Blood Enchantment (15 page)

She sways as she walks toward him. The female is undoubtedly royal—Drek can smell it. She also smells alarmingly similar to Tahlia.

“Who is she?” Bowen asks.

“I am Tahlia of the Lanarre pack of the Redwood Forest.”

“You bitch!” the chosen screams.

Drek's shock is absolute.

Tahlia attacks the other female. Talons fly.

Blood flows.

More Lanarre rush in and separate them.

Drek and Bowen exchange a look of confusion.

For once, his nose has lied. He doesn't know who is telling the truth—and who is lying.

Julia

Julia leans back.

“You're gonna wear your eyes out looking at the clock constantly.”

She turns to Scott and sighs. He's right, but she can hardly wait.

“It will surely be unpredictable,” Victor comments, setting his fork at the edge of his plate, tines down.

Julia's stuffed. She leans back, pushing her plate away with a fingertip. “I'm scared,” she admits softly.

Victor's forehead creases. “Do not be. Scott is Combatant. I am, as well. The demonic doesn't stand a chance against the two of us.”

Julia's hand covers the spore. It's quiet. But for how long?

Scott follows the movement, his face troubled. She can feel their combined thoughts like collective soup—delicious, but filling. He knows what she does. Nothing.

She glances at the timer that will release them from the vault, yet again.

Five hours, four minutes, thirty-two seconds.

“Julia,” Scott says softly, taking her hands in his. He kisses her knuckles, keeping hold of her hands.

His flesh is warm against hers. She doesn't cry, but the tears are right at the surface. Julia thinks of Jason dying and Cyn still living above their heads. Maybe safe?

Maybe not.

Julia's been so selfish. Scott's brother and sister are above. Jen and Michael can't even know they're down here.

Julia turns to Victor. “You didn't know those two weren't Region Two?”

Victor's face tightens, regret etched on every surface. “I thought something was off. But, like everyone, I was overly thrilled that additional Singers survived. At least, more
presumed
to be Singers lived.” His eyes meet hers, and Julia releases a harsh breath.

“Me, too,” she whispers. They exchange a tormented glance.

Victor continues, “I was walking through the kitchen when my veins began to surface.”

“That's when you knew,” Scott confirms, and Victor gives a curt nod.

“So they're here to what?”

Victor narrows his eyes at Julia, drumming his fingers on the cheap folding table they just ate at. “I do not wish to alarm you further. But because you’re the Rare One, the demonic would be interested in shutting you down.”

Julia turns to Scott, and he nods.

“Royal Singers are angelic. The demonic had nothing to worry about when we were spread across the globe—numbers low, no one to solidify or unify who and what we are. Along comes the prophesied Rare One. You changed all that.”

“How?” Julia asks, taking her hands from Scott's hold. She stands and paces back and forth in the all-concrete gloom.

Victor stands, as well, clasping his hands behind his back. He walks closer to her, but stops a few feet away. “Your potential has been much debated. But we know that the Rare One is here to unite the Singers and bring a purity of blood and cohesiveness to our species that's been diluted and misaligned over the centuries.”

“Like Jacqueline,” Scott states quietly.

Victor looks in his direction, saying nothing.

“We can't blame what's happening here on Jacqueline's mismanagement of Two.
No
. Those demon guys are here because they're trying to halt progression,” Julia states.

Victor's eyes are on Julia's hands as they fly around like escaped birds. “
You
are the natural enemy of the demonic.”

“All of us are,” Scott corrects.

Victor shakes his head. “All royals, naturally. However, many of us do not possess sufficient blood quantum to worry them.”

They look at Julia. “But I do.”

“In abundance.” Victor casts his eyes to the floor. “I have assumed that you've bonded fully.”

Julia's face bursts into flames.

Even the unflappable Scott seems a little… flummoxed. He manages, “Yes.” The one-word answer clearly signals the end of the conversation.

Not for Julia. “So we have. The soul-meld is consummated. What are the bennies?” She shifts her weight, trying to ignore the timer.

Victor's mouth parts. “Bennies?”

“What are the benefits now that we've done what we were meant to?” Julia asks.

Scott reaches for her.

They thread their fingers together.

“I do not know,” he says.

Julia's shoulders slump.

Scott scrubs a hand over his short hair.

Victor lifts a palm. “I do know that the coming together of the two—a true soul-meld—is unprecedented. In theory, Julia's abilities, when tested, should be at their fullest.”

“English, Vic,” Scott says.

“You are stronger together than apart.”

Scott hauls Julia against him, planting a soft kiss at the crown of her head. “Well, we're together all right.”

Julia's blush flames to life again.

Victor's face doesn't even twitch. “That is good. I am more happy with that news than anything I can dream up.”

Julia thinks it's weird that one physical act can change things so drastically. Was that all it took?

Victor grins suddenly. “And—” He claps his hands together softly. “If a child would result, all the better.”

Julia's mouth feels as though it's come unhinged from her jawbone.

Scott's embrace tightens.

“It would be the happiest of news.”

Julia really feels stupid now. She never once thought about protection. Dread pours through her.

Scott snaps his head to her.

She can't handle the idea of a baby in the middle of this dangerous life. She can't even protect
herself
.

Scott turns her to slowly face him. “Julia,” he says tenderly, brushing his mouth against hers in the softest kiss she's ever received, “I'll never let anything happen to you—or to a baby we would have.”

Julia's face falls forward on his muscular chest. “I can't do kids right now, Scott.” She wrings the confession out.

Scott places his index finger beneath her chin and lifts it. His lips part into a crooked smile. “But you know they'd be little angels.”

“Literally,” Victor chimes from behind them.

Julia nods, forcing a smile through her anxiety. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

Little targets for the likes of Praile and crew.
The thought reminds her of something. “What about Laz?”

“He was the demonic that helped Praile, who went by ‘Peter,’” Scott states.

Julia shudders, thinking of the pain from the demonic's spore when he drew nearer to her. “But what's happened to them?”

Victor spreads his hands. “We are here. They are above.”

Julia notes he very carefully doesn't address Jason's murder.

“And the new women—Tahlia and Tessa?” She shakes her head, putting her face in her hands. There are so many variables, so many who could be hurt because of Praile's unknown agenda.

“He is certainly the one who was behind the Singer genocide here—using Tony. We know that Tony did not act of his own volition. He could not have.”

Julia nods a little too quickly.

“A great offense is the best defense,” Scott says.

Julia whips her head to his. “Yes.”

“Let's talk about what to do when we finally get outta here.”

Victor says, “Agreed.”

“What—” Julia sucks in a huge lungful of air, ready to verbalize the unthinkable. “What if everyone is dead… again?”

Scott drops her hand, folding his arms across his chest. “No way—refusing that outcome.”

“Scott?” Julia cries. “We
have
to address the possibility.”

Victor cups his chin. “We need to assume that if a high demon has left the realm of Hades to seek the death of the Rare One, that would be the only goal. Killing Singers was more about decimating numbers, and he tasked that to a lackey—Tony Laurent, who is now deceased.”

Yeah he is.

Julia still remembers his ripped-out crotch. Scott, apparently sensing the distasteful memory, slides his arm around her shoulders and draws her close. “So the big wig comes to do me in?”

“I would not put it quite like that. But they were aware of your…” He clears his throat delicately. “Unfinished ties to Scott, and while you were vulnerable, they presumed to end you.”

“But now we're tied—in every conceivable way,” Scott repeats unnecessarily, and Julia suppresses the urge to elbow him.

A small smile hovers on his face as he gets a sense of her embarrassment.

She frowns.

“Yes,” Victor says, clearly oblivious to the interplay between her and Scott.

“So now we're invincible?” Julia asks, disbelief dripping from her words.

“Hypothetically,” Victor says, and Julia hears the
but.

“But?”

“The spore worries me,” he admits.

Julia's hand flattens over her stomach.

“Let me see, Julia,” Scott says.

She rolls up a thin T-shirt that'd been stuffed in one of the dressers in their room. It smells stale.

Her fingers shake as she holds the bunched material.

They look at her stomach. Julia glances down, as well.

A small, comma-shaped black smudge mars otherwise-creamy skin. No evidence of the wound caused by the demon's saber remains. Just the shadow of evil.

She exhales slowly. “Still there.”

“Yup,” Scott says.

Julia can hear the worry in his voice. It mirrors her own.

Victor tears his eyes away from the mark. Facing away, he says to the wall, “We might be forced to seek outside help to expunge that potential threat.”

Julia's face jerks to him. She was staring at the mark, rubbing it as though she could erase it from her body.

Scott asks, “Who?”

Victor's exhale is filled with irritation. “The fey.”

Not them again.

“We
already
owe them. I promised Tharell the exchange of Singers who would marry the fey.”

Scott frowns. “Yeah, before Tharell became a traitor.”

“Doesn't matter. The oath is to
faerie
. Just like an oath of loyalty in human marriage is to God, not the spouse.”

Julia had never thought about marriage in those terms. “So let me get this straight.” She squeezes Scott once and steps away, gathering her thoughts without the heat of his emotions swarming her mind. “I promised Tharell, but he was acting as faerie's rep?”

Victor tilts his head back, brows snapping together. Finally, after a full minute of consideration, he answers, “Yes.”

“Wow,” she breathes. “Tharell was dishonest, all out of his head because he wasn't close to faerie, and with his demonic blood—
it
ruled, but faerie was still online. Then when I committed to exchange Singers for marriages—”

“Faerie was silently taking notes,” Victor confirms.

“Marvelous,” Scott says, his expression in opposition to the word.

“And I promised to end him,” Julia says, biting on a nail.

“And that would fall under the same precepts,” Victor adds, giving her a speculative look.

Julia's stomach does a little flop. “This is terrible.”

“Is there a timeline?” Scott asks suddenly.

She thinks about her prior conversations. “I can't remember that I committed to a specific date…. Maybe. We have time,” Julia says with quiet hope.

Victor’s eyes are dark with his thoughts. “Perhaps.”

A beep, like a squawking bird, pierces the still subterranean air, and Julia jumps. Her head whips to the clock.

Zero hours, minutes and seconds.

It's time.

Scott holds out his hand, and Victor leads them to the rungs of the ladder that will take them up and out.

To the unknown.

Slash

“I need to leave,” Slash states.

Truman's eyebrows move to his hairline. “We
could
use another Were here.”

Slash's breath rushes out of him, and he scrapes a palm over his cropped hair. He doesn't bother with subtle. “I've mated Adi.”

Cynthia's mouth drops open. “You—what?”

Truman's lips twitch at the corners. “Nothing like doing the deed when everything's going to shit.”

Slash understands the timing is unbelievably bad. But sometimes the heart wants what it wants—the hell with timing.

Truman runs his eyes over Slash’s form.

His expression tells Slash what he already knows—he isn't going anywhere right this minute. Feeling has returned to mid-thigh, though his lower back is still numb.

“I know,” Slash confirms what he reads in Truman's disbelieving expression. “That Alpha nailed me. But I'm coming around.”

“Shift to wolfen,” Truman suggests easily.

“Couldn't out there,” Slash jerks his head to where Truman just hauled him from. “What if it'd taken a couple of times, and Tramack and company had opted for a return visit? Plus I'm low on fuel.”

Truman grimaces, casting his eyes to the floor. “You have me there.” He puts his large hands on his hips, considering for a full minute. His eyes rise to meet Slash's. “Shift. I'll guard you, then you go get your girl. This mess will be here in some form when you get back. It always seems to be.”

They stare at each other, both understanding there might be no coming back. Uncertainty is the way of the supernatural world.

Lawrence and his default second-in-command, Manny, are both dead. Tony Laurent is dead, thank Moon. That leaves the Northwestern leaderless. Not an ideal spot for a pack of werewolves to be in. Without leadership, Were tend to become unstable.

Adrianna almost surely went in the direction of her pack of origin after Slash shoved her away. However, the immediate goal of securing her safety was realized when Slash saw Tramack beaten and bleeding on the ground, his Were beside him.

She is safe for now.

But Slash would rather have her with him always. He knows he’ll have to beg her forgiveness and eat crow to the end of his days in order to make Adrianna understand that he would never have said those things and acted as he had if the situation had been even marginally winnable.

She's young and female. Adrianna simply doesn't understand her importance to him—or his role in her protection. How could she? She only has herself to protect.

Slash has to protect them both.

“We'll get some food, and you shift,” Truman says.

Preferably something that's still squirming.
Though that was unlikely.

Slash is anxious to get out of the area, scent Adrianna, and set things right.

*

Slash groans.

Two shifts later, he remains wolfen.

Cynthia brings in the third plate of steaming leftovers.

Slash eyes the food: an entire twelve pound chicken, by the looks of it. Slash isn't sure if that's sufficient.

Hell with it, it'll have to do.

She sets the food on the coffee table in the dainty parlor where he shifted and made a mess everywhere.
Bet the Singers never thought that a bunch of cross-species would be spreading the remnants of a shift all over their house.

Slash's chuckle is like a bark.
Shit happens.
And it happens often in his experience.

Slash begins to shovel food, his body feasting and breaking down the nutrients as fast as he can chew and swallow. “Thanks,” he mumbles a heartfelt word through a packed mouth.

Cynthia leans against the door jamb, managing a wan smile. “Welcome.”

Slash's eyes take in her slight form. She could use some food, too. Singers begin to file in through the door, and Cynthia turns to watch their quiet progression.

She sucks in her lip, holding back the sobbing.

“They'll take care of him,” he comments, swallowing a load of food.

“I know,” she replies softly, sweeping a small strand of blond hair from her face and absently tucking it behind her ear. She sniffles, taking a shaking inhale then going still.

They sit in silence as Slash picks his plate clean. Down the hall, voices are talking. Others are crying.

Jason Caldwell was a volatile Red. Most are.

But he was a part of the Singers. And like an injured limb that won't heal, his loss is felt keenly.

Slash uses the last bit of chicken to catch the juices. He can't help his indifference. Slash has seen too much death to be concerned about one more. It's the single consistency of being a supernatural—death.

Right now, the only thing he cares about is the female who is not by his side.

“Thank you,” Slash says again, covering a burp with his fist.

A low vibration of tingling begins in his lower back, radiating like seeking fingers of heat, gripping and massaging his nerve endings back to life.

Slash tries to stand from his crouch on the floor. He crashes to his ass on the floor. He grits his teeth against the searing pain as his body heals the last bit of his paralysis. Flames lick at the lumbar region of his back, bringing it to life. “Ah!” Slash places his palm to his lower back, where the pain is most acute.

Cynthia rushes to him, face blotchy from holding back grief. “What is it?” she asks, grabbing his arm.

His eyes slit in pain. “Healing,” he breathes out.

“Oh,” she says. Then something flows into him—part balm, part heat—and his eyes meet hers.

She's augmenting his own body's healing.

Pins and needles stab him like an unwilling voodoo doll, and he bends in half, his palms hitting the solid coffee table. The plate rattles as his fork drops to the floor.

A gauzy gray shroud covers his vision then shreds to ribbons. Slash staggers to the pass-through, Cynthia's hands still on his arm. He grips the threshold between the two rooms and slowly opens his eyes.

His wolfen vision is ten times as acute as a hawk’s. Everything comes into focus. Slash feels his back, hips, legs, and feet simultaneously. He touches his back, his finger brushing the elastic band of the new athletic pants Truman had set aside for him.

Slash feels
alive
.

He turns back to Cynthia, and her hands fall. “I keep saying thank you—but thank you.”

She nods. “It feels good to help.”

Truman walks in from where the Singers have congregated at Caldwell's death scene, eyebrows hiked in clear question.

“I'm ready.”

Truman nods. “Looks like someone's locked in that underground bunker.”

Slash frowns, flaring his nostrils. Many scents come to his nose, ones he'd been too unwell to consider. Demonic is the first.

Death.

Were.

Julia, Scott, and Victor.

Truman shrugs. “Don't know who it is or how they got down there. But the timer's about up. All the bad asses have been accounted for.”

Truman doesn't smell them.
Probably too new a Were to scent identify every layer in the vicinity.

Cynthia stands up straighter. “Maybe it's Jules,” she says, hope heavy in her voice. “That'd make sense, right? Haven't seen Scott, her, or that Victor dude.” She holds her face in her hands. “I can't take it if they're hurt of worse,” she says through her fingers.

Truman grunts. “Could be, or maybe not. Don't know yet, Cynthia. Don't borrow the worry.”

Her shoulders slump. “Yeah.”

Truman steps away from the doorway, giving her a look that captures Slash's attention. Cynthia doesn't see the expression.

“There's always hope,” Slash murmurs.

He scents something surprising from Truman. He doesn't act as though he cares about this female, but Slash scents that he does.

Their eyes move to Slash. He indicates his healed body with a hand. “I never thought to have a mate. And now I do.” He doesn't acknowledge the Rare One, her soul-meld, or Victor being inside that bunker. Slash would hate to tell them his suspicions, only to be wrong.

Cynthia lifts her shoulders. “I know Adi, and if you don't get your werewolf ass after her, pronto, you can kiss the mate thing goodbye. She's not a girl to trifle with.”

I know
. “I'm sorry to leave you with all this going on.”

Cynthia shakes her head. “We could use you. Truman's right.”

Truman remains silent.

“But Adi's important, too. Us women have been through a lot together. And she's kinda headstrong. I'm afraid for her, Slash. She needs a level-headed guy. Don't dick her around.”

Slash blinks. Adrianna being headstrong is one of the biggest understatements he's ever heard. And he would never play games with a female. He's never had the opportunity even if that were part of his nature.

Slash is uneasy, too. Thankfully, Adrianna doesn't have much of a lead on him—six hours, tops.

Cynthia scans his face, apparently satisfied with what she sees there. “Go,” she says softly.

Truman nods.

Slash leaves. He doesn't run at first. But before he knows it, he's sprinting.

Adrianna's scent is easy to follow. It smells like home.

*

Adi

Adi blinks heavy eyelids. She looks around at all the white: white walls, floor, blinds, and bed.

She gazes down at her ensemble, a white hospital gown.

Ugh.
She shuts her eyes again.
Unreal.

Derailed to the human hospital.

Her eyes snap open.
Oh shit.
Adi can't let them examine her too closely.

They would find out
things
.

She sits up, and a plastic tube like a clear worm swings from her arm.

Wonderful.

At least she's escaped the three stooges.

Maybe.

The heart rate monitor starts to beep, and a nurse cruises in. “Ah, you're awake.”

Adi blinks at her stupidly.

She's about five feet five, with a slim build and dyed-black hair. Her liquid eyeliner is like a black slash, making her clear light-brown eyes stand out. She smells fresh off her cycle, and Adi can smell that she uses antibacterial soap.

And she has aggressive breast cancer.

Sometimes it sucks to be a wolf.

The nurse—Adi scans her nametag—
Jenni,
clasps the clipboard with Adi's probable vitals. Jenni's expression turns puzzled.

Maybe Jenni is a couple of years older than Adi. She looks young.

“Let me check your vitals.”

Adi nods, suddenly sad at all the inside info she now holds. Jenni checks all her parts. And like a jointed doll, she's okay.

That's when the fun begins.

Jenni plops down in a chair and rolls it to her bedside.

“You're very lucky.”

Ah-huh.

“Do you know your name? We couldn't get anything from our records with your print.”

Of course not.
No self-respecting Were would allow a human to get ahold of her DNA.

Except me.
Adi figures they've got her blood, skin, and everything typed.
Dammit.
“My name's Adrianna.”

Jenni's smile is brilliant and gentle.

She's in the right line of work, this human.

Jenni pats her hand. “We have x-rays that show a broken pelvis and femur, contusions, and small fractures in keeping with the larger injuries.”

Her eyes sweep to Adi's. “A second set of x-rays show that those injuries have mended themselves.”

Adi gulps. Spying a water cup, she grabs it, takes a sip, and sets it back down. “Okay?” Adi says, feigning ignorance.

She's
awesome
at that.

“We're going to run more tests.”

“Nope,” Adi replies in a pleasant tone.

Nurse Jenni's brows crease. “I'm sorry?” she asks, as though she heard Adi wrong.

“I am not staying for more tests. I feel amazing. And, I have somewhere to be. I'd love to grab some food, but I bet I'll need to stick around for that.” Adi grabs her lower lip with her teeth and swings her legs to the side of the bed opposite Jenni.

“Hey!” Jenni calls out loudly.

Adi's clothes rustle as she stands, tearing out the IV. She tosses it onto the bed then jerks off the tape, wincing. She rips the gown over her head, pitches it on the hospital bed, and pads naked to where she spies her clothes.

“What? Wait…” Jenni says, setting the clipboard on a rolling tray with a disruptive clatter.