The Bitten Read online

  If you promise not to leave me, I won’t leave you . . .

  There were no words. He was beyond speech and in no position to negotiate as he leaned his head to the side, exposing his jugular with hope, begging her not to break the touch transmission. Just try, his mind demanded . . . for both of us.

  A hot breath scored his throat. Behind his tightly shut lids he could see her throw her head back. A gorgeous pair of fangs lowered, parting her lips, making him shudder and forcefully lift his hips trying to enter her. The sight of her incisors glistening within her darkened bedroom sent a shiver through him that locked each vertebra in his spine together disc by disc. Hope lit a fuse that might detonate with salvation. Their eyes met for a second. She coated him like hot butter and he winced at the long-awaited sensation. One strangled word escaped from his mouth when she sheathed him: “Please.” Then a razor strike opened his jugular lengthwise, threatening to bleed him out, not two neat puncture wounds like he’d anticipated. It was thoroughly primal, so erotic what she’d done that he thought he’d go blind. “Oh, baby!”

  He came so hard, so fast that it felt like his testicles were being sucked up into his abdomen with every spasmodic convulsion. Each contraction of hers fused with his, her guttural moan working its way into the open vein like a pleasure stab as she climaxed. His wail got trapped in his chest for a moment on a sharp gasp, then broke free in jerky, stuttering increments. Thick emulsion ran over his fist, ejecting from his body in molten waves to the same rhythm of her throat siphon. When she threw back her head again just to breathe, he futilely tried to bring her back. “Don’t stop, not now.”

  Her gasping murmur was passionate, yet logical. I’ll flat-line you—

  “Then do it!”

  Immediately, she returned to his neck and pulled hard. Beneath his lids he saw flashes of light that married the pleasure, setting off another wave of ecstasy so profound that his body went into a cold sweat. She was bleeding him out to the bone—like a pro. Oh, shit, it felt so good . . . Blood was running down the sides of her mouth, dribbling down her chin, she couldn’t take it all in fast enough. He was going into pleasure shock, shivers hitting him in tidal waves till he nearly blacked out, but she kept him from probable extinction by finally covering the open wound with her hand to seal it.

  Get a bottle from the kitchen. Now, she said quickly. You won’t make it through the day.

  He didn’t argue, just weakly materialized private label from inlair stock and popped the cork with his thumb. He was still trembling as he leaned over the side of the bed and turned the black bottle up to his mouth. He sighed hard after downing half of the magnum, and then wiped his seed-covered hand on the sheets.

  “Damn . . .” he murmured, flopping back against the mattress. Her first night as a turned vampire and she’d done him like that? Had worked a mind lock so hard she’d made him see stars? Then the way she’d opened him up—lengthwise—and passionately marked him like he’d never even dreamed was possible? He shuddered as just the mere thought made him feel it all over again in quick phantom pangs.

  “Baby, listen,” he said through harsh, intermittent breaths. “We’ve gotta stop, it’s almost full daylight . . . we both have to regenerate—I mean, I have to, and you’ve gotta purge. Please. I can’t take another round like this last one.” That was no lie. He needed her to be physically with him, if she was going to take him there with a lateral nick. The delivery was so awesome it could have passed for a battle bite. His fingers went to the side of his throat and he shivered at what she’d done.

  A gentle kiss swept his mouth, and he could feel her pull back and release her hold on him. He almost dropped the bottle he was clutching on the floor. Relief, fatigue, bone-deep satisfaction claimed him, as did renewed worry. He was so spent that he couldn’t even lift his head. How was he going to keep his hands off her now? “Good night, baby,” he whispered, too tired to say much else. Her soft reply stabbed at him and made him renew his promise. “I love you, too. I’ll be there tonight.” He nodded. “Yeah.” This dangerous situation had gone too far.

  As soon as it got dark, he knew he had to go to her, and he also knew that if they didn’t get the seal or the key, he’d have to smoke her then stake himself . . . just to be sure the council wouldn’t torture her. Ironic—that’s just how her parents had died.

  The options narrowed down to the basics: break her out, bring her to the lair so she could feed from the tanks, love her hard to stop the burn, and then find the key. The big question was, where? The other major question was, would he risk alerting Father Pat or Damali’s squad? If the humans freaked and jumped the gun with a sloppy plan, then all their asses would be in a sling.

  He needed more time to think. But time had never been a luxury he’d owned.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BERKFIELD STOOD in the archway that separated his kitchen and dining room. He watched his wife move between the sink and the dishwasher, the counter television blaring a sitcom. He glanced up toward the ceiling, willing away sudden tears. The sound of heavy metal was coming from his son’s room. Robert would go deaf by twenty, he mused, then sadness chased away the thought.

  Before the scientist had briefly detained him, he knew for sure that his children would outlive him, no matter what statistics proved. He was a cop; he knew he might die young. His family was supposed to be inviolate. This was a perversion of the way things were meant to be. He closed his eyes to fight back the tears and listened for his daughter’s voice, already knowing that Kristin was on the telephone with one of her girl friends. It pained him to think of the trauma he was about to visit upon them all.

  His attention returned to his wife. She looked so pretty in her wrinkled khaki capri pants, her pink T-shirt, and little white sneakers. Marjorie was a pretty woman, still, at forty-two. Sure they’d had their ups and downs, but he still loved her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled . . . her form was rounder, softer these days, but it was also comforting and matched his own.

  As she continued to bend and pivot and rinse dinner dishes, he found himself drawn to her. He watched the setting sun glisten in her short blond hair, and then reached out to cup her cheek.

  She stopped, holding a dripping dish midair. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I love you.”

  She set the dish down carefully, her eyes searching his face. “No one died at work, did they? Your new partner . . .”

  He shook his head no and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “No. Everything and everyone at work is fine. I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you . . . how much I love you.” He smiled. “Why don’t you make me and the kids help you out more?”

  Marjorie chuckled, and began working on clearing out the sink beside him. “Because it’s easier not to fight with you guys and just get it done myself.” She kissed his cheek. “Some battles you learn, over the years, are not worth the energy.” She offered him a sly pout. “So, either you’re angling for a second Wednesday night this week, or you just bought some more electronic gizmos that this house doesn’t need. Which is it?”

  He cast his gaze out past the breakfast nook to the sliding glass doors. How did a man protect his family from the night?

  “I didn’t buy any more stuff, and I’m getting used to rations,” he said, trying to tease her.

  “Oh, ho, ho . . . Very funny, Mr. Berkfield. You might have to get used to sleeping on the sofa, if you don’t watch it.”

  Her laughter and the twinkle in her eyes made him know what he had to do. It broke his heart to steal her joy, but he wanted them all to survive. Even if this scientist had been wrong and was just a nutcase, it was better that his family not be around until he figured it out. Yet, the fact that the scientist had seen the same things he’d seen made him slow to judge the man as a lunatic. Deciding to err on the side of caution, Berkfield took his time to explain.

  “Marj,” he said quietly, in a tone that stilled her mirth, “I
need you and the kids to tell people that you’re going to visit your sister in Iowa for a while. There’s this priest I met, uh . . . a Father Patrick that I need you to stay with for a bit.” He waited until his wife nervously nodded. “Remember after what happened in the alley, I told you he came to me while I was looking for that guy, Rivera? If something happens to me, you and the kids will be safe with him. Do you understand?”

  He caught the glass that was in her hand before it fell to the floor.

  “There are some men I put away, years ago . . . I want you and the kids to lay low until it gets sorted out. I don’t want you to go with anybody except the priest. I don’t even want any of the guys at the office to know where you are, in case there’s another bad apple in the department.”

  He watched tears fill her pretty blue-green eyes; he almost couldn’t breathe as she wrapped one arm around her waist and covered her mouth. He stared at her glistening tears, loving how one eye seemed blue and one seemed green. It was as though he needed to recall every facet of her in great detail and brand the memory of it into his mind.

  “I knew this would happen one day,” she whispered. “You’ve put so many criminals away . . .”

  She touched his cheek and he drew her into an embrace, burying his face against her neck.

  “The children . . .” Her voice faltered and he hugged her tighter.

  “Only trust that priest. Only him,” he said, firmly holding her back from him to look into her eyes. There was no way in the world he would entrust the lives of his family to some unknown group of mad scientists that had abducted him and threatened him in his own driveway.

  “When my old partner went bad, Father Pat came to me and told me a lot of things were happening around Carlos Rivera that I didn’t understand. But he’s a man of the cloth, and he said if Rivera’s word ever got shaky or if he was compromised, to come to him immediately for safe harbor. He’s linked to the Vatican, and they have resources that can keep you safe and comfortable until this all blows over.”

  “You’re going with us, right? You aren’t staying here!”

  He cradled his wife in his arms and kissed the crown of her head. “No, honey. I have to bring closure to this thing, and I want you and the kids safe until this is finished. I’ll be all right. Just go with the priest, tonight. Call a few girlfriends and spread the word that you’re visiting relatives, and then make the call. I’ll joke around with the guys about hanging out for beers while you and the kids are in Iowa. I want everyone to think everything is fine, got it?”

  “But you don’t trust anyone in the department? No one?” Her eyes scanned his face as tears streaked her ashen cheeks.

  Berkfield kissed his cross then kissed her lips fast. “No. Your mouth to God’s ear, you are going to visit your sister tonight, with the kids. Make the calls, get the bags from the garage that I always told you to keep ready, and drive. You get in the car and dial the priest’s number—memorize it when I give it to you. Okay?”

  Marjorie only nodded, obviously too traumatized to speak. Her stricken expression cut into his conscience. What if this was all pure insanity? He’d made his wife memorize safe-house numbers, keep clothes in a garage to escape at a moment’s notice as though they were fugitives. He’d run drills with his children to keep them readied . . . all the while telling them that mobsters were the culprit, that his job had hazards that could spill over to them . . . but he’d never imagined the danger would be vampires.

  He’d vowed to give the Guardians the early part of the evening to purge Damali, but Carlos knew it would be impossible to make it through the entire night without going to her. Still, there were security issues that he had to address, if he was going to keep her safe. That reality held him steady, honed his focus to razor clarity. It was about finding the motherfucker that had breeched his borders and had put his woman at risk.

  When the earth opened and the swirling blackness died down, Carlos stood on the front grounds of his Beverly Hills lair, huge chains wrapped around both fists, a beast at either side of him, straining to break free of their leads.

  “Chill,” he said firmly, his head tilting. He heard it, too. Damali’s bloodcurdling screams slammed into his brain. Not a good sign. The sound agitated the hounds, but it drove a spike through his skull. The Guardians were not confining his baby; they were torturing the living shit out of her! The only relief was that they hadn’t dusted her.

  Carlos closed his eyes. He had to give them time to work on her. He had to ignore her call. She had to ride it out to become human again. Only his council-level status gave him the wherewithal to resist her cries, but even that power was questionable. He let his breath out slowly and wound the chains in his fist tighter. It was about caring for her enough to let her live the way she was intended.

  He forced the dogs to heel, giving them a hard tug by their chains, and began walking the perimeter of his grounds with them so they’d know the borders that they were confined within. “Not the postman, not the cops, not a kid chasing a ball—only I feed you,” he muttered as he walked the monsters, noting how they snarled, sniffed, and occasionally looked at him confused when Damali’s voice pierced their senses. “I know,” he said, dropping the chains and stroking their ugly heads to calm them. “It’s fucking me up, too. Stay!”

  The more aggressive of the two animals growled low in his throat and walked in a circle, going from the edge of the land back to Carlos, but then settled down. He had to feed these creatures—go find a miscellaneous vamp or local demon so the animals could get a topside feed on, even though they’d fed well on the way up.

  It had sent a serious message within all the lower levels he’d passed, and the news was out, couriers were on notice. Every region was now aware that a council master was going topside and was taking no prisoners, if crossed. Courier ranks stood aghast as he donated a few of them to the cause of proving his point. Even the were-realms were giving him wide berth. The little stop down there garnered respect with Hell-dogs at his heels. And every region knew that council masters didn’t do topside, unless there was a serious mission at hand.

  But the other issue was he had to do something, anything, to get the sound of Damali’s cries out of his mind. As her voice escalated, he gave his dogs a hard glare. “Conceal. Stay. Guard.” He watched them sulk away, dematerializing as they took winged flight and bent the top branches of a mature oak tree as their lookout post. Only their glowing eyes told him where they were.

  Blood Music made the most sense as a primary feeding ground, to his way of thinking—it had been the epicenter of Nuit’s territory. The hounds would get the scent from Nuit’s tracer in the meat, and any old dons left, rebels, or human operatives marked from that region, would be blocked from ambushing him. So, he went there.

  “Good evening,” Carlos said with a calm smile as he materialized in the plush outer lobby of Blood’s sixty-sixth-floor penthouse. He remembered being brought here when first turned . . . ironic how life . . . and death could be. At the bottom one minute, at the top the next, but wasn’t the promise that in the last days, the first should be last and the last should be first?

  He studied the sumptuous leather seating, dark marble along the walls, and the huge reception desk of the same materials, bearing the Blood Music insignia crest and logo—that would have to go. So would a few of the tired human artists on the label. But all things in good time. Too hasty a move would further alert the four topside masters, and unfortunately, Nuit’s music empire was still producing plenty of negative results for the vamp nation. It was already tense in the empire, given that a councilman had not elected to stay seated on a subterranean throne.

  As he moved toward the front desk, the pale, willowy vamp receptionist at the front desk blanched and held her breath for a moment before responding.

  “Master Rivera, uh, oh, a . . . good evening. We didn’t know you were coming or when you’d want your new offices readied.” She jumped up from her desk, and hit the console. “We’ll have
that immediately rectified, sir. How can I make you comfortable in the—”

  “I want a board meeting of all my vice presidents, now, in the war room.” He smiled at her more broadly and gave her a wink. “You can chill. Only top brass changes in a hostile takeover.”

  “Got a bad feeling, man,” Stack said, peering around the new additions to Club Vengeance.

  Yonnie only nodded and continued to sip his drink. Downing it quickly, he ordered another round for himself and his partner. “Two Chivas, double color. Top shelf,” he told the bartender without glancing up, waiting as the bartender mixed liquor and blood. He knew Rivera was close. The hair on his neck was crackling with electricity. Every curly strand of his Afro felt like it was on fire.

  Accepting his drink, he suddenly stood as he watched Stack nearly topple his short rocks glass when he knocked back the shot and set the drink down hard. “It’s time.”

  Stack was slow to get up and follow him. Yonnie brushed past the eager females that greeted them as they cut a swath through the frenetic club crowd. Almost as quickly as their popularity had been ignited, he could feel it wane as he wound his way up the spiral staircase and crossed the first floor on his way to Carlos’s old office. The females in the club had their line of vision trained on the boss’s VIP booth. Furious energy radiated from it nearly twenty-five yards away.

  “Whatchu gonna tell him, man?” Stack whispered.

  “The truth, and beg for mercy,” Yonnie said, no quiver in his tone, his gaze straight ahead, his pace steady as they walked. “If we bullshit him that’s a sure death.”

  Heads turned slowly as they passed. All eyes were trained upon the two young lieutenants walking toward the booth. The music seemed to get quieter as they approached. The entire club froze, then gasps rippled through the room as two Hell-dogs appeared and snarled to stop Yonnie and Stack’s approach.