They stare at each other for a handful of seconds. “I'll let you know. I have my own reasons to want to know who lives.”
Julia's eyebrows pop. “Can I know what those are?”
He deliberates, unsure about whether to confide.
Slash is not an easy male.
He looks at Julia. Yet, she is not an easy female.
They make quite a pair.
“If Adrianna's packmaster is dead, she is free to mate with me.”
“Wow,” Julia says softly, seemingly stunned.
Slash feels his face heat. He understands her surprise, of course. That one as ugly as he would even imagine a life with a female like Adrianna is foolish.
But love is foolish. Love knows no bounds or reason. Love simply is. It grows from the fertile garden of the heart like a stubborn flower, to be adored by the recipient or rejected so the blooms can wilt in the shade of unrequited love.
He casts his eyes to the ground. “I don't deserve her.” His voice is gruff, and Slash hears the shrug of dismissal in his own words.
“No, Slash. That's not it,” Julia says, lightly touching his arm.
He looks up, seeing the compassion in her face, and looks swiftly away.
Slash doesn't need anybody's fucking pity. “I understand how I look. I get that I'm not a prize to be won.”
“Hey,” Julia says in a sharp voice, and he reluctantly turns to face her again. “Scars do not define the man, Slash.”
He heaves a painful breath, jerking it from air that's grown thick with his regret about confessing to anyone. He should have kept his own council.
“She's from another pack. The home den mates with their own females,” he explains.
“Pfft,” Julia says with obvious disdain. “That's dumb.”
Slash smiles blandly. “It is what it has always been.”
“Well, if Lawrence isn't here to lay down the letter of the law, who's to stop you from marrying Adi?”
“Mating,” he corrects.
“Right,” she says with a smile.
Slash taps his temple. “You're still very human in your thought process.”
“Maybe, but all that stuff is on my mind at the moment.”
He nods. “No one is here to stop us. That's exactly my motivation for seeing it through. Though I would have done it for the asking.”
Julia squeezes his forearm. “I know it. And I know Karl will help. He was a cop, after all.”
Julia steps closer, and he looks down into her face—a face without guile. It makes him anxious to see someone so fragile lead so many.
“Does Adi know how you feel?”
His eyes don't flinch under Julia's intense scrutiny.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Why, ʻunfortunatelyʼ?”
Slash drags a hand over his short hair as he gives a harsh exhale, and Julia steps back, sensing the space he needs.
“She could do better. I am selfish in my pursuit.”
“You're honest. And that's what Adi needs. You forget, I lived in that den for a while, and they were letting Tony rule the roost. Jason was locked up like an animal. If it hadn't been for Manny, I don't know what would have happened. Lawrence, in my opinion, was a weak leader, letting the Were kill each other for their stupid rites and treating the females like a commodity. I wasn't a fan.”
Slash is troubled but not surprised. There simply aren’t enough females. It's a cross-species dilemma. Slash has often wondered if the dwindling number of females is a type of natural selection in the supernatural realm. Nature does population control while affording extra protection for the females by making sure there were more than enough males to provide that protection. But it leads to corruption within the Were leadership.
“If Lawrence is gone, there will be no opposition. If he is not, I will appeal for the right to mate with Adrianna. In the meantime, Truman, Zeke and I will scent the deceased. I don't know everyone's unique scent, but I can identify the Were and give a count of how many Singers—”
Julia holds up her hand. “Thank you. Please, don't tell anyone what I've asked you to do. It's a grisly task, and emotions are already running high. People are just waiting for something else to wail and gnash. And”—Julia's eyes fill with tears—“I don't blame them one little bit.”
Salt permeates the air, and Slash speaks to a point above her shoulder. “There is good in all of it. More Singers are alive. Tessa and Tahlia are solid additions.”
Julia's brows furrow. “Yeah. What's their story?” She wipes tears from her face.
Slash throws a hard glance her way, his hands going to his hips.
“Whoa—that bad?”
Slash shakes his head. “No. It's not bad, but it's not perfect, either. The whelp—”
“Tahlia? Is she really a whelp?”
Slash's mouth twists into a smile. “No. But she is hardly more than one. She is Lanarre.”
Julia's looks surprised. “I remember what that is. When I was bored out of my mind and semi-prisoner at the Northwestern pack, I read the Lycan history.” Her frown turns to a confused scowl. “But a female Lanarre running around without guardians? From what I can recall, they are not unguarded until mated.”
“Her guardians were murdered.”
Her scowl deepens. “By who?”
“Who do you think?” Slash asks.
Julia shrugs, her expression puzzled. “I have no idea.”
“Tony.”
“Oh crap.” Julia shudders. “What an evil guy he was.”
“Yes.”
Julia cups her elbows. “So, we're taking care of Tahlia until the Lanarre find us and kick our asses for having her?”
Slash barks out a laugh. “Pretty much.”
“Great.”
“It gets better.”
Julia groans, and he's sympathetic.
“She was traveling to mate with her chosen.”
Horror bleeds over Julia’s face, her eyes widening. “Oh, wow.”
Slash nods. “Basically, he's the prince of another Lanarre pack.”
Julia's arms fall by her sides, palms out. “Does she want to marry this guy?”
“Don't you have enough politics to worry about?” Slash asks.
“Are you teasing me?”
Slash nods, allowing a smile to touch his lips. “A little.”
“Hell, yes, I have enough. But, I don't want to just deliver Tahlia to this arranged-marriage dude—”
“Drek.”
“Okay, Drek. No, I want to her to be willing.”
Neither one talk about the parallels to Julia's own circumstances. They don't need to.
“Not our business. It's a Lanarre issue.”
Her face puckers with distaste. “Uh-huh.”
They're quiet for a time while Slash thinks. The Singers have moved inside the house to presumably eat and catch up more. Slash feels eyes on them, nonetheless.
He's sure Scott would not be out of eyesight, but within earshot. He doesn't scent Jason.
“And Tessa?” Julia inquires suddenly.
“She's on the run from the Western pack. Tramack.”
“Weird name,” Julia says. “Why is he after her?”
“Old-school pack.” Slash knows of the Western. They border the Northwestern's territory, though they don't co-exist well.
Julia's eyebrow lifts and she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What, like the Northwestern?”
Slash shakes his head. “No. They hold to very old principles that are dangerously outdated. But again, it's not our pack. I don't have jurisdiction there. Tessa says she's been running for twenty years.” Slash gives her a sidelong glance. “There's a lot of dead Were in her wake.”
Julia pulls a face, giving a surprised jerk of her chin. “Really?”
“Yes. She's learned to survive and the males aren't allowed to use deadly force. Tramack wants her for himself.”
Disgust replaces surprise. “What a mess.”
I agree.
“She'll be here temporarily then she'll have to move on.”
“Why doesn't this dweeb give up?”
Why indeed? Slash laughs abruptly then cuts it off. It's too somber tonight when he's on the brink of searching out death scents. His smile vanishes.
“Some Were become obsessed with a certain female, usually an Alpha. They can't think of anyone else. And, remember, there isn't a plethora of females.”
“True, but who wants someone that doesn't want them?” Julia asks.
Slash gives a hard smile. “Plenty.”
He allows his expression to convey that she should have known the answer to that question.
Her face tightens when understanding dawns.
“Right.”
Neither mention Tony.
“I'll find the dead,” Slash says, ending the conversation.
Julia nods sadly, giving him her back as she walks away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Praile
“Do it.”
Lazarus lays his palms on Praile's ruined shirt. He hisses from the light contact.
“The Master has commanded a three-quarter healing,” Lazarus reminds him.
“I will deal with the Master. I cannot feign being a recovered Singer without this, Lazarus.”
Seconds tick by, and Praile groans when the power of Lazarus’s healing washes through the rough cotton, seeping into the rawest part of the torn flesh.
Vapor rises as the bloom of health surfaces to the newly healed skin.
Praile's head sinks forward, and he groans with relief, shuddering as the worst of the torment falls away.
Lazarus's hands lift, and Praile steps away, jerking the shirt from his skin.
It's the equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid. Fresh scabs come away with the material, and he howls.
“Praile,” Lazarus begins to reprimand, and Praile turns again.
They repeat a short bout of healing, and finally, Praile steps away the second time. His eyes search the woods, commanding the minions.
They slither out of the forest, tails high, horns long, their skin so dark it is black shadowed by red.
“Clothes,” Praile instructs with a bark.
Lazarus quietly observes Praile making his way stiffly inside a new shirt. The waistband of the denims are drenched in his blood, and those must be replaced as well.
“Make haste. The perimeter is guarded.”
Praile rolls his eyes. “I know that. We must make the most of this charade. The pretense will only need to be maintained for a day, perhaps a few hours more. We move in, kill the High One, and steal the blood babe and its mother from under their grieving noses. It's glaringly simple, Lazarus.”
Doubt lingers at the edges of Lazarus's altered face. “I don't have time to convince you.”
“You are here to scent track every supernatural in the area. I want Tharell if he's still alive.”
“He is.”
“The Master will take great pleasure in a promise broken by the Sidhe. Tharell can be fileted over and over and shall never die.”
Lazarus's expression is carefully neutral, but Praile can see what swims beneath: loathing mixed with a glimmer of fear.
“It will keep the Master very occupied.”
Lazarus raises a pale-blond eyebrow. “And his lashes off your skin.”
Praile gives Lazarus a considering look. “Precisely.”
Praile turns and commands the low demons telepathically. They retreat into the woods to blend with the organic matter until summoned once more. They're barely sentient, but they have their uses.
Grunts for his bidding. Demonic meat shields in battle.
The demonic low females have even more diverse uses. Praile licks his lips with his forked tongue in both memory and anticipation.
Soon. Soon he will leave this place and go back to his hot slice of dark heaven. There, he will feast at the Master's side once more, glowing in the adoration of a task well done. Tharell will be the literal whipping boy, the High One will be dead, and the last hope of the Singers will be snuffed out like a dying flame.
Praile cackles in joy. His deeds are nearly done.
He slips his cloak of false humanity over himself, rendering his skin, horns, and tail invisible. His tongue proves the most difficult. All his consonants come out with a hiss. He is a handsome demon. Yet—all the attributes of his attractiveness are a challenge to hide. Nevertheless, Praile makes short work of cloaking his true being.
He will have to be constantly vigilant whenever he speaks. It wouldn't do to sound like a snake when he’s remanded to Region One.
Just as he thought that, two Singer guards came upon him and Lazarus.
Fortuitous.
Praile and Lazarus raise their hands in an obvious gesture of truce.
The Singer at the left asks, “Who are you?”
“I'm Laz, from Region Two, and this is Peter”
Praile contains his irritation at being given the ill-suited name he did not agree to.
Good Lucifer.
The two Singers exchange a thoughtful glance. “How'd you get separated from Two?”
Lazarus smiles, and Praile bites his lip to keep from laughing. His mirth would certainly reveal their deception.
“We became separated during the battle and have just made our way here.”
The Singers look suspicious, but the story agrees with everything they know thus far.
The Singer guards are not Angelic enough to have the veins that would alert them to the presence of cloaked demonics.
Fooling the High One will be a special bit of business.
The faster I end her, the better for us all.
“All right. We can use all the Singers we can get. You two follow us and shack up at Region One for the time being.”
“Is the Rare One there?” Praile is dizzy with excitement about her impending death at his talons.
Mild puzzlement knots the Singer's brows. “Of course.”
“Good.” Praile nods, sensing Lazarus's discontent. “At least we have leadership after all the deaths.”
The Singer's face smooths out, all suspicion gone. “Yes. It's the one positive in all the misery.”
Praile gives a sad nod, as false as anything he's ever manifested.
They move ahead. He and Lazarus share a look of readiness behind their backs.
They're nearly there.
*
Tessa
Tessa feels like a million bucks. A hot shower and some food have made her wolf want to roll on its back and have its belly scratched. However, Tessa doesn’t know anyone and decides it's better to take a walk down to the lake she spied earlier from a window instead of wallowing in her temporary reprieve.
Tessa feels night pushing at the edges of the day, pregnant with yearning to birth the stars.
The moon beckons, just out of range, and Tessa sighs with longing. She can’t count how many months have passed since she was able to just be her animal without fear of capture.
She has a chance to defend herself against males in her human form. But when in wolf form, the difference of genders is at its glaring fullest. In Tessa's opinion, the best advantage a female Were has going for her is the quarter-change. They look no different, but have heightened senses, strength, and speed. It's meant to be a protection against losing a whelp while pregnant, but the form can be conjured at will, without the moon.
She's never attacked Tramack’s hounds while in human form. She met them all head on in her quarter-change form. They were at a disadvantage without their wolfen forms engaged.
And she brutally exploited it.
Tessa has no remorse. If Tramack allowed her freedom, she would no longer have to run. Sleeping in a different bed every two weeks, eat whatever she can forage—Tessa is merely existing. She simply takes sustenance, and breathing has begun to make her weary.
Pushing air in and out of her lungs is simply not enough in this life. Her will to live is slipping as Tramack gains ground in h
is chase. But as the moon begins to peek through clouds stretched thin like milky wounds, Tessa is happy for this moment. She is protected, and she has a full belly and a lighter heart than she's had in years.
She's not a great musician, but she begins to whistle a melody—a tune she remembers from when she was a whelp.
Her mother and father raised her from whelphood before they were killed in one of the tragic wars of her kind. Being an orphan is not unique to the Were.
Maybe Were would be more fruitful if we stopped killing each other. Tessa thinks women could stop the wars if they were allowed to hold leadership roles.
The thing is, there simply aren't enough females to fulfill all the positions they should. Females are so scarce there's nothing soft to balance the hard. It's all raging testosterone. Battle, then sex, eat—rinse and repeat.
I know there's more.
A bird lands on a branch not too far away and twitters a last song. He stays long enough to offer solace then leaps off the perch to roost just as true night lands with a soft sigh all around her.
Tessa shivers inside the cooler nocturnal embrace, moving smoothly into quarter-change. Instantly, her higher body temperature warms her, and she rolls her shoulders back with an exhale of relief, comfortable again.
Her ears prick at the sound of approaching footsteps. She moves behind a tree that feeds directly from a lake, which is little more than a large pond. The water is beautiful, but the smells of death strangely linger. Her nose twitches with it.
Weird.
Tessa sights four figures walking toward her position and moves deeper into the shadows.
In this form, her eyes function as though its daytime, and she's grateful anew for the blessings of the quarter-change.
Two Singer guards, whose names she doesn’t know, move with purposeful strides toward the Singers’ large mansion. It looms at the top of a small hill, and Tessa watches lights pop on inside like many eyes, casting false warmth against the grounds.
The two men walking behind the Singers catch Tessa's interest.
They move stiffly as though unaccustomed to their own gait, especially the bizarre-looking one to the right. Tessa flares her nostrils but doesn't catch a scent. The man is like a vampire, who doesn't carry a scent. Though sometimes, vamps do smell vaguely like earth and snakes. Tessa frowns.
Angelic Blood (#5): Alpha Warriors of the Blood (The Blood Series) Page 10
