Blood Kiss (34 page)

“You have a visitor.”

She frowned at the voice on the other end. “Anslam?”

“Yup, it's me,” he said easily. “Peyton told me to come get you.”

“He did? But I'm not going to Sal's yet. I've got to do an errand first.”

“I'll go with you, then.”

“No, thanks. It won't take me long—”

“Are you coming down?”

Oh, for godsakes. But she didn't want to be rude. “Yup. Hold on.”

“Don't hurry on my account.”

Hanging up, she double-checked her hair and then left her room. As she headed for the front stairs, she hoped she could get Anslam out the door fast. She felt like hell because of the fight with Craeg, and all that yuck was compounded because she couldn't believe she'd spaced taking that Polaroid from the scene without telling anybody.

As well as the very real possibility the investigation was going to have to focus on the trainees.

Cresting the grand staircase, she saw Anslam standing down below on the black-and-white marble floor, his Saks Fifth Avenue clothes and his Gucci cologne announcing what class he was in as much as his even, rather unremarkable features did.

There was something just so . . . pasty about him, she thought.

How he'd gotten that reputation for being aggressive with females she had no clue.

When a step creaked beneath her foot, Anslam turned to face her. “Hey, girl,” he said. “You look good.”

“Thanks, so do you.”

When she got to the bottom and he opened his arms, she went to him and kissed him on both cheeks. “Listen, I'm sorry, but I'm really just going to—”

A strange sound let off in her father's study, and she frowned, looking toward it. It was a kind of squeak, or a—

“You were going to go do an errand?” Anslam asked. “What kind of errand?”

She refocused on him. “It's nothing important. I just . . . what is that noise?”

Turning away from him, she walked forward and glanced around the ornate jamb of the library's archway—

“Oh, my God!”

Her father's butler, Fedricah, and her maid, Vuchie, were tied up in front of the desk, their mouths gagged, their feet bound.

“What in the world happened—”

Anslam grabbed her from behind and spun her around, tripping her up and slamming her face-first into the floor. As the shock and pain momentarily stunned her, he flopped her onto her back. Putting his face in hers, he looked mildly annoyed.

“Where's the photograph. What the fuck did you do with my photograph?”

While she tried to recover her bearings and pinwheeled her arms and legs, he roughly went through her pockets.

“Ah, good girl.” He put the Polaroid inside his suede jacket. “Goddamn it, Paradise—why the fuck did you have to find that? I don't want to have to do this to a female like you. It's not part of the plan.”

Swallowing, she tasted blood and realized that her lip was split. “You don't . . . need to do this. . . .”

With a quick surge, he hopped up on his feet and disappeared for a moment—and when he came back, he had a Louis Vuitton briefcase with him. “Yeah, I do have
to do this. Because you were going to try to take that Polaroid to your father—that's what you told Peyton. And you're such a good little girl, so conscientious, that you're not going to let it go and you're going to start thinking about the connection—and sooner or later, you're going to sneak into the cafeteria and you're going to go through my shit because you'd realize that someone in the training center must have dropped that photo on the bus and also taken it out of your bag. Nice satchel, by the way. Love Bally. Good stuff.”

As he kept talking, Anslam took out a syringe. “See, because I'm attached to my work, I need to keep some part of it with me always, and pictures are the next best thing, don't you agree? Just fantastic for spiking the memory. Anyway, that's when you'd put two and two together—when you found more just like it in my bag. Then I'd be fucked—and I assure you, I am never the bottom in relationships.”

As he tested that the clear fluid was live in the thin needle, her brain threatened to recede on her, the pain, the shock, the confusion, twisting and tying up her neuropathways, making any significant thought patterns impossible.

Except then she remembered what she'd been trained to do in sparring class: You got focused, you stayed focused. Got focused, stay focused.

This was not a training exercise, though—in fact, this was precisely what those lessons were supposed to prepare her for.

Not a class. No one to rescue her.

But herself.

All at once her mind went super-sharp: She was as
good as dead if he injected her with whatever that was, and she was going to have only one chance at an escape.

Making a show of being helpless, she surreptitiously looked around for a weapon, something, anything she could use—

“Think of this as a compliment,” he said as he looked down at her. “I'm really sure you'd eventually figure out it was me, because you're pretty fucking smart, for a girl—”

With a powerful lunge, she reared up and head-butted him right in the face. It was her only move—and she nailed him dead to rights: Anslam howled with pain and anger and fell back on his ass, clutching his nose. And she was on him, pouncing on his chest, ripping the syringe out of his hand. Depressing the plunger so the drug emptied into thin air, she tossed it aside.

With no time to spare.

Anslam roared and punched her shoulders, popping her up off him. And his next move was to clock her so hard in the jaw with his fist, she literally heard bells ringing and her vision flickered. But she couldn't afford to check out as he jumped onto her. Fighting through the pain and disorientation, she reached between the two of them and went for his 'nads, grabbing them and twisting her grip until he screamed and wrenched to the side.

Up on her feet, she went to kick him, but he caught her ankle and flipped her off her feet.

They began to roll, and in the back of her mind, she heard Butch saying that all hand-to-hand combat ended up on the ground; it was only a matter of time.

Torquing herself around, she prevented him from doing an arm bar on her, but she also failed to get him into a headlock with her thighs. A weapon, she needed—the briefcase. If she could somehow get them over there . . .

He was stronger than she was. She was faster than he was. Their bodies flopped on the hard floor, arms and legs straining, fists getting worked into torsos, more blood getting drawn on faces.

And then it happened. He somehow managed to pin her by the throat with both hands—and then he drove the back of her head into the marble floor once, twice. . . .

Fuck you!
she mouthed, because she had no air.

Reaching up to his eyes, she thumbed into their sockets—

He disappeared.

Anslam just up . . . and disappeared.

For a split second, she braced herself, ready for some pummeling to hit her. But then she heard a horrible scream.

Looking up, she saw Anslam . . . levitating off the floor, his face twisted into a horrific expression of terror, blood pouring out of his mouth in a gush, feet kicking uselessly as his legs twitched.

Then he was cast aside like trash.

And Craeg was revealed like the warrior he was, his feet planted, his fangs bared . . . a bloody sword in his hand.

Dimly, Paradise realized the weapon was the ceremonial blade that her father was supposed to wear as First Adviser on special occasions, the one that his own father had owned first . . . the one that was kept on the wall directly beside the front door, as tradition required it to be hung.

Craeg came to her and crouched down. “You need medical attention. Where's your phone—where's a phone?”

“I'm okay, I'm . . . all right.”

Wait, she was crying. Or was that blood? She didn't know . . .

The sound of struggle brought his head around. “Be right back.”

With quick strides, he raced into the study with the sword, and moments later, Vuchie was by her side, and the butler was on the phone at the desk.

It was right about then that she realized she was seeing double.

“I think I'm going to pass out,” she said to Craeg.

“Doc Jane is coming.”

“Don't leave me,” she told him. “I want to yell at you some more.”

He got down on his knees. “Because I interrupted your fight? I apologize. I think you were going to win, by the way—but I'm not a gambling male. Sorry.”

She opened her mouth to say something else . . . but it was lights-out.

Her last thought?

That as something warm enveloped her palm, she was pretty sure he had taken her hand.

W
hen Craeg had materialized on Paradise's lawn, he hadn't been sure whether he'd come to fight with her or make up with her.

He honestly hadn't known. Could have gone either way.

After she had handed him his own ass over the phone, he had stormed around the training center until he'd decided, Fuck it, he was going to see her in person. He'd called for a
doggen
, gotten into the bus, and then as soon as they'd made it out to the main road, he'd told the guy he wasn't waiting for the drop-off point.

They'd negotiated to a clearing five miles away from the compound.

Then off he'd gone, to the lawn of Paradise's family's mansion.

Where he'd found the front door cracked open.

The second he'd walked in, he'd seen Paradise under Anslam, with her thumbs digging out his eyes.

And that was how he'd ended up sitting here in this . . . amazing library . . . with proverbial blood on his hands.

Looking around, he shook his head at the grand oil painting over the fireplace. The male who was depicted was staring straight out at the viewer, and Craeg could only imagine what the good ol' boy would have had to say if he'd actually been able to see a scrub-ass commoner sitting on his silk sofa. Or his son's silk sofa. Or grandson's. Whatever.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he rubbed his face.

Yeah, actually, he had come over to fight with her, not make up with her. He'd come to prove his point: that she
and her people were an evil in the species, and she was deluded if she thought he was going to buy any of her bullshit—

“Just stop,” he groaned.

Reopening his eyes, he stared at the rug that his boots were planted on. Out in the foyer there were voices. Butch had come. V. And the butler and the maid were talking.

Paradise had been taken upstairs, and Doc Jane was—

A male appeared in the doorway of the library.

He was tall and slender, dressed in an impeccable suit that even Craeg could tell was handmade by a master. With his bright white shirt and his bloodred tie and his smart little handkerchief in his breast pocket, he was the epitome of an aristocrat.

And yup, he even had the gold signet ring on his finger.

And yes, those were Paradise's eyes staring across the still room.

Craeg took his Orange cap off as he stood up. He had an absurd impulse to retuck his shirt, or brush off his jeans . . . or something. Shit.

The male strode forward with a formidable expression on his face.

Bracing himself, Craeg cleared his throat. “Sir, I'm—”

The bear hug that hit him was so strong he felt his bones get crushed, and the guy didn't back off, he just kept holding on.

While Craeg stood there like a statue.

Over Paradise's father's shoulder, Butch stuck his head into the room. Making bug eyes, the Brother motioned for Craeg to get with the program.

Behind the male's back, Craeg put his palms up, all “what do I do?”

Butch started to madly make hugging motions.

Wincing, Craeg gingerly put his arms around the gentlemale. Patted those shoulders.

“I owe you my life,” her father said in a rough voice. “On this night you have given me life anew by saving hers.”

Finally, her father stepped back and he whipped that handkerchief out and wiped his red eyes. “Tell me, how may I repay you? What may I do for you? How may I e'er be of service unto you and yours.”

Craeg blinked like a planker. His brain literally flatlined. And then he blurted, “My name is Craeg.”

Like the guy had asked him or something.

“Craeg, I am Abalone.” The male bowed. “At your service.”

Before Craeg could respond to that, Peyton rounded the corner and marched over to him. “My man.”

Annnnnnnnd it was time for hug number two.

As Peyton gave him a squeeze that nearly broke his ribs again, Craeg was a little more with the program on the whole return thing.

“You did my job for me,” the guy said roughly.

“What are you taking about?”

“Butch told me Anslam was the one who killed my cousin.”

Craeg recoiled—which was a good thing because he needed a little personal space. Ever since the danger had dissipated when he killed a goddamn classmate, he'd felt like he'd stepped into a parallel universe.

The thing was, as he'd run Anslam through like the fucker had been nothing but an animal, he'd been reacting in defense of Paradise. The reason the male had been attacking her hadn't been overly relevant at the time—and had remained unquestioned in the trippy aftermath.

Peyton told the story quickly, and Craeg followed most of it. At least, he thought he did.

Anslam and the Polaroids. Anslam and his reputation for being aggressive with females. Paradise putting it all togther.

Abruptly, Peyton turned to Paradise's father and the two embraced.

“So how about this guy,” Peyton said as the pair of them separated. “He's some kind of hero, huh.”

Okay, right, it was entirely uncomfortable to have Paradise's father look at him with something close to hero worship. Yeah, wow—could he leave now? Maybe he could leave . . . he wanted to go see Paradise, but—

“He's in love with Parry, too, by the way,” Peyton announced. “And she is with him.”

Annnnnd that was how the whole thing between her and him got seriously, totally, fucking outted.