Professor Blood (Ironwrought Book 2)

by Anna Wineheart

  Professor Blood

  A Novella

  Anna Wineheart

  Contents

  1. Quinn

  2. Brandon

  3. Brandon

  4. Quinn

  5. Brandon

  6. Quinn

  7. Brandon

  8. Quinn

  9. Brandon

  10. Quinn

  11. Brandon

  12. Quinn

  13. Brandon

  14. Quinn

  15. Brandon

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Forbidden Blood

  The Omega’s Secret Pregnancy

  The Prince’s Lover - A Collection

  Copyright Anna Wineheart 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This novel contains graphic sexual content between two men. Intended for mature readers only.

  Warnings: Violence, Some gore

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  1

  Quinn

  The stopwatch pinged in the office, loud like a siren.

  Quinn leaped up, jamming his knee into his desk. Pain burst through his leg. He swore and silenced the alarm, hobbling out of his office into the lab. About time, he thought, peering into the hot water bath. Please be a success.

  In the bath, ten test tubes sat in two rows, each holding exactly 5 ML of rusty-brown fluid. They looked normal. Full of potential.

  Through two decades of research, Quinn had never found a real substitute for human blood. There was always something missing—pig’s liver barely lent him energy, animal blood lacked the right T-cells, and synthetic blood lacked everything.

  He had used an expensive silk matrix to synthesize this new batch—he’d implanted bone marrow cells into the sponge-like structure, hoping for them to begin synthesizing white blood cells. If they did, he would have the last component he needed in his artificial blood.

  With trembling hands, Quinn pulled out the first tube, uncorking it. The synthesized blood smelled like chemicals and a bit of iron. If it worked... Quinn would never have to drink animal or human blood again. His stomach flipped.

  He tipped the blood past his lips, wincing at its mud-like taste. Then he waited.

  For ten minutes, nothing happened. He set the test tube down in a plastic rack, returning to his desk. There, he sat for another ten minutes.

  The blood settled into his stomach, percolating into his body. Instead of a powerful wave of healing, the energy whispered through his veins like a breeze. Enough for him to walk ten yards. That was it.

  He decided to wait another five minutes, but his gut told him what he already knew—it wasn’t working.

  For a moment, Quinn didn’t move, his thoughts churning. If he could find no alternative to human blood, then he’d be weak forever, hunting down raw liver in the grocery stores. It would still be month after month of bland pate, or coagulated pig’s blood. He hated animal blood. Hated that he was a vampire at all.

  Quinn stalked back to the water bath, pulling out another test tube. He tipped that into his mouth, too, then waited.

  Ten minutes. Still nothing. It really is another failure.

  Twenty years, and he still couldn’t find a proper substitute for human blood.

  On impulse, he emptied the rest of the test tubes into the sink. Then he trudged back to his desk, slumping into his chair.

  That silk matrix had cost three thousand dollars—expensive for three sets of experiments. He was glad that he did the accounting for the lab. If he didn’t, well. Someone would ask what these experiments were for. The college didn’t know a vampire taught its students.

  Quinn tipped his head back, pushing all his thoughts away. Hunger gnawed in his stomach. The clock read 3:28 AM. The nearest store selling liver opened at 8, and... he had no desire to walk there right now. If only he weren’t a vampire!

  He looked at the stacks of printed papers on his desk. Journals, lab findings, expenditure reports. Then he looked at the portraits of past students on his walls, and the rock collection that sat on his shelf.

  All he had to do was hide away in his lab. The other professors would forget what he looked like, and he’d pretend his pale skin and auburn hair were all part of an intense beauty regimen.

  His phone rang.

  Quinn glanced at the name on the screen, sighing. There’s someone else who doesn’t drink. At least, he didn’t use to.

  “Seb?” he asked, pressing the phone to his ear.

  “Hey.” Seb’s voice was tinny over the line. “Need a favor.”

  “You don’t have time for idle conversation, do you?”

  Seb laughed. “How’s the research going?”

  Quinn winced. He didn’t need a reminder—as though he didn’t already hate himself. “Remarkably bad. At least, for my own purposes. The rest of the Blood Synthesis team is doing well. My students don’t know how little I actually contribute to this field.”

  “Good for you. Look, can we come over?”

  “‘We’?” Quinn frowned. Seb had mentioned moving to Cambria, a tiny town an hour away from Quinn’s San Luis Obispo college. Two years ago, Seb had been involved in a disaster with the coven and feds—no one Quinn wanted to associate with. “You’re bringing your human along?”

  “Yeah. I need you to look at his blood.”

  “Call me tomorrow,” Quinn said, rubbing his eyes. He was happy here, in his college with his research students. No one knew who he really was. No one cared, and everything was good. If Seb brought his human here... It carried a risk. The feds could track them somehow. “I don’t want to be dragged into this.”

  “C’mon, I need this favor,” Seb said.

  A century ago, in a dusty saloon bar out in the Midwest, Seb had propped his feet on a table and declared I’ll never have a bonded human prey. Quinn had laughed, thinking he’d have Seb to commiserate with as they whiled away the centuries.

  Now, Seb had a human he wanted to drink from. Quinn still didn’t. It felt like Seb had left their friendship behind, chasing the blood of a human. It was why Quinn never paid Seb a visit, despite Seb moving to Cambria.

  “I can’t drink his blood without a guilty conscience,” Seb said. “I don’t want to kill him.”

  Quinn hesitated. He understood that feeling too well.

  “You know I don’t deal with human blood,” Quinn said. But he remembered the rich warmth of fresh blood, the coppery weight of it on his tongue. He gulped. That blood came with a cost. “You’re asking a big favor. Your bonded human will endanger me.”

  Across the line, Seb sighed. “I’m tired of the risk myself. You’re doing the blood research, Quinn. If anyone can find a solution, it’s you.”

  Quinn wavered. He thought about the empty test tubes in the racks, the stacks of expenditure reports he had to approve. He had the knowledge and equipment to begin a small experiment. “How will I benefit from this?”

  “I owe you a favor, any sort. You name it.”

  Quinn didn’t need money—he had plenty. He didn’t need a prey, didn’t need serv
ants. But a friend’s favor could come in handy; drinking animal blood had made Quinn weak. “Fine,” he said. “Only because you’re a friend, Seb.”

  “Thanks,” Seb said, relief heavy in his voice.

  “Don’t thank me until we’ve got viable results,” Quinn said. It came out more bitter than he intended.

  “Either way.”

  “Come over in two days. I don’t have classes then.” Quinn reached for the contact lens holder on his desk. Inside, two black, concave discs sat in saline water. Quinn poked at the lenses with his fingertip, watching as they slid around underwater. Maybe it was time he changed these. He’d been wearing them two months.

  “Will do. Thanks,” Seb said. The line cut off.

  In the office, the remaining silence rang hollow. Quinn glanced at the expenditure reports, then at the empty space around him. What kind of blood bond did Seb have, that would make him reach out to another vampire? How important was this human to him, that he would leave his home, move across the country?

  Quinn didn’t have anyone that important. What would it be like, allowing a human that close? To have someone know he was a vampire, and not hate him? He shook his head, setting the contact lens holder down.

  If he were to drink from a human... Quinn swallowed. It would be warm and life-giving, filling him with energy. It would gush onto his parched tongue like dewdrops, chasing away his thirst. He shivered, licked his lips.

  Two centuries ago, he’d gulped down blood, drunken his fill of it. He hadn’t been able to control himself.

  When he’d pulled away from that soft neck, he’d found his sister dead in his arms, her face drained of blood.

  Quinn whimpered, twisting his fingers in his hair so hard it hurt. Stop thinking about it. It doesn’t change anything. But the thoughts clamored and swirled in his head, insidious whispers that told him he should die.

  With his shoes still on, Quinn curled into a ball in his seat, waiting for the guilt to go away.

  It never did.

  2

  Brandon

  Brandon scowled, striding up the drenched sidewalk. Nothing had gone right today. The bus had run late, its engine had given out halfway up Higuera Street, and then the heavens had opened up on him.

  As if the vampires from last night hadn’t been enough. If he hadn’t been poring over the campus maps, he wouldn’t have missed the call on the police broadcast.

  Damn bloodsuckers.

  Brandon weaved past the straggling students on the sidewalk—students who were early for the next class, umbrellas under their arms. He was thirty-five minutes late, after he’d given up on the stalled bus. Instead, he’d walked the remaining mile to college, sans umbrella.

  From the way the other students glanced at him, he wasn’t the only one who noticed his drenched clothes.

  He tugged at the dress shirt. Didn’t unstick itself. The thin fabric clung to his pecs like a second skin, and his rolled-up sleeves gripped his forearms like iron bands.

  Shouldn’t have dressed up for class. Whatever. The lecture was almost over, and what the hell was he supposed to say when he showed up? My bus broke down. I tried to fix it.

  He wiped his fingers on his jeans, but traces of engine grease remained. He’d gotten grease on his shirt, too. And this was how he was going to step into the one class he’d enrolled in: late, messy, black hair plastered to his head.

  Brandon jogged his way through the School of Biology, pushing through the glass doors to the atrium. Then he strode down the empty hallways to Lecture Hall 1B. ’Course it’s empty. Everyone’s already in the lectures.

  He swore at himself again, pausing at the Lecture In Progress sign above 1B’s entrance.

  For a moment, Brandon hesitated. There were fifteen minutes left to the Basics of Blood lecture. And he was soaked, rain dripping off his bangs. Why the hell is this my first day of class?

  He almost turned and left.

  Instead, he gripped the door handle, pushing the door open.

  Inside, two blocks of mostly-filled seats sloped up before the projector screen—a smaller lecture hall than the ones on the college website. Some students looked over when he stepped in. So did the professor at the podium.

  Black eyes met his; Brandon froze. Dr. Quinn—or Professor Blood, as the students called him—was a thin man, Brandon’s height, with high cheekbones and flyaway auburn hair. He looked... young. Mid-thirties. Younger than the forty-five Brandon was expecting.

  Twenty years in blood research, his profile on the college website had said.

  “Hello,” Professor Quinn said, his gaze flickering over Brandon’s clothes. His attention drifted all the way to Brandon’s tennis shoes, then back up, lingering on his chest. “I wasn’t aware we had a fashion show at 9:40 AM.”

  Some of the students snickered. Brandon’s cheeks scorched, and the professor’s smile widened. Why couldn’t the bastard let him slip in and sit down? “If you spent half an hour working on a stalled bus in the rain, then yeah. A fashion show.”

  Surprise flashed through the professor’s eyes. His smile didn’t fade, though. “The most original excuse I’ve heard in a while. Very well. Have a seat.”

  What the fuck, Brandon thought, stalking three rows down, dropping into an empty chair. This is the guy I wanted to meet?

  He’d signed up for this class, then an extra research project under Prof. Quinn, thinking they would give him an edge over the vampires. Didn’t occur to him that the professor himself would be a pain in the ass. And he’d be seeing Quinn through the research project, too, wouldn’t he? Brandon couldn’t imagine looking at that damn smile week after week.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. Like he needed more trouble than the bus, and the rain, and the vampires last night.

  He felt the prickle of a stare, looking up. The professor was watching him again. And Brandon was the only person in the first five rows. Was there something wrong with these seats, or was this college kid culture? Did they think the professor would bite?

  Brandon smirked at his joke. And the professor smiled back, his gaze drifting to the rest of the lecture hall. He looked kind of pretty when he smiled, actually. Kind of warm. Human. The tension eased from Brandon’s shoulders.

  “DNA is present in blood,” the professor said, pacing behind the podium. He rubbed his eye. “We can find it in dissolved immunoglobulins in the plasma, as well as the t-leukocytes produced in the bone marrow. Can anyone tell me where the other white blood cells are made?”

  Quinn had a nice figure. Flat chest, tight ass, lean legs. His shirt clung to his torso, black pants hugging his thighs. Probably the only person in the lecture hall older than Brandon. And if he weren’t an asshole, probably the only person Brandon would fuck.

  The professor stepped out from behind the podium, highlighting the cross-section of a femur with a laser pointer. Quinn had narrow hips, a nice curve to his ass, pink lips that gleamed when he stood in front of the projector screen. He moved fluidly, like a cat, and his pants crinkled around his hips.

  Yeah, Brandon would plow that ass. Spread his pale thighs open, push inside.

  His cock twitched in his pants. He blinked, looking up at the projector screen. Then he swore at himself. I’m here to learn shit, not find a prof. to fuck!

  The screen showed a GIF: a white blood cell hunting down a bacterium, engulfing it. Kind of like how Brandon felt, chasing down the vampires, plunging his silver blade between their ribs.

  He quelled the hunger in his veins, touching his knife to refocus himself. Its holster was strapped to two belt loops on his jeans, hidden under his shirt. That silver knife had been with him for years, had pierced the hearts of eighty vampires. Yet, more showed up in San Luis Obispo, despite everything Brandon had done to erase them.

  By the time he’d reached the vampires last night, they’d drained a girl behind the steakhouse, leaving her empty-eyed. The memory sent a chill down his spine. He’d gotten better with looking at victims; better than he was ten years
ago, anyway.

  I shouldn’t have been distracted, he thought. They’ll write her off as another mystery.

  His parents would be disappointed. And there were at least two vampires lurking out there, somewhere.

  Briefly, he studied the students. They filled two-thirds of the seats, staring at either Quinn or their books. It wasn’t easy to spot vampires from a glance; unless their eyes were different, they turned to dust, or their claws or fangs showed, vampires blended easily into the human population.

  The only certain way to tell, then, would be through skin contact. And if he were that close to a vampire, he wouldn’t need to touch them at all.

  “On the last slide, I’ve included a diagram,” Professor Quinn said, his voice sliding smoothly into Brandon’s ears. “Can anyone tell me the differences between pig’s blood and human blood?”

  Quinn glanced over at Brandon, and Brandon realized his notes were still in his bag. Shit. The sheets came out damp in his hands, waterlogged pages stuck together like a brick. Last page. Brandon peeled his notes apart, scanning the last slide.

  “You there, Mr. Fashion Show,” Quinn said, interest glittering in his eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Brandon,” he said, dread pooling in his stomach. Damn you. I was caught in the rain. Stop talking about my clothes. “Brandon Remy.”

  “Brandon Remy.” The professor rolled the name around on his tongue, his voice dipping to a purr. Brandon’s name shouldn’t sound so damn hot in his voice. Especially not when the corners of his lips pulled up, like he was still amused. “Tell me, Brandon, why we can’t perform human blood transfusions using pig’s blood.”

  He glanced down at his soggy notes, the printed words tiny, the black-and-white diagrams hardly visible. He tried reading the tiny print, and the silence in the lecture hall stretched taut, two hundred students waiting for his answer. I can’t understand a damn thing!

  Eventually, Brandon said, “I don’t know.”