by Tessa Dawn
The vampire-warriors parted like the biblical Red Sea, allowing Saxson to approach Kyla directly, and she knew it was time to face the music.
Still, she had no intentions of giving up that easily. “Saxson!” she cried in desperation, trying to circumvent his anger before he unleashed it. “It’s not what you think. I swear! I’m not sure what you believe—or what you’ve been told—but I—”
He snatched her by the hair, hauled her off the ground, and slammed her against the wall. “I may not have the right to kill you, but I won’t hesitate to cut out your tongue. Speak one more lie to me, Kyla…just one.” He bent so close that the tip of his nose brushed against her forehead. “Just. One.”
She shivered, averting her eyes.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
She didn’t know this vampire.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust into her mind and began to retrieve her recent memories. She knew because it felt like an icepick bayonetting her skull, shredding the fragile gray matter, and she could see—she could actually feel—the memories replaying against her frontal lobe. Like weeds being plucked from a garden, wrenched out by the roots, Saxson began at the present day and worked methodically backward, stopping at the night of the Cetus Blood Moon.
“Son of a bitch!” he finally snarled, releasing his hand and dropping her to the ground. He turned to regard his brothers. “Her sister’s name is Kiera. My destiny’s name is Kiera, and they were together that night at the bar. Kyla belongs to a vampire-hunting society, and she took Kiera’s place.” His voice dropped to a low, threatening purr. “She had the markings of Cetus tattooed onto her wrist, and then she gave Kiera—she offered her twin—to a couple of humans in a dark blue van.” He scoffed in disgust. “She doesn’t know where they took her sister—whether Kiera is dead or alive—because she never cared enough to ask.” He shut his eyes, slowly shook his head, and whispered: “Nachari…wizard, you need to summon your father because this shit just gets better and better. The Head Hunter, the leader of Kyla’s militia, goes by a familiar name: Xavier Matista.”
A collective gasp reverberated across the room, followed by several strings of Romanian curses, but Saxson didn’t have time to react. He didn’t have time to go into detail or to offer any further explanations. His brow was creased with worry, and his pupils were dilated with focus as he prowled across the floor, bent to retrieve Kyla’s dainty red purse, and withdrew her cell phone from the center velvet-lined pocket, tossing it to Santos. “Brother, I need you to dissect this shit. Get everything off this phone: photographs, passwords, addresses; texts, emails, social media accounts; and most important, recover anything that has been deleted in the last seven days. Can you do that?”
Santos nodded, his complexion noticeably pale, and Kyla couldn’t help but read his mind, even from her human perspective: He had to be wondering if it wasn’t too late—if he was staring at his brother’s corpse—if Kiera was already dead, then Saxson was already lost.
But to his credit, he opened Kyla’s phone and swiped along the bottom. “That’s gonna take me a little time, especially the recovery piece,” he informed Saxson. “Can’t just pull the memories out of a piece of metal and plastic like a human mind. I’m going to need to take this home where I can access my tools and equipment.” And then he paused. “What’s the password for the phone?”
Kyla pursed her lips together, and Saxson flew across the space, squatted in front of her, and slapped her so hard, her right molars came loose.
She spit out a wad of bloody drool. “Five. Seven. Six. Six. Six.”
There was no point in lying.
Saxson would either beat it out of her or take it from her mind.
Besides, she couldn’t imagine anything in there that would lead them to Kiera—she honestly didn’t know where her sister was, and she didn’t keep any vampire-hunting contacts stored in her phone…at least not by their real first and last names, and not with any data other than phone numbers. She wasn’t that stupid.
Saxson stood up and faced the room, dismissing Kyla like so much garbage, like the two of them had never made love…like he’d never even known her. And his calloused, cold indifference was more cutting than any words of condemnation—or acts of retribution—could ever have been.
“Ramsey,” he said with unerring purpose, “you and Saber take the female to Napolean’s manse, lock her in the holding cell, and interrogate her.”
The female? Kyla gulped.
“I’d rather go with you, brother,” Ramsey said resolutely.
“I know,” Saxson replied, “but no one will be more motivated to get answers than you. You’re my twin. I need you to do this for me, Ramsey.” He raised one shoulder in a compromising shrug. “You can meet up with me when you’re done, if the need still exists. Santos can do the same, once he’s evaluated the phone. I need as much information as I can get, warriors. We may not have much time.” He didn’t wait for a reply—the last sentence was too heavy, too ominous, too loaded with implications…it could already be too late. “Oh,” Saxson pressed on, clearly ignoring the elephant in the room, “and you might want Keitaro and Nachari with you—in case there’s any more information about Xavier—or you require the intervention of magic.”
His eyes scanned the room, searching for another familiar face, and halted in the crowded doorway. “Dario: You, Conrad, and Lily, stay with Braden—sit down and go over those visions with a fine-tooth comb. Braden may have more knowledge of people, places, and events locked inside that psyche than any of us. And Nathaniel.” He waited for the devilish vampire to step forward and inclined his head with respect. “You’re coming with me and the tracker.” With that, he finally revealed his frustration: His hands pumped nervously, clenching into fists, and he grit his teeth in anger. “Just where the hell is Julien, anyway!”
“Right behind you, sentinel.” A deep, raspy brogue echoed in the room as a monstrously large vampire shimmered into view, his short, mahogany hair cut in an angular taper; his moonstone-gray eyes brimming with singular purpose; his harsh, unyielding countenance filling the crowded space like vapor. Beneath the breast of his black leather trench coat, Kyla could see the head of a battle-axe sheathed below one armpit, and what appeared to be an M4 carbine strapped underneath the other.
She shuddered.
“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Saxson growled.
As the dark, merciless vampire, with black-and-red banded hair, palmed the back of Kyla’s neck and scooped her off the floor, her knees finally buckled, and she vomited.
Saxson had totally abandoned her.
Nothing—and no one—could help her now.
And the nightmare was only beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saxson Olaru threw open the doors to the LoDo bar and stormed inside the dimly lit space.
Nathaniel Silivasi followed on his heels, immediately ensnaring the attention of every patron in the establishment. He pitched his voice to a low, silken growl and hissed two words: “Get. Out.” The entire room scattered. Patrons, waitresses, even the bartender scurried to the nearest exit, leaving their drinks where they sat. The owner of the bar, who had been sitting in a booth toward the back, left his ledgers on the chic, oblong table and followed the rest of the humans.
Julien Lacusta went right to work. “Where was Kyla standing, the first time you saw her?”
Saxson pointed toward the back of the bar, the hall that led to the kitchen, just feet from the door to the restroom. “She was standing right there,” he said, “clutching her left wrist in her right hand, staring at the markings and biting her bottom lip.” Anger pulsed through him in waves.
By all the gods, she had played her hand well.
Julien stalked to the area, dropped into a squat, and leveled both hands, palms down, about an inch above the floor. He closed his eyes and angled his head to the side, as if listening…
While all vampires could track prey with savage proficiency, Julie
n was a legend. Saxson had no idea what he was feeling for…or listening to…but the male could filter through vibrations a month or two old; siphon residual emotions from the kinetic imprints they left behind; read patterns in the dust and light—or enter the shadows—and retrieve their hidden secrets. Julien nodded and stood, spinning with feral grace toward the entrance to the bathroom.
Saxson and Nathaniel followed, careful to give the tracker space and to remain unobtrusive in the background.
Julien stood in the center of the tiny, one-room bathroom, turned 360 degrees in a circle, then prowled toward the mirror and placed his palm against the glass. He turned the faucet on and off, as if mirroring someone else’s movements, then glanced over his shoulder toward the small rectangular window on the far side of the lavatory, where he absently glanced at the sky. And then his focus narrowed—his pupils visibly constricted—and he backed his way toward a heavy metal door that led out into an alley, making note of what looked like a freshly installed deadbolt. “The owner suspected a break-in, but he had no idea about the kidnapping.”
Saxson’s heart dropped into his stomach. He had seen the scene play out in Kyla’s mind, in her memories, but this was altogether different. Standing here. Watching Julien as he worked. Knowing that he had been so close…so very close to his true destiny.
“She dropped her purse,” Julien grumbled, speaking to no one in particular. “Kyla picked it up and tossed it into the garbage when Kiera wasn’t looking…”
Saxson nodded. That matched with Kyla’s memories.
Julien slammed a steel-toed boot against the heavy alley door and strolled into the fresh night air, pacing the distance between the doorway and something else, as if measuring Kiera’s frantic steps. “One assailant pulled her backward with his hand over her mouth…” He closed his eyes and grew still. “The other one held her arms.” He reopened his eyes, made the shape of a box with his hands, and squatted, once again, to touch the gravel with the pads of his fingers. “The van was here, facing south.” He began to scan the pavement, his moonstone-gray eyes emitting soft red beams as he toggled between supernatural and infrared vision, recording the pattern of the tires, possibly the weight of the vehicle, and any tracings left behind. “Did you get a license plate number from Kyla’s memories?” he asked Saxson.
Saxson shook his head. Then realizing the vampire wasn’t looking at him, he projected his voice. “No. Kyla never looked down at the plates.”
Julien nodded. He sniffed the air, several times, his dark lashes fluttering, and Saxson knew that he wasn’t just smelling the air, but analyzing the scents—hundreds of thousands of week-old scents, sifting through each one: identifying it, categorizing it, memorizing the ones he needed.
Time seemed to stand still as Saxson and Nathaniel waited, growing increasingly anxious.
But this couldn’t be rushed.
If the tracker could get a clear enough bead on the van—on every scent that came from the vehicle—he could track it for miles, just like a dog.
They all could, only Julien could do in minutes what might take another vampire days or weeks. He’d spent centuries of his life mastering this craft.
“Well?” Nathaniel asked, betraying his impatience.
Julien stood up and grunted. “Yeah, I’ve got it.” Without another word, he released a powerful set of mahogany wings, rendered his body invisible, and shot into the air.
Saxson and Nathaniel followed suit.
Kiera Sparrow whimpered through the gag as her body hummed with pain.
She was nauseous, she was dizzy, and the room was spinning…twisting…from never-ending vertigo. If agony was a river, then Kiera was caught in a turbulent stream, being slammed against the rocks, held against the bottom, then swept away, yet again, with the current.
And there was no escape in sight.
Owen had carved a treble clef into her right thigh; a bass clef into her left thigh; piano, mezzo piano, forte, and fortissimo into the tops of her hands and her feet.
He had carved the entire outline of a violin over her stomach, chest, and breasts.
And now—and now—he was finally done carving.
Kiera didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved.
She was so very tired…
So…very…tired.
She wanted the whole ordeal to be over with, but she knew what came next…
An extravagant white maple-and-stainless-steel grandfather clock began to ring in the background, the polished chrome pendulum ticking off ten metallic chimes against the hanging white shells.
So it was ten P.M.?
She watched through tear-drenched eyes as Jon, Mike, and Nick adjusted their hooded black robes, removed the sashes from around their waists, and slowly stepped out of their underwear.
What was the point of all this slow, methodical drama? Drawing out the ceremony?
Torture was torture.
Murder was murder.
And rape was rape.
As the clock struck ten and the chimes fell silent, Owen pressed Kiera’s left arm against the table and placed the tip of the dagger against her radial artery, prepared to slit her wrist.
So it had already come to this?
She bit down on the cloth like a horse with a bit…and waited.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Saxson Olaru swept his hand through his hair, trying to calm his nerves.
Tracking the van from the alley had been painstaking and slow—there were times when Julien had lost the scent, and they’d had to return to the ground.
Track forward.
Track backward.
Take a different tack.
It was almost as if the van was everywhere—north and south, east and west—all at the same blasted time. And as anxious as Saxson was becoming—something inside his gut was literally screaming—he couldn’t fault Julien for the confusion. No doubt, Kiera’s attackers had driven the thing from one end of the city to the next over the last seven days, and that was beyond Julien’s purview: arranging the clues in linear time.
All he could do was track what he found.
At last, they came to a stop in a dark, secluded space and approached an industrial wood door. Silent as cats, they crept forward, ready to pounce, as Julien nodded his head.
His ears humming, his stomach lurching, Saxson glanced at his watch—it was ten o’clock. Dear gods, please…let my destiny be alive, he prayed, and then he gave the tracker the thumbs-up.
Saxson held his breath and Nathaniel thumbed his polished silver stiletto, with its custom handcrafted grip. Julien Lacusta slammed his fist into the center of the wood, splintering it into a thousand pieces, and the vampires rushed inside.
The smell of fear, sweat, and blood was pungent in the dark, rusty space, thick with cobwebs, dirt, and old smelly hay.
What the hell!
There was no one there.
“It’s a godforsaken barn!” Julien snarled, flying up to the rafters, in and out of old stalls, and checking under piles of rubble.
Nathaniel kicked over barrels, studied hanging, archaic implements, and made his way to a large wooden bench about the size of a kitchen island. “No,” he argued, shaking his head as he fingered a blindfold, gestured toward several rickety shelves stocked with glass vials and mysterious containers, and pointed out an assortment of archaic medical equipment. He whistled low beneath his breath. “It’s a lab.”
Saxson was about to explode.
Everything about the place was wrong.
And if his gut had been churning before, it was practically curdling now, his esophagus filling with bile. “Where the hell is she!” he shouted, uncaring as a pair of wooden beams crashed down from the ceiling. “And what the hell is this shit!?” He picked up the blindfold and sniffed it, and his eyes filled with moisture, from fury. “Julien!” he barked.
The tracker flew to his side, sniffed the vile cloth, and nodded. “She was here.”
“With a werewolf,” Nathaniel
hissed.
Saxson booted a stiff metal chair across the barn, threw his head back like a lion, and roared his rage, no longer capable of restraining it.
“Sentinel,” Nathaniel admonished as the uneven earthen floor beneath their feet began to rock back and forth and quake. “Put a lid on it.” He placed a strong, supportive hand on Saxson’s shoulder and squeezed. “We will track the damn van all over this city if we have to. We’re gonna find these sons of bitches.”
Saxson shook his head. “You don’t understand, Nathaniel. We’re out of time.”
Julien joined them in the center of the barn and began to tinker with the various implements—sniffing the vials, thumbing the equipment, studying each and every contraption—even as Saxson reached out to his brother telepathically. Santos! Brother! Tell me you’ve found something in that phone…an address, a gods-forsaken address! What the hell is Owen’s last name, and just how deviant is the human bastard? He had been in such a hurry when he had taken Kyla’s memories that he had forgotten to expunge some very basic details.
I’m working on it, brother, Santos’s calm, methodical voice echoed back. His last name is Green—Owen Green—but he’s not in any state or federal system. No driver’s license, he doesn’t pay taxes, and I haven’t been able to find as much as a phone bill or a property deed. He doesn’t have a criminal record. Saxson sighed. I’m hacking into everything I can think of, brother, and I’m still pulling texts from the phone. What’s up? he added soberly. You sound like you’re ready to blow a gasket.
Saxson clenched his hands into fists. We tracked the van all the way to a barn, but she isn’t here—no one is here. And this shit, Santos—this shit is jacked up. Xavier tortured the crap out of her, here, in this place. And someone—something—is torturing her now, or worse. I can feel it in my bones. He almost choked over his next unthinkable words. She’s dying, Santos—I can feel my own life-force slipping away.
