Читать книгу: «Bonded by Blood»

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled to present Bonded By Blood, the first book of my paranormal series with Mills & Boon^® Nocturne^™. The Sweetblood world is a deadly and seductive one, where the forces of good and evil battle secretly around us, and the power of love can change everything.

The kernel of this story and my love for the ultimate bad boy began years ago, when my sister and I saw Fright Night eight times in the movie theater. Chris Sarandon played a dangerously handsome vampire whose intense magnetism literally sucked me in. Although he was the villain, I dreamed of being Amy, the girl he’d loved for centuries. The scene at the club still gets my heart pounding …

Okay, where was I?

Far beneath the streets of the city, in an unknown part of Underground Seattle, a team of vampire Guardians fights to protect humans from Darkbloods—vicious members of their race who kill like their ancestors and sell the blood on the black market. The rarest, called Sweetblood, commands the highest price.

Tortured by his need for vengeance, Dominic Serrano will stop at nothing in order to kill his enemy … until one forbidden taste of Mackenzie’s sweet blood turns his world upside down. Seeing this fierce warrior struggle to restrain himself with a woman who brings him to his knees got my heart pounding. Just like it did in that theater.

Come with me and explore the Sweetblood world, one dangerously seductive romance at a time.

All my best,

Laurie London

Bonded

by Blood

Laurie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my husband, Ted,

for a zillion reasons, starting with I love you

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Because this is my debut novel, I have so many people to thank.

First and foremost, thank you to my sister, talented author Rebecca Clark, for her unwavering encouragement, even when I thought she and her “feelings” about this story’s potential were crazy.

Thank you to my agent Emmanuelle Morgen and my editor Margo Lipschultz for taking a chance on this new author and for their enthusiastic support of this series. To all the people at HQN, including the uber-talented art department, thank you.

To Alexis Morgan, thanks for your friendship and for telling me, early on, to write the story I want to write.

Thank you, Cherry Adair, for your encouragement, your wisdom, your generosity, and your belief in me. I’m truly humbled.

To my dear friends and beta readers, Shelley, Mandy, Kandis, Kathy, and Janna: your friendship and feedback mean the world to me. You made this reader think she wasn’t nuts when she nervously told you she’d been writing. Barb, muchas gracias for your help with Spanish words and cultural details. Thanks to my GIAM friends, my Lex buddies, the writing community of Greater Seattle RWA, and the Bookinville ladies for your hearty enthusiasm.

Hugs and kisses to my two awesome children for their love and support, and for picking up the slack around the house because Mom had to write “just one more page.”

Last, but not least, thank you to my real life hero, my husband Ted, for supporting my dreams and managing more than his share of the chaos so that I can write. Oh, and for agreeing with Emmanuelle that a guy wouldn’t use such expressive words in a particular scene. The final version is much better.

CHAPTER ONE

MACKENZIE FOSTER-SHAW spotted the cemetery sign at the last minute and squeezed the brakes, spinning out her white Triumph motorcycle in a spray of dirt and gravel. She meant to lean into a sharp, controlled turn, but the back tire lost traction and she almost had to lay the thing down.

Crap, the rocks hadn’t looked that loose. Irritation at her carelessness momentarily replaced the uncertainty riding in with her as she sprang from the bike. After examining the chrome for chips and seeing no damage, she felt the hard lump of anticipation return, but she swallowed and tried to ignore it.

She yanked off her helmet and squinted into the shadowed interior of the cemetery. Even in the late afternoon sun, little light penetrated the heavy canopy of fir trees.

“I’m liking this so far,” she said to herself as she tossed her sunglasses on the seat. But she knew better than to get her hopes up too soon. Hope didn’t pay the bills, nor did wishful thinking.

Situated on a forest access road, miles from the main highway, the cemetery was certainly ancient enough. The county register listed it as one of the oldest in the region. How long had it been since anyone visited this place? Ages ago, probably.

She started to unzip her leather jacket, then hesitated. Like most people in the Pacific Northwest after months of gray skies and the unending wetness of winter, she didn’t need much of an excuse to strip off the layers. But with one glance at the bushes she’d need to traipse through, she zipped it back up. Those vivid green leaves couldn’t camouflage the barb-covered vines eager to hook anything within reach. Especially bare skin. Besides, it was probably cooler and wetter inside the trees.

She grabbed her camera from the saddlebag and fiddled with the settings, not bothering with the flash attachment. The client was adamant the pictures needed to portray the ambient lighting and convey an oppressive, haunted feeling.

“Hopefully, this location will work for them.” It was the fourth or fifth graveyard she’d visited in the past two weeks. If it didn’t, she was screwed because she was totally out of ideas.

Bear Creek Pioneer Cemetery was etched in once-white paint on a crooked sign at the side of the road. After shooting a few pictures, she scanned the area for a pathway and noticed a slight indentation in the underbrush. She’d do her sketches and take measurements of the road later.

Her boots crunched on the gravel as she slung the camera strap over her shoulder and plunged into the blackberry bushes. Good thing she’d kept her riding leathers on. Both the jacket and the pants. Sharp thorns and stickers grabbed hungrily at her arms and legs, but they weren’t able to gain purchase on the thick hide.

As she stepped into the small clearing, the still, dank air clung to her face. Tufts of tangled grasses crowded around the crumbling headstones in the middle of the cemetery, but at the edge, the bushes covered them completely. Oppressive? Most definitely. Her stomach lurched with excitement, but again, she quickly tamped it down and got to work.

Opening the tripod, she balanced it on the uneven ground next to a stone cross. Something about it made her hesitate. The name was no longer legible and she paused to run a finger over the weathered, rough surface. Who was buried here, gone and forgotten? A man? A woman? A child?

She must have stared a little too long because her sinuses began to itch. She wrinkled her nose, tried to sniff away the sudden heavy weight pulling at her heart, but it didn’t quite work. Would someone wonder about her, too? What she looked like. What kind of a person she was. How long from now? Months? Years, maybe? If she were lucky. But the thing was, there’d be no body in her grave.

Stop. Just stop it. Quit being so damn morbid. Normally she was pretty good at not thinking much about the future. Why worry about something completely out of her control? It had to be all these depressing cemeteries she’d been visiting lately.

She took a deep breath to change the unproductive air in her lungs, screwed the camera in place and exhaled, wrenching her mind back to the present where it needed to stay.

With every satisfying click of the shutter, the outside world became only what she could see through the view-finder. The gravestones, the trees and the quiet loneliness.

When she finally stopped to examine the results, her pulse jumped like it always did when she captured something magical through the lens. They were good. Really good. Much better than the other locations. When she got to one particular image, she hesitated. The lengthening shadows stretched out over the headstones and mounds of grass like the distorted, tortured lines of Munch’s painting, The Scream, and her spine prickled.

Or maybe it was the wind.

A slight breeze found its way into the open collar of her jacket, tickling her neck and ears, and stirring the branches of the watchful trees. She shivered and brushed her hair away from the lens.

Zombies? Dead eyes and insatiable cravings? She could totally visualize rotting hands stretching out of their graves here. Would Hollywood think so? That was the fifteen hundred dollar bonus question.

She twisted her hair up, clipped it off her neck, and dropped to the forest floor. Although it hadn’t rained, moisture lingered everywhere and the ground smelled woodsy beneath her. She rolled over onto her back, again thankful she’d decided to keep the jacket on. A few wispy fronds of grass brushed her cheek and she batted them away. Twisting the lens to focus on the treetops, she—

A sound sliced through the silence of the graveyard and she froze.

A cry? A growl?

She patted her jacket pocket and felt the reassuring hard lump of her handgun.

Maybe it was just the squeak of tree limbs protesting against the wind. Of course it was. With shaking hands, she pushed herself to a sitting position just to make sure.

When she heard it again, she scrambled to her feet.

An animal. Definitely not a tree limb.

She held her breath and fixated on the spot at the edge of the cemetery where the noise originated.

A mound of leaves and branches moved. Twenty feet or so in front of her.

Her pulse thundered behind her eardrums. It was probably just a raccoon. But didn’t they hiss? She took a step backwards, her gaze unwavering.

A badger? They were mean sons of bitches. No, this definitely didn’t sound like the one that crawled into their tent on the last camping trip with her father all those years ago. This sounded bigger, different.

Her breath came out in shallow bursts as she glanced behind her. Okay. Her bike was about thirty steps away then up that slight embankment through the sticker bushes. If she ran, would the thing chase her? If she moved slowly, would it even follow? No, it was probably even more scared of her. She eased the camera strap around her neck and—

She heard it again.

This time it was unmistakable.

“Help me.”

The pile of leaves shuffled, falling away to reveal a man hidden underneath. With a hand outstretched to her, he writhed as if in pain.

A man? What the hell? Here in the middle of nowhere? Should she run for help? Should she walk closer?

Even from this distance, she could see his brow furrowed in agony, his eyes desperate and hollow. He didn’t appear to be in any shape to harm her. Besides, she had her gun.

Recalling her mother’s stern warnings over the years, she paused. This couldn’t have anything to do with her family, could it? Her cousin Stacy’s face flashed in her memory along with the faded one of her father. But this wasn’t the big city, nor was it summer. Two critical elements. Usually.

She placed a cool hand to her throat, the racing tempo of her heart slowed just a little, and she considered her options. Maybe this was his version of “here little girl, help me with my puppy.” Clear out here though? It wasn’t like this place got a lot of foot traffic.

He dropped his arm and his mouth moved silently. God, he really seemed hurt. She had to do something; she couldn’t just leave him.

She pulled out her cell phone, punched 911, and kept a finger above the Send button. Shaking off myriad notions of zombies and cemeteries, she strode forward to the edge of the trees.

The man lay on his back, half-hidden under the leaves and branches, his clothes covered in dirt. Given his disheveled appearance, he looked like a vagrant. But as she raked her eyes over him, she noted his expensive-looking boots and pale blue dress shirt, and he, too, was wearing leather pants. Most definitely not homeless.

Torn and muddy, his shirt was unbuttoned, ripped open actually, revealing a dirt-smeared but well-defined chest. Some of his shoulder-length dark hair, tangled with bits of leaves and debris, seemed to be partially captured in a ponytail, but she couldn’t be sure from this angle. His eyes, an electrifying shade of ice blue, pierced through her. She stopped a few feet away.

“What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

“I need … your help.” His voice, slightly accented, was clearly laced with pain.

At that moment, the wind picked up and swirled at her feet as if urging her to move. The leaves around him danced on the air and settled slowly back to the ground. Stepping closer, she heard his sharp intake of breath. His eyes widened at first then narrowed to slits, and he shrank backwards into the leaves.

He couldn’t be scared of her, could he? He was a tall man, athletic and powerfully built. Why would he be afraid of her?

“Stay away,” he ordered. Given his condition, his forceful tone surprised her.

She didn’t understand. Why the sudden turnabout? He clearly needed her help. He had to be hallucinating. How long had he been here anyway? Squatting down to appear less intimidating, she tucked her phone in her pocket and stretched out her hands like she would to a frightened dog. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I can help.”

Then she saw it. A hole in his mud-encrusted shirt. She hadn’t noticed it right away because it was fairly small, the size of a quarter maybe, and he cradled his arm as if it were injured.

“Oh my God. Is that … blood? Have you been shot?”

As she sprang to his side, the last thing she remembered was the way his pupils suddenly dilated. Like a shark rolling back its eyes when it bites.

DIOS MIO. What have I done?

Even in his weakened condition, his senses dulled from the blood loss and the daylight, Dominic Serrano had caught the woman’s scent before he saw her or sensed her energy trail. A mesmerizing fragrance wafted in the air around him and woke him from his stupor. He should have known though. He’d been in and out of consciousness all day, but he still should’ve known. Should have recognized it. What an idiot.

He had kicked off some of the branches when he spotted her, not more than a few paces away, and watched as the tall, slender woman took pictures of the old headstones. Her movements were graceful, almost feline, as she swung her body around for different camera angles. When she recklessly flipped those loose curls behind her shoulders to reveal a long shapely neck and large hoop earrings, he almost stopped breathing.

His eyes were glued to her; he was powerless to peel them away. But his heart thundered against his ribs and he hardened instantly when she bent forward and wrestled with her hair. Closing his eyes for a moment, he imagined her standing over him, straddling his body with those long legs.

What the hell was he thinking? For God’s sake, he needed to ditch the fantasy shit and figure out how to—She fell to the ground and all he could do was stare.

With a knee bent and a boot heel wedged into the forest floor for traction, she shimmied and wriggled, aiming the lens at the distant treetops above. And, sweet Jesus, he imagined her body squirming like that beneath him.

His sudden erection surged like a battering ram against the seams of his pants and he hurried to adjust the tight-fitting leather. But the minute he moved, scorching jolts of pain shot from his injured shoulder and he cried out in agony.

The woman sat up and looked in his direction.

Shit. He held his breath, remained motionless, and hoped she’d leave without seeing him. What the hell was wrong with him? He certainly didn’t need another goddamn complication. But his arm lay awkwardly at his side, the throbbing intensity getting worse.

Sucking air through his teeth with a hiss, he inched his good arm over his stomach to reposition the bad one, but the instant shattered bones grated against torn muscles and infected tissue, he couldn’t help it.

He groaned again and she stared right at him.

Think. Think. It was getting late. Not much time before the Darkbloods would be back. They knew they’d shot him and they knew what he’d stolen.

With his barely functioning willpower, the woman was vulnerable to him. He would require more than the use of her cell phone as powerful urges simmered below the taut surface of his sensibilities. He tried not to feed from humans much, but at this point he was out of options. He had no other choice.

He called out to her and licked his dry lips. With that long hair cascading past her shoulder blades, it would encase his face as he drank from her, tickling his nose and giving his hands a luxurious anchor. He’d take just enough of her blood and energies, then send her away with memories of nothing. God, he was parched.

Although he sensed her fear, she came toward him with purpose in her stride. She moved with confidence, stepping over obstacles with a strong, even pace, unaccustomed to being afraid. Her curious green eyes locked onto his and he could think of little else except the mesmerizing sway of her hips. She stopped several feet away and appraised him.

He was about to ask her about her phone when his world caved in around him. The wind picked up and with it came her scent, swirling innocently in the leaves at first, then bashing him across the forehead like a lead pipe.

Dios mio. Sangre Dulce.

He wanted to pump his legs. To scramble away from her. But his muscles were like stone. He was virtually paralyzed.

She was more than just vulnerable, he realized. She was in terrible danger. Not just from him, but from the Darkbloods. She had to run. Get away. Now.

He clamped his eyes shut, tried to block out this nightmare. What were the odds a rare sweetblood would be the one to find him? Their blood was almost irresistible to his kind. Yes, how goddamn ironic was that? He wouldn’t drink from her. He couldn’t.

Once he tasted the blood of Sangre Dulce, especially in his present condition, there’d be little hope of a successful Stop and Release, a fact he knew only too well. Baser, primitive instincts would take over and the immunity training, required of all Guardians with the Agency, wouldn’t do him any good.

“Leave me alone.” He clenched his teeth to keep his fangs from elongating, but it was no use. As they stretched from his gums, his control ebbed away.

When she leaned close and he smelled her sweet breath on his face, all rational thought vanished. The animal lying dormant inside knew just what to do. A hidden store of energy coursed through his veins and he pounced with the practiced grace of a tiger, rolled her to her back and enveloped her body with his. Before she could scream, he pressed his palms to her temples, entrancing her in the age-old trick of his kind to subdue its prey.

She would remember nothing of the terror. Nothing of the pain. Nothing of him. That is, if she survived.

Her eyes closed and her head lolled backward, exposing the smooth delicate skin of her neck to him. In one swift movement, he tossed aside her camera, yanked the jacket off one shoulder and tore the neck of her T-shirt.

With a growl, he plunged his teeth into her flesh.

Pulling hard at her vein, he consumed mouthful after mouthful of her warm, beautiful nectar. He’d never tasted anything so glorious. So sweet. So utterly perfect. Good God, it was as if she were created solely to nourish him. Her fresh scent overpowered his nostrils as her blood filled his mouth and danced on his tongue. Suckling like a baby at the breast, his whole body shuddered in ecstasy and euphoria embraced him as a lover.

Without breaking their contact, he slipped a practiced hand to her cheek and temple, and her concentrated warm energies sluiced into his body, rejuvenating him with shocking speed. The cocoon of her fragrant hair captured his breath against her neck, making a heated and welcoming hollow for his face, and he pushed her deeper into the pile of forest debris with the weight of his body.

A small voice at the back of his head told him to stop, but he shoved it aside.

He’d fed directly from humans before, probably more than he cared to admit, and he’d absorbed the energies of thousands, but never were any of them like this. He heard about the taste of sweetblood, all of them had, but no verbal description even came close to this delicious reality. And her energies? He’d never experienced anything like them before. There was nothing he couldn’t do with her in his body, he realized. Impossible no longer existed.

Darkness licked at his soul as the fragile barrier between strongly held beliefs and suppressed instincts threatened to shatter around him. That voice again, deep inside, roared out like a freight train, calling him back.

Stop. You’re killing her. You’re not an animal.

Oh God, he did have to stop. Her pulse weakened under his lips and he sensed her life energy slipping away. This was wrong. He knew it was.

Releasing her vein, he crouched over her and rubbed his mouth with the back of an unsteady hand. Her scent, her sweet scent, clung to every fiber of his being, seducing him back like an addiction.

A junkie desperate for another fix, he needed more of her. The blood, the warm energies. All of it. No one would know. It’d be easy to keep this secret from everyone. He’d dispose of the body so it wouldn’t be found and she’d be just another missing person. Yes, that could work.

Move away from her. Remember Alfonso.

He pinched his eyes shut, scrambled backward and collapsed next to a tree. With his head cradled between his knees, he pulled at his hair and wished she had never found him.

He raised his head and forced himself to look at what he had done. There she was, nestled innocently in the leaves, unaware of the monster at her feet, her mouth ajar, hair billowing out behind her, and long dark lashes contrasting against the pale softness of her cheeks. He noticed a small mole on her upper lip, or maybe it was a dark freckle. It looked just like the one his mother used to draw on for vanity purposes.

Dios mio. What have I become?

His parents had fought so hard to elevate their kind to more than the thoughtless killers their ancestors had been. And now look at him. If his mother were alive, she’d be horrified at what he had done and everything it represented.

Another gust of wind blew through the forest, stirring the fir boughs into a rhythmic, fanning motion around him. Cool, fresh air brushed against his face, aerating him slightly and clearing out a tiny corner of his mind.

He forced himself to stand and staggered to the edge of the creek rollicking a few feet away. She was a magnet and it took every ounce of willpower to pry himself from her presence. His body cried out, wanting more, but his mind pulled him away.

He peeled off his shirt, thrust his head into the icy cold water, and pulled the tie from his ponytail. The rushing sound filled his ears and refreshed his head. Over and over he rinsed his mouth, trying to rid himself of her taste. He scrubbed his hair, his face, his neck, washing away her smell.

He rocked back on his heels, water dripping onto his bare shoulders, and he took a deep cleansing breath. He knew what he had to do. He was not going to end up like Alfonso. No way. He’d kill himself before he let what happened to his brother happen to him. His parents’ memory deserved more than that.

He doused his shirt in the creek, rubbed the fibers of the fabric together as if he had soap. Then he wrung it out and wrapped it around his nose and mouth like a makeshift bandanna.

When he scooped the woman up, his sudden strength stunned him. She was hardly a wisp of air in his arms. Her lips had a bluish cast to them and her pulse was weak, but she was alive. Thank God. He barely noticed that the agonizing pain from the silver bullet was gone.

There was no time to think about what a monster he was. That he was actually capable of such a despicable atrocity. He would deal with that later. Right now, he had to get her away.

With her scent all over this place, he had no doubt the Darkbloods would instantly abandon their search for him and focus on finding her instead. They’d go ape-shit when they smelled Sangre Dulce. And they had no qualms about killing. None.

He fished her keys from her tight leather pocket and stifled a bitter smile when he saw her juvenile key ring. Then, pausing to retrieve her camera, he cradled her body as gently as he could.

When her head rolled back, he saw two puncture holes on her graceful neck. He had backed away from her so quickly, he hadn’t sealed the wound. Without much thought, he lifted the shirt from his mouth and touched his lips to her skin.

When they drank from a human, they were never to leave an unhealed mark, no trace, no memory. He might be a rebel in the Agency, but he was no fool. Shock registered a moment later, when he realized he’d somehow controlled the urge to feed from her again. Good, maybe he could do this thing.

As he emerged from the forest into the sun of the dead, his pupils tightened and he dipped his head to shield his eyes. He started to step back into the shadows before he realized he felt none of the expected burn and no measurable energy drain. When had he last been outside willingly during this restless time of day when the sun died and his people awaited its disappearance beyond the horizon? Except as a vampire youthling prior to the Time of Change, maybe never. After that point, the cravings began and they lived out their lives away from the weakening effects of sunlight.

Just through the trees, the cemetery signpost leaned into the bushes, its wooden placard dangling in the wind, jeering, mocking him. He bit down on his defiance and strode past. There was a time when he would’ve made the sign of the cross and offered up a prayer, but not any longer. And certainly not today.

He glanced up the dirt road, expecting to see a sassy little sports car or even a truck. Not a freaking white motorcycle. Who was this woman with a Hello Kitty keychain?

Hell, this was going to be interesting.

CHAPTER TWO

MACKENZIE COULDN’T REMEMBER ever having a migraine this bad. Her temples pounded like mallets as blazing sunlight penetrated her eyelids. She rolled over, covered her head with her pillow, but the throbbing pulse continued over and over in her skull.

Oh God, she felt like puking.

She dragged herself from the bed toward the bathroom, sheets tangled around her, but she took only a few steps before her head began spinning even faster and her knees buckled. She expected to hit the floor, and weakly stretched out her hands, but somehow she fell onto the bed instead.

She must’ve slept again, drifting in and out of consciousness in an endless stream of time. Damp coldness touched her forehead and neck. It felt so good. Drops of liquid touched the back of her tongue and slid down her throat. The deafening pounding in her head receded beat by beat as the pain fibers loosened their grip from behind her eyes.

When she opened her lids, probably much later, the room was darker than before. But given the small amount of light filtering in through the margins of the closed blinds, she knew it was still daytime.

Hadn’t the blinds been open earlier? Stretching her arms up, she yawned and heard her shoulders crack. Was that migraine only a bad dream? She felt wonderfully refreshed now.

Several washcloths lay neatly folded on her nightstand and a glass of ice water sat on a coaster. That was strange. It wasn’t like Samantha to look after her like this. Her housemate kept strange hours and was rarely home lately.

She looked around but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Everything looked the same and yet things felt … different. As though something had happened and she’d become aware of it after the fact. The little hairs on the nape of her neck prickled. Change hung invisibly in the air, like perfume lingering in an empty elevator.

How long had she slept? Glancing at her alarm clock, her jaw dropped.

What the … that couldn’t be right. Three o’clock?

She grabbed her cell phone and flipped it open.

A full day gone? She racked her brain for any detail, something that would remind her of how she’d spent the last twenty-four hours.

She remembered riding out to the lonely cemetery, but that’s where everything fogged. Crumbling headstones? Towering trees? Piles of leaves? Yes, she could almost feel them swirling around her legs, hear the wind rustling through branches.

She dug deep and massaged her scalp with her fingers, determined to loosen the memory. There had to be more. An almost faded feeling of dread and sadness wavered somewhere inside. And oddly enough, so did pleasure. She recalled taking a few pictures then … nothing. Could it all have been a dream?

She leaped from the bed, grabbed her camera and snapped the memory stick into the card reader of her computer. She sank into the chair and waited a few impatient moments for all the pictures to transfer. With a click, she opened her photo-editing software and sucked in a tentative breath. The first ones to pop up were of the old cemetery sign. Thank God, she hadn’t imagined riding out there. She blew the air from her lungs in a quick burst of relief.

One by one, she scrolled through the images then emailed them to her boss. Wow, they were pretty damn good. So why couldn’t she remember taking them?

She pinched her upper lip, massaged it between her thumb and forefinger, and rested her elbows on the top of the desk. There had to be a completely rational explanation. She paced around the room, then picked up her cell phone.

“Steve, yeah, it’s me. I just emailed you the pics I took of that location yesterday.”

She heard his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Got ‘em.” He paused and she held her breath. Would he like them or would he hate them?

“Hey, nice work. Are the specs here somewhere, too?” He spoke slowly, as if he were concentrating on the pictures.

The specs? Did she even take any measurements or assess the surroundings? “Uh, not yet. I had the mother of all migraines and just now got the chance to send the pictures. I’ll get the specs to you as soon as I can.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” He was probably thankful they were talking on the phone. He had a major germ phobia.

“I don’t think so, but … I sort of blacked out yesterday. I don’t remember taking any of the photos I just sent you.”

“Well, let’s hope the pictures are good enough, then.” He clearly wasn’t concerned about her missing time. “Talked to Patsy at the production company. Turns out they’re considering shooting the film up in Vancouver instead. Something about an actual haunted cemetery.”

Crap. There went her bonus if they went to Canada. Steve talked about several other potential projects, but Mackenzie didn’t really listen. The zombie picture, backed by a major studio, was the only one that promised decent money up front.

Maybe she shouldn’t worry about her long-gone migraine and instead should think about how she was going to make her brother’s tuition payment and get the damn car fixed. Why did big expenses always seem to happen at the same time?

She examined her face in the bathroom mirror, lifted her chin and moved her head from side to side. No dark circles under her eyes, no tired lids. Just refreshed, as if she’d had a great night’s sleep. She reached into the top drawer and grabbed a handful of peanut M&M’s. A large unopened package of candy lay next to the opened one. When had she bought that?

She padded out to the bedroom door and cracked it an inch.

“Sam? You there?”

No answer. She waited a moment then called again. Nothing. The house was silent. What would her roommate be doing digging through her bathroom drawers? Had she eaten the candy, then felt guilty and bought more?

In one bite, she crammed the chocolate pieces into her mouth, turned back to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Maybe she’d gotten sick and blacked out. Food poisoning? What had she eaten yesterday? Cold pizza?

As she shampooed her hair, her mind ran through the gamut of possibilities. At twenty-six, Mackenzie doubted she had Alzheimer’s like her mother, but losing an entire day with no recollection plucked at the tight order of her life.

She stretched her arms overhead and flexed her muscles. Her temples tingled, probably just remnants of the migraine, but the sensation wasn’t painful. It made her feel … happy? Content? How weird.

She rinsed off and debated hitting the gym, something she rarely felt like doing. With the photos emailed and no classes to teach at the art school, she had the rest of the day free. She should probably go visit her mother, but maybe she’d organize her bedroom closet instead.

Then it struck her. How the hell had she gotten home?

She turned the water off with a jarring crank of old pipes, grabbed a bath towel and ran down the stairs, dripping wet, almost slipping on the bottom step. She skidded through the kitchen and wrenched open the garage door.

Thank God. It was there. But a niggling feeling tugged at the back of her neck as she stared. Her bike was parked on Sam’s side of the garage.

What was going on? Had she lost her mind?

Organized to the point that her brother called her anal, she wasn’t used to feeling so out of control. Maybe she really was going a little crazy. Maybe she did need to see a doctor.

Water from her hair dripped down her back. She wrapped her head with the towel, genie-style, and imagined what Samantha would think if she walked in right now. She’d certainly think Mackenzie was nuts. Although Sam worked at a spa and wasn’t a stranger to seeing naked women’s bodies, she just hadn’t seen this particular one before.

Mackenzie had started back inside when she had a thought.

She approached the bike, opened one of the saddlebags, and sifted through the contents. Where was her tripod? Normally she kept it stored there. Less of a chance she’d forget to bring it on a shoot if she happened to need one. And she hadn’t seen the thing in her room, either.

She noticed her field notebook tucked on its side and flipped through the pages. There were no notes pertaining to the Bear Creek Pioneer Cemetery. No measurements, no sketches, nothing. What the hell happened? Had she forgotten to do them?

She wandered back inside and pressed a few buttons on the espresso maker next to the kitchen window. The high-pitched sound of the grinder echoed in the room and the air filled with the aroma of coffee beans. With a hand on her toweled head, she leaned over the sink to get a better view of her mother’s bird feeder hanging just outside the window overlooking the backyard. The thing was almost empty again. Stupid squirrels.

Her temples began to vibrate, the tingling suddenly replaced by a low buzzing hum. The migraine wasn’t coming back, was it? She put the heel of her hand to her forehead, pressing up on her eyebrows. No. Her head didn’t hurt. Just felt a little strange. She stretched on her tiptoes, reached into the cupboard on the other side of the window and grabbed a coffee cup.

Sweet Jesus.

The oath rang through her head, deep and hoarse. A man’s voice.

She spun around in confusion, the mug slipping from her fingers and clattering to the counter. Where did that come from?

I could just … damn … she’s so …

Words and sentence fragments tumbled into her head from elsewhere but it made no sense. God, what was happening to her? Was she really losing her mind?

“Hello? Sam?” Barely able to eke the words out, she knew her roommate was gone, but she called to her anyway, hoping Sam would answer, though the voice was clearly male. “Who’s there?”

She yanked the towel from her hair and wrapped it around herself in an attempt to cover up. Her heart hammered out a deafening staccato in her chest, while the atmosphere seemed to shift around her as if someone was near. She pulled a large knife from the cutting block, held her other palm to the hilt as she’d been taught and backed up until the edge of the countertop stopped her from going farther.

The words felt as if they had been projected into her head rather than spoken aloud. With the noise from the espresso machine, someone would need to shout for her to even hear them. And what she heard was crystal clear. It just didn’t make sense. She must be going crazy or—

Exquisite … so frightened … I wish … can she hear …

She ran into the dining room, pointing the blade out wildly in front of her. Her temples continued to vibrate and she rubbed her forehead with the back of her knife hand.

Oh God, was this it? Was this what had happened to her father when he disappeared all those years ago? And Stacy?

A surge of strangling heat started at her toes and rose upward, clutching at her chest and pythoning her airways. She could hardly breathe.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be happening. Good Lord, no.

Then, like the snap of an off-switch, the vibration in her head stopped. Gone.

Relief flooded over her and she dropped the knife on the dining room table. She drew in a few raspy breaths and the constricting panic disappeared, fading into a calm assurance that she was safe.

What happened to her father had nothing to do with this. She didn’t know why. She just knew.

Seconds ticked into minutes and her breath eventually evened out.

Although she didn’t hear the voice again, something tangible still called to her. A silent longing tugged at her heart as an ache settled into her bones.

Her lips throbbed, felt swollen, and she detected a slow rhythmic sensation in her head. Not painful, just strange. It didn’t seem to match that of her own heart doing cartwheels and clanging around her rib cage. The sound in her temples was steady and quietly reassuring.

Two heartbeats? Okay, think. Well, she knew she couldn’t be pregnant. It took a man as well as a body capable of carrying a child. Two things she didn’t have. No, definitely not pregnant.

What about the missing chunk of time? What if … She felt between her legs and rubbed her hands over her breasts. Nothing. She’d know if she’d had sex last night, especially since it had been ages. No, she was positive she hadn’t been with a man.

Could the migraine be coming back? What the hell was happening to her? She needed to seriously calm down and figure this out. There had to be a completely rational explanation for this … this … whatever this was.

Air. She needed fresh air. She flung open the French doors of the dining room, and a rush of coolness whispered over her damp skin and hair as she scanned the perimeter of her backyard. For what, she had no idea.

The dewy green of spring was everywhere and her cherry tree was starting to blossom. Ceramic pots on the patio waited to be filled with flowers, and a swallow swooped under the eaves, its beak filled with bits of dried grass. Everything seemed the same, normal, but she knew things weren’t.

She concentrated on the slow thumping beat in her head, rather than her racing heart and was startled to find that the more she focused on it, the more comforting it became. Gradually, the tempo of the two beats got closer together and eventually meshed into one.

One rhythm. One sound. One heartbeat.

She leaned against the doorjamb, her skin flushed hot, and for some crazy reason, she imagined the crush of a man’s muscular body against hers. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around her toweled body, and could almost feel the strong muscles of his shoulders moving beneath her hands. The musky fragrance of his passion in her lungs. Wetness surged between her legs as if her body were readying itself for him.

Her breath came in short bursts, and drawn to the backyard by an invisible thread, she stepped onto the patio. Like an electric charge, an unseen yet shimmering presence in the air, something called to her. She wanted to respond, to answer, but she didn’t know how.

Then, just as it had started, the second heartbeat was gone. Not a gradual fading, but a tearing away. A bandage ripped from a wound. She waited a few moments, but it was gone.

Shuffling back inside, she collapsed into a chair.

What the hell just happened?

She had to be losing it. Or going completely mental—as her mother’s British friend at the nursing home would say. Imaginary orgasmic sensations? Oh great, how would she explain that one to a doctor?

“Well, I was home alone, when I heard an imaginary guy talking to me, and then I almost had a real orgasm.”

Yeah, right. Can you say crazy? She forced herself to laugh, hoping to lighten her mood so she could think more clearly.

But there was something about the voice in her head that nagged at her. Like she should know it. Like she had heard it before. She racked her brain but came up with nothing.

And what about her missing day? What the heck was going on?

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and pushed away from the table. No sense wasting time worrying or pondering. She would do what she always did—she’d either find some answers or she’d quit dwelling on things she had no control over and move on. She’d had a lot of practice with that.

After mopping up all the water she’d tracked in from her shower, she finished getting ready and jumped on the Triumph. Armed with a plan, she roared out of the garage.

THIS CAN’T be happening. It’s just a Hill Country legend. An old Cantabrian myth. Not real.

Dom swung his silver Porsche away from the curb and followed the woman—Mackenzie—through her neighborhood and onto a major thoroughfare. With a bandanna on her head and two braided pigtails bouncing on her back, she handled the bike deftly. Where was her goddamn helmet?

Of course, he had heard the old stories told during the Feast of the Longest Day. But that was all they were. Stories. No one actually knew anyone who became telepathic and bonded through blood sharing. And certainly not with a human. It was just a tale about sex and love told by the elders late at night around the bonfires. A gothic romance causing girls to swoon and boys to snicker. No one thought it had any basis in reality.

But what else could it be? She clearly heard his thoughts and he had heard hers. If he hadn’t made that realization and shut his mind off to her, who knew what she would have done with that knife. There were stories of that, as well. And for God’s sake, they’d practically made love from a distance. His balls still ached.

After he had nursed her through the night and most of the day, when he was confident her condition had improved enough, he planned to drive out of her life. He didn’t have time for this. So why was he following her?

He really should turn around, head home. She looked fine now. But when he lifted his foot off the accelerator, a pain cut into his gut like a blunt knife. He needed to flick the turn signal, crank the steering wheel, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He rubbed a hand over his chest, which actually ached. When he pressed down on the pedal again and the vehicle moved a little closer, the pain faded away.

What the hell was going on? This seemed much more than just a sweetblood attraction. Alfonso had never mentioned any of this shit happening to him.

And where was she going? He didn’t dare probe her mind to find out. If things felt to her as they did to him, the sounds in her head might cause her to run off the road. Could she feel him, too, and just not understand the sensation? Unlike his thoughts, his presence was something he couldn’t block from her.

She turned the bike onto the freeway on-ramp and headed north. The aching pit in his gut expanded and he knew it was worry.

Then his phone rang. Santiago. The Region Commander.

And the pit stretched wider.

“Dom, how’d it go? Get it locked up with that woman?”

“A little too locked up, I’d say.”

She wove in and out of cars like a lunatic on that bike. It was the tail-end of rush hour and traffic was still heavy on the wet roadways.

“How so?” Santiago sounded apprehensive, like he was ready to get pissed off. “Wait. Are you in the car? At this hour?”

“Uh, yes.” Dom gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the inevitable verbal onslaught. “Remember when we talked last night and I told you the woman was dying? Lips turning blue? Vital signs weakening?”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me. Don’t you say it. I told you to just walk away.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“And you—” Dom turned down the volume as his boss yelled.

He knew Santiago would freak out. What did he expect? Dom would be lucky not to be hauled in front of the Council. What he’d done this time was more than just a simple infraction.

Although she was five or six cars ahead of him, he could see the exposed skin on her back between her jacket and the low waistband of her jeans. Was everyone else on the road staring at the same tantalizing inch he was? White-knuckling it, he accelerated and the Porsche surged forward.

“Listen. She was going downhill fast and I thought she wouldn’t make it. It was a small amount. Just a couple drops of my blood. She appears to be doing fine now, so it worked. But there’s a little problem.”

“More than an illegal blood transfer? What could be worse than that, Dom? What in God’s name could possibly be worse?”

Mackenzie changed lanes, spraying an arc of standing water and causing the car behind her to slam on its brakes. What the hell was she doing riding a motorcycle with these road conditions anyway? He eased up on the gas and the Porsche downshifted automatically. Seeing an opening ahead, he cranked the wheel and accelerated into the next lane.

“In addition to a sudden lack of UV sensitivity, I am—She is—We’re telepathic.” There, he said it.

“You’re what?”

“I can hear her and she can hear me. Thank God I was able to set up a mental barrier when I realized she could hear my thoughts, but there was nothing I could do about her feeling my presence until I left.”

Santiago was uncharacteristically quiet.

“You still there?”

“You’re not shitting me, are you?”

“This isn’t a damn joke. I’d walk away right now and forget all about this mind-reading bullshit, but she’s still in danger.” That wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to walk away, but he wasn’t about to tell Santiago about the stabbing feeling inside when he thought about leaving her. Hell, he didn’t understand it himself.

“Goddamn it. You never should’ve done it in the first place. You know better than to blood-share with a human. And now you put me in a position where I should report your actions to the Council. Then you’ll really be screwed. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Whatever. Do what you need to do. Screw them.”

“At this rate, you’re going to be stuck up here forever. I thought you wanted to get back to one of the southern field offices. Where all the Darkblood action is.”

“She would’ve died without it.”

“Humans die every day. We can’t get involved in their affairs beyond just covert protection from Darkbloods.”

“Yes, well, they don’t die because of me.” Dom jabbed the climate control button and cranked the A/C, but the cold air did little to cool him off.

If Santiago launched into his standard lecture about there being billions of humans on this earth, but very few vampires, or that humans represent the grains of sand on a beach whereas the number of vampires could be sifted through your fingers, Dom was going to need another new phone. He’d been a Guardian almost as long as Santiago and he sure as hell didn’t need to hear another patronizing sermon outlining the concerns of the Council and reminding him what he should and shouldn’t do.

Santiago was silent for a few moments. “Where are you headed now?”

“She’s going back to the cemetery where she found me, if she gets there alive. She drives like a goddamn maniac.” His jaw ached from clenching it so tightly. “I think she’s trying to piece together why she blacked out. Her last memory is from there.”

“Did you sweep it yet?”

“No, and her scent is all over that place. When I brought her home, I took evasive measures and hid our trail. If the Darkbloods showed up at the cemetery last night, they wouldn’t have been able to follow us. But, if they’re slow and track me there tonight, her new scent will lead straight back to her house. I’ve got to do something to cover it up again.”

He eased up on the accelerator and concentrated on hanging back a little farther. It made him inexplicably nervous having her too far away.

“Seems a little excessive. Didn’t you use any scent neutralizing granules? They do an adequate job of absorbing the trace of a sweetblood.”

Dom choked back a few swearwords. Was he serious? “That carbon crap works only temporarily and only if the Darkblood forgets to breathe or has a sudden allergy attack.”

“Oh for chrissake, they’re effective enough. Why don’t you call someone for backup then, if you’re so worried about them tracking her? Who do you have on duty tonight?”

There weren’t many choices. They ran a lean operation.

“Foss.” But the thought of having the biggest man-whore in the Guardian ranks anywhere near the woman made him nauseous as hell.

“Hey, where the hell is that data? I’ve been waiting for you to upload it.”

Dom steeled his shoulders to prepare himself for Santiago’s inevitable reaction. “As soon as I can locate the phone I downloaded it to. I dropped it sometime after I was shot and because I floated so far downstream, the phone could be anywhere. And, most likely, it’s no longer functioning.” He should have searched for it immediately, but strangely enough, it hadn’t crossed his mind until now. “I’ll find it.”

Santiago let loose with a volley of foreign profanity Dom had never heard before. Yes, his boss definitely had a way with words.

“I’ll see if we can pick up its GPS signal. You’d better pray you find it. That mission cost us a lot. Stryker was hit after the two of you split up.”

Oh, shit. His new guy. “Is he okay? What happened?” He shouldn’t have allowed someone as inexperienced as Mitchell Stryker in the kill zone, but when they hacked into the Darkblood system, they’d been so focused on copying everything, he’d forgotten all about protocol.

“Yeah, you cut out on our conversation last night before I could tell you. He’s still in the clinic. Shot by a silvie, just like you were. But he didn’t hit pay dirt and run into a sweetblood.”

Clamping his teeth together, Dom’s pulse jackham-mered behind his eyeballs. He took a couple of deep breaths and willed himself to calm down. He wanted to acquaint his boss with some of his own favorite swearwords, foreign and domestic, but biting Santiago’s head off would only anger him more and Dom needed him on his side. The Council could kick his ass to a really remote location if he wasn’t careful.

Then he’d be even farther from him. From the whole reason he joined the Agency.

In a scene he’d pictured in his mind every night for the past century, Dom visualized his hands around his neck, choking the air from stale lungs, before he crammed a stake into his black heart and spit on the ashes. Being a field team leader all the way up here was bad enough. Where else could they send him? Anchorage?

He mentally shook off those images and forced himself to think about Stryker. “What’s his prognosis? Will he be all right?” Mitchell was a good guy. A little over-eager, but he reminded Dom of himself when he first started with the Agency. He’d visit him when he finished tonight.

“He’ll be fine in a week or two. Bullet got him in the thigh. Staff tells me he’s been asking about you. So how’s the shoulder doing?”

Dom had actually forgotten all about it. Reaching a hand into the open collar of his shirt, he shrugged, half-expecting to feel a twinge, a pull, something. But he felt nothing. Even the skin of his shoulder was smooth, as if he’d never been shot. He kneaded the muscle a few times just to make sure. “Fine, I guess.”

“Sangre Dulce blood is very healing in addition to the incredible rush, right?” Santiago dropped his voice. “So how was it? I’ve only heard the stories. I still can’t believe you did a Stop and Release on a sweetblood in your condition. A goddamn S and R.” He whistled into the phone.

“You can’t imagine. Drinking from her was so …” He searched for the right word. Utterly exquisite and complete perfection came to mind. But these were private recollections and he didn’t want to share them. “Amazing.” Generic enough, he supposed.

“What’s up with you? I can’t remember when I’ve ever heard you so affected by a woman. Sure you didn’t prong her with the sharps and the blunt?”

“Fuck no. That’s the last thing on my mind.” Did he sound convincing?

Santiago’s laugh reflected his apparent disbelief. Guess not. Oh well, his boss could think what he wanted.

“Given just its taste, can you understand why there’s such a huge black market for the shit?”

“Unfortunately, yes, I can.” And that’s what worried him. Now that he knew what it was like, he didn’t want to be tempted again. It was one thing to wonder, but it was completely different to know for sure.