Eternal Hunger (17 page)

“You have two objectives,” Ethan began, his gaze connecting with each of the six recruits at his table. “To find and recruit other Impures. And to impregnate humans, Impures, and, if we’re very lucky, Purebloods. My question is: Why isn’t the latter happening with greater speed?”

One recruit, Grevon, a short half-breed with black hair and eyes the color of snow downed his scotch and soda before answering, “Pureblood DNA repels our own.”

Ethan pinned the little shit with an ice-cold stare. “That’s because you’re not keeping them in a state of desire for the moments following release.”

“You have granted us some power, Commander, but it is nowhere near as strong as yours. At the moment of release we are weakened, and we cannot hold on to the control we had over the
veana
’s mind.”

A large male recruit to Ethan’s left grunted into his plate of rigatoni. “Speak for yourself, Grevon.”

Grevon hissed at the male. “I am, and for several others sitting here.” He turned to Ethan and shrugged. “We need more power, Commander. We need you to give it to us if you want this job done with greater speed.” The male crossed his arms over his chest. “I suggest you go to the Supreme One and—”

The shot was barely heard over the evening restaurant chatter, and Grevon had the courtesy to drop ever so swiftly headfirst into his veal piccata, so that no one but the five remaining recruits noticed the hit.

It was a thing of beauty.

Ethan smiled at each one of his remaining Impures, reveled in the barely hidden fear that lit their eyes. “I want more Pureblood females and I want them in
swell
. If anyone here is too lazy or too chickenshit to make that happen, I suggest you leave right now.”

No one moved, not even a muscle twitch, and Ethan grinned. They were either willing to do whatever he asked of them or not about to stand up and show him their backs. To be honest, Ethan didn’t care which it was, he just wanted blind devotion, and with the example before them—a fellow recruit’s head lolling in his plate—Ethan was willing to bet he’d have a few Pureblood females in his house by tomorrow night.

Dinner and drinks with the boys was damn good fun.

He was about to slide the gun he held between his legs into his coat pocket when he scented something among the perfume and the tomato and garlic. He was an Impure, true, powerless for most of his life, but when he’d joined with the Supreme One, drank from the
paven
’s ancient vein, ingested the pure and powerful blood, he’d been granted powers beyond his station, and sniffing out the enemy was one of them.

Ethan cocked his head to the side and inhaled deeply. There were
pavens
near, Pureblood, old blood, and if he wasn’t mistaken, one of them was morphed and on the hunt.

 

Hidden in the shadows near the back entrance of Cipriani’s Italian Restaurant, the Roman brothers gathered, ready to spring. His hand on the Glock at his lower back, Alexander watched as Dare and several of his recruits sat at a table chatting it up like they were having a tea party.

“This should be an easy kill,” Lucian muttered.

Alexander glanced over at his brother. “You sound disappointed.”

“I am,” Lucian snarled. “I was looking forward to . . . I don’t know—this is bullshit.”

“What?” Nicholas asked in a harsh whisper. “What is it you want, Luca? An epic battle?”

“Hell, yes!” Lucian hissed.

Nicholas shot Alexander a beleaguered eye roll, then turned back to his younger brother. “I’ll engage you in a little blood sport later, all right? Let’s just end this Impure jackass, drop him at the feet of the Order, and get our lives back.”

Lucian frowned. “Fine.”

“On my signal, then, boys.” Focusing all of his attention on the room before him, Alexander was about to lower the lights and change the mental frequency of the patrons and staff in the restaurant, when it was suddenly done for him. On alert, he whirled back to his brothers, but even before they shook their heads Alexander knew it hadn’t been them. Time slowed and the mélange of scents that hummed in the air ceased to exist. Crouched and ready for whatever was coming his way, Alexander locked eyes with Dare, who seemed to know right where he stood in the shadows.

Beside Alexander, Nicholas spotted something, someone, in Dare’s group and let out a feral growl. “How the hell did he—”

“Move in!” Alexander commanded. “And don’t touch Dare. He’s mine.”

In a rush of muscle and movement, the three advanced on the scene, Alexander in the lead, his speed unmatched by his brothers. Time barely existed, and the minds of the patrons were temporarily shut off as Alexander stalked forward, disengaging the safeties on the Glocks in his fists. But before Alexander hit tableside, Ethan Dare pulled his own gun and fired. He hit the eldest Roman in the shoulder with a sharp rip of flesh.

“Fuck. You.” Alexander raised the Glocks and fired—one, two, three shots, straight at Dare’s heart. But the strange Impure was quick—eyes shut, arms spread-eagle style around his crew, and in a breath, he was gone—Alexander’s bullets hitting leather.

“What the hell just happened?” Alexander roared, staring at the now empty table.

“Trainer was with them,” Nicholas said, nostrils flaring. “Did you see him?”

Alexander didn’t answer. As long as Trainer stayed away from Sara, he didn’t give a shit about who the skinny human hung out with. He was more concerned with Ethan Dare’s abilities. “Where did they go?”

“
How
did they go?” Nicholas said, his gaze still focused on the chair Tom had been in only moments ago. “Only morphed Purebloods can flash like that. And only outside.”

“Dare
is
an Impure, isn’t he?” Lucian interrupted, glaring at Alexander like he’d left something out of the battle plan.

“I don’t know what he is,” Alexander uttered, motioning for them to follow as he headed for the back door of the restaurant, his shoulder leaking blood. “But this job just became a helluva lot more interesting.”

“Well, there you have it, Luca,” Nicholas said dryly as Alexander dipped into his mind and returned normalcy to the restaurant, staff, and patrons. “Seems as though you’ll get your epic battle, after all.”

S
ara had been home all of thirty minutes, and after changing her clothes and running her freezing hands under warm water in the sink in Alexander’s room, she headed downstairs to find something to eat. Instead, she found Evans dusting a pretty cherrywood table in the entryway.

“Good evening, Doctor,” said the old
paven
, inclining his head. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Sara’s stomach chose that exact moment to alert not only herself, but Evans, of its emptiness, and she laughed at the odd sound. “I am pretty hungry.”

“Oh my, yes, of course you are.” Evans’s expression changed dramatically, from reserved to highly embarrassed. “Please follow me.”

He led her through a few rooms that were large and windowless and appeared to be office space before finally going through a set of double doors. Sara took in the enormous well-lit living room they entered, a living room that just screamed MEN LIVE HERE. The walls were painted in a dusty red and gold, and the dark wood floor was draped in contemporary ivory and green hand-knotted wool rugs. At one end of the room, a pool table and a few black leather club chairs were set up. At the other end, a grouping of comfortable leather couches sat facing a massive flat-screen TV positioned a few feet above a beautiful river-rock fireplace. The room was masculine to be sure, but not in an off-putting way.

Evans turned around to face her then, looking a bit sheepish. “This used to be the kitchen, but when the Romans moved in . . . well, there was really no need for it.”

Sara understood his meaning at once, and was surprised at herself for not thinking of it sooner. “Sure. Of course.” She shrugged. “It’s no problem. All I need is a menu for some good Chinese and a phone.”

There was a sudden movement behind her, a whoosh of paper, and then a sober female voice that uttered, “No deliveries.”

Sara whirled around, saw Dillon seated on a couch, her nose deep within the pages of the
Wall Street Journal
, and sighed. Had she been there the whole time? Sara wondered. Lying down or . . . hidden? And why was she still in the house? “I thought you were gone,” Sara said.

“Unfortunately not.” Dillon’s face remained hidden in the paper.

Sara glanced over her shoulder at Evans, who appeared uncertain about what to do next, or how to deal with his new guest. “No worries,” Sara told him. “I’ll go pick up something.”

“No,” Dillon said harshly, flipping a page of her newspaper.

Sara turned back to face the irritating female vampire. “So what do you suggest, Dillon? Starvation?”

She shrugged. “Not my problem.”

“What is your problem, then? I mean besides being a huge bitch?”

Unfazed by Sara’s anger, Dillon stated evenly, “Bring you here. Keep you here.”

Sara took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m hungry. As in, my gas tank’s on empty. I need food, and I’m sure as hell not going on your diet, so—”

“I’d be happy to share what I’ve brought with me.”

Both Sara and Dillon turned to see who had spoken. Standing in the doorway, dressed in skinny jeans, a long, pale gray wool sweater, that same white neck scarf, and high-heeled boots, was the vampire perfection known as Bronwyn. Smiling boldly, she entered the room with a black travel bag dangling from one petite, scarf-wrapped wrist.

Evans inclined his head. “Miss Kettler.”

The black-haired beauty came to sit on the couch opposite Dillon. Sara watched as she took out what appeared to be a bento box, opened it, and began to assemble a meal.

Confused, Sara stared at her. “You eat food?”

“Certain foods,” Bronwyn explained, spooning what looked like a squirrel’s diet onto her plate. “In the
credenti
—our community—these basic staples—grains, berries—come from the earth and help us keep clarity and strength of mind, while keeping our bodies pure.”

From behind her newspaper, Dillon snorted.

“Not everyone’s into that kind of thing,” Bronwyn said with no embarrassment, no censure.

Fascinated, Sara came to sit between both the
veanas
on the third couch. She wondered about Alexander. Did he eat like this too? “Is this all you have, or do you still drink ...”

“Blood?” Bronwyn finished for her.

“Yes.”

“Yes, it is blood of the Order, extracted and placed in small vials, then rationed out to the citizens of the
credenti
.”

A hum of unease moved through Sara. The Order. That group seemed to have their hands in everything—everyone’s lives, everyone’s futures.

“We don’t drink from each other,” Bronwyn continued, taking a bite of some kind of seed bar. “That honor is saved for our true mate.”

Unease changed into a perfect storm of irritation and jealousy within Sara. Bronwyn was waiting for her true mate—Alexander—waiting to drink from him, fill her body with his potent red blood.

Sara stared at the beautiful vampire. The idea of taking another’s blood into her mouth, swallowing the metallic liquid and wanting more should’ve made her nauseous to say the least, but it didn’t. Not with the picture she had of Alexander in her mind—his naked chest, massive shoulders, and long, thick, waiting neck.

She glanced over at Dillon, who remained headfirst in her paper. “Are nuts and berries what’s for dinner at your house?”

“Fuck no.”

“Why not?”

Dillon ignored her, but Bronwyn quickly offered an answer. “There are some who don’t agree with this way of life and its benefits. Some who think our breed should live on blood alone.”

“What happens to them?” Sara asked.

“They decide to leave the
credenti
.” Bronwyn chewed her food, but didn’t seem to enjoy it much. “They walk out and choose another life.”

Sara wondered if it was really as simple as all that. She eyed Dillon again, who remained still and silent behind her paper. “You walked, Dillon?”

“No, human. I ran.”

Bronwyn shrugged as though this were no big deal. “Like I said, the lifestyle doesn’t suit everyone.”

“No,” Dillon growled, thrusting down her paper and eyeing the vampire across from her. “The prison time doesn’t suit everyone.”

A muscle in Bronwyn’s cheek twitched, but she kept her cool. “For some, it can feel that way. For others, it’s a wonderful, happy, complete existence.”

Studying human behavior had always been a passion for Sara, but this—studying vampire behavior and vampire cultural differences—was thrilling, to say the least. She sat forward, looking from one
veana
to the other. “So the ones who leave the
credenti
, can they exist among humans and not be detected?”

Bronwyn nodded. “For a while, if they’re discreet in their appetite.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

“When morpho hits for a
paven
and meta occurs for a
veana
, one is forever changed, and living among humans becomes impossible.”

Sara sat forward in her chair. “Why?”

“A
veana
goes through meta at fifty years, far earlier than a
paven
goes through morpho, and though she can still remain in sunlight, the urge to find her true mate and grow large with swell is intense. It’s wise for her to remove herself from human male company and return to the safety of her
credenti
. For a
paven
,” she continued, “sunlight becomes the enemy of the body and like the
veana
, the need to find his true mate becomes impossible to deny. He can become rather like a hunter in his quest to find his
veana
.”

Morpho was what Alexander had been through at her door, Sara mused. That’s what she’d saved him from, the burns and the pain. So if one followed the other, that would mean he was on the hunt for his true mate, or soon would be. She looked at Bronwyn. “Are you, or members of the breed, tempted by human blood?”