Damned by Blood fb-3 Read online

  “And let’s not forget the small matter of her territory.” Mikhail knew this, more than anything, drove his father’s interest in the marriage.

  Whirling around to face him, his father said, eyes gleaming, “Claim her, my boy, and we rule both coasts.”

  If Mikhail did not know his mother considered her dreams sacred and would never lie about them, he would suspect this entire scheme to be a pretext for war. In his way, his father was as much as an expansionist as Alya. Mikhail had deep reservations about expanding their holdings across the country, when their own territories needed all of his attention.

  Mikhail steepled his fingers under his chin, imagining all the players in this game as pieces on a chessboard. As knyaz he spent a good deal of his time enforcing law at the street level. But what he really loved was the intricacies of politics, unwinding the thin strings of self-interest that kept their world united. Considering the possible reactions, and how the various interests played off one another, was such an engaging problem that, for a moment, he was able to forget Alya. Until his father said,

  “But you may not wish to marry her. It is within your rights to refuse the dream. This is what you must decide before we take another step.”

  Mikhail watched his father over the tips of his fingers, wondering how he would take the news. “I can’t deny the dream. I’ve tasted her.”

  His father stiffened and his eyes darkened with interest. Master of understatement, he said, “Ah. I see.”

  Mikhail hadn’t bitten Alya. He hadn’t been that stupid. But one night she’d nicked herself while practicing with her knives. A single, ruby drop had welled on her knuckle. Without thinking, he’d kissed it clean and sealed his fate. Because she was his destined mate, that one drop was enough to alter his chemistry and bond him to her for life.

  If he’d tasted any other girl in the world, nothing would have happened.

  If he’d had more than one drop that night, the mistake might have killed him.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you see, I’m damned already, and twice damned if I take her as a bride.”

  His father leaned on the desk, his gnarled hands splayed wide across the glossy wood. “If I’d known, I swear I would not have rested until—”

  Mikhail waved his apology away. “I wasn’t strong enough. That’s why she left me. Even if we’d known, I couldn’t have claimed her. Pity isn’t her strong suit.”

  “It isn’t ours either.” His father pushed up his coat sleeve. A fine, silken black rope wrapped his arm from the wrist up. “Give me your hand.”

  The black rope came to life and slithered across their joined hands, unfurling from his father’s arm to twine around Mikhail’s right wrist. Mikhail watched wide eyed, but did not flinch. This was old vamp magic. Rarely used, and seen less.

  “It is called bride rope. Have you heard of it? This my father gave me to capture your mother, long ago.”

  “She didn’t come to you willingly?”

  That was hard to imagine. Even after sixty years, his mother doted on his father, and his father, though less demonstrative, loved her still. It was in his every look.

  His father only smiled at that question. So, tracing the lines of the rope around his wrist, Mikhail asked another. “And Gregor? Alex?”

  “They did not need this to claim their little girls, but one such as Alya will never respect you unless you bring her to heel first. When you capture her, give her no quarter. A proud woman will never trust her heart to a man who isn’t strong enough to protect it.”

  “And the rope?”

  “The rope knows your desires. It will teach her how to bend to them.”

  His father spoke man to man rather than father to son. The suggestion was clear. Mikhail supposed he should imagine Alya hogtied on the floor, naked, and begging. But the thought did not excite him. He’d been shut down so long, he couldn’t remember what it felt like to desire someone.

  Not in that way, at least. All his adult life, no matter how often he hunted, hunger gnawed at him. Now he knew it was all because of her. Only she could satisfy him. What he desired was her flesh between his teeth, her hot blood flooding his mouth. The next conclusion followed naturally, an idea as sharp and ruthless as Alya herself.

  “I do have a choice. Roland’s Choice.”

  His father’s brow creased. “There is that. If you take her soul, you’ll be free of the blood bond, but in doing so you make yourself a monster. Remember the story. Illysia was already dying when Roland exsanguinated her. No one will forgive you for murdering your destined bride in cold blood.”

  “And who has ever been cursed with a wife like her?” He spoke too loud, and his voice cracked with frustration. Reining himself in, he continued in a lower tone. “We have the cover of war. We claimed Minnesota first—she is the aggressor there. If I take her down, who will blame me? No one need know the truth.”

  As he spoke, his mother rushed into the room and threw herself at his feet.

  “Mat’!” Appalled, he leapt from his desk chair, taking her outstretched hands in his. He tried to make her rise, but she would not. For all her smallness she was very strong.

  “For so long I prayed, Misha. You have been alone too long. I hoped to bring you joy.”

  “I don’t blame you for this. You know I don’t.”

  “Who do you blame if not me? Do you say God is wrong? The dreams come from his angels. No one else.”

  Mikhail sat back down in his chair to be closer to her, keeping hold of her fine-boned hands. “Yes, I call God wrong.”

  Angry at his blasphemy, she snatched her hands away. “You loved her.”

  “Once.”

  “And she loved you.”

  “It didn’t keep her from turning to that swamp rat Jean Courtableu in front of everyone. From humiliating all of us. From starting her long glorious fuck to the top at the tender age of sixteen!” He realized he was shouting and turned his face aside. “I beg your pardon.”

  His mother stood, unfolding herself with her dancer’s grace. “You don’t know what was inside her head back then. She is an Adad. They are like jackals, that family.”

  “I don’t want a jackal for a wife.”

  “That girl, she is your only chance at happiness.”

  Mikhail laughed aloud, for the first time in a long, long time.

  “The. Dreams. Do. Not. Lie.” On each word she jabbed at him with her finger. “There is a path for you to follow. Have faith.”

  “What faith should I have in a God that has left me to suffer for thirty years, and then completes my misery by giving me this woman as a bride? She is my salvation? She is my future?”

  His father stepped forward. “Do you feel the pull?” He thumped his own chest with a closed fist. “Here. Now that you know?”

  At the question, a fine tremor passed under Mikhail’s skin and he realized after long years in dormancy, his body was waking, his emotions churning. He wasn’t altogether in control, and he didn’t like it at all.

  “Mikhail?” his father said, relentless.

  “Yes, I feel it.” But numbness was better.

  “Good. Follow it. Win her or kill her by your own strength. But do it like a man, not a machine. Love her if you can. If not, take her down hard and free yourself.”

  Mikhail unclenched his fists. “That I can do.”

  Later, when he thought everyone was gone, Madelena stole into his office and came to stand at his shoulder. She took in the maps on his laptop, leaned over the list he was writing and read aloud, “E-kit, tool belt, surveillance pack, fiber optics…putty explosives? Oh, hon. A first aid kit with an epi pen. Nice touch. Cold packs and six pints of blood. Titanium cuffs and a hobble?”

  She sat on the desktop. Her tight leather pants creaked as she crossed her legs. Leaning back, she cocked her head at him and waited. And waited. He gave up on working and threw down his pen. “Yes?”

  “I’m worried about you.” Absentmindedly she fingered the sleek battery
pack on her hip that powered her heart, a device she’d wear forever unless they found a suitable heart for her. Gregor had very nearly lost his mate by seeking her too late. Mikhail’s mate, meanwhile, wasn’t awaiting rescue. His mate would as soon kill him as look at him. “Gregor says you won’t take him or Alex or any of your lieutenants along with you.”

  “By tradition the groom goes alone to collect his bride. I know someone in LA who I’ll bring on to help with surveillance and some systems hacking. I think that’s fair. I’m under an obligation to do my best not to harm her people. And, of course, I want to take her alive. The more of my people I bring along, the more firepower I have, the less likely that is to happen.”

  “So…you’re saying this is more like a ritual abduction. A show of strength, but not so much that there’s no one left to be in the wedding party.” When he didn’t disagree with her, she smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, I’ll worry about you less now.”

  Mikhail suffered the hand on his shoulder, and chose not to tell her that Alya had no similar obligation toward him.

  Chapter Two

  Alya buzzed her assistant. “Tina, push back my mani -pedi by half an hour.” She came around her desk to stand in front of the miscreant du jour.

  “So, Frank. You tried to drain your friend…” She turned toward her first lieutenant, Dominick.

  “Jason. Jason Biggs,” Dominick offered. “We’re rehydrating the poor sod.”

  Frank, a broad built vamp lacking both a chin and any discernible fashion sense, shifted his glance between the guards on either side of him. Both young men looked like they’d be right at home in a skate park, but Alya suspected Frank already understood they’d snap his neck without hesitation.

  Shuffling in his ankle shackles, he grimaced as if she already had her fist up his ass. Someone had used a Sharpie to scrawl “Lecter” across his forehead.

  “Your Majesty—”

  “Alya, Frank. I’m a prince, not a queen. This isn’t Windsor Castle.”

  “I’ve never hurt no one—”

  “Until you took a fancy to Jason Biggs’ blood.”

  “We were fighting.”

  “So?”

  “It just got out of control. I mean I got out of control, I guess. I just…bit down…and I couldn’t stop.”

  Alya leaned forward and whispered, “How’d you like it?”

  Frank shook his head. “It was weird. Too weird.”

  She turned to Dominick. His eyes twinkled with amusement. This Frank was no shining example of a vamp, but she believed he hadn’t attacked Jason meaning to drain him, and he didn’t have a taste for vamp blood. So far, so good. That meant she didn’t have to kill him. But she was sure Dominick had brought him to her for another reason. Finding out why would be half the fun. Needing some alone time with Frank, she dismissed the guards and turned to Dom.

  “Dominick, you sorry Irish bastard. Why didn’t you kill him on the spot? Why is he here? Why is my mani-pedi delayed?” She thrust her hand at him. “Look at the chips!”

  Dominick squinted at her nails. “Frightful chips indeed, sir. Well now, you see young Frank here, while not being the sharpest tool in the box, can fairly lay the claim of never doing anyone harm. Until recent events, I should say. Mostly he just trolls around Santa Monica pier, snacking on those even less fortunate than himself.”

  “Admirable. And what else?”

  “I’ve been noticing that he spends his spare hours in Jimmy Smith’s pool hall. Frank is tight with Jimmy himself.”

  Alya grinned. They’d been trying to get a line on Jimmy Smith and his gambling operations for a long time. It was time Jimmy started giving them a bigger cut. “Do you mean you’ve caught me a rat? Good kitty.”

  On cue, Frank let out a high-pitched squeal. “I’m no rat.”

  Alya caressed Frank’s stubbled cheek. “Darling, draining another vamp is a mortal offense. You leave me no choice. Rat or die.”

  “Jimmy will kill me. Slow. I won’t rat. I’d rather die now.”

  Alya let her hand trail from his cheek, down his neck and chest. Rotating her hips like a pole dancer, she lowered herself into a crouch at his feet. From under her lashes, she watched his reaction. She smelled his fear—and his arousal.

  “Last chance, Frank.”

  “Last chance for what?”

  She grabbed his ankle hobble and gave it a hard tug, pulling his feet out from under him. His head hit the floor with a loud, all-too-hollow conk. Picking up his legs, she dragged him along by his hobble like a huge, wondrously ugly rolling bag. As she passed the sofa, one of her feeders, Matthew, glanced up from the New York Times Review of Books, barely mustering interest in the scene. They became jaded so fast.

  Her destination was a winch in the ceiling near the windows. The big, east-facing windows.

  The office was rigged with various restraining devices, more for her pleasure in feeding than this sort of work, but handy enough in a pinch. Frank was just starting to fight back. But it didn’t matter. She pulled down the winch, hooked the hobble to it and hoisted him up like a side of beef. He dangled upside down, groaning, his fingers scraping the carpet.

  “Alya?” Matthew said.

  “Yes, love?”

  “Why is it okay for vamps to suck on us but not other vamps?”

  “What a good question. Frank, can you tell Matthew why?”

  Frank only made sad noises, so she wound him up and let go. While he spun, she answered Matthew herself. “It’s simple. You’re our natural prey. It’s right that we feed from you. When we feed from each other, it’s cannibalism.”

  “But you’ve done it, right?”

  “Yes—but for good reason.” She went to sit next to Matthew. Pliant as a friendly cat, he put his head in her lap. While she talked, she stroked his silky chestnut hair away from his neck. “You see, the blood is the voice of the soul. When we drink, we hear the souls of our victims.”

  “You can hear my soul?”

  “When we’re little vamps we’re taught not to listen to our dinners. It’s too confusing.” Fleeting memories of Marrakech crossed her mind. The garden with the fountain. The orange tree in blossom. Her mother bringing her a servant to practice upon, saying, You must only sip, child, as a bee sips honey. Never take too much.

  “But when you drink another vamp, you can’t cut off the stories in the blood. They’re too strong— you have to listen. It’s so confusing it’s dangerous. Just not a smart thing to do.” She traced her finger along his neck and up and around his ear, enjoying the way he shivered in response. “But in formal combat among princes it’s traditional for the winner to drain the loser to the dregs. This is so the knowledge of that leader isn’t lost from the race—only transferred. That’s the only reason I’d ever drink vamp blood.”

  Frank said, “I’m going to puke. Seriously.”

  Alya glanced over at him. Matthew was pleasantly warm and smelled of soap and coffee. If she had her druthers, she’d be feeding off his fine naked body that moment instead of jerking Frank around.

  “If I were you, Frank, I wouldn’t be worried about puking. I’d be worried whether I’d be off that winch before dawn. The sun will come through that window bit by bit. You won’t go fast, that’s for certain. And we won’t be around to help you if you change your mind.”

  “I’m not a goddamn rat!”

  “Suit yourself. What else do you have for me, Dominick? Oh, wait. Matthew, will you lend poor Frank your iPod?”

  Dominick took the iPod from Matthew and poked the buds into Frank’s ears.

  Frank said, “I hate Emo.” Dominick smiled and adjusted the controls. Alya suspected he’d just hit “repeat” and raised the volume.

  “Latest information out of New York says Faustin himself might go to Minnesota.”

  Alya clapped her hands. “You bring me nothing but happiness, my wild Irish spring. I’m so glad to hear the Faustins are as predictable as I remembered.”

  Maya, one of her fa
vorite feeders, walked in, swinging a Chinese takeout container. Her red, white and blue polyester mini dress, gleaned from some thrift store bargain bin, clashed loudly and cheerfully with Alya’s Zen-minimal office. The smell of cooked meat drifting out of that takeout container made Alya’s nose twitch, but she let the girl have her food. Maya gave Dominick a flirtatious wink then leaned over to kiss Alya. Their tongues touched and Alya caught a hint of the delicate flavor of Maya’s blood.

  “Long time no see,” Maya said, her voice breathy.

  “You all fattened up?” Feeders had to have breaks between visits—otherwise they turned anemic. For that reason she had a large, precisely managed stable of them.

  “I’m brimming with goodness.” She turned to Matthew. “Tina told me I was on today.”

  Matthew stretched lazily, his shirt riding up to reveal a tempting expanse of lean belly. “You snooze you lose, M.”

  Maya stuck her tongue out at him, dropped onto the opposite sofa and tucked into her Chinese. She may or may not have been aware that everyone could see her red knickers. “What’s all this I’ve been hearing about Minnesota? Why’s everyone mad at them?”

  Alya said, “Where to begin? A consortium of crazy hicks from the North Woods has overthrown the city families—the decent vamps. These northern families have gone feral. They’re drinking beast blood— moose, deer, beaver, heaven knows what. And worse, they’re preaching that we should all eat that way.”

  Dominick made a face at the thought of it, but Maya, being human, shrugged. “And that’s bad?”

  “It’s bad, trust me. They’re leaving drained carcasses around for the authorities to find. That’s causing talk. And you know how much we like talk. And the Faustins especially don’t like talk.”

  Through a mouthful of food Maya said, “So he’s just going to take over the state because he doesn’t like their dietary choices? What a fascist.”

  Alya shrugged. The Faustins definitely had fascist tendencies, but in this case she understood. “I don’t blame him. If they’ve sunk to eating animals, they’re obviously not going to care about keeping up appearances. And if the rest of the families could be thrown over by these lunatics, they’re incapable of defending their own territory. It’s easier just to take over.”