Demetrius (13 page)

Excruciating pain tore through his head. Tissue healed, pushing the bullet out, ever so slowly. More blood digested, more power infused Demetrius. The bullet worked its way out until he felt it tickle his hair. He grabbed it, slick with blood, and flicked it away, relishing the inexorable relief he of having it gone.

Jumping up, he ripped his tattered shirt off.

“Do you have a lead on her?”

Zoey spoke with her brusque leadership style. “Your wrecked car was reported and we found you. The two boneheads who staked you didn’t cover their tracks well. The ones who took Callista were better trained.”

“I need to go back to the scene. I can track her.”

“Calm the fuck down, D,” Rourke’s smooth voice said behind him. “She said they were better trained, not that we didn’t find squat.”

Sometimes he wanted to punch Rourke’s flawless face, but the guy was right. His team was excellent and when it came down to it, he trusted them with more than his life—he trusted them with Callista’s.

Chapter Thirteen

Calli recognized all three of her captors, knew their bloodlines back for generations. She’d been in their houses, dined with them, made small talk, played with their children as a child, wished them good tidings.

And they’d kidnapped her and hurt Demetrius.

Her heart twisted. She’d smelled his blood when she was dragged out of the wreckage. His recent issues ingesting blood would make recovering difficult.

If
he was able to escape.

“Stake him, leave him for the sun,” Thomas Mundoon had said before he punched her so hard, she wished she’d just kissed the airbag again. He’d done it again until he’d knocked her out.

She was handcuffed in a room in Mundoon’s house. She’d never been this deep into his place, their parties had usually taken place on the main level above ground.

From the black, fathomless eyes of Mundoon and her other two kidnappers, they harbored demons who were in control. Seemed like she knew more possessed people than regular, law-abiding vampires.

Well, she gave a mental snort, it’s not like she was always in trend, so it made sense she wasn’t possessed.

Oh, wait. Draken.

And she’d be twenty-five in a few short hours.

She was exhausted. They had chained her hands to an ornate bed with cuffs that prevented her from flashing, and being that it was daytime she thought perhaps it was so she could rest. But after a servant, with blessedly normal brown eyes, came in holding a lacey white gown and a basin of soapy water, Calli realized the bed was multipurpose.

The poor servant girl.

Never mind. Calli didn’t feel bad for her. The girl deserved every bruise Calli had dealt. The past several months at the nursing home had taught Calli how to move bodies, especially those under protest. It also taught her how to be extremely resistant to getting pulled out of bed and washed and changed when she didn’t want to.

She could go back and kiss every one of those stubborn residents, especially those with dementia who’d fought the hardest. She’d learned the most from them.

The servant had run crying, giving Calli access to the soapy water and rag to try to lube her wrists out of the cuffs. 

Didn’t work.

Several hours later, the door opened and Franklin Alda walked in. He’d been a friend of her father’s, but now that she recalled, he’d always kept close to her mother at the socials. Calli had never cared for him, and now she knew why.

“I’d call you Franklin, but he’s no longer in charge. Correct?” She perched on the end of the bed, facing him.

The soulless eyes registered no humor. “You are astute. We chose well.” He took in the basin and the dress lying on the floor. “I doubt Draken cares not whether you are cleaned and clothed. In fact, I would think he’d prefer the dried blood marring your body.”

Calli couldn’t suppress the shudder. Was he serious, or was he using reverse psychology to get her to give herself a spit bath?

She feared he was serious.

“So, what’s with Draken? Why him, huh? Why do you have to walk around in a skin bag while he’ll get to roam free?”

Franklin’s lips thinned. “He’s more…convincing, shall we say, especially since he has a humanoid form. Reaching the vital number of thirteen has proven more challenging than we thought.”

“Wearing old Franklin there hasn’t helped you convince anyone to play host?”

The male nodded. “With his body, Draken will have full use of his powers.”

As long as the guy was talking… “Why wait until I was twenty-five? Seems a bit ancient for a vampire to hold onto their chastity.”

“Yes, especially in this day and age. We kept losing females because they’d get carried away feeding and die.” Franklin sighed. “But we had to wait for the bond to strengthen, for you to mature. Once midnight hits, he will be able to cross to you. Rest until then, Callista, for it will be a long night for you.” With a creepy grin, Franklin left.

The clock read it was a little after ten o’clock. Less than two hours before her…fiancé?...arrived.

Demetrius’ carefree smirk and twinkling green eyes popped into her head at the word fiancé.

Infatuation, she told herself. As one of the only vampire males she’d really gotten to know, it made sense he made her insides flutter.

After the way his rich blood filled her as his fingers took her to heaven, she’d been toast. Yes, he claimed to want her, but she doubted he’d met many females he didn’t want.

He’d turned down Ophelia.

And he mentioned it’d been awhile since he’d had sex.

It was her resistance that attracted him. Surely his ego wouldn’t allow him past it.

She eyed her cuffs. Wait here to be rescued, be claimed by a demon, or try to escape?

Her wrists were raw from trying to work her hands through. She’d already searched as much of the room as she could reach and found nothing to help her.

Yanking her hands apart in frustration, the sound of the chains scraping against the bed frame caught her attention.

It was a wooden frame. Solid wood. Quality material, nothing but the best. But wooden nonetheless. A metal frame would only twist and bend under her strength, but she stood a chance of breaking the wood. If they heard, so what? They’d chain her somewhere else and she’d still be screwed. Or waiting to be screwed.

If they didn’t catch her, she might have a chance at escape. Years of playing caretaker in her home, and then for others, had developed her strength.

Inspecting the frame, she searched for the points of attachment and any other possible weak spots. Then standing and using her legs to brace herself, she jerked back with all her might. Her shoulders strained and pain seared her wrists as her skin twisted against the cuffs. The frame groaned under her assault, lumber cracked, but it held.

Dammit.

Widening her stance, she thought maybe she’d combine vampire speed with her strength and increase the torque.

Counting to three, she yanked back. Fire exploded in her left wrist and she flew back into the bedroom wall and crashed to the floor.

Chest heaving, muscles tight, mouth in a grimace from the pain, she waited for the door to open, for her captors to come rushing in.

Nothing.

Holy shit, was this really going to work?

Lifting her hands to see if the shackles busted, nausea roiled through her belly from excruciating pain. Her misshapen wrist signaled that she’d broken a bone or two under the force, but it was still better than a demon laying on top of her.

Her wrists were still bound, so no flashing, but the chain had broken. The shorter side hung off her broken wrist. She tucked the longer section into Demetrius’ baggy sweatshirt that she still wore.

Prowling around the bedroom, she looked for another way to get out before she chanced going through the door. The frame breaking hadn’t drawn anyone, but that didn’t mean she could walk out and not be noticed.

Distant shouts carried from outside the room. Had Draken arrived early?

No luck with windows, not that vampires were fond of them, anyway. Finding no other way out, the door was the only way to go.

Popping it open a crack, she peeked out into a chamber with more rooms. No one. They’d stashed her in the servants’ quarters. Because, she thought ruefully, wasn’t that what they thought Draken was, the Circle’s servant?

She crept out and hugged the wall. Yes, that had been shouting she’d heard and it didn’t sound good.

If the enemy of your enemy is your friend, then maybe she was in luck.

Even if Demetrius had found her, and she ignored the butterflies’ jovial jig in her stomach, she still wasn’t hanging around to find out.

The main door to the chamber looked like her most promising escape route, but it was a certainty she’d run into someone out there. There had to be another way.

Come on, princess. It used to be your life’s goal to sneak out of the house on a regular basis.
   

And yes, she might’ve just referred to herself how Demetrius did, but like she did a lot concerning him, she was going to ignore that.

Recalling all the ways she’d snuck out from under her father’s watch because he’d have noticed her flashing, she realized the main door wasn’t her only option.

Servant quarters had elevators to haul supplies and laundry between the floors.

With a grin, Calli spotted the kitchen and ran swiftly toward it, gritting her teeth against the jarring pain it caused for her injury.

Tucked into the corner of the kitchen was a square panel that housed the service elevator. She opened the panel. Empty, as if waiting for her.

Crashes, grunts, shouting, and glass breaking could be heard clearly through the elevator shaft. Calli smiled to herself again. The fighting would cover the noise of the elevator.

She folded herself inside. With her head tucked between her knees and her arm in agony pressed against her body, she stretched her good hand out to hit the up button.

As the elevator lifted, her butterflies froze, waiting. This was it. Her last chance.

The tiny elevator stopped and she listened.

She heard fighting, but the chaos of scents made it difficult to get a read on who was there.

She slid the door up.

Slowly, she let out the breath she’d been holding. The storeroom was empty.

Uncurling herself, she stepped down and tiptoed to the window. She knew where she was, so the only issue was getting far away fast enough.

Cradling her injured arm against her chest, she reached for the window. A hand grabbed her and spun her around.

She squeaked, intending to scream, but a mouth pressed against hers, swallowing the sound.

Chapter Fourteen

Demetrius broke from the kiss. “I didn’t think I’d find you in time.” He put his mouth right back on hers and pulled her close. Her flinch had him pulling away again. “You’re hurt.” He noticed she cradled her arm. “Broken?”

She nodded, and jingled her other hand. “I can’t flash.”

That’d make getting her to safety quickly more difficult.

Rourke calmly strode in. He wore all black like Demetrius, but was covered in blood splatter. “Two of the Circle got away, but we managed to send the third back to Hell.” He looked Callista over. “You take her and go, we’ll search the place and grab everything we can. Then torch it.”

“We need to get the cuffs off her to flash out of here.” Demetrius searched the room for anything to help.

“Is that all?” Rourke reached into his leather vest and pulled out a rectangular kit. He took out a tool and motioned for Callista to hold her hands out.

“They said Draken will be able to find me when it’s time.” Panic was just below the surface and yet Callista managed to appear calm. That wasn’t pride lurking in his chest, was it?

“Not when I get you to my place. Nothing can get into that building if I don’t want it to.”

“Betting we’re going to test that theory,” Rourke muttered, successfully picking the lock on her right cuff. He gingerly worked the lock on her injured arm.

“I forget all the tricks you have up your sleeves,” Demetrius commented. After a bar fight with the male four decades ago, they’d been tight ever since.

“That’s because you don’t know the half of them.” Rourke’s expression didn’t change, but Demetrius knew he wasn’t joking. Or exaggerating.

A clock chimed. It was midnight.

“Almost have it.” Rourke carefully held Callista’s arm while intently working on freeing her.

“He’s coming,” she whispered.

A boom shook the walls around them. Demetrius let go of Callista to draw his favorite piece, a Glock .45.

“D!” Zoey yelled from the other room followed by a thud, like a body hitting the floor...hard.

“Rourke?” Demetrius aimed toward the door. A building cloud of evil headed their way, making his nerves burn.