The Purest of the Breed (The Community) (3 page)

Roth ran a pen through his long fingers. “This mission is too risky for the indefinite benefits it would bring us. We’ve brought eight women into the community just yesterday, whereas the four we discuss now are a complete unknown. We don’t know if they fit the required parameters, or if they’re even remotely interested in joining us. I say our resources are overburdened enough already.”

Dev caught back a grimace. Well, that part was kinda true. Never had so many newbies been in Ţărână at once, and the community’s first responsibility was to their safety. Lørke and Jøsnic, the two leaders of the Underground Om Rău—Ţărână’s neighbors—had a nasty habit of trying to steal whatever females the community managed to bring in; fodder for quite a bit of warring between their two races over the years. The fear of a massive invasion was causing a town-wide case of nerves, not to mention the community residents were worried about slipping up and saying or doing something that might give away that they were actually a fang-bearing race called Vârcolac. A shock-fest bit of info that—it’d been decided after much debate—would be kept secret from the newbies. For now.

Alex adjusted the set of his gold-rimmed glasses and leaned forward in his seat. “Thing is, Roth, those eight were the only women off an original list of fifty who accepted our offer. Do we really have the luxury to ignore any we can lay our hands on? They’re the key to the salvation of your race.”

Hallelujah and thank you very much, Alex Parthen, for that important reality check
. These weren’t just any run-of-the-mill women, but females in possession of a special bloodline inherited from an ancient, extinct race called Dragon. Special, in that these were the only people Dev’s kind could breed with successfully. Without such Dragons—all blond and stunningly attractive, all in possession of a small, telltale brown piece of dragon tattoo on their backs—then the single and genetically viable Vârcolac in this town didn’t have a hope in hell of ever having a spouse, a home, children.

Himself fucking included.

Roth gestured curtly. “Many of those fifty have expressed an interest in joining us at a later date, when the timing in their lives is better.” He snapped his chair straight. “I assure all of you, I don’t underestimate the value of these women. How many years have I lived with the threat of extinction of my own race? But need I remind you that on this mission, our warriors would be facing down members of
both
the Underground and the Topside Om Rău.” Roth swept his gray eyes over the other three Council members. “We have no idea how many men that could be, although I think it’s fair to assume that their numbers would grossly exceed ours. We can only spare the barest number of warriors for Mr. Nichita’s team. The safety of our current eight is our first obligation.”

Not a pretty picture being painted here, especially the part about Roth voicing Dev’s own concerns. The warriors were primarily needed in the heart of Ţărână.

Tonĩ leaned back in her chair, the line of her cheek taut. “You bring up all good points, Roth, but here’s the thing that’s itching at my conscience. Four women are about to be handed over to some extremely unsavory men and we’re privileged to know that. Do you really feel comfortable just sitting back and doing nothing to save these poor women, regardless of whether or not they bring us a direct benefit? Because I’m not sure I do, not after my own experiences with these Topside Om Rău.”

A long, slow breath eased from Dev’s chest.
Yes, Tonĩ
!

Roth’s black brows slashed together, his mouth pinching.

Tonĩ looked at her husband across the U, probably wanting some support. As much as it was the general consensus that Tonĩ was the true muscle behind Ţărână’s leadership, she didn’t like to bully Roth into her way. “Can you give us a risk assessment, Jaċken?”

On a good day, Jaċken had the hardest jaw Dev had ever seen; right now it was cement-like with impatience over all of this waste-of-precious-time back-and-forthing. “What do you want me to tell you?” he snapped. “The pucker factor on this mission’s going to be damned high, but, as you just said, does it really fucking matter?”

Tonĩ’s eyelashes flickered down, the covert glance she cast Jaċken from beneath them was something along the lines of,
Gee, thanks, Rude Dude. You made everything so much better
.

“This mission is do-able.” Jaċken laid a forearm on the conference table, showcasing the long, interlocking teeth tattoos that were the exclusive markings of anyone with a genetic link to the dark Om Rău leader, Lørke. “I wouldn’t have put Nichita in charge if I wasn’t sure he could handle it.”

The back of Dev’s neck heated. Well…shit…he hadn’t expected to hear that. He’d sort of figured he’d earned this position by default, seeing as Arc Costache—a senior warrior just as worthy of the position—hadn’t wanted to go on topside missions anymore now that his wife was five months pregnant.

“And who will Mr. Nichita be leading?” Roth asked brusquely.

Tonĩ turned her blue eyes toward Dev.

“Thomal Costache, Gábor Pavenic, and Sedge Stănescu,” he answered.

“Only
four
men in total?” Roth raked his stare back over to Tonĩ. “You’re actually supporting this?”

“It’s what the warriors train for, Roth.” Tonĩ’s voice was quiet and soothing, almost nurturing. No bullying here, but—Dev’s heart leapt—she would get her way. “I trust in their abilities.” She looked at her husband again. “This is ultimately a decision for the head of security, though. It’s your men who’ll be in danger, Jaċken.”

Oh, sweet
. She’d just handed Dev a lock. If he wouldn’t have ended up flat as a Frisbee for it, he’d have run over and given her a big smooch.

Jaċken scraped to his feet and leveled his eyes at Dev. “Put your team in the field.”

“Yes, sir.” Catching back a huge grin, Dev about-faced and left the Council’s conference room.

Chapter Three

Present: Topside, 3:23 a.m.

Marissa hit the warehouse floor hard, taking the brunt of the fall on her shoulder, her chin whacking the floor. The astringent smell of urine stung her nose.

“Videön!” Mürk thundered at Joshua Tree across the room. “Bloody fuck are you doing?!”

Videön stopped pumping his hips and stepped back, his hard member sliding out of his victim. He carelessly hiked up his pants, making a half-hearted attempt to cram his sex away, then pulled a ring out of his pocket and slipped it on his finger.

Marissa had noticed the same ring on her kidnappers, Mürk and Tëer—noticed, because the rings were weird-looking, the crystal in the middle like boiling red borscht soup. The new, foul-smelling arrivals didn’t have them; they must be members of a different sadistic fraternity.

Videön sauntered across the room, the V of his gaping pants leaving bare a black briar patch of pubic hair, the outline of his still half-erect penis visible near the zipper. His rape victim scrambled off the table and staggered to the other woman by the wall, falling into her arms.

Marissa humped herself a few inches across the floor, her instincts blaring for her to get as far away from that man as possible. The emptiness in his black eyes and the scar snagging his upper lip into a permanent sneer emitted a tangible evil.

Videön strode to the table in the middle of the warehouse and picked up a near-empty pack of Pall Malls, jiggling it. A cigarette slid out onto the table. He clamped it between his lips, gazing at the men across from him. “What?” he asked with such insolent nonchalance that the red-haired man snarled and sprang at him.

Mürk jumped forward and grabbed Red by the shirt. “Give over, Tøllar!” Cords bulged in Mürk’s neck and tendons pushed up along the tops of his hands. He was clearly putting a great deal of strength into stopping Red, yet he barely managed it—and he was the Hulk.

Tøllar wrenched out of Mürk’s hold and rounded on him, his eyes flashing with such rage they looked lit up with red lights. “We ain’t taking that bitch, you hear me? She don’t count toward the ten you owe us, not when that cock-bite marked her.”

“Keep your hair on,” Mürk snapped.

“You can still impregnate her, grotbag.” Videön lit his cigarette and dragged on it. “I just gave her the back scuttle is all.”

Marissa wriggled a couple more inches from the arguing men, blackness edging around the sides of her vision. Their conversation was a scramble of alphabet soup in her head.

Tøllar went silent, indecision tightening his expression.

Mürk planted his hands on his hips. “So, do you want her or not?”

Tøllar’s eyes slowly narrowed on Videön. “Maybe I should fuck you up the ass, eh, little twat? Teach you a lesson about touching what ain’t yours.”

Videön smiled around the smoking length of his cigarette. “Oh, you’re givin’ me the screamin’ abdabs, mate.”

Mürk rumbled a noise in his chest. “Will the lot of you quit chattin’ shit?”

Tøllar turned on Mürk, his lip curled. “You said there were four.”

Mürk bolted his eyes back over to Videön. “Where the bloody hell are Däce and Hütch with their piece?”

“They haven’t been able to nick her, yet,” Videön said, smoke leaking from his nostrils. “The girl’s at some knees-up inside the Torrey Pines Golf Club, huggins of people about. Däce and Hütch are staked out there, but I doubt they’ll be able to pinch her tonight.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Mürk grumbled, pressing his thumb to the middle of his brow for a moment. “All right. Let’s deal with what we got, and can crack on with this.” He pounded toward Marissa.

She recoiled and whimpered.

“Here.” Mürk seized her by the back of the ball gag strap and hauled her up, pulling her hair and wrenching her mouth into a horrible stretch of a smile.

She cried out when he shoved her at Tøllar. She hit Red’s concrete body and bounced off, gagging as she reeled backward. God, he smelled like
twelve
backed-up toilets that’d been putrefying for decades.

“These three make five women total paid toward our debt. So take ’em,” Mürk bit out, “and piss off.”

Tøllar hissed something under his breath, but gestured to his companions. The black-haired men went for the two women huddled against the back wall.

“C’mon, pretty one,” Tøllar said to Marissa. “It’s going to be a big fight for you down in Oţărât.” He suggestively ran his tongue over his lips, flashing a tongue piercing in the process.

Silent tears coursed down Marissa’s cheeks. Jesus, what did that mean? She couldn’t… There were just too many wrong, conflicting things about this entire situation for her brain to deal with.

Tøllar towed her through the warehouse door, the other two woman weeping and moaning behind her, and headed for the—

Marissa went rigid and screamed around her ball gag as a horde of bat creatures came flying off the roof, their black wings flapping like canvas sails in the wind. One landed in a hard crunch of gravel right in front of them, booted feet planted wide. No, not a bat, a
man
in a black trench coat. He whirled in fast-motion, his torso twisting then unwinding as he brought up a fearsome roundhouse punch. It connected with a solid
crack
against Tøllar’s jaw, and the next thing she knew, Red was skidding on his back in the gravel.

The bat man spun again, a streak of black clothes, coattails fanning out, huge muscles bulging beneath his coat. The heel of Bat Man’s boot crashed against Mürk’s face, whipping Hulk’s head around with near spine-cracking force, while at the same moment, he slashed his arm out in the opposite direction to let fly a glinting knife.

Marissa heard a
swoosh
, a bark of pain, and then one of the black-haired neo-Nazis was suddenly on his knees, a hilt sticking out of his upper chest.

With more of that lethal grace, Bat Man rounded on her. She caught only a fleeting glimpse of his face—black hair and black goatee—before he tossed her onto his shoulder like she weighed no more than a beach towel, and sling-shotted into a run. The ground blurred into one long strip of mud beneath her eyes. The man was
fast
.

Another man appeared at their side, easily keeping pace with their flying speed. How were these guys doing that? The newcomer had a stylish blond flattop, the crisscrossed straps of a headset visible through his hair, and one of the other women propped on his shoulder.

“Coming up fast and tight,” the blond warned. She heard a hollow echo of his voice up near Bat Man’s ears: another headset.

What kind of men wore headsets?

Rat-a-tat-tat
. Rifle fire lit off behind them.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat
. Nuggets of dirt erupted from the ground around them like popping champagne corks.
Rat-a-tat
—

The blond man went down.

“Thomal!” Bat Man skidded to a stop. “Are you all right?”

“Shit.” The guy called Thomal grimaced at the woman he’d accidentally dumped from his shoulder.

The woman struggled to a sitting position, a curtain of hair hanging in her face.

“God,” Thomal said to her. “Sorry.”

“Can you run, Costache?” Bat Man asked.

“Sorry, brother.” Thomal jerked his chin at the bloody chunk torn out of the back of his boot. “That bullet caught my Achilles.”

A
third
dark-clothed man barreled up to them, another woman—the rape victim—on his shoulder. His left bicep sported a tattoo of a bull skull that had a cracked fissure down the forehead and long horns curving out of the temples; the whole thing was “attached” to his arm by a ring of thick braided rope. To add to his menace, his black hair was buzzed down to prison-standard stubble. “No time to stand here burping the worm, fuckers.”