Authors: Amy Miles
A light- barely perceivable by the human eye- fuels Nicolae forward.
His footsteps lumber loudly against the floor as he rushes ahead.
Roseline keeps pace with him, her hands outstretched just in case he face-plants.
“I see something-” his cry cuts off abruptly as he crosses a scent trail.
He halts.
His fingers lasso around Roseline’s wrist.
“What is that?”
“That
is
Torrent
.”
Blood.
Smoke.
Decay.
A hint of musk filters down the passage.
A red light shines in the gloom, beckoning them.
Loud bass pumps from a rectangle of light at the end of the hall.
Nicolae yelps as Roseline suddenly whips him around.
“Don’t attack me,” she hisses, pinning him to her chest.
His back molds into the brick, his hair flattens into the sludge.
“What are you-” he gasps as her nails sink into his forearm, silencing him.
Roseline’s cat-like eyes flash a warning in the dim light as she wraps her leg firmly around him, intimately pressing against his chest.
She leans in and flicks her tongue over his neck just as a burly man with wads of curly chest hair peeking out from his V-neck shirt emerges from the room.
A petite brunette, wearing a lacy teddy straight out of a Victoria Secret catalog, giggles obnoxiously on his arm.
Globs of red glitter plaster her eyelids.
The couple fumbles toward them, bouncing from wall to wall.
The brunette’s high heels rap out an uneven staccato.
“Oh Albert, isn’t he a doll?”
Muddy brown eyes droop to stare at Nicolae, or what little of his face can be seen around Roseline’s mass of curls.
She ignores their comments and works harder at enticing Nicolae.
Roseline’s mouth trace a velvety line towards his.
Nicolae losses himself in the moment as Roseline’s tongue flicks along his lower lip.
She tugs his mind into sweet oblivion.
“I want one,” the brunette pouts, her high pitch voice grating on Roseline’s nerves.
Hairy Chest pats her on the back and pushes her past.
“I know, baby.
Maybe we can find you a nice treat before the sun rises.”
Roseline’s lips retreat as she listens to their departure, her leg slips from his side.
Guttural sounds erupt from Nicolae’s throat as he smashes his lips against hers, pleading with Roseline to continue.
“Nicolae, snap out of it.”
She grips his shoulders and shoves him out to an arm’s length.
He protests, fighting against her hold.
Gritting her teeth, Roseline finds a pressure point near his clavicle and digs in her nails.
He cries out, sinking down the wall.
His vision clears as pain overrides his hormones.
Nicolae twists out of her reach.
“I’m sorry about that,” she says.
His green eyes glow brilliantly in the dim hall light.
“How about a little warning next time?” He snaps, massaging his shoulder.
A growl builds in her chest as she pins him against the wall.
“I just saved your life.
Pretend to be grateful.”
Chapter 14
Roseline opens the door and navigates Nicolae through the red haze created by a long row of recessed lights in the ceiling above.
Earthy browns wallpaper the interior.
Large wide-framed paintings hang on the walls, not all that unlike those found in a human coffee shop.
“Not quite what I was expecting,” Nicolae says, glancing around.
“Trust me, it gets worse.”
Roseline moves into the pub.
Barstools crowd around high table tops, clustered in small groups along the far wall.
The bar at the end of the room is draped in iced blue, appearing to glow from within.
Three pull handle taps serve A, B, and O blood by the pint from kegs in the back room.
Through a sweeping arch of exposed brick and wooden support beams, a mass of bodies writhe on a large dance floor.
Glass steins rattle against the tables as the bass ricochets against the brick walls.
A wrought iron banister leads down the final six steps into a world of drunken bliss.
The scent of human blood infuses with sweat and something more…something aggressive and appallingly delicious.
Roseline forces herself not to think of the burning in her throat as the blood calls to her veins.
She scans the crowd, pausing over each face on the dance floor.
Most she recognizes.
Many she would rather not.
“They aren’t here,” she mutters.
“What?” Nicolae shouts.
His voice carries through the pub filled with immortals.
Some turn, glaring at his disruption, while others smile and lick their lips, wiggling fingers to beckon him forward.
Roseline’s nails dig possessively into his arm as she growls at those closest.
Teasing smiles wane and backs turn on them as the room settles into its intoxicated frenzy.
“Don’t move from my sight.
Got it?” She hisses in his ear as she begins to descend into the mob.
She has no intention of leaving Nicolae to fend for himself in this feeding trough.
Nicolae’s gaze flickers over the medieval wrought iron cages that suspend from the ceiling.
Humans, dressed in filthy tattered clothes, lie on the bottom, their wasted faces pressing against the bars.
Both arms, and sometimes legs, dangle through.
Blood drips from their limbs, like a grotesque fountain.
Immortals fight for position under the living taps.
“That’s disgusting.”
Nicolae grunts.
Roseline glances back, wincing as her stomach churns with repressed need.
As they pass, an imprisoned girl opens her eyes to stare vacantly down at Nicolae through the metal slats.
“How is she still alive?”
Roseline stares at the blood-slave, battling to conceal her own need.
“They are kept perpetually on the verge of death.
It sweetens their blood.”
She glances over at him, watching his face drain of color.
Revulsion wars with his handsome features.
She leans in close.
“You’re supposed to
want
to be here, remember?”
“Right,” he mutters, moving swiftly past the blood-slave’s cage.
As they reach the final step, Roseline glides easily onto the dance floor, holding Nicolae’s hand on her shoulder.
She carves a path straight to the center of the room, giving them an ideal vantage point.
“Dance,” she commands, as she gives herself to the music.
Her hips sway to the pulsing beat, savoring the way it thumps in her chest, remembering how only a few short days ago she’s been dancing with William.
It feels like a lifetime has passed by.
Nicolae remains unmoved by the bass pumping from speakers suspended overhead.
He stands rigid among a sea of dancers.
“What’s wrong with you?” Roseline asks, rising onto her tiptoes to reach his ear.
Nicolae’s gaze darts toward a group of immortals nearby.
Roseline groans inwardly.
Of course, he would recognize many of the people here.
A redheaded gypsy named Alamesia, gave Sorin the famed scar across his chest that had required nearly fifty stitches.
Her campaign through the Emerald Isle left many hunters maimed or occupying a grave.
Roseline watches as her colorful skirts and twinkling gold jewelry twirl on the dance floor.
Her partner, Mastus, is a petite Greek who sports a ridiculous white toga.
He sways to the music with his eyes closed, hardly paying Alamesia any attention.
His dark hair drips with grease, his small beard shorn into a severe point.
Roseline might have been able to stand him if not for his belief that he was one of the ancient gods, daily raining down his wrath on the unsuspecting virgins who walk the streets of Greece.
He and Alamesia deserve each other.
Arnaldo, an elderly immortal, whose spine curves with age, hails from Rome.
Roseline suspects he carries himself in this manner to trick acts of charity from his victims.
His blood-giver is unknown to the immortal community, but it is quite rare to turn someone of such mature years.
Grinding against a man, who could easily have been sexiest human male alive, is Bellamy of France.
No doubt, Nicolae has grown up with tales of her exploits during the world wars.
With waves of silken blond hair and the moral quality of a harem, it is no secret that Bellamy’s enchanting lips claimed many of the lives lost during the plagues.
Lounging against the wall is Melville, a native British man, whose sadistic obsession with female prostitutes led him to be included in the lengthy list of suspects during the Jack the Ripper case.
Scotland Yard let the real murderer slip through their fingers.
Not that they would have had much success keeping him locked up.
Roseline pulls Nicolae’s face around.
“Just ignore them.
I need you to focus on me.”
She dips in low, grazing her teeth along his earlobe.
He stiffens, fists clenching at his side to knock her away, but she places a warning hand on his shoulder.
“We are being watched.”
She grinds her hips against him, applying pressure in ways that leave Nicolae gasping for air.
“Sadie.
Sadie.
Sadie,” he chants silently.
Roseline lifts up to his ear.
“Just keep thinking of her and you will be fine, but I need you to open your eyes and look at me.
At least
act
like you want me.”
He groans as Roseline grabs his backside and yanks him close.
“I suck at acting.”
Smiling, Roseline drops low and slithers back up his body.
Every eye, within a ten-foot radius, turns to watch their interaction, affected by the frantic heart pumping in Nicolae’s chest.
Roseline presses into him, squashing herself against his chest so that their lips hover only an inch apart.
She breathes out her heady scent, watching as his nostrils flare.
His pupils dilate.
“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to act,” she smirks, twirling around.
She places his hands on her slender waist and grinds back into him.
Nicolae’s groan masks the final notes of the song.
There is a pause before a new track replaces it, this one slower.
Roseline saunters around Nicolae, using her finger to pull his chin around to face her.
Lacing her fingers behind his head, Roseline places his leg between hers and begins a slow, seductive dance.
Nicolae’s face flushes, his gaze drilling a hole into her forehead as he fights to resist her pull.
Just as he fears he is about to lose control, Roseline shifts and rests her head against his chest, monitoring the fluctuations of his heart.
She needs him flustered but not falling over the edge of reason.
Tonight she needs a hunter, not a giddy schoolboy.
“Look over my shoulder and tell me if you see Fane.”
His absence worries her.
She had hoped that by presenting herself on the dance floor with Nicolae, she would draw him out, but she has yet to see him or Davros.
Nicolae shifts his focus out into the room.
His gaze falls on a second, smaller space off to the side.
Low stained glass lights hang over a blue felt pool table.
Four immortals, who strongly resemble the original founders of the Hell’s Angels biker club, argue over a controversial shot.
The two bar tables in the far corner are crowded, occupied by a group of uninhibited human girls who had been lured into the club by a couple of hungry immortals.
A thick blanket of black velvet drapes over a section of the wall to the right of the dance floor, probably covering a hidden stairwell to the balcony above.
It appears to be deserted now.
“I don’t see him,” he whispers.
Roseline nibbles on her lip as she shimmies down his leg, arching her back.
Upside down, she scans the bar area.
Now vacant of patrons, Roseline has a wide-angle view.
A four-inch slab of ice runs the length of the bar.
Small wisps of vapor rise here and there, glowing like smoke, as the lights shift from cobalt to sapphire blue in swirling patterns.
The hook nosed bartender rubs a rag around a martini glass, still tinged red from the previous customer.
A pink umbrella falls from the rim, splattering the ice with blood.
The bartender’s hungry black eyes watch the dancers, and then flickers back to the blood-slave nearest him.
Rising, she pulls Nicolae close, twirling her fingers through the curls at the base of his neck as she speaks into his ear.
“I can’t see Fane either.”
His skin feels clammy under her touch.
His pulse is climbing at an alarming rate.
“Calm down.
You’re doing great.”
“It’s not you that I am worried about,” he replies.
Spinning Nicolae around, she instantly sees the source of his dismay.
A man with a chest as broad as a beer keg emerges from the shadows.
Black rage burns in his soulless eyes.
Inked snakes writhe around his bulging arms, their heads coiling into his palms.
Tribal tattoos line his exposed shoulders and trickle down to his belly button.
His bare chest ripples as he flexes his muscles, knuckles cracking as he pounds his fists.
“Do you know who that is?” she asks, blanching.
“No.” Nicolae shakes his head.
“
That
is Davros.
He’s Vladimir’s pain guy.”
Memories begin to flood back in, small pieces slowly connecting to create a larger picture.
Torture.
Suffering.
Brutality.
Endless hours of agony.