by Reinke, Sara
And it sure as hell wouldn’t surprise Julien.
Nikolić chuckled. “I’ve watched such petty disagreements and vendettas rip apart the Serbian mafia at the seams,” he said. “I pay no attention to them elsewhere. Nor will I suffer them under my own roof.”
He turned, looking over his shoulder and beyond the bedroom doorway. With a sharp snap of his thick fingers, he beckoned to someone beyond Julien’s view. “I brought you a present, mišiću.”
A young woman shuffled into the room. Like Sofiya, she appeared unnaturally thin, her skin a sickly, sallow hue. She wore ill-fitting lingerie, a lacy camisole and tap pants set at least two sizes too large for her frail frame, and another of the cruel shock collars had been fastened around her pencil-thin throat. Her face had been made up with garishly colored cosmetics and she wore wire loop earrings with dangling pendants, each fashioned to look like a wing—presumably, if not ironically, an angel’s. Her eyes seemed heavily lidded, her gaze distant and dazed, and she smelled odd. Heroin gave one’s blood a distinctive odor, he’d discovered over the years.
“A junkie whore. Terrific.” Julien cut Nikolić a dark glance. “You shouldn’t have.”
“You need to feed,” Nikolić said. “You look like shit.”
“No thanks to your bitch girlfriend,” Julien said with a bark of humorless laughter.
“You nearly died last night.” Nikolić ignored his pointed jab at Anna. “I can’t take that risk again. I need you healed as soon as possible.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
Nikolić didn’t reply. Instead, he grabbed the girl by the hand and yanked her arm out, holding it extended above Julien’s bed. “You need to feed.”
Julien managed to furrow his brow, gritting his teeth as a fresh spasm of pain swept through his chest. He’d be goddamned if he’d let himself cry out in front of Nikolić. If he had to bite his own tongue in half in the process, he’d stifle himself. “I don’t…need shit from you,” he rasped.
Nikolić pulled the knife from his waistband and without another word, dragged the sharpened edge of the blade across the inside of the girl’s wrist, just below the delta of her thumb. The knife went deep; blood suddenly burst out, splattering against Julien’s bare torso in a hot spray.
It had been months since he’d last fed from a human; too many to count. He was usually too busy to bother with the amount of work it entailed whenever he was away from the great house—which was more often than not. Not only did it involve identifying and claiming potential prey, but also finding a way to suitably dispose of the body when he’d finished. And this, historically, was more trouble than it was worth. Not when he could knock back a unit of packed red blood cells like a sanguine Capri-Sun in less than five minutes and be done with the whole thing—no muss, no fuss.
But the processed shit was never as good as the real, fresh thing and the smell of the girl’s blood—heady, hot, metallic, and sweet—was enough to make Julien salivate, stirring the bloodlust in a sudden, insistent rush. Immediately, the dimly lit room became eerily aglow as his pupils expanded, dilating wide enough to seemingly swallow any visible portion of his irises and corneas. He raised his head unconsciously from the bed, straining toward the tantalizing aroma.
“Ah, you like that.” Nikolić grinned. “It smells good to you, no?” He shoved the girl down onto the bed, forcing her to sit beside Julien. He dangled her arm above Julien’s head, shaking her by the hand so that blood spattered down onto his face. “The hunger’s worse when you’re weak, is it not? When your body is injured and you need blood the most, it’s impossible to resist.”
It took a painful act of sheer will power—all that he could muster—for Julien to press his lips together over the swell of his descending fangs instead of opening his mouth and catching the blood against his tongue like a kid might raindrops or snowflakes. Brows furrowed, he turned his face away, even as the blood continued to fall against his cheek, streaming down toward his ear in thin, hot rivulets. He didn’t know what little fucking game Nikolić was playing, but he didn’t want any part of it. Even if it was hard—nearly agonizing—to resist.
“Fuck you,” he seethed.
Reaching down, Nikolić seized Julien with his free hand, clamping his thick fingers beneath his chin and crushing against his jaw. “Feed,” he ordered.
“Fuck…you…!” Julien gasped.
Nikolić forcibly turned Julien’s face toward him, then by squeezing harder, forced his lips apart, his mouth ajar. “I said feed.”
He shoved the girl’s arm in Julien’s face, cramming her lacerated wrist against his lips. Julien uttered a muffled cry, then her blood flooded into his mouth. At the taste of it, bittersweet and salty, against his tongue, he nearly lost his mind, succumbing to the bloodlust—but then Nikolić spoke and it was like a slap in the face or a sudden dousing with icy water.
“Gud pas,” he said. Good dog.
Julien gagged, struggling against Nikolić’s grasp. His skin had grown slick with the girl’s blood; it had smeared all over his chin and cheeks, making it harder for Nikolić to keep a firm hold on his face. With a choked, furious cry, Julien wrenched his head to the side, free of Nikolić’s hand, and spat. He felt the hot splash of the girl’s blood from her severed radial artery against his cheek and neck.
“Jebi se!” he snapped breathlessly. Fuck you!
“Jebeni kuchkin sin,” Nikolić snarled—you fucking son of a bitch—and he grabbed Julien by the crown of his hair, jerking his head back. “You will feed.”
“No—!” Julien seethed, his voice cutting short as again Nikolić pushed the girl’s arm between his lips. God, he wanted to—the urge to feed was nearly overwhelming, and he shook his head furiously, feeling his hair tearing loose from his scalp by the roots as Nikolić’s fingers clamped more tightly, trying to hold him still. Again, he pulled away; again, Nikolić tried to force him.
By this point, blood had splattered everywhere—all over Julien, the poor girl, and Nikolić, the mattress, the floor. It proved impossible for Nikolić to keep a hold of both Julien and the girl, who was now swaying unsteadily on her feet from both the struggle and her blood loss. She slipped free of his grasp, pitching face-first down onto Julien’s chest, nearly head-butting him. With a disgusted snort, Nikolić grabbed her by the hair and jerked her back, pushing her roughly to the floor.
“Tvrdoglav kučkin sin,” he muttered as he towered, menacing and infuriated, over Julien’s bed. You stubborn son of a bitch. He reared his fist back as if he meant to strike Julien, but Julien refused to flinch; he met the bigger man’s glare evenly.
“Urati to!” he snapped. Do it! “Hit me, you chickenshit bastard! Do your fucking worst.” He spat more of the girl’s blood from his mouth. “You and I both know the only reason you’ll walk away from it alive is because you’ve got me chained.”
Nikolić sneered. “You threatening me, mišiću?”
“No threat to it.” Julien’s brows furrowed. “And you know that, too.”
Nikolić was tempted; Julien didn’t need his telepathy to be sure. He’d been nursing a grudge against Julien for more than a quarter of a century—long enough to have undoubtedly entertained more than his fair share of fantasies in which he not only fought Julien, but kicked his ass, as well.
Which could very well be my ticket out of this, Julien realized.
“Come on,” he told Nikolić with a nod. “Do it. Take your best shot, you pussy, while I can’t fight back. You don’t…you don’t have the balls to take off these cuffs…and fight me fair.” He laughed, then managed a cough that made him sound feeble, left him feigning a grimace for added effect. “And you talked to me about honor. What a crock of shit…jebena kukavica.” You fucking coward.
Nikolić stood over the bed, his fist still poised, the thick muscles in his arm taut and strained. Julien could nearly see the cogwheels turning in his mind, mulling over his options, and when he finally lowered his arm, the tension draining from him, Julien bit b
ack a frustrated groan.
“I had a girl like you once,” Nikolić told him. “Strong-willed, temperamental, defiant. If I tried to touch her, she planted her knee in my balls. If I tried to kiss her, she damn near bit my tongue off. If I took my eyes off her for a moment, she ran for the door, climbed out the window, or tried to grab my gun so she could shoot me.”
“Smart girl,” Julien snarled.
With a cold smile, he grabbed Julien by the chin again, forcing his head back again. “I tied her down and fucked her—night and day for an entire week, whenever I wanted, as much as I wanted. I fucked her so much—so hard—her pelvis broke. And so did her temperament. She’ll never walk right again—but she does now as she’s told.”
“I’m not one of your little whores,” Julien seethed. If the story was meant to horrify him, Nikolić was shit out of luck. Julien had seen worse—hell, he’d been forced by Lamar to do worse—in the last two hundred years. “Like I said—take your best shot, asshole. I’m not doing shit for you.”
“You keep telling yourself that, mišiću.” Nikolić gave Julien’s head a rough shove, then left him to gasp for breath on the bed. “I’m not through with you. Not yet. Not by…as you say, a long shot.” Grabbing the unconscious girl by the arm and dragging her along the floor, he headed for the door.
“Jebi se,” Julien snapped hoarsely. Go fuck yourself!
“We’ll see, mišiću,” Nikolić said with a laugh as he left the room. “Very soon now, we’ll see which one of us is fucked.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Boston, Massachusetts
November, 1818
“Have you tendered your letter of resignation yet, Morin?”
Mason glanced at his friend and fellow classmate at Harvard, David Gorham, as they tromped side by side along the snow-slickened cobbled sidewalk. They walked with their shoulders hunched, their gloved hands stuffed deeply into their coat pockets, and their breath frosted the air around their heads in dim, hazy clouds.
“I’ve yet to figure out a way to explain to my father why I’d do such a thing,” Mason said.
David laughed, his cheeks bright red, chafed with the cold. “Because the college’s treatment of their student body is nothing short of bloody tyranny,” he proclaimed. “The very same sort against which our fathers fought so valiantly to be freed from. A college should promote free and independent thought and self-expression—not seek to stifle it, or persecute those who would express it.”
Mason rolled his eyes. It all seemed rather ridiculous to him—circumstances that had, without question, been blown out of proportion. What had started as an innocent-enough, if not somewhat destructive, food fight in University Hall involving a majority of sophomore class had swelled to melodramatic proportions. Two of the school’s more venerable and influential instructors had been publicly ridiculed by the student body during a protest in defense of those suspended as a result. David—who had played a fairly instrumental role in the food fight that had instigated all of the trouble—seemed to be enjoying the entire debacle immensely, but to Mason—who hadn’t taken part—it all seemed a bit childish.
“Besides, what’s the point of resigning?” Mason asked. “They’ve already deemed we’re all to be expelled anyway—the entire class.”
And how the hell he was going to explain that to Michel was a more pressing concern than any pretentious and meaningless resignation. He’d pleaded for nearly a year before his father had agreed to let him travel on his own to Boston in order to attend Harvard Medical School. Three years had passed since the horrific fires that had destroyed their clan’s great house and left them living in exile, secreted from their fellow Brethren. Three years had passed since he’d last seen Julien and he had been forbidden to send as much as a postcard, not even a note, to let him know of his survival. In the aftermath, his heart had seemingly crumbled beneath the overwhelming weight of his loss.
“Yes, but they’ll let you reapply next term,” David said. “And you’ll be back in for sure, Morin. You’re not one for causing trouble. And your grades have been splendid for sure. Just rent a flat and bide your time until enrollment comes around again. Trust me—your father will never know.” He clapped his hand against Mason’s shoulder. “Come on, don’t look so glum. I’ll hire us a hackney and we’ll ride out to Beacon Hill. That should cheer you up.”
“What’s at Beacon Hill?” Mason asked. He knew of the area, of course. On one hand, it was home of the Massachusetts State House. But on the other, it was an area where many of the city’s poorer populace resided, one notorious for its taverns, inns, and other establishments of ill or illegal repute. He wasn’t about to admit this aloud, however, and especially to David, whom he knew only casually, and thus feigned innocent obliviousness as he spoke.
“Any manner of debauchery and impropriety you can imagine,” David promised with a grin. “Some even call it Satan’s seat. The ale flows like water, and the whores are always welcoming. It’s the perfect place to celebrate a successful rebellion!”
* * *
David had his mind and eye set on a tavern called The Crow’s Nest, even though from outward appearances, at least in Mason’s estimation, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it. It was crowded—that was for certain, and after the two of them stepped off their carriage, they had to shoulder their way to the front entrance through the throng of patrons milling about on the sidewalk and threshold.
“Hullo, love. Are you looking for someone?”
Mason felt someone’s hand close against his sleeve as he tried to move past, a voice speaking within intimate proximity to his ear: a rent-boy or prostitute, a smiling young man in topcoat and hat, his brows raised in invitation.
“No,” Mason said, shrugging himself loose of the man’s grasp. He might have been tempted if David hadn’t been with him, and if the two of them hadn’t shared a flask of whiskey on the coach ride to Beacon Hill. He’d downed enough to feel slightly drunk—which meant he’d also started to feel lonely. But his loneliness from alcohol was never for the company of just any man; no warm body would do. He wanted Julien.
Thus when he turned around, having lost sight of David ahead of him, and ran headlong and nearly face-first into another young man making his way out of the tavern, he wasn’t entirely surprised that at first glance, he saw only Julien. A few more nips in rapid-fire succession and he’d be seeing Julien everywhere—much to his heartache.
“Begging your pardon,” he murmured, cutting his eyes down toward his boots and trying to push his way forward.
“Mason?” The man’s voice sounded choked, nearly strangled with disbelief.
Mason froze, caught entirely off guard to be addressed by name. Lifting his gaze, he again marveled at how cruelly his mind could play tricks on him, and how much the young man looked like Julien to him. But then, when he saw the other man’s eyes—bright blue, like the pristine plain of the sky on a cloudless spring day—his heart, breath and voice all tangled. “Julien?”
But it can’t be…there’s no way. What would be the bloody goddamn odds…?
Those blue eyes—amazing and unmistakable—flew wide, and Julien shrank back, stumbling into someone standing behind him. His face had gone abruptly, ghastly ashen and he look stricken, as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Julien,” Mason gasped again, because impossible or not, it was him somehow. He was there, in Boston, in Beacon Hill, on the sidewalk outside of The Crow’s Nest, and when Mason reached out, clapping his gloved hand to Julien’s cheek, he felt a shudder run through the younger man as if his touch had electrocuted him. “Holy God,” he exclaimed, astounded, astonished—near flabbergasted with joy. “What…what the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“You’re alive,” Julien whispered, still wide-eyed and pale. “You…but I saw…” To Mason’s puzzled surprise, his eyes flooded with tears. “You’re alive!”
With this exclamation, little more than a rush of breath, Julien grabbed him in a fierce embrace, send
ing Mason staggering back a clumsy step as he locked his arms around his neck. He seemed heedless of anyone else around them, or the attention they might attract, as he clung to Mason with a desperate relief that Mason had no accounting for.
“Of course I’m alive.” Mason slipped his arms around Julien, returning the embrace, closing his eyes against the sting of his own tears as he drew Julien’s wondrous scent—his hair, skin, breath, blood—into his nose, as he felt the familiar lean strength in his body as it pressed against him.
“But…how?” Julien looked up at him, bewildered. “Your house…I saw it go up in flames. I saw people inside…heard them screaming. And my father, he…he told me…he told everyone…”
His voice faded, but he didn’t need to say anything more. “Lamar told the other Brethren we were dead,” Mason finished for him, his expression shifting, growing grim. “He told everyone all of the Morins died in the blaze.”
“Yes.” Julien nodded, still staring at him in disbelief and wonder, still clutching at the front of his coat as if wanting—no, needing—to convince himself that Mason was truly real. “But not just the Morin clan. The Lamberts, too. And the Durands, Ellingers and Averays.”
Because it would be almost a century before Michel regained any contact with Augustus Noble or any of his former friends among the Brethren clans, this was the first inkling that Mason—or any of the Morins—had of just how brutal Lamar’s attack in 1815 had been, or the full extent his madness had been to have orchestrated such a coup.
“All of them?” Mason whispered, shocked. “How?”
“He led a pack of riders,” Julien said. “My brothers among them, but other clans too. They set their houses alight, all of them.”
Edith had escaped with him and his family on that horrific night, and he knew she’d longed ever since to try and get in touch with her own kin once more. The realization that she couldn’t—that they’d been murdered in such a gruesome fashion—would surely break her.