Blood Unleashed (Blood Stone)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

“If I could remember fully, I would know if it will help her. I only have the vaguest sense that this is the information I need.” He seemed annoyed.

  “You mean,” Winter replied, hiding her smile, “that you are guessing?”

  His scowl grew deeper. He reached for her hand and pressed it against his head. “I will recall what I can. I want you to help me remember all of it – in the way that you have. Can you do that?”

  If he could remember anything at all, then while he was recalling it, the recall would act as a beacon for her to find the location of the memory in his brain. “I can only promise to look, for now,” she hedged. “I’m better at erasing memories than provoking them.”

  “You are, at least, used to handling them. That will do for now. Ready?”

  She nodded, feeling a little winded. It was usually her who got to dictate how therapy sessions proceeded. Rick was directing this with an iron fist.

  He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. Winter heard it shudder.

  She probed his mind with her awareness. The first thing she noticed was the richness of the information there. There were hundreds more ridges and synapses, more than any mind she had ever scanned, except perhaps for Nial’s. It made her wonder for the first time exactly how old Rick was.

  Winter encompassed the whole brain, looking for firing synapses, hot spots and the frantic activity pattern that she saw as a memory recall. She found it in a deep ridge, but that wasn’t all she found. She probed carefully, exploring the area, then withdrew her presence.

  “I can’t help you, not with this,” she told Rick.

  His fingers loosened from around her wrist. “I see,” he said heavily.

  “No, it’s not my abilities that are lacking. You have scar tissue right over the memory.” She kept her hand against his head, using his distraction over her failure as an opportunity to explore his headache. This time last year, she had been unable to treat headaches, but she knew a lot more, now, thanks to the Curandero training she had received. “I’ve never seen a vampire with a scar, before. Any human scars usually disappear when they’re made.”

  He drew in a slow, deep breath. “I’ve seen vampires with scars. They’re rare.” Then he frowned. “Are you…doing something?”

  “I’m getting rid of your headache. It’s a stress headache, so your brain is dehydrated. I’m funneling more blood into the brain stem to compensate as you can’t drink water. You’ll have to feed sooner than you usually do, but the headache will be gone.” She stepped back, dropping her hand from his head. “You’re not going to be able to access that memory unless something extraordinary happens.”

  “Such as?” He stood up and reached into his pocket and withdrew car keys.

  “I’ve seen some amazing things happen with the brain,” Winter told him. “I’ve heard even more astonishing things about people recovering full body functions after losing half their brain. The brain can learn things and make new connections. Different parts of the brain will learn the functions of damaged areas and take over for them.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what the memory was that you were trying to recall, but from everything I’ve ever heard, about the only thing I can suggest is to keep trying. Something might happen.”

  “Or it might not,” he said dryly. “At least you tried. You have my thanks for that.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a miniscule smile. “And for curing the headache. Relief from pain is such a pleasant thing, isn’t it?” He nodded at her, stepped around her and left the room.

  Winter stayed flat footed and slack jawed, while she heard the front door open and close.

  “Winter?” Sebastian asked from the doorway.

  “He thanked me,” she said, recalling Rick’s words. She turned to face Sebastian. “He thanked me and he actually smiled.”

  Sebastian glanced toward the front door. “Freak,” he muttered. “Come and keep us company. Nial is opening a ten year old Napa.”

  Winter’s mouth watered. “Great idea,” she said and went with him.

  But for the rest of the evening, as she and Sebastian drank the bottle and Nial sniffed their glasses and the cork appreciatively, her mind kept turning back to the crowded, busy map of Cyneric’s mind.

  How old was he? Was his age the reason why he knew so much about inscription? Who was Rick, beyond the appearance he kept up for everyone, including his enemies?

  Chapter Sixteen

  After nearly an hour of his mental talons tearing through her mind, he left her, with a lingering impression of anger for her laggard-like efforts and an imperative that she work faster.

  Ilaria was too weak to move from the cold tiles where she lay. Danich’s touch in her mind had always been hard and painful, but this one…even his most ordinary contact hurt. As for his punishments….

  She shuddered and rolled onto her back and wrapped her arms around her as far as she could reach. It didn’t warm her for her arms were as chilled as the rest of her. She thought about getting up, but it seemed like far too much effort. It was better to rest here.

  Time passed. Ilaria was aware of the passing of minutes, but it was a remote knowledge. For this brief time she let her thoughts drift without touching on anything with great impact.

  She heard the door open and close. The sound of keys rattling against wood. Then his hands were lifting her. She was carried over to one of the big sofas and lowered onto the cushions. Gently.

  “Look at me,” he said, his voice soft.

  Ilaria had to work to will her eyes to open. When she did, she saw Rick was sitting next to her, turned so that he was facing her.

  She had lost a boot, somewhere, in the last little while. She kicked off the other and brought her feet up onto the edge of the cushion and wrapped her arms around her knees. Then she looked back at him. “Where did you go?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It was a waste of time, anyway.” His gaze was steady upon her face.

  Ilaria wanted to look away. There was such knowing in his eyes! “Now you know,” she told him.

  “Yes, I know,” he agreed, his voice grave. He reached for the top button on his shirt and slipped it undone. His fingers dropped to the next while she watched, then the next…

  Ilaria tried not to think about what he might be planning. She had learned long ago it was better to starve the imagination and simply accept everything that happened, so long as it followed his directions.

  Cyneric pulled the open shirt out of his trousers and shrugged it off his shoulders. He tossed it onto the sofa behind him. Ilaria couldn’t help but notice that he carried a surprising amount of muscle under the lean flesh. It didn’t show under his clothing. He looked lean and very tall, and very dark with the long black hair, even though his skin was very pale.

  She looked up at his face. “What is this?” She had been goaded into asking what was happening anyway.

  Rick shifted on the sofa, turning his shoulders so that the left one faced her. “I know,” he repeated, his voice very low.

  On his arm, just above the dip where the biceps began, was an old, faded scar. A brand. It was pale, almost invisible, but the shape was distinct. Ilaria lifted her finger and traced the invert “V” and pressed the tip of her finger against the blood spot beneath. Wonder grew, giving blossom to dozens – no, hundreds – of questions. But the mark told her that Rick did know. He understood.

  The brand was almost gone. There were no raised edges like her ugly mark. No pink skin.

  “Two hundred and twenty-three years ago, I was freed from the inscription,” he said. “I have vowed never to waste a day of the freedom I have enjoyed since then.”

  She looked up at him. “Who…? How…?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember. Not how it happened.” He turned and caught her face in his hands. There was a hard, determined light in his eyes. “But I will find the answer, Ilaria. I promise you, I will not rest until I have it.”

  She gasped out her surprise. He was an ally. He would fight for her
. Finally, after lonely decades of searching for aid, for anyone who had the potential to free her of the inscription, it was Cyneric Pæga, assassin and cynic, who believed her. Rick who sat in front of her, his thumb stroking her jaw, was the one who held the answers she craved.

  He was lifting her head, tilting it. He was going to kiss her.

  Ilaria let him touch his lips to hers. He pressed gently, parting her lips. She felt the brush of his tongue. Then he retreated. His hands fell away from her face. He was shifting back along the sofa, putting distance between them.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, truly puzzled now.

  “I know what Heru wants,” he said. “I know what he intended you do, when he sent you back here.”

  “You don’t know all of it,” she whispered. Even the speaking of his name made her shudder.

  “This part, I know,” Rick said flatly. “What I want to know is what you want.”

  Ilaria worked to understand his meaning, but it evaded her. “I?” she asked, puzzled.

  “You.” He lifted his hand a little, indicating her clothes, her body. “You have spent nearly a hundred years doing what you were told, when you were told. You don’t remember what it was like to have choices and to do what you want. You most likely have forgotten what you like and don’t like, for that option has not been available to you for a century. But now, you must start to choose again.”

  “While he…?” She couldn’t even speak the words. To rebel while he could still scan her mind and body? He would truly kill her, as she had watched him kill Danich from where she had been waiting backstage for more orders. He would rip out her heart while it was still beating and toss it over his shoulder and walk away.

  Rick toyed with a fold in the leather, up on the top of the sofa, his long fingers working ceaselessly. It seemed like a nervous mannerism, which was astonishing in a man like him. He brought his gaze back to her face. “You have spent every thought that was yours alone scheming to be free of this. When Danich did not have orders for you to carry out, when you were not thinking about how to complete your tasks in a way that would please him, you thought about escape. Nothing else has drawn your attention in a very long time. You dress to please him, or in a way appropriate for your current mission. You feed when he gives you permission. You have killed dozens of people to order.”

  She shuddered. “Escape was not my only focus,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Anger,” he said simply. “You’ve held onto your fury as well. That’s a good thing.”

  “It is?” she asked, astonished.

  Rick plucked at the pleat once more. “You need to find yourself again. You have a mind and thoughts that are your own. You have tastes and opinions. You’ve just forgotten them.”

  “If I recall them, he will know.”

  “Small things,” Rick qualified. “Tiny decisions, for now. You no longer have to search for your way out. I will find that. You should use what little freedom you have to learn about yourself once more. You should do it now, because once you are free, it will be overwhelming.”

  An invisible hand seemed to squeeze her throat, making it difficult to speak, or even breathe. Ilaria tucked her hot face against her knees, blocking out the light, giving herself time to absorb the truth. Freedom was coming. It was close by. Rick would guide her through this, because he knew exactly what it was like.

  “When does he want you to return, Ilaria?” Rick asked.

  “In a few days. He wanted me to….” She lifted her head to look at him. He was still sitting patiently at the other end of the sofa. “He wants me to seduce you, to gain your trust.”

  Rick gave a small smile. “I don’t trust anyone. Ever. You would have failed.” He raised his knee, and rested his hand on it, his shoe digging into the leather.

  Ilaria flashed on Marcus’ rich tones. She could hear his voice in her head, telling her to get her feet off his seat, before she ruined the leather. She clamped down on the memory, pushing it away. She re-sealed that aspect of her life…for now. It took effort to disengage from the flood of warmth and good feelings the memory generated. Only after the feelings had evaporated did she dare look Rick in the eye. “I have become very good at this,” she said dryly. “Even you I would have won over.”

  “That is no longer a consideration,” he said, his voice sharp. “That is what Heru wanted. What do you want, Ilaria? You have a few days. Use them. Find out what you want.”

  “What will you be doing for these days while I explore?”

  “I will be trying to remember,” he answered. “The answer lies in my memory. I just need to find it.”

  “You have forgotten?” she asked, astonished.

  He shook his head. “The memory is barred to me. Physically. I need to find a way around that bar.”

  Ilaria stared at him in awe. Cyneric Pæga showing a flaw. A weakness. It was amazing. She had heard much about Pæga the Assassin, long before Heru had told her to make contact with him. Others spoke about his relentless discipline, his mental prowess and above all, that he never made mistakes. He was a powerful enemy that most vampires went out of their way to avoid unless they could deal with him openly and without an agenda, for they knew he would detect their duplicity.

  When she had finally confronted him, last week, she had been forced to mentally adjust, for he did not look like the great, all powerful machine that had been described to her.

  She still remembered the kiss they had shared. It puzzled her. She had done everything she could to encourage the kiss, to coax him into thinking of her as a sex partner. She had been assured he would find her attractive and if she did the right things and said everything just so, he would respond. Just like his work habits, it was also well known that Cyneric Pæga devoured sexual partners systematically and ruthlessly.

  But her own reaction to the kiss was a question she had tabled for further thought.

  “Where does your mind wander now?” Rick asked. “Give me the truth, for I cannot help you if you hide away from me.”

  She rocked on her heels. “Truth…is difficult.”

  He gave a small smile. “Truth is a commodity that has been absent from your life. But try it, just this once. You’ll be surprised how pleasant it feels.”

  Ilaria rolled her eyes. “You speak of truth, yet your own life has been one great lie for decades. You deceived…Heru.” It took enormous effort to speak his name aloud.

  “I use the truth whenever I can,” he shot back. “That’s a choice you will get to enjoy soon, too.”

  “You’re an accomplished liar,”” she pointed out. “How can I believe you?”

  He leaned forward, his fingers fitting under her chin and turning her head until she was forced to look at him. “Hear me now, Ilaria. For you, to you, I will only ever use the truth. You have my promise.”

  A ripple ran down her back, making her shiver. His gaze would not let her go.

  “What were you thinking about, just then, when your mind wandered?” he asked. His voice seemed to be nearly all rumble. He was leaning close to her. Close enough that he only had to dip his head to take a kiss, like the one she had been thinking about.

  She considered him for a moment. “I was wondering how much Heru can actually see.”

  He looked down into her eyes for what seemed like an age. Then he swiveled his legs around, planted his feet on the floor and stood up. “Keep your secret, then.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked as he bent and picked up his discarded shirt from the end of the sofa.

  “I’m taking a shower.” He waved toward the extra-large television screen mounted on the wall opposite the sofa. “The remote is in the coffee table drawer. Help yourself.”

  “You’re not going to lock me in?”

  A furrow appeared between his brows. “You’re a slave, not a prisoner. We aren’t all like Danich and Heru. Leave, if you really want to. I won’t stop you.”

  She watched him climb the stairs, then turn at the landing an
d disappear from her view. Then she sat a bit longer, considering her options and all the novel ideas Rick had given her.

  Did she dare do this?

  * * * * *

  Ilaria would never have guessed that spending time in Cyneric’s company would be relaxing. He was filled with secrets and hidden agendas. Others had spoken of having to work to keep up with him in conversation because he made intuitive and logical leaps that left them floundering, or simply feeling as ignorant as a child.

  Then there was Heru’s simmering impatience and his deadline, which loomed ever larger whenever she thought about it.

  But for the next two days, she found the emotion that dominated was one of relaxed pleasantness. Rick made no demands. He didn’t force conversation, or tell her what to do, beyond suggesting every now and again that she think about her own wants and needs.

  She tried. For twenty-four hours, it felt like she was trying to open a metal door that had rusted shut. She sat on the sofa, trying to answer the simplest question. What did she want?

  Rick moved about the apartment, busy with his own affairs. Sometimes he sat next to her and used the keyboard and mouse to access the internet via the television screen.

  It was during one of these moments that he had looked sideways at her. “What is your favorite color?”

  Ilaria blinked. Automatically, her mind dropped into the path of thought that questions like these always prompted. What color would Rick like? What color choice she made would please him the most?

  “Stop overthinking it,” Rick told her. His fingers danced across the keyboard then stabbed the enter key. He nodded toward the screen. “Look and pick a color. Don’t think. Just pick the one that leaps out at you.”

  She looked up at the screen. It was a color wheel, with the colors circling around the spectrum. She let her gaze travel around the wheel, just looking at the colors. “That one,” she said, pointing. “Purple.”

  “That’s a good color,” Rick said, his tone approving. “But it’s not a color you can wear well, with your hair and eyes and skin.”

  Color she could wear? She looked at him. “What colors can I wear?”