Icarus; The Kindred (A Paranormal Romance) (4 page)

As
I open the door to the hall I laugh to myself—not "ha ha" funny, but "oh shit, I really didn't think this through." Every window in what I assume is a house has been covered in darkening film. This is a good thing in some respects, but simply awful for figuring out which side of the house I'm on and what time of day it is. All I can do is follow the walls and pray this isn't one of those high-security places where a Dungeons and Dragons nerd is in the closet watching monitors as he collects mage cards.

I hear voices ahead of me and briefly consider turning to go the other way, but being the glutton for punishment that I am, I walk a few more steps.

"Give her time. We don't know what she's been through," Olivia pleads.

Stranger still, I lean around the corner and see a balcony railing.

I'm upstairs?

They sit in an open room filled with glass windows, the moon high above the ocean in the distance. It surprises me a little to see that the largest windows of the house are uncovered.

"Come on, Liv, get real. Jessica left on purpose. Iris could be dead for all we know," Damian growls.

I am starting to get the feeling that this guy hates me. This reminds me that I failed to ask Jacelynd who Iris was. Wish I'd thought of that before I cold-cocked him.

"That was ruled out ten years ago when he heard her for the last time. She didn't immediately lose consciousness, remember? They tried to get information from her first—we've had this discussion." Quinn doesn't seem terribly thrilled at the prospect of having it again. And which "he" are they referring to this time?

"She will turn on us. Death—you can mark my words on this—by High Coven or the Seer Cleric or both." Damian stands as he says this and turns his back on Quinn.

High Coven, by the way, could be considered the vampiric White House. I've never been one for politics, so I prefer to think of it as "that place I'd have my eyes poked out before visiting." See, much more pleasant. Why would they think after ripping the dosing sphere out of my arm that I would go anywhere near High Coven? Interesting.

I see Damian start in the opposite direction, where I assume a staircase is, and decide that my curiosity might actually get me in trouble this time if I hang around to hear more. It doesn't take me long to find a window that doesn't stick shut and make my way outside.

For the nine thousandth time, I wish that all those urban fantasies I've read were real and I could perform acts of physical impossibility. It would be so convenient if I could just jump from here. Alas, shimmying down the pipe it is.

My feet hit the ground and I run from there. It doesn't dawn on me that stealing keys to a car would have been a better idea until I realize how far out in BFE I am. A handful of beach houses, mostly abandoned from storms past and in desperate need of demolition, are all I can see for miles. This is not good. This is not good because those houses won't provide any kind of protection once the sun rises. Hurricanes tend to knock holes in things. Like walls, for example. I wonder if Jacelynd has woken up yet? I laugh again because my logic failed to remind me that not only am I slow on foot, I am slower than they will be by vehicle once they realize I'm gone. If they come looking, that is. Damian ought to feel a little justified. See, there's always a silver lining.

Three hours, five million sand dunes and seven grass snakes later, my feet are killing me. This, this is why man invented modern transportation. And what I am going to do about the whole missing disc thing? Is it even possible to go back to my old life? Would anyone believe me or am I not exaggerating the treason policies? Makes me wish I'd paid a little more attention to the procedures part of my training (who really listens to that shit, anyway?). Did they even cover this?

Southern Canada, huh? Why would they have sent the disc there? Farthest point from here, maybe?

Here being the beach?
Jacelynd asks.
You couldn't have gone far.

Note to self … Shut. Up.

You're awake. Sweet dreams?

Jessica, you've seen me before, seen us together. Somewhere beneath all that sarcasm, you know who I am. You feel it.

I need blood. I hate to admit this, but I am feeling the telltale signs of deprivation … aura at the edge of my vision, headache, nausea, pissyness … to name just a few.

Then he asks,
Do you realize what time it is?

Before I can ponder his question, another thought hits me.
He said he was coming back early.
I'd been trying my damndest to push Trinity out of my thoughts, seeing as our history is a little less sensei and a little more should-have-kept-it-professional sometimes lover. A member of High Coven mentors every assassin. Trinity was my mentor. Nonetheless, he'll know I'm gone by now. I'd forgotten he was getting back into town on Tuesday, and my brilliant captors apparently hadn't thought I'd have friends who would come after me.
He'll use his key if I don't answer my cell.

I truly hadn't intended for Jacelynd to hear it. But I can practically feel the anger on the other end of this little mental connection we have going on.

He who?
Jacelynd asks.

I have no interest in answering him. I am disgusting, sticky and my once-clean blue shirt clings in places it shouldn't. The sand doesn't wipe off because of the sweat and I've never been more in need of a bath. Okay, that isn't totally true. My first assignment didn't go quite so well, and honestly had Trinity not been with me I would have gotten myself killed.

I look across the horizon to see the night fading into sunrise. It's like my body doesn't know how to react. My initial instinct isn't to fear the light. I sigh, tugging uselessly at my clothes. For the next five minutes, I search for somewhere to take refuge, finally deciding on a house that doesn't appear to have been recently used.

After breaking in—obviously I couldn't use a credit card so let's just say the window was that way when I arrived—I am delighted to find very little clothing in any of the bedrooms and nothing perishable in the fridge. It also appears to be a private home. Either that or this beach house has the most expensive furniture I've ever seen in a rental.

I shower and scrounge for a change of attire. As I finish dressing, I find a working phone. Now what? Do I call Belladonna? Trinity? Who can I trust?

Jessi, just let me know that you're safe. Please.

I groan.
Are you and your psychotic friends coming after me? I would say that directly correlates to how safe I am.

He doesn't respond, apparently pleased enough with knowing that I'm not crispy. Now, back to my phone dilemma. I start to dial Belladonna three times before finally dialing Trinity. He may not answer because he normally won't if he doesn't recognize the number.

"Trinity," he says shortly. He's pissed at something. Or someone.

To my embarrassment, I choke at the sound of his voice. "Please don't hang up."

"Jessica? Christ, where the hell are you?" I hear him move, setting something down and rustling papers. Trinity is older than me, in appearance and actuality. I seem to be in my mid-twenties. He could easily pass for thirty-six or so, not that it detracts from his ridiculously light blue eyes and short blond hair. He reminds me of Neal McDonough on
Desperate Housewives
. Not that I'll admit to watching it.

"The beach. Cape San Blas, Florida, I think. Look, something's happened and I don't want to put you in a position to break your oaths, so if you don't want anything to—"

He cuts me off forcefully, "I'll activate the tracer. We'll—"

"They cut it out of my arm. It will show up in Canada." All I hear is dead silence. "I don't blame you for—"

"Stop! You're making me sick. Have you heard anything I've said to you in the past year? The past decade?" He sighs heavily. "I found your apartment trashed, blood on your couch. It's torn me apart. First thing's first, are you hurt?"

I pull my knees in. "No. I haven't had blood since I was in the throes of withdrawal, but I'll be okay for a little while."

"If I leave now, I should reach you by sundown."

Something in his voice makes me uneasy. "How are you going to find me?"

"I will. I promise."

I
should be sleeping, but I'm still on the not-doomed-for-treason time clock and thus I'm unable to close my eyes. Plus, as tired as my body feels, I have been out of it for days. My joints are stiff and my legs might as well be Jell-O.

The jeans I found are just a little too big. The pale pink t-shirt is a tad too fitted. I notice how washed-out my complexion looks as I pass the mirror in the hall and think perhaps I should look into some self-tanner when I get back.

That is, if I'm allowed to live.

I very well could have damned myself by calling Trinity. I just didn't know who else to call and there isn't anyone else who can make this right. If anyone can have me pardoned, it will be him. He surpassed being a mentor years ago and is now one of the clerics of High Coven. He doesn't exactly have total jurisdiction over his own state (our states have nothing to do with their human counterparts), but judging by how he talks about it, he might as well. He is the only Kindred I've ever seen exhibit powers that supersede our normally heightened senses.

I lie down on the couch because the den is the only room where the shutters have been closed and proceed to stare at the ceiling. The ocean rhythmically rolls onto the shore. I've been to the beach a handful of times in the last decade. Twice with Trinity. We've always had something of a tumultuous relationship—fighting one minute and making love the next. I've always hated his domineering, heavy-handed personality and yet I crave it now. I need to hear his voice, telling me that things will be okay. I think on this a while but eventually the fatigue proves too much and I give in.

Trinity's
lucky. All I feel when I wake up is hot breath on my neck, which elicits my natural fight response. Had he not been stronger than me and able to pin my hands above my head, I would have broken his arm. At least.

Trinity shakes his head, still clasping my wrists.

"How did you find me?" I breathe as he settles himself over me.

He bows his neck over my mouth and there's no will strong enough to deny this kind of hunger. He takes a hissed breath as I draw my first swallow and it shatters the rest of my self-control. It doesn't matter to me that his blood tastes bitter, or that it chills my throat as it goes down. His touch isn't hesitant or tender as he pulls off my jeans. It's possessive and forceful and there isn't any part of me that doesn't crave contact as the warm air hits my now-bare skin.

"I need you to tell me what you want, Jess."

I want you.
I seal the wound with a quick swipe of my tongue and turn away, unable to control my breathing enough to suck and screw at the same time, let alone say something aloud. I start to, but it winds up as a wanton whimper instead.

His laugh is a deep rumble in my ear. He knows me well, knows what his touch does to me. It feels too good—his hard body as it writhes against mine, drives into me. It's all I can do to cling to him, one hand on his chest, the other wrapped around his shoulder.