by D McEntire
She’d taken a single gliding step toward the door when the brick floor at our feet exploded and a long bubbling scream broke the silence.
A scream and a smell. A stench, really, louder in its way than any noise—rotting flesh, warm and wet, thrust suddenly up out of the earth.
A brick struck Sara in the side of her head, and she faltered, tripped and went down, and me with her.
I heard Evis shout something and felt whips of motion around me and in that instant before my dropped candle flicked out I caught sight of the thing that we’d raised. It leaped toward me, a thing of loose and rotted flesh, slapping Evis casually aside when he grasped its right arm. There was no face upon that head, which was itself only a dark, swollen mass that sent sprays of thick black fluid flying with every movement. It had no eyes, no ears, no lower jaw—but it saw me, somehow, and it raced toward me, arms outstretched, ruined belly burst open and trailing shriveled entrails as it came.
The candle went dark. I scrambled up, and I ran. Behind me, I heard a thud and a gurgle as Sara rose and grappled with the dead thing. Evis shouted again and a pair of crossbows threw, thunk-whee, thunk-whee.
I charged across the cobbles. I couldn’t see the door. I couldn’t see the wall. I couldn’t see the thing behind me, but I could hear it, hear Evis and his halfdead as they grappled, leaped and struck.
The ruined thing screamed again, so close I smelled its foul exhalation, felt cold spittle on my back.
I slammed face-first into a wall that might have needed new plaster and new paint but hadn’t suffered much loss in the way of structural integrity. The room spun. Blood spewed out of my nose.
It shrieked at the scent, maybe a dozen steps behind. I put the wall on my left and charged, arms groping for a door, any door.
More crossbows threw. A bolt buried itself in the wall a hand’s breadth from my head. I ducked and kept moving—had I turned the wrong way? Was the door behind me now?
Something hissed. Something cold and wet laid itself on the back of my neck. I bellowed for Evis, lashed out with a back kick that sank into something soft. The smell hit me anew. I whirled and kicked again and it screamed, wet and triumphant, nearly in my bloodied face.
I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see at all, but I felt the air rush past me, heard the pair of grunts and thuds as a pair of vampires dived into the creature and pinned it to the wall. A thick, foul spray of fluid caught me square in the face when the halfdead hit, and I retched and stumbled away, pawing and spitting.
A cold hand gripped my shoulder. “This way,” said Evis, shoving me forward. “Go. Find the carriage. Tell Bertram and Floyd to wait with you.”
Behind me, I heard shrieks and blows—short wet shrieks punctuated with fast, hard blows. I assumed they had the dead thing pinned and when Evis let go, I moved.
I wasn’t followed. The gurgling shrieks behind me grew fainter and shorter. I heard the faint sound of steel slicing the air and, suddenly, all was silent.
I found the ruined door, cut my hand on the splintered doorframe, darted through it and was down the hall at a run. My footfalls were loud in the dark, and all the way out to the street my mind played tricks on me, hearing the sounds of pursuit behind me, hearing a faint growl that crept from a bloated, gurgling throat.
But I made it. I stumbled whole into the street, mopped blood from my nose, tried to pick out my rights and my lefts from the shadows and the warehouse fronts. That way, I decided. Right. Right for Evis’s carriage. Left to just skirt the whole mess and head for the country and raise a crop of sheep or do whatever it is they do out there.
I’d taken a single step that way when hands—gentle hands—fell on my shoulder. “That way,” said a voice, and I was turned around, and a clean white linen handkerchief was placed in my hand. “The carriage awaits.”
I mopped blood and blinked.
The street was full of halfdead.
Ten or more glided past, quiet as ghosts. My giver of handkerchiefs joined them, gliding toward the warehouse like a black-clad puff of wind.
I shuddered, but I held the cloth tight to my nose and marched toward the carriage. More halfdead popped out of the shadows. Each and all ignored me, though I tottered and stank and dripped their favorite beverage liberally out onto the street.
There’s a metaphor there, somewhere. Something about bleeding profusely at a vampire parade. One day I’ll finish it and tell Mama it’s a Troll saying. But that night I just clamped the cloth to my nose and headed for Evis’s carriage.
I found it easily enough, though the coachmen had lit their lanterns. They were both on the street, and both bore crossbows and nervous frowns.
They backed up and wrinkled their noses at my approach.
“We’ll never get the smell out,” said one to the other.
“Just be glad you aren’t wearing it,” I said. The driver, bless him, produced a clean handkerchief and stepped close enough to hand it to me.
“The boss said you found a bad one,” he said, quietly.
I mopped and nodded, not asking how the Boss had communicated this to the driver. I figured House Avalante could afford the finest sorcerous long-talkers.
The driver’s friend opened the door. “Best get in. We’ll be leaving soon, and in a hurry.” He squinted at me in the lantern light. “It didn’t scratch you, did it?”
Hell. Had it?
I shook off my old Army jacket, kicked it into the gutter when I saw the thick black stain all down the back. I rolled up my sleeves, checked my arms and waist and legs.
All the fresh blood was from my nose or my right hand. All the other—well, it wasn’t mine.
“No,” I said. My voice shook, and I was getting weak at the knees, so I climbed into Evis’s fine carriage, leaving black stains as I went.
Bertram and Floyd—I never learned which was which—watched me go, then turned their frowns and their crossbows back out toward the night.
I sat and I panted and even with the door and window open I gagged at my smell. My heart still rushed, and memories of the thing’s bloated, eyeless face, I knew, would haunt my dreams for years.
“The boss said you found a bad one.”
That’s what the driver had said. A bad one. The flip side of Evis and his well-groomed friends. Halfdead in the raw—a hungry corpse, rotted and foul, still driven to a grim parody of life by a hunger that drove it from the grave.
She would give her life to save his, but can he save her from himself?
Rare Vintage
© 2009 Bianca D’Arc
Brotherhood of Blood, Book 2
As the new Gal Friday at Atticus Maxwell’s winery, Kelly is grateful for the much-needed job, and delighted to be working with her best friend Lissa. What she doesn’t need is the exasperation brought on by Marc LaTour’s constant flirting. Yet she can’t deny she is drawn to the mysterious, unsettling Master vampire.
After six hundreds years of searching, Marc has resigned himself to the fact that he’ll never find his One. Kelly is under Atticus and Lissa’s protection, and therefore off limits. Yet the desire to possess her is too strong to resist. Curiosity leads to lust—and the surprising discovery that they indeed could be destined mates.
But a dark cloud hangs heavy over them. A rival vampire has challenged Marc for leadership—a challenge that involves a fight to the death. The cost of survival could forever poison any hope for a future together, but if they can both pass the final test, they could find love that will last for eternity.
This book has been previously published and has been revised from its original release.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Rare Vintage:
He could read the growing unease on Kelly’s face and knew it was time to change the subject. In all likelihood, she’d never come across a were. There were a few in the area, but they tended to give bloodletters a wide berth.
“We don’t interact much,” Marc said, touching her cheek and drawing her gaze to his. “Most of the supernatural b
eings don’t get along with each other. Few, if any, get along with us in particular because of what their blood does to us.”
“What does it do?” He dropped his hand as she spoke, but he was glad to have her full attention. Just hours before, she would have been screaming bloody murder for such a simple, yet intimate touch.
“Shifter and mage blood is considered a delicacy. It’s rare that we get a chance to sample from either of those unless the person in question agrees. They seldom agree.” He cracked a smile, charmed when she returned the gesture. “Fey blood is too strong for us, generally speaking. The power it packs can act as a poison, but the lure is great. Half-fey, now, that’s another story. The magic of the other realms flowing through half-fey blood is diluted enough for us to drink, but potent enough to give us a boost of power few of us ever experience. It’s a temporary effect, according to legend, but it’s rumored to be the biggest rush an immortal can experience in this realm. But half-fey are even rarer than mages or shifters and they are more powerful than either of the others. Unless they are willing—for whatever reason—to share their blood, there’s almost no chance for one of us to ever sample that kind of power.”
“You mean fey as in fairies? Little pixies like Tinkerbell?” Kelly’s nose scrunched up in the cutest way when she was puzzled. Marc had to resist the urge to kiss the freckled tip.
“Actually, they are fairly normal looking to our eyes, at least as they manifest themselves in this realm. The half-fey are, of course, also half-human, so they look just like you or me, but perhaps more beautiful than the average person. There is a Glamour of magic about them that makes them very visually appealing.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“No, Kelly.” He cupped her cheek, unable to resist the pull of her presence any longer. Marc moved closer, aligning his body with hers. “You’re fascinating. You’re the most beautiful mortal I’ve encountered in many years—inside and out.”
He dipped his head, placing a chaste kiss on her upturned nose, as he’d longed to do. Her quivering response made him dare more. Pulling her into his arms, he went lower, to kiss her lips as he’d wanted to do for weeks.
She was just as delicious as every dream he’d had of this moment. And he’d spent a lot of time dreaming about the delectable Kelly.
As the kiss deepened, so did his desire. He’d never been so enflamed by a woman, so devastated by a mere kiss. She tasted of honey and wine, a rare combination that tempted his senses almost beyond reason. She tasted of life.
The only thing that could make this moment better would be if she allowed him to taste of her essence…her blood.
It was too much too soon. Marc knew that deep in his soul, where his restraint was rooted in long years of patience. He would have her, but it would be elsewhere—away from his friend’s home, where he wasn’t beholden to respect the rules Atticus had set forth.
But she tasted divine. Marc lost track of time as he kissed the only woman he’d been this attracted to in more years than he could count. She fit in his arms as if she’d been designed to his exact specifications. She yielded to his mastery in the most delightful way and her little moans of pleasure were the sexiest he’d ever heard.
Only one thing could pull him from the sublime feel of her kiss…
The sun.
As the very first rays of dawn kissed the eastern sky, Marc knew his moment out of time with Kelly was at an end. He pulled back, regret filling his world.
“I haven’t been tempted to stay out this late in many long years, but I’m glad my first vision of dawn in centuries was with you, ma cherie.”
Kelly’s beautiful blue eyes held the glaze of someone dazed with pleasure for a few precious moments more. Then realization of his predicament clouded her expression with worry.
“Get inside, Marc!” Kelly took his hand in her much smaller one and dragged him toward the door to the house. He went willingly, perplexed and charmed that she’d try to protect him.
Her reaction shocked him. She actually seemed to be anxious on his behalf and willing to push him inside, following close after to slam the door on the threatening light. She didn’t stop herding him until they were well within the windowless hallway that ringed the inside of the home Atticus had designed.
“That was close.” She slammed the door to the hall and leaned against it. Her pulse beat hard in her neck as reaction set in. Marc didn’t know what to make of her, but the visible pounding of her blood against her pale skin had him licking his lips, eager for a taste.
He moved close, blinded for a moment by the hunger that grew inside him until it was nearly uncontrollable. Kelly’s eyes widened in fear as he advanced on her. His fangs elongated as bloodlust and instinct overrode his saner side.
Marc wasn’t sure what he’d have done if Dmitri hadn’t chosen that moment to clear his throat. Marc looked up to find Dmitri watching him with narrowed eyes from the other end of the long hall.
A tense minute passed as Dmitri held his gaze, one raised eyebrow speaking volumes. At length, Marc pulled back. This was wrong. He saw that now. In a crisis of passion he’d let his impulses overcome his better sense, but oh, it had been sublime while it had lasted.
Marc drew back, away from Kelly. She trembled in reaction, fear lighting her beautiful eyes. Fear he had put there. Marc felt lower than pond scum.
“Je suis désolé, ma petite. I’m sorry.” With those last whispered words, he backed away putting even more distance between himself and temptation. It was sunrise. He could feel the sun weakening him already. Lesser bloodletters would soon be down for the day, and the threat to Kelly would ease.
Nodding to Dmitri, Marc left her, realizing with a sinking heart that the only threat to her in this house was himself.
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