Wicked Blood (Dark Fae Hollows)

by Margo Bond Collins

  Power.

  The same kind that came with a Blood Price.

  But the priest hadn’t spilled any blood yet.

  His tufted ears perking up in interest, Sorin tried to catch the priest’s sing-song words.

  No good. Having found her voice at last, the young woman now screamed incessantly, begging for someone to save her. He should have tried listening sooner.

  The vampires moved in closer, surrounding the girl so that, from his place above them, Sorin could barely see her amidst the fluttering black robes. The priest’s voice rose, joined finally in its droning by the sound of dozens of other vampires. Their chant, however, didn’t drown out the screeches coming from the girl as the leader slammed the knife down and raised it back up, dripping dark, sacred fluid—the blood that made the only point of similarity between a vampire’s Blood Price and a shapeshifter’s.

  Only when the priest brought the knife to his lips, licked it, and made a gesture of benediction did the other vampires descend upon their victim, grabbing and ripping. Her screams intensified for a moment that seemed to go on forever.

  Then, with a series of wet, tearing sounds that echoed even among the other horrors in that chamber, the vamps began falling back, each clutching some bloody piece of what had once been a human.

  Sorin’s cat watched this all with interest, but without any particular horror beyond a distaste for the existence of the Wicked Bloods. For once, Sorin allowed the lynx to take over almost entirely. It might be cowardly to hide in the back of his own mind, but he could justify it with the idea that the lynx was part of him.

  But he’s not, is he? Not exactly.

  There it was again. That light, questioning voice coming from some part of his mind he didn’t regularly access—almost as if it were someone else entirely.

  Once more, he shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts.

  He needed to pay attention to the vampires.

  In the former ballroom turned sanctuary, magic hit the priest like lightning rising from below and striking him from all sides. His entire body stiffened as he rose onto his toes, his arms and head thrown back.

  That part was familiar enough to Sorin—the magical energy always hit like that. What happened next, though, was like nothing he had ever seen.

  The power they had garnered from the Blood Price moved through the blood-suckers in a visible wave, originating from the head priest. White-hot swells of electric force swept through the crowd of robed vamps, flashing from them in occasional sparks as the power seemed to feed on itself, growing in strength as it touched each vampire who had participated in the Blood Price.

  Something about the ritual increased the magic they drew from the sacrifice. Sorin’s eyes narrowed at the realization.

  That still didn’t explain how they were using all that extra power, though.

  Sorin forced his human, analytical consciousness back to the forefront of his mind. This was what he had come here to discover—what the vampire clan was doing with the power they took so blatantly every full moon. They hadn’t been using it in any obvious ways in recent months, and yet the violent tension in Gypsy Hollow continued to rise, flaring up in skirmishes among clans throughout Bucharest and the surrounding area.

  The vampires turned their faces upward for a moment so that the blue-white light of the magic they pulled into themselves highlighted the blood that stained their hands and mouths. When they once again began to chant, the glow surrounding them glinted off their blood-stained fangs.

  This was it.

  Sorin’s fur stood on end, electrified by the force emanating from the room, echoing even through him, a mere bystander. Everything around him took on the radiance of the Blood Price, spreading the brilliance of the Sleeping Daughter’s power in a circle wider than any Sorin had ever seen.

  The vampire’s chant fell suddenly, eerily silent. For a long moment, only the crackling of electrical magic made any sound.

  Then, for the first time since the vampiric rite had begun, the priest’s words rang out clearly through the stillness.

  “Thus we return tenfold unto the Sleeping Daughter that which she has granted us, that she might sooner rise and gift us with her very living presence.”

  “Amen.” At the vampires’ single word of approval, the power that had been expanding in an ever-growing circle contracted instantly, moving inward to the priest so swiftly that it created a vacuum behind it, seeming to suck the air out of Sorin’s lungs.

  Streaks of blue electricity flew from the lead vampire’s outstretched hands and combined to form a single stream, pouring into the stone that had recently held the girl’s body. The river of magic flowing back into that altar lasted longer than Sorin would have believed possible.

  Even after the cascade had slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether, and the vampire priest collapsed in a heap across the marble still smeared with the remains of the poor sacrificial girl, Sorin stood frozen, unwilling to admit what he had just seen.

  The vampires were not merely hoping their Blood Price sacrifices would help the Sleeping Daughter rise. They had found a way to actively increase Her power and channel it back to Her.

  Only the vampire clan would be insane enough to actually want the Sleeping Daughter to awaken.

  Everyone knew She would bring bloodshed and destruction the likes of which the clans could barely imagine.

  Sorin had to return to his own clan to report this to the Chain Alpha. Surely Ciprian Rascu would know what to do with the information.

  And if he doesn’t?

  The unsettling thought flickered across his mind like an interloper.

  If he doesn’t, then I’ll report it to the Human-Fae Council.

  His decision made, Sorin began to withdraw from the window when a new movement from the back of the room caught his attention—a low, familiar, sauntering motion. When he focused on it, Sorin realized what he was seeing: another lynx-shifter, moving toward the altar from the far side of the room.

  For one wild instant, Sorin thought that perhaps Ciprian had sent another spy, one who had decided to act to stop the vampires rather than follow orders and report back to the Chain leader.

  Then the lynx leaped onto the altar and leaned over the vampire priest to bump his back gently with her forehead, and rub the corners of her mouth against his cheek, scent-marking him as belonging to her.

  She wasn’t a spy.

  She was an ally.

  Sorin recognized her: the Rascu Chain lynx who was conspiring with the vampires was Sanda, Ciprian’s second in command.

  This is even worse than I expected.

  Ciprian would be devastated when Sorin reported back to him.

  Unless he suspected, and that was why he sent me.

  Watching his own leader’s lieutenant nuzzling the vampire priest churned Sorin’s stomach, and he realized something important. Important, and devastating.

  I’m going to have to kill her.

  Chapter 3

  But he couldn’t kill Sanda yet. Not without more evidence.

  He allowed himself a moment to mourn the passing of the old days—the time before the world cracked and burned, before it was divided into the Hollows like the one that included Bucharest.

  In those days, he could have reached out, found allies in other parts of the world.

  Of course, in those days, vampires and shapeshifters were myths and legends, dark bedtime stories to frighten children.

  Now, the monsters prowled throughout Gypsy Hollow.

  We can’t even escape the city.

  Its walls stood invisible and impenetrable, keeping Bucharest and its immediate surroundings cut off from all the other Hollows that had once been connected to create a complete world.

  The thought of the Hollow walls sent a shudder through Sorin—at the best of times, considering it made him crazy. He imagined it closing in on his cat in ways that made him want to screech and claw anything in his path in order to get free.

  He wante
d the freedom of the time before it existed.

  More than that, he wanted the technology of those days. The people alive then had machines that captured images. They had projected the pictures onto screens, printed them on paper, framed some, thrown others away—treated their miraculous photographs with an entire lack of reverence .

  He’d heard rumors that the Council still had image-producing technology.

  If I could get my paws on an old-fashioned camera, I’d have all the proof I needed of Sanda’s betrayal.

  But for now, he’d have to rely on his own observations and hope that Ciprian believed him above Sanda.

  So he waited and watched until Sanda had groomed the head priest vampire, washing away the blood on his face and hands by rasping her tongue across it.

  Sorin wanted to feel disgust at the scene, but all that rose in him was a hunger for the blood. Still, he fought it down until she strolled out of the ballroom sometime later.

  I hope she’s leaving the vampires’ stronghold entirely—otherwise, I may be here all night.

  With a glance around to make sure no one was watching, he stood and stretched, arching his back to work out the kinks of lying still for so long. Then he leapt lightly down from his perch, landing on the flagstones below.

  Pressing into the shadows, he slunk along the side of the ornate stone building, skirting the pools of electric light spilling from windows as he came to them. As he neared the front of the building, he slowed, crouching in the darkness to wait.

  A few minutes later, Sanda sauntered out of the building, confident no one of any import would be watching.

  That alone told Sorin that Ciprian had not told her that he would be watching.

  Clearly, the Chain leader did not trust his second-in-command as completely as he pretended to.

  When Sanda stepped out into the street, Sorin followed her at a distance.

  He trailed her west across the city, away from the Titan neighborhood hunting grounds of the Chain, away from the vampire stronghold, and toward the ruling humans’ sector of the city.

  Why is she heading toward humans? This is getting stranger and stranger.

  Once again, the thought came not from any part of his mind that he recognized, but from someplace new holding that light voice that had troubled him all night.

  Sorin agreed with the assessment, though. Wherever the voice came from, it was right—everything about Sanda’s participation in the vampires’ ritual made the direction she chose now particularly odd.

  And yet somehow he wasn’t surprised when she came to a halt in the courtyard in front of the most exclusive of human enclosures surrounding what had once been the seat of government.

  Like the poorer Romani’s gated community, this one had high walls topped with shards of glass, designed to keep shape shifters and other monsters at bay.

  Unlike the other human section of town, the homes in this one had lights burning, even this late on the night of the full moon blood sacrifice. One of those lights burned brightly directly in front of the entrance gate.

  And unlike the vampires’ electrical lights, these denoted power gained not from the Blood Price, but from wealth. Only the richest of humans lived here. Sorin hadn’t ever been inside—he’d only caught glimpses of the fabled mansions beyond these walls. Even now, he could only barely see the very top of the building that had once housed the Presidency of Romania.

  A human man, cloaked in a dark robe, slipped out through the gate as it opened just long enough for him to exit. He held a second robe draped over his folded hands.

  He glanced around surreptitiously, and then pulled Sanda out of the pool of light.

  “Hurry up,” he said harshly. “I don’t have all night. I don’t want the guards to see us talking.”

  Sorin followed, his tufted ears pricked forward as he stayed barely close enough to hear the man’s words.

  As soon as they were away from the light, Sanda sat down on the side of the street closest to the enclosure wall. The man waited, impatiently tapping his foot. Sorin watched curiously from his own place in the shadows as the other lynx’s form shimmered with white-hot magic under the pale silver moonlight.

  A tremor ran through her from the top of her head to the end of her tail and she contracted into herself, the light flaring brighter for a moment as her form shivered and glowed, shaking itself out one last time before the cat seemed to fall away and melt, leaving her human form crouched on the ground.

  In one long, lithe move, Sanda stood, her skin and hair the same tawny color as the fur of her lynx shape.

  She moved toward the man, unembarrassed by her nakedness.

  The human, on the other hand, turned his head to avert his eyes and held out the cloak he carried. “Cover yourself.”

  Sanda took the cloak, an evil smile on her face. Once she was dressed, the man jerked back his own hood, revealing his face.

  The voice within him gasped. Councilman Petri?

  Sorin shook his head. Where had that come from? He didn’t remember having seen this Councilman Petri before.

  He studied the man—older, with silver hair and a harsh, lined face.

  No. Sorin shouldn’t have recognized him.

  Something is very wrong here.

  But he didn’t have time to work it out now. Sanda and the Councilman were talking, and he needed to hear what they were saying.

  Sorin crept closer to the two, trusting that the human was too sense-blind to notice him, and Sanda too distracted.

  They huddled against the enclosure wall, across from a building in the courtyard that during the day served as a dress shop for the wealthy humans—this enclosure was far too exclusive to allow trade within its walls.

  Now, at night, the shop was empty—especially during a full moon.

  “Is it done?” Councilman Petri asked.

  Sanda nodded. “This month’s power transfer was larger than ever,” she said. “At this rate, the Sleeping Daughter will rise within two months, maybe less.”

  “Excellent.” The Councilman tapped his fingers together. “Then it’s time to begin. You have plans in place for the shapeshifters?”

  “Of course.” Sanda looked offended at the suggestion that it might be otherwise.

  “Good. Then two weeks from today, when the moon is at its darkest and the Sleeping Daughter rises…”

  “I know the plan,” Sanda snapped. “You don’t have to tell me again.”

  The two of them held eye contact for a long moment in a silent staring contest. Finally, Sanda glanced away. “I know what we’re doing. Is there anything else?”

  “As long as you do your part, everything else is ready.”

  Dammit. Sanda might not have needed the Councilman to run through the plan, but Sorin certainly could have used the information.

  At least I have a timeline, he consoled himself.

  With a huff, Sanda turned to leave the Councilman—presumably to return to either the vampires or the Chain, Sorin wasn’t sure which.

  “Remember,” the Councilman called after her, “do not use any of your stored magic before then.”

  Sanda rolled her eyes. “I won’t need to,” she said, dropping the robe to the ground.

  Councilman Petri turned his head quickly to avoid looking at her, and Sanda laughed, a catlike sound deep in her throat. With one move, she sank into her lynx form and bounded away from the Councilman, into the darkness. Sorin shrank back into the shadows as she passed.

  I need to get back to the Chain and report this.

  He waited until the Councilman had slipped back into the enclosure, then turned to follow the other lynx out of this neighborhood.

  But he was stopped by a single, beefy hand coming down from somewhere behind him and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, followed by a harsh, angry voice.

  “What have we here? A spy?”

  Chapter 4

  Sorin growled deep in his throat. He tried to twist around and snap at the hand that held him, but the
grip on his neck paralyzed the front half of his body.

  “Well hello, kitty,” the man’s bass voice rumbled. “What are you doing so far out of your part of the city?”

  Sorin struggled and hissed, his back paws scrabbling at the cobblestones beneath him.

  Whoever held him was strong—almost strong enough to lift Sorin up into the air.

  But not quite strong enough to incapacitate him with one hand. Not completely.

  There had to be a way to use that to his advantage.

  Also, the guy was human—and no matter how big and beefy he might be, no human was a match against a lynx-shifter. Especially unarmed.

  So I need to keep him from drawing any weapons.

  The man stepped in front of him, coming around to peer into Sorin’s face without loosening his grip. He was tall and broad, the kind of muscular that came from working at it daily. He wasn’t dressed like an official guard—nothing he wore suggested that it was a uniform, and he didn’t have any kind of military bearing, pseudo or otherwise. But Sorin was willing to bet his presence outside the human enclosure meant he was working for someone who lived there, either Councilman Petri or another person high up in the human hierarchy.

  He was bald, bulky, and wore leather pants and a leather vest over a shirt that allowed him to move freely. Not quite armor, but as close as he could come in civilian clothes.

  He looked like a mercenary.

  There were some things he didn’t know, though.

  He was holding the lynx-shifter’s front legs straight and unmoving, but Sorin’s back legs were still functional.

  And his opponent might not realize it, but that gave the cat an edge that no mercenary would be able to overcome.

  Sorin knew what he had to do. But he didn’t want to do it. Not when he had spent so much time learning to block out the bloodlust that came over him on full-moon nights.

  No more innocents can die.