Blood Leverage (Bloodstone Chronicles Book 1)

by J S Hazzard

  In lieu of answering he reached into his pocket and withdrew the medical equipment I was so familiar with, setting it on the bed. He looked the closest I’d ever seen him to being embarrassed.

  Shame flooded through me, and—wait for it!—more guilt.

  “Of course, I’m sorry.’’ I felt terrible Ian had needed to ask, but Nicky had always scheduled our blood draws. In his absence they hadn’t even entered my mind.

  “I won’t make you wait another minute,” I said, anxious to show how willing I was. “Do you have juice here? Or fruit? Water will work if you don’t have either, but if this becomes our new routine I’ll need you to keep something around.”

  He nodded, doing the whoosh-y thing vampires were so annoyingly fond of before returning with an armload of options. He’d brought three kinds of juice, but I was intrigued by a can of ‘fruit cocktail in all natural juice’.

  In what was becoming my battle cry around here, I inquired, “Fork?”

  He raced to procure one before stepping back. “I’ll give you your privacy.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Wait, Ian, no.” I shifted toward the edge of the bed, my face already heating. This would be embarrassing.

  “Did I forget something else? I’ve already realized I need to leave forks strategically around the house.” His voice was teasing and I felt better. Ian wasn’t mad—he was hungry and had spent the day watching other people eat.

  Embarrassment was pointless, but that didn’t cool my cheeks. “I’ve never done this alone. Nicky would take my blood and then I’d take his. If you can do it, great. If not, I’ll need a big mirror and a few more towels.” I tried to sound confident, but drawing my own blood with a backward mirror view was a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Oh.” Initially taken aback, he recovered. “I’m familiar with the process and I’ll be as gentle as I can.” Then he disappeared into the bathroom for several minutes.

  I looked at him quizzically on his return and he shrugged. “What? I was washing my hands.”

  “For what? Surgery?” His normally elegant hands were pink from heat and friction.

  He ignored me. “If we have everything you need, I’m ready when you are.”

  “We have all the equipment, but shouldn’t we go to your kitchen? Or at least let me move to a chair. Oh, and you forgot the extra towels.”

  He smiled as if I’d said something amusing. “None of that will be necessary. I was inquiring more as to whether you needed anything else to be comfortable.”

  I shook my head. Short of getting drunk, nothing would put me at ease.

  “Then you can lie back and we’ll proceed.”

  Instead of reclining I popped up. “Are you insane? On your fancy bed? What a marvelous idea!” I ran my hand over the velvet in disbelief. “Is this fabric even washable?”

  “Aurora, please. It’ll be over before you know it. Look at me.”

  Since looking at Ian was by no means a hardship, I obliged. As I met his eyes, I felt a wave of calm wash over me and I drifted on his self-assurance as he lifted the equipment with steady hands.

  With as much dignity as I could manage, I lay back and pulled my nightshirt to the top of my thigh. Everything important was covered, but I was relieved I hadn’t worn skimpy underwear.

  His hands moved closer and I deliberately looked away, telling myself not to be nervous. After all, this was nothing new for me and I already knew Ian had a talent for healing. Besides, anything was better than tapping my own vein.

  “There.” With a flash of movement he was beside me and stroking my hair.

  I braced myself. “Okay, I’m ready. Do it now, please.”

  He sounded pleased. “Needle’s already in. It’ll be a few minutes—you know the routine—and then you’ll be done.”

  “Damn, you’re good.” I hadn’t felt a thing.

  He smiled. “As long as we have a connection, why not use it?” His hand continued to stroke my hair and I realized he’d turned on music at some point. The song featured men singing in Latin, which I didn’t understand, followed by people speaking French—which I didn’t understand either. Without my asking, Ian told me the male singing was called Gregorian chant and that the rest of the vocals were from a centuries old enigma. Whatever the heck that meant.

  I felt woozy, accompanied by an uncharacteristically happy glow. Then I caught Ian murmuring along with the music and realized my contentment stemmed from him. I was reaping the benefits of his mood and giggled as he prepared to remove the needle.

  “That tickles!” I felt a tiny stab of heat in my leg and Ian was beside me again.

  “Bandage?” I whispered. I was almost too sleepy to move but didn’t want to bleed on the bed. Another stroke of my hair.

  “No need, precious girl.” I didn’t know why he was whispering, but I loved his voice like this—quiet and low and ten times more soothing than the artificial voice he used when I was upset. “The needle site is clean and healed. Would you like to sleep, or would you like something to eat first?”

  The decision was made when I fell asleep before I could answer.

  I awoke to a chilly draft as the hands I’d admired earlier slid the velvet covers to my feet. I didn’t remember getting beneath the covers, but it wouldn’t be the first time Ian had tucked me in without my knowledge. However, it was definitely the first time he’d engaged in the un-tucking portion of the program.

  I felt surprisingly enthusiastic about this turn of events, but still almost kicked him in surprise as he kissed the instep of my foot. As I stared at the foot in question, his mouth worked its way toward my ankle and I noted my crimson toenail polish shone iridescent black in the wavering light of the fireplace.

  The fireplace? I would’ve sworn the room had been dark a moment ago, but it didn’t seem important as Ian’s lips inched up the side of my calf. No, not important at all.

  Minutes passed as Ian worked his way upward. When his mouth reached the back of my knee, his hands slid up my thighs to free the fabric clinging to my hips, baring my midriff. Progressing upward to nip at my newly healed thigh, he skipped the obvious erogenous zone to focus on my abdomen—which became more erotic with each moment that passed.

  His hands were cool to the touch and it felt like I was burning in comparison. I made several attempts to unbutton my night shirt only to have my hands gently removed and placed back at my sides each time.

  As Ian’s mouth moved further, I fought to keep my hands from clenching into fists. The temperature of his mouth matched that of his hands and I shivered as he nuzzled the undersides of my breasts with infinite patience.

  Finally, finally, he pulled back and unbuttoned my nightshirt himself. He moved so slowly I knew he was delaying each bare inch for his own pleasure. He could’ve torn the shirt from my body in a heartbeat if he’d wanted.

  Hell, I would’ve ditched it ten minutes ago if he’d let me.

  I made a sound in my throat that was pure frustration and in an instant the nightshirt was open and off. The moment my arms were free I set to work unbuttoning Ian’s shirt—with none of his finesse but a hundred times more speed. I’ll leave infinite patience to those with eternity to appreciate it.

  Once bared, I could feel every precisely defined muscle in Ian’s torso (so smooth and cool), but the dim light from the fire proved inadequate for admiring it. The light was at his back, denying me a good look at the contours I wanted to scrutinize. My explorations continued one handed while my other hand flailed for the bedside lamp I knew was there. Somewhere.

  My fingers made contact with the bottle of nail polish and sent it skittering to the floor… I found the spine of the book I’d been reading and the clasp of the bra I’d removed before my bath…

  I tried to visualize the nightstand as I remembered it, my eyes half crossed as Ian lightly scraped his teeth over my throat. Then my hand plunged into something wet and cold and I jumped up with a squeak.

  Backing up against the wall, I found the chandeli
er’s light switch and flipped it to see what I was doing. Or rather, what I hadn’t been doing. The fireplace was unlit, my nightshirt was still buttoned and Ian was nowhere in sight.

  The fruit cocktail I’d selected earlier had been poured into a crystal goblet and nested inside the larger bowl of melting ice—the same bowl into which I’d plunged my hand.

  I dried my hand on my nightshirt and sat on the bed, grateful I’d avoided dunking my hand in the sticky fruit. I wasn’t hungry, but I ate because I needed it. I sure as hell needed something.

  Frustration didn’t come close to describing how I felt and I silently willed myself not to self-combust, grateful that at least no one had been here to witness my foolishness. Then I flinched, realizing both Ian and Keanu could easily have heard me. Damn. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut and let Ian send me another kitten dream?

  I froze.

  Then I unfroze and went from frustrated to furious at the speed of light. Ian knew I was an adult, did he? He was sure I could handle anything my dreams threw at me? So help me, I’d make him pay for this. Somehow.

  Not bothering to make a plan (or hunt down pants), I stomped to the living room, stopping short when I found Keanu on the sofa and Ian nowhere in sight. Keanu looked taken aback and I made an effort to rearrange my face into something less homicidal.

  “Can I, ah… help you with something, Rory?” His eyes were wide and wary—apparently my efforts hadn’t been entirely successful—and I abandoned the pretense.

  “Sure,” I snapped. “You can either tell that jerk to stop messing with my dreams or you can tell me where he is right now so I can tell him personally.”

  Wordlessly, Keanu pointed over my shoulder and I whipped around. As I looked, the wall screen split into dozens of individual images, each showing a different room.

  “What? What am I supposed to be looking at?” I whirled back to Keanu and, so help me, the godlike vampire shrank back into the cushions and flinched. It would have been hilarious if I hadn’t been furious.

  “The um, upper left screen.”

  The upper left screen was black and empty. “What about it? There’s nothing there.”

  “Look closer, Rory. I’ll up the lights and zoom in.”

  Turning around again, I saw a few flecks of white begin to grow larger. Eventually the pale dots became distinguishable as Ian’s face and hands, but everything else was indistinct darkness. As his features grew larger I realized everything surrounding him was black, from the furnishings to his clothing.

  “Where the hell is he?” Wherever it was, it was nowhere I’d been.

  “It’s our light deprivation room,” Keanu said simply. “It’s a good place to relax.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I was almost too mystified to be upset. “We’re underground. Everything is light deprived once the lights are out.”

  “Maybe to you,” he replied mildly, which gave me pause.

  “Oh.” That was something to ponder when I had some free, non-pissed off time. Of course vampire eyes would be more sensitive to light. “If he sleeps in there, why does he have that wonderful bedroom?”

  “Not to state the obvious, but you’re using his bedroom. Ian needed to rest before you two leave.” Keanu regained his confidence as my outrage faltered under his logic.

  “Oh.” (I wasn’t earning points for witty repartee tonight.) Then it hit me. “Rest? It’s four in the morning. Shouldn’t he be awake?” I’m not sure why I was determined to spar with Keanu, but apparently I was.

  Instead of the verbal combat I craved, his response was disappointingly patient. “Ian has been in there since he left you and I can assure you he hasn’t altered anyone’s dreams. If kittens are still plaguing you, I’m afraid that’s on you. Ian is a little, um, drunk.”

  I don’t know which hit me harder, embarrassment that I’d dreamed Ian into my head (and bed) without assistance, or shock at the idea of Ian drunk. In the grand tradition of denial—which I vowed to embrace immediately—I opted for the latter.

  “You guys can get drunk? How? You said it yourself, the only thing your system can absorb is—Oh.”

  Yep, my word for the evening. “Ian overindulged then?”

  Keanu looked slightly squirmy, which thrilled me. Finally a reaction.

  I pressed on. “Is this form of overindulgence a frequent thing?”

  Keanu looked mortified. “No, it’s not,” he said quietly, which made me feel guilty. “Fresh blood can help offset the sun’s impact, but it also can produce an effect similar to intoxication—particularly when drinking more than normal.”

  “Oh.” Damn it, I’d said it again. “Well,” I rallied, “that makes sense as long as he’s able to leave when we need to.”

  “Not a problem,” Keanu assured me. “I’d hoped you’d sleep later, but since you’re awake, would you like breakfast? I could teach you how to make Eggs Benedict. A frittata perhaps? A quiche? Salmon crepes?”

  Since the only words I’d recognized were ‘salmon’ and ‘eggs’, I had no preference. Then Keanu was dragging me to the kitchen and I realized my opinion hadn’t mattered. Apparently my choice of attire didn’t matter either. It looked like I’d be cooking in my night shirt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BY the time breakfast was over, my nightshirt was a wreck. Keanu had chosen ‘the art of the egg’ as our lesson and while I have no objection to art, his artistic approach neglected a few practicalities—such as lowering electric beaters into a bowl before turning them on. Admittedly, I’d been replaying various portions of my dream during his instructions, so perhaps Keanu hadn’t been entirely to blame.

  While he’d lectured on vital information such as the subtle nuances distinguishing omelets and frittatas, I’d remembered Ian’s hands peeling my clothes off. While he’d prattled on about the proper way to coddle an egg, I could think of nothing but the feel of Ian’s body beneath my hands. And as Keanu had begun droning on about the architecture of a quiche versus a strata, I was speculating on what might have happened had I not inadvertently woken myself up—only to be startled back to reality by the shock of raw eggs splattering all over me.

  By the time we’d put everything in the oven, I’d felt flushed enough to plunge my entire body into a frozen cocktail bath. Even more confusing than the dream was the question of why I’d had the dream in the first place. When exactly had I begun to view Ian in that sort of way? And why? Even the most oblivious part of me had to acknowledge that Ian was attractive, but so was Keanu, and I hadn’t dreamed about him. At least not yet.

  Despite all of Keanu’s effort, our breakfast extravaganza barely even registered on my taste buds. I’d had a bite or two of each, but by the end of breakfast I was certain of only two things—I didn’t want to see another egg for weeks and I needed to keep my guard up around Ian. And I didn’t have to wait long before putting the latter into action.

  Ian strolled past the kitchen—okay, it was more of a lumbering stomp—right as Keanu declared cleanup time. Bad mood or not, I was grateful for his interruption because the kitchen was trashed. Dirty dishes were stacked two feet high, to say nothing of the raw egg mixture spattering the walls and countertops.

  When Ian announced we needed to leave I scampered away to get ready, leaving the mess for Keanu without a backward glance.

  I dressed for our first delivery attempt in layers. (I assumed Ian would need air conditioning in the truck but the temperature outside would skyrocket as the sun rose.) My all brown packing strategy would have made for excellent hunting camouflage. From the neck down I looked like I was wearing tree bark.

  Ian had swapped his black outfit from the light deprivation room for a more casual choice of sneakers, jeans and a long sleeved cartoon t-shirt—the latter so shabby it could only belong to Keanu.

  He led me through the jumble of spare rooms again and I paid careful attention, determined to memorize the way. The first five doors went straight, straight, left, right and right, and I planned to
eventually make a mnemonic.

  Outside, Nicky’s truck sat in the shade. It looked almost sinister with its temporarily darkened windows—so dark I wondered how I was supposed to see through them. The truck was also cleaner than I’d ever seen it. Someone, my bet was on Keanu, had given it a thorough scrub and polish. Even the tires were shiny.

  I personally didn’t see the point as the truck would be filthy before we reached our destination, but it did look very bad ass.

  The back of the truck still held the splintery wooden crates and I exhaled in relief, not that theft was likely an issue out here. Then I clambered into the driver’s seat with the grace of a water buffalo while Ian vaulted up like a panther. The sky was growing steadily lighter, which made me nervous.

  “I wish we could have left earlier,” I fretted as I put the truck in gear.

  Ian sighed. “That wouldn’t work, Aurora. If we arrived at dawn, Mr. Kyrstack would know we’d left before daylight. Dominic wouldn’t do that.”

  His inflection was weary enough to stop me from reminding him I wasn’t an idiot. I knew why we hadn’t left earlier; I’d simply felt sorry for him. I wondered if vampires could get hangovers and if Ian was suffering from one now. It would go a long way toward explaining his crankiness.

  Determined to be efficient—and to ignore Ian’s mood—I hit the power button for the navigation system and scrolled through the destinations until I found Mr. Kyrstack.

  “Did you or Keanu peek in any of the boxes?” The delivery manifest had no details, and I’d been dying of curiosity since I’d loaded the truck.

  Ian looked surprised. “The crates are sealed.”

  “Yes, but maybe we should pop one open and close it again. It might be conducive to our conversation with Mr. Kyrstack.” My presence was a big enough deviation from the norm without us appearing ignorant of our cargo. Plus I was nosy.

  “No.” Ian shook his head. “I wasn’t referring to the crates being closed, Aurora. They have an actual wax seal along the edge. If anyone opens them, the seal irreparably breaks and Mr. Kyrstack would know it had been opened.”