Blood Bond

Vlad Dracul sounds like something out of a bad Goth novel even if it is what is going through my head.

Frey glances over his shoulder. “I don’t know. Listen, maybe we should get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

Frey stands up and extends a hand. I take it and get to my feet. “I’m ready but where’s Chael? We should tell him we’re leaving.”

Frey looks over the crowd. “I’ll find him.” Then his eyes focus on my face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. Go.”

“Okay. I won’t be long.”

I turn my back on Steffan and his mysterious guest and watch Frey work his way through the crowd. In a moment he’s lost from view. I try to pick up Chael through mind links, but there are so many conversations going on, it’s like trying to distinguish a single drop in a bucket of water. When I do focus on an exchange, all I get are snippets. Local gossip, some of it about me and my family; who’s been turned recently; who’s met with the second death. I pick up nothing about a take-over plan or a hint of dissension or unhappiness with Steffan.

Of course, we are in Steffan’s house.

Anna?

Damn. Steffan is in my head. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t sense anyone with him but I didn’t sense the creepy stranger before he grabbed my hand, either.

Creepy stranger? Over the centuries I’ve been called a lot of things but I do believe that’s a first.

My shoulders bunch. I know I had shielded my thoughts. How was he able to hear?

Reluctantly, I force myself to turn. Slowly. And find myself staring up into a face that could have been sculpted from granite. Sharp angles at the jaw and chin, high cheekbones, a thin Roman nose that seems a physical trait of every European royal family. Only his eyes are soft. Deep brown with flecks of gold. They give character and compassion to an otherwise stern visage. There is too much steel in his bearing to call him handsome. His hair is too unruly to be stylish; his clothes under the coat not fashionable or couture.

But there is something. He has presence. What the old ones might call gravitas.

Even so, I find myself wondering if this could possibly have been the man who affected me so dramatically a moment or so ago. In spite of it all, standing before me so solemn and serious, he seems— ordinary.

Steffan pulls me back, frowning in concern. “Are you feeling better?”

Shit. It’s the second time I’ve shown weakness and both times it was because of the vampire standing beside Steffan. I drag my eyes to Steffan’s face at the same time the stranger says to him, You may leave us.

Steffan moves off without another word, crossing the floor into the great room and disappearing into the crowd. It’s unnerving.

Then the stranger turns back to me, extends a hand. Vlad Dracul, former prince of Wallachia. Ordinary? First creepy, then ordinary? I must be losing my touch.

Embarrassed, I force myself to take his hand. The smile on his face sends blood rushing to mine. He knows everything I’m thinking—everything I’d been thinking since he approached. It overcomes my sense of astonishment that I am face-to-face with the legend.

As our hands touch, I steel myself for another thunderbolt of sexual heat, determined not to react this time.

Nothing happens. We shake briefly, then both step back. I want to laugh with relief. And he grins. Shit. He’s done it again. Gritting my teeth, I snarl, I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my head.

Sorry, he says. Force of habit.

You can read anyone?

Anyone, anytime.

Is there anyway to turn you off?

Only if I wish it.

Great. How do I get him to wish it?

I doubt you could.

This time my skin flushes with anger instead of embarrassment. I turn away to scan the crowd again for Frey. The sooner we get out of here the better.

He will return in a short while.

The simple pronouncement raises goose bumps on my skin.

Where is Frey? What have you done with him?

He holds up his hands. Nothing. Please don’t alarm yourself. He is with friends. Fellow shifters, in fact. They are having a very pleasant conversation.

But he was coming right back. He is not the kind to be easily distracted.

He taps a finger against his forehead. He has many admirable qualities, but he can be controlled. I’m sure you know that.

The next instant, it’s as if he’s linked directly into my brain and is replaying a scene from the car ride on a screen that only he and I are privy to. It’s the standoff between Frey and Chael.

My temper flares at the intrusion. I don’t control Frey. Chael is a nuisance not worthy of his wrath.

I agree. But all the same, it is because of you he backed down.

No. It’s because he was smart enough to realize the time wasn’t right.

As you wish.

His smugness pushes me over the edge. Is this what you do, Vlad? After hundreds of years on this earth the only way you can get off is playing little mind games? You’re not much better than a common Peeping Tom.

I expect to get some kind of knee-jerk reaction—most likely negative—from a six-hundred-year-old vampire who is obviously used to running the show. So I brace myself. And I play a little mind game of my own. I use his same technique, linking our minds to let him see how I vanquished Lance’s sire—one who purported to be a direct “descendant” of Vlad—months ago here in France.

But there is little reaction.

Just a casual lifting of his shoulders. I do not know this Julian Underwood. Through the centuries there have been many who claim I was their sire. He smiles. It is like your wonderful Woodstock festival—if everyone who says they attended actually did, the numbers would have been staggering.

Then he sobers. But you acted righteously in bringing an end to this vampire. Histories written about my own mortal life portray me as an indiscriminate butcher. Very seldom is it noted that I strengthened my country’s economy, improved life for the peasants, built an army. Sometimes being a leader means doing what no one else is willing to.

I find myself staring. Okay, so I didn’t get the reaction I was expecting but what was the point of this trip down memory lane? What is he trying to tell me?

There is a rustle from the great room, anxious voices, a shuffling of feet. Vlad takes my shoulders and turns me so that I’m facing into the room.

Steffan is being pulled into the center of the floor by three Hulk-like figures. Chains, huge silver links that even Steffan as an old-soul vampire cannot break, bind him. His face is battered and bleeding. Behind him, six more vampires are led in, tied together with the same kind of chains. Their clothes are torn, blood seeping through the ripped fabric.

My breath catches in my throat. What is happening?

But Vlad is no longer by my side. Moving faster than the eye can follow, he has left me to reappear beside Steffan.

And in his hand he holds a sword. A curved blade with a jeweled scabbard. One side of the blade is smooth, the other jagged like the teeth of a shark.