by Jessica Lee
Markus reinforced his directive. She would do it. She had to.
“Alex, what’s the matter? You’re scaring me.” Elle stepped farther inside the cage and closer to her sister. “What’s wrong? Alex, you’re free now. We have to hurry.” Elle reached out and grasped the fingers of her sister’s right hand. Alexandria’s head snapped forward. She shrieked and lunged with her arms outstretched, aiming for Elle’s throat and rammed into her, knocking her back through the door and onto the basement’s concrete floor. The base of Elle’s skull impacted with a loud crack, and her arms and legs went limp. Her body lay motionless. Excellent.
“The keys, now!” Markus shouted to Alexandria, who stood over her sister’s body like a damn statue. She lurched into motion. Spinning around, she headed back toward her cage door. The key ring still hung from the keyhole. Markus thrummed his fingers against his thigh as she eased the keys free, avoiding the silver surrounding the lock.
The air felt trapped in his lungs as she finally made it to his cage and inserted the key. Her wrist rotated clockwise, releasing a metal clink of pins. The door swung wide, and the breath he’d been holding rushed from his chest. She’d done it.
He flew from his cage and swept her into his arms. His heart galloped in his chest. She didn’t return his embrace, but damn, she felt good pressed against his body. He set her swiftly back to her feet. There wasn’t time for a celebration. They needed to get out of there alive first. He hurried to Elle’s still form and sank to one knee, placing two fingers at her throat. Her heartbeat was strong. Good. He needed her alive, for now.
Placing one arm under her neck and another beneath her, Markus lifted Elle and cradled her in his arms. Alexandria joined him by his side.
“We’re going home, Alexandria. Follow me.” Placing one hand on his arm, she joined him in a swift phase.
The dim yellow glow of Markus’s suite grew in clarity moments later as they rematerialized beside his bed. Markus lowered Elle’s unconscious form on top of his deep purple feather comforter. When Marguerite learned of his return, Elle would be the perfect peace offering for his pissed-off mistress. Instead of exercising her foul temper on Alexandria, she would be more than pleased to be handed Kenric’s prized female Enclave member. And what better way to end this battle with his former partner.
I’d say I won this round, Arran. The corners of his mouth twitched with his attempt at a smile.
But first things first. Markus had to deal with one small possible kink in his plan: the ability for Arran to track his new lover. Grasping Elle by the chin, he pushed her head to the side. As he’d suspected, fresh bite marks. He sighed. “Sorry, lover boy. But I can’t have you following me.” And there was only one way to make sure that didn’t occur. Markus slowly shook his head, licked the tips of his descended fangs, and struck.
…
This was taking longer than he liked.
Arran crouched and spun on his heels, just missing the hard swing of the other vampire’s blade. It whizzed over the top of his head. Unable to stop the momentum, the minion’s arm arched wide, opening his torso for a direct assault. Arran couldn’t pass on such an opportune moment. He sprung, sinking his silver-plated dagger deep in the bloodsucker’s chest. That made what? Six…seven. Shit, he’d lost count. He yanked his blade out of the male’s chest, and the vampire crumpled, already beginning to reek of rotting flesh.
A loud roar behind his head had Arran whirling, his dagger fisted in his palm. Kenric stood with his back to him, arms spread wide. A percussion wave, backwashing off the far wall, slammed into Arran’s chest, knocking him back and onto his knees. The Enclave’s Master had pounded three vampires into the concrete with the force of the blast. Arran sprang back to his feet, only to stagger once more. Agony seized his heart. He clutched at the pain in the center of his chest, tearing at the material covering his flesh. It was if something or someone was clawing through his breastbone and trying to rip his heart from his body. His vision clouded.
“Fuck,” he muttered on a gasp. Arran gulped and the pain vanished. As quickly as it had seized him, it was gone. Releasing his hold on the column, he dropped to the floor. The pounding of boots drew close to where his ass sat. He raised his blade, ready to deal with whatever motherfucker wanted another round.
“Arran. Hey, man, are you good?” Kenric’s voice. Arran lowered his dagger. The master settled on his haunches in front of him. Blood smeared the side of his face and clung to the strands of hair stuck to his cheek.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” Arran shoved to his feet. “Did the chickenshits bail on us?” The pain had vacated the spot, but he still absently rubbed at the hollow feeling remaining in his chest. His stomach roiled and grew more unstable by the minute.
“Looks like it,” Kenric said, sheathing his blade. Logan pulled up behind the elder vampire. “One of the males, who appeared to be the leader, suddenly yelled for retreat a few seconds ago. Whoever remained alive, phased.”
Arran slid his dagger into its sheath and headed for the holding room. Suddenly, bile surged to the back of his throat, burning through the void behind his sternum. He swallowed hard and grabbed the wall to his right. Kenric’s large hand appeared on his shoulder.
“What gives?” Kenric maneuvered around and faced him. “Did you take a hit?”
Sweat ran down the sides of his face. His vision blurred. Not to mention the wave of panic swirling in his gut. What the fuck was going on? “No, no hit.” He shook his head. “I don’t know… Something’s not right. I don’t feel right.” Arran swallowed hard, blinked, and brought his gaze to the other male’s. The Enclave master’s lips pressed into a thin line. “What?” Arran’s pulse throbbed in his temples. He didn’t like the implication behind the look on Kenric’s face.
“Where’s Elle?”
His lungs ceased to function. “No…” The word wheezed from his throat. He gasped. “No!” Arran exploded from the room, his brain close to a shutdown. This could not be happening.
He flew into the holding room, his body on autopilot and taking him to the last place he’d seen his Gabrielle.
“Gabrielle!” he shouted into the empty space. The cage doors both stood open. Vacant. “Gabrielle!” Arran spun, searching. “Oh God.” He choked back the sob threatening to break free. Keep it together. He had to. Arran sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached for anything left of her essence.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Only emptiness.
He would search for her as long as it fucking took. Arran tried to pinpoint her a third time.
Nothing. Her presence was gone. It was as if she’d never existed. Like she was… Hell, no. He reached up with one hand and massaged the ache that had now replaced the void in his chest. She wasn’t… He couldn’t even say the damn word. If he did… Both hands went for the sides of his head.
“Goddammit!” Logan’s curse jolted him back from the brink. Logan stood in front of what had been Markus’s holding cell. His arm swung out and caught the open door. In one large swoop, he slammed the door shut. The loud clank echoed off the stone walls followed by a muttered curse. Logan spun and marched across the room toward him. “Where is she?” The warrior curled and uncurled a fist at his side, the visible flesh cherry red from its contact with the silver. “You can sense her, right?”
Arran couldn’t find his voice. He shook his head instead.
“What the hell do you mean, no?” Logan’s eyes narrowed as he stopped in front of him. Kenric stepped behind Logan. The look on his face said he was waiting for the answer as well.
Swallowing hard, Arran forced back the hard lump of desperation trying to claw its way out of his throat. “There’s nothing,” he said, his voice tight, every muscle a hard coil ready to spring into action.
“That’s not possible!” Logan shouted. “Your scent was all over her, and I saw her throat.” Although his expression said he wished he hadn’t. “Try again. She’s there.”
Arran c
harged, knocking Logan back. Kenric caught Logan by the shoulders.
“Don’t you think I have tried!” The air sawed in and out of Arran’s chest, burning a path down his windpipe. “She’s not there!” Arran spun, turning his back. What was he going to do? He couldn’t think. His brain was on the verge of a meltdown.
“Arran…” Kenric’s voice sliced through the murkiness inside his head. Arran whirled. The master’s somber tone and grim expression propelled Arran right over the edge.
“Don’t you fucking say it!” Arran surged at him, putting them face-to-face. “She’s still alive.”
“You’re right.”
“Damn straight.”
“Until we’ve proven otherwise, Elle is still alive,” Kenric said, his voice commanding and deep. “And we will bring her home.”
Chapter Seventeen
Pain, hot and gnawing, attacked Elle’s gut. She curled in on herself, attempting to untie the knots in her abdomen. Her breath was hot on her skin, yet she shivered uncontrollably. Dear God, she was dying.
Or should have been dead already, but for some reason, her body hadn’t gotten the message.
Where was Arran? She opened her mouth, willing his name off her tongue, but nothing emerged. Elle swallowed, trying to wash the back of her throat with whatever moisture she could conjure. The strangest taste coated her tongue. Metallic. Rich. A flavor that made her stomach yearn and her body rebel against the fatigue. She needed more.
Now.
What was going on?
She dragged her eyelids open. The dry air stung her eyes, and she could have sworn sandpaper lined the back of her lids. She blinked against the single bright white bulb hanging from the ceiling directly over her midsection. Her palm brushed against the rough fibers of the material covering her. She tucked her chin and glanced low under the covers. Thankfully, she was still in the same jeans and blouse she last remembered wearing. But…where the hell was she?
The handle on the door across from her bed rattled, grabbing her attention. The wooden door swung inward. A tall man with fiery red shoulder-length hair, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, sauntered in. Wearing dark leather pants draped in chains and a black tattoo that swirled in dramatic loops around his left eye, the guy looked like sex and death conjoined. She shoved her hands into the mattress and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her muscles rebelled and rewarded her with a charley horse. Gasping, she straightened her calf. Jeez, had she been hit by a semi on the way here?
“Who are you?” she demanded, though it came out more like a croak. “Where am I?” She dug the heels of her feet in and prepared to launch herself from the small bed. He didn’t acknowledge her question. Instead sex-on-a-stick came to a stop beside her and started inching the sleeve of his white dress shirt up his right arm. What the hell was he doing? With his arm stretched out in front of her, he worked the material into small folds toward his elbow. Elle’s gaze locked on what looked like old puncture wounds at his wrist. She licked her lips. Her gums tingled, and her stomach spasmed.
Oh God!
The sharp sting of rupturing fangs had her crying out. No! Elle’s hand flew to her mouth. Memories detonated in her mind. Images so painful she must have bolted the door on them to survive. Elle slammed her eyelids tight. Alex… It wasn’t her fault. But the attack stung her heart. Markus would pay. God, how he would pay.
Markus.
The mere thought of his name sent a cold chill spiraling down her spine. She didn’t need to reach and feel for the evidence in her neck to know more holes were there. Holes Arran had not placed there. The memory of Markus’s bite brought the wound back into a throbbing reality. Nausea bloomed in her gut. She would never forget the taste of his hot blood as it scorched a path down her throat.
Her breath hitched on a broken sob. No, no, no! Not like this. A tear traced a warm path down her cheek and pooled on the side of her hand covering her trembling lips. Another teardrop joined the first, cascading them both over the edge and across her knuckles.
The bed dipped.
“Get back!” She scrambled farther away from his presence.
“I’m here for your feeding.” The male jutted his wrist closer to her face. “That’s all.”
His scent flooded her nostrils, setting off a wave of hunger unlike anything she’d ever known. She moaned and gripped the edge of the mattress. “You’re human.” No one had to educate her about that scent.
He nodded.
“You serve Marguerite and Markus, don’t you?” Again, he nodded. “And that’s where I am.” Elle glanced around the room, realizing for the first time there were no windows, and the walls were made of stone. “I’m in the basement of Marguerite and Markus’s central colony. Am I right?” The corner of his mouth quirked, giving her his answer. “How long?”
“Two nights. Enough questions,” he grumbled and edged closer. “Eat.”
Her stomach cramped. She had a feeling this wasn’t the first time he’d fed her, judging by the marks on his wrist and her immediate reaction. Elle’s guess was that Markus had been sending others to keep her fed since her transition. Of course, why would that SOB handle the dirty work. Besides, he’d done her a favor. The fewer drops of Marguerite’s blood she had to carry in her veins the better. She shook her head. The whole idea of feeding from another felt like cheating. The logic was flawed, and she knew it. A vampire had to eat to survive. It was feeding, not sex. God, if she had had to be turned, why couldn’t it have been Arran and not Markus?
“Do you at least have a name?” He cocked his head at her as if she was crazy. “If I have to keep feeding from you, I’d like to know who my donor is.”
The lines around his eyes softened, and his gaze warmed. “Christian.”
“Gabrielle,” she said in return. “But nearly everyone calls me Elle.” She studied his expression and then asked, “Is this what you really want to do, Christian? The kind of life you want?”
The cold returned to the center of his ice-blue eyes. “I serve.” It happened too fast. Before she could stop him, Christian pulled a knife from the side of his pants and sliced his wrist. “Now eat.” His wrist was in her face and at her lips before she had time to flinch. The heady fragrance of fresh blood overwhelmed her senses, reducing her breathing to rapid pants. She groaned. The tips of her fangs grazed the sensitive flesh of her lower lip. No escape. What sounded like a low growl emanated from the back of her throat. She couldn’t stop it.
Her hands latched onto his forearm as her fangs sank into his vein.
There was…no escape.
…
He would find her.
There was no other alternative. If Arran was to survive, Gabrielle had to be alive. He paced the basement floor of Wicked Ways for the second night in a row. Two damn nights too many without her. The empty void inside his chest matched the ever-present sickness that had boiled in his gut for the past forty-eight hours.
Kenric, Logan, Guerin, and Emily had gathered to discuss their options. They either stood or sat on the opposite side of the room, mumbling with each other about one plan or another. Shit! Arran threaded his fingers and gave his knuckles a hard crack. There was only one way possible Markus had blinded him to Gabrielle’s presence without killing her. He’d turned her. Arran had bitten her three times, so she would definitely have enough of the vampire antigen that a conversion would be possible. That had to be it. Arran could not accept the other option.
Markus knew he and Gabrielle had made love, knew about the attack on her life years ago, and would assume she had enough of the antigen in her system. And if she didn’t, the male wouldn’t give a fuck anyway. Her death or her transformation, either would serve his purpose. Markus had exchanged her blood, thereby removing the part of her that still remained in Arran and would have allowed him to track Gabrielle. And the fucker would regret the moment he ever touched her.
Arran’s heart ached that she went through this without him. That he wasn’t the one to ease h
er through the pains of transformation. His gut roiled with the images his mind generated of that bastard forcing his blood down her throat.
Mine!
Gabrielle was his. Would always be his, no matter whose blood had brought her over. It changed nothing.
“I know you’ve all come to the same conclusion.” The low rumble of voices faded into an eerie silence. One that screamed he was right. “It just seems no one has drawn the short straw yet to be the lucky bastard to say it out loud.”
“Arran…” Kenric pulled his arm from around Emily’s waist and stood.
“I know.” Arran pulled a calming breath in through his nostrils and squeezed the hilt of his dagger at his thigh. “He’s turned her. If she’s not dead—and she’s not,” Arran snapped. He pinned Kenric and then the rest of the team with a hard glare. “It’s the only thing that makes sense as to why I can’t feel her presence anymore.”
“Other than the club, did you ever have any other leads as to where we can find Markus and Marguerite?” Kenric leaned his back against the column and swiped his face with his open palm.
Arran sighed. “Nothing. I didn’t even know they were here until I ran into David that night. The only place David had seen Markus was here.” He pointed toward the other room lined with the BDSM paraphernalia. “They used to bring him to the basement where Markus, his females, and his minions would play their sex games. He was so high on drugs, David never realized he was getting a hell of a lot more than fucked. That is, until after his third visit, when he woke up days later with a nasty hunger for blood.”
“I see your prisoner has flown the coop.” All heads turned in the direction of the unexpected voice. The French accent was unmistakable, though. Jean-Claude. Fairfield’s former master had come to check up on his lair. “So how fast can you vacate my club?”
Kenric eased forward. “No one is leaving…yet.”
Jean-Claude sauntered farther into the room, putting himself about a foot away from the Enclave’s Master.
“We’ve still business to complete,” Kenric added.