Thorne regarded me. “Well, whatever the truth to it, it’s what the basis of my species’ creation story exists on. Because this wrathful asshole of a god created vampires, even by accident, out of love for one human and hate for another. Eloes created us out of love for them all. She saw the ravaging of the human race from creatures that could cut them down and drain them with little conflict. Werewolves were concerned with themselves and only fought vampires when the human they drained belonged to them. Witches didn’t have enough love for humans to protect them. So it was down to humans themselves. Eloes witnessed a valiant warrior named Caius fight for his village against the vampires, sacrificing his life willingly when he understood the fight was lost and if he did so he might just save his family.
“As he lay dying amongst the ruins of his village, she visited him. His injuries were fatal, and the god did not wish to practice death magic. Instead of offering him life, she offered him safe passage to the underworld and the protection of his sons if they became Praseates. They would have powers that mirrored the courage of their father and life to span across the centuries like the vampires themselves. He agreed.”
He paused.
“And so began the line of our race. Rules governing the league were not as sophisticated as any supernatural being because we were not supernatural. Only those with not just the purest of blood but with the same heart of Caius. Humans who wanted to exist within the human life they wished to protect. Somewhat stuck between the two. Some bloodlines were muddied from that very need. Breeding with a ‘human’ still made Praseates, but the powers waned through the centuries. A few families remained who kept their lines pure.”
I tasted everything he said, thought it over carefully. Though I kept the magnitude of my shock to myself considering how much the little story had blown my mind.
“Aristocracy still exists,” I muttered. “Within any race or society, the purest bloodlines, the ones with the strength, will always rule. I’m guessing your family must have been somewhat of a counterpart to mine?” I asked.
His gaze flickered with the memory of his loss. They’d been slaughtered, his parents. If they were as strong as he said they were, I guessed it was likely an assassination.
He nodded once. “They were,” he agreed. “Leaders of each faction are decided by blood.”
“And you’re the leader of yours,” I stated. “Interesting. For a society that abhors creatures that consider blood the basis for everything, your same society structures it around everything.” My thoughts swam, the room flickering for a minute as a strangeness washed over me. “Blood is life and blood is death,” I murmured in a voice that sounded like me yet didn’t.
Thorne stilled. “What did you say?”
I blinked. “I don’t know, I say a lot of things. Once I even said that I didn’t mind a collection from Versace,” I babbled, uncomfortable with the words I’d just uttered, at the grim sort of heaviness in the air they’d created. Plus the wave of intensity that came from Thorne as I uttered them made me shiver. I didn’t need whatever that was on top of everything else.
So I continued. “That’s a great story, really informative. And it explains a little, I guess. But a little is not a lot. I’m all about a lot. So I get you’re an aristocrat of your race and likely not set to die soon thanks to the blood and your courage of heart or whatever, but how does Rick enter all of this?”
His eyes hardened and he mused over his answer for a while. I didn’t like the pause. I’d experienced the pause. It was something humans did when they were looking for a way to structure words to do the least possible damage, even when the information itself was destruction.
I’d witnessed it but never used it. Me? I was the opposite. I tried to do the most possible damage with the least amount of words possible. Usually following it up with a broken bone or two.
But his pause had me bracing for something akin to a broken bone.
But the break had to wait, as a Scotsman chose that moment to hurtle into the kitchen.
Thorne jumped to attack and I threw my knife on instinct.
Duncan caught it, blade first, grinning. He glanced down to the knife and his bleeding hand that was already healing. Then he looked to Thorne before spending a lot more time gazing at my nakedness. “Now this seems more than a little fun, and I’d hate to be the one to break it up. In fact, I’d like to join.”
He ignored Thorne’s growl.
“But you two can’t hide in here and fuck. We’ve got a war to win. And if I can’t fuck my way through it, neither can you.”
And then there was reality.
And reality had this nasty habit of getting in the way of destruction that I’d just dodged.
But destruction would come eventually.
It always did.
Chapter 4
So that’s how we ended up at Extermius, dodging whatever information would cause the break in order to break something else.
Duncan had apparently been sent by Rick, who was in some location discussing treaties and had ordered Duncan to find intel on the rebellion.
Duncan “got fucking bored as shit doing it alone and reasoned Isla could stop getting orgasms and start killing some fuckers,” so he came to retrieve us for the mission.
And, interestingly, Scott.
Who, once again, jumped on me the moment he saw me.
I was so getting a spray bottle and filling it with something that burned the skin off a vampire. I was sure Sophie could fashion something like that for me.
It wasn’t like Scott wouldn’t heal eventually, and it would teach him a lesson on how much I didn’t approve of his excited displays of affection.
“Yes, I’m glad I’m alive too,” I’d hissed, pushing him off. “But don’t forget things like the fact that I’m a vampire and so are you, not a teenage girl meeting Justin Bieber for the first time. I will rip those arms off if they keep attaching themselves to me.”
I didn’t even know why I used that reference. Scott would probably have the same reaction to Justin Bieber himself.
Thorne came because… well, he was Thorne and apparently came with the package.
“Don’t you have slayer duties?” I asked.
“Slayer duties involve not letting a rebellion gain traction and murder humans en masse,” he replied dryly. “And my specific duties include making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
Duncan had barked out a laugh at that. “That’s a duty that is impossible. Or will kill you.” He paused, still not Thorne’s biggest fan by a long shot, so he smiled at the prospect of his death. “But God loves a trier.”
Thorne returned the smile with a glower. He wouldn’t be sharing beers with Duncan anytime soon.
But to be fair, sharing beers with Duncan meant you first had to watch him drain the bartender. After, of course, he’d poured the drink, because “I’m not pouring my own fuckin’ beer.”
“What about your annoying little sister?” I’d continued, deciding to make sure they didn’t murder each other.
Bringing up the brat might have meant he would remember he had to look out for her and go make sure she wasn’t dead or anything.
I liked being with Thorne. Too much, really. But he did try too hard to keep me out of trouble, so I needed the distance, precisely because I didn’t want it. Like Scott, I needed to remember I was a vampire. And vampires didn’t go around holding hands with their slayer boyfriends while on missions to stop a war between supernatural factions.
And I wanted trouble. Trouble had missed me. “She’s surely out there hunting werewolves while wearing bunny slippers or something. Shouldn’t you make sure she’s still in her cage?” I continued.
I didn’t think Thorne had taken my suggestion and put the little cretin behind bars, but one could only hope. She’d managed to escape his compound outside the city, steal an enchanted knife, and then come to the Upper East Side and try to hunt vampires.
I didn’t know how old she was, but she hadn’t even
grown the second set of teeth humans had.
Too young to hunt vampires, but not too young to get killed by them. Not that I cared about her getting killed, but Thorne would, and then it would affect my life.
I’d expected him to react negatively to my attitude about his sister—he was weird like that—but the corner of his mouth tipped up slightly.
“You worried about her?” he asked evenly.
I rolled my eyes. “Well, considering she’s almost died like three different times, I’m pretty sure you should be concerned that I’m the one who saved her those times. Worried about the fact that a vampire, who couldn’t care less if she lived or died, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and is the entire reason she’s still breathing, annoying people and shedding teeth like an old person sheds hair.”
His mouth twitch turned into a grin. “Yeah, you’re worried.”
I scowled. “I am not. The only thing I worry about on a daily basis is if my lipstick is on my fangs. The rest doesn’t affect me at all,” I lied.
He tilted his chin down and looked at me through the top of his lids. “No, because admitting that you care about a being other than the one you stare at every day in the mirror is a fate worse than death.”
I nodded. “Exactly,” I agreed.
He’d just shaken his head, yanked me to his chest and kissed my head in a vaguely patronizing gesture that annoyed me.
What annoyed me more was that I let him.
The little cretin was at some slayer safe house with the rest of the small, vulnerable humans.
I’d learned they were much like young vampires in that respect. At their weakest, not likely to survive any full-scale attacks before they came of age.
I got the impression that there was some ceremony to do that, but Thorne had been tight-lipped.
I wasn’t exactly curious, unless they sacrificed some virgins or something. They didn’t. Thorne had been weirdly horrified when I’d asked and he realized I was serious.
Humans.
Even the improved version like Thorne still had pesky humanity that ruined them from getting to their full potential. Probably why they died more often than vampires.
Then it worried me that humanity might be rubbing off on me.
And just like I’d let Thorne wrap me in his arms and kiss my hair, maybe I’d let that happen too.
I’d sacrifice a virgin to stop that happening.
Or the old Isla would.
Who knew what this Isla would do.
This new Isla was unpredictable. That’s why I was glad we were standing outside a bar in which the worst of the worst hung out.
My people.
Which was why Thorne was obviously uneasy. I may have considered murderous sociopathic supernaturals my brethren but he considered them enemies.
I glanced at him. “Babe, you’re wearing leather pants and a tee that resembles fishnet stockings. I’d be worried if you were comfortable with it. It would mean that someone has replaced my boyfriend with a very realistic doppelgänger, one still very pretty to look at but not one I’d keep around after the dirty deed was done,” I told him as my heels clicked along the empty parking lot.
The night was unusually warm for an autumnal New York evening, not that it mattered to me. The sliver of skin showing between my skintight leather skirt and thigh-high PVC boots didn’t feel the chill.
Thorne snatched my bare arm. I wasn’t wearing a fishnet top like his, merely a bandeau bralet covered in chains and drapery. Though it was part of the costume, I was considering keeping it.
For bedroom purposes, at least.
Or when I felt like eliciting some stares on Wall Street.
Thorne yanked me to his body, the thick ridges of his muscles barely hiding from the world. I rather liked that part of his costume and was definitely contemplating having him keep it.
His eyes seemed to glow in the gritty air of the parking lot, attached to mine with the fevered intensity that had become the norm ever since Sophie uttered the words of my perhaps timely demise.
He had argued tooth and nail about coming here. But I always got what I wanted.
“Isla,” Thorne murmured. He cupped my cheek without the brutal ferocity that had become characteristic of his touch. But something worked behind his eyes, something that told me he was back to when Sophie had met up with us with some new intel not long after Duncan had brought reality back in with him.
Some disturbing intel.
She also brought coffee, which was kickass.
“What do you mean you don’t know whether the spell is broken?” Thorne had hissed from beside me.
“I mean that we can’t be truly sure until we find the witches and kill them,” Sophie replied.
“She had my blood. You said that’s the fuckin’ cure,” he’d thundered.
“Yes but—”
Sophie stopped talking and two sets of eyes settled on me, or rather the cup that had elicited the rough sucking sound interrupting their very serious conversation.
Thorne’s murderous glare had transferred to me.
I’d given him an innocent look. “What?” I asked. “That was an iced frap with extra cream, an extra shot, caramel and cinnamon. I had to get the most out of it. It’s my duty for women who can’t enjoy these and have to substitute with almond milk and sugar-free, happiness-free bullshit. I can’t put on weight, so I’m doing it for them, really.” I paused. “No, I can’t even keep a straight face while saying that. I’m doing it for me, obviously. Fuck those little nitwits.”
“Jesus, Isla,” he’d seethed. “Can’t you be a little more serious about the prospect that the spell that could kill you might not be broken?”
I’d rolled my eyes. “Can’t you be a little less serious? Come on, this whole ‘Isla’s life is in danger from some witch bitches with PMS on steroids’ is getting old, even to me. Isla.” I clarified the last part for kicks, like I did for most things.
Thorne’s fury had intensified at that point, the taste of it permeating the air. I liked it much better than my iced frap with extra cream, an extra shot, caramel and cinnamon.
His gaze darted to Sophie. “Talk to her,” he’d demanded.
She gave me a serious stare. “Yes, Isla, you must understand the weight of this situation.” She paused. “It’s not caramel. Vanilla is where it’s at.”
I gaped at her. “Vanilla? Seriously? Could you be any more cliché?”
She’d grinned. “I like vanilla. Outside the bedroom, of course.” She winked.
Thorne had looked like he might just have steam coming from his ears.
I’d patted his thigh. “Don’t explode from rage, honey. I just got this sofa reupholstered.”
He’d gaped at me. Then Sophie.
“Oh go find yourself a valium,” I muttered. “It’s fine. Sophie will find the witches and kill them. Then the only thing we have to worry about is the faction of supernatural elitists who want to enslave the human race and kill both of us before they do so.” I paused. “Oh, and my mother. She needs to go above those murderous fanatics. And above Hades himself, if we’re getting specific.” I waved my hands. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. For now, Sabrina, your new awesome and totally fucking terrifying powers will help us out with that, won’t they? We need to get some mileage out of them before we figure out how to drain them out so they don’t become our biggest problem.”
My voice was easy, playful even, but I was as serious as Birkenstocks on a lesbian. Just because our plates were a little full with wars, spells, and otherworldly sex didn’t mean Sophie’s problem wasn’t at the table. It should’ve been at the top, but getting hold of the pesky little witch had been like stapling Jell-O to the wall.
She gave me an easy look, much like my voice—normal, sarcastic even to the naked eye. But my eye was not naked. I saw the trouble brewing beneath the surface. “Of course,” she said happily. “New mojo makes such a feat pretty easy. I’m just waiting for a specific in
gredient for the spell.”
“Ingredient?” I asked, screwing my nose. “Can’t you just snap your fingers and enchant it into existence?”
“It doesn’t really work that way.”
I pouted. “Well that’s lame. That’s how it works in the movies.”
She stood, yanking down her black jersey skirt, which had ridden up and exposed the tattoos on her pale and shapely upper thighs.
Thorne’s survival skills were on point since he didn’t even break his concrete façade or blink in that direction.
Maybe his fury was the reason he wasn’t checking out her pins, or he was too focused on glaring at me, or because he saw no woman but me. The last was likely bullshit, or almost certainly bullshit, but it was comforting for my blackened heart.
And meant good things for his to remain in his chest.
“Okay, you go source your eye of newt,” I told her. “Or wolfsbane or, even better, wolf heart. We’ll wait patiently.”
Her eyes, which had flickered weirdly with the mention of wolf heart, changed to disbelief. “Patient? You once almost killed a bartender for taking too long to make a cocktail.”
I rolled my eyes. “Once.”
“Six times,” she countered.
“Who’s counting?” I snapped. “Plus it’s not exactly patiently. I’m going to a bar tonight to hopefully kill something, or a lot of somethings,” I informed her cheerfully.
She grinned. “Make it extra bloody for me.”
I grinned back. “Always. Find those witches so I can pencil in a burning at the stake for tomorrow night,” I requested. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’ll bring the marshmallows.”
And on that, she was gone.
Thorne’s fury was not. He’d been broody since the whole announcement.
Well, broodier.
I’d chosen to ignore him and went shopping for the night ahead of us instead. He had to make sure the slayers hadn’t burned the place down or tripped over a twig and stabbed themselves with their knives and such. Of course, he didn’t specifically say that; he said he had to “check on some shit. Don’t get into any fucking trouble while I’m gone.” Then he’d kissed me roughly on the mouth and given me a weirdly intense look.