Blood Kiss (3 page)

“I've tried the mansion,” Mary replied. “The clinic. Their cell phones. Two times in all places.”

For a split second, Marissa was terrified about what that meant for her own life. Were the Brothers in medical trouble? Was Butch okay?

That lasted only a moment. “Give me your phone—and get the residents into the Wellsie annex. I want everyone there in case I have to bring a male in.”

Mary tossed over her phone and nodded. “I'm on it.”

Safe Place was exactly that—a safe place for female victims of domestic violence to come for shelter and rehabilitation with their young. And after Marissa had spent countless, useless centuries in the
glymera
, being nothing but the unclaimed betrothed of the King, she had found her calling here, in service to those who had been at best verbally abused, at worst, horrifically treated.

Males were not allowed inside.

But to save the life of this female here, she would break that rule.

Answer your phone, Manny,
she thought as the first ring sounded.
Answer your damn phone. . . .

I
t wasn't the whole Black Dagger Brotherhood.

In fact, there were only two Brothers with the King.

As Abalone, First Adviser to Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, entered the audience room to stand before his ruler, he was acutely aware of the other males. He had never known any of those warriors to be aught than protective and civilized, but considering he was about to turn his only blooded offspring over to them, their more obvious attributes were like screams in the night.

The Brother Vishous was staring at him with diamond eyes that didn't blink, those tattoos at his left temple seeming properly sinister, his muscle-roped body clad in leather and stung with weapons. By his side was Butch, a.k.a. the
Dhestroyer
—a former human with a Boston accent who had been infected by the Omega and left for dead—only to become one of the few to survive a jump-started transition.

The two of them were rarely apart, and it was tempting to assign them bad-cop, good-cop roles. Right now, though, the paradigm had shifted. Butch, the male who tended to smile and talk to people, seemed like the one it would be best to avoid in a dark alley: His hazel stare was narrow and unwavering.

“Yes?” Abalone asked his King. “May I be of service in some manner?”

Wrath stroked the boxy blond head of his guide dog, George. “My boys here need to talk to you.”

Ah
, Abalone thought. And he suspected what this was about.

Butch smiled for a split second. Like he wanted to preemptively take the sting from whatever was going to come out of his mouth. “We want to make sure you're aware of what's involved in the training program.”

Abalone cleared his throat. “I know that this is very important to Paradise. And I'm hoping there are some self-defense courses offered. I should like her to be . . . safer.”

That potential benefit had been the only thing that had helped him through the clash between what he had expected for her and her life, and what she seemed to be choosing to do.

When there was no response, Abalone looked back and forth between the Brothers. “What are you not telling me?”

Vishous opened his mouth, but the Brother Butch raised his palm and shut him up. “Your role here with Wrath comes first.”

Abalone recoiled. “Are you saying that Paradise is ineligible because of my position here? Dearest Virgin Scribe, why didn't you tell us—”

“We need you to understand that what's going to happen is not all book learning. This is a preparation for war.”

“But the candidates don't necessarily have to go fight down in the alleys during the program, correct?”

“What we're worried about is here.” The Brother indicated the room. “We can't have anything affect your relationship with Wrath and what you do for the King. Paradise is as welcome as anyone else in the program, but not if the prospect of her dropping out or being cut could create tension between us.”

Abalone exhaled in relief. “Do not worry about that.
She succeeds or fails on her own merits. I expect no special treatment for her—and if she cannot keep up? Then she should be dismissed.”

In fact, although he would never say it aloud, he both prayed for, and expected, that to be the case. He did not look forward to Paradise being disappointed in herself or her efforts, but . . . the last thing he wanted for his daughter was her being exposed to any ugliness—or, God forbid, actually trying to fight in the war.

He couldn't even fathom that last one.

“Worry not,” he reiterated, glancing at the Brothers and at the King. “All shall be well.”

The Brother Butch stared at Vishous. Then looked back. “You read the application, right?”

“She filled it out.”

“So you didn't read it?”

“This is something she's doing independently—as her father and
ghardian
, was I supposed to sign it?”

Vishous lit a hand-rolled. “You might want to be prepared, true?”

Abalone nodded. “I am. I promise you, I am.”

Paradise was a female gently raised in the proper traditions of the aristocracy. She'd been working on her physical conditioning for the last two months—quite diligently, actually—and he could feel the excitement rolling off of her as she wound up her duties here and prepared to exit her position. There was, however, a very good chance that after the orientation tomorrow evening, when the real work started, she would find herself either bowing out . . . or being asked to leave.

It was going to kill him to see her fail.

But better that than her dying out in the field just to prove the point that she was so much more than what her aristocratic station dictated.

As the pair of Brothers continued to look at him, Abalone lowered his head. “I know this is not going to go well for her. I am more than braced for that. I am not naive.”

After a moment, Butch said, “Okay. Fair enough.”

“Is there aught else, my lord?” Abalone asked the King.

When Wrath shook his head, Abalone bowed to each of them. “Thank you for your concern. Paradise is my most precious one—all that is left of my beloved
shellan
. I know she shall be in kind and fair hands on the morrow.”

As he turned to leave, the Brothers remained grim, but then again, he was not privy to what was going on with the war—and there was always something. The fighting and the strategy were nothing he had ever been involved with, and for that he was grateful.

Just as he would be if Paradise left that program.

Verily, he wished her
mahmen
were still alive. Perhaps this all would be moot if his
shellan
had been present to talk some sense into the girl.

Opening the double doors, he heard a clattering in the waiting area. “Paradise?”

He strode across the foyer, and as he rounded the corner into the parlor, his daughter straightened from picking up red pens that had been knocked off the desk.

“Is all well?” he asked.

Her eyes met his. “Is it? Are you allowing me to go tomorrow night?”

Abalone smiled—and tried to keep the sadness out of his eyes, his voice. “Of course. You're in the program, that was decided months ago.”

She ran over and embraced him, holding on tight, as if she had been convinced she was going to be denied what she wanted so badly.

Embracing his daughter, Abalone was vaguely aware of the Brothers and the King leaving out the front door. He paid them no mind.

He was too busy wishing he could save his daughter from any and all disappointment. That was not among the parenting skills he had been granted upon her birth, however.

Oh, how he wished his
shellan
were here with them instead of in the Fade.

She would have handled all of this better.

•   •   •

Standing over the horrifically injured female, Marissa closed her eyes as she got Manny's voice mail for the third time. What the
hell
was going on at the clinic?

Just as she was about to redial, her phone began to ring. “Thank God—Manny? Manny?”

Something about the tone of her voice caused the wounded female to stir, her bloody face moving against the sofa cushions. God, the sound of that wheezing rattle was enough to make the heart skip beats.

“No, it's Ehlena,” said the voice in her ear. “Manny and Jane are doing emergency surgery on Tohr. He has a compound fracture of the femur and I have to head back into the OR. Is there something wrong?”

“How long are they going to be?” she asked.

“They just started.”

Marissa closed her eyes. “Okay, please have them call me when they can? I've got a . . .” She turned away and dropped her voice. “I have a trauma case that's just come in here. I don't know if we have a lot of time.”

Ehlena cursed. “We can't spare anyone here. Can you call Vishous? With his medical training, he may be able to stabilize things.”

Marissa tried to imagine that Brother walking through the house. Not her first choice, and not because she didn't trust the male. Her
hellren
's best friend was a stellar vampire all the way around.

His appearance was just terrifying.

Then again, if everyone was in the Wellsie Annex . . .

“Good idea. Thank you.”

“I'll have them call you as soon as we're done.”

“Please.”

Cutting the connection, she hit up V. And got goddamn, frickin' voice mail. “
Shit
.”

Rhym spoke up from where she was pressing a towel
to that leaking gash in the female's shoulder. “When are they coming?”

It was getting close to the end of the night. V could just be in transit between the alleys of downtown Caldwell and the mansion. Or . . . he could be stuck fighting whoever had injured Tohr like that.

As the female on the sofa began to cough and sputter, the calculation was done in a split second. The last thing she wanted to do was reach out to her brother, but she couldn't live with herself if her personal problems cost someone their life.

Marissa dialed Havers's cell phone number by heart, and hoped he hadn't changed it. One ring, two rings . . .

“Hello?” came his voice.

“It's me.” Before there was some kind of awkward silence or hello, she said, “We have a medical emergency here at Safe Place. I need you to come right now—or send someone. The Brotherhood's physicians are in surgery and we don't have a lot of time.”

There was a short pause, as if the race's primary healer were switching from a personal track to a professional one. “I shall be there in but a moment. Is it a trauma situation?”

“Yes.” Marissa lowered her voice again. “She's been badly beaten and . . . brutalized. There's a lot of blood. I don't know. . . .”

“I'm bringing a nurse. Are you containing the other residents?”

“Already have.”

“Unlock the front door.”

“I'll meet you at it.”

And that was that.

Guess the universe was determined to have her brother on her radar screen this evening. First that idiot call with the socialite, now . . .

Marissa nodded to Rhym. “Help is on the way.”

Through the eye that was not swollen shut, the injured female seemed to try to focus.

Marissa leaned in and took a bloody hand. “My brother is going to take very good care of you.”

For a split second, she worried whether she should have kept quiet about the fact that a male was going to treat her. But the female didn't seem to be tracking.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, what if she died before he got here?

Marissa crouched down, tucking her blond hair behind her ears. “You're safe, it's going to be all right.” That one eye looped over to her face. “Do you have kin we can call? Is there someone who we can get for you?”

The female's head went back and forth.

“No? Are you sure?” The eye shut. “Can you tell me who did this to you?”

That face turned away.

Shit.

Backing off, Marissa went out to the shallow hall in the front of the house. There were long, thin windows on either side of the door, and she looked out to the lawn. The trees that had been so brilliantly colored just weeks before had molted their spectacular red and gold and yellow leaves, the spindly limbs underneath revealed like the bones of a too-thin dog.

It was impossible not to glance at the mirror next to the door and check to see that her hair was in place, and her makeup was holding up even after a ten-hour day.

Back when she had lived with her brother, she had worn silk gowns and heavy jewels, and had her hair styled up high on her head. Now? She had a pair of Ann Taylor slacks on, a blouse with a stand-up collar, and a pair of Cole Haan driving shoes on her feet because they were comfy. No jewelry other than a tiny gold cross that she wore because Butch's God was important to him and her
hellren
had given her the necklace during his last Christmas season. Oh, and she had a pair of pearl studs in her ears.

In spite of Butch's transition having been
jump-started, and his status as a Brother and a relation of the King, her male remained fundamentally human, everything from his Catholic belief system to his taste in books and movies to his opinions on what he wanted in a “wife,” a product of his upbringing among Homo sapiens.

Touching the gold chain on her neck, she frowned as she had to fight the urge to take the thing off because her brother wouldn't approve of it.

But come on, whether the symbol of her mating was on or off her throat, it wasn't as if that changed anything. In her brother's eyes, she had taken a rat without a tail as a
hellren
, and that fall from grace would never be forgiven.

A split second later, two shadows materialized out of thin air on the sidewalk: one taller and masculine, dressed in a white coat, the other smaller and feminine in a traditional nursing uniform.

As they approached and were illuminated in the security lights, Marissa rubbed her sweaty palms on the seat of her pants. Havers looked exactly the same as he always had, from the bow tie and the horn-rimmed glasses to the dark hair parted on the side and kept in
Mad Men
order.

At the last minute, Marissa switched the cross around to her nape and opened the door. Trying not to sound as if she were nervous, she announced, “She is in the parlor.”

No “Hello, how are you?” or “Hey, have you stopped being a prejudicial asshole?”—but then again, this was a medical emergency, not a social call.

“Marissa,” her brother said, nodding his head and stepping by her. “This is Cannest, my head nurse.”

“My pleasure, I'm sure,” the nurse murmured.

Marissa nodded at the female. “This way.”

Her legs felt stiff as she led them deeper into the modest house with its common furnishings, and for some
absurd reason she pictured herself as a flamingo, her knees facing the wrong way. Meanwhile, all manner of memories boiled under the surface of her conscious mind, only the psychic weight of the tragedy unfolding in the other room keeping a lid on her emotions.