A Soulmark Series

by Rebecca Main

  I stand in shock, fist still held at the ready, but feet planted firmly in place. My eyes dart to the door at the opposite end of the room. My escape. Yet, if I leave now, I might not be able to gain access to the house again. And I don’t know if my blades or the ring are here. Keenan straightens, his eyes guarded as he takes in my stance. I let my arm fall and take a step forward.

  “I told you…,” I say, contrite.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he tells me harshly, his hand still pinching tentatively at his nose.

  I roll my eyes. “Let me see.”

  “No.” He wears a scowl meant to dissuade me, and the entire population, from coming nearer, but I give no credibility to it.

  “Stop being a baby and let me see. I think I broke it.” He shifts out of my reach. “I’m trying to be nice,” I snap. I’ve also decided to stay, I think to myself bitterly, and it has nothing to do with the brute in front of me.

  “No thanks.”

  My hand darts out and grabs his wrist before he can stop me. His eyes widen in alarm as mine flash with triumph. When I pull his hand away, I don’t take much account of the way my hand slips down a few inches, that is, until I feel it.

  It’s like being doused with ice water, bringing about a chill that wracks my body, only to be chased down by feverish flames. It is mind-numbing this feeling. This sensation. It dulls the senses and forces upon me wave after wave of intoxicating rapture.

  The door to the cellar crashes open, and we leap apart, though our eyes are unable to release each other.

  “Well, well, well,” an oddly familiar arrogant voice coos. My gaze turns to him hesitantly, eyeing the newcomer with veiled interest. Had this man been one of the wolves robbing the Banks Facility? “Isn’t this going to be fun.”

  Keenan’s shoulders stiffen, his back going needle straight. He turns a vicious glare on the intruder, some twenty-something, raven-haired man with a devilish grin. It has little effect.

  “It was nothing,” Keenan manages to say past gritted teeth. I swallow at the harsh words, but make no move to speak up. The other man takes a step forward, mouth opening to address us once more when Keenan makes a beeline for the door. I watch with a grim expression on my face as Keenan’s shoulder smashes into the man as he makes his escape.

  “Don’t take it too personally, sweetheart,” the raven-haired man mocks, rubbing lightly at his chest as he observes me in my state of mild distress. Too late for that, I think, wondering what kind of wolf I’ve been left to deal with this time. “Be a doll and get back into your cell, will you? Someone will be down later with lunch, while I attend to Mr. Grouch.”

  Though his words are spoken jovially, the underlining steel to them isn’t something I’m willing to test. Nor are the two men who stand only a few feet behind him. I walk stiffly back into the cell. Closing the door with a heavy hand as I stare down the grinning wolf.

  “Good girl,” he mocks, before walking out and closing the cellar door firmly behind him.

  Chapter 9

  Girl Talk

  Hours pass slowly as I drift in and out of fretful sleep. Though my body longs for rest, my mind is a flurry of activity, planning and plotting what to do next. A rapping sounds against the cellar room door, three quick knocks, one after the other, and effectively pulling me from my reverie. A blonde head pokes out from behind the door a second later.

  “Knock, knock,” she announces in a cheery voice, stepping fully inside. Her hands go behind her back as she approaches my cell. Head twisting with feigned curiosity as she examines the room. Not that there is much too examine now that the chairs and debris have been cleared.

  I give her a long once-over during her perusal of the room. Long blonde hair. Blue eyes. Not exactly tall, but with the heels, she gains a few extra inches. Barbie doll, I think faintly. It’s a far cry from the last person I saw. Some lanky teenage boy carrying a tray with an impressively stacked sandwich and a glass of water on it. The new food tray replaced the old, my refusal still standing strong. But this woman brought nothing with her, except for that curious look on her face.

  “You know,” she drawls, eyes sparkling mischievously, “the last time I was down here, I thought it was some kind of sex dungeon.”

  Huh. I give a rather pathetic raise of my shoulders in response. My energy has long since left me since this morning, and refusing the food has left me feeling more drained than I want to be. “Interesting theory,” I finally say as her expectant gaze lingers on.

  “It’s not,” she assures me, leaning up against the bars of the cell, “but, rest assured, sex has been had down here.” The blonde attempts to wiggle her brows then shoots me a wink instead. “The pack prefers to use this place as a holding cell of sorts—oh, I’m Quinn, by the way.” She outstretches her hand to me, easily slipping it through the bars. “I’m a ‘normy,' if you were curious about that. It’s what I’m calling all nonsupernatural persons. And yes, I am working on a better name.”

  “How about human?” I offer halfheartedly.

  She rolls her eyes, hand still extended and waiting expectantly. “That’s so passé,” Quinn informs me. “Are you going to shake my hand or keep sitting there brooding?”

  “I’m concussed,” I tell her dryly, “so no. I’m not going to get up and shake your hand.” It drops back down to her side, but she remains leaning against the bars, giving me an unimpressed look. “And I’m not brooding. I’m plotting.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes sparkle with true interest. “I love a good plot. You know, before finding out that all of this was real—lycans, witches, and vampires—I was a very distinguished thief.” A soft humming stirs from her throat as she gains a far-off look in her eyes. “I could orchestrate some pretty grand schemes back in the day. ‘The day’ being just a couple weeks ago. You and yours should really think about upgrading your security system against nonparanormal beings.”

  Her words hit their mark, but it’s the somewhat smug expression dripping from her eyes that makes my blood pressure rise. “You planned that? You?”

  “Well, not just by myself. I have a partner in crime now—literally.” She lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “Ryatt helped coordinate specifics since I'm used to doing more solo ventures.”

  “You,” I breathe. “I remember you.” And I do. She was the human hidden amongst the wolves on the night of the first wolf attack.

  “Yeah,” she responds, followed by a light scoff, “and I remember you. You tackled and pinned me to the ground. Then had some weird panic attack. Then”—her eyes go slightly wide—"you stabbed my boyfriend in the foot. He was not pleased about that, and you ruined a very nice pair of boots. Don't worry, it healed quickly enough, and he got a new pair of boots."

  “I did not have a panic attack,” I snap back. I’m surprised at the amount of venom coating my words, and from the looks of it, so is she. A flash of momentary distress flickers over her features before it smooths back down into a perfect mask of indifference.

  “Fine,” Quinn responds, tone bearing frost, “you didn’t. Whatever.”

  “Is there a reason you're down here?” I finally ask, forcing my sour attitude down.

  She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I just thought you might like to know that we have your weapons here. And until we can figure out what to do with you, they’ll be staying in our possession.”

  How unsurprising. “Like calls to like,” I tell her dully.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asks after a moment's hesitation. I put on a bemused, yet patronizing look and draw myself up from the bed.

  “You’ve heard the phrase, ‘birds of a feather flock together,' right?” I ask as I approach Quinn's leaning form. She nods, lips thinning ever so slightly as mine stretch into a wide smile. “Good. Then you’ll understand why it’s not so hard for me to believe that a thief, and her rousing band of wolf thieves, would decide to keep pieces of property that don’t belong to them.”

  Quinn flashes me a false smile.
“Gee, thanks for explaining that to me.”

  “You’re welcome,” I quip, walking back over to the cot and sitting down. There’s a dull, yet persistent, throbbing at the base of my skull. It somehow radiates down into the rest of my body, making my new bruises slightly more painful. Fighting had proven to be a bad decision for my mild concussion. “Anything else?”

  “It could be worse, you know.”

  “Worse than having priceless artifacts stolen from your community? Worse than risking everything to save a friend only to fail? Worse than being stuck in this glorified dog cage?” I scoot back on the cot, resting my back and head against the cool cement wall. My eyes trained straight ahead.

  “Your stuff could be with the vampire.” I turn my head to read the look on her face. The cool mask she wears seems to have dropped, replaced instead with something a bit more honest.

  Human, I think. What is this human girl doing here? And helping a pack of wolves, no less? The man she spoke of earlier, Ryatt, must be a wolf in this pack. And if this woman is allowed to know their supernatural secret, then she must be his soulmark. I pivot my gaze, swallowing past the odd lump in my throat.

  “It’s vampyré, technically speaking,” I correct her gently, “and you’re right. It would be much worse if the vampyré got hold of our stuff.”

  Quinn lets out a little sigh and folds down to take a seat on the floor. “Vampyré sounds terribly chic in comparison,” she voices thoughtfully.

  “They’re definitely terrible,” I remark. We make eye contact. A strange understanding passes between us.

  “I know,” she says, a small frown pulling at her brow as her gaze darts to the floor. “The vampyré who was out there yesterday night—he’s the one we’re trying to keep all your stuff from—his name is Jakub Vrana. I used to work for him, and I know just how terrible he can be.”

  “Do you make a habit of working for supernatural creatures, or is it just a weird coincidence?”

  A laugh tumbles from her mouth as she shakes her head. “The latter,” she confides, stretching her legs out with a happy sigh. “I didn’t actually know I was working for a vampyré until I met Ryatt, which is a whole other story that I will not get into unless tequila is involved.”

  “So, you took the ring to keep it away from this Mr. Vrana?”

  Quinn stays quiet for a while, mulling over my answer. At one point, her gaze shifts to the camera in the far corner of the room, looking contrite.

  “Yes,” she finally says. “He’s been after it for some time now, but we can’t seem to ferret out why.”

  I raise my shoulders an inch then let them fall. “True daylight rings are something like the Holy Grail to vampyrés. They have all this power and strength, which only grows with age, but they’re bound to the night. It’s their greatest limitation, and a daylight ring circumvents that limitation.” I hate to think about what Vogart’s Blade might mean to the collection of vampyré on this earth, but it’s one I cannot avoid. If the legends are true, it could turn back only the newly turned, which might not mean much to centuries-old vampyrés. Unfortunately, the blade is still a weapon to be coveted, and if knowledge of its true origins is learned, we’d have another problem on our hands.

  “Gotcha.”

  “Anything else of significance happen last night that I should know about? Did any of your pack happen to grab a thigh-length jacket from the forest floor?” I ask the questions lightly and manage a cool veneer, though I’m desperate to know more news.

  “I don’t know about the jacket, but I can check for you,” she offers. “The only other significant thing that happened last night was Mr. Vrana and his associate getting away.”

  The lingering worry I harbor over Nova washes away with Quinn’s news. She is still alive. There is still hope. I settle back against the wall a bit deeper and let out a long, steady sigh. Good. This is good.

  “Vampyrés are known for their speed,” I comment. “It’s not too surprising they got away, especially considering they were prepared for our arrival.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrow. “He did seem unusually prepared, but the associate of his is a new addition.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It is,” she agrees. “After hearing Ryatt’s version of last night’s events, it sounds like Vrana was more than prepared, for both you and your friends, along with the pack. Whatever those creatures were, they stirred up enough mayhem to distract the pack and your people from chasing after Vrana and his associate. It was a well-planned exit.”

  “It’s unwise to underestimate a vampyré,” I say, avoiding the topic she edges around.

  “Trust me. I know.” A dark look flashes behind her eyes before they focus on me with clear intent. “Vrana is working with a rival pack to secure the ring, but even they wouldn’t have known you’d be coming last night. We certainly didn't expect to see you. Not after that small group of your people ran the other night during a different fight at the territory line. So how could Vrana have possibly known you would come back? He’s not omniscient.”

  I focus on my breathing instead of Quinn’s questions and implications. It comes at short intervals and makes the throbbing in my head seem more pronounced, especially as I try to think of an answer to give Quinn. Is it worth it to tell her the truth? What will it accomplish if I do? I certainly didn’t trust this pack of wolves with the truth about Vogart’s Blade.

  “Well?”

  “The new associate, she’s my... friend," I choke out, a storm of emotion clogged in my throat. "My best friend. She was with the group that was out here the other night, doing surveillance on the wolves and the witches. Your Mr. Vrana took her.”

  “Oh.” The small utterance passes as a condolence, and again our eyes meet. “He certainly likes to make a habit of killing people as a means to show off his power,” she says bitterly.

  “We did come for the ring,” I tell her truthfully, “but we also came for her. We thought Vrana turned her just to leave her at the mercy of the wolves.”

  “What exactly were you going to do if you caught your friend? Aren’t new vampyrés supposed to be crazy?”

  “Not so much crazy, as they’re driven by bloodlust,” I remark, dodging the question.

  “Sounds crazy to me!” she chirps. “Anyway, aren’t you and your friends like, professional supernatural haters?”

  “Professional supernatural haters?” I repeat dubiously. “That is—who said that?”

  She waves a hand dismissively at my indignation. “It doesn’t matter. It’s totally obvious to anyone with eyes that you don’t like supernaturals. Which begs the question as to what you planned to do with your newly turned vampyré friend.”

  “Turn her back.” The words feel like bombs as they drop from my mouth. The weight of their significance heightened when said aloud to one of my captors. Quinn looks startled from their impact. “And we’re not professional haters,” I correct before she can chime in. “We're the Wardens of Starlight. We're blessed with the power of the Aurora Borealis to protect the people of the world from dark supernatural creatures.”

  “But vampyrés are dark supernatural creatures,” she ventures softly.

  I give a grim nod. “I know. But there was—there is—a small chance that if we get her back to our base, we can reverse the effects. The longer she stays turned though, the smaller our chance gets.” The words are painful to say, but that happens sometimes when dealing with the truth. Chances of helping Nova grow smaller and smaller as the minutes tic by, but I’m determined to hold out hope.

  “Reverse vampyrism? Like with a potion?”

  I don’t offer any confirmation, though I hear the trace of curiosity in her voice. “All magic—curses, spells, and charms—have a counteract of some kind. A way to reverse what has been done. A back door. A loophole,” I explain. “Even the strongest of spells and curses do.”