Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1)

by Veronica Sommers

"I'll get Robbins," he says. "She'll have medicine."

  I can't ask him to stay. Can't even twitch a finger. All I can do is lie on the bed and breathe, rasping air through my swollen throat.

  Robbins's hands are different than Atlan's. They're broad and quick, checking my temperature—"A hundred and five," she says. She forces my jaws open so I will swallow pills and water. "She's got some kind of bad flu, for sure. Probably picked it up in the city. You're not susceptible, being a vampire, but we need to keep her away from the others."

  Dimly I'm aware of Atlan swearing a blue streak somewhere nearby.

  "You're in charge of her," says Robbins. "I got enough to do, and I don't want to be laid low either. I'll send up a few things you might need."

  Her footsteps retreat, and a minute later, Atlan's hand cups mine, and he traces slow shapes across my palm. "I'm so sorry, Trouble," he whispers. "I thought—I didn't know. Why didn't you call me, or knock?"

  "Tried," I whisper. "Cold."

  "You're cold?"

  I managed a nod.

  "But you're burning up, sweetheart. I can give you one blanket but that's it, okay?"

  One of the words he just said was extra nice, but my tortured brain can't grasp it. "Atlan."

  "What is it?"

  "Atlan—"

  "I'm here."

  I struggle to formulate the thought, and then the words. "I didn't want Charon. I don't want him. I know what I want."

  "Don't worry about it right now. Just rest."

  16

  Atlan

  I'm the worst.

  Giving in to my jealousy like that, leaving Finley alone in Viana's rooms?

  Granted, she looked pretty comfortable nestled between Harry and Charon. The sight of it made me so wretchedly envious I thought I might be physically sick.

  So I left.

  I waited, thinking she'd come pound on the door and yell for me to let her in. When she didn't, I felt even more gloomy, convinced she'd gone to Charon's rooms to stay the night. I considering marching over there and dragging her out of his bed, away from whatever delicious perverted things he was doing to her body—because she's mine. Mine, mine, mine.

  Except she's not.

  She may be my slave in name, but it's a technicality. I renounced my claim on her the day Markham gave her to me. Wasn't even a question. She gets to make her own choices, and she knows it.

  So I stayed in my room, wrestling with myself, barely sleeping at all—and then when I opened my door in the morning, there she was—my Finley, white as bone and shaking, her eyes painted with dark hollows underneath and her beautiful blond hair stuck damply to her sweaty skin.

  My beauty, my baby, my heart—

  Stupid lovesick names for her surged in my chest as I carried her to her bed.

  No one else comes near us for five days. I bring in a bedpan for her and take care of its contents, because she's too weak to make it all the way down the hall to the bathroom. Once a day I strip the sweaty clothes from her beautiful body and sponge her off and dress her again. I borrow an elastic band from Sarah so I can put Finley's sweat-damp hair in a messy knot on her head and keep it out of the way. I feed her soup slowly, carefully.

  I leave her just once, on the third day, to drink from a blood-hire. No way am I drinking from my girl in this weakened state—it could literally kill her.

  On the fourth day she hangs over my shoulders while we shuffle to the showers. I go in with her, wearing just my boxers, and I wash her hair and body for her. She's too fragile to do anything but stand there, holding onto the wall, her knees trembling.

  When I get her dried and dressed and back in bed, on clean sheets, she looks up at me with such gratitude it makes my heart ache.

  By the fifth day she's still frail, but getting stronger. Captain Markham comes to my room that afternoon. "It's time for you to get back into the rotation," he says. "I've assigned you tonight's shift."

  "But Finley—"

  "She's a tough girl. She'll be all right. And she can sleep while you're away."

  My eyes travel to the half-closed door of her room. "Fine."

  Markham frowns, scanning me. "Have you showered lately? Eaten anything?"

  "Um, sort of." I didn't actually wash myself while I was in the shower with Finely, so I suppose that doesn't count.

  "Shower and eat," Markham says. "That's an order."

  I hate leaving Finley alone. What if she relapses?

  After my shower I rush back to her room, wrapped in a towel. "Are you all right?"

  She's lying on her side, reading on her tablet. "Of course." Her eyes trace a path from my dripping hair down my chest to my waist, and I see the familiar flicker of admiration in her gaze. I can't help grinning. Yeah, the old Finley's coming back, for sure.

  "What?" she says, noticing my grin.

  "You're ogling me again. It's a good sign, means you're feeling better."

  "I am not ogling you." She flushes pink, gluing her eyes to the tablet again.

  "I'm going to eat," I tell her. "I'll bring you a plate after, okay?"

  "Thanks. And Atlan—thank you for—everything else. All the gross things you had to do for me." She winces.

  "It wasn't so bad," I tell her. I'm still grinning like an idiot—I can't stop. I didn't mind, because I love you. "I'll just use a bedpan myself for the next few days, and you can empty it for me. Then we'll be even."

  She wrinkles her nose in this damn adorable way, and I get the urge to kiss that nose of hers. I'd better get out of here before I do something insanely dumb.

  "See you, Trouble," I say, and hurry out.

  I'm grinning all the way down the hall, down the stairs, in the line in the mess hall—Viana notices and jogs my elbow. "Finley must be feeling better."

  "What? Oh, yeah."

  She smiles back at me. "I've barely seen you this week, and when I did you had this haunted, worried vibe going—and now look at you! Bright as sunshine. You really like this one, don't you?"

  My breath quickens as I look into Viana's eyes. She's like the sister I never had. I can tell her anything—I want to tell her about this.

  But as I open my mouth to speak, Charon's hand darts to my tray, snagging one of the biggest pieces of meat. "She's charming, isn't she, your little slave? Sorry to hear about her sickness. Too bad she's probably lost all the weight she put on—she'll be back to skin and bones, no doubt." He snorts. "Some blood-bag." He drops my slice of meat into his mouth and chews exaggeratedly, fangs flashing.

  Anger roars in my head. The image of him kissing Finley is still too raw in my mind. He kissed her. Touched her. And even though she went along with it, I can't help feeling that it wasn't entirely consensual. I despise Charon for a whole pile of reasons, amassed over the past two years—but recently my dislike has spiked into hate.

  He can touch her, kiss her, criticize her—but I'll be damned if I let it pass without reminding him whose turf he's stepping on.

  "Her blood is the best I've had, actually," I retort. "I've never felt as strong or fast as I do when I drink from her."

  "Is that so?" Charon purses his lips.

  "Yeah. It's intense. I guess Markham wanted the best product for his best warrior. A top-notch supply, and it's all mine." I flash him a fanged sneer and shoulder my way past him toward our table.

  Charon is right behind me, practically snarling. "Of course, Your Holiness. And she's happy with you?"

  "Completely."

  "I guess that's why she crawled into my lap the other night, and why she squeezed that tight little body of hers between me and Harry? I mean, there's clearly something she wants from me." He bites his lip and cups his crotch, rolling his hips. "Tell you what—why don't I talk to Markham, have him swap Harry and Finley? Harry's mad at me anyway—isn't that right, Harry? The two of you will make a perfect platonic pair. And that way I can screw Finley's brains out 'til she screams, and she can pay me back with some of that sweet, sweet superblood of hers."

  A s
narl rips from my throat, and my fangs extend in response to the surge of my adrenaline. I drop my tray on the table and leap for Charon, barreling him to the ground and sending his food everywhere. I don't think he expected me to fight him. He's startled, roaring and baring his teeth, but I take advantage of his surprise with a good punch to the throat.

  There's an unspoken rule that you never mark another vampire with your teeth—but I almost don't care. Red-hot rage suffuses my brain, searing my judgment, my conscience, my morals—everything that makes Charon call me "the Vampire Pope" or "Your Holiness." Right now I want nothing more than to rip out his throat with my jaws.

  My head darts forward, snakelike, to strike, but he bucks and flips me. Then we leap to our feet, grappling again, not playfully like I've done with Khalil or Harry—this is serious shit. We want to hurt each other. I grip his arm, dart around him, and yank backward, hearing his shoulder pop. With a shriek of pain, he rakes the back of my hand with his teeth. I secure him in a headlock, but he twists, pounds his elbow into my gut, and wrenches free. I wheeze from the gut punch, doubling over, and Charon lands an uppercut to my jaw. Using the force of the impact, I spin and slam my boot into his head.

  I'm dimly conscious of Markham appearing amid the crowd of gaping soldiers that has gathered in the mess hall. The Captain shouts at us, but I'm too far into this now, and I ignore him. I haven't been on shift in ages, and I'm aching for a fight.

  Streaking forward, I seize Charon's throat in both hands and slam him backward onto a table. "Finley is mine," I spit. "You will not touch her again."

  "She'll beg me for it," he splutters, his face reddening. He seizes my head, ready to drive his thumbs into my eyeballs—but an agonizing, jarring blaze of electricity shoots through us both, and we roar in mutual pain, shuddering. Captain Markham withdraws the cattle prod, and I roll off Charon, groaning.

  "Damn you, boys!" he shouts. "I told you to stand down!"

  Charon hisses at him, eyes bloodshot and fangs dripping—and for a second I wonder what would happen if Charon decided he didn't want to take orders from humans anymore—if he decided to rip into Markham, into any of the other humans here. It could happen. There have been a few reports of vampires losing their minds, going feral—but those have all been far, far away from here. It couldn't happen at Deathcastle.

  But the brothel girl in Blue City—torn apart—

  I remember my own words to the Shardan Collective hunter: No one at Deathcastle would do something like that.

  Looking at Charon's rage-twisted face, I wonder.

  But he backs down, his upper lip descending to partially cover the fangs, his shoulders relaxing. He nods to Markham.

  He's in control.

  I pick myself up and brush the bits of scattered food off my clothes. My tray still sits nearby, untouched. I scoot onto a bench and tear into the food, ignoring Markham, Charon, and the others. Charon goes to refill his own tray and sits as far from me as he can get. I notice that Harry doesn't sit near Charon as he sometimes does—he hangs out with Jess and Sarah, casting glances at his master throughout the meal. But the looks aren't angry, or jealous. They're full of a kind of wretched longing, an unfulfilled agony I'm starting to understand all too well.

  Harry loves him.

  I wonder what they've been arguing about.

  But I don't have time to think much more about it. I have to take Finley some food, and then I've got zombies to kill.

  17

  Finley

  Deep in sleep, something slithers into my ears, into my mind. I'm being drawn out of the comfortable, restful darkness, forced to wake by fingers trailing along my shoulder, along my collarbone to the hollow of my throat, where they curl around my neck with just enough pressure to make my eyes snap open.

  "Fin-ley..." Charon's voice is a hideous sing-song. "Wake up, love."

  "What are you doing in here?" Why did Atlan let him come into our rooms? I raise my voice a little. "Atlan?"

  Charon rolls his eyes. "Ugh, that's how you always do, mewling for your brave protector, calling him to save you from the big bad monster. Well guess what, sweetheart—he's a monster, too. We're all monsters. Maybe it's time we stop pretending otherwise, eh?"

  And then I remember—Atlan is out. Out in the killing fields, slaughtering zombies, doing his job. He won't be coming in here to save me.

  I lie very still. "What do you want, Charon?"

  "You kissed me before, little slave. I know you want me."

  Slowly I shake my head, my neck shifting beneath his hand. I wish he'd let go of my throat. I wish he wouldn't hover over me like this—I feel caged, panic trickling through me—only instead of making me stronger, it's just making me more aware of my own frailty.

  "I don't want you," I tell him. "I belong to Atlan."

  "But he's an impotent little prick. He can't give you what you need." Charon runs his tongue over his lips, turning them glistening wet. "Being with me—it's a tornado of pleasure, love. I'll give you orgasms that rip you apart."

  Ugh. Is that supposed to be sexy? "Atlan is—he lets me be myself. He lets me choose. That's really what I need."

  "Is it though?" Charon leans in, his nose an inch from mine. "Or maybe you really want to be owned, in the truest sense. To be used, and dominated, and sucked until you scream. Maybe that's your natural state, little blood-slave. Maybe we should go back to the ways of the old stories, where vampires took what they wanted and humans had to submit." His fingers tighten on the last word, and my mouth pops open automatically as my air chokes off. I flail and twist, but the angle of his body over mine and the pressure of his arms make it impossible to hit him anywhere it will really hurt.

  "Shhh," he says. "Atlan slipped out for a bit, but he left you behind. Wanted to let you rest. He's been doing so damn well on the field these past weeks—stronger and faster than ever. So I thought I'd take a taste of that sweet nectar he's been drinking. Might as well be ambrosia, the way he talks about it."

  Relief and anxiety crash together inside me. So his intent here isn't rape—which I'm very glad of—but it's another kind of pain, another sort of taking. It's still thievery of what isn't his.

  "He'll kill you if you do this," I wheeze through the grip on my throat.

  "Oh no he won't. You see, I'm valuable. One of the only vampire warriors in existence. I'm vital to the human cause, love. Without us, you humans would have already lost, and by lost, I mean you'd be shreds between a zombie's teeth. There aren't enough vampires as it is, and we're spread thin. Atlan knows this, so he won't kill me, and no one else dares to punish me. Which means I can do whatever I want to you." He bends forward and licks my cheek, a wet line from my jaw to my eye. "And now that you understand this, I'll allow you to breathe a little if you promise not to scream."

  Tears stream down my temples into my hair, and I manage to nod once. I should be stronger than this. I should be an ass-kicking warrior girl, a woman who can beat up any man that tries anything with her. But I'm not. I'm not. I haven't recovered enough, and on top of that I'm so scared right now that helplessness floods my body like a cold, seeping poison.

  Charon is strong, vampire strong, even in his hungry blood-craving state. I can't fight him.

  When he loosens his hold on my throat ever so slightly, I sip air gratefully.

  I could scream, but then he would throttle me for sure—maybe even break my neck. Could he get away with killing me outright? I'm not sure. And I don't think I'm willing to risk it.

  Just let him take what he wants, I tell myself. Then he'll go away, and it will be over.

  "That's a good girl." The vampire releases my neck entirely, pins my wrists to the bed with both hands and catches the neckline of my tank top with his fangs, ripping it down until my breasts are exposed. My chest surges with panicked breaths, my nipples tightening from the influx of chilly night air.

  "Yes," murmurs Charon. "A little small for my taste, but they'll do."

  "Please just leave me alone. I've
been sick—I'm not back to my normal strength, and I shouldn't be feeding anyone yet. Surely Jess or Harry would let you drink, if you need blood—"

  His lust dampens, and his lip curls. "Haven't you heard? I'm forbidden from touching Jess anymore. At least, that's what Viana tells me. She says I'm too rough. Thinks she can give me orders—I'll have to set a mark on that girl Viana can't lick away." He growls, deep in his throat. "That's the gratitude I get for keeping Jess satisfied for months."

  "You put those bruises on her?"

  "She likes it rough." He shrugs. "What can I say? Not my fault if she pushed things too far. And what about you, little slave? Something tells me you like it rough too."

  "No." I breathe the word faintly, desperately. "No, I don't. Please, Charon—you don't really want to hurt me. Please."

  He tips his head up, his eyes closing, and a groan of pleasure ripples through his pale throat. "God, I love it when you beg. As your reward, I'll show you where I used to feed from Jess. My favorite spot." And he sinks all four fangs into my right breast.

  I try to scream, but my fear throttles the sound to a faint, hollow protest that no one can hear. I'm breathing so hard, so fast that I think I might pass out. Atlan, Atlan, help me. Save me. And then I hate myself bitterly for that thought, for being the damsel in distress, for letting this happen—

  Charon drinks greedily, sucking for a few seconds before disengaging his fangs and latching on in another spot, this time on the underside of my breast. It hurts. It hurts so much worse than any feeding with Atlan. Charon isn't kind, isn't careful—when he detaches the second time, my flesh tears a little. He doesn't lick the wounds. Instead he bites me again, gnawing deep into my left breast. Tears overflow my eyes, streaming over my cheeks.

  "Please," I whisper. "Please stop." I'm afraid to fight him now, afraid that he'll tear me apart. My hands are stinging, because he's gripping my wrists so tightly I'm losing circulation in my fingers.

  My wristband chimes three times, a sign that my blood pressure has reached the threshold past which any further blood-drinking could endanger me. Charon lifts his head, his lips painted glistening red, fangs dripping. "Do you want me to stop?"