by Debra Dunbar
Royal Blood
Templar Series, Book 5
Debra Dunbar
Copyright © 2019 by Debra Dunbar
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Also by Debra Dunbar
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
It felt like every cell in my body was alive, tensing, hovering right on the edge of ecstasy as Dario worked his way along my skin with his hands and mouth. I shivered, enjoying every bit of this torturous anticipation while he skillfully tormented me, bringing me right to the brink of orgasm.
“Beg me, Aria.” Fangs scraped against my skin. “Beg.”
Something drifted in the back of my mind—something that said this was wrong, that his voice, those words weren’t right. But his tongue teased up my inner thigh, and I suddenly could think of nothing else.
“Please. Please, please, please,” I chanted.
“Please what? What do you want, Aria?”
His voice was velvety smooth. I tried to wrangle my thoughts, to articulate what I wanted only to feel the scrape of those teeth again. They triggered a yearning, a craving so sharp I could barely stand it.
“Bite me,” I gasped, shoving aside that alarmed worry in the back of my mind. “Take my blood. Bite me.”
He kissed my thigh, my waist, between my breasts, then dragged his fangs across the pulse in my neck.
“No.” That worry was getting louder, more insistent. “My thigh. Inside my thigh where it won’t show.”
“But I want it to show, Aria. I want the world to know you’re mine, that I have a Templar begging me to take her every night, begging for me to drink from her.”
I wasn’t in my bed. That voice wasn’t Dario’s.
I tried to roll away, to pull free, but it was too late. The vampire bit. Hard. Pain shot through me, quickly combined with a rush of pleasure. The two feelings battled for dominance, pain winning out as he ripped savagely into my throat.
I screamed, and he laughed. I wasn’t in my bedroom, I was in a cage, naked on a cold cement floor. There were bite marks all over my skin along with the bruises. The symbol I’d painted on my neck hadn’t worked. He’d taken me. He’d killed the entire Balaj. He’d killed Dario.
My family hadn’t come for me.
With another scream I jolted upright in bed, covered in sweat. A dog whined by my side, a cat stared at me in concern from the edge of my bed.
Another nightmare. I glanced over at the clock. Outside of the two animals, I was alone in bed. It was a few hours before dawn, but Dario had left. That had been happening a lot in the last few weeks. He’d had so much to do trying to pick up the pieces of his decimated family and step into his new role as Master of the Balaj that our evenings together had turned into little more than booty calls.
And when he wasn’t here, that’s when the nightmares crept in.
Reaching up a hand, I touched the scar on my neck and shivered. It was a dream. It was just a dream. Simon was dead. I’d killed him. And Dario would never do something like that. Never.
Shaking off the memories, I jumped out of bed and pulled on some workout clothes. Clearly I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep again. Might as well get my morning run in early and have time for a leisurely breakfast before heading in to my shift.
The first six months I’d lived in Baltimore I hadn’t practiced regularly with my sword. I hadn’t lifted or jogged, or much of anything beyond work at the coffee shop and, I hated to admit it, sulk. But now I had purpose, and had realized with painful clarity that six months of relative inactivity had seriously put a dent in my skills. Wolfram had nearly beaten me at that reenactment tourney. I’d been taken out by beanbag-wielding mages three times at LARPs. My cardio and strength weren’t what they used to be. And worse, I’d been disarmed twice by that asshole Simon. Yes, he was a vampire with greater speed and strength than I had, but Templars had been taking down vampires single-handedly since the Crusades. Keeping my sword against a Master might have been a stretch, but at the very least I should have been able to keep the sword for all of ten damned minutes.
So now I got up at an ungodly hour every morning, did calisthenics and jogged three to five miles. Every evening I did strength training and sword practice.
Fulk, my newly adopted bull terrier stood at the edge of my bed, his tail wagging with a sort of begging anticipation as I got my clothes on. Gaia, my cat, watched me for a few seconds, then curled back up to sleep, realizing food wouldn’t be appearing in her bowl for at least another hour.
Dressed, I eyed the flak jacket beside my bed and with a sigh put it on. The thing weighed a friggin’ ton. If it hadn’t been November, I would have come up with all sorts of excuses, not the least of which would have been potential heat stroke, to avoid exercising while wearing it.
The jacket wasn’t for protection, although in my neighborhood, a vest was probably a good thing to have. No, jogging with this thing on, with my sword across my back, was the equivalent of working out in plate mail. I needed to build my strength, and adding this weight to my daily runs was just as important as the deadlifts and pushups I did in the evenings.
I sat down to lace up my shoes and Fulk snuffled in my ear. “Yes, I’ll take you. I’m doing five miles today, though. You better keep up.”
He always kept up. For a solid ball of muscle with somewhat stubby legs, the bull terrier could really move. And I got the impression he could run far longer than I could at this time. The only real issue I had running with him was that with one hand on a leash, it wouldn’t be particularly easy to draw and use my sword. Although the chances that I’d need my consecrated Templar weapon while jogging down the street with a bull terrier were pretty slim.
I headed downstairs, the dog right at my heels. “You ready to go boy?”
Fulk darted past me, then ran back and forth between his food bowl and the leash, not sure which option he wanted the most.
Yeah, I’d named him Fulk. It was in honor of the Count of Anjou who was a famous Templar in the twelfth century. Unfortunately I hadn’t realized that Fulk sounded an awful lot like that other F-word, so when I was calling my dog in the park, people thought I was shouting obscenities at him.
It was too late to change the name now. I would just have to enunciate more carefully, and hope that no one started calling my dog Fuck.
Whistling the pooch over to me, I did what I did every morning, every time I came back from work, every time I settled in for the night. I took his blocky, wedge-shaped head in my hands, and looked deep into the mischievous little eyes.
“Raven?” I whispered.
Fulk stilled, staring back at me in that way dogs do, as if he were trying to read my very soul. Then his tongue shot out and slurped across my chin.
I kissed
the top of his head and gave his ears another scratch, disappointed, but happy I’d adopted him even if there was no sign of my friend’s spirit in those dark eyes.
Putting the coffee on to brew, I looked down and muttered a choice word at the small puddle of water around my refrigerator. Yesterday the ice maker had gone on the fritz. I’d cleaned it all up and turned the thing off, but it seemed the leak was somewhere in the line before it got to the fridge.
It was too early to call the property management company, so I threw an old towel on the floor, made a mental note to call them later today, then hooked the leash onto the collar of my very excited dog and headed out. We’d had a cold snap this week, the daytime temps dropping from their usual mid-forties down to just below freezing. That meant the pre-dawn readings were in the low teens and twenties—not at all what my Virginia self was used to and not really typical in Baltimore this time of year from what the others at the coffee shop had told me.
My breath clouding before me, I took off down the street and shook away the remnants of the nightmare with the rhythm of my stride. Within a few blocks I was sweating, more because of the extra weight of the vest and my sword than any speedy pace. My mind wandered as I ran, thinking about the Thanksgiving holiday in two days, about my increased hours at work, about the next reenactment thingy where I’d be expected to wear a dress and not my armor. I thought about my grocery list, the next oil change for my car, and how I needed to call the property management about the broken ice maker in the fridge.
I thought about Dario. Had I made a mistake moving our relationship to a physical one? Would it be possible to sustain something long term with him without involving my blood? Would either of us have the strength to hold back on that?
We each had duties and responsibilities which occasionally conflicted. How would we handle that? Did he expect I’d give the Balaj preferential treatment if one of those conflicts occurred? I grimaced, realizing that I already had given them preferential treatment. And Dario had certainly gone to bat for me with Leonora in the past. Would he continue to do that now as the Master, or would he need to take more of a hard line as the head of his family?
And would he ever have time for more than dinner and sex two or three times a week?
I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I tripped over something and went flying. My hands flew out as I landed belly-first on the pavement, skidding forward and nearly taking out a parking meter with my head.
I let out a few very un-Templar-like words and eyed my hands, which were stinging and sore, covered with sidewalk rash, dirt embedded in the scrapes. I grimaced at the tear in my coat as I stood and brushed my hands on my pants. I’d need to fix that with my less-than-stellar seamstress skills. Maybe I should ask for a coat for Christmas, given that this one now looked like I’d dug it out of a garbage can.
Fulk waited patiently as I took inventory of my cuts and scrapes. Satisfied that I hadn’t torn my ACL or sprained my wrist, I turned around to see what the heck I’d fallen over.
It was a man with his legs outstretched. A guy bundled up against the cold and propped up against a parking meter as he sat on the sidewalk.
“Shit! I’m so sorry!” I brushed my hands on my coat once more, then approached to further apologize. Life on the streets had to be bad enough without early morning joggers tripping over your legs.
The man remained motionless, a blanket wrapped around him and a knit cap pulled low on his head. I hesitated, not wanting to disturb some dude who might be still drunk from last night, or who had managed to sleep through my almost stepping on him, but I felt as if I should check and make sure he was okay.
“Sir?” I stepped close to him, bending down a bit to see his face. Was this even a guy? Wrapped in a blanket with that hat, I couldn’t really tell.
Fulk sniffed the man, then looked up at me as if for guidance on what to do next.
“Sir?” A puff of air clouded before me, making me realize that I wasn’t seeing the same from this man…woman…whoever.
It had probably dropped below twenty last night and although he had a blanket, he was out here on the street with no shelter. Malnourished. Maybe drunk. Maybe ill. Had he succumbed to the cold?
“Sir?” I went to tap him with my foot only to realize how horribly rude that would be. So instead I knelt down farther and reached out a hand to gently shake him.
The man, or woman, was cold. Stiff. As frozen as the sidewalk he was sitting on.
I scrambled backward. Fulk gave a startled bark and stared at me in alarm. Dead. I’d tripped over a dead person—some homeless man…or woman. I’d been pretty darned poor since moving to Baltimore, sometimes going without a meal or eating the cheapest thing I could find in the grocery store, but I’d never faced this. Even poor I’d had the bank account my parents regularly contributed to as an emergency option. Even poor I’d had an apartment to go home to, heat, hot water for a shower, a bed with a warm down comforter and squishy pillows.
I’d never really known poverty. Until six months ago, I’d lived the sort of wealthy, privileged life that most people only dream about—and I’d never once realized that was out of the ordinary. Yes, I knew some people went without. I knew there were places in the world, places a short drive from my family’s insanely luxurious estate, where people lived in abject poverty. But it had all seemed so remote, something to contribute to a few times a year, feeling smug and self-righteous as we mailed off our check. But since I’d moved to Baltimore, I’d realized how many people lived right on the edge of homelessness—and realized how many people toppled over that edge.
And although I’d seen more dead bodies than I ever imagined in the last few months, this one at my feet hit me hard.
Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I dialed 911, sat down on the cold sidewalk next to my dog and a dead person, and waited.
The police and the paramedics arrived at the same time. And right behind them a man I hadn’t expected to see at five o’clock in the morning on, what had to have been in this city, a fairly common call.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” I called out to Detective Justin Tremelay. I was pretty sure the clothing under the long wool coat was wrinkled as always, and that his socks didn’t match. He was hatless and without gloves, although the cup of coffee he carried in his hand was most likely keeping his fingers warm.
“I was awake and out of the shower when the call came over the radio. I figured you were the only woman crazy enough to jog in this neighborhood before dawn, so I came out to see what trouble you’d gotten yourself into this time.”
I held up my scraped palms to show him. “I tripped over a dead man.”
Tremelay looked over at the paramedics who were checking to make sure the man was, in fact, dead, while a few people I assumed were from the medical examiner’s office waited nearby. The paramedics gave the other guys the nod and they began removing a gurney from a nondescript van in an unhurried fashion.
“This isn’t exactly noteworthy compared to everything else you’ve been embroiled in the last few months,” Tremelay commented with a quick sip of his coffee.
I shivered, wishing I had a cup of coffee. Now that I wasn’t running, I was feeling the chill, my sweat probably starting to turn to ice on my skin. “Did he freeze out here? What do you think happened? Why didn’t he go to a shelter?”
I’d volunteered at a cold weather shelter last month and couldn’t imagine why someone would choose to take their chances on the street as cold as it had been last night. The man hadn’t even tried to get out of the wind under a porch or between two row houses. He must have been miserable exposed to the elements like this, even with the blanket.
Tremelay took another sip of coffee. “A lot of the homeless are mentally ill, and they either don’t want to be in a shelter, or their behavior gets them kicked out. And some users would rather take their chances on the street than not have access to their drugs for the night.”
As the officer walked over to us to take my very brief
and not very enlightening statement, I couldn’t help myself from watching as the two EMTs straightened the man out as best they could, unwrapping the blanket from him and removing his hat.
Yes, it was a man. Yes, he was dead from the blank staring eyes, and the abnormal pallor that I could clearly see from ten feet away. I frowned, noting that the man wasn’t dressed in what I assumed a homeless person would be wearing. I’d imagined a dozen layers of thrift-store, cast-off clothing, but this man had on a decent pair of khaki pants and what looked to be a designer brand knit shirt. What he didn’t have was a coat.
How had a middle-class suburb guy ended up without a coat in a sketchy area of Baltimore, wrapped in a cheap fleece blanket on the sidewalk in below-freezing temps?
“He doesn’t look like he’s living on the streets,” I commented to Tremelay.
The detective glanced over at the body being zipped into a bag and loaded onto a stretcher. “We’ve got lots of working poor in this city, Ainsworth. Could be he got off his shift too late to get to a shelter. Could be he was using and either dozed off and froze, or overdosed. We’ve lost a lot of homeless people this week with the cold snap, and we lose a lot of people to drugs—not all those people look like a stereotypical user either.”
I eyed the man, frowning again at his attire. “Yeah, but he’s not dressed like I’d expect. Working poor would be in a uniform, not looking like they just walked out of casual Friday at the office. I volunteered at one of the cold weather shelters last month, and none of them had nice, clean clothes like that.”
My “volunteering” had been court ordered, but I’d signed up for a few additional shifts this month, and three more in December. This was my city. I should do my part.
