Blood Reign (#4): Alpha Warriors of the Blood (The Blood Series)

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Jason yanked her back. “Shh, Jules, they're okay.” He stroked her hair as they drew nearer.

  “They're under me now,” Slash said.

  “How'd that happen?” Julia tried not to let the caterwauling in the background distract her. Holy smokes, I’m gone for a few hours and the Reds surrender?

  “Fight for dominance,” Adi replied casually.

  “It was way worse than that. More like fight to the death,” Cyn said. “These guys”—she jerked a thumb in the general direction of everyone but she and Jason—“make nothing out of all the ‘I almost killed ya’ moves.” She rolled her eyes. “Really? It's more like a sport.”

  “It is not a sport, female. It is the Were way,” a Red said and immediately Julia knew he must be important within the hierarchy of the pack. He had a way of speaking with authority.

  A low growl split Slash's lips, and a hard glance from the Were who had just spoken shut him up.

  “That is Ezekiel.”

  “Zeke.”

  Slash leveled the smallest chin dip she'd ever seen at the Were and turned to Cyn. “We'll explain this on the way.”

  “Great, 'cause, I'm dying to get out of here before more winners show up to kill defenseless Americans. Not. Cool.”

  Julia cast a glance at Jacqueline. She looked positively haggard. Domi's eyes met hers. His gaze held assurances she didn't think he could really give. Jacqueline seemed to barely be hanging on.

  Julia quickly appraised the group. Twelve new Were, all varying degrees of Red-blooded wolves. Tharell, Domi, Jacqueline, Adi, and Cyn followed closely behind, and as she turned away Scott, injured but managing, was there, held up by Lucius and Angela the Feeler at his sides.

  They took their mixed bag of supernaturals and beat feet out of there.

  *

  Slash kept the pace deliberately hard. Only when Julia stopped them did he pause in his objective to put distance behind them.

  Her feet were ribbons of gore. Filthy, bleeding, the soles torn from her travels.

  “Oh my God, Jules,” Cyn said.

  Julia nodded, gritting her teeth.

  “Can you heal her?”

  Cyn studied the Rare One's feet.

  “I'll try, but it seems these reoccurring injuries are their own kind of stubborn.”

  Scott crossed his arms, his healing abilities as Combatant having restored him perfectly. “We need to find some place to hole up.”

  Cyn laid her hands over Julia's wounded feet, and she gasped from the pain.

  Then groaned in pleasure as they began to mend.

  Cyn shook her head. “This is the best I can do. We need to find some shelter... and some goddamned shoes.”

  She sat back on her haunches, flinging her hands up. “Was it those flimsy Keds?”

  Slash couldn't help the lift of his lips. It appeared to be a well-worn argument between the two. Apparently, some things didn't change.

  “Yeah.”

  Julia and Cyn looked at her Nikes on her own feet, dirty but intact. “Spend the money on footwear.”

  “Coming from the UGG devotee,” Julia said, rolling her eyes.

  Adi piped in, “Those stand for fugly in my opinion.”

  Tharell put up a hand. “Though I appreciate the efforts at levity, I do like the suggestion of lodging, running water, and extra garments.” His gaze went to Julia's feet. “And footwear.”

  “Where?” Zeke asked.

  Slash searched the geography. Judging by the mountains to the east, they were coming close to Bellingham. “Twenty more minutes of walking and we'll spit ourselves out in Bellingham.”

  “Big city?”

  Slash thought about it. “Big enough. Ample camouflage, numerous eateries. We should be able to get what we need.”

  “As long as Jules gets some shoes.” Jason picked her up.

  “Put me down,” Julia said, indignant.

  “Nope. We're not gonna undo Cyn's work. Don't worry, that little bit of weight you've packed on won't slow me down.”

  Julia sputtered, and the males shared a good-natured laugh.

  Some of Slash’s tension dissolved. The place of respite couldn't come soon enough.

  There they would have plenty of time to dissect the new threat.

  Slash felt he knew.

  He hoped he was wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “It is time,” Praile told Tony.

  He slid the curved saber across the scarred surface of the table between them.

  Tony didn't touch the thing. He was as fucked up a supernatural as any he'd ever encountered. Intellectually, he understood that. He'd embraced what he was long ago.

  Praile didn't give a shit.

  The dark metal glimmering in the shadowed room he shared with the demonic was a tangible reminder of his mixed blood.

  Praile folded his muscular arms against his bare chest. His stubby horns rose from a skull free of hair. Not all demonic males possessed a tail. Praile did, a nod to his breeding amongst Hades’ otherworld creatures.

  Not of this world but on another plane.

  Tony reached out, gripping the finely honed wood. It was narrow where it met the arcing swath of metal, flaring to a deep triangle at its base.

  Carved runes he couldn't read, but caused a thrum of electricity when his fingertips traced over the etchings, deepening his anxiety by the moment.

  “Why now? After hundreds of years, I need to fulfill my duty?” Tony wheedled.

  Coal black eyebrows like slashes of inky pain dropped over glowing red eyes. A slow smolder lifted off Praile's skin, his agitation manifesting into a broil. He placed two palms on the table that separated them.

  Tony shifted in his seat, containing his nervousness badly.

  Praile said nothing at first, and the silence tore at Tony. He swallowed the brick inside his throat, his anxiety lodged and painfully sliding down to settle uncomfortably in his churning stomach.

  “Because there are few who survived this world with demonic blood. Werewolves, with their shifting abilities, are uniquely suited vessels for what we offer.”

  Tony didn't say what he was thinking.

  “Where do you think your evil impulses stem?” Praile asked, though his question did not require a response. He straightened. “Do you think your assaults against females, both Were and non, have been accidental?” His eyes narrowed to slits of fire. “After all, it is against your primal nature to harm females, yet you have proven an aptitude of great finesse in this regard.”

  Tony looked at a point above Praile's shoulder.

  The demonic moved into his direct vision, his eyes like embers, low and burning.

  “No,” Tony answered in quiet resignation. He should have known the demonics would never release him from his obligation to them.

  Praile knotted his hands behind his back, nails black-tipped and shaped like short talons.

  “You will do this thing. Then, when you are done, we will have decimated the one species that stands against our objective.”

  Tony raised an eyebrow. “What about the fey?”

  Praile laughed from his belly, clapping his hands together in glee. It startled Tony so much he almost dropped the saber.

  “We do not concern ourselves with the Unseelie Sidhe. The immortals are Faerie bound and do not pose a threat. The strongest of them is weak without their precious sithen. No.” Praile shook his head. “We eradicate the Singers, vampire and force-breed the Were that can produce more of the blood of Hades, and soon our kind will rule this world as well.”

  Tony's guts sprouted spots of fire like acidic flowers in bloom. He swallowed his slow terror. “What about the Reds?”

  Praile's smug happiness disappeared as soot cleaned from a mirror. “They are only a problem if banded together.”

  “When we met last, you told me they were the ancient transition between Hades and the supernaturals of this world.”

  “I know what I have said—every word,” Praile hissed and Tony flin
ched. He didn't want to experience the bloodlust of this particular demonic, a torture better executed than any he'd ever survived, ever again. Blood and magic indebted Tony to whatever Praile would have of him.

  Praile tapped the blade, and a drop of ebony blood sprung from his injured skin. He sucked it off in a long and noisy pull.

  Tony neutralized his expression when the fork of Praile's tongue trembled against the oozing blood.

  The demonics were disgusting.

  Of course, Tony was as well.

  He liked his brand better.

  Praile opened the wound further, running his finger down the entire length of the two-foot-long blade. He rolled his glowing eyes up to meet Tony's. “Kill every one that you come across; men, women and children.” His black eyes bored holes into Tony. “Kill their pets if they have them.”

  Tony opened his mouth. The Singers’ plethora of talents, diverse and in varying degrees of strength, made them dangerous.

  It was suicide.

  He seemed to sense Tony's question. “You will be lucky to survive, yet I care not. The metal of this saber is proof against most talents. You were bred for this.”

  “Who is immune?”

  “Watch your tone, demon cast off.” Steam rose from Praile's mouth with his words, though the surrounding air didn't warrant it.

  Tony stayed silent. Better he say nothing than have his tongue torn out.

  Praile grinned, his teeth black chips of banked night, the only color his divided red tongue. It was a grotesque sunset inside his mouth.

  “The Rare One, of course, and any who have blood of the Red.” Praile made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

  “What talents are immune?” Tony pressed. Praile's eyes sharpened inside the small, murky cottage that held him.

  “You will know when you cannot use magick to assist in the genocide we bring to this contingent of Singers.” Praile smoothed his hand down the blade, cupping it.

  He jammed his palm on the blade, the curved and sharpest part slicing so deeply into his flesh, the skin on the backside of his hand stretched in the shape of the blade.

  Praile's lips parted in ecstasy, and a low groan of pleasure slid out of his mouth, steam escaping. The affect was immediate on his lower region, his disgusting penis stiffening. The smolder of his skin filled the small house that served as prison to the Singers.

  Blood like ink washed the blade and ran in creeping rivulets across the table to Tony. Tony jerked to a stand, watching the river of the demonic's blood crawl to tremble at its edge. The drops fell, hitting the ground with a splat. Like acid, the blood smoldered, eating at the wooden floorboards in an etching that grew deeper by the moment.

  “My blood seals the fate of those who come into contact with it. Do this well and live. Fail, and suffer torture, Anthony Daniel Laurent.”

  Tony made a wide berth around the spilled blood.

  Praile backed away from the blade, a blood trail falling to drive through the floorboards. Tony curved his hand around the wooden hilt. The magic of the ancient runes, mixed with Praile’s blood, swept over him.

  Tony swung his head back, and a hoarse cry of revulsion laced with lust escaped him. No longer his own master, he controlled the blood that was a part of him. Praile had called it to the surface.

  Very much like the Singers who would die by that blade’s magic.

  Tony lowered his chin, and he leveled a stare at Praile, who was already shimmering to opaque, his evil deed complete.

  “Why do I have to do your dirty work?”

  Praile's smile held no happiness. “Understand that we have been forbidden to interfere directly with the humans and supernaturals. Much as our counterparts.” He said with weighted reluctance.

  Angelics. Tony knew they existed only because he was part-demonic.

  Praile hated to admit limits. His own especially.

  He became ghost-like, the insane smile, pinned on his face like a mask.

  Tony went to the door.

  Of course it was locked.

  He stepped back and kicked it open. The door flew off the hinges like a tooth succumbing to periodontal disease. It hung off the bent metal, the jamb’s gums weakened beyond holding.

  The two Combatant guards turned, startled. The pretty boy Victor would be a pleasure to end.

  Tony raised the blade.

  When they both lay dying, blood poisoned from Praile’s contamination, he kicked them in the crotch like the dogs they were.

  Vic-boy wasn't looking too good.

  Tony was suddenly bolstered, his evil nature sliding into place like a long lost friend.

  Found again and embraced.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Tharell easily found the low-slung rock formation that signaled the entrance to potential shelter. It seemed to wink at him from a knoll surrounded by madrone trees. They grew toward the sky, throwing themselves from between the rocks. Burnt orange twigs sought the clouds like fingers. Gracefully sweeping boughs of western red cedar whispered against the small cleft of shadow that stood as a door to the observant.

  It would be beyond cozy with the size of their group.

  He stopped in front of the four-foot-tall opening.

  Slash delivered a hard look that felt like a slap.

  Tharell answered the unspoken accusation. “I am aware we need supplies. I cannot obtain those for you. Obviously.” Tharell swept a palm down his body.

  He held partial court in looks to what the humans called African Americans, though the nickname struck Tharell as humorous.

  Black people. A low chuckle slipped out.

  Some fey possessed skin so true a black its blue highlights shone in any light. Tharell would have preferred that. He enjoyed becoming invisible against his surroundings, and his mixed heritage was only good for blending with the sithen walls when called for. However, his eyes were so vibrant a blue he kept them closed until the enemy’s breath was upon his skin.

  Faerie was beautiful and edified his fey blood. But it was also a place that, by its very design, was full of danger, treachery, and subterfuge.

  “Fine,” Slash responded after a moment. Slash deserved careful watching. All Were were rash creatures, but this particular male used his head far more that Tharell liked.

  “I will go. You and Domiatri can stay with the females, and the rest will go.”

  “Ah—no,” Cyn said, clearly indicating the idea was dumb.

  Tharell quirked his lips. The other species were entertaining. It eased his loneliness and allowed him not to be under the constant disdainful tolerance inside Faerie. Tharell liked their patent indifference of his lineage more than he ought.

  He breathed deeply of the human's air, finding it fine as he schooled his emotions into that tightly contained steel box within his mind.

  “I'll go—you boys look like... I don't know, George of the Jungle or something.” Cyn pointed at Jason, Truman, and Slash, who'd all gone through numerous changes. Clothing hung over what modesty required and no more.

  She glanced at him, and her beauty momentarily struck him. Though she was a Singer, and he would never have a chance at offspring, her steely wits and personality, balanced on a seesaw of fragility, created an interesting intersect.

  “And rainbow guys”—Cyn gave him a pointed look, and he experienced an uncommon emotion.

  He was embarrassed. By a Singer female.

  Tharell narrowed his eyes on her, his earlier admiration like amnesia.

  She laughed at his expression. “You guys will be nailed in a hot minute. That leaves all the non-Were.”

  “You guys are volunteered.” Her eyes took in the rest of the group. “Anybody have cash?”

  Silence.

  Cyn put her hands on her hips. “Are ya kidding? I'm digesting my spine.”

  Tharell dipped his head, hiding his mirth.

  Cyn blew hair out of her face, fitting her chin into her palm. “Okay, I need some fuel. I don't want to be Robin Hood or anything, b
ut we'll have to dumpster dive at McDonald's.”

  “I'll go,” Julia said.

  “No.” Jason turned to Cyn, pointing at Julia's feet. “Size seven-and-a-half.”

  Julia crossed her arms. “That's romantic.”

  “No,” Cyn said in a huff. “We look like a dog's butt.”

  “Amen,” Adi agreed.

  Tharell frowned. Canine buttocks?

  “But he remembers my shoe size.” Julia smiled.

  “Anyway,” Cyn said, rolling her eyes, “I'll take the Combatant dudes and Angela, we'll bust into town, snag threads, and get ten million burgers.”

  “I don't know if that's feasible,” Lucius said with a frown.

  “Me either, but I'm motivated. Let's book.”

  *

  Cynthia looked around. Dumb effing place. None of the stores screamed Used Clothes. She'd die twice for a Ross. Huh.

  The Golden Arches beckoned. “Let's go,” she said to the Combatant. She didn't know any of them, but the one chick was a mouse. Cynthia never heard what words she said, just squeak, squeak, squeak.

  “'Kay.” Cynthia put her hands on her hips. “Do you guys get off the rez that much?”

  All three pairs of eyes stared blankly back at her.

  “Wow.” Cynthia rolled her lip inside her mouth, teeth lightly mauling. “You're going to stand out like a turd in a swimming pool. It'll be bad.”

  Scott said, “We don't have money, and we're all starving.”

  “Noted, pal.” Cynthia leaned forward. “I'll go order, and you two make a commotion.” Cynthia nodded, but Lucius shook his head. She frowned.

  “We're supposed to stay off the radar, not present ourselves on a platter as a spectacle for humans to witness and remember.” Lucius was trying to make her see reason. She got that.

  Wasn't gonna happen.

  “Listen up,” Cynthia replied to Scott. “You need to figure something out while I pretend to order.” She dropped her fingers from imaginary quotes.

  Scott paced away from the group, and Cynthia watched him jog around the building.

  “I think I want a shake,” Angela said randomly.

  Cynthia barked out a laugh. “It'll melt.”