by Laura Wright
“We took an oath,” Nicholas reminded him, his tone devoid of emotion. “We left that life and everything in it. We cannot go back. For any reason.”
“You’re right,” Alexander said, watching as letter by letter the message scrawled into his library wall evaporated. “You will not go back.”
When the wall sat smooth before him, Alexander turned around and addressed Nicholas and Lucian in a way he hadn’t since their days on the battlefield. “While I am gone, Nicholas is on Tom’s trail. Lucian, you will find Sara, follow her, make sure she comes to no harm. Don’t let her see you, and don’t scare the shit out of her.”
Both brothers stood there: Lucian’s nostrils flaring with impatience, Nicholas’s expression impassive, though his eyes had gone as black as a starless night. For one moment, Alexander wondered if they were going to defy his orders. It was one thing to curse and chide, even to make brash statements of noncompliance, but the truth was in their guts, in their genetic makeup: They were the younger vampires. They could do nothing when given an order by their elder but nod and take action.
“Well?” Alexander said. “What say you?”
Lucian spoke first, his upper lip curling with bitterness. “Fine. I’ll follow her, but I can’t promise I won’t scare the shit out of her.”
Alexander’s gaze shot to the dark one, the black-eyed, cool-as-ice male. “And you?”
Nicholas shook his head. No.
For one moment, Alexander softened. “Nicky . . . Duro ...”
“Do not do this for us,” Nicholas said.
“It is done.” His jaw set, his mind resolute, Alexander headed for the door.
9
Euro-trance club music vibrated off the walls of the three-story town house in Brooklyn’s Boerum Hill. It was what they liked—the humans—hot music and lethal sex with someone or some thing they never had to see again when the danger buzz wore off.
Ethan Dare walked the halls of the home his eighth wife had owned before her very fortunate passing three years ago. Internally renovated and historic, the late-1800s town house had all the original features, including a garden. But for the Impure, the only feature that mattered to him in the slightest was the eight large bedrooms he and his recruits used to fuck any and all humans as well as Pureblood and Impures who willingly crossed their path.
The scent of sex and sweat flooded Ethan’s nostrils, made his head, and the stiff rod in his pants, pulse. A new and exciting development, for it had been a long time since his cock had done anything but lay limp against his leg. More than two hundred years since the night the Eternal Order had blood castrated him—him and any other Impure they could find.
But things had changed. The Supreme One, the hidden benefactor of their cause, had given his blood—granting Ethan and his recruits new life, new power.
Ethan stopped at one bedroom door, then another, observing his work in progress. His recruits, male and female Impures—those like himself with incomplete blood—were stretched out on beds, pressed back against walls, on their hands and knees rutting like dogs. His cock twitched and his forked tongue, a disfigurement gifted by a gang of Purebloods back when he was just a balas enslaved in his credenti, slipped in and out of his mouth.
The Impures, the ones who had escaped their homes and their lives of servitude and impossible desire, had given their allegiance to him, and their trust. After all, he was a savior of sorts. He had been the one to find a cure for their castrated and powerless blood.
Yes, the Impures would spread their seed and their legs for Ethan and the good of the cause because they too yearned for the extinction of the illustrious and oh so pure Eternal Breed—they too wanted to see a new Order, a new, ruling Breed of Impures like themselves.
It wasn’t a quick or easy task. In the seven months of the program, only a few of the balas created had stuck to their hosts’ wombs—Ethan’s included. But if they could hang on, in two months’ time the seeds of infection would bloom in the heart of vampire society and the Impure revolution would be under way.
Ethan leaned against the door frame and watched his largest male recruit pound into the excited and willing human female. Eyes closed and legs splayed, the woman moaned and hissed, gripping the male’s shoulders. Ethan’s groin throbbed with need, with the power of what he was creating here.
“Commander?”
The soft sound landed close to Ethan’s ear and he turned away from the action to eyeball the male behind him. Alistair, a handsome Impure who had the look of an eighties surfer and a penchant for high school-age human females, inclined his head. “Forgive the disturbance, Commander.”
“Is my girl locked up nice and tight?” Ethan asked.
Alistair smiled broadly, his dimples popping. “Like a fist, Commander.”
“And her mother?”
“Believes her daughter is aself-destructive brat who will do anything, including cutting her flesh, to get attention. She is pleased that the girl is getting the serious mental help she needs.”
Ethan nodded. “Good. Keep a close watch on her. Make sure she remains in the hospital. She carries our future within her.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Movement caught Ethan’s focus and he waved Alistair away. His lead recruit, Mear, a thickly muscled, violet-eyed Impure was walking down the hall toward him, combat boots cracking against the wood floors. Conversely, trailing behind him was a tall, thin, impish-looking male Ethan had never seen before. He pushed away from the wall, met the pair halfway, and demanded in a curt tone, “What do we have here?”
“A new recruit, Commander,” Mear said.
Ethan eyeballed the large Impure and sneered. “He’s human, Mear. He can rut along with the other human male dogs here, but he will never be a recruit.”
“He wishes to become Imiti, sir,” Mear said, using the ancient word for an imitation vampire, one who can take on the characteristics of a vampire if they are consistently fed. “With my blood in his veins, he will make the change.”
Ethan paused. “Your blood?”
Mear nodded.
Normally, a human could not become Imiti unless they drank from a Pureblood, but for Ethan and his recruits, things were different. The Supreme One had made it so. “You will feed him?” Ethan asked.
“Yes.” Mear’s lavender eyes glittered with anticipation.
“Why?”
“We were friends in the human’s juvenile system for many years. He assisted me in my escape.”
“Did he?” Ethan turned to the human, who was shaking like a dog who’d been kicked every day of his life. It was a feeling Ethan remembered well. “What is your name, human?”
“Tom Trainer,” the man squeaked.
“You understand what this means, Tom Trainer?”
Looking like he was about to shit his pants, the human nodded slowly.
A smile twitched at Ethan’s lips. “Our poor Mear, our best fighter, cannot bear to lay with a female. You will take care of his needs?”
Tom swallowed tightly, but again, he nodded.
“And he will work for you, Commander,” Mear put in, “do whatever he’s told.”
“How nice,” Ethan drawled, enjoying the human’s fear and confusion, not to mention Mear’s excitement over his new pet. “To give to the cause, without any quid pro quo.”
There was a pause, then a whisper of “Sir, he does need something.”
Chuckling softly, Ethan moved closer to the human, stood eye to eye with him, and asked, “What is it you want, Tom Trainer? What are you so willing to give your life for? Because, make no mistake, once you stepped into this little world of mine and offered your body to Mear, your life became mine to command.”
Baby brown eyes flickered up, found Ethan’s calculated glare. He whispered something unintelligible.
“Speak up, human!” Ethan demanded. “I can barely hear you.”
“A woman,” Tom said.
“Ah,” Ethan drawled, eyebrows lifted. “You will make Mear jea
lous.”
“Not to fuck,” Tom said in an almost violent tone. “To hurt, to bleed, to kill.”
“She has rejected you,” Ethan said as if he gave a shit.
“Yes.” Emotionally amped up now, Tom continued his tirade. “She must die. She and that fanged animal who was with her.”
Ethan’s gaze shot to Mear’s. “What is this?”
“My friend claims that his love for the woman was interrupted by a vampire, Commander. A vampire with burning tattoos on his face.”
Ethan stilled, a cold fear rolling through him. “Tattoos on his face? Are you certain?”
“Yes . . . Commander,” Tom managed. “On both cheeks. They looked like something a branding iron would do.”
Was it possible? Ethan wondered, alarmed. A descendant of the Breeding Male close by? And if so, what did it mean for Ethan’s plan, his new Order?
Unwilling to show his unease over the news the human had brought with him, Ethan regarded Tom with a cold smile. “You know that there are fanged animals here?”
Tom paled. “Not like that one.”
No, not like that one. Ethan’s gaze bore down on Tom. “All right, human, you will drink from Mear, you will gain in strength, and your female will die at your hand. In return, you belong to me—you will fight for me.” Ethan closed his eyes and pulled air into his nostrils. “Now tell me more about this singed paven.”
10
Having run all the way from SoHo, Sara could barely catch her breath as she burst through the back door of Walter Wynn Hospital. She spied the empty stairwell and took the steps two at a time until she reached the fourth floor. Dizzy, her heart throbbing inside her chest, she collapsed on the top step and put her head between her knees.
Breathe.
Try to get some oxygen into the rational part of your brain.
Maybe she should’ve gone straight to the cops, or found a hotel room and slept for the five hours her body was begging for. But no, she’d searched Alexander Roman’s second floor for an unlocked window and when she’d found one she’d destroyed the screen, climbed down the rickety-ass fire escape, and run to the one place she was utterly tethered to, the one place she was sure to find her sanity.
Grabbing on to the railing, she pulled herself up and plodded over to the door, opened it wide. The psych unit was active, like a Starbucks at eight a.m. Afternoon visiting hours were in full swing, and families and loved ones were being buzzed into one ward or another, depending on the age of the patient. Just a month ago, Sara’s mother had been part of that crowd, in New York on one of her biyearly visits, and just like the rest of them, she’d worn a hopeful expression on the way in, praying she’d find her son changed, healed. It was not an uncommon occurrence to leave disappointed.
Sara tried to slip past the nurse’s station, heading straight for the door to the adult ward, and had her hand on the keypad when a voice called out, “What happened to you?”
Feigning nonchalance, Sara glanced back at Claire, the main reception nurse, and shrugged. “Tripped on the stairs going into my apartment. Ice was pretty slick this morning.”
Claire looked concerned. “Did you get checked out by ER?”
“Yep. All good.” Eager to stop the questions, Sara turned back to the keypad and stabbed in her security code. Yep, all good. Walked into the ER and told them about the patient who attacked me and the vampire who kidnapped me and they immediately sent Cameron Phelps down for a psych eval . . .
The door buzzed and Sara took off through it. Just like any other day, she headed straight for Gray’s room. She found him sleeping, curled up into his pillow, looking peaceful and young. The sight should have eased her, but it didn’t. Every moment since the night of that fire she’d thought of nothing else but making her brother well. Every day he’d been stuck at home with their mother, voiceless and in pain, she’d been studying her ass off, waiting for the day she would graduate from med school, waiting for the moment she could come and get him, help him, fix him.
It had been four years now, four years that she’d been working with him, at this hospital, trying to take the trauma from his mind. She had performed countless drug trials, a yearlong study into levels of anxiety, depression, fear memory versus permanent memory, memory replacement, even false memory replacement, and though some of her patients had been helped, had gone home to live what she hoped would be normal lives, Gray remained unchanged. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t find the answer, find a way to fix him?
Pushing away from the doorjamb, she left his room and headed for her office. She was in immediate, real trouble here—and in her world, if you were in trouble you fixed it. The scenario was simple: Patient broke into your apartment and tried to kill you. You didn’t stop to think or consider the feelings of others. You called the police.
Her door was open and she flicked on the overhead lights and went over to her desk. She dropped into her chair and scrubbed a hand over her mouth, as if she were trying to stop herself from talking out loud.
Pick up the phone.
She stared at it.
What the fuck are you thinking, Sara? You’re no idiot. Do it. You owe the . . . vampire nothing, no loyalty.
But was that the truth? He’d saved her life. Whatever he was, whatever he claimed to be, he’d kept her alive so she could keep her brother alive, and wasn’t that worth something? Some token sense of loyalty?
You know what they call that, honey? Stockholm syndrome. Yep, you studied it in school, have patients who suffer from it.
Clamping her teeth together until her jaw ached, she pressed the intercom button, then stabbed in the numbers for Precinct 23. But before she even finished dialing, the call failed.
Without missing a beat, she tried again. But the second time, though the call went through, the ringing distorted into a strange moaning sound and wasn’t picked up on the other end. What the hell? She pressed the call button again, got a dial tone, and punched in the numbers. This time she heard the irritating trill of a fax machine. Frustrated, she slammed the phone down, glared at the thing, and fantasized about yanking the cord from the wall and chucking the whole thing at the door. But that would be a reactionary move, not a productive one, and today of all days she needed to pretend to be flexible and sane.
She took a deep breath, grabbed the piece of paper with the number on it, then headed out of her office and straight for the adult-care nurse’s station. Without a word to the crew, Sara picked up one of the desk phones and tried again. Thankfully, this time the call connected, and she sighed as the ringing continued on perfectly normal. But as it did, she started to feel a slight panic take over her nervous system. When the cops actually answered, she’d have to report the crime, not to mention explain his involvement in it. Or did she? Maybe she could just leave him out of it—make it all about Tom and the attack.
But Sara never had to make that choice. No one picked up, not even a machine. It just rang and rang. Cursing, she hung up, dialed one last time, and when she found it busy, slammed down the receiver and told herself she’d give it fifteen minutes and try again.
But four hours and three emergencies later, it was close to the end of her shift and the first time she’d had a chance to get back to her office.
She grabbed an apple from the basket on the corner of her desk and dropped into her chair. Releasing a heavy breath, she picked up the phone and waited for it, the low hum of the dial tone. But nada. Nothing.
“You have a very solid mind for a human.”
Sara slammed back in her seat, the apple dropping to the floor with a dull thud. “Jesus Christ!”
“No. Alexander Roman.” He stood in the doorway, taking up nearly every inch of it with his massive frame. He inclined his head, his fierce merlot eyes trained on her. “I apologize for startling you.”
“How did you get in here?”
“Your door was open.”
“On the ward,” she pressed. “How did you get onto the ward?”
One
corner of his mouth flickered up. “I find every door open to me these days.”
“How convenient,” she said, wishing her pulse would stop the whole racing routine.
His gaze shifted from her to the phone. “Making a call?”
“I’ve been trying to, but there’s something wrong with ...” She froze, looked up at him. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’ve been—”
His brows lifted. “As I said before, no police.”
Fear flickered inside her chest. “You screwed with my phone?”
Alexander moved into the room, the door closing behind him. Unable to process the obvious, Sara pretended she had seen his hand on the wood, pushing it closed.
“Actually it was my brother Lucian,” he said, coming toward her, the black wool of his coat snapping against his legs. “I couldn’t leave the house until it grew dark—”
She stood up. Had to. Even with the anxiety snapping through her, she had to show him she wasn’t about to cower. “Your brother’s been watching me?”
“I had to make sure you were safe.”
“If you really cared about my safety, you’d let me call the police.”
“The police can do nothing.”
“Spoken like a true renegade or a—”
He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Or a what?”
“Someone I should be treating with a good deal of meds.”
He said nothing, just stood there, across the desk, dark as night, towering over her with a lethal grin playing about his mouth. Sara tried like hell to control her response to him, to that anything-but-sweet smile, but the traitorous, seductive heat that moved through her veins and sped up her heart was irrepressible.
“Do you really think the police can catch your skinny human?” he asked, coming to stand at the chair in front of her desk, his large hands closing around the metal top. “You think they’re even going to look all that hard for him?”
