Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Grey

  Because in the end, Marcello Torres has to die. I'll keep saying it. I'll keep reminding myself.

  "Tragic," I hiss against the back of my teeth, well aware my mouth is twisted in an ugly grimace.

  Finally, the old black cabin stands only a few feet away. Large cobwebs decorate the overhang that extends from the roof, glistening within the moisture of the fog. I give Marcello the best 'I feel sorry for you’ look I can manage before I storm up the steps to the door, eager to stop talking.

  "Let's get them and get on the damn ship and get out of here." My back is damp and I can't be sure if it's from sweat or the humidity. It makes the fabric of my billowing shirt under the vest cling to my skin. Marcello exhales as I lift my hand to the door.

  I rap my knuckles against the wood as Juilliard huffs a loud breath and Hedda stops just behind Marcello. Hinges squeak as if they've never been opened before, the red dust of rust sprinkles off of them as the door moves slowly open.

  Through the crack in the door all I can see is pitch black darkness. But I can feel eyes on my skin. I know that someone or something lurks on the other side and I can't be certain, but I doubt it's anything good. A white skeletal hand stretches out of the abyss, wrapping its boney fingers around my shirt.

  My feet drag across the top step and the hand snatches me into the cabin.

  The boom of the slamming door forces every bit of sense within me to wake up. It reminds me that I’m inside and everyone else is out. Pressure holds my arms pinned at my sides, keeping me from reaching my belt. Two sets of hands start to pinch and paw at me, scratching me with razor sharp nails that makes my skin crawl. The tip of someone's noise trails against my neck where it's become exposed from my hood and hair falling behind me.

  Cold chases over my skin. Goosebumps rise all over my body. All I can smell is dank mold and dust. It tickles at my nose and catches in my sinuses, making the urge of a sneeze build inside of me. But I can't breathe, can't move under the restriction of the monster’s hold. Somehow, I register the bolt of a lock clicking into place.

  Teeth, sharp and pointed scrape against my skin without breaking the surface. No, not teeth. Fangs.

  Vampires.

  "It's been so long since we've had pure Human blood." A voice so scratchy it sounds as though it's been too long since they've spoken out-loud hums against my skin. The man inhales deeply. Then a feminine voice chimes in. "Someone has already eaten from the pot."

  Nails touch gently over the small scars at the base of my neck from where Joss had repeatedly bitten me. The hand continues further to pick up my wrist and examine the white marks there, too. If I was undressed, they'd find more. Scars dot my thighs, the curve of my hips and the sides of my rib cage.

  Wood cracks as the front door flies open. Light floods the space and I can see the way their yellow nails curl against my clothes. Marcello lowers his boot into their house, wrinkling his nose as he looks around. "Now, is that any way to treat your guests?"

  "Are you guests, or intruders?" The woman lowers her head to rest against mine. A strong floral scent from her hair covers the smell of dust. She smells amazing, so much so I find myself thinking about what it would be like to bury my face in her hair and breathe her in deeply. I start to tip my face toward her, but force myself to stop.

  I squirm under their touch, trying to pull away, but they hold me tight. Marcello's gaze narrows. Does he know what sort of spell Vampires can put Humans under? Is he aware of how even when I'm loathing the nearness to them, I'm fighting the urge to melt at their feet?

  Vampires aren't charming, and these two are no exception. Yet, it's in the making of their being that they attract Humans. Joss always smells like spices, good enough to get drunk on. And I often did. But not without the guilt that plagued my every step. I couldn't allow that now. These two have little to no reason to keep from draining my entire being until I'm just the husk of my Human shell. The thought spikes my pulse.

  Marcello slips another step closer. His hand crawls under the buttons on his black vest and he pulls two vials out. Dark red, so deep it's almost black, sloshes inside the clear bottles. "I have no doubt that Nilsa can get herself out of this situation on her own." His throat bobs. He's right though, the closer he's gotten the looser their hold on me has become. My fingers are already moving under my cloak, moving under the hem of my shirt where the long hidden necklace dangles from my neck down to my navel.

  Wood grazes my fingertips. I wrap my hand around the pendant and rip the breakaway chain from around my neck. It pops quietly and the Vampire's shift. The press of the woman's cheek on top of my head lifts. The hard wall of the male’s form behind me lessens. Their hands slip off of me, like snakes slithering back into their holes. I spin, pressing the necklace into the nearest bit of flesh I can grab.

  The woman hisses through her teeth. A large red mark of my wooden cross burns into her skin. Whatever the cross had meant at one point had been lost over time, but its effectiveness has not.

  My chest heaves forward, Marcello moving so fast I'd not seen him as he pulls me by my collar and shoves me behind him. He presses against me, the hard muscles of his back... of his ass crushing against the front of me. Juilliard takes a step closer until I'm sandwiched between them. The Vampires snarl at our little group.

  The flowery scent that makes my thoughts cloudy, makes it harder for me to concentrate on killing them, slips away. Replaced by Marcello's minty musk.

  "Get off of me," I growl behind him, standing on the tips of my toes so I can hiss it directly into his ears.

  He doesn't answer me as he extends his hand to the Vampires and wraps his other arm behind him, around my body, holding me to him. "My apologies for the girl. Sometimes we fear that she's gone rabid. But I'd like to propose this offer. Purist Human blood, aged like fine wine, one with each of your names on it."

  In theory I knew what he was doing. If these two had been alone for as long as they have, smelling me must be totally maddening. Bloodlust must be consuming their bodies and Marcello's just doing what I've done most of my life. Covering my scent. That's why Juilliard's closer too. They’re hoping that between the two of them they can drown out my smell long enough to be sure the Vampires don't rip me to shreds.

  Marcello's fingers splay against my back. Through the layers of my cloak, my shirt, my vest, the heat of his touch sears into my skin. If I shift at all my breasts will rub against his back. If I shift at all, who knows how tightly he'll try and hold me? My already sore calves beg for reprieve as I lower off the balls of my feet, ignoring the way the curve of my body catches against his. His hand tightens, holding me closer still.

  I can hardly see over his shoulder, the smallest line of my vision able to land on the two that had dragged me into their musty home. The man is tall, lean in the same way Juilliard is with long, lanky muscles. His mousy brown hair is combed flat against his head, his red eyes focused on the blood in Marcello's hand. There is a shadow of a mustache over his top lip.

  His partner is curvy, similar to one of Hedda's girls. She has yellow-blonde hair that hangs perfectly straight down to the top of her chest, her thin lips cut across her face. Both are in fine clothes, finer than anything most wear in The Bend.

  Had they been able to take their belongings with them in their banishment? I squint. The male has a navy pinstripe suit fitted to his frame while she has an impressive turquoise dress, so tight it's a second skin. Individually, they're stunning. Together, they're a threat.

  "Sloane Whitlock, Finnegan Whitlock, have a drink and we can sit down and chat about why we've come to visit." Marcello shakes the bottles.

  The woman, Sloane, is the first to move, extending her long fingers and pointed claws to Marcello's outstretched hand. Finnegan is quick to follow. The brown corks pop loudly as they rip them out the tops, touching them to their lips. Like a shot of alcohol, the blood disappears with the bob of their throats. When they look back at us their eyes glow a brighter shade of burgundy.

  "Tha
t's good." Sloane closes her eyes, her long lashes curling against her cheeks. She stands in silence, smiling joyfully at her meal.

  Finnegan looks at our little ragtag group. He starts with Marcello, sizing him up before his attention skips to me, jumps to Juilliard, then slides over to Hedda who's already strolling by us to make herself comfortable on their white sheet covered furniture.

  "Shall we welcome them to our home, my love?" Finnegan takes Sloane's hand in his and escorts us into their living room. He pauses only to frown at the red blemish on her delicate wrist. I ignore his resulting glower.

  Their whole home looks as if even they themselves haven’t been living here. At least not truly living. A thick layer of dust lays over the hearth of a fireplace that isn't lit and across the shelf full of books to its right. Even our footprints are left behind on the floor boards. No sign that they'd walked the home before us at all.

  Marcello lets me go. My palms push off his back. I step back into Juilliard and he steadies me by my shoulders. Marcello moves forward, turning to look at me.

  "You should be thanking me, love."

  "I had the situation under control." I shake off Juilliard. "How did you even get those?"

  "Some things you don't want to know." Juilliard whispers as he walks around me and joins Hedda on a long narrow couch.

  "I'm sure that you could have wiggled your way free, I'm sure that you'd have been able to save yourself, maybe even drawn your weapons. But would you have been able to stop yourself from killing them? Would you have had to add their names to that silly little book you brought?"

  Heat burns my cheeks. "You looked through my things!?"

  One side of his lips lifts and he shrugs one shoulder, walking to the living room with me hot on his trail. "I was curious if you were writing a book or had a diary where you were practicing writing my last name with your first in."

  "You invaded my privacy!" I curl my fingers into my hair. I could pull all the strands out by the roots with the way frustration swells inside of me. "You make me insane, Marcello Torres. You make me—"

  "Horny?"

  I cough, choking on the words that I had been ready to say. "I was going to say that you make me glad that I know exactly how to get to a man's heart."

  He leans his elbow against the fireplace hearth. "With that sassy mouth of yours I'm sure that you do." I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or if the way I talk truly entertains him, and that only pisses me off more.

  I point a finger at him, stabbing the tip of my nail into his leathers to emphasize every word I say. "By tearing a hole right through his goddamn chest."

  "We so hate to intrude on this lover’s spat—” Sloane begins, watching us with puckered slender blonde brows.

  "We are not lovers!" I exclaim with frustration.

  "Please do not interrupt my wife." Finnegan folds his hand in front of him and points his glare at me, as if it's supposed to be scary. He looks at Marcello only briefly at my side before he turns to his wife. "Dearest, please continue."

  Sloane cups her hand over the burn on her forearm, holding it tightly. "Why have you come here? Bringing us the Human gift, taking it away, then providing the aged blood? What do you want?"

  "We want you to join our team. Compete with us in The Oasis Games and win a shot at gaining power once more. We don't mean to bring the Human with to taunt you with, we gathered her from The Bend to play as part of the team as well. Even if she is a rather big pain in the rear, she has some commendable skills."

  I open my mouth to chime in, to tell him to shut the hell up or to express how he himself is not the easiest to get along with. He's constantly assuming that everyone around him adores him. I bet he'd love it if we just kissed his feet as he walked by. But he stretches out his arm, and with his fingers spread wide palms my face, forcing me to take a step back.

  "Little Human, sssshhhhhh," he whispers. I slap his hand away. A dull ache grows inside of my head, pounding behind my temples, painting my vision red. "I've already got the tickets. No need to go through the grueling interview process that everyone else must."

  "And what do you know of us?" Finnegan lifts his chin. Sloane's heels tap against the floor as she walks behind him, curling against him with her hands around his waist. She whispers something into his ear while she keeps her eyes pinned on us.

  "I know that you've outlived your banishment. I know that you two were able to hijack trains coming into the capital of The Oasis by yourselves without any help and that you did that for decades before someone was able to catch you. That means you're fast. That means you're cunning. That means you can get in and out of places without being seen until you need to be."

  "Oh, he's good." Sloane smiles.

  "Look," Marcello rights himself and places his hands on his hips. "The way that I see it is this is your chance to rub it in their faces. This is your chance to let King Caspar see that you've outlived your punishment and you've come back to make him look like a fool."

  "We'd like that very much, wouldn't we dear?" Finnegan settles against Sloane, her hair catching against the slightest bit of stubble I hadn't seen growing on his cheeks.

  "Yes," she replies.

  Hedda picks at the white sheet under her. In contrast to the couch, her greenish skin is bright. Her large eyes roam around the room, taking in all of the dark corners and hanging cobwebs. The only light we, or rather I, can use to see with is the light from the still open door. Wind blows through it, taking with it a swirl of ashy dirt off the floor.

  Juilliard sits, his legs wide, one arm draped over the back of the couch and the other resting in his lap. He watches Hedda, horrified as the Orc reaches up and picks something from her teeth, staring at, then choosing to eat it. I follow his gaze, now my stomach churns as Hedda swallows whatever it had been down. It could be worse. She could be eating something off of the couch or floors.

  "So do we have a deal?" Marcello asks, bouncing on his toes.

  "Do you think we have a deal?" Finnegan turns to Sloane.

  She runs her hand down his back and slips around him to stand at his side. "Do you think we have a deal?" she asks him in return.

  "Oh for the love of the Saints." I press my palm into my forehead, patience wearing thin. "Do we have a fucking deal?"

  Her hand rises to touch her heart, her lips part as if she's surprised by my little unwillingness to wait. Marcello sighs loudly before the Vampire speaks. "Are we sure we have to bring the Human along?"

  "I like the Human. I vote the Human stays." Hedda grins. "How much anger can be in such a tiny little body like that? Ah, I'd love to just sit and pick your brain."

  "Thank you, Hedda, for having my back." I hold up a finger, frowning at the idea of having to hold myself down in one place for a conversation with Hedda. "Patience may not always be my strong suit, but is it necessary to draw out your response like this?" It's not. Not at all. Still, I'm sure they'll keep doing it anyway.

  "We do have a flair for the dramatics." Sloane smiles softly at her husband.

  "My honey is so right." Finnegan takes her hand, pressing kiss to the back of her hand. "Shall we go ahead and give them our answer?"

  My eyes widen as I stare at them hard. Every vein in my neck is pulsing and I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes.

  "Oh, just tell them Finny." Sloane tugs at his sleeve and I can't help but picture her as a child. She and her husband lean into each other and chuckle at the suspense before tossing their arms in the air and shouting, "We're going!"

  "Oh, very good." I give them a forced smile and turn to look to Marcello. "Shall we slide back down this mountain on our asses and board the ship and be on our way?"

  "Why do you have to hurry off? Surely after a journey such as yours you'd like to rest a minute. Let us host you. It's been so long since we've seen anyone or met new people. Let us show you our home. We want to host them, don't we?" Sloane starts to flutter to the next room. She opens the door, hanging from the edge of it as she waits for confirmatio
n.

  Finnegan turns to face us. One hand rises and he strokes over the slight mustache on his upper lip. A protest is already forming inside my mouth when Hedda stands to stretch with a groan.

  "I'd love a rest. It's been a long time since I've moved this much," She practically screams the words as she yawns with her hands above her head.

  Warning bells are already going off in my head. If walking up a hill is hard for her...how will she ever survive the Games? A new prince comes along once in every century, the currently ruling race of Elves seeing lifespans of one hundred to one hundred and fifty long years. So I haven't been alive long enough to experience the Games to truly know what is to come.

  What I've learned over the years is simply because people like to talk. And about anything and everything, I've found. Hybrids will sit and shoot the shit with you for hours if you let them, blabbing about one meaningless thing or another. I mean, I never let them sit and shoot the shit with me. For many reasons. Other than the glaringly obvious reason that I value my life, I've never had the want to sit and listen to the nonsense they spew for that long. Just sitting through someone's conversation while I wait to slit open their throat is hard enough. That alone almost kills me. I mean it.

  From those times of sitting, waiting, painfully listening I've gleaned that the games are truly that... grueling physical and mental team events. If you don't pick your team ahead of time and pray you all make it through the interview process, you can enter as a single and be assigned to a team of other misfits. That team never lasts long, apparently.

  So in the spirit of longevity, of surviving the games, I should probably play along and do my part as a team member. Gag me with a spoon. I'll have to actually get to know these Hybrids. Something rises from the pit of my stomach and grabs both my lungs squeezing the air out of me. Vulnerable fear? Something else?

  Not Marcello. I think quickly. I won't get to know him no matter how much he tries. I won't go out of my way for him. Not when in the end he too has to die. I already hate that I even know his name. Putting a name down on those pages makes my job feel undoable and trudges up the weak Human feelings I'd rather avoid. How much more would it hurt to write down the name of someone I got to know? How much more would I dread bringing a pen to the page if I knew what sort of creature they truly were?