Nightshade's Bite (Blood Wars)

by Zoe Forward

  “You don’t want her dead,” Blay said.

  “Kiera always has pet projects that appeal to her need to be impulsive. Like her father.” The last part came out bitter.

  “She has to survive because Viktor captured Carol. Did you know that? He caught her smuggling a werewolf into England. He’s using Carol to blackmail Kiera into getting him information on the werewolf’s viral cure. We all know that’s going to end in him trying to kill both girls. But our only hope to find Carol is for Kiera to offer an exchange of information for her.”

  “Viktor made execution plans to kill both of them, did he?” Ehlena’s demeanor turned frigid.

  Michael broke out in a sweat as he prepared to defend himself again.

  Ehlena stilled. Her face blanked as if turning off her emotions was a matter of a flipping a switch. She sipped from her goblet. As she set it down, she said softly, “You should be scared, Michael. There’s old, and then there’s me. I recognize your pendant. Belonged to your sire, Havardr, a truly legendary wolf and one I admired. Tell me, why do you let Lexan keep the werewolf crown when you are the true descendant? The true king.”

  “Politics irritate me. I’ve no use for that level of bullshit.” Probably shouldn’t have replied. It wasn’t her business.

  “We’re not all like the Vragi family.” The name of the family who’d “owned” Michael before the war that emancipated werewolves sent hate seething through his blood.

  Ehlena waved a hand. A young vampire entered the room and refilled her goblet. She muttered thanks.

  As if she picked up his surprise, she said, “Like Kiera and Finn, we are not all as we appear. That said, even if there are a few of us with no animosity toward your kind, you and I are quite different, lest you forget this as you wallow in your newfound emotions. Your entire species is hostage to your sensuality. It’s why when one of you loses the ability to feel, you fall into perpetual ennui and die. I find it both tragic and fascinating.”

  Her attention drifted to Blay when he grumbled so low, Michael missed what he said.

  “You two should go. We’re done here.” The next moment, she was gone. Poof. Michael glanced around.

  Blay stood and prodded him toward the exit.

  “She’s going to let Kiera die?” Michael whispered.

  “Quiet.”

  On the table where they’d abandoned their weapons sat a piece of folded paper, wedged between his knife and Blay’s gun with scripted words: Isaac will meet you at 0400.

  “Is that note from Ehlena?” Michael asked.

  “Yes. Looks like she cares more about Kiera than she let on.”

  “Who’s Isaac?”

  Blay released a shaky breath. “I wouldn’t be asking who. I’d ask what he is.”

  Chapter Twelve

  During the silent forty-five-minute flight back to Prague, Michael struggled with the ethical dilemma of discovering a horde of ancient vamps. As leader of the werewolf offensive, he should organize a decisive and destructive hit. He mentally analyzed the entire building and figured out the how-tos of such an attack. But he didn’t want to carry it out.

  He didn’t want to.

  Never since he’d gotten free of the wall onto which he’d been bound for decades had he considered withholding vampire location information. For the second time in a week, he refused to plan the enemy’s demise.

  He was protecting them now? Unthinkable.

  Lightheaded, he felt as if he were in free fall with no safety net. New ventures usually interested him, but this was a completely alternate reality, to the point he couldn’t process.

  Hostage to sensuality. Not him.

  Liar.

  Wolves existed to feel through touch and sensation and emotion. They withered away and died without it. Ehlena attempted to make this trait sound like a strength, but he viewed it as a weakness.

  Right before they landed, Blay put down the iPad he’d been holding and broke the silence. “What happened…what we just saw…you in your position in this war—”

  “I know,” he interrupted.

  “We’re good, then?” Blay tapped his fingers on his iPad.

  “Good? How the fuck are you good about what just happened?”

  “She’d scare the balls off the devil. She’s not someone to underestimate or even estimate about. There are some you don’t mess with. Like Ehlena.”

  Michael still couldn’t figure out how she’d disappeared, other that it must’ve been a super-speed move. What freaked him out more was the note, written when? Before they arrived or during their visit? Who wrote it? If before their arrival, did Ehlena see into the future and had already arranged for this mysterious Isaac to help Kiera?

  “How do you know her? How did you even know she was there today?”

  Blay opened the screen over the window to check out the dark sky. “I’m not a traitor, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Didn’t accuse you of that. You’re more a pacifist when it comes to the war.”

  “The lines blurred for me long ago when I lost Arie. I begged Ehlena to take my life as penance for failing to protect her. She refused and ordered me to find Arie’s murderer. I did. Took me over fifty years, but I did.” Blay sent him a frown. “Don’t tell Kiera we met with Ehlena.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t speak. There’s not much love between the two of them.”

  “Yet you gambled Ehlena would help Kiera?”

  “Yes.” Blay stared at his hands. “The alternative is she dies. Kiera’s still her daughter.”

  An hour later, Michael followed Blay to the bedroom in which Kiera rested. He pulled back the covers and her shirt, confirming her midsection still showed separation. “We’re late. But doesn’t look like Isaac beat us here. Shouldn’t we wait at the front door for him to arrive?”

  “I’m not sure he uses doors.”

  “Who the hell doesn’t use doors?”

  Blay crossed his arms and rested against the wall. “Best if we come off non-combative.”

  Michael jolted when a loud crack like a lightning strike rent the air. Static electricity had his arm hair standing on end. A tunnel of light opened in front of them like something from an Avengers movie. Out stepped a man in his late thirties to early forties dressed in green medical scrubs. Raised tattoos covered his neck and the right side of his forehead—circular patterns and runic lettering. Scars from scores of injuries decorated the arms exposed by the short-sleeve top.

  Those 3D tattoos meant only one thing. This man was a member of the species he trusted least in the world: druids. Long ago, he’d run across one of these reclusive long-lived beings in Morocco and quickly discovered the guy could read minds, predict the future, and cast spells—a trifecta of chilling skills.

  The three of them stared at each other in silence until Blay said, “You’re late.”

  “Am I?” His words were tinged with an accent similar to Scottish but muddled. Isaac glanced dismissively at Blay then focused on Michael. A small smile touched his lips. “The Savior.”

  What did that mean? Before he could ask, Isaac dismissed him, too, turning away to concentrate on Kiera.

  As the druid approached her, his demeanor changed from arrogantly amused to be almost tender. He leaned over her to probe gently along her midsection. A long sigh escaped him. He clucked disapprovingly.

  He shoved the sheet aside to see her waist.

  For several minutes, he chanted and waved his hands over her. As his tone rose, her body bowed toward him. She cried out as if in agony.

  Michael lunged forward to pull him away. The moment his fingers touched the druid, an arc of electricity blasted through Michael, with enough force that it sent him crashing against the wall. He slumped to the floor, head spinning.

  Isaac stopped chanting to scowl. “Never touch me. Ever.” Hi
s glare bounced between Michael and Kiera. “You sure she’s yours to claim, werewolf?”

  She sure as hell isn’t yours.

  Isaac’s eyebrows rose as if he heard his thought loud and clear and accepted his challenge.

  She isn’t mine. Michael almost said it aloud but clamped his lips firmly shut and stayed away. As stupid and irrational as it might be, he wanted to protect her, but he wasn’t about to take on an ancient druid who could electrocute him with a single touch.

  Isaac’s chanting resumed. When he stopped minutes later, he pressed a finger to her jugular as if feeling her pulse. She sucked in a loud breath and opened her eyes.

  “Isaac.” She took his hand in hers. “I’ve wanted to speak with you.”

  “You haven’t been taking care of yourself, amor tenebris.”

  Latin. Strange to speak the dead language. Sluggishly, his mind translated the words. Dark love.

  “I forgot to recharge.” Her eyelids drifted shut.

  “It’s your responsibility.”

  “I use it. I swear.” She reached up to trace a tattoo on his face.

  “Parlor tricks. You must accept it as a part of who you’ve become. Take better care of yourself. You’re drained. Sleep.” He kissed her on the forehead and murmured, “Vita tua.”

  “Vita tua,” she whispered.

  Life for yours.

  Michael didn’t understand any of that, which made him seethe, jealous. There was obviously much history between the two. Perhaps they were lovers.

  Isaac straightened and faced Michael.

  “What?” Michael barked out.

  “If she returns your—I won’t say bonding because it’s not quite that, but I’ll label it as fledgling infatuation—then you need to ask her to explain this: me and what you witnessed. Fair warning, all is not what it seems.”

  “She and I aren’t…” Michael didn’t finish the statement.

  “You’re old enough to understand the cosmic truism that when you think you’ve got everything figured out, you don’t.” The druid held up his hand, and a new tunnel of light appeared. Before he stepped in, he glanced back at Michael, eyebrows drawn inward. “There’s a high probability you’ll be the cause of her death.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A baby’s cry jerked Kiera out of blackness. She sat up so fast her mind spun. The light-headedness didn’t clear right away, reminding her of a time long ago when she’d done tequila shots for several hours, egotistically thinking she’d be immune to their effects. The room was empty—no Grace, though she must be nearby. Perhaps a room next door?

  With a hand on the end table, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She needed a few blinks to separate dizziness from the madness of the decor. Wallpaper with ferns and swirls had been applied to all four walls and the Venetian blinds. The bed’s massive wooden posters were ornately carved trees that ended in swaths of overhead green and gold cloth. Nothing about the room triggered a memory. She rose and stumbled to the window, pulling apart the blinds to peer out. Moonlight reflected against an expansive snowy, unfamiliar lawn.

  Last thing she recalled…Michael’s voice announcing his arrival at the shed. He’d carried her and protected her from the other wolves on the helicopter. Gave her warm fuzzies just remembering.

  Maybe this was his place. She let the window blind fall back into place.

  Smelled like werewolves nearby, but she didn’t pick up him.

  She’d survived with the sole goal of seeing him one more time. To get a final look into his eyes and…cripes, she wanted to touch his Tolkien-esque hair. How silly was that?

  So, where was he? There wasn’t even a chair in the room for him to sit and pine for her.

  Jeez, that was ridiculous. He’d probably fought off every twinge he might’ve felt for her, which made his pining for her a not-in-this-lifetime scenario. He must’ve dumped her and taken off. The question was where was she?

  And why’d he leave the baby behind?

  Grace’s cries stopped, replaced by a small gurgling noise that seemed to indicate she’d found a thumb to suck. With a deep, cleansing exhale, she thanked the deities Grace survived.

  Question was how had Kiera? A brief glimpse beneath the pink pajamas someone had put her in revealed no wounds. Her skin was clean, not even a hint of blood to suggest she’d been shot dozens of times. She remembered the sensation. The actual impacts hadn’t hurt. Felt more like getting struck by a bunch of pebbles. The after-effects sucked—the spreading burn from each hit and the steady loss of blood until weakness made even lifting her arm difficult.

  A dull ache resonated from her midsection. She pressed along the scar and fell back to a sit on the bed.

  She covered her face.

  Isaac had been here.

  Did anyone watch while he performed the healing spell? Had Michael? Talk about blowing a werewolf’s mind.

  So much for keeping that part of her life secret. Time to expect the you’re-a-freak glare from anyone who’d watched.

  The more important question: how’d Isaac know to show up? It wasn’t as if the moody druid had a psychic connection to her and knew when she needed a patch up.

  Something on the floor caught her attention. She reached down and swiped up the old flip-phone with a small Celtic sticker on its back. Classic Isaac calling card: magical healing session to bring her back from death and…leave a phone so when she woke up, he could fuss at her for being reckless again. He had to stop doing this.

  She hung her head.

  He’d directed her to do a healing spell every few weeks. The magic that held her together required renewal, and even though she wasn’t druid, he’d advised she was fully capable of keeping the magic he’d given her in place. The renewal spell itself might be short, but the two hours of required meditation afterward was time she rarely had to spare. The last time she almost died from forgetfulness, about six months ago, he’d admonished, “Make time. Say no to everything else and take care of yourself. There will be a day I can’t get there in time.”

  She fingered the soft cotton of the pajamas. They weren’t completely hideous, although pale pink wasn’t a color she’d wear by choice. And she didn’t care for the no-underwear situation. She had, after all, been born in the eighteenth century, when women wore so many layers of clothing, it took an army of helpers to get a garment on and off. Each passing decade’s new style of dressing in fewer and fewer layers, although lighter, felt increasingly less put together.

  Tears welled when the baby’s cries started again. Clothing worries could wait. Her gut clenched with need to soothe the child. She massaged her forehead in an attempt to get beyond the haze making her dizzy.

  She crossed the hallway to a nearby bedroom to find the baby in a wooden crib, sitting up with tear stains on her face. Poor little thing. After all she’d been through, what person with any heart would let the little thing suffer a cry-it-out scenario?

  Grace held out her hands to her. Kiera scooped her up and held her against her chest. “I’m right here, sweet pea. I told you we’d get out of there.” She collapsed onto a plush sofa nearby. Exhaustion filtered through so many parts of her body. It wasn’t from the bullet wounds or blood loss, but the magical re-sealing of her body.

  Gently, she rocked the baby and hummed, soothing both herself and Grace. The baby fell asleep within a few minutes.

  She fingered the phone from Isaac. No code to unlock. Only one phone number in the contact list. She dialed.

  “Restorative rest, I hope,” Isaac answered.

  “Who told you I needed help?”

  “Direct as usual. I’ve always appreciated that about you.”

  “You like me because I saved your ass when no one else would.” They’d first met when Armand imprisoned Isaac, and she helped him escape.

  “There’s that, too.” He chuckled. “You’
re also a lot more entertaining than most other people.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment from you.” But she smiled. “Who told you?”

  “Ehlena.”

  “My mother?” It came out bitter. Her mind whirled with possibilities on how Ehlena had found out. Who even knew Ehlena existed? Although powerful to an annoying degree, her mother wasn’t precognitive or linked to her in a way to know when she needed Isaac’s kind of assistance. “Who told her to contact you?”

  “No clue. Since she despises anything that has to do with me, I knew she had to be desperate to text me. I figured I should check out your situation.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I owe you again. Are you ready to tell me what you want in return?”

  “Not yet. For now, protect the Savior from himself.”

  “Who’s the Savior?”

  “The wolf who’s got a thing for you.”

  Michael?

  “He and I aren’t like that.” But that was her stomach clenching with excitement. “He said he’s got a thing for me?”

  She hadn’t meant to say that out loud nor sound like a gossipy teenager.

  Isaac belted out a laugh.

  “You think he went to Ehlena?” She paused but answered her own question. “No. That’d be suicidal. He’s considered a butcher of my species. She wouldn’t have let him walk out the door. Besides, he doesn’t know she exists. No one does except…” Blay.

  “Ah. I see you answered your own question.”

  A chuckle broke free. Felt good. “You love this drama, don’t you? Are you playing doctor to humans tonight?”

  “Chicago ER. It keeps me busy. Try not to get yourself almost-killed again with this wolf-saving venture. You’ve already almost died how many times this year?”

  “Twice,” she whispered.

  “You’re not going to stop. You’re a sucker for anyone in need of rescuing, but work to be better at the self-preservation part.” He hung up.

  She used the flip phone to dial Finn.