BloodlustBundle

by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor

  He touched the ring around her neck, and that seemed to explain everything for him.

  What was he saying?

  Griff’s smile was sad, weighted down slightly at the tips. She wondered if it was because she was dancing around this next step in their commitment. Fear held her back.

  He kissed her, his lips soft and warm against her mouth. “I can’t imagine life without you.”

  The blood melted to a buzz in her veins.

  Tentatively, she touched her mouth to his, echoing his sweet gesture. God, he felt right to her: the way he fit into places that needed filling. The way he warmed her, body to body, when nothing else would work—not fires or blankets or thoughts of academic success.

  They sipped at each other, testing, enjoying the taste of lingering wine from the evening meal, of basking in this new awareness.

  With every tender caress, every kiss, he branded her with growing realization. Griff was more than just a fleeting neediness, more than a longing to be adored or finally thought of as beautiful by a man.

  He was scary territory, unexplored.

  Could she give everything to him? Not only her body, but also her soul?

  Griff pressed his lips to her neck, her ear.

  “I love you, Lady Tex.”

  The elusive words triggered an implosion, years in the building. The edge of a sob caught at her chest.

  Weakened, strengthened, Camille collapsed against him. “Me, too.” A racking breath tore through her. “Me, too.”

  He chuckled, almost sounding relieved. He petted her cheek, then her hair, while rain tapped at their window.

  “Well,” he finally said. “There it is.”

  “Admitting it wasn’t so terrifying.”

  “Not at all.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, the fire popping, raindrops increasing in strength, tumbling on the roof now. A rogue shadow stole over Griff, darkening half his face, lending him a slant of danger.

  Spurred by a jolt of intense desire, Camille rose to her knees, leaned forward, skimming her hands under his shirt, lifting it off his body. Unable to wait for the material to clear his head, she dived underneath the cotton, capturing his mouth with hers.

  His arms were raised, caught by the shirt.

  “This means you’re mine.” She laughed. “All mine.”

  He jerked when she pattered her fingertips upward, echoing the rainfall. Over his chest, under his arms. She raked through the hair there, tickling him.

  “Bloody hell,” he said, trying to tug the shirt off his head. “Could you give a bloke a little help?”

  She caught one of his nipples in her mouth, swirling her tongue over it, feeling it harden.

  “Uh-uh,” she moaned.

  Still, he managed to free himself, whipping the shirt away, then driving her into the bed’s down quilt.

  He loomed over her. “I’ve got you now.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  A beat passed, one in which his expression turned from teasing to serious. “No more running?”

  She swallowed, her pulse speeding up. She’d been found in her hiding place, revealed.

  What would come next?

  “No more running,” she said, pulling him down to kiss her again.

  He lengthened his body over hers, cradling the back of her head with one hand. Camille went liquid at his gentleness, at the way he moved over her, shifting his hips, making her ache.

  She shucked off her long john top, then molded her bare chest to his. Her distended nipples grazed the toned smoothness of his skin, and she arched, pressing closer.

  When he slid a knee between her thighs, she opened for him, wrapping one leg around his, gliding her hands downward, cupping his rear, urging him to fit against her.

  He did, nudging the slick center of her with his erection. She wiggled against him, wanting more.

  “Let’s see some of that patience,” he whispered, his voice strained and breathless as he took her earlobe into his mouth.

  In response, she undid his fly, stroking him, urging him out.

  “That’s not very patient.” His lips traveled down to her neck, where he nipped at her.

  Camille shivered, digging her nails into his back.

  He made a low, guttural sound, then bit a little harder, but not enough to wound. Never to wound.

  Camille rocked against him, and their rhythm picked up. He rammed against her, and she cried out, needing him inside.

  “Come on,” she panted, sitting up, working off his jeans and her long john bottoms. “You’re killing me.”

  Then they were both exposed, the slickness between her legs heating her, making her blood pound and thrash there in readiness.

  “Camille…” Sweat and firelight burnished his skin as he settled on top of her, guiding her to lie on her back. He pushed the hair away from her damp face, then, with one easy thrust, entered her.

  “That’s it,” she said, gasping.

  She was home. No more running. She’d stop in her tracks for Griff. Would always be where he was.

  She anchored her hands against the iron headboard as he pounded into her, their skin moist, sliding.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk, went the headboard against the wall.

  Or maybe it was her heartbeat, accelerating now, near to bursting with the love she felt for this man.

  Thunk…thunk…thunk…

  On the backs of her eyelids, red, swollen circles throbbed, pumped, raced for what seemed like hours, then bumped against each other, faster and faster.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk…

  It was almost as if the scarlet cells were living, pulsing into vivid bursts, stretching until they almost exploded.

  Thunkthunkthunk…

  With a thunderous boom, her world crashed, then expanded, shuddering into crimson drops that settled just under her skin.

  Still beating. Needing.

  Camille opened her eyes, watching Griff work to his own climax. She stimulated him until he strained to the breaking point, loved him as he spilled into her.

  Afterward, when they held each other, Camille stroked his face, his high cheekbones. The dimple of his satiated smile.

  “We’ve really done it,” she whispered. “Now I’m never going to let you go.”

  She’d never said truer words, and their intensity scared her. Exhilarated her.

  “You’d better not,” said Griff, gathering her closer.

  She had no way of knowing how much her promise would mean when the strigoiaca did finally come.

  The very next night.

  Chapter 9

  Present

  Camille aimed her dart gun at the approaching alpha wolf, surreptitiously giving herself an adrenaline shot at the same time. Four muted pops behind her indicated that the Vasile women had done the same.

  “Sound ready for monitoring,” Beatrix commented through the headset.

  The beast’s eyes glowed vampire-red as it stalked toward the team. The rest of its pack—five other very big grays—snarled in back of their leader, shifting nearer.

  One of the four village women behind Camille uttered a quick prayer.

  “God be with you, dear girl,” Bea said. “Come back to me.” Her transmission fuzzed to an end.

  I will, Camille thought. With Griff.

  Taking a stance next to Camille, Sarge pumped his shotgun, pointed it toward the alpha.

  “Please!” Camille said to him, adrenaline fluttering through her. “Let’s see if we can knock them out first.”

  “This ain’t Wild Kingdom, Howard.”

  “Ashe would want you to keep them alive, too, unless there’s no other choice.”

  Sarge cursed but didn’t put down his weapon. “Usually I get to hear his scolding after my work’s done but, lucky me, I’ve got you here instead.”

  Reveka’s voice, low and calm, filled Camille’s earpiece. “There is another one behind us.”

  “Super,” Camille said to Sarge. “We’ve got seven of them.”<
br />
  Then, to the women, she said, “We cannot let them circle us. Take the nearest wolf. Fire when ready.”

  A volley of mechanical spitting sounds cut through the mist, thunking when the darts hit the wolves. During the responding yelps of surprise, Camille reached into her utility belt for another dart from her supply, then popped one into place, targeting and firing again at a smaller wolf hanging near the back of the pack.

  Her team had kick-ass aim, but it wasn’t good enough. Only three of the weakest wolves crashed to the ground, dust kicking up around their heavy bodies.

  But four of the animals, who were roughly the size of tiny horses, stayed standing, nipping at the darts embedded in their fur.

  “Maybe,” Sarge said, “nobody told them they’re supposed to pass out.”

  The next thing Camille knew, the roar of a gunshot split the air, taking out one conscious wolf while the other stutter-stepped backward.

  Camille whipped around to find Delia, revolver in hand. Ana, Reveka and Lucia had gotten theirs out, as well.

  She should’ve known they’d be packing.

  “See,” Sarge muttered. “Your women know that bullets might be useless on these vampires, but they’re great for bringing down howlers.”

  One-handed, he produced a pistol he’d hidden in another ankle holster, then tossed it to her while still aiming his shotgun.

  She made a move for it, but with speed that scrambled the eye, the wolf sprang at the gun, batted it over the cliff with its snout and rocketed toward Sarge.

  Firing, he caught the wolf in midair with a screeching yelp. Undaunted, it landed on him, teeth gleaming, paw knocking the shotgun aside with a powerful swipe.

  The weapon twirled through the air, flashing around like the blades of a chopper, then shattered against the trunk of a pine tree.

  She’d never seen anything so fast before. A blur. A smudge ripping into Sarge’s leather vambraces.

  “Dammit!” That gun would’ve come in handy about now.

  Instead, Camille reloaded her own device, hoping two darts would do the trick.

  What the hell were these things anyway? Superwolves?

  Trying to keep her cool amid the chaos of the other two beasts going after the women, Camille targeted.

  Zing!

  A second dart lodged into the alpha wolf.

  Two doses of tranquilizer and a shotgun gouge to its chest. It should’ve brought down an elephant.

  As the animal sank its teeth into Sarge’s protected arm, Camille holstered her—yes, she admitted it now—worthless dart gun and glanced around, gaze lighting on a thick tree branch. She grabbed it, ran over to Sarge, lifted the makeshift club above her head and brought it down with a bang against the wolf’s skull.

  It ignored her and kept right on digging into Sarge. But the mercenary was holding his own, throttling the beast with one hand as he reached for his machete with the other.

  A round of shots sounded in back of her, then a death yelp. The women had got one. Two wolves left.

  The alpha’s jaws worked, teeth mangling Sarge’s left vambrace to shreds. It slashed, bit, inflicted fang-tear damage on the mercenary.

  He couldn’t get to his machete. “Howard! My knife!”

  He angled out his leg, clearly wanting her to use his bowie.

  With a rough yell of pain, Sarge threw back his head as the wolf clamped his bare arm in its mouth, chomping.

  His pain tore into her, too.

  Driven by fear for him, Camille dropped her tree branch and dived for his ankle sheath, yanked out the knife. Then she grasped the handle in the ice-pick grip she’d seen Sarge demonstrate this morning and put all her strength into stabbing the wolf in its neck.

  The blade slipped into fur and skin all too easily.

  Blood spurted out of the wound, and the wolf instantly snapped at her, beat at her with a paw.

  That gave Sarge the opportunity to maneuver, to roll out from under the wolf enough to access his machete. Then he knelt, brandished the weapon, ready for more.

  In the meantime, Camille used her free hand to shove the alpha away while pulling out the bowie. When the wolf came at her again, she delivered a roundhouse kick to its snout.

  It winced, caught her boot in its teeth, yanked, flipped her to the ground.

  Slam. The air jarred out of Camille’s lungs, and the world went lopsided. Fur…teeth…red eyes reflecting the emerging moon…

  She had to get to her feet. Now.

  Launching herself up to her knees, she saw that Sarge, his left arm shredded crimson with hanging skin, was playing machete chicken with the wolf. It’d snap at him; Sarge would strike. They were both so fast Camille could barely keep track of what was happening.

  There was a scream behind her, near the narrow path.

  When she turned around, Reveka was wrestling on the ground with the other remaining wolf while Lucia, Delia and Ana madly slashed at it with their own new knives.

  A particularly vicious growl from Sargent reclaimed Camille’s attention. The alpha was attacking his bloody left arm again, vising onto it, tugging.

  Was it trying to dismember him?

  Sarge arced his machete downward, burying the blade in the fur of its back. Still, it hung on, determined.

  He reached for his flamethrower, couldn’t grab it.

  Camille wiped the blood-slippery bowie handle on her bodysuit, then sheathed it in her belt, intending to use something more lethal.

  Save Sarge, she thought, the words speeding through her head. Nothing else is as important as defending his life.

  Sarge would help her get to Griff. That was why she needed to go after those wolves now.

  With all the courage she could muster, she flew forward, planted her boot on the wolf’s back and pulled at the machete.

  Resistance from wounded muscle. A wet sucking sound.

  “Oh, God,” she said, fighting to get the blade out.

  One more tug, one more shove of her boot and…

  Sluuuurrrrp.

  It was out.

  She took a batter’s stance, then swung the machete around, embedding it in the wolf’s neck.

  Immediately, she backstepped, unsheathed her knife and picked up the tree branch, ready to defend herself.

  The animal glanced over its shoulder, choked out a bubble of blood. A saliva-thick thread of scarlet crept out of its mouth as the beast fell down from Sarge to its feet, weakly crouching in preparation for another attack.

  Both Camille and Sarge exchanged miffed glares, then backed away.

  With quicksilver speed, the alpha leaped at her. All Camille saw was fang, dimmed red by Sarge’s blood.

  She had enough presence of mind to swing the branch first, catching the wolf at the head, but that didn’t stop its momentum. Yet it did allow her to use the leverage to push herself away.

  No time to think. Just move.

  Blindly, she swung her other arm backward, upward, spinning around, ice-picking the wolf’s soft belly.

  It fell, wheezed, eyes fixed on her, tongue lolling out.

  Why? it seemed to be asking. This is my function in life. You didn’t have to kill me for it.

  When it banged to the dirt, Camille actually felt the thump of its weight through the soles of her boots.

  Her breath felt like sharp ice in her lungs, spiking each attempt to draw in air, the chill rushing to her head.

  Slowly, she bent down, withdrew the knife with a final tug, grasped a handful of the wolf’s fur and squeezed.

  You were keeping me from Griff, she thought.

  Wasting no time, Sarge moved to them with his flamethrower, pulled Camille away from the wolf, tore the machete out of its skin, then torched the beast with one long burst of flame.

  She watched for just a moment, absently tucking the knife into her belt.

  They hadn’t been shape-shifters, she thought, taking in the carnage around her, the wolves who were only that.

  Wolves.

  But they ha
dn’t been your garden-variety howlers, either. She had to admit that much.

  A scream and a burst of more gunfire shook her back to the moment.

  Reveka and Lucia were on their stomachs, reaching over the edge of the narrow path they’d recently conquered. Ana was aiming her revolver over the side. She took a shot.

  Where was that last wolf? Where was Delia?

  Camille ran to them, skidded to a stop. Saw Delia’s gloved hands gripping the ledge.

  Good God.

  Dropping to her belly, Camille reached out, too, joining the other women in gripping Delia’s wrists, trying to pull her to safety.

  Delia’s china-doll eyes were wide, her mouth opened in a soft mewl of terror. Her body seemed much too heavy for her size, and she was thrashing from side to side. As Camille scanned lower, she saw why.

  The last wolf was dangling also, jaws latched on to Delia’s torn leg, its fur matted with blood from Ana’s gunshots.

  The taste of bile burned the back of Camille’s mouth. “Hold on, Delia.”

  The woman groaned, gnashing her teeth together. Her body jerked as she lost her grip on the ledge. Reveka and Lucia strained, tightened their holds on her wrists.

  Dammit, this wasn’t working.

  Camille got up and sprinted to Sarge, who was setting flame to all the wolves. His left arm hung at his side, but he didn’t seem to mind the ribboned skin or the pain.

  “Machete,” she said with no further explanation.

  He merely shot her a look that said it all.

  Welcome. Glad you’ve arrived, Howard. Glad you’ve decided that killing ain’t such an immoral thing after all.

  Yeah. She’d deal with her conscience later, when there was time.

  He handed over the weapon. Nodding, she acknowledged the loan, not his judgment.

  Then she took off for Delia, undoing a rope strapped to her utility belt, securing it around her waist.

  “Ana,” she said, summoning the villager whose gunshots weren’t helping the situation.

  Camille wrapped the other end of the rope around the other woman. “Hold on to me.”

  She could see the surprise in Ana’s eyes, the respect for Camille’s willingness to go over the edge for them.

  But Camille felt guilty accepting the admiration. She wanted Delia back. Even with a bum leg, she could fight the vampires with the UV wand’s stunning powers, and she could use a dart gun.