Broken Blood
By
Heather Hildenbrand
Book 5 in the Dirty Blood series
Table of Contents
Title Page
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Chapter One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
The End
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Want MORE from the Dirty Blood series? Get it in your inbox!
Deleted scenes, hidden chapters, and extras from Tara, Wes, Alex, and the whole gang!
Sign up for Heather’s Love Birds and get FREE stories and chances to win exclusive prizes!
Sign up here and get your first FREE book emailed NOW!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
About the Author
Free Stories
16 March
I saw her today in the window of a flower shop downtown. Tara. It almost gave me a heart attack—I mistook her for Elizabeth. She looks so much like her mother but there’s a stubborn glint her mother doesn’t have. She’s a fighter.
The visions are more frequent. I’ll have to approach her soon. Elizabeth will be angry but I don’t see another way. In order to survive what’s to come, she’ll need to understand what and who she really is.
Steppe is already aware of her and so she is in danger even now. Her journey is not an easy one. I can’t yet see the outcome. The future—her future—is liquid. She may or may not find her way. If she does, it will be the best thing that ever happened to her—to us. If she doesn’t, it will kill her. It will kill us all.
I wish I had more time.
—Vera Gallagher, an entry from her personal journals
Chapter One
The echo of the boom rang in my ears. Not loud by anyone’s standards. At least, not anyone who hadn’t been confined to sixteen days of straight silence. The grunts of Gordon’s goons as they’d handed me my ass that first day for refusing a meal—that didn’t count as sound. My own cries and screams and name-calling as I’d pounded bruised and bloody fists against my cell walls and the perpetually locked door—that didn’t count either. But this. This was bona fide noise.
Another boom. This one louder than the first.
The wall behind my head shook with a subtle vibration. A thin sheen of dust rained down on my head along with a few chunks of concrete. I sat up and shook the dust out of my face and eyes. And listened.
Far away—or maybe nearby, I couldn’t tell with the concrete walls and immovable door that separated me from them—voices shouted. A faint siren went off, drowning out everything else with its high-pitched whine. What the heck?
I should’ve cared on a deeper level than simply having my sleep disturbed. I did. I tried to. It was the first disturbance I’d experienced in the two weeks since Gordon Steppe and his men had trapped me and my friends in a warehouse and taken us hostage. Or, well, taken me hostage. I had no idea what’d happened to the rest of them. George, Logan, Victoria, Wes, Uncle Astor, innocent Emma. I’d like to think they’d gotten away, but I knew better. Gordon, leader of the world’s population of Hunters—a race of super humans created to protect the world from rogue Werewolves—had filled that warehouse with the one thing he knew would stop my Werewolf-hybrid friends: a rare and potent metal called Unbinilium. Basically, a hybrid’s kryptonite.
I still remembered the sickly green color George and Wes had turned when the metal’s properties reached them. They’d looked miserable. Completely incapable of defending themselves. And that’s when Gordon and his goon squad had shown up. I don’t know where the boys were taken but I knew they were here somewhere. They had to be. I didn’t believe for one second those cops had been human. No way was Gordon going to let Wesley St. John be handed over to civilians. Their rivalry was way too strong. Gordon would want Wes close.
Or that’s what I was afraid of, anyway.
Then again, after two solid weeks of solitary confinement, without a clue as to what Gordon Steppe wanted with me, I was beginning to wonder. Maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. Maybe I was wrong about everything. Maybe he was done with me, done with all of us. Maybe he was just leaving me here to rot.
He did have all the caged hybrids an evil dictator bent on torture could want...
Another boom shook the walls. This time, the vibration knocked a large square of plaster loose from the corner. It fell in a pile near the small sink across the tiny room. I debated whether to get up and inspect the damage. I could see well enough. The lights were always on in here, making it impossible to tell what time of day or night it really was. But the drugs from dinner were still circulating and I couldn’t be sure my legs would work properly even if I tried.
For lack of anything better to do, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. They were pale under the bright fluorescents. Vitamin D would be nice right about now. UV rays—natural lighting—wouldn’t be so bad either. My toes touched the cold, dust-laden floor, and I pulled them back with a sharp breath.
From somewhere down the hall, a deep voice full of bass cut through the high whine of the siren. My entire body stilled—and jumped and danced and yelled and froze.
“Alex?”
My voice cracked, no more than a whisper. Out of practice. I cleared my throat and tried again.
“Alex?” I called.
I knew better than to think I’d be heard over the alarm. I stood and half-ran, half-hobbled to the concrete door. I hit it with open palms, willing it to be enough, a
nd called out again. “Alex? Can you hear me? It’s Tara! I’m in here!”
I pressed my ear to the cold surface, straining to hear something meaningful over the song of the alarm.
Shots fired in staccato sequence. One, two, three, four. An automatic weapon being fired. I jerked back and winced, pressing my teeth together to keep from calling out so I could hear what came next. But nothing else sounded over the screaming of the alarm. A moment later, that went quiet too. My breaths were either magically quiet or I’d forgotten to take them.
I ordered my lungs to work and swiped my hand down my itchy cheeks. They came away wet. I stared at the moisture like I’d never seen tears before. Is this what it felt like to go crazy? Your entire body feeling like a foreign object in your possession? Like I’d left my luggage alone with strangers and come back to find all sorts of extras thrown in; I had no idea what was me and what was a product of my environment.
And, most importantly, I had no idea what’d just happened out there. Had Alex really been there or was I so far gone, I didn’t know what was real? I hoped, for his sake after hearing the shots fired, it was more the second. I didn’t want to think about what it meant that whoever had been firing had already stopped.
Up in the corner, a buzzing whine sounded. I looked up as the tiny black camera shifted, tracking me and settling on a direct shot of my face as I stared, wide-eyed, at the little red dot behind the lens.
They were watching me, I realized with a fleeting sense of discomfort. They’d been doing it so long, I could barely care. I didn’t even both covering my torso with my arms to hide the fact that my undergarments had been taken and never returned upon arrival. Relieving a girl of her bra, the vulnerability and sense of exposure it caused, was its own kind of torture, but I cared less today than I had yesterday. And the day before that ... and the day before that.
My reality was becoming more and more normal.
I shuffled back to the thin cot and pulled the blanket over my head.
The only way I knew the drugs had worn off was the smell. I hadn’t showered in—Okay, I couldn’t think about it without my stomach rolling sideways. I knew they drugged me to keep me compliant. Or at least lethargic and weak. But I was grateful for it in moments like this, moments during which my hyper-aware senses couldn’t help but point out the drawbacks of long-term confinement. You know, the little things that no one ever mentioned. Things like personal hygiene. I would seriously kill innocent people for a toothbrush right now.
And a shower? Entire villages. The odor coming from my body right now—Trust me, the ends would totally justify the means.
I had a suspicion my bodily functions and hygienic standards would be way easier if I shifted. But I’d been trying to do so every day for two weeks. I hadn’t been able to shift into a wolf since day three. Maybe Unbinilium affected me after all. There wasn’t a whole lot of exposed metal to be seen inside my cell, but I had a feeling it was here somewhere.
Astor De’Luca, my mad-scientist great-uncle, had said I was immune. A gift of sorts from my dad before his early death at the hands of his deranged brother back when I was a baby. Leo and Gordon Steppe would’ve been great friends, except for the whole race divide.
My dad had been super smart about inter-species breeding. I was a product of a Werewolf dad and a Hunter mom. Something definitely frowned upon in both societies. He’d known about Unbinilium being a Werewolf’s most dangerous weakness so he’d secretly injected me with some sort of blood protectant when I was a baby, ultimately blocking the adverse effects of the metal. Being stabbed or shot with it was a different story.
I wasn’t immortal. Just tough.
Apparently, prolonged exposure did have its consequences. I’d never had reason to test it before, but after almost three weeks of sitting inside a cell lined with the stuff—it was weird, but sometimes I thought I could almost smell it—I could no longer shift to my wolf form. Any time I tried, I felt vaguely nauseous. It didn’t stop me from attempting it every so often, but it made me worry what would happen if I stayed here much longer.
Something shuffled outside my door.
The lock disengaged and I sat up straighter as the concrete slid aside. I expected breakfast. Scrambled eggs a la morphine. Maybe I’d change up my silent routine for questions about that voice I’d heard. But it wasn’t the usual guard with no personality and no ability to carry intelligent conversation and a gun at the same time. Instead, Gordon Steppe himself stood at the threshold.
At the sight of my captor’s face, sixteen days of captivity melted away. In an instant, I was Tara Godfrey, Hunter-Werewolf hybrid. Alert, muscles-bunched, ready to go for the throat the moment I saw an opening. Even without claws and fur, I’d rip his jugular out. But Gordon was obviously ready for all that. He took a step inside, pointed a shiny, silver gun at my neck, and fired.
Chapter Two
Tranquilizer hangovers sucked. I bet not many people knew that kind of thing firsthand. So, yeah. It should be known, the headache and muscle stiffness caused by sleeping-poison-infused bullets were so much worse than anything alcohol could ever hope to do. On top of that, someone else breathed nearby, letting me know I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t ready to tackle that problem yet. Not with my temples throbbing hard enough to make my un-brushed teeth rattle in my gums.
I waited until I couldn’t convince myself I was asleep any longer. The mouth breather nearby shifted and papers rustled. It sounded too loud in my sensitive ears. I groaned, and then regretted my attempt at using my voice box. It hurt. Everything freaking hurt.
“Tara.” Gordon Steppe’s voice was the absolute last noise I wanted filling the silence right now. I pried my eyes open with a scowl in place. I’d rather take another bullet than listen to him talk. But since nothing was going my way, Steppe’s weapon was currently holstered.
“Steppe,” I returned, although my sad croak spoke volumes for who held the power in our exchange. It didn’t help that I was also flat on my back. I struggled to push up onto my elbows, blinking away the dizziness as I rose. A pin prick of pain emanated from my neck and I laid my palm against it gently.
Steppe waited until I was sitting upright. I blinked up at him and finally noticed the breather I’d heard before. A man with sandy-blond hair was seated in a rolling chair and bent over an empty cot beside me, his cheek resting on his folded arms. His glasses were tilted crookedly against his wrist as he slept, a clipboard tucked underneath his chin where he’d set it on the mattress. Gordon ignored him so I decided to make that my plan too. For now.
“How long was I out?” I asked.
“Six minutes.”
I blinked at him. “Seriously?” Wow. Talk about a power nap...
Steppe smirked. “I can tranq you again if you like.”
“Uh, thanks, no.” One was plenty. This headache wasn’t going anywhere. At least, until my next drug-laced meal. Part of me was already looking forward to that. But another part, the part too terrified to appreciate it, recognized the weight of this moment. I was no longer being ignored. Something had changed.
He cocked his head sideways, illuminating the heavy shadow of light-brown stubble running along his jaw. Underneath his eyes were puffy bags. They weren’t darkened and I wondered briefly if he’d used something to cover the up. I shook my head at that. The last thing I cared about was whether Gordon Steppe wore makeup.
At least I wasn’t the only one disheveled, although his dress slacks and button-down shirt weren’t quite as worn as my stained jeans and wrinkled tee. “What do you want?” I asked warily.
“Right to the point. No chit chat? Nothing? Not even after all of that alone time?”
“Fine. Where are my friends?” I asked.
“They’re not here.”
“Liar,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
I glared. “My mom always told me, ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’”
Gordon clucked his tongue. �
�Not entirely true. The trick is to smile while you say it. People will let you insult them over and over if they think you’re on their side.”
I scowled. “Said the crooked politician.”
“I need your help.” His swift topic change threw me off. Or maybe it was that he’d failed to take the bait and engage me on the insult. Steppe wasn’t a patient guy. Nor was he forgiving. I’d seen him pissed off. I’d heard it firsthand. He always struck below the belt when he could. But not now. And it made me more wary than any jab or offensive barb he could’ve thrown.
And I was out of practice at hiding it. I couldn’t deny the fear that ate at me as he watched with that smug expression. He enjoyed my pain, physical, mental, or otherwise. That, more than anything, made me nervous. I couldn’t bring myself to engage him in a battle—not even one where the weapons were words.
“Help with what?” I asked instead.
“Your pack of hybrids,” he answered as if it should’ve been obvious.
“What do you want with them?” A ball of panic shot from my stomach to my chest. I hadn’t seen or heard from Chris or the others in weeks. Even before Gordon had nabbed me and the others, they’d been taken. The bond I’d shared with them had suddenly vanished, leaving me helpless to find them.
The only reason we’d been in that warehouse in the first place two weeks ago was to get them back. Victoria’s tracking senses had led us to a room full of cages, each holding a member of my pack. All of them had been detained partly by the confines of the cage and partly because the bars themselves were coated in Unbinilium. And my pack was more susceptible than most when it came to the rare metal.
I wasn’t sure exactly why that was, but I had a theory. Unlike me and Wes, this pack of hybrids hadn’t been born this way. They’d been born Hunters and through a convoluted and highly unethical experimentation process led by Miles, my delusional and sociopathic—and thankfully, now dead—cousin, they’d been infected with Werewolf blood and had eventually become a mixture of both. Only, the experimental serum had been missing something vitally important to the change-over process and many of them died before the change could take effect.
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