The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

  “Speak to her in Española,” Tetrosky murmured, leaning forward.

  “Later,” Carlos whispered, sending the hot promise into her ear while extracting her thoughts. What difference does it make if he rules the world, if he doesn’t know how to make you happy? “Do you want me to come to you,” he asked, lengthening his incisors to full-battle length and running them down Kiersten’s jugular. You’ll tell me, right, so I can . . . with you, mi tresora?

  “Yes,” she sobbed, answering both his spoken and telepathic questions.

  Not risking a transmission, she sent the information by touch as her hand slid down to his groin. He shuddered for effect. The other wives stood and came to him. And he withdrew having gleaned all he needed to know. The key was in the hull of the ship, where all the masters’ caskets had been loaded. Pure outrage dulled his reaction to her sensual touch. The bastard had been bold enough and strong enough to hide Carlos’s marked man in his ship! Only a dark human ritual could have cloaked that from him. The reality was unsettling.

  Carlos mopped his brow and kissed each female briefly and stalked away. “I’m going to ask you again, Tetrosky, are you sure you want to just watch, with all of them in there? ’Cause, brother if you reach for me, you’re history. I don’t play that, even high.” Carlos laughed and shook his head when Tetrosky swallowed hard. “But if you want to check us out . . . while you’re blitzed—”

  “No,” Tetrosky said fast, swallowing hard again as the other masters looked at him.

  “All right,” Carlos murmured, gently extricating himself from Kiersten’s hold again when she’d sauntered up beside him. He smiled and handed her off to Tetrosky with a gentle shove to distance her from his body, ignoring her visceral disappointment.

  “Bastard,” she said through her teeth, glaring at her husband. “I will never forgive—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Tetrosky said quickly. “I meant, no, I don’t want us to both be in there with a double hit in our systems, Mr. Councilman.”

  Carlos chuckled and held out his hand to Kiersten, who grabbed onto it again like a lifeline. “Good, because this stuff will make you act stupid.”

  Tetrosky stood, cleared his throat, and walked over to the bar. He poured himself a shot of the more concentrated blends, tossed it back, and shuddered. “A double hit—she’s yours. Do as you like, just make sure our yacht is cave-docked before dawn.”

  “No lie,” McGuire said, standing and joining Tetrosky. He shook off the exchanges that he’d witnessed with a shiver. “Damn this crap is lethal . . . will make you challenge the fucking sun.”

  “Yes. Profound,” Amin said, standing, going to the bar with the other masters to share a drink. “I hope you’ve given the crew express instructions to find shelter. None of us are going to be able to even transport by dawn.”

  “Too dangerous,” Master Xe said, standing and going to the bar. “I don’t like losing control like that so far from a lair. Maybe we should just have patience and wait to take it at the castle.”

  Variables were kicking his ass tonight. He’d just gotten the females all transferred into his control, had fired the masters up again with the little floor show of open seduction—trying to keep them distracted once their high had burned off, and now there was some new shit to contend with. Carlos glanced at the crestfallen expressions around him that were beginning to become shrewd and rational again.

  “Makes sense,” Carlos said, calmly depositing Tetrosky’s wife on the sofa and joining the men at the bar. “Besides, if my wife is in with McGuire—just her voice alone is maddening while in the throes. Will carry all throughout the ship, the surf, the rock of the boat, salt air . . . sensory overload, and with a double hit, too?” Carlos shook his head. “Naw. What was I thinking? That was too irresponsible of me. Reckless.”

  He turned to Xe and put his hand on his shoulder. “You see how this female has compromised me, but Xe had my back.” He dropped his hold from Xe, poured a fast drink, and tossed it down. “The Forbidden City, our next visit, for that one. Man, you have no idea how many nights that woman almost fried me. We’ll wait till we get back to the—”

  “Councilman, let’s not be hasty,” Tetrosky said, his eyes searching Carlos’s. “Please.”

  “No,” Carlos said, firmly. “Xe is clear and rational. I’m not right now.” He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Her adrenaline is all in the air, music in my head.” He opened his eyes. “I’m not trying to wipe out the whole empire in one night on a pleasure ship—and Damali will make you do that.” Carlos smiled, and then had to chuckle at himself. Damn he was good.

  Xe approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, glancing at the others. Carlos could feel him siphon for information, for the truth, and he got what he wanted, the part not threaded through the lie. He also knew that these boys loved living on the edge; they were adrenaline junkies, the more reckless, the more titillating. Everything else was just existing. He dangled the lure, and pulled it back, allowing Xe to see just how close he came to frying—the sun breaking the horizon, him looking down into Damali’s sated face, he let the instant panic slingshot from his memory to Xe’s awareness, then stopped the transmission.

  “Councilman . . . I . . . uh . . . we implore you to brush aside my initial concerns. I was perhaps hasty. We trust that you would have made arrangements.”

  “No,” Carlos said, pouring another drink and sipping it slowly. “I thank you for bringing a critical risk factor to my attention.”

  He had to fight not to openly chuckle when Amin grabbed Xe by the throat so fast that a near-extinction was probable. He glanced back at Xe’s wife, Lai, and she wasn’t even snarling. She hadn’t even stood up! All she did was issue a disgusted glance over her shoulder. The other masters had surrounded Xe, taking Amin’s side in the dispute.

  “Gentlemen,” Carlos said, touching Amin’s shoulder. “Not here. Not in public. Humans wouldn’t understand, then we’d have bigger problems that could jeopardize the whole evening.” He waited for Amin to gradually let go of Xe’s throat. “Let’s all go sit down, watch the show, and once we’re on the boat, I’ll tighten everybody up.” He winked at McGuire. “Then I’ll hand Damali off to you. Fair?”

  Immediately grumbles of approval rippled through the room as the masters returned to their seats, the wives now draped against them with gratitude. Carlos found a lone seat close to the edge of the box, but positioned so that he could keep everyone else within a sideline glance. This was no way to live—having exclusively pursued pleasure so hard that you were numb to it, unless it was twisted and depraved.

  He didn’t want to die tonight, but he certainly didn’t want to live so long that the basic things in life became a nightmare of boredom, or gaining knowledge was so easy that anything truly new to the mind was seized upon like a drug. But the awareness gave him pause. Isn’t that what happened to him while he was alive? Hadn’t the mundane, but purer, things in life bored him, sending him deeper into the seductive dark side of the lifestyle he’d chosen? Hadn’t he given up the basics, like kids, a family, friends, hanging out at the beach on a sunny day . . . his mom’s cooking . . . for what? And wouldn’t he throw caution to the wind to have a glimmer of that back?

  This time when he glanced at the vampires around him, it was with a bit less disgust. After several hundred years, what would he be like? What would he be like right now if Damali hadn’t shared her soul with him on a beach? Not just in Rio, but when they were kids . . . sitting in the sun. And, what the hell would he turn into without being able to hold her in his arms and love her like he needed to now? He couldn’t even think about that right at the moment. That stark reality would definitely mess up his head. So he focused on the stage. He had to transmit the location of the key to her, but didn’t risk a transmission directly to her. Every master in the house was focused on Damali, so he locked with the only person her knew could receive from him under blocked conditions—Father Pat.

  He concentrated
on the elderly cleric, and watched him glance at Marlene, who froze for a moment and then relaxed. If the two seers could focus on the location, maybe they could pinpoint where the key was hidden within the massive vessel’s hull.

  Carlos was careful to banish the thoughts from his mind as soon as he’d sent them. Looking at Damali was a good way to force anything else into the back of his mind. Her band was winding down; the lighting had changed. Slow droning didgeridoo vibrated the air with a mourning sound. Black lights illuminated white paint on dark faces. Carlos almost closed his eyes. Yeah, she was a master performer, but he wished she hadn’t gone there.

  He glanced at his counterparts, who were leaning forward in their seats, cool shredding as the anticipation for her final appearance mounted. He glimpsed the monitors to be sure his attention was holding. Shit . . . he might be the one who was the weak link in the variable chain.

  Carlos sat back hard, watching the stage, trying to send his mind elsewhere as Shabazz’s bass picked up the end of the mourning vibrations. Rider’s guitar was wearing him out; it was connected to his skeleton, the high-pitch frequency too close to the pitch of Damali’s frenzied desert energy. J.L. had captured the melody, the emotion of her thoughts, like smooth water, a caress. But Jose was fucking him up bad on the drums . . . they were linked; hombre had his rhythm, same one when with her. All right, all right, he could do this. It was just one last song, then him and his boys were out.

  If he could just shake off all the seduction play, the rush of winning four conquests in a short struggle in the VIP box, forget about the triumph of playing four masters lovely . . . get her scent out of his skull, along with every conflicting emotion it brought with it, he’d be cool. All he had to do was focus.

  Carlos smoothed the front of his suit and rolled his shoulders, glancing at the monitors. But she messed around and had that deep purple smoke flow over the stage floor, changed the lights to crimson, and sauntered out in that dress with her Isis at her side. He knew that was the plan, but seeing it again, now, fully aware that he could never have her like that once more . . . damn . . . The crowd roared, and he almost stood up. If the woman opened her mouth . . . let out her voice . . .

  Stupid thought. That’s what she’d come there to do—sing her heart out. He had to get it together. But the electricity running through the other vamps around him was a thick current of irrational desire that linked them. Then she really messed up and looked directly at the VIP box, her words shredding every one of the males in the box, most of all him.

  True, he’d told her to play to McGuire, but daaayum. He couldn’t watch it. Not when she threw back her head hard like she’d just been bitten, sudden strike snap, and the tempo of the music picked up. She’d flung the Isis away from her, had literally tossed it up so it came point down and stuck into the stage. The crowd was rocking off their feet. Sweat seeped out of her pores, one droplet at a time, adrenaline shimmering in it, her voice a laser to his senses. “Oh . . . man.” He stood fast and walked to the back of the booth.

  “She’s incredible,” McGuire murmured, his focus riveted to Damali.

  The monitors flickered and showed her actual performance, not the tape. Panicked, losing the ability to concentrate, he tore his line of vision from the stage, sputtering the images on the monitors back to the edited dummy compilation, but was fast losing the battle. Damali’s true image kept overriding what was supposed to be shown to the vamps. She was in his head so hard, he couldn’t shake it—not with her singing, not with the music, not with their personal rhythm at the forefront of his mind.

  Tetrosky’s gaze never left the stage. “Let all the monitors show her,” he whispered on a hoarse breath. “Don’t cheat us.”

  Damali’s arms were outstretched, her body swaying, the crowd yelling, then she wrapped her arms around herself, turned away, and gave them her back. The position created the illusion that she was with someone, being held, as her voice hit a crescendo on the chant refrain, “Don’t stop, no don’t stop, this sweet transition.” She allowed her head to fall back, and she belted out what sounded like a sobbing plea. “I remember when you turned me—bittersweet change that hurt so good.”

  He was holding onto the side of the bar by the time she turned around. Baby, you’re killing me. But she ignored him and walked hard to the edge of the stage, purpose in every step. Her hands slid down her body as her eyes slid closed in a slow invitation, yet the rest of her was moving to the now up-tempo beat, flowing with it, then she clutched her belly, and wailed, “Don’t you know you’re my sweet transition!”

  Master Amin lost it, was on his feet, with Xe and Tetrosky holding each of his arms. Carlos couldn’t move, hypnotized at this point by her movements, her voice jack-hammering a hole in his temple.

  “You cannot transport her off the stage in the middle of a performance, man!” Xe yelled, as both masters slammed Amin down in his seat.

  But they weren’t angry with him, just trying to hold onto what was left of their vampire cover. They had already abandoned their dignity. Tetrosky had broken his conservative cool and had dropped full fang, battle-length, in public, and couldn’t retract. McGuire had tears in his eyes, fangs lowered, and couldn’t catch his breath as Damali’s scent stained the air. Xe was practically staggering as he left the front of the booth and went to stand by Carlos at the bar to collect himself, using his thumbs to send his incisors back up into his gums.

  Damali marched back to her Isis near the front of the stage on the last stanza. “I’ll give my life, just surrender, to this sweet transition with you.” Then she drew her blade out of the stage, lowered it, opened her arms, and took another false strike that snapped her neck back, sending a collective shudder through the booth. Carlos closed his eyes as his gums ripped.

  Mercy, woman. “Compasion, por favor,” he heard himself whisper out loud against all his intentions, but none of the masters even flinched. Then she licked her lips, and took a bow to a standing ovation, her Isis now over her head, the crowd hollering for more.

  Carlos shook his head as she yelled, “Good night Sydney!”

  Bring me my wife, now! He’d hurled the thought at Jose before he could censor it. He saw Jose’s head jerk up from the direction of the audience to him. Carlos waved him off. What the hell was he doing?

  Every male in his booth was yelling for an encore with the crowd. Their wives had made their way to his side, practically licking the sweat off his face and brow. He elbowed his way out of the huddle. All of this was too volatile, and he hadn’t even distributed the quantity of the substance that might really blow the lid off. Marlene was right. This was chaos theory at its worst. There was no controlling an uncontrolled substance—Damali.

  He paced back and forth, waiting for Jose to bring her to the box. The other masters were like caged panthers, too, going from the bar to the edge of the booth, each giving him wide berth, their eyes sweeping the terrain, their noses polluted by all the hyped blood in the crowd, the adrenaline from her, him. Bottled blood wasn’t gonna make it. Nor was blood from their wives’ dead veins.

  They shoved aside their wives’ offers. Not good enough. It was in their eyes. What was easily accessible wasn’t new.

  “How long will she be?” Amin asked, his nerves frayed beyond all shame.

  “I don’t know,” Carlos muttered. “You know how long it takes women to change.”

  “She’s not changing out of that dress, is she?” McGuire said, sounding panicked.

  “She can’t,” Tetrosky said fast. “Her sweet scent fills it.” He trembled, and looked at Carlos.

  “I forbid it. She cannot change out of that dress,” Xe shouted, losing himself, and then looking at Carlos fast for a pardon.

  “We need to renegotiate,” Amin said on a heavy exhale. He looked at the other masters. “Between the four of us—let’s strike a new deal.” He looked at Carlos. “You gave her away for a night; tonight, we can settle the particulars between ourselves.”

  “I feel you,�
� Carlos said, walking away, and not even pissed. He had to get himself together. If Jose came in there with her dripping wet from the stage, a volatile package under his arm, J.L. and Dan locked and loaded with weapons . . . there wasn’t enough firepower on this earth . . . They all had to come down.

  Hear me clear, Carlos said, his gaze lethal. If you rush her, you die. If you rush my mule, you die. I am in a very, very fragile state, gentlemen. Using Dananu had gotten their attention, just like the direct threat—the sure promise—had. He could see them starting to normalize as survival instinct took over. They had felt the impact of that truth, no mental siphon required. Each nodded and backed up, and that’s when he felt himself beginning to come down.

  Finally a knock at their VIP box door sounded and all eyes followed it. He could feel each one of the masters around him struggling not to drop fang and answer it.

  “I have a delivery for Councilman Rivera,” Jose said, accepting the assessment of the international courier who stood outside the door. “They’re with me,” he added, motioning toward J.L. and Dan.

  Carlos watched the guard sniff Jose, linger longer than was advisable, briefly close his eyes, then glance back at Carlos and the other four masters, then quickly gain his wits and relent. As soon as the bulking presence stood aside, Damali floated through the door on Jose’s arm almost in slow motion. Immediately, Carlos tore his attention from her to her security detail. Jose was righteous, his Glock nine was in a shoulder holster, the other hand resting on an automatic on his hip without the strap snapped. Dan had a crossbow held firmly at his side, and a Glock on his hip. J.L. had an Uzi slung over his shoulder by a thick strap, his hand nervously resting on the trigger.

  “You expecting trouble, Mr. Councilman?” Tetrosky said coolly, his eyes on the crossbow.

  “I do not take any chances with cargo this valuable,” Carlos said, his eyes scanning the room. “I’m sure you can all appreciate that, now.”