Vermilion Lies

by L. D. Rose

  Jacques parked the nondescript Honda at the other end of the sprawling, wrecked condo complex. Scattered cars littered the tucked-in lots, many of them rusted and sagging with disuse. Slipping a nine-millimeter into the back of his waistband, he zipped up his leather jacket and patted the shoulder rig beneath it, ensuring both .45 Kimbers filled their holsters.

  This was all about recon, but he had enough artillery to gun down any surprises if necessary.

  Chilly air nipped at his skin, the ocean booming in the distance, gearing up for the incoming storm. Jacques strode over burnt-out patches of grass in order to subdue his footsteps, cutting through the buildings, sticking to the shadows. His gaze scaled the rundown property and he grudgingly admitted it was an ideal hideaway. An ugly, dilapidated shithole on the outside, but likely packed with livable quarters within. He was amazed a nest hadn’t taken up residence here yet.

  Maybe he’d start one after this circus was over.

  Heading straight for the building where the Mako sat, he followed a concrete path cluttered with debris. Broken lawn furniture, unpaired shoes, clumps of cloth and other human paraphernalia. He crushed a one-eyed teddy bear under his boot and an odd sense of satisfaction rolled through him. More stuffing blossomed from its lacerated belly, startling white against the bear’s filthy hide.

  Twisting his ankle for good measure, Jacques pushed onward, creeping past the terraces until his ears caught a muted sound.

  He stilled, holding his breath. A whimper?

  There, another. Almost a yelp.

  Like a hound on a scent, Jacques tracked the amplifying noises, barely audible to the human ear but a siren’s song to his own. When he reached the last building on the stretch, he halted, glimpsing the Corvette squatting out front. Tilting his head slightly as he tuned into the sounds, the soft, female moans elevated higher and higher, flashboiling his blood.

  They were fucking.

  That bastard hybrid was taking what belonged to him. What had always belonged to him.

  Before it even occurred to him, Jacques found himself at the main entrance, colliding into a powerful psychic barrier with a Kimber in hand. Electricity zapped along his nerve-endings in a pulsing shockwave, the force shoving him back, and he cursed vehemently, recoiling from the wall of glacial energy. Dax had claimed it. That motherfucker had seized possession of the house and his female.

  Stifling the feral roar building inside him, Jacques backed away from the shield before the hybrid sensed him. Through the red cloud of his hate, all he could picture was charging into the place and beating the half-breed until he was unrecognizable, until Jacques bathed in dhampir blood and gore. Rage singed his skin, but he had to check himself, had to leash the seething monster thrashing against his ribcage, had to do this smart, right.

  Even if Dax was . . . distracted, Jacques needed backup. His ego hadn’t quite ballooned to the point where he was stupid enough to think he could take down a hybrid on his own, even with the advantage of surprise. His predecessors had taught him a lesson about that, their deaths violent, brutal, and foolish. Besides, he had to ensure the female wouldn’t get hurt in the process, needed to confirm she was truly Cindel. Just barging in there like a Neanderthal would get him nowhere.

  Not to mention he required an invitation to enter, and Knights weren’t the welcoming kind.

  Squeezing his eyes shut and steadying his breath, Jacques tried to reset himself, attempting to cool the firestorm burning within him. The moans taunted him now, erotic punctuated shouts that even tugged at his groin. When a male groan answered and she cried out the hybrid’s name, Jacques almost dove off the deep end, grinding his molars and balling his hands into fists.

  Tomorrow night. He would return tomorrow night with a fucking army and tear the hybrid limb from limb.

  Swiveling around with renewed determination, his eyes settled on the Corvette gleaming under the waxing moon, the smooth curves of its body framed in silver light. A pristine, gorgeous piece of machinery that appeared entirely out of place amidst the derelict oceanscape.

  An idea sprouted in the chaos of his thoughts.

  And a dark smile curved his lips.

  ~ ~ ~

  Cindel surfaced from the depths of a leaden sleep, struggling between the quicksand layers of consciousness.

  Baby, please.

  A flood of dark, rich blood rushing into her mouth, hot, salty, decadent bliss—

  Tear me open.

  A shiver stole through her body as her awareness heightened.

  They were knotted together in a damp bed, her head resting on his chest, his strong arms tied around her. One of his hands held her rear, the other cupped her knee, and their legs were tangled, her pelvis snug against his hip. He breathed softly, evenly, his heartbeat a slow thrum on her cheek, the hypnotic ebb and flow of blood pulsing in his arteries.

  Her fangs ached at the sound, at the memory of biting into him.

  You’re going to be the death of me.

  She’d nearly lost control, almost killed him with blind hunger. Never had she been so wild, so untamed, so unbridled, and she’d never dominated a male like she had with him. Every cell in her body sang with the rightness of it, his flavor on her tongue, his essence coating her throat, filling her belly until her mind drowned with pleasure. And the way he’d submitted to her, allowing her to take what she wanted, had intensified her arousal to epic proportions.

  He tasted like danger, paradise, like . . . freedom.

  But what fueled her most was the way he’d touched her, like a work of art in the hands of a sculptor, and not a piece of garbage to be used and thrown away. She wasn’t a slab of meat to pound into before being tossed in a fire. No one had ever treated her that way, not even Alek, and it nearly brought her to tears.

  So different. He was so different.

  And she would worship at the temple of his body for as long as he’d have her.

  Another chill shook her as she nestled into his warmth, running her hand across the hard, taut surface of his abs, remembering how they flexed when he thrust into her. She traced the outlines of the eight swells with her fingertips, planning to lick every last one before the day was over. Stroking his chest, she brushed the nubs of his pierced nipples and plucked at one gently. His breath caught before he sighed gently, but he didn’t awaken.

  Lifting her head, she pressed her lips to his neck, sweeping her tongue over the wound she’d left in him. His chest hitched as he unconsciously shifted his head in offering, exposing his muscled throat and thrilling her to no end. The wound was still hot, bruised, puffy but soft, a mark of the passion they’d shared. Her mark on him.

  Mine.

  She never dreamed she would possess a hybrid, but surrendering to him was the best decision she’d ever made.

  Sliding her hand back down his body, she met his erection under the sheet, already hard and begging to be caressed. She wrapped her hand around his shaft, feathering her thumb over the stud at the center of his tip. God, the metal both here and in his mouth had done sinful things to her, taking her to heights she’d never reached before. She didn’t have the words to describe the sensations it triggered, but she’d no longer have it any other way.

  At her single stroke, he jerked beneath her, his breath hissing and his heart kicking. With a slow smile, she finally opened her eyes as bright, golden light filled her vision, shining from the nearby window.

  And realization struck her with the force of a sledgehammer.

  The sun.

  She shrieked.

  Dax surged from the bed, pulling a huge dagger out from under his pillow, ready to bury it into flesh. Cindel shielded her face with her hands, blocking the warm rays, panic touching down on her like a tornado. Her heart smashed into her ribs as cold sweat broke out over her skin. Fear chopped at her breaths, but
soon her body calmed with a growing sense of wonder.

  I’m not burning.

  Dax spat a curse, snatching the blanket and slinging it over the curtain rod. When he turned back to face her, his pale expression was loaded with horror and self-loathing. “Are you all right? Fuck, I should’ve known—”

  Cindel raised a palm to silence him as she cautiously unfolded herself from the bed.

  No. It can’t be.

  “I’m not hurt.” She looked at him with awe.

  As he absorbed the implication of her words, he dropped the knife to his side, the gears visibly turning in his head. He repeated her answer, as if saying it again would somehow make it more true. “You’re not hurt.”

  She shook her head. “Open the window.” Her stomach rebelled at the thought, her intuition screeching with dissent.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “Dax. Please.”

  His Adam’s apple dipped in his throat, hesitation keeping him still for another moment. Gorgeous, naked, his tattoos and piercings stood out in sharp relief to his pallid skin. She’d taken too much blood from him. Reluctantly, he reached back and tugged the blanket down, keeping his eyes pinned to hers as sunlight kissed her face for a second time.

  Nothing. No pain, no burn, not even a visceral tingle.

  Just glorious, exquisite warmth.

  Cindel gawked at her hands, down at her bare body, positively stunned. “What happened to me?”

  Then, as if on cue, a searing cold bloomed inside her chest, shocking in its ferocity, stabbing right into the base of her heart.

  She yelped, doubling over, and Dax immediately covered the window, the blanket casting the room back into twilight. Swearing under his breath, he rushed to her side as ice spread through her veins, crackled down her nerves, freezing everything in its path.

  “Cindy.” He clutched her face.

  What was it that struck fear into his cobalt eyes?

  Her breath formed plumes of smoke, fogging the air between them. The pain was tremendous and she felt like she was breaking apart, splintering into pieces.

  “Cindy, look at me!”

  She locked her eyes on him, her bones quaking as a cruel, cold power devoured her from the inside out. She couldn’t blink, couldn’t speak, her throat closing in on itself.

  One minute, they were standing, the next, he was on his knees, supporting her on the carpet, and she didn’t remember falling. “Baby, listen to me,” he said, brushing her damp hair back. “Imagine an open door in front of you, wide open, and it’s snowing. There’s a nasty storm outside, a blizzard, and it’s blowing into the room, trying to get to you.”

  Cindel managed to squeeze her eyes shut, agony electrifying every fiber of her being as she pictured a raging white world beyond the dark room of her mind. Vicious gusts of wind blasted over her, dropping the temperature to sub-zero, the deafening howl only amplifying the pain. She no longer felt him against her, her body going alarmingly numb.

  “Shut the door with everything you’ve got,” he urged, his voice rebounding off her skull. “Now.”

  She threw herself to the wind, every inch of her naked skin chafed and burning. The blizzard assaulted her, the icy sleet pelting her like shards of glass, no longer an enchanting snow-globe dream. For every two steps forward, it whipped her one step back, lashing at her mercilessly. When she finally reached the threshold, she grasped the door, its color a startling blood red. Clinging to the open edge, her fingers slipped and she stumbled, nearly erasing all her efforts.

  Then she grabbed the iron handle, hanging on to it for dear life as she dug in her feet and pulled.

  “Shut the door!”

  Using every last ounce of willpower, the door slid on its hinges, slowly at first, but quickly gained ground. With a final surge of strength, she slammed it closed, her momentum sending her reeling onto the stone floor. The door rattled in its frame, the handle jiggling violently as the storm bellowed with defeat, leaving her alone in the gloom, wet and shaking.

  Her eyelids fluttered open to find Dax staring back at her, cradling her face, his lambent eyes radiating worry. She’d gone limp in his arms, her body no longer seizing, but she continued to shiver against him.

  “Gone,” she whispered hoarsely, as if she’d been screaming for a long time. “It’s gone.”

  Relief relaxed the tension on his face, but it did nothing to ease his apprehension. Sensation gradually returned to her, a blistering heat enveloping her body much like it had in the shower the night before. Dax cursed again, an old, terrible pain staining the pools of his eyes like oil.

  Had he seen this, experienced it before?

  Her hands pulsed, throbbed, and she raised them weakly. Her palms released a dim blue light, emanating from their centers as a faint mist whirled around her fingertips. Her lips parted at the sight as the cold vapor vanished, the glow fading as if sucked back into her skin.

  “What’s happening to me?” she uttered, leveling her eyes with his. “What is this?”

  He swallowed hard, his stricken expression speaking volumes, but all he said was, “Shit.”

  TWELVE

  Dax offered her another blanket, even though she was already four layers deep.

  She nodded, still trembling, traumatized by the preternatural force that rocked her.

  Vampires can survive the cold, the voice of reason stated in the back of his head. They’re like fucking reptiles. They adjust.

  But the shaking, fragile creature on the bed in front of him wasn’t even remotely close to adjusting.

  At all.

  Throwing on a sweatshirt and pants, Dax turned up the heat and handed her cup after cup of hot black tea. Nothing seemed to thaw her, no matter how hard he tried, so he crawled back into bed and hugged her close, hoping the warmth of his body would be enough.

  You know exactly how to get her hot.

  No. He probably wouldn’t survive it this time.

  But fuck, he wanted to.

  Swathing her in another blanket, he kissed her shoulder, his chest aching with guilt as he rubbed his hands on the fabric in a futile attempt to soothe her.

  Memories he’d long ago interred pushed against the recesses of his skull, scratching on bone, emerging from the graveyard of his past. He prayed her chill would subside in a few hours.

  Unfortunately, it had taken days for him.

  His winter had arrived during the witching hour.

  Dax was fifteen years old, sleeping in his coffin of a bedroom in the barracks at Twentynine Palms. They’d called him a “late bloomer,” observing him intently at all hours of the day, treating him like a ticking time bomb ready to explode. His voice had already changed, his body rapidly filling out, his hormones raging so hard he could barely control himself. His fangs had elongated, wicked blades that snapped into place at the slightest rise of emotion, and he hated them more than anything else about himself.

  But he’d never manifested his trait.

  Until now.

  Without warning, an ice-cold knife of pain speared his heart, cutting into the frantic, pounding muscle. His gums throbbed viciously in response, black hunger punching into his gut with brutal blows, as if attempting to fight off the rolling avalanche within him. Agony grabbed him by the throat and dragged him upright in bed, and he gasped for air, tears welling in his eyes as shards of ice slashed through his veins like razorblades. Burned, oh God, it burned, his sweating skin freezing over in a thin sheen of frost.

  His nerves blazed with the unrelenting torture, his skin suddenly far too sensitive, the bedcovers and his clothes like barbed wire coiled around him. Even his bare soles hitting the floor sent him screaming as he lunged out of bed, ripping every piece of fabric off his searing body. Everything he touched froze over, his skin glowing a misty, bl
inding blue, ice layering in sheets until he could hardly stand on his own two feet.

  His cries echoed over and over as the camera in the corner watched him with its glassy black eye, a red light blinking at him incessantly without the slightest indication that help was on the way. Dax sensed everyone in the vicinity, their electric auras zapping at him mercilessly and chipping away at his sanity. Desperate to escape, he slammed himself against the bolted door until he bled, until his bones yielded and cracked, until his very soul split at the seams.

  And just when his heart would burst with the horror of it—he was going die this awful death in this godforsaken tomb—a deep, familiar baritone cut into the din, reverberating in his head with a mitigating pressure.

  Sleep, my brother.

  Then, like a plug yanked from its socket, the cacophony ceased, the agony stopped, and his heart jackknifed in his scrawny chest.

  Launching him straight into his first cardiac arrest.

  “Dax?” Her delicate voice pulled him from his escapade down memory lane. “What are you afraid of?”

  Regret inundated him at the idea she’d experienced even a fraction of what he’d endured on that fateful night. Not only had his eldest brother, Rome—one of the most powerful psychics on Earth—both saved and nearly killed him, he’d taught Dax to control his newfound traits, trained him to use the ‘door to Narnia.’ And thank God it had worked for her, otherwise he would’ve been at a loss to help her.

  Drawing back, he met her eyes as she turned to face him. Black diamonds with an emotional depth that both enamored and dumbfounded him. A rosy tinge colored her skin again, much like it had in their shower rendezvous.

  Their mind-blowing shower rendezvous.

  Dax gently cupped her throat, fine muscles contracting beneath his fingers as she swallowed hard. He reined in the impulse to kiss her. No doubt, they’d start all over again, and he wouldn’t risk putting her through another round of hell freezing over.