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

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  He is a handsome specimen. As Praile looks on with distaste, he must concentrate to keep the manifestation of his demonic blood from being obvious.

  Praile is hanging on by a thread.

  His pure demon blood is an oil-slicked cauldron boiling beneath his false human flesh. Lazarus copes better. However, Lazarus is a high demon, as well. Their blood is designed to serve as a natural alarm to their worst enemy's presence. The Angelic share that defense mechanism.

  The effort of maintaining his camouflage makes sweat break out on Praile's skin, and his fingertips tingle as the large Singer approaches.

  With each step the Singer takes, something primal and deep within Praile tightens. His teeth clench with the effort to retain his form.

  “I am Victor,” the Singer says. Eyes like pale gray storm clouds stare with disconcerting intensity on Praile. He is not intimidated by anyone.

  Praile's situation is precarious.

  He must persevere and use the speech that might be expected. “I'm Peter and this is Laz,” Praile replies, swinging a casual thumb toward Lazarus.

  Victor's perfect brow puckers. He looks from Praile to Lazarus. Praile's disquiet deepens. He feels strongly that it is critical this one must accepts them.

  Kill him if he does not believe, he sends in telepathic command to Lazarus.

  Praile does not want to show their hand at this juncture. However, they might not have a choice.

  Yes.

  “I do not know you,” Victor says with quiet certainty.

  For Satan's sake, he's Region Two.

  Praile spreads his hands away from his body, cursing the horrible clothing. “We came as the battle commenced.”

  Understanding lights Victor's eyes. “Ah, I see.” Victor knots his hands behind his back then glances at Praile. “I was not a part of the battle with the demonic.” Praile gives a covert glance to Lazarus. “I was here when a Were went berserk and slaughtered Region One.”

  “How was it you endeavored to escape?” Lazarus asks.

  Too formal, make your speech casual. Use slang, fool.

  Lazarus flinches slightly from the mental plow Praile uses on his mind.

  He is not subtle.

  Victor's laser attention moves to Lazarus—through him. “There is a life bunker below the headquarters. All Regions have this safety contingency. I gathered whoever was royal, the females, children and secured them. We were automatically released earlier today.”

  Ah, makes perfect sense. Praile enjoys knowing the secrets of his enemies. Though before the High One came into being, it was of no purpose to pursue them in this way. The attempts of the demonic against the angelic would have been war without reason.

  The Master is pragmatic, among other things.

  Praile lifts his chin. “We survived the battle but were separated from the main group and made our way back here just now. We had only a vague idea of where Region One was located.” He whips a casual palm around. “We're transplants,” Praile embellishes.

  Victor's eyes rest on his form. Praile notices Victor is not subtle, either, taking in Praile's stiff denims, shoes too bright a white, and ill-fitting shirt.

  Praile sweats without his vapor to assist off-gassing his naturally searing skin. He uses every ounce of subversive magic to cause his clothes to appear as though they're worn, but he can only do so much. Splitting his concentration among the call of the blood, and his tail, his horns, and his skin color, he is leaking his effort everywhere.

  He sees Lazarus tense nervously. Praile's machinations are obvious to him—but Praile doesn’t know if they are as transparent to Victor.

  Victor's face breaks into a smile. “Excellent. You are welcome here. We've lost so many of our kind it's a gift to find Singers who survived the siege.”

  Victor's skin glitters with blood reacting to the demonic within Praile and Lazarus.

  However, he has not noticed. Lazarus's eyes widen as Victor claps Praile on the back, and he stumbles, forgetting the strength of a Singer with enough Angelic blood to be problematic.

  Victor quirks a brow.

  Praile raises his lips in the parody of a self-effacing smile, trying not to gaze at the Singer’s veins. “I'm not known for my grace.”

  Victor shrugs. “That's fine. I don't know my own strength.” He winks and begins to walk away, motioning for them to follow.

  Praile wants to bash the Angelic's head in with his spiked tail.

  A hand appears at his elbow.

  Lazarus.

  He gives the minutest shake of his head.

  An exhale whistles out between Praile's teeth, regulating his anger. Strong emotion will make hanging onto his cloaking more difficult. Already he's lost enough control that the Singer's blood has risen to the top of his flesh.

  How long will it be before he sees his own body's defenses and takes action?

  Praile seethes and rails against the Singer who casually walks in front of them.

  Victor enters a kitchen and spins around suddenly.

  Praile smiles falsely.

  Victor's words freeze on his tongue. “What is wrong with your mouth?”

  Demon dammit. His teeth and tongue are exposed.

  Lazarus moves quickly, bashing the Singer in the side of his neck with his forearm. He crumples.

  “Come on, Praile,” Lazarus urges.

  Praile moves in quickly, grabs the Singer by the armpits, and drags him off. “Where did he say the bunker was?”

  Victor's heels make black marks on the oak floors.

  Praile rolls his eyes, looking around frantically.

  Faint voices reach his ears.

  “Lucifer help us,” Lazarus bites.

  “Think,” Praile hisses, his forked tongue shredding the word.

  Lazarus yanks the semi-conscious Singer toward the center of the hall, tearing an expensive oriental carpet from the middle and exposing a trapdoor.

  Praile pops it open with a twist and a pull. A vacuum lock wheezes air.

  They gaze down a dark hole with ladder-type steps.

  A shuddering exhale blows out of Praile. Lazarus gives him a nod, and together, they roll the Singer toward the hatch then push him inside. The body of the unfortunate Angelic clunks down the short flight to land with a thud below.

  Praile straightens, and Lazarus closes the circular portal. It makes a beeping sound and five shrill chimes, then a great suction sounds off for half a minute. All the while, they check that others don't wander in during the middle of their subterfuge.

  No one does.

  The portal locks, and a timer appears on its smooth surface. It’s some kind of countdown clock.

  Perfect.

  It reads seventy-one hours and fifty-seven minutes. Plenty of time.

  Praile is not humorless. After all, having a sense of humor is critical to surviving life in Hades and surviving the Master.

  He grins. “One Angelic down.”

  “The rest to follow,” Lazarus finishes grimly.

  “Lighten up, Lazarus.”

  Lazarus cocks an eyebrow at the foreign expression. “I don't think this is a ʻlightʼ mission, Praile.”

  Praile glances down at the carpet covering the trapdoor.

  “Probably not.”

  Lazarus does not point out the obvious. If he had just kept his anger in check, the Singer would not have seen his black teeth or forked tongue.

  It's just so difficult to hide the devil's beauty. It's meant to be seen—even by angels.

  *

  Tessa

  The two men move away from the hall, and Tessa sinks more deeply into the shadows of the room where she’s hiding.

  Who are those two? And why in the hell would Singers hurt another Singer?

  She’s confused, but in her twenty years of running, Tessa has learned to stay out of business that's not her own.

  She bites her lip. Tessa doesn't like repaying hospitality with silence. There's got to be someone in charge who should know what she saw. Tess
a paces out of the shadows.

  She’s thinking of staying for a couple of days and making sure Tahlia gets picked up by the Lanarre. Then after she’s foraged for whatever supplies they'll allow her to take, she'll mention the guy the newest Singers chucked down the chute.

  What if the Singer is hurt? Fatally wounded? It feels wrong not to divulge this bit.

  Shut up, Tessa. Not your gig, you're a Were for moon's sake.

  “Hey,” Tahlia says from behind her, and Tessa jumps, hand to her chest.

  “Moon! You scared the shit out of me!”

  Tahlia grins. “I do adore your expressions. There's no poo anywhere. Yet, you say there is.”

  “Cut the crap,” Tessa grumps.

  Tahlia shakes her head, her smile widening. “No, I think you have a fixation with excrement.”

  Maybe. Tessa scowls, crossing her arms. “What are you doing lurking around here?”

  The girl's eyes are round and innocent. Tessa gets a sudden image of her talons ripping out the Were's eyeballs.

  Not so innocent.

  Tessa might bust if she doesn't tell someone.

  Tahlia smells the story before Tessa speaks. “Tell me, Tessa.”

  Tessa does, and Tahlia's expression mirrors Tessa's thoughts.

  She doesn't reply right away. Instead, she jerks her head to the side, and Tessa follows her into a long, narrow room small enough to be a closet. Adjacent to the kitchen, it's lined with glass-fronted cabinets. Fine dishes are stacked inside.

  Tahlia shuts the door behind Tessa, then palms behind her butt, she leans against the solid wood.

  “Promise me you will say nothing until we depart this place.” Her large dark bluish-violet eyes don't look away, compelling Tessa to say yes.

  She frowns. “I don't know,” she answers slowly. “They've taken us in.”

  Tahlia gives a small shrug. “I am grateful. But this thing you witnessed? It is a Singer matter. They are not even Were.”

  She's right, of course.

  Still, it feels wrong. Tessa worries at her bottom lip. “Some share our blood.”

  Tahlia folds her arms, lifting a shoulder. “Not Were enough to change, not Lycan enough to count.”

  Tessa's gaze narrows on the younger girl.

  “That's cold.”

  Tahlia's chin lifts. “It's the truth, and you know it.”

  Tessa nods. She does know it but can't shake the feeling of wrongness. “I can tell the Rare One.”

  Tahlia grabs her arms as Tessa turns to leave. “When we leave this place. No sooner.”

  “What about the guys? The new Singers.” Especially the blond one. He was kind of cute before he put the drop on the Singer.

  What is wrong with me?

  Tahlia's hand falls. “It shows they're capable of violence for its own sake.”

  Tessa nods. “Yes, it does.”

  “Simple. We avoid them.”

  Thalia gives her a sharp look. “You haven't told everyone about me, have you?”

  “Enough,” Tessa admits. It's sort of important everyone knows she's Lycan royalty. It's not something to screw with.

  Tahlia rolls her eyes.

  “Well forgive me, your highness, but it was top on the list to find some sanctuary.”

  Tahlia strips a hairband from her wrist and twists her curly hair into a topknot at the crown of her head. Her eyes find Tessa again. “Not much of a sanctuary if Singers are willing to beat and hide their host in a hole.”

  That was Tessa’s thought, but she won't say it aloud. Instead, she says, “It's a helluva sight better than Tramack getting his paws on me.” The reconciliation feels weak.

  “Why is he so bad?” Tahlia cocks her head. “Why not mate with him and avoid all this chasing?”

  Tessa's abrupt laugh echoes in the small butler's pantry.

  “I am not Lanarre.” Tessa stabs a thumb into her chest. “I wasn't groomed to be mated with some unseen male.”

  Tahlia's expression moves to hurt, but Tessa doesn't pause. “I want to choose a male who complements me. Who I actually want.”

  A tear struggles out of her burning duct, then another follows.

  “Don't you see? I am a prisoner if I stay with the Western pack.”

  “And now we're just murderers,” Tahlia says, her hands slapping her jean-clad thighs.

  Shame burns through Tessa. “Yes,” she hisses defiantly. “I am guilty of murder. Many times over. And they are guilty of robbing me of my freedom.”

  “I am guilty of it, as well.”

  Tessa steps into Tahlia's space. “Then why did you help me? If you are so dead-set on being ʻowned,ʼ why would you help me?”

  Tessa searches her midnight blue eyes.

  “Maybe I want you to be free because I never will be.”

  Tessa jerks back as though she’s been slapped.

  “What?” she whispers.

  Tahlia wrinkles her nose, and Tessa realizes she's in quarter-change form, subtly breathing in available scents.

  “You heard me,” Tahlia whispers, ending the conversation as she turns and jerks open the door.

  She'd heard her all right. And there was no way to un-hear her.

  Tahlia felt as trapped by convention as Tessa did. But unlike Tessa, Tahlia gave up hope.

  Tahlia doesn't fight for herself.

  But she'd fought for Tessa. It's what she could do.

  Loyalty doesn't go unnoticed by Tessa. It's such a rare commodity. Servitude won't be over just because the Lanarre come to collect Tahlia.

  It'll be over when Tessa thinks it is—and not a minute sooner.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Julia

  “What the hell was that?”

  Julia backs up and bumps into Scott. His hands grip her shoulders to steady her.

  Tharell rises, unbound, with Delilah in his arms. Scott moves protectively in front of Julia.

  Tharell takes in Scott's stance. “I do not plan to injure the Blooded Queen.”

  “Uh-huh,” Scott says, disbelief thick in his voice.

  Delilah stirs, and Tharell caresses her face.

  “What did you do to her?” Julia asks, her eyes bouncing from the wounds at Delilah’s throat to the incisors that have sprouted inside Tharell's mouth.

  “It is she that did ʻsomething.ʼ”

  “Well, shit,” Scott says.

  “Yup,” Julia agrees. She looks around. First things first. “Who attacked you?”

  Tharell shrugs. “It is someone who is invisible to me.”

  “Illusionist?” Scott asks.

  Julia paces away, casting a glance at Delilah. “So someone comes in here, cuts away your bindings…”

  “I did that.”

  Julia whirls around to face him. “What?”

  Tharell smiles, and Julia shivers at the sight of the perfect bead of blood seated on top of his cupid's bow.

  Tharell rolls his shoulders in dismissal. They move awkwardly as he holds Delilah. “I could escape at any time. Only iron bonds could hold me. And even you are not as cruel as that.”

  Julia frowns at his choice of words, ignoring the implication. “I heard it acts like an acid.”

  Tharell nods.

  “Why is Delilah so out of it?” Scott asks, stroking Julia's shoulder. It's so natural to have him touching her, but not without a price. Julia tries to wipe thoughts of Jason from her mind, but she can't quite do it. Scott gives her a sidelong glance. She's not entirely sure how the meld works, only that he's getting leakage.

  “Blood exchange.” Tharell's lips quirk, his answer breaking though her morose contemplations. “That is my supposition. To be honest”—he smirks—“I did not know that any part of me was vampire. I should, in theory, have been ʻfound outʼ during my one thousand years in the sithen—in faerie.” Tharell widens his stance, shifting Delilah's slight weight. He lifts his chin.

  “Vampires are the fey's mortal enemies. As I have mentioned previously, they bring true death.”

&n
bsp; Julia stands slightly behind Scott's broad back as he folds his arms. “So how did you manage, having vampire blood when they're the only supes who can do you guys in?”

  “I do not know.”

  “You're not knowing a helluva a lot,” Scott says.

  Blue eyes unflinchingly regard brown. “True.”

  “How come you're not all noodling out right now?” Julia asks.

  Tharell smiles. “I assume you mean why have I not lost control over my senses?”

  Delilah's arm takes that opportunity to dangle. Tharell absently tucks it back inside his tight embrace.

  Ahh. “Yeah,” Julia says, her eyes pegged on the gesture.

  “Unlike the other supernatural groups, the fey know the history of all. We make a point of learning.”

  Scott grunts.

  “You have a vampire here. You might ask Brynn if there is validity to my suppositions. My understanding is when a female and male vampire come together in blood exchange, it leaves the female vulnerable. The male remains alert to defend her against all comers. In this way, he fulfills his duty as the stronger of the two, protecting the weaker.”

  “Makes sense,” Scott says.

  Julia's brow cinches and she gives him a sharp look, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her brain hurts. “Okay. Say that's true. How was Delilah to know that you wouldn't hurt her?”

  “She did not. Delilah only knew that she would heal my injuries with her blood. I have so little vampire genetics that she must have been unaware. As I was.”

  Scott palms his chin. “Maybe she was aware. I thought she agreed to take your ass back to faerie awfully quick.”

  Tharell moves forward, and Scott tucks Julia behind him tighter. “It's okay, Scott. He wants to go back, not hurt us. If he released his bonds, he could have done whatever.”

  “Your magick will not contain me this close to faerie. Your lock manipulator cannot change the magick of faerie, not when the music of the sithen plays. However distant its melody, it is just for me.”

  “And me,” Domiatri says in a droll voice from the door.

  Tharell's head whips to the warrior he fought beside for centuries, whom he decapitated while under the pull of the demonic.