Eternal Demon: Mark of the Vampire

by Wright, Laura

  Her skin tightened around her muscles, and she forced her mind to think beyond the immediate. Panic was out of the question; fight too, for she had no weapon that could match his brawn. What she did have were brains and—

  The male yanked open the door and headed down a set of stairs. With each step, cold infused Hellen’s skin, a dark, mean cold that threatened those brains she had been relying on a second ago. But she pressed against it. Again she craned her neck to see where they were going. It was brighter than it had been in the foyer, and when the male hit the last step, she could see the room that met them far too well. It was circular and damp, with stone walls that looked anything but clean. Her heart pounding against her ribs, she noticed that there were three doors cut into the rock, thick torches in ancient holders bracketing each. What the hell is behind those? she wondered. But the question floated away, became absolutely insignificant, when she saw what was bolted into the remaining wall.

  A rusty set of shackles.

  For both hands and feet.

  Terror like she’d never known surged through her. But she forced it back. Fear would serve no purpose except to aid him. She had to remain calm and plot, plan.

  “You think that’s where you’re going to put me, asshole?” she said, purposefully adding a hint of confident humor she didn’t feel into her tone. He would not know how her belly clenched and her heart raced.

  “If you don’t play nice.” The bloodsucker grabbed her shoulders and whirled her around, then set her on her feet. He called to someone to her left, “Take her—hold her, Cayman.”

  A large, pale-skinned, thin-lipped male crept out from the shadows near the base of the stairs and moved toward her. Shit. She tensed. What the hell was this? Were there more? More hiding in the shadows? Hellen hissed at him, flashed her demon eyes. Immediately, he slowed his pace, looking wary.

  Wise male.

  And if she was willing to venture a guess, not nearly as powerful as his master.

  Hope snaked through her blood. Perhaps they were all this meek; perhaps she could manage an escape after all.

  The bloodsucker whose chest brushed against her back growled at the male servant. “You hesitate over this insignificant female?”

  Yes, she mused, staring at the guard, giving him her ugliest glare, her most fearsome expression. Come here and I’ll show you insignificant.

  The male backed up a foot.

  “You embarrass yourself, Cayman, and me,” the bloodsucker said tightly. “She is only a female. Do you wish the rest of the guards to know your shame?”

  His words hit their mark with perfect accuracy. The guard’s pale skin flushed with heat, and though he kept his eyes below her chin, he strode forward and took her by the shoulders. He yanked her against him in a display of masculine assholery, holding her far tighter than the brute male had. So tight, in fact, that she could feel his private parts against her belly. She glared at him, growled low in her throat, hoping he would take the hint and loosen his hold, but he didn’t.

  Satisfied that his servant had control, the bloodsucker walked away from them. He opened the door to one of the rooms cut into the stone wall and entered.

  Now. Do it now.

  Shit. Do something or you’re done for. Make a move or you’re not your father’s daughter.

  Hellen scoured every inch of the dungeon with her gaze. As she’d thought, this male, though he held her tightly, didn’t have near the strength of the bloodsucker. She could sense it. But she would let him think he did. She would press against his inferior hold, make it seem as though she were attempting to fight, then sigh with frustration at being caught.

  She studied each door, the stairs. She’d have to be quick. Who knew when the bloodsucker would be back? Her gaze caught a patch of pale light behind the stairs, and her heart pumped furiously. The light, it moved, changed. She started to struggle, inching them toward the light so she could get a better look.

  The male gripped her arms shockingly tight.

  “Move again, and I’ll knock you out,” he warned, though beneath his threat lay a tremble of insecurity.

  The pain was nothing. She saw it fully now. A small window and the strange, erratic light. It was rain. Hope flared. Rain would make it harder for him to track her.

  It’s now or never.

  Whimpering as if she was in pain, she sagged against the guard. When he loosened his hold to get a better one, she grabbed his arms and pushed herself back. Silent and fierce, she struck. Three solid moves: head butt, elbow to the neck, then her knee slamming up directly into those less-than formidable male parts she’d felt earlier.

  The male was stunned, his face a drastic shock of pain, before he dropped to one knee on the stone.

  Hellen didn’t wait to see anything more. She bolted past him, sprinted across the floor, and leaped at the window, shoulder first.

  • • •

  The bargain had been struck centuries ago. Magic, powerful blood for a promise. Unsatisfied by the meager power of his race, Cruen had wanted to create the ultimate vampire. Something he could use and control. But his attempts to blend DNA within the vampire community had failed. He’d needed something more, someone who had what he lacked.

  He’d found the Devil, Abbadon.

  The trip into the Underworld so long ago had nearly cost him his life, but it had been worth it. The blood Cruen had consumed from Abbadon’s veins had made him unstoppable, and the blood he’d extracted from himself, then mixed with shifter DNA, had made the Breeding Male. For decades it had been a happy bargain.

  Until he’d accidentally infected himself and become mutore.

  And until the Devil had called in his marker.

  Inside his chamber, Cruen’s nostrils flared with disgust. She was here. Abbadon’s firstborn. The thing he had promised to mate. The creature he would take to his bed until the first child of both hell and earth was born.

  The child Abbadon had never been able to create himself—the child he believed would have just the right magical balance in its DNA to be able to remain on either plane. A gene the Devil would extract and use to finally be able to remain on Earth.

  Cruen gazed up at the portrait in his bedchamber, at the female he would kill to have in his bed. Yes, the veana who gazed down at him, Pureblood, pure vampire, ripe and beautiful, intelligent and wicked. He would do anything to possess her again. And, in fact, he was.

  Mating with the demon female Hellen would grant him all the power of the Underworld, and once she bore the heir her father so desperately wanted, Cruen would finally be free to seek out the veana he’d always wanted.

  Celestine.

  They would live together, love as he’d always known they were meant to. As he continued his work with the Breeding Male and Female, she would be at his side. She would encourage him, support him, love him. And in return he would tell her of the daughter they’d made together—the daughter Celestine had always thought had died at birth.

  Movement at the door drew Cruen’s attention away from the portrait. “What is it, Gale?”

  His servant hovered, his eyes not meeting his master’s. “She has arrived, my lord.”

  “Very good. Bring her to my antechamber.”

  Cruen forced good humor as he left his private room and went next door to his offices. He would steel himself for what would come, both female and the power her presence brought forth. For if he failed to mate with her, Abbadon would cut him off completely. As it was, the demon king was granting him blood only sparingly until the match was made.

  Cruen scented the demon female as she approached his office, scented her blood—after all, her father’s blood was within him too.

  A hooded figure appeared in his doorway.

  “Come,” Cruen said, keeping his tone amenable.

  The figure did as she was instructed, stepping into the room. But once insi
de, she removed her hood and stood before him with a worried frown.

  Cruen sneered. “You are not she,” he uttered, his gaze running the length of her. This demon female was beautiful, demure, and nervous. He knew what awaited him, and this was not it.

  The female paled. “No.”

  “What is this?” He stood, glanced behind her to his guard. “Where is the one I’m to mate?”

  He could not risk Abbadon’s wrath or his refusal to give his blood.

  The guard stepped forward, but it was the female who spoke. “The coach brought us here, but without Hellen.” She bit her lip. “My sister was taken, my lord. As we traveled. The coach was waylaid, and she was taken by . . . by—”

  “By what?” Cruen said venomously, moving toward her.

  Someone was about to die for interfering with this grand bargain.

  “I’m not sure,” she continued. “It was a male. Dark, powerful—something akin to the ones in the Underworld.” She looked pained. “That cannot be possible, I know.”

  The room began to vibrate, and Cruen felt his blood, Abbadon’s blood, heat in his veins. No. This could not be, and yet . . . How would the paven know about his demon female?

  His gaze narrowed on the female. “Was this male dark-haired, with eyes like stars?”

  “Yes! You know him, then.” She seemed relieved.

  Cruen’s jaw tightened, and he said through gritted teeth, “I know him.”

  He is my son.

  “Then he will bring her to you.”

  Yes. He will bring her. “For a price.” Cruen cursed his foolish and impetuous decision. Taking Ladd from Erion had been meant only as a way to bring the eldest paven home to him, where he belonged. He could never have imagined the male getting his claws on Cruen’s power source.

  “I do not understand,” the female before him said, her brows drawn together, her claim on relief gone.

  Cruen gestured to the guard. “Take her away.”

  “No! Please. My sister.”

  Time was precious, and Hellen’s sister was not. He owed her nothing. As the guard removed her, Cruen shut the door on her anxious pleas. Erion. How had the paven known about his impending nuptials? It was impossible. And now he had taken the demon female and was holding her ransom for the balas.

  Cruen cursed and paced the room. He wanted his mutore children back home, but keeping his fangs inside the vein of the demon king would always come first. If he wished to regain his power, and the love of the veana he desired most, it must.

  3

  The epic sound of glass shattering and hitting stone brought Erion bolting from the room that was to be the female’s cell while she remained with him. His gaze went first to the guard who was staggering to his feet, cupping his balls, then to the window. That small, inconsequential window that had just allowed his prisoner to escape.

  “Shit!”

  No female, no balas.

  Erion ignored the guard. Every predatory instinct inside him had ratcheted up to high. There was no way he could make it through the tiny crawl space; he was going to have to get outside the old-fashioned way. He tore up the stairs and down hall after hall until he reached the entryway. The light was dim, the candles nearly burned down, but he could see everything. His diamond eyes were useful in the dark. They would help him find her. They must. There was no way he was allowing his bargaining chip to escape. Panic flared inside him as he burst out the front door into the gentle rain. The boy needed him.

  He sniffed the air. It wasn’t easy to locate her direction in the mist. His nose was good, but it did not have the strength of Lycos’s. That wolf mutore could scent a rabbit at a thousand feet in a tornado.

  Scent pushed into Erion’s eager nostrils and his body tensed. Ahhhh . . . There she was. His prisoner. He growled into the night and took off into the rows of sleeping grapevines. He wasn’t sure what the female was—human or otherwise—but she couldn’t flash; he knew that. And she had no vampire blood in her. Not yet anyway—not until she was reunited with her beloved.

  He flash-ran, one stop to the next, row after row of vines, and toward the hillside, following her scent. The woman was running to Cruen for protection and mating. Cruen! Making Erion seem like the evil one. What a sick joke. In the valley between the hillocks, he stopped at a tree and ran his nose down the bark-covered trunk. What female in her right mind would agree to wed that bastard? Granted, she was a vile-tempered creature, but she was truly the most beautiful female he’d ever seen in his life. A face to die for, and a body to live for. She could stake claim to any male of her choosing, surely. Why that paven? A male so incapable of love?

  Catching her scent again, he flashed over the hill, then to the outskirts of town. He stood atop the rise, his gaze panning the landscape, buildings, homes, and churches. This was human territory, and he needed to be cautious. The rain fell harder now, soaking through his clothes, causing his hair to lengthen and grow heavy, but it didn’t mask the intense scent that shot up his nostrils.

  It wasn’t the woman, and it reminded him of Lycos. Canine. Dammit! He whirled around, flashed into the woods on the far side of the village. Where the hell had she gone? She couldn’t have gotten far. He flashed again. Then again. He was dripping wet and spitting ire when he dropped down in a dark alleyway behind a pub in the village. He leaned back against the stone, cursing himself, cursing Cruen, when suddenly he caught her scent. It was mixed up in the scents of other animals, but he instantly took off toward it.

  The village was quiet and dark, everyone tucked away, escaping the rain. Erion’s insides shook as the woman’s scent grew thicker, sweeter, inside his nostrils. He came to the edge of the church grounds and slowed. This is where she hid. He moved out of sight quickly, down the alley behind the church. He would have to come upon her without detection and attack without pity. He couldn’t have her running away again.

  Her scent continued to thicken with every step. It was a heady, delectable aroma that made his lower half stir, but he forced that disturbing realization away. She was bait, his bargaining chip to have Ladd back where he belonged, and he was nearly upon her. He rounded the corner, flashed ten feet ahead to the steps of the church, where he believed she took cover. But no woman stood before him, no female scream met his ears. There was only the yip of a canine whose tail was now lodged under Erion’s boot.

  “Damn it!” Erion stepped back and waved away the little brown-and-white beast who’d no doubt escaped his home in the village. “Get.”

  But the dog didn’t run. He crouched down and growled.

  Erion’s gaze shifted to take in the churchyard beyond, then returned to the canine. “I have nothing for you, mongrel. Move on. Go back to the humans you belong to.”

  The dog growled again, then barked—three times in succession.

  Something fell from its mouth. It was white against the black pavement. The rain quickly soaked it through, but Erion could tell it was a strip of fabric. He bent down, reached for it, but the dog snatched it back up and stood a foot away, his eyes wary.

  Erion glared at the mongrel. “Come.”

  The animal growled again, then started to back away.

  “Now, Beast,” he ordered in his darkest, deepest voice. “Come to me.”

  The canine’s eyes flashed before he bent his head and dropped the fabric into a growing puddle.

  Erion watched the white strip disappear into the murky depths. Impossible, he mused. And yet . . . He glanced up, locked eyes with the dog. “You know where she is?”

  The dog cocked his head to one side and yipped, then turned around and ran.

  • • •

  “It’s like a bloody church service in here,” Synjon said as he followed Lucian through the quiet, dimly lit house. “Where is everyone?”

  “We’ve had a bit of bad luck recently.”

  Synjon grunted. “Welc
ome to the club.”

  “Where have you really been, Brit Boy?”

  “Trying to off myself.”

  Lucian glanced over his shoulder, one pale eyebrow lifted sardonically. “Didn’t take?”

  “Sure it did. I’m a hologram.”

  Lucian chuckled and led Synjon into the library. “Well, you still have some fight left in you. That’s good.”

  “Just enough for one kill.” If I can just get to him.

  Lucian dropped into a leather armchair and gestured for Syn to take the one opposite. But he didn’t want to sit, couldn’t sit. He had too much pent-up energy inside him. His hands clenched and unclenched, hungry for a weapon, and his mind urged him to plan, plot . . .

  “I think I know the target,” Lucian said with a grunt of satisfaction. “Mastermind, master manipulator, master fucking murderer. Cruen?”

  Just the ruddy bastard’s name set Syn’s fangs on edge. “An easy guess, mate.”

  He paced back and forth in front of Lucian, his adrenaline at a fever pitch. Just like it had been for the past seven months. Ever since he’d left the South American rain forest, given Juliet’s body over to the sun, then allowed himself to grieve in the arms of the veana who had saved his life when he’d wanted to end it and follow Juliet.

  The veana who had left him while he slept.

  Petra.

  Crickey, just bringing her name to the surface of his mind made the guilt pulse inside him. Juliet’s murderer was still out there, breathing . . . his only thought should be on how best to take that breath away.

  “I’ve been in South America,” Syn offered as he moved from one side of the room to the other. “I buried the one he killed.”

  “Juliet,” Lucian said softly.

  Pausing for a moment near the armchair, Synjon nodded. “Now it’s Cruen’s turn to be laid out in the sun. But I’m having a hard time getting to him.”

  Lucian nodded. “As are we.”