Last Blood hoc-5 Read online

  “Finally.” Daciana smiled up at her. “There’s the Tatiana I know. Channel that anger. Let it motivate you.” She lifted her free hand and flattened it over Tatiana’s heart. “Who caused you all this pain?”

  “Malkolm,” Tatiana hissed. “And his comarré whore.”

  “Yes.” Daciana nodded.

  Tatiana freed Daciana and sat back. “I have let this grief make me soft. No more.”

  “That’s it,” Daciana encouraged.

  Tatiana stood and lifted her head. “I am so sick of them interfering with my life. My plans.” She growled softly, weaving her grief into a suit of armor to protect her for the fight to come. Because fight she would. “If it means sacrificing everything I have left, I’ll get Lilith back and put an end to Malkolm and Chrysabelle once and for all.”

  Daciana grabbed Tatiana’s hand and squeezed. “That’s the Tatiana I know and love. Come, feed from Jonah and renew your strength. Then, together, we will find a way to make all of this happen.” Her eyes went bright with promise. “I will never leave your side. You have my word.”

  The pledge broke the last of Tatiana’s doubts, opening the way for her anger to take full rein. “If only everyone in my life were as faithful as you.” The wicked smile bent her mouth. “We have work to do.”

  Chapter Two

  Mal followed the human woman, keeping enough distance so she couldn’t see him, but close enough that the dying roses scent of her blood still teased his senses. Human blood. It had been too long. Too long, the voices agreed.

  Catch her. Drain her. He didn’t need the urging. The fae who’d taken his love for Chrysabelle had done him a favor, leaving a hole inside him that the beast had slipped into as easily as a knife through flesh. The voices no longer mocked him as they had in the past, perhaps content that he was theirs to control once again.

  Ahead of him, the human continued without a clue that she was about to become his dinner. Mesh shopping bags swung from her hands. Food that would never be eaten. Milk that would spoil.

  The remaining shreds of control on his humanity had disappeared with the day’s setting sun and the increase in his hunger. He was lost to the bloodlust, severed from the threads of mortality that Chrysabelle had begun to weave into something whole again.

  Whore. Mal didn’t argue. She was a comarré and comarrés gave their blood to anyone with enough funds. That left him out. Anger gnawed at his bones. She’d never been anything but an anchor tethering him to his humanity, keeping him from fulfilling his immortal destiny. He was a vampire, not a pet to be chained and fed when she deemed it so.

  The beast hovered just below the surface of his black-inked skin, crouched and ready. Feral need flexed his muscles and he inhaled again, the perfume of his quarry stirring the chaotic pleasure in his head to new heights. He anticipated the succulent pressure of the human’s flesh beneath his fangs. The way she’d struggle and mewl, her feeble attempts to escape only fueling his predatory intentions.

  The joy of the impending kill ran hot and electric down his spine, winding him like a spring.

  She entered her apartment building without a glance back. Stupid humans. So unsuspecting. Then another dark figure followed after her. This one smart enough to look around before going in.

  Fringe vampire. Mal snorted. No fringe was going to thieve his kill. He shot forward and latched onto the fringe faster than the lesser vampire could react. He snapped the fringe’s neck, then vanished into an alley as the ash settled to the sidewalk. He waited a few beats, but the act hadn’t caused the slightest ripple in the evening.

  Satisfied he remained undetected, he went to smoke, slipped under the closed door, and hugged the ceiling. He found his target as she made her way up four flights of stairs. Garbage littered the landings and graffiti covered the dirty walls. Greasy food smells wafted from other apartments along with shouted arguments and blasting holovisions.

  She should be happy he was about to take her away from all this.

  One after the other, she pressed her thumb into the locks buttoning up her apartment, then opened the door. He stayed in the hall to give her a few minutes to relock her door and settle in. Experience had taught him a mark who felt safe was an easy mark to take. His smoke form blended with the lingering remnants of someone’s burned dinner and her junkie neighbor’s hash addiction. How perfect. In a building like this, in a neighborhood like this, it might take a week before anyone discovered her body.

  He was smarter now than all those years before when he’d killed without thought. Now he knew how to leave no trace. To make it look like a suicide. He’d give them no reason to wonder about the locked door or the lack of forced entry.

  The voices clawed at him, eager for their take. He filtered through the gap under the door but kept his smoke form once he got in, unsure of where she might be. The cacophony of heartbeats in the building made it impossible to pick out her pulse.

  The kitchen was lit only by the dim bulb burning over the range. Her shopping bags sat on the counter. He returned to his physical body and went to find her. It was a small apartment; she couldn’t be too far away. The kick of the hunt shot through him like the spike of good whiskey.

  He was moments from devouring her, moments from tasting the hot spill of blood he craved like nothing else. Yes yes yes…

  A smiled creased his mouth and he was unable to stop it. Too long, he’d been shackled by the curse. By the comarré. Yes, she’d kept him from this as well. But those cares were gone. Nothing mattered but the blood and the righteous satisfaction of a kill.

  Somewhere in the depths of his mind, the word ghost surfaced. He shrugged it off and pushed forward. Soft singing met his ears. He went after the sound, using it like a beacon to locate her.

  A door at the end of a narrow hall stood ajar. He walked toward it, pushed it open silently, and stopped cold.

  No. Take her. Now. Anger reverberated through the voices, but his feet were planted.

  She sat on the edge of a twin bed, singing quietly and petting the hair of a sleeping child. A boy. No more than four or five.

  Mal backed up a step.

  Kill her. Drain her. Drink!

  He stared at the two of them while the voices spun into a frenzy. So innocent and unaware. Images flitted through his brain. An angelic face surrounded by brunette curls. Big brown eyes that stared up at him like he ruled the world. Pale skin torn and bloodied. Her body lifeless as a rag doll.

  He went to smoke and left.

  Creek paced expectantly. Every night since he’d told Annika about the mayor making him Paradise City’s enemy number one, the two of them had gone on patrol and made sure that the city’s othernatural residents remained as law-abiding and behaved as possible.

  Tonight, she was late.

  He pulled out his phone and checked it for the second time, but there was still no message from her. She was a basilisk and could definitely take care of herself, but that didn’t stop him from being concerned about his sector chief.

  Not that he’d ever worried about Argent, except what the old dragon shifter might have thought about a few of Creek’s screwups.

  Annika was different. He stopped pacing to sit on the steps that led down from his sleeping loft. Thanks to his grandmother, he and Annika had developed a much better relationship than he’d ever had with Argent.

  He laughed softly. If Mawmaw had her way, she’d probably get them married off. Not that he felt like that about Annika. He preferred his women… human. Or comarré, but that door wasn’t just closed; it was nailed shut. And he knew Mawmaw well enough to know that inviting them both over for dinner wasn’t just her friendly way of saying thank you for saving her from Yahla, the soulless woman. He shook his head. Oh no. She made plans, that one. Plans she liked to see realized.

  He’d pulled out his phone again and started a text to Annika when three short knocks sounded on the door of the repurposed machine shop he called home. He jumped up and went to slide the door back.

  A
nnika stood on the other side, draped in shadows. She nodded and her ever-present black shades reflected the two solar lamps lighting his home. “Creek.”

  Relief erased the tension in his shoulders. “I was starting to think something had happened.”

  “No, I…” She looked down the street. “I just had some things to take care of.” Then she checked the other side. “I’m not alone.”

  His brow furrowed. “Who’s with you?”

  “Another operative. Everything clear?”

  “Yes.” Another operative? Was he being moved? Given help? He pushed the door open a little wider. “Come in.” And explain.

  She looked to her side again and motioned to someone, then stepped through the door. “This is the highest level of security, you understand?”

  “Absolutely.” What wasn’t with the KM?

  A shadow filled the doorway behind her. Taller, darker, and reeking of the dirty, spicy scent only one creature carried.

  “Vampire,” he muttered.

  She nodded and turned toward her guest. “It’s clear.”

  The operative stepped into the light and Creek’s gut twisted hard. He swore softly under his breath. “Octavian.”

  Chapter Three

  Doc signed the last of the papers in front of him and set them aside. “All right. Bring him in.”

  Barasa nodded and opened the office door.

  A few moments later, Remo Silva strolled in.

  With the same apprehension he’d feel toward any newcomer to his pride, Doc eyed the man entering his office. Even Omur and Barasa, Doc’s existing council members, seemed on edge. Despite being the son of the leader of São Paulo’s largest pride, Remo would still have to prove himself as a member of this one. His guaranteed position on Doc’s council didn’t come with built-in trust.

  But Doc had agreed to Remo joining his pride and he would not go back on his word. He stayed seated, the proper position for any pride leader, and extended his hand. “Maddoc Mays. Good to meet you, Remo. Your father spoke highly of you.”

  Remo shook Doc’s hand with unnecessary vigor. “I doubt that.” He laughed and a shiver of unease rippled down Doc’s back. “The old man was just happy to pawn me off.” He shook Barasa’s and Omur’s hands as well, then turned back to Doc. “Good to be here, though. I like new places. New people. New experiences.”

  “Please, sit.” A flash of yellow flickered through Remo’s eyes so quickly Doc was barely sure he’d seen it. “Just so long as those new experiences don’t include sleeping your way through the female membership of this pride.”

  Remo took the chair on the end, beside Omur, who looked like he’d rather not be so close to the Brazilian varcolai. “I see my father has shared more than he should have.”

  “It’s his job to inform me about the newest member of my pride.”

  “It’s also his job to protect his son. To make it possible for me to have a fresh start. So much for that.” Remo sat back, threw his ankle over his knee, and peered at Doc in a way that sent red flags up. “So…” He drew the word out. “Where is this wife of yours? The one who murdered my sister?”

  Doc clenched his teeth to keep from snarling. Heat snapped along his veins, a reminder of the witch fire that still lingered in his system, although he’d been learning to control it with help from Barasa. With a deep breath, he leaned back and answered. “Is that the São Paolo pride’s official stance? Because if your father has changed his mind—”

  “No.” The smugness on Remo’s face was gone, momentarily replaced by panic. A second later, he flipped his hand through the air like he was flicking a bug away and smiled. “I am just playing with you.”

  Doc didn’t return Remo’s good humor. “I don’t play. Ever.” He stood, pulling up to his full height before coming around to lean on the other side of the desk. Crossing his arms, he stared down at Remo with as much intensity as he could without causing fire to leap off his skin. “You’ve been here three minutes. So far you’ve called me a liar and my wife a murderer.” He let his eyes go gold with anger. “Have you ever played baseball, Remo?”

  The man looked genuinely confused. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Doc smiled. “Then you understand the three-strike rule.” Remo shifted in his seat. “You have one left. Do you get where I’m coming from?”

  Remo nodded. “Y-yes.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I understand. I am just tired from my trip.”

  Doc got up and went back behind his desk. “Barasa and Omur will give you a tour of the building and show you to your apartment. I suggest you rest before dinner.” He looked up and made eye contact with Remo one last time. “I wouldn’t want you to be so tired you end up with that last strike.” He glanced at Barasa. “A word before you leave.”

  Remo nodded and followed Omur out. Doc waited until the door was shut before speaking to Barasa. “I want eyes on him and a full report of your conversations with him.”

  “Absolutely.” Barasa glanced toward the door. “How much of a problem do you think he’s going to be?”

  Doc thought of Fi and all she’d been through. “No more than we let him.”

  Lola Diaz-White waited while John Havoc, her personal bodyguard, knocked on the heavy church doors. Even here in the car, the place’s proximity made her skin tingle. She’d fed from Hector, her comar, before they’d left. How much worse would the effects of the place be if she didn’t have his sweet, rich blood fresh in her system? Until now, she’d never understood how incredible it was that the vampire, Preacher, could live on such hallowed ground until now. He was indeed one of the most unique of their species.

  John started back to the car. “He must be out. We’ll have to come back.”

  “Wait.” She scooted toward the window. One of the doors had opened a few inches. “Preacher,” she called out. “Are you there?” She motioned to John. “Talk to him.”

  With a nod, John returned and had a few words. Quiet words, because she couldn’t make them out over the hum of the car’s air conditioner. Assuming it was Preacher on the other side of those doors, he wasn’t being very friendly. The doors still hadn’t moved more than a few inches.

  Finally, John came back and leaned his head down to speak through the window. “He says he’ll meet you soon, but not now.”

  She frowned. She was the mayor and he was going to tell her when they’d meet? “I don’t like that. I need to know when and where. Tell him I’m busy, that I’m—”

  “I told him that.” John shrugged. “He’s not exactly biddable.”

  Lola leaned closer to the window. “Tell him if he wants to know what’s going on with his daughter, he’ll be at my house in an hour. After that, I’ll refuse to see him.”

  “Be right back.”

  While John relayed the message, she sat back, crossed her arms, and stared at the ceiling. The letter she’d received from Dominic had said only that the mission had failed and that her grandchild was now in the untouchable hands of the ancients. In other words, he’d told her to forget getting the baby back. Like hell she would. She’d hoped to enlist Preacher’s help before going to see Dominic, but that didn’t look like it was going to happen. Once again, she had only herself to rely on.

  John got back in the car. “He says he’ll be there.”

  She hit the button and closed the window, staring at the abandoned church that housed the father of her grandchild. The little hairs on the back of her neck had been on alert since they’d parked in front of it. She shook her head. “Get us out of here.”

  This was Preacher’s loss. She’d given him a chance and he’d squandered it. When—if he showed up, she’d cut him out of this equation once and for all. Better now than when she finally had Mariela back.

  What if she’d come here because Mariela needed him? What if there’d been a real emergency? She took her gaze off the building as the car pulled away. There was no place for him in Mariela’s life. Fortunately, she knew just how to get rid of him.

 
As Jonah left the office, Tatiana reclined on the chaise where she took most of her feedings. The power of his blood ignited within her, making her heart beat and lungs fill with air. She exhaled and nodded at Daciana, seated across from her. “You were right. This is exactly what I needed. I feel whole again. There really is no substitute for comarré blood.”

  “None better,” Daci said. She watched the door shut behind Jonah. “He is especially good. Young and compliant and happy to serve.”

  Tatiana tipped her head back to stare at the coffered ceiling. “They’re all like that in the beginning. So full of purpose and pride of place. Gah! Then they get full of themselves, think they’re worth so much more. That’s when the trouble starts.”

  She smiled gently at Daci, who’d only meant to help, and softened her tone as she straightened. “I really must get another comar, as much as I am loath to.” She ran her fingers over the silk upholstery. “You did such a wonderful job picking out Jonah. Would you be willing to act as my emissary and go to Madame Rennata on my behalf? I have no desire to face that old witch. I know she blames me for her comar’s desertion. And I trust your judgment. I’m sure you’ll bring back the very best comar she has to offer.”

  Daci’s eyes brightened. “I would be honored to! After all, you taught me everything I know about choosing one.” Her chest puffed up a bit. “And I am your Elder. That certainly seems like a job I should handle. Has Rennata replied to you on the issue of Damian?”

  Tatiana nodded toward her desk. “Her letter is on my desk. Somewhere among the flowers and apologies there is her word that I am to be given full credit for his blood rights.” She shook her head. “I’m sure that will still leave money owed as I doubt she’ll let me have another for the same price, but I don’t care. Whatever it costs, I want the best.” She tipped her chin toward Daci. “The one you deem best.”

  “I’ll take care of it immediately. Right now if you wish me to.”