Blood Law (6 page)

Rafael
set his jaw. He had no choice. And therein lay the rub. The Blood Law. Murder
of an alpha was punishable by death. Then who would lead the nation against the
Slayers?

But
it had to be done. There would finally be peace the nation desperately needed,
and once united, they would defeat the Slayers once and for all.

Rafael
set thoughts of his brother aside and focused on getting home. His almost
nightly hunts over the past three months had proven fruitful. His Slayer count
had gone up exponentially. He smiled in the night wind. He would take the next
week to regroup, strategize, and rearm. Then strike when Lycans were their most
powerful, during the full moon.

Now,
miles north of California’s capital, high atop a mountain, two dozen
blacked-out choppers rumbled into the pack compound. As the thick iron gates
closed with swift precision behind them, Rafe sneered. His brother’s scent,
though faint, wafted through the air. It wasn’t the first time his brother had
skulked close when Rafael was hunting.

As he
drove past several outbuildings then around to the clubhouse—the main compound
building—Rafael glanced up at the shrouded moon. It was well past midnight. He
didn’t have much time if the girl was to survive.

He
looked down at her in his arms. She had not stirred once on the long ride home;
she didn’t stir now but remained half draped across the gas tank and half
sitting against his chest. With her added weight, maneuvering the bike had been
a tricky feat, especially through the twisting Sierra road that led to the
compound. But he was strong, and his strength didn’t waver. He couldn’t say the
same for her. As he came to an abrupt stop, the girl’s body slid from his grip,
causing him to curse. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her back across his
blood-soaked leathers.

He
stared down at her, resisting the urge to push her hair away from her face. The
ruby eye on the ring glowed, its heat stinging his flesh just as it had done
whenever he’d looked down at her on the ride home.

If
only Talia, his pack’s healer, was here. Not only would he know that the girl’s
life was in good hands, but Talia had a way of getting into human minds. There
was much she could tell Rafe about the woman the Slayer had wanted enough to
mark.

But
Talia wasn’t here. Instead, she was being held captive by his brother. Which
meant Rafael would have to care for the woman, and that meant taking
unnecessary risks.

Rafael
cursed. “Damn you, Lucien!” And damn himself for falling for Lucien’s schemes.
It was his fault Talia was locked away in the dragon’s lair.

Recognizing
how his thoughts had spiraled, Rafe mentally shook himself. He didn’t have time
for this, and neither did the woman. Grabbing her up to him, he toed the
kickstand out from under the bike, cut the engine, and stood, bringing the
injured woman with him.

“Anton,”
Rafael called over his shoulder. “Release the Berserkers.”

“Are
you mad?” Anton screeched.

Rafael
sighed. In another place and time, he might have laughed his ass off at his
sergeant at arms’ squealing. Or, more likely, he’d have cut him down so low for
questioning his authority that Anton would’ve been fodder for the omegas of the
pack. But Anton was not his concern at the moment. Saving the girl in his arms
was, and so was sealing the compound from all threats, especially that of the
Slayers, who would know of Viktor’s death by now and likely come charging in
with a vengeance.

Rafael
growled low. “Do as I said.” He kicked open the front door to the clubhouse.
His eyes instantly adjusted to the darkness, yet he didn’t need a light to
navigate the large room. Even if his night vision hadn’t been so sharp, he
could navigate the entire compound blindfolded.

“Alert
the pack,” he called to Anton, who had not moved since he’d dismounted his
bike. “Stay within the compound walls until dusk tomorrow.”

Anton
called out to Nazz and JorDon, his right and left arms, informing them of
Rafael’s command. Incredulous voices drifted to Rafael.

It
was rare that the Berserkers were released outside of the compound walls, and
even then, it happened only when Rafe was there to supervise. There was nothing
living or dead that could survive even a scratch from one of them. Their fangs
were hollow and filled with such toxic venom that even a drop of it into a
bloodstream would render the victim paralyzed. What the Berserker did after
that was what nightmares were made of. Rafe was the only creature that could
command a Berserker. As he was alpha, the mutant wolves had to obey him or die.

A
jolt of fire sparked on his finger, and he looked down at the ruby eye of the
ring. Fenrir could learn a trick or two from his Berserkers. They came to heel
at his first whistle. They owed him their lives. They obeyed. So, one day,
would Fenrir.

“Rafael?”
Anton called from the doorway. “You must give them their command. Otherwise,
they’ll run loose through the woods and destroy every living thing!”

Rafael
halted in midstep and readjusted the slippery body in his arms. He put his
fingers to his lips and, in several short, earsplitting whistles, he called to
the Berserkers. He was immediately rewarded with loud snarling barks from the
other side of the compound.

“Open
the gate to the outside. They will obey. I’m going to my rooms. Do not disturb
me unless you have no recourse.”

Anton
nodded. Once the Berserkers were released to patrol the outside perimeter,
Anton and the rest of the pack would see to the security of their own homes
within the high concertina wired steel block walls. Since the day after his
parents’ deaths, the walls had held against several Slayer attacks as well as a
few from the Vipers, a Slayer-backed gang of bikers, but Rafael knew he would
have to reinforce every inch of the compound with the coming of the Blood Moon.
The quickening had begun. But their survival rested on surviving the rising.

Over
the last two decades, the Slayers had systematically reduced Lycan numbers to
fewer than a thousand worldwide. Add to that the division of the Vulkasin pack,
and there were fewer to protect the bloodline. He and his brother were the last
alphas of the pack. Until he marked his chosen one—the alpha female who matched
him in courage, heart, and strength—the line could not continue.

The
irony twisted within him. Of course, once he found his destined mate, she would
be offered up to Lucien as the payment for Rafael’s deed. It was why he had
refused to choose and mark his mate. How could he knowingly sacrifice her? He
couldn’t. Yet, if he did not, his line would die.

Rage
at his brother intensified. Would that Lucien admit his woman was Slayer, there
would be no sacrifice. But if Lucien did admit it, the Blood Law would demand
his life as payment.

It
was an impossible situation, one that would only be remedied by death.

Rafael
kicked open the door that led to the more private rooms in the communal
building. Then, after striding across a wide expanse of hardwood floor to a
steep stairway and down a short hall, he kicked open the thick oak door into
his own quarters. He moved through the main room and into his bedroom.

He
grimaced when the subtle scent of lemony spice wafted around his nostrils.
Lana. She was always leaving her scent on his bedpost in hopes of driving him
mad with lust. She refused to accept that he took from her only what his body
needed, never his heart.

Never
his heart.

Rafe
fought back a bitter laugh. As alpha, he had his pick of any female in his
pack, even the paired ones. Not wanting to create harsh feelings among his pack
males, Rafael stayed away from their females. He would rather be a lone wolf
than share his mate, even with the alpha, so how could he expect his pack to?
He made a point of taking only the unattached pack females to his bed. Their
scents appealed to him for only a brief time before he set them aside. Yet they
all vied for his affection, even knowing that in the end, it would mean their
deaths to love him. He could not bring himself to mark a Lycan, only to see her
sacrificed. His decision not to pull the trigger, so to speak, had become an
increasing problem. For his pack to survive, he had to take and mark a mate.

So
lately, he had taken to fucking human females. Unless marked, a human could not
conceive with his seed, and he was immune from human disease. But the best part
of sex with a human was that he never had to see her again. No longing looks,
no whines for attention, no backbiting. He’d taken more and more to cruising
the cities for human sex to quench his ever growing primal fire. But even so,
lately, his moods had darkened. He spent most days running through the forests
until he had no strength to run another step and his nights hunting Slayers. He
had a hunger for something else. Something with meaning, something out there,
something . . . taboo.

It
was a double-edged sword he wielded. There was no debating the
three-century-old covenant. Though many council meetings had convened to sidestep
or find a loophole, the laws were written in Lycan blood after the great war of
the North and could not be challenged.

He
would take a mate, and Rafe could only hope she lived long enough to conceive,
for once she conceived, so, too, would the females of the pack, and the line
would survive another generation.

He
growled, frustrated and angry. Resentment for what he could not change ate at
him, but when he laid the girl down on the linens, he did so carefully.

Her
long body molded into the thick down comforter. In seconds, the pale yellow
cotton was blood-soaked. She groaned in pain. When she moved her right leg, the
groan became an excruciating cry. His anger softened. Human or not, she was
innocent, and he wished no pain on innocents.

He
didn’t understand her continued bleeding. The tourniquets had not worked. Why
hadn’t her blood clotted? Swiping his hand across his face, Rafael could think
of only one way to ease her pain and stop the bleeding.

His
skin warmed at the thought. His eyes narrowed and his fists clenched,
white-knuckled.

He
didn’t want to heal her. Doing so would create a bond between them, one that
Rafael wanted with no woman. But if he didn’t do it, she would die without
giving him the information he needed. What choice did he have?

Rafael
jerked off his leather duster and tossed it to the floor, then sat down on the
edge of the bed. He reached out to her, the heat of her fevered body causing
him to recoil. Despite her grave state, a low buzz of energy radiated from her.
He pressed his hands to her back, her skin burning him with the same intensity
of the Eye of Fenrir.

He
ripped her sweatshirt in half and hissed as he laid it to the sides of her
pulpy back. Salene had done a number on her. Her flesh was peppered with gaping
wounds, as if she’d been stabbed then burned. He rolled her gently to her left
side and looked closer at the deep gash that ran from the middle of her rib
cage up the bottom swell of her breast to her pink nipple.

Anger
amplified. Viktor Salene was a fool. Rafael’s hatred for all Slayers ran as
deep and as passionate as his love for his pack. Soon, soon it would come to a
bloody end. Only one race could survive the Blood Moon rising. The Lycan nation
had triumphed three hundred years ago with the coming of the first Blood Moon;
they would triumph with the second rising as well!

Rafael
lived for the honor of finally slaying the master of all Slayers, Balor Corbet,
along with his entire bloodline. After nearly eight hundred years of bloody
battle, Rafael would end the cursed killing of Lycans.

He
looked down at the woman’s ashen face. His blood quickened as her body thrummed
in his arms. She had a place in the rising; he knew it in his gut. He laid her
back down. As easily as he had ripped the sweatshirt in half, he did the same
to her baggy pants and pulled them from her. The leather boots took more
effort, especially the one housing her swollen foot. Clumps of blood stuck to
the inside of the leather. She cried out again, this time taking a swing at
him.

“Shhh,
I will not hurt you,” he soothed.

He
was answered with a low moan. She lay completely naked, facedown on his bed.
The sharp bones of her spine stuck up along her pale skin. The long curve of it
reminded him of a sea creature just surfaced. He swept her long hair from her
back and knelt down beside her.

He
closed his eyes and hesitated. Once more, he considered letting her die, but
intuitively he knew her death would not be in the pack’s best interest now.
And—if he were honest with himself—he would grudgingly admit there was
something about her that intrigued him on a very primal level.

He
lowered his lips to the topmost wound, just at the base of her skull. Despite
her injuries, her skin smelled fresh, sunny, and sensuous. Arousal flared.
Blood warmed in his veins, and the beast within him stirred. He closed his
eyes, wrestling with the power that grew within him even as her female essence
called to him.

The
beast growled. Valiantly Rafael wrestled it back to obedience.

Slowly,
he pressed his lips to her mauled skin. His body swelled at the first taste of
her. Her blood mingled with his saliva, the coppery taste ambrosia even as he
licked the poison of the Slayer’s black magic from her flesh.