Blood Kiss (31 page)

W
hen Craeg finally stilled, Paradise slumped back against the sink, and though the faucet cut into her spine, and the mirror was hard against her head, she didn't care. She was floating, coasting . . . at least until she looked down her body and saw, at the apex of her spread thighs, that his hips were pressed in tight, a part of him buried deep inside of her.

Heaven.

Too bad he looked worried—as if he thought maybe she'd fainted because he'd hurt her or something.

She wanted to reassure him, tell him that it was amazing—but her mind was too blown to let her speak coherently, so she put everything into the smile she gave him.

“God . . .” he whispered. “You're so beautiful right now.”

Forcing herself to focus, she murmured, “I'm glad we did that. When can we do it again?”

“Tomorrow night. But you're going to be stiff. It's only natural.”

“I'm staying the day at the training center.”

His brows popped. “You are?”

“I had plans to seduce you.”

“Well, far be it from me to get in the way of a goal of yours.”

As he bent down and kissed her, she felt a momentary pang as she realized he'd done this with other females, maybe even taken them for the first time, too—which explained why he'd been so good at it. But no, those thoughts weren't welcome in this space.

This was just them. Nothing else was allowed.

“How about we do it again right now?” she said, moving her hips so that her sex stroked his.

“Paradise . . . are you sure you're okay?”

She moaned a
yeeeeeeeeeeeees
in response, and then propped her hands against the sink and used what little play she had in her body to get some momentum going between them again.

What you know, it worked.

In the blink of an eye, she was off the sink and up against Craeg's body, her legs around his hips, her arms linked over his heavy shoulders, her ankles twisted behind his ass.

With a rough grip, his hands moved her up and down on his arousal, faster and harder than the first time. To help him out, not that he wasn't doing just fine, she worked with him, doubling up on the force.

More orgasms, this time over and over again, her hair flopping in both their faces, a dark scent of spices roaring from his body, the pleasure mixing their souls in a way that felt permanent.

When they finally stopped, she collapsed onto his torso, limp as a rag, hot as an oven, dizzy as if she had run for a million miles.

And that was when her phone rang.

As the electronic chiming emanated from out of the pocket of her jacket, she brought her head up. “You've got to be kidding me.”

Letting whoever it was go into voice mail, she refocused and smiled at Craeg. God, she loved it when their faces were this close, when she could see each individual lash and the bump in his nose, and the shadow of his beard that was already growing in.

“Hi,” she whispered.

For once, his lips actually returned the favor—and there was an endearing shyness to him as he grinned.

Reaching up to his face, she whispered, “This is how I will always remember you.”

In the back of her mind, she thought . . . holy
weirdness. Why was she good-byeing him? This was just the beginning—

Her phone started ringing again.

“I'm sorry,” she said, frowning. “I hope there's nothing wrong.”

Twisting around so she could get into her pocket, she was acutely aware that they were still joined. And when she saw the screen, she cursed.

“Really, Peyton,” she muttered as she shoved the phone back where it had been. “He must know we're back here. He loves harassing people.”

“Guess he's finally shown up, huh.”

“You know he's like a brother to me. You really, totally know that, right?”

“Yeah. Actually, I do.”

As her cell started ringing for a third time, she gritted her teeth. “My really, totally annoying brother.”

“Answer it so he'll stop.” Craeg rolled his hips and made her moan. “I'm going nowhere.”

Hitting the accept circle, she whipped the thing up to her ear. “Will you cut this out—”

“Parry . . . ?”

The instant she heard his voice, she frowned. In all the time she had known him, he'd never sounded like that. Lost . . . like a little boy.

“Peyton? What's wrong?”

“Something very bad has happened, Parry. There's blood . . . everywhere. . . .”

“What?”
She pushed back and Craeg put her down immediately. “Peyton! Where are you?”

“I'm at my cousin's . . . my cousin . . . the one who was supposed to be gone. . . .”

Paradise locked eyes with Craeg. “Peyton, Craeg and I are on the way—but where are you?”

When he stammered out an address, she repeated it, and then thrust the phone at Craeg. “I have to clean up, you stay on the phone with him—do
not
let him hang up.”

•   •   •

Ten minutes later, Craeg was walking into a fancy human apartment building with a dark green awning, a marble lobby, and a doorman wearing a uniform that was the same color as that overhang outside.

While he hesitated and expected to get kicked out or be asked to submit to a cavity search before he stepped off the welcome mat, Paradise walked right over to the desk.

“Hello,” she said in a perfectly calm and reasonable tone. “My friend Peyton came to see Ashley Murray, and he's asked us to join them.”

“I'll just call up then,” the man replied, reaching for the phone. “Hello? Yes, it's the front desk. Are you—great. I'll send them up.” The guard nodded to the elevators. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you so much,” she said smoothly, and held her hand out.

At first, Craeg couldn't figure out what she was doing that for—and then he realized he hadn't moved from where he'd stopped just inside the revolving door.

Hustling over, he ignored the guard and kept his head down—because a beautiful young female was one thing, but he was very aware that he was five times her size and more likely to be viewed with suspicion. They made it into the elevator, however, and then they were getting off on some high-up floor.

The first thing they saw down the long, beige hallway was Peyton at the far end, sitting on the carpet, cradling his phone in his palms.

The scent of blood in the air was thick to Craeg's
nose, but probably wouldn't have been noticed by a human.

Paradise rushed over and knelt beside the guy. “Peyton?”

He didn't look at her until she touched him on the shoulder—and oh, God, his face was pale as chalk and his eyes were too wide. “It's bad.”

“Is she . . . in there?”

“No. But the bedroom . . . God, the bedroom.”

Craeg left her with her friend and pushed the door open. Instantly, the death scent grew stronger—and became ever more intense as he walked into an open room with wall-to-wall white carpeting, a white couch, and a wall of windows that, given a lack of heavy drapes, should have precluded a vampire from residing in the space.

Cold, it was very cold. And there was a stiff breeze shooting through the place.

Glancing to the right, there was nothing of note in the open galley kitchen, no mess, everything put away, a bowl of fresh-looking fruit—no, the apples were plastic, scratch that.

A hallway led off straight ahead, and there was a single light glowing down at the end. Zeroing in on it, he proceeded across the fine-napped runner.

Turning the corner, he stopped in the doorway. Across the way, a queen-size bed was stained with so much red, it was as if paint had been splashed across its white duvet and sheets and pillows and headboard.

There was some more on the floor, marking a path that went over to . . .

The sliding glass door that led out to some kind of terrace had been left open—and as the filmy white drapes wafted in the gusts, bloody handprints on the glass and the jamb were exposed and then covered, exposed and then covered.

Pivoting back to the bed, he noted the drugs on the side tables: syringes, spoons, little nubs of tinfoil. There
were no condoms. No weapons. Also nothing personal—no photographs, mementos, clutter. This was a place to fuck and do drugs and get gone before the morning. But it was expensive.

“Oh, my God . . .”

At the sound of Paradise's voice, he looked over his shoulder. “You're not going to want to come in here.”

She entered anyway, and he couldn't say he was surprised.

“Where's Peyton?” he asked.

“Right here,” came a dull voice from the doorway.

As the three of them stood together, he was pretty damn sure they were thinking the same thing: nobody survived something like this. Nobody.

“I need to call my father,” Paradise said roughly. “This is far beyond what we should be dealing with.”

Craeg shook his head as she got out her phone. “No, we need to call the Brothers.”

Peyton interjected, “That's why she's phoning her dad.”

As Paradise put the cell up to her ear and paced around, Craeg frowned. “What?”

Peyton shrugged. “Her father is First Adviser to the King. It's the right thing to do.”

At first, the words failed to translate, the string of nouns and verbs and other shit going in one ear and out the other. But then he replayed them a couple of times . . . and felt the oddest chill go over his entire body, from eyebrow to ankle. His heart kicked in his chest. Stopped. Resumed at a bad pace.

Craeg shifted his eyes back to Paradise and listened from a great distance as she started talking urgently. He'd never particularly focused on her accent before, because he'd always been so distracted by his attraction to her. But now, the cadence, the tone, the inflection . . . it was just like Peyton's. And not because she'd assumed the lilt like some sort of poser.

In a dull voice, he said, “She isn't just the receptionist at that house, is she.”

•   •   •

When Butch's phone started going off against his side, he was prepared to let the shit go into voice mail—he was in a sex club trying to get some clues to a murder for godsake. But when the damn thing kept going off, he took it out and answered.

And was not able to hear Vishous at all over the techno music. “What? Hello?”

After the connection was cut, a text from the Brother solved the confusion. The message was short and to the point, nothing but an address in the good part of downtown, the number 18, and a time duration:
5 mins
.

It was the code they used for when they were fighting and in trouble.

“We've got to go,” he said aloud. Turning to Marissa, he took her arm and spoke more loudly. “We've got to leave. Now.”

“What?” She came in tight against him. “But there's more up ahead?”

When he just shook his head and met her eyes, she stopped arguing. “Yo, Axe,” he called out. “We need to bounce. You good?”

The guy came over. “I thought you wanted to go through everything.”

“Later. See you at the training center.”

The actual departure took a fuck of a lot longer than five minutes, as the process of weeding through the various sex stations and themed rooms was like trying to find your way out of 50 Shades of garden maze. As soon as they were out into the chilly, clear air, and away from the earshot of the bouncers and the line, Butch said, “I've got slayer business—”

His phone rang again, and he answered it. “V, I'm on my way, just leaving Marissa—”

The Brother was short, to the point, and very succinct,
and as the call was ended, Butch lowered the phone slowly and stared at Marissa. “I think you'd better come, too.”

“What is it?”

“We might have found out who the dead female is.”

Minutes later, he pulled his Lexus up to the front entry of a posh high-rise apartment building that was a mere block from the Commodore. One mental scrub job on a human and an elevator ride later, and they were marching down a hallway that smelled like death. V was waiting for them.

And the brother recoiled as soon as he saw them. “What the hell? And P.S., you both look hot as fuck.”

Butch tore off his mask. “I can smell the blood from out here.”

Lifting her hands to remove her own mask, Marissa recoiled. “Oh, God . . . it's her. That's her scent.”

V led them through an anonymous apartment to an essentially empty bedroom that reminded him of his years with the CPD. And shit, Butch's first impulse was to put himself between his mate and all the signs of a violent murder. But no more. It killed him to have her exposed to any of this, but she was right. She had to be here.

With her spine straight and her eyes clear, she went over to the bed—and fuck him, the image of her standing with her back to him as she stared at the blood-soaked duvet and pillows was going to give him a whole new category of nightmares.

Cursing, he glanced at Paradise, who was standing next to Peyton, and then he sized up Craeg, who was farther off in the corner. Finally, he assessed the scene, taking note of everything that was and was not in the room.

“Who got here first?” he asked.

Peyton lifted his hand. “I did. My cousin Allishon used this place to . . . well, you know. She leases it under a human name. I called her cell phone a couple of times
to get her to come out with us—her parents had told my parents that she'd been out of touch for, like, a couple of nights, maybe a week, but that wasn't all that unusual. When I didn't hear back, I figured I'd stop by here, because she was probably partying hard. I came in through the terrace, because that's how I usually do—and yeah.”

“Was that slider unlocked?” Butch asked as he lifted the billowing drapes and inspected a bloody handprint on the handle.