Big Game (The V V Inn, Book 3) (9 page)

“Not sure. Come, walk with me.” Footsteps sound and Rafe’s voice grows fainter as the two disappear into the dining room. “We can always buy what we don’t take with us. I have no idea if this will be a two or three day trip or something longer. We’ll call twice a day to check in and keep you abreast of what’s going on. Let me go over security protocols and systems….”

“Hey, Paul.” Chelly’s lyrical voice pulls my attention from staring blindly at the vegetables and meats I can no longer consume. “Whatcha doing?”

I beam a radiant smile at her, glad to have someone here I can call a friend to get my mind off of the luscious strangers I must learn to ignore. “Thinking about cooking dinner. Care to help?”

Asa

The sun feels high,
not quite at full strength due to the time of year, but it’s certainly kill-worthy for me. A short, restorative sleep helped relieve the mental strain from questioning the employees, but I really need bagged blood to feel better. I don’t drink much from live donors anymore after learning how painful my bite is to humans. I haven’t heard of another vampire whose feeding causes such agony and I’ve often wondered why mine is so off. I waited to confess my aberration to Vivian, wanting to put it off as long as I can.

The dull quiet of the basement is welcome after the last few hours listening to Pat bitch about his gunshot wound.

It took me all night to question the employees one-by-one, and it drained my strength, causing me to fall into rest like the walking dead. Still no answers. On the surface, it seems like none of them is responsible for hunting off-season. No one held Jon or his wolf dogs in particular disregard, most exhibited an indifference to the well-trained animals and the head groundskeeper.

Could someone have gone on leave recently and not be on my summer staff list? That would make sense. Someone sneakily taking vacation time and staying behind to wreak havoc… but it doesn’t add up. Surely, I would’ve encountered at least a twinge of hatred during questioning to indicate someone knew something?

I settle deeper into the swivel chair in front of the desk and stare mindlessly above the four monitors. Things could have been far worse for Pat. The bullet could’ve landed higher and shattered his spine, paralyzing him. Would that have led to a follow-up kill shot?

My slow-moving blood runs cold at the thought of being so close to losing an old friend. Even a shock-jock like Patrick has his good moments. What if they had been aiming for Eric? It could easily be him the doctor stitched up on the med table.

This morning, Jon issued a no-hunting policy on the property while guests are in attendance. The new restriction seemed to be received well, as if the majority figured that was a given when we had paying clients and jobs to do.

Who could have done this and was it truly a mistake?

Then why were three shots fired?

Eric walks in. “Pat’s ass doesn’t look good.”

A snort of laughter escapes me before I have a chance to clamp it down. “What did you expect with a ripped-up fat lady tattoo?” I swivel my chair around to face my brother. “It didn’t look great to begin with.”

“Nah, that’s a given. I mean the wound. Neither of us has been shot before, so I have nothing to compare it to. But hey, how long do you think a compound fracture would take to set?”

“Are we talking about a human or a Were?”

“Were.”

“You tell me, dog-boy. I’m the vampire.” I smile at the absurdity of my own words.

“Speaking of which, have you eaten since you did all that mesmerizing and questioning? You look like pale vomit.”

“Gee, thanks.” I stand and stretch, realizing he’s right—I do need to get some blood in me before the stinky dog smell coming off him and Pat no longer repulses me and I decide to snack on them. “Back to the broken limb?”

“Yeah. While in Romeo’s pack, I fell out a window.”

I raise an eyebrow as I walk past him into the hall, heading for the mini-fridge and microwave set up in the conference room.

He continues talking while following me. “Don’t ask. Lots of alcohol and a stupid drinking game. But after the bone was set, I could use my arm again in a few hours.”

Eric trails behind me and then sits in one of the leather office chairs. I take a bag of blood from the fridge. “Sounds a little slower than vamp healing abilities, but yours could get stronger as you age.” I pop a small vent valve and place the bag in the microwave. The whir of the machine causes an almost Pavlovian reaction and my fangs start to itch.

“My point is, I think Pat’s stitched wounds should have stopped weeping blood and started healing a long time ago.”

“What does Jon say?”

The stocky wolf in question answers from the doorway, “What does Jon say about what?” He’s wearing a scowl and appears to be taking the shooting of Pat very personally. Which I don’t blame him for—either someone purposely tried to shoot his packmate or one of his dogs. Hard to not take that personally.

“Pat’s injury,” Eric says when the microwave timer dings. “It’s not healing.”

With my back to the men, I pour the dark red liquid into a travel mug. A rich copper penny smell fills the air and I know their sensitive noses can pick it up easily. I slap the cover onto the tall stainless steel container, hoping to cut down on the released odor.

It’s one thing to be a vampire and quite another to open a vein on someone whenever hungry. I much prefer the more civilized bagged blood approach Vivian provides for the guests, but still feel creepy when drinking in front of an audience. I down a long slow drink before turning around, not wanting to look like a greedy bloodsucker.

Jon continues, hopefully ignoring my actions. “Sometimes these things take time. Healing can depend on the Were’s strength reserves when they were shot. I didn’t think he was worn out or hungry, but he could have been. Has Dr. Cook looked at it again?”

“Not that I know of,” Eric replies.

After my second long pull, I face them and sit a couple of chairs down from Eric.

“Could a fragment of the bullet still be inside?” I suggest.

Jon shakes his head. “No, the doctor did an x-ray to confirm no metal remained.”

“He’s sleeping, now,” Eric says. “We could go and check it out if you think that will help.”

“No, thanks,” Jon says. “I already have Pat’s lily-white, tattooed flesh emblazoned on my corneas for the rest of time. Who the fuck gets a fat girl tattooed on their ass, anyway?”

Eric doesn’t rise to the bait. I shift in my chair and take another sip of blood. “A guy with exceptionally high standards who thinks it’s easy to get laid?” I smile as a thought occurs to me. “And then he moves to Alaska and realizes real women who like frequent sex don’t look like they’re starving to death.”

Eric stands and walks to the door, his movements stiff and jerky. “I think I’ll call Dr. Cook again. You guys can sit and make fun all you want, but I think something’s wrong.”

Jon grabs Eric’s shoulder as he goes by. “You’re right, man. I’m sorry. I’ve been so wracked with anger over the shooting, I let a little bad humor creep in when I shouldn’t.”

Jon drops his hand and Eric’s tension eases a bit. “What could cause this? I’ll be the first to admit I’m still getting used to being furry and sure as hell don’t have all the answers. But the holes won’t stop weeping blood.”

Jon’s complexion pales. “You mean it’s still bleeding after twelve hours?”

“Yes. I guess you missed that earlier part of our conversation.”

Jon pushes past the taller, broader wolf and bolts down the hall toward Pat’s room. Eric and I follow. Pat thrashes in his sleep, sweat covering his forehead.

“He looks like he’s getting a fever.” Jon says. “Which would indicate an infection—highly unlikely in a werewolf.”

He whips the sheet off the lanky Were, revealing a blood-soaked gauze pad. He pries the adhesive from one end and exposes one stitched hole. A bead of blood swells up as we watch and slides away from the ragged seam.

“Shit!” Jon tears off the bloody pad in one sharp jerk. “This is not good.”

Panic edges into Eric’s voice. “What is it? Some kind of poison?”

“Yes, but not how you think.” With fresh gauze, Jon cleans the wound’s edge. “He was shot with silver. We missed it because we don’t have the bullet. The damage is done and his system will fight the slightest trace of contamination.”

Color drains from Eric’s face, looking like he might get sick. “Can it kill him?”

Jon grabs scissors and cuts away the careful stitching. “If the silver remained inside or was injected into his blood stream, yes. I think this wound will just be a bitch to heal. He’ll lose a lot of blood while his body fights to expel every last trace.”

“Then why are you cutting his sutures?” I ask.

Ignoring me, he continues with his task of opening the wound. “Eric, call Dr. Cook. We’ll need her to close this when we’re done.”

Eric leaps into action, looking grateful to have something to do. He grabs the wall phone and punches numbers.

“What can we do?” I try again, hoping to get an answer to the madness swirling from his energy permeating the air. “Why the hell are you opening it back up?”

“To pour in a cleansing agent to flush out the traces of silver.”

“Okay, what do you need me to grab—peroxide?”

“No.” Jon reaches into his boot and pulls out a silver dagger. “I need to cut your wrist.”

I stare at the werewolf in confusion. “Did you say you want to cut me?”

Eric hangs up the phone and whips back to us. “She’s on her way. What can I do next?”

“Grab your slack-jawed brother and haul him over here.” Jon motions toward me where I’m still standing at the door staring at him, trying to figure out why he’d need to cut my wrist. “We need vampire blood to purge the silver.”

“Oh,” I say, stepping forward and placing my mug on a side table. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” A rush of apprehension slides through me when I glance at the silver edge of the sharp blade. Eric hovers nearby, looking willing to grab me if I resist. “Relax, Eric.” I take a deep breath and shove my own inner fears to the back of my mind. Humor usually helps when three grown men are tense. “You’re sending off so much tension it’s enough to make me worry you plan on sticking me like a virgin at the prom—fast, furious, and without a moment’s thought to the young woman.”

He cracks a smile. “Not my prom, man. Maybe yours.”

I reach Jon and pull my left sleeve up. “Hand me the knife.” The werewolf rotates the handle to me. I slice open a shallow cut and blood wells in the gap. “What do I do? Let it drip in?”

He nods, pinning down Pat’s legs with his knee. “We’re more sensitive to the silver than you are. Once it’s inside our bodies it can circulate quickly and do more damage than expected.”

I hold my dripping incision over Pat’s torn and ragged flesh. When the crimson drops descend into the wound, Pat settles, his body relaxing into the bed.

Jon releases his hold, watching my blood mix with Pat’s to staunch the flow. In a few seconds my wound seals and I look to the worried alpha with a question in my eyes. “Again?”

He examines the injury—some of the jagged flesh has puckered at the edges, starting to heal. “Looks like once was enough.”

Eric wipes a wet cloth over the clammy sweat on his friend’s face. “Is vampire blood the only thing that works?”

I hand back Jon’s knife and saunter to my travel mug for a sip.

“No,” he says. “There are several herbal compresses that work. But they take longer and should be used right away. His fever told me we already had an issue brewing.”

We tidy up the room and change the sheets under our patient, anticipating what the doctor will have us do when she arrives. In a few minutes the soft form of the aging medic joins us and Jon explains what happened.

We leave her to the task of re-stitching the unconscious Were and step into the hall. Anger radiates off Jon in an almost palpable wave. “Asa, did you question Jerry last night?”

I think back to the dozens of employees, rather sure the cagey engineer was not among them. “I don’t think so.”

“We need to find the old man and see what he knows.”

“What’s wrong, Jon?” Eric asks. “You really think that nice guy tried to shoot one of us?”

“I think someone using silver bullets to hunt werewolves was no mistake—they were gunning for supernatural. We need to find out if any other employees know how to make their own silver ammo.”

We head into the command center where I scan employee leave notices on the terminal. “He was on leave for a few days and due back tonight.” Jon reads over the list as well. “Do we tell the visiting wolves?”

“Of course we do,” says Eric. “Right? This is too important to keep from them.”

Jon’s face clouds over and he slams a fist into his thigh. “Dammit! They already left an hour ago. I told them our results with questioning the employees and issuing the no-hunting policy. Romeo and Elsa felt it was safe to proceed.”

“Shit!” Eric runs a hand over his short hair. “What do we do?”

“What choice do we have?” Jon says dashing for the stairs. “We find them and warn them.”

Vivian

The dark sky spans
before the windshield, making the private jet feel like an insignificant bug in the huge expanse. I don’t sense Jon in my mind anymore, having slowly and carefully dwindled our connection until almost severed. He needs the break from me, whether he admits it or not. It would be terrific if he found a mate in the batch of frisky females parading back and forth in front of him this summer… time will tell.

Allowing Jon to worry about me, my safety, and my subsequent approval of a potential partner day in and day out is not healthy to his wolf or human psyche. I worried seven years ago that taking him on so young would have its drawbacks, but I never bargained on his love and devotion clouding natural instinct. An alpha wolf needs an alpha mate. That’s the order of things. Balancing a new love with his duties as my servant and loyalty to the seethe may be tricky, but not impossible.

I have no doubt whomever he chooses will despise me on some level. Making sure the two have their own intimate bond, separate from his bond to me, will be crucial for his happiness. A small pain pierces my soul at the thought of losing him—but, if he continues as he has, his obsession over me might destroy any daily peace he enjoys.

“Why are you shielding so hard right now, Dria?” Rafe’s smooth voice breaks me from my thoughts. “Worried about the evening, or something else?”

“Combination of things, really.”

“Hmm…. That suspiciously sounds like an evasive answer. The furball again?”

I look away while examining the dials and readings on the control panel in front of us. “Maybe.”

“I haven’t felt his pull in my mind since we left. He might buy that crap about our distance being the reason, but I know differently. What are you planning?”

A sigh escapes me as I gaze at my lover. “No actual plan this time. Just a hope.”

“Does it have something to do with the huge amount of female wolves coming to the inn this summer?”

I shrug my shoulder and look away.

“Did you think I’d miss the fifty percent discount you offered to packs bringing three or more unattached females?”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? You saw some of the guests’ dossiers? Gorgeous women.”

Rafe pats my forearm. “You’re a good bitch, Dria. I don’t care what the others say about you.”

“Wiseass,” I remark with a smirk. “Why don’t you read the coordinates and leave me be?”

It’s full dark by the time we approach the private airstrip inside the city limits. Buenos Aires sparkles like a glittering jewel, bringing back my love of the old city in crystal clarity.

Rafe’s hand caresses my thigh through the jumpsuit, our earlier snipe forgotten. “Why do you insist on wearing these things? The zippers drive me to distraction.”

A slow smile inches across my face as his hot palm slides closer to my hip. “That’s precisely why I wear them, darling.”

Rafe shifts in his seat, casually adjusting himself under his slacks. “Think we’ll have time to visit that Simpson’s shop I love?”

My grin broadens at his attempt to distract himself from his growing arousal. I smell his interest in the confines of the small plane; it’s impossible to hide from my sharp senses. “The one with the tacky Homer and Marge merchandise all over the walls?”

“No, that store is good, but not the one I mean. The one named Cowabunga, with the specialty Duff beer?”

I shake my head at his obvious enjoyment. Men will be men.

“What? Is it my fault Buenos Aires is the Simpson capital of the world? How can I resist?”

I laugh and he continues. “I need some new talking Homer bottle openers, too. Hey, pay attention to the runway, it’s coming up fast.”

In a few minutes we touch down and taxi into a waiting hangar. We grab our wardrobe bags and head to a storage room at the back of the building. Changing quickly, we hustle into our evening attire.

My strapless purple gown plunges deep in the back and I shiver when cool air in the unheated building touches my skin. I gather my hair loosely at the base of my skull, shoving pins in with a precision gained from decades of experience. The elegant style doesn’t look too formal and allows some of the curlier tendrils to cascade around my face and down the nape of my neck. I pull on the matching satin gloves, tugging the material up to my biceps, and turn to Rafe.

He’s finishing the last touches on his black bowtie, pulling the knot tight. “How does it look? Crooked?”

I stare at his well-muscled body, encased in the custom-made, silk and cashmere blend black tuxedo. Light from the overhead fixture glints off the fabric, catching on the diamond studs running down the pleated white shirt. I retrieve the gray silk scarf from his bag, then lift his collar and slide it around his neck, draping the fine material down the jacket’s lapels.

“You look divine. And the tie is perfect.” I run a hand down his chest and below, slipping a warm palm over his pants to cup his cock.

“No teasing,” he says, pulling his hips away. “I’m not walking into a group of bloodsuckers with an erection.”

“Fair point.” I sashay to the door and zip my hanging wardrobe bag. “I hear an engine outside, must be the hired car.”

“Do you want a wrap?”

I shake my head and step into my glittery heels. “I’m fine. I’ll touch up my makeup in the car. Let’s get on the road.”

Rafe unbolts the outer door and a moist breeze pushes my hair from my face. The driver stands at the ready and opens the rear car door. I slide into the long limousine, across the soft leather seat, while Rafe stows the bags in the trunk and speaks to the driver. He’s a private hire not associated with the Tribunal. The two men speak in Spanish and in no time we’re rolling through the darkened city streets.

We cruise past ornate, older structures, skyscrapers, the capitol building and the miniature Washington Monument known here as
El Obelisco
, which marks the 400
^th
anniversary of the city’s founding. Buenos Aires has changed much in that time, and I’ve enjoyed seeing it grow over the centuries. The area is a gorgeous mix of culture and European architectural styles.

Finishing the last touches to my makeup, I snap my compact shut, slip my red lipstick into a handbag, and check the time. Almost nine. We should arrive before the party has truly begun. I fiddle with a glove and stare out the window at the various lights racing by.

Worried, dear?
Rafe’s soothing mental voice fills my head.

Concerned would be more accurate. Best we stay on our toes tonight.

A soft snort comes from the seat next to me.
Yeah, you think? I dread these events at the best of times, but after Coraline’s Alaskan visit… who knows what den of vipers we could be strolling into.

I rest a hand on his arm in reassurance.
Nothing will be blatant or outright. Vampires are subtle in their steering of events, especially when dealing with their own kind.

After twenty minutes, we pull in front of an opulent townhouse. Its stone veneer, intricate railings, and high arched windows are reminiscent of old, large London townhomes costing millions of pounds. Warm light spills from every window of the distinguished structure. The Tribunal owns the entire, very expensive, block and their underground lair below the street surface far exceeds the footprint of the buildings above. A lone doorman stands outside with no indication of a party going on through the windows.

Rafe opens the car door and exits, offering a hand to me. As I emerge from the sleek black limo a shiver steals down my spine again. Is that apprehension I’m feeling or a tinge of excitement? I shake it off and pull my aura in tight, not wanting to broadcast, if I don’t have to.

My rhinestone-encrusted spiked heels flash in the street lamps as I step to the curb, glancing up and down the sidewalk. A couple walks arm and arm from the next house down, and two more figures beyond them stroll in our direction. I brace myself and plaster on a smile to my perfectly made-up face.

Show time, darling,
I project to my husband.
Be sharp.

Rafe’s warm hand glides down my bare back, stealing some of the chill that’s settled at the base of my spine.
Never you fear, liebling. I’ve got your back. We’ll do fine tonight.

Fear? I wouldn’t call it fear.

No, of course you wouldn’t. How silly of me.

He’s trying to draw me out, but that shiver really surprised me. Was it intuition?

It’s called ‘you should have worn a coat’,
Rafe quips while motioning for the doorman on the steps to come to us. A younger vampire around the age of fifty saunters down, looking unsure if he wants to listen to a human or not. I turn to face the pony-tailed wall of meat and wait for him to recognize me. It only takes a second. His goateed visage shows genuine happiness at my arrival.

“Alexandria?” He bows deep and takes my hand, delivering a perfunctory kiss to my gloved fingers. “I had no idea. You weren’t on the list tonight.”

“Surprise, George,” I say, pushing fake warmth into my tone. “Think they’ll have room for two more?”

To his credit, not a reaction is revealed as he smiles. “You know they always do.”

By this time, the closest couple has reached us, and George nods for them to proceed us up the stairs. I keep my back to them, not wanting to engage anyone here on the street. Rafe grabs the bags, and the car pulls away.

“Any remaining accommodations in the main building or will we be forced to one of the other Tribunal homes tonight?” I ask.

He takes our luggage from Rafe and climbs the steep stairs to the ornately carved wood double doors. “There’s always a room for VIPs, Alexandria. You should know that.”

I smile, following him up. “One never knows what favor one might be in when arriving unannounced.”

George’s amusement rumbles from deep in his broad chest and spills into the night air. “If I treated you poorly, I think Rolando would eat me for breakfast.”

We enter the main hall, and the interior warmth banishes the last of the night chill from my skin. Honest-to-God burning torches line the walls of the tapestry-covered walls, with reflections of the dancing flames shimmering on the highly polished marble floor. Scenes of harvest and goodwill are depicted on the wall hangings—the Tribunal’s only nod of festive adornment to the fall season on the main floor. I’m betting downstairs there will be a more elaborate theme for their autumn gala.

“Shall I put your things in a room upstairs?”

At my nod of thanks, the doorman ascends the curving, black-carpeted tread. “I think the Edwardian room is free. Will that suit?”

“Anything is fine, thanks. We’re going down to the party.”

Rafe takes my elbow and directs me after the couple, who entered ahead us. Closed doors line the long hall, and at the end of the foyer sits a large freight elevator spruced up with wood panels and inset with tile, but the size leaves no doubt it’s not a regular elevator car.

I don’t know the couple, so thankfully we’re not forced to engage in conversation while descending into the pits of hell—known as the Seat of Darkness among the undead. The elevator doors
ping
open and the subtle stink of death rolls in to greet us. The scent isn’t overpowering like decaying flesh or rotting vegetation, but it lingers on the back of my palate, reminding me why I hate associating with fellow vampires for too long—the more we congregate, the more the odor builds. The others must be used to it, that’s all I can think as to why no one is hurling in a corner.

Rafe swallows a gag.
Dear God, I forgot how much this place reeks.

Good news is, in ten minutes or so your nose won’t even register it anymore.

The couple next to us takes a deep breath, seeming to draw pleasure in the cloying aroma and disappears into the crowd before us. Pale, primped bodies mill about, all dressed for a formal evening.

This main reception room is large enough to hold a hundred or more people comfortably, and looks to be set up in a cocktail hour sort of gathering. The twelve foot high ceiling is festooned with grand crystal chandeliers every ten feet. Tall tables dot the area, draped in orange, red, yellow and rust-toned silks—no chairs to clutter the stream of the mingling undead.

An ornate champagne fountain sets in the middle of the room. A bubbling mixture of blood and champagne fills the air with an enticing hint of copper and dry wine. Rafe immediately steers us to the right, out of the line of sight from the open elevator, hoping to avoid our discovery as long as possible.

A human waiter approaches with a tray of non-blood drinks. He’s dressed in a forest spirit type of costume, someone’s idea of a pagan mix to the fall theme. His skin sparkles with glitter and a leaf vest frames his dark chest hair. “Good evening, can I offer either of you a drink?”

Rafe takes a flute, and I reach for one as well, leery of drinking anything with blood under the Tribunal’s roof. Do I honestly think they’d poison their guests? No, not really. But since I’m not hungry, no need to risk it.

The waiter grins at me, a seductive light coloring his brown eyes. “Would you prefer to quench your hunger directly from the source, madam?” He tosses his longish black hair back from where it skimmed his shoulder, baring the pristine flesh of his neck.

Rafe tenses beside me, angered some strange boy-toy would offer himself freely to his wife.

“No,” I answer with a bland look. “Thank you.” I pat my husband’s thick bicep. “I brought my own.”

The waiter hustles to another group of people and Rafe relaxes. “Cheeky bastard. That was rather bold, don’t you think?”

I shrug, not wanting this to turn into an issue. “You never know what compulsion the party organizer may have placed on the staff. Could be normal.”

I scan the room, looking for familiar faces. I see several people I’d like to avoid, but Coraline’s supporters certainly won’t be discovered if I play the wallflower, so I resign to the fact we’ll have to circulate.

We step into the milling throng and I brace myself for the fall-out. We’ll be spotted, and the whole room will know in minutes we crashed the party. Several heads turn our way, and I see a spark of recognition in more than one set of eyes.