The Bastard (8 page)

Lacy murmured in her sleep and rubbed her cheek against his chest. The living room was quiet, the muted TV offering the only illumination. He could barely see her bruises in this light but knew they were there. Just as he knew her lips were swollen from his kisses. He never should have kissed her. It stirred far too many things in him that were better left stilled. One sip of her mouth and he was a goner.

The beating, the medication and the shock of the Third coming to the door had sapped Lacy of strength, and she’d drifted to sleep before the news. It was no hardship to hold her. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he held a woman like this, in tenderness, in comfort, just cradling her while she slept. Certainly long before he died. His wife had shut him out of her bedchamber years before she had brought about his death.

A buzz echoed and he shifted until he could reach into his pocket. The text screen glowed with a bright illumination.

Blood tests R shit. Bring DNA. D’s got watch
.

“Erik?”

Sleep tinged Lacy’s voice. He bit back a curse. For a little while, he’d forgotten that she was at risk, that he could still be ordered to kill her. Forgetting was dangerous.

“That was my job calling me in.”

He scooted away, hating the distance he had to put between them, and shoved the phone in his pocket. Lacy squinted at the clock. “Now? After midnight?”

He rose from the couch and parted the curtain, eyes scanning the darkness. Dray stood across the street, half hidden by a thick tree trunk. “Yeah, I’m kind of on call.”

“What if those guys come back?”

Copper filled his mouth as he bit his cheek against a snarl. The others would watch her, but some possessive urge insisted he do it himself. Lacy made him feel good, something he didn’t want to examine too closely.

He motioned with his head toward the street. “We have a guy stationed outside. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Her disappointment nearly brought him to his knees. She looked so alone. He sat to put his boots on, the cushion sagging under his weight. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

A soft smile lifted the corner of her lips. “Come back?”

“I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Sorry for falling asleep on you.”

“Don’t be.” He fought the urge to kiss her again, to pretend he had no cell service and hadn’t gotten the text. “You can use me as a pillow any time.”

Her sleep-husky voice deepened. “That sounds promising.”

Nothing on Earth could have prevented him taking her mouth. She tasted of sleep and promises unfulfilled. Nimble fingers skated up his chest, curling around his neck. It would be so easy to lay her back, peel the clothes from between them and sink into her body as his tongue did to her mouth. His cock twitched in his jeans. Damn, if she started sending him those kinds of signals again, he’d never get out of here.

“Stop.” Pulling away, he shook his head. “Damn, woman, I have to remember how to tie my shoes here.”

The humor worked as he intended and she giggled. He hadn’t forgotten how to tie, but bending over with a half-erection wasn’t pleasant. It did the job of refocusing his mind though.

Until her hand landed on his back. She meant it as a friendly, flirting gesture he was sure, but a shiver skated along his muscles. Even through his shirt, his Forsaken Mark quivered at her touch, singing to her blood. She jerked her hand away from the static crackle.

“Oops, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he murmured. It had felt more than okay. It had felt incredible.

He refocused on his bootlaces. Her fingers slid to his arm, pushed up his sleeve and traced his tattoo. “I’ve seen a lot of tattoos, but never one like this.”

“Yeah, it’s one of a kind.” The tattoos all Awoken carried were different, personal weapons to kill their enemies, forever imprinted on their skin. But the identical hand-shaped burns were a reminder that Sela had Awoken them for a purpose and they had to guard each other’s backs.

The Righteous carried the Marks on their hearts, a reminder to stay true to their vows. In order to survive, the Forsaken had to learn to trust each other. He could trust no one but his team, not even Lacy.

“The axe is weird, it looks used. The ones I’m used to seeing are like new.”

His axe had been well used — sliced through so much flesh and bone. The nicked and scarred Dane axe was fitting for the Bloodaxe
. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Of course not.” She motioned toward the hall. Vike made a quick escape and stared in the bathroom mirror. He never fucking learned, ever. The last woman who’d made him feel this way, created this tender need to wrap her in safety and bask in her attentions, had gotten him a sword to the gut. He’d laid on that battlefield, his life draining away into the dirt, and known that she’d done this.

His wife had betrayed him. She’d taken his love and hidden behind it, hidden her lust for power, for position. He’d been blind to her manipulations, following his heart and not his head. Now his dick was leading him down that same path again.

He glared at his reflection. “You are pretending to like her, asshole. Remember that. Don’t think this is genuine. She doesn’t know the real you.”

Two Band-aids on top of the trashcan sported a dark brown stain. DNA. Lacy’s Holy bloodline. She was his mission, nothing more. He had to remember that. His very dead but very aching soul depended on it.

He folded the bandages into a square of toilet paper and shoved it in his pocket. On the sink, he found her medication and the after-care instructions. He carried them back into the living room.

“Here, take these.” He sat on the coffee table and handed her two tablets.

“I think some Tylenol would be fine.”

“Lace, please.” Amazing how lying came so easy in the dark. “I don’t want to think about you hurting. Please, for me, take them.”

Her eyes rounded as she took the tablets from his hand. “You’re sweet.”

Sweet? No, he was selfish. If she was drugged, no Leech could get to her. That meant he’d get to see her again. He shouldn’t. He should let the others protect her. But he didn’t want to. He handed her the water bottle she’d left on the side table. She swallowed the medicine as he pulled a business card from his wallet.

“This is my cell. My team is right outside, but they won’t bother you unless there’s trouble. Just rest and trust me to take care of things.”

“I do trust you.”

He gave her a smile that felt plastic. She had to trust him and he couldn’t trust her.

Metal scrapped at the door lock. Vike grabbed his dagger off the coffee table and surged to a stand. The front door opened. Lacy’s sister ripped a can of pepper spray out of her bag, aiming it toward his face. “Get away from her, asshole!”

“Whoa!” He angled backward.

“Annie, no,” Lacy cried, jumping from the couch.

The small canister lowered but Annie’s eyes remained alert. “What the hell is going on?”

“Look. I’m putting it away.” He couldn’t send the dagger back to his tattoo so, slapping a fake smile on his face, he shoved the blade in the back of his pants then held his empty hands up. “Everything is fine now.”

“Fine? I have no idea who you are and you’re standing over my sister with a fucking knife. How is this fine?”

“Vike Ulfhedinn.” He extended his hand. “I met Lacy when she was attacked. I drove her home from hospital.”

Annie’s mouth softened as she tucked the pepper spray back into her bag. She reached out, accepting his hand. “You’re the hero.”

“Not really.”

Annie’s bag slid off her shoulder to the chair. “Then can you pretend to be a hero and do me a favor? There’s this idiot across the street looking at the house. I was going to call the police but… well, you’re a big guy. And you owe me for freaking me out. Can you ask him to leave? He’s creepy.”

Biting back a groan, he looked at Lacy for help. She was yawning and missed his silent plea. “Actually, he is watching the house, but it’s okay. Lacy’ll explain. I have to get to work.”

He slid out of the door before Lacy could answer. Better she feed the false-preacher story to her sister than him. He crossed the street, making a beeline for Dray.

“Asshole,” he muttered.

“What?” Dray asked around a Jolly Rancher candy that turned the inside of his lips blue.

“The sister asked me to tell the creepy guy across the street to leave. This is your idea of low profile?”

“No, this is my idea of scoping out a hot set of boobs. That sister is stacked. She called me creepy?” Night wind played with Dray’s long hair. “Bitch.”

“Just be a little more discreet, okay?” Vike turned toward his truck, digging his keys from his pocket.

“Hey, Viking,” Dray laughed. “Next time you play tonsil hockey with the Cake, might want to be a little more discreet and close the curtains.”

Vike gunned the engine and flipped him off.

Chapter Five

“Peasants.” Dark sunglasses hid Rex’s eyes, but nothing could hide the disgusted set to his mouth. “I’m surrounded by peasants.”

“It’s a country fair. They haven’t changed in ages, get over it,” Vike grumped.

Despite the gaiety around him, he was in a bad mood. Yesterday had been easy. Lacy was sore enough to be content indoors with him. They’d watched stupid movies, played some idiotic video game and exchanged a thousand and one kisses. But she couldn’t be penned up any longer. She’d insisted that as long as he was there to guard her, she felt well enough and owed the Children’s Home her volunteer hours for their annual fundraising fair.

He’d tried his best to get Lacy to stay home. He’d brought her breakfast from a local sandwich shop. He’d kissed and nuzzled and petted her, trying to change her mind. He’d faked interest in a football game and asked her to watch with him. Nothing worked.

He should have slapped her silly and locked her ass in the house. But he couldn’t do that while pretending to be
charming
. Charming sucked dick. Charming could get her killed.

Stubborn wench. Lacy had no damn business trying to have a damn normal life when her Holy soul was in damn jeopardy. Of course, he couldn’t damn well tell her that so here he stood, in the middle of a damn country fair pretending they were on a damn date.

Damn.

Autumn sunshine and crisp mountain air carried the scent of apple butter bubbling in huge metal cauldrons over open fires. The early-week fair crowd was thick, but would grow thicker later in the week. The shaded overhang of the concessions booth she ran couldn’t hide the bruises any more than the makeup she’d put on this morning. Her dedication to the Children’s Home was one thing, but she was risking her eternal soul and didn’t even know it. He wanted to whisk her away, keep her away from things that went
hiss
.

“What the hell is that God-awful racket? It sounds like a cat with its balls in a vice.”

Vike paused, listening. “Rascal Flatts and I like it, shut up.”

“Vikings, the rednecks of the ancient world.”

“And the Romans wore dresses.”

“Easier to get naked,” Rex laughed.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Rex draped in richly colored robes trimmed in gold. The ancient Romans had been known for their decadence. Even now, he carried himself like royalty. Everyone else wore jeans and tee shirts, flannels or sweatshirts. Not Rex. His pleated pants and cashmere sweater screamed a social status far above the rest. The loafers on his feet cost more than many people made in a month.

Vike fought a grin. With those shoes, Rex had better stay away from the livestock sale. But his pretty-boy look was deceiving. He’d spilled more blood than a drunk surgeon with his
pugio
. The long, sloping Roman dagger sliced like a razor and stabbed like a sword.

“Where’s the Cake?”

“Her name’s Lacy.” Irritation dropped Vike’s voice low. A dozen people, mostly men, mingled around the Car Show, too many ears that could overhear, but it gave him the best vantage point to guard Lacy. Vike leaned on the split rail fencing around the grassy lot designated for the automobiles.

With a flick of his gold lighter, cigarette smoke wafted above Rex’s golden head. The smoke kept people away, a barrier that afforded them a little privacy in the packed car lot. “If you need it, I’ve got a pocket full of shit. One drop in her coffee, instant
die latte
. She’ll be toast before her ass hits the ground.”

His hand wrapped around Rex’s throat before he thought. “You don’t touch her.”

Rex shoved him. “This Cake’s got your ‘nads in a knot good and tight. You want her alive, fine. But if she’s not stoned, she’ll act like bait and draw them out. That works for me. I could use a good fight. Or a good fuck. Or both.” Rex took a deep drag of the cigarette and dropped his voice. “I hate waiting, it makes my balls itch.”

“You need a nap.”

Rex’s snort forced a tight stream of smoke from his thinned lips. “I need to get laid. It’s been two days.”

Although the Forsaken didn’t have to eat or sleep like normal mortals, they could and most did. It was a comfort thing, things they’d done in their human lives that carried over. They ate, fucked, and slept. Death hadn’t erased those pleasures, but now they were a luxury. Unless you were Rex. He used sex like most people used toilet paper.

Injuries meant a coma-like sleep to heal. It wasn’t unusual for Vike to spend a few hours a week asleep, letting his body repair itself while his mind processed nothing but empty dreamless black. The worse the injury, the longer the sleep required. Inside his hiking boots, Vike’s toes curled. He had spent three weeks in 1962 asleep after he lost a leg in an explosion, courtesy not of a Leech attack, but a misplaced human land mine in Vietnam.

It had taken two Forsaken to hold him down while Nomad cauterized the stump. Three weeks later, he woke up good as new. Vike flexed his left foot. Had the injury been any worse, he’d have needed Sela. His gut spasmed at that thought. She could make all their injuries disappear, but man, it hurt like a motherfucker when she did. He’d rather sleep for a few weeks than go through that hell.