Broken Blood (2 page)

My dad had been super smart about inter-species breeding. I was a product of a Werewolf dad and a Hunter mom. Something definitely frowned upon in both societies. He’d known about Unbinilium being a Werewolf’s most dangerous weakness so he’d secretly injected me with some sort of blood protectant when I was a baby, ultimately blocking the adverse effects of the metal. Being stabbed or shot with it was a different story.

I wasn’t immortal. Just tough.

Apparently, prolonged exposure did have its consequences. I’d never had reason to test it before, but after almost three weeks of sitting inside a cell lined with the stuff—it was weird, but sometimes I thought I could almost smell it—I could no longer shift to my wolf form. Any time I tried, I felt vaguely nauseous. It didn’t stop me from attempting it every so often, but it made me worry what would happen if I stayed here much longer.

Something shuffled outside my door.

The lock disengaged and I sat up straighter as the concrete slid aside. I expected breakfast. Scrambled eggs a la morphine. Maybe I’d change up my silent routine for questions about that voice I’d heard. But it wasn’t the usual guard with no personality and no ability to carry intelligent conversation and a gun at the same time. Instead, Gordon Steppe himself stood at the threshold.

At the sight of my captor’s face, sixteen days of captivity melted away. In an instant, I was Tara Godfrey, Hunter-Werewolf hybrid. Alert, muscles-bunched, ready to go for the throat the moment I saw an opening. Even without claws and fur, I’d rip his jugular out. But Gordon was obviously ready for all that. He took a step inside, pointed a shiny, silver gun at my neck, and fired.

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T
ranquilizer hangovers sucked. I bet not many people knew that kind of thing firsthand. So, yeah. It should be known, the headache and muscle stiffness caused by sleeping-poison-infused bullets were so much worse than anything alcohol could ever hope to do. On top of that, someone else breathed nearby, letting me know I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t ready to tackle that problem yet. Not with my temples throbbing hard enough to make my un-brushed teeth rattle in my gums.

I waited until I couldn’t convince myself I was asleep any longer. The mouth breather nearby shifted and papers rustled. It sounded too loud in my sensitive ears. I groaned, and then regretted my attempt at using my voice box. It hurt. Everything freaking hurt.

“Tara.” Gordon Steppe’s voice was the absolute last noise I wanted filling the silence right now. I pried my eyes open with a scowl in place. I’d rather take another bullet than listen to him talk. But since nothing was going my way, Steppe’s weapon was currently holstered.

“Steppe,” I returned, although my sad croak spoke volumes for who held the power in our exchange. It didn’t help that I was also flat on my back. I struggled to push up onto my elbows, blinking away the dizziness as I rose. A pin prick of pain emanated from my neck and I laid my palm against it gently.

Steppe waited until I was sitting upright. I blinked up at him and finally noticed the breather I’d heard before. A man with sandy-blond hair was seated in a rolling chair and bent over an empty cot beside me, his cheek resting on his folded arms. His glasses were tilted crookedly against his wrist as he slept, a clipboard tucked underneath his chin where he’d set it on the mattress. Gordon ignored him so I decided to make that my plan too. For now.

“How long was I out?” I asked.

“Six minutes.”

I blinked at him. “Seriously?” Wow. Talk about a power nap...

Steppe smirked. “I can tranq you again if you like.”

“Uh, thanks, no.” One was plenty. This headache wasn’t going anywhere. At least, until my next drug-laced meal. Part of me was already looking forward to that. But another part, the part too terrified to appreciate it, recognized the weight of this moment. I was no longer being ignored. Something had changed.

He cocked his head sideways, illuminating the heavy shadow of light-brown stubble running along his jaw. Underneath his eyes were puffy bags. They weren’t darkened and I wondered briefly if he’d used something to cover the up. I shook my head at that. The last thing I cared about was whether Gordon Steppe wore makeup.

At least I wasn’t the only one disheveled, although his dress slacks and button-down shirt weren’t quite as worn as my stained jeans and wrinkled tee. “What do you want?” I asked warily.

“Right to the point. No chit chat? Nothing? Not even after all of that alone time?”

“Fine. Where are my friends?” I asked.

“They’re not here.”

“Liar,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

I glared. “My mom always told me, ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’”

Gordon clucked his tongue. “Not entirely true. The trick is to smile while you say it. People will let you insult them over and over if they think you’re on their side.”

I scowled. “Said the crooked politician.”

“I need your help.” His swift topic change threw me off. Or maybe it was that he’d failed to take the bait and engage me on the insult. Steppe wasn’t a patient guy. Nor was he forgiving. I’d seen him pissed off. I’d heard it firsthand. He always struck below the belt when he could. But not now. And it made me more wary than any jab or offensive barb he could’ve thrown.

And I was out of practice at hiding it. I couldn’t deny the fear that ate at me as he watched with that smug expression. He enjoyed my pain, physical, mental, or otherwise. That, more than anything, made me nervous. I couldn’t bring myself to engage him in a battle—not even one where the weapons were words.

“Help with what?” I asked instead.

“Your pack of hybrids,” he answered as if it should’ve been obvious.

“What do you want with them?” A ball of panic shot from my stomach to my chest. I hadn’t seen or heard from Chris or the others in weeks. Even before Gordon had nabbed me and the others, they’d been taken. The bond I’d shared with them had suddenly vanished, leaving me helpless to find them.

The only reason we’d been in that warehouse in the first place two weeks ago was to get them back. Victoria’s tracking senses had led us to a room full of cages, each holding a member of my pack. All of them had been detained partly by the confines of the cage and partly because the bars themselves were coated in Unbinilium. And my pack was more susceptible than most when it came to the rare metal.

I wasn’t sure exactly why that was, but I had a theory. Unlike me and Wes, this pack of hybrids hadn’t been born this way. They’d been born Hunters and through a convoluted and highly unethical experimentation process led by Miles, my delusional and sociopathic—and thankfully, now dead—cousin, they’d been infected with Werewolf blood and had eventually become a mixture of both. Only, the experimental serum had been missing something vitally important to the change-over process and many of them died before the change could take effect.

The missing factor? My blood.

A fact I’d discovered only when I’d given a bag full to my friend George after he’d become infected with the serum during that final showdown with my cousin, Miles. I’d been terrified it wouldn’t work and I’d lose him like we’d lost so many others once Miles injected them. But a bag of Tara Godfrey blood was just what the doctor ordered.

In no time, George was well again, back from the brink of death. He was strong and fast and, most of all, happy. He was, quite possibly, the most content Werewolf I’d ever met. And then my blood had really kicked in and we’d bonded.

As in, thoughts shared, emotions passed between us, completely aware of the other’s thoughts: bonded. It had scared the crap out of me. And then it put a huge damper on my love life. I might’ve figured it all out from there, found a way to balance and learn to live with it, but then Olivia had come along. Mother to Miles. Ex-lover to Leo, my also crazy, also dead, uncle. My dad’s side of the family tree was a little nutso.

Olivia had wielded a blood bond strong enough to lead an entire pack of hybrids against me. Then through a showdown and defeat, I’d cured the entire dying pack through injections of my blood, and thus inherited the bond.

Fifty shades of voices, my best friend Cambria called it. My head had never felt so full of thoughts. Eat your heart out, Albert Einstein. So, I was more surprised than anyone at how much I’d hated the void left behind when the bond vanished. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard another thought inside my head besides my own. I missed it. The emptiness made life seem less urgent. Like everything happened through slow-motion.

Nearby, the sleeping man shifted and snorted before settling again. I raised a brow but Gordon wasn’t in the explaining mood. He barely glanced over before returning to the topic at hand.

“I know all about your bond with them,” Gordon said. “It’s a handy tool. And, to be frank, a mysterious one. I’ve spent months working with the best researchers trying to understand it, to develop it.”

“Develop it?” I repeated, a nervous swirl in my stomach. “For what?”

“To take it for myself, of course.”

He paused. I had a feeling he wanted some sort of response, maybe to gauge my reaction to his admission. If he was expecting surprise, he was mistaken. A need for power was nothing new for the enemies I’d faced. A smug smile tugged at my lips at the thought of his failure. Clearly I was Plan B. And since we were having this conversation at all, Plan A hadn’t worked out.

Given all of that, I decided on sarcasm. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Getting closer,” he said quietly, his eyes gleamed where they burned into mine. “I had it working for a moment there but then George’s remaining connection to you severed what little hold I could gain.”

“Wait, you tried bonding ... with me?” I crossed my arms. “I think I’d know if you were in my head.”

His smile tilted into something ominous. “Precisely. You know I’m right, because you’ve already heard me.”

I stared back at him, utterly confused as he went on.

“In fact, I even warned you before you came to the warehouse that night. Look around you. This building you’re being kept inside, it’s not a deep, dark hiding place somewhere off the grid. We’re right where no one expects us. Right in plain sight.”

I didn’t need to follow the sweep of his arms to see that he was right. I was sitting in an infirmary of sorts, but it was large and state of the art with its lab equipment and high-tech machines lining the counters across the room.

“Where are we?” I asked, suspicious I already knew.

“We’re in DC. In CHAS headquarters. Well, the lab and offices underneath but still. There’s a public entrance. We’re easily accessible. I tried to tell you.”

My eyes narrowed as I tried to understand what he could mean—and then the memory returned and his words wormed their way into a place of horrific understanding. But Gordon didn’t wait for me to process it; he enjoyed the shock far too much. He leaned in, his smile electric as he added, “The best place to hide is in place sight.”

I let out a cry but it sounded like a muffled choking.

“Shall I get you some water?” Gordon asked.

I glared at him. “That was your voice in my ... All that time I thought I could hear—” I broke off, unwilling to share it out loud. Especially with him. My cheeks burned—with anger and humiliation. I thought I’d bonded with Alex. And it had been Gordon.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing,
I’d heard just before he’d grabbed me. He’d been telling me it was him, warning me of the trap all along. And I hadn’t understood.

“Relax. Your attachment to George kept shoving me out. I didn’t get much. It was sort of a one-way radio. I’ve been working for weeks to get it back but I can’t quite seem to achieve it, not alone at least. Which is why I need to try it again, this time with your participation.”

I snorted. “I would think your researchers would have filled you in on the obvious by now. First rule of bonding: you have to be a wolf.”

“Lucky for me, carrying the gene and taking the animal’s true form are two different things. These days, I can have one without the other. In fact, I already do.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re a Werewolf?” I asked, disbelief coating my words.

“I’m telling you I carry the necessary DNA structure that allows me the mental capacity to handle something like a bond.”

I shook my head, struggling to keep up. “How?” I asked.

But he didn’t answer. He leaned away, hands stuffed into his pockets, his voice as matter-of-fact as if he were lecturing to a classroom of eager students. “The wolf gene must be present in order for the bond to happen. On both sides. But my cells are considered weak compared to yours, for instance. I’ll need a strong host to connect with—and to show me the ropes.” His grin reminded me of a crocodile’s.

My stomach flipped and I was sincerely glad it was already empty. “You can’t just take it or shove your way in. And if you think I’ll just hand my mind over, you’re wrong,” I began.

“No, it has to be freely given. Olivia explained all of that.”

“Olivia? You’re working ... with her?” The pounding in my temples intensified. Maybe I’d been in here too long. I didn’t understand a single thing about my world any more.

“Working is a strong word. She pushed a little hard and we’ve had to offer her a respite. See for yourself,” he said, pulling back the curtain separating my bed from the next.

In the adjacent bed, wrapped securely in a pile of blankets and sheets, eyes closed, breathing even, Olivia slept.

Wires protruded from the edges of the linens, trailing up to the screens and machines parked beside her, silently reporting her vitals. Her face was barely visible under the sheet, but even from here I could see the dark circles ringing her sockets like bull’s eye bruises. Her hand was curled around the blanket, clutching it tightly as if, even asleep, a chill seeped in. She’d lost weight so that her already slender fingers were thin and bony. Frail.

She was clearly unwell. And being used for something other than justice or judicial trials for her crimes—which is what the rest of the Hunter world assumed would happen once she’d been caught all those weeks ago. Olivia had, along with her deceased son—my cousin Miles—made and almost killed an entire pack of hybrid Hunter-Werewolves. Why wasn’t she in prison? And conscious?