The Purest of the Breed (The Community) (9 page)

The lump of blankets shifted, then Mürk’s head appeared. He squinted at her. “Knob off, Pändra, you bleedin’ whore.” His head crashed back down.

She crossed her arms and tilted her chin. A bugger of a night, had it been? “Never a good idea to arse about and hide from Father when you’ve cocked up a mission, Mürk.”

Mürk shot to a full sitting position. “Soddin’ shit.” Oh, he was fully awake now. “How the hell did Raymond find out?”

“That one called Tøllar sent an email.” Pändra herself had been the one to set up the single Internet line for the Underground Om Rău, Raymond having insisted on an efficient way to communicate with his uneasy allies. The trogs hadn’t had much more than a few tellies before she came along.

Mürk swung his legs over the side of the mattress. “What did the farty prick say?”

“He said that his leader, Lørke, claims that since the Dragon women you brought to the warehouse were stolen before the exchange took place, they don’t count toward the ten we owe them.”

Mürk curled his lip. “That’s utter bilge water.”

She shrugged. “Fill Raymond’s ear with it, Mürk. He wants to see you and the lads in the sun room right away.”

“Jesus sufferin’ fuck,” Mürk muttered.

She turned around, heading out the—

Mürk was suddenly at her side, wrapping his hand around her arm.

She stopped, set her brows into a high lift, and turned back around. Her eyes skimmed downward. So her brother slept in the buff, did he? Dispassionately, she noted each striation and sinew articulated beneath his naked skin and the thick male langer that hung between his thighs. A puffy jaw, various bruises on his body, and a line of puckered bullet holes along his right shoulder confirmed that, yes, it’d been a bugger of a night. Her scrutiny hesitated on the nasty scar on his belly. Whatever Mürk had done to earn one of Raymond’s more legendary punishments, she hadn’t the foggiest notion. “You’re touching me,” she informed him in a bored tone.

Mürk dropped his hand. “Raymond’s no doubt spittin’ tacks over this muck-up, ducky. So you’re goin’ to help me strategize before I face the old man.”

Mürk, as the eldest of their seventeen-sibling blended family—Rën, formerly the eldest, had been killed in a scrap with the vamps—obviously knew that the blame for this bodged mission would fall primarily on his broad shoulders.

“Why would I do that?” she asked blandly.

“Because deep down you’re a good sort, Pändra.”

She snorted and walked out.

Pändra positioned herself to the side of the line of five lads—Mürk, Tëer, Däce, Videön, and Hütch—a spot far enough away to keep the stink of their blunder off her, but not too close to Raymond, either. Jesus wept, but their formidable Fey father was brassed off.

Seated at a table draped in fine periwinkle linen with an elegant silver tea service at his elbow, Raymond was giving off rolling shock waves of power that had her widening her stance to keep from toppling onto her arse. Her four-inch heels weren’t helping matters. She was tarted-up as usual today, her outfit consisting of a pair of blue jeans that just missed being camel toe tight, a near see-though, low-cut blouse, and spiked ankle boots that made her feel like she was standing on a pair of stilts. Dressing like a whore was her one, subtle rebellion against Raymond; she knew it got up his nose. She also supposed a part of her felt the need to stick it in everyone’s face that she was a body, nothing more: a perfect female specimen who would serve as a procreation machine for the next powerful generation Raymond planned to create.

Mürk stood one step in front of the rest of the lads. He was older than her twenty-four years by two, and one of her full-brothers, along with twenty-two-year-old Tëer and seventeen-year-old, Däce. Baby-faced Däce, the only other offspring with blond hair like her own, had only recently started going on missions for Raymond. Both of his assignments thus far—the first one to nab the fifteen-year-old girl who was supposed to be Mürk’s procreating machine, and now, secondly, this mission—had ended in failure. He looked like he was going to shite himself.

Her half-brothers in the room were twenty-three-year-old Videön, whose right cheek and arm were roughened with scabs from playing street-sweeper with the roadway, and twenty-year-old Hütch, sporting a beastly black-and-purple Mohawk. The two had shared a flat with their younger brother, Jëvan, who was currently in jail, until Raymond had insisted they move back here to help deal with the ever-growing problem of the Vârcolac. Both were built like a couple of lorries, possessed the black eyes that anyone with even a tiddly of Rău owned, and jet-black hair. They were born from Raymond’s partner, Boian—one of only two pure Fey males left in the world, Raymond being the other—and the same mother as hers, Ұavell: another rare creature, being that she was the last pure Om Rău female. Like all of Boian’s offspring, Videön and Hütch were a pair of flaming wanks.

Upon first moving into this imposing Fairbanks Ranch hacienda-style mansion, the two had tried to kick seven shades of shit out of her. She’d flattened them both, of course, probably would’ve killed them if not for their immortality rings, while Mürk had stood by and laughed. A chuffer of a way for her two half-brothers to learn that, through some genetic anomaly, she’d ended up with the strength of three male Rău combined. She generally didn’t make a habit of lording her status over her brothers; as the eldest female, the most powerful of the lot of them, and Raymond’s favored child, she was undeniably the Queen Bee of their brood. But neither did she take any effing crap off of them. They all learned that rather quickly.

“Microsoft stock is holding steady.” Raymond lifted his silver-blond head from the daily newspaper he was reading. “It’s getting difficult to know what to invest in these days.” Raymond sat back in his chair and carefully folded the newspaper, his cold blue eyes settling on Mürk. “You didn’t think last night’s events warranted mention, son?” He smiled narrowly. “Wanted to get your full forty winks, did you?”

“No.” Mürk shrugged with a show of nonchalance that was impressively believable. “There was just nothin’
to
mention. That message of Tøllar’s is knob-rot. He and his men were walkin’
out
of the warehouse with the women when the vamps struck. The exchange had already bloody well taken place. Those three Dragons count.”

“Ah, so they fibbed, did they?” Raymond sighed. “I suppose that’s no blooming surprise. Still…” He picked up his Wedgewood teacup and took a sip. “We wouldn’t be facing this discrepancy if you hadn’t lost the fight with the Vârcolac, now would we?” One of Raymond’s brows edged upward. “I imagine it must’ve been quite a row, though. How many Vârcolac were there exactly?”

Mürk’s cheeks tinged pink.

“Oh, lad.” Tut-tutting, Raymond set down his cup with a soft
clink
. “It’s getting right embarrassing how effortlessly those Vârcolac are vanquishing you.” Raymond’s tone lowered to its most dangerous. “Five months ago especially.”

Pändra pinned her eyes onto the original Monet watercolor across the room and drew a secret breath, painful against the belt of tension suddenly wrapping her chest. Raymond was referring to Mürk’s failure to nab Tonĩ Parthen from Scripps Memorial Hospital.

Tonĩ Parthen was Pändra’s half-sister—same father, different mother this time—and the daughter Raymond had abandoned over twenty-five years ago to go off and sire their demon-blooded family. He’d always planned on bringing Tonĩ—his actual favorite, Pändra suspected—back into the fold to be his
ultimate
, Royal Fey procreation machine. Tonĩ had mucked up that plan by bonding to a Vârcolac; such a union rendered her infertile to any bloke but her vamp hubby…at least so Pändra had assumed. Raymond, however, contended that the lads’ powerful half-Fey/half-Rău genetics could overcome that. Unfortunately for Tonĩ, only an impregnation experiment would prove that yea or nay.

Mürk’s tone was succinct as he answered Raymond, but careful. “If those tossbag Underground Om Rău can’t quit their blartin’ long enough to nick those three Dragons back from the Vârcolac themselves, then me and the lads can do it.”

Pändra couldn’t hide a wince.
Mürk, you nit
—

“Indeed,” Raymond returned sardonically, “because your last mission into the Vârcolac’s lair was such a smashing success.”

Mürk’s jaw tightened, a reflexive attempt to avoid swallowing, Pändra would guess.

Darkness moved into Raymond’s blue eyes, a look of black, blood-icing fury. “I’m fed to the teeth with all of your bloody failures.” He set his newspaper aside with exaggerated care. “I’d say a lesson’s in order to teach you the merits of a good work ethic.”

A lesson. Oh, effing hell.

On the edge of her vision, Pändra saw Tëer go rigidly still. Videön and Hütch darted their eyes about, their years living in their own flat leaving them unprepared for Raymond’s unique brand of terror. Poor Däce definitely looked like he’d signed his pants in brown now.

“Your ring, Mürk.” Raymond pointed a finger to the front of his table with a sharp tap.

Mürk went stiff as a caber, the muscles in his face rigid, a slight patina of sweat shining on his shaved head. Without the ring, Mürk would feel pain, shed loads of it.

Pändra’s belly rolled into a tight ball, and she glimpsed a muscle in Tëer’s cheek tic. Bloody Nora, but Raymond’s punishment was going to be a huge bag of wank.

Raymond sniffed. “It’s mine to take if I wish. I’m the one who enchanted it.”

Mürk still didn’t move, perhaps feeling safe in the knowledge that no one but the wearer of the ring could touch it without receiving a dreadful shock; even Raymond, the enchanter, wasn’t immune. The one exception to that rule was Tonĩ Parthen, the very skill which had enabled the vamps to kill Rën…and an ability that also meant she’d obtained her enchantment power when she shouldn’t have. Only her offspring were supposed to own that level of power; something that baffled and fascinated Raymond to no end.

Mürk finally stepped forward, twisting his ring to remove it.

Good decision. There was no use fighting their father. Raymond always found a way to achieve his ends, and resistance would only make the castigation worse.

Mürk set his ring on the table, then bowed his head and set his shoulders in preparation.

Pändra’s abdominals cramped and her thighs ached. Something about her brother’s posture—his hands hanging loose when the rest of his body was so tense, the vulnerable back of his neck exposed—ate through the foundations of her defenses and stirred some sisterly devotion to life. “There’s another way we can go about this.”

Everyone turned to look at her; even Mürk angled his eyes up.

You bloody plank, Pändra
. She steeled herself to meet the pale ice of her father’s eyes. “I’ve recently been able to hack into the Vârcolac’s Internet system.”

“Have you now?” Raymond’s eyebrows arched. “That’s decidedly important information, my pet.” A subtle edge of censure entered his tone.

“I planned on telling you after your morning tea.” She held his gaze. “You don’t like to be disturbed while you’re reading your newspaper.”

One corner of her father’s lips twitched and the ice in his eyes melted a smidge. “What is this grand plan of yours?”

“I’m figuring I can monitor their transmissions for information that will help us either (A) lure the vamps up to the surface for an ambush or (B) find a topside portal into their lair. Either option would allow us to wage war against the Vârcolac with the supplement of regular humans.”

The only other option for getting at the Vârcolac was through an underground labyrinthine network of Hell Tunnels that led from demon town to vamp town. The last time Rën, Tëer, and Mürk had traveled that route, they’d nearly fried their arses off. It was so bleeding hot that even the Vârcolac couldn’t make it through, so a regular human definitely wouldn’t be able to manage it. And the lads needed to bulk up their numbers with regulars if they wanted to win this war, subdue the Vârcolac, and achieve Raymond’s ultimate goal of obtaining Tonĩ and Alex.

Pändra glanced at her brothers. “The lads have some real nasty articles for friends that would be perfect for that.”

Raymond hooded his lids. “What you suggest will take too much time.”

“Not a’tall,” Pändra countered. “I’ve already discovered that the vamps use a group of women to transport supplies to and from their lair. We might be able to follow one to a portal and then make a move, but—” She jerked her chin at her brothers and half-brothers. “The lads will have to stay fit for that.”

Raymond snorted softly as he glanced at Mürk, still standing with his head bowed.

“Meanwhile I can send a message to the Underground Om Rău, stating our position about the three Dragons in a way that will make them feel like a bag of wet lettuce for not going after the women themselves. Good chance that’ll motivate the ratbags to carry the can for their own fecking reproducers and then we’ll get out of this completely.”

Raymond didn’t say anything. He sat in his chair with a bored expression on his face as the silence stretched out. Pändra knew that he was deliberately allowing the tension to grow, ruddy bastard, until it hung over the room like a heavy storm cloud. The mantelpiece clock tick-tocked into the quiet, pounding against Pändra’s eardrums, steady at first, then seeming to slow to the ponderous rhythm of a dirge. The urge to scream at her father built in her throat.