The Possession

by Jennifer Armintrout

  At times I felt Nathan had overlooked a key component of our blood bond, though. While he ached with loneliness for his wife and son, he had me. We could laugh and joke and fuck, but God forbid he ever share any emotion with me.

  I hadn’t considered the possibility Nathan might hear my thoughts until a shattering pain nearly tore the bones of my skull apart. There were no words across the blood tie, only crushing regret.

  Now you want to be a part of my life. I knew Nathan was locked in some unimaginable, hellish prison now, but I couldn’t stand a second more of the physical and emotional pain I felt being tied to him. I blocked off the blood tie and wiped tears of shame from my eyes.

  I had been so tired, I almost overlooked Evan’s warning. “Get as far away as possible.” Was I in danger here? Would someone burst in and kill me the second I fell asleep? Snapping fully awake, I clicked on the lamp on the bedside table and flopped back on the pillows. I looked at the door. There had to be a way to secure it from the inside, even if it wasn’t immediately visible. After all, March had used a key to unlock it. I rallied what little strength I had left and wobbled to the door. There weren’t any latches immediately obvious in the vicinity of the doorknob, and there wasn’t a dead bolt. But then, why had March needed a key? I tried to turn the knob.

  It didn’t budge. I’d been locked in.

  Regardless of how much I needed it, I didn’t think I’d be getting much sleep, after all.

  Chapter 12

  It’s a Small World

  The werewolf waited for someone.

  Max watched her from the safety of his rental car as she sat in the small coffee shop. The Trans-Am, though badass, would have tipped her off to his presence, so he’d had to leave it behind.

  He’d add that to his list of “Reasons to Extremely Dislike the Were-bitch.”

  To the untrained eye, Bella would have appeared as one of those überconfident women who went to coffee shops alone. No book, no laptop, not even a newspaper to distract her from her solitude. Framed as she was in the sole window of the tiny, brick establishment, she drew the attention of anyone who passed on the sidewalk outside. One man walked into a mailbox, totally oblivious to the world around him as he stared at Bella.

  She appeared to be absorbed in thought, but Max saw the way her golden eyes surreptitiously scanned the passersby, and the coffee she’d been nursing had long since gone cold. In the sky above, the moon was full. She wouldn’t assume her animal form. Few of them ever did, though they frowned on the use of science to stop it. No, they did spells, probably with gross ingredients like baby tongues and eye of newt. And they thought a little prick of a needle once a month was a sin worth killing over.

  The warm light of the coffee shop’s interior spilled onto the street, illuminating her from behind like an unnatural sun. Supernaturally motionless, she seemed a figure in a painting. Her admirers had no inkling how deadly and dark this mysterious beauty really was.

  Shaking his head, Max groaned. She was not beautiful. He was just horny. He’d find a way to make that her fault—not in the obvious way, because bestiality wasn’t his thing—later.

  A shadowy figure, dressed far too warmly for the weather, in a heavy black coat, entered through the shop’s narrow door. In the window, Bella straightened and sniffed the air.

  The motion accentuated the slender column of her neck and the tracery of blue veins that seemed visible even from across the street. Bullshit, you’re imagining things. Still, Max’s stomach growled and his dick hardened. He could take care of only one problem without getting arrested, so he fumbled in the backseat for his thermos of blood.

  “You’re a fucking pervert, Harrison,” he growled to himself as he unscrewed the lid. B positive. Best blood type, hands down.

  The shadowy figure sat across from Bella. It was a woman with a shiny black bob and generous cleavage. Something about her seemed oddly familiar, but then, Max could have been confusing her with a chick from the movies.

  The two conferred briefly. Though he couldn’t read the werewolf’s facial expression, and the curvy woman’s face was obscured by the shadow of a hanging lamp, he could tell from their body language things were all-business at that table.

  “What I wouldn’t pay to hear what’s going on in that messed up little head of yours, wolf.” He lifted the thermos to his mouth, wanting to finish off the blood quickly. He’d never cared for clots.

  He’d no sooner taken a swallow than he’d noticed Bella was no longer in the window. Max’s gaze shot from the door to the sidewalk, where she was striding briskly and purposefully away.

  He counted to ten before he exited the car and headed for the coffee shop. Seconds later, the werewolf’s associate exited. Max was ready for her.

  He clamped his hand over the woman’s mouth as he hauled her into the alley between the shop and an optometrist’s office that had closed for the night. “Don’t make a fucking sound, or so help me I’ll—”

  She bit him.

  Reflexively, he released her, then cursed himself for doing it.

  She laughed, loud and half-crazy. “You’ll what?”

  The familiarity he’d sensed at first sight crawled up his spine, and he forced away the resultant shiver. “Who are you?”

  “What, you don’t remember me?” She laughed again and grabbed a handful of her black hair. The wig slipped from her head in a smooth motion, and a riot of red curls, which seemed too voluminous to have been hidden beneath, tumbled onto her shoulders.

  “How could I forget?” Max stepped forward, backing her up to the damp brick. “Though your name escapes me. Begonia?”

  She made a face. “Dahlia. But I’m glad to see I made an impression.”

  Max groaned as she slid her hand across the front of his jeans and the substantial bulge there. The night he’d gone with Nathan to help Carrie take out Cyrus, he’d been thrown on the mercy of this insatiable vampire. He’d never really been attracted to ladies with such generous figures, but he’d always said he’d try anything once, especially if it might save his neck.

  It had been the best twenty minutes of his life.

  Still, that was the past, and Max never looked back. “Darlin’—”

  “Dahlia.”

  “I didn’t forget.” He extricated himself from her greedy hands. “Listen, I’d never say that I didn’t have a good time with you, but—”

  “But you’ve got it bad for Jo Jo the Dog-Faced Girl.” She sniffed. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

  He made a face he hoped conveyed pure disgust. “I’m not into the flea scene.”

  “Whatever. It’s not like I can read your mind.” Dahlia arched a dramatically shaped brow. “Or can I?”

  Damn, she was fun. Or would have been, if he wasn’t in a hurry to catch up with Bella before she gave his best friend a fatal case of splinters. “What did you tell her?”

  “Five thousand dollars.” Dahlia held out her plump hand and wiggled her fingers.

  “You’re shitting me.” The first tentacles of hopelessness wound around his ribs.

  Negative thinking will get you nowhere, he scolded himself. “Come on, baby. You know I don’t have that kind of cash.”

  She sighed theatrically. “That’s too bad, then.”

  “Come on, cut me a break.” He grinned, slowly leaning into her. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “That’s more like it.” She crooked her pinkie finger and led him farther down the alley.

  He held up his hands. “Whoa, I was thinking more like a hotel or something. At least, let me take you back to the car like a real gentleman.”

  She shoved him against the wall so hard he thought the bricks would shatter.

  “What the fuck—”

  “Shut up,” she hissed, grabbing a handful of his hair and forcing his head back with a resounding thud. “You think I would tell you shit? Just for a little touch?”

  “Hey, I thought you were just that kind of girl,” he snarled.
“You sold out your ex pretty fast once I slipped it to you.”

  Keep up the hard-ass comments. Her voice invaded his head like a bolt of lightning, and he almost shouted at the pain. He squinted at her face, but her lips never moved as the voice continued. I’m gonna keep throwing out generic threats, just respond appropriately and listen to me.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch,” he managed to reply, though his face had gone numb and the insult wasn’t up to par. His head felt as if it was going to split apart. It had been a long time since he’d communicated through a blood tie, but he remembered what it felt like, and it sure wasn’t this. He tried to respond to her, focusing his thoughts through the haze of pain reverberating in his skull. What are you doing to me?

  Simple mind invasion. Bella didn’t go far. She’d hear every damn word we’d say. This is the only way to communicate without her listening.

  Dahlia kneed him in the groin and he doubled over with a groan.

  We need to make it look like we’re fighting, so she doesn’t get suspicious. But that was for forgetting my name.

  “Fuck you,” he wheezed out loud. How did she know where to find you? And what did she want?

  I don’t know. Maybe she looked up all area vampires who aren’t aligned with your stupid club. I’m sure you all keep a record somewhere. Dahlia didn’t roll her eyes, but Max imagined it to go along with her tone. She wanted to know where your bookstore friend went. I don’t have a clue. I told her to try the cemeteries, but I suggest you follow her because I might not have been far off.

  Dahlia leaned her face dangerously close to his and transformed into a snarling, angry vampire. It might have intimidated him if she wasn’t idly stroking the hair at the back of his neck with her fingernails.

  “Listen up, bitch. You tell me what’s going on or I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear.” He pushed his hand into her coat and found the buttons of her blouse, deftly popping a few to reach inside.

  She shifted her face back and leaned in to trace his ear with her tongue. God, how great she’d been with that wicked tongue. “I’d like to see you try, once I rip your fat head right off your shoulders.”

  Fat head? he shot back mentally, though the strain of responding sent up a buzz of feedback in his ears.

  Don’t take it personally. She punctuated the telepathic message with a physical shrug. I heard Cyrus is in Nevada.

  Who’d you hear that from? “Get your hands off me,” he growled aloud, but as her hands had found the zipper of his fly, he shook his head vehemently to signal she should disregard that instruction as play-acting.

  “Make me,” she snarled back at him, simultaneously explaining, The pictures in my head showed me. She made it sound so matter-of-fact he couldn’t bring himself to doubt her sources. All I’m seeing is Louden and Hudson and Nevada. And for some reason, the Virgin Mary. Don’t ask me where that all came from. Now, seriously, shove me. That’s all I’ve got, and she’s starting to think something’s up.

  As if on cue, Bella stepped into the alley. Her cold gaze fixed on Dahlia. “That was a truly pathetic display. Did you think you would fool me?”

  Dahlia raised her hands and shouted arcane words. A glowing ball of blue grew between her fingers. Before she could release it, Bella whipped her arm out and an arc of red light split the sphere in two, knocking Dahlia back violently.

  Then the werewolf leveled a crossbow at Max’s chest. The bolt was metal-tipped, with a wooden shaft. A coward’s long-range weapon.

  “I warned you,” she reminded him coldly.

  He didn’t get time to negotiate. She fired.

  Max Harrison doesn’t die in a dirty alley with his fly unzipped. He dodged, but the bolt caught him in the shoulder. With a roar of pain, he fell to the ground.

  Bella bent over him and gripped the end of the arrow. Twisting it cruelly, she wrenched it from his flesh. “One more time, vampire. One more time, and you are dead.”

  Like a shadow fleeing the light, she was gone.

  Dahlia whimpered as she climbed to her feet, though Max suspected her pride hurt more than her body.

  “Do you want a ride home?” he offered, though his shoulder leaked like a broken pipe.

  She waved him away. “Do what you gotta do. It was good seeing you again…whatever your name is.”

  “Max.”

  “Yeah, like I’m going to remember that.” She rolled her eyes at him and limped down the alley on a broken boot heel.

  Max checked and double-checked the area around the coffee shop before he crossed the street. The last thing he needed was another run-in with Best In Show.

  In the car, he retrieved his cell phone and pulled up Carrie’s number.

  I drifted in a world of white. No, not white. Light.

  Why can I still hear you?

  Cyrus’s voice threatened to split my head apart. I blinked against the blazing assault. Though the air was bright, it was cold. Everything was cold. “I don’t want to be here.”

  The light flared brighter, and I fell. Before I hit bottom I saw them. Two bodies, tossed carelessly on the floor, like rag dolls. And blood. So much blood.

  Then it sucked away, leaving me in a black void. I panicked. Was I dead? Was I dreaming? Why couldn’t I wake up, or move, or open my eyes?

  Carrie, relax.

  I startled at Nathan’s voice in my head, calm and coherent for the first time since he’d been taken from me.

  I haven’t been taken. Not yet. But I’m running out of time.

  “Nathan!” I tried to shout out loud, but no sound issued. What happened? Are you better?

  No. The word sent a wave of despair across the tie between us. It’s sleeping. It has to sleep.

  What has to sleep? I thought of the demon who’d worn his skin, imagined it as a slimy, scaly thing gripping Nathan in its cruel claws.

  I don’t know. I don’t know what it is. There was a note of urgency to his tone. God, Carrie, I don’t what’s happening to me.

  His mounting fear turned my throat to dust, and I swallowed. You’re possessed. Max is looking for you, to help you. Where are you?

  I don’t know. In the dark. Carrie, please help. The last part came across as a sob wrenched from my own, dry throat. I’m not possessed. This thing…

  Silence. I’d lost my link to him. I called out to him, my brain trying feverishly to connect with him, like the marrow of a broken bone reaching for a way to rebuild itself.

  “Wake up!”

  I gasped as I came awake and felt the pressure of a stake at my chest.

  March stood over me, her face framed by the fluffy, red marabou lining the edges of her satin dressing gown. Her knuckles were white from gripping the stake. Her body trembled with rage and she twisted the wood hard, grinding the point into my skin. “Who do you work for?”

  This is how I die. “I don’t work for anyone.” I resisted the urge to glance wildly around the room for an escape route. That would give her enough incentive to stab me then and there. “I’m not Movement, I told you.”

  “I know that! Do you think I’m stupid? I checked you for Movement connections before you even got this room.” The pressure of the stake let up a bit. Her reason was returning, though just barely. “But it’s not the Movement I’m worried about.”

  “Then who are you worried about?” I shifted a little, the wooden point still too close for comfort.

  March’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward on the stake, worming it into my sternum. I could take her, I realized. She was older than me, and therefore should have been stronger. But she hadn’t been at a prime age when she’d been turned. Plus her stance, kneeling on the edge of the bed beside me, wouldn’t support her if I kicked her away.

  But then I would have a fight on my hands, and something in her expression told me she didn’t want that, either. “Who sent you?”

  “Byron.” I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed it would be the right answer. When the pressure on my chest abated, I felt a little hope.

&n
bsp; March stood and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. She held it out to me, balancing the stake in her other hand. I thought briefly about grabbing it and using it against her, but chances were I was still locked in the room, and she probably had a great security system. I wouldn’t make it out of the building.

  “No, I’ve quit.” I couldn’t remember when. It hadn’t exactly been a conscious decision. Funny, the thoughts that come to you when you’re about to die.

  “Evan was there when you collapsed. He said you were babbling about a simultaneous bloodtie.” She paused to suck in a lungful of smoke, and continued to speak on the exhale. “Wanna tell me about that?”

  I sat up, rubbing my chest. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re so afraid of?”

  She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me who your old sire was?”

  “Oh, this is fun. I think I would have preferred to be staked rather than argue like thirteen year olds.” I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. If she attacked me again, I wanted to meet her on level ground.

  “Fine.” March held up a hand as if to stop me coming any closer. “I know, anyway.”

  “You do?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. “How?”

  “A lot of forged art. The first person I thought of was Cyrus Seymour.” She cracked a shark’s grin. “That, and you apparently yelled his named when you collapsed. I put two and two together.”

  “Very good.” I eyed the stake with new terror. I’d been persecuted before for simply being Cyrus’s fledgling. I’d thought those days were behind me. “How do you know him?”

  In a flash, March was on her feet. Way faster than I would have anticipated. She lunged at me with the stake.

  I dodged her easily—one very important thing Nathan had taught me was that being calm in a fight gave you the advantage over an opponent who had completely flipped out—and spun around, ready for her next attack. My bag still rested on the floor beside the armchair. I backed slowly toward it. “March, I’m not working for anyone. I was just on a road trip and Byron told me to look you up.”

  I was two steps from the bag, but March pursued me slowly, stake raised high over her head like the psycho mom at the end of Carrie. “And do you think I don’t know what he’s up to? Following the Fangs all over the desert, doing whatever they ask of him?”