Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment) (3 page)

The vampire struck again, his movements lightning-fast. Hundreds of years of training and hunting kicked in and she parried and countered almost every attack, managing to keep up with him. Barely. The few nicks she inflicted on the vampire’s nearly indestructible body weren’t nearly deep enough to debilitate him—just royally piss him off.

Her harsh pants echoed in her ears as her mortal body weakened at a rapid pace. She couldn’t continue much longer. She swallowed past the bitter resentment burning a path up her throat. If she’d been cruxim the battle would have ended minutes ago—she would’ve have the vamp at her mercy, his blood pouring down her throat then writhing at the point of her sword. The arrogant male couldn’t have been more than half a century old. His lack of fighting style, overconfidence and impatience displayed his immaturity. And yet it was she who teetered on the verge of defeat. The muscles in her arms and thighs trembled. Sweat stung a shallow cut on her forehead.

Fuck it.
She resumed her battle stance, drew her sword up again and wiped the moisture away on the arm of her coat. If she was Fated to die in this grungy, piss-soaked alley, it would be with a sword in her hand.

“This is pointless, woman,” the vampire cajoled, arms held out to the sides as if inviting her into his lethal embrace. “Let’s stop this now and I promise I’ll make your death painless.”

Liar
.

From the several feet dividing them, she could read the promise of screams and agony in the flames lighting his eyes.

“And I promise before I take your head, I’ll carve your wee peter off and stuff it in your mouth to shut you the hell up.” She sank deeper onto her back leg even though her body screamed in protest. “Man. Vamp,” she scoffed. “You’re all the same. When will you ever learn? Less talk. More action.”

His howl bounced off the brick as he lunged, razor-sharp nails slicing down toward her throat while the other hand slashed the air several inches from her stomach, nearly filleting her. She sprang back, slipped, stumbled and slammed to the ground. The bone-jolting impact pummeled the air from her lungs.

Glittering stars crowded her vision before she shook them off.

But those few precious seconds ate up too much time. Way too much time.

The vampire crouched over her, eyes blazing red in his beautiful, gloating face.

“Carve off my dick, will you?” A terrible, lovely smile curved his full, sensual lips. “Now that gives me ideas,” he purred, straightening to his full height. His hands fell to the tab of his dark pants. “Maybe I’ll have you suck my cock before I bleed you dry.”

* * * * *

Two days.

Two interminable days and nights of searching the city of Dublin. For
her
. The cruxim who had fed him her blood, addicted him to her taste and then abandoned him like an unwanted newborn on a doorstep. No
bye
. No
hope you feel better soon
. Not even a
get the fuck out
.

Just…nothing.

He’d woken up one morning to find the house she’d brought him to empty, void of her fragrance. To hippogryphs, all creatures carried identifiable smells as if their scents were coded into their DNA and captured in their blood. Humans smelled of the earth they were formed from according to some of their religions’ creation stories. The ethereal
sídhe
emanated the bouquet of eternal spring and the sea.

The absence of the cruxim’s lightning-striking-earth scent had informed Bastien she’d deserted him. Leaving him hungry and hurting. And not just for blood.

A vivid, clear image of the cruxim jumped into his head. It didn’t have far to leap. Thoughts of her had leased a corner of his mind five months ago and refused to be evicted. Especially when he slept.

Long, thick hair the color of moonbeams contained in a tight ponytail. Almond-shaped, silver eyes in a face bards and troubadours would have dedicated epic poems to. A tall, slender body, no thicker than a
tzamara
, with a fluid motion as graceful as the lovely melodies played on the thin reed flute of his homeland. Music brought to life.

And her wings. High above her head arched gorgeous, midnight wings that flowed like dark water to her heels. His stomach tightened against the punch of lust to his gut. He despised the jolt of desire, resented it. Images of a statuesque, lovely female with gold skin and long chocolate curls should’ve plagued him—as chocolate as the plumage and silken hide that covered her hippogryph. Alesia. His best friend. His love. The woman who, even now, prepared to marry another male.

Yet the female his cock rose for was the same woman responsible for ripping away the life he’d known.

Even if Bastien convinced himself he could return to Patros—the hippogryph seat of power and his home until five months ago—and endure the pain of witnessing the woman he’d loved marry another male and bear his young, Janus wouldn’t allow it. Purity. Superiority. Segregation. Those were the hippogryph king’s obsessions. If he discovered Bastien’s secret, the king would destroy the
deygma
, the abomination, among his people.

He had two choices now—exile or death.

A low, feral growl rumbled in his chest and rolled up his throat. The night wind blew his hair back from his face and a middle-aged couple shot him a startled glance and flinched. They gave him a wide berth, scurrying down the damp sidewalk, huddled together under their large, black umbrella.

Their horrified reaction doused the surge of lust in an arctic wave, leaving him cold—bitterly cold. He should be immune to the pity or revulsion people revealed when they glimpsed his scars. But only half of him was a beast. The other half was a man. And the pity, disgust and horror sliced deep into the heart Evander had tried to rip from his chest.

Yet none of the jabs to his pride compared to the first blow delivered five months ago. When measured up against
that
rejection, the others he’d received since were like playground taps after being K-the fuck-O’d by Mike Tyson.

Lifting a hand, he poked a fingertip at the thick ridge of raised flesh on his chin. The unyielding tissue didn’t budge beneath his touch. He didn’t need a mirror to follow the path of the scar over the corner of his mouth, past his nose and under his eye where it abruptly broke off. His finger smoothed across the tapered end before continuing on to the slash that bisected his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. Two slightly less thick but just as obvious scars scored his cheekbone. As unsightly as his facial disfigurements were, the patchwork of damaged flesh covering his chest and abdomen was much worse.

Those first weeks he’d studied the marks almost obsessively. As if the longer he analyzed and dissected the mutilated flesh, the scars would eventually disappear. Five months later, he still looked as if half his face had been just about ripped off, and the details of his near-evisceration were etched into his mind and flesh-like runes in prehistoric stone. Still, while the skin on his body may have stitched together, his soul remained as gaping, bloody and aching as the day he was airlifted from the boulders in those salty, rough waters.

Shit
. He speared his fingers through his hair, dragging the strands away from his face. But then he remembered. With another harsh curse, he finger-combed the shoulder-length waves forward until his damaged cheek was concealed behind a blond curtain.

His lips curled into a silent snarl and the slight tug on the distorted corner of his mouth sent a hot spear of fury through him. Evander was dead, damn it. And though the bastard’s death hadn’t come by his hand but Nicolai’s, he was glad Evander had suffered before he gasped his last breath. Delighted the traitorous rogue had realized he’d been defeated and lost everything precious to him.

The thought of another’s pain should’ve been abhorrent—after all he was a healer. His purpose was to alleviate suffering, not cause or condone it. But Evander’s death didn’t bother him at all. As a matter of fact, he took immense joy believing the rogue had endured agony of body and spirit, and if his fierce satisfaction made him as much a monster as Evander then hell, his conscience would just have to deal.

Again that word brushed the inside his skull.
Monster
.
Bastien gritted his teeth against the silken lure wrapped in the seductive whisper that assured him there was nothing wrong with being wild, raw…powerful. With supreme effort and a steadily weakening will, he forced the sweet and dark temptation into a compartment in his mind, shut the door and twisted the lock. But the door would creak open again. Tomorrow, next week, next month, and then the time would come when the accusation would seem less horrifying and all the more beguiling…

He slammed to a halt.

Cocked his head to the side.

Something…

His vision sharpened as he allowed his hippogryph to slide out, take over his sight and hearing. Without moving, Bastien observed and scrutinized the crowds of people flowing toward him, surging around his still frame. Nothing unusual about the native Dubliners and tourists snagged his attention. But that…
something
hadn’t been his imagination…

There.

On the wind. Hushed. Soft.

But there.

On a burst of inhuman speed, he shot down the sidewalk as if an expert archer had plucked him from a quiver and released him from a bow. Fast. Unerring. Deadly.

The congested streets gave way to a less sparsely populated section of the quay. Inhabited by more rats then people, the dilapidated buildings and busted windows didn’t offer the same warmth and inviting hospitality as the pubs, shops and restaurants on the opposite end. He stepped into the shadows thrown across the cobblestones by the towering brick structures.

There it was again.

A grunt. Curse. Thud.

Blood
.

He reached the mouth of the alley in three long strides. He spared a moment to cast a
gyges
around the street and the entrance to the alley, depending on the magical net to prohibit prying human eyes from witnessing what they shouldn’t.

A thousand deafening waves crashed in his head in a thundering tsunami of violence. A crimson curtain slammed down over his vision as his gums tightened around the fangs dropping into his mouth. Flesh tore open over his knuckles, his nails cleaved open to reveal black curved talons, gleaming with promise in the thick shadows—a promise of pain, punishment.

Death.

Rage blasted through him like a furnace set to explode. He tipped his head back on his shoulders and loosed a roar. The combatants engaged in battle froze.

A bright trail oozed down the forehead of the woman sprawled on the ground. His control fractured, disintegrated.

Sinéad
.

Bastien crouched down, his knees glancing the damp, garbage-strewn gravel, the sharp tips of his talons clicking the ground.

He pounced.

* * * * *

Oh shit.

Sinéad gaped at the red-eyed beast blocking the alley opening. Her heart bucked against her rib cage then vaulted for the back of her throat.
Holy Nef. Another vampire
. Her fist tightened around the hilt of the sword the fool vamp had forgotten to disarm her of in his arrogance and lust. No way in hell could she take down two vampires. Especially not this massive creature filling the width of the passageway with his huge bulk.

Her gut dipped toward the rounded tips of her combat boots even as she lifted the
gladius
from the ground…

The air whistled above her head.

“Day-am,” she rasped as the head of the vampire teetered on his shoulders before tumbling to the ground with a soft thump. Her astounded gaze tracked the rolling motion of the decapitated skull as arterial spray splattered over her face and chest like a macabre lawn sprinkler. She met the stunned terror forever frozen on the vamp’s face.

What the fu—

Her mind screamed
get the hell up!
The desperate order jump-started her system into survival mode. She scrambled gracelessly to her feet. Shock, horror and grim determination surged through her body, keeping her standing even as she weaved slightly with exhaustion. Feet spread apart, arms outstretched and her
gladius
clenched between her hands, she faced this new threat.

“You won’t find me so easy…” She frowned.
Wait a minute.
Straightening to her full height, she lowered the sword until the tip of the blade touched the ground.

White-blond hair.

Scars.

Bastien?

Her disbelieving gaze skipped from the top of his towering length, down his heaving chest to the hard thighs straining against his pants, then made the incredulous tour back up.

Bastien
.

Terror released its grip on her chest and a relieved breath wheezed past her tight throat. His particular shade of hair, the bright-green eyes were unmistakable…

Lady
.

The eyes. Fangs.

Well now.

Those were new.