Now they were “managed”. Now they’d be shot on sight. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to conceal themselves. Nowhere to safely embrace what they were. Nowhere to hide their mistakes in the process.
Harper wrapped the strap around Jask’s forearm before the inbuilt device punctured a tiny wound via an automated needle.
Jask didn’t flinch.
He and Kinley had the system finely tuned after so many years. And Kinley understood respect.
Harper read the readings, inputted the data into his handheld device.
The exact same questions always followed.
‘How many pack members?’ he asked as he unstrapped the device from Jask’s arm.
‘Two hundred and seventeen.’
‘Youths?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Numbers banished?’
‘None.’
‘All your pack are accounted for?’
‘Yes.’
‘Internal or external disputes?’
‘None.’
And all the while, Harper continued to input the details.
‘How many opting in this month?’ he asked.
‘The usual four.’
Then the rights would usually be read next as the meds were issued. Then would come the herb check. The agent would assess the quantity, growth and usage of the herbs and spices grown in the greenhouse. Jask would confirm none had been shared beyond the compound and that every remaining lycan in the pack was taking them to prevent morphing. Further random blood tests would then be done to ensure there was evidence of such in their systems.
Two hours later, the agent would leave.
But this wasn’t just any month.
This was a month of two full moons – an occurrence every two to three years. The strength of the morphing was greater, their bodies not having had a chance to recover fully from the last. It meant an altered and more intense remedy from the norm – both in terms of their own concoction and the meds issues by the Global Council.
So of all the times Jask could have done without the newbie showing up, it was then – not least as it wasn’t just any blue moon either. This was the thirteenth blue moon before the new cycle began again – the most potent time for his kind.
And things had already gone wrong. Not that he was going to give the agent any indication at all of that.
But a newbie meant the potential to be more thorough. A newbie wasn’t as easy to read as Kinley had become.
Harper slid the familiar packs across to him. ‘As you’re aware, your pack members are recommended to start the course two days from now for exactly nine days. Any morphed lycans found on the streets will be instantly terminated. Any word of morphed lycans here in the compound will be removed, as will your herbs. Meds will subsequently be obligatory for all. You remain with the right to use your own methods, the right to manage your own condition but you do not, however, have the right to put anybody within the boundaries of Blackthorn or Lowtown at risk. Can you confirm you understand that, please?’
‘Confirmed.’
‘And, as the head of this pack, you confirm you are willing to take responsibility for all lycans under your domain?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And you understand that should any lycans be found to have morphed, the LCU now reserves the right to remove you from this compound for prosecution as a result of…’ he glanced up at him, ‘previous events.’
The fact that there were still those who blamed his pack, his leadership, for the incident with Arana Malloy stabbed him deep. But this was not the time for confrontation. This was the time to get the agent out as quickly as he could so he could get back to deal with what had happened with Nero.
So he could work out what the hell they were going to do.
‘I understand totally,’ Jask said, through gritted teeth.
The agent typed into his device once more. ‘Then I’ll move straight on to the herb calculations,’ he declared, sealing his cases again. He pushed back the chair and stood. ‘Lead the way.’
Chapter Seven
Sophia burst through the poolroom doors out onto the quadrant. Cold rain snapped at her face and legs. Legs that trembled, barely holding her up as her feet slipped and squelched in her sodden boots.
She stopped only to unlace them and kick them off before clutching them against her chest, her bare feet melding with the turf as she marched back across to the main building.
She came to a standstill in the lobby, her hair dripping, her sodden shirt clinging to every curve, adding to her shame as all eyes locked on her.
It was the last place she wanted to go, but right then she had no idea where else to go.
She marched up the stairs and took the sharp left to Jask’s room.
She slammed the door behind her and stood in the morning light, her whole body shaking from the shock, the cold.
She headed straight to the bathroom and turned on the hot water, yanking the curtains shut behind her and attempting to unfasten the shirt buttons as she stepped under the spray. Though only lukewarm, it burned and stung, prickling her skin as she waited for the shivers to subside. Her numb, trembling fingers were useless. In fury and frustration, she tore the shirt over her head, quickly becoming aggravated as it clung to her skin and got entangled in her hair. She growled in frustration as it painfully tugged at her roots until she finally yanked it off.
She let her tears fall – there in the privacy of the shower, there where they would be easily lost amidst the spray.
Recollections of the lake only brought thoughts of her sisters too painfully to the forefront of her mind again. How her older sister, Leila, was always there when she needed her – always the backup, always the calm influence, always the one picking up the pieces. Leila who’d dived into the water to save her that day, despite being the one to warn her not to be messing around on the tree branch anyway.
But Sophia didn’t listen – she never listened.
There was only one thing, ironically, that kept her alive long enough that day – the very behaviour Leila had tried to curb. It was a trick she’d learned from a young age. Whenever she didn’t get her own way or Leila told her off, she’d hold her breath. Hold her breath until she’d turn blue. It was cruel. Looking back she knew just how cruel.
Death had become too real to them all at too early an age. Leila had been nine when their mother had died; Sophia had been six, Alisha just two. Leila had taken it the hardest. Leila took everything the hardest – or so everyone thought. Sophia had heard her sobbing some nights in the privacy of her bedroom. She used to cry too when she heard her, not that she’d ever let Leila know, or their grandfather who had assumed the carer responsibility for the three young girls.
But then Leila had made the mistake of taking on the replacement maternal role – something that Sophia, in her grief, had resented. And in her moments of anger, she’d turn that very fear of death back on Leila. She’d hold her breath for as long as it took to get her own way whilst Alisha, their baby sister too young to understand her sister’s manipulative act, would stand and scream for her to stop.
The same screams of panic Alisha had let out as she’d watched her twelve-year-old sister fall into the lake. Screams that had become muffled as Sophia was dragged deeper under the water, deeper into the darkness.
She’d always been a strong swimmer. With all the lakes and rivers in Summerton, it was a must, let alone when they’d travel through the other locales to get to the ocean.
And that’s what had made the whole experience even more terrifying – that something she was so confident in was so easily snatched out of her control. Something that turned out to be stronger and more powerful than her. What had always been her safe place had nearly killed her that day, hurting like the betrayal of a lifelong lover or best friend.
But as she’d sunk to the depths, she’d felt Leila grab her.
She should have died in the seconds that had followed, but seeing the determination in Leila’s eyes
had convinced Sophia to hold on longer than should have been possible. Seeing her big sister defiant against the elements – seeing, for the first time, just how strong Leila was – had kept her fighting. Because Leila never gave up. As she’d yanked and tugged at those reeds with all her strength, Sophia saw just how admirably calm Leila was under pressure. Not least as Leila had switched from tugging those reeds to meticulously unthreading them – every now and again looking back at her sister, urging her to hold on, reassuring her that she’d be okay.
And she’d loved her sister in those moments. Loved her silent strength. The sister that she had jibed and resented, had proclaimed as weak, soft and a pushover, became her heroine.
But a heroine was something Leila should never have had to have been. Wouldn’t have been if it hadn’t been for her. What happened to their mother was down to her – down to Sophia. Their mother would have never been in Midtown that night if Sophia hadn’t been the catalyst.
And she’d punish herself every inch of the way if that’s what it took – because nothing would ever, ever make her feel better.
She’d been told it had been a nasty accident at the time. It had only been a few years ago that she’d searched the press and found out it had, in fact, been a vampire who’d killed their mother, despite having always been reassured that Midtown was a safe place.
The authorities had lied.
Just as the vampire royalty who had been allowed to live in Midtown were equal liars, claiming they meant no harm to humans. Because one of them had murdered her mother. Behind their shield of deceit and respectability, one of them had slaughtered Claire McKay.
And the authorities had covered it up – worried that flaws in their precious system would be exposed.
She slammed her hand against the tiled wall.
And now she finally, finally had the chance to do something about it – embrace the powerful blood flowing through her veins to wreak the revenge she needed. Instead, she was trapped. Worse, she was messing up any chance of getting out. All because of her stupid pride, of the stupid impetuousness that had torn her family apart in the first place.
She rested her forehead against the tiles, letting the water trickle over her as she sobbed every last tear out of her system.
She needed to be smart like her sister, not arse-kicking at every opportunity.
She would get nothing from Jask in the short time she planned on staying there if she kept throwing obstacles his way. But she couldn’t help it. Something about him grated too deep. Something that made her hairs prickle just at his presence. Whether it was his reputation, the very nature of what he was, or the fact that he was so perfect as to be unobtainable whilst making her feel about him the way she did.
Something about being near him made her act stupid – like a schoolgirl irritatingly kicking the chair of the boy she fancied. But she needed to curb it. Fast. This wasn’t about her. This was about The Alliance. This was about her sisters.
She’d find Rone and Samson. And if they did know about The Alliance, she’d tell them they were getting her out of there or she’d blow their dirty little secret.
And then, when her escape was arranged, she’d take out Jask without a moment’s hesitation – somewhere isolated, somewhere where his last moments would seep by slowly enough for him to realise she’d got the upper hand in the end.
When she was done, when she was drained of all tears, she exhaled a steady breath. She switched off the shower and pushed her hair back from her eyes. Yanking back the shower curtain, she grabbed the towel she’d chucked to the floor earlier and wrapped it around herself.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them puffy from tiredness and tears. She hated herself without make-up – had been hiding behind it since she was thirteen. The exposure felt uncomfortable more now than ever. It would have been the perfect excuse to pile on the black kohl and dark eye-shadow – another thing Leila had always hated.
But then Leila was as much the china doll as their little sister Alisha was straight out of every teenage boy’s dream. And she was neither.
She turned on the cold water tap and scooped water onto her eyes. Any sign of distress would do her cause no good. If Jask did plan to use her against Kane, he’d know he needed a skilled serryn to do it. And skilled is exactly how she’d come across. She might have only been a serryn a matter of hours, but she had sure as hell spent long enough studying them to know how they operated. In her quest to one day track one down and plead with them to join their mission, what she hadn’t learned about serryns wasn’t worth knowing.
Except that her sister had been one.
She towel-dried her hair, untangling knots with her fingers, noticing how much her naturally fairer roots had come through, how much the dye had faded. She was a mess – inside and out. No amount of serryn blood flowing through her veins was going to make a difference unless she got a grip fast.
She rubbed the back of her hand under her nose, rolled back her shoulders with a flick of her head and straightened her back.
She pushed aside the curtain to the bedroom, and her stomach somersaulted.
Jask was by the wardrobes, sliding his wet shirt down his arms. The sunlight graced his lightly tanned skin with an amber hue, the contrast of shadows defining every muscle on his sculpted torso and flexed biceps. She glanced at the dominating tattoo on the inside of his upper arm – the mark of his lycan clan. She’d never got close enough to see one before, but she’d heard they all had one – only to be burned off if they ever betrayed their pack, banished to survive in Blackthorn alone.
And that was the very thing she had over Rone and Samson should they not play ball – the very reason they wouldn’t want to be exposed as liars to their leader.
She clutched her towel knot to her chest and looked to the window seat, locating the source of the mouth-watering aroma. He’d brought a tray of breakfast with him.
‘You might need this,’ he said.
She glanced back across her shoulder to accept the out-held T-shirt. Without meeting his gaze, she turned back into the bathroom – the perfect excuse to allow her longer to reduce any evidence of her tears.
She slipped the T-shirt down over her head before tugging the towel away. She looked over her shoulder to check her reflection in the mirror. At least it covered her modesty, even if not much else. Approaching the vanity unit, she leaned forward to check her complexion and eyes again, but stood abruptly as Jask emerged through the curtain behind her.
Determined not to draw attention to her still-scarlet eyes, she tried to slip past him, but his insistent forward steps backed her tightly up against the counter in a move that was as intimidating as it was proficient.
As he caught her jaw in one hand, she was tempted to slap his hand away. But she clutched the vanity unit instead, reminding herself that a change of approach was needed – along with a hefty swallow of pride. Especially as Jask too seemed to be upping his game.
He pressed his thumb under her chin, tilting her head up to him.
Teeth clenched, jaw tense, she allowed her gaze to meet his.
He stared deep into her eyes in a way she was sure no one ever had, the passing seconds painful before he eventually spoke.
‘All that make-up, the dyed hair, the attitude – who are you trying to be, serryn? Or more to the point, who are you trying not to be? What made you dislike yourself so much that you needed to become someone else?’
Her heart pounded from the acuity, the bluntness, of the questions. That he had been the one to notice. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘No?’ His gentle grip on her jaw didn’t falter. ‘All this goading talk, these retorts – you’re just used to striking first, putting up the defences. But those instilled deflections you have reveal far more than you want them to.’
‘I’ll add therapist to your lycan skills, shall I?’
‘You’re scared; you retaliate. You feel threatened; you re
taliate. You’re embarrassed; you retaliate. Because you can’t handle showing any sign of weakness, can you? Anything that shows just how vulnerable you are.’
‘Fuck you, Jask – there’s nothing vulnerable about me,’ she said, finally knocking his hand away.
But instead of backing off, he splayed his hands on the counter either side of her hips, his chest almost touching hers. ‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? So what is it now? Scared? Threatened? Or am I just too close to the truth?’
There was that scent again. His scent. A scent that caused a stirring deep inside her. ‘You’re so far off the mark I’m embarrassed for you.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re just one little coil of defensive rage. So, what is it you’re so angry about?’
‘I should be out there on the streets doing my job and instead I’m stuck in here with you.’
‘Out there fucking whatever vampire will have you, right?’
The disdain in his tone cut deeper than she knew it should have. ‘Is that a hint of judgement in your tone, lycan? The holier-than-thou attitude that comes with you wolf-boys only having the one mate?’
‘Lycan females know how to keep their males happy and vice versa – what’s wrong with that?’
‘I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. You clearly like to play it safe. It’s sweet.’
‘Sweet?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve been with a lot of vampires, so I understand why you’d feel threatened. They may be the scum of the earth, but they sure know how to satisfy a woman. I can see why they’re a notch above you wolf-boys. All that safe play with just one female doesn’t quite give you the edge to know how to handle someone like me.’
‘I know exactly how to handle you.’
‘Sure of that, are you? Only I think you’re so busy reading between the lines, you’re missing the sentence on the page.’
Blood Torn (Blackthorn Book 3) Page 9