Chapter Eleven
The underground community of Ţărână
The week Charlize was locked away with Breen was one of the strangest of her life.
Following her brief explosion over Breen being a virgin—which she still couldn’t wholly accept; he’d clearly known where all the important parts went and how to put them together expertly—she was too exhausted to deal with anything more. She put herself to bed.
Stripping off her bathrobe and climbing under the covers naked, she gave Breen a challenging stare. “I don’t care if you sleep on your side of the bed, but don’t get any ideas about touching me.”
“I know.”
She supposed he did know. She wasn’t exactly being subtle about how despicable she found him.
He came to stand by his side of the bed, dressed again in what he’d arrived in—his grungy black workout shorts—and stared at her. His bangs were hanging over the right side of his face again, semi-concealing a golden eye, his non-expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. For a woman who came from a life of chaos, his stillness probably should have been comforting. But it wasn’t. She hated it. Maybe because it was so fucking strange.
“What?” she snapped. “I can’t sleep with you staring at me.”
“I’d like to take a shower.”
“I’m sure you would.” He sure as shit needed one. And probably first aid for his battered hands too. “Go ahead. I’m not stopping you.”
He smoothed his lower lip over his upper lip. “I can’t go into the bathroom unless you come with me.”
“I don’t want to take another damned shower.” Certainly not with him, especially not if he thought it was a way to sneak in another round of grabass. Even she didn’t screw a man she was royally pissed at.
“You don’t have to get in with me. You can sit on the toilet seat or something.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Yeah, he didn’t exactly strike her as a kidder. She exhaled a put-out breath.
“You have to be in the same room with me.”
“I’m only out here, Breen.”
He didn’t say anything.
For now, you have to stay constantly at Breen’s side. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She sat up.
The next day, a sack of Breen’s clothes appeared outside her Bruges door, along with breakfast…then lunch…then dinner. They ate together—did everything—without talking.
Breen seemed absolutely fine with her silent treatment and wasn’t that fucking annoying?
The morning of her second day of confinement she passed the Vârcolac culture test, which opened the way for her indoctrination into the community. Toni gave her a cell phone coded to work in both the community and topside, a plastic card for using Ţărână’s “credit” system of money—no actual paper or coin ever changed hands—and a list of security “don’ts” for sending text messages and emails topside. Then…finally! Toni escorted Charlize and Breen from the mansion.
When they came to a turnoff for a place called the Water Cliffs—their objective—Charlize asked to see more of the town before she was put away. They strolled onward, and she encountered more of the charm she’d seen on her first day here while walking to the hospital with Breen and Kimberly. They passed a grocery store, a library, a diner, a clapboard schoolhouse, then finally arrived at the ’burbs, a comfy residential neighborhood constructed of carefully spaced, colorful homes landscaped with real-looking lawns, plants, and flower beds.
At the far end of this residential neighborhood, just before a large fake-grass field and park, there was another pathway, this one blocked off with yellow tape. Toni explained how the town was going to be expanded in that direction, but Ţărână’s engineers needed to conduct some “soundings” first to test the stability of the cave floor before construction could begin.
Beyond the neighborhood, farther along on the main path, Toni went on to say there were more buildings: an older apartment complex, a hair salon, a bowling alley, and even more, but they didn’t explore those. Probably because of Breen. He was getting fidgety and squinty-eyed, even though they hadn’t encountered any men.
Looping back the way they came, the three of them headed down the turnoff for the Water Cliffs, a place that was a—holy shit. It was a water park, with pools and slides and fountains, all decorated in a tropical jungle theme.
God, Ţărână was great! Like that miniature ship inside a glass bottle Charlize had originally imagined, or an angelic snow globe town, this place felt completely outside reality—isolated from all the crap others dished up and she always had to deal with. The farther she toured, the more the tension between her shoulder blades eased. At least some parts of living in Ţărână wouldn’t be so bad.
To the right of the Water Cliffs rose a magnificent, ten-story-high black chrome and glass apartment building, four large, steel balconies stretching the width of each floor. A set of wide stairs led up to the front door, and they climbed these and went inside, crossed a silver-carpeted and mirrored lobby, then rode an elevator up to the fourth floor, where they entered 4D, Breen’s apartment. The place was decorated in a masculine style, but basic stuff—a dark-colored leather couch and two chairs, plus a chunky glass coffee table—nothing overly drenched in testosterone.
Charlize zeroed in on the kitchen, located to the right of the front door and past a small dining room with a gate-legged table in lacquered black, able to seat four or expand to six. The kitchen was open, with a wide countertop that doubled as a bar, four stools set in front. It was a spacious kitchen, good for all kinds of cooking. It would be nice if Charlize’s kitchen—in her own place—was styled the same, although better stocked. Breen only had one frying pan, one saucepan, and one chef’s knife.
Before Toni left, Charlize asked for Marissa’s phone number, then got on the horn right away to her friend to borrow some kitchen supplies. Charlize still had five days left of her sentence with Breen, and the hell if she was going to spend them with her thumb up her ass, nothing better to do than listen to Breen’s silence.
She spent the first day in his apartment stocking up on cookware and food, then the next day she started inventing new recipes for when she would chef at Marissa’s Restaurant. Since she needed a taster, she did, in fact, feed the enemy.
Breen seemed to like everything she set in front of him—seemed because she didn’t get much more out of him than an eyebrow flicker, a twitch of the lips, or a flash of extra brightness in his eyes. Those appeared to be his high-dollar emotions.
He dressed the same way every day, in a pair of cargo shorts that reached down to his knees, black Converse sneakers, and a T-shirt with some sort of rock band on it. While she cooked and futzed around, he spent their confinement working out with weights, playing video games, and doing other mundane stuff that never took him very far from her, although his need to be near her bettered. The day she was able to pee by herself was a day to celebrate with high kicks and splits, or maybe dance around singing Flo Rida’s “Good Feeling.”
He didn’t talk to her unless she spoke to him, and he never touched her.
Except once.
Four days into her imprisonment, she woke in the middle of the night to find him sucking blood from her wrist…oh, yeah, that was called “feeding.” She thought she’d been having a wet dream—the onset of an orgasm was what woke her—but it was actually Breen’s fiinţă elixir giving her pleasure.
When he was done, he gently laid her hand on her stomach, then turned over and fell asleep.
She stared at the back of his head, breathing roughly, teeth clenched against the unsatisfied throb in her labia. Seeing as she was no longer royally pissed at him—it was difficult to stay mad at a man who did so little to provoke her—sex was back on the table. He was a tasty snack in his own right, wasn’t he? But when she reached out to him, her fingers shook, and she pulled her hand back. She rolled onto her spine and stared at the ceiling for half the night.
What was this place doing to her?
At the end of this strangest week ever, she and Breen were called into Toni’s office on the first floor of the hospital at the end of a long hall. The office was expansive and bright, and decorated with large, solid-looking furniture of blond wood: a grouping of couch, chairs, coffee table, and sideboard to the right of the door, a large desk to the left. Plus, straight across from the main entrance, was a frosted glass door which led to what appeared to be a garden—difficult to tell for sure through frosted glass.
Breen and Charlize sat in two chairs in front of Toni’s imposing desk.
Donree, the dark-haired note-taker from court—apparently, primarily Toni’s assistant—offered them coffee. They both declined.
Charlize was in no mood to dawdle since freedom was now within her grasp. The hot topic of today’s meeting had better be about her moving out. She couldn’t get away from Breen fast enough. She’d lost some of her edge since being stuck with him—when did she not jump a guy’s shit and fuck him if she wanted to? “So I can leave Breen’s apartment now, right, and move into my own place?” So, okay, she might be feeling a tad impatient. “The bonding week is over?”
Breen shifted in his chair.
Charlize didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to; she knew what she’d see. Nothing. He would be blank-faced, as usual. He was the oddest man ever.
Toni slowly sipped coffee from a mug with a big daisy painted on it. “I know you and Breen have had an unconventional beginning to your relationship—and I have no idea how far you two managed to come over the last week—but if you live together as man and wife, you can both work toward achieving some kind of intimacy.”
Charlize clenched her hands in her lap, even though she’d figured this was coming. She understood from both Toni and the manual—which she’d read front to back, thank you—that in Vârcolac land, being bonded meant being married.
But, intimacy. The word itself was a punch. The concept was a cancerous tumor. Or maybe it was a joke, because she had the strange urge to laugh. Even if she wanted intimacy—hah!—trying to achieve it with a man who showed about as much emotion as a kabocha squash would be like trying to wedge her entire fist into her mouth: not worth the pain and effort for something that would end up being all for show, anyway. Not anything deep or meaningful, because such things never were.
A boyfriend—or husband or mate or whatever—inevitably did some kind of man thing to ruin it. She didn’t have personal proof of this. She’d never had a long-term boyfriend of her own. But she’d seen enough romantic relationships bust apart—and all the reasons why—not to let herself be stupid enough to try one.
Dev and Marissa might have pulled it off. Charlize remembered her first day here, in court, when Marissa and her husband exchanged a look of such deep love. But Charlize was no Marissa, so settled and sure of what she wanted. And Breen the Weird-o Drone was no Dev Nichita, Harley-riding stud, dedicated husband, and clearly a doting father to his little daughter. Dev had probably delivered on every promise he ever made…until the day he wouldn’t.
“A week ago,” Charlize reminded tightly, “you mentioned ‘options for the future.’ I assumed you meant there were more than one.”
Toni sat back. “The other option is for you to act as no more than Breen’s blood donor. You and he would reside apart, live separate lives, and when it came to feedings, he could take blood from you when he required it, but only from your wrist. There would be no intimate contact between you whatsoever.”
She jumped on it—no intimacy, perfect. There was more than one man out in town to be her fuck buddy. “I choose option two.”
Toni paused. She took a sip of coffee. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Charlize said the word with firm resolve, and so didn’t understand why a pit opened up inside her as she watched Toni stand, stride over to a file cabinet, and pull out a key.
“Okay, this is to apartment 4B.” Toni handed the key to Charlize. “You can room with Hadley Wickstrum.” Toni sat. “On another matter, off topic, one of your outgoing emails was flagged by security.” She picked up a piece of paper from her desk. “You responded to your mother using the term underground community. You can’t—”
“Waitaminute,” Charlize cut in, heat seeping into her scalp. “You read my private email?”
Toni set the paper down. “It wasn’t our intention to invade your privacy, Charlize. This community just has certain security parameters regarding emails and texts. Eventually the guidelines will become second nature to you, but until then, I recommend that before you send any messages, you double-check the list of security ‘don’ts’ I gave you.”
Charlize squeezed her crossed legs together. Toni had to have read the contents of her email.
And sure enough—
Toni’s expression softened. “Please know that the community is ultimately here to support you. Is there anything we can do to help your mother? I can send Kimberly up to—”
“No,” Charlize hurried in, “thank you. My mother’s just in the drunk tank again.” To her horror, tears welled. She stood abruptly. “May I go now?”
Toni took a moment to search Charlize’s face. “Of course.”
Charlize whirled around, clutching her new apartment key to her chest, the endless pit inside her widening, supports falling away as she rushed out, leaving Breen sitting silently, head bowed, behind.
* * *
Breen set a course for Garwald’s Pub, the soles of his shoes scuffing the cave floor as he stumped along. He couldn’t seem to pick up his feet all the way. He also wasn’t sure if he was really on board with the idea of getting drunk at Garwald’s—he generally didn’t do that sort of thing. His mind just seemed to be stuck in unthinking, mechanical lockstep with his feet, going wherever he needed to go for a break from all the fuck that’d just happened in Toni’s office.
What better place to check out than at the bottom of some nameless bottle of—?
His lower thigh vibrated.
He stopped and reached into one of the bottom pockets of his cargo pants, digging out his cell phone. He checked the screen.
Dev wanted to see him in the gym right away.
Breen stuffed his phone away, this time into a regular pocket, and kept his hand in there with it. He re-directed toward the mansion. Self-immolation sounded better than working out right now, but at least exercise wouldn’t lead to a hangover.
Breen entered the gym and found Dev right inside, restocking the cubbies. There were about twenty-five of them built into the wall just to the left of the gym door. Some cubbies were filled with athletic gear and extra clothing, others were left empty so people could store stuff there while they worked out.
“Hey, Dalakis.” Dev tossed in a last roll of white athletic tape. “How you doing with your first day back in town? You still twitchy at all?” Dev was asking if Breen still felt aggressive toward males. Some newly-bonded Vârcolac took longer than the seven days of The Change to let go of this urge completely.
He shook his head. His belly was just warped so far out of shape, it was difficult not to upchuck whenever he moved.
Dev leaned a palm on the edge of one of the cubbies. “How did your meeting with Toni go?”
Bile churned at the base of Breen’s throat. He burrowed his hands deeper into his pockets. His fingernails were about to gouge through the seams. “You know…”
Dev’s brows went up. Clearly he didn’t know.
“Charlize is going to share an apartment with Hadley.”
“Yeah? How’s that going to work between you two?”
Breen shrugged, his hands still in his pockets. “She’s going to be my blood donor.”
“Really?” Dev paused. “That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Stupid of him to have assumed it could’ve been more. He’d just… hell, he thought he and Charlize had come to some sort of peace accord over the last week together. So when she outright refused to give their relationship even a shot, he actually let himself be surprised. What harm could there have been in trying?
“Sorry, Breen.” Dev exhaled. “We were all hoping for a better result.”
“Yeah.” Me, too. He didn’t say anything more about it, though. He was never sure about how to put words to what was going on inside him. Not that Dev was Dr. Phil, anyway.
“She probably just needs to figure some shit out,” Dev said. “Give her time. She’ll come around.”
Breen nodded. It was good advice, and Dev always seemed to have it to dole out. Dev and Breen weren’t super tight—Dev tended to hang out with his Spec Ops teammates and Breen with his gamer buddies—but there weren’t many men Breen respected more.
“Anyway.” Dev straightened off the cubby. “Main reason I called you here is to promote you to the Special Operations Topside Team, if you’re interested.”
Breen shifted his eyebrows up. This was a blower. The Special Ops Topside Team was the community’s elite, four-man security unit who dealt with problems topside.
These days that almost exclusively concerned the shit stirred up by Videon, a half-Rău, half-Fey psychopath who used to be controlled by Toni’s long-lost father, Raymond Parthen, but not anymore. About three years ago Videon went rogue, and now he wasn’t under anyone’s control but his own. And considering what a demented fuck he was, that was a very bad thing. Worse, Videon had amassed a considerable force several years ago by using something called an “un-protection ritual” to steal power in the form of special warrior souls from particular Irishmen. Videon transplanted the power to his own men via amulets, leaving those poor Irish guys dead.
No one had ever figured out how Videon performed the ritual. He would’ve needed an active enchantment skill to pull it off, and the only way he could have switched on his Fey side was by getting loaded up with a couple shots of fiinţă. And no way had a Vârcolac female bitten that sadist. But he had managed it, ultimately stealing seven souls before he was stopped.
Now Videon and his group of amulet-wearing thugs were using their stolen power in some very pervy ways. Latest was that Videon had created a playland for California’s depraved, offering up some pretty sick illegal activities: gambling, drugs, cockfights and other forms of animal torture, etcetera—and the worst, a rape club, where degenerate men paid exorbitant prices for the revolting pleasure of forcing themselves on an assortment of unfortunate women.
The Spec Ops Topside Team’s primary goal was to put a stop to it, but whatever Otherworldly power Videon and his thugs were wielding blocked the Vârcolac warriors. Somehow Videon had been able to wrap the buildings housing his perverse activities in an invisible, impenetrable bubble. The best Dev’s team had been able to do so far was save some women before they were kidnapped for the rape club.
Breen was all about ridding the world of Videon and his scumbag friends, but since when was he thought of as an “elite” warrior?
“Why me?” he asked.
The question made Dev smile. “You’re a great fighter, Dalakis, and you keep your cool when the shit hits. I haven’t used you before because you couldn’t handle all the scents up top. But you’re a bonded male now, so it’s no longer an issue.”
“What about Sedge or Nyko?” Both those warriors had worked Spec Ops in the past. “I don’t want to bump either of them.”
Dev shook his head. “Sedge has two kids at home and a wife who works full-time. He only wants homeguard shifts. And Nyko sticks out too much topside, so he’s not right for this team. You fit my requirements, Dalakis, and I need a solid fourth member.” Dev crossed his arms. “So you in?”
There wasn’t a lot to think about, really. Nothing much exciting happened in Ţărână these days, not since the truce of Războiul Jertfei de Sânge. The occasional rowdy and delinquent Om Rău sneaked through the neutral zone into Stânga Town to carouse and party and required rousting, and there were the usual town squabbles, but otherwise, it was pretty boring. And right now Breen needed a distraction.
“I’m in.”