Damn Synjon Wise for his trickery, his treachery. What was his reasoning for this? Why not keep him in Erion’s dungeon? Why not just kill him outright?
An owl screeched overhead as Cruen walked toward the mouth of the cave. If he could just sit for a moment, find and collect his breath, save his strength. He wondered if Feeyan and the Order were ignoring him, his call. After all, they were a new, modern bunch now, and he had abandoned them for greater things. His self-serving agenda was common knowledge. And yet, even as he worked out the thought, he felt their almighty hand reaching for him, their strong and faithful energy wrap around him and pull. A weightless sensation moved through him as the Hollow of Shadows grew smaller and further away, while in his mind anger flared with the knowledge that even if he’d wanted to, there was no turning back. Feeyan had the power now. She was great. She was the leader of the Order.
And he was only a shell of the paven he used to be.
An even deeper, more bitter cold assaulted him as his feet hit compacted snow. At first Cruen was confused. Had the Order changed their reality—his reality—from sand to snow? Then, as Feeyan appeared at his side, tall and imperious, and the clouds parted before him to reveal several glorious white-capped mountains, he knew where he was and why.
“It is good of you to call, Cruen,” Feeyan said, her eyes matching the snow that surrounded them, while her expression mirrored the cold. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
He matched her crisp tone. “I was hoping for an audience with the Order.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I am the Order.”
It was like looking at himself only a few years ago. Ambitious, arrogant, secretive. He quite admired her in that moment. “So I’m to have a private audience?”
“I think it best to start there,” she said, studying him. “Don’t you?”
Cruen hesitated, handpicking every word that was to come out of his mouth. His successor was a complex veana. Not unlike him, she went beyond the boundaries of the Order to further her agenda, seek power and alliances. He had counted on standing before the group of ten and stating his case, his concerns. Now, with just their leader, perhaps he needed to play this game a little differently.
“We have a problem,” he began, the cold invading his bones, looking to weaken them further.
“We?” she repeated disdainfully.
“The Eternal Breed,” he said evenly, forcing calm, coolness into his expression. “I come to you as a concerned Pureblood.”
Her brows drew together in surprise, interest even. A small victory that gave Cruen the minute shot of mental adrenaline he needed to get attention, and action, for this lie he had conjured.
“A Pureblood looking for assistance,” he added.
Her mouth curved into a dangerous, disbelieving smile. “Since when do you need the Order’s help for anything, Cruen? You are all-powerful, remember?”
Yes. He remembered. And I will be back there again. As soon as I get to Synjon Wise. As soon as I dispose of this emotional disease inside me.
“This isn’t a personal issue,” he said, his eyes locking with hers. “It’s a problem for our kind.”
“What problem would that be? And why would you care?”
“Perhaps because I might be responsible for it.”
She fell silent, her narrowed gaze moving over his face, searching his expression, his body language. Cruen knew the intimidation tactic she was using. It had been one of his favorites. He nearly grinned. She truly had been his best pupil.
“Responsible how?” she said at long last.
It wasn’t the most optimal route to Synjon Wise, this lie he was about to tell Feeyan. No doubt Celestine and Petra would be caught up in the coming madness. But he couldn’t see any other way. He didn’t have the power the job required.
“It all began when I was creating the Breeding Male,” he said, his gaze shifting to the skiers on the mountainside. “As you know, I used not only the DNA of Pureblood vampires, but also that of demons—”
She hissed at his side. “And animals. One sits on the Order. I must look at her every day. Despicable.”
Perhaps, he wanted to snarl. But the “animals” and the demons had been the route to the Breeding Male they all revered so. He would agree that they were not on par with the vampire breed, but they were serviceable, respected for their blood and all that it offered.
He continued to stare out at the snow, imperiously, unfettered. He had never wanted to reveal this secret to the Order. Doing so meant his research would be open to others. With a heavy breath, he said, “The DNA samples were not from animals.”
“What?” Her voice was very low.
His lips tightened around his teeth. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps he should’ve come up with a different—
“Look at me!” she screamed.
Cruen had no choice but to obey. His head came around fast and sharp, his vision momentarily blurred. In seconds, he caught her fearsome gaze, and knew his willing body had just revealed some of its weakness.
Her eyes narrowed and she licked her lips, studying him. “If you didn’t use animals,” she said slowly, “how do we have the mutore and Order member, Dillon?”
The words, the revelation, hovered on the tip of his tongue. This was it. If he revealed them, their sheltered world, it was over. For them, and for him and his research. They would never grant him samples, test subjects, anything, ever again after this.
Feeyan was glaring at him with equal parts suspicion and gleeful curiosity. At his ear. Or lack thereof.
“What happened, Cruen?” she asked. “Animal bite?”
No.
Synjon Wise.
Nearly debilitating shame drained Cruen of any scrap of concern he might have had for his relationship with the Rain Forest and its inhabitants. The paven who had tortured him, skillfully removing his ear before setting his skin to flame under the light of the sun, must be found. His emotions returned.
His life extinguished.
“There are shape-shifters in existence,” he began, barely feeling the frigid air swirling around him. “They have a hidden world in the Rain Forest. They were once peaceful. Incapable of posing a threat to our kind.”
Feeyan’s eyes turned an emotionless stark white. For a second or two, she didn’t speak. Then her fangs lowered and she spat out, “And you kept this from us?”
Of course he had. And he’d have continued to do so if that hidden world didn’t now contain Synjon Wise. “I was trying to protect them. But they are no longer peaceful. They’ve taken our own.”
Her eyes widened. “Taken?”
He nodded. “Purebloods. A male, and a female in swell. The shifters keep them as prisoners.”
Nostrils flared, Feeyan ingested this news. “Abducting Pureblood vampires,” she said thoughtfully. Deadly. She turned to face the mountain just as a group of thick gray clouds approached. “Well, we cannot have that, can we? I rather prefer blood at mealtime, but I’m willing to try a little raw meat in honor of the Eternal Breed.”
• • •
Petra stood in a blinding-white patch of sunlight, panting, sweating, thrilled, hungry, irritated. Basically, too freaking close to being out of control for her liking.
Three feet away, taking up residence in the doorway of the dark bedroom, his stance cold and calculated, his sharp-angled face sporting a nasty burn near his left temple, was her adversary.
The one she’d grabbed, clung to, pulled—not to keep him out of the sun this time—but to get him into it.
Her eyes moved over him, dark blue jeans that hung on narrow hips, wide, smooth, lean-muscled chest, broad shoulders, thick column of neck and a hard, set jaw. She lifted her gaze to connect with his iron stare. “You look a little afraid, Mr. Wise.”
“I don’t feel fear, veana.”
“Right. It’s an emotion. I keep forgetting you’re practically a machine.”
“I am impressed, though,” he said, the burn at his temple still smoking slightly.
“Machines don’t get impressed.”
He lifted his hand to his temple, hissed as his fingers made tentative contact. “Acknowledging skill, strength, and cunning in one’s opponent is not an emotion, but an understanding, a reasoning of events.” His brow lifted. “Do you wonder why you’re suddenly so powerful?”
Yes. “No.”
“I don’t believe you. You, who wanted to know everything about your vampire self.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
She placed her hands on her belly. “Before I had to survive, fight.” She cocked her head. “Nice battle scar, by the way.”
“Not my only one, I think.” He took his hand from the burn. “Day’s still young and you look hungry.”
Her mouth watered at his words, his suggestion. The struggle to keep him from bolting had only aggravated her hunger. Being near him now, scenting him, was torture on her system. And to think, just hours ago the thought of blood on her tongue, running down her throat, made her gag.
Of course, she hadn’t been thinking about Synjon’s blood then.
Her mouth twitched at both the irony of the situation and the emergence of her fangs.
“So what’s the plan?” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “You wanted me here, Muscles. Now you have me. For a few hours at any rate.”
A tidal wave of emotions, anger, and lust barreled through her. Needing his blood was one thing, but what he’d just implied was another. She abandoned her sunlit patch and moved toward him. “Let me make something very clear, Mr. Wise. I don’t want you here.” Confident in her strength, she came to stand within an inch of him. “I don’t want you at all.”
He smiled, but there was no true humor in his expression. “You’re practically drooling as you stare at me.”
“I don’t drool.”
“Open your mouth, let me see your fangs.”