“I am female, nonetheless—I have skills the Lanarre wish to develop. Not one Lanarre's importance is ignored. Whatever aptitude they possess is built upon, harnessed.”
“Uh-huh,” Tessa says.
Tahlia releases her arms and shrugs. “I'm not making this up. The Lanarre feels responsible for all Were. We must be excellent in all things. Otherwise, we're unworthy of the title of ruler of the Lycan.”
Oh, moon.
“So what happened?”
Tahlia's eyes lower, and she presses her beat-up sneaker into the moss, making a tread indentation. “We cannot be responsible for all wrongdoing or for all Were falling away from the principles of Lycan.”
Tahlia's head jerks up, and she plants her legs far apart, fists ready and loose at her side. She morphs from delicate to fierce in seconds.
Tessa turns around slowly and sights two Were, both in wolfen form.
“Stay behind me, Tahlia,” Tessa warns, her voice low.
“I am a better forward fighter,” she comments casually.
Tessa turns to tell her what's what.
She is gone.
Tessa feels the breeze over her head and as Tahlia flings herself over Tessa's head.
“No!” Tessa screams and charges the males.
Tahlia lands in front of a seven-foot-tall Were whose deeply scarred face has the most tender hard eyes Tessa has ever seen.
He's seen too much, is Tessa's lone thought before Tahlia launches herself at the other Were male.
Tahlia's hand is a blur.
She steps away from that Were and moves in on the scarred one.
“Forgive me,” he says in the heavily graveled voice of the wolfen form then hits Tahlia at the side of her neck.
She falls in a silent heap.
The other Were is on his knees, four trails where talons swiped across his throat bleeding.
His esophagus shines like a slick cream worm in his throat.
Tessa moves in before the scarred Were can hurt Tahlia more. The girl is already coming around.
Their eyes meet from her prone position, and she kicks her leg up, narrowly missing the scarred one's nutsack.
Holy moon, this is so bad.
Tessa hits him full speed, and he grabs her forearm, spinning her off behind him with her own momentum.
Tessa lands on her ass with a hard thump. Her wind is gone, and she lies on her back, unable to breathe.
I have to change. Like yesterday.
Tessa's body shifts to the quarter-change seamlessly, and her lungs fill. They’re just slightly bigger, better, and more proficient at oxygen intake.
Tahlia is pinned against the scarred Were, her back to his front.
“Don't hurt her. She is Lanarre,” Tessa says as a last resort. She's not sure what these males know about the species. Her own knowledge was pretty inadequate. But if they know anything, they know not to fuck with the Lanarre—ever.
“We know,” the scarred Were says. “We are not here to harm, but to help.”
“Could've said,” Tessa replies as the deepening gloom tests her improved vision. She does manage to make out that he is Alpha—and a Red. There's no hiding that sunset-colored fur.
“This one didn't give us the chance. My second heals a grievous wound.”
Tessa rolls her eyes. Tahlia's wide eyes are on hers. “He'll live, and my moon, don't you know better than to sneak up on two females?”
His face shows surprise.
“Don't look at me like that, Red. We were out here taking a tinkle, and you guys sidle up? Moon help us.”
He scowls. “If I let you go, are you going to give me a new blow hole?” the scarred one asks.
“What? Are you a whale?” Tahlia asks in a sulk.
Tessa laughs.
The other Were is on his hands and knees, massaging his throat. “That fucking hurt.”
Tahlia harrumphs, and the injured Were glares at her.
“What pack are you from?” Tessa asks tersely.
“I won't harm you,” Tahlia says.
The scarred Were backs away so quickly that Tessa can't track the movement, even in her quarter-change form.
“I'm Slash, from the Southeastern.”
Tessa can't hide her relief.
Slash frowns at her curiously. “I take it that's a good thing.”
She nods a little too quickly. “A very good thing.”
“Tramack from the Western hunts me.”
“You're rogue?” the injured Were asks, standing, the surprise evident in his voice.
The furrows from Tahlia's expert swipe fully close, and the skin remains shiny with fresh scar tissue.
“Are you going to judge?”
His eyes glitter at her. “Not yet.” But his gaze shifts to Tahlia.
“We are here to help. We can't do that when you attack us,” Slash explains logically.
Tessa puts her hands on her hips. “We are female.”
“Clearly,” the other Were says. His lips pull into a sardonic tilt, and he performs a little bow, though the cough from his abused throat ruins the effect. “I'm Zeke.”
“Well here's the thing, Zeke. Tramack of the Western is hunting me and has declared me his intended. There's a bounty on my head, and he means to collect me. This Lanarre's human guardians were slaughtered by a rogue male that I should have killed. She was traveling to…” Tessa looks at Tahlia, wondering how much she should say.
Tahlia nods. “Go ahead. It is fine that anyone knows.”
“Tahlia is traveling to mate her chosen.”
Both males look at Tahlia. “She doesn't look old enough to mate.”
Tahlia kicks up her chin. “I am of age.”
Slash snorts in the background, and Tahlia gives him her best dirty look, which Tessa thinks is quite good.
Zeke thumbs his chin thoughtfully, running the digit back and forth across the downy bright-red fur. He's handsome.
He's also Red. Tessa's running for her life without a plan.
I don't need a male.
When she looks up, his thoughtful glance has narrowed to her face. His nostrils flare once, and he smirks.
The insufferable pig. Tessa fumes, thinking he might have guessed her mild interest as she fights to behave casually.
Slash spreads his arms away from his body. “We can offer you temporary shelter and protection until you figure out what you want to do.”
Tahlia looks her age as she rolls her lip between her teeth, indecision painted on every plane of her face. “The Lanarre will look for me.”
Her eyes slide to Slash then land accusingly on Zeke.
Slash's brows draw together. “And you will be under our protection.”
“You are a stubborn female,” Zeke says to Tahlia.
“You have no idea,” Tessa mutters, thinking about their brief acquaintance.
Tahlia frowns at her.
“It's true!” Tessa defends.
Instead of answering, Tahlia leads the way, heading in the direction from where the Were popped up.
Tahlia gives Tessa the barest smile as she walks by, as if she holds a secret.
CHAPTER TEN
Julia
Julia has been dirty before. But after being bit, beaten, and bruised, a shower has never felt so good. She dries off and carefully combs through hair, which hasn't seen a brush in a couple of days. Julia tosses on a T, jeans, and shoes that don't aggravate her feet, which are still healing from the cross-country trek.
The few hours since they arrived with the Region Two Singers were not easy ones.
The Were are complaining that the grounds feel like a graveyard. Their acute sense of smell picks up every single thing. Every death. Every wound.
That stirs an idea. Julia can't discern one dead body from another. But it's critical that she know if Victor is dead. And what of Reagan and Delilah?
Then there's Tharell. He claimed he was instructed to deceive the Singers—and ultimately betray William—and, ruled by the bla
ck blood of the demonic, he had no other choice. He broke his pact with the Northwestern coven by not delivering Julia to them.
Gabriel, Julia's mind whispers, then on the heels of that name, Julia remembers Claire. A longing for Claire swamps her, as does a yearning for William. He was deeply self-contained. As it turns out, he was her ultimate protector.
Julia is sitting by herself in the room she's occupied since the first day she arrived at Region One. The cracked doorknob and hole in the wall stand in testimony to tempers—attacks.
Now everything's different. Jen, Michael, and Brendan are gone.
Scott.
A silent tear files its slow way over her still-warm skin from her shower. It plops on top of her tightly knitted fingers.
She'll never hear a wise-ass Michael belittle someone with his scathing sarcasm in between lollipop licks. Julia won't listen to the sibling fights Jen adored stirring up.
Brendan won't be making any more manure piles or phantom holes for the stray vamp to fall into.
They were sort of a family; the only one she had. When all hope was lost and she thought Jason was dead, they were there for her in a way only Jason and Cyn had been.
Julia hiccups, and a sob pops out like a bubble of sadness. It bursts in the silent room, filling the space with her loss.
Now her family is Jason, Cyn, and Jacqueline—of all people.
Julia slowly raises her head and plops her chin in her hand. There is her hidden sister in Alaska. But for now, the people who remain—the Singers—will need her.
Julia stands at the edge of the bed. After wetting a cold washcloth and blotting her tear-streaked face, she makes her way downstairs.
The kitchen is filled with women and a few industrious guys, making great-smelling food. Dishes being clanked and set out for people are the noises of comfort and gathering.
Saliva pools inside her mouth, and Julia realizes she hasn't eaten in twenty-four hours.
Jacqueline sits at the table, one hand on her belly, her chin perched on her fist.
Cyn stares at Jacqueline with clear suspicion.
Julia smiles. Some things remain the same.
“Jules!” Cyn cries, running to her. Julia has seconds to see that Cyn has somehow styled her hair, and is wearing cute clothes before she hurls herself in Julia's arms. They dance in a circle and finally Cyn releases her.
“So happy you're finally done wallowing in the shower. I thought you were setting up camp. Is there any hot water left?”
Julia blinks.
Cyn frowns.
“Hello. Maybe you need more sleep?”
“On-demand hot water heater,” Jason says, walking into the kitchen and pressing a light kiss on her forehead. Julia glances up, grateful for his presence. He squeezes her shoulder, and Julia still feels as if she's in some kind of shock-induced fog. Julia's hand comes to rest on her stomach, where she was stabbed.
“Food time,” Jason says, striking his palm against his washboard abs. He jerks open the fridge door, hangs on the top, and juts his face forward like a pecking hen.
Julia walks over there and pulls the fridge door out of his grasp. She shuts it, opens it, then shuts it again.
Jason's brows come together, and he retreats a step. “Babe, what are ya doing?”
Julia sucks in her lower lip. “Michael said the key to finding food in the fridge was to look three times.”
The room falls silent.
Julia bursts into tears.
“Come here, babe,” Jason pulls her into his arms and she sobs against his broad shoulder.
Again.
“Let ʼem go, baby. Let ʼem go.”
Julia sniffs, wiping her tears against his hard chest. “Sorry,” she says, shaking her head, her damp hair making him wet where her tears don't. “I'm having a hard time still.”
“That's okay. It'll take time.”
A big commotion of voices burst all around them, and Julia looks up.
Beaten and torn, Scott staggers into the kitchen.
Without thinking, Julia runs to Scott. He gives her a weary smile.
His lips are cut, one eye is swollen shut, and a deep open wound bisects the other eyebrow.
“Julia,” he croaks, and she wraps her arms around his waist.
“Ah!” she cries as they begin to topple like a clumsy, half-cut tree, and Julia stumbles under his weight.
“Come on, Hulk. Don't crush the queen, pal.” Jason puts a hand underneath his arm and scoops the larger man to an upright position.
Cyn walks slowly toward them. Her eyes meet Julia's, and she gives a small shake of her head.
Julia looks down and sees Scott's femur gleaming like a fanged tooth hanging from his upper thigh.
“Heal him,” Jacqueline says from behind Cyn.
Cyn turns, hands on hips. “You're still bossy. And yʼknow? I think I wouldn't be if I were in your position. Like I wouldn't dig in and get it figured out and stuff.”
Jacqueline just stares.
“Gah!” Cyn says. “Fine, but this is going to be a hold-him-down moment.”
Jason guides a limping Scott to the flowered fainting couch in the front parlor and carefully lays him down. Scott's skin is chalky with a green cast.
Julia moves to his side, drops to her knees, and grabs his hand. He winces.
She looks down and sees he’s completely missing two fingernails.
“Oh, my God, Scott!” Julia cries, covering her mouth with the hand that's not holding his. “What did they do to you?”
Scott licks his dry lips. One beautiful, dark eye rolls to meet Julia’s. “Less than they did to Lucius.”
Julia's shoulders shake with her effort to be strong. This is what a leader has to deal with, these cold facts. But more tears come, collecting at her jaw and dampening the thin long-sleeved T-shirt she's wearing.
“Where is Lucius?” Angela asks quietly as she steps up behind Julia.
She didn't hear.
Scott's gaze meets Angela’s over Julia's shoulder. He closes his eyes, and Angela cries out, rushing from the room.
“Okay, boys, hold stud-boy down while I set this break.”
Julia's eyes hold Cyn's. “Are you—do you know what you're doing?”
She smiles, shaking her head. “Hell, no. But my hands do.”
That'll have to be good enough.
Cyn's expression goes serious. “Take a hike, Jules. You're not gonna like the noise he makes.”
“It's okay, Julia,” Scott says.
Julia leans forward to kiss his forehead, but can't find an uninjured area.
Scott squeezes her hand, trying to comfort her.
She covers her ears when Scott begins to scream.
Julia doesn't leave or look away from his uninjured eye.
His screams fall blissfully silent when he passes out from the pain.
*
Praile
Praile's wounds weep and fester underneath the ill-fitting human clothes. Further, he must expend an inordinate amount of energy to maintain some form of camouflage.
He must expend more precious energy than Lazarus, who has only a tail and a minor bit of skin cover to effect. His eyes, teeth, and even his nails fall within acceptable appearance for a human male. How Lazarus manages to look so undemonic is a mystery. Genes—always a crapshoot, as the humans say.
“Hide the bodies,” Praile commands the two low demons who accompanied him and Lazarus. Hardly more than drones, they can take only one form.
Praile has chosen homeless men. It is a little bit of an inside joke, but he must take the small doses of humor when they present themselves. They’re like medicine, especially of late.
If Praile uses his ability to see things through his human eyes, he sees how the demonics would appear to humans.
Lazarus will appear handsome.
Praile grunts as the low demons drag the old couple out of their respective car seats and into the woods.
An age-old trick. Well, not entirely. Th
e tactic is as old as cars, and those have been in existence for just over a hundred years. However, it's been very handy to lie in the center of the road and appear helpless.
That had been Lazarus's job. Praile was unwilling to re-open wounds that were healing badly.
He is ecstatic the Master cannot access his thoughts. If he could, Praile would be dead twice over. Everything he has thought since the thirteenth lash has been of the most evil and vile variety.
His thoughts have been especially uncharitable toward the Master.
Lazarus says nothing, cradling his hand, which he broke while stopping the car that last inch.
“That'll set wrong,” Praile says, stating the obvious.
“Yes,” Lazarus reluctantly agrees through his teeth.
Praile doesn't smile but marginally contains how pleased he is to see the stoic Lazarus feel pain. After all, he is not healing Praile fully. Praile doesn’t care that the Master has tasked Lazarus with doing a partial healing—he still blames his second.
The two low demons return to the soft shoulder, hunched and mindless as the bees he thought of earlier.
“Good,” Praile says. “Get in the back.”
The two slouch inside the back of the car. Lazarus slides behind the steering wheel and just sits there.
“What are you doing?” Praile bites out.
Then he spies a sliver of bone that has punched through the inside and lower part of Lazarus's wrist. Though demonics are brutally strong, the car was going around fifty miles per hour.
“I can set it,” Lazarus says.
Praile grins then winces as his back touches the seat. He jerks upright, glancing at Lazarus. His face is expressionless, as usual. In fact, Praile doesn't find proof of pain except for a certain tightness about his eyes.
“But you can't heal the injury?”
“No.”
Praile know of no demonic or healer who can heal themselves. They heal only others.
“Too bad,” Praile sings falsely, smoothing his hands down the stiff denim of his jeans. He lets his form go while he's hidden in the car, and a sigh escapes him.
Lazarus puts the car in gear with his good hand, and makes his way toward the region where Praile has been told the Angelic Blood has gathered. The High One will be his in the next day—or lashes will be the least of his concern.
Angelic Blood (#5): Alpha Warriors of the Blood (The Blood Series) Page 7