Eternal Captive: Mark of the Vampire (37 page)

“No,” he whispered, his gaze moving over her face. “Only a true mate…I don’t understand. I cannot have a true mate.”

“And perhaps that’s not what we are,” she told him. “Perhaps we are something more, something unholy, something genetically wrong—and yet perfection.” She brought her wrist to her fangs and bit down. The sting from heaven. Felt so good, so right. “Take my vein, my love. Drink from my wrist, then from my neck, and soon—maybe in a few weeks’ time, when you are happy and whole again, you will take me.”

“My love,” he whispered almost desperately, almost hopefully. “My princess. My savior.”

Lucian’s fangs elongated as she brought her wrist up to meet him, to let her love, her life, her one and only captive feed. And when his fangs pierced her flesh and suckled, Bronwyn knew the sweetest and truest pain.

SoHo

October 31

“A
nd you thought we’d never need this, Luca.”

They all sat around the massive dining table, looking like the oddest collection of vampire family in the world—and perhaps they were. Alexander and Sara, Nicholas and Kate, Lucian, Bronwyn, and their
balas
, Lucy, the four feral-looking Beasts, and Ladd.

After several weeks of recovery in Scotland, Lucian had returned home with his
veana
and his
balas
, and just a day later, the four Beasts had shown up on their doorstep. They’d claimed their stay would be for only a short time, until they decided where they wanted to go. Still unsure about these savage newcomers, but recognizing them as family, Alexander and Nicholas had told them they were welcome to stay for as long as they liked.

Lucian had not been so courteous.

Seated beside the albino brother, Erion was working on a bite of Bronwyn’s seedcake and trying like hell not to make a face.

“Good eats, eh,
Gemino
?” Lucian asked, his eyes narrowed on the dark-haired
paven
with features resembling a lion.

“Very good.” Erion glanced at his wolflike brother, Lycos, and grinned. “What do you think, Ly?”

Without answering, Lycos shifted his gaze to massively tattooed and skull-shaved Helo, who was just staring at the thing, cursing to himself.

“Well, I love it.”

They all turned to look at the final Beast, Phane. The long-haired
paven
was all kinds of badass, but he had a mouthful of seedcake and was grinning like a fool.

Bronwyn laughed. “There is always more, Phane. Whether it is wanted or not.”

He took the whole plate and grinned. “Appreciate that, ma’am.”

Bronwyn turned to Sara and Kate and grinned. “More Roman brothers. What in the world have we gotten ourselves into?”

Before anyone could answer, the doorbell rang. They all looked at each other in wonder. No one ever came to their door.

“Trick-or-treaters?” Alexander said, grinning.

Nicky nodded. “Right. It’s Halloween.”

Lucian grinned broadly. “Should we really give them a good fright?” He jerked his chin at the Beasts. “Hell, we got these four things now. Let’s use them. Shift into your ugly forms,
Paven
—oh wait, already done.” He chuckled to himself.

Erion’s nostrils flared and Phane growled. “You want to see a show, do you?”

Lycos grinned. “A little four on one?”

Taking his baby daughter from her mother’s arms and giving her kiss on the neck, Lucian snorted. “Not into males, but if I was I wouldn’t be going anywhere near the four of you with all that seedcake in your teeth. Christ, get a toothbrush!”

“Don’t you mean a ‘fang’ brush, Uncle Luca?” Ladd said, laughing at his own joke before stuffing another seedcake inside his mouth.

The hard rumbles of laughter were interrupted by Evans, who rushed into the room followed by Gray. They hadn’t seen Gray in so many months, they almost didn’t recognize him. He seemed larger, more imposing, completely self-contained. There was something in his arms.

“We have a problem,” he said, his eyes steely and concerned.

Alexander was already on his feet. “Is that Dillon?” Nicholas and Sara crowded around Gray too. “What the hell happened?” Alexander asked. “And why has she been unreachable? Why have you kept her from us?”

“I did as she asked,” Gray said, his jaw tight. “I will always do what she asks. Seems I’m wired that way when it comes to her. It’s why I’m here. She wanted to be brought to you.”

Alexander shook his head. “Why?”

“She killed someone. A human.”

Nicholas cursed, “Fuck.” Lucian too.

“The Order—,” Alexander began.

“Will be on her the moment they find out,” Gray finished. “But not just for the killing.”

“Oh, Jesus, what now?” Lucian muttered, his arm stealing around his
veana
, pulling his
balas
closer.

Gray looked only at Alexander. “She wasn’t in this form when she did it.”

“Form?” Alexander repeated.

“Dilly.” It was Erion, and he was standing and staring at what was in Gray’s arms. He motioned for the other Beasts to come take a look.

Nicholas stared at Erion. “You know her?”

“She was with us as
balas
,” he said. “She left our father…Cruen, when he got too rough.”

His eyes wide and sharp, Alexander looked up, looked at Gray. “She’s a…”

“Mutore,”
Gray finished for him.

And before their eyes, Dillon shuddered, screamed like a jungle cat, and shifted into a Beast.

I’ve said it before, but it must be said again—publishing a book takes a village. A very talented, supportive, creative, and generous village. And sitting in the mayor’s seat (the hot seat) is none other than my extraordinary editor, Danielle Perez. Thank you so much, Danielle, for not only working as hard and as long as you do, but for giving the Romans, and the series as a whole, your love and care and support. You are truly one in a million.

Thank you to my village champion, my backbone, Maria Carvainis—and to the entire MCA crew. Your hard work and attention to detail are so very appreciated!

To my friend and critique partner in the writing stockades, Jennifer Lyon: For all the hard work, endless reads and rereads, and those gentle pushes I always seemed to need throughout this book, I thank you! You, me, and Lucian, right?

Thank you to the entire NAL family—a village I am so honored to be a part of.

And the village wouldn’t look nearly as beautiful—or as hot—without an amazing team of artists. Thanks to the NAL art department for their brilliant Mark of the Vampire covers! Better and better, baby.

To my homegirl and the extraordinary artist, Tricia Pickyme Schmitt: Thanks so much for the support and
the beautiful artwork you’ve given me and the boys. And to my homegirl authors, Larissa Ione and Nalini Singh: Thank you for the support and friendship.

And last, but most important, my family. Daniel, Isa, and Lucca, thank you so much for your support, love, and daily, “You can do it, Mommy!” I love you all so much!

Available in August 2012 from Signet Eclipse

M
ost cats despised the water.

But not the jaguar. Not Dillon the jaguar.

No, this was her salvation, her baptism. She was pure predator now, deeply integrated into the world of the animal for as long as it took her to claim her prey once and for all.

Rain pounded the black earth, her massive paws striking puddle after puddle as she ran at top speed through the Green Mountain region of southern Vermont. She’d crossed the New York border thirty minutes ago, escaping the protective custody of the Romans and her
mutore
brothers, and the Impure male who had found and delivered her to safety for the last time—or so he’d said. She growled into the wet night. Didn’t they understand? Didn’t they all get it? She wasn’t the one who needed protecting. It was the human who had sent her into this everlasting shift, the one who still breathed. He was the one in need of care.

Bounding out of the woods, she slowed just a hair as she came upon a children’s playground. It was deep in the dark of night, and the shadows protected her golden fur and black rosettes from the curious gaze of any nocturnal humans who might be about. As she passed a merry-go-round that creaked a slow rotation in the wind, her belly clenched. She was hungry for blood and for meat, but a true meal would have to wait. A cat must have its chase, its attack, its kill before it feasted, and there was no time for that now. Later. Much later. But when it did come, she vowed, it would be a celebratory feed. One that—if she got it right—would commemorate not only the death of the human senator who’d had her beaten, but the days and weeks and endless, restless, merciless nights she’d suffered ever since, trying to gain control over her shift from
veana
to Beast.

Granted, she didn’t know where they were hiding this prey, this gutless human whom she’d worked for as a bodyguard for so many years. They’d moved him several times over the past six months. But she believed he was still somewhere in Maine, and she knew his scent.

Creeping under the overpass where cars moved along at a frantic pace her cat’s lithe body understood and craved, Dillon headed for another stretch of woods. By tomorrow she’d be in Maine—where she knew the scents of every street, every brick, and, if she was lucky, one very arrogant dick.

A car’s headlights moved over her hips and tail just as she ducked into a patch of bracken, then darted off toward the woods again. Within minutes, she had the scent of a rabbit on the roof of her mouth, and though
her fangs hummed with the need for it, she pushed forward. She had to get to her human prey. She had to end his life—only then could she live again. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets, but she ran mile after mile, focused and unfazed, all the way from the Green Mountains to eastern Vermont, until her feet were so caked in mud, she was forced to slow—all the way until an aching thirst compelled her to stop. She hated stopping. When she stopped or slowed she started to think. Maybe not think, exactly, but feel—which was far more dangerous. Feeling made a body weak and foolish and vulnerable. It led to hope and a feral need to connect. It led to pain and potential ruin. In her vampire form she wasn’t as susceptible to it, but in her cat form, this jaguar, who was in nature a solitary beast, the need for connection, for the stroke of a kind, solid hand was, at times, unbearably strong.

Her lip curled. She was growing weaker with every breath, every thought. She needed to end this, kill the senator and return to her vampire form—to the control she had once enjoyed, counted on, reveled in.

Survived by.

The rain ceased its endless torment, and scenting the cool crispness of water somewhere to her right, Dillon darted off the path. Weaving between the heavy sugar maple trees, she ventured down into a gully and found a wide stream. Under the bleak light of a cloud-covered moon, she drank her fill, only pausing when she heard the sound of an animal in the distance. It was a mile away or so, she thought. Nothing that posed a threat. Again, she dropped her muzzle into the water and drank. The feel of it on her skin and tongue reminded her of the cold, clear water she’d run to as a
balas
, as a
mutore
balas
so many years ago. The water had saved her, not from thirst as it did now, but from the one who had hunted her, the one who had worked for her adopted father, Cruen, and had stolen her innocence—the one who, with his sexually violent act, had turned her into a she-cat for the first time.

Suddenly the thought, the memory, was stolen away. A sound and a scent far too familiar for Dillon’s liking rushed her nostrils and her eyes caught on something moving down the stream toward her. The light from the moon was still dim, but it was enough to see the creature. It was large, the size of a whale shark, but it was not a fish, not anything that naturally belonged in the water or the forest. Her limbs were frozen, the pads on the undersides of her paws pressed into the moist ground. This was an invader, and the others like him were surely close behind.

Her muzzle as dry as the inside of her mouth now, Dillon turned and raced from the stream. She was a jaguar, yes, and her speed, her sight, her instincts were strong, but the ones following her were just as strong, with the same keen instincts, and one of them could get at her from the sky.

Panic pricked at her skin, at her insides, and her breathing labored. She wasn’t afraid of them, of fighting them. No, that wasn’t why she ran. She was afraid of being caught and returned, caged and forever fixed as this cat—afraid of never being in control of herself again.

And she was afraid that bastard human would continue to breathe. Yet another male who thought he could lay his hands on her without her consent and live. Live while she died just a little bit more.

Her sprint was tight as she weaved in and out of the trees, but soon she heard it, behind her, closing in, then quickly matching her speed. The wolf. The dog chasing the cat. Her brain worked overtime. If she headed back toward the river, swam as her body was capable of doing, the creature that waited there, the water lord, would force her to shore. And if she climbed the massive tree directly in her path, it was the hawk that would halt her assent.

Fuck
.

The scents of all three were coming at her fast and furious now. It was one thing to be chased as a vampire, as a grown
veana
—
that
she could handle. But being pursued as a Beast made her feel vulnerable, trapped, like a young
veana
again. She wanted to curl into a ball and wish it all away. But just as it had been the last time her jaguar emerged without her consent—as it had been every time in the past six months—the only way out of the weakness and fear was to run straight through it.