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

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Everyone wanted a piece of her. She had to get the hell out of here before these other guys... the Combatants showed up. If she didn't, she'd be royally screwed. No pun on that, she thought bitterly.

  Scott stopped, his chest heaving, his mind no longer powering his body, his arms were covered in vampire gore, their dead flesh clinging in a mix of blood, sinew and the finer things that held bodies together, dead or alive.

  In this case, no longer.

  The undead lay all around Scott like discarded marbles, their pieces scattered around. The battle was over.

  Scott didn't trust it. His eyes flicked to his father and he tried to speak and found that he couldn't. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He began to move toward Julia (he'd never lost that sense of where she'd been during the entire battle), then stopped. He lifted his hand and it was as if it belonged to somebody else. It was gigantic. Scott was used to being a big guy, at almost six foot four and nearly two fifty, he used his size and natural grace to his advantage in sparring. But this!

  Scott kicked the vampire parts out of the way and an errant leg hit the trunk of the tree like it weighed five pounds instead of forty, denting the bark and causing leaves to flutter down in blurry shapes scattered by gloom.

  Julia screamed at Scott's approach and his step faltered, her terror at his image halting him in his tracks. What was she seeing? He was still himself inside, regardless of what his shell looked like.

  What she saw was a six foot eight, nearly three hundred pound man that moved like a mountain of muscle, eyes so black they were like ground coal with crimson rims of rage.

  Scott ran to her, his gait slowed not at all by his size. It was as if he was more graceful in this form, not less.

  Julia sprung to her feet, turning and he grabbed her. “It's me, Julia. Scott!” he said, finding his voice when he needed it, thank fuck he thought in relief and she swung around hitting him on a chest that felt like heated stone. “Don't touch me!” she screamed, beating on his pecs like a drum.

  He held her head against his chest and as he did, the battle lust receded and Scott felt himself shrink in a painful sucking pull of flesh and bone. He groaned against the pain, suddenly aware of the absence of the psychic torture that had begun it all.

  Scott didn't let go, even when tears soaked his shirt.

  “I've got you, I've got you, Julia,” he said, stroking her hair.

  Julia knew this, the false warmth of their blood union swirling around her like a fog of comfort.

  A comfort she didn't trust.

  Julia didn't know if she could ever trust it.

  She let Scott hold her in that mind-numbing fog and her eyes met those of the Feeler's, Angela, and Julia knew that the girl had a sense of Julia's mindset.

  It made Julia even more determined to get away from this place.

  She didn't want to belong to anyone.

  Julia didn't want to be Queen of anything. William was somewhere being tortured, there were nine other Singer warriors coming, Combatants she reminded herself. And, Jason was no longer hers.

  He was lost.

  And so was she. But Julia knew one thing she could control. That she would control.

  Her future.

  Julia let herself be held. Plotting her escape in the arms of a man who had been born to protect her.

  Maybe even love her.

  She resisted on the grounds of experience. Love wasn't real. It was a myth.

  Love died.

  It always had. It always would.

  CHAPTER 10

  Manny

  Manny watched the Singer weave through the forest where the capture of the Rare One had been attempted and subsequently failed. Actually, it was less with his eyes and more with the senses he possessed as wolf.

  His nose rose above his head as he scented the cop that trailed her.

  Detective Karl Truman would have made an excellent wolf, he thought offhandedly.

  A low growl tickled around the edges of his mouth and Tony nodded in readiness, flanking his position. There was no need for circumspection. Truman was fully aware of their race. As a point-of-fact, Emmanuel was certain that he did not possess altruistic designs on Cynthia Adams, but plans which included a silence.

  Her silence.

  She had now been flagged as a valuable asset to the pack. Inextricably linked to the Rare One and of Singer heritage herself. The nest of Singers were thick in the region she hailed from. A mystery to solve for exploit. Or at least that was the end toward which Lawrence endeavored.

  Manny moved forward as a twitchy Adi fell into the vee formation of acquisition. If Anthony so much as laid a claw on the Adams girl, Emmanuel was sure that Adrianna and the other male warrior who accompanied him would be sufficient to subdue even one such as he.

  Manny hoped for that end. But knew it was unlikely. Tony was many things, but at the height of the list was self-preservationist.

  He was not one to endanger his own hide.

  They moved into the open meadow just as Cynthia Adams pushed the last of the dense foliage aside and stepped into the unprotected space opposite them.

  Cynthia moved toward an open area that was just beyond her reach. It was obvious that Kent was a large city and she was surprised that these pockets of forestland still existed in thick belts, tying the suburban areas together like green ribbons of fir and cedar trees. At that moment, it was alder branches she pushed through like weapons as they tore back and whipped her when she passed. She climbed up a rough and narrow path, Jules' horrible boots gripping the loose dirt and small pebbles expertly and she grunted in a laugh, thinking that the dumb things were actually practical. Not that it ever mattered. Beauty is pain, Cynthia thought, the only mantra she still believed in.

  As she crested the small knoll the branches thinned and she plowed through the last of them and walked out into a wide and treeless field. It contained a sea of long grass, wheaten in color, bleached by the end of summer and the approach of fall. It nearly covered her boots as she stepped through it, parting it as it hissed when it struck her boots in passing.

  Cynthia saw them immediately and her heart sped up. Normally, there was nothing wrong with passing by a few peeps you didn't know. But this group held a stillness; an anticipatory readiness that put Cynthia on alert. Of course, she was more self-aware than the average bear. Nocturnal brushes with werewolves would do that to a chick every time.

  She took a step back into the gloomy border of the woods and they mirrored her pace, taking a step forward.

  Fuck, Cynthia thought, adrenaline beginning a slow and sickening surge in her body, her bloodstream lighting up with the fight and flight response.

  Truman followed his nose, which in turn, found the girl.

  And the people. Check that: werewolves.

  Karl Truman heaved himself out of the woods and looked to his left. And there, in the border of where the thickest part of the woods met the pastureland, stood Cynthia Adams, her skin a pale ghostlike sheet, her eyes wide and shocky. Chest heaving, he followed her gaze and swallowed hard.

  Before he knew it his hand was not empty, but held his forty-five semi-auto, his grip relaxed and at ease. Only the fine sweat which beaded his upper lip spoke to his nervousness.

  That was bound to happen with four half-turned, whatever the hell these were.

  Truman watched the skin on the three melt away and a fine downy coat of fur replaced it, but a thin layer, like someone had taken a salt shaker of fur and spread it liberally. It was the eyes that nailed Truman to the spot. All four had spinning orbs of gold and ebony, save one.

  One had green, like discs of emerald fire, his fur was a deep, burnished red. Truman couldn't take his eyes off him.

  He wouldn't dare.

  Without looking away, Truman spoke to the girl, “Cynthia, come over here now, nice and slow.”

  Cynthia felt ill. She heard the detective's voice like it was coming from a well. She knew who he was but didn't ask herself how
the Alaskan cop had found her.

  How they'd found her.

  As Cynthia watched, they began to lope toward the unlikely pair: the cop and the young woman.

  Cynthia's paralysis broke and she turned to run toward the cop.

  Truman raised his gun and leveled it on the fucking Sasquatch that was closest. “Come on,” he whispered, “make my day,” he said, quoting Clint Eastwood at the unlikeliest moment.

  Cynthia jogged toward him and he reached out his left hand, his right tight on his pistol grip.

  She flung herself the last two feet and his warm palm, dry and strong, clasped hers and with a mighty jerk, she was against his body and she gave a shuddering sob of such abject relief that Truman responded as all males who protect females do.

  He put Cynthia Adams behind his body and used himself as a shield. They'd have to plow through him to get to her. He could feel the fear thrum through her body to his.

  “Stay put,” he told her.

  She nodded then realized he couldn't see her and said, “Yes,” against his broad back.

  One of her eyes peeked around him, seeing what came and she knew that these were the same kind, species, whatever... that had threatened her in Homer. Though they were not the same group. There were four, one much smaller than the others, but no less fierce.

  Female, Cynthia thought.

  The lead werewolf had an inky black coat, matching eyes, and silver tips on the fur, giving it an almost glittery appearance. He moved with purpose and a smoothness that screamed leader. Her eyes roved over the one that was a deep chocolate, his eyes a pale gold, the same color as the female. There was a hardness in him that was absent in the others.

  It was the red werewolf, in a form that she knew too well that captured and held her attention. He moved with a lithe grace, together but separate from the others, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Cynthia fought a dizzying sense of déjà vu, origin unknown.

  The troop stopped, awkwardly standing in front of Truman, a fine tremble had begun in his gun hand. Holding a weapon steady was a fine thing for about five minutes, any longer and even the steadiest hand became compromised.

  “Detective,” the leader ground out and Cynthia shuddered at the cadence of the deep gravelly speech, her body recognizing it and instinctively recoiling from the memory, the connotation of what it meant to hear those tones.

  Terror, threats, and brutal paws on her: pinching and poking her into compliance. That's what filled Cynthia's mind. The memories evoked an immediate response from her body, a light sweat breaking out all over her.

  The brown wolf's nostrils flared. Like he could scent her fear, the female giving Cynthia a sharp glance. The inky black one stopped in front of Truman and continued his speech, the woods a claustrophobic background, closing in, making Cynthia's throat tighten. “Walk away. We will take the girl and you don't have to be hurt. Be smart,” it growled.

  “Be safe,” Adrianna added, looking from the big cop to the scared girl behind him. Adi knew who she was and gave her a curious head to toe. This was Jules' bestie. The friend that she'd said Adi reminded her of. Adi scented fear and underneath that like fine wine, aggression. Interesting mix.

  It was the red wolf that cinched it for Cynthia. “You can't run, Cyn. Come with us. We'll get Jules. If it's the last thing I do,” he said, his massive hands that tapered to short claws fisted in emphasis and Cynthia's mind struggled to set the pieces of what he'd said to rights.

  He'd called her Cyn.

  He'd referenced Julia.

  Cynthia tried to come around the detective and get an up close and personal but Truman blocked her path with a beefy arm. “No,” he said in a final way.

  Cynthia ducked and moved forward as the red werewolf came toward her and a knowledge, low and primitive sung through her. A tingling awareness began as Truman surged forward to haul her back. The red one wrapped a hand that was more paw than palm around her forearm and their eyes met.

  Cynthia knew instantly who he was. He was seven feet tall and built like a giant red brick shithouse, the bones of his face grown long in the parody of a snout. He held his body a certain way, his expression echoed with breathtaking familiarity.

  Jason, her mind told her even as her eyes denied what stood in front of her.

  He'd died. Cynthia had watched his throat vanish under claws that struck deep.

  Cynthia jumped at the report of the gun firing, high and wide, it hit the red Were just below his collarbone in a meaty thunk of flesh and she yelped, her ears ringing from the sound, his body spinning backward. An arm swung over her head, the speed of its passing causing Cynthia's hair to lift around her face. The chocolate colored werewolf with the hard face backhanded the cop almost casually, his three hundred pound body flying backward like it weighed nothing.

  “Enough,” growled Manny, eyeing the girl. Sensing her next move he came forward and heat rose from her feet to her head in a sickening rush of nausea. The information that was so vital, so mind altering being discovered in a life-sized werewolf that was now shot was too much to accept.

  Cynthia felt herself go under, crumpling.

  As she folded like a deck of cards, the small female caught her. Adi's bottom lip spread, revealing pearly and deadly teeth, as a low growl sounded, the brown wolf slowed his approach. “Don't try it, dipshit.”

  Cynthia heard his comment even as unconsciousness edged in around her like a whirlpool closing.

  “Watch your tone, female.”

  Then Cynthia knew no more, the gray of her mind becoming black.

  Adi heaved the Singer on her shoulder, her half-Were form easily shouldering the burden. Manny jogged in his half-human, half-Were form to where the detective lay. He scented the detective, his nostrils flaring once, twice. He met their eyes. “He lives.” Emmanuel paused, registering something else, then dismissing it. His eyes swept the group, Adi defiant with their Singer prize, Tony glaring at her. Finally, his glance encompassed the red Feral... Jason.

  Already his recuperative abilities were taking over. His blood was drying and his flesh pushing out the foreign plug of the bullet. As he watched, Jason's magnificent physique expelled the misshapen hunk of metal and it fell out onto the grass with the barest plop. Jason scooped down to pluck it out of the tall grass and Manny's eyebrows popped.

  “Evidence,” Jason growled. “Remember,” he tapped an inky black claw, retracted for the moment, against his temple, “I was under his thumb before.”

  “Ah yes,” Manny agreed, then narrowed his eyes on the girl, temporarily out like a light. “Let us go,” he said.

  “It's pretty fucking convenient that she fainted,” Tony said with a smirk, it sat awkwardly on his half-wolf face, his deep voice sounding like rough stones rubbing together. He reached out with a claw and lifted a piece of her blond hair.

  “Don't touch her, perv,” Adi said, jerking her away from his touch. Tony smiled. “I'll be touching her plenty in the future, you can take that to the bank, princess.”

  Jason moved on the wind, one minute he held a bullet in his hand, the next he'd tossed it at Adi who caught it and lunged at Tony. They smacked together in midair and Jason landed in a smooth roll, taking Tony with him. He used the momentum he'd gained and straddled him, a talon bursting against the side of Tony's throat.

  “You're not gonna touch her,” Jason said, pressing the tip until the skin broke; a drop of blood rolling down his neck to cling to the dark fur that lay there.

  “You're just pissed because you didn't get to bang your wife,” Tony said and no one saw Jason's hand hit Tony's face until blood sprayed, landing like crimson rain on the tall grass, speckling it with violence.

  Manny rushed the pair, scenting the aggression like thick smoke. He put his mouth on the back of Jason's neck and bit down, just shy of breaking the skin. Emitting a low growl he gave the most primitive of commands.

  Emmanuel hoped that it worked. They needed to return to the den, with the girl, leaving the cop her
e to awaken without their presence.

  Jason couldn't think. All he wanted... wished for was to end the wolf under his claw. He could feel the life flow underneath him.

  Then Tony used his hesitation as invitation to buck him off as Emmanuel released his teeth from Jason's neck. They simultaneously backed away from the red.

  Jason stood, giving equal attention to both. Emmanuel he respected, Tony, the miserable fuck, absolutely not.

  It was Adi who summed everything up perfectly. “You just have to say the wrong thing every time.” She looked at Manny. “You're gonna have to tell Lawrence about his King Asshat routine.”

  Emmanuel sighed then said, “Tony, take the girl, don't touch her inappropriately, and keep your yap shut.”

  Tony looked at Jason. “We're gonna go, you and I.”

  “Bring it, dickhead,” Jason ground out.

  Emmanuel strode to the two. “Listen to me. If he wakes, we will have to kill him. And killing innocent bystanders goes against Were law.”

  “Yeah, Manny. You're so perfect, so moral,” Tony spit out.

  “Somebody has to be,” Adi said, then flipped him the bird as a soft drizzle began to fall.

  Tony's face flushed a deep red and Jason smiled. There would be a perfect time to deal with this jerk. And it'd be soon.

  Emmanuel gave Adi the nod and she carefully transferred Cynthia to Tony who smiled and used every opportunity to paw her as he placed her in the cradle of his arms, her face pressed against his chest.

  Jason hated that he outranked him. It wasn't fair that Tony had the flesh of one of his own against his body. He had an instinctive dislike for Tony. Who he knew had been dead set on the Ritual of Luna. Its outcome all for him.

  Tony had been bound to fight the wolves for Julia.

  But she was Jason's wife. Jules belonged to him. Were law be damned. It was too new to stick, if struck false. It was Vegas that counted, the memory of their vows still fresh in his head.

  His heart.

  A tightly coiled disquiet unfurled as he touched on the memory of his attack against Julia. What if she couldn't move past that?