Cast in Blood (Morgan Blackstone Vampires Book 1) (3 page)

The darkness that had been playing around the edges of Morgan’s vision rushed forward. As it pulled her under, she heard Azreal say, “Bring her.”

She is enveloped by numbness, falling, into oblivion.

She drifts to the edge of awareness, shoulders, wrists and elbows aching.

She twists, seeking relief from the painful position.

She drowns in a black sea.

P
AIN
. M
IND
–
NUMBING
, searing, agony shoots through Morgan’s body. It rips the vampire out of the empty sanctuary where her mind has retreated.
 
Darkness surrounds, and sounds are strange, as if someone has filled her ears with cotton.
 
She shakes her head, trying to clear her eyes, to no avail. Panic’s talons slip into the base of her skull, worming their way into her consciousness. She takes a deep breath and the scent of leather fills her nose. Her thoughts are slow, befuddled. When she tries to remember how she’s gotten wherever she is, there is nothing but a blank expanse. She knows she is in trouble and tries to move but something is holding her down. The talons rip deeper into her psyche. She thrashes, but the bindings hold fast. Something cold is clamped over her upper arm, holding it in place. A sharp stabbing pain brings numb oblivion.

H
ER
EYELIDS
DRIFT
open, and bright white light sears her vision. A man, with what she thinks is a kind face, smiles at her. Morgan’s eyes drift closed. She knows that they are no longer moving. She doesn’t feel the slight rocking of the car or hear the crunch of tires on the gravel, and the air is free of exhaust fumes. She can hear two people speaking; one is Azreal and the other, she assumes, is the man with the kind face she saw moments before. Kind face my ass, she thinks. They talk about her; she knows it but can’t seem to connect the missing synapses. Azreal calls the second man ‘Doctor’ and they talk about her reaction to something. Whatever they mean, she doesn’t think it can be good. Morgan’s mind races, sending frantic commands to her limbs, urging flight but there is no response. Her limbs feel as though they’ve been remade with wet clay. The Doctor says something about giving her a few days’ rest to let something clear out of her system before they can begin the real work. As darkness reclaims her, as Morgan hears two sets of footfalls moving away from her.

T
RYING
TO
MAKE
sense of what her situation, Morgan focuses on the last thing she can remember. In her mind she sees the club, as she finished the walk–through. She steps outside herself and watches. Then she steps through the employee exit and turns to lock it. Images flash through her mind in rapid succession: Azreal outside The Dracul, a pair of frozen blue eyes, a silvery spike plunging into her neck, bright light burning the back of her eyelids. A last memory clings to her psyche like a cobweb, a man with a Southern accent, gushing over something that she never caught before the memory ends. There is a soft hiss, as more sterilized air rushes into the room, followed by two sharp footfalls on the hard floor. She remains still, and can feel someone watching her from behind the glass wall. She waits, hoping they’ll get bored and leave her alone.

H
ER
CLOTHES
ARE
in tatters, the sleeves hanging in strips, the bodice is torn in several places, yet she stands defiant, ripped stockings the only thing between the soles of her feet and the frigid floor. She doesn’t know how long she’s been held, but she hasn't seen an opportunity to escape. Her muscles vibrate with the effort of holding herself upright. Morgan wants nothing more than to collapse and rest. The human, the one Azreal called ‘Doctor,’ steps into view and tosses a bundle at her.
 
The fresh, clean clothes fall to the floor at her feet. This is a game they’ve played before, and she isn’t about to give him the satisfaction. At first he’s silent, waiting for her to move. When minutes pass and she remains an unmoving statue, he shakes his head and turns to Alexander.

“S
HE
’
S
ALL
YOURS
.” There is no emotion in the Doctor’s genteel voice, but Alexander’s feral grin speaks volumes. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for what is to come, and knows that fighting will only make things worse.Morgan wakes, curled on her side, shivering on a hard floor that’s a few degrees colder than she is. She rolls onto her back, feeling ceramic tile beneath her flesh. There’s a thin, coarse blanket thrown over her. She clutched the blanket to her chest and shifts to a sitting position, while preserving as much of her modesty as possible. As she looks around, she assesses her surroundings. The first thing visible is the neat stack of clothes sitting a few feet from her. Snatching what turns out to be a set of hospital scrubs from the floor, she shakes them out. She dresses so fast that she rips the neck of the shirt, and pushes herself to her feet, legs unsteady. It feels as though it’s been days since they’ve been put to use. Morgan turns in a slow circle. The air hums with electronic life. Bright overhead lights reflect off three pristine white walls. The fourth is made of glass. She takes a slow deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, sterile air she equates with hospitals. But, all of the sterilization protocols in the world aren’t enough to mask the scent of blood.

Goddess, I’m starving. As soon as her mind wraps itself around the concept, the scent of blood fills her nostrils but there is something wrong with it.

M
ANIC
HIGH
–
PITCHED
laughter echoes through Morgan’s consciousness, she is strapped to a metal table. The heat in her veins gives way to pain as something slices her flesh. Her body begins to heal, but the wound is reopened and something that feels like it’s all sharp edges is shoved into the cut. She bites back the scream, knowing that this is just the beginning. Laughter gives way to soft humming. More cuts are opened, bits of metal left inside, for her flesh to heal around.

S
HE
FLOATS
ON
an ocean of blood and fire, flames licking her back, legs and arms.
 
They curl over her torso in sinuous lines, flicking searing paths over her flesh. In the back of her mind, Morgan wonders if the flames leave marks on her pale skin. With that question chasing its tail in her mind, she slips into the ocean’s black expanse.
 

T
HE
SOFT
RUSTLE
of cloth brings Morgan back to her senses. She feels the sleeve of the scrubs slide up and the doctor’s warm fingers probe the inside of her elbow, while muttering something under his breath. She lies still, waiting for the inevitable; this has become routine. A few moments of poking and prodding then he runs his hand down to hers, tracing the veins. He ties a piece of rubber around her wrist, cutting off circulation. Thousands of needle sharp points of pain spring up. After a few moments, the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol fills her senses and the air on the back of her hand feels like it has dropped several degrees. She relaxes her hand, knowing that if she's tense, it will hurt more. As if drawn by her thoughts, the needle slips into her flesh. The doctor continues talking to himself and removes the tourniquet. The transfusion begins, new blood dripping into her vein. Morgan hears footsteps as the doctor leaves.

F
LAMES
SLITHER
THROUGH
her veins; if someone asked, she could map every capillary from the back of her right hand to any point on her body. The transfused blood flows through them, being drawn ever closer to her heart. There is something different, wrong, about this blood. She can feel it pulsing with a life of its own, a phantom heartbeat. She tries to scream, but all that comes from her ruined vocal chords is a raspy squeak. Heat sears as the blood makes its way into her lungs. She draws in a long, harsh breath hoping that it will dampen the scorching heat. The flames are fanned by the influx of oxygen. They pour out of her lungs in a wave, crashing into her heart. White–hot agony flashes through Morgan’s body. She strains against her bindings.

A voice she knows and trusts assures her that everything will be just fine. The voice promises that the pain will pass, and she will be more powerful than before.
 

As the flames course through her she knows the voice is lying.
 

This will kill her.

T
HE
NIGHT
AIR
was heavy with the promise of rain; Marcus tasted moisture thick on his tongue. Even though he’d lived in New Orleans for several decades, he knew he’d never get used to the city’s weather.
There’s something unnatural about it being almost eighty degrees and the air heavy with rain, at almost three hours past midnight.
Marcus thought, as he stepped out of his nineteen fifty–five Corvette into the night
,
that
rain should come with cold, and wind.
He paused half a block away from where his Blood Daughter, Elizabeth, knelt over the latest victim of what the human authorities were calling a serial killer.
 
Marcus’s hazel eyes scanned the area, his preternatural senses searching for clues that the human authorities would miss. Other than its proximity to the French Quarter, the alley was like any other, a dark corridor cutting through the city. It was
a place to hide, to forget, and be forgotten.
 

Marcus shivered, and reached into the convertible’s interior for his sword cane, his gaze drifted back to Elizabeth and the body. It had been a human female with dark hair, fair skin and ample curves. This victim was dressed in casual business attire, and as he’d expected, there was a strand of pearls nestled at the hollow of her throat. What he didn’t expect was the strange angle of her head, indicating that her neck had been broken. In another break from the killer’s pattern, there were several scrapes and cuts on this woman’s arms.
 

At least this one seemed to put up a fight. Elizabeth doesn’t think this is a human serial killer, and I am inclined to agree.
Marcus frowned and shook his head.
There’s more to this monster than a mere mortal with a taste for savagery.
He closed his eyes and let other heightened senses take over. Despite the distance, he caught the scent of blood drying, metallic, like rust, in his mouth, from
the victim, lifeless.
Deeper than that, was a biting sweet woodsy scent, clinging to something far older.
It’s a vampire, which I expected, but a member of one of the Dynastic lines? I recognize the scent, like it’s in the back of my mind teasing, taunting. Almost as though I should know the vampire it belongs to, but I just can’t place it.
 

Marcus opened his eyes and caught sight of Elizabeth. A slight shift in her weight signaled like the neon on Bourbon Street, that she was going to come check on him. He shook his head a fraction of an inch, and gestured with his right hand, ordering her to stay. Not wanting to let it go, he took another deep breath, but the scent had faded to the point where his vampiric senses couldn’t detect the cologne any longer. Swearing under his breath, Marcus walked to where his Blood Child waited, her milk chocolate eyes studying him.
 

“How long ago?”

“About fifteen minutes. Neighbor heard a scream,” she responded as Marcus knelt beside the corpse.
 

Damn it I always feel like I’m stuffing my hands into sausage casings
, Marcus thought as he pulled latex gloves on. “Eric called you?” He nodded toward the human man pacing the entrance to the alleyway.

“Yeah. We’re on a timetable here Marcus,” she chided as he touched the strand of pearls around the victim’s throat.
 

“He’s playing with them before he kills,” he mused thinking back to the other two victims, the ones he’d seen in grim crime scene photographs. Marcus settled the pearls back on the victim’s neck and rocked back on his heels.
I’m not a trained investigator. I can track Rogue vampires, but this one baffles me.
“There should be more to go on than this. If he’s playing cat and mouse with these women, there should be something of the cat left on the mice.”

“According to Eric, nothing out of the ordinary has been found on the other victims.”

“Then what are we, and the human authorities, missing?” Marcus closed his eyes, letting the careful control he kept on his abilities ease a little.
 

The scream pierced his psyche, a spear point into his temple, sending him staggering backward as he fought to pull his senses back under control. His mind had turned against him, like a slippery eel he couldn’t keep a hold on. Never one to give up, Marcus clung to consciousness by running over the names of every human wife he’d had over the centuries. The litany helped him focus, and after a few moments he was able to bring his abilities back under control. He came back to himself but the feeling remained; a constant tug at the edge of awareness.

“Marcus!” Elizabeth was at his side in an instant. She caught his arm and used it to guide him to a nearby lamppost. “What is it?”

“I heard screaming,” he whispered, half paying attention to what she was saying. The screams in his mind had subsided, replaced by soft, heart–wrenching weeping.