Black Werewolves: Books 1–4

by Gaja J. Kos

  If she was right, more twentyfourhourlies had fallen victim to Vaclav than the pack or the police had discovered.

  And since—now that she thought of it—she hadn’t sensed any traces of another being in the bedroom nor in the hallway they were persistently stumbling down, it was possible no one had even noticed the vampire’s demise.

  Hot, panicked tears began to roll down the man’s cheeks as he pushed towards a door at the far end of the corridor.

  He was panting wildly, desperate to fill his lungs with air; but his attempts were in vain.

  The invisible hold this unnatural anxiety had around his chest wouldn’t lessen, merely continued to increase the pressure with every passing second, sinking its poisonous talons deeper inside his flesh.

  The vamp’s shoulder connected with the door, propelling it open with a loud thud as it hit something positioned against the wall behind it.

  Rose tried to gather as much data as she could, cataloging details that might help the pack identify the victim, but the blurred vision made it hard to see anything but the most basic shapes.

  Even the smells offered nothing of value aside from what one might expect from a typical bathroom, and the sensations the vampire experienced were similar to those Rose had reconstructed from the police reports.

  Still, she hoped. She just needed something. Something that would stand out.

  Thin hands fell into her line of vision as the vampire pulled off his shirt and stumbled towards the sink. Cool water splashed across his face and torso, offering mild relief from the panic, but did nothing to diminish the weight that threatened to crush the man’s chest.

  A wave of nausea rushed through the vampire, accompanied by a new surge of dread. His fingers began trembling as they clutched on the edge of the sink, with his whole body taken over by tremors mere seconds later.

  Rose sensed beads of cold sweat forming on the vampire’s forehead, felt them glide down the feverish skin in an array of rivulets. The nausea was almost unbearable now—his breaths were quick and so very shallow.

  The man wouldn’t last in this condition for long.

  With a cry filled with anger and despair, the vampire lifted his head and was met by his reflection in the mirror.

  Despite the blurred vision, the features of his face were clear enough for Rose to make out.

  Her heart sank.

  The pack wouldn’t need to search for the victim’s identity.

  They already knew him.

  Chapter 37

  His face was white, covered in glistening sweat that ran down his hollowed cheekbones and pooled at the very edge of his chin. With his black hair creating an even starker contrast, he looked like a man on the verge of death.

  And Rose realized, he truly was.

  The vampire’s lips were beginning to gain a blue tinge, and his lungs were burning with the severe lack of oxygen.

  The other victims had died before the panic suffocated them, but the vampire she was in wouldn’t be granted a merciful death.

  No, not you, Rose thought in horror, observing the corporeal form’s pallid reflection. She felt every excruciating detail of his agony, every struggle for breath, every labored beat of his heart—and the image she faced matched the gravity of the situation. Please, don’t die.

  Rose knew her pleas were in vain, but she couldn’t prevent herself from thinking them, from screaming them in her mind over and over again, praying for the gods to take mercy.

  The turn of events had taken her by surprise; she should have been prepared—she had been prepared—to face the dread and anguish of the grand finale the poison brought. But with the thought of this man’s very alive form still so vivid in her mind, she wasn’t prepared to witness his death.

  Not now.

  Not yet.

  It was a childish notion. Souls were her wards just like they were Veles’s.

  She was obliged to care for them, to put her discomfort aside as she guided the spirits from the eternal darkness and bring them to peace.

  And she wanted to follow her calling more than anything... But it was different this time.

  The werewolf wanted nothing more than to leave her macabre front-row seat, wanted to embrace the lost soul and bring it to Veles, where she could visit it once she felt strong enough. Maybe then… Maybe then she could accept his passing.

  She had to try—

  Only she didn’t know how.

  In the past six months, she had learned how to merge with a soul, but not how to undo the process when she chose to. There was no abort button built into her system. Every time she had returned to her world, it had happened after the calmness of death separated the spirit from the flesh. She began to wonder if it was even possible to prematurely leave the body once she was nested inside it.

  Perhaps the newly formed bond was not something she could break.

  She had been lucky enough to be able to transport souls without experiencing every death—unlike Veles, who felt everything. Who had seen billions upon billions of lives being snuffed out.

  Perhaps once the soul had opened up its former, fragile existence, she was forced to withstand the agony right to the final second. Just like the lord of the underworld.

  But this one…

  Not now. Just not now... Her pleas boomed in her mind as the vampire fought the nausea and the chilling sensation of his imminent demise.

  She closed her eyes, feeling like a helpless child trapped in a cage built from nightmares.

  But she wasn’t a child.

  Veles had named her a goddess.

  There had to be another way.

  She called to the ancient bloodline within her, feeling the blend of Mokoš’s whispers and her own flavor of power surge through the body she had left behind, yet was still connected to. The pool of golden energy engulfed her, the faint olive embers languidly swaying at its edges as it waited to abide by her wishes.

  Envisioning her apartment, the comfort of her large bed, and the gloomy winter of Ljubljana that spread outside the walls, she exhaled, allowing the blanket of power to engulf her completely and override her mind.

  She swam in golden light, the image of the pale vampire nothing but a memory as she felt the connection with her body grow stronger.

  The energy nestled her, slowly sliding her mind back into her corporeal form. It was a gentle transition, reminding her of the way Evelin cradled Rafael to sleep before placing the cub in his crib.

  Only Rose’s sleep wouldn’t be peaceful. Not for a long time to come.

  She opened her eyes, grateful to see the familiar bedroom walls stretch around her, the soft scent of years of her life reminding her she was home.

  Fatigue tore into her limbs, forcing her to lie down on the mattress. She only had to hold on for a moment longer.

  With the last drops of her earthly energy, she reached across the bed for her cell phone, pressing the number four on speed dial.

  The call connected, a male voice coming through the receiver.

  “Check on Dragan, now,” Rose urged, ignoring the words of greeting that sounded from the other side.

  Her voice was hoarse as she fought the exhaustion that had begun to darken her vision, and she knew she had to hurry.

  Mark spoke, but the words were lost to her, translating into nothing more than unrecognizable murmurs.

  Rose was losing consciousness, and fast.

  “I think he was poisoned,” she managed to whisper, before the darkness took her whole.

  Chapter 38

  The faint scent of olives lulled Rose back to consciousness. Her body felt like it had been beaten repeatedly and thoroughly, but at least the drowning exhaustion was gone for the larger part. The aches would diminish eventually. All she needed was rest, a strong cup of coffee, and preferably a taste of the man on the other side of that alluring scent.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes, finding not one, but two silhouettes seated on the edge of her bed.

  Given the surprising lack of
arguing, Rose figured she must still be locked somewhere inside dreamland. She wanted to nestle herself back into the embrace of her covers and sleep the images away. But the surroundings felt real; too real to be a mere product of her mind.

  She squinted at the figures. Still there.

  “Someone should hang out a flag.” She chuckled softly, shifting a little to her side. “You two not squabbling... This should be a national holiday.”

  Veles snarled, but his expression was soft as he gazed back at her, a small smile tugging a single corner of his lips upward. “Welcome back, srček.”

  Rose sank deeper into the comfort of her bed, only now realizing someone had tucked her in while she had been regenerating.

  She really needed to stop passing out.

  Her eyes took in the perfect, chiseled features of her lord of the underworld, the love that colored the stunning, earthly green color of his irises, before her gaze wandered to the other man who had been observing her silently this whole time, almost as if he hadn’t wanted to interrupt the small moment of intimacy that transpired between her and the god.

  “Hi, Seb.” She smiled, the warmth in her tone sincere. “I’ve missed these rendezvous of ours. You know... Me coming back to life after a blackout, you sitting there, unable to decide if you want to hug me or give me a shit time for being a reckless fuck.”

  Sebastian sat unmoving, forcing her to hold her breath for—what she perceived to be very frustratingly long—seconds, before his shoulders began to shake and hearty laughter rumbled from his chest. It reverberated from the walls, easing the remaining tension out of the werewolf.

  “Good to know you’re still as impossible as ever.” The Kresnik chortled, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Welcome back, indeed.”

  Veles eyed him from the side, taking in their interaction, the gentle, comforting touch—but his body language remained poised, seemingly unaffected by the other man’s presence. Rose tried to hide her surprise, but she was too slow. And the god knew her too well. He cocked his head to the side, the inviting line of his lips curling in delectation.

  “It seems our peaceful presence baffles the young werewolf,” Veles said to Sebastian in his smooth, velvet voice that brought a tinge of color to Rose’s cheeks.

  “Can you blame me?” she intervened before the Kresnik could answer, fighting back the blush. Whatever treaty the two of them had built, she didn’t want to compromise it by letting her emotions for the dashing god run free. It was what Sebastian had accused her of—and although they had buried the hatchet, she wasn’t certain just how welcoming the Kresnik truly was when it came to Veles.

  So she flashed them a wolfish grin, intent on finding some answers. “One day I’m wondering if you’ll tear the fabric of our world apart with your squabbles—or at the very least, tear each other apart—and the next you two are sitting there like two concerned grandmas caught in the middle of their knitting club...”

  Veles’s eyebrows rose, the olive flames in his eyes echoing his amusement. Sebastian’s massive frame shook beside him, sending vibrations across the mattress as he tried to stifle a laugh. Rose could have strangled the pair for all the grievances they’d given her in the past. But—this new chumminess was a welcomed change.

  “We haven’t magically begun to sport some fairy-tale love for each other,” the Kresnik finally said, repositioning himself on the edge of the bed. “But we both agree that there are more important things than our squabble.”

  Veles nodded, his features realigned in a faux serious expression as he turned his gaze back to her. “Immortals can be petty.”

  “But not that petty,” Sebastian agreed, echoing the display on Veles’s face.

  Both men chuckled as if that explained everything. And was so very hilarious on top of it.

  Rose propped herself higher, her gaze darting between the two immortals. She frowned.

  Their sudden truce made no sense, not after the hostility she had witnessed… After all the accusations and threats.

  The mystery was bugging her almost to the point of irritation. And rightfully so.

  “So what is more important?” she asked, realizing that the powerful pair had no intention of offering the information freely. As usual.

  Veles shot her a look of disbelief while Sebastian rolled his eyes at the same time.

  The frown line between Rose’s eyebrows deepened. “You mean me?”

  The two immortals nodded in unison, displaying perfectly innocent faces as if there was nothing odd about that statement.

  Rose scowled at them. Hard.

  Veles and Sebastian had been arguing about her for over half a year—without actually listening to a word that came out of her mouth—and now they had the nerve to claim that she was more important than the difference in their opinions. Right.

  “Pricks,” she muttered, remembering the scalding tension that used to flare between them, making each conversation the three of them had as pleasant as getting your claws pulled. “So what changed?”

  Sebastian glanced at Veles before shifting his full attention back to Rose. “I thought Veles lied about not being able to sense vampires.” The Kresnik shrugged. “He didn’t.”

  “And I didn’t believe that you could, either,” the god added in a soft purr, his gaze becoming a sensual, predatory one as he took in Rose’s disheveled curls and her full mouth.

  She had seen that expression before.

  The moment Veles had realized he had found his equal.

  “Ah,” Rose exhaled, the situation becoming clearer. “Mark told you?”

  Sebastian bowed his head in response. “And I contacted Veles.”

  That must have been quite the reunion, Rose thought, but kept it to herself.

  She still hadn’t figured out why Veles and Sebastian found it so important that she had been able to reach a vampiric soul. For the god, maybe—he believed them lost, perhaps even barred from entering the underworld.

  Yet Sebastian had known. There were no arguments supporting his sudden change of heart.

  But whatever the reason behind it was, it seemed to be significant enough for the two immortals, the two completely opposite forces of nature, to form a truce.

  “So they found Dragan?” Rose asked, focusing instead on the pressing matter at hand than on the mysterious mechanisms that clicked in her companions’ minds.

  “They have,” Veles replied, his voice more collected than it had been before. “But Rosalind... Dragan isn’t dead.”

  Chapter 39

  It felt wrong to see the thin vampire hooked up to an array of machines spread around the bed, making him seem as if he were nothing more than a frail human. He had spoken to him after the pack and Katja took down Vaclav. He was— He had sounded so happy. Glad that the Upir suffered. It wouldn’t bring Alex back. But it was a consolation—the only one Dragan could take.

  Mark leaned against the glass panel that ran down the middle of the door, pressing his forehead against the cool surface.

  He couldn’t understand how Dragan was alive, not after Rose had been able to touch his soul, had witnessed what should have been the final moments of the time when the vampire’s connection to the world still existed...

  But Mark thanked the gods for this gift.

  The werewolf hadn’t told him what happened, yet the images of what she had experienced flowed through the bond as the two of them spoke those few words. He wasn’t even certain Rose knew what she had shared. Her energy must have been depleted, forcing her to abandon their silent communication and resort to using her phone. Yet her exhaustion had torn down the walls between them.

  And Mark had seen everything. He had seen enough.

  So when he called an ambulance to Dragan’s house and rushed there himself, he had expected the worst.

  Exhaling, Mark pulled back, peeling his forehead away from the glass to peer into the room once again. The doctors wouldn’t let him in since he wasn’t family, wouldn’t even give him an update on Dragan’
s state. But they couldn’t keep him from lingering.

  After his partner’s death, Dragan had no one left. No family to take care of him.

  Mark swore he would be the one to watch over the recovering vampire, even if he was forced to do so from a distance.

  The scent of home brushed against his nostrils seconds before Evelin’s warm hand slid around his waist, the gentle pressure reassuring against his skin.

  “How is he doing?” she asked, the words barely more than a whisper in the long hallway they were standing in.

  Mark gave in to the comfort of his girlfriend’s touch, allowing some vulnerability to show. “I think he’s stable. Weak, but stable.”

  There had been fewer doctors coming in and out of Dragan’s room, fewer nurses fussing about. And the steady beeps of the machines he heard if he opened his senses a bit wider gave off a reassuring rhythm.

  Yet none of that dulled the impact of the pale, bed-ridden image.

  Evelin’s emerald gaze burned as she fixed her eyes on the unconscious vampire, lying like a broken doll underneath the blue and white covers. “So Vaclav was right. He had set things into motion...”

  A long breath left Mark’s chest before he finally answered. “Maybe not.”

  Evelin shifted, turning so they faced each other. Her face was a mask of murderous rage, but a question lingered beneath it, slowly seeping into the color of her irises, calming the wild hue.

  “Nathaniel still hadn’t determined Damir’s cause of death,” the older were spoke, tracing his index and middle finger down Evelin’s jaw. “If there truly is some disease...”

  “Then Dragan might have caught it.”

  They gazed at each other for a long time, only the subtle contact between them carrying a hidden, intimate warmth.

  “We’ll need to bring Nathaniel in,” Evelin said softly, resting her head against Mark’s broad chest.

  He wrapped his hands around her slender, although now slightly more rounded body, and took in the gentle scent of the woman he loved. Though she wasn’t waiting for an answer, he nodded into the empty space in front of him.