And with the exception of Claire, there would be another coven to bring to heel, for what had been brought against him.
William returned his attention to the Singer. His thirst was ravenous but he must not overindulge. William needed to be sharp, but was one day out without blood. He eyed this one, strongly telepathic and used what little he had to drill his commands home.
Do not leave her side, lure her to an area where the ones who guard her are not near.
He watched the Singer flinch. Thrall always had that effect when the one compelled was instructed to do things not of their choosing. Which was often of course. Thrall was almost never used on the willing.
Unbutton your sleeve, William instructed mentally, cringing a little when the girl's eyes stood with heavy accusation on his.
He stepped forward, as hungry as he'd ever been except during Merlin's torture, and gripping her small forearm he struck deep, the blood of the Singer a coursing melodious roar in his body, nourishing him at the cellular level, his eyes going red in their sockets as he pulled from her.
Not common human stock, but pure blood, oxygenated and perfectly balanced for the vampiric body. When her blood reached his deepest core, it burst and combined with their mutual genetics, causing deep wounds from the torture and forced shapeshifting changes to heal instantly, a blanket of soothing rightness cast, binding his body together more strongly than ever before.
William lifted his mouth off her forearm and gave her a look of deep respect, his heart heavy when he saw the tears of frustration she shed, her every fiber begging for escape. Yet there she stood, rooted by thrall, laid by a vampire with enough Singer heritage to accomplish such a thing against another.
Jen knew in her heart that she was a traitor to Julia.
To all Singers. Her Queen trusted her and she would betray that trust because of a damned vampire. Who now held her blood.
And the blood of their Queen.
Jen's soul shrieked as the vampire stared at her, whispering directions to snare Julia.
She nodded acquiescence.
Jen had no choice.
She closed the sleeve to hide his feeding and walked away with stiff purpose.
It was a death sentence, the Combatant would kill her.
They would kill anyone who threatened the Queen of the Singers.
It was Blood Law, absolute and merciless.
Final.
CHAPTER 18
Southeastern Pack
“He's on to us,” Alan Greene said with resignation. His hazel eyes, rimmed by dark lashes, glared at the Southeastern Packmaster in frustration.
David nodded, that's what he'd been afraid of. Their relations with the Northwestern Pack were strained after the problem with their sadistic Were. David would always regret that they'd not taken action when Alan's sister had been attacked by the rogue.
Sometimes, avoiding war had a cost that was not felt immediately but well afterward, like endless ripples in a lake after a stone was skipped.
“I figured it was a matter of time before someone clever enough connected the dots...” David gave Alan a hard look and continued, “what about our guy at the courts?”
“Hard drive trail.” Alan considered briefly, then, “That mongrel attacked Lacey before computers so there was a small amount of records that were input by hand.”
“Dammit,” David swore softly. “And after we've tried so hard to assimilate in mainstream society.”
“Yeah,” Alan agreed.
“And Cynthia Adams?” David asked.
“Slash has it,” Alan said and watched blatant relief wash over his Packmaster's face.
“Well thank the moon for small favors.” David palmed his chin thoughtfully. “What about the cop from Homer?”
Alan laughed. “He's pretty sharp. In fact, he'd make an awesome wolf. He sure has the nose for it.”
“Stop dreaming, you know the rules...”
Alan nodded, the smile fading. “I do. I'd bank on him having wolf blood in there somewhere though.”
They looked at each other for a swollen moment. “That region has a plethora of Singers. Where there's that many Singers...”
“There is Were,” Alan added.
“And drinkers,” David finished on a somber note.
Always them, Alan thought with distaste.
David gave a small shrug. Small for a male that was as big as he. “There's a lot of mixed blood in Alaska.”
“Too much,” Alan ground out. It was well known how the packs from the last frontier were managed. Badly.
David waggled his finger. “Now, now... don't be an elitist, Alan.”
Alan rolled his eyes skyward. “It is not my intent, Packmaster,” giving the natural deference accorded his leader. “You of all Were understand the trouble with the mutts. They contaminate everything.”
“But a mixed-blood Singer is fine,” David reminded.
“Yes,” Alan said as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
David narrowed his eyes on his first. “Just so we're clear, Julia Caldwell is not up for acquisition.”
Alan nodded sagely. “Too many fingers in that pie.”
David smiled. “We don't need the Rare One. But having the one who is close to her is a very powerful position as well. It is no surprise that she was from Alaska. That everyone who surrounded her was of Singer heritage.”
“Yes, no surprise there,” Alan agreed thinking of the unconscious magnet a Rare One would be to others of her kind and waited on the Packmaster's thoughts.
David deliberated. “What intel do you have from Slash?”
“He nears Region One of the Singers.”
David gave a low whistle, heard only by certain creatures. “So the danger draws near.”
Alan thought about Cynthia traveling with that abuser with only Slash as guard and a light sweat broke over him. It had taken every fiber of his control not to Change and go charging after her when she was taken. Rather, allowing the kidnapping to occur after her initial arrival in Washington. It had killed something inside him not offering her his instinctive protection.
Cynthia was Singer enough to warrant it.
He was Alpha enough to seek it.
Alan gave a low contemplative growl and his Packmaster smiled in grim agreement, intuiting the exact nature of his feelings. Patience was not a strong suit of the Were. To implement it was always a tenuous thing at best.
As was the case at the moment.
*
Truman
Karl Truman loved to dig. When he was digging, as he was now, he was truly in his element. When he stumbled across the tidbit before it was erased forever he was overcome with joy. His nose hadn't lied. Everything was connected.
Every damn thing. The details of his investigation came together in a rush of perfection and everything made sense.
Karl hadn't been looking for the connection but that shred of memory was enough to give him pause:
Lacey Greene was the woman attacked by the perp Anthony Daniel Laurent in the late 70s.
She was also the sister of the good old boy manager at Red Robin, Alan Greene. All of this almost forty year old bad blood was a convoluted mess to be found by just the right person.
Truman was that guy.
He dismissed the commonality of their names because of dates. When in reality, he should have been thinking outside the box on this one. They didn't age like humans. Period.
The manager was almost certainly one of the werewolves and he'd been underneath Karl's nose the entire time. No wonder it'd been twitching.
Karl thought about it. Werewolves in Homer murder the Caldwell kid, his buddy Kevin and take Julia Caldwell, leaving Cynthia Adams untouched. Then, another group of werewolves hire her at the local burger joint when she arrives in Kent, the very place Julia was taken. Finally, two years later, werewolves kidnap the Adams girl, best friend of Julia.
Truman didn't believe in coincidence of this magnitude. Actually, Karl wasn't
much of a believer in coincidence of any degree.
However, Alan Greene had seemed almost cavalier about the sudden absence of Cynthia Adams, nonchalant with her missing in action status. He'd even asked Karl where he thought she was. The bastard knew, Karl would stake his life on it.
He just might.
Truman stewed, thinking about every angle, turning each one over in his mind carefully, dismissing the absurd, finally embracing a facet that made sense.
There was some cooperative thing going down between wolf packs or whatever the hell they were called. He nodded to himself, that was it.
Cynthia Adams was relatively safe. He speculated she was being used like a pawn on a chessboard, an elaborate game played between the packs.
Truman was guessing they didn't get along. Not a big leap of logic there. How was Anthony Laurent tied with Alan Greene besides the assault against his sister? Was he one of the wolves that had torn Cynthia from Karl in that meadow? And why would Alan Greene stand by and allow his sister's attacker to take another female? It made no sense. But the truth was there; buried and waiting. He knew it.
Karl tapped in one last thing on the anonymous computer at the local King County Library: last known address for Anthony “Tony” Daniel Laurent.
A spinning hour glass moved for almost thirty seconds while Karl restrained both the urge to grab a phantom pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and to give the big monitor a whack with his palm. Damn thing.
Then the hit came back: Gig Harbor.
It couldn't be that easy, Truman thought, they'd have covered their tracks better than that. Of course, nearly forty years ago, they might not have had reason to. In current times, with technology as it was, the wolves had more incentive.
Like with cops that had a keen sense of smell. Truman's face broke out in a grin.
Hot damn, a genuine lead. He grabbed his lightweight jacket and took off, the door grazing his butt as he exited.
*
Slash
Slash went for the throat of Emmanuel, his imperative to protect the female Singer the only one which mattered. His packmates, which was a misnomer as he belonged by blood ties to another, had Turned and the Singer was in danger.
Emmanuel had wrapped the Singer's fragile forearm in his hand, long since springing talons and was immediately blasted in the side by Slash.
They rolled in a tide of bristled fur and swiping claws to the left of Cynthia's position.
Tony moved in and Adi plunged her mouth into his flank as he bashed her with his half-formed hand, retracting his claws on the backswing so he wouldn't hurt her.
Too badly.
Adi rolled on the forest floor, dazed by the blow. She was an excellent fighter, but so was Tony, pound for pound, squaring off with him was suicide with their uneven weight and muscle distribution. She lay on the ground, panting, her objective met: distraction.
Jason grabbed Cyn and she yelped, stopping the momentum of fur that had erupted in a frenzy of slashing claws and battering hands, with deadly knives flashing like weapons of bone.
Jason bellowed in an ear-splitting wail, “Stop!” He backed up, holding a nearly catatonic Cyn, Adi on her side, clutching a gash to her wolfen face while Tony came for him.
Bring it, Jason thought. Tony had been begging for an ass-kicking from day one and Jason was happy to deliver.
It was one of the other Were who stopped the fighting in a low voice, “They're close.”
Tony whirled to face him, his coat so deep a brown it was almost black. “Who?”
The other wolf, as different from Tony as night and day, his coat matching the whitish gray of Adi's said, “Does your anger hold you prisoner so that you no longer scent danger?” the other asked without a trace of sarcasm, his eyes straying to the injured female wolf at his feet.
Tony scowled, the expression almost comical on his snout. He lifted his face into the air and noticed the smell almost too late.
“Drinkers,” Tony growled.
Emmanuel and Slash rose from the mess they'd made of each other, blood wounds closing, haphazard gashes reversing their depth, new flesh filling in like bright pink water, plumping the holes as Cynthia watched, slightly nauseous from the sight.
Gawd these guys were gross, she thought in a daze.
Jason stepped forward, dragging a swaying Cynthia behind him as he scooped up the female that had been beaten by that loser Tony. He wasn't up on Were politics but he was thinking that beating a female, werewolf or not, was frowned upon.
He was right in his supposition, the other males circling Tony.
“You hit the female,” Slash accused, his eyes shifting to Cynthia briefly, Jason caught it and thought it was weird but assumed he was making sure she was okay.
Manny growled at Tony, he'd had about enough of his abuse against females. How many times would Lawrence cover his indiscretions before the Were were disciplined or discovered because of them? He didn't care if Tony was a pureblood, who his parents had been or how great of a soldier to the Were he proved to be. In Emmanuel's eyes, he was a liability, a ticking time bomb.
Set to detonate at any moment.
“She drew first blood,” Tony said as a weak excuse, indicating his side where a row of perfect puncture marks were even now filling in.
Manny gave a disgusted snort and drilled Tony with his eyes. Any male knew that a female was of no concern. Adrianna was barely humored in her war with the Were. It was a well-guarded secret that they allowed her to fight to secure her compliance. Alpha females were a difficult group to corral. Adi was no different. When she was fully grown, she would breed. That is what her true value was. It was callous but factual. However, Tony's mistreatment of a valuable female werewolf would not be tolerated, they were a rare treasure to be safeguarded, not harmed. Emmanuel's opinion was shared by the others as they growled, a prelude to a group attack against an Alpha that needed pack reprimand.
Again the gray wolf spoke, “They are but ten miles due north and approaching.”
It broke the spell of the impending fight, an uneasy truce brought on by enemies of merit, Tony allowed a stay of execution.
For now.
Jason uttered a swearword that was almost too low to hear and Cynthia offered an olive branch saying, “I heard that Caldwell.”
He gave a small smile and she looked up at him. “Maybe you can redeem your sorry ass?”
“That's what I'm trying to do, if you'd have listened to me, Cyn,” he said, trying not to get too hopeful that she'd forgive, that she'd help his hopeless cause to get Julia back at his side where she belonged.
“Let us go,” Emmanuel said, allowing no uptick or rapport to develop between the two. He would stake his claim subtly and wherever he could.
Jason gave Emmanuel a small frown, he'd been one of the Were that he'd actually liked and now he was peeing in corners, marking his metaphorical territory. Jason deliberated whether he should make a stand. But one thing he knew, when it came to females, any female, unless he had a romantic interest in one, he stayed the hell away. He sure didn't have one inkling of romantic interest in Cyn, she was... like a sister or something. And of course, there was Julia.
Jason gave a neutral expression, if such a thing was possible with his half-human face but it worked and Emmanuel relaxed his tense posture. Jason also knew that it was all about subtleties in the world of Weres. Little physical gestures packed a punch when it came to communication.
Tony smirked. Saved by the blood drinkers, he thought, an unlikely event. Ah... he led a charmed life. He looked at Adi, marking her with his dominant eye contact. His eyes delivered the message clearly: mine.
Adi glared back at him. Her eyes responded in kind: piss off.
Twice.
They held their stare of animosity for a moment, breaking it only when Jason said for all, “I will carry Cyn.”
Protestation broke all around, mainly words delivered in a growling mutter.
Emmanuel put up an taloned-hand in
silence. “She cannot run and speed is needed. The Singers will have established a form of protection that will be in place as the vampires circle from the east and we position from the south. Let us group near their Region and plan our attack based on timing.” He then looked at Tony significantly and added, “Instead of reactive emotion.”
Tony glared at Manny and they all turned and faced north. In only a few hours, they would cover enough ground to put them into attack position. There would be no repeat of the earlier conflict resulting in the near-death of the Rare One.
An untenable loss.
They ran as the vampires that were now tied to William came from the east. Summoned by him, their loyalties now shifted from Merlin to their new leader, put there by blood and death.
By providence.
*
Julia
“Please, sit,” Marcus indicated with a palm, looking at Julia carefully, dark circles underneath her whiskey eyes, her expression anxious.
The Combatant were everywhere but inside the room, Julia could vaguely feel Scott and to a lesser extent, Victor. Their presence was softened by Paul. Who, true to his word, had kept the voices of the other Singers to a muted roar.
“You had a dream,” Marcus prompted.
Julia nodded, sitting in an overstuffed chair that faced the massive desk Marcus sat behind. “Jen told you?”
“Yes... she said you wanted to have someone interpret it.”
Julia nodded and Marcus added, “I know it is a lot to assimilate, that you are young and have been through a series of traumas. Many of which are quite recent.”
Well that about summed stuff up, Julia thought.
“And many dreams of Singers are prophetic.”
Great, Julia thought.
Julia told him about it, the entire thing.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, very like a throne, behind his huge desk, one of very few pieces of furniture that matched the age of the house and steepled his fingers. After the ticking of the clock marked two minutes of silence after she had finished, Marcus said, “Everyone is represented. That is what is noteworthy,” he commented thoughtfully.
The Blood Bundle, Books 1-2: Blood Singers and Blood Song (New Adult Paranormal Vampire/Shifter Romance) Page 44