Tall, Dark & Furious (Pyte/Sentinel 6)

Westdrom, Maine

“Wife?” Trace said, frowning down at his wife, who hadn’t opened her eyes since she’d laid down this morning.

For a moment, he considered waking her up so that he could feed from her but decided against it when he noted just how pale she was. He’d let her rest, Trace thought absently as he listened to what he thought was the sounds of an engine coming closer.

Curious, Trace left the room and headed downstairs as he strained his ears, listening for the telltale sign of a heartbeat only to frown when he didn’t hear one. He could detect the sound of breathing over loud rhythmic noise and what he’d thought was singing as he headed downstairs. He paused by the door and closed his eyes, scenting the air while he listened as his guest drew closer to make sure that he was alone.

When he didn’t detect anyone else, Trace opened the door and-

“You should be all set until next week, but if you need more just call the number on the bottom,” the man with a shaved head and a silver ring on his bottom lip said, sounding bored as he shoved a hard red box with a white cover in Trace’s arms before walking away.

For a moment, Trace stood there, watching him, listening to the odd swish of blood move through his veins and realized that he must be a vampire. He scented the air again only to find himself staring down at the box in his arms. Curious, he stepped back inside, closing the door behind him and listened as the vampire left until he couldn’t hear the low rumbling sounds of an engine

anymore.

Once he was sure that the vampire was gone, Trace went in search of a table. He found one in the back of the house in the room that looked similar to the one that had been in his wife’s house, only this one was more appealing to the eye. Everything here looked cleaner and in better condition, he absently thought as he placed the box on the table and raised the lid to find himself staring down at clear bags of what looked like blood.

Things really were different, Trace thought as he picked up one of the bags, noting that it was cold to the touch as he thought of all the late-night trips that his father had been forced to make when he’d needed blood. He’d be gone most of the night, searching for someone suitable to feed from only to be forced to bury the body once he’d drained them to buy them a little more time before they had to move on. He did that every night until the humans started taking notice of all the unexplained disappearances and they were forced to move on.

His father could have fed from the whores they used to cover their scents for a few coins, but he’d refused to take the risk. Besides the fact that a whore’s loyalty could be bought, his father refused to take the risk. The one time that his father had taken the risk to save his life, he’d spent the next year worrying over Trace, terrified that the whore’s blood had been tainted with something that could kill him.

From that point on, his father had taken his time selecting his victims, ensuring that their blood was not only clean but that they also deserved to die. He went after men who liked to beat their wives and children, thieves, rapists, murderers, and men who crossed the line when it came to children.

This would have made their lives so much easier, Trace thought as he turned the bag over in his hands. Wondering how he was supposed to get to the blood inside, he ran his fingers over the smooth surface as he glanced around the room for something to drink it from. When his eyes landed on the large metallic closet making the low humming noise, Trace placed the bag of blood back in the box and decided to see what was inside.

Curious, he ran his fingers over the door, noting that it was smooth and cool to the touch as his gaze focused on the long handle attached to what appeared to be a door. Wondering what his father used it for, Trace carefully opened the door and found himself staring at neatly piled bags of blood lining glass shelves. Frowning, he placed his hand on one of the shelves and noted that it was colder than the box on the table.

Realizing that he needed to keep the blood cold, Trace grabbed the box off the table and added the bagged blood to the shelves. Once he was done, he pushed the box aside and grabbed a bag of blood for himself before he renewed his search for a bowl or a mug, something that he could pour the blood into. When he found a black mug on his second try, he realized that he still had a problem.

Opening the bag without making a mess.

For a moment, Trace considered tearing the bag open only to decide that it would be easier to use his fangs. Decision made, he raised the bag to his mouth as his fangs slid down. He carefully punctured the bag and-

Gagged when the cold, bitter taste of copper coated his tongue.

Knowing that he didn’t have a choice, Trace forced himself to swallow the metallic liquid. Deciding to distract himself, he grabbed another bag of blood from the cold closet and walked back the way he came, checking every room along the way, noting the glass pictures on the walls, the rugs on the floor, the furniture and felt lost as he took in all the things that he didn’t recognize.

He finished off the first bag and replaced it with a second bag as he headed back upstairs, trying not to think of everything he’d lost as he walked into the room across from his father’s and felt himself relax for the first time since he’d left his tomb. There were bookshelves lining every wall, overfilled with books, and in the middle of the room was a large bed with the one thing that he’d wished he’d had with him in his tomb, placed on a pillow.

His book.

He’d had it tucked inside his shirt when he’d made his way through the woods only to realize that it was missing when he woke up in his tomb. He’d always assumed the book had fallen in the river when they’d tried to drown him. He’d mourned the loss of the book, wished that he’d had it with him in his tomb so that he could lose himself in the story.

He’d imagined how it ended in a thousand different ways, Trace thought with a sad smile as he picked up the aged leather book and took in its scent. He used to love the scent of books, the feel of the soft leather against his skin, and the comforting weight in his hands at night. Absently caressing his thumb across the worn leather book in his hands, he finished off the second bag of blood and discarded the empty sacs on the chest so that he could inspect the library that his father had amassed over the years.

There were books on science, history, adventure, languages, and on a hundred things that he didn’t understand. When he came across a large tome entitled, “How Things Work,” he placed the old book on the shelf and-

Frowned when he heard his wife talking to someone.

*-*-*-*

“I told you to run,” came the weakly mumbled groan as Ethan, and she now knew his name thanks to her other hostage, was dropped on the bed near the door. Ignoring him, Indie focused her attention on her other hostage, the seriously pissed off shifter who wasn’t looking so good.

“Take. It. Out,” Jacob, her second hostage, bit out through clenched teeth as she took in his pale skin, his messy short black hair matted with sweat, the way his hands trembled and felt a momentary stab of guilt only to remember that he’d planned on bringing her back to that house.

“Get on the bed,” Indie said, gesturing with the silver-tipped dagger that she’d taken from Ethan’s bag towards the spot next to her first hostage.

With a silver-eyed glare in her direction, he reluctantly walked over to the other side of the bed and sat down with a wince when the move caused the silver needle that she’d carried on her since she was six years old to dig in deeper. She waited for a moment to make sure that he wasn’t going to try anything stupid before she placed the small dagger on the nightstand. Keeping her eyes locked on the large Alpha, she reached into her back pocket and grabbed the rolls of gauze that she’d helped herself to and made quick work of wrapping one of the rolls around his right wrist.