Blood Will Tell: The Blood is the Key (The Blood series Book 1)

by Colleen S. Myers

  “No, I am good. I don’t think I could eat right now.”

  The first red drop dripped down, and he leaned against the wall and groaned.

  She hesitated. “How does it work?”

  “Vampirism?” In the dark room, his eyes gleamed when he looked at her.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know the basics, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “All vampires have a single genetic mutation. They call it the marker.” He laughed at her eye roll. “I know, original. It is an enzyme, responsible for many things. With this enzyme active, when we're exposed to the Inmortalus virus, our bodies die, and our DNA is rewritten.”

  “You die, as in die, die?”

  “Parts of us do, yes. We lose the function of our respiratory systems, no gut, no kidney, and no liver. We're a mass of muscle, nerves and blood.”

  “And hormones.”

  He winked. “Yes, we keep those, and the blood vessels needed to keep them in order.”

  Hah! She flushed again. Anyway. “So, you don't get sick?”

  “No, viruses don't affect us, nor bacteria. We can still be hurt. We still bleed. It just takes a lot more to kill us, but we can die. Rip off our heads, and, like anything else, we won’t get up again. But none of that can't walk in the light of day, garlic, and mirror bullshit. I can dance a jig in full daylight with no ill effects.”

  She raised a brow at that. “You dance?”

  “Like a dream. Would you care to take a spin with me?” He held out his unencumbered hand and bowed at the waist, staring at her from beneath his lashes.

  With a head shake, she turned away. “What is it like being a vampire?”

  “Lonely.”

  At that, she turned back around. “Lonely?” Their gazes met.

  “The older clans have been around for centuries. They rule the cities and the vampire council. The council, when in hiding, limited their numbers to support the food supply and not attract the attention of the much more prevalent humans. Most vampires were not made by accident. No. Most vampires were chosen, studied, and groomed for maximum effectiveness for the clans. Lowers like me, though, were victims of blood lust or stupidity, we're just meat to them, scrambling for crumbs. There is no support. Our lives are trivial. I knew it since the day I was taken to my first enclave. Um, those are the cities the clans lived in prior to the walls. So yes, lonely.”

  “But you have all the physical advantages as well? That makes up for it. You have increased strength, speed, and power.”

  “We don't have any power. That is myth and fantasy. The changes from the virus are only physical. We have the speed and the strength, you are right. But we don't have accelerated healing, we just power through the pain. Any injury will mark our bodies just like anyone else. We live and feel and die just like anyone else, and we love, just like anyone else.” His hand rose and his knuckles brushed across her cheek.

  She cringed backward, and his hand dropped. “You don’t age, either?”

  “Not appreciably. Aging is cell death and most of our cells are already dead, and the ones alive, the virus maintains. The aging can be a blessing and a curse for the same reason. We watch everyone we care about grow old and die.” His voice trailed off and he appeared a million miles away. Probably thinking about someone he left behind. Like her mom left her behind. That was a sobering thought.

  She stepped forward and pointed at the IV. The bag hung empty. “Time to go.”

  Roke nodded and neatly removed the needle. What a genteel vampire with his well-worn track marks. He put on his coat, grabbed his weapons, and held out his arm, sideways in invitation. Such an old-world invitation. Pffth.

  She brushed by him on the way out the door.

  His laughter trailed her outside. “I love that you aren't making this easy.”

  “Making what easy?” Isabelle pretended innocence and rushed to the elevators ahead of him.

  The doors opened with a hiss. The exiting occupants were both male. The tallest man was dark-haired and lean, dressed casually in loose beige cargo pants that had seen better days and a dingy white wife-beater. His companion had ash blond hair, a fitted gray t-shirt and jeans so tight they appeared sprayed on. They were both so drunk it was doubtful either could walk without the other’s support. Blondie nuzzled at tall guy’s neck, lifted his shirt, and ran his hands along his tight abs. The tall guy smiled and pulled his companion close, before lurching forward. “Hello, dinner.”

  Isabelle withdrew behind Roke who'd stepped forward. “Sorry boys, she gave enough tonight, if you catch my drift.”

  The taller vamp smirked. “I don't see any marks.”

  Roke circled her and ran a hand down her hip. “They are under her clothes.”

  She blushed as the taller vamp laughed. “Naughty, we were going to play down there later, weren't we, lover?” He addressed the vamp at his side, who continued to display more interest in his body than the conversation and didn't answer.

  Roke tucked her against him as they edged past. The tall vamp ran his fingers through her hair and at the end pulled hard, dragging her back toward him. Her eyes watered, the position forcing her head backward.

  “Just a taste, Rokie?”

  Roke pivoted with a growl. “No, Theon.” He drew his weapons. A short sword in one hand, a dagger in the other.

  Theon twisted her hair around his fist and lifted her, forcing her onto her tiptoes, scalp screaming. His companion finally noted company and ran his hand along her belly, nuzzling at one side of her neck while Theon licked the other, his tongue sliding along her jugular.

  She shuddered then tried to hold still. This couldn’t be happening to her. Her breathe quickened. Theon’s fangs dropped, but before he could bite, Roke’s blades slipped securely under their chins, the threat clear. The blond vamp didn't appear to notice, and Roke's dagger cut into his chin.

  “Oops.” Theon nudged his blond companion, who looked up dazed. “Just playing, Rokie. No worries, mate.”

  Roke followed their movements, his blades steady. “No playing with my Isa. Ever.”

  “Your Isa? Those kinds of words will get you in trouble, you know. Are you getting soft, Rokie? That isn’t your reputation at all. We all know why the river’s so polluted, don't we?”

  “Let her go.”

  Theon's gaze swung to her face.

  Isabelle met his eyes defiantly. His were a soft blue. There was almost something familiar about him. Her eyebrows creased. What was it? She stared straight at him but said nothing.

  Theon unwound her hair from his fist relieving the pressure on her spine and with one last lick of her neck, shoved her forward into Roke. A drop of blood dotted the underside of his lover's chin and he slurped it up.

  Roke shoved her behind him with the hand holding the dagger. The other held the sword on the men. The men watched with glittering eyes as the elevator arrived, and she and Roke walked in.

  “’Night, dinner. Maybe I will see you later.” Their laughter seemed ominous in the quiet hallway.

  The doors shut. Isabelle fell against the wall, breath whooshing out. Her stomach churned. She watched Roke pace the elevator.

  Roke sheathed his weapons and slammed his fist into the paneling. “I'm sorry about that.”

  Isa nodded. “It's nothing I don't expect.”

  “I know. That's why I’m sorry.”

  The elevator dinged when they reached the ground floor. Roke stepped out; Isa grabbed onto the waistband of pants and trailed behind him. No one stood in the lobby. Huh. That was odd. There’d been more guards when they'd came up.

  Roke stopped. He held out his hand gesturing her back. The room was still. Sirens wailed in the distance. The elevator door closed behind them and ascended.

  He grasped her hand and directed her to the left stairway and down in to the garage.

  Roke led her to a motorcycle.

  He sighed lustily. “The Ducati Multistrada 1200. Look at it.” His eyes glimmered just as the
y had earlier when he tried to kiss her. The bike was nice, crimson red with leather seats, gleaming metal and steel. He grabbed a plain black helmet and smashed it on her head, tightening the strap under her chin. Her brow raised. He tapped the tip of her nose then snapped down the windscreen. He got on the bike, straightened it, then patted the seat behind him. “Get on.”

  Isa clambered up behind him. She tried to keep distance between them, but he just laughed and started the bike. The bike responded with a throaty purr. It bucked forward. A scream escaped her, and she plastered herself to his back trying not to feel his corded tight body beneath her hands.

  The engine purred when he accelerated into the turns, reaching eighty, a hundred, in no time flat. Her hair flapped around her face as the sped—no, flew— to her home. There were few vehicles on the roads. Not many vehicles existed; gas was such a precious commodity.

  It didn't take long to reach her apartment building in the North Side. She and Jack had the first apartment on the ground floor. Again, no guards nearby and again, odd.

  Isa stood up, wobbling, heart still pounding in acceleration. She smiled at Roke as she took off her headgear. “That was awesome.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  Roke stood the bike up. His smile slowly bled away as he looked around. The festivities were tonight but more people should have been around.

  They approached the door. She saw damage to the lock. Wood splintered around the handle. No sound from inside.

  She darted to the door. “What happened here?”

  “I don't know, but your husband was into some shady stuff.”

  She shivered. “I know.” When she reached the door, she hesitated. Did she want to see what was inside? She had a bad feeling about this.

  Roke took the lead. He tapped the door and it swung open. Short sword out, he moved inside and kept his back to the wall.

  She followed him. Her apartment wasn't big, four hundred square foot with a loft. The damage inside was extensive. All the furniture overturned, the cushions ripped, drawers emptied. Shattered glassware littered the floor. It crunched under her foot as she stepped farther inside. She moved around the upturned couch and saw the body.

  Oh God. She had to grab the wall for support.

  Jack lay on his back, naked, his arms outstretched. A film layered his sunken, light blue eyes. His spiked sandy hair was dark and matted to his skull. Dark bruises marred his wrists and ankles. Bites riddled his body. At least twenty or thirty different mouths had fed upon him. His neck had been ravaged, the flesh torn, edges ripped. No blood, though. They didn't waste that. Lipstick and fang marks circled his penis. At least he died happy. That had been his favorite way to donate blood, she thought bitterly.

  Isabelle loved him once. He’d been her hero. He saved her from a forced random mating, and despite everything, he’d tried his best to be a good husband. He never hurt her physically, and, well, emotionally, his offenses were secondary to his addiction to the bite and the pleasure it was rumored to bring. He said he did it for her, but why would his addiction be for her?

  As she looked at the body, her eyes burned. Her nose ran. She brushed that away and scrubbed at her face. Damn it. Why would they have hurt Jack? He was a favorite.

  Roke stepped up behind her and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  She covered her mouth and nodded. He passed her to explore the rest of the apartment.

  Roke entered the kitchen and swore. Isa moved to join him as he exited at a near run. “No, don't go back there. We need to get out of here. Now.” The urgency in his tone was hard to miss. As were the flared nostrils and shaking hands. He was spooked and given he was a vampire, there wasn't a lot that could unnerve him.

  She moved to step around him to see into the kitchen, but he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door.

  Isabelle managed a quick glimpse as they exited and knew exactly why Roke was afraid.

  This was bad.

  Chapter Five

  Mara lay dead in Isa’s kitchen. Mara, the reigning master of the Romeran Clan, the clan that ran her city. Her head, with its golden hair, peaches and cream complexion still evident, and filmy, unseeing eyes, was detached and cradled in her arms. The rest of her body lay untouched.

  Isa gulped down her fear. This was bad.

  Who killed the most powerful vampire in the city? And what is she doing in my kitchen? Again, no blood around the body, at least not in the quick glance Isa got of the room.

  Roke swore again and continued to tug her behind him and outside. His curse sounded French. She only had rudimentary exposure to languages in school, before there wasn't any more school, and she had no clue what he said. Regardless, it didn't sound good.

  Her eyes scanned the area around them. No one nearby. No noise, no nothing. That wasn't good, either. There was an edge in the air she couldn’t name, a tinge of cigarette smoke. The streetlights in her neighborhood spotlighted the yard as they crossed the grass.

  As they approached the bike, three people slid out of the night. The leader had lanky brown hair and a tall skeletal frame. He was at least six feet four, one hundred fifty pounds dripping wet. He sauntered toward them, a katana in his hand, his two cohorts with short swords at the ready on either side of him.

  The one on the right had a shaved head that gleamed in the moonlight. Tattoos covered most of his visible skin above his jeans. The tattoos formed one word—bleed—written in various fonts and what she guessed was different languages. The guy on the left with hair down to his butt like Cousin It had a menthol cigarette hanging from his mouth. Odd, since vampires didn’t breathe. His swords were out and ready. Leader man had eyes only for Isa.

  “Isabella Mendes. As I live and breathe...” He chortled at his own joke then glared at his cohorts until they echoed his laughter. “You've been a naughty girl.”

  “Me? What did I do?” Isa asked, moving behind Roke.

  Roke spread his arms, his own weapons out. He flipped the dagger in his right hand and bent his elbow, presenting her with the weapon behind his back. She grabbed it, and he palmed the second dagger.

  The trio almost reached them before Roke moved forward to confront them.

  The leader stopped and raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Roke. What brings you to the neighborhood, as if I didn't already know?” Again, a rusty chortle.

  Roke said flatly, “Padraig.”

  Shit. She knew that name. This was no ordinary guard and no lower. He was the head of Mara's personal police force. The guard captain for the whole damn clan. Padraig was rumored to be one of the most lethal fighters in the city; no one could equal him with the blade.

  This wasn't good, not good at all. Isa's hand tightened on the dagger as the flunkies moved around to flank them.

  “Step out of the way, Roke. This isn't your fight. This girl, here, why she just killed Mara in a jealous rage over her husband. She must be taken into custody.”

  I did not!

  “You know that isn't what happened, Padraig. Why don't you tell us what’s really going on? Who in the family pulls your strings?”

  “Wouldn't you like to know? Think you can offer me something better? I don’t know. Serafin is quite fine—”

  Roke sucked in a breath. “Impossible.”

  Serafin, Mara's younger sister. She did this?

  “Oh no, my friend. Very possible. And that is why I just don't kill you and instead ask you to step aside and let me finish my assignment.”

  Roke glanced back at her. Isa put her hand on his mid back and heat flashed in his eyes. “I'll never give her up,” he addressed Padraig while holding her gaze.

  Her eyebrows rose. It almost sounded like a vow. None of this made sense. What was so special about her? Why did he seem so sincere in his protection of her? Why was see being set up?

  Padraig grinned. He swung his blade, once, twice, three times through the air. “I've always wanted to cross blades with you.”

  Roke tilted his hea
d. “Why the friends, Padraig? Did you know I was here or did you think you needed all this backup for one little girl?” he taunted.

  Padraig's smile slipped. “Funny. Just think of them as insurance that the job gets done. This one is Bleeder, get it?” He pointed to the dude with the tattoos. “And that’s Seely.” He indicated the Cousin It look alike.

  Roke snorted. “Fight me one on one. No insurance. Winner takes all. Dare you.”

  Padraig's nostrils flared, his free hand tapped his thigh, fingers twitching.

  “Unless you’re afraid of me.” Roke moved to circle Padraig. The flunkies circled toward her. Roke weaved, his blade flashing, left and right, blindingly fast. Both men stopped dazed, and blood trickled from their foreheads. Seely’s cigarette now a stub. He spit it out.

  “What say you, Paddy?”

  A growl escaped, Padraig at the name. “Fine.” He cut his eyes to his men. “Do not interfere if you know what is good for you.”

  Padraig planted his blade in the ground and removed his shirt. His lanky frame was well muscled and pale. Multiple scars littered his body. More than she’d ever seen. At least twenty. Padraig eyes focused on Roke.

  Smiling, Roke buried his own blades in the ground and unbuttoned his shirt. He slipped off the white cotton and handed it to her.

  He leaned closer at the last minute and whispered. “Next time, I strip for you, and we won't have an audience.”

  Her head jerked back, eyes narrowed. What? Did this guy never stop flirting?

  He laughed out loud at her expression.

  Padraig cackled. “Aw, isn't that fucking sweet. I think Roke has a fancy for our little girl.”

  Roke's eyes iced over and cut to him. “So, ready to fight, Paddy?”

  “Yes.”

  Roke held his katana straight out in front of him facing Padraig. His right hand held the short sword along his mid back. “Ready?”

  Padraig screamed and ran at him. His blade stuck driving for Roke’s gut.

  Roke simply dropped his left wrist. His hilt diverted the blade into the ground.