The Bastard (15 page)

The wild blood thinned through the generations until it became no more deadly than freckles or extra long fingers. It was a blip in the genetic makeup that sang to those Awoken from soul-sleep, calling for protection. Like Lacy.

“It took dozens of Vangelus to overcome the Irin.” Shaded with memory, Sela’s voice lilted with the lyrical flair of her creation. “The Holy Seven and the Seraphim Guard worked without rest for months to capture them all. Gabriel built a prison unlike any ever conceived. No pure human blood can survive inside and no mixed blood can cross through the walls. The Irin became the Watchers. They watch over those in their lines through a mystic portal and record every birth and death in the
Eyts Vangelus,
the Tree of Angels.”

“Talk about invasive spyware, that’s just fucked. And not to be Dudley Downer here but what keeps Samael’s chiefs from knocking up some mortal chick and popping out a new Scionim?”

Sela angled her head, those glowing kaleidoscope eyes falling on Dray like fire. “They can’t. The seed of mortal men was too weak to take root into a female Vangelus womb, so only male Vangelus accidently sired offspring. The Creator removed the gift of progeny from male Vangelus to prevent such an abomination from ever occurring again.”

Vike blew out a breath. “Thank Frey for gelding the enemy.”

“No shit. Permanent blanks in the holy meat-rifle.” Dray snorted. “Why don’t we just steal the Eyts-whatever?”

Nomad hurled a pencil at Dray. “Because, you stupid nut pollen, Sela was their jailer. She walks in there and they’ll rip her apart.”

“Enough.” Sela looked down the table, her gaze touching each man before recapping her pen. “We’ve strayed from our goal. As we always have, we do this without help. But having Lacy in our midst places us under certain restrictions. For now, we’ll keep mortal hours. It’ll help keep us fresh when we need to be. It’s late. Go relax, rest your minds. We’ll reconvene at seven a.m.”

A collective grunt of relief echoed. Vike nearly kissed her feet. His ass was numb from the chair and his muscles ached with lethargy. Forsaken were meant to move, to fight and kill, not sit and chew the fat. Sela left first. Nomad and Myth, deeply involved in conversation, trailed her with Omen plodding behind. Vike reached his arms over his head, shoulders popping with the move.

“I’m stiff.”

“I’m sure Lacy won’t mind.” Dray snickered. “Before long, she’ll have us all as pussy whipped as you.”

“I’m not pussy whipped.” He smacked the light switch and caught the amusement on Rex’s face. “What’s your problem?”

“Me? No problem.” Rex pulled the door shut, hiding his grin.

“I’m not pussy whipped!”

“Sure you’re not…Erik.” Rex scoffed then singsonged in falsetto, “Dinner’s ready, Erik. No wet clothes at my table, Erik.”

Dray exploded in laughter. He punched the elevator button and leaned on the wall holding his sides. Sela’s mystical powers prevented any Awoken from Leaping in or out of the sacred subterranean floor, trapping Vike with his teasers.

He growled. “It’s my name and she’s being nice. Sela told me to be charming, remember?”

“Dude, charming has a limit. You went shopping. I bet she has you waxing her legs before the week’s out,” Dray said as he and Rex stepped into the elevator.

Vike grudgingly joined them. “Just doing my job.”

“Tell me one thing.” The Roman didn’t bother to hide his enjoyment. “Does she let you pretend to be a man in bed or do you bend over for her, too?”

Vike jabbed the main floor button. “You go get bent. You’re the bisexual one.”

“Tri-sexual,” Rex corrected smugly. “I’ll try anything if it feels good. But no woman leads me by the balls.”

“I’ll tell Sela you said that.”

The smiles vanished from both faces. “She’s different.”

“She’s not a woman,” Dray barked at the same time.

“Nice backpedal, guys.”

The elevator stopped on the main floor. The common room was spotless. The leather couches gleamed, the tables were clutter free and the floors reflected the light from the freshly dusted overhead lights. A spicy fragrance hung in the air, overshadowing the lighter scents of cleaners and polishes. Myth angled over the counter from the kitchen.

“She made pulled pork. And more biscuits.”

Dray hightailed it for the kitchen. Rex squatted in front of the entertainment center and groaned. “She organized the movies in alphabetic order?
King of Kings
does not belong next to
Kinky’s Sex Arcade
. What the hell was she thinking?”

“She cleaned the bathroom,” Nomad grunted, coming into the room. “There’s a sign over the urinal that says ‘Aim Your Gun. Hit the Target’.”

“Speaking of guns.” Rex pulled a cardboard box from beside the couch. He lifted two handguns from the depths then raised a large survival knife from the depths. “Hey, Mad, she found Rambo.”

He lobbed the knife and one handgun toward Nomad, who caught them without a glance and tucked them into his sweatpants. He threw Vike the Beretta. Vike checked the safety before shoving it in the small of his back.

Rex sighed. “Damn, what the hell do you think went through her head when she found all this?”

“That she’s fucking some dope dealer.” Nomad scratched his stomach, rippling his “Bitchslap for everyone” tee. “You better lie and make it good, Vike. One fuck-up and we’ll have to dust her ass to keep her quiet.”

“Touch her and I’m gutting Omen and strangling you with his intestines.”

The iron-cold barrel of Nomad’s handgun ground against his lips. “How’d you like to deep-throat my Glock?”

Vike shoved the gun away. “Put that fucking thing away before Lacy sees it…again.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he murmured. “Make something up or slit her throat. If you don’t do it, Sela will.”

Vike refused to think about that possibility although he knew it was the truth. Dray carried in a plate heaped high with shredded meat, two rolls and a mound of creamy slaw. Vike snorted at his packed chipmunk-like cheeks. “Good, Dray?”

“Orgasmic. We need to keep her. She knows how to make Memphis sauce.” Dray shoveled in another mouthful and sat at the far end of the couch.

Rex glanced at the time on his phone. “I’m out of here. There’s this dude in Sarajevo who’s like the Billy Mays of hookups. Rub his ass and he’ll throw in a blow job absolutely free.”

“Well, that thought curdled my balls. I’m going to get some barbeque.” Nomad whistled and Omen followed him into the kitchen.

Vike could have just Leaped upstairs, normally did. The limitations on their ability to dematerialize were something he’d learned quickly. In the open air, they could Leap anywhere, across any ocean or landmass. But they couldn’t Leap into a building. Once they were inside, they could Leap from room to room all they liked, but Leaping from inside to outside was impossible.

Unless they were severely injured, they could transport anything up to their own weight. He and Myth jostled between who could help who since they were the biggest. Originally designed to protect mankind from supernatural interference, all it really did now was give the Forsaken some logistic challenges.

Instead, Vike used the quiet of the elevator ride and short walk to soothe his raging adrenaline. His apartment gleamed. Like downstairs, Lacy had worked her magic. The scent of lemon cleaner filled the air. The drapes were open, letting the harvest moon cast her blue-corn glow over the freshly vacuumed carpet.

His eyes lit on the kitchenette, on a teakettle and a toaster, appliances that hadn’t been there this morning. A flowery dishtowel lay beside the sink and a roll of paper towels hung on a new rack. The storage closet on the main floor had always held extra stuff like that, but he’d never felt the urge to grab any for himself. Apparently Lacy had.

He stepped out of his shoes and noticed a small braided rug beside the door. Her worn tennis shoes and the new ones he’d bought for her waited there along with the boots he’d kicked off sometime yesterday. He added his trainers to the neat row. Above them on the wall, his jacket hung on a new coat rack. Normally he just tossed it over the chair. A slow twitch spread into a smile. With just a few additions and a little care, his apartment became a home. Or maybe it was just that she was here.

“Hey, stranger.”

Lacy wore another of his shirts, a button-down sky blue this time, with only a single button below her navel holding it closed. The exposed center valley between her full breasts tugged his gaze down her body. Long trim legs poured from beneath the hem, the tails parted slightly against her creamy thighs yet hiding the most womanly part of her. In her hand, she held the green mug he’d bought. A soft orange flicker behind her suggested she’d lit candles in the bedroom and he could see the edge of the blankets turned back.

Blood rushed south and stiffened his cock, his balls tingling with anticipation. There were no stated rules against having sex with a Scion, or even a Scionim, but he knew it probably wasn’t the best idea. This could never lead anywhere. He didn’t have the luxury of romantic relationships. It could only be purely physical.

He knew it in his head. His body however, was listening to his dick, not his brain. His feet moved, crossing the distance until he was just in front of her. Close enough he could smell her tea, smell her scent, smell the promise that lingered in the air.

“I thought
I
was supposed to seduce
you
, a quest or something.”

She sipped deeply then smiled. “I took a shower using soap and shampoo that didn’t smell like a guy, used a fabulous lotion I normally can’t afford and now I’m drinking a wonderful tea from the perfect mug. No one tried to kill me today. I’d say I’ve been creatively and properly seduced.”

One edge of the shirt collar was bent, tucked under itself. He flicked it straight and let his hand stray to her neck. Beneath his touch, her pulse was racing. “You stole another one of my shirts.”

Her fingers slipped down the shirtfront, skimming her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach before toying with that one lone fastened button. “You didn’t buy me any pajamas. Do you want me to give it back?”

His lids grew heavy, desire clouding his vision until it focused on her fingers, those long lissome digits. “Take it off.”

She set the mug on the dresser then turned, keeping her gaze locked with his over her shoulder. The shirt slid down her arms, down her back, down her legs to pool at her feet. Her long honey-brown hair shimmered in the candlelight with streaks of gold and bronze. The glow lapped at her skin and his tongue grew jealous. The line of her spine led his gaze down to the perfect heart-shape of her ass.

Her skin felt like silk under his palms as he cupped her hips, bringing that ass back to his groin. Nuzzling her hair, he rocked his growing hard-on against her butt. Her head fell back against his shoulders. “Your jeans are rough.”

“I’m rough.” The low words fell off his tongue, carrying secrets and unspoken admissions. He rocked harder, holding her hips and grinding his zipper against her ass. Sound broke from her lips, a sigh or a moan. Whatever it was, it heated his blood. A shudder rippled up her spine and she pushed back against him like a cat in heat.

Heavy, soft breasts filled his palms. Her nipples were hard, but he rolled them, pinching them, drawing them to even stiffer peaks. “Be very, very sure you want this, Lace. If I fuck you, I won’t be gentle. I won’t be sweet.”

“Sweets make my teeth ache.” He squeezed her left breast and she gasped. “You make me ache more.”

He nipped her shoulder, dragged his tongue up her neck, nibbled at her ear. Deep inside him, his long-lost conscience stirred to life. She didn’t know what or who he was, how bad he could be. She was too good for him. “You’ll regret it.”

“Life’s too short for regrets.”

It wasn’t. Life wasn’t short. At least, his wasn’t. His was perhaps far too long. But hers was shorter and her losses so fresh, so utterly complete, that she needed something to cling to. Her hands came back, gripping his hips.

His long-quiet conscience faded beneath the rapid thud of his heart. He was no hero. The only thing he owed her was what her blessed blood demanded, protection. He’d protect her until his last breath, but he took what he wanted, when he wanted it. He wanted her. No force in creation could have stopped him from lowering Lacy to his bed.

A deep moan of anticipation warmed Lacy’s throat. So much had been taken from her the last few days, so much ugliness invaded her life, she was determined to grab on to all the joys left around her. Erik was the one bright spot in the vast stretch of devastation.

Erik covered her with his body, pressing all his wonderful hard parts to her aching soft ones. He was so deliciously heavy and male. His arousal pulsed between her thighs and her nipples drew taut as his hands slid across her breasts, kneading and cupping, pinching each tip until they ached. The bottom curve of his lip was made for her tongue and she slicked along it, tasting his longing as much as her own. He drove deep, claiming every corner of her mouth.

Everything vanished. Nothing existed but him. His shoulders were wide and strong, hard under her palms, but the callused hands that cupped her were tender. Her fingers burrowed into his hair, pulling him closer. Inside her, a warm place turned molten and soft.

“I need you,” she whispered.

Under her jaw, he sucked, his teeth scoring a perfect bite. “You’re going to get all of me, babe. Promise.”

She arched, wanting that promise. The denim strained across his erection and dug into her softest spot. Locking her legs around his waist, she rocked up into him. His purr of pleasure vibrated against her neck. He palmed her ass as her ankles crossed over the small of his back, her hips rolling. “Hurry.”

Sucking one crest deep into his mouth, Erik moaned. Her head swam and she let the current drag her along, getting lost in his taste, his smell, the feel of him pressed close. Wicked swirls of his tongue skated from one nipple to the other. Rubbing herself on the hard length behind his zipper, she poised at the edge of an orgasm, too soon and too short, but she wanted it, wanted him. She wanted no one but the scorching hot hero who kept her safe.