Dark Bites (Dark-Hunter World)

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  She would return to him. He was certain of it. In all the violence and horror of his life, she’d been the only thing he’d ever had that was good and gentle. She alone had touched his long dead heart and caused it to live again. Surely, she wouldn’t stay angry at him. Not when all he’d done was protect her.

  She would see the truth and she would return to him.

  “Come back to me soon, my Esperetta.” And then he uttered the one word that had never left his lips before. “Please.”

  1

  Chicago, 2006

  “Just out of curiosity, can an immortal choke to death on a baby?”

  Retta Danesti cut a vicious glare to her best friend as she tried to swallow the bite that was lodged painfully in her throat. As a shape-shifter who’d befriended her over five hundred years ago, Francesca was well aware of the fact that Retta’s husband had sold their souls to the goddess Artemis and by default made Retta immortal.

  And Francesca’s latest news had stunned her so badly, she’d sucked a piece of bagel down her windpipe, where it burned like fire.

  Francesca pounded her gently between the shoulder blades. “C’mon, babe, I knew it would piss you off, but I didn’t mean for it to kill you.”

  Retta reached for her bottled water and finally cleared her throat even though her eyes were tearing up unmercifully. “Now what did you just tell me?”

  Francesca put her hands in her lap and gave her a level stare. “Your husband is opening the Dracula Theme Park in Transylvania next summer and the key attraction is the mummified remains of Vlad Tepes – Dracula himself. Apparently Velkan’s going to release the body to scientists so that they can verify the remains through tests and prove that it really is The Impaler of medieval legend.”

  Every part of Retta seethed. “That rank bastard!” She cringed as she realized several heads in the deli turned toward her.

  Francesca lowered her voice and spoke behind her hand. “He doesn’t really have your father’s remains, does he?”

  Retta recapped her water as she wished a thousand vile things on Velkan’s head. Including pestilence and plagues that would cause a certain part of his anatomy to shrivel up and rot off. “It’s possible. After all, Velkan killed him and was probably the one who buried him. Although I doubt he has the head since he gave that to my father’s enemies.”

  She clenched her bottle even tighter. “Damn him! First he gives Stoker that ridiculous book, then he starts the tours, then the Dracula restaurant and hotel, and now this. I swear, God as my witness, I’m going to get an axe and kill him once and for all.”

  Francesca’s light blue eyes were warm with concern. Even though she was a wolf in animal form, those eyes were very catlike when she was human. The only thing the human Francesca shared with her wolf counterpart was her thick, dark chestnut hair. And speedy reflexes. “Calm down, Retta. You know he’s only doing this to get under your skin.”

  “And it’s working.”

  “C’mon, he wouldn’t really do this.”

  “To get back at me? Yes, he would.” She ground her teeth in frustration as she continued to call down the wrath of hell on his head. For centuries, Velkan had done nothing but strike at her and her family. “I hate that man with every fiber of my being.”

  “Why did you marry him then?”

  That was something she didn’t want to think about. Even five hundred years later, she could still see the night they’d met clearly in her mind. She’d been on her way home from the convent, for a visit with her father when her party had been attacked by Turks. They’d killed everyone but her and were well on their way to raping her when all of a sudden her assailants had been beheaded.

  Too scared to scream, she’d lain on the ground, covered in their blood, waiting for her own death as she looked up at the men in armor who were routing the few attackers who’d managed to run.

  Dressed in his dull black armor that held a gold serpent emblem, the knight who’d killed her would-be rapists had quickly wrapped her in his fur-lined cloak and picked her up from the ground. Without a word to her, Velkan had carried her on the back of his destrier to his home, where he’d made sure she was well tended and fed.

  She could still remember the sight of his fierceness, the raw power that had bled from every part of him. He’d worn a black basinet helm that’d been fashioned to look like a bird of prey so that it inspired fear in his enemies. And it had definitely scared her to the core of her soul.

  She’d had no idea of his features until later that night when he’d come to check on her. But it wasn’t his handsomeness or his strength that had captivated her, it’d been his uncertainty around her. The fact that this man who’d been so intrepid and strong before the Turks had actually trembled when he reached out to touch her.

  It’d been love at first sight.

  Or so she thought.

  Her heart aching from the memory, Retta curled her lip as she banished that memory and reminded herself that in the end Velkan had betrayed her and murdered her father. “I was young and stupid, and had no idea what I was letting myself in for. I thought he was a noble prince. I had no idea he was barely one step up from a monkey.” She grabbed the printed-out page that Francesca had brought to lunch from Yahoo! News. “I take that back and I deeply apologize to all the primates of the earth for insulting them. He’s not worthy of monkeydom. He’s a slimy slug trail.”

  Francesca dipped her french fry into ketchup. “I don’t know, I think it’s kind of sweet that he keeps doing these stunts to get you to come see him.”

  Yeah, right. “That’s not why he’s doing this. He’s trying to torture me and get back at my father. This isn’t about tender feelings. It’s about a man who’s ruthless. A man who, even after five hundred years, can’t let my family rest in peace. He’s an animal.” Sighing, Retta tossed the paper back to the table and reached into her purse for her Treo phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m booking a flight to Transylvania so that I can kill him in person. Then I’m going to stop these antics once and for all.”

  Francesca snorted. “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then make it two.”

  Retta would have questioned that, since shape-shifting Were-Hunters could teleport from one location to another, but for some reason Francesca had always liked to travel with her. Of course, if Retta were smart, she’d make Francesca teleport her, too, but she hated to travel that way, even though it was virtually instantaneous. She might be immortal, but Retta liked to pretend she was as normal as possible. Besides, if Were-Hunters didn’t know the area and shifted to it, they could hit a tree or manifest right in front of someone. Both experiences had nasty repercussions.

  She paused in her dialing to watch Francesca pour more ketchup. “Why are you coming?”

  “After all these years of listening to you rant about Prince Dickhead, I want to meet him for myself.”

  “Fine, but remember to avert your gaze from his. He’ll suck the goodness right out of the marrow of your bones and leave you as morally bankrupt as he is.”

  Francesca let out a low whistle. “Dang, remind me not to make you mad. I mean, really, how bad can he be?”

  “Trust me. They don’t come any worse than him. And you’re about to see just how right I am.”

  2

  Retta had forgotten the beauty of her homeland. But as they made their way up the narrow mountain pass toward the hotel where she and Francesca would stay, old memories slammed into her. Even with her eyes wide open, Retta could still see this land as it had been when there were no power lines or modern buildings to mar it. No roads except for dirt paths worn by horses as they traversed the Wallachian landscape on their way to villages and Bucharest.

  God, how she missed the mountains of her childhood. As a young woman, she’d spent countless hours staring out at them from the windows of her convent. No matter the season, they’d always been breathtaking – like a piece of heaven that h
ad fallen to earth. It had never failed to capture her imagination and make her wonder what it would be like to fly over the mountains and explore distant countries.

  Of course in her human lifetime that had been an impossible dream. Since her death, she’d traversed the entire globe trying to escape Velkan’s cruelty.

  As they rode in the taxi, they passed many thatched cottages that seemed lost in time. Some she could have sworn were here five hundred years ago when she’d fled this land to escape her husband.

  She’d vowed that night to never return.

  Yet here she was. And she was every bit as uncertain now as she’d been then. Her future every bit as unclear. The only thing that had kept her going back then had been Francesca’s friendship. Francesca had joined her in Germany as Retta had been making her way from Wallachia to Paris. They’d met in a small inn where Retta had stopped for food.

  There had been an awful rainstorm that had come up suddenly while she dined. It was so bad that her driver had refused to go onward until it stopped. Because of that, there weren’t any rooms left for rent. Francesca had been kind enough to share her room with Retta.

  Since that fateful night, they’d been virtually inseparable. There was nothing she’d treasured more over the centuries than Francesca’s loyalty and wit.

  “You okay?” Francesca asked.

  “Just thinking.”

  Francesca nodded as she looked out the window. “Is it the way you remembered it?”

  She didn’t comment as she realized the driver was looking at them in the rearview mirror.

  “Goat!” Retta shouted in Romanian as the animal darted into the road in front of them.

  The driver slammed on the brakes, causing her and Francesca to tumble forward in their seats. They both let out “umphs” as they hit the back of the front seat and had the breath knocked out of them. Exchanging looks of aggravation, they resettled themselves back into place.

  Francesca fastened her seat belt.

  The driver smiled at them from the rearview mirror. “You are one of us, eh?” he said in Romanian. “I thought you looked like a natural daughter.”

  Retta didn’t respond. How could she? He’d die to know just how natural a daughter she was. After all, it was her infamous father who had made this little corner of the world such a tourist spot.

  That thought made her ache as she remembered the turbulent time of her mortal years. This land had been covered in blood as battle after battle was fought between the Romanian people and the Turks. Between her family and her husband’s as they vied for political power. She’d foolishly thought that by marrying Velkan she could ease the war and hostility between their families so that they could focus on the land’s invaders.

  That mistake and the well-known tragedy of their lives during the fifteenth century was what would lead a man called William Shakespeare to write Romeo and Juliet roughly a hundred years later. And just like his couple, their secret marriage had led to both their deaths.

  But it’d been her husband’s black sorcery that had led to their resurrections and immortality. Damn him! Even after all these centuries she couldn’t forgive him. Besides, what few times she’d weakened, he’d always done something to renew her anger.

  She pushed that thought aside as they reached the hotel. She got out first while the driver went to pull their suitcases from the trunk. Retta looked up at the quaint hotel with its highly arched roof and stylized black trim. Dusk was upon them as she took her suitcase from the older man and paid him his fee.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Retta inclined her head as she and Francesca made their way toward the hotel’s black wood stairs.

  Francesca frowned at a flyer that was on a bulletin board at the base of them. It was identical to several others except for the fact that it was written in English. “Did you see this? Dracula’s tour begins in an hour at the old church.”

  Retta seethed. “A pox on both his testicles.”

  Francesca laughed at that. “That’s harsh.”

  “Yes, it is. But he deserves a lot worse. Bastard.”

  “May I help you with your bags?”

  Retta jumped at the deep, thickly accented voice that appeared suddenly. Where the hell had he come from? Turning around, she met the gaze of a handsome man in his late twenties who stood just in front of her. A man who looked enough like Francesca to be her brother – right down to the dark chestnut hair and strikingly blue eyes. “Are you with the hotel?”

  “Yes, my lady. My name is Andrei and I will be here to serve you in any manner you wish.”

  Francesca laughed, but Retta had a sneaking suspicion that his double entendre wasn’t from trying to speak a different language. He knew what he was offering. “Thank you, Andrei,” she said coldly as she handed him her bag. “We just need to check in.”

  “As you wish… madame?”

  “She’s a madame, I’m a miss,” Francesca said, handing him her suitcase as well.

  “I knew I should have left you in Chicago,” Retta mumbled as Francesca winked at the handsome Romanian. Yet she wasn’t flirting with him, which for Francesca was a first.

  “I am sure you will both enjoy your stays here at Hotel…” – he paused for effect before he rolled the next word with true Romanian flare – “Dracula. We are having a special tonight. Staked steak with a tart raspberry sauce and minced-garlic mashed potatoes for keeping away those evil vampires.” There was a devilish gleam in his eyes that Retta didn’t find charming or amusing.

  Rather, it just pissed her off.

  “I imagine the garlic will keep away much more than vampires, eh, Andrei?” she asked sarcastically.

  He didn’t speak as he led them up the stairs to the hotel’s doors. There was a stereotypical winged vampire head on each door that opened into the blood-red lobby. There were pictures of different Hollywood depictions of Dracula everywhere, along with sketchings and paintings of Retta’s father.

  And her “favorite” was the golden cup in a case with the plaque that declared it to be the cup her father had set out in the central square of Tîrgovişte. He’d proclaimed his lands so free of crime that he’d put it there to tempt thieves. Terrified of him, none had ever dared to touch it. It’d stayed in the square all throughout his reign.

  Right next to that was what appeared to be a stake with dried blood on it and a plaque that said it was the one her father had used to skewer a monk for lying to him. Bile rose in her throat.

  “Ever feel like you’ve walked into a nightmare?” Retta asked Francesca.

  “Oh, c’mon. Enjoy it.”

  Yeah, right. The only thing she would enjoy was kicking Velkan’s balls so hard that they came out of his nostrils. Hmmm… maybe she was her father’s daughter after all. For once she understood her father’s deep need to torture his enemies.

  Andrei led them across the lobby. “Would you like tickets for tonight’s tour?”

  Retta spoke without thinking. “Like another hole in my head.”

  He frowned at her.

  “That’s American slang for ‘no thank you,’ ” Francesca said quickly.

  “Strange. When I was in New York it was slang for ‘no fucking way.’ ”

  “You were in New York? When?” Francesca asked in a stunned tone.

  “A year ago. It was… interesting.”

  Something strange passed between them.

  Retta shook her head. “It must have been quite the culture shock for you.”

  “It took a little getting used to, but I enjoyed it there.”

  “What made you come back?” Retta asked.

  His gaze bored into hers as if he knew who and what she was. “Once Transylvania is in your blood, it never leaves you.”

  Retta disregarded that. “Tell me, Andrei. Do you know a Viktor Petcu?”

  He arched one handsome brow. “And why would you wish to speak to him?”

  “I’m an old friend.”

  “I somehow doubt that, since I know all
of his old friends and I would have remembered a woman so beautiful in his past.”

  Someone tsked.

  Retta turned toward the counter to find a woman moving to stand before the old-fashioned ledger that was there. Appearing around the age of forty, she was dressed in the traditional Romanian peasant blouse and loose skirt. Tall and quite striking, she was someone Retta hadn’t seen in over five hundred years.

  Surely it couldn’t be…

  “It is not Viktor she wants, Andrei,” the woman said, indicating Retta with a tilt of her chin. “She is here for Prince Velkan.”

  “Raluca?” Retta breathed as she stared in shock at the woman.

  She bowed to her. “It is good to have you home again, Princess. Welcome.”

  Her jaw slack, Retta approached the woman slowly so that she could study her features. She looked only slightly older than she’d been when Retta had last seen her. Only then Raluca had been a servant in Retta’s father’s castle.

  “How is this possible?”

  The woman glanced to Andrei before she answered. “I am a Were-Hunter, Princess.”

  Were-Hunter. They were akin to the vampires or Daimons her husband had been created to kill. The Daimons had once been mortals who’d run afoul of the Greek god Apollo. A group of them had assassinated the god’s mistress and child. As a result, Apollo had cursed them all to having to drink blood to live and for all of them to die at the tender age of twenty-seven. The only way for them to live longer was to steal human souls. Dark-Hunters had been created by Apollo’s sister Artemis to kill the Daimons and free the human souls before they died.

  Several thousand years after that, an ancient king had unknowingly married one of their cursed race. When his wife had decayed on her twenty-seventh birthday, he’d realized that his beloved sons would meet their mother’s fate. To save them, he’d magically merged the souls of animals with their race until he’d found a way to save them. Thus, the Were-Hunters had been created. Able to bend the laws of physics and with highly developed psychic sense, the shape-shifters lived for centuries.