TEN
Rune inwardly cursed. A vampire had drunk from his flesh, taking his blood—and possibly his memories.
After all these years of protecting the secrets of the Møriør, he’d allowed a security breach.
Of epic proportions.
Eliminating the breach was the only alternative. He knew this, and yet he hesitated, his desires warring with his duties. Josephine had given him the most blistering pleasure he’d ever experienced.
She’d somehow tolerated his poisoned blood. It had pleasured them both, and nourished her.
Naturally he wanted to investigate this, at least until he’d tired of her—or discovered another who could drink him. If one such creature existed . . .
It only took seven thousand years to find this one, baneblood.
And even if he came across another, no such female could trump Josephine’s attractiveness. Right now, he had trouble coming up with any female who could.
No matter what, beheading this woman seemed such a waste. His hand paused at his blade. “Do you dream the memories of those you drink?” Maybe she didn’t possess that ability; some vampires didn’t.
“I’ve definitely never done that.”
He was tempted to believe her. “You’re not a cosaş? A reader of bloodborne memories?”
“No.”
Natural-born vampires were incapable of lying. When attempting to voice a falsehood, they experienced severe pain.
Of course, in the world of the immortals, every rule had an exception.
Perhaps he should force Josephine back to his lair and monitor her. In addition to his opulent rooms at Perdishian Castle, he had a second home in the realm of Tortua. The outer walls were warded, escape-proofed.
He would keep her for a while, making certain she posed no threat.
Yet what if a cosaş drank her, then what would happen? Though unable to read memories, she still could have harvested them.
Rune could never let her go free into the worlds. A permanent female capture? In his private sanctuary?
Unless he disposed of her.
Damn it, he didn’t have time for this! His dick had led him straight into trouble, and he was no closer to killing Nïx.
He would secure the vampire, debate his options, then return to search for his target until sunrise.
He looped his arm around Josephine, crushing her against him. “I’m going to imprison you, female. Regrettably for both of us, you’ll remain my captive for the rest of your life, however short a time that might be. The longer you keep me interested, the longer you’ll live.”
She thrashed against him. “Let me go, freak!”
He sighed with irritation. “I’m far too powerful for you to break free. Not even a millennia-old demon can trace from my hold.” A proven fact.
“Trace?”
“Don’t play ignorant, little girl.”
Her widened eyes narrowed to slits. “Little girl? I’ve never been a little girl.”
When she stilled, his irritation turned to bafflement, because she began dematerializing—like tracing, but slower. “Impossible.” Somehow she was evading his viselike grip.
Face gone even paler, eyes even darker, she smirked at his disbelief.
He’d never known a vampire who could control their tracing to this degree.
“I’m more powerful than I look, little boy,” she purred. “I’ll remember you planned to imprison me—at best—and gut me at worst. Guard your back, because I’ll be watching you.” Then she disappeared.
Jo had heard of coffee dates gone wrong, but seriously? What a prick!
After ghosting from his hold, she’d gone fully invisible, settling into the opposite wall of the courtyard.
She meant what she’d said; she intended to monitor his every move. Tonight she would discover more about his world.
About my world.
This dude was old—holy shit, was he old!—so he would have answers.
Already she’d learned she was a vampire, and there were others. Dark fey and nymphs and demons existed.
On an abomination scale, a mortal turned vampire would have to be better than a demon, right? Hey, Thaddie, I’m a vampire, but luckily—phew—not a demon.
Again she wondered if she would live to be thousands of years old. The thought depressed her.
Rune spun in place, his face a mask of rage. He bit out words in that weird language he’d used earlier, then adjusted his bow over his shoulder. He gazed up at the sky, as if to gauge time, then started away.
To find me.
She followed, ghosting from one lamppost to another. . . .
For hours, she watched as he checked every backstreet, pausing, and then seeming to track down stray scents. They’d gone far afield from the Quarter but were almost back at the courtyard where this night had started.
At one point, he’d launched his fist into the brick wall of an abandoned building. The force hurtled the two-story structure onto its side, as if he’d knocked it off its feet. Without a look back, he’d stormed away, his hand unharmed, his strength unbelievable.
Studying Rune raised even more questions. Was it this important to imprison her? Were his memories that valuable? And for that matter, could she dream them as a cosaş?
She never had. But then, she’d never taken blood “straight from the flesh.”
Now she only wanted to do it again! To have skin closing around her aching fangs. To feel muscles working beneath her claws as she secured her prey.
From her spot in a lamppost, she noticed a handsome blond stumbling along the street with his friends, each wearing a graduation cap. They were trashed, and their shirts all read the same thing, but she couldn’t decipher the words.
Maybe they were graduating from Tulane. Since arriving in New Orleans, she’d often visited the campus. She’d watched students reading, as if that talent was no big deal.
The blond tripped over his own feet, and his hand shot out to the lamppost she occupied. His attractive fingers grasped it right above her tits. Well, hello there.
His skin was smooth, his teeth white. What would it be like to drink him? Would she gain memories of college parties and classes?
She tapped her tongue to a fang, but it remained dormant. Her heart sank. She could not imagine drinking this male. Nor any of his friends.
Besides, even in ghost form she could smell the Axe.
She sighed. She tried to tell herself she was full. If she got hungry enough . . . But she knew the truth: nothing could compare to Rune’s black blood. How could she ever go back to the bags in her refrigerator?
Rune, that bastard, had ruined her. Rune was ruin.
How fitting. It’d be his new name. She hissed in his direction, making the blond jerk back.
In drunkenish, he said, “Dihyaguyz hearat? Pose histat me.” With shrugs, they lurched on.
Closing in on the courtyard, Rune scrubbed a hand over his face, seeming to curse the rising sun.