The Purest of the Breed (The Community Book 2)

by Tracy Tappan

  Marissa forced a deep, even breath, then another, her lungs working more efficiently now. Without realizing it, her side trip into anger had helped calm her fear. Yes, stay composed. She’d need all her smarts for what lay ahead.

  Gravel clattered beneath the car tires, and the Civic pitched to a stop. Marissa tensed, readying herself for more dreams to be shattered. Because whatever was about to happen now, she wouldn’t be making it back to her normal life afterward. She was very sure about that.

  The trunk lurched open, and Mr. Personality heaved her out and set her on her feet. Her body was running with sweat, tears still wet on her cheeks. She scanned the area, and her belly tangled around itself. Not good. An abandoned warehouse hulked several yards away, some windows broken, others boarded up, black rot weeping down the entire front of the wooden façade. Dirt and gravel surrounded the building, a chain-link fence beyond that, and then more warehouses stacked in a row. Some looked to be operational, but this early in the morning, no one was about. No one to offer help or a shred of hope.

  The stereophonic boom of rap music heralded the arrival of two more cars. A green Ford Taurus blasted up the path, careening to a halt in a spray of gravel. On its tail followed an lowrider Impala, rear hydraulics deflated nearly to the bumpers, its muffler spewing a guttural rumble that sounded like it belonged to a boat engine. The blare of rap shut off, then two men climbed out of each vehicle. All four were tall and muscular, dressed in a mismatched collection of castoffs, and grubby in a way that hinted at crust lurking in unmentionable places. They reeked of a backed-up toilet. Three had black hair and tattoos which suggested more neo-Nazi devotees, although theirs were more like huge interlocking black teeth than flames.

  “Hey, ass-pounder,” the fourth one with fiery red hair hailed Mürk, earning a sneer out of her captor. “Ho, she’s a good ’un.” Red’s dark eyes roved over her like a pair of dirty hands.

  Her skin crawled. She shuddered.

  “Didn’t you say you had four?” Red added.

  “We just got here, shit-eater,” Mürk retorted. “There should be three more bits inside.”

  Red hitched a shoulder at his black-haired companions, and the group of them clumped toward the warehouse.

  Mürk grabbed her arm and pulled her along, but with her feet bare, she could do no more than hunt-and-peck over the gravel. Rumbling another impatient growl, Mürk hoisted her up on one hip and lugged her across the path.

  He set her back down inside what appeared to be a den of iniquity. A single naked bulb hung over an unmade bed, no less than a horde of filthy Huns clearly having screwed on the sheets. A table in the middle was strewn with playing cards, an overflowing ashtray, and a dozen empty beer bottles slowly transforming their dregs into penicillin. Off to the side, there was another table where—

  The blood drained from Marissa’s face in a sickening rush, a horrified breath whooshing out of her.

  “What the fuck!?” Red snarled.

  A gagged and bound woman with brassy blonde hair was bent over the table, a man mounted behind her, his leather pants sagged down around his knees, his hips surging vigorously against her hind end. He was shirtless, black flame tattoos sprawling in tangled branches up from his ribbed abdomen to his enormous pecs, like Joshua Tree taken a nasty turn into Sleepy Hollow. He had his victim’s butt cheeks clasped in his large hands and was spreading them wide, his gaze lowered to the sight of his dick thrusting between them. Saliva gushed from the corners of the woman’s mouth as she chewed her ball gag around silent screams, her reddened face awash in tears and snot.

  A low groan escaped Marissa, nausea surging onto the back of her tongue, her mind rebelling against the appalling sight. The room melted before her eyes like hot wax, the floor bending sideways beneath her feet, sending her on an express trip down. On the way, she caught sight of another blonde woman, huddled against the wall right behind the rape scene, the whites of her eyes showing with the kind of raw terror Marissa thought she’d already experienced tonight, but apparently hadn’t.

  She had a feeling she was headed in that direction fast.

  Chapter Two

  Two hours earlier: Community of Ţărână, 1:15 p.m.

  Dev Nichita stood at parade rest in front of the U-shaped conference table, his hands locked at the small of his back and his legs spread wide, every muscle in his body tensed rock-hard. Earlier, the locker room mirror had confirmed that he was a scary-assed vision in black, from the trim cut of his hair and goatee, to his form-fitting shirt, fatigues, and the broad cut of his trench coat, all the way down to his thick, steel-toed combat boots. The only sign of color on him were his trademark small, gold hoop earring dangling from his left lobe, and his silver eyes, the heat at the back of them suggesting they were lit up with excitement. Yeah, he was pumped for this, trickles of adrenaline already swirling through his blood like a drug. Finally, a chance to lead his own team…

  If he could get past the damned Council, that was, the four primary members of which he was facing right now.

  “I really don’t see why this mission is necessary.”

  Dev stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but only just. Roth Mihnea, a man of Dev’s own race and one of the leaders of this hidden underground community called Ţărână, was the Nervous Nellie of the group, making him Dev’s biggest obstacle. Roth’s over-protectiveness was somewhat understandable, considering the man had seen enough death among their people to last two lifetimes, but also damned annoying when it led him to balk at extremely important shit. Like this.

  “What’s your reticence, Roth?” Dr. Tonĩ Parthen asked this without looking up at her co-leader of the community. She was still frowning down at the email Alex, her geeky computer expert brother, had handed to her. It was an intercepted communiqué sent from their new Half-Rău/half-Fey enemies, who lived topside, to their long-standing enemies, the demonic Om Rău, who were the community’s neighbors. Apparently, the Topside Om Rău were handing over four women to the Underground Om Rău at a warehouse in a couple of hours. No one knew why. Dev couldn’t give a flying fuck why.

  Tonĩ looked up at Roth now, lowering the email to the conference table. There weren’t many women who were a perfect dime, but Tonĩ came as close as a girl could get, with a stunner of a face and a killer rack to back it. Her lush strawberry-blonde hair was currently piled on top of her head, a few loose strands drifting around her face. The hairstyle was distracting as hell to the men around here, just as bad as seeing a girl’s tits racked-and-stacked into some low-cut number. Tonĩ should know that, of course, after nearly five months of living in their culture, which meant she was probably just trying to aggravate her husband, as wives seemed to totally love doing. And even though Jaċken Brun, the leader of Ţărână’s Warrior Class and Dev’s immediate superior, was completely focused on the problem at hand, he was also multi-tasking and letting his eyes stray along the delicious curve of her throat from time to time.

  Hard to believe that just a little over four months ago Dev had been one of Tonĩ’s mate-choice options, and seriously focused on getting into her pants. Really glad that hadn’t worked out. He didn’t have anything against strong women—preferred them, in fact—but Tonĩ was turning out to be, er, way more woman than he felt equipped to handle. Better that the job of husband had fallen to Jaċken, who, thanks to that healthy dollop of Om Rău in his blood, was probably the only man with the strength and discipline to effectively straddle the fence of husband and co-worker without falling to either side. Dev and Tonĩ had been left to become good friends, which they’d done.

  Roth ran a pen through his long fingers. “This mission is too risky for the indefinite benefits it would bring us. We’ve brought eight women into the community just yesterday, whereas the four we discuss now are a complete unknown. We don’t know if they fit the required parameters, or if they’re even remotely interested in joining us. I say our resources are overburdened enough already.”

  Dev caught back a grimace. Well, t
hat part was kinda true. Never had so many newbies been in Ţărână at once, and the community’s first responsibility was to their safety. Lørke and Jøsnic, the two leaders of the Underground Om Rău—Ţărână’s neighbors—had a nasty habit of trying to steal whatever females the community managed to bring in; fodder for quite a bit of warring between their two races over the years. The fear of a massive invasion was causing a town-wide case of nerves, not to mention the community residents were worried about slipping up and saying or doing something that might give away that they were actually a fang-bearing race called Vârcolac. A shock-fest bit of info that—it’d been decided after much debate—would be kept secret from the newbies. For now.

  Alex adjusted the set of his gold-rimmed glasses and leaned forward in his seat. “Thing is, Roth, those eight were the only women off an original list of fifty who accepted our offer. Do we really have the luxury to ignore any we can lay our hands on? They’re the key to the salvation of your race.”

  Hallelujah and thank you very much, Alex Parthen, for that important reality check. These weren’t just any run-of-the-mill women, but females in possession of a special bloodline inherited from an ancient, extinct race called Dragon. Special, in that these were the only people Dev’s kind could breed with successfully. Without such Dragons—all blond and stunningly attractive, all in possession of a small, telltale brown piece of dragon tattoo on their backs—then the single and genetically viable Vârcolac in this town didn’t have a hope in hell of ever having a spouse, a home, children.

  Himself fucking included.

  Roth gestured curtly. “Many of those fifty have expressed an interest in joining us at a later date, when the timing in their lives is better.” He snapped his chair straight. “I assure all of you, I don’t underestimate the value of these women. How many years have I lived with the threat of extinction of my own race? But need I remind you that on this mission, our warriors would be facing down members of both the Underground and the Topside Om Rău.” Roth swept his gray eyes over the other three Council members. “We have no idea how many men that could be, although I think it’s fair to assume that their numbers would grossly exceed ours. We can only spare the barest number of warriors for Mr. Nichita’s team. The safety of our current eight is our first obligation.”

  Not a pretty picture being painted here, especially the part about Roth voicing Dev’s own concerns. The warriors were primarily needed in the heart of Ţărână.

  Tonĩ leaned back in her chair, the line of her cheek taut. “You bring up all good points, Roth, but here’s the thing that’s itching at my conscience. Four women are about to be handed over to some extremely unsavory men and we’re privileged to know that. Do you really feel comfortable just sitting back and doing nothing to save these poor women, regardless of whether or not they bring us a direct benefit? Because I’m not sure I do, not after my own experiences with these Topside Om Rău.”

  A long, slow breath eased from Dev’s chest. Yes, Tonĩ!

  Roth’s black brows slashed together, his mouth pinching.

  Tonĩ looked at her husband across the U, probably wanting some support. As much as it was the general consensus that Tonĩ was the true muscle behind Ţărână’s leadership, she didn’t like to bully Roth into her way. “Can you give us a risk assessment, Jaċken?”

  On a good day, Jaċken had the hardest jaw Dev had ever seen; right now it was cement-like with impatience over all of this waste-of-precious-time back-and-forthing. “What do you want me to tell you?” he snapped. “The pucker factor on this mission’s going to be damned high, but, as you just said, does it really fucking matter?”

  Tonĩ’s eyelashes flickered down, the covert glance she cast Jaċken from beneath them was something along the lines of, Gee, thanks, Rude Dude. You made everything so much better.

  “This mission is do-able.” Jaċken laid a forearm on the conference table, showcasing the long, interlocking teeth tattoos that were the exclusive markings of anyone with a genetic link to the dark Om Rău leader, Lørke. “I wouldn’t have put Nichita in charge if I wasn’t sure he could handle it.”

  The back of Dev’s neck heated. Well…shit…he hadn’t expected to hear that. He’d sort of figured he’d earned this position by default, seeing as Arc Costache—a senior warrior just as worthy of the position—hadn’t wanted to go on topside missions anymore now that his wife was five months pregnant.

  “And who will Mr. Nichita be leading?” Roth asked brusquely.

  Tonĩ turned her blue eyes toward Dev.

  “Thomal Costache, Gábor Pavenic, and Sedge Stănescu,” he answered.

  “Only four men in total?” Roth raked his stare back over to Tonĩ. “You’re actually supporting this?”

  “It’s what the warriors train for, Roth.” Tonĩ’s voice was quiet and soothing, almost nurturing. No bullying here, but—Dev’s heart leapt—she would get her way. “I trust in their abilities.” She looked at her husband again. “This is ultimately a decision for the head of security, though. It’s your men who’ll be in danger, Jaċken.”

  Oh, sweet. She’d just handed Dev a lock. If he wouldn’t have ended up flat as a Frisbee for it, he’d have run over and given her a big smooch.

  Jaċken scraped to his feet and leveled his eyes at Dev. “Put your team in the field.”

  “Yes, sir.” Catching back a huge grin, Dev about-faced and left the Council’s conference room.

  Chapter Three

  Present: Topside, 3:23 a.m.

  Marissa hit the warehouse floor hard, taking the brunt of the fall on her shoulder, her chin whacking the floor. The astringent smell of urine stung her nose.

  “Videön!” Mürk thundered at Joshua Tree across the room. “Bloody fuck are you doing?!”

  Videön stopped pumping his hips and stepped back, his hard member sliding out of his victim. He carelessly hiked up his pants, making a half-hearted attempt to cram his sex away, then pulled a ring out of his pocket and slipped it on his finger.

  Marissa had noticed the same ring on her kidnappers, Mürk and Tëer—noticed, because the rings were weird-looking, the crystal in the middle like boiling red borscht soup. The new, foul-smelling arrivals didn’t have them; they must be members of a different sadistic fraternity.

  Videön sauntered across the room, the V of his gaping pants leaving bare a black briar patch of pubic hair, the outline of his still half-erect penis visible near the zipper. His rape victim scrambled off the table and staggered to the other woman by the wall, falling into her arms.

  Marissa humped herself a few inches across the floor, her instincts blaring for her to get as far away from that man as possible. The emptiness in his black eyes and the scar snagging his upper lip into a permanent sneer emitted a tangible evil.

  Videön strode to the table in the middle of the warehouse and picked up a near-empty pack of Pall Malls, jiggling it. A cigarette slid out onto the table. He clamped it between his lips, gazing at the men across from him. “What?” he asked with such insolent nonchalance that the red-haired man snarled and sprang at him.

  Mürk jumped forward and grabbed Red by the shirt. “Give over, Tøllar!” Cords bulged in Mürk’s neck and tendons pushed up along the tops of his hands. He was clearly putting a great deal of strength into stopping Red, yet he barely managed it—and he was the Hulk.

  Tøllar wrenched out of Mürk’s hold and rounded on him, his eyes flashing with such rage they looked lit up with red lights. “We ain’t taking that bitch, you hear me? She don’t count toward the ten you owe us, not when that cock-bite marked her.”

  “Keep your hair on,” Mürk snapped.

  “You can still impregnate her, grotbag.” Videön lit his cigarette and dragged on it. “I just gave her the back scuttle is all.”

  Marissa wriggled a couple more inches from the arguing men, blackness edging around the sides of her vision. Their conversation was a scramble of alphabet soup in her head.

  Tøllar went silent, indecision tightening his
expression.

  Mürk planted his hands on his hips. “So, do you want her or not?”

  Tøllar’s eyes slowly narrowed on Videön. “Maybe I should fuck you up the ass, eh, little twat? Teach you a lesson about touching what ain’t yours.”

  Videön smiled around the smoking length of his cigarette. “Oh, you’re givin’ me the screamin’ abdabs, mate.”

  Mürk rumbled a noise in his chest. “Will the lot of you quit chattin’ shit?”

  Tøllar turned on Mürk, his lip curled. “You said there were four.”

  Mürk bolted his eyes back over to Videön. “Where the bloody hell are Däce and Hütch with their piece?”

  “They haven’t been able to nick her, yet,” Videön said, smoke leaking from his nostrils. “The girl’s at some knees-up inside the Torrey Pines Golf Club, huggins of people about. Däce and Hütch are staked out there, but I doubt they’ll be able to pinch her tonight.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Mürk grumbled, pressing his thumb to the middle of his brow for a moment. “All right. Let’s deal with what we got, and can crack on with this.” He pounded toward Marissa.

  She recoiled and whimpered.

  “Here.” Mürk seized her by the back of the ball gag strap and hauled her up, pulling her hair and wrenching her mouth into a horrible stretch of a smile.

  She cried out when he shoved her at Tøllar. She hit Red’s concrete body and bounced off, gagging as she reeled backward. God, he smelled like twelve backed-up toilets that’d been putrefying for decades.

  “These three make five women total paid toward our debt. So take ’em,” Mürk bit out, “and piss off.”