The Bloodline War (36 page)

Okay. No one was even pretending to train now.

“Yo, Stănescu.” Dev approached, although he stopped at a safe arm’s length away from him. “What’s going down, man, you all right?”

Breathing heavily, Sedge lurched forward and hugged the punching bag like he was an exhausted boxer, which he was. “I can’t get the images out of my head, Dev.” He staggered sideways, swinging slightly on the bag, his feet sloppy beneath him. “I’m trying, but—fuck!—I can’t. I keep seeing him beating on her, breaking her little bones, punching her in the stomach until she…she….” He jerked backward, snarling, and ripped out another hunk of metal, snapping it in two and hurling it aside.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Who?” The dark syllable came out of Vinz.

Sedge panted. “Kimberly’s ex.”

“Holy fuck,” Arc hissed. Married, too, Arc was probably the only one who could truly relate to why Sedge was spinning off the flywheel.

Now Dev moved close enough to place a firm hand on Sedge’s shoulder. “Listen, Stănescu, you erase those images from your head right now, you hear me? Because I’m
guaranteeing
you that we’ll find this dickhead so you can go a few rounds with him.” He gave Sedge’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “We clear?”

Sedge bared his teeth. “Kimberly won’t tell me the bastard’s name. She’s afraid I’ll kill him and end up in jail.”

Arc swiped a towel over his face. “Hell, I bet Cleeve or Alex could track down the scrote on the ’Net with just a little information.”

“Exactly,” Dev agreed. “We’ll get you through this. Whatever we need to do so you can avenge your mate,
we’ll do
. You need to hear me on this.”

Sedge nodded shortly, his throat spasming. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I hear you.”

“All right.” Dev whacked his shoulder. “Now hit the showers before you fall over and break your—”

The gym intercom squawked. “This is an all-warrior call!” Cleeve’s tinny voice rushed out of the small speaker. “Emergency at the Brun household!”

Sedge, Dev, Arc, and Vinz weren’t the first warriors on the scene. Thomal and Breen were already circling the couple who was rolling around on the street and grappling, Toni screaming and kicking at Jaċken, Jaċken tearing at her clothes.

Sedge stopped dead in his tracks at the sight, unable to believe his eyes. This wasn’t… Bonded couples never fought physically. Male Vârcolacs were wired to protect their mates; if one ever got it into his mind to hurt her, his cells would pull him to a screeching, and painful, halt.

“Help us!” Thomal shouted. “Tonĩ ovulated and now Jaċken’s glazed out!”

Oh, shit,
glazed
…that was why. But, wait, that still wouldn’t explain the level of violence Jaċken was—

Breen darted into the fray, trying to grab hold of Jaċken, but was thrown back with a bloody lip.

Thomal swore. “That chemical change has made him go Rău. Shake a leg!”

Sedge lowered his chin. Shit, Jaċken was in the middle of a combo Rău-fit and procreation glaze-out? They could write off stopping him, then.

“Stănescu,” Arc barked. “You grab Tonĩ and get her into lockdown. The rest of us—blitzkrieg!”

All five warriors leapt on top of Jaċken at once.

Sedge launched himself forward, grabbing Tonĩ under the armpits and dragging her out from the dogpile.

A vicious snarl coiled out of Jaċken.

Holy crap! Sedge hiked Tonĩ into his arms and raced for the mansion like a cherry bomb was jammed in his butt crack. Behind him, it sounded like Jaċken was roaring loose from his captors.

Oh, damn me
. He really wished he hadn’t just exhausted himself at the punching bag.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Raymond set his Courvoisier on the edge of the billiards table and racked a set of balls. He chalked his cue stick lazily, feeling quite relaxed in this, his den, the only room which was truly his own in the Rancho Santa Fe mansion he shared with what felt like a shedload of other people. Entrance into his masculine haven was by express permission only, and tonight he’d deigned to invite his partner, Boian, to join him for a game of Snookers.

“You break,” Boian said, puffing on a Cuban.

“Very well.” Leaning over the table, Raymond sighted along his cue, then broke the rack with a hard hit on the head ball. Narrowing his eyes, he watched the red balls whiz around the green tabletop.

There was a knock on the door.

Both men turned their heads sharply toward the sound.

Boian jerked the Cuban out of his mouth. “Damn it all to hell,” he snarled in what sounded like real anger.

Raymond slid a sideways glance at his partner. Was it any blooming wonder Boian’s progeny always seemed to spring directly from Ұavell’s womb in a nasty temper?

Raymond was tempted to ignore the knock, but someone would have to be completely insane to disturb him for any reason other than mortal danger. “Enter,” he called.

Pändra stepped inside, dressed in her typical shagbag inelegance, her frock a see-through red mesh piece that showed off a matching red bra and knickers.

Jesus wept
.

“It’s about Tonĩ,” the girl wisely announced immediately.

Raymond propped his cue stick on the floor and leaned on it. “Explain.”

“The private investigator you assigned to follow Shannon Parthen, Mr. Rathburn, just rang. Tonĩ is out in town tonight with her mother.”

Raymond lifted a single eyebrow into a pleased arc. “That
is
important news, my pet.” He turned back to the table and placed the white cue ball for his second shot. “Send the lads out to fetch her.”

* * *

The Field Irish Pub, located on 5
^th
Avenue in the heart of San Diego’s bustling Gaslamp district was always hopping, and tonight was no exception. At eight o’clock, the Happy Hour crowd was in full swing. Tonĩ was amazed she and her mother had found a place to sit, but they’d managed to snag one of the cozy, dark wood booths near the bar. Both strawberry-blonde women now had a frothy Guinness, Tonĩ having forgone her usual martini tonight, “when in Rome” and all…or Ireland, as was the case here.

Odd that such a hip young place was one of her mother’s favorite hangouts, but Shannon Parthen, née O’Rourke, loved all things Irish, and this pub was one of the most authentic in the city. The walls were covered with enough Irish paraphernalia to make any Dubliner feel right at home, and there was generally a lively Irish ditty playing.

“He’s teaching me to play golf.” Shannon was talking about her latest boyfriend, laughing lightly as she added, “if you can imagine
me
, of all people, trying to—”

Shannon stopped speaking, her mouth falling inelegantly open and her eyes widening to their fullest.

A strange burp of silence rolled through the crowd next, an almost imperceptible pause in noise and action before everything resumed normal activity.

Oh, crap
. Tonĩ didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know who’d just entered the bar. Such a total crowd reaction could’ve only been brought about by the entrance of too-gorgeous-to-be-true men. “Damn,” she grumbled. “Remind me to punch Alex in the face the next time I see him.” How else could she have been unearthed among hundreds of bars in San Diego if not for a certain rat fink brother?

“Oh, my,” Shannon breathed shakily as Arc Costache came to a stop at the edge of their table.

Gábor Pavenic headed to the bar, lounging negligently against it on one bent arm, his bull skull tattoo bulging. A statuesque brunette smiled cautiously at him, and his return cockeyed grin nearly sent her sliding off her stool. Thomal, meanwhile, was being mobbed by a gaggle of simpering co-eds. Jaċken wasn’t with them, and a small pain speared through Tonĩ that made no sense. The moment she’d finished her two-day stint in lockdown, she’d come up here for a weekend escape with her mother in order to get a break from him. Right?

Tonĩ swept a gesture back and forth between Arc and Shannon. “Arc Costache,” she introduced, “my mother, Shannon Parthen.”

Shannon cast Tonĩ a quick
you know this man?
look before offering her hand to Arc. “A pleasure.”

Lavishing a grin of roguish charm on Shannon, Arc shook her hand. “I can see where Dr. Parthen gets her good looks. May I?” He used his hold on Shannon’s hand to slide her over in the booth, his smile remaining annoyingly in place as he sat down. “You’ll excuse me for barging in on your girl time, but I work at your daughter’s new place of employment, and—”

“Oh, the Research Institute?”

Arc’s smile grew; if his lips spread any more, Mr. Charm would be showing his fangs. “That’s right. You see, ma’am, your daughter, since she’s new and all, must not have realized that she needs to get
clearance
before she can leave our facilities.”

“I’m afraid you’re the one who’s confused,” Tonĩ returned with a frigid look. “The Institute is run differently now. I’d think you’d know that, Mr. Costache, as you
were
present at the meeting where that was explained.”

Tonĩ’s first stipulation as co-leader had been that no woman would ever be held in Ţărână against her will. As a part of that new guideline, Hannah, Ellen, Beth, Maggie, and Kimberly had been called in front of the leadership and individually polled: Did they want to stay or go? It had been a matter of form—all of the Dragons had agreed to stay, of course—but it’d been important to acknowledge their choice. Roth had even gone a step further and gathered the warriors together so all of them could apologize on behalf of the entire community for kidnapping them.

A muscle in Arc’s jaw bunched. “Maybe I should say I’m astounded, then, that you’d run out on your husband, when you know—”

Shannon’s eyebrows flew up. “Husband?” She gaped at Tonĩ. “You’re
married
?!”

Tonĩ blasted Arc with a heated, thank-you-very-much-you-butthead glower. “I was going to tell you tonight, Mom.”

Shannon’s hand went to her throat, her fingers twining in her necklace. “Was there a wedding or…or…?”

“No, Mom. If there had been, you would have been invited. Please, don’t feel hurt. The whole situation has been…rather unconventional.”

“Well, can I meet him?” Shannon asked, still flustered. “He’s my son-in-law, after all.”

Arc sniffed, the edge of one nostril lifting. “Tonĩ’s husband isn’t feeling too chipper right now, ma’am.”

Tonĩ moved her eyes over to Arc’s face and felt something in her chest begin to squeeze, a bad feeling stirring in her belly.

“Jaċken needs his…medication.” Arc’s gaze sharpened on her. “And you know you’re the only one who can give it to him.”

Tonĩ’s cheeks went cold, then numb. But that didn’t make sense. Pure-bred Vârcolac could last five to seven days without blood, Mixed-blood Dragons up to ten. Surely a Half-Rău—

“Men of your husband’s unique heritage,” Arc went on, correctly assuming she needed clarification, “require their meds every three days. Today’s the third.”

Her stomach bottomed out. Dear God, that meant by tomorrow Jaċken would be in a blood-coma. She pressed a hand to her mouth, then her cheek. “Where is he?” she asked in a frayed voice.

“We’ve got him holed up nearby at a Doubletree Hotel on Front Street. Nỵko’s babysitting him.” Arc’s mouth compressed into a tight line. “He’s pretty bad off.”

“Jesus, stop looking at me like that, would you? I’m not a monster. I didn’t know something like this was going to happen to him.”

“It wouldn’t exactly have been an issue, if you’d kept your ass planted at home where it belonged, now would it?” Arc jerked forward in his seat, his eyes blue steel. “You got problems with your husband? Then fucking man-up and fix them, Toni, because everyone’s getting sick and goddamned tired of you running away.”

Bracing the heels of her palms on the edge of the table, Toni pushed her spine against the back of the booth. Arc’s words cut like a knife, spilling blood, opening her up to the infection of guilt. Tears sprang painfully into her eyes.

Arc’s gaze dropped. “Shit.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I saw what Jaċken did to you, Tonĩ, and, yeah, it was really damned bad.” He exhaled a long breath through his nose. “But you’re one of the leaders of our Institute now. You can’t deal with your marital issues like this. It sets a bad example.”

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted stiffly.

Shannon was staring at her Guinness, but Tonĩ could tell her mother was listening intently to everything.

“Look, I know there’s a lot of stuff you still haven’t been told yet. Everyone thought you knew about the O-sticks, but—”

“I do know.”

Arc’s brows came down, his narrowed eyes searching her face. “Then why—?”

“Just let me say goodbye to my mother, okay?” Tonĩ cut in. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

Arc paused a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.” He scooted out of the booth and shook hands with Shannon again. “It was nice meeting you, ma’am.” He smiled. “Sorry for all the weird.” He jerked his chin at Gábor and Thomal, and the two men joined him on their way out the door.

Tonĩ watched the three Vârcolac leave, her stomach so heavy it felt like it was full of lead. She smiled faintly at her mother. “Well…um…I’m sure you have a ton of questions about all
that
.”

“Just one.” Shannon’s eyes darkened with concern. “Are you all right, Tonĩ?”

Oh, God
. Toni planted her elbow on the table and slumped her forehead into her palm. Her mother thought Jaċken was a full-on power-and-control wife beater. “Mom, listen, I don’t want you to think…. What my husband did to me wasn’t awful, like Arc said, I mean, it wasn’t his fault, so….” She expelled a breath. “I don’t want you to think ill of him, okay. He’s a great man.”
He’s just genetically challenged
.

Shannon smiled gently. “I don’t mean to kick you when you’re down, honey, but your choice in men in the past hasn’t exactly been spot-on.”

Tonĩ flipped over a cocktail napkin, changing it from a shamrock to a leprechaun. That was, unfortunately, a valid point. “I can’t explain all the reasons why things are different now, but they are. I’ve chosen well.”