The Purest of the Breed (The Community) (34 page)

To England
? She pleated her brow, then winced as her forehead complained. “I thought the privateer captains worked for…” She hesitated. She couldn’t utter the name, Ştefan, no matter how much he might deserve condemnation. “…the hunters.”

Grigore shrugged. “They’re not exactly men of the highest morals, my lady. An offer to line their coffers once we reach shore has seemed sufficient to earn our passage.”

She nodded, a bare movement. Perhaps she should feel relief that they were safe for now, but she didn’t. “How many of our ships survived?”

Grigore glanced aside. “Ours and one other.”

Only
two
out of their original six? “The
Lady Revenge
?” she whispered the question.

“Nay,” Grigore answered in a voice drenched with grief. “It sank, no survivors.”

Swallowing convulsively, she pressed a hand to her face.
My dear Octav
. “By the moon, it seems this world is determined to leave me without family.” She was a complete orphan now.

Grigore clasped her hand. “You and I can be a family, Pettrila, do you hear?” His forehead collapsed into creases. “Blast, I know I can be a difficult man betimes. I’m not as suave or as charming as I’d like to be, though I try. And—” A tautness rippled through his hand. “I must confess that part of my ill-mannered behavior of late was bred from jealousy. It’s killed me watching you fawn over that traitorous bastard, Dragoş.”

Pettrila turned her head aside. A tear trickled from her eye and dripped onto the pillow. She didn’t want to think about that now. Ştefan, leader of the Vârcolac Vânător, was the reason her brother was dead. Her chest jerked. Stars, and she thought it’d been an unbearable happenstance to be thrown over for being the wrong breed of woman. What she wouldn’t give to go back to that.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted, Pettrila. Please, heed me. I…I think I could make you a good husband.”

She stared blurrily at the rough wood of the stateroom wall.

“’Tis a new life awaiting us in England. Let us commence it together.”

She dug her cheek deeply into the rough pillow, more tears welling and falling. She’d thought to begin her new life with Ştefan.
’Tis my greatest desire to run off to England with you, little doe, and marry you
. His lies tore through her just as destructively as bar shot, leaving her bloodied and wounded on the inside as though she’d taken a hit in truth. She’d loved Ştefan so!

“Pettrila…?”

“Must we talk of this now, Grigore? I wish to sleep.” She was tired down to her soul.

“I fear you mustn’t wait too long,” he said. “You’ve lost a great deal of blood and need to feed.”

“There will be
Sânge
Taicăs
on board,” she responded dully. She herself had arranged for several to be on each ship; she wasn’t the only unmarried Vârcolac making this journey.

“None here, I’m afraid. Only bonded couples are on board.” He paused. “Remember, we weren’t supposed to be on this ship.”

She turned her head to look at Grigore. That could prove to be a problem. “Can we pull alongside the other privateer?”

“Come, my lady,” Grigore coaxed softly. “There’s no time for that.” He picked her up and settled her on his lap. “Bond with me.” He slid one hand into her hair and cupped the back of her head, gently urging her face against his throat.

She was too far gone to her blood-need to prevent her fangs from giving a tight throb of hunger. Saliva wetted her mouth, her lungs and brain filling with the aroma of Grigore’s blood. Without thought, she leaned into his chest, instinctively wanting to fill herself with him. Grigore’s pulse beat against her lips, and she began to tremble with the desire to feed.

Numbness fanned over her. Both of her parents were dead, now Octav, too, and Ştefan might as well be dead, gone from her life forevermore. Loneliness ate a hole straight through the center of her, the will to resist ebbing away. What did it matter? She slipped a hand into her skirt pocket and touched Ştefan’s letter. Her throat tightened in a spasm. She let her fingers fall away from the grainy parchment. What did it matter…?

She twisted one trembling hand into Grigore’s shirt. Wooden and without emotion, she drove her fangs into his neck.

Chapter Thirty-four

Present: Community of Ţărână, October, 4:00 p.m.

Pettrila Nichita entered Ţărână’s underground garage with stiff dignity, presenting to the gallery of observers the urbane, impassive mask which was her public viewing face; no expression showed on her countenance that she didn’t consciously and deliberately put there.

She’d never been down to this part of the town before—little wonder; the place smelled ghastly—but the Tribunal had wanted to reconvene here for the gruesome work that lay ahead.

She sniffed.
Gruesome work. Pah
. That was a jest. For all of Devid’s failings, he was not a murderer of innocents, no matter how much he wanted his human. Unless… She frowned inwardly. Had the Tribunal found some dissolute child molester who was already destined for the electric chair for Devid to sacrifice? Someone whose death wouldn’t give Devid’s conscience the slightest twinge? There had certainly been enough time to find the perfect sacrifice, what with all the manufactured delays.

Yes, wasn’t it convenient that Dr. Parthen had ovulated the day after Devid was charged with his grisly task? Not that such a nuisance could’ve been arranged on purpose, but it was interesting, suspicious even, that Dr. Parthen had chosen
now
to procreate with her hideous demonoid mate. If the doctor had put herself away for only her fertile time it would have cost the Tribunal only two days. Instead everyone had been forced to wait the several days required for the doctor and her mate to perform the act which would get her pregnant, then the additional three-day hibernation period of recovery a Vârcolac male fell into after the stress of constant intercourse. And while her mate was all but unconscious, the doctor had refused to resume without him…and the Tribunal wouldn’t have
dared
reconvene without that woman.
Six
days had elapsed, and if the doctor hadn’t used reproduction, an act which always took precedence in this community, to stall for time, then Pettrila was the Queen of Sheba.

For what asinine purpose remained to be seen.

There had been one good outcome of the delay, at least. What was supposed to have been a single night stay in a jail cell for Devid had stretched into six long, miserable days.

Jaċken Brun hadn’t wanted to incarcerate Devid at all, but Pettrila, of course, had insisted.

“Devid will surely slink off and bond with that human if left to his own devices,” she’d snapped. “Ask him yourself, if you doubt my word.”

Devid had given Jaċken Brun a look of barely banked fury. “Would you have let anyone keep you from Tonĩ?” he’d said baldly.

So, away he’d gone, stupid boy.

The wannabe Soothsayer entered the garage now, along with Dr. Parthen. She was dressed in a forest green turtleneck this afternoon, even though the community’s temperature never altered from 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Vârcolac reproduction was unquestionably barbaric since the male vampire shifted into a primal state that rendered him insensible to the process. But to engage in the act with a degenerate Half-Rău like Jaċken Brun had to be immeasurably worse; the doctor’s neck no doubt sported a panorama of bruises and savage bite marks.

Devid was escorted in by Jaċken Brun. Her son’s strides were heavy, as if his ill temper weighted every footfall. Indeed, his mood looked filthy

Pettrila sat in the seat reserved for the claimant of the blood-debt, the best place to observe the sacrifice, and watched dispassionately as her son was led to the sacrificial area, where a large table—large enough to hold a body—was placed, a sheet of plastic spread underneath. An array of sharp instruments was arranged on a small side table, and she saw Devid blanch.

Pettrila felt one of her eyebrows flicker upward.
Interesting
. Did the boy not know what was to transpire? Had Dr. Parthen’s minions plotted Devid’s rescue without his knowledge? How truly odd.

Her son glanced briefly at his human woman, seated on a folding chair in the gallery of spectators next to a whey-faced Luvera—what was
wrong
with that child? Then he turned to glare at Pettrila, his aggressive expression bringing Grigore to mind, as it so often did: that same arrogant set to his bearded jaw, those identical fierce silver eyes, the similar height and build to their bodies. He was his father’s replica in so many ways, making it no trouble whatsoever for her to return her son’s glare with a full measure of force.

“Shall we begin?” Dr. Parthen asked.

The nine Tribunal members took their seats at a table directly across from Pettrila’s chair, set on the other side of the sacrificial table and nearer the gallery.

Pettrila maintained a bored expression, even though she was quite curious to see what tricks had been devised to thwart this. Whatever they were, she would surmount them.

Dr. Parthen addressed Pettrila formally. “As dictated by Dantură Pravilă, the person to be sacrificed will be escorted before you for your approval, Mrs. Nichita.”

Pettrila regarded the doctor with studied blankness.
Ţărână’s leader has done her homework
. The woman had familiarized herself with the edict of Dantură Pravilă which stated that the complainant of the blood-debt must approve the sacrifice or else the blood-debt would be resolved without a death. “Usher the man in,” Pettrila said magnanimously, “by all means.”

“It’s a female, actually,” Dr. Parthen corrected.

Pettrila gave her brows a vague lift, and without hesitation gestured for the proceedings to continue. So here was the plan exposed already. The doctor and her failed Soothsayer of a brother assumed Pettrila lacked the stomach to watch a female sacrificed. They’d made their first error, then. In her many long years on this earth, Pettrila had borne witness to a staggering array of human suffering. She’d tolerated all of it; she’d bear this.

No, only Devid could prevent this deed.

Dr. Parthen nodded to her brother.

The Soothsayer opened a door at the far end of the garage and spoke to someone just outside in the corridor.

A young woman stepped inside, a sweet blonde and blue-eyed creature, surely not more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, most likely in college. She was wearing a NYU T-shirt, blue jeans, and for some reason, she was carrying a weathered book tucked against her side.

Pettrila sat back and gifted her son with a self-satisfied look, something close to a smile curving her lips.
Are you truly going to sacrifice this girl
? A cold-hearted serial killer would’ve been hard-pressed to slay this cute-as-a-button young woman. Devid would fail this test, and good; he’d never done anything in his life to warrant happiness.

Every eye in the gallery turned to gape at Devid, the audience clearly thinking the same thing.

Devid paled another shade toward sickly. One could almost feel sorry for the boy.

“This is Josie D’Amberville,” the Soothsayer introduced. “She flew all the way from New York to meet you.”

“Meet you” apparently meant
Pettrila
; the idiotic man escorted the girl across the garage directly toward her.

Pettrila gave the two a look of pure ice, lingering her gaze on the Soothsayer.
You think you have another ruse to play
? “I sincerely doubt that.” She folded her hands politely. “But let us all take a moment to coo over what a darling girl she is.” She shot a narrow look over to Devid. “Don’t perform the ritual, son, please, I beg you. Everyone here surely begs you. I, however, will not refuse her.”

A muscle shivered in Devid’s taut cheek and his nostrils widened.

The D’Amberville girl’s eyebrows crowded together in an expression of confusion. She glanced at the Soothsayer. “I thought you said I was going to meet Pettrila Rázóczi’s great-granddaughter.”

“You are. This is she.” The Soothsayer nodded at Pettrila. “Also named Pettrila.”

Granddaughter…? Pettrila met the Soothsayer’s stare, and he gave her a pointed look.
Ah, yes
. At one hundred fifty-seven years of age, Pettrila was too old to exist as herself in human years. She would have to pretend to be Pettrila Rázóczi’s distant relative rather than the woman herself…if she were inclined to converse with this chit. Which she wasn’t.

The girl eyed Pettrila uncertainly. “Oh.”

The Soothsayer gave her shoulder a comforting pat.

The D’Amberville girl hugged the weathered book to her chest. “This is…actually pretty amazing.” A small smile creased her lips. “I can’t believe you exist. Pettrila Rázóczi was supposed to have died at sea in 1877.”

Pettrila pressed her hands together, her controlled expression almost slipping as a wash of memories hurled her back in time to the smell of gunpowder and salt water, to the sight of sails hanging in ragged shreds from their spars, ship debris floating in a heaving sea next to facedown bodies. And all of the red blood streaking the deck of the
Tempest
, crisscrossing the planking, back and forth, to the toss and roll of the ship. A prickly sensation crawled across her scalp. It was a wily ploy for this degenerate Soothsayer to throw her off her stride by reminding her of that tragic night of fear and betrayal. Clever, but cruel, and not to be tolerated.