The Blood Bundle, Books 1-2: Blood Singers and Blood Song (New Adult Paranormal Vampire/Shifter Romance)

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Merlin cocked a pale blond brow, his Singer heritage lending him a fair complexion. He would have traded that in an instant for tolerance to full sunlight. Alas, it was not so. The only advantage he was afforded was the echo of humanity of his outward shell. But his internal composition was creature of the night. The human façade served as a wonderful window dressing for many things, he supposed. Merlin came back to the comment at hand. It would not do to become distracted while dealing with another coven leader.

  “And what do you offer, blood?” Merlin guessed, disgruntled.

  When Gabriel outlined the payment and what Merlin would need to accomplish that task, Merlin thought on it for a long moment, his stare never breaking from Gabriel.

  Finally, he replied, “Agreed.”

  “When?” Gabriel asked.

  “Soon.”

  “How do you plan to execute this?”

  Merlin gave the first smile of the day, “Carefully, old friend.”

  Gabriel said what he thought, “We are not friends.” His whiskey stare lanced Merlin as those eyes traveled the Singer vampire. Merlin spread his hands harmlessly away from his body. “But we are not enemies.”

  Gabriel grinned unexpectedly. “True.”

  “Will this be a gentleman's promise? Will this relieve my coven of recompense by blood or other?”

  A formal question asked in the old way. It caused a valley in the conversation.

  Merlin's eyes became hooded. “You have my word of honor.”

  “I will take it,” Gabriel said, sticking his hand out. Merlin slipped the coolness of his inside Gabriel's grasp and for one moment their flesh pressed together in promise.

  However dark.

  It was done.

  *

  Cyn

  She handed the voucher to the manager of the Red Robin restaurant she was applying at, holding her breath. This was the fifth place she'd stopped at. Everyone had ready excuses for their inability to hire her.

  But what Cynthia saw in their eyes was condemnation.

  They thought she was some kind of loser. One of those women that stayed in an abusive relationship. Weak. Too stupid to function Without the Loser. Well, she wasn't that. Cynthia wasn't too sure if that was always the case with the stereotype. In the space of two days in the shelter there wasn't one chick she'd met that fit the “weak woman” mold.

  The battered woman, yeah. But not weak. Fear didn't mean weak. In her mind, the women there had been the smart ones.

  So why was everyone treating Cynthia like she was lesser?

  It rubbed her the wrong way.

  “Yeah, I think I've got something for you.” The manager nailed her with a level gaze, though not unkindly, “It's not going to pay your bills though. You'll have to get a low income spot on a list...” he trailed off, but not before digging around for a pen and paper. He wrote down a name and slid it across the restaurant booth's table. She looked into his eyes, “Why are you helping me?”

  He shrugged, looking uncomfortable as a dull brick red climbed up his neck to suffuse his cheeks with heat. “My sister, yeah...” he scrubbed his face and finally finished, “she had some trouble with this guy....”

  “I gotcha,” Cynthia interrupted, nodding. This dude had firsthand experience. That's why he'd blown past her voucher from the women's shelter. He'd had some experience.

  It made him compassionate. Cynthia wanted to cry, the tears burned the back of her eyelids, begging for release. She bit the inside of her cheek instead, the pain bringing her back to center.

  The manager stabbed the name and cleared his throat, “Call that guy, he'll have something temporary for you until... until I can give you more hours.”

  “Tell me your name again,” Cynthia asked as a statement.

  “Alan. Alan Greene,” he replied, a smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle in a pleasant way.

  Cynthia stood and held out her hand, he shook it in his much larger one and she swallowed hard. Suddenly she was missing Kev.

  He studied her and she blurted out, “Did it work out? I mean, the thing with your sister?”

  He looked at her a moment longer then responded, “Yeah.”

  She caught something in the universal language of his body, a tenseness. “Is she okay?”

  Alan nodded.

  Cynthia stood there, the busboys, waitresses and customers swallowing their conversation in the din of the peripheral noise, “What about the asshat?” Cynthia asked.

  He grinned at her suddenly and it was sun breaking through the clouds, she instantly noticed he had an open face, an attractive one.

  “He won't be bothering anyone again,” Alan finished on an ominous note.

  It rang with finality.

  Cynthia released the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

  Cynthia walked out with a job and a sense of closure. She had escaped the weirdness of Alaska and she was safe here. She wondered where Julia was? She thought back on the old woman from the shelter, Shirley. Cynthia fingered the scrap of paper with the name on it. Could it be?

  Nah, it was too wild to even exist as a possibility in her brain.

  Yet... it circled around in her mind, finally coming full circle.

  Could Julia be alive?

  Here.

  Right in this very place that she lived now?

  Somehow, Cynthia didn't think that she was dead. If Jules was dead she'd know it.

  Wouldn't she?

  Cynthia walked up to the bus depot and plunked down on the bench, chin in hand. Lost in thought.

  While only a half mile away, a lone scout of the Were stood poised, the scent he'd been given to track within his grasp.

  The girl had been located.

  *

  Anchorage

  Karl Truman stuffed his considerable girth into the tin-can accommodations of the coach seating in the airplane and grunted uncomfortably in his seat.

  He hated traveling.

  Especially on the department's dime. However, when the top brass had heard the findings, there'd been no expense spared. They'd booked the flight before he could take his next breath.

  Retrieve Cynthia Adams. Like yesterday.

  She was a loose cannon and they needed to get a hold of her before she ran her mouth about her nocturnal visitors.

  It had come to his attention that it was a national security issue. The government wouldn't want the public panicking.

  About creatures roaming the same streets as them. Creatures that were violent, strong, dangerous... fast.

  Mostly, everyone was nervous because of their intellect.

  Chief forensic specialist, George Alexander, had blown the lid off all their hopes. Mainly, point and shoot. Hell, now they were relegated to rounding them up like brilliant humans with fur.

  Truman shoved the bullshit politics out of his mind. He needed to stay focused on the the task at hand.

  Cynthia Adams. If he found her, he'd get answers. He'd beg for silence. If begging didn't work there were other methods.

  They'd been relayed in glaring detail to him by the higher ups. Oh yes indeedy. He'd been given a stern talking to. He had one directive and only one: bring the girl in.

  Somehow, chasing after a twenty year old girl that was innocent of any wrongdoing just to put the squeeze on her seemed wrong to Truman. It rang a bell of alarm.

  He scrubbed his face, raking a hand over his cue ball head, a few wisps of hair remaining to mar the shiny dome it was; he was so close to mandatory retirement he could taste it. Hell, after this assignment was wrapped, he'd essentially be done.

  Why he had to keep poking at the snake with his stick was beyond him. He should have just accepted Caldwell's death unquestionably. Instead, he'd dug and rifled until an ugly and vital truth had been unveiled.

  Werewolves. As if that wasn't enough of a shocker, if those existed what other things went bump in the night? Truman wondered.

  Truman's train of thought was derailed when the blinking light and
annoying buzz sounded.

  He buckled in, heaving another sigh.

  He'd be in Seattle in four hours, hotel booked. The local police had an APB out on the Adams girl. He'd scoop her up in no time. Then what happened after he safely ensconced her in the bosom of Homer PD wasn't really his problem.

  At least that's what Truman told himself.

  Never underestimate the power of denial.

  Truman had never been great at self-delusion. And it was no different now. He popped a couple of Tums in his craw, grinding his teeth against the powdery false sweetness.

  He closed his eyes to ride out the red-eye, an uneasy sleep falling over him.

  Only his eyes restlessly rolling underneath his lids gave away his disquiet.

  *

  Julia

  Julia moaned, laying on the floor. After Scott left, her condition had worsened. Now, she tried to sit up with thoughts of hauling her body to the bed crowding her head. When Jen saw how weak Julia was she said, “Okay, you're just being stubborn now. I'm getting the Healer!”

  Jen began to stomp away then turned, “Has anyone ever told you how stubborn you are?”

  Julia looked at her from her hands and knees, head hung low.

  Her question didn't really need a response but Julia gave her one. It was in her head but she shot it at Jen like a cannon through the fog of her fever.

  About a hundred and two times, she thought at Jen.

  Jen paused at the door. “What did you say?” she whispered, her shocked eyes wide.

  Julia sat back on the tile, slapping her hands by her hips. “Did ya hear me?”

  “A hundred and two times?” Jen asked, feeling ridiculous.

  Julia slowly nodded. “Yeah, that's it.”

  “Oh my gawd, you're a telepath!?” Jen asked, jumping up and down, clapping.

  “Apparently,” Julia said in a sullen voice, the bathroom spinning while she hung on by a thread.

  Jen's expression fell suddenly. “Julia... hey! Julia!”

  But Julia didn't hear her, she'd fallen over onto the tile, her head smacking the surface.

  Scott tore toward the main house, the Victorian rising up in his vision like an ominous jewel. If he'd been less graceful he'd have smacked right into Jen. Instead, he grabbed her by the arms.

  “What's wrong?!” Scott asked. “I can't feel her!”

  Jen shook her head. “I don't know, she passed out, she needs a Healer!”

  “Damn,” Scott seethed, “she's so effing stubborn.”

  “Yeah, well, she's that and she's unconscious so let's get her some treatment, dumbass.”

  Scott left Jen in his dust and ripped up the steps two at a time, propelling himself by way of the thick wooden banister to get Julia help.

  If she'd have it.

  The hell with it. Even if she wouldn't.

  Scott threw the door open and spied her on the bathroom floor. He was instantly by her side, scooping her small body against his much larger one. Her skin scorched him and her eyelids fluttered open. Scott pushed a stray hair out of her face, his hand so large against it he nearly palmed the entirety of it.

  “Jason,” she said in a whisper.

  It was like a slap to Scott, it caused a physical reaction, his gut clenching. Why would she ask for her husband? That fucker who had tried to choke her? What was she thinking?

  Scott grit his teeth together and stood with her in his arms. Her body had grown thin, her skin too pale. Jen rushed into the bathroom.

  “I got the Healer, he's on his way.”

  “Thank God,” Scott said.

  Julia opened her eyes and saw that Scott had her. He went to stroke her cheek and she screamed, “Jason!” Her delirium was in control, her consciousness mixed with the past, the present mingling with a reality that no longer existed.

  The beach scene unrolled in her memory; it became real to her again as she relived it.

  And in that moment, Julia was in anguish, her inhibitions stripped by her illness.

  The call went out and was heard.

  By many.

  The one she intended and others she did not.

  *

  Jason

  Jason's head jerked up and he stood. He'd felt that horrible sense of tearing in his chest, like an open wound that wouldn't close.

  It felt like salt had been rubbed in the most tender spot of his chest. The throbbing ache intensified for a moment then faded.

  He couldn't help but think about Julia. Somehow, the feeling had that taste to it.

  The feel of her was all over it, coating it in her smell, her memory.

  His shame.

  Because that's what he had. A boatload of it.

  No matter how many times he rolled it over in his head, it still came back the same. He saw it all in technicolor: his shift to human in response to her threatening her own life. Then, he had some kind of confusion when she had touched him and he was back on that beach, reliving the attack and all he could see, all he could feel was the pulse of: kill, kill, kill.

  When he'd come around and seen it was Julia, his wife, it was too late. He'd been hit from behind and he'd watched helplessly as she was taken by that black haired son of a bitch. The one that had eyes like inky dots, soulless. He'd given those eyes to Jason and in them he'd seen the threat that lay there.

  If he wanted to ever have Julia, he'd have to go through that guy.

  He'd tear though that arsehole like melted butter, his wolf whispered inside his brain without pause, without conscience.

  Well... if Jason could forgive himself for what he'd done to Julia, he would sure as hell find his way back to her.

  Back to where he belonged.

  By her side.

  *

  Vampire

  William felt the tug of the blood-share jerk through the musical instrument that he was connected to. The melody of Julia's blood was known to him by memory.

  By his heart.

  It sung to him and he triangulated her position instantly. Their bond was but a whisper now, not a screaming symphony but a note now heard during his waking hours.

  And when he slept.

  William moved toward the location. Without the backing of his coven, without runners to support him. One objective in mind: Julia.

  He didn't waste time, there was an undercurrent to the binding... as if it was compromised.

  That was not exactly it but a closer idea did not present itself. Somehow, she was in physical jeopardy.

  William redoubled his pace, moving through the miles without slowing.

  Toward that weak pull. When a ripple of agony drove William to his knees he recognized the summons for what it was:

  A call for assistance.

  I'm coming, Julia, he responded in his mind.

  *

  Scott

  Scott looked down in horror as Julia screamed for Jason, her cry a hoarse plea even to his own ears.

  Like Scott was the enemy. Like he'd hurt a hair on her golden head.

  Brendan rushed into the room. “Why is she screaming?” he asked, scanning the room for threats.

  “She's delusional... the fever,” Jen shrugged just as the Healer came into the room and Scott tramped down his temper with an effort that was ugly.

  Cyrus looked at Julia, eyes only for her. “Why wasn't I called earlier?” he asked logically, his pale green eyes sweeping the siblings. Jen ducked her head under the scrutiny. “She didn't want anyone helping her,” she responded a trifle defensively.

  Cyrus put his hands on her torso and Julia whimpered, trying to bat his hands away.

  “Don't touch her,” Scott growled out.

  “Are you shitting me, Scott? What's wrong with you?” Cyrus' level stare penetrated Scott.

  Scott didn't even know, but another male touching her was un-effing-acceptable.

  Brendan barked out a laugh. “Hey He-man, why don't you piss off and let Cyrus get her better?”

  In a flash, Scott had Brendan against the wall
and Jen was there, pandemonium breaking out in the room, Julia groaning at the commotion.

  Michael strode in and took in Scott laying their brother out against the wall asked, “Do you need to be in another pile of shit, bro?”

  Jen said, “Yeah! This is so not helping brother!”

  Scott only saw red, when he heard Julia moan he lit off after Cyrus and Jen whipped out her hand, jerking, literally, the rug out from underneath him.

  Scott pinwheeled his arms and fell, landing on his back on the unforgiving wood floor, the air whooshing out of his lungs.

  Cyrus shook his head then looked at Jen, noticing Scott was moving a little slower. That'll happen every time ya can't breathe, he thought. It wasn't often Scott was taken down a peg. It was about damn time. Even the mighty shall fall. “I heard. Soul-meld, huh?” he chuckled.

  Jen didn't think it was very funny right now, giving Scott a nervous glance. Six foot three inches of very pissed off Singer male. Ah... yeah. Zero comedy factor.

  “Territorial-much, right?” Michael said from the door, ready to whip up a handy Illusion at the slightest sign that Scott would beat on Cyrus.

  “Keep him at bay, would ya?” Cyrus asked, his pale hands moving over Julia's torso and he sucked in a breath as Scott got onto his hands and knees like a raging bull, shaking his head from side to side, Jen expected him to start foaming at the mouth or something.

  “She's quite ill. She...” he looked puzzled then he straightened. “What did she do?”

  Jen told him that she'd gulped down half the creek and he shook his head. “That is mostly it but she's got a tie... and it is making her sick.”

  The room grew quiet.

  It was Scott who asked the question, his voice hard. “What tie?”

  “To a blood drinker,” Cyrus said in a flat voice. His eyes looked at each sibling in turn. “There's not much good news to this. But,” he paused in the deafening silence of the room, “at least she doesn't have enough for a permanent binding.”