Damned by Blood

Chapter Five

Alya woke cold and damp, kicking against her tangled sheets.

“Oh,” she said, opening her eyes to find her cat, Lulu, on the pillow next to hers, staring at her in alarm. “Oh, thank goodness.”

In her dream she’d been fighting her brothers. They’d pinned her down. They were going to roll her in a carpet and toss her into the sea. It was just the sort of thing they would do.

Shaken and depressed, she reached for Lulu. The cat hissed at being moved, but Alya needed to hold something, so she ignored the warning and drew the cat’s warm, fluffy body to her chest. Lulu yowled and chomped down on her hand.

Alya let go and the cat stalked away, her black tail high and twitching. “You are such a bitch,” she called after her. “You are a bitch’s bitch.”

Falling on her back, she hugged the cat’s pillow instead. It was warm, at least. A terrible loneliness fell on her, which she interpreted as a dangerous form of self-pity.

The lights on her bedside panel blinked peacefully, telling her all security systems were active. She untangled herself from the sheets and padded over to the armoire in the corner of her room. Monitors lined the inside, surrounding a terminal. On the monitors she could see her human security guards standing at their posts. In a few minutes they’d switch with her nocturnal team—all vamps. The log reported a quiet da y.

No sign of Mikhail.

She regretted letting him go. It wasn’t like her to let sentimentality cloud her judgment. If she’d been thinking straight, she would have stuffed him in a shipping container bound for China. Waiting for him to attack again was making her crazy.

And he knew it, the bastard.

I really could use a cigarette. Her eyes fixed on the drawer where she knew she’d accidently on purpose left a half pack. No, I don’t.

What she needed was a distraction. Checking her phone, she confirmed that Christian was coming over to feed her first thing. He’d be a lovely distraction. Shrugging a thin robe over her short white nightgown, she went into her bathroom and splashed her face with cool water, cleaned her teeth and ran a brush through her hair. Despite these gestures at starting a new night, she still felt dirty, tainted by the dream and haunted by her family.

Fuck them all. She strode back into her bedroom, snatched up the cigarettes and a book of matches, slammed the drawer shut and headed out to the garden.

The house was silent and empty, the terra cotta tile of her halls smooth and cool under her feet. She lived in a fantasy castle, a Spanish-style extravaganza redolent of old Hollywood. Legend had it that Errol Flynn had once swung from her wrought iron chandelier. Ordinarily it cheered her just to look at the stained glass windows, the heavy, carved beams in the ceiling, the ancient bearskins on the floor, but not that night. Until Mikhail was gone she’d have no comfort or real rest.

Lulu met her at the bottom of the stairs and wound around her ankles, hoping to lure her into the kitchen for some wet food.

“Now I’m your best friend? Why don’t you go kill something like a proper carnivore?”

Alya deactivated the alarm on the French doors and threw them open. She’d bought the house because the massive olive trees, twisted pomegranates, and swaying palms in the back garden reminded her of her childhood home. Tonight she felt like selling it and moving far away. The problem was, there weren’t many places where she hadn’t left a trail, and no place at all where memories wouldn’t pursue her.

Forcing her shoulders to relax, she stepped outside. The first hour after dusk was her favorite time of night, that magical time when the world seemed to heave a sigh of relief—another day gone—and the night creatures yawned and spread their wings.

Lulu pursued her, yowling insistently. Alya sighed and snatched one of the aforementioned night creatures from the air—a huge death’s head moth. Lulu stood on her hind legs to take it, delighted with the gift.

Alya grinned despite of herself. Happy cat. Peaceful vamp.

She lit a cigarette. Nicotine worked. There was no denying it. Smoking in long, appreciative drags, she walked circles around the pool, collecting herself for the night to come. Alya Adad wasn’t allowed to have meltdowns. Not in front of others, at least.

That damned dream. Her shoulders tensed all over again. Mikhail had dredged all this up. She hadn’t given her brothers a moment’s thought in years. Forcing her family from her mind, she stubbed her cigarette out in a planter and picked up her phone. That was the past. The present was pressing in.

While she dialed Dominick, she walked into her night blooming garden. Standing among drooping angel’s trumpet, falls of jasmine, soporific hop vines, and bizarre flowering cacti, she plucked spent flowers to make new ones grow.

“What do you have for me?” she said when he picked up.

“Not a hair of him to be found. Perhaps he decided to withdraw—”

Alya laughed, cutting him off. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“With due respect, sir, how long can he be away from New York? How much time will he waste on a marriage proposal?”

“It’s more than that.”

“You think he’s out for revenge? After all this time?”

Like every other vamp in the world, Dominick knew the story of how Alya Adad threw herself at Jean Courtableu, prince of the Bayou, in front of the cream of the nocturnal society. How the Faustin heir had challenged Courtableu on the spot and had been soundly thrashed for everyone’s amusement.

No one knew what happened to her after that night.

“No…not revenge.” She struggled to articulate what her body knew from the way he kissed her. He was committed. There was no going back for him. What drove him? What had changed?

Or what hadn’t she known all along?

Alya froze midstep, an image solidifying from her memories: Mikhail kissing her hand. He was always doing that. Even when he was a kid in ratty tennis shoes, he’d been courtly. He could actually pull off a bow…

Her fist closed over a dried trumpet flower, crushing it to dust.

“Sir?”

He’d tasted her.

That warm, moonlit night. She’d nicked her knuckle while playing with knives. He’d lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the blood from her wound.

Later that same night they both lost their virginity.

Alya sank to her haunches. Struggling to keep her tone casual, she said, “Dominick, how much do you know about blood bonds?”

“Nothing worthwhile.”

“Can you do some research for me? This isn’t going to be on the Internet. You’ll have to go to Master Wilhelm’s library in Ojai. He’ll let you in as a favor for me. Find out how much blood you have to ingest to initiate the blood bond. Anything on it, really.”

“Will do. One last thing. Frank the rat just called and gave me some nice little tidbits on Jimmy. I’d say he’s working out fine.”

“Good news,” Alya murmured, too distracted to make a rat joke. Before Dominick sensed her distraction, she hung up. Unable to move, she stayed where she was, squatting on the brick walkway, dead flowers all around her bare feet. Thinking hard, she cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

Mikhail had changed after their first time together. Always intense, he’d gone off the deep end. Every moment he wanted to be with her, touching her, staring at her.

At first she’d basked in the attention, but after a while his intensity began to stifle her. Even then, before everything, she couldn’t stand confinement, and his love began to feel exactly like that. Beneath the willow they’d been perfectly matched, but soon his passion left her feeling shallow and inadequate. She couldn’t imitate it; she couldn’t even understand it.

In the end, she ran from him. She stepped into the arms of a man who fascinated her, and whom she knew Mikhail could not harm. And she did it at the New Year’s ball. It was hard to remember exactly how she thought then. Perhaps she had loved the theatrics of a public break-up, perhaps she thought the setting would force Mikhail to take the news quietly. Perhaps she was a little frightened of him. She never dreamed he’d challenge Jean and embarrass everybody.

She wandered out of the flowers, lowered herself onto the cushioned daybed she kept poolside and clutched a pillow to her chest.

A blood bond would explain a lot.

When Mikhail kissed her cut that night, he’d taken her breath away. Blood sampling was the ultimate no-no between teenage vampires. To dare it was twisted, naughty and very sexy. How could she have kept her panties on after that?

But could such a small amount of blood bond him to her?

Could one drop still be driving him after thirty years?

She remembered the feral, starving way he’d kissed her on the rooftop. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone for years.

Come to think of it, she’d never heard of Mikhail Faustin being romantically attached to anyone.

Ah, shit. She fumbled for another cigarette.

But if he was bonded to her, how had he survived so long? Though she didn’t know much about the bond, she’d heard that bonded vamps were supposed to go mad when deprived of their mate. Mikhail had thrived. He was the fucking prince of New York.

She fell back on the couch, mussing all the neatly stacked cushions. There was no way to know more until Dominick got back to her. All she could do was focus on what he’d do next.

If Mikhail was bonded to her, even in some small way that she didn’t understand, he would not give up. But now she had the advantage of knowing that. He’d never kill her. He’d threaten it, but he wanted her alive. It also meant that if she didn’t kill him, he’d never leave her alone.

The guard at the gate called. Christian had arrived. She told them to let him come in and listened for the sound of the door. When she heard it, she darted through the shadows of the house, stalking him. Golden Christian, surfer and aspiring actor, brought with him the scents of seawater and board wax and motor oil. Hopefully he’d be a big star someday.

“Alya?” He spun around, looking for her. “Hello?”

When she held still, he could not see her. Frowning and scratching his head, he stepped outside. He paused near the rumpled day bed. “Where are you?”

Closing silently, she hovered behind him. Even mock hunting got her going. Christian knew something was up, but domesticated humans were very bad at listening to their instincts. She watched the hairs lift on the back his neck. Uncertain, he whispered, “Alya?”

Repressing a laugh, she opened her mouth and exhaled on his nape. He jumped. She caught his arms from behind. She liked the way a little baby fat still softened his muscles, making him as sleek as a seal.

“Surprise,” she purred into his ear, sliding a hand up his T-shirt, over his smooth belly. He waxed it.

“Oh, fuck.” He laughed, a little shaky. “You’re so good at that. I knew it had to be you, but I still almost pissed my pants.”

She sent one hand coasting down the front of his jeans. Danger made him hard. As did domination.

“I think you almost came.”

Turning in her arms, he answered with an eager kiss. She ripped his T-shirt over his head. Kissing him all the while, she walked him backward to the couch. When his legs hit the frame, she gave him a firm shove and he fell on his back, his palms above his head, ready for whatever she wanted.

“Maya isn’t visiting this morning, is she?”

He shook his head.

Oh well. She could have done with two lovers—one to drink from, one to fuck. If she drank from Christian as much as she wanted, his erection would be for shit. If she fucked him first, she might die of hunger. All she could do was be expedient. She whipped off his belt and ripped open his jeans. Like a good surfer, Christian went commando. Unencumbered, his cock sprang into her hand.

“I wish I could move as fast as you,” he said.

“We’ll go slow now.” She spread her robe wide and straddled him with a sigh. She needed this bad. Ever since her rooftop encounter with Mikhail, she’d been wearing her feeders out.

“Alya,” he whispered. “You’re so damn… I can’t hold—”

“You will.” She touched his chin so he’d look her in the eye.

His eyelids fluttered and he turned his head to one side, baring his throat in instinctive submission. Crouching low, she kissed the underside of his jaw.

A cool, emphatic voice interrupted her. “Get off the Happy Meal.”

She was moving before Mikhail finished his first word, but it didn’t matter. Cold prongs pinched the back of her neck, the scent of ozone filled her nostrils and she lost control of her body.

Next she knew she was flat on the floor, her limbs locked and stiff.

He’d Tasered her.

Mikhail pressed the heel of his boot down on her throat.

“Leave now, Christian Rider,” he said, his voice flat as a psychopath’s. “Go straight to the beach and stay there. If you tell anyone, do anything at all to disturb us, I will find you and kill you. Then I’ll fly to Madison and kill your parents and your sister, Carrie, her children and their Golden Retriever. Understand?”

Alya prayed Christian would do as he was told. Her feeders were bound to her by a combination of written contract, mutual respect, a few well-placed threats and a dose of compulsion. Basically, they had to keep the secret of vampires, and not blab anything about her that would aid her enemies. In return, they were paid well to enjoy an occasional bloodletting. If they stepped out of line, though, the consequences were severe. On the other side of the coin, she worked hard to keep them safe. Christian knew she’d want him to follow Mikhail’s directions. Often enough she’d told them to stay out of vamp business at all costs.

Christian ran.

Mikhail straddled her chest.

Just like the dream. Fuck me! Exactly like the dream.

He captured her weak, rubbery arms and pinned them over her head. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her breathing went fast and shallow. To stop hyperventilating, she forced herself to take stock of the situation. Starting with her fingers. She could wiggle them, but they tingled, as if they’d been asleep. The shock’s effects were fading fast.

“What do you know about me?” Though he was nose to nose with her, he shouted. His hands hurt her wrists.

Pinned. Shouted at. Controlled. The absolute horror of the situation drove her close to panic, but instead she checked out, went numb, and observed from a safe distance.

“I know everything about you. Don’t you study your enemies? Do you even know what I did for a living before I became the head of my family? I designed security systems. World class ones. The one you use, in fact.”

Oh.

But that was interesting, actually. Something to focus on. Her head cleared a little, and she wondered why he was so angry. Wasn’t he supposed to be the Iceman?

“So yes, you are breached. Your men are down. Your cameras are feeding a prerecorded loop offsite. Your assistant is enthralled and lying for me. No one is going to come to help you.”

Mikhail couldn’t know she was frightened. She couldn’t even come off as surprised. Gathering her self-control she offered him a sickly sweet smile. “I suppose we’ll just have to live happily ever after.”

“Something like that.” His lips retracted over his incisors.

Never in her life had she been prey. She’d been betrayed, beaten, imprisoned and abandoned. Once she was even run over by a truck. But no one had ever sunk so low as to steal her heart’s blood.

“You’re a dead man.”

But he knew he’d won. His eyelids lowered as he scanned her throat. “I’ve been dead for years—and I’m tired of being hungry.”

She pushed against him, muscle and bone screaming under the strain, but he had the advantage of weight and inertia. Burning bile crept up her throat.

Stretching his body over hers, he dragged his hot mouth from her clavicle to her ear. This is really going to happen. Now.

His teeth locked down like a vise, stretching, hurting and finally penetrating her skin. Inside, she screamed. Growling softly, he tugged at her flesh, opening the wound wide before he sucked. Her blood obeyed his call and siphoned out of her body in a dizzying rush.

There was nothing to do except endure. She kept still, every muscle in her body rigid with the effort. As much as she wanted to fight—needed to fight to remain sane—thrashing like prey would only provoke him. He might lose control and drain her dry.

She hoped he could taste how much she hated him.

Over the sound of his sucking, she heard his selfish, satisfied moan. His body grew even heavier, crushing her while he drank like a greedy pig.

She measured time in swallows. On the seventh, he broke the bite, gasping like a diver coming up for air. His pupils had gone huge and unfocused, like he’d just taken a hit of something strong. Yeah, me.

With a huge heave she shoved him off balance. Before she was half up, he was on her again, dragging her back down. They tumbled across the concrete, smashing each other with elbows and fists and knees. Each time she landed a strong blow, she grinned with manic satisfaction. It felt incredibly good to hit him. She broke free and bounded onto her feet, her hands raised in front of her. He faced her squarely, a head taller but not as fast.

They began to dance. Again and again he let her strike home, absorbing her kicks and punches into his body, showing almost no reaction. He struck at her, not so much to hit her as to force her to block. He wanted to tire her out.

She pivoted on one foot and sent a roundhouse kick toward his head. He ducked and caught her foot, yanking her off balance. She spun free of his grasp, twirling horizontal to the ground and landing on her feet. But even as she did, he was behind her, trying to catch her arms. She snapped her head back to smash his nose. He lurched but did not let go. Together they tumbled backward into the pool.

Opening her eyes underwater, the first thing she saw was a rosy red cloud blossoming around his head. Finding bottom, she shot out of the water, panicked, swiping the tainted water from her face. He surfaced, his face twisted with bitterness and green with pool light.

“What’s wrong? Afraid to join me in hell?”

Using his fingernail, he slashed a vein open in his wrist and snapped his arm in her direction. She turned her head, sealing her mouth while the hot spray pelted her face. He grabbed her by the ears and tried to kiss her with his blood-smeared lips. She slammed her knee into his balls, and followed it with an upper cut to his solar plexus.

Alya was strong as sin and slippery as an eel. Whenever he grabbed her she turned boneless, impossible to hold. Once she broke free, she was all sharp blows and cutting edges.

Now that he’d tasted her and he knew exactly how strong she was, he calculated his odds of winning as being just above half. To her core she was made of steel and ambition. He’d heard her mind. All she thought about were different ways to kill him.

But he didn’t regret giving in to his hunger. After thirty years spent in fog and shadow, tasting her had been like drinking pure light.

For the hundredth time she broke from his grasp. This time she sprang out of the pool and ran for the house. Ran for her weapons.

He pursued, expecting knives. She met him at the door with a shotgun blast. Luck kept him alive. Luck and his fantastically expensive bulletproof shirt. He dove behind her sofa, and rolled behind the fireplace. He couldn’t stay there for long.

“Marry this, you son of a bitch.” She pumped the shotgun.

He leapt over her dining room table, pulling it over with him just in time to deflect the blast. He picked out the route he’d take to the long hall. Knew it led to her kitchen from studying her floor plan. Didn’t know what he’d find in her kitchen, but hoped for knives.

“I didn’t come here to hurt you.” As he said it, he picked up a broken vase and tossed it to the left while he dove right. She fired at the vase first, giving him time to reach the hall.

The next blast blew a hole in the wall between them. He sprinted for the kitchen. It was stocked for humans. For her lovers. Gritting his teeth at the memory of her riding that skinny, pathetic human boy, he grabbed a butcher knife, ripped the fire extinguisher off the wall and pulled the pin.

Poking his head around the corner, he saw her advancing down the hall, confident behind her big gun. He stepped out, spraying the fire extinguisher, blinding her.

Flipping the canister around, he clocked her under the chin with its butt end. Her rifle blew another hole in the wall. He clocked her a second time and the rifle dropped from her hands

Disarmed, she bolted to the living room. Mikhail followed, holding the fire extinguisher and the butcher knife, and found her pulling a decorative scimitar from the wall. Holding the hilt in a two-handed grip, she swiped the blade through the air. It made a wicked wooshing sound. He sighed. It was real.

“I’m tired of you, Faustin.”

Tell me about it. He presented his weapons. Such as they were. The white foam on her face should have made her look clownish. It didn’t. It made her look damned scary,

She swung. He blocked with the extinguisher. The force of her strike shook his arm.

“I remember, you know. That one drop.”

She swung at him again. He spun, protecting himself with the canister, using the knife to keep her a decent distance away. He couldn’t play offense against a scimitar.

“What did it do to you?”

“It made me a ghost.”

“Do ghosts bleed as much as you do?”

She struck low, slicing open his thigh. At the same time, he reached out with his kitchen knife and drew a ragged cut up her arm. They both retreated, nursing their wounds. Mikhail cast around for a better weapon. She probably had them stashed all over her house. He did.

Dancing forward, she swung her scimitar in decorative arcs, showing off. He backed up grimly, watching for any opportunity. As he passed a long, low leather bench, his instincts whispered to him. Sweeping it up, he used it to block her next blow. Her blade sliced the cushion open. But he didn’t want a shield—he wanted to see what was under it, and sure enough, he found a Ruger P89 holstered to the underside.

She rushed him, but he scrambled backward, bringing the pistol to firing position.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” she said, raising her sword.

He shot her in the shoulder. The impact drove her against the wall. Stunned, she dropped to the ground, her hand over the wound. The blood wicked fast through her wet nightgown.

Holding the gun on her, he took a couple of cautious steps forward, kicked the scimitar across the tile, and wondered what the hell he was going to do next.

Long ago he’d lost her because he was too weak to hold her. A show of strength had brought him this far. But he knew in his gut strength couldn’t take him any further. His father said to give her no quarter, but he couldn’t press the gun to her temple and abduct her. It wouldn’t work. Not with her.

Alya Adad wasn’t a willful woman who would respond to a strong hand. There wasn’t a submissive bone in her body. She’d die before she knelt to him. He’d tasted her. He knew.

Echoing his own thoughts, she pointed her chin at the gun. “Finish it.”

“No.”

“I never loved you, you know.”

He tightened his grip on the gun. “You’re lying. I was there. Remember?”

“And they call women sentimental.” She scooted along the wall, trying to escape him even though she couldn’t walk. “I never did. I never will.”

He didn’t listen. He couldn’t afford doubt. If they were destined to be together, then there was a path to follow. But the way was perilous, and the thread of hope fine as a spider’s web. Holding the gun behind his back, he squatted down in front of her. With his free hand he swiped the extinguisher foam off her cheeks.

“Alya, I shouldn’t have bit…”

She caught him with an upward jab. His head snapped back and his teeth cracked together.

“Damn it!” He struck out instinctively, slapping her cheek so hard that his hand went numb to the wrist, but she slapped him right back, a stinging blow to his ear.

He took that one, and she gave him another. And another. She hit him until his face burned and his ears rang. He took all of her blows, paying for her blood, letting her fury spend itself. Even coated in powder foam and bleeding—bleeding from the gunshot he’d inflicted on her—she was full of grace, quick and bright as a flame.

God help me, I think I’ve gone insane. A bit of tooth floated under his tongue. He was wonderfully, obscurely happy.

When her blows slowed, he spat out the broken tooth and said, quite truthfully, “I could do this all night.”

Eyes snapping with fury, she slapped him extra hard for that. “Fuck you. What are you doing here? Is this your idea of revenge?”

“You think this is my idea?”

“You’re in my house, asshole. Holding the gun you shot me with.”

There was that. Mikhail emptied the semi-automatic in front of her, releasing the magazine and tossing it onto the sofa and carefully ejecting the loaded round.

If he were Alex, he’d say something charming and give her a lopsided grin. Gregor would…well, he didn’t understand what women saw in Gregor, actually. But whatever it was, he didn’t have it. Mikhail knew he was cold and dry and unappealing to women, and he didn’t have any experience at courtship.

All he could be was practical.