Blood Kiss (21 page)

“I'm not having your picture put on my ass.”

“When you pass me by, though, it'll give me something pretty to look at.”

“Not if I'm wearing pants. And hey, shouldn't I be offended by that comment?”

“Yeah, I'm sorry to break this to you, Parry, but blondes with perfect bodies and smart blue eyes don't go anywhere in this world. You might as well get used to this sad truth right now.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Okay, what's your story.”

“My third cousin told me the Twelfth Month Festival Ball is being held in your daddy's ballroom. Why the fuck didn't you tell me?”

“I heard that, too,” Anslam said without looking up from his phone.

Paradise glanced around. Boone and Novo couldn't have heard a thing, and Axe was out of it. Lowering her voice, she said, “Peyton. You need to chill about stuff like that, remember?”

Her buddy cracked his knuckles. “Sorry. But we're basically alone—and that's some big shit. You want to go with me? Or can I come with you.” He gave her a winning smile. “That sounds dirty, doesn't it.”

Paradise shot him a glare, but wasn't offended in the slightest. “You're a pig. And yes, please be my escort. I'm going to need you to help me get through the night.”

“I shall be a gentlemale and a scholar—well, at least for most of the evening. Maybe till two a.m. I'm going to
get hammered, though. Just want to warn you up front. That's the only way I'm going to make it to dawn.”

Paradise leaned across the aisle and put her palm out. “High five.”

As their hands smacked together, she thought, Thank you, baby Jesus, at least I'm going with a friend.

B
ritney fucking Spears.

As Craeg sat in the rear of the classroom, all he could think of was that dumb-ass “Baby One More Time” video from a million years ago. He'd seen the damn thing only once, when an older, post-trans cousin of his had been watching it with a fascination he hadn't understood. At the time, Craeg had wondered why the hell some idiot human school girl with a pair of braids, a pleated skirt, and half her belly hanging out would be on anyone's radar.

Now? He so got it.

“. . . this detonator's primer is lead azide, lead styphnate, and aluminum, and you want to place the compound here, about the base charge, which in this case is tetryl.” When Boone put his hand up, the Brother Tohrment nodded. “Yeah?”

“Are there other primary charges?”

“Good question. There's dizodinitrophenol and also you can use mercury fulminate mixed with potassium chlorate. But we're ASA in the Brotherhood.”

The lesson continued, with Tohr, as he'd told them to call him, walking them through Bomb Making 101—and Boone, the class hand popper, interrupting from time to time with yet another “good question.”

If the guy hadn't been so tight at the hand-to-hand, and otherwise quiet and not a problem, you'd have pointed to him as the classhole.

Meanwhile, Craeg was doing the right brain/left brain polka and he guessed the creative/analytic bucket labels held up: The analytical side of him was plugged into the front of the room, with its long countertop of chemicals
in various forms and containers, and its blackboard on which there were scribbles and diagrams.

The “creative” side, or “nasty man-whore repository of all things heeeeeeeeey-now,” kept pulling his eyes over to Paradise. She was sitting in front of him, at the table over on the right, and unlike him, she certainly didn't appear anything other than strictly focused: she was leaning in, intent to the point of obsession on the information being given, taking notes on a pad.

Half of her hair was pulled back into a loose knot she'd tied with some kind of thick black elastic, and she was wearing the same loose white
ji-
like uniform they all were. But fucking A, she might as well have been in a string bikini with all those blond waves down around her shoulders and her breasts—

Stop it.

To fuck with that,
his libido shot back.

Fantastic. Now he was distracted
and
arguing with himself. Any more data processing under his helmet and he was liable to have a skull meltdown of Three Mile proportions.

And what do you know, he went right back to staring at her.

The root of his problem, apart from the orgasms he'd had in the shower, was the nape of her neck.

That skin right there had to be as soft as the stuff on her foot.

Had to be.

Shifting in his seat, he surreptitiously dropped his hand under the table and rearranged himself. Damn it. He really had to reel this shit in.

And yet even as his stare went back to Tohr and the bomb talk, he had a fantasy of getting out of his chair, going up behind her, and running his lips across the pale stretch between her hairline and the collar of that loose white shirt—

“Craeg?”

“What?” he squeaked to Tohr. Clearing his voice, he tried again in a more manly tone. “I mean, what.”

“Come up here and walk us through all this.”

Craeg glanced down. And wondered exactly what kind of a tent show he was going to give everybody if he got to his feet. Big top. Three ring. Barnum & Bailey. Yup.

And then he felt Paradise look at him—and his cock kicked hard enough to make his hips jump.

Right. He was pretty sure that was not the kind of detonation the professor had in mind.

“Craeg?”

•   •   •

As an awkward pause ground things to a halt in the classroom, Paradise braced herself and glanced over her shoulder.

She had been achingly aware of where Craeg had chosen to sit the entire class, to the point that it was almost like she had a compact open and had angled the mirror just so she could watch him watch the teacher. Which was nuts. She was pretty sure, given his Not You, Not Now speech from the night before, that he wasn't giving her a second thought—so it seemed particularly ridiculous to waste even a nanosecond on the guy that wasn't related to training.

Besides, it wasn't like he'd done anything to bring notice to himself.

Not so with the other trainees. Boone had asked a lot of questions—starting with, “Why can't I use my laptop to take notes?” To which the Brother Tohrment had replied, “Because the tap-tapping of a keyboard makes me want to get my shotgun. Do you feel like having a cranial leak tonight?” And culminating about two seconds ago with another inquiry that, frankly, helped the class.

Boone was the smart one.

Axe just sat by himself, hands steepled, brows down, not writing a thing—but the guy's dark aura meant that even if he didn't say much, you couldn't help knowing he
was in the room. Novo didn't talk much either, but when she did, everyone listened. And Peyton, yes, Peyton cracked the occasional joke.

Yet it was Craeg, silent, brooding Craeg, who was the one she was tuned in to.

And P.S., she couldn't figure out why in the hell he wasn't getting up.

It was more than a lack of verticality, actually. He was sitting there like a deer in the headlights, staring at the blackboard like he'd forgotten how to rise out of a chair.

“Craeg?” Tohr prompted. “Have you separated from reality? Having a little vacay on me?”

Peyton got to his feet. “Lemme give it a shot,” he said, scooting out and heading around behind the counter of chemicals to the blackboard. As he picked up a piece of chalk like it was a dead spider, he glanced at the Brother. “I thought this stuff was outlawed after the turn of the century?”

“You want me to write using your face instead?” Tohr drawled.

“Are you allowed to say that to students?”

“You a good enough fighter to get me to stop?”

Peyton shook his head. “Nope. Not even close.”

“Smart answer, son. You're going to do well.” Tohr clapped him on the back. “Why don't you save your shy little buddy back there and show us what you know.”

Paradise looked down again at what she'd written in her notebook. Back at the beginning of the night, it had been hard to walk into the break room where everyone gathered and try to act natural around Craeg. He, on the other hand, had seemed totally nonplussed by her
appearance or anyone else's—he'd made little eye contact with anyone, and said three words tops.

It had been about what she'd expected. And yet considering the amount of energy she needed to put in to just breathing normally around him, it had seemed unfair.

Back online, she told herself. She needed to concentrate on the training stuff. It was not only appropriate, more productive, and the reason she was in the room—it was also less likely to make her go insane.

She mostly succeeded at the goal.

Two hours later, they were allowed to get up, stretch their legs, and hit the loo. She had intended to walk down to the ladies' locker room by herself, but Novo fell into step with her.

“Mind if I ask you something?” the female said as she pushed the door open and held it for Paradise to go in first. “It's personal.”

“Ah . . . sure.” She picked one of the five stalls, de-pants'd it and hit the seat—and tried not to focus on the fact that she and a relative stranger were about to pee in the same place. “What is it?”

You got this, she told her bladder.

Novo naturally had no problem. The female probably had no problem with anything.

“You ever do females?”

Paradise whipped her head toward the stall wall. Her first thought? Crap, might as well do up my pants. We're going nowhere after that one.

“Did I shock you?” the female said with a laugh before she flushed.

There was the sound of a metal panel opening and then the running of water.

“Hello?” Novo prompted.

“Ah . . .” Paradise looked around as if maybe the peach metal stall walls or the white ceiling or the pale gray floor would help her out.

“So that would be a no.” There was another laugh. “I'm not surprised.”

For a moment, Paradise thought about trying to front just to keep up with the coolness Novo seemed to have in spades. But similar to getting distracted in class, that was not why she was here.

“Actually, I haven't done anyone.”

“Yeah, I figured that, too.”

Paradise frowned. “So why did you ask?”

“I like being right.”

Staring at the gray tile at her feet, Paradise thought, What the hell. “But you do? Females, that is.”

“In the past. And males. I love who I love. The bits don't matter to me.”

“Wow.”

Novo's voice got sharp. “There's nothing wrong with that, you know.”

“No, I'm not . . . I'm not criticizing or judging. I just think . . .”

“That's dirty and wrong, right.”

Paradise thought about all the restrictions on her because she was an aristocrat. And then imagined what it would be like to simply be who and what she was, without excuses or compromises.

“No,” she said. “I think that is really amazing.”

And what do you know, on that note, she got her own job done. After she flushed, she opened the panel and was surprised, given the silence, that the female was still by the sinks.

Her face was wary, like she wanted to assess Paradise's affect.

Paradise met those intense teal eyes without hesitation as she went over and washed her hands in warm water with soap that smelled like lemon.

“In fact, I envy you,” she found herself murmuring as she checked her reflection in the mirror.

No makeup and fluorescent lights were not a good
combo when you hadn't slept for almost forty-eight hours—and had gone through organized torture.

“Why are you any different?” the female asked.

“I'm sorry?”

“If you like girls.”

“Oh, no.” She thought of her response to Craeg. And then enjoyed a couple of mental snapshots of his hand pumping under that sheet. “Yeah, no. I'm into males.”

Novo shrugged and straightened. “So it still stands. Why are you any different?”

Paradise stared at her reflection, and thought about her bloodline. Her father. “Long, boring story.”

“Long stories that people don't want to talk about are never the boring ones.”

At the change in tone, Paradise shifted her eyes over. Novo was looking toward the door out of the bathroom, her strong body strung tight, her hands squeezing the edge of the sink so hard her knuckles were white.

“What happened to you?” Paradise whispered.

Novo shook herself back into focus. “Nothing that matters anymore. We're heading to the weight room, right?”

“Did they say that?”

“Yeah.”

Paradise must have been watching Craeg walk out of the classroom. “I'm losing my mind.”

“You're okay. Splash your face with some cold water. It'll bring you back—works for me all the time.”

Paradise watched the female leave . . . and then she cranked on the faucet that was marked with a C.

Might as well give it a go.

Maybe it would cool off her libido, too.

S
itting at the desk in Tohr's office, Butch stood the long, thin metal key up on the end that had the red tassel . . . and let the thing fall to the blotter. As gravity made it tap out, the sound was a solid
thunk
. With a curse, he picked it up, stood it on its other end . . . and let it fall. And again. And again—

“Are you ready?”

He looked up at Tohr, who'd leaned in through the glass door. “Hey, yeah, sure. Who're you sending in first?”

“Axwelle. Figured you might as well start the eval with the one most likely to be considered a sociopath.”

“Perfect.” He swiveled to the computer, tapped in a few commands and got the hidden video camera rolling. “Pull him out of the workout.”

“Roger that.”

As the glass door eased shut, Butch watched his fingers work the tasseled key some more. He hadn't wanted to say it to his Marissa, but to him and V, it was pretty clear what the thing was. The problem? When nada had come up on the Internet search, V had hit his connections in the vampire underground . . . but nothing had surfaced with any of the sex clubs or groups.

A key to get you in so you could get it on. So to speak.

Ordinarily, Butch would have wondered if people weren't hiding something or lying, but V was a legit member of the wonderful world of kink—plus the brother wasn't above using a little muscle to get information if he had to.

Yet another reason the two of them were tight.

So what else was it. Where else could he—

At the sound of a knock on the glass, he glanced up
and motioned with his hand. “Hey, man. C'mon in, sit down.”

As Axwelle entered, the guy made a move with his hands like he was used to cramming them in the pockets of his jeans, but then had nowhere to go with the impulse in his training uni. “Can I stand?”

“Nope.” Butch nodded to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “There. And that is not a suggestion, that's a requirement.”

They had to make sure the trainee's face was in full view of the lens up in the corner behind him.

Axwelle—or Axe, as he called himself—crossed his arms over his chest and planted it in the seat. “What's this about?”

“Just want to talk to you for a little bit. Get to know you better.” Butch frowned and sat forward. Then he dangled the key by its red tassel. “You recognize this?”

“No.”

“Then why did your eyes just go to it?”

“Because it's in your hand and you're not holding anything else. There's nothing on the desk, either.”

Butch held the tassel between his thumb and forefinger and let the thing swing from side to side. “That's the only reason, huh.”

“Do I look like I worry about keys?”

“How do you know it's a key?”

Eyes that were nearly as yellow as Phury's locked on him and stayed put. “What else could it be?”

“You tell me.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a get-to-know-ya. What the fuck does some whatever-it-is have to do with my ass?”

Butch studied the kid's face, looking for tells. Huh. You know, without the half-job tattoos and piercings, the guy might have been handsome. And he might well be a good poker player, considering all the mask-in-place he was rolling.

Axe put his puss just inches from the key. “I'm still staring at it. Is this working for you?”

Butch took his own sweet time before changing subjects. The thing with liars? Silence and stillness were often the best challenge to their fronts, and he looked for tics, blinks, and twitches.

Eventually, he smiled. “You ever see someone die?”

Not on the list of questions Mary had given him to help her ascertain a trainee's psychological state. But he was good with winging shit.

“What are you suggesting?”

The thought of his Marissa crying over that dead female made him more aggressive than a bull, but he drew back on that throttle.

“Just asking.” He looked at the key to give the male some “personal space.” “It is one way to get to know you better, isn't it? An icebreaker, they call them, when two people go on a blind date and have to make conversation.”

“You want to know if I've ever killed anybody.”

“Not the question, was it. I asked, have you ever seen death happen?”

When there was no answer for a period of time, Butch glanced up. Axe wasn't looking at the key anymore. The guy was focused on the middle distance in front of his nose.

Gotcha, Butch thought.

Gentling his voice deliberately, he murmured, “Who was it, Axwelle.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Why, it's your name.”

“I don't answer to it.”

“Why.”

An angry glare went point-blank on Butch like a gun muzzle. “Because I fucking don't, okay?”

“Fine, back to the Grim Reaper. Tell me the story.”

“Fuck you.”

Under any other circumstances, Butch would have lunged across the desk and grabbed the cocksucker's neck for that kind of attitude, but there was too much purpose behind this.

“Hmmmmm,” was all he said.

Axe slammed himself back in the chair and did the re-cross thing with his arms. As his shoulders bunched up, it was hard not to approve of the heft of all that muscle. Strength without brains and a copious lack of psychotic, however, were going to do none of them any good.

“Can I go now?” Axe demanded.

“No, son, I don't think you can. And before you get all huffy on my ass, I'm going to point out to you that this wonderful little bonding time we're sharing is the first of at least three sessions.”

“Are you a shrink?”

“Fuck, no, are you kidding me?” He laughed. “I take pride in my own little stretch of madness, as a matter of fact.”

After all, he was seriously religious, putting his faith and the course of his life willingly in the hands of a belief system that was not concretely verifiable. And that was nuts, right?

Then again, the fact that his religion enriched his mortal coil and centered him and brought him meaning even after he had been “turned” into another species was enough proof for him.

With a shrug, he said, “The only way to get out of this office is to tell me what happened. As soon as you do, you're free to go back to the weight room and power-lift until either your knees give out on you or you begin to vomit. So much to look forward to, right?”

•   •   •

If Craeg had thought that sitting behind Paradise in class was bad? That was nothing compared to watching her do pull-ups.

Across the mats, and to the accompaniment of the clanking of free weights, Paradise was lifting her body in perfect form up to the chin bar and then releasing . . . and up . . . and releasing. Her knees were cocked parallel to the floor, her ass was . . . painfully tight (for him, not for her, clearly), and her torso was in control from pelvis to shoulder.

Every time she hit the low point, her breasts punched up against the loose shirt they all wore—

“Fuck,” he groused as he lay back down on the bench and gripped the bar above his head.

Popping the four hundred and fifty pounds off its support, he took the weight down to his pecs and shoved it back up like the thing had insulted his dead mother.

“You want a spotter?” Novo asked.

When all he could do was grunt, she assumed the position behind his head, keeping her hands just under the now-bent bar.

“Three . . .” she counted. “Two more. One . . . good. You got it.”

As she helped guide the load back into its holding position, he flopped his forearms onto his chest and caught his breath.

Novo put her face in his line of vision. “I think you need to take a break.”

“Fuck that.”

“No, I mean it.”

“I got at least four more sets in me.”

“Your endurance ain't what I'm worried about.” At that, her eyes went down to his hips. “Not that I don't appreciate the view. Just not sure what the virginal object of your affections is gonna think.”

Craeg lifted his head. And then sat up quick.

Novo laughed. “Yeah, why don't you take care of that and come back?”

“Damn it,” he hissed, jumping to his feet.

Marching across for the door, he glanced at the Brother Vishous. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

Vishous smiled darkly. “Yeah, you do.”

Punching his way out into the corridor, he wondered if everyone had noticed he had a hard-on. The only good news? Paradise seemed oblivious—which meant she was either incredibly good at hiding her reactions, which he doubted, or she was as clueless about his little problem as he hoped.

In which case he felt like an extra-huge douche bag.

He hit the door to the men's locker room so hard it flew open, striking the wall and forcing him to catch the thing before it smacked him in the face on the rebound.

“Not it, this is
not
it.”

Pacing around with his hands on his hips, he realized he should never have taken her vein. That blood exchange had created some kind of connection between them such that he was aware of every move she made anywhere at any moment—and the way that shit registered?

Mr. Happy got all excited about the possibility of shaking hands with her.

Which was never. Fucking. Going. To. Happen.

More pacing. More cursing.

Still hard.

“Fuck me!” he belted out.

Yes, please, his cock replied with a kick.

For a moment, all sorts of fantasies played through his head: Slamming the thing in a heavy book. Dropping a cement block on it. Car doors, hammers, logs.

This couldn't be happening to him. The hardest part of training to become a soldier under the Brotherhood so he could avenge his family . . . could not possibly be some blond female. He just refused to believe this.

Not possible—

With another kick under his uniform, his erection seemed to be laughing at him.

Glaring down at his hips, he barked, “Shut up, idiot.”