Eternal Demon: Mark of the Vampire (26 page)

He chuckled, pressing his cock against her ass as his fingers slipped inside her pussy.

“All in good time, demon girl,” he purred, stroking her until she moaned his name, until she bucked against his hand and begged him to take her. “We have all night. We have forever.”

T
he massive hawk shifter touched down outside the gates of the castle and waited patiently for her female passenger to slide from her back.

Seven months pregnant and living in a state of perpetual anxiety, Petra was so grateful, and wrapped her arms around the neck of her best friend. “Thanks, Dani.”

“Anytime, Pets,” the female shifter replied, her hawk’s eyes filled with concern. “And I mean that. I’m so glad you called. We’ve been so worried about you.”

Guilt snaked through Petra’s blood and she pulled her coat closer around her, protecting the growing babe. She’d hated these past seven months away from the Rain Forest, away from her mother and father and brothers. Especially in her condition. But the compulsion to find the one who had given her life, protected her, was impossibly strong.

Now that need had increased with the shocking revelation that her birth mother was alive.

She had so many questions, and she hoped the male who was purported to be inside the castle on the hill before her could answer them.

“Dani, will you tell my family I will come to them soon?” She glanced up at the foreboding landscape she’d found through Celestine and Alexander’s whispered conversations. “But please don’t reveal my condition. I want to tell them myself.”

“Of course,” Dani said behind her. “I must get back, Pets. It’s nearly dawn and I don’t want to be seen. Or shot at.”

Petra glanced over her shoulder and smiled at her best friend. “Yes, you have enough holes in your feathers as is.”

Dani laughed. “Pinprick little nothings. No one can see them anymore. But you were a cracker shot with a blowgun when we were young.”

“It’s a wonder we became friends.”

“Best friends.”

Grinning, Dani didn’t wait for a response. She kicked off the ground and sailed beautifully and effortlessly into the air.

Petra watched until she was out of sight, then hurried to the lock at the gate. But to her surprise and her concern, it was drawn open a good two inches. It should never be that easy.
Does Cruen know I’m coming?
she wondered as she hurried up the hill to the door.
But how could that be possible?
She had been searching for him for months. If he could sense her, he would’ve called for her by now, come and found her.

No, this had to be a mistake, the gate left open by accident.

But when the grand wood door drew back before she even had a chance to knock and the male guard inclined his head and said, “You wish to see Cruen?” she knew her father must have sensed her approach.

As she followed the guard down a long, dimly lit corridor, fear gripped her insides. She’d waited so long, been searching so long . . . she wasn’t sure what she expected from him. Would he be glad to see her? Or had he placed her with the shifters for more than just the reasons her adoptive parents had claimed?

The guard came to a stop near another heavy wooden door. He said nothing as he drew it back, just gestured to a flight of stairs that led into a dimly lit space.

A few steps down, her mind warned her to retreat, but where would she go? She was all alone in France. Dani was gone. This is what she’d come to do: talk with her father, know the truth about her birth, and warn him about the male who wished him dead.

But she never got that chance.

Before her foot hit the bottom step, she was swept off her feet and dragged back into the shadows. She tried to fight, to struggle, but the wall of male muscle that had claimed her wouldn’t relent.

“Who are you?” he whispered in her ear.

She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. Her mind swam with questions and fears for the child inside her.

She gasped when she felt a blade at her neck. But oh . . . her senses were going wild. As her mind screamed at her to speak, to scream, her nostrils flared.

She knew that scent.

Oh, gods, she knew that scent.

“Synjon.”

The male at her back stiffened. Then after a second or two, lowered the blade.

“Petra?” He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. “What the hell are you doing here?”

It was dim in the lamplight, but she saw his eyes, sunken and feral though they were, and recognized him as the male she had saved from the sun, the male she had spent one glorious night with.

Her gaze flickered to his right, to a barely conscious figure pinned to the wall. Her skin began to prickle; her belly clenched with pain. It was her father, and he was shackled to the stone. Burns covered his face and neck.

“Oh, my gods,” she uttered. “Father? Are you all right?”

“Father?”

It was Syn who spoke, but his voice was different than she remembered, otherworldly and terrifyingly cold. She looked back at him, her gaze imploring him, but she saw nothing of the male she’d known. Only a shell, a hate-filled shell.

“Please, Syn,” she begged. “Please let him go.”

“Let him go? Cruen?” He burst out laughing. “I will remain here until he’s dead.”

“Oh, gods—”

“Until I have my revenge.”

“No, please—”

Several pairs of footsteps raced down the stairs and into the dungeon. Voices, loud and angry; a warning. Petra felt herself being spun to face the stairs, then yanked back against Synjon, the knife at her throat once again.

“Synjon, stop now!”

“Jesus, what is he doing?”

The room was so dimly lit, Petra could make out only white hair among the crowd.

“Christ, Syn,” said another male. “You are out of your fucking mind.”

“That’s right, Frosty,” Synjon said against Petra’s ear. “Mad as a hatter.”

“Put the knife down,” ordered a female voice Petra had never heard before.

“Why should I?” Synjon rasped, his tone pained and bitter.

“Because she’s my sister,” said the female, softer now, imploring. “Please, Synjon.”

Syn gathered Petra tighter around the breasts. “Fuck you all! Juliet was a sister too. She could’ve been a mother, a mate . . . so much more. This vampire bastard used her.” Synjon’s voice broke. “Put her in a cage, doped her with drugs, and wanted Frosty here to fuck her until she bred another
balas
he could experiment on.”

His words, the ache in his voice, the truth in it, stilled Petra. Her father had done all of that? It wasn’t possible.

“He killed the one I loved,” Synjon ground out. “Perhaps I should return the favor. Perhaps I should kill the one he loves.”

Petra whimpered, whispered to him, “Please don’t do this.”

“Why?” Suddenly, Synjon lowered his blade and whirled her around to face him again. His eyes were wild and filled with unshed tears. She’d never seen anyone in so much pain. “Why should I let you live, Petra?”

“Because . . . oh, gods, Syn . . .” Her eyes pricked with tears too as she grabbed the edges of her coat, yanked it back, and revealed her swollen belly. “I’m carrying your child.”

Don’t miss the next novel in the Mark of the Vampire series,

ETERNAL SIN

Available November 2013 from Signet Eclipse.

Please enjoy this preview.

T
he hawk shifter flew overhead, circling Petra in the cloudless sky as she stumbled back and forth in front of the mouth of the cave; the same Rain Forest cave she’d pulled a burning, fiercely stubborn Synjon Wise into after he’d tried to follow his lover into the sun seven months ago.

Now it was Petra’s turn.

Not to burn, but to feel the constant aftershocks of a misery she couldn’t shake.

Tears ran down her cheeks, another great sob exiting her tight throat. She was in so much pain. Unimaginable and inescapable. Her body, her swollen belly, her mind, her heart . . .

No. She had no heart. It was silent. An empty, useless organ.

It was a realization that had once filled her with curiosity. She was a vampire. A
veana
. Not a shifter, like her adopted family. Gone were the perpetual feelings of being an outcast among a society who wanted nothing more than to embrace her. Now she had living proof of her own existence. Now her questions could truly be answered.

Who did she belong to? Where were others like her? What could she expect from her life? How long was that life?

He had gifted her with those answers. That male, the
paven
who’d come to the Rain Forest to bury his beloved—and himself if Petra hadn’t been there to stop him. Inside the shelter of her tree house so many months ago, Synjon Wise had told her everything, offered her a future. He’d just had to kill someone first.

Vengeance before romance. Love.

But the one he’d had to kill, the one who had murdered his Juliet, well . . . he was Petra’s only connection with the outside world. Her only connection to her blood. He was her father.

Cruen.

Another pained cry was wrenched from Petra’s lungs, from deep inside, where the ache seemed to emanate from, and she stopped and gripped the cool, moist curve of the cave’s entrance.

She heard her mother’s voice somewhere behind her. “What can we do?” Not the mother who had given her life, but the one who had raised her. As part of her pride, a cub to be cherished.

The beautiful lion shifter Wen had been the best mother any creature, shifter or vampire, could hope for. Now she nearly wailed in pain at Petra’s distress.

“I don’t know,” said the other female, the one who had brought Petra to the Rain Forest a week before. This was her biological mother, Celestine. A Pureblood vampire who was as desperate to make up for lost time and bond with her daughter as Petra was to push her away.

She didn’t need another parent. Especially not one who considered her part in creating Petra a grave mistake.

“You’re a vampire, like her,” Wen continued, her unsteady voice carrying on the breeze. “Surely you’ve seen this kind of—”

“Never.” Celestine’s tone was emphatic, impassioned. Fearful. “Her sister, my daughter, Sara, is also in
swell
, but she is an Impure. She never went through
Meta
. Getting pregnant before you’re of age, before you experience your transition, is very rare.”

“Do you think that’s why she’s reacting this way?”

“Emotional surges are predicted in pre-
Meta swell
 . . .”

“But not like this.”

Celestine paused before saying, “No, not like this. And not this far along. The surges are purported to be very early on in the pregnancy.”

“What are we to do?” Wen said, her own throat breaking with emotion. “She’s been here a week, and every day—every hour—it grows worse.”

Their voices grated on Petra’s exposed nerves, searing her mind with agony. Her nails scraped against the rock.

“There must be something we can give her to ease this suffering,” Wen continued. “This strange hunger. The pain.”

“Blood,” said Celestine.

“She won’t drink it,” Wen returned. “I’ve tried. She—”

“Stop it!” Petra snarled over her shoulder, tears raining down her cheeks, unstoppable. “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here!”

Both females froze in the glare of the sunlight, their gazes cutting to her immediately. Petra despised the fear and empathy she saw in their eyes. Or maybe their expressions made her feel frustrated . . . or was it desperately sad? She didn’t know.

Whimpering, she gripped the underside of her large belly. She couldn’t decipher her feelings. There were too many of them. What was wrong with her?

Celestine moved toward her. “You must drink.”

“No,” Petra growled.
Blood.
Just the thought of it on her tongue, running down her throat, made her gag, made her vicious. She hissed at both of them, pressed back against the mouth of the cave.

Tears in her own eyes now, Wen started rolling up one of her sleeves. “You can have mine, baby. Take all you need. Please, Pets. Please.” She bit her lip, the loving childhood nickname swallowed up by a sob of despair. “Seeing you like this . . .”

Overhead the hawk cried, swooping in low over their heads before returning to the sky. Petra glanced up and growled at the bird. She’d told Dani she didn’t want to see her, didn’t want a ride over the treetops of the Rain Forest, didn’t want her looks of sympathy or fear. But her best friend refused to leave, to retreat to her nest.

“Your blood won’t stop this, Wen,” Celestine said gently. “I’m afraid she needs his.”

“The father of the child . . .”

“Yes.”

No father,
Petra silently screamed.
He was no father.
He wanted to kill her, the baby . . . She turned and ran into the cave. Sobs burst in her chest, scraping her throat. She wanted to get away from them. From everyone. From light, heat, sound. She wanted to search for darkness. Maybe it would claim her.

“Oh, gods,” she heard Wen cry. “But that’s not possible, is it? After what was done to him. Does he even remember their time together?”

“His memories weren’t taken—just his emotions,” Celestine said, her voice echoing inside the walls of the cave. “He knows about her and the
balas
. He knows that she carries the grandchild of his enemy. The question is, will he care?”

Petra met the back of the cave. It was dark and wet and cold and rough, but it welcomed her. Breathing heavily, panic and sickness and fear and anger rippling through her, she curled up against it and tried to force every thought, every feeling, every memory from her mind.

But it was impossible.

Along with the staggering emotional and physical pain her body felt, her brain conjured her past. Flipping by, scene after scene, she saw every bit of her childhood in the Rain Forest. She saw the hunts, the shifters, her friends. She saw her work, helping shifters with their early transitions. She saw her brothers.

She saw Synjon.

Once again, she experienced the fear and pain of dragging him inside the cave she huddled within now. She felt his interest in her, both mentally and sexually. She felt his kiss, his touch.

She felt the moment he’d placed a child in her womb.

Tears flooded her cheeks. He was responsible for this, what she was going through. And yet he was completely at peace. She’d hoped for so much more as she’d watched his emotions being bled from his body on the dungeon floor of the
mutore
Erion’s castle a week ago.

She’d hoped for the male who’d held her, kissed her, cared for her once upon a time.

Petra swiped at her eyes and whimpered. As she leaned into the cool, hard rock, growing more and more lost, her child weakening along with her body and mind, Synjon Wise was out there in the world somewhere, devoid of care, of concern. His child and the
balas
’s mother the furthest things from his mind.

•   •   •

Within his sprawling penthouse of glass and brick, Synjon Wise sat comfortably at his Bösendorfer, his fingers moving quickly across the keys as he played something complex yet pointless.

The party guests circulated through the six thousand square feet of interior space, leaving the wraparound terraces and 360-degree views of Manhattan to the shard of moon and the cold winter night. It was his third party in seven days. The first being the very night he’d bought the place. The small crowd had been courtesy of his Realtor. Broadway actors, artists, financiers, Pureblood and Impure vampires. He’d never thought much about owning a flat or dipping into the massive wealth he’d accumulated over the years. He’d been far too busy working, spying, following the trail of vengeance . . .

This was so much better.

This was blissful nothingness.

He glanced up from the sheet music he didn’t need to read. The dull hum of conversation, the deep thirst of those who continued to empty glass upon glass of Dom Pérignon White Gold, and the females who he’d instructed not to come near him until he ceased playing. It was a far cry from the manic scene in the
mutore
’s dungeon a week ago.

A flash on the terrace snagged his attention even as he continued playing. Three blokes stood on the flagstones, their expressions grave as they headed for the glass doors. Synjon knew them, of course. One far more than the others, and although the memory, the history, he shared with them held a good amount of tension and heaviness, he knew absolutely that they were not his enemies.

Dressed completely in black, and taller, wider, and far more fearsome than any of his guests, the three males entered the Great Room, bringing with them the winter chill. Every set of human eyes widened; every pair of human feet drew back. His fingers still moving over the keys, Synjon tracked the males, waited for them to see him, to scent him. It took no more than a moment before they did, before a pathway was created across the polished stone floor.

Syn continued to play as the Roman brothers moved toward him. They appeared tense. Syn wondered what that felt like.

“Welcome to the party,” he said as they came to stand beside him.

The one he knew best, a nearly albino vampire male, spoke first. “I think our invitation got lost in the mail, Brit Boy.”

There was a time Syn would have risen to the male’s caustic play. He had no interest now. “You weren’t invited, Lucian. In fact, none of you were.”

The male turned to his skull-shaved brother, Alexander, and snorted. “Good to know the guy still has some asshole left in him.”

Alexander didn’t respond. His focus was entirely on Synjon, his tone serious as he spoke. “We have a problem.”

“We?” Synjon asked, his fingers moving into Bach’s concerto in F minor. He used to despise the piece, but now he felt only the smoothness of the keys against his skin.

Alexander’s voice dropped and his eyes narrowed. “The
veana
who carries your child—”

“Petra,” Syn supplied, picturing the dark-haired
veana
and feeling . . . nothing.

“Yes,” Alexander ground out. “She hasn’t gone through her
Meta
. We didn’t know that before. When we sent her back . . . And we didn’t know a
veana
in
swell
who hadn’t gone through her transition would react . . . She’s losing her mind, Syn.”

Synjon looked up, assessed the male. He couldn’t imagine why Alexander was telling him this. “Now that you’re here, would you like to stay? Join my guests?”

A growl rumbled in Alexander’s chest. “No.”

“Perhaps you’d like something to drink.”

“Christ,” Lucian uttered, leaning against the piano.

“Some
one
to drink, then?” Synjon caught the eye of one of the humans who enjoyed feeding his vampire guests. She grinned at him.

“We’re not here for a party,” Nicholas said tersely, moving around the piano to the other side. “Petra is ill, Syn. She can’t control her emotions. She’s going out of her mind. It happened soon after she returned to the Rain Forest. You have to—”

“Attend to my guests,” Synjon said evenly. There was so much to do—select his blood donor and his sexual conquests. He had discriminating tastes. But first, a little Prelude in C-sharp minor. Rachmaninoff used to make him snarl.

Times changed, it seemed.

Arching an eyebrow at the three males, he said, “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Excuse me?” Lucian repeated, giving Syn a disgusted look. “Whatever happened to ‘Get the fuck out of my way, you bleeding tossers’?”

“I don’t solve problems with words or threats, Lucian,” he said, his voice even. “I take care of them quietly, quickly.”

“That’s too bad,” Lucian muttered.

“We should go, find another way,” Nicholas said tightly. “He doesn’t give a shit about anything. And it’s our fault. We made him that way.”

“Cruen made him that way,” Alex amended.

“At our request.”

Lucian growled, pushed away from the piano. “Another bargain with Cruen.”

“It was a good one,” Syn remarked, closing in on the final seven-measure coda. “I’ve never felt better.”

“You feel nothing,” Lucian returned.

“Oh, I feel quite perfect where it matters—all things physical. I’m not burdened with tedious, irrational emotions. It’s all very civilized, really.” Rachmaninoff ceased to exist, and Synjon glanced up at Alexander. “I appreciate what was forced upon me.”

“Then perhaps we should force you to help Petra.” Alexander returned with barely disguised menace. “She needs your blood. Now.”

“That’s unfortunate for her.” Syn jerked his chin in the direction of the Great Room. “As you can see, I am otherwise engaged.”

“He’s lost,” Luca uttered. “Fucking lost.”

Synjon stared at the three faces, all twisted into ravaged masks of worry. It suited them: that intensity, those feral, predatory glares. But it held no interest for him. He was rather relaxed, really—though he could use a pint or two, perhaps a quick, hard fuck.

Alexander ground his teeth. “Syn, your child and Petra . . . They could both die without your help. Your blood.”

Done with this repetitive, pointless conversation, Synjon uttered a smooth, “Then I suppose they will die,” before he returned to the cool, white keys and another song from his past: Nirvana’s “Drain You.”