“And the Darkblood female—is she there?”
Roxy’s shoulder’s slumped with disappointment and she shook her head. “No, she’s not.”
He sent a quick text to the capture team waiting on standby, before the two of them sprinted toward the back of the structure where they crawled through a broken window into what was probably a butler’s pantry at one time. Santiago slipped Misery silently from its leather sheath. The wood floor creaked beneath their feet as they crept into the dining room.
Torn wallpaper hung from the two-story walls, exposing the lathe and plaster underneath. Either someone had tried to remove it and abandoned the project or moisture had deteriorated the paper to the point where it was coming off in sheets. Some of the doors of the built-in cabinets lining parallel sides of the room were gone, making the small room look like a gaping smile with a few missing teeth. In the center, under a candle chandelier that had recently been lit, was a long table covered in plastic with a dozen high-backed chairs tucked in around it.
“Smell it now?” she whispered.
He nodded. The sweetblood scent was strong. Bloodletting or a feeding must’ve happened here recently.
“Yvonne?”
She nodded somberly.
With a curious expression that he couldn’t quite read, she turned her attention to a chair that wasn’t pushed in all the way and ran her hand over the ornately carved back.
“There’s something familiar…” Her voice trailed off.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist or an expert tracker to figure out that many humans had died in this room. The blood scent was thick in the air. She had to be as sickened by that knowledge as he was. But unlike him, she hadn’t been out in the field to see this sort of thing on an almost daily basis as he had. Having run across his fair share of debauchery over the years, he’d gotten used to it, his heart numbed to the inhumanity of it all, whereas she’d been stuck in a classroom. This sort of thing had to be disturbing for her.
Roxy touched him, her fingers resting lightly on the back of his hand, right above Misery’s handle. “Yvonne’s down this way,” she whispered, using the tip of her blade to point through an arched doorway to the left. Her breath skittered over his earlobe, reminding him of last night when she’d exhaled softly after she’d climaxed and collapsed on top of him. Since that first time, they’d made love every day. She’d become his beautiful habit. “And DBs—” she jerked her chin the other direction “—are over there.”
When she removed her hand, his skin continued to tingle with her residual energy.
“I’ll take care of them,” he mouthed. “You go find the girl.”
She moved catlike to the other side of the room, despite her less than delicate combat boots. The black fatigues were loose fitting and rode low on her hips and yet somehow they clung to every curve. He recalled how she’d changed in the car into the clothes he’d brought for her. Without any preamble or warning as they flew over the I-90 bridge, she’d peeled off her skinny jeans in the passenger seat of the Corvette and wriggled into her combat gear. It took all the concentration in the world to keep his eyes on the road. A few times he’d caught himself drifting, and a van behind him honked for him to stay in his own lane. But he couldn’t help himself. Her tiny black-and-red thong, not the road in front of him, had been a magnet for his eyeballs.
All of this darted through his mind as she crept from the room. The instant she was gone, he felt colder, motivating him to get this thing done as quickly as possible so they could be together again.
Was she as attracted to him as he was to her? Would her adrenaline be as pumped up after a mission as his was where she’d want sex as much as he did? He wanted nothing more than for her to be in his bed again, writhing with pleasure underneath him. Gripping Misery in his left hand, he slipped through the other doorway and crept down the hall, staying as close to the edge as he could in order to eliminate any squeaks in the floorboards.
The flickering light of many candles illuminated the long hallway casting grotesque shadows on the wall. Either the place didn’t have electricity or they chose not to use it. The air felt damp and he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that moss was growing inside.
A low murmur of voices came from a room on the far side of a grand foyer. Two males. The third one had to be nearby.
“Hey, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” one of them was saying. “She loves that thing. It’s her pride and joy.”
“It’s an amazing piece, isn’t it?”
Santiago heard the sound of a blade being whipped through the air.
“Yes, so put it back,” the first one said.
“I’m not hurting anything, so chill. It’s balanced like nothing I’ve ever held before.”
Santiago was dying to see what he was holding. It had to be a Guardian blade.
“Yeah, and she’ll cut your balls off with it if she finds out. Maybe you like taking risks and don’t have an attachment to them. I, for one, wouldn’t want to chance that they’d regenerate correctly.”
“You’re such a pussy. She’ll never know. Not unless you tell her.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I swear, she’s got a third eye. Did you hear what she did to Tomas?” They both groaned.
“Yeah, but that was different. He fucked up. I’m not going to. Do you think it’s true what they say about Santa Muerte silver? That it can sap the strength right out of you with just a touch on your skin?”
A flash of white-hot anger surged through his body. They fucking did have a Guardian blade. Was it Grim? If so, Roxy was going to be thrilled to get it back. If not, well, he would see to it that it was returned to the family it belonged to. Misery felt lighter and more agile in his hand as if encouraging him to take action. He still hadn’t detected the third Darkblood, which Roxy had insisted was somewhere nearby.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” the first one said. “I think it was made by Petrov the Brave, that smithie in Prague who makes a lot of Guardian blades.”
Santiago exhaled silently. It most likely was Grim then. He knew what it meant to Roxy to get it back and he would be the one to give it to her. Readjusting his grip on Misery, he stood poised, ready to spring.
“Where did the Mistress get it, do you know?”
“Nope, but I heard the guy gave it up ’cuz he was addicted to Sweet.”
What the fuck? Santiago hesitated, his blood running cold.
Why would a Guardian—Ian?—give his weapon to a Darkblood? That made no sense at all. This asshole had to have the story wrong because a Darkblood had charcoaled Ian with his own blade.
He inadvertently leaned against the wall causing a floorboard to squeak under his foot. The two DBs stopped talking. He cursed himself for being so careless, having been counting on the element of surprise. Two, possibly three against one, when both sides possessed superior Guardian blades, wasn’t what he’d call good odds. He could go in now or wait for them to come to him. Something told him to hold off charging into the room—an unusual decision for him as he normally preferred to be on the defensive.
Holding perfectly still, both hands on Misery’s hilt, he waited, ready to swing the sword if they came out of the doorway.
“You sure the girl’s locked up?” the first one said, his voice low.
“Even if she wasn’t, she’s not going anywhere. Didn’t you see the condition they left her in? I’m surprised she lived through it. I think it’s just the old house creaking.”
Neither said anything for a moment as they were apparently listening for more sounds. Santiago sent out a silent plea to Roxy to be quiet.
“If that’s the case, maybe we should visit the girl ourselves.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Well, if she was almost dead, who’s to say she wouldn’t have died later anyway. We could both have a few sips and finish the job.”
“God, you’re an idiot. You think the Mistress wouldn’t figure out that we killed her?”
“We could get rid of the body. You know, tell her the girl died while she was away, so we buried her.” Santiago heard a slap and the guy yelped. “Ouch. What’d you go and do that for?”
“Look around you. She’s collecting the bones, stupid. She’d either kill us for disposing of the body or she’d dig it up for the bones, find out we lied, then kill us. And duh, the girl’s a sweetblood, you don’t think we’d reek of her if we drank from her?”
“Hmph. It was just a thought.” The metallic sound of the blade going into or out of its sheath effectively ended that part of their conversation. “I still can’t believe this belonged to a Guardian who was addicted to Sweet.” It was as if the second one was reading Santiago’s thoughts.
“Hypocrites, huh? They can get hooked just like the rest of us and be desperate enough to do anything—include giving away their prized weapons—for more.”
He hoped to God they weren’t talking about Ian now. Part of him wished for closure for Roxy and Ian’s family, but this kind of news, if it were true, would devastate them and ruin their reputation. From what he knew about the O’Gradys, they were staunch supporters when the Council was formed centuries ago. To learn that the last male heir, the one who would’ve carried on the family name had he lived, was a Sweet addict would be heartbreaking—not just to them but to Roxy, who had loved him.
He’d known a few people who’d had this happen to them. They lost everything. Their reputation, their standing within the close-knit vampire community, their family and friends. They were ostracized and sent to a rehab facility where they often were never heard from again. But Guardians were often executed for the very reason he was hearing now. They couldn’t be trusted to do the job they were assigned to do.
Getting a handle on a blood addiction was difficult if not impossible to overcome. You couldn’t stop once the urge was ignited. You could dress it in pretty clothes, trying to hide it and pretend that everything was fine—and it may be fine for a while. But the yearning continually swam below the surface, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
If the sword really was Ian’s, could this be true? And if it was, did Roxy know? He thought about how devoted she was to his memory and decided that she couldn’t have known. They’d been together before she’d become a tracker, so his addiction would’ve been easier for him to cover up.
If a Guardian killed a human, they were executed. The Council rules were very clear on this. And an addict was one step away from becoming a Darkblood sympathizer, if they weren’t one already. He recalled the lengths Jackson had gone to when he’d thought he was succumbing to the pull of his dark nature. He’d been willing to give up everything, including the love of his life and a job he cherished, because he hadn’t been able to control himself. If Ian had been an addict, he’d have done everything in his power to hide it from Roxy. She’d be devastated to learn this news.
A strange concoction of emotions stirred in his gut. Part of him felt terrible for her, but another part, the selfish part, was pissed off that she was wasting her time pining for a man who was not only dead, but who was a secret Sweet addict and willing to compromise his integrity.
One of the Darkbloods laughed. Fuck being sneaky. He was tired of this bullshit.
He palmed a few chaken throwing stars, flipped their tiny switches and jumped into the room. With a flick of a wrist, he sent the blades flying. They landed with a thunk square in the chest of the shorter one and the guy went down. As Santiago swung to his right, he heard the low vibration as the blades burrowed deeper.
“Get these things out of me.” The guy’s voice was higher pitched than it had been earlier and he clawed at his chest. “Motherfu—” An innocuous little pop sounded, like a pin piercing a water balloon. One of the silver blades had hit its mark and the DB began to charcoal. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, his limbs folding in on himself. Soon, he’d be a pile of ash. Santiago made a mental note to retrieve his little blades when this was over.
One down, one to go.
Santiago spun around, swinging Misery in an arc toward the second guy. Something flashed in his peripheral vision. The DB was on the other side of the room now. He’d moved faster than Santiago had expected. Santiago ducked to the left and rolled into a half somersault, knocking over a table as a knife whistled past his ear. An urn and a large black candelabra with six or seven lit candles crashed to the floor, igniting the heavy drapes covering one of the windows.
“What have you done?” The tall man with thin, white-blond hair lunged forward and grabbed the long blade his friend had been holding a moment earlier. The high-pitched sound it made as it slid from its sheath confirmed that it was indeed a Guardian’s weapon. It flashed like a mirror, reflecting the flames.
Santiago couldn’t afford to make another error. Even one nick could incapacitate him enough to make him unable to defend himself. But Misery would inflict the same damage on the Darkblood, as well.
“Are you referring to your friend or the house?” Although Santiago had a pretty good guess.
The man stammered before answering, his eyes were black orbs in a too-white face. “Both.”
Ha. He couldn’t hide the hesitation in his voice. He’d meant the house, not his friend—it didn’t take a shrink to figure that one out. Darkbloods weren’t usually paired up with their buddies. It was more of a trainer/student relationship. Then, when you were trained, you did the same for others wanting to join the movement.
“Fortunately, I don’t share the same affinity for this place as you do.”
Their swords clanged together over and over, the DB matching every thrust and parry. Sweat covered Santiago’s brow as the temperature of the room skyrocketed as more of it was being consumed by flames. Unlike most DBs, this one must’ve had some formal fight training. This. Was. Ridiculous.
He switched Misery to his left hand—being ambidextrous came in handy sometimes—and leveled a glancing uppercut blow to the DB’s midsection. The guy went flying and his own blade clamored to the floor. Santiago had never fought with the finesse that some of the other Guardians did and he wasn’t above fighting dirty. The DB landed on the sofa. It skidded along the floor and tipped onto its back, bringing the flaming drapes with it. In a moment, the whole side of the room was ablaze and flames were licking across the ceiling.
Santiago leaped over to his now unarmed enemy. He’d finish the guy off and then he’d find Roxy. This old place was a tinderbox and would burn quickly. Where the hell was she anyway? She should’ve located the girl by now.
Groaning in pain, the DB rolled to his side and threw something into the fire. It landed with a faint clink. “You think you’re going to rescue the sweetblood?” The look in his eye said to Santiago that he’d try anything if it meant he’d live. A dangerous Darkblood is a desperate one, especially when he thinks his days are numbered. “If that’s what you came for, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
“Is that so?” Santiago was not impressed by the rantings of an almost dead guy. Imminent death had a way of bringing out the best…and the worst in people.
“That—” the man indicated the fire “—was the key. You’ll never get her now.”
Santiago laughed. “You think not having a key will stop me?” He’d just kick the door in, if Roxy hadn’t done it already, and free the human prisoner.
Even as blood leaked through the guy’s fingers and had spread down his sleeve, the DB smiled. “She’s…locked up, my friend…with silver alloy chains…around her wrists and ankles. That’s what…the Mistress does…with all her toys.”
Santiago hesitated. Silver chains? He wouldn’t be able to touch them in order to pull them from the wall without suffering a significant energy loss. He scanned the flames and rubble in the fireplace. If he could even find the tiny metal key, it could be partially melted by now and useless. A tiny voice sounding suspiciously like Kip’s reminded him that it was protocol to carry a set of latex gloves when out on patrol.
A crack then
a crash sounded behind him. He spun around just in time to see a portion of the roof fall in. Sparks and embers shot everywhere, including onto his leather coat.
The DB coughed out a humorless laugh. “Good luck. Looks like you’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE TUNNEL, which had to be almost two hundred feet long, started at the bottom of a narrow wooden staircase at the back of the house. Although torches lit up a small circle of space every fifteen or twenty feet, darkness was plentiful enough that Roxy was able to easily shadow move. Coming back the same direction, assuming she was successful in freeing Yvonne, would be a different story. From what Roxy could discern from the scent, the young woman had lost a lot of blood, so her ability to walk out under her own power may be a problem. Maybe there was a way out at the other end.
She morphed out of the darkness and took shape in a small, dungeonlike room without windows and thick with the scent of Sweet. Her gums throbbed a little, but because she’d been expecting to encounter a sweetblood, that was the extent of her physical reaction. Candlelight from a lone candle flickered silently on the stone walls and the absolute stillness of the air was a thick buffer around her, muting out all sound. Against the far wall on a low cement table was a gleaming mahogany coffin with the front third of the lid propped open. Stone steps led up to it and a small red-and-white cooler sat near the head along with a water bottle.
Was the young woman in that thing? Roxy started to approach the crimson-lined coffin, but before she could peer inside, a small noise from a dark corner of the room drew her attention. Carved into the stone wall was a cutout, a narrow niche no bigger than the twin mattress it held. A young woman huddled in the center, shackles around her wrists and ankles, the chains affixed to the wall. Only one thin blanket covered her as she shivered.
“Yvonne? Is that you?” Roxy knew from her scent that it was, but she asked anyway to soften the shock of her sudden presence. “I’m a friend.”
Seduced by Blood Page 18
