Captiva Craving - Vampire Werewolf Menage (Six Feet Under Series Book Two) (23 page)

“After putting together Adam’s intel, the scrolls recovered in Scotland by the werewolves, and our own intel Sixten decoded through the scrolls,” he explained, without including a hard drive Maestru refused to bring up here, “we can’t say there’s slavery going on, but something more advanced.” As advanced and seemingly impossible to decipher as finding the Habaline wormhole and stuffing a giant cork in it. “But, obviously, we know where your Donors have been disappearing. With Adam’s help, we recovered three more. Six are still out there…hopefully alive.”

“So Adam lives, for now.” He crossed his arms, eyeing their prisoner slash faction leader wanna-be up and down. “Do not find yourself becoming comfortable, mixed blood, my tolerance for anyone attacking my subjects is nil.”

To Maestru’s relief, Adam kept his yap shut. Maybe his pleas for starting his own Habaline faction would be entertained, but not anytime soon. And considering the original Habaline faction continued to be no-shows at their joint meetings confirmed something volatile was brewing, and it involved a considerable amount of money. “Very well, shall we set up a multi faction committee to extend this investigation country wide? Keep in mind, I cannot release my Vojaks on this one.” He held up his hand before any of the werewolves protested. “Yes, we all know the streets are suddenly quiet,
too
quiet, but my warriors are not twiddling their thumbs. They have other duties.”

Jayce spoke up, “Things always get a little quiet when evil makes plans. Nothing new there.” He stepped forward, scanning the Vojaks intently. “Many mixed bloods who answered Adam’s call have been placed in my care, willing to undergo rehabilitation. We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I’m told through reliable sources, hundreds are still circling.” He stared head-on at Sixten, his Alpha pacing back and forth behind his eyes. “What’s your take on that?”

“What’s my take? I
feel
them.” His eyes went to the window, tight lines bracketing his mouth. “They’re drawn home to this island. It’s instinctual.” When he looked back, he asked pointedly, “Besides the
blades
and maps you confiscated from the Scotland breeding facility, did you find any other scrolls?”

Jacye shook his head. “I wasn’t on that raid, but Ciaran handed everything over to Bane. What’s this particular scroll about?”

“Not sure,” he kept his voice steady, even. “Poison, Rave’s former man Friday, seems to think I have it, or, at least, know of it.” He bit down, piercing his lip with a fang. “I didn’t want to discuss this. Now? I’m just desperate to get her back. He said, if I presented it to him, he’ll lead me to my Blythe.”

Maestru asked while watching Volos shift uncomfortably
again
, “Do you truly believe he knows where Blythe is?”

“Now? Yeah.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”

“So whatever’s on that scroll,” Jayce said, “will provide Poison with something he’s missing, and we can’t have that.”

“No, no, we cannot,” Maestru agreed, gliding forward. “So we have more to add to an ever-growing list.”

Jayce met his eyes, nodding negligibly after reading a text. They needed to stall the prince a bit more, and, now, he was studying the door a little too fondly. So Jayce cleared his throat, droning on about rehabilitation in Scotland, how Ciaran was helping recovered Donors as well as freed mixed bloods. The prince would cut one of his own off easily and leave, but he could not do that to an Alpha – his equal, without causing a rift between factions. So the prince pulled up a chair, just stifling a frustrated hiss, and prepared for a long-winded speech.

Maestru clenched his fists inside his pockets, acting for nonchalance. If the prince of his people, an un-caged monster who tortured for fun, figured out what was really going on right under his nose, Maestru would finally meet his death, and, unfortunately, bring down several Vojaks with him.

In the distance, thunder rolled. He glanced sideways, peering out his favorite window, its view of an incomparable shoreline he enjoyed every day. Lightening shot down, hitting angry ocean waves before a solid rumble reverberated under his feet. An ominous warning prickled his skin.

Don’t lose the game, Six, wherever you really are.

Salk rubbed his shaved head, sweating, though he refused to move away from the fireplace. “I’ve heard of this, where the humans break,” he stopped, eyeing a crystal vase filled with fresh, velvet roses. Not surprising, they were one of her favorite flowers.

Doesn’t Gianni know me so well?

“You’re wondering why I didn’t try to crack your sire’s skull with that,” she summed up Salk’s thoughts. “Your trusty Marchii hasn’t been here since they arrived.”

When she used the restroom, random things appeared in her suite like
strange
clockwork, such as her current attire. An outlandish ensemble meant for…she had no idea what time it was or why she was dressed for clubbing. But she stood in the middle of her
apartment
, as Salk called it, wearing a Channel inspired glamour dress – definitely from the nineteen-twenties era. No tags appeared anywhere, so it could be custom or truly vintage. Her neck remained bare - no surprise there, easy access meant easy access - in a scoop neck sleeveless, tank style mini with bead and feather embellishments all over the place. And down at the hem, feathers fringed alongside the beads, swaying as she walked.

She had no clue if women born of that era wore peep-toe platforms, but that’s what she’d been given. Nothing else was hanging in the closet, so here she stood, wondering if they were going to a club where vampires stayed in a long-gone era.

But if I she were with Sixten, she would love dancing with him in this particular dress, swirling around a smoky floor while he stared down at her with glittering, ice-green eyes, giving her that knowing smile. The one that said, ‘I know exactly what’s under that dress and I will be dragging my tongue all over it before the sunrise because you’re mine’.

Not according to Gianni, she bristled at that thought, fisting her hands at her sides until she felt droplets of blood run under her nails. Salk drew deeply, dragging a long breath through his stocky body. His irises bled out, running in thin-lined streams across the glowing whites of his eyes, and his cheekbones pressed into blades underneath his skin. He was not, by any means, ugly. Most women would think him hot.

But if Blythe were still unaware of the immortal world, and she encountered Salk on the street, she would be running for the hills by now. She unclenched her fists, shaking them out. Who was she trying to kid? She
still
would be running from Salk if she could leave her gilded cage. Though she sure as hell would stomp him with her over-the-top shoes, preferably in the nuts, before she made her getaway.

At least, I would try.

“I don’t advise you striking Marchii Gianni with a vase or anything else.” Salk’s eyes slid all over her bloodied hands, his tongue flicking his growing fangs, his voice graveling into a strange echo. “Obviously you’ve forgotten that my sire has quite the temper.”

Why would he warn her? “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She looked away from the hunter’s thirsty eyes. Blythe knew how her blood affected vampires. On top of that, she understood what her appearance said – what he must be thinking, especially since she was dressed in this way. According to the more rudely inclined, she looked like a throwback bimbo born in the wrong decade - all tits and ass, though a slender waist cinched her middle. And without makeup she could attempt to play down her facial features all she wanted, but those efforts were futile when the face fit her ‘boom boom’ body.

Blythe’s beauty surpassed the exotic, went straight into super model territory and never had it been a blessing – not once. Rarely had anyone appreciated her for her brain or her personality. Nope, men and women alike expected her to fulfill the starring role of the dim-witted slut. But that didn’t bother her as much as it used to. What really bothered her was Gianni. A godlike vampire she could not outwit by strength or cunningness, and his horrific fixation on her seemed unshakable.

So looks weren’t what they were cracked up to be.

Curses were often dressed in blessings, wrapped in a pretty box better left unopened. But her greedy brother had opened Blythe in a dangerous world, proudly displaying her among the thirsty and shamelessly selling her to the highest bidder. Although he had come back, possibly righting his wrong, her memories of him rescuing her were scattered tidbits. Not for the first time, she wondered who helped him dupe the powerful so he could supposedly hide her in America. After all, Anthony was only
human
.

“What’s wrong, Salk? Why so quiet?” She held up her bloodied hands, thinking she would take advantage of his distraction for purely selfish purposes. After all, she had to try something, and vampires took to blood the same way as sharks. Vampires eventually snapped, especially around her. Blythe stepped toward him, dragging her teetering heels across the rug in a slow prowl. She lowered her voice, lacing it with sleepy sex, “Wanna know if I taste as good as I smell?”

“What do you
really
want from me, Blythe?”

“Something you’ll never give me, right?” Freedom.

“You don’t understand your birthright, what you are to our world,” his steady voice, his increasing calmness stoked her ire.

“So I deserve this, to have my life taken away?”

“It’s not that you deserve this,” he said thoughtfully, lifting Blythe’s hand to smell her palm before tenderly kissing it. “But our monarch deserves you.” A hoarse groan left him, one she knew was involuntary. Salk wanted her Donor’s blood just as much as the rest of them, maybe more.

“What do
you
deserve?”

Odd laughter was Salk’s response, so peculiar it sent prickles across her scalp. In a blurring movement, needle-like fangs pierced her delicate wrist. Sucking painfully, Salk’s bite mimicked nothing she had experienced from any other vampire. Blythe stifled her scream, waiting for that perfect moment to strike back. At least, she hoped for it. Although searing pain traveled up her arm, for the most part, she stayed quiet while the bloodthirsty Lovec groaned with every pull. But he caught that sharp gasp, the clenching of her fingers.

She could share faux empathy, get him to feel a sense of understanding. “It can’t be easy serving Gianni all your days, day after day.”

He released his bite, slowly licking her wound, staring at the purple mark that remained before looking soul-deep into her eyes. Ignoring that, he said, “Blythe, you should have remained unreachable.” Swallowing roughly, he pulled away. “Why did Anthony choose to keep you topside?”

Oh, tell me what you know, Salk. Fill in my missing pieces.

She kept her whisper steady, meeting his intense stare, acting in the sex kitten way most people expected her to. “So…you didn’t want to find me? Or maybe you didn’t think Gianni should be such a sulking baby, whining for lost property.”

“You cannot outsmart me,” his voice sharpened.

“If you ever want me unreachable to Gianni,” she murmured in that sleep-sexy voice again, bending to fix her shoe that didn’t need fixing while displaying a long length of cleavage, “I’m all for it.” She chewed her plush bottom lip.
Open the door, take me out of here, and I might have a chance.

“Not falling for it, Donor,” he said irritably, moving for the door.

Yes, open the door.
“It? Or me?” She flicked another longing glance at him. Was Salk the
help
that Anthony had needed to take her away from Gianni? He was definitely hiding something. “I’m thinking you slipped in here for more than a chat.” He’d stated no purpose, just kept nervous small talk after he had arrived.

He shrugged negligibly and said, “Checking on my sire’s prize since he was in a meeting.”

“Oh, that’s all? Where was I going? That’s the only door.” She stepped to the right, ripping back a golden drape with a dramatic flair, exposing the wall where a window should be. “There aren’t any windows to jump through.” Blythe fought to control her breathing, reaching for serenity and working her plan as she went along. She lowered her cognac eyes, looking at him from beneath her lashes. “We all want what we want, right? Gianni said it’s the nature of the vampire to
take
, so what’s stopping you?”

“Intelligence is stopping me,” he answered roughly, reaching for the door lever, “if you only knew.”

Something told Blythe he was hiding much more than she originally thought. When he turned the handle, she hadn’t come up with anything better than admitting, “You helped my brother take me away from Italy, from your sire.” Blythe kept her poker face.

Instead of responding, he released the handle, turning almost too slowly. “Where would you come up with such a ridiculous notion?”

She didn’t know if he could sense lies the same way as Gianni so she was forthcoming with her honesty. “The power of deduction, even the pretty ones have a few brain cells floating around in the air between our ears.” She stepped in front of him, the tips of her toes brushing his boots. “Profound intellect may have escaped my grasp, but I’m fairly good with intuition and crossword puzzles.”

“By your tongue, you have no self-preservation.”

“It’s something I’m working on.”

“Your time spent with the shifters has made you delusional.”

“About that,” she said, matching his tone, “it sure didn’t take you that long to find me.”

“You were unconscious,” his said warily though he tried to hide his uneasiness, “what do you know of any time that passed from point A to point B.”

“Just snippets of memories from here and there,” she said. “But I’m guessing a vampire in Gianni’s position, his authority, wouldn’t be caught cavorting with his shapeshifter enemy. In fact, I doubt he cavorts much at all outside court. So, considering my inferior intelligence and all, I’m left wondering if he overestimated your hunting skills.”