Aunt Zara’s apartment block overlooked an alley, the buildings that surrounded it crafted from heavy bluestone, with the mortar crumbling in places. The glass in the small windows was bubbly and uneven, but expensive enough that metal bars coated in thin mesh were used to prevent kids from breaking them with thrown rocks.

  The door opened to reveal Aunt Zara, her brown hair tousled and her eyes slightly bloodshot. She was wearing a pair of pajama pants with a loose nightgown over the top, and a smear of blue paint marked her pale, aquiline nose. “Alice?”

  “Hey Aunty Z.” Alice gave her a small smile.

  “This is a surprise! Come in.” Zara stepped aside. Alice squeezed by her and inside the apartment.

  The best way to describe Aunt Zara’s flat was ‘chaotic.’ Alice’s home was the opposite: neatly ordered, everything had its place, and everything was squeaky clean. Except for the tiny patch of green on her ceiling, her apartment was perfect, although she would fix that when she could. She hadn’t admitted to Tal that the green spot was annoying her, because she knew her friend would tease her about it. But it irritated her anyway.

  For organized Alice, stepping into Aunt Zara’s house was an almost painful experience. It was only bearable because she didn’t have to live there anymore. The lounge and kitchen area was open plan, and covered in junk. Well, it wasn’t junk to her aunt, but it was junk to Alice. Scarves, shawls, cushions, cups, plates, blankets, paper, letters, books; you name it, all scattered over the couch and coffee table, and even the kitchen bench. The debris was brightly colored and vibrant, which made the room feel a little like a box of paints, and slightly claustrophobic. But it reflected her aunt, who was warm, funny, a bit haphazard, and definitely strong in personality.

  And she was an artist. Alice didn’t really have a creative bone in her body, but Zara could paint, as well as make the most beautiful mosaics. In between commissions, she worked at some of the local schools, to encourage the poorer kids to try their hand at art. Alice wasn’t too sure how successful her aunt was in her endeavors, but Zara loved sharing her passion. She’d tried to get Alice involved once, but it was a lost cause. Alice had been willing to sketch out the human body, its nerves and connective tissues, and bones, but that had been about it. It meant she’d had the best skeletal drawings of any medical student when she was at university, but she had no time for still-life portraits or landscapes.

  Zara skirted Alice and headed into the kitchen. She grabbed the teapot off a hook, filled it with water and put it on the wood stove. “What brings you here?”

  “Just wanted to see you,” Alice said, taking care not to knock the unstable pile of tesserae which sat near the edge of the kitchen bench.

  Aunt Zara rifled through tins on the counter, looking for tea. “Pfft.”

  “Pfft?”

  “You never come to visit to just see me. My apartment generally keeps you away.”

  A blush heated Alice’s cheeks, but her darker skin thankfully hid her embarrassment. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you don’t,” her aunt said, looking up through brown bangs. “That’s why you didn’t spend hours each week running around after me tidying the place up when you lived here.”

  “You were busy—”

  The kettle let out a whistle. Aunt Zara grabbed a random tea towel and then the kettle handle, lifting it off the stove. She poured the water into a bright red teapot. “Hush.”

  “But—”

  “I understand why you did it,” Zara said, popping the kettle onto a wooden board. She brought two mugs over to the coffee table, and shoved some sketches to the side to make room. Alice winced as bits of paper fell to the floor.

  Aunt Zara collected the teapot and then sat down on the couch. “Sit.”

  Doing as she was told, Alice found herself surrounded by cushions and rugs — and was that a book on were/vampire romances by her hip? She waited for her aunt to pour the tea, but instead, her aunt quietly said, “You never were like this, before your mother died.”

  Alice looked at her aunt sharply. “Mother was murdered.”

  Zara nodded. “Yes, she was. But you were never so obsessed with cleanliness, or with counting things and having things in their exact spot, not until after she died. Even when your father passed, you didn’t do it.”

  Father. Alice hadn’t really thought about him in years, which made her feel guilty; she thought of her mother far more often. But John Reive had died when Alice was three years old. He’d been working on the construction of a bridge when a support beam had collapsed, killing him instantly. She didn’t know the finer points, but those details had never really mattered to her. He’d died at work, leaving her mother, brother and Alice alone. She’d never really known a life that was different. Aunt Zara had stuck by them, and helped out whenever she could, because Alice’s mother hadn’t had any of her own blood relatives in Pinton.

  And then eleven years later, Raylene Reive had been murdered.

  “I was very young when Father died,” Alice said into the quiet.

  Aunt Zara poured the tea into the two mugs. “True. But I always thought that your need for control was inspired by your mother’s murder. And the attack on you.”

  Alice frowned, taking one of the mugs and holding it between her palms. “I’m not controlling.” At least, she didn’t think she was. She just liked things done certain ways. Was that a crime?

  “No, you don’t like to control people,” Aunt Zara said. “You like to control your environment, where you can.”

  “I don’t see how that’s a problem,” Alice said.

  “It’s not a problem.” Zara sighed. “Look, I’m just trying to say that I understand — at least, I think I understand — why you have to have things...ordered. But I wasn’t sure if you realized it was a result of your mother’s death.”

  Alice was silent. She hadn’t ever thought about when her obsessive behavior kicked in, just that it had, and that she’d needed to moderate it. To have some control over her life. It probably was a reaction to finding her mother killed, to being stabbed herself. Trying to regain power when it had been taken away from her so completely. It hurt to understand that her need for control had punished her aunt — someone who thrived on chaos and freedom — without even knowing it.

  “I’m sorry,” Alice blurted, reaching a hand out.

  “Don’t worry, I understand. But you can see why I think that your coming to visit my very disorganized home is out of character.” Zara gave Alice a smile and then a hug. The warmth of the embrace made Alice feel like she was home; that she was loved. And she hadn’t known how much she missed that sensation, of just being accepted for who she was.

  “Work has been hard lately,” Alice admitted, pulling away.

  “Why?” Aunt Zara didn’t necessarily approve of Alice’s career choice, but she’d never spoken against it, either. Maybe she’d understood that Alice was trying to find peace with herself by working with the dead.

  “Please don’t tell anyone
— I probably shouldn’t tell you — but there’ve been some murders of vampires.”

  Zara rubbed at the bit of blue paint on her nose. “I’ve heard something along those lines. Word of aristo deaths travels quickly, even if they don’t want it to. But why is that tough? They’re vampires; a few less in the world can’t be a bad thing. Too much work, is it?”

  “They’re still people, Aunt Z.”

  “True, but they’re people with a thin veneer of civilization. You forget that most of my clients are aristo vamps, and I see what goes on in their estates, even at the palace.”

  Alice hadn’t thought about that. Suddenly, she wondered what things her aunt had witnessed on her journeys. She opened her mouth, but her aunt raised a hand.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. If word got out, then they’d be able to work out who said what. And I like being alive.”

  Alice blew out a breath of air. “It’s just...they’re being murdered. Staked. It brings back memories, that’s all.”

  There, she’d finally admitted it. She hadn’t said anything to Tal, but Tal was now involved far deeper than Alice had ever thought she’d be. And she didn’t want Tal worrying about her; the professor had other concerns.

  Zara reached over and took Alice’s hand, squeezing it. “You survived what happened to you. You’re strong. You’ll help stop this killer.”

  “I just wish they’d found Mother’s murderer. Maybe then this wouldn’t affect me so badly.”

  “We all wish they’d found her killer.”

  “And that we knew what happened to Ashok.” Dead, alive, a slave, or free. She had no idea.

  “Some things are better lost than found.” Aunt Zara let go of Alice’s hand and sipped her tea.

  Alice nearly dropped her mug. “Are you saying you’d prefer Ashok to stay missing?”

  Zara wouldn’t meet Alice’s gaze, and she was quiet for a full minute. “There was something...not right with Ashok.”

  Alice wanted to stand up and yell that there had been nothing wrong with her brother. But Aunt Zara wasn’t that kind of person. She was thoughtful, considerate and she’d never badmouth a family member, not unless there was a strong reason. And come to think of it, over the years, Zara had never really talked about Ashok much. He’d been her nephew just as much as Alice was her niece, but she hadn’t really mourned his loss the way she mourned for her dead sister-in-law.