Deathless (The Vein Chronicles Book 2)

  Chapter 7

  “I don’t like this.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You are aware that you sound like a total broken record. You uttered much the same thing tonight. Approximately three hours ago. And in that same raspy tone,” I replied to Thorne, shrugging on my bright red dress and abandoning the S&M chic I’d been donning.

  I glanced down at the pile on my closet floor regretfully. It had been ruined with the fight and couldn’t be used for the bedroom activities I had planned for it.

  I got to have sex in it, look amazing and kill some things in it, though. An outfit well worn, I thought.

  Thorne’s eyes followed me with a dark desire that had me craving him and a repeat performance of the bathroom act as I shrugged it on.

  “You shouldn’t be going,” he clipped.

  “And people over the age of fifty shouldn’t be wearing skinny jeans, but it happens. We just have to deal,” I snapped, slipping into my Jimmy Choo mules.

  “You shouldn’t be going alone,” he continued.

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve gotten on fine enough for the past five hundred years.”

  He raised his brow. “You didn’t have a fuckin’ curse on you for those five hundred years, and from what I’ve heard, ‘fine’ is not enough of a description to how you got along. You started at least one civil war.”

  I frowned at him. “Did Sophie tell you that? Bitch. She was partly to blame for that too.” He didn’t answer, so I moved to the mirror to wipe an errant splatter of blood from my chest. “I may or may not still have the curse on me, and I like the odds. They’re at least fifty percent in my favor,” I corrected.

  His eyes narrowed. “And fifty percent too fuckin’ much towards your demise,” he growled.

  I snapped on a gold choker so the thin chain hanging from it skimmed down my breasts, a tiny small golden and diamond dagger finishing between my cleavage.

  “You’re such a ‘blood bag half empty’ kind of guy, Thorne,” I sighed. “Look on the dark side: we killed a lot of assholes in the rebellion tonight, got some info which Duncan is relaying back to our almightily ruler and I get to wear my new mules.” I grinned. “Not bad for a Tuesday.”

  He didn’t. “Except for the small matter of the curse.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Broken record,” I muttered. “So concerned with curses and death and other such boring things.”

  I ignored his glare, snatching a clutch from a cubby in the wall where each bag enjoyed a little home of its own. I may have been questionably cruel to humans, and vampires and werewolves, but I made sure to treat my bags with kindness. It was only fair.

  “Witchy wasn’t clear on the deets of this curse you’re still so concerned with. Which is why I’m getting them. And a much-needed drink. You should be glad. We’ll likely be rid of this witch shit before the week is out. Then we can focus on fighting a war and making sure no errant vampires who are trying to assassinate one or both of us are hiding in the shadows,” I informed him cheerfully.

  Thorne’s face appeared in the mirror behind me, his gaze fastening on me in the reflective surface. His hands settled at my hips, yanking me into his unfortunately clothed body.

  His outfit had fared even worse than mine, though I guessed he did considerably more of the fighting than me. That’s why I preferred simple old torture; it ripped less wardrobe items and once you’d perfected it, there were hardly any bloodstains.

  “I should be there,” he rumbled.

  I kept eye contact. “No, you shouldn’t, considering the bar where I’m meeting Sophie is full of supernatural creatures who would flay you as soon as look at you. And not in the good way.”

  He eyed me. “There’s a good way to be flayed?”

  I grinned. “Of course.”

  It mixed through us, the sexual promise of the shared look in the reflective surface. His hands tightened at my hips, the sweet musky scent of desire floating in the air as he yanked me back to nuzzle on my neck.

  I rolled my head back and allowed myself the small waves of exquisite pleasure that came with that motion before I lifted it off his shoulder.

  I met his dark eyes, filled with that same monster I’d glimpsed in the battle, the one who was becoming more and more common when I was around.

  “Hold that thought,” I murmured, chasing away the weird pang of guilt I felt from turning the human to a monster. I should’ve been proud of such a thing. “It’s girls’ night. Afterwards,” I promised.

  My words chased away the film of desire over Thorne’s eyes. He went back to serious.

  “Could she not have picked a better fuckin’ bar?” he hissed. “One I could come to that doesn’t have every creature that may or may not be after your head there as clientele?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, Sophie picked the place, and since she hung up on me when she called to arrange the meeting, I kind of have to go to where she wants. Who knows, she might even curse me more if I don’t do what she says. She’s got scary new powers and I don’t want her using them against me. Plus, Dante makes the best cocktails this side of the overworld. I think he puts ground-up human souls in there or something to make them extra tasty.” I licked my lips at the thought.

  “You just fuckin’ took down an entire bar, Isla. You really think you’re going to be able to go in for a drink without incident? Considering you just said there’re multiple vampires out for your head,” Thorne snapped, eyes flickering with anger.

  I was coming to the conclusion that it was either fury or desire that was his default when looking at me.

  I either pissed him off or turned him on.

  Although I could probably say the same about him. Except for all of those vapid lovey female feelings that made me actually want to smile at him, and not sarcastically or murderously either.

  It was dangerous.

  “Well, they’re at least as many vampires out for my ass too, so it’s either I’ll get hit on or hitmen on.” I shrugged. “I can handle either.”

  He spun me around quickly, clutching my face. “This isn’t a joke, Isla,” he growled. “This war. This spell. Any of it. I’ve been on this earth long enough to know the calm before the storm flattens everything in its path. I know it. And I’m quite willing to fight in this war. To get bloody. Covered in the blood of my enemies is only seconded to being inside you,” he growled—or more accurately his monster growled, making my stomach dip. What man talked about bathing in the blood of enemies so sweetly?

  Not many, I tell you.

  His eyes flickered with something akin to fear. “But losing you? That’s a storm I won’t weather. A war I won’t win.” His eyes danced with demons that were too fresh to be banished. “You’re so intent on making sure you look death in the face at least once a week.”

  I laughed, though mostly to shrug off that nasty little blossom of insanity that some people called humanity. The only insane character trait I was likely to fight harder than the velvet trend that didn’t seem to want to go away. “Honey, I’m not the one looking. Death is always staring at us. You’re just intent on looking away.”

  Though it wasn’t death staring at me through those quicksilver eyes. Or maybe it was. “I ain’t gonna look away from shit again. And even death can’t take this from us. I won’t let it.”

  He kissed the ever-loving Satan out of me before I could reply.

  Before I could tell him that death took everyone. You didn’t have to stop breathing to die.

  As we soon found out.

  I’ve been known to light up a room. With my beauty and style, of course. But also with enough matches and some gasoline.

  A good fire is something to make people take notice. And realize you’re serious about your crazy.

  But I wasn’t standing on a burning anything when I walked into Dante’s bar. And I knew I looked good—great, in fact—but that, or even a teeny fire, would not have warranted the stares I got as I waltzed into the crowded establishment.

&nbs
p; It was after 3 a.m., the lonely time of night when most humans dealt with the monsters in their minds. And the time when the real monsters dealt with the humans unlucky enough to encounter them. Or more likely the time when those monsters wet their whistles.

  And obviously gave me a variety of death glares, a couple of disbelieving looks, impartial glances, and even a couple—biggest surprise of all—almost respectful glances.

  I could’ve been hallucinating. That would be a better explanation as to why someone, anyone, looked at me with respect.

  It made my skin crawl. I preferred hatred and murder than respect. I didn’t want the responsibility of having people respect me. Or monsters respecting me.

  No respect was the best thing. The ideal was feared.

  “Yeah, I know, I’m back from the dead, like for the second time. I’m amazing,” I declared to the room. I didn’t need to raise my voice, handy when everyone in the bustling bar had superhuman hearing. My eyes flickered around the room. “And I’m boinking a slayer. He’s a great lay, if y’all were wondering.” I winked at the demon closest to me. “Anyone got a problem with that and is actually brave enough to tell that to the chick who’s already burned down an entire bar tonight? With the corpses of those who challenged her heading down to Hades extra crispy?”

  I held my arms above my head, doing a little circle of the room.

  There was a murmur of conversation, mostly whispers of “fucking insane” and “not worth the trouble.”

  I grinned when a demon decided to charge forward. The very one I’d winked at, in fact.

  “I really hoped at least one person would be stupid enough to take me up on my invitation,” I said cheerfully, landing a solid punch to the center of his face so all the bones crushed in a delightful crunch. When he crumpled to the floor, I impaled him with the heel of my new shoes. At least they were red and patent leather and unlikely to stain.

  He made a strange gurgling sound as the blood bubbled inside his mouth while his bones knitted together.

  My eyes went to Sophie, who was twirling a fucking umbrella, of all things, around in her drink, looking a little bored and a lot chic.

  Her black hair was mussed to the point between unshowered and homeless and fabulous and trendy. Her eyes were bordered with enough kohl to serve an entire high school of emos, and her dress was plain back, skintight and showed off every inch of her tattooed skin. Her ripped fishnets and thigh-high boots covered the tattoos she had on her legs.

  “Cute boots,” I remarked casually.

  She glanced down, extending her leg outwards from her stool to inspect them. “Thanks. They’re new. I was wondering if they went with this outfit.”

  “They work in a big way,” I informed her.

  “Not too much?”

  “Definitely, but too much of a good thing is precisely better.”

  She grinned.

  I grinned back. “Oh, can you do some mojo to make sure his healing is at the speed of a human? Or even a… I don’t know, what heals slower than a human?” I mused, twisting my heel so a delicious crack of ribs filled the air.

  She scrunched her nose. “Not much. Weak race. Human it is.”

  The air rattled slightly, tasting musky and bitter with the spell that Sophie silently cast.

  Sophie.

  Just Sophie. Not some creepy yellow-eyed version of Jack Torrance or any other character Stephen King could dream up.

  A win for now.

  I yanked my heel out, shaking the worst of the blood off. “Thanks.”

  She lifted her glass. “Anytime.”

  I looked around the room. Most of the creatures watched with idle curiosity. Others, regulars, had returned to their conversations at the first crack of bone. I’d done this before.

  Once or twice.

  Or ten times.

  I was thinking of demanding an entertainment fee.

  “Anyone else?” I asked. There was a pause. I grinned, showing fang. “Didn’t think so.”

  I strutted over to kiss Sophie on both cheeks. “Where the fuck did you get an umbrella in your drink in here?” I asked, sitting. “Is Dante losing it? I really hope so. Watching people break from reality is almost as good as binging Scandal on Netflix,” I said, rubbing my hands together.

  The man himself appeared in front of me in a plume of smoke, looking upsettingly hinged.

  I jumped. “Asshole,” I hissed. “Doing that is a great way to get yourself killed. I don’t like surprises, unless they come in Tiffany boxes or coffins.”

  He grinned, leaning on the bar in a way I knew he did precisely so his biceps and tattooed arms flexed just right.

  It was impressive. And he knew how to use those biceps and other appendages that were just as impressive, but alas, I was ruined for man, demon and vampire alike.

  Not werewolf.

  I’d never gotten that desperate.

  Or had I?

  The nineteenth century was a dark time for me.

  “Are you sure it was surprised?” he asked. “I’m certain it was scared,” he teased, obviously with a death wish.

  I glared at him. “The only thing that scares me is Donald Trump’s hairdresser. Now get me a drink without an umbrella.” I paused, glancing at Sophie’s. “No, wait, with the umbrella. The pointed end looks perfect for spearing demons’ eyes,” I added, pleasantly.

  He rolled the eye I’d just been imagining spearing and using as a garnish in my cocktail. “You’ve spilled enough blood in here tonight.” He nodded to the demon writhing on the floor, whom everyone was just ignoring now.

  I glanced at him once, then back to Dante. “Like there is such a thing as too much blood. That’s like saying there’s such a thing as too many reality shows on wife swapping—not possible, in other words. Now, drink.”

  He gave me a look. “Is what I’m hearing true?”

  I gave him a look of my own. “That bartenders who don’t tend to sassy and beautiful vampires shoot their mortality rates up by one hundred percent? Yes, I do believe it’s true.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes dancing with flames. “No, that in addition to tangling yourself up in this fuckin’ war, you’ve got yourself in bed with a slayer. And are going public with it.”

  I snatched Sophie’s drink, sipping. “Of course I’m going public. My life is far too boring otherwise. An assassination attempt only every other day, and the war seemed like it needed some spice. And what am I here for if not to add spice. And sugar. And everything nasty. Like a Powerpuff Girl, but one with better clothes, a filthier mouth and more fangs.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  “I don’t think he’s here. He came and went a couple of times, I know, but he’s been MIA for a few thousand years. I can ask Lucifer if he’s seen him when we next have brunch, if you like?”

  “Isla, are you ever serious?”

  “Bleh. No. Wait, yes. About headbands on babies, I’m serious. They’re wrong and evil and should be outlawed.”

  Dante shook his head. “You’re going to get in over your head. Quickly.”

  I grinned. “Over my head is where my legs feel most at home.”

  The air turned hot once more, but at least some of that wretched sincerity left Dante’s eyes. “That slayer, he there to stay? I assume since you’re riskin’ everything you have for him? Even you aren’t that crazy to break so many rules and risk your own life for anything less.”

  Hearing it said aloud jarred me a little, but of course I didn’t outwardly react. “Well, I guess. I’m a risk taker in general, but it seems like he might last longer than most. Also, I don’t like your doubting of my insanity. I’m totally insane,” I argued.

  Dante gave me a look. “Just checkin’. Don’t approve, but I get it. Lovin’ the wrong person at the wrong time is the only right thing you can do.”

  Demons, or maybe angels, flickered in his eyes. Because wasn’t that what haunted demons themselves? The most wicked haunted the most good, and therefore the most good must haunt
the most wicked.

  I didn’t get to inspect the melancholy in his look, fortunately, because he turned to get my drink.

  “Okay, thankfully we didn’t have to Dr. Phil that shit,” I said to Sophie. “Now we can chat.”

  “About the curse?” she asked, sipping her drink.

  “I was going to say about where you got those boots, but I guess the curse,” I said, resigned to the fact that fashion and general debauchery might have to take a back seat to fatal curses and wars.

  Adulting.

  Yuck.

  I guess after four hundred years I had to at least entertain the thought.

  “Hit me with it,” I sighed. “Not another curse, please. Unless I don’t have one on me. Then hit me with a new one, just to keep it interesting. As long as you don’t damage the outer perfection.” I gestured down. “I challenge you to do your worst to the basket of crazy that perfection is cloaking.”

  Sophie shook her head. “I doubt even I have the power for that.”

  I raised my brow at her in question, not daring to mention her new powers in such a place with all the eyes and ears and empaths.

  Perhaps why she chose this exact establishment.

  Smart, my witch.

  “I’ll keep the curse in the chamber for when this one is lifted,” she said.

  “Ugh,” I moaned, snatching the drink from Dante’s hands and downing it in one gulp. “Another,” I demanded.

  He muttered something under his breath that sounded deceptively like a death threat before turning way.

  “Seriously? Still? But I feel right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Healthy as a horse. Sprite as—”

  “Yes, the curse is still somewhat active,” she snapped, breaking my cliché roll and ignoring my glare that came with it.

  “Somewhat?” I asked.

  “The witches still live and so does the curse. It’s death magic, so it can only be killed with the deaths of all of witches.”

  “I thought slayer blood was the cure?”

  “It is. It was.” She screwed up her nose. “It stopped you from dying the original way, as a mortal. But it doesn’t stop the curse from killing you.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I pointed out.