“You should have told me!” he fumed in a guttural snarl. “A vampire? We have women here - women who know what we are and still choose to climb into our beds. Why the hell would you taint yourself with a vampire?!”
Graeme shouldered past him with something of a threatening growl. He did not want to scrutinize what he felt in his chest where she was concerned, and he sure as hell did not want Rhys prying into exactly why he felt whatever it was that he felt. He asked himself that too many times to recount and was still unable to figure it out.
“If the men find out -”
Graeme turned about in a flash and met his angry gaze. “How will they find out?”
He inhaled sharply. When he spoke, his voice near trembled. “Then you have betrayed your horde by choosing to bed a vampire!”
Graeme felt his control on the verge of breaking. “I have not chosen her! She is being ransomed the day after tomorrow. With a hundred less hunters we will strike hard and fast, and would be one step closer to annihilating their race!” Almost nose to nose now, Graeme saw that Rhys was still not fully convinced. He turned away, breaths taken in violently. Rhys was the closest thing he had to a friend. He did not want to make him an enemy for the sake of a disagreement. “With the dawn you will gather the men and have them prepared.”
He attempted to walk away, but Rhys’ heavy hand stayed him. Graeme tensed when the man’s husky voice touched his ear. “Your pet does not carry a scent.”
He reeled away and snarled. “What nonsense do you speak of now?”
Rhys nodded toward the door, his face contorted with the effort to control himself. “That is what lured me here. I could not scent her, so I came to see if she had managed to escape. She is there – but her scent is not. You know what that means.”
Graeme shook his head in denial and swallowed with difficulty. Vampires lost their scent as a defense mechanism for only two reasons – if badly wounded, or to protect a new life within their bodies. His wide eyes looked at the heavy, bolted door and he paled considerably. “It is impossible!”
Rhys raked his fingers through the length of his hair. “Or so we thought. She is carrying whatever you put inside of her Graeme. It is neither vampire or Were. If the horde finds out about this, you and your pet will be butchered! Her Coven will not take kindly to that either. You have to do something.”
“What would you have me do? Hand her over to the horde or kill her myself?”
Rhys inhaled a fortifying breath. “Whatever you decide, know this – if I am forced to choose between the vampire and the horde, I will not choose her.”
Graeme listened to the heavy steps he took as he retreated. For a dazed moment he stood there, unable to bring his wooden feet to move. He sniffed gently. All he could detect was his scent, heavy in the air. He tried again. His effort proved futile.
Suddenly weakened as if drugged, he stumbled away and made a hasty exit toward the narrow staircase. He needed to find the largest cask of mead he owned, and he needed to do so fast.
****
Amarinda pressed her forehead to the door and closed her eyes tightly. Surely the exchange she had just overheard was wrong! Surely she could not be carrying his child in her womb! She pressed her splayed fingers to her abdomen and made a mad dash for the length of glass across the room. In a flash her clothes were undone. She turned this way and that, trying to find the slightest hint of a bump there. Her stomach was as flat and as unblemished as it had always been.
When Rhys had charged into the chamber a few minutes earlier it was to look at her with more disdain than usual. He had not ventured beyond the first three steps, but even from her perch near the window she saw how desperately he wanted to do her bodily harm. She had panicked, and had launched to her feet in a swift attempt at defending herself. The change had distorted his features considerably, and she knew then that if shown the slightest sign of fear, he would hurt her.
“Graeme would not take kindly to you being here,” she heard herself say. Instinct had forced her to take refuge in the use of his name. Rhys’ eyes had blazed like a furnace. She had readied herself for his attack. The snarl on his face and the tensed, coiled manner he held his form should have resulted in an impressive sprint. Instead, he turned about and had slammed the door with a vengeance. She had crumpled in relief the instant she scented Graeme’s approach. On weakened knees she made it to the locked door – and had heard everything.
She was pregnant.
Awed, she inspected her body thoroughly. There must have been some other form of evidence that what they said was true. And how could it be so and she was not aware of such a fact? Surely she should have sensed something.
Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the sound of the blood rushing heatedly through her veins. She heard the thunder of her heart and felt tenfold the expansion of her lungs each time she took a breath. Every sensation became heightened now that she concentrated. The roughly hewn stone beneath her toes was numbingly cold. The fire that was kept burning in the hearth radiated a heat that her pores sucked in greedily. The stagnant air was moist with the heavy scent of their love making. Still, she could neither feel nor sense a child.
She frowned. It was said that the only thing more accurate than a blood-hound’s sense of scent was that of a Were. She needed to know for certain. If it was so, then there was no possible way she could return to the Coven now. They would see her punished, and would have the child killed long before it breathed its’ first breath. The thought was too daunting to consider. Still, what could she possibly do? Whether or not she was with child, he would ransom her. She meant nothing to him when he recognized her as his mate, and she meant nothing to him now. He had said it to Rhys – he did not choose her. Trembling, she donned her clothing and settled herself on the bed.
If there was indeed a baby in her womb, she would have to escape this place. That in itself would prove impossible, for he would have the entire stronghold locked down the minute he realized that she was gone. If the Weres recognized that she carried no scent, then chances were the Hunters would as well. They, however, would not lay an abusive hand on her until the Elder ordered it. To escape such a fate and save the life within her, she would have to find some means of fleeing their escort back to the manse.
Biting her nails nervously, she tried to steady her breathing.
There is no need to worry yet, she chided herself.
First, she had to confirm the suspicion. Then, she needed to feed.
****
He had not come.
Amarinda considered the contrast of her pale hands against the dark fur she had ensconced herself in to ward off the cold. The threat of tears burned her eyes. She allowed the fat droplets to trickle down her face and splash into her lap. Even if she tried to blink them away, they fell all the same.
Tonight she would be ransomed. Tonight she would be brought with the lives of the Hunters who were sworn to protect her – she would be returned by her mate who she was now bound to until her last breath.
As the daylight faded, the ache in her heart only grew, and so did her fear. Still, she was uncertain about the validity of Rhys’ claim. But if he was wrong, why did Graeme abandon her? She had hoped to share her last moments at the stronghold with him. She wanted to savor a last kiss, a last touch. Instead, she was left cold, alone and afraid.
At dusk, she caught his scent down the hall. Heart thundering, she positioned herself close to the window and presented a very cold exterior. His footsteps were soft when he approached the locked door. He paused there. She waited, wanting him to venture, half afraid that he would not. The echo of metal grating preceded a flutter within her stomach. A quiver shot through her. On gently protesting hinges, the door was pushed in. Even with her back facing him, she knew he looked at her.
“Tonight is the new moon,” she offered to fill the silence that was beginning to stretch between them.
He advanced in slow, calculated steps. “So it is.”
> She could not bring herself to look at him. The pain within her breast proved near overwhelming. “There is something I must ask you.” When he said nothing, she took that as a sign that he was listening and continued. “Is it true that I carry no scent?”
For a painstaking moment he was silent. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained. “Yes.”
Amarinda hiccupped and sucked in an agonizing gasp. She darted to her feet and faced him squarely, eyes swamped with unshed tears. His hair was wet and he smelled of fresh water and herbs, and his eyes, dark in the shadows, were focused upon her. She cleared her throat and worked her jaw in an attempt to speak. “Do – do you hear it?”
Another pause. She noted the way he cocked his head and focused. With baited breath, she waited. He stepped forward almost hesitantly and tried again before shaking his head.
“Then – then maybe you are mistaken. Maybe -”
“You are with child Amarinda,” he sliced in softly. Trembling, she found her way to the bed and sank her weight into the furs. Hearing him speak the words chased rational thought out of her mind. In that split second she had forgotten about her plan to escape the Coven. It was the sudden shift of the bed that forced her to look up and acknowledge his presence. He did not touch her. They sat unspeaking for a long time.
Amarinda interlocked her fingers and chewed on her lower lip, the mechanisms in her brain working incessantly. It was winter, and she did not know these lands. As far as she could see, the stronghold was well hidden in the depths of the mountains. The Hunters had been trained to track since they could walk. They would find her effortlessly, and upon her capture, the Elder would no doubt include a more brutal form of punishment for her attempt to flee. Not only would there be the Hunters, but Weres as well. Because she had lost her scent, they might not harm her, but would be suspicious all the same. She would have to trade in her clothes for a used, human garb in order to side-track their enquiry. Her only other option would be to ask him for help.
She hesitated and dashed tears from her eyes promptly. She would find no aid here. He had not marked her, and he was set on seeing her ransomed. She would have to take her chances with the Hunters.
“I will return before midnight. Be ready and waiting.” His tone was clipped and had lost all tenderness. Stung, she pushed away the hurt and darted to her feet before he made it to the door.
“It is cold and I am hungry. I would like a boon of warm clothing and…”
He looked at her, and for a split second he appeared almost anguished. Still, he turned to her and unclipped the thick fur from around his neck. It was adjusted about her shoulders slowly. Amarinda stood unmoving, relishing each brush his hands made against her body. When he slipped off the shirt and offered his neck, she closed her eyes and leaned into his whipcord frame. Her teeth breeched the wall of his skin and she heard him hiss at the agony there. The pleasure would come. It always made him loose control. She waited for it, needing him now more than ever. He trembled, and when his fingers sank into her arms painfully, it was to push her away. There was finality in the way he released her.
Amarinda pressed her pale fingers to the blood, stained on her lips and whimpered, the need deep in her belly becoming an urgent ache. His nostrils flared at the evidence of her desire. He stepped away, shirt in hand, and turned his back without as much as a backward glance.
She stumbled upon the bed feebly. The door was closed and bolted. Her hand went to her stomach protectively. This was his offspring. This was the reason she had to pull herself together and fight. Still, no matter how she tried to shake the hurt, it refused to cease.
Chapter Eight
“What is taking them so long?” Macer shifted on his mount, impatience heavy in his voice. Beside him, Vilirus did not offer a reply. His dark gaze was focused on the stronghold that was heavily guarded and well lit. From their position hidden just within the tree line, he noted the Weres that lined the outer wall.
“We should have brought more Hunters,” Macer continued softly. His horse pranced nervously beneath his agitated form. “Sutter said he would deliver on the eve of the new moon. He is late. If everything does not go according to plan -”
“He will not renege on his word,” Vilirus offered nonchalantly.
For a quarter of an hour they waited in silence. When the tell-tale rumbled of hoof beats was heard on the gentle wind, both men turned their mounts around and ventured deeper into the trees and away from the clearing. Moments later, Silas appeared. Behind each of the three horses was attached a lead rope, and on the ground, leaving a blood-stained trail in the cold dirt through two very large sacks, was the smell of dead flesh.
“What was that charlatans excuse for delivering so late?” demanded Macer.
Silas’ expression was guarded when he replied. “The Lost proved less than – cooperative.”
Vilirus took control of his nervous horse with an expert hand. “We are being followed. They have been on our tails from the moment we came onto their territory.”
“Let us get this over with then. The moon is almost to the center of the sky. It is time.”
Before anyone could advance, something large and swift disturbed the trees in the darkness. The Hunters’ swords were in hand in a flash. Except for the hum of steel, they made no other sound. A decisive growl warned of an approach. Almost completely invisible to the human eye, beneath the thick canopy of leafless branches, they caught the Weres scent long before they clearly recognized his silhouette. He stood a few feet away, breathing evenly, body held tight as if ready to bolt at any moment. He did not pose a threat – yet. Of average height, Macer noted that he was built like an ox – wide in the shoulder and slim at the waist – and was covered in a thin layer of hair. His hands lingered at his sides. Clawed fingers twitched ever so slightly.
“Where is your master?” he whipped in ire.
The Were looked up at him through lowered lids. “My leader commands that you follow me.”
Macer nudged his mount forward and paused before looking down his nose. “We have brought the payment – a hundred heads as demanded. Tell that mongrel son of a bitch to bring my daughter here, to me.”
“Your insults may very well cost you your life, bloodsucker. If you do not follow me, he will see her killed. Then either way, it is your loss.”
He slinked back into the cover of the trees. Macer snarled and kicked his mount into a galloping run. The others followed. On silent feet the Were ran, and were it not for his scent that left a trail in his wake, the Hunters would have had a difficult time keeping pace. Well away from the clearing they rode until they came to a steep hill. Mounts were reigned in violently. Vilirus sniffed the air and frowned. Silas’ feet touched the hard earth before any other.
“They are near the water,” he informed, adjusting the sword on his back.
Vilirus chewed on his jaw brutally. “It could be an ambush.”
“He would not risk it – not this far from the stronghold.”
Macer was fast on his heels and wasted no time in unfettering the lead rope from the saddles. He wrapped both around his wrist and dragged the ransom behind him. Moving forward, he descended, sure footed. The Hunters followed close behind. Around them was much movement. Weres were seen lurking in the shadows, none veering close, but present all the same.
At the bottom of the hill, a small group waited - four Weres not counting the man on horseback nor the seven or so that was counted scouting the trees. At their leaders’ side a woman stood, her head covered with a thick cloak. Macer frowned and sniffed delicately. She smelled – human. For a moment rage enflamed him, but he checked his anger and pulled the large bags with steady fingers. Attentive, they all watched as he presented the first head. The many growls and grunts of victory sent his blood to a slow boil.
“Where is my daughter?” he demanded venomously. The Were on horseback studied him with care. Apart from his many escorts, he was the only one in his human form. Macer clenched his fists at his side and i
nhaled through his mouth, enduring the lengthy scrutiny with as much grace as he could muster. It was damn near difficult to breathe the scent of mangy dog. “We have done as you demanded. Your hundred heads are here – count them if you like. But you will hand my daughter over to me, or not one of you shall leave here alive this night!”
Guttural snarls resonated in the still air. Macer felt the hair upon his back stand on edge. Their leader reached for the heavy hood that concealed the face of the woman who stood close to his side. He pulled it back almost gently. She lifted her head. In the dim light of the moon, Macer choked on his voice.
Amarinda’s eyes were flooded with tears, gleaming brilliantly. There were no marks of abuse on her flesh. If anything, she had gained a few pounds. Almost weak with relief, he could not bring his heavy legs to move.
“Papa?” she whimpered huskily.
He swallowed the thick saliva that settled beneath his tongue and held out a hand. “Everything will be alright. You just come here to me.” She hesitated and stole a glance at the stoic Were beside her. Macer braved another step forward, hands trembling to touch her, to hold her, to ensure that no harm had come to her. “Amarinda, look at me.” Her tear-stained face regarded him. “I am here now. There is no need to be afraid.”
Macer could not be certain if the Were nudged her or not, but seconds later she had bolted and was running toward him. He launched forward and met her half-way. The moment her body connected with his, he sank to his knees. She wept onto his chest. Macer’s heart drummed violently.
“Hush, hush now love.” He stroked her hair. It was long and lustrous, brushed to a high shine. Her nails sank into the fur he wore, and for a moment he did nothing but savor the feel of her, safe in his arms. Then he inhaled. The garments she donned reeked of Human, but underneath, there was nothing. His body tensed considerably. Amarinda must have felt the sudden shift in his posture, for she ceased her weeping and lifted her head to meet his eyes.
“We are mated Papa,” she whispered. Her words hit him like a blow to the chest. He stumbled back and sat heavily before her kneeling form. “I – forgive me…”
The Sanction Page 7