Savage Bayou (Things that go Bump in the Bayou Book 2)

by Alizabeth Lynn

  “And what of Daniel, himself?”

  “The spell you placed on Simon Blackwood’s letter triggered your warning system this afternoon. Daniel knows, and if I read the magickal signals correctly, Ophelia knows her past as well.”

  Myrick waved a dismissive hand toward his crystal ball as he took a sip of the bitter liquid in his cup. “I’ve seen as much. As stubborn as the pair of them are, they’re falling into my plans perfectly.”

  “Yes, sir, but Jeremiah is still a wildcard. He and Gavin have been torturing outside of your direction. I fear they may draw too much attention to themselves, and by extension, you. I would be honored to dispose of them for you, sir.”

  “I appreciate your bloodlust, T, but I need you elsewhere. What is the state of the twins?”

  “Duncan is where he’s always been, buried and alone, the location still a mystery to us all. Declan is with the remaining Vampire Council members in Europe. They begin their trip back in three days.”

  “See to it that they arrive in style, T, and arrange a meeting with Pembelton and Christopher. I have to see to a matter with Garrett, so I won’t be available.”

  “The werewolf bitch’s welp?”

  “That’s the one. I want to inspect my property’s package. Should she fail inspection, Garrett will not live to see another moonrise.” Myrick sat back, placing his mug atop the end table at his side. “Have you heard news from Talvin?”

  “According to him, Annixia’s in the wind, and now I may know why. He told me of a special talent her father had, and he suspects the old man may have passed it to his daughter.”

  When T paused, Myrick raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Talvin believes the princess has the power to hide in plain sight, from anyone she chooses. If that is true, it may take more power than we have at our disposal to unearth her.”

  Myrick tapped a white gloved finger against the cleft in his chin. “Contact Declan when he returns. The three of us may have enough magick to figure something out. Now, is there anything else?”

  T fidgeted, rising to pace about the room. “Yes, sir. I have news that may complicate things.”

  Myrick’s vision tinted red, his anger rising. “And that news is?”

  “Dragons, sir.”

  “What?”

  “When we sent S to do reconnaissance after our last meeting, he brought this back.” T slid a small vial containing a swatch of fabric with an iridescent purple stain on it across the end table toward the sorcerer. “I received the results from our lab this morning. There is a Dragon Enforcer in Jaune.”

  Myrick sat forward in his chair, his unfocused eyes on the vial’s contents. “If that is true, then we must tread carefully. There is no magick on this planet that can withstand the flame of a Dragon Enforcer in dragon form.” He raised his eyes to T’s. “See that S gets the information we need from Ophelia, then kill him. I’m tired of these loose ends.”

  A sinister smile played over T’s lips. “With pleasure, sir.”

  Ophelia stayed still on the couch, not even twitching, eyes on the ceiling as the world darkened around her. Then, minutes after the sun set, she heard a knock at her door. Thinking it was Aden, she opened it without even glancing through the faceted glass front. A man she didn’t know stood on her porch.

  He was a fraction taller than she was, and quite a bit more muscular. The man wore faded overalls with a plaid shirt, and his greasy brown was hair partially covered with a grimy cowboy hat that had seen better days. With the hat on, Ophelia’s porch light didn’t illuminate his face, keeping any tell-tale features in the shadows. He looked casual enough, standing there with his thumbs hooked into his pockets, but his aura was only shades lighter than the shadows.

  Ophelia kept one hand on her door knob, while leaving her other one free. The man touched two of his meaty fingers to the brim of his hat.

  “Howdy, ma’am. Tha name’s Sam.” He gestured off to the right of her porch. “My truck broke down on tha road over there. Can I use yer phone ta call a tow?”

  Without stepping outside, Ophelia peered over and saw the flashing hazard lights of a pickup truck on the corner of her street and Amber Drive. Cautiously, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and handed it to the man. Sam nodded, pressed a few buttons, and stepped off the porch, talking in a low voice.

  A couple of minutes passed before he walked back up and returned her phone. Sam tipped his hat again, “Thanks, Ophelia.”

  “You’re wel— wait. I never told you my name,” Ophelia said, stepping backward.

  She attempted to shut the door, but when Sam slapped a heavy hand against the wood, Ophelia couldn’t budge it. His shadowed lips curved upward in a sinister smile. Ophelia shoved her body against the door while digging into her power. A bright green glow bloomed from the center of her chest, the weight of her magick adding pressure to the door. But Sam was faster, stronger, and completely unaffected.

  He rushed her. Approximately 250 pounds of solid, crazy man rammed into the door, and sent Ophelia skidding down the hallway. Her phone flew from her hand as her forearms hit the carpet, and she slid until her hip slammed into the wall and stopped her progression. She had enough time to mutter, “fuck,” before Sam the Asshole jumped on her back.

  Ophelia twisted, her body bucking, but he was too heavy to throw off. He wrapped an arm through her hair and yanked her head back. She gasped at the cold bite of steel as he pressed a blade to her throat. Her power flickered, but she couldn't grasp it as he lowered his head close to hers, stale breath tickling her ear with the scent of sour tobacco.

  “Tell me where Daniel is, and I’ll kill ya real quick-like. Refuse, and I’ll go slow.” Sam nicked her skin for emphasis, the cut stinging as he drew the blade across her neck.

  Tears gathered in Ophelia’s eyes, but she held her silence. Faster than should have been possible, Sam the Asshole shifted his weight and flipped her over. He straddled her waist, pinning her carpet burned arms above her head as he settled the point of the knife against the soft spot under her jaw.

  Sam’s hat had fallen off somewhere in the tussle, and she could see the flat brown irises of his evil eyes. His leathery skin was pockmarked, with a scar that stretched from above his nose, across the area beneath his left eye, and onto the skin of his left earlobe. His cracked lips formed into a nasty, jagged, yellow-toothed smile.

  “I like it when they refuse.” Sam dug the knife tip into her skin, his breath panting in excitement as it punctured her neck. Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the pain from the knife and the carpet burns, but she couldn’t. And if she couldn’t focus, she couldn’t harness her power.

  Gritting her teeth, Ophelia opened her eyes and glared at him. His grotesque mouth continued to smile.

  “Where is he, bitch?”

  Ophelia bit her tongue and continued to glare. Chances were good that he was going to kill her anyway, and there was no way she was going to die betraying the man she loved, no matter how frightened she was. There was something about this man—something more than his current actions—something about his sickening yellow aura that made her skin crawl. Removing the knife, Sam hauled her to her feet. He wrapped his hand through her hair once again and marched her into the kitchen.

  With a couple of the burned spots oozing blood, Ophelia cradled her arms in front of her. Tears stung her eyes as Sam the Asshole grabbed a chair and pulled her toward it. A chill slithered up her spine, her fear banking down her power. His intentions were clear; Sam was going to torture her before he killed her. Instinct made Ophelia step backward, but Sam the Asshole jerked her to a stop by pulling her hair. Her eyes stung as they watered, clouding her vision until she blinked them clear.

  Sam snaked out a hand and grabbed her right arm. “I don’t think so,” he snarled as he squeezed the burn and caused blood to ooze out through his fingers.

  Ophelia let out a pain-filled squeal as tears fell from her eyes. “You fucker!” she spat at him.

 
Sam the Asshole dropped the knife on the table and lashed out, backhanding her across her face. With a dizzying flash of pain, her jaw popped, and stars exploded before her eyes. Disoriented, Ophelia sank toward the floor, but he jerked her up and onto the chair.

  Sam wound ropes around her arms, grating the rough fibers against her damaged skin as he tied her to her chair. Laughing, he tied her legs as well, tight enough that she instantly lost feeling in both. Once she was trussed up tighter than a cowboy’s rodeo calf, he pulled out another chair. That one he placed in front of Ophelia, straddling the seat as he leered at her.

  Retrieving the knife from the table, Sam twirled it under her nose, leaning in, assaulting her senses with his putrid breath. "Go ahead an’ scream. I made sure yer lil friends won’ be comin’ ta yer rescue,” he said with a laugh. “Of course, I wouldn’ be here if yer blood-suckin’ boyfrien’ ‘ad been with ‘em.”

  With no other means of defense, Ophelia stayed silent, glaring at him through her tears, her ears ringing from the blow to her head. Sam laughed again. “Ya won’ be so quiet by tha time I’m done with ya. All tha pretty ones scream for me.”

  Fear burned in her gut, the vile taste assaulting her taste buds, but still she held her tongue. She would tell him nothing. Eyes darkening, Sam the Asshole tugged up the hem of her shirt, placing his blade at the edge of the fabric. Trembling, more tears clouding her vision, Ophelia remained quiet—even as Sam pulled the knife through the garment, exposing her bra-covered breasts to his lecherous gaze.

  Sam’s eyes glinted in the overhead light with a naked hunger that made Ophelia’s skin crawl. Unable to focus through the fear, she closed her eyes. Whatever happened next, she didn’t want to see it coming, but she felt nothing. Through the static in her ears, which still rang from when he hit her, she heard a grunt, followed by her table bumping into the wall, but Sam didn’t touch her, and he didn’t speak.

  Cautiously, Ophelia cracked open one eye, only to realize she was alone in the room. “What the hell?” she muttered, her voice sounding tinny and distant to her own ears. Through the fog, she caught the distorted sound of thumps and more grunts coming from her living room.

  Suddenly, a different male voice cursed, and her would-be torturer ran straight toward her from the other room, brandishing his knife. Her head ached like a bad tooth, and her fear was high, but she dug deep for her power, calling on her terror to fuel it. No longer alone with Sam the Asshole, she had to fight!

  Inches from the point of the blade, Ophelia’s vision glowed emerald and a green light burst forth from the center of her body. She aimed it directly at Sam’s dirty brown aura and prayed it would connect. Sam stumbled backward from the force of the blast just as a blur shot in from the hallway. It coalesced into Aden, and he wrapped an arm around the hick’s throat, dragging her would-be killer farther away.

  Ophelia groaned, her power snapping back like a too-tight rubber band. Her vision wavered again. Sam lunged away from Aden, and she watched him fall toward her in slow motion. She felt the blade of his knife slice into her abdomen, just above her belly button. Aden’s voice was dim in her ears as he grappled with her assailant.

  Ophelia blinked, the pain from her wounds beyond comprehension. Clouds of grey mist covered her eyes, and she could feel blood soaking her pants. Someone moved closer to her—she could feel the heat of them—but she could no longer see anything. Her head lulled to the side, and all her senses went black.

  T paced the floor, the cell phone on the table remaining stubbornly silent. Samuel should be calling soon, and then the second phase of Myrick’s plan could commence, or so the sorcerer thought. T’s fingers tapped rhythmically on worn denim tucked into black leather boots. The day was waning, and T’s blood boiled with the desire to shed another’s. And Samuel would be it.

  Myrick expected T to handle Samuel’s death, but not to the extent T had planned. Rough hands flicked yearning fingers over a simple silver dagger. One knick from the enchanted blade, and Samuel would beg for his life, but T would not give in. The werewolf would perish. There would be no more loose ends, and T would have another ingredient to add to the spell that would eventually overthrow Myrick.

  Shuddering in pleasure, T’s eyes closed as visions of blood danced inside the orbs. The blade would snick, ever so quietly from its sheath, pulled by a determined hand to glide through the air and connect with Samuel’s skin. The first cut would well up, flesh dying around the wound as the werewolf begged for mercy. But there would be none. T’s fingers skimmed lightly over exposed skin, another panting breath fluttering past half-parted lips.

  The second cut would be deeper, severing the vein in Samuel’s right wrist, positioned under which would be a worn copper goblet. The chalice would fill, the warm red liquid spilling over the edges, cascading down to dampen the floor. A muted moan left T’s lips, those same rough hands exploring, touching, grasping. The werewolf would still live.

  T’s tongue darted out, moistening dry lips. The third cut would peel the flesh from the werewolf’s chest, exposing his internal organs. Another moan escaped, hands moving faster, harder, rougher. The fourth cut would finally kill the werewolf, readying his heart to be used in the most powerful spell any sorcerer had ever seen. T’s pulse pounded, hard hands stroking, as the pleasure built. Up and up, the coppery taste of blood dancing across yearning taste buds.

  Samuel’s blood, still warm in the goblet, would quench T’s thirst for youth and carnage. Great gulps would liven dying organs, spark life into power long denied. Moans turned to screams as T’s body shuddered, the climax coming hard and fast, robbing breath, soaking a toned body in satisfied sweat.

  When the phone finally rang, dark eyes opened, a wicked smile playing across a sinister face, it was time to begin the second phase.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Daniel walked around Jaune, admiring the scenery in daylight for the first time. Watching the sunset was a blessing – one he wished he’d shared with Ophelia. But no, he chided himself. You couldn't just stick around and talk to her like a normal person. You had to run off. Again. Shaking his head, he scratched his chin. He was going to have to fix that, but first thing’s first, he needed to feed. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want anyone but Ophelia, but that wasn't going to go over well. Still, after biting her, he didn’t feel right biting another human. He chuckled. Maybe Aden’s ideals weren't so odd after all.

  Pulling out his cell phone, he called Sean. A quick trip to the blood bank would not only give him time to clear his head, but also sate his hunger – and he could pick up a new shipment for his grandson in the process.

  An hour later, he returned to Aden’s house. Carissa had told him when he called her that the younger man was going to come by and get some more of his things to bring back to the estate, so Daniel was just going to drop off the cooler and head back to Ophelia’s. However, his plans changed halfway up his grandson's front walk.

  The air crackled with dark energy, stopping Daniel in his tracks. Stretching his hand in front of him, he contacted the strange, invisible anomaly, and immediately felt tired—as if he’d pass out any moment from lack of sleep. Jerking his hand back, Daniel swore, loudly. The sorcerer had found them.

  Unless someone on their side caused the spell…No. Daniel immediately shook his head and ignored that notion. There was no one in their company that he didn’t know like the point of his fangs. Either way, they were running into some serious trouble, and the one person he knew that might be powerful enough to remove the spell from the house was Ophelia. The only thing he could hope for was her willingness to tackle the problem. If not – if she was finally fed up with all the added danger in her life – well, they’d all be up Shit Creek without that damn paddle.

  Aden quickly untied Ophelia and placed her unconscious body on the floor. It didn’t look as if the knife hadn’t gone too deep into her belly, but there would be no chance of saving her if he didn’t pull the blade free. Gritting his teeth, Aden gently pu
lled the weapon out. Blood flowed from the wound, soaking her skin and the edges of her shirt where it was pinned beneath her body. Muttering curses under his breath, he removed his button-down shirt and pressed it to her stomach in an attempt to stem the flow. He prayed that no vital organs had been hit.

  Aden wanted to call the paramedics, but that was a bad idea. Too many awkward questions, and there was too much at stake. He reached for his cell phone, dialing Eleanor’s number, but he only reached her voicemail. He cursed. Carissa was in no state to be worried about this, too, so who else…? Then it dawned on him. He called Daniel, but he didn’t answer, either.

  “Shit,” he muttered, pressing harder on the wound as blood began to leak through his shirt. Ophelia’s breathing hitched, the ragged cadence heralding the slowing of her heartbeat. She was going. Fast.

  “Please don’t die on me,” Aden whispered, pressing 911 on his keypad. Awkward questions or not, her life was too important.

  Just as he was about to press send, there was a crash in the hallway. Daniel barreled into the room, cursing as he reached Aden and Ophelia.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Aden didn’t lift his eyes from the blood-soaked shirt. “We can go over the particulars later. Right now, we need to keep her from bleeding out from this stab wound.” He raised his cell phone, finger poised. “I’m calling 911, so if you want to get out of here, now’s your chance.”

  “No, don’t call.” Daniel crouched down beside his grandson. “She’s a dhampir.” At Aden’s raised eyebrow, Daniel shrugged. “I’ll explain later. The point is, although the vampire part of her is diluted, if we can trigger it—”

  “It should allow her to heal.” Aden finished, “And there won’t be any awkward questions.”

  “Yeah,” Daniel agreed as he grabbed the knife his grandson dropped. Aden watched him grit his teeth and wipe the blade on his jeans, breathing shallow breaths through his lips. The scent of Ophelia’s blood was strong, and Daniel didn’t have the aversion to drinking from people that Aden did. Aden watched curiously as Daniel drew the knife across his wrist, dark red blood welling up from the slit.