Lara Adrian's Midnight Breed 8-Book Bundle (150 page)

“Why don’t you rest for a while,” Nikolai suggested. “Take the bed. Get some sleep. It’s my turn to be on watch.”

She didn’t argue, much to his surprise. He got up and held the blanket for her as she climbed in and struggled to position herself around her shoulder wound.

“The window,” she murmured, pointing at it. “I was going to cover it for you.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

She fell asleep in less than a minute’s time. Niko watched her for a moment, and then, when he was certain she wouldn’t feel it, he gave in to his urge to touch her. Just a brief caress of her cheek, his fingers trailing into the black silk of her hair.

It was wrong to desire her, he knew that.

In his condition, at what was just about the worst of possible circumstances, it was probably stupid as hell for
him to crave Renata the way he did—the way he had nearly from the instant he first laid eyes on her.

But in that moment, had she lifted her lids and found him there beside her, nothing would have kept him from pulling her into his arms.

A pair of halogen high-beams pierced the blanket of fog that spilled down onto the valley road from Vermont’s densely forested Green Mountains. In the backseat, the chauffeured vehicle’s passenger stared impatiently at the dark landscape, his Breed eyes throwing off amber reflections in the opaque glass. He was pissed off, and after speaking with Edgar Fabien, his contact in Montreal, he had ample reason to be upset. The only glimmer of promise had been the fact that amid all the recent fuckups and disasters narrowly averted, somehow, Sergei Yakut was dead and, in the process, Fabien had managed to net a member of the Order.

Unfortunately, that small victory had been short-lived. Just a few hours ago, Fabien had sheepishly reported that the Breed warrior had escaped the containment facility and was currently at large with the female who’d apparently aided him. If Fabien’s hands weren’t already full with the other important business he’d been assigned, the Montreal Darkhaven leader might be getting an unexpected visit tonight as well. He could deal with Fabien later.

Annoyed by this mandatory detour through cow country, what infuriated him the most by far was the recent malfunction of his best, most effective instrument.

Failure simply could not be tolerated. One mistake was one too many, and, like a watchdog that suddenly turns on
its owner, there was only one viable solution for the problem awaiting him up this particular stretch of rural back-country road: termination.

The vehicle slowed and made a right off the asphalt, onto a bumpy dirt one-laner. A rambling Colonial-era stone fence and half a dozen tall oaks and maples lined the drive that led up to an old white farmhouse with a wide, wraparound porch. The car came to a stop in front of a big red barn around the back of the house. The driver—a Minion—got out, walked around to the rear passenger door, and opened it for his vampire Master.

“Sire,” the human mind slave said with a deferential bow of his head.

The Breed male inside the car climbed out, sniffing derisively at the taint of livestock in the so-called fresh night air. His senses were no less offended as he turned his head toward the house and saw the dim light of a table lamp glowing in one of the rooms, the inane yammering of a television game show drifting out of the open windows.

“Wait here,” he instructed his driver. “This won’t take long.”

Stones crunching under his polished leather loafers, he walked over the gravel to the covered porch steps leading to the farmhouse’s back door. It was locked, for all that it mattered. He willed the bolt open and strode inside the blue-and-white gingham-trimmed eyesore of a kitchen. As the door creaked closed behind him, a middle-aged human male holding a shotgun came in from the hallway.

“Master,” he gasped, setting the rifle down on the countertop. “Forgive me. I wasn’t aware that you, ah… that you w-were coming.” The Minion stammered, anxious,
and evidently wise enough to know that this was no social call. “H-how may I serve you?”

“Where is the Hunter?”

“The cellar, sire.”

“Take me to him.”

“Of course.” The Minion scrambled past and opened the back door, holding it wide. When his master had exited, he dashed around to lead the way to the coffinlike entrance of the cellar along the side of the house. “I don’t know what could have gone wrong with him, Master. He’s never failed to carry out an assignment before.”

True enough, although that only made the current failure of such a perfect specimen all the more inexcusable. “I’m not interested in the past.”

“No, no. Of course not, sire. My apologies.”

There was a clumsy struggle with the key and lock, the latter having been installed in order to keep the curious out, rather than as a measure to keep the cellar’s deadly occupant inside. Locks were unnecessary when there was another, more effective method in place to ensure that he wasn’t tempted to stray.

“This way,” said the Minion, opening the steel doors to reveal a lightless pit that opened into the earth below the old house.

A flight of wooden stairs descended into the dank, musty darkness. The Minion moved ahead, tugging a string attached to a bare bulb to help light the way. The vampire behind him saw well enough without it, as did the one housed down here in the empty, windowless space.

The cellar contained no furniture. No diversions. No personal effects. By deliberate design, it contained no comforts whatsoever. It was filled with precisely nothing—a reminder to its occupant that he too was nothing beyond
that which he was summoned from here to do. His very existence was merely to serve, to follow orders.

To act without mercy or mistake.

To give no quarter, nor expect any in return.

As they walked into the center of the cellar, the huge Breed male seated quietly on the bare earth floor looked up. He was naked, elbows resting on his updrawn knees, his head shaved bald. He had no name, no identity at all except the one that was given to him when he was born: Hunter. The fitted black electronic collar around his neck had also been with him all his life.

In truth, it
was
his life, for if he should ever resist instruction, or tamper with the monitoring device in any way, a digital sensor would trip and the UV weapon contained within the collar would detonate.

The big male stood up as his Minion handler gestured for him to rise. He was impressive, a Gen One standing six and a half feet, all lean muscle and formidable strength. His body was covered in a web of
dermaglyphs
from neck to ankle, skin markings inherited through blood, passed down from father to son within the Breed.

That he and this vampire shared similar patterns was to be expected; after all, they were born of the same Ancient paternal line. Both of them had the blood of the same alien warrior swimming in their veins—one of the original fathers of the vampire race on earth. They were kin, although only one of them knew that. The one who had been patiently biding his time, living behind countless masks and deceptions while carefully arranging his pieces on a massive and complex board. Manipulating fate until the time was right for him to finally, rightfully, rise to his place of power over both Breed and humankind alike.

That time was coming.

Coming soon, he could feel it in his bones.

And he would abide no missteps in the ascent to his throne.

Eyes as golden as a falcon’s met and held his gaze in the dim light of the cellar. He didn’t appreciate the pride he saw there—the trace of defiance in one who had been raised to serve.

“Explain to me why you failed to carry out your objective,” he demanded. “You were sent to Montreal with a clear mission. Why were you unable to execute it?”

“There was a witness” came the cool reply.

“That’s never stopped you before. Why now?”

Those unflinching golden eyes showed no emotion whatsoever, but there was challenge in the subtle lift of the Hunter’s square jaw. “It was a child, a young female.”

“A child, you say.” He shrugged, unmoved. “Even easier to eliminate, don’t you think?”

The Hunter said nothing, just stared at him as if awaiting judgment. As if he expected to be condemned and could give a damn.

“You were not trained to question your orders or to back away from obstacles. You were bred for one thing— as were the others like you.”

The stern chin came up another inch, questioning. Mistrusting. “What others?”

He chuckled low under his breath. “You didn’t actually think you were unique, did you? Far from it. Yes, there are others. An army of others—soldiers, assassins … expendable pawns I’ve created over a period of several decades, all of them born and raised to serve me. Others, like you, who live only because I will it.” He glanced pointedly at the collar that ringed the vampire’s neck. “You, like the others, live only so long as I will it.”

“Master,” interrupted the Minion handler. “I’m certain this was a one-time error. When you send him out next time, there will be no problems, I assure—”

“I’ve heard enough,” he snapped, slanting a look at the human who by association had also failed him. “There will be no next time. And you are of no use to me anymore.”

In a flash of motion, he wheeled on the Minion and sank his fangs into the side of the man’s throat. He didn’t drink, just punctured the carotid and released him, watching with complete disregard as he collapsed on the earthen floor of the cellar, bleeding profusely. The presence of so much pumping blood was almost too much to bear. It was hard to waste it, but he was more interested in proving a point.

He glanced at the Gen One vampire beside him—grinning as the male’s
glyphs
began to pulse with the deep colors of hunger, his golden eyes now fully amber. His fangs filled his mouth, and it was obvious that every instinct within him was screaming for him to lunge on the sputtering prey and feed before the blood and the human were both dead.

Except he didn’t move. He stood there, defiant still, refusing to give in to even that most natural, savage side of himself.

Killing him would be easy enough; just a code typed into his cell phone and that rigid, unentitled pride would be blown to bits. But it would be far more enjoyable to break him first. So much the better if breaking him could serve as an example to Fabien and anyone else who might be stupid enough to disappoint him.

“Outside,” he commanded the servant assassin. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

CHAPTER
Eighteen

R
enata stood at the pedestal sink in the bathroom, spat the last of her toothpaste down the drain, then rinsed with several handfuls of cool water. She’d gotten up much later than she intended. Nikolai said she had looked like she needed the rest, so he’d let her sleep until almost ten in the morning. She could have slept another ten days and she’d probably still be tired.

She felt awful. Achy all over, weak-limbed. Unsteady on her feet. Her body’s internal thermostat couldn’t seem to decide between freezing cold and overheated, leaving her racked with alternating shivers and waves of perspiration beading on her brow and the back of her neck.

With her right hand braced on the sink, she put her
other under the running faucet, thinking to clamp her cool, wet fingers around the furnace that burned at her nape. One slight shift of her left arm and she hissed in pain.

Her shoulder felt like it was on fire.

She winced as she carefully unbuttoned the top of a big oxford shirt she was borrowing from Jack. Slowly she shrugged out of the left sleeve so she could remove the bandage and inspect her wound. The tape stung as she peeled it away from her tender, aggravated skin. Coagulating blood and antiseptic ointment coated the thick pad of gauze, but the wound underneath was still swollen and seeping.

She didn’t need a doctor to tell her that this wasn’t good news. Blood and thick yellow fluid drained from the angry red circle surrounding the bullet’s open point of entry. Not good at all. Nor did she need a thermometer to confirm that she was probably spiking a fairly high fever due to the onset of infection.

“Shit,” she whispered at her haggard, sallow face in the mirror. “I don’t have time for this, damn it.”

An abrupt knock on the bathroom door made her jump.

“Hey.” Nikolai knocked again, two quick raps. “Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s all good.” Her voice scraped like sandpaper in her throat, little better than a hard rasp of sound. “I’m just brushing my teeth.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” Renata wadded up the soiled bandage and tossed it into the trash bin next to the sink. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

The answering pause didn’t give her the impression he
was going anywhere. She cranked the water to a higher volume and waited, unmoving, her eyes on the closed door.

“Renata… your wound,” Nikolai said through the wood panel. There was a gravity to his tone. “It’s not healed yet? It should have stopped bleeding by now…”

Although she hadn’t wanted him to know what was going on, there was no use denying it now. All of his kind had impossibly acute senses, especially when it came to detecting spilled blood.