Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Hands touch her. Not to harm, but to help.

  Pieces of conversation come to her in scattered bits. “Like this—no, careful!” The wail of sirens draws nearer.

  Medics arrive. Gentle hands touch her ankles, throat, and wrist.

  She'll heal. But right now, Adi hurts like hell.

  But the humans don't know that. “One, two—three!” The hands lift her, transferring her to a gurney. Adi shrieks despite her best efforts not to, feeling weightless as the human responders begin to slide her inside the back of the ambulance.

  “Skid marks. Driver was going fast. Did you see how far she was from the vehicle?” one medic asks another.

  “Too far.” The voice is ominous.

  Adi cracks her eyes open. The males are gone.

  A bee sting pierces her arm at the bend of her elbow.

  Then she is gone, too.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tessa

  They grab the women, hauling them on shoulders as broad as houses, then run deeper into the woods.

  Tessa jiggles on the back of the one whose crotch she nailed.

  He seems to be purposely jostling her in a teeth-rattling stride while maneuvering around the huge, old-growth trees heaped with layers of moss and lichen.

  She wants to barf, preferably on him.

  Finally, they reach a clearing, and he allows Tessa to slide off his back.

  Actually, he just sort of lets go, and she rolls off him in a clumsy pile of limbs. She lands hard, a breath choking out of her body. The food she had in the Walmart parking lot is long-gone, and she's so thirsty, she can hardly think of anything else.

  But those considerations are second to the Lanarre pack coming out to see the novelty of two females literally dropping into their laps.

  Tessa stands, dusting off her hands, and glances over her wardrobe malfunctions. Her yoga pants got a workout while stretching to accommodate her shifts from quarter-change to wolfen. They hang loosely now, barely staying on her hips. Her T-shirt's neckline and hem are terribly stretched out. She’s filthy.

  She glares at the approaching Lanarre welcoming committee. Assholes. Tessa will not allow fear to rule her.

  Her palms slick with the beginnings of the fight-or-flight response.

  Tahlia doesn't seem to share her anxiety.

  Of course not. She's lived in the comfort of the southwestern Lanarre region of the Redwoods in northern California. Tahlia's seen nothing but deference.

  What an eye-opener this must be.

  Three Lanarre break from the pack of about a dozen. Tessa backs up until her butt hits a tree.

  The Lanarre who carried her turns, his eyes like knives of contempt, slicing her up.

  Looks like his crotch is okay now. Tessa smirks.

  The three move to Tahlia. “Imposters will be punished.”

  Tahlia's brow furrows, and anger radiates from her every pore. “You are some of the most daft Lanarre I've ever had the misfortune of encountering. Scent me!” she yells.

  The lead of the three shakes his head. “Drek was tasked with meeting his chosen, Tahlia. After a massacre of her guardians—”

  “My guardians, you foolish dog.”

  His fist swings out, and Tahlia ducks smoothly. He feints, clocking her with the opposite fist.

  She lands hard, her lip split and bleeding. “You will not address me as though you are above me. No female but a royal could speak to a Lanarre male in that way, bitch.”

  So much for not hurting females.

  Tessa's back straightens. Tahlia has a smartass mouth on her. But for a huge male to use a closed fist on a female Lanarre? Nope.

  They're going to get a reckoning when Drek finally makes his appearance.

  Tessa moves quickly. These idiots will be unprepared for her offensive. They're so sure of their wonderful maleness, there's no way a female would see to them.

  Bullshit on that.

  One of the three almost catches her race to get them, but he misses it.

  Tessa rolls as she flies low, bunching up her body and somersaulting across the soft ground. At the last moment, she shoots out her hands, grabbing the nuts of the two who flanked Beater.

  He turns, mouth agape, and Tessa springs straight to his face, striking him in the throat in a solid jab. He falls.

  Tessa smiles. All in a day's work.

  She swivels, grabbing the hand that Tahlia throws above her.

  “Thank you, Tessa,” Tahlia says, spitting blood on the ground.

  “Thought you were a big bad fighter?”

  Tahlia nods, her eyes wary on the remaining Lanarre. “I am. When I know I will suffer abuse.”

  “You've never been hit by a male?” Tessa asks without looking away from the approaching Lanarre.

  “No,” she says, voice small. “None would dare.”

  The Lanarre approach, changing to wolfen. Their bodies burst the clothes apart, swelling to almost seven feet.

  Tessa's empty. She doesn't have sufficient fuel to shift. Quarter-change is all she's got, and even that is scraping the bottom of the barrel.

  And it won't be enough. She took out the three through the element of surprise. Without that to assist her, they'll have her bent into a pretzel in no time. Nailing their crotches was a quick, effective offensive. It also probably has the highest piss-off factor.

  Tessa chances a glance at Tahlia. Her face is brave, but her lips tremble. “No male Lanarre would raise a hand to a female.”

  “They didn't get the memo at this pack,” Tessa remarks.

  Tahlia frowns, but then her face bleeds to horror as she looks to the border of the forest.

  Laz steps from the woods.

  His tail rises above his head, and he crouches like a samurai warrior. His hiss sounds like a legion of snakes.

  Tessa shivers. The demonic are a fearsome species.

  The Lanarre turn and pause.

  He's worth a pause.

  Laz, why couldn't you stay gone? Tessa has time to ask before sprinting to meet him. She runs toward the evil—her salvation.

  Maybe there's hope yet. With the three of them, they might be able to get out of this lunatic place where they're noseblind to a true royal in their midst.

  She's almost to him when a Lanarre blindsides her with a fist.

  Tessa flies, crashing on the ground. She rolls, moving to her hands and knees, shaking her head to clear it.

  Tahlia flies in a blur of color to her right.

  Tessa stands and falls. She gets up again.

  Tahlia's put two of the Lanarre out of commission.

  A lazy smile forms on Tessa's face.

  A couple of chicks kicking their asses. Tessa likes it. Remembering Laz, she turns.

  He brings the end of his tail down on the head of a Lanarre. Brains blow out the side of his head. Shards of skull fling away like the scattered shells of eggs.

  A hand grabs her arms, and Tessa twists it hard. The grasp loosens, and she stares up into slowly rotating eyes of silver. She hits him in the nose with the flat of her palm, giving it everything she has left.

  He howls, staggering away and grabbing his stubby snout.

  Tessa whirls, her throbbing palm letting her know she's fractured something, and promptly slams into Laz's chest.

  He grips her with fingers of steel. She sucks in his scent as though she’s starving.

  Home. “Laz!” she cries.

  He tosses her gently aside, and she lands on the ground behind him.

  Her head bounces off a rock, and the world spins. Tessa hears the fighting and screaming. Something warm hits her face like droplets of bathwater.

  A large hawk slowly spirals in loose circles above her head. “What?” she chokes out.

  Tahlia?

  She rolls her head, and it comes off the rock.

  No. Tahlia is under three Lanarre.

  They're holding her down. Gotta get over there.

  Tessa begins to claw at the ground, working her way inch by inch.
/>
  A foot lands on her back, and she groans as pain radiates through her beaten body.

  She grabs the foot and twists. The Lanarre loses his balance, falling beside her.

  She shoves her thumb in his eye. He wails, and she rolls to her side, lurching to her feet, and stumbles toward Tahlia.

  Why does she look like I'm seeing her through a tunnel?

  Tahlia drops to her knees just as an elegant and commanding Lanarre moves into the clearing.

  Tessa sways.

  He takes in the melee then shouts, “Stop!” in the most intense voice she's ever heard.

  Tessa shudders. His voice resonates through her bones like a note from a tuning fork. She begins to fall forward, and someone catches her. She bats weakly at the hands. Then she notices whose hands hold her.

  Heat seeps into all the cold parts of her body, one in particular.

  Her eyes snap open.

  Pale-blue eyes stare somberly down at her out of a face too red to be human flesh.

  “Laz!” she calls in weak warning.

  His tail snaps back like a mallet, taking the approaching Lanarre's head off at the base.

  Like a classic parody of a zombie, the Lanarre keeps walking forward, arms outstretched, blood shooting out of his neck like a geyser. He comically tumbles forward.

  The four after him are more cautious as they approach Laz.

  My demon.

  *

  Drek

  The area stills, and a frightened Lanarre princess seeks his face. Her fear strikes Drek like a piercing sword. Its evisceration of his tender insides is complete. His arrogant certainty of her fate as separate from his own is wiped from his psyche forever.

  His guts pull him forward with a painful precision born of biology. Tahlia is more than his chosen in an arranged match of tradition he's been told about over the years.

  Tahlia is meant to be mine. The very fiber of his being weeps for their union. His wolf thrashes his insides to get to her. Drek nearly stumbles as he makes his way toward Tahlia.

  “What is this chaos?” Drek roars, eyes sweeping the impromptu battleground.

  Bowen bursts his skin for the third time in twenty-four hours, smoothly transitioning to wolfen.

  Drek keeps form.

  He takes in the large hands holding her small body on the ground. His beast wants to gnaw those hands off.

  “We have caught this rogue Lanarre female, Drek. She claims to be Lanarre royalty from the southwest. She attacks the males.” His snort of disdain sets Drek's teeth.

  Only royal Lanarre males can scent royal females. His temples thump, popping veins.

  “Take your hands off my chosen, or Bowen will strip them off with his teeth.”

  Bowen growls his agreement.

  His eyes seek Tahlia. She remains aloof, looking everywhere but at him.

  The other males step away, and she manages to stand. Tears stain her face. A smudge of muddy forest floor and a stray needle stick to her cheekbone as she rubs her arms where the males held her.

  Her hunger slaps at Drek, and her fatigue tears at him like small teeth. This is chosen? He thought he could just—what? Make her go away?

  There is no going away. Tahlia is here to stay.

  Mine, his beast whispers with insistence from deep inside. Drek reaches for her, and large midnight eyes narrow at the gesture. “Don't touch me, prince,” she seethes.

  Drek frowns. “I am Drek, your chosen.”

  She nods, as regal as he.

  This is not going as he thought it would.

  “I know who you are. Call off your dogs from my friend, or I will make your time on this earth a living hell.”

  Drek's misgivings deepen. He might want her, but the greeting she received was incorrigible. Therefore, she is justifiably upset.

  He glances at the six bodies on the ground. Two are missing heads. His lips lift from his teeth. The Lanarre guard who are uninjured bow their heads, backing away. Drek risks a glance at the rogue female and the demonic.

  She is worse for wear, bleeding from her head. The demonic, standing proudly in the nude, wears the blood of the Lanarre over his entire body.

  Drek dismisses him as a threat for the moment, turning his attention back to one of his guard, Ospere. “What. Is. Going. On?” He enunciates each word like gunfire.

  Ospere glares at Tahlia.

  In the flesh, she is utterly gorgeous—liquid and vital. Wide-spaced eyes of the darkest blue with a splash of violet flash in a face contorted with anger. Black hair in tight spiral curls falls to a hand-span waist.

  Drek wonders what it would be like to touch it.

  “Do not look at my chosen thus. Explain. Now.”

  Ospere’s mouth drops open, and Drek wonders at his shock. “We found the females trapped at the great river, Drek. They were accompanied by that one.” He jerks his thumb toward the demonic hovering near the forest, with the injured female in his arms.

  “Why?” Drek yells. “Why would you raise a hand to the chosen?”

  “Drek,” Ospere spreads his arms away from his body in an inoffensive gesture. “Your chosen has been here for over a week. She arrived in the time you have been gone.”

  Drek jerks his head back. “No. This female”—he points at a pouting Tahlia—is my chosen.”

  “No, she isn't,” calls a voice from the direction of their den.

  Drek swings his body toward the voice. A female, the near spitting image of the one not two yards from him, stands close to the edge of the glade.

  She sways as she walks toward him. The female is undoubtedly royal—Drek can smell it. She also smells alarmingly similar to Tahlia.

  “Who is she?” Bowen asks.

  “I am Tahlia of the Lanarre pack of the Redwood Forest.”

  “You bitch!” the chosen screams.

  Drek's shock is absolute.

  Tahlia attacks the other female. Talons fly.

  Blood flows.

  More Lanarre rush in and separate them.

  Drek and Bowen exchange a look of confusion.

  For once, his nose has lied. He doesn't know who is telling the truth—and who is lying.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Julia

  Julia leans back.

  “You're gonna wear your eyes out looking at the clock constantly.”

  She turns to Scott and sighs. He's right, but she can hardly wait.

  “It will surely be unpredictable,” Victor comments, setting his fork at the edge of his plate, tines down.

  Julia's stuffed. She leans back, pushing her plate away with a fingertip. “I'm scared,” she admits softly.

  Victor's forehead creases. “Do not be. Scott is Combatant. I am, as well. The demonic doesn't stand a chance against the two of us.”

  Julia's hand covers the spore. It's quiet. But for how long?

  Scott follows the movement, his face troubled. She can feel their combined thoughts like collective soup—delicious, but filling. He knows what she does. Nothing.

  She glances at the timer that will release them from the vault, yet again.

  Five hours, four minutes, thirty-two seconds.

  “Julia,” Scott says softly, taking her hands in his. He kisses her knuckles, keeping hold of her hands.

  His flesh is warm against hers. She doesn't cry, but the tears are right at the surface. Julia thinks of Jason dying and Cyn still living above their heads. Maybe safe?

  Maybe not.

  Julia's been so selfish. Scott's brother and sister are above. Jen and Michael can't even know they're down here.

  Julia turns to Victor. “You didn't know those two weren't Region Two?”

  Victor's face tightens, regret etched on every surface. “I thought something was off. But, like everyone, I was overly thrilled that additional Singers survived. At least, more presumed to be Singers lived.” His eyes meet hers, and Julia releases a harsh breath.

  “Me, too,” she whispers. They exchange a tormented glance.

  Vic
tor continues, “I was walking through the kitchen when my veins began to surface.”

  “That's when you knew,” Scott confirms, and Victor gives a curt nod.

  “So they're here to what?”

  Victor narrows his eyes at Julia, drumming his fingers on the cheap folding table they just ate at. “I do not wish to alarm you further. But because you’re the Rare One, the demonic would be interested in shutting you down.”

  Julia turns to Scott, and he nods.

  “Royal Singers are angelic. The demonic had nothing to worry about when we were spread across the globe—numbers low, no one to solidify or unify who and what we are. Along comes the prophesied Rare One. You changed all that.”

  “How?” Julia asks, taking her hands from Scott's hold. She stands and paces back and forth in the all-concrete gloom.

  Victor stands, as well, clasping his hands behind his back. He walks closer to her, but stops a few feet away. “Your potential has been much debated. But we know that the Rare One is here to unite the Singers and bring a purity of blood and cohesiveness to our species that's been diluted and misaligned over the centuries.”

  “Like Jacqueline,” Scott states quietly.

  Victor looks in his direction, saying nothing.

  “We can't blame what's happening here on Jacqueline's mismanagement of Two. No. Those demon guys are here because they're trying to halt progression,” Julia states.

  Victor's eyes are on Julia's hands as they fly around like escaped birds. “You are the natural enemy of the demonic.”

  “All of us are,” Scott corrects.

  Victor shakes his head. “All royals, naturally. However, many of us do not possess sufficient blood quantum to worry them.”

  They look at Julia. “But I do.”

  “In abundance.” Victor casts his eyes to the floor. “I have assumed that you've bonded fully.”

  Julia's face bursts into flames.

  Even the unflappable Scott seems a little… flummoxed. He manages, “Yes.” The one-word answer clearly signals the end of the conversation.

  Not for Julia. “So we have. The soul-meld is consummated. What are the bennies?” She shifts her weight, trying to ignore the timer.