Icarus; The Kindred (A Paranormal Romance) (3 page)

The hyperventilation isn't the worst part, but it feels bloody close.
The human heart wouldn't be able to sustain the speed, which would undoubtedly cause loss of consciousness. Vampires don't experience things the same way (isn't
that
just typical), so unfortunately for me, I'm fully awake for most of this.

Others have come to check on me several times in the last six hours, bringing with them things they think will help—plastic cups of water, cool cloths, etc. They receive nothing but unadulterated nastiness from me, including throwing those niceties at the wall after they leave. I know … I'm such a pleasant guest. But what can they possibly expect from me?

One of my esteemed visitors is the girl from the bookstore and despite my mental fog, it occurs to me the whole thing was a setup. She didn't react normally when I came strolling into the store because, like Blake, she was expecting me to show up.

I'm feeling so much pain that I can't even tell where it's radiating from—all over, inside my body maybe, my blood itself? My eyes feel puffy like they did when I suffered allergy attacks as a human. I'm not, nor have I ever been, one to whine or complain about stuff, but this isn't normal pain. Epic isn't the word.

A knock sounds at the door. As if they would go away if I told them to. Makes me wonder if serial killers treat their victims with this kind of obtuse kindness or if it's limited to Kool-Aid cults.

"Go away," I growl, impressed by how intimidating I sound.

"I'm sorry, Jessi. I can't do that," says a man with a deeper voice than my first two captors.

I look through the narrow path of debris as he enters. As opposed to Golden Boy, who came across like someone's pain-in-the-ass big brother and Asshole, who came across as, well, an asshole, this guy bears an air of confidence that manages to penetrate my stupor. He is tall, like Golden Boy, but instead of being the guy next-door, this guy is simply unreal. Solid build isn't really the best way to describe his physique—let's just say that I wouldn't want to cross him. He has dark auburn hair that falls to the line of his chin and the cool ivory skin of a storybook vampire. His eyes are also interesting—ocean green. As he comes closer, I realize where I've seen him.

Christian Bale stand-in. No. Effing. Way.

He walks over to me and lowers his hand without any hesitation or fear that I won't accept his offer. "You need blood."

"Jacelynd, I presume?" I laugh the best I can, considering that I can barely breathe. "Go to hell."

He smirks and this doesn't make me any happier. In fact, it has something of the opposite effect and I want so badly to throttle him, but the second I rise to my feet to do that, I lose my balance.

He pins me against the wall with his right hip and presses his leg against me to support my weight. This is irritating in so many ways. He barely has to exert any energy and the gleam in his eyes tells me that he knows this gets under my skin and he likes it. I'm too drained to fight back, so I watch helplessly as he bites his wrist, then tips my head with his right hand and forces me to draw from him.

I lose focus and close my eyes, but I am still aware enough to note not only what he says, but what he does while this happens. Once I am drinking on my own, he lets go of my chin to cradle the back of my head and tenderly runs his thumb across the nape of my neck.

"That's it, love, take as much as you need. I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner."

For the second time in less than two days, I'm stunned. There is a marked difference between the taste of his blood and any I've had before. For starters, it isn't metallic—it tastes sweet and feels hot as it goes down, not at all like it should.

"My blood will dull the pain." He takes away his wrist and gently wipes the blood from my lips. I feel the prick of a needle in my arm and the room goes black.

For
the third time, I wake up somewhere new. This time, it gets my heart rate going. The lights are off, but I can see my dream man from across the room. His clothes are dark; I can't discern the exact color, only the way they fit him like they are tailor-made.

I'm on a bed now, which is far more comfortable than my last accommodations. Still, I want to go home.

"You aren't in any danger, Jessica. If you believe nothing else I say, at least believe that you're safe here."

I sit up and lift my steel-encased wrists to remind him just how safe I am. "Unfasten me then."

He shakes his head mutely.

"Okay, will you tell me where I am?" I can't recall how many times I've asked that and
not
received an answer, but figure I have nothing to lose.

"Cape San Blas." His voice, as soothing as it was in my dreams, makes my gut clench.

"Cape San Blas, Florida? What the hell?" I sound as fatigued as I feel. "This has something to do with Blake Christianson, I assume."

He runs a hand through his hair. It sucks how good-looking he is. Wasn't Ted Bundy attractive, too? "That's part of it," he says.

"How did your friends know so much about me? Why was I set up?" I don't like the look on his face as I ask this.

"What did they tell you?"

"Enough with the games! You cut the dosing sphere out of my goddamn arm! Don't you think I at least deserve the truth?"
Without all the cloak-and-dagger bullshit?

"The truth is that none of us really knows how to tell you what you aren't going to want to hear. Are you prepared for the truth? Or would you prefer to continue with the cloak-and-dagger bullshit?"

What the … ?
I can't seem to find my tongue to ask this aloud.

"Answer my question, please," he says.

"You act like I have a choice in this. Why are you waiting on my permission? You clearly couldn't care less if I give it or not!"

Tears again? Seriously? Bloody hell.

He clears his throat and moves as if he wants to approach me, then thinks better of it and remains seated. "I care more than you know."

We sit in stifling silence for a time before he speaks again. "The two you met first are Damian Ryder and Quinn Christianson. Then Olivia McKenna, though you were a bit out of it for her visits. You may call me Jace. As you already know, it's short for Jacelynd." He pronounces it Jase-lind.

"No last name?" I can't help but ask. This whole thing is absurd.

"We'll get to that. You asked how Quinn knew so much about you. I assume he told you things that you don't believe he could find out easily?"

Okay, I'm either dead or hallucinating. I'm guessing the latter. "You apparently can read minds, why don't you know?"

He grins. "Only when you think something at me directly. I can't read it at will."

See, absurd.
"Pardon me."

"Humans fear us in general, but they have far more to fear from those few of our kind who have taken control over the masses. Icarus dampens our strength, alters our ability to have children and wipes out our long-term memory. We haven't been free from one form of slavery or another, in control of our own people, in nearly five hundred years."

"So skulking around in the dark and hiding is somehow better?" I lean up. "I was free. I could walk around without fear. Do you have any idea what that feels like? When was the last time you had sleep that wasn't plagued by nightmares of bur—?"

"Exactly ten years ago today."

His somber words take me by surprise. I didn't expect
that
precise of a response and for a second I think he's kidding, but his solemn expression tells me that he isn't. "What's so special about today?"

He stands up and walks over to the bed. He appears to debate whether he should sit or not and finally takes a seat beside me. "There are two kinds of Kindred: those who are turned and those who are born this way. You and I, along with Blake and Quinn, are the latter. We aren't human. I don't mean anymore—we never were. We aren't from this world."

I laugh … and I don't mean with the graceful swell of an inside joke, I mean this is effing hilarious. "Star Trek wasn't just a television show for you, was it?" I am staring at him, trying to decide if he is genuinely insane, or if his childhood involves one of those government conspiracy nuthouses, when I notice a tattoo on his neck, just above the collar. And it isn't so much the artwork itself that bothers me, but the fact that I recognize it from my dreams. I reach as far as the chains will let me to trace the outline with my finger. Damn, it
isn't
just a coincidence that he looks like my Christian Bale stand-in.

"Who are you?" I whisper.

Without turning around, he warmly places his hand over mine and takes a long calculated pause before answering, "You aren't ready to hear that yet."

While I contemplate this, I notice the blood soaking his shoulder. "Did I do this?"

"You were out of it."

"When?"

"After I pinned you to the wall. You're a little stronger than I thought, hence the steel cuffs. You blacked out with the drugs, then came to with a vengeance." He stands. "I should have been more careful. I know what withdrawal can do."

He leans against the opposing wall and I can't tell what he's feeling. His mouth holds no expression. His eyes are sedated but he watches me like I'm a rabid dog, unsure of my next move. Not that he's afraid of me, just the opposite. His body language indicates that he thinks what they are all saying about Icarus is the truth and that he has a full hold on the situation. In other words, he thinks I'm the irrational nut job.

But why would I have dreamed about you?

Those weren't dreams, they're memories.

The sound of his voice in my head brings with it the same feeling you get right after you barely miss being in a car wreck. My hands tingle and all the blood rushes to my midsection. "I have no idea how you just did that, but don't even think about doing it again," I breathe.

"Tell me about your life," he says, brushing off what just happened.

"The one that everyone here keeps telling me is a lie? Why bother, so you can dramatically tell me the same thing? You guys really ought to get on the same page. This repetition is obnoxious."

"No," he says calmly, "tell me about your life now."

Okay, now I feel kind of stupid. "You already know I'm an assassin or you wouldn't have used Blake as bait. What else could you possibly want to know that isn't implied by my career?"

He looks me directly in the eyes and I want to turn away, but I can't. "Your
dreams
changed this past year."

"And?"

"You never wondered why the dynamic had changed? I don't believe that for a second."

"You don't know me well enough to
believe
anything about me."

He arches one brow. "I know you well enough to know that your inner thigh is particularly sensitive."

I didn't even know I was capable of blushing.

"Your left shoulder aches from time to time, you hate the sound of crows and even vampiric vision can't make up for how dreadful your driving is." He sits down beside me again. "Everything is the same as before you were taken. Yet something feels different. Can you explain that?"

I lift my arm, the one with the bandage on it. "The same? I beg to differ. It's so far from being the same, I can't even quantify it. I can't explain how you found out what you did about me. My life will never … " my voice fades as I fight the panic. I take a moment and focus on my breathing. The scars on my back, the burn marks, seem to come alive, accompanied by a renewed fear of High Coven's justice. "My life will never be the same." I rub the ache in my chest with the heel of my hand. It's like I'm drowning and I can't catch my breath.

"If I took off the cuffs, would you play nice?" he asks doubtfully.

"Yes," I lie.

He waits for what feels like a good two minutes before acting, then seems to take what I've said as the truth and reaches over to take them off. I give it a few seconds—enough time for my strength to return—before I lean in and kiss him.

My plan was to knock him out once I had him off his guard, but the second his mouth touches mine, I'm lost. This isn't like my dreams, where reason was obscured and our actions, however illicit, were hazy. The feel of his arm around my waist feels too right, the searing heat of his kiss too real. I let it go on for far too long before I finally do as I'd intended.

"You brought this on yourself," I say. "I was cuffed for a reason."

He's out cold. I have no idea why I'm still talking to him. And this feels wrong, just like when I took down Blake. At least Blake put up some semblance of fight. Where's the fight? It can't be this easy.

I make it to my feet and look at where he's slumped over on the bed. His hair is in his face, but the strong line of his jaw is still visible. I can't move at first and for a fleeting second, I think that for whatever inconceivable reason, I've changed my mind about escaping. Then, the reality of what's going on sinks in and my survival instincts kick into overdrive.

I lean over and though part of me wants to fight the urge, I tuck his hair behind his ear and kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry," I whisper.