by Michele Hauf
And now this delicious new distraction he wanted to bite. And suck. And drink. To ease his pain. To regain strength.
To afford escape.
Please, let her step closer.
A warm, pulsing, sexy female who shot off pheromones that screamed to both his tormented lust and hunger. He could hear her heartbeats, proud and strong. A trace of fear laced the strangely confident gush of gorgeous blood. Perfect. He could taste her already. She would be as sweet as those wide violet eyes of hers.
But blood did not run through her veins. Get it right. It was ichor, the faery version of blood. And those wings were so…not what he wanted.
Damn, damn, damn!
Ichor could sustain a vampire much like blood. It could also rock the vampire’s world, because ichor—naturally laced with faery dust—worked like a hallucinogenic drug, to the tenth power. But there was one caveat to the high: Faery dust was addictive. One taste and the vampire became like those human junkies who lived, breathed and sacrificed sanity for the crack pipe.
Rev didn’t want that. He was stronger than that. Nothing could take him down. Not even a sip of faery dust.
He needed blood. Rivers of hot, flowing crimson elixir. His body craved it. He'd licked his abraded wrists, but that only disgusted. His own blood did not satisfy.
“Bree,” he groaned, not recognizing his voice after days of mindless shouting, and then the parching effects of lacking blood. “Put them away. Your wings.”
“I can't. Sorry, it's—I can't control it right now. I recognize—uh, I can't say. You wouldn't understand. I want to help you, but one bite from me and you’ll become enchanted.”
What an exquisite word—enchanted. It spoke of faery tales and tender things, brilliant colors, and of daylight he could never again view.
“Enchanted doesn’t sound half bad,” he murmured, sinking in the delicious fantasy of it all. Luscious sparkling ichor spilling down his throat, launching him on a loopy brightness he never wanted to abandon. Maybe her wings didn't look so bad, kinda pretty, actually.
“You think?" she said. "You ever see a vampire on dust?”
“Yes.” His kind called them dust freaks. They were pitiful shells who were better off dead. “Not what I want.”
“That's what I hoped you’d say. Cheer up, Rev. It could be worse.”
He snatched the chain and lunged, his body forcing him toward what it craved. “Give me!”
“Sorry. Maybe this is your worse.”
Close to it. Rev couldn’t imagine anything worse than being chained and treated like an animal. Bloody werewolves.
Then again, addiction would be worse.
The light crackled under his skin and burned in his eyes and mouth. Yet it would not kill him. Nothing but a beheading and/or removal of his heart would bring final death—or a battle against another blood-starved vamp who would rip out his veins to get the last precious drops that sluiced through his system.
So what if she was a faery. He wouldn’t become addicted. How could he? One taste? He could handle it.
“Please,” he tried in a low tone. It didn’t sound as gentle as he wanted it to. He knew he was a bloody, sweaty mess. Not an appealing sight. He didn’t want to speak the words. He had never spoken surrender. But he no longer owned rationale. Desperation overwhelmed. “Help me.”
The faery shot a glance to the camera over his shoulder. He’d tried to take it out with a kick days ago—or had it been weeks?
“They want a show,” she said softly so if the wolves were listening they would not hear. As it was, Rev strained against the pounding blood in his ears to focus on her voice. Sweet sparkling tones. Enchant me. “I know you need something, Rev. But I won’t be responsible for your addiction.”
“Please. Better than this torture.”
“Just breathe. Relax. We can get through this.”
He lunged again, straining at the chains, pushing out his chest, but he got no closer to her. The faery stood with shoulders straight and breasts high. Gorgeous. Sensual. Full lips battled for attention against bright, curious eyes. Violet wings glowed red around the filmy, feathery edges, but she held them down and back as if ashamed to release them in their full glory. In any other situation, he’d make a pass at her—and only retreat when he learned her truth.
The only other option was starvation, and the eventual bloody fight he’d be forced to endure. The wolves starved vampires for weeks, then put them in cages, two at a time, and sold tickets and made bets on which vampire would kill the other first to get the blood he so desperately needed.
He did not want to go out that way. Hell, he had been working tactical for the Rescue Project. His job had been to get into the warehouses where wolves kept vampires and rescue them. What an idiot to get captured!
If the lights were turned off, and he could drink the faery’s ichor, he may gain enough strength to break the chains from the floor bolts.
“You’re messed up, Rev. I believe in the power of mind over matter, but no amount of Zen focus is going to help you. I’ll do it,” she suddenly said. “But on my terms.”
Yes.
“Anything.” He panted, hating his vulnerable position. And yet, he could still overpower her.
“Step back against the wall. And keep your arms down. You want this? I need to put myself close to you at my own pace.”
Sounded reasonable. Not really. And who was she to call the shots? Could he fight his own mad desire for blood? Hell, he'd do what he had to for a taste of her.
Rev slammed his body backward. Shoulders slapped the wall, as did his palms. The chains clanked against his thighs.
“Promise me, vampire. I don’t want to die.”
“W-won’t kill you,” he growled. Get on with it already!
“Promise?”
“Don’t need…your death. Just your life.”
She flinched at that statement. The faery slid her palms over her slender hips, her wings shuddered, and again she glanced at the camera. Pale white-blonde hair dusted her bare shoulders. She wore a violet sundress tied with thin straps about her neck. The short skirt revealed gorgeous legs that could wrap around his hips for the ride.
Don’t care. Feed me.
Rev’s thigh muscles tensed. He forced himself to remain at the wall. Let it happen. The food will come to you.
She took a step forward. His fangs tingled expectantly. Anticipation coursed through his veins. Soon he'd taste sweet ichor to quench his parched throat.
“Can you get us out of here?” she whispered. Another step forward. Close enough to grab. But she was thinking beyond their situation. Not a stupid faery, by any means.
Rev clung to the wall. He nodded once. Escape was at the top of his list—just below sustenance.
“I can remember the layout,” she said. “I can dust the wolves if given a moment.”
Whatever that meant. He didn’t care what she thought she could do. All focus remained on her sliding foot. Move another few inches closer. Sweet flower scent, like meadows. Too pure. Dripping with aching desire.
Rev bowed his head, opening his mouth. Twisting his neck, he fought the urge to lunge.
"A bite won't bond us," she said. "Only one thing can do that. If I'm right about my Intended."
What was she talking about? Come closer!
One delicate hand reached out. Thin fingers tested the air between them. She would dare touch a ravaged vampire?
Cowed by the remarkable bravery of this delicate woman, Rev forgot his restraints. His body remained against the wall. Suddenly, he wanted to know that redeeming touch. Enchantment would be a gift.
Her violet eyes scanned his. What was she looking for? Why couldn’t he simply grab her and sink his teeth into her flesh? Was it enchantment? Did her eyes hypnotize him to submit as only the vampire could work persuasion on a mortal?
Chains clinked as he slashed a hand, ready to grab—then stopped abruptly. He would not. But he could. He just had to know it was possible.
&nb
sp; When she took a step away from him he said, “Won’t move again.” Twisting his head, he winced at the utter control required not to take her swiftly.
The tender flutter of a feather stroked his cheek. He tilted his head into the touch. Not a feather. Flesh on flesh. Stroking, touching, exploring. So warm. Devastating.
What was she doing? Did she not understand the tremendous control required was making him weaker?
Rev moaned as the touch skated along his stubbled jaw. Felt great. Heady. Enchanting. As she glided closer to his mouth, he sensed she would do what he could barely tolerate while not crazed and blood hungry.
Don’t touch my teeth. It will frenzy me.
“I trust you,” whispered softly. “I want to help you. Together we can do this. Go ahead. Drink, vampire. Take what you need.”
Not an invitation to disregard.
Rev gripped the woman’s body, one hand at her back, the other shoving up her chin to expose her throat. Teeth sunk into flesh. Her body melded against his as he clutched her delicate form against his aching, bruised muscles. A sweep of wing dusted his cheek.
She did not cry out. But he did.
The first trickle of warm ichor across his tongue answered the ravenous thirst that had made him bang his head against the wall for days. Madness scurried to the dark corners of his brain, fleeing the glittering salvation. Instantly, his flesh heated as the faery’s ichor permeated his veins and pores and infused his entire body.
The burning UV lights faded to background annoyance. Sucking at the twin holes he’d pricked into her neck, Rev drew in life. Sweeter than blood. More dangerous than holy water.
But oh, the delirious joy of shimmering light infusing his veins. Was this enchantment, then? Why had he never drank from a faery before? He could sup this elixir all day. All night. Endlessly.
Beware the enchantment.
Rev pushed Bree away. She tumbled to the floor, gripping her neck and moaning. The swoon had begun, an orgasmic reaction to having her ichor taken. The victim always got that bonus thrill from the bite.
Rev licked his lips. Damn, she was good. Already he felt strength returning to his tense muscles.
And he smelled…smoke?
Now his surroundings faded in to reality. The UV light flickered, and popped, reducing the room to blackness.
Rev smashed a fist through the air, pulling at the chains. The bolt gave free. He followed the momentum of freedom and landed the floor on one palm next to Bree’s head.
An alarm sounded, beeping systematically.
“Smoke alarm,” he said. “Must be a fire.”
He felt her body roll against his. She lingered in the swoon, and was weak from all he had taken from her.
Standing, he did not sway or falter. His mind felt clear after days of starvation. He wasn’t sated by any means, but he had grown capable.
Ripping his other bound hand through the air, he felt the floor bolts skim his ankle as they were jolted from the cement. Kicking each foot successively snapped the ankle manacles from the floor chain.
A spume of smoke poured through the ceiling ventilation duct. If a fire raged, smoke inhalation would blur their senses and make escape difficult.
The door he’d stared at endlessly, knowing he could punch a fist through the hollow core aluminum, gave as easily as he’d dreamed it would. Hinges bent and he tore it from the frame. A gush of smoke assaulted his tired lungs.
Stepping outside the cell where he’d thought to spend his final days, he pounded a wrist against the wall. The steel manacles would not break. He’d have to flee with chains still attached.
The hall was dark. Red emergency lights flickered, but smoke muted the glow to tiny specks. Sprinklers did not activate.
A moan from inside the cell stopped him. “Bree.”
She’d helped him. More so, she’d touched him.
Rev ducked inside the smoky room and found the faery lying on the floor. She weighed little, and he easily swung her over a shoulder, aware her wings did not sweep his skin. She must have retracted them.
Escape through the murky darkness was difficult, but he encountered no werewolves as he fled the premises and into the surrounding forest. Not sure exactly where this particular sporting den was located, he assumed he tread the Twin Cities outskirts.
He ran for an hour with Bree over his shoulder, until finally he gained a suburb, and the back lot of a closed bar. The blue neon sign beamed bright and bold against the midnight sky.
Setting Bree on her feet, she then clung to the dumpster where they stood. She no longer coughed and could stand without swaying.
“You okay?” Rev asked. He bent and brushed the long white hair from her eyes.
She nodded and sucked in fresh air. “You should go. I can find my way home. Thank you for not leaving me to die.”
“You saved my life. I saved yours. We’re even, yes?”
“Works for me. I don’t think we should see each other again, even though you're my— Like I said, I won’t be responsible for bringing a good vampire down.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
He was too strong to succumb to addiction. Though one last bite would be the thing.
She slapped a hand to his chest as he leaned in toward her neck. “No more, Rev. The enchantment is strong. Go find a human and feast upon blood. You must do that to rid your system of my ichor.”
He nodded, knowing she was right, but regretting he’d never taste such heaven again.
Chapter Three
Three months after Revin Parker went cold turkey…
Rev eyed the metal staircase hugging the three-story brick apartment building. Set at the end of a block of nightclubs, the side of the building was dark, no lights in the windows directly below the roof. He took the stairs two at a time.
Fernando Degas was the vamp who had been working the blood sport case for the Rescue Project in Rev’s absence. The vampire had been reassigned to tactical—which had been Rev’s job before he’d been taken by the werewolves. It was humiliating, the demotion to field work, but Rev knew he had to work his way back up the ladder to earn his tribe’s respect.
Before his reassignment, Fernando had lost their best informant. Or rather, the informant had clammed up, and was no longer willing to provide information on the wolves. This informant had successfully led them to closing down two blood sport warehouses. The Rescue Project leader, Creed Saint-Pierre, was adamant they win the informant's renewed trust.
Now Rev was on the case. He didn’t have the informant's name, only an address. Much as he considered Fernando a friend, the vampire's records had been shoddy, at best. Rev only knew the informant was faery. Odd for a faery to inform on wolves; the two species were usually pretty tight. Whatever had happened to shut up the informant had to be due to threats from the wolves. If they had found him or her out, he might have fled the neighborhood, or moved deeper into the city where wolves rarely tread.
He knocked on the bleached wood door and tried to see through the curtains. Inside, the third-story flat was dark.
Halfway down the block, techno music thumped out from a nightclub and neon lights flashed designs on the wet tarmac. The rain had stopped and the silver moon lightened the sky. Tonight the wolves were out in the countryside, shifting and answering their mistress Luna’s call. Rare was the wolf that risked visiting populated areas while in werewolf shape.
After his capture, Rev held no love for the wolves. Not that he had possessed any before, but pre-capture he’d been on the fence about the species. He wasn't a hater. He enjoyed the physical work involved in tracking the offenders and the satisfaction of rescuing ravaged vampires, but really, he’d had a few werewolf friends even then, lone wolves who did not associate with a pack.
All that had changed.
He knocked again, careful to keep his coat sleeve tugged over his fist. The nasty addiction had taught him to be wary around faeries, and cautious of everything they touched, lived within or passed by. He’d suffer
ed agonizing months thanks to their ichor and wasn’t prepared to go through that hell again. So long as he didn’t bite one of them, he should be fine.
Fine, but always craving. A damned monkey with thorned wings would never completely scramble off his back. He was handling it now, but knew it would be a lifelong challenge to avoid falling back to addiction.
What better way to face the monkey head-on than by tracking the informant?
If Creed knew about his addiction, he would not have sent Rev on this assignment. And yet, the Rescue Project supervisor presented a double standard to his employees. Wolves and vamps simply did not mix, let alone, pick out china patterns. Creed Saint-Pierre, former Nava tribe leader, was actually married to a werewolf. Rev recalled attending their wedding. Blu Masterson was one sexy werewolf princess with freaky green hair. She had no ties to the packs now, save the dwindling members of the Northern pack headed by Ridge Addison. Rev counted Ridge as a friend. That wolf was honorable, and had slain the former Northern pack leader who had been a first-class asshole.
Banging a fist again, Rev decided to kick. The door flew inward and clattered against the interior brick wall. He entered the dark loft, sensitive to motion or heartbeats.
The place was one long stretch of room, walled in open wood framing and high, exposed rafters. A twisting stairway climbed to a loft where a computer and desk must serve as an office.
He strolled the flat’s length. A king-size bed sat at the far end before a glass block wall. The bed was neatly made with silky violet fabric and beadwork that sparkled from the moonlight shining through the glass blocks.
Actually, the bedspread glittered.
Rev retracted before touching the fabric. Could be faery dust.
"The informant is a woman," he decided from the décor.
Three mismatched bar stools queued before the kitchen counter. He rounded the counter and examined the cabinets, none of which had doors, leaving all contents exposed. A few plates and glasses, a couple wine goblets, and some ceramic containers for whatnots.