Branded (An Otherworlders Series Novel Book 1)

by Lena Moore

  Chapter Two

  ~ Draven ~

  The rest of the day went by agonizingly slow. Draven was irritated as fuck after his half-brother paid him that unwelcome surprise visit. He wasn’t sure what angle Emilio was working, but he was up to something.

  The sun was setting in downtown New Orleans. Draven could sense it in his body even though he couldn’t see it. He wasn’t one of those cliché vampires that couldn’t brace the sunlight. Although it was extremely uncomfortable if he subjected himself to too much sun, his skin was more resistant against the rays if it was an overcast day. If it wasn’t then he only ventured out if he absolutely had to.

  His blood felt like razorblades were slicing through his arteries, and the last memory he had of feeling this way was over 150 years ago. His mind drifted off to that time.

  Draven couldn’t remember what war or battle zone his mind had conjured up. All he remembered was that he’d enlisted in the military because he wanted to atone for his sins, and he had a fuck load of them.

  He despised those days when he became the slasher, when his mind turned to clay that he was unable to shape. Those moments were ones he always regretted. Draven did unspeakable things to whoever crossed his path, and seeing there were bombs and gun shots ricocheting around him, a lot of people were doing him wrong.

  He hadn’t fed in almost four days. And sex, ha! He was basically a born again virgin. The metallic pungency held thick in the grey night, and it definitely wasn’t helping his fragmented composure. Draven knew he was on the verge of snapping and causing a ruckus down slasher lane. The longer he didn’t feed, the worse the affliction was.

  The blood in his veins grew dense like concrete and his gums prickled with the desire to feast on someone’s crimson liquid. Draven wouldn’t die if he didn’t feed but he would soon be in excruciating pain. The longer he held off the inevitable, the more likely the world would feel his wrath, his calamity.

  Draven had dug a small trench hidden behind some bushes. He held his long time serving buddy and best friend, Cyrus, in his arms. His red hair and beard were covered in shrapnel because he’d been shot multiple times. Draven knew he only had moments to live. He smelled death in the air and realised if he was going to end this bloodlust and save his friend, he needed to do something now. Cyrus only had a sliver of vampire blood in his linage, and Draven knew that attempting to turn him could be futile.

  In order to turn someone, they needed to possess some sort of supernatural properties. The list was extensive, obviously. Cyrus was mumbling something about his mother and father and Draven felt the pang of betrayal from his own family. But this wasn’t about him anymore; this was about his best friend.

  Draven opened Cyrus’s mouth and bit his own wrist. It hurt like a bitch. He dripped some blood into his mouth, surveyed his surrounding, and then drained him, but not completely. In order to complete the transition to vampire, Cyrus still needed to retain a smidgen of his own blood. He died moments later in his arms and Draven waited anxiously for him to return. The anticipation was prickling under his skin and he wondered if Cyrus had been too far gone to revive. So he did something he’d never done before, he called on the Goddess Kaltemis.

  “Goddess Kaltemis, please, if you can hear me come to me. I am sorry I have summoned you, but I need—I need you to help save my friend. He’s all I have. Please!” he pleaded.

  Draven was aware he would be in Kaltemis’ debt but he didn’t give a shit. He also knew she was going to be pissed. It took a lot of balls, fear, and need to summon a Goddess, especially one as pure as Kaltemis. She was the light Goddess, and she possessed enough power to eradicate the world, or the realms as everyone knew them.

  By now, Draven’s face was stained with tear marks that tracked down his dirt-ridden, sculpted cheek bones. Cyrus wasn’t going to make it. He’d almost given up hope, almost. Something flickered in the distance. Draven squinted and placed one hand over his eyes. White, red and black illuminated the sky, and then she appeared in front of him.

  “You dare summon me from my realm? Of course you do, son of Eilam and Efah.”

  Draven shuddered at the mention of his parents’ names. “I am sorry, Goddess, but I need your assistance, your abilities, your magic, please. I will be in your debt.”

  “I know all you seek, vampire. I feel your pain and I hear your cries. I will help you. I will help bring Cyrus back into our world. For that, you will be in my debt, but only because you’ve summoned me. Have you forgotten who you truly are? Do you not remember the gifts I bestowed upon you? That ink ingrained in your skin that enhances your abilities, remember Draven? I gifted you with that. Instead, you did not trust that I would be the Goddess I am known for, the Goddess that runs viciously through your veins, the Goddess that listens to her children, and hears all. Your inability and lack of faith will be your downfall.”

  He was captivated by her. She stood before him: long legs, white-blonde and black hair flowing down her back. Ethereal, beautiful, fair, but oh so dangerous. Her eyes, they were otherworldly, and no one else possessed the intense color that stared back at him. Luminous silver eyes all but spat him out where he stood. She was disappointed in him, and in truth, he felt the same way about himself.

  “Do you understand?” Her voice was strong yet somehow sounded tired.

  “Of course, Goddess. I am in your debt.” Draven bowed his head, and when he peered up, she was gone.

  He spun his head around quickly, attempting to have one final glance at his Goddess. Alas, she was nowhere to be seen. Despair flooded his body.

  A cough sounded and then Cyrus stirred.

  “What—what happened?” His eyes bugged wide as he took in their surroundings. “What’s going on? I feel like I’m on fire! Draven, help me! What’s happening to me? I have this unrelenting hunger clawing within. Please, brother, tell me what’s happening to me!” he croaked.

  Draven looked at his best friend and wiped the sweat from his forehead. This was a common reaction after being revived. “I need to get you out of here and then I will explain. Don’t be alarmed, just hold on.”

  He sped out of the battle zone with lightning speed, like a bat out of hell. Once they were safe, Draven began to explain. As expected, Cyrus thought he was crazy, until his fangs elongated. He scampered back and hit the wall.

  “What—what are you?”

  “I am vampire, as are you now, my friend. You have the blood of a vampire running through your veins, which means that someone many years ago in your family was a vampire. This is the only reason I was able to revive you and give you a second chance at life.” Draven omitted the part about the Goddess assisting him. “In order for you to complete the transition, you must feed. Otherwise, the rest of your days alive will be unbearable until your body finally caves in. The choice is yours.”

  At first, Cyrus was furious with Draven. After Draven explained what it was like to be immortal, withholding how lonely it could be, he jumped on board.

  Cyrus must have inherited his bloodlust from one fucked up ancestor because he was ravenous and downright cruel to the humans he tore into shreds. If Draven was the slasher, Cyrus was the shredder. He shuddered, remembering the times he lost control and how the darkness subjugated him like a little bitch. In those moments with Cyrus, they were wild, careless and free from the shackles of their demons. But only because they’d yielded to that sinister and insecure fool within.

  Cyrus couldn’t switch on and off like Draven. He didn’t have the capacity or the strength, or perhaps he simply didn’t want to. He was one evil son of a bitch. As time went by, Draven watched his humanity bleed out of his soul. His eyes never turned amethyst; they turned black as the ace of spades.

  Draven observed his friend turn into a blood fueled maniac, and he often asked himself if he’d done the right thing by reviving him. There was also more than one occasion when he asked himself if he really was the one who made this monster. Or was it already there hidden inside his friend.

&nb
sp; He was catapulted back to reality by his blood vessels, which felt like ants were crawling through them. He needed to feed and fuck again, like yesterday.

  It was just after eight in the evening. Draven slipped on some black jeans and a tight black shirt that hugged his sinewy biceps then looked at himself in the mirror. Placing a little bit of wax through his dreadies and leaving his two-day growth, he sauntered out of his lair with a grin on his face and a bulge in his jeans.

  Draven felt on edge. His control seemed to be teetering and something wasn’t right. He was usually more productive with his time. These last few days all he did was sleep, hunt, and fuck.

  It wasn’t like he needed any money; he was swimming in the filthy shit. For shits and giggles he did some P.I. work on the side and called his business Obscured Visions. There were always mortals, and even supernatural beings, digging for dirt or searching for answers deep down they’d rather keep buried.

  Draven trudged through the busy streets looking for his prey. His body fizzled with adrenaline and need. Tonight he was going to cum on some woman’s tits or ass because fucking his hand just wasn’t cutting it.

  He stopped and leaned against the wall to an ancient magic shop and people watched. Every woman who sauntered past him slowed their pace and ogled. The women seriously needed a bib around their necks because they drooled something cruel. He offered his megawatt smile, which made their knees crumple slightly. This pleased him but he didn’t want just anyone tonight. He needed to find someone who could keep his demons at bay.

  Draven closed his eyes, centered himself and inhaled. He allowed his abilities to filter through the starry sky in search of his next fix. He stood like that for what seemed like hours and then a scent he’d never smelled before slapped him in the face.

  His nostrils flared and his eyes snapped open and searched around frantically for the source of the scent. Finding the soul who inhabited such a beguiling and intoxicating aroma was vital to Draven. His dick grew harder than granite and he growled under his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he was as turned on as he was right now.

  He pushed away from the wall and traversed along the bitumen to the other side of the road. Draven’s cock strained against his zipper, pleading for him to let his one eyed monster out to play. He inconspicuously adjusted his erection and stalked along the concrete paths. Tourists, witches, vampires, shapeshifters, demons, angels and other supernatural beings tangled in as one throughout the busy and buzzing French Quarter. Draven felt their lust, their fear, their greed, their gluttony and so much more. People were knocking into him, and in return he shouldered them, showing who was the more superior out of them.

  Draven’s patience was running on empty but his hunger and arousal were thrumming brutally through his body. He needed to find out whose scent that was. He was getting close, just not close enough.

  It was sweet, edgy, determined, sexy as sin, and downright edible smelling. If Draven had to explain it, he would describe it as dark chocolate with a full-bodied red wine paired with a single barrel whiskey. So fucking sweet. An odd combination, yet nonetheless enticing and exhilarating. His jaw clenched and his gums itched for his canines to elongate and devour whoever possessed that scent.

  He trekked around the French Quarter, scouring every corner for over an hour. The aroma faded in and out. Sometimes it was unbearably strong and Draven felt certain it would drive him to snatch the nearest body, regardless of the sex, and fuck it into oblivion. He didn’t understand what was happening to him and whatever composure he held onto was diminishing rapidly. He needed to sink his canines into whoevers flesh smelled like the sweetest sin known to mankind: malicious, depraved with a certain tinge of purity. Ok, maybe he was losing his mind a little. He was beginning to sound like a drunken poet.

  Draven staggered through the streets one last time. He convinced himself that if he didn’t find where the aroma was coming from, then he would find a willing hole and transotic the fuck out of them. It still fascinated him how transotic was a type of magic that vampires possessed, one that could compel or glamour a mortal and some supernatural beings to do as he wished. He hoped that by bringing someone under his influence he could literally screw whatever he smelled out of his system. Like that was even possible. Draven had the inkling he was fucked seven hundred ways to Sunday, irrelevant if he found the perfumed scent or not.

  After another thirty minutes, he was ready to admit defeat. His gums felt swollen with need, his dick was unyielding and rock fucking hard to the point of pain. He needed to take his darkness and run a fucking marathon with his angry dick. Preferably stuffed to the hilt in whoever smelled like chocolate, wine and whiskey.

  Draven bitterly kicked at a stone on the path and inhaled. His head snapped up. The person was close. He didn’t want to frighten whoever he was searching for so he tempered down his strides and concentrated.

  Ahead, a group of women staggered, bumping into each other and the walls. Only one enticed him. Draven couldn’t see her face. From behind, she had the roundest toned ass he’d ever seen squeezed into tight black leather pants. Long wavy raven hair draped down her slender form and her laugh, fuck, it was the sound of sex.

  Draven’s length grew impossibly thicker and more concrete. How the fuck is that even possible? he thought.

  He was so focused on her ass and that scent that he hadn’t tuned in to what they were saying. One of the women looked over their shoulder and smiled nervously. The group veered off into a crowd. What the fuck? No, no, no! The scent tapered out. Then it was gone. And so were they.

  Draven was confused. Did they realise he was following them, and how the fuck did she mask her scent? After coming so close and then losing out, he knew he couldn’t go without blood or fucking tonight, no way in hell.

  He leaned on the nearest building like a junkie anticipating their next fix. A woman with brown hair, big tits and a curvy waist approached him. Her eyes were soft but they sparkled with naughty intentions. Yep she will do.

  Draven smiled at her and offered her his hand. She took it without batting an eyelid. He pushed her around the corner where they were less exposed. Ripping her jeans down, he fell to his knees. Draven sucked on her clit and alternated his tongue between that and tunneling into her sex. She was primed. He wasn’t going to feed from her femoral artery. As famished as he was that was something he hadn’t done since Delilah. And this woman wasn’t worthy of breaking his sabbatical.

  He clambered back up her body; her eyes found his.

  “Oh my god, your eyes, they’re…”

  He didn’t allow her to finish. He wasn’t there to listen to her fuss over how amazing they were when they were everything but that.

  “Irrevensvia.” Her eyes glazed over.

  He hated fucking under the influence; tonight he would make an exception.

  Draven slammed into her mercilessly and pierced her neck, taking his fill. He continued shagging her up against the wall, but all he could think about was that woman’s black hair, toned ass, laughter and the heady aroma that was explicitly her. He pulled out with a roar and emptied out all over her jeans and the concrete.

  “Revensvia.” He licked the wound to seal it and left as quick as he came. Sometimes he wondered what the humans thought when they came to and were alone. Most of the time he really didn’t give a single fuck.

  Draven made a vow to himself as he staggered toward his lair: Oh dark one, I am coming for you. I will find you. And when I do, I am going to tie you up, eat you out, and fuck your soul until you’re as pliable and accommodating as your cunt when my cock smashes into your stomach. I am coming for you.

  Chapter Three

  ~ Draven ~

  Draven sensed her before he saw her. Slamming the steel door in his wake, he surveyed the deep purple walls housing the space. He skimmed over to the farthest corner where his sexual contraptions were located, the door wide open as if inviting him to play. Then craned his neck to look toward his bedroom.

&n
bsp; The area he occupied was monstrous, large enough to home a two story house. Way too much space for one vampire. He kept his lair cloaked by magic so no one could find it. Only those who knew where he lived could find his home.

  He walked around the corner to the kitchen. Winking back at him were copper pots and pans hanging over the stove and shiny dark granite counters and black appliances. Draven hated how the human population believed the myths about vampires not being able to eat food; it was a load of wank. Contrary to their belief systems, vampires could in fact eat. However, food just didn’t provide the sustenance vampires needed to survive comfortably, also he loved cooking.

  Draven felt the scowl decorate his face. “Show yourself. I can feel you, Melantha.”

  Her nefarious cackle filled his ears and he felt her everywhere, including inside his skin. Once upon a time Draven had gambled away his dignity through a bet he’d made with Melantha, a demon, which resulted in him having to fuck her wretched ass. He was thankful she at least inhibited a host that was easy on the eyes during the fuck session. He lost that bet over fifty years ago and in that time he’d annihilated her body more times than he cared to count. Most of the time it was because of the contract she’d had him sign in his blood to solidify the terms. The other times it was purely out of his selfish needs. Like when he needed to tame his inner demon and she was only too happy to oblige.

  A red mist formed before him, starting at his feet and going all the way to his nose. Ebony hair tinted with red foils appeared on her shoulders. A thin but none the less fuckable body presented in front of him. Nails were sharpened to points ready to inflict their pain, and her nose was severe, almost perfect. But her eyes, Melantha could never disguise them. Amber with red flecks met his mismatched pair. This was no host; this was how she wanted the world to view her. Underneath all this deception was the most heinous, horrendous, acrid thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Draven shivered at the image of her in his mind. She relished in his disgust when she’d intentionally change forms while she was climaxing. He didn’t want to go there, not now.