Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (34 page)

Lucian rolled his eyes. Fucking
veanas
.

Mai turned to him then and offered him a hint of a smile, a tentative thing that no doubt was supposed to bring him around, make him forgiving, perhaps even cordial—shit, maybe even jovial.

Wasn’t happening.

He nodded. “Mother.”

“Ye came!” she said breathlessly as though it was her greatest wish in the entire world, and maybe it was—then she calmed herself and lowered her voice. “I’m so glad. It’s so good to see ye both.” Her gaze moved over her son, her eyes shining. “And ye look well,
Balas
. Very well.”

“Pray do not get emotional, Mother,” Lucian said flatly, though his insides were doing some kind of bullshit dance of softness that really pissed him off. “Asshole feelings” is what they should be referred to as. “I have enough of that from my
veana
here.”

Mai smiled at Bronwyn, who squeezed Lucian’s hand before leading him forward. They followed Mai through groups of Impures and Purebloods mixing soil and compost, some carrying trays of seedlings, their expressions happy and excited under the mixture of torchlight and moonlight. Lucian couldn’t understand excitement over a few plants and a couple of buckets of shitty-smelling earth, but to each his own, he supposed.

“Here,” Mai said, pointing to a patchwork blanket near the river. “I saved ye the best spot.”

“Thank you,” Bronwyn said, her tone so damn kind he almost wondered if she was faking it. He guessed not. “It’s lovely.” She elbowed him then. “Isn’t it lovely, Lucian?”

“It’s precious,” he said tightly. “As precious as pig shit.”

Bronwyn turned to him and glared, but Mai laughed, a damn pretty sound that brought him back a few years, maybe more than a few. He didn’t want to go back there. Didn’t want to acknowledge the good or the tolerable, only the heinous and the suckass. Only the debilitating fact that his mother welcomed the rutting, unfeeling monster of a Breeding Male into her bed and her heart and turned a blind eye to the torment that it caused her son. It was easier to hate that way.

A loud sound—some kind of pop—electrocuted the
air. A shot of lightning or burst of sound. Then again. Lucian came alert, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air. “What is that?”

Far from alarmed, Mai smiled. “Some of the
balas
get ahold of firecrackers this time of year. Ye remember.”

“Fuck yes, I remember.” He turned to Bronwyn. “I believe one of them placed a particularly nasty blaster in my school bag.”

Bronwyn’s eyes softened and she leaned in and whispered, “May have been why your mother sent you away, huh?”

“Stop trying to make sense,
Veana
,” he growled, seeing his mother move down to the stream out of his peripheral vision. “I’m not in the mood.”

She grinned. “What are you in the mood for?”

“I don’t know.” He released a weighty, tired breath. “Perhaps for you to tell me you love me.”

Bronwyn’s brows lifted. “Really? In front of all these people? All these townsfolk who treated you so foully?”

He lowered his chin. “Especially in front them.”

She smiled. It was like sitting inside the goddamn sun it was so brilliant. “Come here.”

When he leaned forward, she kissed him, so softly it hurt his empty heart. Then she whispered, “I love you, Lucian Roman.”

There was another blast, a crack of sound, then something that resembled a soda bottle opening.

“Little shites,” Lucian grumbled, standing up and offering her his hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”

Making their way between couples and families, both Pureblood and Impure, along the gentle river, Lucian led her up a rise and into the center of town.

“Where are we going?” Bronwyn asked.

“You will see, lass.”

He led her past the market carts and around the blacksmith’s shop until they stopped in front of a tree.
The
tree. It was a massive birch with a sturdy trunk and thirty arms at least, stretching every which way. It had been Lucian’s one place of comfort, of respite from the bullying
balas
of his youth. Carved into the wood were the names of nearly everyone who had lived in the
credenti
during Lucian’s life there.

He watched Bronwyn draw her hand over the wood, over the carvings. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is more than that,” he said, leaning back against it smartly. “As long as I stood close to this tree, no one could ever, or would ever, hurt me.” He grinned. “They thought this a magic tree, believed that if they disturbed it in any way, stood beside it, touched it—they would be cursed.”

“Why would they think that?”

“The names of everyone in town were carved into this tree by an unknown, unseen force. Morning dawned, a new name. A walk in the square after evening meal—a new name.” He looked past her at the town and its inhabitants. “The names of the
balas
who tormented me went up first.”

“They never knew it was you, did they?”

He found her gaze and grinned widely. “Fuck no.” Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a crude knife, the only thing the cottage had in terms of weapons. “It’s time for my name.”

“Nothing to fear from the
balas
in town,” she said. “Not anymore.”

The wood gave easily as he carved. It felt good to
put his name there, release it all into this living thing. He was nearly to the final letter when the crash and pop of another set of fireworks went off.

“Those little shites are really asking for it,” Lucian griped, his back to Bron as he worked.

“The
balas
are a good distraction,” a deep voice said. “For the Beast.”

Lucian whirled around to find Bronwyn in the arms of the
mutore
, of Nicholas’s twin, of what could be his brother, her back to his chest, her eyes wide and as fixed on Lucian’s as the glittering diamond ones of her captor.

“Flash, Bron,” Lucian hissed, though his gaze never left the
paven
holding her.

He regarded Lucian without vitriol. “She cannot.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucian saw Bronwyn nod imperceptibly. Fucking hell. Whatever magic the
mutore
had was rich and solid. He would have to think quickly to get her out of his hold.

He pushed away from the tree and said evenly, “You won’t take her.”

“I will have you both, Lucian Roman.”

Forcing his body to calm, Lucian’s mind worked hard and fast. Did he get physical with this bastard? Could he do that without injuring Bron? His fingers played with the blade in his hand. The possibilities were few, but he circled on one and landed. He stepped closer, his knife in his fist. “She is in
swell
,
Gemino
, and the
balas
is mine.”

Bronwyn made a sound like the last thing in the world she wanted was for this bastard to know such a thing.

The
mutore
, the
gemino
, raised one black eyebrow.
“Cruen will be most interested in your offspring, Son of the Breeding Male.”

“I’m certain of that,” Lucian uttered. “Though he may try to hurt the child.”

The
paven
nodded. “It is possible.”

Lucian’s fangs descended. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the instinct of protection. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Understand something,
Gemino
—if my
balas
is hurt, yours will be as well.”

The
mutore
sneered. “My
balas
. I have no
balas
.”

“Unfortunately for the boy, you do.” Lucian moved closer. “Remember the
credenti veana
you bedded? The one who thought you were Nicholas?”

Deep in the
gemino
’s gaze, there was a shudder. “I remember. But passing my seed is not possible. I am not able to sire.”

Lucian chuckled. “Well, it looks like your pecker was working just fine that day,
Brother
. The
veana
you hold in your arms at this very moment is a genealogist and the very one who tested your son. He doesn’t belong to Nicholas, as we first believed—he belongs to you.” He took another step. “Now release my
veana
and I will go with you nice and quiet and easy.”

“No!” Bronwyn yelled, the sound rushing down the town road to the ears of the other
credenti
members.

The
mutore
looked unconvinced, yet affected by Lucian’s words. He signaled to Lucian. “Come. Now.”

The switch was quick, and left no time for Bronwyn to fight. Right before Lucian was flashed away, Alexander and Nicholas landed in the square.

“Take her home!” Lucian shouted, praying that his command, his last request for Bronwyn’s care, made it to the ears of his brothers.

As Dillon sat on the window ledge outside the room Gray had given her in his compound, her legs dangling down over a good eight stories, she ignored the thick, pale wrist that had been shoved under her nose a second ago. Not as an offer, but a demand. He wanted her to flash her fangs and feed off his Impure blood. And she just wanted him to fuck off.

Gray took his arm away, leaned against the window frame, and made a sound that confirmed his growing frustration. “I know my weak swill doesn’t tempt your refined palate, but you need something.”

Dillon didn’t answer, just stared out at the lights of the city, let the cold air numb her skin.

“Do you want me to contact the Romans?” he asked.

“No.”

“What about Sara?” The strain of bitterness was barely hidden beneath the surface of the question.

She inhaled, closed her eyes. “All I want is to be left alone.”

“So you can flash out of here?”

She turned to look at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

His gaze moved over her. Not as it had a few weeks ago when he’d pulled her into the shower and kissed the shit out of her. No…this was a pity kind of gaze.

“I’ll leave you alone, D,” he said. “No problem. But you’re not leaving here without me knowing about it. Understand?”

“Don’t manage me, Impure. I’m not a motherfucking fool, okay?” She opened her arms—not to invite an embrace, but to show herself to him fully. “Where exactly would I go looking like this?”

His jaw worked hard. “You need to feed. You don’t want it now, fine. But I’ll just keep asking till you do.”

He almost didn’t get that last word out before Dillon grabbed his wrist and ripped into him with her fangs.

“Fuck!” he cried, but he didn’t flinch.

She drank. She drank hard and fast and just to shut him up. Because she needed to think, plan, devise. She wasn’t jumping out the window tonight, maybe not even tomorrow or the following day. But it was coming. Her revenge. That was the blood she wanted flowing down her throat. That was the blood that would make her strong again.

Sweet, satisfying senator’s blood.

A
lexander and Nicholas left Lucian’s bedroom with a heave of a sigh and with all the invisible scratches and dents to their
pavenhood
that either one could stand. Outside the door, they stopped and looked at each other, shook their heads in amazement and exhaustion. It was an understatement to say that Bronwyn hadn’t wanted to go with them—hadn’t wanted to leave the Scottish
credenti
or the memory of Lucian, or the company of his mother. And it had taken every ounce of explaining and coercion by both himself and Nicholas to get her to even agree to talk with them about it.

Alexander headed for the stairs, Nicholas behind him. Unfortunately, talking had led nowhere, and with only Lucian’s plea to guide their actions, Alexander and Nicholas had ended the fruitless negotiation and just flashed her home to SoHo, getting her inside and upstairs before she could flash back out.

“I’ll get Evans to watch the door,” Nicholas said. “Can’t have her getting out, going right back.”

“Lucian would kill the both of us if we let that happen,” Alexander put in as they hit the bottom step and headed for the library, ready to plan their next move. First they were going to get through to Titus, see what their father really knew. Then, if that didn’t work, they were going to the Order. If it got them to Lucian, they were going to bow down at the ancient feet of those nasty bastards and beg them for help.

“You think he’s still breathing,
Duro
?” Nicholas asked, heading down the hall.

Alexander stopped at the door to the library and gave Nicky a quick smile. “I think it’ll take a hell of a lot to bring our brother down.”

“Hope you’re right.” Nicholas’s cell rang and he yanked it from his pocket, answered it with a quick, “Yeah.” He stiffened, looked up at Alexander. “Here.” He held out his phone. “It’s Dillon.” His brow lifted. “She says she knows where he is.”

Lucian sat inside a metal cage with a naked
veana
and tried not to breathe. A few minutes ago, he’d been hauled into this room, some kind of lab facility, heavy on the cages and inside them Pureblood and Impure life—one of which was the very
paven
who’d mated his princess.

Not surprisingly, Synjon Wise hadn’t acknowledged him from the dark recesses of his small cage. Sure, he’d seen Lucian, even had offered him a momentary flare of anger as he’d been tossed into the cage with the naked
veana
, but that had been that. Ever since then, Brit Boy had offered him nothing, no explanation, no questions
about Bron—just silence as the
veana
across from him stared into his cage with desperation in her eyes.

Lucian didn’t have a clue what was going on here, but it didn’t look good. None of this looked good.

“Your Breeding Female, Lucian Roman.” Cruen entered the room in his Order robes, followed by the
mutore
and three of his friends. “Beautiful, isn’t she? Irresistible, she will be.”

Lucian heard Syn growl behind him.

“Not going to happen, asshole,” Lucian stated flatly. “I’ll never take this
veana
.”

Cruen laughed. “You think you have a choice?”

Lifting his chin, Lucian said with a clear voice, “Fuck yeah.”