The Blood Bundle, Books 1-2: Blood Singers and Blood Song (New Adult Paranormal Vampire/Shifter Romance) (54 page)

She was gasping and they were glaring. “You
guys...” she howled helplessly, clutching her sides, “you're
slaying me with this. I know Jules! She's... I don't know,
her!
You know: Ordinary.” Flunker of Math, Wearer of
Atrocious Shoes....

“She is not, Singer. She would be a queen
amongst your people. She is a pure blood. It would not surprise me
if her parents had been eliminated for the sole purpose of
manipulating her future.”

That sobered Cynthia up in a hurry. He couldn't
know about Jules' parents.

Manny smiled at her shock. “Did I hit upon it
then?”

Cynthia nodded dumbly .

“Who... I mean... Jules thinks it was an
accident,” Cynthia said lamely.

“Yet, she bears the mark of the Rare One,”
Emmanuel said.

“What? Where?” Cynthia asked.

“She's got that crescent-shaped scar at her
temple,” Adi said, tapping her own to emphasize the point.

Oh my God
, Cynthia thought. She knew that
scar, she'd seen it a thousand times, covered it with make-up.
Cynthia never thought about it before but it
was
the shape
of a moon.

Cynthia sat there for a few heartbeats,
assimilating the info. “Okay. So let's say Julia is the 'Rare
One',” Cynthia paused. “So? I mean, why is there all this fuss. Why
did those psycho wolves kill Kev? Why did they tear Jason's throat
out and do the sacrilegious changeamatic? Huh? Why do they give two
shits about Julia... you guys aren't vampires.”

Emmanuel hated to showcase how the Were were
like a franchise, it was a point he'd never liked. They were all
Were but governed very individually. Each pack had a packmaster who
was different from one pack to the next. The Alaskan pack had
always acted independently from the Northwestern pack that Lawrence
presided over.

“The Alaskan pack are asshats.”

“Adrianna,” Emmanuel started then realized she
was ultimately correct. “What she says is true, if crude.”

“I can take crude,” Cynthia said, meeting his
stare.

Emmanuel let a growl percolate from deep in his
throat, her rude dominance something his wolf could not
tolerate.

“Ooh... I like this,” Adi said. “She got ya by
the tail, Manny?”

“What's the problem?” Cynthia asked, not looking
away.

“Drop your eyes, female,” Emmanuel
commanded.

“No,” Cynthia said and popped him the bird, her
middle finger up like a stiff flag.

He flashed to her and Cynthia yelped. “Do not
force me to subdue you. I am trying to be civilized but my wolf
feels no such compunction.”

“Well, Try. Harder,” Cynthia said, staring into
eyes that were so much spun gold, the orbs utterly not human, a
color found in nature but absent in humanity.

Emmanuel dipped his head against the exposed
throat of the female Singer and wondered how he'd slid down the
hill of barbaric. Had he not, just moments ago been explaining a
heritage she was unaware of?

“Hey Manny!” Adi yelled. “You're making the
Alaskan wolves look pretty good right now.”

He moved his nose away from her intoxicating
scent. She smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. Scents he could stand
forever.

Straightening, he put her away from him with an
effort that bordered on ugly.

“Ah... why did I get the wolf treatment? Control
issues-much,” Cynthia said, her guts knotting.

“He's losin' it 'cuz of your Singer blood!” Adi
chortled.

Emmanuel glared at Adi. “Deny it, big guy,” Adi
teased and he found that he could not refute it.

“If there be enough blood quantum, it causes a
Were's blood to heat. Emotions surface that would otherwise lay
dormant.”

“I guess so,” Cynthia said, trying to put this
whole event in a box for later reflection. Of course, it was a
shade of weird that wouldn't fit so it just kept staying weird
instead. Wonderful.

“To answer your question, if Julia completed the
Ritual of Luna she would, by her mere presence, free many of us of
the moon's summons.”

“Ah, what does this ritual thing entail?”
Cynthia asked.

“A bunch of Alphas fight to the death and then
she mates with the winner, has a litter of pups and they grow up to
be fully moonless changers.”

Emmanuel shook his head at Adrianna's recital of
the facts and added his bit, “Perpetuating their unique genes for
many generations to come,” he added, hoping to balance Adi's
starkness.

Cynthia backed up until her ass hit something
solid and sat down, staring at the two.

“Hey,” Adi snapped her fingers and Cynthia gave
her a sluggish stare. “Earth to Cyn.”

“Yeah?” Cynthia asked, dazed.

“Do ya get it?”

Cynthia nodded. “I get that I'm being held by a
bunch of crazy-ass werewolves that want to make my friend have
puppies.”

“It's not so bad, Cyn. You can have puppies
too,” Adi said in an excited note.

Cynthia felt the world tilt, heat infusing her
feet and rising to the top of her head. “Oh shit, I think she's
gonna faint! Manny, do something!”

Emmanuel rushed over to the Singer, her pale
skin like a sheet of parchment and put her head between her legs as
she perched on the only piece of furniture, aside from the bed,
that still remained intact.

Cynthia felt better. From between her legs, she
could feel the heat of the male werewolf on her nape and asked, “Do
I have to have puppies?”

Silence met her question and she slowly lifted
her head.

Her eyes met Tony's.
The Prick of the
Pack
, Cynthia was guessing.

“Yes. Every eligible female for the Were will be
paired with the ideal mate.”

Cynthia stood, Emmanuel a solid presence beside
her.

“Well, I'm just going to say the words: we're
not a very good match, hair ball. I mean, fur ball.”

Tony's expression darkened and he replied,
“That's okay, toots. I got my eye on another prize.” His gaze slid
to Adi and she met his stare head on.

Cynthia noticed she never dropped her eyes.

Not once.

*

Truman

Truman tapped his foot, waiting for the call
from his liaison. The feds were being oh-so-helpful and it was
killin' them. They hated working with a statie. Especially from the
renegade north. There was just something about being Alaskan that
made people think that they were a separate country or
something.

Truman raised his hand and felt around in his
shirt pocket, paused then let his hand fall. He'd given up smoking
years ago, having caved only one time recently. But when the stakes
got high, he found himself missing it like an old lover. The memory
better than the reality.

His cell vibrated and he jerked it out of the
front pocket of his blazer.

“Truman,” he barked and the forensic guy
answered in a blas
é voice
, “It's Tom
Harriet.”

Karl grunted an affirmative and that was enough
to get Harriet blabbing. Actually, with as unfortunate of a name as
the guy had, he did okay, shooting details to Truman like
bullets.

“Listen, detective, I have to say I've never
seen anything like this.”

Right, and he probably never would again,
Truman thought.

“You're the fed's boy, right?” Truman asked by
way of answering.

“If you mean that I work as lead forensic for
this jurisdiction, yes.”

“So, you know what we're dealing with here?”

There was a silence so long Karl opened his
mouth to end it when Harriet spoke, “This is not a secure line. I
have been asked to give you a message and a contact name.”

Well, well,
Truman thought,
the cloak
of secrecy
. His hand wandered to his front shirt pocket again
and he forced it down with an effort.

“Okay, shoot,” Truman said, going to the same
pocket again and plucking out a small notepad and his Bic.

“Anthony Daniel Laurent.”

“He the perp?” Truman asked.

“He's the one,” Harriet confirmed.

“Give me this guy's stats.”

“We have him on file from a fluke. He was pulled
over in 1979 for a speeding ticket and when all the records were
switched over after the computer age came online,” he chuckled at
his own pun and Truman suffered through it, “they transferred it
there.”

“A print for a speeding ticket?” Truman scoffed,
disbelief creeping into his voice.

“No, there was a warrant for rape.”

Ah
, Karl Truman paused, his mind
shuffling through the memories of the werewolves in the field. The
one who had been hard, that had cleaned his clock with one swipe.
He was the violent sort, no surprise there.

Against women. Real charmer.

“Did the vic press charges?”

“That's the funny thing. He had a big family.
They all showed at the pre-trial, it's here in the notes. And when
the girl showed, she recanted her testimony.”

Truman could almost feel his shrug over the
phone but it started a dull chime sounding. He didn't know how it
mattered but it did.

This fucking psycho had the Adams girl for
starters.

It was connected, vital. He could sense it.

And he didn't look old enough to have been a man
in '79. Hell Karl had been a couple years from graduating himself.
That'd make this Laurent fruitcake fifty-something.

Truman thought of the huge and virile creature
that didn't look a day over twenty-five, even in his wolfen from or
whatever the hell it was.

How long did these shitbags live anyway?

Too long,
he rationalized.

Harriet was talking and he realized he hadn't
been listening. Shit.

“Yeah?”

Harriet sighed, irritated by his
inattentiveness. “Go to the Starbucks on Benson Street on the East
Hill. Do you know where that is? I know you're not from around
here.”

Truman bristled. “I've got a spinning
weathervane in my head. Damn man, I'm from Alaska. That's like an
essential instinct.”

Harriet gave his fake chuckle like he got it. He
didn't. They were soft Outside. It's just the way it was.

This guy couldn't scent a turd if it was under
his nose. Damn if Truman didn't want a cig.

Truman played nice. “Thanks for your help. And,
my contact will have the addy? And the plan of attack?”
Now that
was funny,
Karl thought.

Tom Harriet didn't laugh and Truman had become
astute at reading pauses in conversation. He didn't like the feel
of that one. It deepened his sense of unease.

“Yes, he will.”

“Gotcha. Three o'clock, I'll be there.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Detective
Turman.”

“It's Truman,” Karl corrected. But he was
holding an empty line. Tom Harriet had hung up.

Huh- chump,
Truman thought, heading off
for a burger at McDonald's. He checked his cell and it was only one
o'clock. The hell with it, he'd go to Red Robin and hit up that
manager,
what's his nuts
? Karl wondered, trying to
remember.

He flipped through his notepad until he found
it, tapping it with the tip of his finger.

Alan.

Yeah, he'd pump him for some info on the girl
and he'd have just enough time to get there and meet the
highfalutin' fed.

Great timing.

*

Karl's sharp eyes took in the general circus
atmosphere of the best burger joint since forever. It wasn't a fine
dining experience but it was a tasty one. His basket came and he
asked the waitress for a plate. He always felt like eating out of
the basket was a little trough-like and rebelled in his small
way.

She fetched the plate, dime-sized gauges
weighing down perfectly good earlobes, tiger eye stone or some
other shit winking in a distracting way which notched down his
substantial appetite. Not an easy thing to do.

“Doesn't that hurt?” Karl asked, pointing to her
earlobe.

She looked at him like he was old and crazy
(probably a little too close for comfort) and smacking her gum she
wrenched the gauge out of her earlobe where it then became a
dangling and deflated flesh sack, making Karl's stomach heave in a
roll. “These?” she asked nonchalantly while Truman gulped a lump
the size of his fist down his throat. “No way! They're the boss.
Hotness!” she expounded.

Karl could see two dead bodies and eat a Big Mac
afterward but this was just wrong on about a hundred levels.

She pushed it back through her earlobe, or what
was left of it, just as Alan the Manager came walking up. He gave a
cursory look at the waitress, whose name was
Starr,
Truman
read on her crooked nameplate and smiled at Truman.

Sharp guy,
Truman thought. Sharp enough
to know there was a strange episode before he appeared but not
smart enough to be more discerning with his hire.

Alan sat down across from Truman. Karl took his
time salting his bottomless fries with the special seasoning and
dipped a couple in his side of ranch. He slammed them in his craw
and chewed, all the while studying Alan.

Alan stared back.

Not the nervous sort,
Truman thought,
mildly gratified by that. Finally, he broke the silence. “Cynthia
Adams. What can ya tell me about her?”

Alan frowned thoughtfully. “Five-eight, blonde
hair, green eyes, slim, rocking hot bod. Scared, desperate. A
no-show...” Alan spread his hands out to the side.

Truman waited then shifted gears. “Heard you've
been through some domestic stuff.”

Alan's eyes became wary. “Yeah. So?”

“Heard they never found the perp that beat your
sister.”

Alan stared at Karl. The seconds turned to
moments.

“You know anything about that?”

Alan shrugged. “Nope. But,” his eyes drilled
Truman. Hazel ones. Honest eyes. “Good riddance. I hope his dick
falls off.”

“Nice sentiment, Alan.”