The Siren Series 3: Brandon (A Siren Novel) (6 page)

Brandon

I survey the outside of the apartment building Alicia lives in. It’s typical of domiciles humans live in when they have little money, prospects, or partners.

It causes me a pang of homesickness for my coven and the opulent lifestyle I enjoyed in my fast childhood. I gaze at Alicia, her artificial sleep leaving her pale and still.

I snuff my guilt. I've altered two things. I've taken from a Druid and awakened her. She can no longer live in anonymity in a seedy apartment complex. However, one mess at a time.

I slide out of the cramped car and shut the door softly. I blur around to the other side and open the passenger side before gently extracting Alicia. She stirs but doesn't rouse.

I rummage in her purse for keys
and grab the set with her apartment number engraved in the cheap plastic fob.

Her apartment's on the third floor, and I make short work of the steps, leaving heat on the open cement treads from my supernatural speed. I've never been more glad for the cover of darkness than I am right now.

I get through the door and shoulder it closed.

After setting Alicia on the couch, I throw the bolt and close the drapes. The sliding glass door opens to a small patio that cantilevers over the ground. I take in the height.

It’s short enough for a supernatural to gain entry, but a human wouldn't bother. They're too lazy to be innovative, and lack sufficient strength to try for an illicit entry.

I cover Alicia with a thick blanket of some kind. Bright squares of multi-colored material cover the slightly abrasive surface. I move through the house, taking in everything. I don't bother with lights.

Reflective eyes meet mine, and a cat bounds around a partially closed door.

All black, it sails through the air, and I catch it. Cats generally love vampires. This one is no exception, tipping its head to receive strokes.

I absently walk through the small apartment, cat in arms, while I catalog Alicia's life.

The guts of the apartment look like every other mid-twenties human woman's. She goes to work, parties on the weekend, has one cat, and appears to be a reader. I note that every cheap bookcase is loaded with paperbacks.

I'll have to alert my former coven so Alicia can be picked up by a Druid before her rarity gets pegged by a Faction or possibly a
rogue
. Reapers are clearly sniffing around. If they have Druid blood, they're not so bad. However, it's nearly impossible for me to discern if they possess Druid blood. In the meantime, my home coven would lose a viable breeder. Not acceptable.

A Druid female who could be a breeder is wasted with a male vampire who isn’t Druid enough to breed. The purer blood breeder is a luxury that isn’t deserved by anyone but a male who can breed a potential daywalker. Though the Faction might understand that basic fact, it won't sway them from taking the forbidden fruit of the Druid womb.

I set the cat by an empty bowl. I fill it with cream from the fridge.

The sky lightens above the kitchen window, and the beat of the pure-blood Druid female I left my vampire kiss
for in the first place fades.

Gooseflesh rises across my skin like a tide of chicken skin. Tingling begins in my extremities and ends in a swirling mass of profound fear inside my chest.

Not for me—for
her.

It's alarming in the extreme. While I've been gathering sustenance from another female—though important to the race overall, she's not the one for me—
my
breeder is in danger.

I race past the couch, give the unconscious Alicia a passing glance. She's safe—for now.

I unlock and throw open the door.

I close it behind me with more force than I wanted, satisfied in hearing the automatic latch lock.

I have to find
her
. I know deep down that someone else already has. It doesn't make me feel any better that I'd have been no good to her as weak from need of blood and sex as I was.

She's been taken, and now I'm in the shitty position of chasing clues rather than having her with me.

*

I shadow-skip as much as I dare. Though Druid vampires can technically daywalk, it's tricky as hell. I'm finding that out now. Normally I travel in the night because there's so much less bullshit to deal with.

Like sunlight.

Unfortunately, other supernaturals are cruising around looking for the same things as the rest of us: females.

I pause under a stand of trees, studying yet another apartment complex. My earlier assessment of Alicia’s apartment building wasn't entirely accurate. I thought her domicile was an average cluster of dwellings for cattle with her being a wolf among the sheep. But the one where my breeder lives is appalling in comparison.

Crumbling brick corners form a loose edge to the building. A spider-web of cracked glass makes up an entrance with eight mailboxes, and the cheap 1950s vinyl flooring lifts in the corners.

A depressing little slice of Americana.

My gaze moves to the surrounding commercial buildings. The only one still open is Wu's All Night Long convenience store. I note the debris inside.

Nostrils flaring, I stride to where my nose leads me. Blood litters the street next to gum wrappers, dirt, and shattered glass. I crouch down. Slapping three fingers on the blood, I lift it to my lips and rasp my tongue over the blood. Glass, dirt, and residual asphalt cling, gritty against my tongue.

Male.
My eyes widen in surprise.
Harborer.

I stand swiftly, numb shock momentarily overtaking my protective urge. I slap my palm against my black jeans, wiping off the shit.

She
already has a protector. An ancient one bred specifically to defend the Druid witch.

But he's been wounded.

I scan the amount of blood on the street. Quite badly, if this blood loss is any reflection of his treatment.

I move around the circle of conflict, picking up the bits of information that tell the story. Part detective, part vampire, I allow my senses to show me what happened. The clues to help me divine where my breeder is.

I get down on the ground and roll onto my side, one palm against the harsh asphalt which is still damp from a light sprinkling the night before.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply.

My eyes snap open. I smell her.
She is wounded
. I crawl across the asphalt, dipping my head to better smell.

The Reapers have taken her. The acrid smell of them raises the fine hairs at my nape, though I'm not sure why. They won't kill her, but rape is not without possibility. Or some other unconscious or deliberate harm.

Like Constantine and Kane of the demonic, the Reapers seek the easy pickings of Druid females, or females with the blood of their species. If females weren’t so rare for all the supernaturals, it would be simpler for all.

However, females
are
rare. The Reapers being able to pick up a Druid female in the care of a Harborer indicates an unusual level of finesse. A lone Druid vampire in pursuit of a much-coveted Druid pure-blood female might not be enough.

It'll have to be.

I leap to my feet, brushing off my jeans, and run the short distance to Wu's. The trail leads there.

I slap open the door, and the rest of the glass barely holding inside the door shatters in a sheet behind me.

A man of Asian descent quakes behind the counter.

“No more! We closed!”

He is older and obviously foreign-born. Not that it figures whatsoever into my plans. Like all vampires, I'm single-minded in my pursuit.

“Speak,” I say, folding my arms.

He backs away, and I sigh. Wu, I presume, scoots from behind the gold-and-white speckled laminate countertop and sidles up beside a badly bent metal rack of scattered desserts.

“I say nothing. We closed.” His hands wring, and his earnest brown eyes beseech me to leave.

“I'm not here to hurt you. I'm looking for a woman.” That's so broad a description I almost laugh and check my humor at the last second. “A woman with black hair and blue eyes.” It’s a reasonable guess. I've never heard of a full-blood Druid female of the fairer persuasion without those features. Dark hair, light eyes.

“No woman. Monsters.” He makes a parody of fangs with his index fingers.

A chuckle slips out as I step closer. “Yes—woman.”

He shakes his head.

Fuck it.

My fangs extend.

He bangs into the rack, bending it further as he falls into its crooked cradle of metal.

I blur to him, bend at the waist, and hiss. “Remember. Now,” I enunciate tersely.

“They take her.” He points a shaking finger at the shattered door.

“And?”

A drop of my saliva hangs from my ivory-colored fang tip.

It lands on Wu's forehead, and he screams, high and piteous.

“Three monsters, like—like
you
!” he accuses. “And a man and woman.”

He blubbers.

I ignore him. He means the Reapers, Harborer, and Druid pure-blood female.

I spin, and Wu flinches. He rises, his elbow squishing a soft pink treat.

“What direction did they go?” I ask.

He points toward the north.

“Thank you,” I say. He crawls away mewling but I'm already out the door and heading north.

Toward
her.

Toward certain massacre.

Nova

I groan, turning my head, and it crushes into something soft. What a fucking humdinger of a nightmare. I cuddle inside my covers and every bit of me screams awake to aching.

My eyelids crack open. I'm pretty sure the only spot on my body that doesn't hurt are my toenails.

I move to sit up and stall out. My wrists are bound to a metal headboard.

My chest's tight like an elephant just parked its ass on me.

I move my feet, and they're similarly bound.

It wasn’t a dream.

Reapers. Three. Just like the Musketeers but with fangs and stuff. And things like dicks and irresistible vampire charm. Except for Kellan.

Yeah
.

I sigh and shut my eyes.

Stay put and wait for the two hotties and one asshole to come and do what they will—or try to escape? I’ve never been a fan of the “
stay bound and helpless
” routine.

I opt for escape.

I remember Ren and reach out with my magic. If he's dead, I'll know it.

I get a ping back. Ren's as magical as I am. He'll know what to do. I wonder why they didn't kill him. If he can, he'll be thinking of escape too.

I frown at the feel of his energy though. Something's off.

I lift my head, my neck tight with the effort, and see I'm bound with chains. Good. Metal can be manipulated. These guys haven't done their homework. I also spy a dresser shoved in an unloved corner of whatever room I'm staying in. It’s oak.

Perfect. Oak trees have protective properties, ancient ones. The species can lend me sufficient magic if it’s old enough.

I allow the tendrils of my magic to flow over all the inert parts of the earth in my room. My magic tastes of the oak and finds it weak. It finds the iron ore in the chain and combines the two.

It's enough. Good thing I'm not Fae, or the iron would have weakened me.

It's a good day to be a witch.

The atmosphere in the small, womb-like prison thickens. My power lifts, strengthening the tether of my existence.

I feel the weight of the dust motes, their union with the air I breathe almost indistinguishable.

The chain pulses against my skin, my flesh growing hot where it touches. The dresser creaks in the corner, cracking as I steal its essence to free me from my bonds.

First one chain slides off my ankle, then the second.

Sweat trickles between my breasts as I concentrate with everything I have on my wrists.

My skin hurts as the metal heats, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

Finally, the last cuff sloughs off, and a shaky breath escapes me. I lunge upright, hyper-conscious of my surroundings. I glance at the dresser. Veneer and filler in a small pile are what's left of the dresser. Metal pulls lay in a dull heap of brass on the floor.

Angry whip-like marks mar my wrists and ankles.

But I'm free.

Not yet,
my mind answers.

Shut the fuck up
, I tell it.

I smirk, swinging my legs around to the side of the thin mattress I lie on.

I'm usually grumpy in the morning.

Or when I haven't had enough sleep. Or when I'm hungry.

I think about that. I guess I'm kinda grumpy as a regular thing.

I remember the Twinkie I didn't get to eat and silently simmer. No time to wallow in my bullshit though. The pity party will have to wait. My plan is to find Ren. Then eat.

I stand up, feel lightheaded, and sit back down. I stand more slowly. That's dumb.

I shuffle to the door and give it an experimental pull.

Locked.

Of course.

I drift to the tall, narrow window made of diamond panes in leaded caning that crisscrosses the entire sheet of old glass. Beyond that is an open field with a scattering of sparse evergreens that gradually thicken as they move into the mouth of a deep forest.

My gaze travels to the ground. I'm three stories up, like goddamned Rapunzel or something but without all the hair. Plus, I'm not blonde.

I'm getting grumpier by the second, and Ren's not around to pick on. The vamps will get up when nighttime falls, and they’ll be a big pain to deal with.

Striding to the door, I hit the surface with both palms, letting my depleted magic enter the material. It's a little like pouring creamer over something and covering it. The magic seeks any organic material it can use.

The resounding answer thrums through my fingertips like a divining rod finding an underground river.

My eyes pop open, and I move my fingers over the large metal bolts that are driven in equal distances underneath the arched wood at the top of the eight-foot door. I stand on tiptoe, feeling each hand-forged rivet.

The metal heats beneath my skin.

The wood isn’t oak, but the metal has components of silver in its forging.

Perfect.

They shake then loosen from their house of wood. A four-inch spike with a faceted head falls on the floor with a clatter, and I give an involuntary gasp. I’m so afraid to awaken the Reapers early. I don't want to deal with them if I don't need to.

Another falls. Then another.

When the tenth surrenders, the planks of wood tremble without their fasteners.

I catch the first two boards. The rest fall, and I simply step out into the dim hallway.

Scooping up my last bit of magic, I fling it outward, trying for Ren. The vaguest ripple, like a stone thrown across a lake, comes back to me. I jog toward that small response.

A spiral flagstone staircase claims the end of the hall, and I eat up its length in long, jogging jumps. I leap from one pie-shaped wedge to the next, long hair streaming out behind me.

I get to the last and am met with six doors identical to the one that imprisoned me.

I don't know if I have the energy to free another person. It took everything I had to get out of where they held me and put out a signal that would recognize Ren's energy.

I rush to each door, taking a hasty look through another tall, arched window at the end of the hall.

Dusk threatens.

I place a palm on first one door, then the next. Nothing.

Again nothing.

I hit the third, and I feel Ren like a goose walking over my grave. That's not in a good way.

I try the door and stumble backward as it smoothly pulls outward into the hall.

Oh Goddess.
I cover my mouth when I see the state of him.

Breath wheezes in and out of his broken nose, both of his eyes are swollen shut, and his arm is dislocated.

Those fuckers,
I seethe.

Or one fucker.
I think of Kellan and can totally imagine him pounding on Ren.

Ren's fingers do a little twitching dance, and I rush to him and cover his hand with my own. I hold back tears when I feel his abused flesh is rough against the smoothness of mine.

“Nova,” he rasps.

I choke back a sob and whisper, “You fucking prick, don't you dare die on me.”

A smile breaks the dry line of his lips. “No.” He coughs and it rattles his broken ribs. “I have to stay around,” he pants, “to irritate you.”

The silence is deafening.

“What can I do?” I ask.

He manages to open his eyes to slits. “My weapons?”

I nod and run into the hall. I try each door. Three doors away, I find his weapons hung on a peg-like rack. I snatch them all, staggering under the weight.

I get back into Ren’s room, and he is sitting up.

“Give me”—he winces, grabbing at his side—“the small dagger.”

I pass him the dagger I've often admired. Its breadth is deep and wide, and an embedded piece of turquoise is stranded in the hilt like an unseeing eye. Ren fumbles with the butt of the hilt, unscrewing the solid brass. A small bag with a draw-string top falls onto his lap.

“Bless the bag with healing, Nova.” His eyes meet mine. “Hurry.”

Sunset bleeds into the room like spilt wine.

“Yes.” I wrap my hands around the bag.

The blessing bottoms out my magic. Not a drop left. For anything.

I lift my fingers from the sack, and I’m shaky with exhaustion, hunger, and fear. Ren unties the top and pours something into his mouth.

His head falls to his chest. “Stay with me.”

I would never want to be anywhere else.

I close in around him, holding him tightly. I feel whatever inert material I sanctified with my magic strengthen him as we sit there.

Night continues to encroach. The colors of the sinking sun coat the walls in rust like dried blood.

“Ren,” I say, worried the Reapers will find us when they wake from their tombs.

“Help me up.”

I stand, and Ren takes my hand, about dropping us both. His eyes are no longer mangled but have bruises all around them. His lips are swollen but free of cuts. His shoulder is mended, his body stiff.

He's done what he can.

We turn to go, and a stranger fills the doorway. He’s as silent as the night that threatens. I know he's a supe immediately.

I also know he's
the
Druid male. I'd recognize him anywhere. Tall as the Reapers, he’s built to fill the doorway with his broad shoulders, muscular chest, and trim hips. Gorgeous.

His black gaze levels its smolder on me.

A mixture of relief, resignation, fear and desire moves through my body like an avalanche.

Then he speaks.

“You are mine, breeder.”

Goddess.