Revelations in Blood

by Patricia D. Eddy

  Searching for some distraction, he scanned the walls, then the ceiling. Tool marks broke up the dark gray stone, dozens of them in every direction. How many were there? With a deep breath, he focused his gaze on the nearest corner of his cell.

  He lost count at seventy-three and let sleep take him.

  Jerking awake from his third nightmare, he forgot where he was, unable to understand why he felt so…drained. Then, he turned his head and saw the bars. Merda. How long could he go without blood? He would not take from another. Not now. Clenching his fists and scanning his body, he tried to estimate how long he had. Two days. Perhaps three if they did not chain him beyond handcuffs for the actual interrogation. He had no idea how long he’d slept, but it had to be close to morning.

  Pushing himself up, he crossed his legs, his black pants rustling as he settled his mind and prepared to meditate. So many long days had passed in meditation while he’d been Longo’s prisoner. But only a few minutes after he calmed his breathing and heart rate, a door at the end of the hall banged open, and heavy footsteps approached.

  “Nicola Angliatti. The interrogation will begin shortly. Do you require blood?” The deep voice was familiar, and Nic opened his eyes, focusing on the tall, wiry male watching him.

  “No.” Standing, Nic stretched his neck and flexed his fingers. The guard took a step away from the bars, and light slashed across his high cheekbones. “Enrico, si? You remember me? You have worked for the Conclave for more than what? Thirty-five years?”

  “Si, signore. I remember you well. The last time we spoke, you counseled me on some investments. They were very profitable. Grazie.” Despite his friendly words, Enrico stood with his gloved hands held loosely at his sides, ready to draw his taser if necessary.

  “How is your life mate?” Nic forced a weak smile, trying to put Enrico at ease.

  “He is well.” Enrico stared down at his feet for a moment, black boots polished to a high shine sticking out of his crisp, pressed slacks. “I am sorry, signore. But I must ask for your hands. I was told you were not to be outside of your cell without handcuffs.”

  “Can you tell me,” Nic said as he carefully pressed his shoulders to the bars, offering the guard his wrists, “anything about the Conclave’s reaction to my…re-emergence?”

  The silver sent needles of pain up his arms, and when he heard Enrico step back, Nic turned around. The male’s eyes had darkened, the purple irises almost black. His lower lip trembled slightly, and the handcuff keys jingled as he tried to shove them back into his pocket.

  “I…” Enrico glanced up and down the long hallway.

  The Conclave’s prison was made up of a system of caves excavated long ago. Of the fifty cells underground, usually less than ten or fifteen were ever filled, and Nic had heard only occasional sounds overnight. A cough here, a moan there. A chain rattling—the most dangerous prisoners were restrained with leg irons.

  Dropping his voice, Enrico leaned close to the bars, grimacing as the proximity to silver must have been uncomfortable. “They were angry, signore. I do not know why. But most of their meetings the past few years have ended in shouting matches. Now per favore, we must go quickly, or Luigi and Antonio will not be pleased. Your interrogation will begin as soon as you are secured in the chamber.”

  Secured.

  Nic tried not to let himself dwell on that one word, but the reality of what was about to happen slammed into him, and he stumbled as he brushed against the door of his cell. Only Enrico’s hand on his arm stopped him from hitting the ground.

  The Conclave did not trust him. If they wanted him secured, they feared he was a danger to them. And they might not ever let him go free again.

  7

  Enrico maintained a firm grip on Nic’s arm as he guided him up a short set of stairs, down a long hall, and into the interrogation chamber. Three other guards stood around a wooden chair in the center of the room.

  Protocol. Nothing more.

  Nic tried to keep his fear under control, but the sight of the ancient wood with thick silver manacles for his wrists and ankles turned his stomach.

  “Stand. Feet apart,” Enrico said, his tone no longer full of understanding. Once another guard had secured the leg irons, Enrico unlocked the handcuffs. “Sit.”

  Fighting would do nothing but tire him and hasten his need for blood, so Nic let them bind him. At least here, he was clothed. Not drugged. The cavernous ceiling pressed down on him, and he tested his restraints, earning him a glare from one of the other guards and a warning “Signore” from Enrico.

  As the outer door to the interrogation chamber opened, Enrico leaned down, his gloved hand resting on Nic’s arm just above the silver cuff. “Trust no one,” he whispered before he straightened and moved to stand with the other guards directly behind Nic. An impenetrable wall of vampire muscle designed to intimidate.

  The Conclave—or what was left of them—filed in. The eldest member and leader, Luigi, pulled out his chair and waited for the rest: Antonio, his second, along with Mario, Cesare, Angelia, Jax, Tomas, and Carolina. Three missing. What had happened to the others?

  Nic met each gaze, finding no sympathy among the men and women he’d once considered friendly—if not friends. Vampires did not form close relationships. When one’s entire caste system was based on age and strength, trust was difficult to come by.

  “Nicola,” Luigi said as he took his seat at the center of a long, polished wood table. Tapping a small screen embedded in the wood, he frowned, and the move highlighted how much the elder had aged in the past eighteen years. If Nic had to guess, Luigi had only a few hundred more years of his vampire life.

  “Capo. Sto bene?”

  “Si. For clarity, and since Jax has refused to learn Italian, we will continue in English. I trust this is acceptable to you?” Luigi’s pale purple eyes held no sympathy as Nic flexed his fingers, the silver cuffs digging into his wrists.

  “Of course. I am no stranger to these proceedings.” Or do you forget my centuries of service?

  “You are here today to answer questions surrounding your abduction, escape, and intervening eighteen years. This interrogation will continue until we are certain you have not betrayed the vampire race.”

  “What basis do you have for your accusations?” Nic asked. “I have been a loyal and dedicated member of this Conclave for centuries. To be accused of treason…I deserve to know why.”

  “You deserve nothing.” Antonio’s harsh tone grated. “You disappeared for eighteen years, and when you surfaced with tales of this…’serum,’ you expected us to send aid, risk lives, on a whim.”

  “It was not a whim. I was a prisoner until a week ago,” Nic growled. “Held deep underground in a cage made of silver bars. Henry Longo, a senior cleric in the Hand of God, repeatedly drugged me and used my body and my blood to develop a serum designed to turn vampires mortal.”

  “A human trapped you?” Antonio laughed. “We are five times as strong as the average human. Do you expect us to believe you could not escape?”

  Forcing a slow breath, Nic hoped Antonio wouldn’t see the fury in his eyes. “I tried to escape at every turn. Longo was careful. He tranquilized me before he unlocked the cage, and every time I regained consciousness, I found myself chained—hands and feet—to a laboratory table. Gagged with a silver rod.” Swallowing hard, the memories threatening to overwhelm him, Nic cleared his throat. “Longo burned me, broke more than half the bones in my body, starved me, and injected me with his serum. His vile drug caused pain like I have never felt and would often slow my ability to heal.”

  Several members of the Conclave whispered to one another. Luigi leaned forward, “How?”

  “I do not know. The stronzo did not bother explaining his research to me.”

  “You must have heard something.” Luigi shook his head. “Eighteen years, Nicola. And you learned nothing?”

  Nic stared up at the ceiling until he knew he would not let loose with a string of obscenities that would get h
im thrown back in the dank cell in the bowels of the Conclave. “In eighteen years, I spoke only a handful of sentences to the bastard.”

  “We must know everything you said. Voluntarily…and under duress.” Antonio narrowed his eyes at Nic. “There is…evidence of the torture you say you endured?”

  Nic’s emotions battered him like a ship on a stormy sea. Shame at the scars he bore. Anger at the almost gleeful interest Antonio seemed to take in his answer. Isolation, as none of his former colleagues dared stand up for him.

  “I bear the scars, si. And if you insist I recount every word, I will, but most of them are obscene.”

  Mario stifled a chuckle, then bowed his head when Luigi glared at him.

  “Longo did not try to extract information from you?” Antonio’s voice held a strong note of disbelief, and Luigi scoffed.

  “No. He told me, when I woke in that cursed cage, that I would reveal all my secrets. But the only secrets he cared about were physical. He rarely spoke directly to me, and as I told you, I was gagged whenever he experimented on me. He would not risk my bite.”

  For hours, Nic recounted the endless days he had spent chained, the experiments, how often Longo had taken his blood, and the scars he now bore. He spoke until his voice started to crack, without water, without any relief from the sharp pains the silver sent shooting through his arms and legs.

  “How did you escape?” Angelia, the oldest female on the Conclave, cocked her head as she tapped her tablet screen. Though Nic had argued against her appointment two hundred years ago, he’d always found her competent and fair.

  “My life mate freed me.”

  “You mean the human you claim you’ve bonded to.” Angelia shook her head. “How can you expect us to believe—”

  Anger rippled along his skin and Nic clenched his fingers, sending the silver manacles digging deeper into his wrists. “I claim nothing. Evangeline and I are fully bonded. We have completed the blood exchange and marked one another.”

  Antonio rolled his eyes. “And this human is the daughter of the man who tortured you for eighteen years.” He turned to Luigi. “Your foolish promise prevents us from examining this woman. If you would let us—”

  “No!” Nic roared and fought against his restraints, his fangs lengthening as he tried to escape. He had to protect Evangeline—whatever the cost. The chair creaked at his struggles, and one of the guards leapt forward, jammed the taser against his neck, and pulled the trigger.

  “E?” A sharp rapping penetrated her foggy mind, and Evangeline rolled over with a low groan, reaching for Nic beside her. She didn’t remember falling asleep. Or dreaming.

  The door cracked open, and Sylvie’s concerned face came into view. “Oy. You okay?”

  Was she? Sitting up, she rubbed the back of her neck, trying to ease the ache wrapping her head in a vise. “I…” She cleared her throat. “What time is it?”

  “After two.” Sylvie approached, holding two small cups. “Espresso?”

  “God, yes.” Before Evangeline could take her first sip, her stomach protested, and she threw her legs over the side of the bed, thrusting the cup back into Sylvie’s hands. Stumbling for the master bathroom, nausea rising in her throat, she wrapped her arms around the toilet bowl just in time and heaved up what little remained in her stomach.

  “Shite.” Sylvie dropped to her knees next to Evangeline, rubbing her back as she continued to retch until there was nothing left but the bitter taste of bile. “I’m going to call Vittoria.”

  Panic crackled over her skin, and Evangeline shuddered as she tried to get to her feet, failed, and her knees slammed into the tile. “No!” Strong arms hauled her to her feet and helped her over to the sink. Once she’d brushed her teeth, she sank against Sylvie. “I’ll be fine. I don’t want…I don’t need a doctor.”

  Her bodyguard met her gaze in the bathroom mirror. Evangeline hadn’t even taken her contacts out the night before, and she blinked hard, feeling like the inside of her eyelids had more in common with sandpaper than anything else. With trembling fingers, she plucked the contacts from her eyes and set them in the tiny container.

  “Brown, huh?” Sylvie didn’t let go as she helped Evangeline back to the bed. “Mine used to be green.”

  Sinking back against the fluffy pillows, Evangeline rubbed her eyes. “You’re…four hundred and something?” As much as she wanted to be alone—or wanted Nic at her side—she couldn’t seem to find the energy to send Sylvie away.

  “Four hundred and sixty-two. I was born during a bout of fighting in France in 1553. Wrong place, wrong time. I worked…” Sylvie’s cheeks flushed pink, and she shook her head. “It’s not important. But my sire found me dying and saved me because he…liked the look of me.”

  Something about Sylvie’s confession held a hint of shame and sadness, and Evangeline touched the vampire’s arm. “He…used you?”

  “He saved my life.” She shrugged and scooted back on the bed. “Died two years later when he tried to turn the wrong vampire’s human concubine.” With a snort, she ran a hand through her spiked hair. “Bastard didn’t see it coming. I wish he had.”

  The two sat in silence while Evangeline sipped her espresso and stared out the open veranda doors, the ocean breezes fluttering the gauzy drapes.

  “Hold her arm.”

  The memory fled as quickly as it came, as did the image of Vittoria’s blond brows knitting together and the strained tone to her voice.

  “Where is Vittoria?” Evangeline asked.

  Raising a shoulder, Sylvie replied, “Dunno. Girl dashed out of here like her ass was on fire late last night. Said she had some work to do and she’d be back this afternoon. I thought she was supposed to hang with you until Nicola returned.”

  Evangeline finished the last of her espresso and set the cup on the nightstand. “She was. Not that I want her to hover. She’s…a lot.” Despite only knowing Sylvie for perhaps ten minutes, something about the irreverent, British vampire screamed trustworthy. Even for a spy. Not that Evangeline had any experience with typical spy behavior.

  Laughter shook Sylvie’s small frame, and she tried to stifle it, but ended up snorting and her free hand flew to her nose. “Fuck me. That burns,” she wheezed when she’d caught her breath. “Coffee’s not supposed to come out your nose, you know. But I like you, E. You’ve got balls.”

  “Um…thanks?” She managed a weak smile. “I don’t feel very…ballsy. Is there any way to find out what’s going on with the interrogation? It’s been half a day. I can’t feel Nic.” Brushing her fingers over the bonding mark above her collarbone, she relished in the warmth spreading through her. If only she could feel Nic’s answering touch.

  “Let me make some calls. I don’t have any contacts at the Conclave, but Bayard probably still does. He used to work there…years ago.” Sylvie rose and looked down at Evangeline, her thick lashes tinged purple, just like the ends of her hair. “Don’t leave the house. You understand? Hell, after what just happened, stay in bed. I’ll bring you a little something to eat in half an hour.”

  With a nod, Evangeline closed her eyes. Exhaustion pressed down on her and she couldn’t understand why if she’d slept more than twelve hours, she couldn’t manage to stay awake. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and the headache hadn’t faded. “I’m not going anywhere until Nic’s free.”

  8

  Nic’s head pounded, and he rolled over, forcing his eyes open.

  No!

  Panic sent his heart pounding against his chest as he focused on the bars in front of him. He couldn’t be back in Longo’s cell. Could he? Had he dreamed…everything? Evangeline? Freedom? Their bonding?

  Blinking hard to clear the haze from his vision, a small measure of relief calmed him as the silver and iron bars coalesced and he took in the rough stone walls, the dimly-lit hall, and the bottle of water on the floor next to the cot.

  The Conclave prison. Luigi shouting. The guards’ rough hands on him. Trying to push up on an elbow, he hiss
ed as the taser marks burned his neck. Had they—?

  For a moment, his panic returned ten-fold as he feared the guards had tasered him over the bonding mark. His thoughts raced towards the edge of madness until he brushed his fingers over the thin scar from Evangeline’s knife, a scant half inch above the healing burn.

  How long had he been back in his cell? The guards had taken his watch when he’d arrived, and as he sat up, he realized his shirt was untucked. The bitter taste in his mouth reminded him of the side effects of the tranquilizer darts Longo would use on him.

  Rising, he wavered on his feet, the cell spinning around him. Merda. They had drugged him. Why?

  The violation sickened him, and he stumbled to the sink to rinse his mouth with a few swallows of icy water from the ancient tap. He had to grab onto the sides of the metal basin to stop himself from toppling over.

  After so long underground as Longo’s test subject, Nic had lost all sense of day and night, and the scant two weeks of freedom had not been enough to reset his body’s internal clock. The taser wound still burned, and his body had weakened, but he had no idea what else the Conclave’s guards had done to him after he’d passed out.

  “Hello?” Nic called once the cell stopped spinning around him. He approached the bars, peering down the hall in both directions. As his proximity to the silver prickled over his skin, he stopped. “I would like to speak to Luigi.”

  No one answered him. Despite his weakness, he paced, needing something to do so he would not go mad. Every few minutes, Nic touched one of his bonding marks or tried to sense Evangeline, but eventually, he sank back down onto the cot and dropped his head into his hands. “I will come back to you, cara,” he whispered. “I swear. Somehow.”

  Hours passed before footsteps echoed on the stone. Nic rolled over on his cot, exhaustion slowing his movements.