Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion)

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  Fuck.

  “Nate?”

  He didn’t acknowledge my voice but his heart continued beat softly and shallow breaths left his lips.

  I reached forward to check the wound. As my fingers touched his, his eyes shot open and a sharp gasp left him.

  “This fucking hurts,” he muttered.

  “Aww, thought you got in lots of gunfights, rich boy?” If he got pissed off at me, he might stay conscious longer, which would be good. And I could do annoying really well.

  “Never been this bad.”

  “Gunshot wounds to the stomach tend to hurt like a motherfucker. Toughen up, little prince—remember I got shot a few times last night and you didn’t see me whine.”

  “You’re a vampire.”

  “Yep. Still hurts when I get shot.” He let me bat his hands out of the way and I slid his shirt up so I could see the bloody hole in his gut. Lighting was shit even with my vampy vision, so I popped out a penlight from my pocket and ran it over the wound. My gaze skimmed a handful of old silvery scars cut over his muscled torso, then I drew my focus back to the current injury. His back arched as I felt under him—nope, bullet didn’t go through. It was lodged in there somewhere. Shit. “On the bright side, you’ll probably take longer to die.”

  “That’s your idea of good news?”

  “Well, it means we’ve got time to get the bullet out.” The penlight clipped on the low neckline of my tank top, then I pulled out a small pocket knife. “And time to figure out how we’re getting you out of here. Now, I don’t have tweezers. I can heal you pretty quickly once the bullet is out, but I don’t want to close the wound with anything still in it or it’ll mean surgery to get it removed.”

  “Do it.”

  “Just hold on...and try not to think about the sharp object I’m about to drive into your stomach.”

  “Great,” he mumbled and closed his eyes.

  His lips pressed tight, suppressing a cry as I slid the knife in the wound. I was likely cutting something important, and as long as I got it and healed him before he bled out, he’d probably forgive me. I took my time, prying the bullet from its lodgings and forcing it toward the surface. When it was up a ways, I set the knife in my lap and reached right in with my fingers.

  Sirens signaled more police arriving outside. I muttered a curse and continued my work.

  The downstairs door crashed open and officers shouted as they stomped through the lower level; panic was a sudden seizing of my heart and chill along my back.

  Oh hell. Hell. In moments, they’d be upstairs and they’d shoot me on sight. I could deal with the hospital no problem, but should any of my stalkers be around, it wouldn’t be hard to then catch and incapacitate me in such a weakened state. And they’d do a lot worse than human authorities.

  I had to get out. Had to. Self-preservation was taking over and I’d lived for so many centuries ’cause I listened when everything in me told me to fucking run. I could just slip out the window and be gone without them even knowing...

  Nate. He was shot and, yeah, a little worse off ’cause I’d probably cut something important. But he’d live. Probably. Why shouldn’t I just leave him? He was only a mortal; just some lowly warlock, and the reason I was in this mess in the first place.

  Besides, the humans would take him to a hospital. Even criminals got medical attention and maybe I could break him out later?

  The bullet slipped from my slippery fingers and I swore up a storm. I almost had it, I just needed more time.

  Footsteps neared the stairway.

  Just leave, Zara!

  “Nate!”

  He opened his cold blue eyes to look at me.

  “Nate, they’re coming—”

  Fingers locked on mine, deceptively strong for a possibly dying man, and his eyes closed once more. His lips moved soundlessly; if he was actually saying something, I couldn’t make it out even with my sharp hearing. Magic? What the hell could he do—the barrier spell? I glanced at the open door to the hallway; he was moments from slipping into unconsciousness, so how could he think to hold people at bay?

  The cops stomped up the stairs.

  Fuck fuck fuck. I couldn’t pry my fingers from his—not without breaking the guy’s hand, that is—so I twisted, grabbed my jacket from where he’d dropped it on the floor.

  “Nate, you gotta let me g—”

  Reflected moonlight flashed on the badge of the police officer who stepped in the room, gun trained on me. “Don’t move!”

  Nate opened his eyes and uttered one final word.

  The cop froze in mid-step.

  Literally.

  Downstairs there was nothing but silence. No footfalls on the stairs. No sirens outside. Worry twisted my gut and I glanced down at Nate again. “What the hell did you do?”

  He released my hand at last and I wiggled my fingers to get the feeling back. “That should give you some time. I would suggest hurrying, nonetheless.”

  Fuck. Hurry—right. I didn’t ask questions. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why even the hands of the clock on the wall weren’t moving, or why the air around us had taken on a swirly, foggy haze. Hell, I couldn’t be certain if I’d believe any explanation he might offer. I just bit my tongue and finished dislodging the bullet.

  When I was done, I tossed the bullet to the floor. The bleeding around the wound had been heavy, and Nate’s heartbeat slowed further. The knife was slick with his blood; I wiped it off on his pant leg—his blood, so why not, right?—and then sliced my palm open, wincing with the painful pinch of a blade scoring flesh. At least it would heal quickly. I pressed my palm to his wound and let my blood seep into his bloodstream.

  “Am I better yet?” His voice was pitched low, pained, but still strong.

  “As good as new and completely able to jump out a second story window.”

  He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Ah, fuck. What the hell—get a good grip on anything you plan to take with you.”

  “You know, I was actually kidding about you being able to go through the window—”

  “Just do it.”

  Oookay then... I slipped my jacket on and tucked my knife back in my pocket, then folded up the penlight and put it away too.

  His arm snaked around my waist and he tugged me down against him; his chest moved steadily beneath my ear, heartbeat thrumming. “Close your eyes and hold on,” he said, voice muffled slightly. “And the sense of nausea will pass.”

  “What do you—”

  A weird sense of displacement overtook me—a heavy, ugly pressure that drove my eyes shut and gripped my head in a vise. The world swirled around me, like I spun in a field with my arms outstretched, around and around and around, about to fall and knowing it would hurt like hell when I landed. Aching started in my bones and wove through me, twisting, then needles danced across my skin—thousands of them, all over, the continuous pain driving a deranged cry up to lodge in my throat.

  Queasiness was a lead weight in my gut when all the other sensations ended. Bile rose, my throat working to keep from gagging. What the fuck?

  Warm spring wind brushed my cheeks. I blinked once. Twice. Three times.

  How the fuck did we get on the lawn outside?

  I sat up and glanced around. Nate’s arm was still tight and warm around my waist; he shifted beside me but I ignored him. An officer stood frozen in the shop doorway and though the lights were still on atop the police cars, they didn’t blink. Fog swirled around, a murky gray charged with energy that snapped at my skin.

  “Okay, what the hell happened?” I tried to pull myself up; strength rushed from my muscles and I slumped back on the grass again.

  “Less talk, more escaping. We have to get to the car.”

  The car. Right. Two feet away and it felt like miles. Fuck, my gut ached. I fought my way onto my knees, then helped him stand as well. At least he wasn’t still bleeding. We stumbled across the sidewalk to my car, the happy red Mini Cooper waiting under a streetlamp. Though Nate said the na
usea would pass, I wasn’t sure I believed him.

  We reached the car; I was about to deposit him at the passenger side and leave when I noticed something written in white on the side. I knelt, ran my thumb over the symbol—it was waxy, some weird sigil.

  “The hell?”

  “Forethought on my part, so I’d have a guidepost back to the car.”

  I had no idea what the fuck he was going on about—I was stuck on the part where he vandalized my goddamn car. Standing straight again, I gestured at the sigil. “You did that? You put graffiti on my fucking vehicle?”

  The sirens started screaming; lights flashed. The cop in the doorway glanced across the lawn and spotted us, started shouting. Nate and I slipped into the vehicle, and we barely had the doors shut when I turned the engine on and started speeding down the road.

  Once we were a few miles from Peter’s place—and the sickness in my gut had subsided—I turned to Nate.

  “Now would you mind explaining? What happened back there?”

  “Just some magic.”

  “Some magic? It was like you froze time or something.”

  “I didn’t freeze anything—I simply removed us from this dimension’s linear timeline.”

  Simply? Whatever. I shook my head. “And how did we end up outside?”

  “Teleportation,” he said, as if it was the most logical, acceptable answer he could give.

  Damn it, my head was aching again. “You said no one in your family was strong with magic, but I’ve never seen anyone who can teleport.”

  “No, I said there were few people in the family left with enough power to hold onto the coven,” he corrected me. “I said nothing about me.”

  “When my goddamn head is done spinning, I’m going to have more than a few questions for you.”

  “Fair enough. But first you should drive to Heaven’s.” His gaze was hazy, eyelids struggling to remain open.

  “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

  A gasp, like he was still in pain, and a little shudder worked through him. “I might. How long ’til we get there?”

  “Forty-five minutes? I’m taking the long way and a few detours in case we’re followed. And it’ll be a long way back—you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m touched you care,” he muttered.

  “Well, gee, you could speed up the process and just teleport us there.” I snapped back.

  “I haven’t marked Heaven’s location.”

  “The sigil on the car.”

  He nodded. “I marked your car, your building’s garage, and a few other spots. I need a beacon, of sorts, or I can’t reach the location.” He folded his hand over his gut which, although healing, likely hurt like a motherfucker. It wasn’t just the bullet wound, though—he was hurting. Bad. I knew magic could take a lot out of someone, but not cause serious pain like that. He leaned back against the headrest; his eyes fell closed and breathing evened out.

  So “teleporting” wiped him out. I bit my tongue, but when he woke up later, I’d make it clear he was paying to get my upholstery cleaned.

  Fuck it. Heaven could wait—no pun intended. I wanted to get home, get cleaned up, and interrogate the warlock ’til he told me what the fuck was going on. A weird, creepy-crawly feeling ran along my skin, worry I couldn’t shake that got worse every time I thought about his casual freezing of time—or whatever—and teleportation.

  I wasn’t sure why I was so bothered by what had happened. Sure, I physically felt pretty icky after the experience, but that wasn’t it. Perhaps it was because we had almost been killed a couple of times in the past twenty-four hours, and yet he hadn’t once given any indication that he was capable of magic that I had never seen—not once—in three hundred years.

  Pretty rich boy kept getting more and more interesting.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Played

  Home sweet home.

  I left Nate in the car while I got out and checked the parking garage. Sure enough, I found another sigil on a support beam in the same waxy white. He must’ve scraped it on with...a white grease pencil or something? Maybe? The hell if I knew. It came off with the scratch of my thumbnail; I smudged a line right through it. Huh. Well, he’d probably redraw it.

  “This doesn’t look like Heaven’s,” a muffled voice came from the car.

  I strolled back, leaned on the car by the passenger side with my elbow on the roof. “Nope. We’ll go tomorrow. She’ll flip if she hears we got attacked and possibly led people back to her anyway. Plus there was no way I’d carry you into her place.”

  The door eased open and Nate climbed out. “Please tell me you got the book. I think I need it.”

  I smacked him. Not hard, but I hit his still healing gunshot wound.

  He gave a grunt and glared at me; I took the lead and headed toward the elevator. At least he was probably too tapped out to throw a...

  “Hey.” I spun to face him, walking backward with a skip to my step. “So the fireball thing—can witches really do that? I asked Mish once and she wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I prefer lightning.”

  My feet stopped so quickly I nearly tripped over them. “Seriously?”

  He brushed past me. “No.”

  Figures.

  I hauled up the elevator door. “That’s the trouble with you guys.”

  He followed me into the elevator and moments later we were rumbling up to my floor. “What is?”

  “No sense of drama. At least I wear a cool coat and jump from buildings. Have scary fangs that pop out. Paint myself in the blood of my victims. People would actually go to see a movie based on me ’cause it’d be flashy and awesome. I impress people.”

  Lips parted, brows pulled together in confusion, he turned to look at me like I’d sprouted another head. “I removed us from this dimension’s timeline and teleported us outside. How is that not impressive?”

  “Right—and no one saw it. I didn’t even see it and I was fucking there. So who does a witch impress? More witches. The lot of you are too subtle. No wonder covens are so inbred—no one else wants anything to do with you.”

  The elevator shuddered to a halt. Muscles screamed a little as I thrust up the heavy industrial door—I’d pulled something at some point that night. Or maybe I was still sore from the teleporting. If that was the case, though, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell him.

  “Have you gone suicidal? Are you looking to be staked now, or attempting to irritate me to death?”

  “Keeping you annoyed enough so that you don’t pass out before you get in the shower. I’d love to undress you, though would prefer you be awake at the time. I can play naughty nurse with the best of them, but caregiver to the helpless is so not my style.”

  Nate stepped into my bathroom, flipped on the light, and threw over his shoulder, “Mission accomplished.”

  The door closed behind him.

  ****

  I stripped out of my bloody clothes and slipped into long black yoga pants and a red tank top. After tugging my ponytail out, I discovered the ends of my hair crusty with, you guessed it, more blood; with Nate in the bathroom, I had to rinse it in my kitchen sink.

  Fucking roommates. It’d been years since I had Mishka camping out at my old shitty apartment. I’d purposely picked out a one bedroom, one bathroom studio apartment with the express intent to never, ever share it with anyone. And now I was stuck with Pretty Rich Boy who used my shower and didn’t even have the decency to occupy me in bed.

  I could use something to eat, so I called a pizza delivery place still open. Wasn’t sure what Nate would eat—or if he’d eat—so I ordered him a few random pizzas. Plus I requested my favourite delivery guy. He thought I was some Goth pretend vampire and let me snack now and then for extra tips. My last job had me nearly incapacitated for several days and I found it incredibly handy to have someone completely unconnected with the supernatural world that I could call and take a bite of without him calling the cops. Granted, I preferred firemen, b
ut would take a cute, twenty-something delivery guy in a pinch.

  The shower was still running, so I cycled through the numbers on my phone. What I needed was a secretary—I’d called most of the immediate contacts I could think of, but I knew some were missing. People I’d normally have gone to Mish to track down for me.

  I hit one number on the list that I vaguely recognized and paused to stare at the single initial T for a moment. T? I knew a lot of Ts...

  The proverbial light bulb went off over my head and I hit dial.

  “Zara Lain,” said the cocky voice on the other end.

  God, he drove me nuts. “Toby. Where are you?”

  “Montreal.”

  “Tsk tsk, a little birdie told me you weren’t allowed in that territory anymore.”

  A pause and then his voice rumbled with a slight growl. “Outside of Montreal.”

  “Stalking your prey?”

  “Something like that.”

  I’d met a lot of great werewolves in my life. Good men with a unshakeable sense of wolfishness: loyal, strong, and kind. Toby wasn’t one of them: he was a typical man who sometimes got extra hairy. “So you hear about the attacks on the major covens?”

  “Yeah. What’s up with that?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re useless, aren’t you?”

  “Does it have anything to do with vampires going missing?”

  I sat up straighter. In the bathroom behind me, the water shut off but I was only vaguely aware of it. “Where’d you hear about it?”

  “Where haven’t I? There’ve been rumblings for months now.”

  Rumblings about vampires going missing for months and no one told me? Of course, Mish was the one who would normally share that kind of tidbit with me. And now I realized I’d put trust in the wrong person for far too long.

  “Got hired by Annalise Jean’s makers who asked me to track her down,” Toby continued. “She hasn’t checked in for months. That’s why I’m visiting Quebec again.”

  “Must be big pay for you to risk—”

  He hung up. I sighed, turned my phone off, and cast it on the coffee table.