BloodMarked (The Fraktioneers Book 1)

by Lu J Whitley

  Big and burly groaned. Like he was awake and in agony.

  “Hello,” Greta whispered as she inched her way across the sticky carpet, trying to remember where all the obstacles were. “Mister?” She wished she at least knew his name. He knew hers. Seemed a bit unfair.

  “MmHmm,” he wheezed.

  Her fingers reached out blindly, closing on the side table. Alarm clock. Lamp. Aha! “I’m gonna turn on the lights, okay?” She paused, concerned. “Fake light won’t hurt you, right?” She remembered that he’d offered to turn on the lights in the bathroom, what now seemed like twelve hours ago, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

  “‘S fine,” he muttered. He took a breath like he was going to say something else but then went silent. With the light on, she could see he was breathing. Which was a relief, if only because she’d never be able to move his stiffened corpse from in front of the door.

  Greta made her way over to the man’s prone form. Maybe the light had been playing tricks on her before. His skin had taken on a less tomatoish hue, the thick welts sinking back to smooth alabaster. Cracked skin knitted back together in neat scabbed rows. Cool trick.

  She popped a squat, pulling a discarded sheet under her rear to protect from contact with the carpet. Her captor opened his eyes as she descended to the floor. She met his stare, unblinking. “Okay. I’m not one to kick a man when he’s down. Even if that man currently has me trapped against my will in a seedy hotel room,” she stated plainly, evenly. “So I’m promising that I’ll attempt to remain calm and rational. But Lucy, you got some fucking ‘splainin to do.”

  ★Chapter 4

  Greta crossed her arms under her breasts, plumping them up, and he made a valiant effort not to look. Those intense violet eyes settled on him with an expression that said, get comfortable because we’re going to be here a while.

  Ragnarsson closed his eyelids with a sigh and let his heavy head fall back against the door. This was the part he'd been dreading. He'd hoped, at some time – any time – in the past eighteen years, Hannah Brandt would’ve gotten around to telling her daughter exactly who and what she was. Though the woman had been dead set against it, wanting to give Greta a chance for a normal life. In truth, there’d never really been any chance of that. But how did you tell someone they weren’t exactly human?

  He let out a deep exhale. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, your name might be a nice start,” she harrumphed, “unless you want me to call you ‘hey you’ or ‘big fella.’”

  He dug his heels into the carpet, pushing back until he could slide himself into a more comfortable position. Maybe one that didn’t resemble a broken marionette. “It’s Jaromir… Ragnarsson.”

  “Ya… what? That’s a mouthful.”

  He'd like the opportunity to make her say that again, under different circumstances. But for now, he tried to push all the implications of that statement to the back of his mind and keep his calm. It wasn't easy with her sitting only a few feet away, wearing just his shirt and looking at him expectantly. “If… if you like,” he stammered, “My mother, she called me Jami, for short.”

  “Hold the phone,” she chuckled, “your mom called you yummy?” The chuckle bloomed into a full bout of laughter. Over the past twelve hours, he’d seen Greta run the emotional gamut, but this was the first time. Ever. He’d seen her laugh. It was mesmerizing. Her eyes sparkling. Her breasts bouncing with each breath.

  Aaaand focus. “Jami,” he repeated. “Yaa-Mee. Not yummy.”

  “Sorry. Sounds like the same word to me.” She smiled, and he found he liked her like this. Though the only real personality comparisons he had were her bawling her eyes out or kicking him in the nuts. Still, he imagined she wasn’t like this – this open – with many people. “So Yums,” she prodded. If she thought he minded her calling him yummy, she was sorely mistaken. “What are you? And what do you know about those yellow-eyed bastards that killed my mother?”

  He had to admit, he was a little taken aback by her directness. “It’s a long story.”

  “Sun’s still shining, and I’m all out of sunblock, so unless you want to be fried up extra crispy, we’ve got some time to kill.”

  He calmed a little. Knowing she actually wasn’t going to try to run, even if it was only because she wanted answers, gave him some piece of mind. In his weakened state, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop her. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his now healed chest. “Best place to start is at the beginning, I guess.”

  “Usually is.”

  “Right. So 800 years ago, roughly, I had just celebrated my 27th birthday.” He smiled at the mixed look of awe and disbelief that played across her features. “My father, Ragnar - I guess you could say he was a king. We didn’t really call it that back then, but it’s probably the closest translation - he was killed in a bloody battle over the land rights to a mountainous region on the western edge of his territory.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she cut in.

  “It was a long time ago.” And it truly was. “Anyway, as his only son, I was heir to his title and his lands. But succession among my people is a tricky thing. Even though the title was mine by rights, anyone could challenge me, or kill me outright, and take up the mantle.” As he spoke, his mind wandered to those darker times.

  The messenger had arrived at first light, bringing news that his father had fallen in battle. Erik, the bastard get of his father’s brother, Halfgar, was leading a charge. And his father’s army was scattered, leaderless.

  Jami had dressed quickly and flown down the grand circular staircase. Beinir, his most trusted servant, had had his horse saddled and at the ready. The black beast was stamping its feathered hooves. Steam rising from its flanks in the early morning chill.

  He had ridden hard for three days and two nights, lashing himself to the saddle in case sleep overcame him, and, at sunset on the third day, his stallion’s hooves counting out the beats of his heart, he had fallen into that fevered sleep. When he'd awoken, he was high on a rocky steppe, overlooking a vast valley of snow-covered pines. Fear had clenched his gut. His father’s people were a superstitious lot, and he'd been raised on stories of demons and Wyrd women who lived in the rocky crags of these mountains, willing to trade a soul for magical powers.

  He had turned to head back down the small track his mount had found up the blasted hill, but the wind had grown chill as the sun descended, and night had blown down the mountainside. He’d had no choice but to seek shelter. A cavern, half hidden by mounds of snow, had become his only option. With just a torch, hastily made of birch bark and pine pitch, he'd entered the blackened depths.

  As he'd moved inward, trying to protect himself and the horse from the worst of the cold night air, the oddest feeling had come over him. Like he was floating in midair. A voice, soft and silvery, had whispered in the darkness. “Come,” she had said, “warm yourself by the fire.” He had followed, thinking he'd fallen asleep again, and this was no more than a dream.

  He'd come upon the woman at a crossroads of sorts, where the cave formed a natural, high gallery that branched into tunnels in all directions. Torches had decorated the walls. A fire had burned high and hot in the center, and thick stacks of furs had padded the cold stone floor.

  She'd spoken his name, though her full lips had never moved. Her pale face was placid and serene. She’d beckoned him, arms outstretched. His mind had protested, but his body had gone to her. Her long, dark hair had tickled his arms as he'd embraced her. Violet eyes had looked up into his. “Tell me what you seek, sire,” she'd whispered inside his mind, ‘”Whatsoever you need, I shall provide.”

  “I want the strength and the means to defeat Erik’s army. Any army that thinks to take my father's land.” He knew he shouldn’t have said anything. Knew he should leave, but he couldn’t make himself go.

  “Speak true, my prince. Is this indeed what you wish?”

  “Aye.” The word had echoed through the surrounding chamber
. The torches had flickered and cast ghostly shadows on the walls.

  “Then kiss me, and it shall be so.”

  Warnings had whirled through his mind, but his body overrode them. Jami had fallen on her with a single-minded passion, kissing and sucking her full lips. Swirling his tongue into her sweetness when she'd opened for him. His hands tangling in the midnight silk of her hair. She had raked her nails down his back, drawing blood, but he hadn’t cared. He'd grabbed her up, setting her legs about his hips, and kissed his way down the smooth column of her throat. She'd muttered words, all the while, cooed to him in a language that was long dead but powerful. Her hands had reached between their bodies and freed his erection from within the offending cloth, palming him roughly. With a muttered curse, he'd sunk to his knees, lowering her beneath him. Without warning or preamble, he'd thrust himself into her. That warm, wet sheath had welcomed him as he'd buried himself to the hilt again and again.

  Her words had grown in speed and volume with each quickening thrust. The wind had whipped through the chamber, extinguishing the torches and sending cold shivers down his spine. His orgasm had set upon him like an earthquake, locking his muscles. His whole body quivering with tension as he'd jetted hot seed into her. Her shuddering climax had soon followed. The milking of her inner muscles nearly driving him over the edge a second time. And as he'd watched, in fascination, a strange mark in the shape of a glowing star had appeared on her wrist. The soft red light it had emitted pulsing with the contractions of her tight slick core.

  He'd brought her wrist to his lips and softly kissed the shining star. She'd let out a girlish giggle, as if he’d tickled her. “Go now, lover,” she had sighed wistfully, “You shall challenge this usurper, Erik, to single combat at sunset on the morrow. All will be as you wished.” Then she had disappeared, as if she’d never been.

  He'd stood in a darkened chamber, holding his birch bark torch that had burned down so low the flames had licked at his hand. His stallion’s steady breath had plumed in the cold. Gone was the fur-lined floor. Gone was the ring of torches. It was just him. Alone in the enclosing dark. What a dream. Not wanting to delay longer, he'd set off out of the cavern and into the coming of the dawn.

  At daybreak, he'd arrived at the bloody encampment. His father’s men. His men, battered and bleeding, they were stacking walls of corpses ten high in some places. The putrid stench of death and decay was borne aloft on smoky pyres that had burned throughout the night, hoping to keep the scavengers at bay. No sooner had he dismounted than his father’s lead commander, Gunnar, had pulled him into a council tent and apprised him of the state of his newly inherited army and the battle to come. His cousin, Erik, was power-mad. Vile and Treacherous. Jami had always been careful to give him a wide berth. But now Erik’s army was at his gate. He had to be stopped.

  “Send an emissary to Erik’s camp,” he'd told the stout commander, “Issue a challenge of single combat. We meet at sundown.”

  “I do not think that is wise.” He’d told Gunnar about his dream encounter with the woman, and the superstitious nature of his commanding officer had warned distrust in all things magical. “Wyrd women rarely speak true.”

  But Jami had felt different, more powerful somehow. “Do it,” he'd commanded, and it was done. The squat man had returned an hour later with the news the challenge had been accepted. Jami was pleased. He knew he could not lose, felt it in his bones.

  When the ambush came, as the sun crested the southern sky, he was awoken from a deep slumber. He'd rushed from his tent, determined to protect his men with the new-found strength he'd felt coursing through his veins. But as the sunlight had played across his skin, he'd burned. His skin had crackled and smoked as if he was being roasted on a spit. He’d had no choice but to retreat to the protection of his tent, the pain overwhelming. From the safety of the sidelines, Jami had watched – helpless - as the last of his men was sent to Valhalla to dine with the Gods.

  He'd shouted. He'd railed. “Erik! Come, face me!”

  When the flame-haired giant appeared before him, the man had laughed. “Jaromir,” he'd crooned. “The absent prince. Too frightened of his own shadow to fight this day.” Erik’s men had joined him in a bout of riotous laughter, their eerie yellow eyes shining in the waning afternoon light. And then they had all just turned and walked away.

  “No,” Jami had cried, but it was no use. He'd run out of the tent, sun be damned. The flaming pain had engulfed him, forcing him to his knees. The bastard’s army hadn’t even turned. Not one of his men had stopped or stilled. He'd had no other option. He could not follow, so he'd slunk back to the tent, in shame, and awaited the dying of the day.

  Just as the last fiery rays had lit the sky, an old crone had appeared before him. Withered and hobbling, she'd come into his tent as if she had every right to it. “Be gone, woman,” he'd growled, this new beast inside him threatening to take the reins and run, sunlight or no.

  She'd chuckled as she had taken a seat on his bed, “Why, lover, don’t you recognize me?” Her midnight hair had washed to gray, and her eyes were no more violet, but a faded lavender. But he'd known that face. The voice.

  “What have you done to me,” he'd roared.

  “Only what you wished of me.” She had crossed her knotted legs and stared at her fingernails, as if entirely disinterested with the whole affair.

  Jami had surged across the tent and taken her up by the throat. “You will pay…” A phantom hand had slammed him backward to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs.

  “I will pay, shall I?” She'd clucked her tongue. “Foolish, prideful youth. I gave you nothing except that which you asked. You asked for the strength to defeat Erik’s army, and that you have. You feel it rising in you now, no doubt.” And he had, that much was true. “As for the means to defeat them… that is a more difficult matter. You see…” She'd taken up her perch on the edge of the bed again, looking down on his prone form. “Erik’s army is somewhat… unique. He was also granted a wish of his choosing, an army that could swallow his enemies whole and was unstoppable by any man.”

  He'd raised up on his forearms, gazing at her, stumped. All the wind blown out of his anger. “Then how am I to defeat him?”

  “You are not,” she'd said slowly, as if the answer was obvious. “I said I would grant you the strength, not the capability. But the means that will destroy him utterly.”

  “Then where is this miraculous weapon of which you speak?”

  “I am with child,” she'd said abruptly, and he was struck dumb. “Not your child.” She'd let out an exasperated sigh. “But this child is significant. It is a girl child, and a powerful girl child, I see in the future. A girl child of my line that bears my eyes and this mark.” She'd motioned to the faded star-shaped discoloration on her wrist. “She will be the means to end Erik’s reign.”

  ★ ★ ★

  “So let me get this straight.” Greta's head was still spinning from the amount of information she’d just learned. “What you’re telling me is: you’re an 800 year old vampire prince, your bastard cousin is king of the body snatchers, and both of you, at some point, had sex with my however-many-greats grandma, who was, in fact, a wish granting she-devil.”

  “I’m not a vampire,” Jami grunted.

  “What?!” She was trying to be calm, but Greta had had it about up to the eyeballs with being calm and rational. “That’s the part of this fucked up Jerry-Springer-Fest you take issue with? How are you not a friggin vampire?”

  “I. Am. Not. A. Vampire. Vampires don’t exist.”

  “Uaaagh,” she growled. Men! “Fine. What exactly are you then? Because that whole twisted tale sure made you sound like one.”

  He harrumphed, folding his arms across his still bare and distractingly lickable chest. “I’m cursed.”

  “Cursed? So, you’re cursed to never age?” He nodded in agreement. “Sunlight allergy? Superhuman strength? Speed? Check. Check. Check.” She ticked off on her fingers, not giving him th
e chance to answer. “What’s that spell? VAMPIRE!”

  “NO!” The word came out on a growl so fierce, Greta leaned back, flinching. The look in his eyes was primal. Threatening. Like a beast who’d scented his prey. He lifted his index finger. “One: I DO NOT drink human blood for food.” A second finger followed suit, ticking off his objections. “Two: I am not some froufrou, debonair Transylvanian count. Three: I do not have to hypnotize women to get them into my bed…”

  “Fine.” Greta threw up her hands in exasperation. “Geesh. I get it. You’re not a vampire,” she ceded, not wanting to spend the rest of the afternoon arguing. He seemed to calm slightly, the tension draining out of his stiffened muscles. “So where do I fit in all of this?” Her bluster vanished. Learning your whole life was basically a lie… it could take a lot out of you. “I’m some kind of mystical weapon?”

  “Not you specifically.” Jami rubbed his long fingers down the back of his neck, grabbing his hair up and pulling it over his shoulder. Greta stared, transfixed, as he began combing his fingertips through the long strands. “Your blood.”

  “My… blood?”

  Jami nodded his head, letting some of the silky strands of hair sift free and hang across his chest. “Well, that part isn’t specific. We know your touch has no effect. Saw that much when you were fighting that big Taker in your kitchen last night.” He closed his eyes as if trying to shut out the memory. She couldn’t blame him. If she could scrub the memories of that altercation out of her brain, she’d already be in there with a Brillo pad. “That big fucker drew blood,” he growled, “split your lip. But the blood didn’t do anything to him.”

  “So, I don’t get it. What am I supposed to do? Activate it somehow?” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. Yesterday, she was plain old Greta Brandt, today she was sitting in a hotel room with Hottie McHotterson, discussing magical weapons to kill a race of skin walking demons. Life was weird that way.