What Rough Beast [Blood Oath 1] (32 page)

As one, man or beast, they headed west.

A mile away, Peter divided them with a silent jerk of his chin. Men and women to the left, shifted weres to the right.

"I'll organize the packs, separate those providing blood from those who come to fight,” Peter said, picking at a loose stone in the Arizona dirt.

"We'll need warriors more,” Aidan said. “We should feed from humans to protect your numbers."

"I disagree. Peter swears the weres will come. I believe him.” Garrick's eyes swept the cave, stone walls flickering yellows from the campfire. “There's great power in were blood, Aidan. We'll need every advantage."

"You'll need both, warriors and providers,” Peter said. “The ones who can shift in spite of the blood loss will fill gaps during the attack."

The prince frowned, the stiff set of his shoulders reluctant. “Agreed."

Arm looped under the sagging shoulder of a too-pale blonde, Tim dragged his fellow were to a corner of a neighboring field. His sweeping gaze ensured a plentiful supply of meat. Steam from several pulpy chunks melted islands of violent green in grass otherwise encased in a crust of frost. Some of the resting weres picked at the bloody sinew. Others lay on the ground or leaned against trees, lungs fighting for breath. A few groaned, bones elongating, chest compressing as they shifted.

The shaggy were pivoted and returned to the feeding base. A vampyr hissed to his left, releasing a brother were who fell to the bitterly cold ground. Flush with power, the vampyr stumbled too.

Tim's lips stretched to a smile.

Pussy.

Peter yanked him to a stop when he grabbed the fallen were. “It's time."

He nodded.

When Tim finished shifting, the vampyr had cleared the feeding base, and a magnificent gray animal, Peter's beast, loped yards ahead to a thicket of underbrush where the acrid scent of weres focused and intensified.

Fear and bloodlust zinged through Tim's re-formed body like an electrical charge.

He followed.

Peter's lipless, misshapen mouth peeled back to reveal sharply pointed teeth. He growled, nipped at a couple weres to cement dominance, sniffed at others. Tim smelled a few prancing weres as well. The greetings were ritual, necessary. His acute nose detected the subtle musk of their excitement. The baser part of his beast insisted he revel in the heady mix of foreign scents, but Tim resisted.

His preternatural eyes studied his alpha instead, every growl, every sniff, every proud toss of Peter's head. Because one day, he too would lead a pack. If tonight ended favorably, that day could come soon.

Peter's blunted nose finally lifted. His breath huffed three short bursts that plumed the cold air.

The weres, as a unit, slinked to the tree line, spread out at even intervals. Taking position, Tim stared across barren fields used for tourist parking during summer reenactments and awaited the signal.

A barn stood against the wispy reds and oranges of the setting sun a couple of acres distant. The structure towered four stories, weathered gray with time. Acres of flatland stretched out before him, intersected only by a two-lane road little traveled except during the first week of July.

Tim had minored in history at Tulane, enjoyed all aspects of it. He had especially taken to studying the Civil War, so he imagined this was how Armistead and Picket had felt facing the enemy across a similar plot of land, only stingy miles distant. General Picket had been excited, sure of victory. Tim recognized that same eager confidence in the vibrating body of the were next to him.

Tim was more realistic.

Like Armistead, he stared across that field and saw bodies littered, hot blood steaming before it'd been spilled.

They'd be slaughtered.

But the weres
must
make this charge. For the rebel vampyr, it was a just a rescue operation. For a beloved friend of a much-needed leader, sure, but this battle was minor, wouldn't affect their war.

For the weres, this battle meant
everything.

To pass the time—how much longer could they afford to wait?—he counted shadows lingering near the barn door. Five. No six. He shook his head when a pair of slaves exited the barn, sticking close to its silhouette as the sun dipped to the horizon. The pair made the grand total eight.

Eight to their ninety-four.

The last rays of the sun glinted off the metal barrels of automatic weapons held in the slaves’ hands. The guns, no doubt, had been armed with silver.

They'd all be armed with silver.

Tim and the rest of the weres would just have to run like hell across the flat acres and pray the enemy were poor shots.

It wasn't a baseless hope.

Bullets didn't kill vampyr.

Swords did.

Swords that cut through sinew and vertebrae to sever heads from the enemy's nigh-immortal body.

Neither rogues, headhunters, or dark masters had bothered with anything more modern than the traditional two-handed sword. Because to this day, vampyr were their own worst enemies. Marksmanship was only important for taking down weres. That skill hadn't merited pursuing among vampyr since they'd dipped arrowheads in silver and laced the shafts with wolfsbane.

At Peter's quiet coughing bark, Tim sprang forward. He stayed low to the ground, his paws racing to match the sudden dash of his heartbeat. Weres on either side of him stayed close to the ground too, but surprise carried them pitifully short yards before one of the vampyr at the barn shouted.

Bullets pinged the frozen earth twenty feet in front of him.

Tim let loose the feral snarl he'd been fighting to contain and, forgoing safety for speed, rose precious inches from the earth. The extra height gave his legs freedom to sprint. His strides lengthened, leaving several less courageous—or less foolhardy—weres behind him, but Tim didn't care. The hunt was on him. Bloodlust jabbed him, catching him by the throat. Prodded him on. His mind focused on one thought and one thought only:
prey ahead.

He growled in sheer joy.

And ran.

His pace didn't falter when the first sharp whine met his ears, followed by the scent of fresh blood in his nostrils. An awkward, crashing roll of animal flesh resounded behind him, followed by a thin scream as a silver bullet forced the shift back to human form.

Poor bastard.

Without his beast, the enemy could pick him off at their leisure.

Another cry.

Another were fell.

Tim veered as bullets chewed the ground around him, ducked to the left, and almost tripped over the were flanking him. Blood jetted from the hole that bloomed in the beast's temple. The spray of bullets tore the foreleg off the next were in formation, and Tim leaped over his body, twisted in midair to reorient his path to the barn, and raced on.

Where were the rebel's infernal headhunters?

Down the increasingly ragged line, Peter's gray beast darted forward. His alpha's murderous howl cracked the frosty air. Forcing his legs to pump harder, faster, Tim threw back his head and joined the chorus, spurring himself and the others on the last hundred yards.

Prey ahead.

Fresh kill ahead.

Meat.

Ahead.

Peter grinned at him across empty feet that had minutes before been crowded with sprinting weres. He jerked his head toward a vampyr servant who'd foolishly advanced past the immediate proximity of the barn. His weapon spit silver fire at them.

Tim huffed feral acknowledgment, then swerved so that his forward momentum carried him where his alpha needed him to be.

The vampyr never saw him coming.

Tim veered at a steep angle from the slave's left, bunched his hind legs, and sprang.

His powerful jaws crunched through bone while screams from the rear of the barn reached them.

"Their search for you decimated the headhunters,” Malachi said. “Few pairs survived."

"We can't risk those still intact, even for you, Garrick,” the prince said.

"I wouldn't let you.” He nuzzled Kate, let her scent comfort him. “The war must go on, whatever happens to Luc. Or me."

"Yes. The war must continue.” Aidan exhaled a frustrated breath. “Malachi will match up single hunters as quickly as possible."

Malachi studied the rough terrain map they'd arranged on the cave floor. A large rock rested in the center, a stand-in for the barn where Luc was being held. Twigs marked outlying rows of trees, and a shallow furrow scratched in the dirt represented the secondary road that passed by the master's improvised prison. Malachi speared a stick into the ground behind the rock. “We'll hit them there, from the west. When the were diversion builds steam—"

"It's no diversion, vampyr.” Peter smiled, a sly curve of his mouth. “We'll break through their forward defenses. Count on it."

"Good.” Malachi grunted. “Because launching an attack against four masters is suicide."

"Sheer lunacy.” Elliot's head bobbed up and down. Then, he glared at Aidan. “Don't you dare keep me out of the action. I want in. I mean it."

"You're in a distressing hurry to die for a vampyr.” Aidan chuckled. “Don't worry, boy. This time, you'll fight."

Elliot's hands, slippery with sweat, struggled for purchase on the hilt of his sword as he followed Malachi's march through the hole they'd blasted through the barn wall. Fire curled bright red around jagged splinters of wood. Emaciated slaves tied to gnarled posts inside shielded their eyes, slunk back from the deadly rays of the setting sun that filtered through the smoke and haze.

Malachi lifted his sword high.
"Stay close, kid. The prince would be annoyed if his new pet was killed on my watch."
He slashed down, severing the chains of the first group. The slaves cowered for a moment, then, realizing the vampyr wasn't going to kill them, scampered into the chaos of flames. Guttural shouts and the thunder of gunfire resounded out front.

Malachi stalked to the next group.

Fighting panic, Elliot went with him.

Headhunters poured through the burning hole of the barn wall behind him.

Malachi's sword rose again.

Elliot's senses shrieked fierce alarm, so he pivoted, instinctively parrying a blade that would have sliced through Mal's spine. Steel clanged. The vibration resonated up Elliot's arm so fiercely he feared the joint might pop out of socket, but he gritted his teeth, held the position.
"I'm not Aidan's pet."
Grunting, he threw off the dark master's weight.

Malachi arched a cool eyebrow over his shoulder.
"Prove it."
He set the slaves free, leaving his back unguarded.

Again.

Elliot wanted to run as far and as fast as his feet could carry him. Instead, he planted them wide, dug in his heels, and prepared for the next rushing attack.

The dark master charged again, blade swinging.

Elliot's knees buckled under the force of the blow, but he blocked it.

More newly freed slaves fled into the mayhem.

Elliot gripped the sword in both hands to meet the next thrust. The blades locked in a cacophony of sharp metal. Roaring primal fury, he pushed to throw the dark master back and pulled himself upright, bracing this time to slash his sword in offense instead.

He blinked when a blade speared neatly through the master's chest from the rear. “Got him,” Garrick shouted over the master's shoulder. “Set, Elliot."

Set what?

He didn't care.

He channeled his rage and pierced the dark master through, impaling him on his blade.

Garrick slid his free.

Malachi yanked him down a split second before Garrick's sweeping sword would have severed his head as well as the dark master's. Chest heaving, he sprawled in the dust, blinking at the fuzzy image of the head bouncing across the floor. It came to rest against the bottom spoke of a crumbling ladder, the vampyr's teeth still gnashing.

His new partner dragged him upright and, looking in his eyes, squeezed his shoulder.
"Set means your blade will set the enemy for your partner's killing blow."
Malachi grinned at him, chuckled.
"It also means duck."

"That's one.” Garrick strode past and kicked the head out of his way with a booted foot. “There are three more."

Elliot snagged his glasses from the dirt. One of the lenses had cracked. He shoved them onto his nose, anyway. “Three more.” He straightened his shoulders and slid his sword free of the master's headless carcass. He stared at slick red staining the blade. This was what he'd wanted, what he'd demanded of Aidan, to fight. To learn the mechanics of survival and of war.

So far, so good.

He wrapped his fingers tightly around the hilt.

"Okay,” he said. “Three more. Sure."

A were emerged from the smoke, his mouth ringed bloody scarlet, his gray-pelted chin dripping strings of sinew.

Garrick kicked at dirt and rotting straw on the barn floor, revealing a trapdoor. “Get out of here, Peter. And you,” he said, glare slashing to Elliot, “get up that ladder.” He jerked the door open.

Still snickering, Malachi pushed him forward. “Let's go."

While he scrambled up the ladder, Elliot's wide eyes watched Garrick arrow his body and drop like a stone through the gaping hole in the floor.

Malachi prodded him forward, shoved. “Move!"

"They'll be disorganized. Scattered,” Aidan said.

Garrick stared at the crude map they'd made on the floor. “Peter will eliminate as many servants as he can in front. The headhunters will gain entry from the rear. They'll free the slaves to feed the chaos, take care of the servants retreating from the were assault and any surprises on the ground level."

The prince nodded. “Garrick, you'll go in with them."

Kate ignored the rocks and sticks that so fascinated her mate. Instead, she studied a rough sketch Garrick had made of the interior. “Are you sure the building is this big?"

His lips quirked. “Positive."

She frowned at the paper. “We'll never find him in time.” The scratches of lead outlined clusters of ragged boxes, spears of nested traffic cones, and dusty piles of foul-weather gear. “Not in this mess."