Angelic Blood (#5): Alpha Warriors of the Blood (The Blood Series)

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  The fey piss him off on principle.

  Adrianna pops up beside him, striding quickly, matching his longer gait. He slows for her.

  Slash understands she is a crippling weakness in his otherwise-iron-clad defenses.

  He is also desperately in love with her.

  “Hey,” she says softly.

  Slash says hello back, keeping his face in profile, relieved she’s on the good side of his face. Adrianna doesn't seem to notice that Slash is purposefully hiding his face.

  “What do you think about all this?” she asks.

  Slash takes a painful, dry swallow. Her nearness is undoing his thoughts.

  Slash remains vigilant, scanning the surrounding area for threats.

  “Slash,” Adrianna says, reminding him that she asked a question.

  He forgets his looks for a few seconds and braves a glance at her, his nostrils flaring subtly.

  Her hair is everywhere, messy from the battle and their pace. Her hazel eyes are very wide and bright. Slash wants to count the freckles that are so like captured gold flakes in pale skin running over the bridge of her nose.

  “Slash,” Adrianna says again.

  Slash realizes he stopped walking, and he stares at her.

  “I made my piece known during our brief talk,” he replies, referring to the group decision to bring Tharell.

  “Pfft,” Adrianna sounds off, beginning to walk again, and a breath of relief eases out of his tight chest. “You didn't make your piece known. You insulted the vamp and the fey.”

  Slash shrugs. The fey? And what of them? They were corrupt, wanting to siphon off the Singers’ numbers and literally bring hell to earth with what Tharell did using his demonic connection. No. Slash is not inclined toward forgiveness or camaraderie.

  He smiles, and the scar tissue on his face tightens.

  Adrianna, seeing only the good part of his profile, smiles in return. “True. However, I don't care. The fey are a part of anything that involves what they can get.

  Slash allows a snort, and it comes out like a snuffle. “And the Were aren't?”

  He looks over his shoulder at the Were who survived the massacre and he is not surprised to see Zeke give a microscopic chin lift when Slash's scrutiny rolls over him.

  “We are. But we're cleaner about it.”

  A dark-blonde eyebrow lifts. “That makes it better, hmm?”

  No, but it is easier. Slash remains silent under what he perceives as her condemnation.

  Adrianna sighs, grabs his hand, and slings his entire arm over her shoulders.

  Slash's heart races, and his palms tingle at the unexpected contact.

  Her nostrils flare. “Do I scent fear on you, Slash?” Her question is serious, her voice coy.

  His feelings are a dangerous game.

  No use lying. “Yes.”

  Slash keeps walking, his arm around the female Alpha Were he would mate if allowed, if he were not marred.

  “Of me?” she whispers.

  He nods.

  He guides them deeper into the edge of the forest. The caravan of supernaturals continue to walk toward where members of Region Two are waiting to drive them back to One, to the false perception of safety.

  Slash relaxes in the shadows, his ugly mug hidden from Adrianna.

  He turns to face her fully, his large hands cradling her face. “I cannot have you, Adrianna. You must wait for someone from your den who is worthy of you.”

  Slash's self-loathing has never been deeper, wider, or more intense. He has to break it off with Adrianna and take away the hope of their being together. Slash can't handle her eventual rejection when another Were decides he wants her. And that Were will be whole and perfect, without the scars of war on his mind—or his face.

  “Oh Slash,” Adrianna says softly, cupping her smaller hand over his and he scents things that confuse him.

  Truth.

  Desire.

  “I have found a male worthy of me. And there is no other,” she says in the ancient language, and it fingers a chord like a guitar string inside Slash, as though a melody has begun playing just for him.

  The Singers claim their blood sings to the vampire and Were alike.

  Slash believes certain blood ties are just as strong between the right pair—the perfect mating pair.

  “Adrianna, I'm broken. Can't you see it?” His eyes implore her to see what is so obvious, to heed reason.

  She shakes her head, sending her ratty hair, stained and dirty from fighting at his side, sliding over shoulders.

  Slash smiles.

  My brave girl.

  “You're not gonna do this, Slash.”

  He frowns. “Do what?”

  “Hide—sacrifice.”

  Her hand leaves his and she slides her arms around his neck as her fingers grip his nape.

  “No,” Slash says in a panic, beginning to pull away, his hands dropping from her face.

  “Yes,” she says, “a million times, yes.”

  Then the softest skin he has ever felt brushes his lips, feathering over the scar tissue like heated silk. The barest breath of moisture flicks at the seam of his mouth, and his lips part against his volition.

  Slash forgets the promises made to himself.

  He forgets he is in the middle of a dangerous return to Region One and that others besides him are in danger.

  And most importantly, Slash forgets how fractured he is. In Adrianna's arms, he is whole.

  She moves to her tiptoes, gripping his neck more tightly and hanging off him.

  With a groan of consent, Slash bends down and lifts Adrianna off her feet. She's above him now, her legs around his waist, her fingers grasping the fuzz of hair that covers his head. Her thumb lands on one of the horrible scars on his skull, and he can't pull away. He doesn't want to.

  She kisses him deeply, her tongue diving inside his mouth, and he moans, hardening helplessly against her. She laughs softly against his mouth.

  “I knew you liked me.”

  And that's where it ends for Slash.

  He loosens her hold on him, gently letting her slide down the front of him, every hard inch in stark relief. He is embarrassed by his obvious arousal, but there's nothing he can do. He is a male Were, and she is the female he desires.

  The only one.

  He captures her wrists behind her back as his forehead touches hers. “That's the thing I'm trying to explain.”

  She speaks to his chest. “What? What is it Slash. You are the Were for me. You've always been.”

  “I don't like you,” Slash says.

  Their eyes meet.

  “What are you saying?” Her gaze looks uncertain now, and shadows of doubt linger in the lightest part of her eyes.

  “I don't like you—I love you,” Slash says so quietly, his words are barely more than mouthed syllables.

  Humiliated, he turns his back on Adrianna. However, now that she knows he's serious over her, she'll back off. He's too much work. Slash understands this.

  He feels a tap on his shoulder, and he stubbornly stays facing the woods, his arms folded. He stares, memorizing every furrow of bark, every pine cone, and each needle.

  Then Adrianna is standing before him.

  “Hey!” she shoves him in the chest, and he takes a step back, frowning. “You”—she pushes—“don't get to play father confessor then give me the cold shoulder.” She slaps his chest again, and he grabs her arms.

  She bares her teeth, and his wolf responds, growling.

  Slash tightens his hold, taking deep breaths to steady his animal. The urge to dominate her and take her as his wolf wants to causes him to throb painfully.

  He looks away, but he can't bring himself to let go of her. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to. Dammit, I’m trying to do the right thing. The honorable thing. Why can't she see it?

  He asks her fiercely, “Then what would you have of me?” He looks down at the beautiful mouth he just kissed and falls off the precipice of reason. “Since y
ou already have my heart.”

  She runs a finger down the worst of the scarring of his face and he flinches. “Look at me, Slash.”

  He barely lifts his chin, his nostrils flaring at her heady scent. He needs to get the hell out of here, and fast. Or his wolf will act for him. It's so close to the surface of his skin he can see the microscopic movement of his flesh rippling.

  Her hazel eyes drill into his. And his wolf likes the dominant display of the female—his female.

  “I love you, too, you big damn dope.” She takes her finger away and punches him in the arm. “I'm not going anywhere, and I don't give two shits and an eff if you have scars. Or if you've killed a legion of Were in battle. Or that you're not in my pack.”

  Slash's chest is so tight, he can't draw a single breath. His emotions drown him, clogging his airways.

  Adrianna puts her hand on his chest then grips his shirt in her small fist. “Hear me, Slash.”

  His eyes pull to hers.

  “Lawrence can stick it up his ass. I want you.”

  Slash covers her hands with his own, and the steel bands around his chest loosen. She renounced her packmaster so easily.

  “Female, you—you ease me.” And she does, so much. If only Slash didn't feel guilty for this moment of stolen happiness.

  Adrianna's grin is fierce, and certain. “I know.”

  He smiles back, but it feels a little sad around the edges. “For how long will you be with me? I am not casual in my affections.” It's such an understatement, it's utterly ludicrous to voice.

  “Duh. Slash, I get this. You're old-school. I couldn't like another wolf if he bit me on the ass.” She laughs.

  Slash growls at the thought of any Were touching her, especially there.

  “You goofball,” she sinks against him, laying her face against his muscular chest.

  He holds one of her hands between their bodies and wraps his free hand around her back, pressing her tightly against him.

  “Don't you know? I've always been yours.”

  He lays the unscarred side of his face against the top of her head.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Praile

  Praile's long ebony tail is held high. It twitches, making a slight whistling sound as it whips to and fro.

  That usually happens when Praile's irritated. He's highly irritated now.

  Praile grasps Anthony Daniel Laurent by the hair. He shakes Anthony’s head slightly. The eyes have already glazed over with the whitish icy-gray shroud of death. With a disgusted snort, Praile chucks the severed head onto the pile of bodies.

  He sees Tony's prick like a blackened flesh noodle and holds in a laugh.

  Not bad. Judging by the wound, it was torn off his body by teeth. Praile snickers, not bothering to contain his glee. He taps a taloned finger on his chin, considering. He might not have done as well.

  Praile is a systematic high demon who is not wont to being dramatic. But jerking Tony's penis off with his teeth would have come with a certain amount of satisfaction, though the action was a tad intimate for his taste, which ran to the female persuasion.

  As humans have assumed for millennia, there is no pleasure to be had in Hades. But there is much to be had on this plane. Praile's sharp eyesight takes in the nuances of death all around him.

  One important instrument of advancement and justice is missing—the death saber. It brings death to nearly all supernaturals. Praile scans the bodies—they’re all demonic.

  The Singers must have buried their own.

  He whistles in the fifty-HZ range of ultrasonic frequencies that only canines can hear, and three demons swivel their heads in Praile's direction. He jerks his jaw, gesturing for them to join him.

  They move. They’re obedient. That is good, because the consequence for disobedience is swift and unyielding—very much like hell.

  Lazarus comes first. His unflattering pale-red skin and unadorned tail notwithstanding, he is the very best high demon Praile has ever known. He will kill anything, and he is built perfectly for the strenuous physical demands of their kind: to torture anything that breathes.

  And he is so exacting about it all. His name always makes Praile take hidden jest—it’s an apt nickname. Lazarus can bring most back from true death. Oh, the irony!

  Praile speculates Lazarus has a little Singer blood. That Healer part of him is handy during torture in the hot place.

  Praile hides his giddy expression with difficulty, loving his own humor. After all, Praile is his own biggest fan.

  His brow furrows. The Master will not find the minions’ failure to kill all the Singers humorous or appreciate their inability to capture the two most important females in a thousand years.

  Yet, Praile finds it all so droll.

  He longs for a true challenge and to have more freedom on this plane to torture, maim, and antagonize. After all, what fun is being a demon if one cannot spread darkness and cruelty?

  Praile folds his muscular arms. “Speak,” he barks at Lazarus. He smirks at his second-in-command, silently daring him to address his abhorrent interaction.

  But Lazarus is too clever to take the bait, which causes Praile a perverse joy. One must take small joys whenever they are presented.

  Praile sulks quietly at Lazarus’s utter lack of reaction. Lazarus is self-contained in a way that is rare of the aggressive demonic, and it pains Praile.

  “Some of our soldiers have escaped. The others have met true death.”

  Praile casts a glance at the low demons who accompany him and Lazarus. He dismisses them when they lower their eyes in subservient deference.

  “What of the Angelic Blood?”

  Lazarus heaves an exhale of disgust. “She is not here.”

  “Really?” Praile asks sarcastically, stepping into his second's space. Fool.

  Lazarus doesn't flinch.

  So brave, Lazarus. “I know that,” Praile spits.

  I so loathe relying on others, however necessary.

  “I scent the High One's blood.”

  Praile whips his head back in Lazarus's direction, flaring his nostrils. He tastes the truth of Lazarus's words on his tongue. “Really?” he says without the sarcasm he’d employed earlier.

  “Yes.”

  Praile runs his eyes over Lazarus. What a shame he doesn't possess the fine deep-scarlet skin that his kind finds so beautiful. It’s also unfortunate that Lazarus cannot have the tail that ends with an appendage of weaponry.

  His eyes narrow at Lazarus. It might be just as well that the other demonic is lacking, for Praile would be even more jealous of Lazarus than he already is. Praile hates his own perceived lack of gifts.

  Lazarus's keen sense of smell rivals that of the Were. It is so acute, he can scent emotions, where Praile can scent only a lie. Lazarus can take every drop of life out of anything that draws breath and give it back at will. He has also animated the dead for his bidding.

  Useful attributes in a demonic.

  That bit was something to see. Commanding the dead, as a demonic, is a rare gift. But Lazarus is ugly. Certainly, with his sculpted face, square jaw, and tall muscled body, he might appeal to some demon females as a pity fuck.

  Praile is picky about his dalliances, though. He cocks his head. Actually, he's discerning about everything. He shrugs.

  “Is she wounded?”

  Lazarus nods, serious and, as usual, humorless.

  Praile licks his lips. “Do tell.”

  Lazarus makes loose fists. “She has a piece of us inside her.”

  Praile chortles. “Excellent.”

  “The High One is still mortal?” Praile's gaze searches Lazarus's.

  Lazarus smiles, showing bright, ugly white teeth. “Absolutely.”

  Praile lets out a sigh of relief. All is not lost.

  “Idiots, they should have wedded her. Were, vampire, and Singer. And the Angelic Blood would be untouchable. Though it would be a great source of amusement to kill all who served her,” Praile muses.

&nb
sp; Lazarus does a poor job of containing his irritation.

  “Let us fetch the death saber. We can't have that in the wrong hands, though I am most pleased Anthony managed to pierce the Angelic Blood before his cock and balls were chewed off his worthless body.”

  The low demons mewl from their safe position several feet away from Praile.

  His grin widens, showing off his ebony teeth to perfection.

  “You two”—he swings a black talon-tipped finger toward two of his minions—“clean up the mess of your kind and go to hell.”

  A giggle bubbles in Praile's throat, and he barely suppresses it. He gives Lazarus a sidelong glance to ascertain if his second noticed his slippage.

  Lazarus meets his eyes but finally ends the staring contest.

  It is well-known that high demons have a propensity to slide into madness after middle age. At over seven hundred years old, Praile is no exception. Yet he must finish the Master's most important work.

  The High One shall be slain.

  The abomination growing inside the belly of the mixed-blood royal Singer shall be sacrificed in Hades, as prophesied.

  A child destined to have the blood of all cannot be allowed to survive—or save the Angelic Blood through the gift of immortality.

  The last task of the Master is a tall order.

  Praile is just the demon to fill it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Julia

  A mansion even more grand than Region One's rises on a perfectly shaped knoll like a jewel that's lost its luster. Its paint is peeling, and the once-grand dame stands in testimony as a shell of her former self. It deepens Julia's depression. If she can make it through the next day, she'll be so thankful.

  Jason and the other Were get practical and melt back into full human form, Cyn and Adi stay in quarter-change form, though. Julia would stay that way all the time if she were a female Were.

  She admires Cyn’s and Adi's versatility in a world that is harsh on the subsect of humanity that dwindles under their noses.

  All these groups were co-existing with her for her entire life, and she'd never known.

  Slash and Adi walk together toward the front entrance, where the large oak door stands open.