Blood Lust

by Alexandra Ivy

  Ah. Now she could see why the Brothers followed her.

  She looked like she’d just waltzed out of the Playboy Mansion.

  Sometimes males were so pathetically predictable.

  Straightening, she met Wolfe’s intimate smile. He’d clearly read her thoughts.

  She rolled her eyes, refusing to be distracted.

  “Have you searched the compound?” she demanded.

  “We did,” Wolfe assured her. “We found the usual stashes of drugs, alcohol, and porn.” His features tightened into a grim expression. “We also found a large bunker filled with contraband weapons.”

  Lana felt a stab of fear. It couldn’t be a coincidence that each of the individual groups had managed to get their hands on weapons that’d either been banned by the government or were still in experimental stages.

  Which meant they had a high-powered connection providing them with the lethal arsenals. Either a politician or military official.

  “Where are they?”

  Wolfe nodded his head toward the closed door on the other side of the room.

  “My techies are inspecting them.” His expression remained grim. “There are a few I’ve never seen before, but they’re all dangerously sophisticated and designed specifically to hurt high-bloods.”

  A chill spread through her body. They had to find the person, or more likely persons, responsible for arming the Brotherhood.

  Eventually they were going to feel empowered enough to step out of the shadows and directly confront Valhalla.

  Such a war might kill hundreds, if not thousands.

  She would do everything in her power to prevent that from happening.

  “Do you know where they’re coming from?”

  “I intend to find out,” Wolfe promised in hard tones. “I’ll start my questioning tomorrow.”

  “Why not now?” she asked, knowing he would have a reason for waiting.

  Wolfe was very, very good at his job.

  “I like to put prisoners on ice for a few hours,” he explained, a humorless smile curving his lips. “They can imagine far worse punishments than I could ever dream up.”

  Yeah. She glanced toward the monitors where the men were pacing their cramped cells with obvious agitation. By morning they would no doubt be close to panic.

  She shifted her attention to the dark-haired female. Unlike her followers she wasn’t revealing any hint of agitation. Instead she was stretched on the narrow cot, her gaze trained on the camera as if aware she was being watched.

  Lana narrowed her eyes. “I want to speak to the leader.”

  “Why?”

  She turned her head to meet Wolfe’s curious gaze. “She’s the type of female who is an expert at using her beauty as a weapon.” The air abruptly tingled with the force of her magic. Even when she had her powers leashed they tended to leak when her emotions were aroused. “She won’t be able to manipulate me.”

  Wolfe’s smile widened. He was one of the few males who wasn’t intimidated by the vast magic that thundered through her.

  “Works for me.”

  Lana frowned, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, which prickled with a strange sense of unease.

  “And have the guards doubled,” she commanded.

  Wolfe stepped toward her, pulling his phone out of his pocket without hesitation.

  “Are you expecting trouble?”

  “It’s . . .” She gave a shake of her head, struggling to explain her burst of apprehension.

  “What?”

  “It’s in the air,” she whispered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Myst left the barn, her heart clenched with fear.

  Bas had tried to pretend he was going to be fine, but she knew he was far more gravely injured than he wanted her to believe.

  He was dying. She knew it in her very soul.

  She somehow had to find a way to get him back to the monastery. Once he was safely with the healers at Valhalla she could consider what she was going to do about her vision.

  It was selfish, no doubt.

  If she truly cared about preventing her horrific future, she would leave Bas in the barn and find some means of putting a final end to the threat.

  But she couldn’t do it.

  She might be willing to sacrifice herself, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice Bas.

  Pausing at the corner of the barn, she carefully studied the farmhouse. There might be a phone inside, but who would she call?

  It wasn’t like there was taxi service in this remote area.

  She might be able to get ahold of Valhalla. She didn’t have a direct number, but surely . . .

  “Don’t move a muscle.”

  Myst froze, silently cursing at the male voice that came from directly behind her. She knew she’d been distracted, but still it should have been impossible for someone to sneak up on her.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she frowned as she caught the unmistakable scent of rich earth and . . . compost?

  She licked her dry lips. A farmer. Not the Brotherhood.

  “Please, I need help,” she said in husky tones.

  “Turn around. Slowly,” he commanded in a gruff voice, speaking with an obvious English accent.

  Myst did as he commanded, holding her hands over her head so he could see she didn’t have any weapons.

  He wasn’t tall. Less than six foot, she guessed. But he was barrel-chested, with the thick muscles of a man who was accustomed to working with his hands. His short hair was dark and speckled with gray while his square face was bronzed by the sun, with lines that radiated from the pale blue eyes.

  At the moment he was wearing a faded pair of denims and a flannel shirt, despite the heat. But it was the shotgun pointed at the center of her chest that captured and held her attention.

  There was no way she could disarm him before he could squeeze the trigger.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” she assured him in shaky tones.

  His gaze narrowed as he took in her dirt-streaked face, her tangled hair, and wrinkled sundress.

  “What are you on?” he demanded. “Meth? Heroin?”

  “I’m not a drug addict,” she assured him. “I swear.”

  He shook his head, his expression hard. “Yeah, that’s what they all say. Before they try to make off with whatever they can get their grubby hands on.”

  “I . . .” She didn’t know exactly how she was going to convince the farmer she wasn’t there to subsidize a drug habit, but in the end it didn’t matter as she was abruptly distracted by a distinct prickle that raced over her skin. “Oh. You’re a high-blood.”

  The male jerked, as if struck by the belated realization that she wasn’t entirely human.

  “So are you.”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  He warily lowered the gun. “I’m Lloyd. Who are you?”

  “Myst,” she said, taking a second to consider her words. Just because Lloyd was a high-blood didn’t mean he could be trusted. But then again, what choice did she have? She had to get Bas to a healer. Now. “I’m here on behalf of Valhalla,” she at last said.

  Lloyd frowned. “What business does Valhalla have in this remote area?”

  She cautiously began to back through the doorway of the barn. “I’ll tell you everything, but first I need you to come with me,” she pleaded. “My friend has been injured.”

  He stood his ground, glancing into the shadows of the barn. It seemed as if she wasn’t the only one who was a little spooked.

  But who could blame him?

  These were dangerous times.

  “By who?” he asked.

  “The Brotherhood.”

  Lloyd’s blunt jaw clenched, his fingers tightening on the gun he held at his side.

  “So it’s true, then,” he muttered. “They’re not just a myth?”

  She shook her head, desperately wishing they were some ridiculous bedtime stories that high-bloods made up to scare their children.

  Then she wouldn’t
have been sold by her own family. Or held captive in an abandoned mine shaft. Or forced to walk away from her beloved daughter. Or to consider the impossible choice between allowing her vision to occur or making the ultimate sacrifice.

  “No, they’re very real,” she choked out.

  “Bugger,” he breathed, easily sensing her acute distress. He stepped forward, careful not to make her feel crowded as he entered the barn. “Let’s see this companion of yours.”

  In silence Myst led him across the floor to the stall, her breath wrenched from her lungs at the sight of Bas. He was lying still. Horribly still. And shadows bruised the pale skin below his eyes.

  Entering the stall, Lloyd bent down beside him, his fingers reaching to touch Bas’s throat.

  “A Sentinel,” he said.

  “Assassin,” she absently corrected.

  He made a choked sound of shock. “Well, well,” he breathed. “Today is a day for surprises.”

  Myst was momentarily confused, then she remembered that the monks had kept the creation of the assassins secret from most high-bloods. It was only because she’d spoken with his personal staff before meeting Bas that she knew he was more than just another Sentinel.

  She entered the stall to crouch beside him. “Can you help him?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a healer.”

  Of course he wasn’t. She swallowed a resigned sigh. Nothing could ever be easy.

  “Is there one nearby?”

  “None that have the skill to save your assassin.” With a grimace he sat back on his heels and studied her troubled expression. “We need to get him to Valhalla.”

  “I—” She cut off her words. Would he help them if he knew it was going to put him in danger?

  “Is there a problem?”

  She glanced toward Bas, then muttered a low curse. She couldn’t lie to the male. He had to know the truth.

  “The Brotherhood is out there searching for me,” she muttered.

  She didn’t know what she expected. Fear. Suspicion. Wariness.

  Instead his blunt face hardened with determination as he abruptly surged to his feet.

  “I think I can help with that,” he promised her, watching as she warily straightened. “If you reach the monastery, will you be able to travel?”

  She nodded. “Yes. The monks are waiting for us.”

  “Good.” Turning, he headed out of the stall. “Stay here.”

  Myst blinked, struggling to keep up with his abrupt manner. “Where are you going?”

  He kept walking, headed toward the door. “Trust me,” he said.

  She scowled, watching as he disappeared out of the barn. “I wish people would stop saying that to me,” she at last muttered, bending down to run light hands over Bas’s unconscious body. She might need the farmer’s help, but that didn’t mean she had to trust him. At last finding the hard shape she’d been seeking, she lifted Bas’s pant leg to reveal the gun he’d strapped to his ankle.

  Pulling it out of the holster, she tucked it in the pocket of her sundress. She wasn’t a great shot, but she could get lucky.

  Keeping an eye on the doorway, she was prepared to kill anyone but Lloyd who entered the barn. She didn’t think he’d gone for backup. Or to rat her out to the Brotherhood, but as long as she was the only one to protect Bas, she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have to shoot anyone as Lloyd returned. Not that she didn’t consider putting a bullet through the sputtering engine of the ancient tractor the farmer was carefully backing through the wide door.

  Good Lord. There was smoke billowing from a tall stack filling the air with the stench of burnt oil, and the squeak of rusted shocks as Lloyd brought the sketchy vehicle to a halt in front of the wagon.

  Leaping to the ground, Lloyd moved around the back of the tractor, grabbing the tongue of the wagon and lifting it with a massive tug.

  Myst’s eyes widened as his muscles bulged and he pulled the wagon forward to attach it to the tractor’s hitch. He didn’t have the distinctive heat that surrounded a Sentinel, but he was obviously as strong as one.

  Something to remember.

  Working swiftly to secure the wagon to the tractor, he at last pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the grease off his beefy hands. Then, tossing aside the soiled linen, he headed across the barn.

  “Go on out,” he told Myst, standing at the edge of the stall. “I’ll bring your male.”

  “Be careful,” she pleaded, moving out of the way so Lloyd could bend down and scoop Bas into his arms.

  “I will,” he murmured, walking at a slow, steady pace.

  Myst followed behind, her gaze occasionally darting toward the door. The Brotherhood had to be searching for them. Would they return to the farm?

  With a shiver she turned her attention back to Bas as the farmer placed his limp body in the wagon. Then, with a gentle care that eased a portion of Myst’s concern, he gathered a stack of burlap bags that’d been piled in the corner and began lining them around Bas’s body. The bags were no doubt used to gather his apples, and were heavy enough to keep Bas from shifting during the journey.

  Once he was sure Bas was adequately protected, he began to cover his body with straw.

  Myst moved to help him, casting a dubious glance at the tractor, which continued to chug and cough and sputter.

  “Don’t you have a truck?” she demanded.

  “Yes, but it will also attract attention,” he pointed out in reasonable tones. “A farmer with a load of straw won’t even be noticed.” Stepping back, he glanced toward Myst. “Your turn. Crawl in.”

  She bit her bottom lip, her hands gripping the edge of the wagon. The thought of stretching out in the wagon and being covered with straw made her realize how vulnerable she would be.

  Lloyd could drive them anywhere without her knowing precisely where they were going.

  Including straight to the Brotherhood.

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” she muttered.

  “Don’t worry, Myst,” he urged, his eyes softening as he studied her pale, weary face. “I promise you can keep your gun pointed at my back if it makes you feel better.”

  She wrinkled her nose. The farmer had done nothing but try to help her. He didn’t deserve to be treated like a criminal.

  “I’m sorry.” She heaved a deep sigh. “It’s been an eventful few days.”

  He waved away her apology, his gaze trained on her face.

  “Are you running from something?” he asked in blunt tones.

  “No.” A sad smile curved her lips. “I was trying to change the future.”

  He looked genuinely startled by her admission. “An ambitious project.”

  She shrugged, moving to the end of the wagon. She was only prolonging the inevitable.

  Without Lloyd’s help, there was no way she could get Bas to the monastery.

  “More like a futile one.”

  Lloyd instantly moved to grab her elbow as she climbed over the tailgate.

  “Let me help,” he muttered, giving a sudden hiss as he jerked his hand away in shock. “Death.”

  Knocked off-balance, she fell to her knees in the wooden bed, her brows snapping together as she watched the color drain from his face.

  “You’re a psychic?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry.” He scrubbed his hand down his coveralls, as if he was trying to wipe away the images he’d seen in her mind. “I didn’t mean to read you, but it’s very strong.”

  “I know.” She hunched her shoulder. She didn’t blame him for looking as if he’d just glimpsed a nightmare. She’d been living with it for years and it still had the power to terrify her. “Death. Destruction.”

  He took a step back, his eyes unfocused, as if he was still lost in what he’d seen when he touched her.

  “You must face it,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “It’s . . .” He gave a sharp shake of his head, releasing his breath on a low hiss. �
�I don’t know why, but you must travel to Valhalla. Otherwise the evil will spread.”

  Shock jolted through her.

  Somehow she’d assumed that the last place she should ever be was at Valhalla. After all, she was supposed to create some weapon that was going to destroy the place. Or at least cause some sort of major catastrophe.

  Now this psychic was telling her the one place she’d been avoiding like the plague was the one place where she was supposed to go.

  “You’re certain?”

  There was no hesitation. “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t suppose you could be a little more specific?”

  “No.”

  “Damn,” she muttered.

  Lloyd parted his lips, but before he could speak Bas made a low sound of distress from beneath the straw, as if even in sleep he was suffering from his injuries.

  “We need to get your friend to the monastery,” Lloyd muttered.

  Myst reached out to lightly touch his arm as he headed toward the tractor.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  He paused long enough to give her hand a light squeeze. “Be brave and know that you’re not alone.”

  She watched as the man easily climbed onto the tractor before she burrowed beneath the straw and pressed herself against Bas.

  You’re not alone.

  The words echoed through her mind as she pressed her lips to Bas’s forehead. Despite her fear, and the sick ball of dread lodged in the pit of her stomach that told her she was making a horrible mistake in returning to Valhalla, she couldn’t deny a tiny flicker of warmth.

  For the first time in her life she wasn’t alone.

  It was . . . astonishing.

  * * *

  Lana studied the leader of the Brotherhood with a jaundiced gaze.

  The woman was stretched on the cot, propped up by a pile of pillows like she was some reincarnation of Cleopatra. There was even a faint smile on her lips that had only briefly faltered when Lana had strolled into the cell instead of the male who she’d no doubt been expecting.

  Lana leaned casually against the locked door, silently admitting the woman had balls. Maybe not literally, but Lana had seen trained Sentinels curled in a corner, pleading for mercy the moment the Mave stepped into the room.

  Of course, it could be that Stella was just too stupid to realize her danger. Being a leader didn’t equate to brains whether you were male or female.