The Blood Bundle, Books 1-2: Blood Singers and Blood Song (New Adult Paranormal Vampire/Shifter Romance) (48 page)

He held her head against his chest and as he
did, the battle lust receded and Scott felt himself shrink in a
painful sucking pull of flesh and bone. He groaned against the
pain, suddenly aware of the absence of the psychic torture that had
begun it all.

Scott didn't let go, even when tears soaked his
shirt.

“I've got you, I've got you, Julia,” he said,
stroking her hair.

Julia knew this, the false warmth of their blood
union swirling around her like a fog of comfort.

A comfort she didn't trust.

Julia didn't know if she could ever trust
it.

She let Scott hold her in that mind-numbing fog
and her eyes met those of the Feeler's, Angela, and Julia knew that
the girl had a sense of Julia's mindset.

It made Julia even more determined to get away
from this place.

She didn't want to belong to anyone.

Julia didn't want to be Queen of anything.
William was somewhere being tortured, there were nine other Singer
warriors coming,
Combatants
she reminded herself. And, Jason
was no longer hers.

He was lost.

And so was she. But Julia knew one thing she
could
control. That she would control.

Her future.

Julia let herself be held. Plotting her escape
in the arms of a man who had been born to protect her.

Maybe even love her.

She resisted on the grounds of experience. Love
wasn't real. It was a myth.

Love died.

It always had. It always would.

Manny

Manny watched the Singer weave through the
forest where the capture of the Rare One had been attempted and
subsequently failed. Actually, it was less with his eyes and more
with the senses he possessed as wolf.

His nose rose above his head as he scented the
cop that trailed her.

Detective Karl Truman would have made an
excellent wolf,
he thought
offhandedly.

A low growl tickled around the edges of his
mouth and Tony nodded in readiness, flanking his position. There
was no need for circumspection. Truman was fully aware of their
race. As a point-of-fact, Emmanuel was certain that he did not
possess altruistic designs on Cynthia Adams, but plans which
included a silence.

Her silence.

She had now been flagged as a valuable asset to
the pack. Inextricably linked to the Rare One and of Singer
heritage herself. The nest of Singers were thick in the region she
hailed from. A mystery to solve for exploit.
Or
at least that was the end toward which Lawrence
endeavored.

Manny moved forward as a twitchy Adi fell into
the vee formation of acquisition. If Anthony so much as laid a claw
on the Adams girl, Emmanuel was sure that Adrianna and the other
male warrior who accompanied him would be sufficient to subdue even
one such as he.

Manny hoped for that end. But knew it was
unlikely. Tony was many things, but at the height of the list was
self-preservationist.

He was not one to endanger his own hide.

They moved into the open meadow just as Cynthia
Adams pushed the last of the dense foliage aside and stepped into
the unprotected space opposite them.

Cynthia moved toward an open area that was just
beyond her reach. It was obvious that Kent was a large city and she
was surprised that these pockets of forestland still existed in
thick belts, tying the suburban areas together like green ribbons
of fir and cedar trees. At that moment, it was alder branches she
pushed through like weapons as they tore back and whipped her when
she passed. She climbed up a rough and narrow path, Jules' horrible
boots gripping the loose dirt and small pebbles expertly and she
grunted in a laugh, thinking that the dumb things were actually
practical. Not that it ever mattered.
Beauty is pain
,
Cynthia thought, the only mantra she still believed in.

As she crested the small knoll the branches
thinned and she plowed through the last of them and walked out into
a wide and treeless field. It contained a sea of long grass,
wheaten in color, bleached by the end of summer and the approach of
fall. It nearly covered her boots as she stepped through it,
parting it as it hissed when it struck her boots in passing.

Cynthia saw them immediately and her heart sped
up. Normally, there was nothing wrong with passing by a few peeps
you didn't know. But this group held a stillness; an anticipatory
readiness that put Cynthia on alert. Of course, she was more
self-aware than the average bear. Nocturnal brushes with werewolves
would do that to a chick every time.

She took a step back into the gloomy border of
the woods and they mirrored her pace, taking a step forward.

Fuck,
Cynthia thought, adrenaline
beginning a slow and sickening surge in her body, her bloodstream
lighting up with the fight and flight response.

Truman followed his nose, which in turn, found
the girl.

And the people. Check that: werewolves.

Karl Truman heaved himself out of the woods and
looked to his left. And there, in the border of where the thickest
part of the woods met the pastureland, stood Cynthia Adams, her
skin a pale ghostlike sheet, her eyes wide and shocky. Chest
heaving, he followed her gaze and swallowed hard.

Before he knew it his hand was not empty, but
held his forty-five semi-auto, his grip relaxed and at ease. Only
the fine sweat which beaded his upper lip spoke to his
nervousness.

That was bound to happen with four half-turned,
whatever the hell these were.

Truman watched the skin on the three melt away
and a fine downy coat of fur replaced it, but a thin layer, like
someone had taken a salt shaker of fur and spread it liberally. It
was the eyes that nailed Truman to the spot. All four had spinning
orbs of gold and ebony, save one.

One had green, like discs of emerald fire, his
fur was a deep, burnished red. Truman couldn't take his eyes off
him.

He wouldn't dare.

Without looking away, Truman spoke to the girl,
“Cynthia, come over here now, nice and slow.”

Cynthia felt ill. She heard the detective's
voice like it was coming from a well. She knew who he was but
didn't ask herself how the Alaskan cop had found her.

How they'd found her.

As Cynthia watched, they began to lope toward
the unlikely pair: the cop and the young woman.

Cynthia's paralysis broke and she turned to run
toward the cop.

Truman raised his gun and leveled it on the
fucking Sasquatch that was closest. “Come on,” he whispered, “make
my day,” he said, quoting Clint Eastwood at the unlikeliest
moment.

Cynthia jogged toward him and he reached out his
left hand, his right tight on his pistol grip.

She flung herself the last two feet and his warm
palm, dry and strong, clasped hers and with a mighty jerk, she was
against his body and she gave a shuddering sob of such abject
relief that Truman responded as all males who protect females
do.

He put Cynthia Adams behind his body and used
himself as a shield. They'd have to plow through him to get to her.
He could feel the fear thrum through her body to his.

“Stay put,” he told her.

She nodded then realized he couldn't see her and
said, “Yes,” against his broad back.

One of her eyes peeked around him, seeing what
came and she knew that these were the same kind, species,
whatever... that had threatened her in Homer. Though they were not
the same group. There were four, one much smaller than the others,
but no less fierce.

Female,
Cynthia thought.

The lead werewolf had an inky black coat,
matching eyes, and silver tips on the fur, giving it an almost
glittery appearance. He moved with purpose and a smoothness that
screamed
leader
. Her eyes roved over the one that was a deep
chocolate, his eyes a pale gold, the same color as the female.
There was a hardness in him that was absent in the others.

It was the red werewolf, in a form that she knew
too well that captured and held her attention. He moved with a
lithe grace, together but separate from the others, his eyes never
leaving hers.

Cynthia fought a dizzying sense of d
é
jà
vu, origin unknown.

The troop stopped, awkwardly standing in front
of Truman, a fine tremble had begun in his gun hand. Holding a
weapon steady was a fine thing for about five minutes, any longer
and even the steadiest hand became compromised.

“Detective,” the leader ground out and Cynthia
shuddered at the cadence of the deep gravelly speech, her body
recognizing it and instinctively recoiling from the memory, the
connotation of what it meant to hear those tones.

Terror, threats, and brutal paws on her:
pinching and poking her into compliance. That's what filled
Cynthia's mind. The memories evoked an immediate response from her
body, a light sweat breaking out all over her.

The brown wolf's nostrils flared. Like he could
scent her fear, the female giving Cynthia a sharp glance. The inky
black one stopped in front of Truman and continued his speech, the
woods a claustrophobic background, closing in, making Cynthia's
throat tighten. “Walk away. We will take the girl and you don't
have to be hurt. Be smart,” it growled.

“Be safe,” Adrianna added, looking from the big
cop to the scared girl behind him. Adi knew who she was and gave
her a curious head to toe. This was Jules' bestie. The friend that
she'd said Adi reminded her of. Adi scented fear and underneath
that like fine wine, aggression. Interesting mix.

It was the red wolf that cinched it for Cynthia.
“You can't run, Cyn. Come with us. We'll get Jules. If it's the
last thing I do,” he said, his massive hands that tapered to short
claws fisted in emphasis and Cynthia's mind struggled to set the
pieces of what he'd said to rights.

He'd called her Cyn.

He'd referenced Julia.

Cynthia tried to come around the detective and
get an up close and personal but Truman blocked her path with a
beefy arm. “No,” he said in a final way.

Cynthia ducked and moved forward as the red
werewolf came toward her and a knowledge, low and primitive sung
through her. A tingling awareness began as Truman surged forward to
haul her back. The red one wrapped a hand that was more paw than
palm around her forearm and their eyes met.

Cynthia knew instantly who he was. He was seven
feet tall and built like a giant red brick shithouse, the bones of
his face grown long in the parody of a snout. He held his body a
certain way, his expression echoed with breathtaking
familiarity.

Jason,
her mind told her even as her eyes
denied what stood in front of her.

He'd died. Cynthia had watched his throat vanish
under claws that struck deep.

Cynthia jumped at the report of the gun firing,
high and wide, it hit the red Were just below his collarbone in a
meaty thunk of flesh and she yelped, her ears ringing from the
sound, his body spinning backward. An arm swung over her head, the
speed of its passing causing Cynthia's hair to lift around her
face. The chocolate colored werewolf with the hard face backhanded
the cop almost casually, his three hundred pound body flying
backward like it weighed nothing.

“Enough,” growled Manny, eyeing the girl.
Sensing her next move he came forward and heat rose from her feet
to her head in a sickening rush of nausea. The information that was
so vital, so mind altering being discovered in a life-sized
werewolf that was now shot was too much to accept.

Cynthia felt herself go under, crumpling.

As she folded like a deck of cards, the small
female caught her. Adi's bottom lip spread, revealing pearly and
deadly teeth, as a low growl sounded, the brown wolf slowed his
approach. “Don't try it, dipshit.”

Cynthia heard his comment even as
unconsciousness edged in around her like a whirlpool closing.

“Watch your tone, female.”

Then Cynthia knew no more, the gray of her mind
becoming black.

Adi heaved the Singer on her shoulder, her
half-Were form easily shouldering the burden. Manny jogged in his
half-human, half-Were form to where the detective lay. He scented
the detective, his nostrils flaring once, twice. He met their eyes.
“He lives.” Emmanuel paused, registering something else, then
dismissing it. His eyes swept the group, Adi defiant with their
Singer prize, Tony glaring at her. Finally, his glance encompassed
the red Feral... Jason.

Already his recuperative abilities were taking
over. His blood was drying and his flesh pushing out the foreign
plug of the bullet. As he watched, Jason's magnificent physique
expelled the misshapen hunk of metal and it fell out onto the grass
with the barest plop. Jason scooped down to pluck it out of the
tall grass and Manny's eyebrows popped.

“Evidence,” Jason growled. “Remember,” he tapped
an inky black claw, retracted for the moment, against his temple,
“I was under his thumb before.”

“Ah yes,” Manny agreed, then narrowed his eyes
on the girl, temporarily out like a light. “Let us go,” he
said.

“It's pretty fucking convenient that she
fainted,” Tony said with a smirk, it sat awkwardly on his half-wolf
face, his deep voice sounding like rough stones rubbing together.
He reached out with a claw and lifted a piece of her blond
hair.

“Don't touch her, perv,” Adi said, jerking her
away from his touch. Tony smiled. “I'll be touching her plenty in
the future, you can take that to the bank, princess.”

Jason moved on the wind, one minute he held a
bullet in his hand, the next he'd tossed it at Adi who caught it
and lunged at Tony. They smacked together in midair and Jason
landed in a smooth roll, taking Tony with him. He used the momentum
he'd gained and straddled him, a talon bursting against the side of
Tony's throat.