I pressed the glyph.
The gold-rimmed circular hole appeared instantly, and I knew it was time for another round of blood sacrifice.
“Moira,” warned Drake, “do not—”
I stuck my hand inside, and felt something sharp, like teeth, clamp onto my wrist. Pain flared, but I resisted the urge to cry out. This was no mere prick of a needle to release a drop or two of blood. Whatever had my hand was ensuring that I couldn’t move while the blood flowed.
• • •
I don’t remember passing out.
But I did recognize the floating.
What? Again?
This time, I hovered above a small brick building. From my vantage point, I could see a trailer in the back, tucked near a copse of trees.
Then I descended into the building, melting through the ceiling, and there I saw Patsy, puttering around a beauty shop.
I had no choice but to sink into her skin, and I became Patsy Donahue, the vampire she’d been before she became queen of the undead . . .
• • •
Someone pounded on the back door. She yelled, “Who is it?”
“Gabriel. Please, let me in!”
My fingers, her fingers, clenched the bolt, but didn’t turn it.
“Do we have to talk through this blasted door? Please, Patsy. Trust me.”
She unbolted the door and swung it open. Gabriel nearly fell into our arms, but managed to stagger inside on his own. He looked a mess. He wore only a pair of jeans. His chest had been clawed. Blood dripped onto the floor.
We slammed the door shut and locked it again.
Gabriel sank to his knees, swaying. His face was tight with pain.
Patsy knelt down, and I felt her confusion, her terror. Her hands hovered over his shoulders, but she was afraid to touch him. “What can I do?”
One corner of his mouth hitched. “Ask me that again later, okay?”
His gaze dipped to Patsy’s breasts, leaving no doubt what he meant by the question. She shook her head, amused. “Get into the chair and I’ll clean your wounds.”
He stood up and Patsy, or me as Patsy, gently guided him to the nearest styling chair. His moon white hair needed a good brushing. Patsy got paper towels and soaked them with warm water. As I, or she (this was goddamn confusing), leaned over to wipe the blood off his ribs, Gabriel’s hand snaked around her neck and pulled us close.
“I need blood.”
“Lycans don’t drink blood.”
“I do.” He opened his mouth and needle-point fangs descended. He licked his lips as he leaned forward, aiming those sharp babies right at my neck.
Panic erupted inside Patsy. We jerked out of his grip and lurched back. “What the hell are you?”
“Patricia.”
Her full given name held a world of hurt. He reached one arm beseechingly toward us. “Why do you fear me? I am no different than Lorcan or Eva or any of the other vampires who share my abilities.”
“Lorcan was cured, so he’s not a beast anymore. And Eva isn’t a werewolf.”
“The cure for the Taint comes from the blood of royal lycanthropes,” he said quietly. “But there is side effect. The vampires who survive the cure retain the ability to shape-shift.”
Patsy believed he was full of . . . malarkey. But she couldn’t help but think the werewolf side effect would explain why the Consortium hadn’t released the cure to all vampires seeking it.
“Is that what happened to you?”
“No.” He grimaced. “I was born with this . . . anomaly.”
A lycanthrope born with vampire tendencies? How in the world had such a thing happened? Patsy was insanely attracted to Gabriel, which upset her. Even though she was scared of him, she wanted to touch him. Wanted to make him feel better. His wounds had not closed. Blood flowed onto the chair and pooled around its base.
“Why haven’t you healed?” I asked.
“Demon scratches are poisonous, even to mutants such as I.” His words held bitterness. He sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Why did you risk coming here?”
His eyes flickered open. “To claim you.”
“I’m not checked baggage.” Patsy put her hands on her hips and looked him over. All Gabriel needed was a little blood to help him heal. She wanted to get closer to him—and that uncontrollable urge to be near him confused her. Terrified her. I recognized these feelings . . . because I felt the same way about Drake.
Patsy approached Gabriel. He watched her, his expression solemn. She gripped the armrests of the barber chair, leaned down, and offered her neck. His lips brushed her skin. She, and of course I, felt electrified by that single, soft touch. Then his fangs sank into her neck and he drank.
• • •
When I came to, I was wrapped around Drake like a stripper hugging the brass pole. My lips were pressed against the hollow of his throat. He smelled so good, like man and cologne and . . . something else. Something dark and sexy and . . . oh, I was tingling.