Eternal Hunger

32

The blood she had given had been a great loss to her, a compromise to her moral code, and yet it had granted her the answers she’d come to the Roman house to find.

Bronwyn took out the last piece of clothing in the drawer and placed it in her bag. Edel was already outside in the car, waiting to take her back to the credenti, back to her family, back to her work. She’d wasted enough time here, had been an unwanted guest for far too long. Her pride had taken a beating.

She snatched up her bag and headed for the door. The eldest Roman was supposed to have been hers, but she’d fed him, let him drink from her, and had come away with absolutely no impulse to quell her own hunger. She’d sat across from him as he swore to keep their feeding a secret, every molecule in her body screaming the truth—Alexander Roman was not her true mate.

She walked out into the hall and headed for the stairs. She had done something wrong in her research, somehow misread the genetic markers. Alexander didn’t belong to her, but she needed to find out who did. And there was no time to spare.

“Running away, princess?”

Dressed in black and standing in what had been a living area yesterday and what now looked like combat central with targets on the walls and burlap bags hanging from the ceiling, Lucian eyed her, two sizable knives in his clenched fists.

He looked ready for war.

“I’m going home,” she said.

“But I barely had time to do my job,” he drawled.

“What job is that?”

“Stand in for Alexander as you’re potential mate.” He grinned wickedly. “I was really looking forward to it.”

She lifted her chin. “Somehow I think you’ll get over your disappointment.”

“And I think you’re wise to give up on the whole true-mate bullshit.”

“Oh, I’m not giving up,” she said quickly, resolutely. “I’m still going to look. Just not here.”

Lucian growled, turned around, and rammed both blades into the very center of one of the burlap sacks. “Just keep yourself locked up nice and tight, princess. There are dangerous males about.”

Her gaze moved over him and she nodded. “Damn right there are.”

His fierce eyes narrowed, but Bronwyn could’ve sworn she saw a spark of amusement in their depths.

Yes, going home was right. “Good-bye, Lucian.” She turned and grabbed the door, yanked it open, then whispered, “Be careful,” before she closed it gently behind her.

The ancient ten had returned to the Hollow. They sat at the glass table, hands folded, their eyes—the left ones branded with thin black circles—following Alexander as he walked over smooth, soft sand toward them.

“You have failed, son of the Breeding Male,” said Cruen, his electric blue stare deadly. “Abductions have slowed, true, but Ethan Dare is still at large.”

“The failure here is yours,” Alexander returned with venom. “I came to you and told you that the half-breed has the powers and abilities of a Pureblood morphed male and you refused to believe it. Why do you think you could not track him! He is being protected.”

There was a collective gasp among the members, a rustle of red robes as they turned to whisper panicked mumblings to their neighbors. “What is this?” and “Impossible!” and “How could it be?”

Cruen stood, called for calm among his peers, and when he had their attention, pulled his lips up tight in a grin that had nothing to do with humor. “I still refuse to believe it.” He looked around at his peers. “Alexander Roman lies. He lies to explain away his failure.”

Alexander swore in the ancient language, his knuckles white, fists ready to fly into the old paven’s bony face. “Dare can flash and so can his recruits. He used his blood to get into the credenti.”

The paven chuckled. “Impures can never be anything more than what they are—a waste of blood.”

Alexander sniffed. “You an Impure, then, Cruen?”

Something halfway between a growl and a scream shot from Cruen’s throat and he opened his mouth wide and flexed his brick red fangs.

Alexander stalked over to the table and stood before the Pureblood. “Unless you’re going to use those,” he snarled, “put them back in your head and tell me why I am here.”

Cruen started to stand, but the veana with the long snow-colored hair beside him slammed a hand over his arm. He hissed at her, but remained seated. His gaze lifted and Alexander saw the true force of evil within those pale blue orbs.

“This is the last time we will call on you, son of the Breeding Male,” Cruen spat out. “You have twenty-four hours to bring Dare to us or Nicholas Roman will be morphed. Perhaps he will bring us what we seek.”

Sara had the room for one hour.

Hopefully, it would be all she needed.

Venturing a glance at her brother, who was lying on the hospital bed she’d set up in the media room on the first floor of Walter Wynn, Sara noticed that his body looked rigidly still and his eyes were clamped shut.

She tried again, the slow, calmness in her voice concealing the profound anxiety running through her insides. “You are relaxed, Gray. So relaxed that the muscles in your feet, your ankles, your knees, your legs are so heavy you cannot lift them. So relaxed that your belly, chest, and shoulders are sinking into the bed. So relaxed your neck, face, and eyes are limp.” Sara turned on the projector and the blank wall before Gray’s bed erupted with light. There was no sound, only visions. Only images of fires, one after the other after the other.

She turned to look at him and said gently, “Open your eyes, Gray.”

His face twitched as if he was trying to shake his head, but his muscles were too weak.

“Open your eyes now,” she said again, a little stronger this time.

Like a lover going in for a kiss, or a fish stretching for food, Gray pressed out his lips. He was talking—in the only way he could and Sara knew what the movement meant.

No.

Normally, she’d give up at this point, let him be, let him rest. But not today. She didn’t have the time or the patience for his petulance. She leaned down close to his ear and whispered tersely, “Open your eyes, dammit!”

He flinched, but slowly his eyes opened and he stared up at the screen. He didn’t gasp, didn’t turn away, scream, or get agitated in any way, as she’d thought he would—as she’d hoped he would so she could take the next leap into the treatment. What he did do was stare up at the images, eyes unblinking like some scene from Clockwork Orange, tears welling in his eyes, then snaking down his cheeks.

Fuck. Fuck Gray and fuck me.

Sara flicked off the projector, went to stand in front of him, her emotions high as they had been for days. “Look at me, you stubborn bastard.”

He did, his eyes bright with the tears of a tormented soul. She recognized the look, she’d seen it in the mirror on more than one occasion.

“Is this it?” she asked him, shaking her head. “Are you ever going to let me help you? Or am I done? Do you want me to be done?”

He stared at her.

“Because I’ve had offers. Not pretty and probably painful as shit, but there’s someone who can help you in a way I can’t seem to.”

Gray dropped his gaze and looked away.

As he always did.

Jaw tight, those goddamn tears pinching the back of her throat again, Sara pushed off the bed and went out into the hallway. “Bring him back up,” she told the orderly. “I’m done.”

Soul weary, Sara headed for the stairs, for her office and for the twenty remaining patients who actually wanted her help.

Drugs were being sold in Washington Square Park in broad daylight, bodies too, and the scent of both made Nicholas’s prick stand up. He shoved his BlackBerry into the pocket of his coat, the message from Alexander thoroughly imprinted on his mind. Twenty-four hours until he was sunlight intolerant. Hmm. How much did he care? What living he did do usually happened after the sun died anyway. If it wasn’t for Lucian and the very real possibility that when he morphed he would become the next Breeding Male, caged and tested by the Order, he might just forget this whole battle, tell the Order to kiss his Roman ass, tell the troll standing in front of him now to return to his bridge.

“So what do we get for assisting the Romans?” The short, hairy “eye” in front of him grinned, his fangs worn down from too much gravo.

“I can offer you money or blood,” Nicholas said. “Which do you want?”

“I’d say we wanted you, Nicholas,” the “eye” said with a cackle. “But you work the streets without a master now, don’t you?”

His gaze unwavering, Nicholas stood utterly still.

“Those ribbed fangs of yours were a real draw, even as a young paven.” The “eye” leaned closer, his breath resembling a decades-old trash can. “I’m curious—what do you do with the money you’re paid for one of those fancy fucks? Don’t have another veana to buy gravo for, do you?”

Nicholas had a knife to the “eye’s” back before the paven could take his next breath. “I will ask you once more before I rip you open, neck to asshole—money or blood?”

A chirping sound erupted from the “eye’s” throat and he forced out, “Three hundred grand for the location of the Impure.”

“By tonight.”

“Agreed.”

“Good to see you, Whistler.” Nicholas slapped the paven on the back, shoved his knife into the waistband of his jeans, and took off into the park.