Taken by Moonlight (37 page)

“Go home,
Samia,” Sloan growled. “Get yourself cleaned up.”

Samia bared
her teeth at him, but after a tense moment, began walking. Vivienne gasped when
she saw the bloody scratches along Samia’s back. They were healing already, but
she could still make them out. She’d taken a few steps when she turned and
looked over her shoulder. In a low voice, she said, “They can’t protect you
forever. I will have my blood rite,
witch
, and then no one—” she broke
off to glare at Sloan “—no one will save you from me.”

When she’d
disappeared into the trees, Sloan turned to face Vivienne. He’d shifted back to
his human form, and looked murderous. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d obviously
done something wrong. Maybe it had something to do with giving Samia what had
been coming to her for a long while.

He
approached her in clipped steps, and took her arm. It wasn’t a painful hold,
but it was firm.

“We’re
going back to the house. Walk.”

“I can walk
by myself, Sloan,” she murmured, pulling at his hold. He began to move, and she
followed, tugging at her arm all the way. She didn’t want to say anything to
embarrass him for in truth she didn’t need any more enemies in this place, but
he wasn’t her father, and she wasn’t a child.

As soon as
they entered the house and Eli closed the door, Vivienne tugged harder. When he
didn’t release her, she looked up into those cold eyes. “Sloan, I’m not a
child. Let go of my arm.”

He didn’t
say anything, which she expected—she’d almost thought the man was mute—and she
repeated her request.

“You say
you’re not a child, but you just acted like one.” Vivienne wasn’t sure what
surprised her more. That he’d spoken so many words at one time, or that she’d
just been set down by a man she didn’t know.

Anger won
out. Who the hell did he think he was? She’d been goaded. She had the patience
of a saint, and Samia had completely crossed the line by licking her ear. She
wasn’t going to justify it to him. She wasn’t a child, and Sloan, beta or theta
or whatever the hell he was, was going to have to get that through his thick
skull.

“Release me
now.” Her voice was whiplash soft, and she held herself still.

“Or what?
Will you use your powers to blast me as well?”

Vivienne
yanked her arm, trying to dislodge him, but only succeed in hurting her arm.
She winced as her arm began to throb and he slackened his hold.

“There are
rules. You cannot go around—” he began in a calmer tone of voice but she was
beyond listening.

“Get off of
me!” she hissed, pulling her body away from him even as he held her arm.

Sloan
blinked at the burst of strength and used his other arm to secure her. He
didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted her to listen. The fact that Samia had
instigated the fight hadn’t gone over his head. He and everyone witnessing them
had seen Samia touch Vivienne first, but she hadn’t drawn blood. The law would
still favor Samia as Vivienne had drawn blood…again. Samia’s previous demand
for a blood rite was still pending but with this new attack, it was almost
definite she was going to get it.

“Vivienne!”

“No!” She
pushed against him, shaking her head when he refused to budge.

“Sloan,
maybe you should let her go. She doesn’t look so good.” Eli’s voice sounded far
away.

She closed
her eyes. There it was again. The darkness. It was clouding her mind, swarming
her senses, and this time, weakening her body. A lock clicked, and what sounded
like footsteps rushed into the room. She heard a curse, and pushed weakly at
Sloan.

“Release…me.”
To her own ears, her voice was whispery-soft, barely there.

Sloan was
suddenly off her, and she heard a grunt and distinct thud, followed by swift
curses as she fell backward, allowing the warm arms of darkness to ensnare her.

Conall
couldn’t find words to explain the rage overpowering his body. When Vivienne
had projected her fear to him, he had been about half an hour away from Cedar
Creek. After the call to Sloan, he’d driven like a maniac, cutting the journey
down to fifteen minutes, and had stepped through his door to find Sloan holding
his struggling and distressed mate.

He’d
reacted immediately, rushing Sloan and throwing him up against the wall with
such force the wall cracked.

Caught off
guard, Sloan gripped his shirt, but gradually, he relaxed. Conall wasn’t
appeased in the least. He slammed him into the wall again. A grimace touched
Sloan’s lips, but he remained immobile, his eyes watchfully alert.

“What the
hell are you doing?”

Vivienne
whimpered somewhere behind him, and Conall briefly took his gaze off Sloan to
look at his mate. She was on the floor unconscious, her head in Eli’s lap. A
growl erupted in his chest at the intimate position, and he had to force
himself to remember that Eli had caught her, broken her fall. Her breathing was
even, but her mind…. Her mind was filled with garbled voices, whispers. It was
all erratic. She’d suffered some form of trauma.

Conall’s
vision blurred, and his grip on Sloan tightened.

“I didn’t
hurt her, Conall.” Sloan’s voice was calm as he tried to rationalize what had
happened. He shook his head slowly. “I was holding her—”

A growl
escaped his lips as he returned his attention to Sloan. He’d been holding her?
Why was he even touching her?

“Change!”
he commanded, stepping away from Sloan and pulling at the expensive cream tie
he’d donned with the three-piece navy blue suit. It was all coming off, and
then he was going to physically explain to his beta why touching his mate was
off limits.

Sloan held
up a hand, as if doing so would succeed in calming the frantically stripping
alpha.

“Conall, I
didn’t—”

“CHANGE!”

“Oh, shit.”
That was from Raoul, who’d just entered the room to find an unconscious
Vivienne, a pissed-off, screaming Conall, and Sloan, looking extremely
uncomfortable against the wall.

“What’d you
do, Sloan?” Even as Raoul playfully asked the question, he tensed, preparing to
get between two brawling werewolves if there was need. Waves of anger rolled
off Conall, and Raoul remembered a time, not so long ago, that he and Sloan had
had to cage Conall. Except now, there was no cage, and his backup was the focus
of the alpha’s rage.

“Conall, I
don’t think—” Sloan began, only to be cut off by Conall’s snarl.

“I said
CHANGE!” Buttons popped and fell against the wooden floor as Conall pulled at
his shirt.

“Conall.”
Zahira stood in the doorway, the voice of reason inside the madness threatening
to erupt. Her eyes were only for Conall. She moved forward quickly, and knelt
beside Vivienne, touching a hand to her head.

The
unconscious female groaned, whimpering as she twisted back and forth.

Upon seeing
the strain on his mate’s face, Conall turned back to Sloan, intent on finishing
what he’d started, when Zahira called out, “Help me, Conall.” When he returned
his gaze to Zahira, she lifted an impatient brow at him. “I would imagine it’s
not comfortable on the floor.”

With a
glare to Sloan that said clearly ‘this is not over’, he marched over to
Vivienne and gently scooped her into his arms. He positioned her comfortably
against his chest and headed for the stairs. Zahira was the only one to follow
him.

“Help him.”

Over the
past days, Maximilian Cronin had tried everything in his power to do exactly
what he was asking of the warlock, to help his son. He’d gone through numerous
reversal spells, had tried a resurrection spell, and had even gone as far as to
bring a human, hoping to entice Max to take his soul. Nothing worked. His body
had grown tired, frail almost, with the amount of exertion he’d used as he
attempted to bring Max out of this state. He refused to think of his son as
dead. He was not breathing, but his heart beat had returned minutes after he’d
cast that bedamned spell on himself, and though faint, his heartbeat was still
there. He needed him back. Yes, he wanted his memories so that he could find
the two girls, but Max was his heir. He’d been bred meticulously to maximize
the reach of his power. Maximilian had trained his son personally. He would not
sit idly by and let him slip away.

Kyros, the
warlock to whom Maximilian had spoken, took a restricted step forward, the
silver chains along his feet rattling. His pale blue body was dirty with the
filth of weeks without a proper bath, and he smelled. Still, he walked proudly,
his back straight, his head high.

“He is
dead,” Kyros responded blandly, turning his swirling silver gaze on the Grand
Wizard who’d imprisoned him.

“He is not
dead. Help him and you’ll have your freedom.” Maximilian watched as a white
brow lifted, and a smirk appeared on Kyros’s lips. Had he not needed his help,
he would have had him beaten for that.

Kyros was
one of two pure-breed warlocks he’d captured to add to his laboratory. The
rest, almost a handful more, were all half-breeds. What he couldn’t accomplish
through spells, he’d hoped to do through science. So far, he hadn’t found any
cure for mortality. He’d tried splicing the genetics of various immortals, to
no avail, but he had found other uses for the warlocks. Even Max’s mother, a
hybrid he’d captured, had served the purpose of bearing his heir.

“It cannot
be done, my lord,” Kyros spat, moving closer to inspect the body of the man
lying across the slim hospital bed. “If he’s not dead yet, he’s surely dying.”

Kyros
turned and began heading for the door. Maximilian barely resisted the urge to
strangle him. Despite his imprisonment, almost for six months now, Kyros still
acted every bit as arrogant as he had the first time he’d been captured and
brought to the lab.

“He is one
of yours,” Maximilian said, grinding his teeth at that thought. Max wasn’t one
of
them
; he was a witch whose genes happened to have traces of warlock.

The warlock
stopped, and turned his head, fixing Maximilian with a stare that was by far
too all-encompassing. Kyros moved back over to the bed, and placed his pale
blue hand against Max’s heart. He drew in a deep breath, and stilled.

Minutes
trickled by before he lifted his hand and said, “There are no guarantees, but I
know of a way to help warlocks in such conditions.”

“Do it.”

“I will
need my powers at their fullest,” Kyros said slowly, looking over his shoulder
to where Maximilian hovered. The Grand Wizard reluctantly nodded. Kyros was
always kept weakened, as were most of the warlocks, because of the threat they
could be when at their best. Still, Maximilian would deal with that later,
after his son was alive.

“Whatever
you need, you will have it.”

An almost
feline smile touched Kyros’s lips. “I will need two souls, strong souls.
Witches, perhaps?” He looked back to Max, and continued, “It would be kind of
you to volunteer, my lord.”

Maximilian
ignored the last part, and motioned to one of the trackers lining the opposite
wall.

“Two
civilians,” he instructed, and the tracker vanished. Within seconds, he
returned with two younger witches. He pushed them forward and retook his
position by the wall.

“Please, my
lord, we have done nothing—” one of the witches began. Maximilian held up a
hand, smiling reassuringly.

Kyros
watched as the two witches slowly relaxed before they approached him in a
trance-like manner. It was obvious Cronin was controlling them. Hunger, his
friend and confidant, reared its head as the first witch reached him, and he caught
his shirt collar, pulling the boy close. He opened his mouth and inhaled
deeply, welcoming the white mist that left the boy’s mouth and entered his own
body, strengthening him. Feeling the boy’s strength ebb, his body grow cold,
Kyros forced himself to stop. When he released him, the boy fell to the ground
unconscious but alive. He did the same to the other, taking as much of his soul
as possible without killing him, before turning to the warlock on the bed. He
wasn’t a full-blood but the part of him that was still alive, the heart still
beating, was definitely that of a warlock.

Placing a
warm hand over Max’s cold chest, Kyros recited a quick spell in his native
Greek before holding out his free hand. A sharp knife appeared, and the
trackers rushed forward, halting only when the grand wizard barked orders for
them to keep away.

Lifting the
knife to the skin of his wrist, he made a quick, deep slice. Blood poured
immediately, and he pressed his flesh to the other’s lips. A light breath
escaped as pale blue lips opened, and before long, Max was pulling strongly at
his vein. When Kyros would have removed his arm, the man’s hand ensnared his,
holding it securely against his lips. He tugged, but it was futile. The grip
was strong, and in such a position, Kyros was defenseless. Unless he wanted to
seriously injure them both, he would have to get him to release him of his own
will.