He had been forced to join this motley group of vampires to pay back a bloode debt his clan had incurred with Hecate some time ago. But he hadn’t realized the immense power of those with whom he’d be serving.
Their patriarch wielded legendary Bloode Stones, able to control all manner of vampires. As a strigoi, Varu had speed and savvy, an ability to seduce mortals and magir alike in addition to some weird mojo like teleporting and wielding telekinetic magic. And he could use a fucking Bloode Stone, which spoke of his power, since only a Worthy death-bringer could carry such power and not die. Varu was badass, for sure, especially having mated a sweet little dusk elf also with the ability to talk to the red gems. They were a total power couple, Varu the only one who could lead the Night Bloode.
Duncan, a revenant, had speed on his side, the laidback vampire funny and smart as hell—deadly when it came to strategizing and outmaneuvering his opponents. He also worked in tandem with their new Bloode Witch. Kraft knew they were the only clan in existence to have one. He also had a feeling Duncan could do other stuff but kept his abilities hidden, because he could be annoying like that.
Orion was the only one among them who could match Kraft blow for blow and loved to fight as much a born nachzehrer. From the vrykolakas tribe, Orion could move in the water like a merman but was hundred times more deadly. It was weird, especially because the rest of them sank when in water, but not Orion. Plus, the male had a thing for anime and Disney cartoons, which Kraft secretly admired.
That left Khent and Rolf, reaper and draugr, who often seemed to be paired together. Both deadly, both having an odd power over the dead.
Kraft walked downstairs and found them in the interrogation room, a large, padded area warded with Hecate’s magic and soundproof to those not Night Bloode.
The most annoying pair of his kin stood over a lycan bound to a wooden chair. The prisoner looked human enough, though his wounds closed rapidly and he seemed much larger than a typical human. He didn’t seem bothered by his nudity either, and mages and witches tended to cry about being naked. The lycan smelled good, more like kin than prey, though Kraft would never admit to the others how much pleasure he took in his shifted form.
Khent, tall, dark, and regal, always looked annoyed, as he did now. Able to reanimate the dead, with a mind that never stopped, he deemed everyone below him in importance. Yet he often spoke the truth, was rarely wrong about anything, and frankly, unnerved Kraft with those all-seeing eyes. Kraft could well believe humans had once thought Khent and his clan to be Egyptian gods.
Rolf, the only blond vampire Kraft had ever seen, seemed to laugh at everything, his magic more like that of Mormo’s, but with a fae bite. He laughed and teased, a prankster much like the god who dwelled in his homeland somewhere in Scandinavia. The draugr seemed more fae or Viking than blood-drinker, and like Kraft, he too could shift into a wolf.
Kraft had thought that might make them closer than the others, but no. Kraft only felt truly comfortable with Orion.
And now the big bastard was gone, and no one seemed to care.
Rolf grinned at Kraft. “Want in on this? Ten bucks says I can get the lycan to tell us where the artifact is before necro-boy can.” He nodded to Khent.
“Fuck off, blood-drinker.” The lycan smelled a little of fear but was putting on a good show. He snarled at Kraft, who lifted a corner of his lip to snarl back.
Khent looked physically pained by Rolf’s sense of humor. “Necro-boy? I’m—I was—one of the Sons of Osiris, you dick.” Something he mentioned every single time anyone questioned his background. “My people are closer to godliness than yours ever were.”
“And that’s a compliment?” Kraft didn’t understand that, because they all loathed divinity. Even Hecate, and she fed and cared for them.
“Not really, no,” Khent admitted. “But I’m better than you all.”
“Oh, we know.” Rolf agreed. “You’ve only told us that for the past year we’ve been kin.” He huffed and shifted a braid of blond hair over one ear. Kraft always expected to see it pointed, as if Rolf masked his features with a glamour, because damn if the draugr didn’t feel fae. But no, his ear remained rounded.
Unlike the pointed ears of the dusk elves living with them, whom Kraft hadn’t seen all night. Fara missing was not a big deal; Varu kept constant watch over his mate. But her brother was a menace.
“Hey, where are Onvyr and Fara?”
Khent answered, “Onvyr’s with the others, so he’s not killing indiscriminately, thank the night. And more good news—Fara thinks she found another of the items we need her to find.”
Another Bloode Stone. With only six in existence, and two in Varu’s possession, the other four were a true threat to the worlds.
When Ambrogio, the first of their kind, had fallen to the mortal plane, cursed by the god Apollo to forever drink blood for the offense of falling in love with Apollo’s sister, Ambrogio cried. Or maybe he’d been stabbed and bled. In any case, those six drops of bloode that fell upon the earth became the six Bloode Stones.
Only with the stones could the vampires reunite and shake off the curse to forever war with one another. Kraft liked warring. He liked battle. But he knew that were the wrong vampire to get his hands on the stones, the worlds would suffer. Only vampires kept other vampires in check.
Warriors like Orion, who remained in danger. “Orion’s gone.”
“We know. He called.” Rolf shrugged. “I think he’s goofing off and playing with our new boat, but Mormo said to leave him alone. So I’m working with this guy again.” He thumbed in the direction of Khent.
Khent leaned down to whisper into the lycan’s ear, and though the magir growled, he didn’t say anything of substance. Just a lot of his wolf mouthing off.
“You will talk, wolf,” Khent promised. “Where is the artifact?”
“Suck it, reaper. It’s not yours. It belongs to Pack.”
Kraft had to hand it to the lycan. It took balls to stand up to vampires. But that bravery wouldn’t help him survive if Khent decided to drain him dry.
“My turn.” Rolf bounded to the man and drew a few sigils in the air over the lycan’s head, which glowed gold.
“Really?” Khent scowled. “That’s going to take hours to settle. I was getting somewhere.”
“Hey.” Kraft growled. “Orion is gone. He’s been gone for three nights and hasn’t checked in.” Not with me. “He’s in trouble.”
“He’s fine.” Khent waved him away. “And he’s not important right now. We all have jobs to do. Even you.” The reaper looked down his nose at Kraft, as he’d been doing since Mormo had screwed them all with that spell making them family.
“Look, you undead pharaoh-wannabe, I’ve had it with your prickly ass.”
“What did you call me?” Khent drew himself to his full height, still an inch or two shorter than Kraft.
The lycan and Rolf watched with rapt attention.
“You heard me. Sons of Osiris? More like Osiris’s little bitches. I mean, who ties themselves to a god?”
Rolf nodded. “You’ve got a point.”
Khent ignored the draugr, his eyes blazing. “I was ruling city-states and gods before you were a calcified curse inside your mother’s womb. You will talk to me with respect, fledgling.”