by Tracy Tappan
He’d lived through one month of this ridiculous dating drought, and then Roth had finally grown as fed up as Alex with the situation and butted in to arrange a blind date. Not surprisingly, Roth’s mate-of-choice for Alex had been a royal Fey Vârcolac by the name of Jennilĩth.
The blind date had gone pretty well, and now the two of them were seeing each other regularly, but…you know, Alex was still waiting for the wow factor to go off in his heart. He wasn’t sure why it hadn’t yet.
“What’s your reticence, Roth?” Tonĩ asked, bringing Alex back to the present.
His sister was seated next to him along one arm of the U, her head bowed as she re-read the email Alex had hacked out of the airwaves. It was a message from their bigger and better enemy, the Topside Om Rău, to their good ol’ everyday enemy, the Underground Om Rău. According to the message, the Topside Om Rău were handing over four Dragon women to the Underground Om Rău at a warehouse in a few short hours. Why any Om Rău would give up one precious Dragon, much less four, was a mystery, but one that didn’t require solving for them to act. At least not to Alex’s way of thinking.
Not so Roth.
“This mission is too risky for the indefinite benefits it would bring us,” Roth argued. “We’ve brought eight women into the community just yesterday, whereas the four we discuss now are a complete unknown. We don’t know if they fit the other required parameters, or if they’re even remotely interested in joining us. I say our resources are overburdened enough already.”
Alex cleared his throat to call attention to himself. “Thing is, Roth, those eight were the only women off an original list of fifty who accepted our offer.” And didn’t the town shit a collective gold brick when Alex had unearthed that many Dragons in California. Yet, finding Dragons had been a whole different deal than convincing them to spend a year in an underground cave away from their families. “Do we really have the luxury of ignoring any we can lay our hands on? They’re the key to the salvation of your race.” Yeah, kind of something he hadn’t thought he’d have to remind Roth about.
Roth frowned. “Many of those fifty have expressed an interest in joining us at a later date, when the timing in their lives is better.” Roth snapped his chair straight. “I assure all of you, I don’t underestimate the value of these women. How many years have I lived with the threat of extinction of my own race? But, need I remind you that on this mission our warriors would be facing down members of both the Underground and the Topside Om Rău. We have no idea how many men that could be, although I think it’s fair to assume that their numbers would grossly exceed ours. We can only spare the barest number of warriors for Mr. Nichita’s team. The safety of our current eight is our first obligation.”
Alex sighed under his breath. The man did have a valid argument. Ţărână’s Om Rău neighbors posed a constant threat.
Tonĩ leaned back in her chair, the look in her eyes that stubborn glint which always popped an uh, oh, into Alex’s mind. Probably Jaċken’s, too, if the man had learned anything in nearly four months of marriage. “You bring up all good points, Roth, but here’s the thing that’s itching at my conscience. Four women are about to be handed over to some extremely unsavory men and we’re privileged to know that. Do you really feel comfortable just sitting back and doing nothing to save these poor women, regardless of whether or not they bring us a direct benefit? Because I’m not sure I do, not after my own experiences with these Topside Om Rău.”
Oh, boy. Cranky face Roth.
Dev, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to zip over and kiss Tonĩ.
Tonĩ glanced across the U-shaped table toward her husband. “Can you give us a risk assessment, Jaċken?”
“What do you want me to tell you?” Jaċken snapped. “The pucker factor on this mission’s going to be damned high, but as you just said, does it really fucking matter?”
Tonĩ lowered her lashes and flicked her husband a look.
Yeah, that hadn’t been so helpful.
Jaċken laid an arm on the conference table. “This mission is do-able,” he continued in the kind of hard tone that suggested impatience on a level with Dev’s. “I wouldn’t have put Nichita in charge of it if I wasn’t sure he could handle it.”
Alex glanced over at Dev, the large Vârcolac’s black fatigues barely containing all of the huge, bulging muscles of his body. Alex made a face. Man, he really needed to get into the gym more often.
“And who will Mr. Nichita be leading?” Roth asked curtly.
Dev answered that. “Costache, Pavenic, and Stănescu.”
“Only four men total?” Roth turned back toward Tonĩ to give her an astounded look. “You’re really supporting this?”
“It’s what the warriors train for, Roth,” she said softly. “I trust in their abilities.” She looked at her husband again. “This is ultimately a decision for the Head of Security, though. It’s your men who’ll be put in danger, Jaċken.”
Jaċken shoved to a standing position almost before the words had stopped coming out of Tonĩ’s mouth. “Put your team in the field,” he ordered Dev.
“Yes, sir.” Dev swiveled an about-face, long strides taking him from the conference room.
The rest of them scraped to their feet.
“You’ll excuse me,” Roth said stiffly. “Other matters need my attention.”
Alex jammed his hands into his pockets as the rear door closed behind Roth. “He’s not going to be the life of the party for a while.”
“The hell with him.” Jaċken’s jaw somehow managed the feat of growing even harder. “I hate it when he gets like that.”
“I know,” Tonĩ said gently. “I’m sorry, honey.” She set a hand on her husband’s forearm. “I’m working on him.”
Jaċken checked his watch. “Shit,” he growled.
Tonĩ’s brow furrowed. “Will Dev’s team make it in time to save those women?”
Jaċken met his wife’s gaze, the line of his mouth grim. “It’s going to be tight.”
Gift Option
I hope you enjoyed THE BLOODLINE WAR. Word of mouth is an author’s Willy Wonka Golden Ticket, and so if you wouldn’t mind, taking a moment to leave a review, I would very much appreciate it.
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In appreciation of your time and effort, I’m offering a FREE short story to fans who leave a review. Send a screen shot or copy of your review to [email protected] and you’ll receive “Lună Zână,” a story about three residents of the town of Ţărână who broke a sacred law of the Vârcolac more than thirty years ago. Their wrongdoing will eventually culminate in a revelation that changes one person’s life forever, and only fans who read this story will have a clue to this incredible secret.
The troubled lives of the Vârcolac continue in Book 2 of The Community Series, the story of smoldering special operative warrior, Dev Nichita, and the Dragon woman he rescues from the savage Om Rău demon race.
Marissa Bonaventure is destined to be Dev’s mate, but high action and gritty conflict are in store for these two along the way to their happily ever after.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at
THE PUREST OF THE BREED
Book 2 in the award-winning Community Series
Chapter One
June, 2:36 a.m.
Marissa Bonaventure sat bolt upright in bed. Wood cracked and splintered, a door banged, furniture scraped. She gulped for air, her heart galloping in her chest. A hovering silence followed. She waited, the thundering of her heart trying to outrun her fast breathing, but there was only silence. Okay, Jesus… She squeezed her lids tight then peeled them open again. Only a nightmare. She blinked groggily at the dim numbers on her digital clock—2:36 a.m.—her mind slowly registering that she’d only been asleep for about an hour. She’d worked late cooking at Bleu Boheme restaurant tonight, some lactose intolerant asshole endlessly chewing her ear off about all of the cheese on the menu. Well, yes, sir,
this is a French restaurant, after all, and generally—
A gruff voice growled a command, and then her roommate, Lila, started screaming. Holy frick! Not a nightmare.
There were men in her apartment!
Coming fully awake on a searing blast of adrenaline, Marissa vaulted for the cordless phone on her nightstand. Her wildly groping fingers knocked the receiver out of its holder and sent it skidding across the thin synthetic carpet. “Oh, God, crap.” She threw herself after the phone, and crashed off her mattress, the sheets tangled around her legs. Air drove from her lungs. “Crap,” she gasped again. “Crap.” Darts of pain shot through her elbow.
The report of heavy boots in the hallway vibrated through the floor beneath her, the footsteps thundering toward her bedroom. Panic shot through her stomach and clawed up her spine. She stretched one arm toward the phone by her hamper, scooting her body across the floor like an epileptic caterpillar trapped in its cocoon.
The door slammed open.
She jerked to a sitting position, her heart lurching to a dead halt. A broad-shouldered shadow loomed into her doorway, the light from her digital clock offering only a vague impression of dark, baggy clothing, the cut of a hard jaw…and the most sinister eyes she’d ever seen in her life. A scream launched up her throat but stuck there, unable to make it past the strangulation of terror gripping her larynx.
“In here!” the intruder shouted down the hall, his head turning to reveal what looked like stripes of gangrene on his jaw. No…a black flame tattoo.
Another man entered, and her mouth sagged. And she thought Gangrene Face’s shoulders had been broad. The man who’d just shoved into her room was twice as big, his shoulders size Incredible Hulk, and a hundred times scarier. She saw him clearly as the lights from a Navy helicopter on its weary way home to NAS North Island raked through her organza curtains like a prison searchlight. A body clothed in a black leather jacket and dark cargo pants was revealed, along with the man’s shaved head, sporting tattoos—same black flames as Gangrene—climbing from above his ears to the top of his bald head. He looked like an Aryan Nation sociopath, brutal and violent and…what could he possibly want with her?
He stalked toward her, and her stomach iced. She scuttled sideways against the wall like a crab, her teeth set in a grimace, her eyes darting toward her bedroom window. Only a few feet away, but…five floors down equaled lots of bone breakage on the streets of San Diego.
“She must be the bit o’ skirt we’re lookin’ for,” Gangrene told Hulk in a British accent which really didn’t fit this scenario.
Hulk drew up right in front of her, six-feet-umpteen-inches of darkness, chilling, ruthless power emanating from him.
She kicked violently at the jail of her sheets and found a scream, finally, belting it out as loud as she could.
“Shut your gob,” Hulk snarled.
Like a genie being commanded into its bottle, her voice obeyed immediately and rammed back down her throat. Yes, yes, upsetting a man like this is an extremely bad idea.
He reached for her.
She pressed backward so hard, she wondered the drywall didn’t crack against her spine.
Grabbing her shoulders, Hulk jerked her out of the wrap of her sheets and onto her feet, the violence of the gesture jolting a cry past her lips. With a bruising grip still on her upper arm, Hulk hauled her at a stumbling pace from her bedroom into the hallway.
“Please,” she gasped, hot tears spilling down her face. “What do you want from me?”
They passed her roommate’s bedroom, and Marissa glimpsed Lila peeking out from behind the door, a bed sheet wrapped toga-style around her body. Not such a good night to get caught sleeping in the nude.
Lila’s lips trembled. “Oh, Marissa,” she breathed.
Her roommate’s you’re doomed tone turned Marissa’s legs to pudding, just, squish, down she went onto her knees.
Hulk made a guttural sound of impatience and yanked her to her feet again.
“P-please,” she stammered. “D-Don’t hurt me, please.” She pulled against his hold, but it was like trying to stop a Kodiak bear. Her feet skidded along the length of the hallway, carpet burning the soles of her feet.
“Fuckin’ cow,” Hulk snarled. So much for not upsetting the man. He tossed her over his shoulder, the chains on his biker jacket biting into her skin through the thin fabric of her pajamas. The rounded position of her back pulled painfully at her spine, and she choked on her next breath. The fragility of her body, something she usually so successfully ignored, roared dead-center into her consciousness. Panic greyed the sides of her vision at the feel of hard, solid muscles beneath her. This man was massive. He could do anything to her, anything, and she’d be utterly helpless to stop him.
“Lila!” Marissa screamed, more tears dripping off her nose. “Call 911!”
“Oh, shit!” Lila lurched out from behind her door.
With a careless backhand, Hulk swatted Lila across the mouth, the blow, shockingly, lifting Lila off her feet and rocketing her all the way back onto her bed. She thumped onto her mattress with a frightened cry, her makeshift toga breezing above her waist and her legs flinging wide, giving everyone a full-on shot of her muff.
Gangrene leered at the sight. “Hang about, Mürk. I want to give this one a stuffin’.”
“There’s no time,” Hulk—apparently, Mürk—retorted. “We’ve got to leg it, Tëer, everyone else is at the warehouse by now.”
Tëer grumbled something foul, but tramped out of the apartment along with Mürk, thankfully for Lila’s virtue, and got into the elevator.
Fingers tangled into the back of Mürk’s jacket, Marissa prayed for some late night partier to come home conveniently now and find her upended on this behemoth’s shoulder. She filled her lungs with a potential scream just in case, but no such luck. The parking lot was equally Judgment Day deserted and dark. The scratching together of palm fronds in a mild June breeze was the only sound besides the clomp of both men’s heavy boots on the asphalt.
They stopped at a rusted-out blue Honda Civic, one headlight-eyeball dangling from the front by wiry veins, and then screech, metallic hinges wailed for oil as Mürk hauled open the trunk. He flung Marissa off his shoulder with all the care he’d show a dead body, and—the trunk!
She fastened cat claws into his T-shirt and clambered back up his body. “No!”
He peeled her off and thrust her toward the dark opening again.
She crammed her foot against the edge of the trunk, the metal sharp and cold against her bare flesh. “Don’t put me in there!”
With a growl, he folded her into a ball and slammed her inside.
Ribs met spare tire in a dizzying blast of pain. Her spine throbbed. She wheezed a breath and shoved upright, ignoring the pinpricks of light sparkling across the field of her vision.
With a palm on her shoulder, Mürk rammed her back down. “Bloody hell,” he hissed.
“Not in the trunk!” She opened her mouth to yell for— He stuffed a ball gag into it, then flipped her onto her stomach. The stench of brake fluid assaulted her nostrils; a lug wrench ground into her cheek. Liquid fear clutched her lower belly as Mürk secured the strap of the ball gag tight against the back of her head, then bound her wrists.
She bucked and flailed, whipping herself back over. She gnashed on her ball gag and tried to scream around it. Not in a trunk!
“Stop throwin’ a benny, you fuckin’ split arse.” Mürk’s gaze was tundra cold, black as the end of the world.
She sobbed in panic, her nostrils pinching and releasing, pinching and releasing. She couldn’t breathe! She kicked her legs up.
“You keep givin’ me trouble, ducky, and I’ll sock you in the turnip so many times you’ll never find your way back from ugly, savvy?” His voice was deep and dark like first generation Hell, but also incongruously laced with that touch of British culture. He braced a hand on the open lid of the trunk, his Guns & Roses T-shirt hiking up to reveal a peek of gnarled scar on
his belly. Somebody had tried to gut this maniac jerk? Shocking!
The trunk lid started to come down…
She shook her head wildly at him, trying to scream again, her chest and throat tightening.
He slammed the lid shut, interring her in black. She thrashed her head from side to side, her heartbeat erratic, her eyes bugging and rolling as she tried to see anything…anything….
**To purchase THE PUREST OF THE BREED and keep reading this exciting book, click here.
About the Author
I’ve always been fascinated by men who make their way by their weapons, from every kind of ancient warrior to modern day soldiers. I suppose that’s why I married a man who used to saddle up on an H-60 Seahawk helicopter strapped with Hellfire missiles and spend his days fighting bad guys. Now I put my imagination to work writing about tough, but sensitive, heroes who wield swords, knives, guns, and their bare fists…and, of course, the women who tame them!
After earning a Master’s degree in Marriage, Family, and Child Counseling, Tracy Tappan worked in the clinical field before devoting herself full time to writing. She has a fertile imagination, reaching back to her childhood, which has compelled her to write in a multitude of genres. In nearly a quarter of a century of being a military wife, she’s lived all over the United States and in Europe, enjoying seven years overseas, first in Rome, Italy, then in Madrid, Spain. She’s now settled back in sunny San Diego with her husband, a menagerie of pets, and two children who seem to think they can come and go as they please.
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