Chapter Seven
I couldn’t shake the buzz in my veins after the meeting with Dante. Of course, spilling my guts and gambling away my future was only half responsible for that. I’d had an awful lot of blood tonight. Rich blood, too.
I paced my room, hoping to dispel some of the nervous energy before sunrise. The mess in Ursula’s room had been cleaned up, and she was back where she belonged and out of my hair. For now.
There were a half-dozen guards out on the terrace and more in the hallway, so I wouldn’t be expected to do any actual bodyguarding until we left for the trial Friday evening. I was pretty sure my presence would be mostly for show anyway, considering how Dante had used my name to keep Ursula from being whisked off to someplace unknown.
Tuesday night had bled into Wednesday morning, and now it felt as if everything were happening too fast. I hated the way time worked for vampires, every night swallowing up two dates, making them seem too long and too short at the same time.
I changed out of my black sweater and tights and into yoga pants and a long-sleeved tee shirt, opting for a green one rather than the black I’d been favoring of late. If Ursula decided to drop in on me uninvited again, she was going to have to work harder for her insults.
I paced some more, wishing Mandy were around to talk to—now that I actually had something worth talking about. I hoped she was enjoying working with the Cadaver Dogs, though, and that she was being safe.
Roman crossed my mind next, and I prayed for his safety, too. His silence wounded me, but the yearning I still felt for him suggested that our bond wasn’t as broken as he’d tried to convince me it was. Either that or I was afflicted with something more pathetic and mundane than I cared to admit.
Unrequited love. Ick.
By the time the sky lit up with the first hints of sunrise, I was ready for it. I lay back on my bed, welcoming the reprieve from reality. Welcoming the temporary death that visited me each morning and slipped out with the sun every night.
I rose Wednesday night feeling no better off.
My room had been cleaned while I slept. The scent of lavender and lemon filled the air, and the wooden furnishings shined with fresh wax. The closet door stood open, and on the inside hook hung a garment bag with a note. I slid off the bed and crossed the room to read it.
Guard wardrobe for trial – Jenna Skye.
I fingered open the fold of the bag and peeked inside, finding a deep red cloak and a stretchy, black bodysuit. What the hell kind of nonsense was this? If Little Red had joined a guild of assassins, maybe it wouldn’t be so out of place in her closet. But for a trial? What was Dante thinking?
I abandoned the fashion nightmare and found a heavy paper shopping bag propped against the dresser. A painter’s palette logo was stamped on the front, and inside, I found a spiral-ring sketchpad and several boxes of high-end drawing pencils and charcoals.
Recreating Raphael’s portrait wasn’t something I was looking forward to. It wouldn’t be a physically challenging task, but the thought of bringing his hateful face to life on the page again bothered me. I didn’t need the reminder of the scars he’d left on me and those I loved.
I emptied the bag of art supplies onto my bed and soon found myself sketching a portrait of Will instead. Charcoal and pastels stained my fingers as I smudged out the shadows along his hairline and under the apples of his cheeks. I added more lines at the corners of his eyes, enhancing his smile. It wasn’t my best work—I was out of practice—but when I finished, the likeness was close enough that it tugged at my heartstrings.
Maybe I could agree with Ursula on one thing. Gifts were best not wasted on undeserving subjects.
I drew a few more practice portraits. Mandy and Serena huddled together, eating popcorn on the couch. Laura and her ridiculous Chihuahua, Duncan, surrounded by a heap of her designer luggage. Roman, hair mussed and lids half-parted over his icy blues, elbows propped on the pillows behind him.
By then, I was fully warmed up. And thirsty.
I didn’t bother changing before I slipped out of my room and headed for the harem. The hallway was lined with guards, and though they watched me with skeptical reserve, no one tried to stop me or asked what I thought I was doing. I passed Murphy on my way upstairs.
“Evening,” he said with a nod, then touched a finger to the side of his nose. “Looks like you found the goodies the boss sent Yosh to fetch for ya.”
“Oh, hell.” I reached for my face, stopping short of it when I noticed my blackened fingertips. “Guess I should have cleaned up first.”
“There’s a washroom on the harem level,” he said. “Last door on the right before you reach the kitchen.”
“Thanks.”
He called over his shoulder as I continued up the stairs. “The boss says you’re coming with us Friday—as a guard.” I couldn’t decide if he sounded dismayed or merely confused.
“Looks like it.”
“Gym’s on the main level of the north wing,” he said. “I’ll be in there after my shift ends around four-thirty. You know, in case you’d like someone to spar with. Gotta stay sharp.”
“Right. Yeah, sure.” I pointed a finger at him before noticing once again how filthy I was.
“Catch you later.” Murphy gave me another nod and then headed down the stairs with extra bounce in his step.
His enthusiasm made me wonder if working out with the duke’s guards was such a good idea. I was a vampling, and any accomplishment, no matter how slight, seemed to make everyone eager to reestablish the pecking order.
I considered all the ways I might regret my decision to join Murphy in the gym as I scrubbed the charcoal from my hands and face in the washroom upstairs. When I made it to the harem kitchen, I was surprised to find a much larger crowd than I’d seen the night before.
Every barstool at the counter was occupied, and most of the chairs and sofas in the lounge were, too. At least thirty humans chattered over the televisions and each other. Some snacked on fruit and nuts, and others ate from bowls of salad or stew. A few looked up as I stopped at the counter, and I wondered if I’d come at a bad time.
“Jenna!” Yoshiko waved to me from the other side of the kitchen where she stood in front of the stove stirring several stock pots. She slipped off the apron she wore and handed it to another woman as I circled to her side of the counter, excusing myself as I squeezed past a pair of donors.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”
She shook her head. “I’ve already eaten, and everyone here knows how to help themselves,” she said, shooting a snarky grin at a man refilling his bowl at the stove. “Would you like a blood pot? We have a few donors available right now.”
“A pot would be great.” I gave her an apologetic smile. Drinking from a donor would have been easier and not created more dirty dishes—which it looked as if there would be plenty of once dinnertime was over—but I just couldn’t. Maybe I’d reconsider after the trial.
“One blood pot, coming right up.” Yoshiko found a tray and loaded it with everything she’d need before heading down the back hallway. I watched her go, taking in the doors spaced on either side. It reminded me of the harem at the bat cave, only with less concrete.
While I waited for Yoshiko to return, more donors took notice of me. Their curious glances and timid smiles were unsettling. It was like being back at Bleeders, except there was no skull-pounding music or flashing lights or other vampires to dilute the attention. And I was woefully underdressed.
When Yoshiko came back with my blood pot, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I retreated to my room to drink in peace, and then set to work drawing my murderer.
There was an extra level of discomfort while drawing Raphael this time. I nestled in against my headboard and pulled the sketchpad up onto my folded knees. My hands shook, and my eyes kept darting to the bedroom door. I had a horrible vision of Ursula barging in uninvited. She’d take one look at her scion’s likeness, and all hell would break loose.
It occurred to me, halfway through the drawing, that I didn’t know what Raphael looked like when he wasn’t snapping and snarling, fangs fully extended and eyes wild with euphoric violence. He couldn’t have looked like that all the time, though that was how he appeared whenever he emerged from the shadows of my psyche.
I finished the rendering in a hurry and then closed the sketchpad before stuffing it under the mattress of my bed. I wasn’t sure what else to do with it until I saw the duke again, but I certainly couldn’t leave it lying around for anyone to find.
Paranoia was not a good substitute for boredom, and the night was still young. The span of time from sundown to sunup had just dipped below the fourteen-hour mark, half an hour less than it had been at midwinter, and would steadily decline until reaching just over nine hours at midsummer. When the queen would announce my adoptive sire.
With nothing much to do with myself until then, it seemed like an eternity away. My deal with Dante to attend Ursula’s trial suddenly felt like a favor he was doing for me instead of the other way around. I needed out of this room—out of this house.
My eyes closed, and I tried to envision what Mandy might be doing right this moment. Maybe running through the woods, the waxing moon’s light flickering through naked branches. Cold air straining her lungs. Some tender prey—anything but a house cat—just ahead.
I wished I was out there with her.
When I couldn’t take it any longer, I slipped from my room again and made my way to the library. Ursula and I were nowhere near friends, but I was less fearful of her since our last encounter. I skimmed Dante’s collection for familiar titles I’d read at the bat cave. Then I found a copy of The Blood Will Run in the poetry section and settled into an overstuffed armchair to read it. I’d been too desperate for hard information to enjoy leisure reads during training.
Time slipped by more easily, and the next time I glanced up at the clock, it was creeping past four in the morning. I tucked the book of vampiric poems back in place on its shelf and left, heading for the north stairwell.
The gym in the duke’s manor was located directly beneath the library. There was an elevated sparring ring off to left side of the room, and some free weights and equipment scattered throughout the rest of the space. A few punching bags hung from the ceiling, and a rotating, rock-climbing wall filled the northwest corner.
That’s where I found Murphy, doing one-handed pullups from a protruding nub of faux rock. Shirtless. I hadn’t realized just how stacked he was, hidden beneath the black suit uniform all the guards wore. His muscles glistened as if they’d been rubbed down with oil—or as if he’d been in here a while warming up.
“There you are,” he said, beaming at me as he dropped down from the rock wall.
“I’m ten minutes early.” I pointed at the clock above the door. “How long have you been at it?”
“Not long.” Murphy grabbed a towel draped over the back of a leg press machine and wiped his face with it.
“Do you always get lubed up before working out?”
“What? No.” He blushed and looked at his chest before moving the towel down to scrub away the evidence.
Voices filtered into the room as the door opened and five more guards joined us. Their eyes landed on me, and smug grins spread across their faces. Their complete lack of surprise was not a good sign. That Murphy didn’t seem surprised was worse.
I folded my arms. “I take it you’re not wanting to lift weights or run on the treadmills?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Murphy asked.
“I’m not interested in a pissing match. I thought you were one of the nice guys.”
“I am,” he insisted. “Come on, now. It’s not like that. Just a little friendly competition. You’re going to be working with us this weekend. We want to see what you’ve got.”
One of the newcomers slapped him on the back. “Murphy here won the privilege of challenging you since he out lifted us all last night.”
“And ain’t a friendlier face around here than his,” another teased.
If I were going to spar with anyone, I supposed Murphy would have been my top pick—even if he did make Wolverine look like an eighties aerobics instructor. Still, full disclosure would have been nice. No one liked being ganged up on.
“His face might not look so friendly once I’m done with it,” I said. Murphy smirked, and one of the guards shook his shoulders with gleeful anticipation.
We made our way to the ring, and someone tossed me a pair of blue sparring gloves. The sessions at the bat cave were done bare-knuckled, but I didn’t complain. The gloves would soften my blows, but they would also take the edge off Murphy’s hits that were no doubt heavier than mine.
“Don’t worry,” he said, tightening his laces. “I’ll take it easy on you.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I snapped back.
His sincerity grated on me. I could tell that the rest of the guards thought he was teasing, but I heard his words for what they were. They all wanted to knock me down a peg. Murphy had fought for the honor to make sure things didn’t get out of hand, which only made me want to prove myself more.
I was a vampling. Not an invalid.
“Ding ding!” one of the guards called out jokingly, launching our match.
The sparring ring platform bounced softly beneath my feet as Murphy sprang into action, playfully jabbing the air in front of him. This was all a big joke, and everyone expected me to be the punchline. The saddest part was that I welcomed the distraction.
Murphy moved forward and threw a few light hooks that I easily dodged or parried without giving him too much ground. On his last swing, I slipped in and delivered a sharp uppercut to his ribcage.
“Ooh, good one,” he said, a wince tightening his smile. “Thought you were a southpaw.”
“What would give you that idea?” I asked, deliberately not confirming his suspicion.
“You had more charcoal on your left hand when I caught you on your way up to the harem.”
“Been sizing me up all night, huh?”
Murphy grinned and threw another wide hook, but this time, he kept his left elbow tucked in close to his side. I blocked his punch with the back of my left hand and planted a nasty jab straight to his nose with my right. He bled instantly, his head reeling from the force of the hit.
The guards oohed and aahed at the exchange as the humor in the room grew tense. Their laughter had a nervous edge to it, and their chants of encouragement were less certain than before.
Murphy wiped the back of one glove under his nose and glanced down at the blood that came away. His eyes narrowed on me, and I guessed that we were done playing footsie.
The next jab he threw my way was followed by a hook that grazed my temple and sent me back a step. He moved in fast, forcing me closer to the ropes at my back. I pivoted out of the corner and let him dance me to the opposite side of the ring, buying all the space I could with short jabs until I took a chance and aimed a knee up at his ribs.
Murphy had been waiting for it. He hooked his arm under my leg while his shoulder simultaneously rammed into my stomach. I flopped against his slick back and was suddenly wrenched off my feet. As I slipped toward the floor where he intended to body slam me, rather than brace for the impact, I looped an arm around Murphy’s neck and jerked hard.
The move wasn’t the smartest, seeing as how he landed on top of me after my head hit the floor, but I hung on when he tried to get up, locking both arms together in a chokehold that yielded a satisfying gagging sound from him.
My leg was still hooked over the bend of his elbow, so I tucked my foot behind his hip, pinning his arm back as he tried to sit up. Murphy’s free hand connected with my face behind his head, but the angle wasn’t ideal. It didn’t tickle, but it wasn’t painful enough for me to give up the leverage. I lost a little of that resolve when he threw his body back and slammed me to the floor again.
“Come on, Murph!” a guard shouted. “Yo
u’re getting your ass handed to you by a girl!”
“Yeah, Murphster.” I grunted in his ear as I struggled to keep my arms locked around his neck. “What is this? A bake-off?”
“No,” he growled. “It’s your funeral.”
The insult more than his next body slam knocked the air from my lungs. He probably hadn’t meant anything cruel by it, but the reminder sent a wave of boiling rage through my veins, and my hold on him tightened as my fangs slipped free with a furious hiss.
“H-hey,” he stammered through clenched teeth. “No fangs!”
“Dare I ask what is going on here?”
We glanced up to find Dante peering at us through the sparring ring ropes. His eyes fixed on Murphy first but zeroed in on me next as we released each other and collapsed to the ring floor.
“Are you all right, Ms. Skye?” Dante asked.
“I almost had him,” I gasped as I rolled onto my stomach and pushed myself up.
Murphy made a sound that crossed between a snort and a wheeze. “In your dreams.”
Dante frowned at him. “You better put some ice on that nose. The queen will not be pleased if my personal guards are not presentable.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Murphy bowed his head, and the rest of the guards followed suit as the duke glanced their way.
Dante turned back to me again. “If you are done, Ms. Skye, I would like to go over a few things with you regarding this weekend.”
“I’m done—for now,” I said, shooting Murphy a sharp grin—though not as sharp as before the duke had arrived. I was a little embarrassed that my fangs had popped free in the heat of the moment, but my blood vision had stayed under control, so there was that.
I peeled off the sparring gloves and tossed them to one of the guards before leaving the gym with Dante. His scrutiny as we walked down the hall toward the foyer made me blush. I wiped my sweaty hands down the front of my yoga pants and readjusted my ponytail.
“Are you sure you are all right?” he asked again.
“I survived training at the BATC. I think I can handle a little sparring with one of your guards.”
Thicker Than Blood (Blood Vice Book 5) Page 6