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

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Knew it. “Yes, him.”

  Her eyes slide away from Tessa. “Of course.”

  Hell no she doesn't.

  “Is he an okay guy, like…”

  “I do not know if he is a ʻsadistic pig.ʼ” She gives a little grin, ducking her head, and Tessa laughs. The girl has a great sense of humor buried underneath all the layers of propriety.

  “Okay, so can we just do whatever? Stick together? Or do you have parents or what?”

  Her face smooths.

  Tessa knows masked sadness when she sees it.

  “I do not know my parents. Only my guardians. One to guard and one to take care of me and teach me the ways of the Lanarre.”

  That's awful.

  “Okay,” Tessa slaps her thighs, knowing the girl essentially just lost the only caregivers she ever knew. “So let's take the long way.”

  “The which?”

  Tessa grins, throwing the car into gear. “Let's show up when we feel like it.”

  Tahlia bites her lip and Tessa realizes that's her nervous tell.

  “They will search for me.”

  Tessa snorts. “Have at it, guys.” She turns and relaxes against the seat. Tessa hears the seatbelt click.

  “I think I like you, Tessa.”

  “I like you, too, Tahlia. I always think people that save my life are the best.” Tessa winks at Tahlia, and a shy smile ghosts her lips.

  Neither one of them have a friend in the world.

  But it looks like they have each other.

  Things could be worse.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Praile

  The barbed end of the lash checks the top layer of his skin and peels it away like sliced cheese.

  Praile gnashes his black teeth together as a layer of smoldering mist hovers above his flesh.

  Praile always smolders when his emotions run high.

  The lash whistles a high note at the return. It sings as it returns to meet his flesh.

  Praile bellows as the thirteenth lash strikes deep, ringing its poison-tipped metal on a vertebrae in his fileted back.

  “Halt,” a low voice says from behind Praile. His head bows to his chest. Rivulets of sweat burn a pathway through his scalp and pour down to fill the wounds the barbed lashes have made on the entire length of his spine.

  Praile dare not turn. The next lash might paralyze him. Yes, he could heal it, but the vulnerability of not feeling or being able to move would be his undoing as his skills of self-healing were greatly limited. Healing is not one of his gifts.

  “I believe Praile has learned a valuable lesson this day,” the Master comments.

  He has learned nothing except if something were to go ill, Praile will suffer. However, The Master has taught Praile well, and he emulates the Master.

  “Release him from his bindings.”

  Two of the low demons appear at either side of Praile and unshackle him. One dares to meet his eyes.

  The gaze of the low contains a measured triumph. He is pleased by Praile's punishment.

  Praile grins, marking him for later, and he bows his head, scuttling away.

  Run faster, minion.

  The Master slithers to Praile, the swish of his robes is all that Praile hears.

  Praile feels real fear, which is rare. His gaze drops, concentrating on the hem of the Master’s robe. The Master’s feet are grotesquely disproportionate. Long cracked black toenails that are so long, they nearly curl.

  The Master always smolders.

  A black mist rises from the flesh of his feet. His toes wiggle and Praile flinches.

  The Master chuckles a dark note of contentment into the hot cavern where torture, death, and discipline are meted.

  “You are a good slave to the cause, Praile. However, when you called the Were to destroy our enemies on earth, the one who was most important to be slain runs about unharmed. And the Blood Babe lives inside the womb of a crafty Singer. One who is a female after my own heart.”

  Praile hears a dull thump as the Master’s meaty fist thumps his own chest.

  The lump in Praile's throat shifts, stifling his breathing.

  “I am entrusting you to find this Singer that is with child. The child.”

  A talon touches the fleshy part of Praile's chin, and he winces, though it does not hurt.

  “Bring her to me.” The Master’s rancid breath bathes Praile's face.

  Praile turns away, for even he cannot bear it.

  The Master laughs at his discomfiture. “Kill the Angelic Blood, the High One. Do not hesitate. Do not tarry. Bring me the whites of the Angelic's eyes.”

  “Yes, Master,” Praile whispers.

  “I will make your death last for an eon if you fail me in this.”

  Praile knows. He nods.

  The Master's hands thread through his hair, slowly squeezing like a vise. “Are we clear, Praile?”

  His meaning is utterly clear as the Master's fingerprints begin to burn into Praile’s scalp.

  “Yes.”

  His grips tightens to the point of screeching pain, then he abruptly releases Praile's head.

  Praile bites back his relief and begins to control his breathing, concentrating only on that.

  “Lazarus will heal your wounds—yet not perfectly. You should feel the pain as a reminder of what yet needs accomplishing.”

  Praile lays his palms against the heated stone in front of him, trying not to notice the lost talons embedded in the wall from failed escapes by the masses tortured before him. The black blood has faded over time to a washed-out charcoal. It fills the grooves and divots of the nearly black rock.

  Praile groans as he straightens, keeping his eyes away from the Master. To look upon him is sure insanity. No one has ever cast their eyes upon the Master and lived to tell of it.

  Their screams were silenced.

  Praile shudders as a talon caresses the most grievous wound at his back.

  “I will see to it.” Praile's agony drips from each word.

  The talon sinks deep, and Praile bites the inside of his cheek until the rich taste of copper fills his mouth as he suffers through the inspection of the fresh wound on his back.

  “Good.” The talon lifts, and Praile nearly weeps in relief.

  Praile's shoulders slump as the Master exits the chamber. He stays in the same tense position until Lazarus appears at his side.

  Praile's hate for Lazarus burns brightly. But Lazarus does his job.

  “This will be more painful before it heals, Praile.”

  “Yes, yes. Get on with it.”

  Fingers dig inside the wounds, and Praile squeals like a pig brought to slaughter. The pain is so acute, he forgets to breathe—or think. He arches to escape the probing fingertips, but nothing will relieve him.

  “Hold him up,” Lazarus murmurs.

  Low demons, whom Praile does not know, hoist him by the armpits as the searing healing begins.

  “Stop,” he moans.

  “No,” Lazarus replies.

  Praile is sure he hears a smile in that one-word reply.

  He opens his mouth to convey the pain Lazarus will incur for his joy at his master's pain.

  But the pain is too great. It rips at his brain, and all falls to blackness.

  *

  The demonic can camouflage their bodies. If the demonic did not have this ability, humans could easily call them out. Though Praile's skin is the coveted deepest red of his kind, it is well outside of human norms. And when he is rife with emotion, he smolders and small stubby horns sprout above his head. Though they are a sign of beauty for the demonic, they are an instant warning to humans that he is other.

  Lazarus does not have horns, beautiful dark skin, or a tail weapon. He can be camouflaged easily and fit in nicely among humankind. Lazarus, with his horrible white teeth, hornless head, and lackluster tail, has less to hide.

  He is the perfect lackey.

  Praile will need to remain calm. High demons have a more difficult time hiding wha
t they are.

  Three days have passed since the Master’s punishment. Lazarus healed Praile three quarters to right, and no more, according to specific instruction.

  Praile cannot mask his stiffness. Though the deepest wound is sealed halfway, it seeps through the ridiculous human costume he is forced to wear. The cotton button-down shirt is sticking to the wet wounds of his back, and it pulls as he takes breaths.

  Praile holds up his palm, and Lazarus slows, putting large hands on his denim-clad hips.

  “Wait.”

  Lazarus cocks a light red eyebrow. “If you need rest…”

  Praile rolls his eyes. “Of course I need rest!” he bellows into the still night air. “It is not about rest, Lazarus. Our Master requires this task completed in a timely way.” Praile pants, trying to straighten. Unable to manage it, he hunches once more.

  “Flag down a human vehicle so that we might make haste to where the Angelic resides.”

  Lazarus frowns. “It is a risk I advise you not to take.”

  Praile straightens, hissing as the material of the shirt sticks to his tender back. “Duly noted. Now flag. Down. A. Human.”

  “What if the human possesses the devices of sanctity?”

  Drat.

  “Crosses and the like?” Lazarus prompts as though Praile needs a reminder.

  Praile's brows drop like bricks above his eyes, and a lazy smolder begins above the bare skin at the back of his hands. “It is unlikely, with so many humans in thrall with evil, that we will come across the random practitioner.”

  “There is the matter of an Angelic among humanity.”

  Praile staggers toward Lazarus, looking up at the taller male, hating his stature. “You let me divine which human is a threat to us.”

  “My discernment—”

  “Your discernment is a tool in my arsenal, Lazarus—do not forget that.”

  Lazarus allows a rare show of emotion, his lips curling as he bares his teeth. “You do not let me,” he says.

  Lazarus makes his way from the forest where the portal of Hades empties to the highway, and which the human masses use to scurry from one ant hill to the next.

  Praile narrows his gaze at Lazarus's broad back.

  I will be watching you. Praile follows, making his slow and painful ascent from the gulley toward the highway.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Slash

  Slash remains on edge. Though the fey disposed of the gruesome remains of the decimated Singer population, the taste of death lingers over Region One like a stench that will never be cleansed.

  Zeke of the rogue Alaskan Were stands at Slash's side. “So many dead can't be so easily covered up.” His nose wrinkles.

  Slash grunts his assent and paces away. “What are our numbers?” He turns back, and Zeke shrugs.

  “Bad.”

  That's what Slash was afraid of. The demonic killed nearly half of the Region Two Singers, leaving roughly fifty behind. And half of those are children. As is typical, Slash wants hard numbers for fighters. Many are unaccounted for.

  What of Lawrence and Manny?

  “Do we have a superb tracker? Can we know for certain who is dead?”

  Zeke shakes his head. His exotic looks are unusual for the lower forty-eight, though Native Americans were plentiful where Zeke's pack ran in the north. “Our numbers are down by half, too. Our best tracker—gone.”

  Slash remembers something. “Jacqueline, the Singer from Two, she's a Tracker.”

  Zeke nods slowly, but his brows drop low over his eyes. “Do we want to use her? She is with child and has—what should we say?—bad blood.” Zeke laughs at the inside joke.

  Slash can't bring himself to.

  Zeke studies him for a moment. “You're a serious wolf.”

  Slash nods. “Serious times are afoot, Red.”

  Zeke stares at him for a second more. Instead of answering, he melds into his wolfen form.

  Slash’s laugh sounds like a bark, as he's changed, as well. Athletic pants expand to fit his increased girth and height, though he doesn't wear a shirt. “Perimeter sweep?”

  Zeke nods, and his stubbed snout causes Slash to wonder what he must look like in this form. That brings him back to his embarrassment over his scarred face.

  “Let's go,” Zeke growls from a mouth that no longer manipulates human speech perfectly.

  Slash swings his snout in the direction of the Victorian mansion, scenting Adrianna through the water as she showers.

  Guards, both Singer and Were, pepper the front of the grand home. The lone fang, Brynn, accompanies them.

  Determining Adrianna is safe, Slash nods at Zeke. Then they race to the edges of the hundred-acre property.

  Running the perimeter is the final pursuit of security before each night falls.

  Slash can't rest until he knows both his own wolves and his adopted group are safe. Then, and only then, will he lay down his weapons, eat, and clean up.

  Slash blurs through the scenery, his powerful arms punching the lone branch as it sweeps forward to snap at him. Leaves and forest debris pad his swift gait. A fallen old-growth log feeds the saplings that are nourished from its rich decay. He leaps over the belly of bark and wood rot with ease, his keen eyes at Zeke's back as he travels just ahead.

  Roads form a crude square around the property. Two parallel side roads run like wide railroad tracks that flank the sides of the land and Highway 101 claims the forward section.

  101 is exactly where they were all picked up by Tom Harriet and his immoral pack of Reds. The only Singer spared was the aura reader, Angela.

  Not a single Combatant remains alive, though Scott and Lucius are unaccounted for.

  Zeke stops so abruptly, Slash all but slams into him. He evades him by inches, rolling into a half-executed somersault and catching his forward momentum with an outstretched arm against a small tree trunk. It bends then breaks, flinging Slash through the undergrowth. He slows and barrels into a massive tree trunk.

  Pine needles rain down, and the scent of the forest is thick in his nose. He breathes, and they choke him. Slash ungracefully spits them out and glares at Zeke.

  Zeke holds out his palm, his talons still short from his change to wolfen. Slash slaps his palm inside Zeke's and rises.

  “Thanks for the warning.” Slash glares, baring his teeth.

  “If you smelled what I did, your ass would've puckered too.”

  Slash ignores him, flaring his nostrils hard.

  No. It can't be.

  He turns back to Zeke, who shrugs.

  “When was the last time you scented a Lanarre?”

  Slash awkwardly folds his arms, and sap causes them to stick together. He casts a sharp glance at Zeke. “Since whelphood.”

  “That's right.” Zeke nods, his burnt orange downy hairs making him look vaguely on fire. “I can't say I ever have.”

  It's instinct. A Were knows Lycan royalty.

  “Female,” Zeke says, and Slash nods.

  “Scenting a Lanarre in this area doesn't make a great deal of sense,” Slash growls. “They're always under guard. They're pure Were, from which we all come.”

  Zeke shrugs. “They all take a shit every day like the rest of us. Nothing special.”

  Slash's lips pull into a grim smile. “It might be a little more than toilet habits, Zeke.”

  “A female doesn't pose a threat, and I don't smell wounds. I say we leave her be.”

  Slash cups his chin, fur mashing down under his hand, and slowly shakes his head. “I don't think so. A female out in this rural area is illogical. They lock down their females. No. I say we investigate and make sure she isn't in danger, then we leave it be.”

  “Fine, but it could be a can of worms.” Greenish-gold orbs slowly spin, revolving slightly faster with Zeke’s emotions.

  Slash chuckles, dropping his hand. “I don't know about the Alaska dens, but when is it not a can of worms?”

  “I don't scent any males.”

  “True,”
Zeke says. His chin lifts as he gazes at the dying sun. “Let's do it quickly and get back to One. I could eat the ass out of a hippo.”

  “Nice choice of words.”

  “Do you feel less hungry?”

  Slash didn't. He thought he could eat the asses out of an entire herd. “No. I'm starved, too. The wolfen form is a bitch to maintain for this length of time. It sucks energy.”

  “That's in short supply,” Zeke finishes.

  Slash leads the way this time, scrapes and bruises from his rough landing repair and fade as he makes the steep climb toward the highway.

  *

  Tessa

  So much better, Tessa sighs mentally as her urine stream finally ends. She’s had to pee like a Russian race horse for the last hour.

  She smirks at her ladylike thoughts while using a napkin from the last gas station to wipe. She tosses the napkin to the ground and kicks leaves over it. A pang of guilt spurs her to help mother nature in its pursuit to return everything to the earth.

  Tessa scans the deep gloom of the forest. Her eyes rise up the small incline to where the car sits on the soft shoulder of Highway 101.

  “Tahlia,” Tessa softly calls.

  “Yes,” she answers.

  Tessa's shoulders drop. She can't believe how fast she feels responsible for the Lanarre female.

  Tessa needs that like she needs a hole in the head.

  It's not enough that Tramack is up her ass, sniffing around for a good place to dry hump her leg. No-oh, I’ve got to take in a stray Were female. Not any Were female, but a Lanarre princess.

  Dumb, Tessa. Really dumb.

  It is what it is.

  “Come here.”

  Tahlia moves between two huge fir trees. She's so quiet, Tessa's not sure if she would hear her had she not been directly in front of her and within sight.

  “You're quiet.”

  “Stealth movement is a very important part of my training.”

  Tessa cocks an eyebrow. “This is so weird. Really. Forgive me, but if you're this important princess—”

  Tahlia folds her arms, looking very close to a rant.

  Ignoring her, Tessa goes on, “Then why teach you all this combat stuff?”