Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment) Page 2

  And yet even his gift was victim to this addiction. After healing Nicolai of a potentially lethal wound two months earlier, Bastien had discovered using his ability worsened the craving. Made him almost feral to satisfy the clawing hunger in his chest and gut.

  For all his intelligence and accomplishments, the small vial in his hand made him no better than a pathetic addict.

  Why didn’t the fucking Fates just pin a “Kick Me” sign on his ass?

  He ground his teeth together, trapping his enraged roar in his throat. But the preventive action didn’t prevent the cry from swirling in his soul like a deadly tornado gathering strength and speed from the pain and despair feeding it. The only thing separating him from the junkie on the street was geography. He’d lied to the people closest to him. Had lost the woman he loved. Lost the future so carefully planned out for him. He cared about nothing but the next hit.

  He drew back his arm and prepared to hurl the hated tube across the room, smash it against the wall in a splatter of glass and crimson.

  But the howl never escaped. And when he lowered his arm to his side, the vial remained in his palm, cradled, sheltered.

  This time a sound did tear from him. But not the thunderous bellow that would have brought Nicolai running from his bed to the other end of the house where he’d allowed Bastien to bunk these past two months.

  No, this was a soft, unmanning whimper and it ripped another slice from his pride, already tattered beyond repair. The price of the container and its contents had been hefty—the one pleasure den he’d found that’d possessed the liquid had demanded Bastien pay for its rarity. Yet…the cost to his soul far outweighed the money that had exchanged hands. What value could one place on damnation?

  His fingers trembled as he unscrewed the cap off the slender tube. After he lifted the lid, the sweet bouquet of the blood hit his nostrils, filtered over his starved palate and his beast sighed in rapturous anticipation. His mouth watered, his gums tingled. He inhaled, savoring the tantalizing scent. It was like a delectable appetizer whetting the senses for the main course. Only a swallow remained, the contents barely filling one-fourth of the glass, curved bottom.

  Yet it was enough…for now.

  It had to be.

  Bastien lifted the tube to his mouth, the glass lip pressed to his own. As he upended the vial, hellish images flashed across his mind’s eye. Writhing men and women, mouths open in perpetual screams, naked except for the orange-and-red flames licking their flesh. Damned for an eternity to their sins and desires.

  He had box seats to the vision of hell.

  Then the blood hit his tongue and he didn’t give a damn.

  Potent and lush, the taste burst in an explosion of sensation and power before racing for the back of his throat. The blood tunneled down his esophagus, filled his lungs, expanded in his chest then mushroomed in his gut like an atom bomb.

  In that moment, he understood why crack addicts chased the next hit, why bodybuilders insisted on injecting steroids in the face of irreversible consequences.

  Euphoria.

  Power. Joy. The fucking answers to the universe.

  Except for him, there was no detox. There were no ninety days of rehab or a chip celebrating his sobriety.

  It was way too late for treatment—and for him.

  His breath shuddered out of his chest…and fear sidled in.

  Because the blood had only taken the edge off the relentless greed, not sated it.

  No! His brain kicked into fight-or-flight mode and he scrabbled up the slippery slope of surrender and defeat.

  He refused to accept this was it for him. Refused to sit by with his thumb up his ass and condone this slide into madness. He was a healer, damn it! His job was to seek out answers, solve problems…to fucking heal. He might go down, but no way in hell was he going down without a fight.

  And the first step was to locate the female who had condemned him to this hell. The female who tormented him in his dreams with her sun-kissed skin and silver eyes.

  Feral satisfaction swelled inside him and his lips curved.

  He was going hunting.

  A half-hour later, he descended the staircase of Nicolai’s sprawling home on silent feet, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Treading softly through the lower level of the house toward the kitchen, he embraced the silence that wrapped around him like a comforting cocoon. He’d found friendship and love here—a sanctuary from the truth he’d been afraid to face. A part of him shook at the thought of leaving, of fleeing the place responsible for easing the sometimes heartbreaking isolation encapsulating his spirit.

  But he had to go. From now on it would be him, his secret, his addiction and his shame. The Fab Four.

  “So you were going to leave without saying goodbye?”

  Bastien’s hand stilled over the knob of the back door, his back going rigid as tension strummed through his body like a live wire. Slowly, he lowered his arm and pivoted to meet the patient purple gaze of his best friend.

  Nicolai Abioud, former Dimios of their race, stood in front of him, muscular arms crossed over a wide chest. The ex-judge and executioner of the hippogryph people—and the male Bastien trusted most above all others—appeared as if he’d just jumped out of bed. But even rocking a serious case of bedhead, stubble and wrinkled jeans, Nico was still intimidating as hell.

  “I would have called when I arrived where I’m heading.”

  A dark-gold brow arched high. “And that is?”

  Bastien closed his eyes, regret a heavy stone in his heart. Damn, he longed to confide in Nicolai. Just utter the words.

  Remember when I told you about Evander’s ambush? Well, I neglected to confess the reason I’d been on my way to find you in the first place. Your sister, the woman I loved, rejected me to marry a stranger of noble blood. Oh that’s right. You didn’t know I was in love with her. And yeah, another thing. I came out of the whole Evander deal changed into a blood-addicted monster and it scares the shit out of me.

  How many times during the past two months had he almost confessed his dark secret? Countless. But fear had gridlocked the words in his throat. Logically, he acknowledged Nicolai wouldn’t condemn him. Not only had the two men been friends for nine hundred years, but Nicolai had fallen in love and bonded with a human woman, watched her transform into a hippogryph and abdicated from his role as Dimios to be with her. If anyone could sympathize with life-altering changes, Nicolai could.

  Yet he couldn’t push the confession from between his lips. How could he just announce to someone he was flawed, a freak? An abomination? Worse, how did he admit fear and shame to a male who had placed his life on the line every day for centuries in service of his people? A man who faced down the monsters of their race with unflagging courage?

  Bastien knew just the right way to reveal the bit of information.

  He didn’t.

  Besides, while Tamar might have once been human, she was now a hippogryph, one of them.

  Bastien didn’t know what the fuck he was.

  “Bastien.”

  He opened his eyes, met the weight of Nicolai’s stare. “I can’t tell you, Nico,” he murmured.

  Nicolai’s mouth firmed into a grim, straight line and his arms lowered to his sides.

  “Can’t?” he asked softly. “Or won’t?”

  “Does it matter?” Bastien returned just as quietly.

  “Damn it, Bastien,” Nicolai snapped. He pivoted on his bare heel, thrust his long fingers through his hair and fisted the strands in a wincing grip at the back of his head. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Bastien couldn’t prevent the slight lifting of his lips at the familiar gesture. He’d joked on many occasions how Nicolai would go bald one day if he kept pulling on his hair as if engaged in a tug-of-war with his scalp. Then, as quick as it appeared, his smile disappeared. Here was something else he had to sacrifice. The last remnant of familiarity. Anger poured through him like hot lava. And in its molten wake left the ashes of his life.
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  Nicolai paced several steps away before wheeling around and eating up the distance he’d placed between them.

  “Do you think I don’t know there’s something you’ve been keeping from me?” he demanded. “We’ve been friends all my life. Aside from Tamar, there’s no one I love more. Whatever has been eating you from the inside out since you came back, you can tell me.” The anger bled out of Nicolai’s voice, leaving a solemn entreaty for Bastien to trust him, to have faith in him.

  Bastien wanted to…damn, he wanted to reach out, crack himself open like a walnut and expose all his darkest secrets to the light of their friendship.

  The longing lurched inside him, hard and desperate. Yet even as he parted his lips to unburden his soul the hunger rumbled in his stomach. Not as strong as when he’d awakened, but enough to remind him why he could no longer delay his departure.

  Maybe Nicolai would accept Bastien. But Bastien didn’t trust himself. He didn’t know what he was capable of if the craving catapulted from bearable to insatiable.

  What if he transformed into a mindless, raging beast? What if he went after Nicolai? Or Tamar?

  A groan pressed against his sternum and broke free in a hoarse, low cry.

  No. He couldn’t risk their safety.

  Couldn’t risk morphing into a rogue—a betrayer and traitor to their people—and forcing Nicolai or one of their friends to be responsible for hunting and executing him.

  “Nico, I—” He bowed his head and turned around, reaching for the doorknob once more. “I’m sorry.”

  “Bastien,” Nicolai barked and grabbed Bastien’s arm, his fingers digging into his biceps. “Damn it—”

  A hiss exploded from Bastien as he whipped around, knocking Nicolai’s hand away. Fangs pierced his gums and dropped down, filling his mouth, nipping his drawn-back lips. Through a scarlet, misty haze, Bastien watched his friend stumble back, Nicolai’s eyes wide and black with shock.

  Terror slammed into Bastien. Its icy blast cleared his vision, forced his incisors to recede. Monster, a small voice purred inside his head. Bastien shuddered at the insidious accusation. He struggled for the control dangling just outside his reach. He grappled with the beast prowling in tight circles deep inside him, snarling and demanding to be liberated. Evander had stolen so much from him that day five months ago. It wasn’t just his face Bastien no longer recognized when he glanced into the mirror—it was him. The man. The hippogryph. The healer.

  Yes. He groaned, fumbling behind him as his chest rose and fell on the harsh pants roaring from his lungs. I am a monster. His shaking fingers finally closed around the knob. Desperate, he twisted it, his gaze never leaving Nicolai’s pale features. Sickening dismay faded from his friend’s eyes and pity entered and, somehow, that compassion stabbed as deep as any rejection.

  With a snarl that veered dangerously close to a sob, Bastien wrenched the door open, spun and bolted into the night. He didn’t slow or stop. Not when Nicolai bellowed his name. Not when the cliff the house was built on disappeared under his feet.

  As he plunged toward the dark waters below, he called to the magic within him. Obedient, it rushed to greet him, sizzling over his flesh like a live wire—across his arms, down his spine and legs to the soles of his feet. Bone snapped, realigned. Muscles and tendon stretched, reformed and reshaped. Pinpricks darted along his arms and back as feathers sprouted, forming huge wings that caught the wind and halted his fall toward the Sound.

  With a flap of his wings and a kick of his equestrian hind legs, he curled his talons into his body and climbed toward the night sky, following the diamond-bright stars to his destination.

  To her.

  Chapter Two

  Even at night the streets of Dublin teemed with life.

  The people here reflected their city—old standing shoulder-to-shoulder with young, character and history in every face and line, spirited and full of pride.

  Laughter, chatter and music spilled into the night from the pubs and shops, their bright lights like mini beacons on the sidewalks, illuminating the pedestrians strolling and milling around outside. Lyrical accents and rich brogues filled the air, adding their own melody. A light mist fell—a negligible rain for Dublin natives—its fresh scent mixing with the earthiness drifting off the River Liffey.

  For two hundred and fifty years Sinéad had walked this land among the humans. She’d been fifty years old when she’d been assigned this territory of Ireland’s largest city to guard. And in the following two and a half centuries she’d witnessed famines, mass immigration, religious and governmental upheavals, a country’s liberation. It was a stalwart and fearless country, abounding in beauty and magic…

  “You look lonely, babe. I got something to handle that.”

  “Come get some of this American cock, baby doll. Bet you never had one like this!”

  Drunken cackles and the requisite crotch grabbing followed the lewd catcalls, snapping her free of the evening’s charming lure.

  Fucking tourists. As useless as tits on a bull.

  Her brows slammed down and Sinéad bared her teeth, releasing a sibilant hiss that had loosened the bladder of more than one inebriated fool.

  Then she remembered…

  She was human. As human as the two assholes who rolled their hips and rubbed their unimpressive packages as if the sight of their groping would incite her to jump their puny bones.

  Helpless fury pulsed through her on a molten tide. The rage swirled and eddied, threatening to snatch her under its dark undertow. Another human side effect she’d had to endure these past five months. Feelings. She curled her upper lip. The seesaw of emotions capable of teetering from delight to despair to rage in a matter of minutes. Holy Nef. She teared up at fucking Hallmark commercials.

  Hall. Mark. Commercials.

  How far she’d fallen.

  Silent as a wraith, she pressed through a crowd of scantily clad women smoking outside one of the pubs along the quay. They didn’t glance her way, but their joy and excitement reached out to her like insidious tentacles probing her brain for entry. She hunched her shoulders until they nearly bracketed her ears.

  Every cruxim inherited a paternal strength or “gift” from the males who inseminated the female who’d borne them. The sires were chosen carefully as the only things of worth they provided were their seed and magical DNA. Some cruxim were bequeathed the power to scan minds, some the ability to cloak themselves in invisibility, others could shift objects with a mere thought or move faster than light. But Sinéad—lucky, lucky Sinéad—had received the talent of empathy. An empath in a race that abhorred emotion. She snorted. Her dam had really screwed the pooch with her choice. But then the female had probably assumed fucking a thunderbird would grant her young the gift to wield lightning. Nope. Sinéad couldn’t summon lightning, thunder, or rain. But detect another’s fear, rage or lust?

  Aaaaall day.

  Screwing a male for no other purpose than a sperm deposit had its own downsides. Including no open disclosure of important details. Like latent empathy genes.

  Still, maintaining a solid shield against the persistent, invasive onslaught of others’ emotions had been easier, almost second nature after the three hundred years of her existence. But as a cruxim, she also hadn’t been bogged down with the burden of her own—she shuddered—feelings. It seemed as if her former supernatural strength had fortified the barrier against her gift. Now, as a mortal stripped of power, preserving her sanity had become an exhausting full-time job.

  A wave of rage engulfed her and the force of it swamped the other emotions tapping her skull for entrance.

  Five months ago, she’d been an immortal warrior, a Dark Angel, a Guardian of the Blood Cross. Cruxim. But one act had stolen her immortality, shoved her into this weak flesh-and-blood body strolling the territory she used to patrol because it was all she’d known for two hundred and fifty years.

  One act had turned predator into prey.

  Images of that fateful—damned—
day crowded into her head.

  Pain. The awful, wrenching pain had snatched the breath from her body with the strength of the wild, fierce wind whipping against the rugged coastal cliffs she hunted along. The piercing agony had been so great it’d compelled her to abandon her hunt in order to search out the source.

  That’s when she’d found him.

  A hippogryph. Broken and bloody on a pile of rocks jutting out of the stormy Atlantic.

  Now, months later, faint echoes of the fear and despair resonated inside her. She should have flown away—should have taken off and allowed the Fates to have their will. The sheer enormity of the desperation and terror should have warned her away from the fallen, majestic beast. Contrary to traditional belief, emotion didn’t wane when a being’s essence ebbed away. When Death’s presence loomed, the flame of the soul flared its brightest—one last hurrah to experience…or one last furious, desolate cry for life. But she’d ignored her instincts and dove toward the turbulent waves relentlessly crashing against the creature’s still form.

  It’d been unconscious, its breathing so shallow she’d had to scrutinize the down-covered breast to detect the small rise and fall of its chest to ensure he lived. Crimson rivulets poured from gashes across its face and flowed from a huge, gaping hole in its breast. The streaming liquid stained the hippogryph’s chestnut-and-white feathers like an ugly oil spill, contaminating the beast’s natural beauty. As a seasoned cruxim warrior, the sight of blood and battle wounds ceased to disturb her long ago. But the…the vicious ravaging of the regal animal had seemed wrong—almost sacrilegious.

  Cool logic demanded she leave, continue with her hunt. A visit from Death was imminent—she couldn’t do anything to help the beast. And if she returned to tracking the evil creature she’d been trailing, many lives would be saved. One very precarious life versus many? A no-brainer.

  The knowledge hadn’t prevented her from scooping the hippogryph’s massive weight into her arms and flying to the isolated property on the outskirts of Dublin she called home. No one—or thing—had ever ventured into her “lair”, not even her cruxim sisters. The hippogryph, who transformed into a large, blond male after the first couple of days, was her first—and last—visitor. For two months she’d cared for him, bared her fangs at Death and wrestled the stone-faced specter back from her charge with sheer will, stubbornness and blood.