Violette Dubrinsky (9 page)

With a lopsided grin, he spoke softly. “I was kidnapped by a witch, turned into her personal zombie, and a few days ago, rescued.”

Nicholas frowned but Patrick only laughed, drawing attention to them. “That’s even more interesting than the acrobat. Since you won’t tell us what really happened, I’ll enlighten you on the events you missed. Luanne married into the Texas Clan and almost started a war when she walked out days later. Apparently, even if we paid her ‘diamonds-and-gold on a daily basis’, she wouldn’t live with the idiot-prince.”

Luanne was Patrick’s sister. Victor chuckled, still remembering the vicious bite he’d received for teasing her about her unruly red curls and chubby cheeks. “I’m to marry the daughter of the Virginia king, a hot little thing, and Nicholas’s life is drab. Nothing has changed with him since you left. I think he was pining for you, lamenting being the next in line to inherit the boring old title of king, when he could have simply been a rich vamp with no obligations and no clan fanatics trying to murder him in his sleep.”

As Patrick winked and laughed, Nicholas grinned ruefully, lashes lowering over his eyes as he admitted, “I won’t lie, cousin. I shed a few tears when they declared you dead. I even saw Patrick dabbing his eyes.”

“I’ve told you about my allergies,” Patrick returned with an indignant smirk.

“Vampires don’t have allergies.”

“I’m a Night Walker, Nicholas. That’s what separates me from you and
the Cullens
.”

Their light banter relaxed Victor. The two dozen pairs of eyes around the long table were all on him, but with his cousins giving a semblance of normal, he could ignore them. He must have gotten lost in his thoughts because Nicholas cleared his throat and emitted a low growl, bringing the dinner party back into focus.

“Dessert has never looked more appealing.” His cousin’s voice had deepened.

With his heightened sense of smell, Victor caught the scent he’d never forget.
Sunshine
. He immediately found her, standing in front of the tall doorway to the dining hall, fear radiating from her formally attired body, but her cool eyes looking bravely ahead. She wore a daring red strapless gown that molded to her curves, revealing the jut of breasts he’d fondled, tapered shoulders he’d kissed, a waist his hand had easily spanned...

“Her blood is strong, and she’s pretty.” Patrick flashed white teeth with descended fangs. “Do you think she’s here for all of us?”

Around her neck was a black collar with diamond studs. It was the mark of a blood slave, an expensive one. A leash fell to her right, and only then did Victor notice his mother, dressed in a pale green gown, who held it.

He was halfway out his seat when Rachel held up a hand for silence. It came instantly.

“To mark my son’s return, I would present him with a gift.”

Rachel stepped behind Azaleigh, and drew a pale hand down her brown one. The contrast was obvious. Sunshine and winter. “It is against our laws to make blood slaves of witches, but this one has committed crime upon crime, and has willingly accepted the role over execution.”

From the stiffening of Azaleigh’s body, Victor wasn’t sure his mother told the truth.

Rachel moved forward, tugging gently at the leash as Azaleigh followed slowly. Every vampire in the room could hear the hard thud of her heart against her ribcage, and they all leered in anticipation. Witch blood slaves were rare, virtually non-existent since the treaties drawn up between Night Walkers and witches in the seventies. Stopping before Victor, his mother brushed his cheek with hers.

“For you, my son.”

She stepped back, eyes shifting from a green similar to his, to blood red. “Claim her, Victor.”

Chapter 7

Victor St. Croix was no more. That was Azaleigh’s first thought as she stared at the man who would own her. The irony—the slave and master role reversed yet again—was not lost on her. However, it was difficult to focus on that as she stood before Victor and many Night Walkers seated at the long dinner table behind him.

When she’d awoken hours ago with no pain or aches, only soft warmth that made her body tingle, she’d been surprised. Instantly, her hand had gone to her neck but the wounds had healed, leaving barely two pin-pricks. She might have thought she’d dreamed it all, but she’d still been in the stone cell, still in clothes that reeked of hard days and even harder nights. Azaleigh hadn’t had to worry, though, because a young girl, sheet-white and timid, had come to her not moments later. Without asking permission, she’d begun tugging at Azaleigh’s clothing until she was huddled in a corner, cold and naked. The girl had washed her down, the water mercifully warm, and tossed her a towel. Not minutes later, a regal blonde visited.

This was Victor’s mother. Whereas the resemblance with his father had been difficult to place at first, Azaleigh saw Victor in this woman. They had the same green eyes, nose, perhaps even lips, but Victor had inherited his father’s masculine bone structure, making for a contrast so striking, he could be nothing but beautiful.

The queen offered two options: death or life as Victor’s blood slave. It hadn’t really been a choice.

Standing feet from her, wearing a tailor-cut black jacket that clung to thick arms, and loose black slacks for his long legs, Victor was a new man. Her Victor had been tanned, and brawny, with a love for flannel shirts and ripped jeans. This person was shades paler than the healthy glow Victor had sported only days ago, and had lost some of his muscle mass. He was still big, but not as big as before. His build was more reminiscent of Dorian’s, muscular but in a lean, almost graceful manner. He looked expensive, like GQ or Esquire was missing one of their cover-guys. He matched each of the occupants around the long dinner table in grandness and style.

As she drew near, something flickered in his eyes. They were the same color as before, but flat. Dead. Azaleigh wondered if he even remembered her. If she wasn’t so against death, she might have chosen the option. The fighter in her wouldn’t let her give up, though. She had her mother to live for. Somehow, she’d get out of here, or die trying.

Victor approached her with deliberate steps, coming to a halt directly in front of her. She lifted her eyes to him, and waited. No one had told her what to expect. She wasn’t worthy of it, apparently. Fear fluttered in her heart, but she held his gaze.

His hand slid to her neck and unconsciously, Azaleigh flinched, remembering the pain of his last bite. Vampire and Night Walker, no longer her Protector.

Something flickered in his eyes—shock—before they changed, shifting from the color of leaves to sinister red. Her heart stopped, lungs constricted. She couldn’t breathe. Victor removed the collar, letting her expensive shackle fall to the floor. He tilted her head, and tears blurred her vision. There were murmurs in the background, hisses and gasps.

As his lips, cold lips, pressed to her neck, Azaleigh resisted the urge to scream. The pain came instantly, two large needles puncturing her skin, sinking deep into her flesh, but it wasn’t agony. It faded as his hand slid around her back, fingers gently splayed just above her buttocks. She found herself leaning into him, a soft moan leaving her lips as the hand at her back tightened. Under the expensive clothes, he felt cool, but with her body against his, that seemed to be changing.

Victor released her suddenly, his tongue a quick but thorough caress over her neck as he stepped back, hand still holding her. He spoke but she didn’t hear the words. Her eyelids flickered as she fell back, and someone caught her. Not Victor. He was still standing in front of her.

“Take her to my room, Garland. And give her something to drink.”

Garland
? Victor’s image faded in and out and before long, she felt something soft beneath her body.

“Drink,” a gruff voice ordered. She was too tired. She wanted to rest. Azaleigh shook her head. Steely fingers gripped her chin, pulling down. “Drink!” Reflexively, her lips parted.

Cold liquid trickled into her mouth, down her throat. She sputtered, and finally, did as he’d commanded. It was sweet and tasted of sugar, syrupy sugar. Azaleigh blinked. Above her was a large man with an impassive face, and hard onyx eyes. When she could take no more of the sweet concoction, she pushed the cup away. He didn’t force her to drink more, but left her alone. Azaleigh slept.

***

From the moment he’d spied her, Victor had wanted to be alone with Azaleigh. It took two more hours, much to his irritation, to achieve his wish.

When he finally entered his room, he found her curled onto her side in the middle of his bed, the red gown a sharp contrast to his black sheets. His heart fluttered stupidly and he stroked her face. The bite he’d given her was healing, but the red mark on her neck made him feel like a monster even as his cock grew swollen at the memory of her taste. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d taken her blood, but tonight, he’d savored it. She might smell like sunshine and sugar, taste of toffees and baked sweets, but Azaleigh’s blood was sinful. Sweet but tangy, like fine, aged port. He could have drained her if he hadn’t remembered it was Azaleigh.

Moving to the other side of the room, Victor undressed, and ran a hand through his hair. Was she afraid of his new look? Was that why her heart had raced? Why she seemed ready to recoil at his touch?

Clad in boxer-briefs, he approached the bed again. The gown, while beautiful, looked uncomfortable. With quick, precise movements, he stripped her, leaving her in her panties and pulling the covers over her goose-pimpled body. The central air in the house was always on sixty degrees or lower, and while he didn’t feel it, she would.

Dawn was approaching. He could feel it in the tiredness of his body. As a Protector, he’d always had an internal clock as to when the dawn or dusk would come, but it had never made him bone-weary before. All of his senses were heightened. He could hear the servants scurrying down the hall to their cots on the basement floor, the guards—Protectors created by witches to serve his people during the daylight hours when they were at their weakest, alongside human ex-Special Forces operatives—lumbering about as they waited for the day.

Azaleigh moaned next to him, rolling closer to his body even as the comforter cocooned her. Her lip trembled, and because he couldn’t resist, Victor kissed her. Brown eyes peeled open and she blinked at him.

“Victor,” she murmured, pulling back. As her wits returned, she straightened and pushed herself up. The covers fell to her waist revealing perfect, dark-tipped breasts, and she instantly pulled it back up. “Victor!”

“I won’t hurt you, Azaleigh.” Even to Victor, his voice didn’t sound convincing. Lust rode him hard. He’d fed one appetite, but the other was not sated. As she’d slept, he’d wanted her. Now, with her eyes on him, and her body heaving, he itched to touch her.

“Are you going to keep me here?” She sounded unsure, fearful.

“I’ll find a way to get you back to Hallows Brook. You can go to New York from there.”

“Is there still a Hallows Brook?” Her voice was hard, her eyes frigid.

Clenching his jaw, he nodded. “Yes. There wasn’t a massacre. There haven’t been massacres in decades. That isn’t how we do things anymore.”

“We?
Anymore?
” she huffed and shook her head. “What about my dream?”

“Not all dreams come to pass. Some are possibilities, others past events.” Victor clenched his jaw as he remembered Antoinette’s words.

“A
vampire
Protector,” Azaleigh scoffed, and shook her head. “What was she thinking?”

Feeling anger overtake him, Victor answered. “Leverage, revenge. Antoinette used me as a pawn. The Night Walkers didn’t attack Hallows Brook because I was there. My father waited for her to make demands, but there were none. He tried to bargain with her, but she was immune. Antoinette St. Croix was a cold-hearted bitch.”

Azaleigh didn’t respond, even when Victor glared at her, daring her to defend the dead woman.

“She only wanted to protect the town.” She kept her voice leveled, almost soft. “That was her job, Victor. She was the Guardian.”

A snarl ripped free of his chest. “She was a monster who took forty years from me.”

Azaleigh didn’t speak for a long time, and he looked over to find her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, Victor. She shouldn’t have used you like that, but I think she did it for the townspeople.”

“Would you have done it?” he demanded, curious to know how different Azaleigh was from Antoinette. He’d told her once she reminded him of the deceased woman. Their auras were the same, he’d said.

“No.” Azaleigh shook her head as if to reaffirm it. “I would have found another way.”

A breath he didn’t know he was holding left his lips. Unconsciously, his eyes fluttered down her body to the falling covers. The tops of her breasts were again in view. He flipped onto his side instantly, pushing the image away. “Go to sleep, Azaleigh.”

She didn’t move, and he waited.

“Are you really going to take me back to Hallows Brook?”

“Yes. As soon as I can. This wasn’t your fault, but my parents needed someone to blame.”

“You don’t blame me?” She sounded uncertain, like she half expected him to.

“No.”

A feather-like touched settled on his shoulder, and he rolled to his side, facing her. She was peering curiously at him. “I have to get out of here, Victor. Soon.”

Even as his eyes narrowed, Victor nodded. He’d already told her he would get her away as soon as he could.

“I won’t be anyone’s slave, blood or otherwise.” Her voice was forceful, her eyes hard again. She seemed to be waiting for him to contradict her, but he only nodded.

“I told you, I’ll take you back to Hallows Brook as soon—”

“You’re not listening to me!” she hissed, gripping the sheet almost to her neck now and looking on the verge of hysteria. “I don’t care if you’re vampires or werewolves or whatever the hell you are, I’m no one’s slave. My ancestors already fought for freedom Victor, and I’m not going to stay here and pretend to be okay with reliving something that shouldn’t exist.”

Once she’d mentioned her ancestors, Victor understood. He’d been blind to it before, because his culture was based on a very strict class system, not race. Quickly, before she could recoil, he caught her shoulder. “Night Walkers don’t operate in that way. We don’t have race-based slavery. Most blood slaves serve willingly for a few years and are compensated by their Masters when they leave.” Her eyes sought askance in his, and he allowed her to see the truth. Blood slaves were at the beck and call of their Masters and some were crueler than others, but in modern day, they were treated more fairly.

Azaleigh nodded once. “You said soon. You’ll take me back to Hallows Brook soon?”

Victor nodded, feeling a slow breath escape his body. She seemed mellower now that he’d explained the meaning of blood slave.

“As soon as I can get you out of here without my parents objecting.”

She swallowed hard, and her eyelids fell, black lashes fanning her cheekbones.

“Sleep, Azaleigh. You must be tired.”

He made a move to turn away from her but Azaleigh’s hand on his face halted him. Her eyes seemed to bore through him, past skin, flesh, and bone, and into his very soul. “You look different.”

There was another emotion in her eyes now. Uncertainty still lingered, but was that regret?

“I know.”

Her fingers traced his cheek, and forehead. “You’ve gotten so pale, and cool to touch.” A sad smile touched her lips. “You lost your tan.”