Blood Hunt

by L. L. Raand

  “Ah…” Becca tried for a nonchalant expression. If she weren’t locked in the lair of the most powerful Vampire in North America, she wouldn’t have any trouble getting comfortable. The huge drawing room could have been transported directly from a French manor house—high ceilings, luxurious carpets, and elaborate wall hangings framed the space. Plush leather sofas and an opulent maroon settee faced a marble fireplace where a low fire burned. The temperature had dropped as they’d descended, and the warmth was welcoming.

  A sterling silver tea set, of all things, sat on a low table in front of the hearth. Fragrant steam—hinting at oranges and dark spices—emanated from the pot. A gleaming platter contained artfully cut and perfectly arranged petits fours. A bowl of clotted cream and a basket of scones completed the culinary array. High tea at dawn.

  Apparently, the staircase she’d walked down was something akin to a rabbit hole, because she’d certainly fallen from one reality into another. Francesca had her arm around the young brunette’s waist. The woman, who looked in her early twenties, but who knew what a steady infusion of Vampiric hormones did to a human—another question she’d have to ask Jody—nuzzled at Francesca’s neck, kissing her throat as she caressed Francesca’s breast with one hand inside her camisole. Michel’s face was a study in stone. She clasped the enraptured man with her hand around the back of his neck, her fingers white against his dark skin. If the state of his trousers was any indication, even her nonsexual touch was all the invitation he required. But then again, maybe Michel was bombarding his mind with promises of pleasures to come.

  “Thank you,” Becca said, sounding completely absurd to her own ears. “This is fine. I’ll be fine here.”

  “Good.” Francesca’s incisors gleamed behind her full ruby-red lips, more visible than they had been a few seconds before. Her eyes were no longer pure turquoise, but splintered with crimson and maroon. Her nipples had deepened to a dusky rose and were so hard they threatened to pierce the sheer fabric of her camisole. She skimmed her mouth down the brunette’s neck, and the woman, heavy-lidded and dazed, whimpered. “We won’t be long.”

  Francesca and Michel guided the humans toward another door on the far side of the room, leading to what Becca suspected was the bedroom, and she wanted to follow. She wanted Michel and Francesca and even the two strangers to run their hands over her body while she caressed Francesca’s milky-white breasts and worshiped her flushed nipples with her mouth and her tongue. Becca clasped her upper arms and dug her fingertips into her skin, focusing on the crescents of pain and willing her feet not to move.

  Francesca looked back over her shoulder with an indulgent smile. “Next time. I promise.”

  And then they were all gone, and the door was closing, and Becca sank onto the sofa, her legs trembling and her stomach in revolt. She finally understood the expression sick with arousal. She was so keyed up her whole body verged on meltdown, and she was afraid she would be literally ill. She drew her legs up on the sofa and hugged her middle, closing her eyes and forcing herself to breathe deeply, in and out, in and out.

  Eventually, the terrible arousal subsided, and she poured herself some tea. Her throat was dry, her hands still trembling. When she heard the first keening cry, she jumped. The brunette climaxing. Then a deeper groan like that of a mortally wounded animal—the man. Laughter, light and airy and utterly satisfied. Francesca. A low murmur, sensuous and redolent with desire. Michel. Becca no sooner wondered who was pleasuring Francesca than she got a crystal-clear mental image of Francesca and Michel facing one another on a huge oval bed, their clothes open, their legs entwined, their hands and mouths caressing throats and breasts and the sweet clefts between ivory thighs. The somnolent man and woman lay nearby, naked and abandoned, their limbs sprawled and blood trails wending over their chests—cast aside like the remains of a forgotten meal. Michel’s worshipful eyes glowed like lava erupting from the earth’s core as she brought her mouth down on Francesca’s, devouring her like a starving animal. Francesca raked her nails down Michel’s slender back, leaving rivers of blood in her wake. Michel arched, the muscles in her neck corded, her mouth open in a scream of unbearable ecstasy.

  Becca whimpered and tried to force the images from her mind. How naïve she’d been to think she understood Vampire sexuality after witnessing Jody feeding. Jody had taken the blood she needed to survive and given pleasure in payment. Jody had orgasmed, true, but there’d been none of the passion Becca had just seen, if what she’d seen was real. And who could know reality from projected desire with Vampires? Could she believe anything she saw or felt?

  Becca picked up the teacup and cradled it in her hands, wishing desperately that the faint warmth would penetrate the terrible chill in her body and melt the icy band around her heart. She’d watched Jody make a woman come in the throes of bloodlust, and she’d never seen a lonelier sight. Why, why, couldn’t she stop wanting to take away that loneliness?

  Sylvan leaned with her back against the huge stone fireplace with Drake resting against her chest and her arms around Drake’s middle. She couldn’t let her go any farther away. The breeding frenzy that ruled them both surfaced in Drake as relentless estrus, a sexual heat that could only be stanched by an infusion of her mate’s victus. Heat poured from Drake’s body, scorching Sylvan’s bare chest and abdomen, literally boiling her blood. Drake’s call kept her constantly aroused, forcing blood into her turgid tissues, pumping hormones and sex kinins into her glands. The constant drive to explode between Drake’s thighs filled her belly with pain. The absence of physical connection now would rip out her guts. At least with Drake this close she could think. For a few minutes, before the frenzy overtook her reason and she had to have her.

  Knowing Drake needed her was pushing her control to the limit. Sylvan rumbled restlessly, scraping Drake’s stomach with her partially extruded claws. Her wolf paced in frantic circles, poised between rage and running. Her pelt line was thick and broad, and her skin etched with the ripple of pelt just beneath her skin. Drake whimpered quietly, too quietly for anyone else in the room to hear, and pushed her ass into Sylvan’s crotch.

  Sylvan kissed her neck. “Soon, mate. Soon.”

  “I’m all right,” Drake said hoarsely. “Take care of Pack business.”

  “Breeding with you is the most important Pack business I have.”

  “Does everyone know?”

  “Yes.” Sylvan kissed her neck again and nuzzled her ear. “Any wolf in breeding frenzy telegraphs their need, but when the Alpha is breeding, the entire Pack feels the call.”

  “Hell,” Drake muttered, sensing the rising agitation in the room. Callan, already in a heightened state because he and his mate were breeding, rumbled steadily, an erection straining against his fly. Val, stoic as always, stood ramrod straight with a trickle of sweat running down her cheek and dripping from the angle of her jaw. Max growled and paced, Andrew worried a spot in the floor with one foot, and Jace and Jonathan, barely out of adolescence and least able to control themselves, lay at Sylvan’s feet in pelt, whimpering and occasionally licking her legs. “We’re disturbing everyone.”

  “No. Those in the Compound and closest in the forest will be stirred by our call, but it’s no hardship for them. They’ll be happy. We celebrate all our young, but especially the Alpha pair’s. Our breeding makes the Pack feels secure.”

  Drake dropped her head against Sylvan’s shoulder and sighed. Great. Now her most private experiences belonged to everyone. Everyone depended on her and Sylvan to produce offspring. A few weeks ago she’d been human, with no lover, no family, and no desire for either. Now she was not only an essential part of a huge community, interconnected physically and psychically, she was wed—mated on a true physical level—to the most important member of the Pack. The most important Were in North America. And her body was demanding she contribute in the most fundamental of ways, ways that for her might be impossible. Human females had the biological urge to procreate once a month when the eggs in their ovarie
s matured. That increase in libido was nothing compared to what she was experiencing—a terrible nonstop pressure deep in her pelvis that consumed her every thought, a pounding, driving need for Sylvan to be over her, inside her, soul deep. She was just this side of crazy. “Do what you have to do. I’ll be all right.”

  Sylvan lightly bit her shoulder. “I love you.”

  “Work, Sylvan.”

  “Callan,” Sylvan said. “Status of our borders?”

  “Six Blackpaws crossed into the far northeast corner of our territory just after dusk last night. My sentries challenged, and they turned tail and ran.” He sneered. “Mangy cowards.”

  “Were they hunting?”

  “Scouting, it looked like. Niki ordered extra sentries posted two days ago. We’re secure.”

  “Good. Take the senior recruits if you need more bodies. Max,” Sylvan said, “we need intel from our Pack members working undercover in the rogue ghettos. Find out if there’s a price on my head or if the hit was privately sanctioned.”

  Drake’s muscles tensed, and her claws and canines erupted. She’d kill anyone who threatened her mate. Jace and Jonathan crowded closer. Andrew sucked in a breath, and Val twitched.

  Sylvan smoothed her palms over Drake’s shoulders and down her arms. “You have nothing to fear, Prima.”

  Drake tilted her head so Sylvan could kiss her neck. “I love you.”

  “Max”—Sylvan curled her fingers in Drake’s hair—“find out if the rogues are organizing. We need to know how they get orders, who leads them, how they’re armed. If Bernardo is moving against us, he’ll need soldiers.” Sylvan tightened her hold on Drake. “His Pack isn’t that large. I don’t think he’ll risk an all-out attack. He’ll want to distract us and divide our forces with skirmishes, ambushes like the one on my mother—”

  “The Alpha is the logical target,” Drake said, focusing on Max. “She’ll be most vulnerable in the city. Double her guards.”

  “Yes, Prima,” Max said.

  “You think I can’t defend myself?” Sylvan whispered. “You want my wolves to think me weak?”

  “I think you’re my mate, and I’ll do what needs to be done to see that you’re safe. Live with it.”

  Sylvan laughed softly. “Remember you said that.”

  “Alpha,” Callan said, “Fala reports an increase in the frequency and size of drug shipments being moved in and out of the city. No one knows who is purchasing it, but a lot of it is getting into the hands of young Weres. Some of them ours.”

  “Call Fala. I want her input on something else too.”

  Callan pulled his phone off his belt, pushed a single digit, and spoke in a low voice to his mate. “She just returned from her tour of duty. She’ll be right here.”

  “Until further notice,” Sylvan said, “no one leaves the Compound alone. Jace and Jonathan are now the Prima’s personal guards.”

  The young wolves perked up, eyes glistening and tongues lolling.

  “Any unmated females currently living outside the Compound need guards. Val, you take care of that.”

  “Yes, Alpha.”

  A knock on the meeting-room door sounded and Sylvan called, “Come.”

  A statuesque brunette in a city police uniform—black pants, knee-high motorcycle boots, and pressed khaki shirt—strode in, her glittering eyes immediately tracking to Callan. Her lips lifted in a seductive smile, and Callan took a step forward, a deep rumble rolling from his chest.

  “Fala,” Sylvan said sharply, “the quicker we finish, the quicker you can have him.” The brunette ducked her head, and Callan settled back where he was.

  “I’m sorry, Alpha,” Fala said. “You need me?”

  “I don’t think the rogue attack on Misha was random. She would be the third dominant female involved in an incident in the last two months. Do the police have any reports of attacks on Weres, attempted abductions, anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing official.” Fala shrugged. “But then not everything makes it into a report, especially not when it involves us. I’ll tap my street informants.”

  “And the female missing from the university? Katya Styles? Her parents don’t believe she would disappear, even for an unsanctioned mating. Have you been able to trace her?”

  Fala shook her head. “We tracked her scent markings as far as the parking lot outside her dormitory. Then, nothing. It’s as if something wiped out her scent.”

  “That’s impossible,” Sylvan said. “Even if she got into a car, there ought to be some residual trail.”

  “Not necessarily,” Drake said quietly.

  “What do you mean?” Sylvan asked.

  “The medical basis for argylosis is probably a chemical binding of the silver ion to certain receptors in Were blood and tissue that inhibits normal cell function. That’s why even a small amount of silver is so deadly. A sublethal dose could significantly disrupt multiorgan systems in ways that we don’t yet understand. If Katya was poisoned or even cloaked in some way with a silver compound, she might not leave any scent markers behind.”

  “You mean she could be nearby, and we wouldn’t be able to detect her?”

  “That’s possible, theoretically at least. If I could get into the lab and run some tests—”

  “Soon enough,” Sylvan grumbled. “What about the adolescent we presumed buried in a rockslide? We still haven’t found any remains?”

  “No, Alpha,” Callan said, “but we don’t know exactly where she was. She roamed, like all the adolescents.”

  “But, Alpha,” Max asked quietly, “shouldn’t you sense them, if either of them is alive and anywhere in the territory?”

  Sylvan snarled, and Drake’s skin prickled in response to her mate’s aggression. “Sylvan, love, he’s not challenging your ability. If something is interfering with Pack bonds on a fundamental level, we need to know.”

  “I can’t feel them,” Sylvan said, her frustration turning her words to gravel.

  “Which means,” Andrew said, despair in his eyes, “Katya and Gray are gone.”

  “Maybe,” Drake said. “But if they’re drugged, if they’re being slowly poisoned with silver, or shielded with it somehow, even the Alpha’s psychic connection might be disrupted.”

  “If it is possible to break the Pack bonds,” Sylvan said, “our entire Pack will be at risk. We cannot allow our enemies to have such knowledge.”

  “I need to get into the lab,” Drake said. “We need to know a lot more about a lot of things. Silver is just one of them.” She reached back and stroked Sylvan’s face. “You should stay in the Compound until we have a better handle on all of this.”

  Sylvan laughed. “I head the Praetern Coalition, remember? I need to meet with the committee members, draft resolutions, speak to the media—I can’t just disappear.”

  “Just temporarily—”

  “No,” Sylvan growled.

  Drake spun in Sylvan’s arms and drove both hands into Sylvan’s hair. She locked eyes with Sylvan and felt the centuri converge behind her, encircling them. “You cannot be risked. We will not let you put yourself at risk.”

  Sylvan glanced past Drake’s shoulders, then nipped at Drake’s lower lip. “You like to take chances, mate.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I do.” Drake kissed Sylvan hard on the mouth. “But not with you. Never with you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gray twisted like a fish on a line as the guards dragged her down the hall on her knees, the six-foot rod attached to the control collar preventing her from shredding them with her claws. She was still too weak to stand up, but what really scared her was losing control of her wolf. Another jolt through the collar and she’d be too weak to hold her back. Her wolf was so hard to control under the best of circumstances, and being chained and beaten and taunted and starved was pushing her to break free—to run or kill. If her wolf won the battle for dominance and she shifted, she was pretty sure she’d surrender completely and go feral. Her wolf would never surrender to a cage, and
they’d have to kill her to control her. Hell, maybe that would be for the best. She wouldn’t mind tearing out the hearts of a few of these humans before they destroyed her.

  At least if they killed her, she would be free, and they couldn’t use her to hurt the Pack. She was so damned tired of fighting to hold on to her sanity. Maybe, maybe if Katya hadn’t been in here with her, she would have given in to the demands of her wolf long ago. But if she died, who would protect Katya? Who would divert the attention of the guards when they showed up outside their cages with their stun darts? Who would roar and challenge until they all turned on her, not Katya, for their fun? Who would they shoot with the Taser darts over and over again, not enough to render her unconscious, but enough to paralyze her, enough to cause her nervous system to discharge, enough to make her writhe on the rough cement floor while her body twitched and her sex swelled and burst?

  Katya would be alone, and total isolation for a wolf, cut off from Pack, was worse than death. Gray stopped struggling and let them pull her toward the torture chamber. She couldn’t afford for them to stun her again. She had to stay alive, for Katya.

  “That’s a nice doggy,” Elliot said, his tone a crooning mockery. “You know you’re going to like this. Can’t hide how good it feels, can you?”

  Double solid-steel doors slid opened soundlessly, and she tripped and stumbled into the laboratory, a gleaming white room lit with huge, bright surgical lamps suspended from the ceiling and dominated by a shiny steel restraint chair in the center of the room. They forced her into it and clamped her shock collar to the headrest with locks on either side of her neck. Two guards grabbed her arms, and lab technicians pulled her legs apart, securing her limbs to boards with silver shackles around her wrists and her ankles. Naked, arms and legs spread, she was completely vulnerable. Turning her head as much as she could, she searched for Katya. Naked like her, Katya lay bound to a surgical table across the room. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t seem to be conscious.