by Lynne, Donya
The fact that this hunt for his would-be assassins would take place in King Bain's backyard made it all the sweeter. And once he recalled where he knew that bitch who had taken a shot at Vaydon was from—and he would remember—killing her would provide the icing on the cake.
As if teasing him, a memory flashed, and then vanished in a blink. Ah well, soon enough. He would remember how he knew her soon enough.
"Let's go. We have a trip to get ready for." Searcy turned on his heel and paced away with measured steps, disappearing into ether as he went. Vaydon followed and faded into the night with him.
Those two Chicago-bound assassins had just fucked with the wrong Dacians. And he would see them both dead before the next full moon.
CHAPTER 2
Malek gasped and jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat.
Another nightmare about Carmen. Dead. Lying broken on the floor. This was why he hadn't slept more than a few hours in the past two weeks. When he did, the same nightmare stole into his dreams and he awoke torqued, gasping for air, soaked with sweat, and ready to put his fist through a wall.
Slamming the heels of his hands over his eyes, he shook his head. No, no, no! She's not dead. She's only sleeping. She's only—
She's dead.
Malek threw his hands away from his face and scowled. Shut up. The Voice had riddled him for over a week, but he wasn't in the mood for its antagonism right now.
She. Is. Dead.
Malek growled at The Voice, but a moment later hung his head. It was right. Carmen was dead. On some level he knew that. He just hadn't accepted it. Not entirely. But he was beginning to, which was why the suffering throttled him harder each day…why he was such a mess…why he wasn't eating or feeding…why he was buying whores every night and fucking them to within a brink of insanity. Well, the last he wasn't doing because of Carmen. That was Gina's doing.
Gina… The Voice sighed.
The Voice liked Gina. No, it loved her. But Malek couldn't give her to it. For one, she was gone. Secondly, Malek refused to disrespect Carmen by taking another mate, and since The Voice lived in his mind, to give Gina to it meant he would have to accept that he had mated her. Still, his body broke a little more each day with the need to claim her. His calling urged him to find her…to complete the mating and bind himself to her…to fulfill his biological obligation to procreate.
Yeeesssss.
Malek threw off the covers and jumped out of bed, pissed off, wound tight, and about to explode. His cock throbbed. Hard. Again. It was always hard now. Always ready to betray him. All he wanted was Carmen, his beautiful first mate. But she wasn't here. She never would be again, no matter how hard he denied it or tried to reason otherwise.
In the bathroom, he cranked on the shower and hopped in before the water grew hot. The blast of cold stung and quieted his mind for a few seconds, and then the water warmed. The mental storm began again. All he could do was hang his head, let the hot water saturate him, and breathe. If he could. Every breath he dragged into his lungs made his chest ache. Just like his traitorous dick, his chest ached all the time now.
Heartburn.
He chuffed as he pressed his knuckles against his sternum and rubbed. This wasn't what humans referred to when they said they had heartburn, but the expression was accurate. His heart definitely felt like it was burning, and the inferno only seemed to worsen every day.
Rub-rub-rub.
He worked his hand over his chest until the water began to grow cold again. Then he turned off the faucet and grabbed his towel as he stepped out of the shower. The bathroom was filled with mist, and the mirror was covered in condensation.
What did the night hold? He should report to work but didn't have the energy. And wouldn't Micah love that? In the past few weeks, Malek had excelled at getting on Micah's shit list.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement and a flash of wild, auburn hair and spun to follow it.
"Carmen?" He looked back over his shoulder then turned around again, but no one was there. He was alone.
This wasn't the first time he thought he'd seen Carmen out of his periphery. He'd caught glimpses of her numerous times in the past few days, but every time he looked, she was gone.
A reflection of auburn hair in the foggy mirror brought his attention back around, but once more, when his gaze stole into the area where he thought he'd seen her, she was gone. No one was there but him.
Alone.
The word held new meaning for him. While Carmen had been dead for centuries, he had never really felt alone…until now. Now the solitude encroached and bound him, clawed at his insides, and made him mad with desperation.
He was in the in-between…Switzerland between two adversaries. Except he was being forced to choose a side. Either he stayed with Carmen's memory and died, or he joined Gina and lived. Each side had pros, and each had cons. If he chose Carmen, he would die, but at least he would hold Carmen's memory intact. If he chose Gina, he would live but forever disgrace his first mate.
Rock, meet hard place.
He got dressed, snagged the keys to his truck off the dresser, and headed out. There was no sense in denying himself. He knew what he needed, and he knew where to get it. Fuck Micah. Malek would just have to suffer another tick mark on Micah's list, because work didn't appeal to him tonight.
* * *
An hour later, Malek was settled in his favorite booth at Four Alarm, head hung over his drink like a vulture. Heavy bass throbbed the darkened, sweat-scented air, and techno dance beats pumped through the club's speakers, jarring his already flayed nerves.
Four Alarm was packed tonight. Wall-to-wall bodies. Men trolled for action, and women who wanted to give it—for a price—eyed potential clients, as well as the size of their wallets. It's why Malek was here. He needed what these women offered. And his wallet was very thick. All the better since his needs had grown more depraved every night since Gina left.
Gina.
What he really needed was Gina. She was the only one who could give him what his body truly needed. Too bad he didn't want it. Good thing she was gone, because he wasn't sure he could handle her presence if she was still around.
Gina. The Voice whispered her name inside his brain as if it was pleased he was thinking about her.
He slammed his eyes shut and hunched farther over his shot glass as if he had been punched in the gut.
So this was what it felt like to lose a mate. This despair and agony. A knife to the chest would have been less painful. The problem was, Malek hadn't just lost one mate, but two. After hundreds of years, he was finally dealing with Carmen's death. Mating Gina had ripped open the wound he had successfully tucked away for centuries—one he had avoided facing—and now Carmen's death pummeled him as if she had only died yesterday. So, not only was he suffering the loss of Gina, but also the death of Carmen. Maybe he should just walk into the dawn come morning and end his misery.
Not a bad idea.
Malek opened his eyes and scoffed into his glass of whiskey. And this wasn't the fancy shit, either. This was burn off your tongue, stab yourself in the eye, cripple your liver rotgut.
Nothing but the best.
But the liquid sewage helped quiet The Voice.
She's dead, moron. Deal with it.
Or maybe not.
He pinched his eyes shut again and grimaced at the vision of Carmen lying on a dusty wooden floor worn smooth by his boots and her dainty slippers. Their home. He saw the home they had shared long ago in the European countryside during the Middle Ages. That simple cottage had been the sanctuary he shared with Carmen. His mate. His life. His reason for being. Her body was bent at an unusual angle, her head turned toward the door, her eyes open and lifeless. One arm lay outstretched beside her, as if she had been reaching for something, or maybe putting something away on the shelves. A jar of fruit preserves lay shattered nearby, and the footstool was toppled beside the table.
The sour taste in Malek's mouth intensified.
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No! She's not dead. He forced the image back and replaced it with another. One that was more acceptable. Carmen was lying in bed, eyes closed, body peaceful. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The rhythmic pattern of sleep. See, she's just sleeping.
Fine, buddy. You just keep telling yourself that.
Malek glanced down at the shit-brown liquid in his shot glass. Fuck you. Just fuck you, asshole. She's not dead. And I'm not your buddy.
He waited for a retort. Anything to contradict him and piss him off even further, but The Voice silenced and left Malek alone. Finally, blessedly alone with his drink. Maybe The Voice had finally gotten the hint that he wasn't interested in dissenting opinions. There was only one right answer to the question of Carmen's whereabouts. She was sleeping, damn it. Just sleeping. She was human and needed her rest, for God's sake. Couldn't everyone see that? And yesterday she had been away washing his tunics and trousers in the stream that ran through the woods by their cottage. And the day before that, she had been out in the fields, chasing the vermin from the garden. There was an explanation for where she had been all this time.
Riiiight.
I thought you were gone.
Nope. And I won't be until you see.
See what?
That Carmen is dead.
Malek slammed back the whiskey as if he had a fire in his belly and wanted to fuel it. Maybe he could burn The Voice out of his head. Little fucker. Another glass, another swallow. Another, and still another. One after the other, he kicked them back, the bottle in one hand and the shot glass in the other. Pour, drink, pour, drink, until…
His bloody knuckles stopped him cold. How had that happened? The flesh was ripped, and dried blood filled the creases of his knuckles. Oh, that's right. He had gotten into a fight on the way here. With a brick wall. The wall won. But his hand should have healed by now. Why hadn't his injuries healed? He dismissed the question with a bemused chuckle.
Hitting the wall had felt good. Almost purifying. And it had shut up The Voice for a while. Not long enough, but any reprieve from the heckler in his head was welcome. Because The Voice didn't have anything good to say. Just shit, crap, and lies. Pain seemed to silence it, though, so Malek would need to keep up a steady supply to fill the demand.
Suicide Economics.
He chuffed in amusement from the new term that popped into his mind. Maybe somebody should create a class and teach all male vampires about suicide economics. That way, they would be prepared for losing a mate, because when a male lost his mate, his body would demand a kind of pain he would have to supply or else, even if that pain led to suicide. Hence the name of the course.
Perhaps he could teach suicide economics to young males hitting their transition into adulthood. The class could be a prerequisite for vampire sex education, because all males needed to know what they were getting their balls into by going down Happy Lane with a pretty, young female who could turn out to be their mate, and consequently their downfall. Heck, maybe he should petition his commander, Tristan—oh wait…no. Micah was in charge now, wasn't he? Well, maybe he could petition Micah to talk to his good buddy, the king, about funding for a class in suicide economics for all the young males. Hell, he had plenty of firsthand experience with the subject matter. He would make a fine instructor. The perfect teacher.
If he survived the week.
He chuckled almost maniacally at his ludicrous musings before somber melancholy settled into his heart once more, and he stared down at the brown, high tech plastic table that supported his arms.
Carmen…Gina…Carmen. He was lost without them. Without both of them, but he refused to see Gina for the savior she was at the sacrifice of Carmen's memory. He couldn't take a new mate when his heart still clung to the memory of another. Tears threatened the lower rims of his eyes as pain, sorrow, and something darker—something forlorn that reeked of self-loathing and defeat—ate away at his soul and burrowed deeper into the recesses of his gut.
Growling out an exhale, he blinked away his emotions and leaned back in the darkened corner. He caressed the lip of his shot glass with his fingertips as if it were the pristine nipple of the woman he wanted. Gina's nipple. Her lovely, perfect, heavenly…
Gina. You need Gina. You want her.
No! He winced and jerked his fingers away from the glass as if it were, in fact, Gina's breast and he had committed adultery by touching her with such longing.
What kind of male was he to cheat with Gina when he was already mated to Carmen?
You fool. Carmen's dead. Gina's alive. Get on with your life before you lose your mind.
He groaned. Before he lost his mind? He felt like he already had.
Every bone ached, every muscle protested. Even his eyes felt weary, his eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. When was the last time he actually slept? Really slept? He couldn't remember, and his brain hurt when he tried.
Eh, he would figure it out later. Right now, he needed only one thing other than the vile liquid he kept pouring down his throat, and he searched the room for it.
Four Alarm's crowd was target rich tonight. As it was every night. But the way he had been burning through the whores the past couple of weeks and building a reputation as a depraved sex addict with a thing for kink, he would have to find a new source soon. Perhaps he might eventually be forced to venture into the seedy Underground, a place enforcers like him were more inclined to raid than visit for recreational purposes. But the clientele at The Underground was better suited to fill his debauched needs. He would keep it in mind, but for tonight he eyed a few good prospects at Four Alarm who, as yet, still seemed oblivious to his degenerate reputation from the way they eyed him from their perches.
He hungered, his cock hard. The damn thing had been hard since Gina showed up in Chicago a month ago.
No! He slammed his eyes shut, refusing to think about Gina anymore tonight. There was no room for her here and there never would be. His body was a traitor, betraying him, fixating on Gina when it should be yearning for his true mate. Carmen deserved better. And no amount of biological tethering to an imposter would change that. He would make sure of that. Mind over matter.
Beats thumped like an electronic heartbeat through the speakers, vibrating the air, stirring those on the dance floor into a frenzied copulation of gyrating bodies. Hands groped, hips thrust, bodies pressed together in an orgy of movement.
At the bar, women pushed their breasts toward men, and in the shadows and corner booths, hands groped under skirts and inside zippers. The scent of sex invaded every molecule, filled every crevice, and assaulted Malek's senses like a drug.
And he was an addict looking for his next hit. How cliché.
"Hey, baby. You look lonely."
I am lonely. He lifted his gaze to the leggy blonde who slithered up to his table like a snake, stealthy and cunning. She smelled of another man's semen, but it didn't matter.
"I do, huh?" He sprawled against the red leather seat of the booth, legs open, arms slung over the back.
He looked her up and down, and the corner of his mouth kicked upward. For a whore, she dressed nicely, wearing a leather skirt and what looked like a silk, sleeveless blouse. Or maybe it was fake silk—polyester that wanted to pretend to be more expensive and sophisticated than it was.
She placed her leather clutch on the table and took a seat beside him, and her gaze dropped to the bulge in his pants. "That for me?" Her hand crawled up his thigh.
"You'll do."
She smiled, showing perfect teeth behind full, sparkling lips.
"How much?" He might as well cut to the chase. He didn't have the time or the inclination to play games when it was clear he wanted what she offered.
"That depends." She tilted her head to the side, and her eyes danced flirtatiously up and down his body as if she were sizing him up as boyfriend material.
Why did she have to play like that? Didn't she know that it was a waste of time to be coquettish? He wasn't looking for romance, and he was
n't trying to find a girlfriend. He wanted to fuck. Hard-and-body-punishing-stick-it-in-and-abuse-it fucking. That was all.
"On what?" Let's get the negotiations done and get out of here.
"What you want," she said.
Now they were talking. And he already knew what he wanted. "You. My house. I'll pay for the entire night."
"The entire night?" Her drawn-on eyebrow arched.
He nodded. He wouldn't need her all night, but after he was finished with her, she wouldn't be fit to take another customer.
Her perfectly shaped eyebrow quirked as her tongue peeked out and wet the seam of her mouth. She hazarded a look to her left, and he followed her gaze to a man at the bar. Her pimp. He was facing them.
"You need to get permission?" Malek leaned forward, closing off his cock to her probing hand as he refilled his glass.
She stiffened. "I'll just be a minute." She slid out of the booth and swished her way around tables and patrons, over to her boss. The two glanced back at him, spoke briefly, and then she prowled her way back, jacket in hand. That was a good sign.
"One thousand dollars," she said, sliding in beside him once more.
"Done." He swallowed his shot and dropped the base of his glass to the table with a finality that said the conversation was over and let's go.
With a nod toward her pimp to let him know Malek agreed, she scooted aside and stood back up. He followed suit, adjusting his hard-on as he pushed himself off the leather seat.
Without a word, he took her hand and led her to the back exit, out into the brisk night, and to his truck.
You sick bastard.
Shut up.
He wasn't above paying for what his body needed, and if it kept Gina off his mind, so much the better.
But it doesn't keep her off your mind, dickhead.
I said shut up.
He got behind the wheel, determined to make Gina's memory disappear, even if it meant losing his mind.
I can arrange that.
I bet you can. Hell, he already was losing his mind, holding whole conversations with himself like he was jockeying between split personalities.
