by Talyn Scott
“Thank you for attending on such short notice,” Maestru said. “Might I make introductions? Prince Volos meet Alpha Jordan.”
“No intros necessary,” Jayce said, opening his palm for the prince to clasp. “He and my father go way back, and we’ve met a time or two.”
Would wonders never cease? “Our attending Vojaks and Ambassador to the Habalines,” Maestru said, gesturing to an impressive line of determined warriors.
Their stance reverent, yet they couldn’t drop that badass edge even for their prince. Maestru raised his brows in warning. Taking the hint, Sixten stepped forward and then bowed, knowing better than to touch an exalted one or speak directly to his highness without permission. The rest followed, kneeling, until their Prince lifted his palm, silently asking them to rise.
“Coven Master,” Prince Volos directed, “Alpha Jordan, by all means, proceed as usual.” No one found seats, the growing tension generating restless energy chairs could never contain.
“May I begin, Maestru?” Sixten asked, thrusting a hand through his hair. His form-fitting suit a classic Gucci, in all appearances, he looked like a model instead of a ruthless warrior. Yes, looks were undeniably deceiving.
“Please do, Ambassador Kovac.” Maestru moved to his fireplace. A reflective spot he enjoyed on any other night.
“In our last meeting,” Sixten stopped, swallowing so hard his throat bobbed. “I was disrespectful to you, Alpha Jordan, and I offer my apologies.”
“I’m unaware of any time you’ve been respectful,” Jayce said with a shrug, crossing his brutal arms, “so I’ll need a refresh on that, Ambassador.”
“Most of you know my brain never walks a straight line. My Habaline father must have been purely potent, and breeding with my mother’s inherent Vojak lines, the two clashing powers skitter from here to there, more often than not. Often during inopportune moments. Meaning, I’m rarely a straight shooter when my mouth goes off. Instead of snarling and hissing as any vampire would over the remarks made about my mate, I basically told the Beta to go fuck himself,” he explained, fidgeting with his favorite blade. “I apologize for forcing the Beta’s hand in releasing his familial hold over Blythe. I was under duress, using threats I had no right to use.” Cheekbones sharpened. Fangs stretched. “From the beginning, I never sought permission for Blythe’s hand from her nearest male, and marked her before your Pack offered her a chance at rights to mate. As she is a…” he stopped again, pumping his hands but he couldn’t stall the claws, “werewolf and deserves a chance to be celestially mated.”
“Okay, easy fix. A Beast won’t care if a vampire marked her.” Jayce blinked, seemingly surprised in this turn of events. “Rights to mate can still be offered if Blythe’s willing, and, of course, after she’s brought home. As a male who has experienced your pain, I admire your bravery in this, in returning her to her family. Since my Beta isn’t in attendance, hunting Blythe as we meet, I accept you relinquishing your claim and your apology on behalf of the Ruyters.”
“Well,” Sixten said hoarsely, securing eyes with a monstrosity nearly identical to Bane, though his eyes matched Blythe’s cognac, not the typical werewolf blue. “Yesterday,” he started again, his voice cracking.
Jax Ross continued after a go-ahead from Jayce. His exhaustion plaintive, Jax wheeled himself forward, had been hunting nonstop since arriving from Scotland. Even though a Habaline snapped his spine, and his healing was negligible compared to what an immortal commonly recovered from, he insisted on representing his family himself. “Yesterday,” he continued for Sixten, “the ambassador made this right with our family. Agreeing with Alpha Jordan, I also commend your bravery, Sixten.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, deep shadows marring eyes tightened with strain and obvious pain. “Alpha Ciaran sends his word, his protection will cover Blythe, and he wholly welcomes my sister into our Scottish Pack. And let it be known to all.” Jax dropped his hand, fixing those drained eyes on Sixten, his intention crystal clear. “I will never relinquish that hold back to you.”
The tension shot up, the room a deafening quiet, until Prince Volos shifted awkwardly. “May I clarify?” He stepped closer to Sixten, tilting his head in question, “You gave up your claim on your Bride yesterday. And she is under Pack law, werewolf law?”
“She is, Prince Volos,” Sixten said reverently, bowing his head.
He pursed his lips, thinking. “Very well, can we proceed to the topic of rogue Habalines?”
“Of course.” Maestru motioned for Qudir to introduce Adam, a creature they were using for everything he was worth, and he emphasized using.
“Most of you have heard about Adam and his band of rogues who escaped from one of Rave’s underground…facilities and attacked our own.” Qudir eyed the room, before locking eyes with Prince Volos and then Jayce Jordan. “He’s asked for a consideration to -”
“Attacked Species, Undead, or property?” The prince interrupted.
Qudir moved uneasily. “All three.”
“You present him for the deathblow?” He asked Maestru. “My pleasure.”
“As it would be mine and the rest of our gathering, except.”
“Except?” He curled an arrogant brow.
“Adam has information correlating to pertinent Habaline laboratories, and our Sixten has confirmed them through records taken from the very facility that imprisoned Adam. In fact, we believe through Adam and Sixten’s collaboration, we can pinpoint their exact function.”
“Exact function?”
“Yes, my sire, we have proof Habalines held Donor blood slaves underground for feeding their breeds, and then some. The ‘then some’ we are in the process of investigating fervently.” Jayce and Bane had learned of Donors some time ago, so there wasn’t any point in pretending they didn’t exist.
“I should say so,” Volos nearly gasped, but held firm. Without Donors, he wouldn’t exist. “And dislodge them?”
No one wanted to say war in a joint faction meeting, not even Maestru. “It would appear so, your highness. Problem is. Adam insists human chemists were in and out constantly without having their memories swiped, and we find that puzzling.”
“Human chemists?” Volos shook his blonde head, so uncharacteristically light for a Dynasty Vampyr. “The trade of blood slaves has gone on since our beginnings, why chemists?” He brought his hands out, palms up. “Why is there human involvement, other than for providing nourishment?”
Superiority, humans were still, and always would be, cattel to Volos. Pathetic. If Maestru could move past that ingrain notion, with great effort and discipline, others might. Of course, that would take a lot of effort on any vampire’s part, and predators forever considered the weak fair game, fair hunting.
“After putting together Adam’s intel, the scrolls recovered in Scotland by the werewolves, and our own intel Sixten decoded through the scrolls,” he explained, without including a hard drive Maestru refused to bring up here, “we can’t say there’s slavery going on, but something more advanced.” As advanced and seemingly impossible to decipher as finding the Habaline wormhole and stuffing a giant cork in it. “But, obviously, we know where your Donors have been disappearing. With Adam’s help, we recovered three more. Six are still out there…hopefully alive.”
“So Adam lives, for now.” He crossed his arms, eyeing their prisoner slash faction leader wanna-be up and down. “Do not find yourself becoming comfortable, mixed blood, my tolerance for anyone attacking my subjects is nil.”
To Maestru’s relief, Adam kept his yap shut. Maybe his pleas for starting his own Habaline faction would be entertained, but not anytime soon. And considering the original Habaline faction continued to be no-shows at their joint meetings confirmed something volatile was brewing, and it involved a considerable amount of money. “Very well, shall we set up a multi faction committee to extend this investigation country wide? Keep in mind, I cannot release my Vojaks on this one.” He held up his hand before any of the werewolves protested. “Yes, we all know
the streets are suddenly quiet, too quiet, but my warriors are not twiddling their thumbs. They have other duties.”
Jayce spoke up, “Things always get a little quiet when evil makes plans. Nothing new there.” He stepped forward, scanning the Vojaks intently. “Many mixed bloods who answered Adam’s call have been placed in my care, willing to undergo rehabilitation. We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I’m told through reliable sources, hundreds are still circling.” He stared head-on at Sixten, his Alpha pacing back and forth behind his eyes. “What’s your take on that?”
“What’s my take? I feel them.” His eyes went to the window, tight lines bracketing his mouth. “They’re drawn home to this island. It’s instinctual.” When he looked back, he asked pointedly, “Besides the blades and maps you confiscated from the Scotland breeding facility, did you find any other scrolls?”
Jacye shook his head. “I wasn’t on that raid, but Ciaran handed everything over to Bane. What’s this particular scroll about?”
“Not sure,” he kept his voice steady, even. “Poison, Rave’s former man Friday, seems to think I have it, or, at least, know of it.” He bit down, piercing his lip with a fang. “I didn’t want to discuss this. Now? I’m just desperate to get her back. He said, if I presented it to him, he’ll lead me to my Blythe.”
Maestru asked while watching Volos shift uncomfortably again, “Do you truly believe he knows where Blythe is?”
“Now? Yeah.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”
“So whatever’s on that scroll,” Jayce said, “will provide Poison with something he’s missing, and we can’t have that.”
“No, no, we cannot,” Maestru agreed, gliding forward. “So we have more to add to an ever-growing list.”
Jayce met his eyes, nodding negligibly after reading a text. They needed to stall the prince a bit more, and, now, he was studying the door a little too fondly. So Jayce cleared his throat, droning on about rehabilitation in Scotland, how Ciaran was helping recovered Donors as well as freed mixed bloods. The prince would cut one of his own off easily and leave, but he could not do that to an Alpha – his equal, without causing a rift between factions. So the prince pulled up a chair, just stifling a frustrated hiss, and prepared for a long-winded speech.
Maestru clenched his fists inside his pockets, acting for nonchalance. If the prince of his people, an un-caged monster who tortured for fun, figured out what was really going on right under his nose, Maestru would finally meet his death, and, unfortunately, bring down several Vojaks with him.
In the distance, thunder rolled. He glanced sideways, peering out his favorite window, its view of an incomparable shoreline he enjoyed every day. Lightening shot down, hitting angry ocean waves before a solid rumble reverberated under his feet. An ominous warning prickled his skin.
Don’t lose the game, Six, wherever you really are.
Chapter Sixteen
The Strong Survive
“So,” Blythe said casually, twirling her hair around her fingers, “are we registering at any place in particular? Gianni hasn’t had time to discuss, but I’m thinking an e-store is the best way to go. That way, any out of town vampires can send wedding gifts if they’re unable to attend our ceremony.” Words dipped in sarcasm. “Can’t have too many toasters, I always say.”
Salk rubbed his shaved head, sweating, though he refused to move away from the fireplace. “I’ve heard of this, where the humans break,” he stopped, eyeing a crystal vase filled with fresh, velvet roses. Not surprising, they were one of her favorite flowers.
Doesn’t Gianni know me so well?
“You’re wondering why I didn’t try to crack your sire’s skull with that,” she summed up Salk’s thoughts. “Your trusty Marchii hasn’t been here since they arrived.”
When she used the restroom, random things appeared in her suite like strange clockwork, such as her current attire. An outlandish ensemble meant for…she had no idea what time it was or why she was dressed for clubbing. But she stood in the middle of her apartment, as Salk called it, wearing a Channel inspired glamour dress – definitely from the nineteen-twenties era. No tags appeared anywhere, so it could be custom or truly vintage. Her neck remained bare - no surprise there, easy access meant easy access - in a scoop neck sleeveless, tank style mini with bead and feather embellishments all over the place. And down at the hem, feathers fringed alongside the beads, swaying as she walked.
She had no clue if women born of that era wore peep-toe platforms, but that’s what she’d been given. Nothing else was hanging in the closet, so here she stood, wondering if they were going to a club where vampires stayed in a long-gone era.
But if I she were with Sixten, she would love dancing with him in this particular dress, swirling around a smoky floor while he stared down at her with glittering, ice-green eyes, giving her that knowing smile. The one that said, ‘I know exactly what’s under that dress and I will be dragging my tongue all over it before the sunrise because you’re mine’.
Not according to Gianni, she bristled at that thought, fisting her hands at her sides until she felt droplets of blood run under her nails. Salk drew deeply, dragging a long breath through his stocky body. His irises bled out, running in thin-lined streams across the glowing whites of his eyes, and his cheekbones pressed into blades underneath his skin. He was not, by any means, ugly. Most women would think him hot.
But if Blythe were still unaware of the immortal world, and she encountered Salk on the street, she would be running for the hills by now. She unclenched her fists, shaking them out. Who was she trying to kid? She still would be running from Salk if she could leave her gilded cage. Though she sure as hell would stomp him with her over-the-top shoes, preferably in the nuts, before she made her getaway.
At least, I would try.
“I don’t advise you striking Marchii Gianni with a vase or anything else.” Salk’s eyes slid all over her bloodied hands, his tongue flicking his growing fangs, his voice graveling into a strange echo. “Obviously you’ve forgotten that my sire has quite the temper.”
Why would he warn her? “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She looked away from the hunter’s thirsty eyes. Blythe knew how her blood affected vampires. On top of that, she understood what her appearance said – what he must be thinking, especially since she was dressed in this way. According to the more rudely inclined, she looked like a throwback bimbo born in the wrong decade - all tits and ass, though a slender waist cinched her middle. And without makeup she could attempt to play down her facial features all she wanted, but those efforts were futile when the face fit her ‘boom boom’ body.
Blythe’s beauty surpassed the exotic, went straight into super model territory and never had it been a blessing – not once. Rarely had anyone appreciated her for her brain or her personality. Nope, men and women alike expected her to fulfill the starring role of the dim-witted slut. But that didn’t bother her as much as it used to. What really bothered her was Gianni. A godlike vampire she could not outwit by strength or cunningness, and his horrific fixation on her seemed unshakable.
So looks weren’t what they were cracked up to be.
Curses were often dressed in blessings, wrapped in a pretty box better left unopened. But her greedy brother had opened Blythe in a dangerous world, proudly displaying her among the thirsty and shamelessly selling her to the highest bidder. Although he had come back, possibly righting his wrong, her memories of him rescuing her were scattered tidbits. Not for the first time, she wondered who helped him dupe the powerful so he could supposedly hide her in America. After all, Anthony was only human.
“What’s wrong, Salk? Why so quiet?” She held up her bloodied hands, thinking she would take advantage of his distraction for purely selfish purposes. After all, she had to try something, and vampires took to blood the same way as sharks. Vampires eventually snapped, especially around her. Blythe stepped toward him, dragging her teetering heels across the rug in a slow prowl. She lowered her vo
ice, lacing it with sleepy sex, “Wanna know if I taste as good as I smell?”
“What do you really want from me, Blythe?”
“Something you’ll never give me, right?” Freedom.
“You don’t understand your birthright, what you are to our world,” his steady voice, his increasing calmness stoked her ire.
“So I deserve this, to have my life taken away?”
“It’s not that you deserve this,” he said thoughtfully, lifting Blythe’s hand to smell her palm before tenderly kissing it. “But our monarch deserves you.” A hoarse groan left him, one she knew was involuntary. Salk wanted her Donor’s blood just as much as the rest of them, maybe more.
“What do you deserve?”
Odd laughter was Salk’s response, so peculiar it sent prickles across her scalp. In a blurring movement, needle-like fangs pierced her delicate wrist. Sucking painfully, Salk’s bite mimicked nothing she had experienced from any other vampire. Blythe stifled her scream, waiting for that perfect moment to strike back. At least, she hoped for it. Although searing pain traveled up her arm, for the most part, she stayed quiet while the bloodthirsty Lovec groaned with every pull. But he caught that sharp gasp, the clenching of her fingers.
She could share faux empathy, get him to feel a sense of understanding. “It can’t be easy serving Gianni all your days, day after day.”
He released his bite, slowly licking her wound, staring at the purple mark that remained before looking soul-deep into her eyes. Ignoring that, he said, “Blythe, you should have remained unreachable.” Swallowing roughly, he pulled away. “Why did Anthony choose to keep you topside?”
Oh, tell me what you know, Salk. Fill in my missing pieces.
She kept her whisper steady, meeting his intense stare, acting in the sex kitten way most people expected her to. “So…you didn’t want to find me? Or maybe you didn’t think Gianni should be such a sulking baby, whining for lost property.”