Death, The Vamp and His Brother

by Lexxie Couper

  The blush in her cheeks grew hotter. “I’m not a vampire, Patrick, but I am a demon. If you make me horny with just a look, imagine what the taste of your blood could do to me.”

  Patrick studied her, unsure what to say. Or think.

  “But it’s okay,” she hurried on, her gaze holding his. “And all I need is one small taste. Honest.”

  Gut clenched, chest tight, he closed his eyes. Ah, Jesus, when had his life become so surreal?

  “The moment you were born, Patrick Watkins,” Fred murmured. “And I’m trying to find out why. Trust me.”

  Opening his eyes, he gazed down into her face. Releasing a sigh, feeling more than a little nervous, he nodded.

  Fred’s eyes shimmered to white. “Just one taste, Patrick. I promise. All I need to do is touch my tongue to your vein.”

  Her stare held him frozen. Mouth dry, pulse crazy, he watched her slowly lift his right hand level with her chest. She caressed his inner wrist with infinite care, her fingertips trailing over the sensitive flesh protecting his median antebrachial vein, the main source of oxygen-rich blood coming straight from his heart. Her warm breath feathered the delicate epidermal layer and he swallowed at the desert in his throat.

  A ripple of tight heat rolled through him. He licked his parched lips with his dry tongue, unable to move.

  She looked up at him, confident calm radiating from her. “This will be quick,” she whispered.

  God, does it have to be?

  The dark, seductive thought floated through Patrick’s hazy mind. He pulled in a swift breath, the sudden realization he was aroused, painfully, completely aroused slamming him in the chest. And still he couldn’t move.

  He stared at her, his blood roaring in his ears, his erection growing harder. He watched her lips curl into a small smile that revealed two short, pointed fangs. He watched her lower her head over his arm, the curtain of her midnight black hair cascading over her neck and shoulder to hide it from his view. He stared at the back of her head, his cock straining for release, his breath shallow.

  The warm softness of her lips pressed to his wrist and a surge of liquid electricity shot straight through him. He tensed already taut muscles. His balls rose up closer to his body. His heartbeat tripled.

  And then the tip of Fred’s tongue touched his wrist, her teeth pierced his flesh and exquisite, elemental rapture exploded in his core.

  He felt his blood flow from the wounds, felt her tongue bathe his wrist. He hissed in a breath through clenched teeth, every nerve ending in his body on fire. A surge of something carnal and primitive flooded into his groin and, unable to stop himself, he threw back his head and groaned, the sound as raw as the pleasure consuming him.

  Fred’s lips moved over his wrist, her tongue lapping at his weeping vein. Her fingers dug into his arm, gripped it with fierce strength so opposite to the gentle administrations of her mouth before, with a soft hitching gasp, she jerked her head up.

  She stared at him, her pale skin aglow with an inner light, her lips glistening red with his blood. “By the Powers…” She trailed away, her fingers still holding his wrist and arm.

  Patrick pulled in a deep breath, forcing his body back under control. He felt like a violin string wound too tight, thrumming with so much tension it was sure to snap with just one more touch. “What?”

  She didn’t answer him. Just stared at him with white-fire eyes.

  “What?”

  “You are of the Carpenter’s line.”

  The simple declaration, uttered in a voice choked with shock and reverence, punched Patrick in the chest. He pulled his arm from Fred’s fingers and took a step backward, the enormity of her statement filling him with…what? He dragged his hands through his hair, trembling, hot and cold at once, his throat tight, his chest heavy.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Fred’s gaze held his. “Exactly.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Amy looked at the man standing before her, her stomach more sick than it had ever been. She wanted to throw up—again—but the last time she had, the man in the black suit had touched his fingers to her temples and pain like a metal spike drilling into her skull had erupted in her head. She’d screamed and pissed herself, and now here she was, in some horrible room filled with candles and the stench of disease, held by Raz in a cruel embrace, blood oozing from the puncture wounds in her neck left by his teeth.

  She wanted to go home.

  The man in the black suit ran his palm over her bare shoulder and a wall of nausea crashed over her. She gagged, turning her head to the side, not wanting to contemplate the punishment he would deliver if she vomited on him.

  “It was very nice of Raziel to transform you, was it not?” His fingers slid along the line of her collarbone, dipping into the cleft between her breasts. “So much easier to bring you to me than when you were human, and I did so want to meet you in person.”

  Amy rolled her eyes, her stomach lurching. She had no idea how she came to be here. One minute she’d been staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, tormented thoughts of Ven confusing her, the next, Raz had burst through the door, skin blistered, fangs extended, and smashed his fist into her jaw.

  She’d regained consciousness exactly where she was now. In this strange, putrid, stinking room, in her underwear, with the man in the black suit studying her closely, a leering smile pulling at his mouth and what felt like a thousand grasshoppers crawling over her feet and up her legs.

  “How do you feel, my dear?”

  Her stare jerked back to the man in the black suit before she could stop it and another lurching wave of nausea rolled through her. “Please…” She knew she was whimpering but she couldn’t stop herself. “Please…where am I? What…”

  “Is happening?” the man finished for her, each word he spoke like a finger of rotting filth shoved down her throat. “I needed to speak with you and my faithful servant brought you to me. Of course, you are no longer human. He had to initiate your transformation to a bloodsucker before you could travel to the Realm, but I understand that transformation has not yet been completed.” His expression turned to one of concern and thick snot dribbled from her nose. “May I ask, my dear, are you hungry?”

  Amy cowered backward, pressing herself harder to Raz’s cold body. She wasn’t hungry. She was sick. Real sick. She licked her lips, tasting snot and blood. “I want to go home.”

  Raz’s claws sank deeper into her ribs and arm. “Pestilence will let you return when he is finished with you.”

  Amy stiffened. “Pestilence? As in the First Horseman of the Apocalypse?”

  The man preened, smoothing one hand over his lank, unwashed hair. “You have heard of me? I am honored.”

  Swallowing the bile bubbling up from her stomach, she nodded. “My father was a minister.”

  Pestilence’s smile spread wide. “A man of the cloth?” He turned his attention to Raz and Amy thanked the Lord for the small reprieve from his sickening gaze. “Raziel, you did not tell me she was a child of the church.” A frown contorted his sallow forehead and the candles illuminating the room flickered, throwing wild shadows up the walls as if sharing his displeasure. “That was very remiss of you.”

  Behind her, Raz tensed, the claws puncturing her flesh digging in further. “I did not know, sire.”

  Pestilence waved his hand, turning his smile back to Amy. “Tell me what you know of me, child. I am curious of how I am perceived in the world of man.”

  Amy swallowed again, her stomach churning. Every pore of her body leaked perspiration, foul-smelling sweat that seemed to burn her skin. She licked her lips, horrified to discover they were not only cracked and bleeding, but crawling with tiny bugs. Oh Lord. What was happening to her?

  “Well?” Pestilence snapped, and Amy’s bladder let go in a gush of hot, acrid piss.

  She squirmed in Raz’s hold, desperate to be free. Her muscles held no strength however, and the vampire’s grip was impossible to escape.

  “Just that Pestilenc
e is the First Horseman of the Apocalypse,” she sobbed. “He comes before the others on a decaying horse and causes the destruction of the world’s crops and wildlife.”

  Pale blue eyes narrowed. “That is all?”

  Amy closed her eyes. She felt sick. Oh Lord, save her. She felt so sick. “Please, I want to go home.”

  “So, I am just a pest? Like a grasshopper? A little munching on some wheat fields? Is that it?”

  Feeling like she was about to pass out, she shook her head. She wanted to go home. “Revelations 6:2 ‘I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.’ My father always said the church view the other Horsemen more formidable. The Fourth Horseman is the most feared.”

  She was babbling. She knew it. But she’d never felt so sick. Or scared.

  “The other Horsemen are…” Pestilence’s growl faded away.

  Maybe he’s gone? A tight spear of hope stabbed through her nausea. Maybe you can go home now?

  Cold, clammy fingers hooked under her chin and she cried out. Her stomach cramped, her head felt like it was about to explode. Every muscle and joint in her body erupted in agony and her bowels opened in a flood of stinging shit that dribbled down her legs onto the insects swarming there. Behind her, Raz let out a disgusted bark. He jerked backward, his claws tearing deep gashes into her flesh.

  “I am the most powerful!” Pestilence’s voice sliced into her like a blade and her eyes snapped open. “I am the First. The premier. I am the beginning of the end. Without me there is no Apocalypse!”

  His fingers dug into her chin, forcing her jaw open. Wider. Wider. Her lips parted, the putrid air flowing onto her tongue. She gagged, vomit surging up her throat. Choking her.

  The room swam. Turned grey. Black splotches blossom behind her eyes. But still she saw Pestilence, eyes wild, leaning towards her, lips stretched into a maniacal grin, his other hand reaching for her mouth.

  “The lifeguard’s brother will not be able to locate her if she is dead, sire.”

  Raz’s statement seemed to be whispered from far away. Amy stared at Pestilence through the thick, grey haze. This was it. She was going to die.

  The grip on her chin jerked away and she slumped, Raz’s claws in her arm and torso the only thing keeping her on her feet.

  “I am the First!” she heard Pestilence snarl. “The First.”

  Gasping for breath, blood and snot trickling from her nose, she lifted her head. “Why are you doing this? What do you think you’ll achieve? I’m nobody.”

  Pestilence stared at her, his face contorted with fury. “You are the favored source of blood for the vampire, Steven Watkins.” He curled his lip. “Well, you were. I’m not sure he will want you now you are a pathetic half-caste. No longer human, yet not demon either.”

  Amy’s throat squeezed tight. She stared at Pestilence, unable to comprehend the words she heard. A half-caste monster? Ven? No longer human…

  Tell me, dear. Are you hungry?

  Bitter saliva flooded her mouth, coated her tongue. She was hungry. Starving. An insistent, powerful hunger gnawed at her stomach, almost devoured by the nausea consuming her. A hunger for blood. Human blood.

  Repulsion and terror radiated through her. “What’s going on? What’s Raz done to me?”

  Oh, Lord. What did they want to do to Ven?

  Her fear filled her with strength. She lashed out, kicking at Pestilence, bucking in Raz’s cruel hold. The vampire laughed and yanked her harder to his body, driving his claws so deep into her flesh their pointed tips scraped her bones.

  “I needed to have you here, my dear.” Pestilence threaded his fingers before his chest, giving her a patronizing smile. “You are the bait to reel in the lifeguard’s brother. The only way you could travel to the Realm was to no longer be human.” His smile grew wider. “Raziel sank his teeth into your neck and partially drained you, but he did not allow you to feed in return. You are in mid-coitus, as such. Not completely fucked, but very close to it.” He smirked, flicking his gaze over her, and her heartbeat tripled, smashed against her aching breastbone in a frantic, painful rhythm. “But as I am sure you can see, you are just as pathetic as you always were. A victim, it seems, of your lust and addiction.”

  His smug words slipped into Amy’s ear like an oily snake.

  Lust.

  Addiction.

  She bit back a sob, guilt and scalding contempt crashing over her. Lord, she’d brought this on herself. Her craving for the burn of the feed, for the sexual high it created, had led her to seek out another vampire. And Raziel had delivered her to Pestilence.

  “Is that dawning realization I see on your face?” Pestilence asked. “I must admit, it is hard to see your face, what with the blood and snot and matted hair. Oh, and look, your skin is beginning to welter. Pus.” He flashed a smile of such perverse delight that Amy’s stomach clamped tight. “We have pus, Raziel. Your looks are improving with every moment in my company, my dear.” He laughed, and Amy whimpered.

  Oh, Lord. Ven. What had she done?

  “Now that I have you,” Pestilence continued, his euphoric smile evaporating, “you will give me the vampire. And once I have the vampire I will have the lifeguard.” He closed the distance between them, hooking his nail under her chin to force her face up to his. “And with the lifeguard’s only weakness in my power, with his brother’s fate in my hands, the Cure shall surrender to me and the Apocalypse shall begin.” He grinned, yellow teeth glistening in the flickering candlelight. “Sounds like fun, does it not?”

  ***

  Ven appeared in the kitchen of Amy’s apartment, every nerve and muscle on edge. Something was wrong.

  How he’d got to Amy’s home, he didn’t know. He had a suspicion what he’d just done—leave the Realm without Death’s aid—was not something he was meant to be able to do. But then again, changing into some freakish creature with wings and arms the size of tree trunks wasn’t something he usually did either. Not to mention tearing apart an ugly-as-shit squid monster until it was just a pile of sushi on an isolated beach in the middle of the day.

  All in all, he had to admit, things were not as one would expect.

  What are you, Steven?

  He ignored the unnerving, irritating question, along with the roaring hunger gnawing at his gut, focusing instead on Amy’s home. It was a tiny first-floor apartment that always smelled of tofu and incense, two narrow windows, one in the bedroom, one in the bathroom, and no secret nooks or crannies. A small living room, even smaller bedroom, a kitchen about the size of a shoebox and a bathroom with a shower cubicle so small you had to step out of it to change your mind. Amy loved it and had spent many, many hours searching flea markets and yard sales to decorate it in an eclectic mix of bohemian luxury and 1950s Australian retro. It was an unusual design choice, but it suited her so very well. Quirky and soft and welcoming at once.

  A twist of cold apprehension knotted in Ven’s gut and he narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t just the silence of her apartment that put him on edge, it was a taint to the air. Like something malevolent had been there.

  Something malevolent has been here, Steven. You. Remember what you did to her last time you were here? Remember what you almost did to her?

  Ven’s throat grew tight and he suppressed a growl, moving from the kitchen into the living room. He ran a slow gaze over the space, noting it was in the exact same state it had been that morning. “Amy?”

  His call fell flat in the silent room.

  A ripple of unease shot up his back and he felt his demon stir. No, it wasn’t his demon, not like he knew it at least. It felt…different.

  Crossing the living room, he pushed open the door to Amy’s bedroom. Empty.

  And why wouldn’t it be. It’s what, four o’clock in the afternoon. She’s probably at work.

  Ven curled his fists. He stepped into the room and crossed to its one small cupboard on the sidewall. The hollow ache
of starvation he’d had in his gut for the last forty-eight hours was growing stronger. He needed to feed. Soon. The moment he found Amy he’d beg her forgiveness for his previous unforgivable behavior, on his knees if he had to, and hope to the Trilogy she would understand how desperate he was. How close he was to becoming weak. He would make it up to her, any way she wanted him to—shit, he’d even take her shopping—but if he didn’t feed soon…

  He yanked open the cupboard and another twist of cold apprehension knotted in his gut. Amy wasn’t at work. Not unless she decided to leave all her equipment at home. He looked at her camera bag and laptop, throat getting tighter by the second. Unless she’d discovered a way to photograph children and babies without a camera, he was pretty certain she hadn’t gone to work today.

  Fuck.

  He turned about, studying the room and its immaculately made bed and spotless side tables. Nothing out of place.

  Again, the ripple of unease traveled up his spine. Again, the sense of something malicious on the air tainted his breath.

  Fuck.

  He strode from the room, the sound of the carpet pile crushed under his feet, the feel of the still air on his face almost making him scream. Damn it, what was the point of having hypersensitive senses if they couldn’t tell him where one defenseless female was?

  Scanning the living room one last time for anything he may have missed—not a thing—he shoved opened the bathroom door.

  The stench of blood and piss smashed into him like a wave.

  Amy’s blood and piss.

  He sucked in a sharp breath.

  And tasted vampire. The same vampire he’d detected on Amy’s neck that morning.

  The entity inside him roared. Fierce and angry and purposeful.

  Shutting out its rage, and his raging hunger, Ven studied the room. He needed to be calm, focused. Turning into bat boy wasn’t going to save Amy. Not until he found her, at least.

  The room seemed as spotless and pristine as the rest of the apartment. Except…a small smear of bright red blood on the white floor tiles beneath the vanity mirror caught his attention. A little further away, about the length of Amy’s torso, was a puddle of urine. A few wavy strands of blonde hair lay scattered on the floor, the microscopic white nub of follicle root still attached to the ends of each one.