Wicked Blood
Margo Bond Collins
Rebecca Hamilton
Bathory Gate Press
Wicked Blood © copyright 2017 Margo Bond Collins and Rebecca Hamilton
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
About Wicked Blood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Authors
About Wicked Blood
In Gypsy Hollow, everyone knows blood is power.
And here, all power come with a blood-price.
In the former city of Bucharest, the Sleeping Daughter—a Fae whose sacrifice helped divide the world into Hollows—rests fitfully, dreaming dark dreams of dominion and demanding blood sacrifices during the full moon.
The Human-Fae council has outlawed the sacrifice of sentient beings, but that doesn’t stop everyone. Especially not the vampires. When Mirela, a fortune teller, finds herself unexpectedly bound to the lynx-shifter Sorin, she realizes that they’ll have to fight against his blood lust and her desire to misuse magic if they plan to survive the Daughter’s rising.
But blood makes the magic stronger—and the Daughter’s imminent awakening only makes the call of evil, and the desire for blood, stronger. And no one can escape the city.
They’ll have to do whatever is necessary to stay alive. Even if it means giving in to the allure of Wicked Blood.
Chapter 1
No matter how quickly I moved through the cobblestone streets, I wouldn’t make it back to Maicǎ’s tea shop before sunset. I could already taste the scent of the Blood Price floating through the air of Bucharest’s Old Town, coating the back of my tongue. Right now, it carried a hint of dark chocolate, rich and warm. After nightfall, that whiff would turn hot and metallic, and the magic would draw power from the full-moon sacrifices that were becoming ever more common, no matter how many laws the Human-Fae Council passed against them.
My grandmother’s ceainărie, its dark-wood shelves lined with tins of dried tea leaves and herbs, had its own kind of magic, protective and comforting and so pervasive that I often forgot it was there. I hadn’t been out of the family enclosure this late in months, hadn’t realized quite how bad things had gotten.
I clutched the small bag of dried jujubes in my fist. It seemed like a stupid errand now, but I had wanted to surprise Maicǎ with them for her birthday, and the Chinese dates were so rare. I hadn’t realized it would take most of the day to track down the trader rumored to have them.
Now I slipped through the darkened streets, moving from shadow to shadow to avoid being seen. Not that anyone was out—there weren’t even torches lit to make up for the Council having shut off the electricity during the full moon. It didn’t matter—I could find my way in the dark. I was only a few blocks from home.
Maicǎ would fuss at me for taking an unnecessary risk. “Ah, Mirela, my child,” she would say, clucking her tongue disapprovingly—but she would soak the dried fruit overnight and include it in our breakfast tomorrow. The unusual sweet then would make up for the way my heart pounded in terror now. I held on to that comforting thought as I worked my way down a darkened alley.
Only one more courtyard to cross, and then I could slip through our enclosure’s back gate.
I slid one foot out into the open square, and the rumble of a growl forced me to freeze. From next to my gate, as if waiting for me, two bright green eyes shone out of the darkness. When a lynx strolled into the courtyard, muscles rolling under its thick fur, I whimpered.
It was far too big to be anything other than a shifter. And a shifter on a full moon meant my luck had run out. The sack of dates fell from my nerveless hands, and my eyes started to roll back into my head.
No. Not this. Not now.
I could still run. I might be able to get away.
Instead, my vision started to darken, then move, slipping across the courtyard…until it turned so that I saw myself, several meters away, crumpling unconscious to the ground.
I didn’t have magic—not real, useful magic. Not the kind that could transform me into other creatures, or heal the injured, or grant me longer life from others’ deaths.
All I had was Sight.
And apparently, at the moment of my death, I was going to See my attacker kill me, through his own eyes.
I felt his body moving beneath me, sleek and powerful, smelled the fear wafting off the girl’s body—from myself—and over the scent gland in the roof of my—the lynx’s—mouth. The deeper I sank into the Vision, the more I lost Mirela and became this creature, whose thoughts might take mine over if I didn’t fight to keep a part of me separate.
The lynx I was in circled my body slowly, sniffing it.
Fear.
Vegetation in her hand.
Blood where her elbow scraped against the stones, still radiating heat from the day.
With a mental jolt, I forced myself to focus on how well I could see in this form rather than on the information the creature parsed out from the scents he took in. I was sinking into his mind more quickly than I had ever done in a Vision before; concentrating on something different from him was the only thing I knew to do to slow that process.
I saw better now, in the moonlit night, than I did in my human form in broad daylight. Colors were different, though—more muted.
I heard more clearly, too. A scrabbling noise down the alley snagged my attention momentarily.
Mouse.
Not hungry.
The lynx-shifter twitched his ear, as if flicking away a fly.
Pay attention, Sorin.
Oh, hell. I heard that thought. I shoved all my energy into slipping out of the Vision and back into myself.
Now, while the shifter’s distracted.
I’d push up to my feet, run to the gate. Get through. Lock him out. The enclosure had walls too high for even the biggest shifters to leap, with shards of glass jutting out from the top.
The lynx—Sorin—sat back on his haunches and stared at my motionless form.
Well, if I couldn’t get out of his mind, I could at least keep our thoughts separate. As Maicǎ had taught me, I began building a wall between our minds, brick by mental brick.
W
hen I completed the barrier, he still hadn’t moved.
Why wasn’t he attacking?
That’s what the shifters did, after all: waited for the full moon, and then changed into animals so they could savage an innocent—pay a Blood Price to gain power. The more significant the sacrifice, the more magic the Sleeping Daughter gave in reward.
So why was this shifter simply considering my helpless body?
If I’d been in my own body, I would have cried out when he finally stood and stepped toward me.
As he lowered his head toward my neck, I wished I could close my eyes, quit watching what I was about to See. But I was trapped inside him, unable to control his motions or exert any force on him at all.
This was it.
The moment I died.
The shifter’s mouth opened wide, his powerful jaws closing in on me, his sharp teeth piercing my—
My collar?
With a cat-like huff, the shifter gave a strong tug and began dragging my body across the courtyard, back toward the alleyway.
In my surprise, I let down some of the barrier I had been holding between our thoughts.
… safe under that cart, maybe.
Wait. The lynx-shifter was trying to keep me safe? More of my carefully placed mental wall crumbled.
…smells perfectly fine, mostly. Wish I could do more.
I winced inwardly as I heard my arms scraping along the cobblestones. Still, better than being devoured by a lynx-shifter.
She’s lucky. The major clans’ Blood Prices tonight will probably keep others from scenting her injuries. Stupid to be out alone after dark on the full moon, though.
He pulled me up alongside the cart, then batted at me with enormous paws, claws sheathed, until he rolled me over—once, twice, and then finally a third time with a triumphant shove. I slipped down a slight incline and all the way under the half-broken cart Gavril Funar used to haul his nets to market every morning to trade and sell.
The shifter had one last thought as he—we—padded away into the moonlight of the Blood Price night, and that thought knocked down the last of the barrier I had managed to hold between us.
Maybe I’ll be able to come back and check on her tomorrow.
I felt myself sinking fully into the Vision, even as a final thought of my own echoed through my mind: Why does a shifter care?
Sorin Rascu loped away from the Old Town enclosure, wondering why he had even bothered to hide the unconscious girl.
He hadn’t intended to stop at all. Old Town was simply a shortcut on his way from the Titan neighborhood parkland held by his lynx-shifter clan—the Rascu Chain—to the Officers’ Circle Palace on Constantin Mile Street.
Objectively speaking, the decision to stop and deal with the girl probably had as much to do with his own reluctance to complete his assigned task as it did with any humanitarian impulse he felt.
Not that he hadn’t wanted to help. The girl was beautiful. Plus, damn, she smelled good—and not only because it was a full-moon night and she was a human.
Partly human, anyway. He definitely smelled at least some magic in her blood. A small-magics user. Not a Wicked Blood—someone who killed for entertainment rather than for survival or food.
Not even someone like him, who killed out of necessity.
Mostly, anyway. Truth be told, the more he needed to kill, the more he wanted to. Every month brought a full change to Wicked Blood closer and closer.
The thought made his stomach hurt. He wished he could howl his anguish to the skies, like the wolves who held the western edge of the city, but the most he could manage was a kind of yowling cry. Anyway, even if he did, if anyone in his Chain heard him, he’d be branded a weakling, and likely end up on the wrong end of a Blood Price fight of his own.
No, better to simply follow orders and see what he could discover by spying on the blood-drinkers’ leaders in their stronghold. And if he got caught, he would follow his Alpha’s directives and offer a sacrifice in exchange for his own life, even if it meant becoming so depraved that he finally crossed over entirely. As long as he completed his assignment tonight, it would protect his people.
Even Wicked Bloods have their uses.
He shook his head as he emerged from the last street leading to the back of the palace.
Unlike the rest of the city, the vampires’ stronghold glittered with light. They had generators running at full capacity, announcing to everyone that they were the original Wicked Bloods, the apex predators in Gypsy Hollow, the hunters who did not need to hide. Their full-moon nights were dedicated to paying the Blood Price. And anyone who came within their reach risked landing on their altars, sacrificed to the Sleeping Daughter in hopes that she might rise again and bless them with her dark power.
Sorin made a hacking noise from the back of his throat, his disgusted reaction automatic. He was glad. As long as the thought of the Sleeping Daughter rising horrified him, he retained that part of him that was good.
I am not a Wicked Blood. Not yet.
And as long as he avoided the blood-drinkers’ attention tonight, he would remain free of that taint. He began to circle the palace, heading toward the entry point he had scouted the week before.
I will not murder any innocents tonight.
Not this time.
Not again.
Chapter 2
The woman splayed on the altar twitched in terror, frozen in place by the vampire-priest’s mesmeric eyes. The tiny spasms shuddering through her limbs spoke of a desperate attempt to escape—but in the end, she couldn’t force herself to move.
The marble block holding the young woman served as the focal point of a long room that had probably served as a ballroom many years ago, before the world had cracked and torn apart. Now, the sacrificial stone was soaked in blood and magic.
Vampires dressed in black robes stood perfectly still in rows before the altar, waiting for the moment when they could tear the innocent girl to pieces.
Pretentious asses, Sorin thought. Any shifter could tell the vamps that the Blood Price didn’t require all that pomp and circumstance.
But the blood-suckers had developed an elaborate ritual for the Blood Price sacrifices. Ciprian, the Rascu Chain Alpha, would be glad to know the reason for the detailed service, if Sorin could figure it out. So far, though, the only certainty Sorin had developed was that it was long, complicated, and mind-numbing for anyone not involved.
Though not for the poor girl about to be shredded, of course.
He couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, nonetheless.
From his perch on the balustrade, crouching down and flattening himself against the wall, Sorin peered through the window he had chosen for his stakeout. The lynxes’ Chain had gathered the information he needed to spy on the vampires months before, but Sorin had insisted on investigating the site for himself before the full moon. On that trip, he had discovered that the only other viable choice for watching the ceremony was to perch precariously on the arched stone framing one of the high windows along the front of the palace, in full sight of anyone passing by, should anyone be foolish enough to do so—and easily visible to any patrols.
But that was assuming the vamps bothered to post guards; Sorin suspected they were too arrogant, too certain of their own superiority, to trouble setting watch.
At least here he had a chance of getting away, should he sight a sentry.
The higher windows would have offered the possibility of attacking the vampires, though. Maybe even saving the girl.
No. He would have to be content with saving only one girl tonight—the Romani beauty he had rolled under a cart.
By the looks of her, the girl on the blood-drinkers’ altar could be Romani as well, with dark hair and pale skin made even paler by fear, no more than eighteen or twenty at most.
The two sides of his nature tugged at him. On the one hand, his humanity insisted he at least try to save the girl waiting to be sacrificed. On the other hand, his inner beast didn’t understand
the impulse. His cat had gone along with hiding the Romani girl—she smelled good, possibly like mating or maybe food. Tucking her away from any competition made good feline sense.
But saving some girl simply to save her? And worse, to put himself at risk doing so? That was ridiculous. Better to saunter away, find a good corner to clean his paws and pretend he didn’t care.
In fact, leaving here was a good idea, too. His cat chuffed internally in pleasure at the notion.
Maybe go back to the Romani under the wagon.
Sorin shoved the thought down.
Do all shapeshifters fight their beasts this much?
The thought almost seemed to come from somewhere outside himself. It certainly wasn’t anything he had considered before. His inner cat was just…his cat. Part of who he was. A less moral part, perhaps, but in the end, merely another aspect of his entire personality.
God. The vampires’ sacrificial rites were interminable. The lead priest had droned on so long that even the woman pinned to the altar by the monsters’ magic had dropped into an almost catatonic state, beyond fear.
Beyond pain, with any luck.
But no. Almost as the thought passed through Sorin’s mind, the priest raised a sharp, bone-handled knife, its blade stained black with the blood of countless other victims, high above his head. The woman on the stone block at the front of the long room found the strength to overcome the vampire’s binding enough to scream.
The shrill sound shook Sorin out of the slight trance he’d slipped into and sent a shiver rippling down his spine, ruffling the fur until he shook it back into place. It was more than just the sound, though. The scream carried something else with it.
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