Eternal Demon: Mark of the Vampire (3 page)

Steeled and ready for a fight, Erion stared, unblinking at the scene before him, nearly thinking himself mad as a gleaming, bride-white, pumpkin-shaped carriage crawled out of the hole in the earth, legs moving like a gigantic white spider.

Erion’s mind squeezed.

No.

Impossible. Perhaps even insane. This couldn’t be Cruen’s bride. Inside this Cinderella carriage from hell?

As the ghostly team cleared the split in the earth and found solid ground, the carriage came to a halt. One of the horses turned its head and eyed Erion. Its nostrils flared in warning as it pawed the ground.

Erion’s hand tightened around his blade, and in that moment he remembered what he was doing there.

Whom he came to steal—and why.

As if they sensed it too, the transparent beasts shifted their gazes and took off, bolting into the now-still woods, dirt kicking up around them.

Erion exploded forward, his blood fueling his pace. This female, whatever she was, belonged to him. She was his bargaining chip—the ransom he would keep at his side until Ladd was returned. Returned to the ones who knew how to love.

He ran through the black, cool woods, keeping pace with the carriage until it burst forth into an open field. Moonlight poured down overhead, spread its ethereal shards out over the overgrown expanse.

No farther, my lady.

In a burst of speed, Erion shot forward, made a quick right, and stopped dead in front of the horses. The beasts screamed as they came to a halt, rearing up, nearly braining him with their massive hooves. The demon inside Erion pulsed to get out, tame what was snorting and hissing in front of him, muzzle what was letting loose a cacophony of terrified screams inside the bride-white carriage.

He smiled grimly. The terror was only beginning for his parcel.

He leaped onto the footrest near the carriage door and gripped the handle. A flexible wall of dark magic pushed at him, tried to buck him off, tried to convince his mind that he was seeing a mirage, but Erion mentally shoved back at the sensation and yanked at the door.

It wouldn’t budge.

Not a problem. He enjoyed tearing the gift wrap off a parcel.

Reaching up, he grabbed the metal bar on the roof of the carriage, swung back, and crashed his feet into the door. It went down with a thud. Another feminine scream pierced the night air, and the horses panicked and took off again, barreling across the field. Erion’s gaze was razor sharp now, but all he saw was a red blur with electric green eyes before he was hit in the chest and thrown backward.

He landed on the ground with a teeth-shattering slam, something fierce and flooded with layers of skirt on top of him. He heard the horses scream and snort, saw out of his peripheral vision the coach clattering past, abandoning the meadow for the dark woods beyond.

The Layers of Skirt spoke. “Before I kill you, I want to know just who the hell you are!”

Wet grass and cold earth at his back, Erion’s brows descended over his narrowed gaze. The female sat astride him, had his arms pinned at his sides as though she were under the impression she had some kind of control in the situation. In truth, he could not only flick her off like a bothersome fly, but stretch her arms over her head and slit her throat with one fang, all in under a breath. But then he wouldn’t be able to feel her weight atop him. So for a moment he let her remain where she was.

Miles and miles of shocking red hair, illuminated by the moon overhead, draped either side of his shoulders, and those inhuman eyes the color of emeralds in the brightest sunlight gazed down at him with equal parts scorn and I-want-to-rip-your-head-off.

This female,
Erion mused, the organ between his legs pulsing with curiosity
, may be sixty-five inches of soft, round, sexual pleasure wrapped up in a hundred irritating layers of creamy white wedding costume, but she is clearly one fierce bitch.

He had no doubt that she would kill him if he gave her the chance.

If he gave her even an inch.

With one smooth, swift roll, Erion reversed their positions. On her back, her arms pinned above her head by one of his hands, her hair splayed like a sunrise around her face, and her eyes flashing in the moon’s light, she hissed at him, struggled against him like a caged animal.

“You have made a grave mistake, Male,” she said, her voice as deadly as her gaze.

“We shall see,” Erion answered, his tone smooth and resolute as he slipped the other hand around her waist.

She kicked at him, tried to get her knee up between his legs. “I am to be mated this night, you fool!”

Erion chuckled softly. “It may need to be postponed.”

“My betrothed will not look kindly on having his bride accosted,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I am counting on it,” Erion said, releasing her pinned arms and yanking her closer to his body. His gaze traversed the moonlit landscape one last time. “Let us hope that Cruen cares enough to come after you. For if he does not . . . well, we are both doomed to a fate worse than death.”

And from the cold, moonlit ground, Erion flashed away, his parcel still struggling like a feral cat at his side.

H
e
moved through the city like the ghost he’d once been called—like the ghost he could’ve been if the ruddy gods had been merciful instead of perpetually cruel. The cover of night did little to shield him from the eyes of the millions who lived and worked in Manhattan, and so he took to the airways, flashing in and out of the crowds until he reached the quieter, less-populated parts of town.

SoHo, and particularly the street on which the Roman brothers lived, was devoid of pedestrian traffic, almost suburban in its cleanliness and drawn-curtained windows exposing the warm lamplight from inside.
The brothers have done brilliantly well in choosing this location for their compound,
he thought, abandoning all flash progression and heading toward his destination at an easy jog. Though the building they lived within wasn’t difficult to find, if one was looking.

And he was definitely looking.

He rounded the corner of the warehouse, dropped to the ground just before the fence line, and planted five of his strongest military-grade magic deflectors. Minutes ticked by as he let the deflectors do their job, pulling in and defusing the magic. Then he gingerly stepped across the line and leaped over the fence.

They didn’t know he was coming. Well, he’d never given them a bloody save-the-date card, had he? But the Roman brothers had offered him their allegiance that night in Cruen’s laboratory nearly seven months ago, when the world had gone to rubbish—when his first love had been murdered by Cruen. He’d gone there to find Cruen, but had found his love in a cage, nude, starving for sex. Believing her a Breeding Female, Cruen had abducted her, kept her until he could bring Lucian Roman, the Breeding Male to her. Cruen had wished to force them to breed.

The thought, the memory, of her in that cage, in sexual pain, made his blood churn and heat in his veins. He was ready to call in his marker. For months he’d been trying to find Cruen, take him down, but that ancient bastard had managed to block him at every turn, using deeply powerful magic that both repelled him and destroyed his mind and body.

He didn’t like having to ask for help, but it was becoming dire. He needed backup before Cruen’s repelling magic killed him.

He beat his fist hard upon the wood, and in moments, the door opened. Lucian Roman stood there, framed in the wide entryway. The tall, near-albino Pureblood gave him a curious, fascinated, and annoyingly familiar assholelike glare.

“Been a while, Brit Boy?” Lucian said. “You look like hell.”

“’Course I do, Frosty. I’ve been living in it for the past seven months.” Synjon Wise nodded at the white-haired
paven
who had mated his good friend, Bronwyn, and was his chuffed equal at imparting insulting pet names. “Seven months and I’ve yet to capture the devil.” He moved past the Roman brother and stepped inside without being asked. “Don’t like asking for help, but it seems I have no other choice.”

•   •   •

Hellen landed with a jolt, her feet smacking against hard earth, her teeth knocking together, and her hand automatically reaching back for her bow. But it wasn’t there.

’Course it wasn’t there.

She wasn’t home. She wasn’t in the carriage. And she wasn’t in the arms of the bloodsucker she was promised to.

Her heart pounded hard and fast in her chest, but she forced herself to calm. Think. Assess.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness surrounding her. She was still outside, but the landscape had changed. Beneath the cool moon, she saw rolling hills dotted with trees, and beyond, miles and miles of what appeared to be brown, spindly vines. Where was she? Flowing up through her nostrils, the scent of earth was strange and lovely and begged her system to calm, but that wasn’t about to happen. She’d been stolen, ripped away from her destiny. And the thing, the tank with arms, who had done it was holding her still.

In fact, one of those arms was clamped around her middle, keeping her tight against the wall of muscle that was his chest.

Who is he? And how is he connected to Cruen
? What did he want from the bloodsucker? And how far would he go to get it?

Every muscle inside her screamed to flex, to fight, but the shift of space and distance had slowed her reaction time. Her mind and body weren’t as tightly fused as they normally were. It was only the years of disciplined battle in the Rain Fields that allowed her to push past these new and frustrating limits and begin the process of a competent struggle.

As the male moved forward, up the steep incline of a gray-green hillock, Hellen kicked and wriggled to get free. As she did, her body slowly realigned. Moans, grunts of pressure escaped her throat, and she slammed the back of her head into whatever she could make contact with. But instead of releasing her, the male cursed, then yanked her even tighter against him.

Panic threatened to waste her energy, make her muscles tired and useless, but she ignored their need, their protest. She hadn’t given up everything: her life, her freedom, her future—shit,
everything
—for some asshole with a grudge to come in and take it away.

Gathering all the rage and heat and determination she had in her guts, she cried out in battle, arched her back, and slammed her elbow into the male’s belly.

The pain came quick. But it wasn’t his pain. “Shit!” she hissed as her bone met the granite wall of his abdominals.

“Cease fighting, woman,” he growled, completely unfazed by her assault. “You will injure yourself.”

His voice, a rough timbre of equal parts death and intrigue, echoed in the cold air he dragged her through. But she refused to heed his warning. Again, she screamed out her battle cry, again she thrust her elbow back, then twisted and snarled and fought like the demon she was to get free.

“Your struggle is useless,” he said, his breathing unfettered, as though he carried an irritated child, not a fully grown, feral demon female.

“It will be of great use,” she sputtered, refusing to stop fighting, “if I can get one good shot to your crotch.”

He grunted as he moved swiftly down the steep slope of the hill. “Tell me where your betrothed is and perhaps I will release you.”

She would sooner believe a rogue demon. “Bullshit.” She swallowed the urge to ask him why he wanted Cruen. Had the bloodsucker she was to mate done something heinous to this male or his family? And did she care? “You’re not about to let me go. You’ve risked too much in stealing me.”

She could practically feel his satisfied grin. “True. But I could ease my hold on you.”

“Oh, what a wondrous bargain,” she spat out caustically. “And one I would certainly make, for your stench is most foul. But alas and once again, I do not know where my fiancé resides.”

“Perhaps a few days as my houseguest will cause that information to surface.”

“Not a chance,” she returned, then whipped her head to the side and hit his cheek with a resounding smack. It hurt like hell, but she didn’t care. She reveled in his quick and pissed-off curses. She had to get away from him, get to Cruen, or get home. “I demand you return me to the forest! To my coach!”

A growl vibrated against her neck and the male came to a fierce halt at the bottom of the verdant valley. He released his hold on her waist, only to grab her shoulders and whirl her to face him. Her breath caught in her lungs as she hung there, a good foot off the ground.

“Demand?” he repeated caustically. “You
demand
from me?” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Let’s get one thing very clear, woman. There will be no demands and very few opportunities to bargain. From now until I decide otherwise, you belong to me. You are my prisoner and my bait. Only when I have back what was stolen from me will I even think about releasing you.”

She stared at him, forced herself to hold his gaze. It was all she could do, as her throat and tongue refused to work. Gods, she was pathetic. She hung there, immobile and stunningly fearful. She had been raised by the most hideous of beasts—the king of all beasts, in fact. Abbadon was the Devil himself, massive, ugly, feral, and he loved to strike fear in every cell of everyone he encountered. But this male . . . this male was somehow worse. This fearsome creature with long black hair, severe catlike features, and silver eyes that smoldered with determined passion wasn’t interested in intimidation or arrogant threats. No, this male’s motivation for abducting her and holding her hostage was fueled by something far more dangerous. Deep emotional stakes. Cruen had taken something the fearsome creature desperately wanted, and Hellen knew down to her very core that he would stop at nothing, not even the promise of his own death, to get it back.

The male watched her, knew her mind raced with assessments and questions and perhaps even unhatched plots. His fingers dug into her skin as he stared at her. His lip curled and the muscles in his neck bulged.

“Shall we end this, woman?” he growled. “This dangerous game you’re playing?”

Letting him know how fearful she was would be foolish at best. Forcing an attitude of confidence had always served her well in the past.

“I play at nothing,” she said through gritted teeth.

He glared at her as if she were something to consume. “I will give you one chance. Tell me where your beloved is, where the location of your soon-to-be mating bed resides, and I will return you.”

She shook her head, nostrils flaring. “I can’t help you.”

Fury glittered in his diamond eyes. “A liar and a hellion.”

She didn’t deny the latter, but he was kidding himself if he thought she was lying to him. “Do you really think I want to remain here, captive and treated like a rag doll? I have nothing to gain in that.”

He sniffed arrogantly, as though the answer was as obvious as the sneer on his face. “If you would mate with Cruen, you would also protect him.”

“You think Cruen needs protection?” she said with a trace of black humor. “Clearly you don’t know him intimately. He is far more powerful than you can even imagine.”

The corners of the male’s full lips curled up into a demonic smile. He pulled her closer. The scent of him entered her nostrils, made the skin on her arms tingle, and perhaps something in her belly as well.

“You have seen this power up close, have you?” he asked, his face a mere half arrow’s length from her own.

“Of course,” she lied. She had no intention of letting him know she’d never met her fiancé—that, in fact, she’d basically been sold to the bloodsucker. “And if you don’t return me this very instant, that power shall be released on you. Are you and those you love prepared to die for this cause?”

His face turned to stone in an instant. His nostrils flared as he pinned her with a look so still, so cold, she thought her breath would be visible when she exhaled.

“Yes, woman,” he said. “I am prepared to die.”

Hellen didn’t say another word. She never had the chance. Without warning, the male tossed her over one shoulder and started up the rise. Panic shot through her and she continued to fight, using every part of her body that wasn’t contained. But even as she fought, she knew it was no use. He was impossibly strong and determined to have his way. Her chest grew tight, the air fighting to get in and out. If she didn’t find her way to Cruen, mate with him, her father would punish her sisters, perhaps even force one of them to wed the bloodsucker in her stead. She’d sworn to their mother before the female died that she would care for her sisters, protect them from Abbadon, the male her own mother had been forced to wed. And Hellen had—she’d done everything she could to keep that promise. She had become the sacrifice. And now this bastard was getting in her way.

Facing backward, nearly immobile within his grasp, Hellen craned her neck, attempting to glance over her shoulder. She wanted to see where he was taking her. Under the bleak light of the mist-coated moon, a gray stone castle spread out across the land, its four turrets rising up to the clouds. With its slit windows and acres of grapevines in ruler-straight rows, it was impressive and oddly welcoming. Not at all what she thought her prison would look like.

An iron gate surrounded the property, and a pair of massive wooden double doors announced the entrance. When the male stopped before them, Hellen wondered if this was her chance to escape. Though her field of vision hadn’t been optimal, during the quick surveillance over her shoulder, she’d seen no guards. The male would have to release her to open the gate, wouldn’t he? She waited, slowed her breathing, and combed the landscape behind them for the best route once she broke from him—the thickest stand of trees, the darkest spots within the small forest.

It was in that moment, the moment she spied a heavy growth of trees in the distance, that her ears caught the sound of quick pain, and her nostrils the scent of blood.

She gasped, flinched, thinking that it was her own blood she scented. He had cut her. How had she missed it? How had she not felt it? She craned her neck again as her mind searched for the point of pain on her skin. But this time, what she saw over her shoulder killed the cool, thought-based awareness she was striving for and sent flares of sick panic coursing through her.

The male had bit into his wrist. He was lifting the wound toward the gate, blood dripping from the twin fang pricks onto the ground.

“You’re a bloodsucker!” she cried, as he pressed the wound against the lock.

He hissed, perhaps at the pain of it or the coolness of the metal. Perhaps at her.

“You’re a vampire,” she continued, true fear within her now. How hadn’t she guessed this? He wanted Cruen. It stood to reason whatever issue they had would stem from the fanged world.

“You sound horrified,” he said with mild amusement.

There was a sharp click, and the double doors drew back at a slow, even pace.

“I am!” she said, feeling suddenly queasy. “Your fangs. The blood. You bit into your own flesh.”

“Get used to it,” he said, carrying her toward the front door of the castle. “The
paven
you are to wed will be biting into far more than his own wrist. If you get my meaning.”

She didn’t want to get his meaning, even though she saw it clearly in her mind. It was the one thing she feared about her mating. Not the sex; she could blank out and open her legs easily enough. But the bite of a vampire. The fangs breaking her skin, blood being sucked out of her. It sickened her. She began to struggle once again as he moved up the stone steps and entered the castle.