Blood Ties Book Two: Possession. Jennifer Armintrout
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She left him alone with his thoughts then, and there were a fair amount of them. Too exhausted to do little more than think, he considered the steps he would take now. First, he’d find out who had done this to him. Then he’d contact his father. Unless it is Father who has done this. That wasn’t as far-fetched as he’d like to imagine. What didn’t make sense was why dear old dad would bring him back as a human.
Of course, it might not have been his father at all. Cyrus prided himself on being a well-known name among vampires. Perhaps a fanatical group had raised him in hopes of fame or a favor.
Or for a sacrifice.
It wasn’t unheard of. He’d helped his father sacrifice vampires for centuries. But the key word was vampire. Why was he human?
He had just gotten comfortable when a soft knock sounded.
“What?” He picked up the nearest object—a bar of soap—and flung it at the door.
The Mouse came in with a pile of neatly folded clothes. “Father Bart was shorter than you. And fatter.”
“Pick up the soap.” Cyrus watched as she bent to retrieve it. Nothing to write home about, he decided, tilting his head to study her backside.
In the past, he would have fed off her. She had long, slender legs that would have been heaven wrapped around him, and hair just the right length to pull and bare her throat for a bite. But her face was too innocent, her whole manner too timid. Her faded cotton sundress told endless tales of trips to Wal-Mart in Daddy’s pickup truck, Garth Brooks blaring over the roar of the road through the open windows.
The vampire Cyrus would have taken his pleasure and her blood in one night, and she wouldn’t have lived to see the dawn.
He missed blood more now than when he’d drifted aimlessly on the other side of the veil. He didn’t want to think of it anymore.
When she stood and handed him the soap, he snatched it away. “What are those?” he snapped, gesturing to the clothes. “Polyester?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, read the bloody tags. Are you completely worthless?” He grabbed the shirt from the top of the pile and scanned the care instructions before flinging it aside in disgust. “I only wear natural fiber.”
The girl nodded uncertainly. “I don’t think Father Bart had any—”
“The dead priest is not my fucking problem!” He slammed his fists down on the water, sloshing it over the sides of the tub.
The Mouse shrank away, screaming. It lifted Cyrus’s spirits considerably to see the girl frightened.
“Get out. If you can’t find anything suitable for me, you’ll have to ask those morons upstairs.” He leaned against the curved back of the tub and closed his eyes, savoring the girl’s litany of pleas as she cowered on the floor.
Max arrived five hours later. I was buried beneath the covers on Nathan’s bed, clinging to his scent like a life raft and trying to ignore the bedside radio he always kept on. The classic rock station was in the middle of a Fleetwood Mac Rock Block. “Gypsy” was just finishing up when I heard the front door burst open.
“Carrie?” Something heavy hit the floor in the living room. Probably the duffel bag Max always carried with him. Loud footsteps ran down the hall and I climbed from beneath the blankets in time to see him skid to a stop at the doorway.
“What’s going on? Where’s Nathan?” Max scanned the room as if he’d see him there.
“Gone.” I don’t know if it was my relief at finally having an ally in my nightmare or if the reality of the situation had finally set in, but my voice cracked and tears rolled down my face. “He’s just gone.”
“Oh, God. Carrie.” Max dropped to the bed and put his arms around me. His jacket smelled like leather and cigarette smoke where I buried my face against his shoulder. He only held me a moment before he pulled away. Making a motion of a stake going through his heart, he asked quietly, “Gone?”
I shook my head and wiped my eyes. “Not like that. He was here. His body was here. But he wasn’t.”
“He was possessed?”
“Not exactly.” How could I explain it? “There wasn’t anything of Nathan left at all. Could you turn off that radio?”
Max nodded and fumbled with the alarm clock until “Go Your Own Way” cut out in the middle. “I hate that song, anyway.”
I covered my eyes, and he pulled me into his arms again. No matter how good the physical comfort felt, it did nothing to dull the ache in my heart.
“What happened?” he asked softly.
I didn’t let go of him. “I felt it through the blood tie. Something was wrong. So I went downstairs.”
When I couldn’t finish, he shushed me and patted my back. For all his come-ons and attitude, Max was actually a very understanding man. “Listen, I’m going to go downstairs and look around. You stay up here where you’ll be safe.” He leaned back and looked me in the eye. “Okay?”
I followed him to the living room and watched him pull some stakes from his bag. “Be careful.”
He looked up, the most fake smile I’d ever seen on his face. “I can take care of myself, Doctor.”
“No, not that. I mean, if Nathan is down there…”
Max followed my gaze to the stake in his hand. When our eyes met, his expression broke my heart more than it already was. “Give me a little credit, Carrie.”
“Sorry.” Dangerously close to tears, I turned away and pretended to be interested in something on one of the many bookshelves lining the wall. Only when I heard the door click softly closed behind me did I allow myself to wipe my eyes. When I looked up, the spines of Nathan’s ridiculously large collection of books confronted me. When I glanced away, I saw his chair, his shoes. A half-finished mug of blood atop a stack of notebooks. All of the components were there, all of the little parts that made Nathan’s life, waiting for him to return to them. It made his absence more real somehow, and mocked my pain. If we never found Nathan, these little reminders of him would remain for me to deal with.
I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the photo, but when the rattle of the doorknob heralded Max’s return, his speed surprised me.
He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair. “There’s nothing. Just a lot of really nasty-smelling blood. I’m assuming that was his?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“There’s nothing else we can do tonight.” He rubbed the back of his neck and swore. “Tell me what happened.”
The symbols.
“There were marks.” I scrambled for a notebook and pen I spied on the perpetually cluttered coffee table. “Strange things he’d carved all over his body.”
“Carved? As in cut?” Max came around the chair and stood beside me, looming hopefully over my shoulder as I scribbled what I could remember of them.
“I think they were sigils, or something.” I closed my eyes, but couldn’t get a clear picture. “It all looked like random angles with circles on the end.”
When I handed him the paper, he frowned and traced his fingers over the symbols. “You’re sure this is right?”
“Well, I didn’t take a picture of them, but when a bleeding, naked man with funky writing carved all over his body is pinning you to the ground, you have other things on your mind.” I chewed my lip and pointed to the page. “What do you think?”
“He attacked you?” Max’s eyes darted over me, looking for signs of