Gabriel stood, as tall as William at six foot one and as their noses nearly kissed, Gabriel turned the tables on William with, “How many must perish for one?”
Damn, he's got me there, William thought.
William shoved the black hair from his gray eyes, his gaze darkening to pewter. “She is a Rare One. We must sacrifice much for her,” William argued logically, his eyes searching Gabriel's, praying for a break, a flicker of anything that might advance him toward another rescue attempt.
“William, I do know how you feel about Julia,” Gabriel began but William interrupted him.
“You do not,” William warned in a voice warmed by raw emotion. As if the hundreds of years he had lived as vampire without emotion had suddenly caught up and come crashing down on him at once.
Gabriel sighed in frustration. He did not wish to give her up any more than William. But her presence within the coven had already cost them over thirty vampires. Soon, there would not be enough left for her prophesied abilities and traits to help their species. Julia Caldwell had become a liability.
Claire came forward and touched her cousin's arm. William stared at her; he found the intrusion unwelcome.
As Claire began to speak the males listened, William the most reluctantly. When she was done William's head hung.
“I refuse it.” William looked from one to the other of them. “She is part of me.” He put a fist to his heart. “Do you not see it?” he asked, looking at Claire who had tried to reason him out of going after Julia again. Loving her.
He could not be reasoned with.
William would not.
“Do you not feel it?” he asked, his vampiric voice reverberating in the enclosed space, stone walls all around them, the sound beating Gabriel and Claire's eardrums like a subtle weapon. Claire covered her ears, wincing and William inclined his head in apology. “I am sorry, but I cannot be governed by numbers. Julia is not a number to me.” His gaze pierced them like lasers beams that tore the skin aside, seeking marrow. “Her blood is a chorus of voices that sing to my soul.” William locked gazes with the leader of his kiss.
“I will never be in harmony as long as she is not with me.”
William stalked out of the room, banging the solid wood door behind him with a resounding shudder.
“It is the blood-share,” Claire said mournfully. “He is lost because of her blood.”
“It is much more than that,” Gabriel said as he slipped a most modern device out of the pocket of the black slacks he wore.
Claire gave him a quizzical look and he shushed her with a look.
Gabriel had a plan.
William would eventually forgive him.
Someday.
*
Northwestern Pack
Lawrence was at a complete loss. His primary Alpha, Joseph, had been killed during the failed acquisition of the Rare One, his sister was out of her mind with grief, and he had the Feral and Anthony at each other's throats.
Literally.
Sometimes, he wished for any job other than the one he held.
Instead, he showed up and executed his position as Packmaster of the Northwestern den. Even if it killed him.
Which it almost certainly would someday.
His morbid joke notwithstanding, it was time to establish order in the pack once again.
He looked at Adrianna, the most Alpha female he had ever met and felt a pang of sympathy. Normally, her abrasive nature was so punishing on his senses he was fine with his brusque treatment of her in return. But two things stood in the way of his usual tactics with her.
One, she was the most eligible female wolf in the den. Two, her brother had just died before her eyes. Murdered by their most grievous enemies.
Brutally.
Then, as females went, she had lost the Rare One and now had a double loss to contend with there. Moonless abilities aside, the Rare One had almost been more trouble than she was worth.
Almost.
Lawrence's gaze flicked to the Feral.
Right, he self-corrected, Jason, his mind restated. Yes, the Singer's husband.
Unconsummated. He and Tony had an intimate discussion on smells. And as the case may be, now that Tony had a firm grasp on both the Feral's scent and that of the Blood Singer, Julia, he was beyond certain they did not commingle.
Lawrence was not privy to the intricacies of their relationship. Only that they had not allowed the circle of their vows to close. This was a crucial detail to the Were.
Lawrence thought, not for the first time, how terrible it had been that Julia had been taken on the eve of the Ritual of Luna. If they could have just....
Ah! He shook his head, his thoughts turning to the mess at hand. The arguing before him a sure distraction.
It was Tony and the spry Alpha female (as usual), Adrianna- Adi. Lawrence sighed, flicking another glance at the Fer... Jason. His body was stock-still and his deep hazel eyes were hooded. They were distant and... contemplative.
Lawrence shouted above the two, “Enough!”
Adi turned, “I will not be under Tony!” she huffed, folding her arms underneath her breasts.
“Yes you will,” Tony said in a voice so low she could barely make it out. Lawrence did not hear the softly spoken dark promise he made. Jason did, his eyes shifting to Tony, still Jason kept his own counsel.
He wasn't talking about hierarchy, the dick hole, Adi knew. He was talking about putting it to her.
“You'll never touch me, with your dick or anything else!” Adi yelled at him, frustrated. She knew that Lawrence hadn't heard the sexual threat. But she had. It had been meant for her.
“Adi!” Lawrence roared, pegging her with his gaze. “Stop this behavior. He is your dominant. You must understand that now that Joseph is... gone,” he swallowed over the awkward wording, “that there must be another to replace him. It is the way of it. As it has been for millennia.” Lawrence's gaze softened and Adi responded, switching tactics for once and trying to be a female instead of an Alpha.
It wasn't a simple transition.
“Please... Packmaster,” her eyes flicked to Tony's, “he means me harm.”
Lawrence scoffed, foolish female, he thought, but he schooled his expression for her benefit. Adi saw the flicker of the emotion on his face and knew she'd lost before he uttered his next words, “He would never harm a female Were, Adi. Think on it.” Lawrence searched her face, waiting. Finally, when she didn't reply out of sheer disbelief and stubbornness, Lawrence added, “There are too few of you to ever trifle with your safety or protection. As it was, your brother did not show good judgment when he took you along on the raid for the Singer.” Lawrence met Tony's eyes. “It is a mark in Anthony's favor that you were returned unharmed.”
Adi seethed in frustration, her wolf roiling dangerously close beneath her skin, stretched taut to bursting. Tony would be him and Lawrence would allow it with Joseph no longer serving as a buffer. Adi turned to the Feral and his nostrils flared, picking up her scent change. And she suddenly remembered when he had awoken in her arms only to be knocked into Timbuktu by Tony, who was only too happy to do it.
They couldn't have him popping her arm off like his favorite drumstick again.
Although, Adi didn't have the sense of that anymore. His desperation to escape and be feral had slid away, she thought. Adi studied Jason Caldwell in human form with his borrowed jeans and a T-shirt that read, When there's no more room in Hell, the dead will walk the earth. It didn't nail her funny bone in the slightest: A) there were no such thing as zombies and it was the lamest thing on the planet to consider it B) she was spoiling for a fight. Her good humor had deserted her. He stared blankly back. Jason made no effort to speak, having ignored everyone and everything. Including her. He was almost robotic.
Where the hell was he in there? she thought, searching those brooding eyes.
Why did he go after Julia? Wasn't he in love with her? Adi would never forget the look on her face when she told Adi about their romance, their secr
et marriage.
That horrible night when he was attacked and apparently killed by the Were.
Presumed dead.
But not. No, now he was a rare red Were. One of very few. Of course, it wasn't every damn day when Singers got turned into other. Whether it be drinker or claw.
Adi would never forget the look on Julia's face when he decided to choke her to death either.
Where was she now? And who in the blue fuck were those crazy-ass Singers that had shown up, kicked ass and taken names?
What was their fairy tale story?
Lots of questions, not enough answers.
Story of her damn life.
#
THE PEARL SAVAGE
Tamara Rose Blodgett
The Pearl Savage
Book One: The Savage Series
Copyright © 2010-2011 Tamara Rose Blodgett
http://tamararoseblodgett.blogspot.com
Kindle Edition
ISBN-10: 1463501552
ISBN-13: 978-1463501556
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved.
Dedication:
Sirena
Prologue
1890
Samuel laid on his back, gasping for air as a fish out of the sea... laboring. They had done all they could, now the burden lay with their descendants. His gaze lingered on the house that he loved, now covered in ash, the sun no longer a bright orb in the sky, but shrouded in gray. A hush fell over the land, the environs a pewter wasteland of nothing, cold seeping into his marrow inch by insidious inch. Many would enter the spheres that had been constructed by the Guardians. They spoke of selective population, which rang false to Samuel, or true, as the case may be, his grandchildren safe and beyond the pale of this time, this world that he was leaving.
He turned his head, rolling limply on its side, where his gaze captured Mae, also prone, a strange contraption with hand-hammered copper and a complex, inky black netting covering the greater part of her nose and mouth, leather thong-like straps braided and wrapped her skull, pushing strands of hair around like lost silver. She made odd, whistling noises as she breathed.
“Samuel, wear it,” Mae said, her voice distorted as she lifted the matching mask the Guardians had fashioned in the few preceding months they had been given.
“No, Mae. I wish to enjoy this fore-night without the chains of their advances.”
Samuel knew his stubbornness would cost him his life. The Guardians who were equal part savior and bearer of terrible news had made concessions for the elders. But those which survived would be the strongest, most virile, agile, smartest and etcetera among them. Samuel and Mae understood at their advanced age of sixty and one years both, they would be excluded from the mercies of the sphere.
With blurred vision, Samuel saw a familiar dimmed figure approach. “Father! Why do you not take rest in your own bed?” Stella asked, her comely face a salve in his approaching death. Her wool skirts swirled as she knelt, setting an illuminated candle beside him, hissing steam from its seams.
Raising his hand, he cupped the loveliness of her face, knowing the time had come to enter the sphere the Guardians had constructed for the select. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Papa, the Guardians have told you that you might survive... all is not lost.”
Samuel put a finger to her lips. “Silence now, child. This is your place now. Do not forget the things you have been taught. Take this, Dear Heart, hold it safe to your breast, guard it. It is our history.” Samuel handed her a slim leather book bound with a black silk tie.
Stella pressed it to her chest, the tears once held in check, now overflowing down unprotected cheeks. Mae's eyes met hers. “Go now Stella-girl... take the opportunity you have been given.”
Her knuckles white as she clutched the book, misery etched its path on her countenance. “It will never be the same without you both.”
A clear bell-tone pealed, reminding Stella of duty. Her duty to leave her parents behind. While the knowledge of her future, the safe environment of the sphere was a burden laid on her heart.
Stella's face turned to look at the sphere, shimmering in a watery iridescence as a giant cloche. But people were not plants, their future safekeeping a promise of a life with a family, fractured by separation.
Stella bent her head to kiss Samuel and Mae goodbye. Gently unwinding the face mask the Guardians had constructed, she laid a kiss, soft as butterfly wings on the woman who had nurtured her every desire. The skin giving way like tissue-thin silk under the pressure of her lips. Turning to her father, his pale blue eyes watering, she cradled his head while she pressed a kiss to his forehead. She lowered his head and took a last, lingering look, knowing this was the final time she would view her parents in this realm.
Lifting her skirts, she pivoted away, dropping them as she walked...no, as she ran, brushing tears from her cheeks, the book clutched tightly in her other hand, the candle hanging from its copper loop in her squeezed finger. Approaching the doorway to the sphere, she was the last select to be ushered inside, casting one final glance, she saw her parents supine forms, clasped hands held tightly, her mother's mask forgotten beside her.
Stella whirled toward the entrance, losing hold of the book, dropping it on the earth now laden with ash. She picked it up, her last gift from Father. Seeing the title, she peered closer: Asteroid; A History of When the Rocks Fell.
Stella moved forward as the hole closed behind her, a fierce idea blooming in her consciousness to remember... who they had been. As an indeterminate future stretched before her....
CHAPTER 1
One Hundred Forty Years Later
Clara beheld the shrouded exterior as she did each morning, her hands pressed against the pliable interior of the sphere, fingers sinking into its surface, stopped before breaching the Outside. The yearning was the same, she wished to experience the Outside.
Sighing, Clara turned from the misty view outside the molded window. Her petticoats swept together, wrapping her bare legs, stockings laid out for her on the bed.
Olive knocked on the door. “Mistress, may I enter your chamber?”
“Yes.”
She entered with steam-pressed clothing draped over her arm, scads of material in a rich turquoise. Clara hated it, hated it all.
“Princess,” inclining her head.
Clara recognized she was penalizing Olive unfairly. Who truly wished to celebrate her Day of Birth? Utter nonsense.
Olive peered at her Princess from under her lashes, she was a formidable young lady, aquamarine eyes which flashed with energetic temper, deep mahogany hair that cascaded to her waist, very handsome but...uncooperative when it came to dressings.
“Please Princess, they await your appearance this day.”
“Does my mother await?” Clara asked.
Olive knew that the Queen was deep in her cup and it was not yet midday. “Our Queen has begun her own celebration.”
No surprise to Clara, deep in spirits, celebration or no.
Her people wished to see her adorned in her finery (a loathsome pursuit) to be reminded t
hat she was their Princess, the one that saw to their happiness, where her mother, the Queen, failed them at every turn.
Olive interrupted her internal musings, “My lady, please employ the bedpost.”
Grabbing the stays that bound the corset, pulling each cross-member, Olive took up the slack, when reaching the end, she pulled with all her might, Clara gasped, “Must it be so tight, I cannot breath properly.”
“It must be hand-span,” as the last stay was tightened to faint-worthiness.
Finally, Olive bent to use the shoe hook on Clara's high heels, each button a luminescent mother-of-pearl.
Clara took in the altered version of herself, the one that did not roam any space in her head. “Do you not think you are agreeable, mistress?”
Clara gazed at her image, creamy expanses of pale skin met the weak light from the sphere window climbing up to a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and strange-colored blue eyes, a dark fall of hair that was red in a certain light, brushed her hips where they swelled. Her mother would be pleased, she supposed. But Clara wanted to change into her waistcoat and linen skirt she wore when she visited the oyster fields.
She turned to Olive. “I look comely enough to satisfy the Queen.”
“And Prince Frederick,” Olive added.
Yes, she must not forget her upcoming nuptials to the Prince. The thought brought a searing tide of resentment, coiling in her breastbone painfully.
Clara sat at the vanity while Olive began weaving the pearls into her hair, a rainbow of shimmering colors began to wink and disappear in the plaiting. “Do you wish to wear it all at the,” she indicated the back of Clara's head, “your highness?”
She wished to not attend her Day of Birth celebration.
“No, Olive, just the forward section... leave the remainder down.”
She swept the forward part of Clara's hair off her face in an elaborate coil, twining at the top, back of her head, the pearls the size of a pinky nail, weaving around it like a crown. Then arranged and rearranged Clara's hair until she was satisfied.
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