Black

by Donya Lynne

  Micah spun toward his father. “What people?” He was one decibel away from shouting. “Who the fuck told you not to contact me?”

  “I did.” The air stirred with Digon’s presence a split second before he stepped into the room. His weird sidekick, Rule—oh, that’s right, Rysk—entered behind him. Both wore earnest, wary expressions.

  Micah scowled at Digon then looked at his dad before turning his focus back to the dreck. “You did? You told my father not to contact me?”

  “Yes.”

  Micah’s gaze swung angrily toward his father. “Is this who watched over you? Is Digon the one who looked after you while you were in the suffering?” Micah didn’t know what hurt more, that his father hadn’t reached out to let him know he was still alive or that he had allowed a dreck to be his protector instead of seeking out Micah to fulfill that role.

  “Micah, you don’t understand—”

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  Digon shimmered briefly before shifting into his blue-skinned dreck form. “It had been for the best that he remain hidden, Micah. That the world thought he was dead.”

  Micah bristled. He had been in enough dreck altercations to know they shifted to blue for two reasons. Either they were in full-on attack mode or they wanted to demonstrate peaceful intentions by openly revealing themselves. How was that for duality?

  Micah got in Digon’s blue-tinted face. “What right did you have to manipulate my father? To keep him from his own son?”

  “Micah, calm down.” Rysk tried to push between them.

  Micah shoved him aside. “This doesn’t concern you, so fuck off.”

  “You’re wrong. This does concern me.” Rysk’s tone was benevolent but assertive. Then he glanced sideways at Digon, as if deferring to Digon’s lead, although Micah sensed Rysk was bursting at the seams to say more.

  “It concerns all of us.” King Bain’s booming voice broke through the mounting tension in the room, and all eyes turned toward the king as he strode into the small, getting-more-cramped-by-the-second space.

  Bain’s crisp, blue eyes scanned the room, landing on each person’s face long enough to convey that there would be no more talk of this matter in the open.

  And that sat about as well with Micah as a dagger up the ass. He scanned the faces around the room. “Someone had better tell me what the fuck is going on here and fast, because I’m—”

  “Micah.” King Bain’s firm voice was as effective as a slap on the face.

  Micah spun, ready to square off with his king, when he pulled up and snapped his mouth closed. Something in Bain’s grave expression silenced him. Both heaviness and duty shadowed Bain’s eyes. Whatever he had on his mind wasn’t something he looked forward to revealing, but he appeared ready to unburden himself anyway.

  “Come with me.” Bain walked toward the door.

  “Where?”

  Bain stopped and glanced over his shoulder, but he didn’t make eye contact. “To my home.”

  Micah exchanged looks with his father, who remained stoic and silent. From his aware expression, he seemed to know what this was about. They all did.

  All of them but him.

  Anticipation prickled the hairs on the back of Micah’s neck. He had known there would be more, but something about the way the energy shifted in the room made his stomach clench.

  First he had learned that Ronan was his brother. Then he learned his father was still alive. Then—surprise!—Sam was pregnant. Next came the news that Ronan had been bitten by a werewolf, and not just any werewolf, because then he learned from the lycans—welcome to Chicago!—that mutant werewolves known as motleys had been created with the purpose of murdering the vampire race. That had led to making an alliance with the lycans, who now stood nearby, watching the unfolding drama curiously.

  And for the coup de grâce, King Bain was inviting Micah back to his home.

  Bain never allowed anyone into his home except on special occasions, which were few and far between.

  It appeared there was at least one more kick-in-the-nuts awaiting him before dawn.

  Bain headed for the exit, walking as if he fully expected Micah to join him.

  Call him a glutton for punishment, but Micah had to know what remained unsaid. He knew it would probably shatter his reality even further, but he wasn’t one to slowly peel off a Band-Aid. He ripped it off to get past the pain faster. If a little skin came off in the process, oh well. It would heal.

  Without another word to his father, Micah followed Bain out of the room. “Why are we going to your home?”

  “Because what you need to see is there.”

  “And what do I need to see?”

  “Your family tree.”

  Micah nearly stumbled over his own feet as he threw his gaze back in the direction of Ronan’s recovery room. His father had told them their family tree had been destroyed. That no record of it existed. That all Micah had of his lineage was the details of his own birth, and the births of his mother and father. Another lie, perhaps?

  “Why do you have my family tree?” His mouth was so dry that his tongue felt thick as balled-up cotton and stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  Bain stopped and faced him, his gaze penetrating Micah’s. “Because I’m on it.”

  Chapter 21

  After watching Micah leave with Bain, Rameses turned his attention back to Priest, who had gone from being able to stand on his own two feet to resting on his haunches against the wall, his head down. His whole body shivered so violently his bones rattled. He was getting worse, not better. They should have left earlier. They would have if they’d known Priest’s strength would be this slow to return and that he would only get worse the longer they remained away from the compound.

  He pulled a blanket from a nearby stack, unfolded it, and draped it around Priest’s quaking form before kneeling in front of him.

  “You need rest, my brother.” He placed his hand on Priest’s shoulder. The other male was burning with fever.

  “I’ll b-be f-fine.” Priest clutched the blanket to him, but his bright-blue eyes remained laser-focused.

  Rameses squeezed Priest’s arm. “You could be on your deathbed and still tell me you’re fine, my friend.”

  Priest smirked proudly and let out a throaty chuckle, which set off a wave of violent tremors throughout his body. His teeth chattered so loudly they sounded like a woodpecker knocking on a tree stump.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Rameses peered up to find the female doctor who had been tending to Ronan standing over them. Her name tag revealed her name to be Dr. Cora Snow, and worry tugged at her expression.

  He was impressed. Here they were, lycans infringing upon vampire territory, and this vampire doctress was more compassionate than resentful. So sympathetic to their plight, in fact, that she wished to ease Priest’s suffering.

  Rameses rose to his full height. Once standing, he had to angle his head down to meet Dr. Snow’s eyes. She was a good foot and a half shorter than he. “Thank you, but there is nothing your medicine can do for him. We must return to our home, where he can heal.”

  Priest would require a week, if not two, in Osiris’s chamber to recover from his efforts to save Ronan’s life.

  Dr. Snow offered a friendly smile. “How about a bottle of water? He sweat out a lot of fluids in there.” She pointed toward Ronan’s room. “He has to be dehydrated. Getting fluids in him could go a long way to making him feel better.”

  Rameses liked this vampire. She was smart, assertive, warmhearted, and didn’t treat them like diseased vermin the way some vampires did. In fact, she seemed not to fear them at all, even though he could fit three of her inside one of him.

  He offered her a smile. A rarity, to be sure. “Water would be good.”

  She smiled back, and what do you know? He couldn’t see her fangs. “I’ll be right back.”

  His eyes followed her appreciatively then stopped on the patient in one of the other
rooms as she disappeared around the corner. The patient was a young male. Approximately twenty years old. His features were familiar. The boy sort of resembled . . .

  His smile faded.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  But the age seemed right.

  There had been rumors Hunter had created a child with the female vampire who had been his ruin. Could this boy be Hunter’s son?

  Rameses took a step closer and drew in a deep inhale. He had to know if this was Hunter’s progeny. Much could be at stake if it was. He inhaled again then gasped.

  Blessed be to Osiris, it was Hunter’s son.

  Memnon would not be pleased. They had tried to corroborate the rumors of a child ever since Hunter’s banishment, but had been unsuccessful. Which meant someone had helped hide the boy. And anyone who was protecting him likely knew who he was, who his father was, and what would happen to him if he were ever discovered.

  And now Hunter was back, which upped the stakes even more.

  Rameses had felt Hunter come through the portal when Ronan activated it. Not that Rameses would mind having Hunter’s superior tracking skills back with the family, especially given the motleys now wreaking havoc, but Memnon’s decision was final. Hunter had been warned that if he ever found a way to return to earth, the family would hunt him down and kill him for his betrayal.

  This put Rameses in a hard spot. Memnon was the true leader of their race. Their imeut. Rameses only led the families when Memnon hibernated in Osiris’s Sleep, as he did now. But Memnon’s fifty-year sleep was about to be cut short. With the situation as dire as it was, he would have to wake Memnon sooner rather than later. For that matter, all the lycans who slept Osiris’s Sleep would have to be awakened.

  War was upon them, and every able-bodied soldier would be needed.

  “Turn around and walk away.”

  Rameses turned toward the quiet voice directed at him from a few feet away. “Excuse me.” He studied the female seated nearby. She held a bottle of orange juice in one hand and a cheese-and-cracker sandwich in the other.

  “The boy isn’t your concern,” she said quietly, her lethal gaze locked on him from beneath a head of cropped brown hair that was obviously a wig.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “You could say that.” Her tone held a warning. She would strike if he took one more step toward the boy’s room.

  Whoever she was, she sure was protective of Hunter’s son. Perhaps she was the one who had kept him hidden all this time. Or maybe she was one of those vampires who, unlike Dr. Snow, held a loathing for lycans.

  He forced a pleasant smile to disarm her then took a step back. “My apologies. I was simply curious about what had happened to him.”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  Everything inside him tightened at her rudeness. “Of course.” He spun and returned to the others, bristling.

  “What is it?” Dain asked.

  Rameses flicked his eyes in the direction of the boy’s room. It’s his son.

  Whose? Dain carefully peered around him.

  Rameses tilted his head. Hunter’s.

  Dain’s brown eyes went cold then focused hard on the boy as he inhaled. Are you sure?

  Yes. And the female sitting by the nurses’ station is very protective of him.

  The one wearing the wig?

  Yes.

  Dain turned his attention to the room where Hunter’s son lay, inhaled deeply, then held his breath, processing the scent coming off the young male. Then his eyes slid to Rameses’s. Shit, it is his son. Either that or a long-lost relative.

  Priest’s mental voice joined his and Dain’s. Memnon is going to shit scarabs.

  Priest, are you well enough to travel? Rameses asked through their mental link.

  Yes.

  Then we must leave. Now.

  Dr. Snow returned with three bottles of water and handed one to Priest. “Here you go.”

  Priest opened one of the bottles and guzzled it in one long swallow as he rose shakily on wobbly legs.

  “Whoa, hold on there.” The doctor reached for him, attempting to steady him. “Maybe you should lie down.”

  “We must be leaving.” Rameses reached for the other two bottles of water.

  Dr. Snow frowned. “Leaving?” She looked at Priest, who was struggling to remain upright. “Look at him. He can barely stand. You can’t leave.”

  Rameses liked the fire and compassion in this doctor.

  “Then we will carry him if that pleases you.”

  “Nobody will c-carry me,” Priest said, his voice breaking over his words. “I will l-leave on my own two f-feet.” He rebelliously cast the blanket aside as if to prove his point.

  Rameses handed him another bottle of water, which he downed in three massive gulps.

  “See, he’s fine.” Rameses handed the third bottle back to Dr. Snow.

  Priest reached out and took it back.

  She arched her brow and gave the three of them a stern, dubious glare as Priest guzzled the third and final bottle. “Fine. I can’t stop you from leaving, but the next time I see you, I’d better not have reason to say I told you so.”

  Rameses cocked his head to the side. “You assume there will be a next time.”

  “Oh, I have a feeling there will be a lot of next times, given what I overheard between you and our king.”

  She was referring to the new alliance between the vampires and lycans. No doubt with the two races fighting alongside one another, many of their paths would cross again.

  “Well, until then, Dr. Cora Snow, thank you for your refreshing company.”

  She scoffed. “Refreshing my ass.”

  Rameses almost laughed. Almost. Like Memnon, he was a master at keeping his emotions hidden to the outside world. In their compound, not so much. That was where he and Memnon were the most different.

  Memnon was a stone wall no matter where he was. If not for their mental link, he would never know if Memnon was pleased, angry, happy, or ready to rip off the heads of his enemies.

  Rameses was the same way when he was in the field. But in the comfort of home, Rameses let down his guard and relaxed. He laughed and even told jokes at home. But not here.

  “Thank you for the water,” Priest said, taking an unsteady step toward the exit as Dain drifted alongside him.

  The doctor watched Dain and Priest slowly make their way through her trauma unit then turned toward Rameses. “Take good care of him. He saved our asses tonight. Without him, Ronan would have died.”

  “I will personally escort him to our healing chamber the moment we arrive back at our compound. I will not allow him to return to his duties until he is fully healed. Will that satisfy you?”

  Dr. Snow looked from him to Priest and back again. “Not really, but I guess that’s the best I can expect.” She grabbed a file off the nurses’ station, along with a rack of vials filled with Ronan’s blood. “We’ll begin running tests on this. I’ll make sure the results get forwarded to you.” She began to walk away.

  “Do you require my contact information?” He followed her, prepared to provide his requisite phone number and email address.

  She stopped and gave him an aloof look. “I’ll send them through the king’s people. I’m sure they know how to reach you.”

  Rameses fished a card from his pocket. “I would prefer you contact me directly.” He extended the card toward her. “It will be quicker that way.”

  She took the card and slipped it into the file with an indifferent shrug. “As long as the king has no objection, I’ll copy you on the reports.”

  “I would appreciate it.” He took a step backward then gave a tight bow. “Thank you, Doctor. I look forward to hearing from you.” He straightened, spun, and followed Dain and Priest out the door of the medical unit.

  “We must hurry,” he said to his brothers as they began winding their way through the halls toward the exit. “There’s much to do.”

  Once outside AKM, they made haste to t
he cemetery, back to the pyramid mausoleum and the gateway that would take them home.

  Dain was in the process of unlocking the outer door when a large, shadowy figure leaped from a nearby tree, tackling Rameses.

  A mountainous shoulder rammed into his chest, nearly toppling him over as he released Priest and staggered backward. In his weakened state, Priest’s knees gave out, and he tumbled to the ground, as helpless as a kitten in a bull fight.

  Reacting with lightning reflexes, Rameses dug in his heels as his old friend, Hunter, barreled into him again. Sod churned and rolled underfoot as he wrestled with Hunter, who grappled for the duffel flung over Rameses’s shoulder.

  “My ankh! Where is it?” Hunter yanked so hard on the duffel that Rameses shot forward, slamming into him.

  Dain abandoned unlocking the mausoleum and leaped into the fray, snagging Hunter by the shoulders and wrenching him into a choke hold.

  But Hunter was more skilled than Rameses and Dain combined, quickly dispatching Dain to fly feet over head and land on his stomach with a guttural grunt several feet away.

  “Give it to me!” Hunter fisted the duffel and pulled with such ferocity that the nylon strap gave, ripping from the side of the bag.

  This wasn’t a fight they could win, so when Dain clambered to his feet and was about to reengage, Rameses held up his hand.

  “No, Dain. Stay back. Let him take it.”

  Hunter had been born into a family of trackers, all of whom were now dead. Hunter was the last.

  Well, not the last. He had a son, didn’t he? Surprise, surprise. A half-breed who could come down with the sickness in a blaze of gruesome destruction before he ever got a chance to track so much as rat.

  “Where is it?” Hunter snarled as he fished through the duffel bag.

  A moment later, he pulled out his hand, the ankh in his grasp, and flung the bag aside.

  Dain caught it, eyes alert, body tight, as if he were ready to go back to the hand-to-hand at a split-second’s notice.

  The three of them exchanged glances, lungs pumping hard from the exertion, silence stretching like poisonous gas between them.