by Riley LaShea
11
All the way back to The Rock, Haydn bled. Little by little, she felt it seep from her wounds, not in volume enough to drain her life, but sufficient to sap her energy, so that she was exhausted by the time she walked back into the house and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
“What happened to you?” Gijon waited at the top of the stairs with Auris, the expressions on both their faces proof Haydn looked just as bad as she had in the unforgiving fluorescents of Cain’s dingy bathroom.
“It’s a long story,” she said, and not one she intended to share.
Gijon and Auris knew how she had come to be on her own, that she’d had a falling out with the woman who sired her, and her second- and third-removed sires knew whatever Gijon and Auris had deemed it necessary to tell them. None of them, however, knew that woman’s name, how close they were to the primordial figure to whom they owed their very natures. Some amongst them would certainly be attracted to the kind of power Lilith possessed, and Haydn never felt the need to consider if it was a desire to protect them, or envy that they may choose Lilith over her, that made her keep her origins secret.
“Did you find out anything?” Auris asked.
“A little.” Haydn nodded. “Not nearly enough. Sean is dead, though, and Slade is in prison, so that’s one problem solved.”
“Two, actually.” Gijon grinned.
“And news well worth a trip to Dublin,” Auris added.
“I need to shower.” Haydn managed a weak smile.
Desire to get the new blood, and remnants of Lilith, off of her bordering on desperation, though, need wasn’t nearly strong enough a word. Deciding everything else could wait until she felt more like standing, she turned down the dark hallway, closing her bedroom door as she stepped inside.
Clothes peeling painfully from her skin, Haydn dropped them in a bloody heap on the bathroom floor before stepping around the curved stone wall of her shower. Hand hesitant as it reached for the knob, she found its reluctance wise as the water poured over her like rain, providing an excruciating purification of her open wounds.
She would have to eat again, and soon. She could feel the urgency in the sluggish rhythm of her heart, in the way her hands trembled against the wall where she held herself up. It was what the hunters refused to understand. The more they made them bleed, the more blood they needed. Unless it was a kill shot, a rare feat for any hunter, any significant damage done to a deraph only resulted in the loss of another human life. Or several. Feeling as if she’d been doing nothing but bleeding for weeks, Haydn couldn’t remember when she had ever eaten so much.
Hearing the bedroom door, she pulled her head from beneath the spray of water, picking up Gijon’s scent before he came into the bathroom and his bare, muscular form appeared around the rock wall.
“Worse than it looked,” he said instantly, and, his gaze meticulous in its observation, of both her and the pink water that rolled off her body to swirl down the drain, Haydn knew she wouldn’t be able to convince him his eyes deceived him. “I know the door was closed, but Auris said you might be in need of some assistance.”
Dark eyes rising back to her face, Haydn permitted Gijon with a small nod, and he stepped beneath the water, turning her from the wall, his hands on her hips support enough that she no longer needed it to stand.
Pressed out of the water’s fall, she felt Gijon’s tongue first at her hairline. Then, across her forehead. Down the bridge of her nose. Over her cheeks and lips and chin. Back to her ears. Behind her ears.
As he painstakingly worked his way through her hair, Haydn considered it might be easier to just shave it all off, but there was something soothing in the way Gijon separated the strands, finding each small wound to close it, that helped ease the memories of her night. Leaning against his chest, she let him take all the time it took, until at last he finished and was free to continue down her body.
Moan trembling from her as Gijon pulled her knee over his shoulder and lingered longer than necessary on her most sensitive flesh, half healing, half arousing, Haydn put her hands against the wall, struggling to keep her balance. Lightheadedness melding with desire, the sensory rush moved lower as Gijon made his way to her ankles, lifting each foot to tend to the wounds on her soles, finding even the spots between her toes Haydn could scarcely feel were there.
Apparently, there wasn’t a spot on her anywhere the sylph hadn’t tried to bleed.
Intimately aware of the fact a moment later, when Gijon’s hands slid up her thighs to spread her ass cheeks, tongue dipping deep to find all the hidden wounds, Haydn felt like a criminal, hands pressed against the wall in surrender, not a single millimeter left unsearched. When at last Gijon abandoned the spot, moving back up body and lifting her hair to make sure he had gotten to all the wounds on her neck, Haydn felt his arousal before his fingers slipped around her hip to glide through her own.
“Am I going to live?” she husked. Still weak, she could also feel the difference since the bleeding stopped.
“I think so.” Gijon nuzzled her neck, and, turning into him, Haydn slid her palms up his slick, solid chest.
“Good. Now, fuck me.”
Just awaiting her go ahead, Gijon’s hands curved around the backs of Haydn’s thighs, lifting her legs around his hips, and Haydn moaned as he entered her. Thrusts gentle and unhurried, she wasn’t sure if Gijon could tell how physically weak she was, or if it was the other tolls she had paid that he could see.
“How do I look?” Staring into his dark gaze, whatever power Lilith held over her felt like it belonged to another lifetime.
“Hot as hell,” Gijon returned.
“Yeah, I bet.” Fingertips scratching through his hair, Haydn pulled his lips to hers, his taste and smell tantalizing and familiar. Two and half centuries, and she still couldn’t get enough of him. She wondered what she would do if he ever left her, if Auris left, if she would really just let them go, as she wished Lilith would, or if she would spend three hundred years trying to entice them back.
Real pleasure building inside her, it chased the hypothetical from her mind, and Haydn gave into its steady rise. Hand cradling the back of Gijon’s head as his face pressed into the curve of her neck, she savored his groan at the warm eruption between them, so genuine, it left no room for deceit.
“You really are beautiful,” he said, putting Haydn back on her feet a moment later, and, laughing at how even she couldn’t help but fall under the charms of a deraph, Haydn held tightly to his shoulder to keep from ending up on the shower floor.
“Promise me one thing. Always lie to me.” Lips finding his as the bedroom door opened once more, the smell of Auris drifted in on the air. Breaking from Gijon to watch the opening in the wall expectantly, Haydn knew, even spent, they could find another round, or two, in them if Auris had come to join them.
“What?” Prescient dread struck Haydn when Auris appeared fully clothed, an expression on her face Haydn had never seen. No rage or resentment to support the tears that pressed at her eyes.
“It’s Samuel,” she uttered.
Hair still dripping, Haydn clutched the towel to her chest as the members of her clan made way. Smell of the leather bindings overwhelming, she watched Samuel come into view in the midst of them, perfectly erect in a straight-backed chair, book open in his lap, eyes staring at the page through his glasses as if they could see what was written upon it.
Not exactly sorrow, what she felt, or even mourning, it was tinged in both those things.
Wrath, her truest emotion, the one from which all other sentiments stemmed, Haydn realized, with furious tears pressing at her eyes, that trying to avoid an all-out war with the hunters had been far too diplomatic. Every second she thought they could wait had been a mistake. A mistake that cost Raquel. A mistake that killed Samuel. A mistake for which Auris, who had lost more than any of them, had no reason to ever forgive her.
Slade in prison, Sean dead, Haydn realized only one team remained standing.
“I think it�
�s time we have a talk with Garcia,” she uttered, the desire within her to hurt someone like nothing she had ever felt before.
12
Wiped by the time he made it home, Garcia still had to rise with the alarm. Glancing to the clock with a grimace as reality blared in his ear, it felt like he’d slept no more than ten minutes, and he could have stayed in bed a good eight hours more.
Unlike some, though, he didn’t get compensated to be a vigilante. His humdrum desk job paid the bills, and knowing, if he wanted to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach, the bills had to be paid, Garcia staggered out of bed and into the small kitchen.
Kettle switched on, he heaped scoops from the canister of Irish Breakfast, figuring it was going to take the world’s strongest brew to keep his eyes even halfway open. Stepping through the doorway a few minutes later, cup in hand, he cursed as he tripped over clutter and scalding tea sloshed out. The darkness of the living room unexpected, he tried to remember why and when he pulled the shades, as his vision at last adjusted enough to see the dried-up skin pinned to his wall.
“You don’t mourn long, do you?”
Mug falling instantly from his hand, Garcia didn’t have time to feel the burn as the tea splashed against his leg. Windows too far, he moved for the kitchen doorway, sliding to his knees and just getting a finger into the notch of the floorboard, before he was yanked up and tossed into his favorite chair.
Momentum carrying it onto its hind legs, the seat tilted treacherously for a moment before falling back onto all fours, and, flicking the floorboard up with the toe of her boot, Haydn reached into the hollow beneath, waving the gun haphazardly his way as she rose back up.
“What’s this?”
Not all that surprised to see her in his cottage, Garcia had always known the deraphs left them alone only because they posed no real risk. If they ever did something right, he knew they would come. As they had for Slade’s crew. He only hoped it would take longer.
“Did you make this yourself?”
Staring at the cuts on her face as Haydn inspected the makeshift weapon, Garcia wondered what other tangles she had gotten into.
“How does it work?”
Wooden stake firing as she pressed the trigger, he lurched to the side, panting as the iron arrowhead lodged into the stuffing of the chair by his shoulder.
“Is that all it does?” Haydn frowned. “You really are incredibly old-school, Garcia. You’ve seen how Slade’s crew’s weapons work. Truly state of the art stuff. Some actually do extensive damage. I would tell you to keep working on this, but, honestly, who would want it?”
When she tossed the gun aside, Garcia watched it break into a dozen useless pieces.
“What do you want?” he uttered, and Haydn laughed.
“Oh, I think you can guess,” she said, but Garcia could more than guess. He knew exactly what Haydn came for - the same thing he wanted from her - his hide.
“We have come to a very delicate place,” Haydn stated. “A place where you don’t need Slade’s advanced weaponry.”
Sounding like a compliment, Garcia couldn’t stop the gratified smile that came to his face. Not that he tried hard. The deraphs had been a terror hanging over humanity for long enough. It was about time they learned what it was like to be afraid.
“I’d like to know more about that,” Haydn said.
“I’m not talking to you.” Garcia refused to flinch when Haydn took a step closer. He would have preferred to show no signs of fear at all, but knowing she had the strength to rip him into actual pieces made it impossible to sit completely stone-faced.
“I thought you would say that,” Haydn responded, and Garcia tried to calculate his odds. Five/ninety-five, he figured, those were his chances of not dying to dying if he went in for an attack, and they got considerably worse if he threw severe pain or dismemberment into the equation.
“I would prefer to talk to Slade,” Haydn went on. “He would have no qualms about giving up anything he knew to keep his pretty face intact, but, as it turns out, he’s a little incarcerated right now. Oh, you didn’t know?” Garcia couldn’t hide his surprise. “He put a bullet in the head of his first mate. Apparently, the hunting business doesn’t have the loyalty it used to.
“Here’s what I know.” Haydn gave him no time to ruminate on what would drive Slade to ever shoot Sean. “I know we have… better halves, if you will, people who even the scales. I know, if you kill these people, you kill us, and I know that three members of my clan are dead and I am not losing any more.” Leaning over him, Haydn’s face came within inches of Garcia’s own, one hand on the back of the chair hindering any possible escape. “What I need to know is how you’re finding them.”
“You don’t really think I’m going to tell you.” Garcia pre-regretted his decision to hold out.
“How are you finding our innocents?” Haydn asked with such calm, Garcia swore he could feel a preview of the coming pain. Rapid breaths pumping past his lips, he shook his head, and, fist slamming against his torso, he couldn’t hold back the howl of pain as his ribs cracked.
“How are you finding our innocents?” Haydn asked him again.
“Fuck you.”
Fist slamming the same spot again, Garcia’s eyes watered automatically as something snapped loose.
“How are you finding our innocents?”
Looking up into Haydn’s infuriatingly calm expression, even silence proved an unacceptable response as Haydn punched him once more, and Garcia gasped at the air, unable to draw a sufficient breath, hopeful he might pass out before the rest of the interrogation.
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” he hissed when Haydn yanked his head back, preparing to move onto his face. “You’re going to have to kill me.”
“Thank you.” She inexplicably released him, and, falling back into the chair, Garcia put his hand to his lungs, trying to force them to function. “Now, was that so hard? Gijon. Auris.”
She didn’t have to raise her voice for them to hear. Door opening down the hall, they walked into the room a few seconds later with Jim and Fiona, who, arms bound, gags over their mouths appeared rather resigned to the grim reality. When one banded with others to fight against powerful enemies, it was always in this back of his mind that he may be choosing the people with whom he would one day die.
“I’m going to assume, if you are willing to let me kill you, you must not be the only one who knows.”
Fighting the urge to glance to Jim and Fiona, Garcia knew it would give too much away. “You’ll have to kill them too,” he declared, but, at Fiona’s stifled laugh in response, he realized his desire for them to be united in their purpose didn’t make it so.
“Something you’d like to say?” Haydn asked, dragging the gag down Fiona’s chin, and the feeble laughter filled the room.
“Yeah.” Fiona glanced to Garcia. “I’m trying to be a team player here, really I am, but I think declaring my willingness to die oversteps the boundaries of our relationship.”
“So, you don’t want to die?” Haydn went for the crack in their unified front, and blood gurgled in Garcia’s chest as he glared across the room, breaths coming quick and shallow.
“Not for this,” Fiona answered, and he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen it coming. Fiona was a sturdy warrior, an amazing shot, and a fucking disaster waiting to happen.
“Fair enough,” Haydn said. “So, I assume you won’t mind telling me how you’re finding our innocents then.”
“I don’t know.” Fiona shook her head. “I’m on a need-to know basis. Garcia calls when it’s time to go, I do the job, and I go home.”
Sounding rather bitter about it, as if she had given them any real reason to trust her, Garcia was reminded why he hadn’t, in fact, provided Fiona with vital information as he looked for something he could use to stop her from saying too much.
“Thank you, Fiona.” Haydn apparently had all she needed. “I feel we’ve reached a real milestone of trust in this mom
ent. I would even trust you not to scream, but I find bearing witness to certain things just makes humans scream on instinct.”
Gag settled back across Fiona’s mouth, Haydn glanced to Gijon, and his eyes glowed red. Fangs emerging, he uttered something Garcia didn’t want to understand, before sinking them into Jim’s throat, and, proving far less sensitive than the credit Haydn gave her, Fiona only stared in shock as Jim fought to get away.
When his struggle turned to acceptance - more than acceptance - Garcia dropped his gaze, watching his hand twitch against his chest. Looking up again when the sick moans came to an end, for a moment, Garcia thought Jim was dead.
“Jim?” Haydn untied his gag, letting it float to the floor, and eyes blinking open, glazed and bewildered, Jim looked like the same man, but wholly different. Shuddering, his eyes closed for another prolonged moment, and they reopened red, startling Fiona back into Auris as they turned her way.
“Hungry,” Jim uttered.
“No.” Stroking his sandy beard, Haydn persuaded Jim to look at her, and any desire he’d had to get away was lost for eternity. “The blood you have in you is perfectly good. You don’t need to eat. You just want to eat, and it feels like need. Tell me what I want to know, and I will let you do whatever you want.”
Realizing Jim wouldn’t have to go far to find a square meal, Garcia squirmed in his seat, breaths coming in even shallower bursts. Gaze jumping around the room to those places where he kept weapons, he tried to figure out how he could get to any of them with Auris keeping such a close eye.
“Do you know about the innocents?” Haydn asked.
“Synjuments,” Jim responded.
“The synjuments.” Haydn repeated, and it sounded as if she was hearing the word for the first time. “How do you find them?”
“We have a list,” Jim said.
“A list? That’s helpful. Is this list written down somewhere?”
Head shaking, Jim glanced past Haydn’s shoulder, and Garcia couldn’t control the fear, or the guilt, at the hunger he saw in Jim’s eyes. So many battles they had fought together. Now, no matter how it came out, it wasn’t how it should end.
