The Blood Bundle, Books 1-2: Blood Singers and Blood Song (New Adult Paranormal Vampire/Shifter Romance) (40 page)

“Ah... but the foundation was there for him from
the beginning. The trigger was the Rare One.”

Emmanuel palmed his chin thoughtfully. True...
but, “What if they do not desire the change?” he asked
logically.

“Since when do the Were consider free will? We
take. That is what we do. We are a species ruled by instinct. Let
the vampire intellectualize their existence to death,” Lawrence
gave a low chuckle at his own pun. “See where that gets them. While
they are embracing their ambivalence, we shall be molding our
future to benefit the Were.” He closed his open hand in a fist in
front of Emmanuel's face.

“Cynthia Adams will be the first amongst many.
You will pick our finest warriors, journey to the north, scoop up
as many Singers as you can scent. When they return, we will make
them ours. Absorb them into the pack. Just think,” Lawrence's eyes
took on the sheen of zealotry, “what if there were more like
Caldwell?” He rubbed his hands together, thinking of the spoils a
Singer turned Were would grant them.

Emmanuel did not bring up the point that it was
expressly against the precepts for the Book of Luna that a Singer
be deliberately turned. After all, they were a part of the chain of
beings on this earth, to alter that natural occurrence by force
seemed sacrilegious to Manny.

Dangerous.

“We do need the Rare One, but why not accelerate
the benefits that she would give us by the inclusion of more of her
race? It is too precious by far to not grab while we can.”

Manny was not sure. It could be that once a
large enough percentage of their pack possessed turned Singers,
there would be other complications to deal with.

“And the females,” Lawrence breathed.

That was the best point of all to Manny. The
other points of power and taking needed to be weighed carefully; he
himself favored caution. For a Were, that mindset was rare.
Possibly he was second to Lawrence because of his temperament. It
was the polar opposite of Tony. He was all brash and in the
moment.

“Yes,” Emmanuel conceded with a sigh. “It would
be a huge benefit to have female Were.”

Lawrence nodded, his face setting into grim
lines. “Our ratio, as you know, is four to one. Alphas are killing
themselves in the annual Mating Rite. There would be much less
death....”

“Yes,” Manny agreed. “We might abolish the rite
entirely if there were sufficient females.”

Lawrence inclined his head. “I remember the days
when mating was arranged between families...”

“When Were were not forced to mate with human
females of mixed Were heritage,” Manny finished for him.

They looked at each other. Finally Manny said,
“When?”

Lawrence thought about it, opening his wolf to
the moon, still distant, halfway to full. “Two weeks. Let us give
the Singers the best opportunity for change that we can offer.”

Emmanuel nodded. He was not thrilled with
kidnapping the girl, elaborating on
what
she was,
frightening her worse than she'd already been terrorized in Homer.
He glowered, thinking about the Alaskan pack. They were
near-renegade. Their packmaster led with a volatile hand. Manny was
not impressed. He knew what tactics they'd employed on the girl. He
also knew them to be a sloppy bunch.

As if to bring that point home, Lawrence's next
comment confirmed his worst supposition.

Emmanuel began to leave the room when Lawrence
stopped him with his next comment, “The human police track her as
well.”

Manny stopped, turning. “No,” he said, his
spirit slumping. Human involvement always greatly complicated
things. Usually it necessitated more casualties. Of that, there was
no doubt.

“Yes. Oh yes,” Lawrence said. “Furthermore, we
have reason to believe the Alaskan Pack has been neglectful in
their
efforts
. It seems they may have left some proof of our
existence.”

That was the worst of news.

Emmanuel knew what that meant for him.

“I will take care of that, Packmaster.”

“Include Anthony,” Lawrence directed.

Manny paused, schooling his expression with an
effort. He tried to never work with Tony unless forced. As he was
at present.

“Yes, Packmaster.”

Lawrence smiled in relief. Between his chief
enforcers he would see the human police dispatched and a Singer
female added to the ranks of the pack while diversifying the
lineage.

Though the real feather in his cap would be the
capture and future mating of the Rare One with the Feral.
Jason
Caldwell
, he reminded himself. It was hard to shake his initial
impression of the wolf. He was
other
, so foreign to
Lawrence, he couldn't even scent him for Moon's sake.

“Excellent. Be well, Emmanuel,” the Packmaster
said.

“Be well,” Manny replied, his expression
changing as he turned his back, bracing himself for the
conversation he knew he must have with Tony.

He dreaded it.

*

Scott

Scott was careful not to touch Julia, that
seemed to make everything so much worse for her.

For him.

When he touched her, it was like a great sucking
energy engulfed them both and suddenly he found himself with his
environment melting away.

Yeah, he'd ease them into this
incrementally.

Julia moved slowly for her. She was so ravenous
she could hardly think, whatever they had in that huge kitchen of
theirs that wasn't nailed down she called dibs.

Scott hid a smile, so many of her basic emotions
were leaking all over the top of him. He didn't have too much
trouble clamping down on the urge. Mainly because she was starved
and walked beside him like a fragile golden shadow. He looked her
over as she was slightly ahead of him and she didn't notice his
scrutiny. She was so young yet as a Singer. Her Awakening had just
begun. Julia didn't sense him near to the degree he did her. Though
she would soon. With training, she would Become.

So much more.

He took her elbow, careful to touch her where
the clothes covered her skin. She started a little and looked up at
him. “Sorry, jumpy,” Julia said, letting the curtain of her hair
cover her profile, hiding her from Scott.

“Understandable,” he replied.

Scott ignored her posturing and instead strode
to the fridge as she eased onto a stool at the breakfast bar. The
whole kitchen had been gutted and remodeled extensively. It
actually resembled a commercial kitchen now. It was the only thing
that made sense with this many people living at the compound. He
got out the fixings for making a sandwich and balancing the whole
load in his arms, smacked his head on the top of the fridge.

“Damn!” he howled, the pickle jar slipping from
his grasp.

Then just as suddenly, it hovered in midair and
Scott's eyes flicked to Julia.

“Seems like there's a lot of hard heads here,”
she said, a trifle smug. Scott straightened, kicking the fridge
door closed with his foot. As he did, the jar floated to the
surface of the counter and with the barest tap, settled on the
ocean of granite.

“Yeah,” Scott said and grinned.

And just like that, it was okay. They had a
moment of looking at each other that was comfortable.

They weren't fighting.

He wasn't saving her.

She was safe. With him.

Scott kept grinning, far beyond when he should
have stopped, hope replacing uncertainty.

It was a good day.

*

betrayal

William watched the sister coven's soldiers
surround him and knew that he had been betrayed even as his mind
denied it. He could not accept that for a bit of politics and
numbers he would be derailed from what he sought.

Julia
, he intoned, despair engulfing the
only tender spot he guarded in his heart. And guard it he did. For
it was all he had to offer her once she was within reach.

However, now was not the time for
reflection.

William crouched, hissing.

They came.

He readied. He was a warrior in his own
right.

Singer and vampire both.

Let them come.

*

Sea-Tac Airport

Karl Truman exited the plane with as much speed
as a lumbering guy his size could manage, running a hand over his
bald head as he was thrust into the terminal with the throng of
people.

They didn't notice him standing there, instead
the herd jostled by him, clipping him with their parcels, purses
and carry-ons. Karl opened his mind to that instinct that always
drove him. The one that had made him top in the state for closing
cases. It was almost beyond chance.

Almost.

He checked his paperwork after throwing his coat
and carry-on into the nearest hard ass chair at the gate. He ran
his finger down the geographical possibilities and finally settled
on Bellingham or Kent. He had a sense of Cynthia Adams. Before the
Caldwell Incident (as Truman thought of it) she had been quite a
little fashion girl, a wanna-be socialite. She'd want to get lost
in a big city. After Seattle, which Truman dismissed as too big
(she was a Homer girl and that was its own breed there. Actually,
that was true of Alaskans). He was left with the other cities that
were still large but not the biggest. After dragging his ballpoint
over Tacoma and marking it off the list, he had narrowed it down to
two. Bellingham was looking less likely because it was two-plus
hours north of Sea-Tac. But Kent... he let that city's name roll
around in his head, pinging back and forth until it began taking
shape. Was it possible? Truman felt like he was almost standing in
front of the state map with a push pin in one hand and his eyes
closed.

Like pin the tail on the donkey. In this case,
it was more like pin the location on the map.

Mind made up, he hefted his crap in one arm and
with his normal vigor and determination huffed to the car rental
carousel. He'd go through that hassle first, then he'd hole up
where he thought she'd go.

Kent.

Yeah, he liked the sound of it. There was that
thread of something there. Enigmatic, steadfast. Some cops called
it gut instinct. Whatever it was, it had always worked for Karl.
His mom used to tell him when he was a little runt that he was a
sensitive kid. He could always find stuff. Being a cop was a
natural thing for him. Like breathing. That's why this Caldwell
thing wouldn't let go. It had been swimming in his head for two
years. When it came together he had been relieved.

His gut never lied.

Truman followed that now, without a plan, with
his nose leading him by mental scent alone. It was one that only
Truman could smell and he alone.

He got in his cheap, police-provided rental and
drove to the city he'd circled in red sharpie on the map, getting
stuck behind a big bus on the way.

Truman followed behind the stinky sucker for a
time and while he looked at it, he saw its route listed on the back
light up sign:
East Hill, Valley, West Hill, Scenic
Hill.

Something lit like a match to a striker and
his mind circled around the almost-epiphany.

Buses.

No money.

Desperation.

That was it!
Truman
smacked the wheel with a meaty fist, the steering column shuddering
under his enthusiasm.

She'd used the buses.

Truman grinned, his cheeks making a noise
with his sudden facial switch.

He'd nail the bus drivers. How many had that
circular route through that city? Probably a handful. He knew deep
down that the Adams girl would have taken a bus that was just going
to Kent. Not Renton, Covington or even Federal Way. That
significantly narrowed his search. It was a long shot but he was
going to throw a strike, not a gutter ball.

He could feel it. The rightness of his chain
of thoughts coming together neatly. That's how it always was when
he caught the scent he was searching for.

Suddenly the long plane ride and the shitty
travel receded and all he could feel was the pulse of the
chase.

Here I come
, Truman
thought,
here I come
.

*

Cyn

Alan squeezed her shoulder as he walked by and
she shot him a grateful smile. Cynthia had been at the restaurant a
week and felt like she was just now getting her bearings.

She'd called the guy he'd recommended, and
well... the place was kinda ghetto but it was clean and she felt
safe. For once.

Cynthia shoved away thoughts of Kev and her
former life. The only personal item she'd brought with her was the
wedding photo. Well, that and a few well-loved books. Like
Twilight
. She loved that book. Cynthia gulped, thinking
about how the novel had been better before she'd found out that
werewolves were real. She gave a small shiver like a goose had
walked over her grave.

Cynthia came back to the conversation at hand,
her feet hurting at the end of her eight hour shift. She'd already
gotten more hours from Alan, but thirty hours a week wasn't going
to get her into a real apartment. Oh well.

“Miss, I'd like that ranch on the side and the
burger on a plate,” Mr. Frump commanded. She kinda wanted to jam
her pencil up his ass and restrained herself with an effort.
Unfortunately, once she'd committed the words into her head they
were like a giant TV screen in her brain and the visual of Frump
running around with that unpleasant leaden wedgie wouldn't leave
her. Cynthia's Mona Lisa smile turned into a grin.

Frump frowned and she laughed.

God it felt good. She hadn't given a genuine
laugh... in like forever.

“You bet, sir,” Cynthia said, lightly chewing on
her pencil to keep from bursting into inappropriate guffawing.