Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “Let me check your vitals.”

  Adi nods, suddenly sad at all the inside info she now holds. Jenni checks all her parts. And like a jointed doll, she's okay.

  That's when the fun begins.

  Jenni plops down in a chair and rolls it to her bedside.

  “You're very lucky.”

  Ah-huh.

  “Do you know your name? We couldn't get anything from our records with your print.”

  Of course not. No self-respecting Were would allow a human to get ahold of her DNA.

  Except me. Adi figures they've got her blood, skin, and everything typed. Dammit. “My name's Adrianna.”

  Jenni's smile is brilliant and gentle.

  She's in the right line of work, this human.

  Jenni pats her hand. “We have x-rays that show a broken pelvis and femur, contusions, and small fractures in keeping with the larger injuries.”

  Her eyes sweep to Adi's. “A second set of x-rays show that those injuries have mended themselves.”

  Adi gulps. Spying a water cup, she grabs it, takes a sip, and sets it back down. “Okay?” Adi says, feigning ignorance.

  She's awesome at that.

  “We're going to run more tests.”

  “Nope,” Adi replies in a pleasant tone.

  Nurse Jenni's brows crease. “I'm sorry?” she asks, as though she heard Adi wrong.

  “I am not staying for more tests. I feel amazing. And, I have somewhere to be. I'd love to grab some food, but I bet I'll need to stick around for that.” Adi grabs her lower lip with her teeth and swings her legs to the side of the bed opposite Jenni.

  “Hey!” Jenni calls out loudly.

  Adi's clothes rustle as she stands, tearing out the IV. She tosses it onto the bed then jerks off the tape, wincing. She rips the gown over her head, pitches it on the hospital bed, and pads naked to where she spies her clothes.

  “What? Wait…” Jenni says, setting the clipboard on a rolling tray with a disruptive clatter.

  “It's okay. You've done your job and filled me up with some great meds.” Adi turns to look at her, her hands hanging limply at her sides.

  “Did you set my breaks?” Adi asks, rooting through her unicorn backpack and pulling on her pants. She whistles through her teeth at some residual pain, hiking the yoga pants over her hips.

  Bet the other pair are toast.

  Adi eyeballs the pack. A few unicorns have road skids, and only a smattering of glitter remains where they'd romped over the slick material.

  “Yes,” Jenni whispers.

  Adi smiles at her. “Thank you. That would have been awful for me to try and figure out.”

  Jenni takes a deep breath then lets it out as though she's calming frayed nerves. Probably. “We want you to stay here for observation, Adrianna.”

  I bet.

  “Adi.”

  Jenni catches her forearm. “Please don't go, Adi. We've never seen anyone heal like you do.”

  “I know. Can't stick around and be a cooperative pincushion.” Adi walks to the window, where she pops the metal slats apart with her index finger and thumb.

  She swivels the latch at the middle of the window and slides it open slightly. Adi rests the side of her face on the wooden sill.

  “What are you doing?” Jenni asks from right behind her.

  “Smelling,” Adi turns to look at her. “Stay where ya are. Don't stick me with needles or anything. I won't like it.” Adi allows her eyes to go wolfen, and Jenni gasps, retreating a step.

  Adi directs her attention back to the window. She lays her face on the windowsill again and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply.

  Her eyes snap open. The males are here.

  Jenni's going to be more than a nurse today.

  She whirls, and Jenni snatches the clipboard from the tray, holding it in front of her like a shield.

  “I need your help,” Adi says, shutting out the fear. For now.

  “You have it. Stay here so we can study you and take care of you.”

  Adi gives an irritated shake of her head. “No. You're going to wheel chair my ass out of here, toss me into your car, and we're going to your place. Then I can get where I'm going without the three musketeers up my ass.”

  “The three what?” Her face screws into a frown of confusion.

  Convince her, Adi.

  She rushes the nurse, who squeals like a piglet. Adi covers her mouth with one hand, staring deeply into her eyes.

  “You'll help me because I know stuff about you.” Adi shakes off the guilt of coercing a sick human. Survive.

  Jenni tries to shake her head.

  “I'll let you go if you don't scream.” Adi raises her eyebrows, waiting.

  Jenni shakes her head again.

  Okay, she's gonna scream.

  “You have aggressive breast cancer.”

  Jenni's face slackens.

  Adi takes her hand away.

  “How—how could you possibly know that?”

  Long version or short? Adi's eyes skate to the window. Short.

  “I'm a werewolf.” She taps her nose.

  Jenni's skin pales, and she begins to slide down the wall.

  “Shit!” Adi says as she catches her easily.

  Where the hell are the smelling salts when you need them?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Drek

  “Stop this!” Drek bellows a second time in a voice meant to deafen.

  All activity ceases.

  He makes a valiant effort to soothe a beast within him as it claws for escape. His attention moves to the palest shadow of the moon.

  Fortune is with him.

  It is full. And for a Lanarre, that means more control, not less. Three measured breaths later, his eyes peg the two Lanarre females before him.

  Which one is Tahlia?

  He openly studies the two females’ bodies from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes.

  At first, Drek had assumed they were identical. Now he sees subtle differences and smells differences in scent, as well.

  “She is my cousin, Drek. Tanya,” the little spitfire tells him.

  The other female, his purported chosen, glares at her.

  “This is Tahlia,” the voice of a strong female says from a few feet away.

  Bowen growls.

  Drek raises his hand. “Let the female speak.”

  He gives her a less-thorough perusal than the one he gave the warring Lanarre females. She is tall, even for a Were, standing easily five feet and ten inches. A messy black braid graces the hollow between her shoulder blades and runs past her waist.

  Gray eyes like a pale storm cloud meet his frank appraisal with one just as bold.

  “She saved me from Tramack's men.”

  Drek feels his face tighten. His heartbeat trips over the next one in anticipation of her words. “The Alpha from the Western?”

  She nods, and clear surprise washes over her face. “Yes,” she answers quietly. “How did you—?”

  Bowen chuckles beside him. “We made his acquaintance at the Singersʼ Region One.”

  “And what of Praile?” the demonic says.

  Their fingers lace, and low growls can be heard everywhere. No Lanarre will stand for the inference of romantic intentions from anyone other than another Were.

  A female Were in heat is the exclusive right of the Lycan. How dare this demonic manifest his intent?

  Drek steps forward.

  The demonic's skin flushes a light red. A tail rises above his head. “Step no closer.”

  Drek laughs. “Do you not see you are outnumbered, horned one?”

  The demonic smiles, flashing teeth as bright as a slice of ivory in his hard face. “I know many things.”

  Drek hesitates. His knowledge of the demonic as a species is limited.

  He has never had a need to know this little-seen enemy on intimate terms.

  “Demonic wounds are very difficult to heal.” Drek looks at the demonic. They are equal height. His p
ale-blond hair appears to silver beneath the bright moonlight that swaths the open meadow. Light colored eyes of indiscriminate color gaze guilelessly back at Drek.

  But the demonic teem with guile. They are a crafty species—that Drek is not soon to forget. His gaze shifts to the wounded Lanarre.

  The body count stands at two. Shards of brain like bleached bone litter the ground as though head-sized eggs have been shattered in place. Drek's eyes reach the demonic again. “You've murdered Lanarre, horned one.”

  “Only the ones who would have seen my true death come to pass.”

  Self-defense.

  “He is a problem,” Bowen comments.

  Drek heaves a harsh exhale. “Yes.”

  “I can heal all but myself,” the demonic says casually, and all movement ceases. “And I am not horned.”

  Something in his tone rings of hollowness.

  “That particular mark of beauty was not bestowed on me. However, where that bit is absent, I have other… attributes.”

  The female by his side blushes, casting her eyes at the ground.

  Drek knots his hands, noticing the male's nakedness again. Casual nudity is not appropriate among shifters, but perhaps it doesn't matter to the demonic. After a full minute has passed, he says, “What do they call you?”

  “Lazarus.”

  Drek's eyebrows pop. That is an ancient name from the fabled Christian book. It does not seem a likely namesake for a demonic.

  “Not that it matters since there hasn't been one fair turn in this entire time,” the chosen says from behind him, and Drek turns to the sound of her voice.

  Her eyes are pockets of shadow in her face, spinning slowly like swirling smoke. That alone lets Drek know that she's agitated, her beast rioting for escape.

  “Laz saw that we escaped from Tessa's horrible packmaster and the other demonic. He alone helped us.”

  Drek whirls to Lazarus. “Praile?”

  Lazarus nods gravely. “He will find me. There is no reasoning within the ranks of the high demon. Praile will locate me, and he will escort me to Hades, for the Master's reckoning.”

  The female beside him shivers, gripping his powerful bicep.

  He wraps an arm around her, covering her head with a large palm. Steam rises in slow-moving vapors to escape into the cooler night air. His tale vibrates above his head, clearly ready for anything.

  Drek notes a very subtle shimmer over all of Lazarus's skin. It must be a trick of the eye. The vapor of hell couldn't off gas from his very pores.

  Or could it?

  “We cannot offer sanctuary to a demonic,” Drek says with a decisive grunt, “or one who killed two of my guard. Or is clearly about taking a female from the limited number the Were possess. This Tessa? She shall remain here and be suitably mated and bred for the female she is.”

  Why can't this demonic understand Tessa’s place among his people?

  “She is my Redemptive. She will not be mated to a Lycan. Common Were or Lanarre.”

  Drek's mouth drops open. “If you know so much about the Lycan, then you must know our females are much depleted. We mate within our species, demonic.”

  His grip on Tessa tightens. “Be that as it may, without her, I am condemned to hell.”

  Bowen chuckles. “That's rich! Aren't you already there?”

  Lazarus's face sours. “Yes. That is why this rare opportunity which has presented itself is so enticing. Without Tessa, my life remains one of torture, abuse, and maiming the souls of all beings whom possess one.”

  “It isn't our choice who Tessa mates,” the female claiming to be his chosen says.

  “I am Tahlia. Do not listen to this imposter.”

  They scent so similar.

  Drek ignores them both for the moment, turning back to Lazarus. “I must sort the mess of my chosen before I can give sufficient weight to your words, demonic. Can you be trusted to not harm any more of my guard?”

  He can't afford more bloodshed, and he knows that will be what it comes to.

  A crooked half-grin seats itself on the demonic's chiseled features. “If they do not try to harm me.”

  Drek turns to his guard. “Watch, but do not act.” The six who remain look upon the demonic with angry wariness.

  His attention moves to the two females. One lies. The other holds the truth.

  The spitfire has captured him. But the other is equally beautiful.

  But Drek knows from brutal experience that beauty is not all that matters. There is such a thing as a mate who holds within her the innate makings of a queen.

  The spitfire is too bold, too rash to make a good queen, though their connection is irrefutable.

  “What do you think, Drek?” Bowen surveys the two royal females from the west.

  “I think I will very thoroughly question the females.”

  “Good call,” Bowen says.

  Drek looks to the Lanarre guards. The one who is the lead, Ospere, nods his compliance.

  Whatever Drek wishes to do, Ospere will see it done.

  “Take the females to my chambers. Restrain them so they do not harm each other—”

  “What the fuck?” Tessa roars and launches herself toward Drek.

  Lazarus captures her about the waist, popping her feet off the ground. And though she is a tall athletic specimen of a female, he easily halts her forward momentum, but not before she speaks her mind, “You chauvinistic cad.”

  Drek frowns, easily understanding the gist of her words.

  “Tahlia is the real chosen. She came here because she thought your pack would protect her since her guardians were murdered. But you're like all the rest of the Were, royal dick or not. Your males hurt her because she tried to defend herself.”

  The Lanarre circle her and Lazarus, but Drek gives a subtle shake of his head. They instantly still.

  He would hear her thoughts—and what his guard did against the female. Drek folds his arms. “How am I like the other Were?”

  “You all have small dicks and try to squish a female's spirit in the hopes she won't discover the inadequacy.”

  Lazarus's face appears pained, and a feminine snort sounds from somewhere behind him. Drek doesn't have to wonder over who might have made the noise.

  “None of the Lanarre males have lack of function in that area.”

  She snorts. “What other excuse is there? And you have proof. How would that be?”

  “Tessa,” Lazarus murmurs.

  Drek's irritation rises.

  “If you were a decent Lycan male, you wouldn't be trying to restrain your future mate. You'd be compassionate. She just lost her human guards, you foolish male!”

  She's spitting now, and Lazarus tries to calm her. “I won't!” she replies to something he says beside her ear.

  Her eyes flash like silver coins. “It doesn't even matter if another lying female is playing you here. The facts are: we arrived, we were held against our will, and you almost killed a guy who was our only protector when one of our kind sought to enslave me. And you don't bat an eye, Prince Drek,” she states with thick sarcasm. “And you're the stand-up for the Lycan race?” Her stare incinerates all who stand within range, her accusing eyes missing no one. “You guys couldn't dance your way out of a paper bag. No wonder I'm rogue. What can you offer a female? Nothing.”

  “Amen,” the chosen says from behind Drek.

  “Take them,” Drek says without turning.

  “You'll regret this, Lanarre.”

  Drek walks to her and the demonic. “I allow the demonic to live because I haven't ascertained his culpability in these circumstances, only that he felt he acted in self-defense. And I do not know the true nature of my chosen. You are female and in the beginnings of heat. You're not capable of behaving rationally.”

  The first flicker of uncertainty Drek has seen lights her features. Good. She is too sure of herself for his taste.

  “Come no closer,” Lazarus says.

  Their gazes clash. “You threaten me? A Lanarre
prince.”

  Lazarus's nod is slow. “I threaten anyone who would harm my Redemptive.”

  Drek's lips thin. “I keep you for her welfare, as undeserved as it seems now.”

  Tessa's lips curl back from her teeth. “By all means, kill us. Kill a female who dares to speak her mind and tell the truth about circumstances against her. And kill the male who saved her and your supposed chosen, who you don't even believe is your true mate.”

  “Your presence is separate from who my real chosen is.” Drek scrubs his face. “However, a true chosen would not behave as she does.”

  “Pfft!” Tessa says, and Lazarus tightens his hold on her. “You wouldn't know a true female with backbone if she walloped you between the eyes.”

  Her disrespect grates on him. Drek looks to his guards, who flank him, their eyes spinning with the need for bloodshed. However, they will not act without his command. “Take them to the house as guests. Keep the demonic at the back.”

  Drek tries for gracious when all his beast desires is war. “I need your word that you will not consummate whatever this Redemptive status is. Give us time to come to terms.”

  Lazarus inclines his head. “I am not cut from the same cloth as the Lycan. I do not feel pressed to manipulate a female for its own sake.”

  It's not a real answer, but one of evasion.

  Tessa gives him a glance.

  Drek flares his nostrils. They are not as well-acquainted as he first believed.

  She is learning about his behavior just as he.

  A demonic is not meant to be with a Lycan female. They will see this. If he can delay the strange courtship that this Lazarus insanely believes is his right, Drek will figure out something that defeats it without looking like the one who manufactured their demise. Then she can be free to mate with a Were. And whoever his chosen really is will see him act with temperance instead of the dictatorship that is his right.

  “Yes, whatever you believe, demonic, does not necessarily hold all the facts.”

  “Enough facts.” His voice is droll. Sure.

  We will see.

  “Take them, as well.”

  The guard moves toward Lazarus, but his eyes flare in warning. Even in the moonlight, the shadow of red blooms on skin like bleached alabaster. “I will walk unaided.”

  “Yeah—” Tessa says, glaring at Drek. “Me, too.”