The Bloodline Series Box Set

by Gabriella Messina

  She felt like she was on fire from the inside out, and the heat radiating off Vincent was like a volcano... Sam pulled at the edge of his sweater, trying to pull it up over Vincent’s head, desperate for contact with his skin.

  Vincent pulled back from her neck, his gaze narrowed, a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. “What are you doing, love?”

  “This needs to come off. Now.” Sam pulled the sweater up above his waist. It was Vincent’s turn to chuckle now, and he released his grip on her hips just long enough to reach back, pulling the sweater up over his head and tossing it toward the other end of the sofa. He brought his arms around her again, his hands gripping her at the hips and firmly pulling her toward him before they moved up onto her back, crushing her against him as his lips sought hers again. Sam indulged herself now, her fingers tracing over the intricate sleeve of vines on his left arm, then across his chest to the Celtic cross over his right pectoral muscle. Pressed so closely against him, she could feel the urgency starting to grow, his obvious arousal pressing against her own. She moved her hands below his arms, her fingers sliding down his sides. Vincent shivered slightly, and Sam couldn’t help but smile at that... He was ticklish there... Sam’s hands drifted lower –

  “Should we stop?” Vincent’s voice was husky, that pleasurable growl still lurking in the deep notes of his voice. His breathing was becoming a bit ragged.

  Sam frowned, confused. “What? Why?”

  He raised an eyebrow, then jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom over her shoulder. “Will he wake up?”

  “Ben? No, he’s dead to the world. Unless I start screaming or something.”

  Vincent smiled, pulling her tightly against him. “Maybe we should stop then,” he murmured against her neck, his lips moving up onto her jawline, then backtracking down her neck toward her collarbone.

  Sam sighed, the tail end of it transforming into a little moan as Vincent’s kisses dipped down away from her collarbone. “You plan on making me scream?”

  “I’d like to,” Vincent growled. Without another word, he reached down and began pulling her tee shirt up. Sam raised her arms and the shirt was over her head and tossed onto his sweater in a flash. Vincent didn’t miss a beat, returning his lips to her collarbone and beginning the journey south, kissing the rise of each breast, then the spot between them.

  Sam savored the feeling of the very slight stubble on his cheeks brushing against the sensitive skin there and another shiver wracked her body.

  She could feel her head swimming, the pulse between her legs reaching a fever pitch as Vincent lowered his lips to kiss –

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Sam’s eyes flashed open, jolted out of their sensual dance by the sound, a loud, unwelcome, disturbing sound. It hadn’t been her imagination, either, because Vincent had stopped. She could feel the tension in his body, his breath hot upon her breast, as he turned his gaze toward the door, listening... waiting...

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Someone was knocking on the front door.

  27

  “ARE YOU EXPECTING SOMEONE?”

  Sam smirked at Vincent’s question. “No. Everyone who’s still talking to me is already here.” They both were quiet, and Sam could feel herself holding her breath, hoping that whoever it was had the wrong door and would just go away –

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Vincent muttered an Irish curse, his eyes going from the door back to Sam’s breast. He leaned down, gently kissing the closest one, the right one, before grabbing her shirt and passing it to her. He sighed as he watched Sam pull the shirt on over her head, his fingertips brushing against her sides as he helped her pull the shirt on.

  Sam adjusted her shirt, then slipped on her sweater. She watched as Vincent grabbed his sweater and pulled it back on, the movement of his arms giving her a grand view of the strength in his back, shoulders, chest... She gulped, trying to calm her hormones and focus. There could be trouble in the hallway, she needed to be ready to fight if necessary.

  Vincent watched the expression on her face, the little frown forming. “Do you want me to answer it?”

  Sam hesitated, then shook her head. “No. In fact...” She stood up quickly and grabbed his arm, pulling him up. “You hide in my room.”

  “Hide?”

  “Yes.” Sam dragged him along. She’d hoped to drag him there for an entirely different and much more spine-tingling reason, but that would have to wait. She was glad she didn’t have her gun, otherwise the person in the hallway might have found himself in trouble. And speaking of trouble... “I’d rather whoever is out there be surprised by you if necessary.”

  Vincent glanced in the direction of the door, then nodded. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Sam paused in the bedroom doorway, her hand on the doorknob. “Ivan had a special seal put around the door years ago. He said it was to keep the smell of the various curries from floating in, but now...”

  “It was to protect the people inside.” Vincent nodded. “If I smell danger, I’m coming out there.”

  “Okay.” Sam started to go but turned back quickly. She grabbed the front of Vincent’s sweater and pulled him toward her, their lips meeting once again in an intense kiss. She broke the kiss just as quickly, and smirked when she saw Vincent was a little off-balance because of its spontaneity. She’d surprised him...

  Have to do more of that, then, Sam thought as she quickly pulled the bedroom door closed and headed for the front door. The knocking had stopped, and Sam wondered if her slowness in getting to the door had resulted in whoever it was leaving. She carefully raised the shield over the peephole and peeked out.

  It was dim in the hallway, but she could see the outline of a man, tall and dark-haired, doing a small-scale pacing thing outside the door. Sam decided to throw some bait, noisily releasing the shield and allowing it to scrape back. It was a quiet scrape, but enough to get his attention. The man leaned in close to the door, and a familiar accented whisper reached her on the other side.

  “Sam? Sam, it’s Jack Hudson. Sam, I need to speak to you, now, please.” Sam hesitated, then flipped the security bar back, unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. She held a finger to her lips begging silence as Hudson stepped into the apartment, glancing around in obvious nervous agitation. “You’re not alone?’

  “No.” Sam glanced meaningfully toward the bedroom. “What’s up, Doc?”

  “Alice Kremer. She’s alive.”

  “Alive?” Sam’s eyes went wide with the shock of it. “But...” She glanced at the bedroom door again. Still closed, but she lowered her voice to barely a whisper as she continued. “Jack, she was shot... with mercury... where is she? Is she here? In New York?”

  Hudson hesitated a moment, then his demeanor changed. Sam felt the presence behind her before she heard him.

  “Answer her, Jack. Is she here?”

  “Vincent...”

  “Answer me!”

  Hudson glanced at Sam before he answered Vincent. “I don’t know exactly. I could only trace her as far as Paris... nine months ago.”

  “John’s here, isn’t he?”

  Hudson shrugged. “He may be, I haven’t seen or heard from him.”

  “You mean Prutzmann?” Sam spoke softly, but both men heard her clearly judging by the quick way their heads turned. Hudson’s face was relatively impassive, but Vincent was frowning up a storm.

  “Sam?” The edge in Vincent’s voice was clear... he was not happy that Prutzmann was about, and he was especially not happy that Sam might have known and hadn’t told him. “How long have you known he was back here?”

  “Not long... I only saw him this afternoon.”

  “Did he try to harm you?” Hudson’s tone was calm and clinical, but Sam could tell by his scent that he was as rattled in his own way as Vincent was.

  “Not at all. We just...talked.”

  Vincent scoffed. “Talked? Talked.”

  “Yes, talked.” Sam gl
anced at Hudson but focused her attention on Vincent as she continued. “He told me to be careful, told me to back off before they started hunting me... the way they’re hunting you.”

  Sam watched as those words sunk in. Vincent’s jaw clenched and unclenched several times before he nodded and headed for the door. Sam reached out for his arm as he passed, but he pulled away and exited the apartment without a word.

  Quiet descended, broken moments later by the creak of a door and Ben clearing his throat. He was standing in the hallway outside the door to Ivan’s old room, his jet-black hair a tousled mess, his dark-rimmed eyes squinty with sleep.

  “Um, hey, man trying to sleep here...” He stopped, seeing Hudson for the first time and his eyes woke up immediately. Ben sighed. “Alright... what’s going on?”

  28

  WHAT’S GOING ON? A simple question, yet a loaded one. Sam sipped her coffee carefully, the steam seeping from the opening in the lid of the Styrofoam cup and disappearing into the cool air. It wasn’t quite as cold as it had been, and the bright warm sun was bringing out the springtime idiot in people. Sandaled feet, shorts, bare arms... Sam had seen it all today, and if history was any indicator the emergency rooms of the city would be seeing those people very soon as well. Sam took a quick look at the time on her phone. It was an odd time of day to catch someone having lunch, but Mikael Dushku wasn’t your average guy. The head of the Albanian mob in New York, though the man would have sputtered and objected with amusement to such a classification, Dushku held court in a social club on Arthur Avenue every day between two and four in the afternoon. It was the ideal time to talk business, ask favors, and generally chitty-chat. And you had to be good at it to chitty-chat with Dushku. He was picky about his lunchtime companions... even his girlfriends were rarely invited. Mikael Dushku admired a hot body, female or male, but it was a keen mind that attracted and held his attention.

  Sam watched the club from her leaning spot in front of Saint Anthony’s. It was after two already and no sign of Dushku. To say that was unusual would be an understatement... the man was beyond predictable.

  “Buna ziua, detectiv... Sunteţi în căutarea pentru mine?”

  Sam couldn’t help but smile at the greeting, and she turned to meet the gaze of Mikael Dushku. He was always charming, hence greeting her in Romanian, and giving her the title of “detective,” though there was no doubt he had already heard she was demoted.

  “Bună ziua.” Sam appraised the changes in his appearance quickly. He was still a massive man, at least six-foot-five and close to three hundred pounds, but he’d lost weight since she’d last seen him, and his shoulders seemed somehow stooped, as if a burden he was bearing was proving too much for even his strong frame.

  “You have questions, little one. I will try to answer them, for my own benefit as well as yours.” He glanced around the street, then motioned in the direction leading away from the social club. “I feel like something different today. Shall we?”

  They walked for half a block before Dushku began. “You want to know about the Varcolac, do you not?”

  Sam managed a small smile as she replied. “Believe it or not, Mikael, I know more about them than you can possibly imagine.”

  Dushku looked askance at her, a puzzled frown on his face. “Your grandfather?”

  “Yes, and...” She trailed off, flashing him a grimace of a smile.

  “And... yourself.” Dushku nodded, his lips pursed. “So, you want to know about the goings on of late. And you come to me, little one?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw some of your people the other night... amongst them...”

  Dushku nodded. “Yes, I know.” He sighed and motioned toward a small café on the corner. “I think I am in need of coffee and something sweet. Shall we?”

  Twenty minutes later, they were ensconced at a corner table, sipping coffee. Dushku had ordered a slice of the Dutch apple pie and was savoring each bite in between talking to her. Sam had ordered chocolate, but at this point had barely touched it, sipping her coffee instead and listening carefully to the wealth of information Dushku had at hand.

  Being a “mob” leader had its perks in many ways, but arguably the best one was knowledge. Running legit businesses like the social club, a restaurant or coffee house, gave you public credibility and respect, but it was the behind the scenes action that yielded the most money and the most information.

  Dushku’s business was narcotics and, while he was not competitive with the other groups around the city, he did well enough. When his son had come to him with talk of a new drug on the street, Dushku had not been interested. Taking on new products could be very dangerous... They were unpredictable in their sales and in their behavior and trying to properly package and sell them could lead to deadly, attention-getting mistakes. His son... had not been pleased with Dushku’s veto of the new pills, and they had barely spoken since then.

  “I have heard...rumors...of my son.” Dushku took a savory sip of his coffee.

  “He’s selling it?”

  Dushku nodded. “I believe so, yes. It’s a meth-like drug, very popular with the college students for study and other things.” He smirked, shaking his head and sipping his coffee again.

  “Pervitin.”

  Dushku’s thick caterpillar eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. “You’ve heard of it?”

  Sam nodded somberly. “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of it. And you’re right, it is dangerous stuff... its mixed with other drugs.”

  “I knew it.” Dushku shook his head. “I warned him... I told him to leave it be, to stay away from those who were pushing it.”

  “You said campuses were a big selling place... Do you know which ones your son may have targeted?”

  Dushku shook his head slowly. “No. He has a girlfriend who lives on the Upper East Side. I believe she goes to a school up there. But I don’t remember her name, and I don’t know if they are still together. His relationships never last long.” He hesitated, looking at her closely. “She looked like you. But then again, they always look like you. Always.”

  Sam cleared her throat and nodded. “Okay.” She struggled to hide her disappointment. She’d hoped hauling her ass up to the Bronx to find him would have yielded more than it did, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, it seemed. Plus she needed to maintain this contact. If that suspension didn’t get lifted, any connections she had to get information would be gone for good. All she would have is Ben and his Underland network, and Vincent... Sam felt her skin flush at the thought of his name. She hadn’t heard anything since he’d walked out. Granted it had only been a couple of days, but...

  “Saint Patrick’s Day.” Dushku’s voice broke into her thoughts. Sam tried to bring herself back from thoughts of Vincent’s mouth and hands on her and focused on the older man in front of her. “You were there that day, weren’t you? The almost-bombing.”

  Sam frowned slightly. “Yes. Why?”

  “I may have heard something about that... that could be of interest to you. They may not have taught this in the schools, but... do you know what the ‘Days of Rage’ are?”

  Sam hoped he hadn’t seen her flinch. ‘Days of Rage’... Stefanovich had said it, too, right before he died. “Days of Rage? No, I’ve heard of them, but I don’t know what they are.”

  Dushku waited until the waitress refilled their coffees. Once they were alone again, he began. “As you may have heard, the 60s were a time of violence, upheaval. I was a newly minted American back then, starting my businesses in Chicago, my family as well... making my way in the world. People were upset about the war in Vietnam, inequality, many things. Groups arose, mostly drawing in students, that were meant to protest, jumpstart social change. But, as often happens, too many members get too restless... They want instant results. And, as well you have the damaged people who bring their hate and thirst for bloodshed and violence with them when they join.

  “Fall of 1969... The SDS and the Weathermen staged three ‘Days of Rage’ meant to... spur change, perhaps
? I don’t know. All they resulted in was injuries and vandalism. The counterculture groups split against each other, the Weathermen became the Weather Underground...” Dushku shook his head. “I believe something similar is coming, little one. The fact that my son is selling to campuses, that he is involved with the Varcolac... and that the bomber on Saint Patrick’s Day was a student as well, at least according to the papers...” He scraped the remains of his pie onto his fork, popping it in his mouth and speaking carefully even as he chewed. “I believe, little one, that ‘Days of Rage’ are not far off.”

  29

  SAM SAT QUIETLY IN the darkness of the apartment. Night had rolled in as she sat there, only the weak glow from the oven hood in the kitchen filtering into the room, casting elongated shadows along the wall. She knew she should get up, reach over, turn on a light, but the darkness was oddly calming at the moment, allowing her to focus more fully on the thoughts in her head... and there was plenty to think about.

  After her meeting with Dushku, Sam had gotten in touch with Ronne. She could almost hear the creases forming on his brow as she asked him about the Saint Patrick’s Day “almost” bomber. Obviously, there was no body, but news footage had captured the young man’s image and the FBI, using its sophisticated facial recognition software, had been able to identify him. The FBI hadn’t released his name, citing the necessity of contacting his family first, but Sam had a feeling, considering that werewolves had infiltrated there as well, that they were simply trying to keep it quiet period. Ronne hesitated, but ultimately agreed to poke around and see what he could find out, telling her he’d be in touch as soon as he had anything worth sharing.

  This was deep shit going on, complex and dangerous, and it was creeping closer and closer to high level government shit, both in the city and beyond. Sam shook her head ruefully, then took a generous drink from the glass of red wine on the table. How could this have happened? In just six months’ time the virus had become so tightly woven into the very fabric of the city that they were controlling the police and had even worked their way into City Hall itself. Sam drained her glass of red wine and reached for the bottle, pouring the remains of it into her glass. She could feel the lovely warmth of the alcohol flowing through her body, taking the chill off that had been nearly constant for days, except for the heat of that brief interlude with Vincent. Another sip, and another wave of warmth crashed through her. She’d been cold since that night in the park with Prutzmann... Sam shivered rather violently at the mere thought of his name... his behavior could be chalked up to pheromones, but she couldn’t help but think something else was going on with him and it made her super anxious.