Blood Kiss (32 page)

“It was open. But if the sun got her, it would have left burns, right? So maybe she's . . .” He trailed off as he focused on the stained bed. “She's not okay, is she.”

Marissa drew her latex hood back from her head and let it hang around her neck. Going over to the male, she took his hands. “I'm Butch's
shellan
, Marissa. I'm the executive director of a domestic violence shelter. She came to us—”

“So she's there? She's alive!”

Marissa slowly shook her head. “I'm so sorry. I called my brother, Havers, and he treated her with everything he had. She did not make it.”

Peyton's eyes returned to the bed and he fell silent. Then he whispered, “This is going to kill her parents. They lost my other cousin in the raids. No children now.”

“So that door was unlocked or just open?” Butch asked. “And I don't mean to be insensitive, but this is a crime scene and whoever did this to her . . . we've got to nail them to the fucking wall.”

Peyton shook his head. “Yeah, no—I mean, she was a wild girl. She was a partier. But she didn't deserve . . .” He cleared his throat. “The door was absolutely open.”

Butch traced the marks and stains on the carpet. “The
only explanation is that she somehow used the last of her strength to get out and dematerialize to Safe Place.”

“How did she know to go there?” Paradise whispered. “I mean . . . thank God.”

“She must have heard about us somehow,” Marissa replied. “I just wish we could have saved her.”

V came into the room. “I just got a text from Tohr and Rhage. They're fighting, it's a bad skirmish. I've gotta go be backup—Butch. You've got to come with me. This is an emergency.”

Butch gritted his teeth and dropped a couple of f-bombs. But then he looked at Marissa. “You okay?”

Staring right at him, she said roughly, “As long as we can find out who did this, I'll be goddamn fine.”

He gave her a quick, hard hug and felt a wellspring of pride in his chest. And then he gave her a very sad series of tasks.

“I want you to get a list of people she knew, human and vampire, from him.” He nodded at Peyton. “Then photograph everything with your phone. The whole fucking place. Touch nothing, disturb nothing. Lock up all the doors you can. Leave from the terrace. Then go to the parents' house. They have a right to know tonight.”

“I'm on it,” she said.

Yes, he thought, she was.

God, he loved her. Hated this situation . . . but love, love, loved her.

One more kiss . . . and he was heading back down to his car, trying to shift his focus from one kind of emergency to another.

A
s Marissa talked to Peyton about who his cousin had been associating with, Paradise borrowed the female's phone and went through the whole place taking photographs. With every shot she captured, she thought of what she knew about the dead girl. Technically, Allishon was her cousin, too, and though it was a more distant connection than Peyton's, the loss was still acute.

Especially because she'd seen that bed.

Good . . . God. Such violence.

In about fifteen minutes, she had covered the bedroom, the bathroom, the hall, and the living room—and she was turning around to do the kitchen when she saw something down on the floor.

As the place was white all over, the flash of color by the edge of the sofa really caught her eye.

Sinking onto her haunches, she pulled out . . . an old-fashioned Polaroid snapshot.

With a frown, she realized it was . . . red and pink. Just like the one that she'd found on the bus.

The one she'd put in her satchel after Peyton had said it wasn't his.

“What is that?” Peyton asked. “Paradise? You gonna be sick?”

She stood up and went across to him.

“It's a picture . . .” As she showed the thing to him, she wondered if maybe she were jumping to conclusions. Maybe there was another explanation. “Ah, it's like the one I found, you know, on the bus.”

“Whatever. Are you finished with the pictures? We have to go talk to Allie's parents now. I need to get this over with before I lose my fucking mind.”

“Two secs.” She put the photo in her jacket without thinking about it and started snapping images of the kitchen. “I'm almost done.”

“She has the ashes,” Peyton murmured in a voice that cracked. “Marissa has them.”

Paradise lowered the phone. “Oh . . . God.”

“She just left to go change and pick them up before you and I head over there. I wish I had a joint with me. I didn't think. . . .” He began opening cupboards. “Oh, thank fuck.”

As he took out a bottle of vodka and slipped it into his coat, she wanted to remind him they weren't supposed to disturb anything, but come on. Like she was going to bust his balls for not following the rules on a night like tonight?

“Peyton, what else can I do?”

His eyes drifted back to hers. “It is what it is. Thank you for coming with me, though.”

With a grim nod, she took one last snapshot of the empty sink and bare counters. “Here. Um, where's Craeg?”

“He's in the bedroom still.”

“Peyton . . . I'm so sorry.”

They met in the middle and held each other tightly. She wanted to tell him that it was going to be okay, but that was already not true.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

Stepping away from him, she went to the apartment's front door, locked things up with her mind and then proceeded with him back down to the bedroom.

Craeg was where he'd been standing for the longest time, and as she went to him, she put her hand on his arm. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” He turned to Peyton, breaking the contact. “Hey, man, you need anything . . . I'm here for you.”

Peyton went over to the male and they exchanged a
hard embrace, and then all of them were out on the terrace in the stiff wind coming off the river.

Peyton left first. And then Craeg pivoted to her.

“Long night—I'd better go back. Peyton hit the training center up for me on his phone and I need to meet the bus ASAP.”

“Oh . . . okay.” But come on, what did she expect? There had been a tragedy. Now was not the time for a long, romantic good-bye for godsakes. “So . . . anyway, I guess I'll see you tomorrow night? Will you call me this morning, though? I'm going to change, then help Peyton tell the family.”

“Good thing you got hold of your father.”

“Yes, he's always helpful.”

“I'll bet.”

“It's just so . . . awful.” As she blinked, she saw that bed inside. “So very, very ugly. I wonder who did it?”

“Butch will find them.”

“I hope so. I truly do.”

“I got to go.”

“Oh . . . okay.” Wait, she'd already said that. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Don't worry about me. You'd better go, too.”

For some reason, she had the strangest urge to tell him that she missed him—but that was absurd. He was standing two feet away from her. They were going to talk in a couple of hours. She was going to see him tomorrow night.

“Good day,” she said.

When he nodded, she closed her eyes . . . calmed herself . . . and spirited away.

For so many reasons, the awkward parting had not been how she'd seen the evening ending. Not even close.

•   •   •

Craeg didn't wait long. As soon as Paradise got ahead of him, he dematerialized himself behind her, traveling on the wind, using his blood in her veins as a tracker.

When she stopped moving through the night air, he re-formed a good hundred yards away from her on the edge of a lawn that was . . .

The house before him at the top of the rise was the size of a college dorm, the kind of massive, grand structure that would be featured on television as being on some fancy university's campus or God, maybe . . . maybe it was more like a royal residence with its peaked roofs and its diamond-pane windows and all the clipped and manicured everything on its lawn.

It was easily twice the size of the mansion where his and Axe's fathers had been slaughtered, for example.

And as Paradise approached the front door, it was without apology—not as a staffer or a servant would. And a moment later, she was inside without ringing a doorbell or anything. In fact, as he moved to the left, he saw through leaded glass windows a uniformed butler taking her coat and bowing in deference to her.

Her father is First Adviser to the King.

Closing the distance with long strides, he watched from the cold outside as she went up the grand staircase and disappeared into what was undoubtedly an equally sumptuous second floor. Or maybe third. Or twelfth.

Even after he could no longer see her, he stayed where he was, staring through old-fashioned panes at the oil paintings, the fancy rugs, the silk on the walls—it must be silk, right?

What the fuck did he know.

Turning away, he looked out over the rolling lawn, and the bushes, and the beds of what were no doubt specimen flowers in the warm months. He wondered
what the backyard was like. Probably had a pool. An enclosure for exotic fucking animals. A goddamn bird sanctuary.

She had lied.

And not in a small way.

This . . . this was a big fucking deal: He'd just taken the virginity of what certainly appeared to be one of a Founding Family's daughters.

According to the Old Laws, as a commoner?

He could be put to death for that.

As anger swelled, it was less about Paradise and what she'd kept from him, and more because he had consistently overridden himself. All those internal stops he'd put up? All those resolutions he'd had? Before he'd fucked her in the bathroom at a human fucking club, for fuck's sake? He'd blown right through each and every one of them. And to top that off, he'd lost his focus with the training. Gotten sidetracked from his purpose. Wasted days when he should have been sleeping, classes when he should have been thinking, workouts when he should have been training his body with total focus.

And all for a female who cared so little for him, who was so selfish and conceited, that she had been unwilling to share some very pertinent, relevant information about herself.

Information that she had to know would have been a game changer for him.

It was a perfect storm of manipulation, that had spun him a hundred and eighty degrees away from what he'd actually wanted: Between her being a liar and his libido being out of control, he hadn't stood a chance.

Such a fool—he was such a goddamn fool.

And fools got what they deserved.

Didn't they.

S
itting on the edge of her mated bed, Marissa ran a brush through her hair. She had changed out of the clothes she had gotten into after she'd stripped off her latex suit, and she was now wearing one of Butch's black cashmere robes. From time to time, she brought the lapel up to her nose and smelled his scent on the fibers.

She needed the reminder of his presence. She truly did.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, there were too many things that kept going through her mind, images, sounds, smells. And as a result of the barrage, she kept wondering . . . how had Butch done that for so long? How had he investigated those crime scenes, gone to the houses of the victims' families, broken that news over and over again? How had he looked into the tragic eyes of a father and a
mahmen
and commiserated with them—all the while knowing he had to get information out of them?

Information like the last time they saw their child. Last communication. Any known disagreements with people.

She had asked the questions carefully, at times holding the mother's hand or nodding to the father. There had been no reason to write anything down—she was never going to forget anything about any of it.

And now she was back here, waiting for Butch to come home safely so she could download everything.

Out in the living room, the Pit's door to the outside opened with a creaking sound, and a blast of cold air shot down the hallway—bringing with it the stench of
lessers
.

“Butch?” She shot to her feet and rushed out. “Butch . . . ?”

The groaning and cursing were an answer in and of themselves—and then she was rounding the corner into the open room and stopping short.

V had her mate in a fireman's hold, the Brother taking that bent and battered body to the leather sofa and flopping it down.

Butch was bleeding, covered in slayer blood, and half-dead.

He was also emitting that sickly sweet odor of
lessers
consumed.

As she gasped and ran over, V ripped off his own jacket, exposing cuts and bruises—and as Marissa stroked Butch's matted hair, the Brother joined the male on the sofa, entwining his warrior's body with that of his best friend's. The glow that came next started like something off in the distance, or perhaps a lantern seen through a thick fog, but soon enough, the illumination, the sacred essence of Vishous's mother, overtook the room, bright as sunlight on a sheet of metal, warm as a banked fire, and the only savior Butch had.

V's power was a curse in the wrong context, but a miracle as it was used now—because it was going to drain the evil out of her mate, rescuing him, making him strong in a way that only Vishous could.

She had never resented the connection the two had, had never been jealous that another provided something so necessary to the one she loved. She was just grateful there was a way to keep Butch from dying. Ever since the Omega had abducted him and infected him, he'd had the ability to consume slayers, destroy them in a way that “killing” them did not: Butch's consumption of their essence was a one-way ticket out of the universe.

But it came at such a cost.

Sometime later, the light began to recede and then the two of them just lay there, both exhausted. As Butch
opened his lids, his hazel eyes went immediately to her and he lifted his shaking hand.

With a gentle smile, she took his palm and put it to her face, rubbing it against her cheek. “I love you, I love you. . . .”

“Okay?” he croaked out. “You?”

“Now that you're home safe, yes. A thousand yeses.”

V cracked his lids and stared up at her with lolling eyes. Even though she rarely touched the Brother—because face it, Vishous was not a warm-and-fuzzy kind of guy—she reached out and brushed his cheek.

In a rare moment of tenderness, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her palm.

And then, a short time later, it was time to get her mate in the shower. As V was wasted on the sofa, Marissa helped Butch down the hall and into their room. Or almost their room. He insisted on stopping and stripping out in the hall so he could put his filthy clothes immediately into the laundry chute that dumped into the tunnel down below.

Their private bath was simple and small and cozy, and as she always did in these situations, she made Butch sit on the toilet while she got the shower to the right temperature. When all was ready, she helped him up, pushed him under the spray and propped him against the corner.

Taking his robe from her body, she stepped in with him.

He'd been hard before she did the reveal. And the instant he saw her body, his erection got even thicker.

There would be time to share their stories after this. Now? It was about finding that wavelength between them, plugging into each other, communicating without words.

Taking the soap and a washcloth, she started with his face, wiping over those features she loved so much before moving to his throat, the pads of his pecs, the ridges of his abdominals. She washed every part of him, even his arousal, which she stroked with the washcloth.

Butch arched under her touch. He was too weak to do much else, his weight sliding down until he was sitting on the built-in marble bench. With his head lazing around, he watched her work him.

And then she put the cloth aside.

Getting on her knees, she felt the warm water washing down her back as she moved in between his thighs.

He was magnificent, collapsed back into the corner, big arms lax, warrior's body exhausted.

Yet his eyes were hot.

Wrapping her hands around his cock, she opened her mouth and went down on him, swallowing as much as she could of his length, sucking on him, working him.

In response, Butch groaned and curled his hips.

She took her sweet time, plying him, going faster and then slowing down, squeezing his balls.

And then she looked up.

He was still watching her, his fangs descended, his mouth open and panting. From time to time, he seemed to try to move. The best he could manage was a flopping of his hands, though.

“Marissa . . .” he said hoarsely.

“Yes?”

While she waited for him to answer, she traced her mouth with his head. Then she ran her tongue in a circle around him.

“Finish me,” he groaned. “Oh, God . . . finish me. . . .”

The smile she gave him came from deep inside.

Then, with anticipation, she went back to work.

And did her job very, very well.