Blood Hunter (The Vampire's Mage Series Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  “I didn’t say anything,” Aurora said. “You talking to the voices in your head again?”

  “If only there was some way to get Cleo so drunk she would just fall asleep.”

  “Why don’t you just give her what she wants?”

  “Sleeping with Ambrose, you mean?”

  “Sure. Why not? I’m sure he’d be game.”

  Rosalind’s nose crinkled. Apart from the fact that Ambrose creeped her out, she was pretty sure that wouldn’t be enough for Cleo. Cleo wanted her to slaughter him, too. Best leave that part out.

  At the top of the hill, Rosalind climbed through the windowsill. As they crossed the grass to Tammi and Miranda, she hugged her shawl closer. The cemetery had totally unnerved her, like she’d seen a certain vision of her future.

  Still, the sight of her sister gently threading a wildflower wreath calmed her nerves, and she pushed the memory of the graveyard to the back of her mind.

  Aurora plopped down on the blanket. “I misjudged. I don’t think Rosalind liked the Garden of the Dead.”

  Rosalind sat next to her, then snatched up her glass of wine. “As much as I enjoy visiting dead courtesans, the sounds of vampires scratching in their coffins was a little weird.”

  “You need to be careful,” Miranda said, still working on a wreath. “Sometimes, what’s buried doesn’t stay underground.”

  Rosalind sipped her wine. “Maybe we should choose a new picnic spot next time. Not sure I like eating cheese next to a mass grave for prostitutes. Nothing against prostitutes. It’s just a little sad. No one even remembers who they are, or what their lives were like.”

  “And where do they bury the abominations?” Tammi’s red nails dug into the flesh of her arms. She was definitely not handling this demon thing well.

  “Are you okay, Tammi?” Rosalind asked.

  “I’m fine,” Tammi said through clenched teeth.

  Miranda threaded a final wildflower into a seashell, then lifted the wreath, handing it to Tammi. “This will ease your mind.”

  Visibly relaxing, Tammi ran her fingers over the petals. “It’s pretty.”

  Miranda dropped the other wreath on Rosalind’s head. “And this one’s for you. I can make another for you, Aurora. The bluebells will bring peace to your heart and mind. The ivy is for Druloch, Rosalind’s lord. The white poppies are for the god of night. Aurora and Tammi’s god.”

  Maybe it was a placebo, but with the wreath on, Rosalind felt her muscles relax. She let out a slow sigh. “And what are the seashells for?”

  “Those are for Dagon, my god. They tie you to me.” Miranda smiled. “You see? Drew wants you to be his queen. He wants a magical Stepford wife. But this is the only royal crown you need.”

  Rosalind shivered at the mention of her cousin. She could only hope she’d never see Drew again, or she’d end up his obedient little slave.

  Tammi’s hands tightened around her own wreath, her knuckles white. “Erish still haunts my dreams. Her face hovering over me as she turned me into a demon in Drew’s castle. I hate Drew just as much. I really want to rip out his throat. I need to feel his hot blood run down my chin, down my throat.” She breathed deeply, in and out through her nose. Her silver eyes drilled holes in Rosalind.

  Aurora leaned back on her hands, staring at Tammi. “I think I know what you’re feeling.”

  Tammi’s vision seemed to clear, and a horrified look crossed her face. Clutching the wreath, she rose and sprinted off toward the castle without saying another word.

  Rosalind stood. “What was that?” she asked, more to herself than to anyone else. Something told her not to run after her friend. Tammi needed to be alone.

  “That,” Aurora said, “was blood-hunger. Guess she really does have a demon body.”

  Chapter 3

  Hugging herself, Rosalind padded down a dark hall as quietly as she could. Candlelight danced over the flagstones; every flicker of light and shadow seemed to make her jump.

  In the rest of the world, daylight was the most powerful protector against vampires. But in Lilinor, a land of eternal night, the vamps had free reign in the shadows.

  Granted, Ambrose had given the vampires strict orders: anyone who harmed the human mages would suffer a traitor’s death. Rosalind wasn’t clear precisely what a traitor’s death involved, but it probably involved an initial round of medieval torture, followed by a living burial in the Garden of the Dead.

  But shadow creatures had ways of committing their worst deeds under the cloak of darkness, when no one was watching, so Rosalind wasn’t taking any chances. She’d hidden anti-vampire weapons all over her body: hawthorn stakes strapped to her thighs, iron knives in sheaths under her dress.

  Miranda was right: the vampires did resent them. Rosalind had seen a few too many bared fangs and darkened eyes as she walked past. And it wasn’t like a human could go unnoticed here. In fact, as she walked past each of these doors, the vamps inside would be perking up their ears at the sound of her beating heart. Their nostrils would hungrily sniff at the scent of her sweat, the blood pumping beneath her skin.

  And just maybe—when she got to Tammi’s room—her friend would be just as eager for her blood.

  But Rosalind was going to stop by anyway. Tammi had no clue how to fight, so Rosalind wasn’t too worried for her safety. And Tammi needed a friend now more than ever.

  As she walked down a particularly dark hallway, a door to her right slammed open. Rosalind whirled. There, just inches from her, stood a platinum-blonde vampire. Blood dripped down her chin onto a white gown, and her eyes blazed red. “I thought I smelled something.”

  “Sorry, lady. I’m off limits. Ambrose’s orders.”

  The vamp snarled. She didn’t look like she wanted to back down. Blood hunger.

  Rosalind’s muscles tightened, and she turned to walk on. Before she could take another step, the vampire grabbed her by the hair, dragged her into the room, and threw her down hard on the stone floor. Rosalind’s knees smacked onto the flagstones, and she fell forward onto her hands.

  Rosalind reached for one of the stakes at her thigh. Just as she lifted the hem of her dress, the vampire picked her up again—this time by her throat—and slammed her against the wall. Powerful fingers pressed into Rosalind’s neck, cutting off her air.

  A dark-haired male vampire stood behind the blonde, his expression almost bored. “Whose courtesan is this?”

  Rosalind kicked the female in her ribs, and the vamp dropped her. In the next second, Rosalind had a stake gripped firmly in her fingers. Slowly, she straightened. I really don’t want to fight two at once, but I will if I have to.

  “I’m no one’s courtesan,” she said through clenched teeth. “Like I said, I’m off limits.”

  The male vamp stepped closer, running a long finger over Rosalind’s shoulder. “You’re not dressed like one of the whores.”

  Rosalind stepped away from him, grimacing. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m a mage. I work with Ambrose and Caine.”

  The female bared her fangs. “Ah. She’s one of the humans Ambrose is forcing vampires to serve.” She spat on the floor.

  The male growled. “I’m a lieutenant in Ambrose’s army. I’m one of his trusted advisors. I will not fetch your sandwiches, little girl.”

  Rosalind clutched her stake tighter. These two vamps seemed a little jacked-up on blood, or perhaps meth. “Okay, well, thanks for the chat. I’m going to be on my way.”

  The female took another step closer, boxing her in. “You must think you’re pretty special, little human. Traipsing around with the king and our general like you’re someone important. But deep down, I promise you, Caine and Ambrose don’t think of you any differently than they do the other human whores. When they’re done using you, you and your sister will be working in our harem, or buried under the ground. Just two more bodies for the whore pit.”

  The male grinned. “Esmerelda. You do get feisty after drinking.” He nodded at a passed-out girl, propped up on a ch
air.

  Rosalind’s stomach tightened. “Thank you for your concern, but after I’m done with Ambrose, I’m out of here.”

  Neither of these vamps seemed particularly worried about the hawthorn stake in Rosalind’s hand.

  “Believe me,” Esmerelda said, her eyes burning red. “Caine, Malphas, and Ambrose have been through many human females, and all of them thought they were special. None quite as arrogant as you, but that will make your downfall all the more delicious.” She leaned in closer, stroking Rosalind’s hair a little too forcefully. “I know Ambrose said I can’t kill you, so I won’t. But I want you to know that demigods like Caine and Malphas see you as nothing more than tits and ass.”

  The male frowned. “What else is there to human females? Besides the blood, I suppose.”

  Esmerelda patted Rosalind’s head, like she was a dog, and smiled sweetly. “If I were you, I’d make sure your door is locked tight at night, or you might find yourself splattered across the cobblestones. Just like you did to that ker queen.” The smile faded from her lips. “Let’s go, Darren.”

  Esmerelda turned, stalking out of the room, and Darren followed.

  “Darren is a stupid name for a vampire!” Rosalind called out after them. Okay, so I don’t always come up with the best comebacks. She leaned back against the wall, then slipped the stake back under her dress. Best to give Esmerelda and Darren a few minutes to clear out before I cross into the hall.

  While she waited, she surveyed the enormous, octagonal room: the tangle of bloodstained bedsheets on the four-poster bed, the gargoyles in arched alcoves. Starry lanterns hung from the ceiling. Then her gaze returned to the pale form slumped in an armchair, and she jumped. I forgot there’s someone else in here.

  Rosalind took a step closer, eyeing the vampire—no, a human. A curvy brunette, dressed in cherry-red high heels, a black corselet. Blood dripped down her neck, and white powder dusted the tops of her breasts.

  That would explain why the vamps were so jacked up.

  Rosalind stepped closer. Was she even still alive?

  Leaning down, she tapped the woman’s shoulder, but she didn’t move. “Hello?” She lifted the girl’s chin. Slowly, sleepy green eyes opened. Rosalind held the girl’s chin up, so she wouldn’t pass out again. “Are you okay?”

  Drowsily, the girl straightened. “Where are Esmerelda and Darren?”

  “They left.”

  She pressed a hand to her throat. “Oh, thank god. They nearly drank me dry. They’re supposed to replenish me with their blood after, but frankly I’m glad they left. They get a little out of control after a few lines.”

  Rosalind glanced at the white powder. “Right. They seemed a bit excitable.”

  The girl’s eyes drifted closed again.

  “Do you need medical help?” Rosalind asked.

  The girl straightened, blinking her eyes. “Sorry. I’m kind of tired.”

  Rosalind frowned. “Seems like a dangerous line of work.”

  The girl shrugged. “You get used to it.”

  “Feeding the vampires?”

  “Yeah. I’m just hoping the incubus takes a shine to me instead of the vamps.” She blinked her eyes. “He doesn’t require blood. I’ve never seen him, but I heard he’s super hot. And he’s, like, a demigod. Only thing is, everyone seems to fall in love with him, which is kind of sad.”

  Rosalind schooled her face into disinterest. “He’s fond of courtesans?”

  “Aren’t all demons? They’re bred to use our bodies. It’s in their DNA—or whatever demons are made of.”

  “Right.”

  The girl held out a hand. “I’m Bridgette.”

  Rosalind took her hand, smiling. “Rosalind.”

  Bridgette arched an eyebrow, taking in Rosalind’s silky gray dress and the plunging neckline. “They let you dress like that? In a fancy gown, like a vampire?” Her forehead crinkled. “How come I haven’t seen you in the harem?”

  “I’m not a courtesan.”

  Bridgette’s eyes widened. “So what are you?”

  “A mage. Sort of. But I don’t think I’ll be staying here forever.” Rosalind cocked her head. “Where is the harem anyway?”

  Bridgette sighed. “They keep us below ground, near the armory. That’s how little they’re threatened by us. They don’t even lock up the weapons. Then they send for us when they need blood or sex. We’re not allowed to roam freely.” She hugged herself, shivering. “And I’m constantly freezing, since vamps don’t understand heat—or that, like, sometimes it’s nice to wear sweatshirts and pajamas. They always have us dressed in this crap.” She snapped the top of a sheer thigh-high stocking.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Bridgette bit her lip. “Let’s see, two years? Right after I graduated from college.”

  Rosalind’s eyebrows rose. “So… how did you end up here? Was it your choice, or were you abducted?”

  “My choice. I graduated from college with, like, over half a million dollars of student loan debt, and an art history degree that no one seemed to care about. I couldn’t even get a job at Starbucks. And I felt like, I’m either gonna jump out a window or join the demons. Probably not the best decision I ever made.” She hugged herself, her eyes glazing over. “Sometimes I see the courtesans leave the harem, and they just don’t come back.”

  Rosalind had a pretty good idea why. More bodies for the whore pit. “Aren’t you scared of the vamps?”

  “They’re not supposed to kill us, but only because they think of us as a limited resource. It’s not like they have empathy. I guess most of them are no worse than a drunken frat boy, apart from the blood drinking.” She rubbed her arms. “Ambrose is different than most. He terrifies me. He just walks into a room and I want to run the other way. There’s something really dark about him.”

  Ambrose, Cleo whispered. Rosalind could feel her body responding to the name, her skin warming. “Can you change your mind? And return home?”

  Shivering, Bridgette rubbed her arms. “Are you kidding? They’re very secretive about Lilinor.” Her eyes glistened in the dim candlelight. “I’m never getting out of here alive.”

  “Maybe there’s a way around it.”

  Bridgette smiled sadly. “I like your optimism, but I think I’m stuck here. Still, you’re a mage, right? If you ever figure out a spell to fix the weird alpha male shit going on in this place, I’ll owe you big time.” She bit her lip. “Not sure how I’d pay you back, except I make really good red velvet cake.”

  Rosalind smiled. “Don’t underestimate the allure of red velvet cake.” She pulled off her cloak, handing it to Bridgette. “Here. Keep yourself warm.”

  Bridgette’s brow crinkled. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I’ve got more, and you’re freezing down there. Take it.”

  Bridgette smiled, wrapping the shawl around her. “Thank you. Come visit us some time, if you can.”

  Rosalind smiled, turning to the door. “I will.”

  She crossed to the door. As she pulled it open, a sigh slid from her. She was living among people who viewed humans as a sort of subspecies. A resource. Slaves, even, who should walk around in skimpy underwear and live in a freezing basement—and above all, keep their mouths shut.

  How many courtesans had Caine entertained over the years? And did he really think of her the same way? As a toy to use and discard when he was done?

  Her fingernails pierced her palms. Why does it matter? It wasn’t like Caine was her boyfriend—far from it. Their shared history was dark and twisted.

  Yet she felt herself drawn to him, like a magnetic pull that tugged at her core. In fact, as she walked farther down the hall, she glanced at the painting of Lord Byron. The route she’d taken to Tammi had led her right by Caine’s room.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck. Had that been an accident?

  Or am I as enthralled by Caine as Cleo is by Ambrose?

  Chapter 4

  As she drew closer to Caine’s
room, the shadows seemed to thicken around her, climbing up the walls. The temperature dropped, and goosebumps rose on her skin. In the sconces, the candle’s flames waned, nearly snuffing out.

  He’s here.

  She considered turning to run, but something stopped her. That magnetic pull, she supposed. Pulse racing, she hugged herself and took a few steps back, pressing her back to the wall. The cold stone bit into her skin through her thin gown. Maybe I can just hide in the shadows.

  A silver aura, scented of thunderstorms, twisted past her. She froze.

  As Caine turned the corner, his icy eyes bored into her.

  She swallowed hard. So much for hiding in the shadows.

  A faint smile curled his perfect lips, and he slowed his gait. His soothing aura caressed her bare arms, warming her body. As he moved toward her, electricity seemed to charge the air between them.

  This is what it feels like to be in the presence of a demigod. She’d been avoiding him for weeks, and seeing him so close felt like a punch to the chest.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she took in his stunning contrasts: The dark lashes that framed his pale eyes. Sharp cheekbones above the gentle curves of his mouth. Soft skin over steely muscles.

  Standing so close to Caine was an exquisite sort of pain, a sharp heat deep in her chest.

  It would be so easy just to reach out from where she stood against the wall, and touch that beautiful face, to feel his skin, to press herself against his body.

  So easy to kiss his perfect lips, to drag him into his bedroom and rip his clothes off, to feel his hot mouth against hers.

  And that is probably what all those courtesans thought—the ones who fell in love with him. She tightened her fingers into fists to stop herself from reaching for him.

  Her throat tightened. How many other women had thought they were special to him over the centuries? She’d be an idiot to ignore what Esmerelda had said. I will not be just another body for the whore pit.

  You have interesting desires, Cleo whispered. You want to bed the man who murdered your parents?