Eternal Demon: Mark of the Vampire

by Wright, Laura

  “Is it revenge you seek for your imprisonment? Your Breeding Male status?”

  “It is for the abduction of Ladd, the young balas.”

  Syn stopped pacing, his brows knit together in a frown. “He took a balas?”

  “He would take, torture, or kill anything to further his cause,” Lucian said, menace flashing in his almond gaze.

  Cruen was truly a bug that needed to be crushed. “We will find him, Frosty. If we work together.”

  Lucian’s mouth spread in a wicked grin. “I like when we’re on the same side.”

  “Enjoy it. Who knows how long it’s going to last?”

  “You going to crash here? You’re welcome.”

  Syn grunted, moved away from the Roman brother and toward the picture window. “I won’t be sleeping, but yeah, I’ll be here for a while. Until the deed is done and the blood is spilled.”

  “You going to be all right around my veana?”

  Synjon turned to look at the paven, his head cocked to one side. “Maybe the question should be, Are you going to be all right with me around your veana?”

  “I’m no charitable bastard, London, but you look like you could use all the friends you can get.”

  “I don’t need friends,” Synjon said, returning to the picture window and the view of a pair of late-night lovers sucking face across the street. “I need warriors.”

  • • •

  Hellen’s lungs expanded as she moved quickly through the dark village, the pain and pressure begging her to slow, but she ignored it. By this time, her sisters had to have arrived at Cruen’s compound. The enchanted coach would’ve seen to it, made sure they reached their destination. Her fiancé had to be pissed, and Hellen prayed the male wouldn’t take it out on Levia and Polly. She had to get there, and her only chance now was returning to Hell and to her father.

  She hadn’t made the mistake of thinking the vampire wouldn’t come after her. She knew he would. That male was determined to have her, determined to use her to get something back from Cruen. Or maybe it was just to punish him—the black-haired, crystal-eyed bloodsucker seemed to hate her betrothed.

  Whatever the reason for his thievery, Hellen hadn’t been about to wait around and see if he and her new mate could work things out. With a knee to the balls, she’d gotten her chance, and ran away from the castle as fast as she could manage. Rain soaked, she’d slipped through a cracked section of the gate, ripping her dress before heading for the hill and into the woods.

  It had been a moderately rugged terrain and the rain and lack of light were no help, but she’d managed. Her only regret was that she didn’t have her longbow. If the bloodsucker did manage to find her, it would come in handy. She’d make sure she got off a perfect shot.

  Between the eyes.

  No. Through the heart.

  Did bloodsuckers have hearts?

  Avoiding homes with lights blazing and heading back into the shadows, Hellen kept her body on high alert, her eyes, though relentlessly coated with rainwater, searching for the way back, the way home. Finding her way back to the Underworld and standing before Abbadon wouldn’t be met well, but the Devil would be hard-pressed to blame her for the abduction—and if she was very lucky, maybe even praise her for escaping and returning home.

  She hated the feeling that bloomed inside her when she thought of her father. He was the Demon King, vile and hated and cruel and without compassion—had sold his child to the highest bidder—and yet the need to feel his pride, even his love, had always been strong within her.

  All of it was moot, though. She wasn’t going anywhere if she couldn’t find a portal, and she’d been searching for quite a while. The portals into the Underworld had been created by Abbadon in case one of his citizens found themselves aboveground. No one knew exactly where they were. There were many, and they were undetectable by humans—by anyone other than a demon. They released heat, attracted a demon’s DNA, but so far Hellen had felt only the cold night and rain.

  She wondered where the dark-haired bloodsucker was, how close he was, and if he would punish her greatly if he got his hands on her again.

  A pinprick of lust shot through her.

  Idiot, she thought, pushing on. Attracted to anger and power and unpredictability. Her father had raised her to respond to such prized qualities.

  The small village was dark and quiet, except for the constant patter of the rain. She kept moving, down the streets, keeping to the shadows, desperate to feel the heat of home. After rounding the square for the third time, she started to think about the impending daylight. Perhaps she should go now, before dawn, abandon this village for the next.

  But her thought, her burgeoning plan, dissolved in the sudden onslaught of warmth at her back. She whirled in its direction, sighed at its safe, familiar feeling. Rain continued to pelt her head, keep her clothes stuck to her skin, but she ran toward it, toward the small church and its graveyard beyond.

  The closer she drew, the hotter the air and the rainwater became. It will be good to be home, she thought, entering the graveyard, even for a short time. No matter how horrible the place where you grew up, it still bore a strange comfort. She’d start afresh, acquire new vials of the draught that kept her sexual desire frozen, and have her father deliver her to Cruen in person.

  Yes. It would all work out.

  She would be what she was meant to be.

  The willing sacrifice.

  She wove in and out of the headstones, following the heat like a beacon. Her sisters would be safe and happy. Poor Polly and Levia. They had to be so frightened.

  Sudden and nearly painful heat shocked her, and she came to a halt before a massive blue glow. Hellfire. It erupted from the grave of one Pierre Contrale. Relief moved through her and she rushed to the grave and nearly leaped inside the blue fire when a gritty, feral voice halted her.

  The bloodsucker’s mouth hovered close to her ear as the jagged tip of a knife met the small of her back.

  “Take a step inside that flame, bitch, and you will know a slow and pain-filled death.”

  4

  “Just so we’re clear,” she spit out, as Erion strapped her to the dungeon wall, snapping the ancient cuffs on her wrists one at a time. “My name is Hellen. Not ‘bitch,’ not ‘woman,’ not ‘female,’ ‘ransom,’ or ‘prize.’”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Erion said, dropping down on his haunches and fastening the ankle shackles that would keep her from running away again.

  “No, you won’t,” she said, her tone as coolly pissed as when he’d found her and stolen her back. “You have no feeling, no care for a poor, innocent female.”

  He grunted. “Perhaps I would if I saw a poor, innocent female.”

  Her lip curled. “You’re a monster.”

  “Indeed.”

  Erion inspected his work. The ancient cuffs had come with the house. They were solid and would hold her well without being too irritating on her wrists. The chains at her feet, however, were new. They weren’t attached to the wall, so they would grant her some movement, just not enough to get her anywhere near the window or staircase. Escape was futile. He would not allow it again. Right now, he could walk away and wait for Cruen to contact him without worry. The problem was, he didn’t want to walk away. Her scent bothered him. Made him snarl, made him hungry—made him more aggressive than normal. It was a good thing her attitude, personality, and verbal ways were so irritating, or he might be tempted to taste her.

  “Why is that beast still here?” she said.

  For a moment, Erion thought she meant him. But she spoke of the brown-and-white dog who lay on the floor behind him, the dog that had followed them into the woods, the mutt who had shown up at the castle gates twenty minutes after they’d flashed home. Erion wasn’t sure what the canine wanted with him or with his prisoner, but at the very least he owed the mongrel a g
ood meal for assisting him in her capture.

  “I have a kindred spirit in that canine, I believe,” he said, stepping back to admire his work.

  She sniffed her irritation. “Fangs, fur, and a penchant for licking your own balls?”

  His gaze roamed over her, the captive bride. “You have quite a mouth on you.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “By whom? Cruen?” He chuckled disdainfully. “Has he sampled your mouth already? Isn’t that against the rules of engagement?”

  “There are no rules in this engagement.”

  Erion’s eyes met hers and he frowned. What did her words mean? And why did her voice grow quiet, morbid even, as she spoke them?

  He moved closer, his nostrils flaring as her scent begged entrance. It was a diabolically wondrous scent, but it gave no clue as to her species.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Cruen’s woman.”

  “No. That is an unfortunate state of being, not an origin of blood.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s all I’m giving you,” she said, cocking her head to the side, exposing a long, pale column of neck. “Unless you choose to disclose your true species.”

  He shrugged gently. “I already have. The bloodsucker, remember?”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re more than that.” Erion had no idea what she was talking about or what game she was playing, but he could continue to watch her mouth move for hours. In fact, if he leaned in one more inch, perhaps two, he could take it, taste it. That full, pink bottom lip between his teeth.

  “Maybe I should guess,” she continued, interrupting his thoughts. “You are part bloodsucker and part . . . hmmm, let’s see . . . A very foolish little prick who has no idea what he’s stolen.”

  Erion returned to reality with a jolt. “Little prick?” He burst out laughing. “That’s amusing.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said with obvious disdain. “I’m sorry. You are a big dick whose tiny brain resides in his ass. How’s that? More accurate?”

  Moving in, Erion reached for both her hands, pressed them flat against the dungeon wall with his weight. “The proof is in the pinning, female.”

  He heard her breath catch, felt the pulse at the base of her neck quicken. His hunger flared.

  “The warden likes it rough,” she uttered blackly.

  “Yes, he does.” He faced her, his eyes locking on to her emerald green fire. He would teach her not to goad him.

  “Do you think Cruen likes it rough as well?” she asked.

  “Probably. Most assholes do.”

  “Good to know.” One pale auburn eyebrow lifted pointedly. “Asshole.”

  His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “Such disrespect.”

  “Always.”

  “I will gag you, if I must.”

  “Try it,” she said dangerously, leaning toward him, struggling against the cuffs and his hands and his body. “My father will wipe you from the face of the Earth when he finds out what you’ve done.”

  “Stop squirming,” he growled, but released her and eased back. “You will rip into your flesh.”

  She snorted. “As if you care.”

  “Oh, I care.” His skin was on fire, the lower half of him responding to the nearness of her body, the scent of her. “I must have you exactly the same as when I stole you.”

  “You fear him,” she said, her gaze searching his, looking for any whisper of weakness. “You fear Cruen.”

  Erion recognized a bright, quick, and possibly savage mind within this female. He would not underestimate her. Or his own attraction to her, for that matter. She was no blushing, sweet-hearted bride-to-be, just as he was no kind and compassionate jailer.

  They both had reasons for being in their situations.

  But his were far more dire.

  “Make no mistake, female,” he said. “I will do whatever I must to get back what was stolen from me.”

  She lifted her chin. “And what was that?”

  “Not your concern.”

  Her eyes flashed with interest. “A woman?”

  Erion chuckled.

  “Jewels?”

  He angled his head. “Do I look as if I wear jewels?”

  She leaned back against the wall, her lips thinning. “It must be something of great value.”

  In that moment, Ladd’s face appeared before him. Frightened yet hopeful. Erion ground his teeth. Cruen would pay dearly for taking his son.

  His lids flipped open and he narrowed his gaze on his bargaining chip. “What I must have returned is priceless.”

  For the first time since he’d taken her, the female appeared worried. “You won’t tell me what it is?” she asked.

  He remained silent.

  The worry in her eyes intensified. “And how do you expect Cruen to find you? To make this trade?”

  “I believe it was you who called him all-powerful. By now he knows you were taken and knows who has taken you. He will come for you. Have no fear. Very soon you will be in his arms, and he will make you his.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “In every way.”

  Erion watched her closely, watched for her look of worry to morph into a look of desire or fear or contempt. Something he could understand, something that gave him a clue as to why she’d entered into a lifelong mating with that bastard. What he saw was ruthless determination. The woman was pure fight, pure venom—like her name, Hellen. She was giving nothing away but a battle, a struggle, and as much as he wanted to dislike that quality, he found her internal drive and strength most appealing.

  He would have to watch that.

  “In the meantime,” he said. “You will find comfort down here.”

  She raised her arms as much as she was able. “This your idea of comfort?”

  “When compared to the other scenarios I had in mind for you after you ran from me, yes.”

  Her gaze mocked him. “How romantic. The women must just swoon over you.”

  He ignored her jab, ignored the way his blood continually threatened to pool lower every time her scent pushed into his nostrils. “You will be clothed and well fed.”

  “Perhaps I will starve myself so you have nothing to negotiate with.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Don’t make threats. I will force-feed you if I must.”

  “You don’t even know what I eat.”

  “Baby animals?”

  She shook her head, her eyes flashing.

  “The souls of innocent children?”

  She grinned. “Close.”

  “Not to worry,” he said, trying not to stare at her mouth. “We’ll find you something that not only keeps you alive, but also keeps your mouth occupied.”

  Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “Barbarian,” she uttered.

  Grinning, he turned to leave, the dog scrambling to his feet and trotting after him.

  He barely reached the stairs when she called out after him. “Are you truly one of them, Male?”

  He paused, glanced over his shoulder. “One of whom?”

  “A bloodsucker.”

  “If the vein beckons.”

  “Then how did you see it?” she demanded, pressing forward, straining at her ties.

  “See what?” Erion asked brusquely, forcing his gaze from her jutting breasts to her flashing eyes.

  “The light by the gravestone,” she said.

  Erion hesitated, one foot on the bottom step. Thoughtful, he searched his mind for the scenario that had prompted such a question. Then it hit him. The light she’d nearly walked into before he’d captured her. He shrugged with the noncomplexity of the answer. “Because it was there.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her lips parted. She looked as though she were about to say something, but decided to hold her tongue.

 
“Is that it?” he asked.

  She nodded. “For now.”

  “Then welcome to my home, Hellen. May your stay be fruitful and short-lived.”

  He was up the stairs, had his hand around the door handle, when he swore he heard her voice on the air behind him. She’d uttered only one word, but a word that had him concerned.

  “Demon.”

  • • •

  Bronwyn had just put her infant daughter, Lucy, down for a nap and was going in search of Lucian. She wanted to see if her mate had returned, his brothers too, and if anyone had discovered a lead on Ladd’s whereabouts. She was just entering the library after hearing voices down the hall when she stopped abruptly and backed up. If she had a heartbeat, it would be pounding like a jackhammer in her chest right about now. What the hell? She flattened herself against the wall outside the door and listened.

  “You and Bron are happy, then?”

  “As happy as I know how to be. But I try to make her happy—that’s all that matters to me.”

  Bronwyn shook her head. What in the world was he doing here? The last person she expected to be sitting in the Romans’ library was the paven she’d shared a Veracou ceremony with nearly a year ago talking to the paven who now owned her blood, her breath, her body.

  This wasn’t good.

  “And the balas?” Synjon asked. His voice was different than she remembered. No longer jovial and confident. Now it rang cold and empty.

  “My little bloodsucker, Lucy.” Lucian chuckled. “She’s beautiful and sweet. Shit, she’s perfect.”

  “Who’s the father, then?”

  “Fuck you, Brit Boy.”

  Syn laughed, but the sound was anything but merry. “You know I’m bloody chuffed you’re happy, Frosty.”

  “No, you’re not,” Lucian said, though his tone held no malice. “But I don’t give a shit what anyone feels or what anyone thinks except for my veana.”

  Synjon grunted. “Your veana.”

  “Don’t go there, man.”

  “Haven’t you gone there? Over and over in your head?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Kinda don’t want to.”