Blood Crown

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “Tahlia,” Drek says in a low voice, placing a large hand on her shoulder, “Bowen merely reminds me of my duty.”

  Turning, she gifts Drek with a shrewd look. “And is there a finer duty than traveling with your intended to seek out her one true friend? To make sure that the demonic mate she selected, who you nearly killed after he saved you, is well and whole?” She cocks an eyebrow.

  Drek’s eyes shift away. “I didn’t want to make Lazarus suffer. For one of his kind, he is exemplary in many ways.”

  “He was an insufferable male.”

  “Then why do you defend him?” Bowen says roughly.

  Tahlia turns back to him. “Because of how he treated us—as compared to how my own kind treated me and Tessa.”

  A fine blush colors Bowen’s cheekbones, and Tahlia nods. “It is I who is gracious. It was my lookalike cousin, Tanya, who was not vetted for what and who she really was. The suspicion was all for me. Suspicion I didn’t deserve.”

  “The Lanarre behaved aggressively,” Bowen admits reluctantly.

  Tahlia snorts. “As Tessa would say, ʻAggressive doesn’t even begin to cover it.ʼ”

  “I cannot think of any more ways to apologize for the incompetency of my guard.”

  Tahlia’s head dips, and she takes a deep, stabilizing breath. He’s right. She can’t keep beating him up for all the blunders. She supposes, from his point of view, that things were not as clear as they seemed to her. Therefore, she must move past this.

  But Tahlia is ready to take chances on her own, never returning to her pack. She’s willing to be rogue if Drek can’t sacrifice a little pride to help her see Tessa again.

  Actually, Tahlia’s not sure why it’s so important that she find the female. Or ascertain Laz’s status. But from the moment she saved Tessa from Tramack’s corrupt pack, Tahlia felt a connection.

  And that feeling remains unchanged. Tahlia’s heart has always chosen for her mind.

  “I can’t force you, Drek,” Bowen says in a subdued voice, giving Tahlia a less-than-neutral look, “but with the rising tensions, and the fact that Neil does have his supporters...”

  “Support for what?” An image of Neil tightening Lazarus’s bindings during his torture rises to the surface of her brain.

  “A democracy,” Drek answers curtly.

  “My prince,” Bowen starts without his earlier rancor, “is it wise to discuss our position so freely in front of Tahlia?”

  Tahlia rolls her eyes. “Of course it is. If I wasn’t going forward with our mating, I’d already have left. I will be Drek’s mate.” She shifts her gaze to him, taking in his handsome face and dark eyes. A tiny bit of a white lie wiggles through her like a dirty worm. “If he would have me?”

  Drek pulls her against his body, pressing a soft kiss against her temple.

  His silent answer draws Bowen’s eyes to them. “Then it is imperative that Tahlia know the advancements you want to make in the pack, Drek.”

  She tips her head back, giving herself the space she needs to meet his dark eyes. “What advancements?”

  “I grow weary of our role in the hierarchy of the Lanarre. Right of ascension by birth alone. The killing of our males for the right of the rare female. It should be...”

  “By choice,” Tahlia finishes.

  Slowly, Drek turns her in his arms, and she cranes her neck to maintain eye contact.

  His brows snap together. “You feel the same?”

  Tahlia nods. “I do. And it’s a great relief to me that you want to progress our kind. Like a true leader.”

  Drek smiles, and the expression lights his entire face.

  Talia cups his jaw, because it’s what she can reach, and he says, “That’s the first thing I’ve done right.”

  Not the first, she thinks, remembering the fevered and stolen kisses they’ve shared.

  Drek gives a sly smile, and the flesh of his face moves beneath her fingertips. Grabbing her hand, he kisses the ends and steps away.

  “Seeking this female is important to my chosen.”

  “You can’t go by yourself,” Bowen argues.

  “Say the truth, Bowen—you trust no one but yourself.”

  Bowen exhales roughly. “Truth. But I don’t trust the pack leaving anyone but me in charge. Look how fucked up things got when we were seeking Tahlia.”

  Tahlia lifts a brow at his profane language, but she understands the heat behind his words. She has put them in this position, forcing Drek’s hand. But Tahlia doesn’t want the courtship to begin at the Hoh, where all the trouble and dissent began. Tahlia can’t place her faith in Drek unless he does something for her.

  It’s a litmus test of sorts. At least, that’s what her human guardians would have said. She bites her bottom lip to keep the tears at bay.

  “What is it, Tahlia?”

  She gives a little shake of her head and nods in Bowen’s direction. “I had a sudden memory of my guardians, and when that happens, sometimes I don’t expect it.”

  Drek pulls her into his embrace, and she sucks in a grateful breath, reveling in the intoxicating mix of Were male and one who appears to be so attuned to her body.

  And she hopes, her mind also. Time will tell.

  Stroking the back of her head, he says, “It is not a good thing to leave this pack so close to having been away. But if we are not gone too long—say a week—that should be sufficient time to trail Tessa.”

  “I suggest Neil accompany you.”

  Tahlia can almost feel Drek’s frown but understands Bowen’s machinations without being told.

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  Drek chuckles darkly. “Clever, Bowen.”

  “I aim to please.” Bowen winks.

  Drek nods. “Let us go quickly, not giving Neil time to plan or execute whatever little schemes he has burning in the background.”

  “Agreed.” Bowen turns to leave.

  Tahlia pulls away from Drek and goes to him.

  Gazing down at her from the nearly one-foot height difference, Bowen schools his expression to one of careful neutrality, but she sees his irritation.

  “I am sorry that I touched you in anger.”

  His eyes soften imperceptibly, and with a twist of lips, he says, “Won’t be the first time a female’s been ticked off at me.”

  She smiles back, and somehow, the tension notches down from her concession to meeting Bowen halfway.

  After all, it’s clear Drek’s welfare is his foremost concern.

  That’s a lot better than she can say for the rest of the pack.

  Laz

  “There,” Tessa says, trying the knob a final time.

  Laz leans his shoulder against the rough-hewn siding that surrounds the front door to the diminutive cabin.

  “You know, if the Lanarre wish to enter, they will break the door down.”

  Tessa flattens her palm against the solid-wood door. “I know,” she replies softly. “Sometimes, this was the only refuge I had.”

  “You told me it was held within your family.”

  Tessa nods. “Yes, it was my sire’s sire.”

  Laz lifts the hand that touches the wood and brings it to his lips, feathering kisses across its surface.

  The breath of his Redemptive catches, and Laz hardens at the soft sound.

  Their eyes meet, and her free hand goes to the area of his chest above where his heart beats. “You are my home now, Laz. They can come, destroy this small sanctuary, or chase us—but you are my home.”

  A seed of dread finds fertile soil within the recesses of Laz’s mind. As long as the Dark Master exists, Laz and Tessa are in danger. He does not mention that reprisal from the Were does not move him to fear or hesitancy.

  The potential presence of the Dark Master does.

  He cannot protect his mate from the Dark One. No one has sufficient protection from his tender mercies.

  Laz’s thought processes churn to a close. Perhaps... the Rare One.

  And with
that thought, he feels a small amount of shame that the Dark Master might turn his attention to the very reason Laz and Praile were sent to Between to begin with.

  Killing Julia Caldwell. Finishing the job Tony Laurent wasn’t demonic enough to complete. Laz could never have anticipated that he would discover another path. A path that does not lead straight to Hades.

  Let the Lanarre come. He survived their attentions once, and he would do so again if need be.

  The demonic are difficult to kill.

  Drek had thought Blood Sacrifice was the worst of all, shy of true death.

  That is the only context the prince had.

  Lazarus has one that goes much deeper. The Lanarre have no idea what real torture is.

  His body shivers, and Tessa’s pale-brown eyes widen. He notices, not for the first time, the spray of light freckles that covers her nose and the rise of her sculpted cheekbones.

  “What is it?”

  Laz’s smile is wide. “I was ruminating on my lack of concern of Lanarre vengeance.”

  Tessa’s face splits into a grin. “You’re fearless.”

  “And I have had worse things to fear in the thousand years I have lived Below.”

  Tessa draws him nearer, pressing her ripe body against his own, and Laz bites back his lust with an effort, for he senses she wants words instead of his hands upon her body.

  “Praile?”

  Yes, he was fearsome, but nothing compares to Dark Master.

  He captures her hand and draws her away from the small structure, scooping to pick up a knapsack of sorts, two handles to slip arms through. A handy item.

  However, Laz doesn’t want to release the contact of their flesh, so he throws both straps over one shoulder and tows Tessa down the broad porch steps.

  “I do not wish to speak of those from Below.”

  “Why?” Tessa asks from behind him.

  Looking from the north to the south, he begins to head south. “Speaking of those of the dark can sometimes draw their attentions. I am a high demonic. It is as though the words spoken are an echo inside their brain.”

  Laz stops, and she comes to his side. Her dark hair, plaited to her waist again, appears to glow with blue highlights in the low sun of the early morning. “Words carry power. An example of that is prayer to the One Who is Above. It is the same for Below.”

  Tessa doesn’t say the holy name.

  “There are those who conjure the dark with their own... prayers,” Laz explains slowly, not sure whether to use the same word for the invocations spoken in both realms.

  Dark Master would certainly not name his followers’ words as prayer.

  Laz does because he believes that followers in each realm are equally devoted, though differently. Both groups essentially receive what they wish for.

  “In the ʻgoodʼ book, it details that if two or three come together in His name, it conjures power.”

  “I know of this.” Laz puts his fingers to her lips. “I would enjoy a pain-free day, my love.”

  Tessa’s smile moves beneath his fingertips. “I remember, Laz.”

  “I believe that there is a similar conjuring associated with speaking of beings of importance in each realm.”

  Laz watches her think his words through. “Who would hold that role here? Not the devil?”

  He holds back his flinch. She narrowly dodged a bullet by using a name just broad enough to avoid attracting the Dark Master’s attention.

  “Or the G word.”

  Laz shakes his head. “I believe the Rare One is one of those beings of Between whose attention could be summoned. Though she might not be aware that she holds such powers.” Laz waffles his palm back and forth. “For lack of a better word, if those who knew of her importance understood how the power of their words would affect her....”

  “Wow,” Tessa breathes out in clear surprise. After a deep breath, she says, “Okay. Now where?”

  Laz cocks a brow, looking in a southerly direction again. “You had mentioned once that the Northwestern pack is a Were den of good standing.”

  Slowly, Tessa nods. “Yes, with the exception of that fool, Tony Laurent.”

  “There’s always insanity in every realm,” Laz comments darkly.

  Tessa gives him a sharp look.

  “Seems like the demonic have cornered the market on that one.”

  “You are not wrong. However, I hope you have met one of us who is of sound mind.”

  Tessa’s hand slides to his crotch, squeezing firmly.

  He groans at her touch.

  “You’ve got more than your mind that’s sound, mate of mine.”

  Dipping his head, he kisses her with all the passion words can never approximate.

  Tessa’s hard feminine form melts against his.

  When they break apart, flushed and breathless, Laz has that small surge of hope that wars with the dread.

  Neither will win, for they are both a part of his psyche. He can do nothing but survive it.

  Laz takes his Redemptive’s hand, and they move south.

  Toward hope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jenni

  Predictably, Bray lets his men do the dirty work. Jenni already knew that one of them was behind her. She can scent him. He smells distinctively different.

  She closes her eyes.

  Yeah, she realizes the movement is counterintuitive.

  But she’s kicked science to the curb in favor of something she never thought she would.

  Instinct.

  Hearing a twig snap, she sinks to her haunches. Jamming her hand backward, she slashes her splayed talons.

  “Don’t fuck her up! That’s for me,” Bray growls at her right front, but he’s too far away to nail.

  The one with the greasy pale-blond hair charges right at her. She does what she hopes he doesn’t expect.

  Moving her hand with lightning speed back and forth, she makes sawing motions behind and stabs into the man who comes for her.

  Unfortunately, because of her lack of experience, she impales the two by accident.

  They howl, and her eyes snap open.

  Bray is inches from her face.

  “Gotcha,” his foul breath bathes her face.

  Frantically, Jenni tries to jerk the talons out of the body parts she accidentally stuck them in.

  No dice.

  Bray’s not artful. He balls up his fist, and it flies toward her face.

  As Jenni jerks her face back at the last moment, his glancing strike lands on her jaw.

  The impact sends her flying backward, but she’s free of the idiots.

  Rolling smoothly to a stand, Bray is again right in front of her.

  Hissing, Jenni swipes her claws at his guts as he opens himself for the move by wrapping his hand around her throat.

  Her talons bite deep, but not deep enough.

  Bray grunts as warm blood spray bathes Jenni.

  With one hand, he lifts her effortlessly. She sees stars as he squeezes. Trying not to panic, she does anyway. Her arms flailing wildly, basically giving Bray one of her limbs. She’s down to dangling legs and one arm, her windpipe closing fast.

  “You’re bait, bitch,” Bray says through her gasping.

  Oh no.

  Belatedly, she realizes his goal was always to lure the males. They’ll come to her aid.

  Quillon.

  With a final burst of adrenaline, Jenni concentrates her quickly dimming focus on the top of Bray’s head.

  Throwing her arm wide, she uses her talon like a tomahawk, scalping Bray and relieving him of his hair and a bunch of scalp.

  His hold loosens.

  Jenni drops to her knees, clutching at her neck and wheezing.

  When the other two limp toward her, she doesn’t have the air to avoid them. Instead, she heaves herself backward, shoving her heels into the dirt and scooting herself back. She helplessly takes in the damage she caused and comes up with the uncomfortable reality.

  She didn’t cause ne
arly enough.

  Albino boy's upper thigh is bleeding profusely, but stupidly, she missed his femoral artery.

  Dammit.

  Her head whips in the other guy’s direction, and she sees his stomach wound is already healing.

  “I’m having myself a slice of werewolf-pussy pie,” Albino says.

  The other one does an uneasy eye shift, but they keep coming.

  Bray stands about three yards from where she’s managed to scoot.

  He falls.

  Almost lost his head, after all. Jenni feels a hysterical giggle escape her throat and realizes she can breathe.

  With a pulse of guilt, she gives an agonized shout. At first, her scream is hoarse and rough—it doesn’t carry. Then it builds until it’s a wailing siren of despair. She doesn’t scream because she faces rape or a beating. It’s because she allowed herself to hope. Hope for life.

  Hope for a future.

  The emotion was dumb and proves that this was a detour in her life, not a guarantee for more.

  Crashing sounds through the forest.

  At first, it’s in all directions, and Jenni can’t tell where it’s coming from.

  Then the men are on her.

  Fists and teeth rain down on Jenni; the clothes are rent from her body. Grimy powerful hands grab her hips, jerking them off the ground.

  Jenni screams, blindly slashing at whoever and whatever is nearest. Then someone hits the side of her head, instantly blinding her on her left side.

  Her body goes loose. Too damaged for anything else.

  At first, when the jerk comes, she thinks they’ve finally done it. Finally raped her, hurt her beyond even her body’s new capacity for healing.

  Her body falls into a soft bed of leaves.

  Jenni doesn’t move, because she can’t. Nor can she see. Breathing through the glass of her ribcage isn’t happening, either.

  But her one eye sees, and the carnage is even worse than after Slash rescued Adi from the Lanarre intent on breeding her.

  Quillon’s talons pierce Albino’s torso, and his mouth forms an O of surprise as he gurgles his worthless thoughts.

  The Alpha male lifts him high with his strength and talons alone.