The Dark Vampire: Last True Vampire 3 (20 page)

The berserker smirked. Black bled into his eyes, the only indication of his mounting temper. “As long as I’m paying you, you’ll respond to whatever the fuck I say you will.”

Gods
.
The things I do for money
. “As soon as you come to an agreement with McAlister, he’ll send me somewhere else. Whatever you need me for, Gregor, you’d better get your ass in gear.”

“McAlister and I will come to an agreement when hell freezes over.”

So negotiations were going good?
Christian scoffed, “You know what happens to those who leave their fold.”

Gregor fixed Christian with his empty black stare. “I’d like to see him try.”

Battles were fought by armies and McAlister was a single general. Without the berserker warlords to act as their muscle the Sortiari would have to undergo a major overhaul. Who would they enlist as their enforcers? Most members of the supernatural community regarded the secret society with suspicion. McAlister’s paranoia hadn’t done him any favors over the years.

“I doubt you ordered me to meet you tonight to talk about Sortiari business. And I gotta be honest with you, Gregor. I don’t enjoy being strung along. So shit or get off the pot.”

Christian’s wolf rose to the surface of his psyche. The wolf didn’t cower in the presence of the beast and the animal tired of these games as much as Christian did. If he didn’t need Gregor’s money to pay off Marac he would have told the berserker to fuck off and call it a day. But in case he couldn’t rely on the money he had on the MMA fight to pay out he needed a backup plan. It was either that or burn in the eternal hellfire of the demon’s torture pit.

That sure as shit wasn’t how Christian wanted to go down.

The same insufferable and arrogant smirk curved the berserker’s lips. “I’ve attacked every coven in the city that I could find,” Gregor said. “Ten of them. There are thirteen dhampir covens in L.A.”

“Trying to rattle the vampire king’s chain?”

Gregor’s expression grew dark and black swallowed his irises. “I’ll kill him soon enough. I’m looking for a specific coven. A specific dhampir. A female named Bronwen. Her family name would have been Réamonn. If she was smart, she’ll have changed it, though.”

Christian snorted. “I’m sure there are less taxing ways to work out your kinks, Gregor.”

A snarl escaped his lips and Christian got a glimpse of the beast that lay beneath the male’s skin. His own
animal side clawed at the back of Christian’s mind, rallying for a fight.

“I made a vow four hundred years ago that I’d wipe out Connall Réamonn’s entire bloodline. I won’t rest until I’ve done just that.”

Vendettas were dangerous things. Christian made it a point not to hold grudges. Vengeance ate at the soul like a cancer, spreading and corrupting until there was nothing left but a dark, empty chasm. No doubt Gregor’s black eyes reflected the darkness that had consumed his soul. Four hundred years was a long gods-damned time to hold on to his anger.

“If it’s a single family you’re after, why kill them all?”

The black tendrils retreated from Gregor’s eyes, leaving nothing but deep green. “Don’t you know? All vampires and dhampirs are connected by blood. That makes them all a single family line.”

He made a sound point, but in Christian’s opinion Gregor used that loophole to incite violence for the sake of violence. “I take it you think Réamonn’s heir is hiding in one of the thirteen covens?”

“Aye. She’s somewhere in the city. And I have unfinished business with that bloodthirsty bitch.”

Christian scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Seems you would’ve seen her out and about since you’ve been in the city. How hard can one female be to track?”

“I don’t know what she looks like,” Gregor admitted with chagrin. “She was a lass when I killed her father.”

Gregor certainly took his vendetta to dizzying heights. Christian wasn’t a killer. Not anymore. He’d given up that life and became a tracker for the Sortiari after fleeing from his pack. He no longer wanted a hand in dealing death and left the killing to more ruthless souls.

Instinct tickled Christian’s senses and his gut gathered
into an anxious ball. “If you had to venture a guess, what would she look like now?”

“She was a fair child,” Gregor said. “Took after her mother. The humans in the villages thought her a healer and a witch.” He spat as though warding off some ancient evil. “Raven hair, fair skin, and eyes like emeralds.”

Fuck.
Christian’s wolf snarled. “You want me to find her so you can kill her?”

“I want you to find her,” Gregor said, “so I can make her
suffer
.”

A cold lump of dread settled on Christian’s chest. If any dhampir in the city fit Gregor’s description it was Siobhan. The hard edge of her beauty betrayed her otherness. She was every bit the witch, as well. She’d enchanted Christian with nothing more than a fleeting glance and the curve of her wicked crimson lips.

“Why not continue as you’ve been?” Christian asked. “Ferret out the covens and attack them one by one.”

“It’s bringing too much heat. McAlister wants a tentative peace, probably because Aristov has begun to rally. It won’t be long before the bastard has an army of vampires, and I’m not ready for a war. Not yet.”

At least Gregor was smart enough to know that his tactics thus far had been too rash. “I don’t work cheap,” Christian said. At the back of his mind, his wolf snarled its discontent, but he willed the animal to calm. “Infiltrating covens could be dangerous for me, as I’m only one male. And I’m not looking to invite the wrath of the vampire king, either.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Gregor said. “More than enough to pay off the string of gambling debts you’ve managed to rack up. It’s time for us to lay low. I’m not willing to let her slip through my fingers by generating the fear that will tempt the covens to flee the city. I need stealth. I’m confident you’ll find her for me.”

Arrogant bastard.

“I’ll need a good-faith payment before I agree to anything.” His wolf growled in retaliation, but Christian ignored the warning.

Gregor tossed a small duffel bag at Christian’s feet. “A male whose loyalties are easily bought is a dangerous ally to make.” He leaned in close and his lip pulled back into a sneer as inky black swallowed his irises. “Don’t make me regret purchasing yours, wolf.”

“You worry too much, Gregor.” He hoisted the duffel. Judging by the weight, there was enough cash in the bag to cover the forty grand he owed Marac with maybe a little left over to play with. “I’ll be in touch.”

Gregor was a male who wouldn’t accept anything less than complete loyalty. Could Christian be the loyal employee Gregor wanted him to be? Could he give up the one thing he craved more than the rush of the impetuous bets he made? Christian had a feeling that if anyone was going to regret what transpired here tonight it would be him.

Siobhan stretched across the silken sheets, enjoying the slide of fabric over her bare skin. Beside her, Carrig lay panting, one arm slung over his eyes. Since Mikhail’s ascension her appetites had become more voracious, and where her lover seemed to be sated she was remarkably unfulfilled.

Restlessness gnawed at her, the walls closed in around her until her lungs ached with the need for more air. Her fangs throbbed in her gums, and though she’d never known the burning thirst that plagued the accursed vampires, she swore that if she didn’t feed soon she’d dry into a shriveled husk.

Carrig rolled to his side and whispered sweet endearments close to her ear.
“Mae fy dduwies. Fy frenhines.
Byddaf yn addoli chi dragwyddoldeb yn y gorffennol.”
He called her a goddess. His queen. He vowed to worship her for eternity and longer. Pretty words of devotion. But not what she wanted to hear. Nor who she wanted to hear them from.

She’d thought of no one but the werewolf for months.

Even now, he haunted her thoughts. Piercing gray eyes, light brown hair that ran with veins of gold, sharp cheekbones, and a strong jaw. He was as perfect a male as she’d ever seen. But Siobhan had known many similar males. One lay next to her now, gently tracing a lazy pattern with his fingers on her bare stomach. The werewolf sparked something within her that she’d never felt before. A hunger that left her hollow and frustrated. A need that weakened her. Weakness was one thing that Siobhan couldn’t afford.

She lay still until Carrig’s body relaxed into slumber beside her. She slid out from underneath the cage of his arm and strode naked through rooms and hallways of the abandoned building that sheltered her coven. Never once in her life had she known shame. Embarrassment. Her mother had taught her to be strong, to draw power from that which others found shameful. And from her father she’d learned ruthlessness. The loyalty of her coven was absolute. She walked the rooms as not just a queen but an empress, and her subjects lowered their gazes in her presence.

The werewolf never lowered his gaze. His open stare pierced her chest and left her breathless and shaking. What would it be like to master a male like that? To break him. To make him
hers
.

The slap of Siobhan’s footsteps echoed on the floor as she rounded a corner to the space of the building reserved for her treasures. She picked her way through the dark corridor, her eyesight keen even in the absence of light.
Why did she need vampiric senses to be strong? To see in the dark. To scent her enemies. Why should she have to forfeit her soul in order to fortify her strength, to lend that strength to her coven? And why did it take becoming a slave to another in order to reclaim her soul from oblivion?

At the back of the room, she found her prize. With her fingertips she traced the intricate etchings, older than the oldest vampire in existence. Set’s chest was indeed a priceless bauble. Crafted by a god and charmed by a sorcerer. It was the font from which they all sprang. That is, if the legends were to be believed. Would Ronan truly entrust her with such a relic?

The real question: Was there anything he
wouldn’t
have done to secure a future with his tethered mate?

Not since the werewolf began stalking her had she given Ronan more than a passing thought. In time she might have released him from the blood troth without a bargaining chip. But his insufferable bond, that biological and spiritual binding to the witch, had prompted Ronan to give up the ultimate prize. Siobhan hoped she’d never be crippled by such a bond. Somewhere in the back of her mind a warning scratched. If she didn’t tread lightly where the werewolf was concerned she might lose herself, mate bond or not.

Gods, he was a magnificent male.

Beneath her fingertips, the chest pulsed as though with its own heartbeat. That Mikhail kept Chelle from her was proof enough of its power. Siobhan had never wanted to destroy anything so badly in her entire existence.

Her chest heaved as unpleasant memories surfaced in her mind. How did one suffer the Collective when her own private thoughts were enough to lay her low? Fear wasn’t an emotion that Siobhan could afford, and yet it squeezed the air from her lungs and chilled her blood until it slogged through her veins like an ice floe in a winter river. A foe
she barely remembered hunted her, and with good reason. No doubt he would search to the ends of the earth to get his claws in her.

He’d never find her, though. There was nothing left to connect her to her father’s name. Nothing to connect her to that life that came crashing down around her centuries ago when she’d been too young to comprehend the consequences of her actions. Even now, across centuries, her mother’s screams haunted her.

“I see you’ve taken it upon yourself to keep tabs on me even in the confines of my own coven.” Carrig had been silently watching her for a while, but she hadn’t the energy to acknowledge him until now.

“I worry.” His gruff voice carried to her from across the room.

“If any harm would come to me here, then I’m not deserving of my station.”

“None here would dare to harm you.” Carrig padded toward her.

“Then why worry?” She didn’t turn to face him. Instead, she kept her gaze cast downward at the glyphs carved into Set’s chest.

“You come here every night and stare at that thing. Why?”

It was a question she’d asked herself many times. “I don’t know.”

If she lay in the mystical coffin would it change her? Would she emerge with a second set of fangs? Would her heart cease its beating? Would the sun eviscerate her with its rays? Would an empty void swallow her soul? And if so, who would tether it and return it to her? Carrig? The werewolf? Perhaps no one.

“We should leave the city,” Carrig said after a moment. “The vampires’ numbers are growing. We can move farther from the epicenter of their existence and thrive.”

“I should become a coward, then?”

“No.”
Carrig’s emphatic tone gave her pause. “You should live without fear of discovery.”

“I can do that here. No one knows who I am. Not even Ronan knows.”

Carrig stepped closer, the heat of his wide chest buffeted her back, and Siobhan shivered. “Mikhail knows.”

“Mikhail is too busy dealing with his growing kingdom to worry about me.”

“What of the Collective?”

Siobhan’s temper flared at Carrig’s needling. “What of it?”

“Ronan, Jenner, or even Mikhail’s mate could find memory of your life there.”

Siobhan had no idea how the Collective worked, but it was the least of her worries. She’d been a child when her parents died. Who would know her in those tangled memories? “Millions, maybe billions, of memories to weed through. I’m not concerned.”

“Gods, I wish you were concerned about
something
.”

Gray eyes, intense as they watched her, flashed in Siobhan’s mind and she shivered. Maybe that was the problem. For the first time in centuries, she might care. “Find the werewolf, and bring him to me.”

Behind her, Carrig bristled. He’d grown more possessive of her over the past few months. It was a complication that needed to be rectified. He took liberties with her now. Gave counsel when she didn’t ask for it. Came to her in the dark of night without being bidden. Watched her from the shadows. Siobhan’s heart was as cold and dead as a stone in her chest. It would do him no good to try to soften it now.