Embraced by Blood

by Laurie London

  “Jesus, Lil.” He opened his mouth as if he were going to say more, but snapped it shut. The square corners of his jaw flexed over and over.

  She’d struck a nerve. Good.

  “When Mackenzie thought she saw you in the lab moments before she saw flames, I thought you’d been trapped inside. I spent the next few nights sifting through the ashes looking for your remains. I looked for that medallion I gave you for luck, but then you probably only wore it when you knew we were getting together anyway.”

  He reached into his shirt and pulled out the gold pendant that swung on a leather cord around his neck.

  She stared at it, stunned. He still wore it?

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it couldn’t be helped. They had to believe I died along with Pavlos.”

  She swallowed and tried to regain her composure. He’d probably put it on knowing he was coming to see her. “And you didn’t see fit to inform me of your little deception.”

  When she’d thought he had died in the fire that day, a huge part of her had died as well. But when Mackenzie told her later that he was very much alive, she wasn’t sure what to think. Then, in one fateful phone conversation, when he’d told her he no longer loved her—even after all they had shared—it just about sent her over the edge. She’d sworn she’d never be such a sucker for romance and a handsome face again.

  “For your sake, it was better if everyone thought I was dead. It still is.” He examined the medallion, its interconnected links with no beginning or end, as if he’d never seen it before. “I was hoping you’d moved on by now.”

  “And what makes you think that I haven’t?”

  His expression went suddenly blank as the implication of her words sank in. She could’ve sworn his pupils widened for a moment. Yeah, let him ponder that. Her gaze languished down his powerful body to make her point, over his lean hips and muscular legs, then back up to meet his icy-blue stare again. There was no way in hell he’d been celibate this whole time. No way. God, she didn’t want to even think about him lying between the legs of another woman.

  With a sniff, she flipped her long ponytail to the other side, smoothing it over her shoulder, in order to keep her thoughts grounded in the present. And in the present, he pissed her off.

  “You’re not tracking him by yourself, Lil. You’re clearly the original target. Santiago and Jackson are idiots to let you go alone. I told them both that, so I went around their authority. And if I were on speaking terms with my brother, he’d no doubt agree with me.”

  She had to admit Alfonso was right about one thing. If Dom wasn’t on assignment in Australia, he would insist she have backup as well. They were cut from the same mold. Stupid, overprotective Serrano brothers. She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

  He smacked his hand on the roof of her car and she jumped. “You are not. Going. Alone.” As he stepped around the open door and into her personal space, his jaw muscles tensed below his earlobes, the black of his pupils expanding against the blue.

  Not wanting to touch him, she stepped backward, flattening herself against the back door of her car. In this position, his scent was stronger than ever, filling her head and activating memories that were too dangerous for her heart. He rested a hand on the roof, just inches from her face, and leaned in close. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she couldn’t remember if she had been breathing in or breathing out. He wasn’t going to try to kiss her, was he? Because if he did, she’d—

  She stared at his full lips, recalling how they’d felt moving against her own, brushing over her neck, tickling the delicate skin beneath her chin and along her jaw.

  Shit. He was talking. She blinked, tried to concentrate.

  “I thought about forcing you to stop—I can and you know it.” He enunciated each word with deadly precision.

  Her pulse quickened and the chain of her belly ring flickered on the sensitive skin of her lower abdomen. Their relationship had always been passionate; sometimes she’d been the one in charge, and other times he had. Clearly, he was taking the dominant role tonight, and although it pissed her off, it excited her on some level as well.

  “I’d find him myself,” he said, “but my ability to track is a fraction as strong as yours. I can’t do it without you. My only choice is going with you and that’s what I intend to do. Give me your keys. I’m driving.”

  No one ordered her around. Gritting her teeth, she pushed him away, thinking if she wanted to, she could grab him by the shoulders right now and plant a knee or an elbow in a number of tender spots. Force me? My ass. She’d taken down bigger men than him just for the sport of it.

  “There is no way in hell you’re coming with me. I don’t need you or want you. Now get out of my way.”

  “Lil, please.” The brittle planes of his face softened just a little. “If you’re driving, how do you expect to concentrate on tracking your friend’s scent? You’ll be faster, more effective, if all other stimuli are eliminated. Come on, let me drive. You just close your eyes, concentrate and tell me which way to go.”

  She examined her fresh manicure and pushed back a cuticle. Her goal was to find Kip as soon as possible and she supposed it would be easier if she didn’t have to drive.

  “My way is much more efficient,” he continued. “Come on. We don’t have time for this.” He snapped his fingers, as if she were an insolent child.

  She was about to acquiesce—he did have a point—when this arrogance of his slipped under her skin again like a newly sharpened dagger. Digging her nails into the palms of her hands, she drew in a breath to calm herself. She was about to tell him to go to hell, but then Kip’s eager, young face, flush with excitement over his first few tracking assignments, flashed in her mind. Finding him, getting him back safely, was the most important issue. Not her past relationship with a man she used to love.

  Fine. She’d table her emotions and put up with Alfonso temporarily for Kip’s sake. But one thing was for sure. Despite their past and the fact that he was still so damned attractive, she would not allow him to get into her heart. He’d played her once. She would not let her guard down again.

  She fished the keys out and threw them at him hard enough to make a mark. With lightning-fast reflexes, he snatched them out of the air and gave them a jaunty little toss before he turned his back and grabbed the door handle.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m only agreeing to this because of Kip.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The leather squeaked as he slid his large body down into the seat, and he scanned the interior of her new car. By the time she’d jogged around to the passenger door, he’d reached over and cracked it open for her from the inside. As she climbed in beside him, the Panamera’s engine roared to life, a deep, rumbling, powerful sound. His fingers caressed the top of the dash as if he were familiarizing himself with an exciting new lover that he couldn’t wait to bed. She had to admit, he did look pretty hot behind the wheel.

  “Ever drive a sport-mode dual clutch?” Her voice sounded a little too scratchy, so she cleared her throat.

  He adjusted the seat and mirrors in such a precise, preoccupied manner that she wondered if he’d even heard what she’d said. “How hard can it be?”

  Oh, this should be interesting. She leaned over, pressed a button on the console near his thigh, taking care not to touch him, and popped the gear shift back to center.

  “What was that?”

  “Turned off the sport mode and put it back into automatic. The dual clutch takes some getting used to.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her in a flippant, you-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look. Figured. All men thought their DNA made them better drivers.

  “I don’t have time to give you a lesson,” she said. “And I can’t be distracted wondering when the hell you were going to shift.”

  As if his mere presence just inches away wasn’t distracting enough.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  �
�THIS IS IT.” THE MAN TAPPED a knuckle on the taxi window. A small, unadorned prayer box dangled from a hole in his thick pinkie nail and clinked against the glass. “Wait for me around the corner.”

  “For how long?” the driver said, his nicotine-graveled voice sounding more like a growl. “I’m scheduled for a pickup in an hour.”

  The passenger slipped him a hundred-dollar bill, the pads of his fingers brushing against the cabbie’s outstretched palm, and he repeated his command. “Wait for me. I’ve got another one marked for you when I return.”

  The driver’s eyelids fluttered a few times and his worn expression softened. “Sure, I’ll be right up there.”

  After navigating past a line of young palm trees and stepping over the uneven pavement of the walkway, the man stood on the front porch as sounds of a TV blared through the half-closed door. Noticing a scuff on the toe of his shoe, he stooped to brush it off, irritated when it didn’t disappear. He straightened up, realigned his black jacket and rang the doorbell.

  He waited, then rang it again.

  “Brice!” a female voice called from inside. “The pizza guy’s here.” Footsteps shuffled on the fake Spanish-tile floor a moment later.

  “I didn’t order any damn—”

  The door was flung open with gusto, creating a slight breeze across his forehead. He smoothed his slicked hair back in place as a man in a stained college sweatshirt appeared at the other side of the screen. The smell of cigarettes, fried food and beer-laden blood filled his nostrils. He pulled a handkerchief from his inside pocket, folded it carefully and dabbed his upper lip.

  “Oh, Jesus. Ah, Father, what can I do for you?” The man pushed the screen door and held it open. “Would you like to come in?”

  He touched the mandarin collar of his jacket. It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for a man of the cloth, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “Heavens, no. I’m tremendously sorry I did not call first. I don’t wish to trouble you, but I have a simple request that had to be made in person.”

  “Yeah, sure, what is it? Father…Father…?”

  “Rejavik. The name is Rejavik.” With his hands clasped at his waist, he held a smile in check and tried to look pious. “You take on boarders from time to time, is that correct?”

  “Not really, Father Rejavik. My old lady used to, but not anymore. Why? You looking to rent a room?”

  Rejavik held back his contempt. He’d rather lie on a beach at noon, have the sunlight leach every ounce of energy from his body, than spend one night in this filthy shit hole. “I’m trying to locate a member of my congregation who may have stayed here several years ago. His name is Alfonso Serrano. Tall fellow, blond hair, blue eyes.”

  “Hey, Marge,” the man yelled over his shoulder. “You remember a renter named Alberto?”

  “Alfonso,” Rejavik said quietly. Idiot.

  “Why does the pizza guy want to know?” she yelled from the other room.

  “Oh for Chr—” Brice clamped a hand over his mouth and hiccupped through his fingers. “Sorry, Father. A few years ago?” Rejavik nodded.

  “I haven’t lived here that long but I know Marge had a long-term renter for a while. Maybe he’s your guy.”

  “Let me speak with her.”

  “Hey, Marge!” No answer. The television laugh track, prompting the desired proletarian response, blared from the other room. “Marge!”

  Enough of this. Rejavik placed his palm on the man’s shoulder. “Take me to her.”

  The man jerked away and eyed him warily. “What the hell was that? It felt like an electric shock or something.”

  Not quite the intoxicated simpleton I’d assumed. “I’m terribly sorry. With the cooler air, I sometimes conduct a little more electrostatic energy this time of year. There—” he touched the doorjamb “—it’s dissipated. Forgive me.” He held out his hand to the man and gave him a benign smile.

  Tired of these pathetic niceties, he silently counted to three, at which point he’d spill this fool’s blood and get the answers from Marge himself. Either way, it didn’t really matter, although he just picked up this suit from the cleaners and didn’t want to get it soiled again so soon. He was hungry, but not desperate.

  Thick, sausagelike fingers gripped his hand and the human’s energy flowed into his body like an open spigot. Ah, yes, very good. Palm-on-palm was much more effective than contact through clothing anyway, making thought suggestions harder to resist. Although palm-to-forehead was best, he didn’t think he could bear touching the man’s sweat-stained face.

  “Take me to Marge, then lie down and go to sleep.”

  Within a few minutes, the man was sleeping on a ratty couch, the television was turned down and Marge’s hands were clasped between his.

  “He has eyes like Paul Newman,” she said, “and he’s tall. Had to duck under the attic beams and couldn’t stand up all the way. He pays in cash, six months in advance, but like I said, I haven’t seen him in a long time. Don’t remember his name being Alfonso, though. Do you think he could be the same guy?”

  “He stayed in your attic room?”

  “No, he didn’t like it there. Said he needed to come and go at weird hours and didn’t want to disturb us, so he rents the outbuilding at the back of our property. Not sure why ’cause he’s hardly ever there, but, hey, I’m not complaining. Don’t think he’s into drugs or nothing.”

  “When was the last time he was here?”

  She shrugged. “Six months. A year, maybe more. Like I said, I don’t keep track. Pays like clockwork though.”

  Wedged against the rocky hillside a half acre from the rear of the house, the wooden shed looked largely forgotten. Tumbleweeds lay among the rusted-out garden tools, empty paint buckets and other assorted junk that leaned against the outside walls. Some idiot—probably the one who’d answered the door—had parked a dented blue car, now up on jacks, so close to the shed that it blocked the small door. The woman unlocked it and stepped aside to let him pass.

  The interior should’ve smelled stale and dusty, a perfect environment for black widow spiders and scorpions, but it didn’t. It had obviously been cleaned more recently than the house, but then, that wasn’t saying much.

  She pulled the cord of a light fixture near the door, and the bare bulb swung from the ceiling, casting moving shadows over the room. Pushed up against the far wall was a cot with a floral comforter tucked in at the edges and a small nightstand.

  What kind of man would stay in a place like this? he wondered as he looked around the neat and tidy surroundings. Maybe the lead he was following up was wrong. Surely someone with Serrano’s means and lineage would never surround himself with such flea market squalor, even if it was simply used as an occasional hideout.

  He opened the nightstand drawer with his handkerchief and found a flashlight, an unscented candle, a book of matches and a well-worn bible. He grabbed it, flipped through the pages, and when a guitar pick fell out, he couldn’t help smiling. Serrano took his guitar everywhere.

  This was promising after all.

  When he picked up a pillow and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, something lingered in the back of his scent memory and almost—

  “How can you tell if your guy is my renter?” The woman’s voice broke his concentration and his shoulders stiffened. “I mean, we really shouldn’t be in here without his permission. It ain’t right.”

  “Wait for me outside near the blue car.”

  “Why—”

  He leveled a hard stare at her and noticed the loose skin of her jowls hung in parallel cords from her chin to the base of her neck. The soft tissue would tear easily, he thought as the tips of his fangs poked through his gums.

  “I’ll be right out there if you need me,” she said, suddenly wising up.

  Good. He didn’t want to flood his system with her blood right now anyway. It would dilute his senses too much and he needed them keen at the moment.

  As his fangs receded, he turned back to the
cot. With a fingernail, he lifted the lid of the prayer box and held it to his nose.

  He recalled the Oath of Loyalty ceremony when the item had been placed in his possession centuries ago. In the dimly lit caverns beneath the city of Madrid, he had watched as the Overlord drew a blade over the palms of each of the inductees. They were to dip a square of muslin in their own blood, place it inside a prayer box and present it to their assigned blood assassin as a sign of their undying loyalty to the Overlord and the Darkblood Alliance.

  Something about Serrano’s demeanor had nagged at him that day, and he’d checked inside the tiny golden box before placing it into the vault. Maybe it was the way Serrano had looked at him, almost glaring at the Overlord, eyes full of defiance, with no trace of the reverence visible on all the others’ faces. It was, after all, an honor to be asked to join the inner circle.

  Maybe it was the slight sheen of sweat he’d noticed on Serrano’s upper lip. Rejavik couldn’t be sure what it was that hadn’t seemed right, but it was a good thing he’d checked—the tiny box had been empty. The blood-soaked piece of cloth had somehow fallen to the dirt floor.

  Serrano had acted surprised, as if he thought he’d placed it inside the box, but Rejavik wasn’t so sure it hadn’t been intentional.

  When he’d learned Serrano had been identified as the insider responsible for the death of their great leader, that he’d been feeding intelligence to the Governing Council’s Guardian unit for years, Rejavik hadn’t been surprised. He doubted Serrano had ever been loyal to their cause. It would be his pleasure and honor to kill the traitor.

  A quick death would be too kind. No, he’d make sure to draw it out as long and as painfully as possible. And if there was anyone special in Serrano’s life, anyone he cared enough about to share blood, Rejavik would find her and make her suffer as well.

  He inhaled deeply and held his breath, the remnants of Serrano’s blood inside the box reactivating his scent memory. He visualized the defiance in Serrano’s eyes, which shone brightly beneath his hooded robe, the slight flare of his nostrils and the rigidity of his shoulders. Ah, yes. It was all coming back to him now.