The Games Monsters Play: A Novelette of The Chosen Read online

She touched the filled plasma bag.

  “Well, my love. You will live on, after a fashion. I’ll think of you every time I speak with the Prime Minister. He’ll enjoy the cognac I’m sending him, as he always does, and our blood in it will ensure his continued cooperation.”

  Katarina faced Lars’s unconscious body dangling from the shackles. She reached up and lovingly caressed his throat, then ripped the duct tape from his mouth.

  She left it over his eyes.

  “Farewell, my love.” Katarina gently gripped his head between her hands, stood on her toes, and gave him a passionate kiss on the lips.

  She then braced herself, and with a savage wrench, tore Lars’ head from his body.

  Shock and pain lanced through her. Katarina held her breath a moment, staggered into the recess, and placed the head on the floor facing the back wall. Though she looked away, she wasn’t quick enough. A shudder rippled her skin at the glimpse of those lips she’d just kissed mouthing unspoken words.

  His anguish and horror still murmuring through her, Katarina made her way across the room to her desk. She sank into her chair with a deep sigh and pressed the button. The door opened, admitting several guards. Katarina ignored them, focusing instead on the stains splashed across her hand.

  “One of you take the blood to the distillery and give it to Hans. Tell him to mark it with the initials ‘K. L.’ and put it in the Reserved cooler.” She motioned toward Lars. “The rest of you take that to the incinerator, and be quick about it. Report back when it’s done.”

  Though I’ll know well enough when it is. Hopefully with my blood drained from him it won’t be quite so tortuous.

  She slowly spun her chair to face the wall, listening as the guards opened the shackles, removed the body, and shuffled out the door with their burden. After several long moments, she finally dared to swivel back around. All that remained of Lars was a smear on the white marble where his head had rested.

  Katarina sat back in the chair and steeled herself against his lingering emotions. A fresh agony flared within her and she gasped, her nails sinking into the mahogany desk at the sensation of real flames. As the lifespark of the big blond Chosen winked out, bringing him the Final Death, the remnants of their lover’s bond died as well. Aching loneliness punched a hole deep in her core, and an empty despair blacker than any she remembered seized her very soul.

  Katarina clamped a hand over her mouth and hugged herself, and her shoulders shook as bloodtears streamed down her face.

  Damn you to hell, Gilles.

  ~ Chapter 4 ~

  Colin woke from his sun-induced slumber and glanced at the clock.

  Three. Don’t think I’ve ever woken this early. Must be getting old.

  He laughed at his private joke, pleased at this latest sign of Chosen maturity. Like all younger Chosen, he sank into a dreamless, coma-like sleep from dawn ’til dusk, unable to be roused. But the last couple decades, as he’d neared and passed the century-and-a-half mark, he’d begun waking earlier and earlier in the day. He looked forward to the time when the sun no longer had power over him and he could walk beneath it without fear of being fried alive.

  Colin stretched, and then frowned as he remembered his itinerary.

  Jeanette.

  He grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand.

  “O’Neill Exports.” Jeanette’s voice sounded normal and Colin exhaled.

  “Good afternoon, Jeanette. Any messages?” Colin kept their phone calls strictly business—no telling who might be listening in. Jeanette seemed to understand without ever having been told.

  “No, sir. It’s been quiet today.”

  “Good. I have some things to wrap up here, then I’ll be in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colin pressed the end button and rolled out of bed. He pulled on a pair of shorts, padded across the room, and sat at the desk. Opening his latest report to Nicolas on his laptop, he added a few more paragraphs and saved the file, then ran it through a converter, which coded it into a mixture of several Native American languages. He copied the coded paragraphs into his company’s sales catalog that listed products in a dozen different languages, printed it, and stapled the pages into a booklet.

  Jeanette shouldn’t have any problems getting this through.

  Returning to his computer, Colin inserted a mini-SD card the size of his fingernail and started transferring files. When he had everything he needed, he withdrew the card and wrapped it in a tiny piece of mesh designed to block both electronic scanners and metal detectors.

  He stared down at his bare thigh. Picking up the dagger he used as a letter opener, he took a deep breath.

  This is going to hurt.

  His jaw clenched, he buried the dagger into the side of his thigh and opened a two-inch gash in the muscle. As he shoved his fingers into the bloody wound to keep it open, his vision turned scarlet and his fangs descended in reaction to the assault on his body.

  Colin set the bloodstained knife on the desk, picked up the mesh-wrapped card, and stuffed it deep into the incision. He withdrew his fingers, and sucking the blood from them, watched the wound close.

  It continued to throb, and the hunger flared in response. He could feel his tissues trying to push the card out of his body.

  Hope the damn thing stays put long enough for me to get out of the country.

  After wiping the blood from his thigh, Colin tore off several strips of medical tape and covered the area to help keep the card in place. He massaged his leg a moment, then limped over to the refrigerator and pulled out his last two emergency plasma packs. He bit into the top of one and sucked out the blood through the fang holes, then grabbed the other.

  That’ll have to hold me ’til later tonight.

  Colin had donors scattered across Paris, all former prostitutes whom he’d helped get off the streets and into legitimate jobs. He still endured occasional pangs of guilt for using them to satisfy his blood needs, especially since his sole purpose here in France was to disrupt the bloodslave trade. But at least they weren’t in a cage.

  Colin rinsed the plasma bags and ran them through the shredder, then headed into the bedroom and quickly dressed. After making one more sweep around the apartment, Colin picked up his laptop and broke it open. He popped out the hard drive and placed it in a plastic garbage sack, set it on the floor, and stomped it until it disintegrated. The laptop remains and the shredder contents went into the sack as well.

  His overnight bag held a change of clothes and a few toiletries—nothing more than would be expected of someone staying the night at a girlfriend’s. Colin shoved the sales catalog into his overcoat, grabbed his hat and the garbage, and headed to the door.

  He scanned the apartment as he stood in the open doorway.

  Eighteen years.

  Eighteen years infiltrating European warehouse networks, placing operatives, forming alliances. His role in the ancient, never-ending Game between Nicolas and Gilles, brief though it was, filled Colin with pride.

  This was a good operation. Too bad it has to end—I could’ve used a couple more months.

  Colin saluted his home, shut the door, and headed down the stairs. He paused at the street level door and peered through its window at the cloud-filled afternoon sky, relieved to see no sign of the sun.

  It was nearly five when he reached the office.

  Jeanette’s flight leaves at 8:10 p.m. Better keep this short.

  His plane wasn’t scheduled until the next night, after Jeanette had delivered his report and the disposable cell phone he’d purchased. Once he’d spoken with Nicolas, he’d know whether or not to make that flight. He suppressed his excitement at the thought of finally going home.

  Can’t celebrate just yet. A lot can go wrong in the next thirty hours.

  Thirty hours was plenty of time to die.

  ~ * ~

  Katarina finished washing the blood from her face and picked up the burgundy towel lying on the bar counter next to the sink. Glancing down at her blouse, she felt a surge of rage at the blood spray and tears splashed across the black dupioni silk, the stains a reminder of being bested by Gilles in their private game. Her eyes reddened and her fangs slammed into place.

  Gilles might have won this round, but I will find a way to pay him back.

  She opened the wine cooler, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it. As she poured the bloodwine into a long-stemmed glass, a small laugh escaped her.

  Glad I thought to switch the labels. The dimwitted pig didn’t even notice.

  Her mouth tightened as she heard the hidden door open. She focused on her sword collection on the opposing wall and once again fantasized each one slicing off her mate’s head.

  “Good evening, ma chérie. What have you been up to? Whatever it is, you’ve certainly provided me with a rare banquet, and so early in the night. I can’t recall when I’ve tasted such a smorgasbord of delightful emotions from you.”

  Katarina rolled her eyes. She’d ignored Gilles’s voyeuristic interest during her last moments with Lars, and the shock that followed when her lover died and the bond broke.

  But at the moment, she was grateful for her Maker’s blood flowing through her veins. It muted the lingering empty pain of the broken bond, and if she gave in a little to his perverse emotions, it would help her recover more quickly.

  She could feel his gaze stripping back her skin to peer inside, but Katarina refused to acknowledge his scrutiny.

  The curiosity probing her body from within shifted to a slow-burning anger. She suppressed her satisfaction and bit back a smile.

  “Pour me some wine, ma chérie.”

  Katarina retrieved a wineglass from the cabinet and did as he asked. When she handed him the glass, his dark brown eyes bore into hers, seeking answers. Sh
e kept her face neutral as he took the first sip.

  His eyebrows arched, then flattened. Gilles grabbed the bottle from the bar top and examined the label. He looked up at Katarina, the scowl still creasing his features.

  “Well played.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. She allowed herself to gloat just to annoy him.

  Gilles stepped next to her and she stopped breathing. His hand snaked out to clutch a fistful of her red hair. She hissed, wishing she had the guts to shave it off.

  “I’m waiting for the answer to my question. I know what you did, but I want to hear the words from your lips.”

  “You no longer have to worry about being cuckolded by a member of your court, my King. I took care of it.”

  Her dig at him with the word “cuckolded” had the desired effect. Gilles’s hot anger blasted through her veins. His eyes glowed crimson and he roared, his fangs flashing. Still gripping her hair, he coiled his other arm and backhanded her across the face. Her ears rang from the force of the blow.

  “You think you won by destroying your lover yourself? Think again!”

  Katarina laughed when he buried his fangs into her throat. As he drained her body for the second time in two nights, she focused on her revenge.

  I am going to find a way to end you, you son of bitch. Only I won’t gift you with the Final Death, though you’ll beg me to do so. You’ll get the same as you’ve given me—a place by my side for all eternity.

  She laughed again, a laugh that twisted into a scream.

  TUESDAY

  ~ Chapter 5 ~

  The heavy beat of the Paris underground nightclub mimicked the amped up heart rhythms of its patrons, a mix of Chosen and humans. Though the bloodslave market kept the Parisian Chosen well-fed, many still preferred the cat-and-mouse hunt of the club scene with willing donors who knowingly offered their lives in the hope they might be selected to become a Chosen too.

  Little did the humans know that Chosen selection was determined strictly on net worth, with the requirement that all assets be relinquished to their Maker and the Head of their lineage.

  As Colin surveyed the controlled chaos within the club, he wondered how many former millionaires and CEOs were now little more than indentured servants in this Chosen hierarchy, a fate no doubt many of them deserved and would never escape.

  Chosen life was certainly nothing any sane and healthy person would choose. He wouldn’t have, but being neither sane nor healthy at the time of his Making, he did choose this life. The fevered and dying don’t always understand the choices facing them, though, and after coming to terms with that, along with the passage of time, he no longer bore any real regrets.

  Colin kept a tight grip on his true aura, masking its energy with the blood of a Parisian Chosen taken a few nights before. However, it was wearing thin, and in order to maintain his cover long enough to get out of the country, he needed more.

  The opportunities presented in the club scene were endless. Chosen loved bloodplay, especially with each other. But his taste for it had dwindled since becoming involved with Jeanette, and now he viewed it as a loathsome task necessary to keep up his Parisian façade. It took every bit of his skills to bloodplay without revealing his true nature, and what pleasure he found was in his success at the game of keeping the other Chosen out of his Unbound veins.

  He glimpsed several groups of Chosen through gaps in the draperies drawn across couch-lined alcoves as he strolled through the club. But most were male with their female human toys—not the gender of Chosen with whom he cared to engage.

  “Hey, handsome! Long time no see!” Her Texas drawl a bit slurred, a buxom blonde sidled up to him with a glass of bloodwine in her hand. The potent cocktail of blood, wine, and special herbs rendered an effect on Chosen not too unlike that of alcohol on humans, and she’d obviously been drinking for a good part of the night.

  “Chelsea. Good to see you.” Colin fake-smiled as he stopped, then continued to assess the room for other options. He didn’t particularly care for Chelsea, a spoiled American trust-fund baby who’d only been in the Chosen life a few decades, and who took great delight in subjugating her human donors. He hadn’t figured out how she’d ended up as part of Gilles’ lineage, but from what he’d learned, her money was why.

  “What, don’t you want to play with me?” Chelsea dragged a nail lightly across his cheek, forcing his attention back to her.

  I don’t have time to waste on her. But . . . she does have what I’m looking for—Parisian lineage blood.

  “Sure, why not? What do you have in mind?”

  She slid her sharp-tipped fingers across his throat and down his chest to his belt, then ran her tongue across her fangs as her pupils turned red.

  “How about you and me go find some sweet young couple out for a walk in the park and show them how it’s done, Chosen style.” She tugged at his belt.

  Can’t believe I’m going to do this. But my time’s running out . . .

  Colin turned his full attention to her and allowed the crimson to stain the blue of his eyes.

  “How about I show you how it’s done Chosen style.”

  “Ooh, I’ll bite.” She laughed, spilling her drink.

  Not if I bite first.

  A grim smile plastered on his face, Colin quickly scrutinized the surrounding crowd to ensure they weren’t being observed, then held his elbow out for Chelsea to take. She giggled, drained the last of her bloodwine, and tossed the glass over her shoulder as she snuggled up against his side and tucked his arm around her waist.

  “You know, darlin’, I’ve noticed you watching me when you’ve been in here.” She looked up at him and smiled, lust shining in her big brown eyes. “I know you want me. I just thought I’d make you wait for it. Just for a little while.” She ran her fingers up the buttons of his shirt.

  Colin laughed.

  If I had any easier choice right now, I’d wait ’til hell froze over before I’d touch you.

  “Now you can find out what a real Texan tastes like. It’s much better than any of this Frenchie fare.” She squirmed against his side and moved his hand to her ass.

  Colin kept it there, kept playing his part. This wasn’t his first masquerade, nor would it be his last. His code name, The Chameleon, was well-earned.

  He guided them through the crowd, avoiding dancers and diners alike clogging the polished wood dancefloor. The lights flashed in time with the pulsing beat of electronica, its strobe-like effects adding to the macabre scene.

  They climbed the darkened stairs to the exit and emerged into the storeroom of the restaurant that served as a front for the secret club. Nodding to the Chosen bouncer doubling as kitchen staff, Colin led Chelsea to the delivery entrance. The cool Paris evening greeted them as they exited into an alley, then joined the throng of nightlife cruising past on the sidewalk.

  “Where are we goin’, darlin’?” Chelsea asked.

  “I have a little hideaway not too far from here where no one can disturb us.”

  “Ooh, sounds intriguing. Can we pick up a snack along the way?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have everything we need at the apartment.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait.” She giggled. “So, tell me, what line are you from? I’m from Claudette’s. I don’t know if it’s the bloodwine or what, but I can’t figure out your line. Your energy’s all fuzzy-wuzzy.”

  Pulling her tighter against him, Colin nuzzled her ear.

  “What line do you think I’m from,” he whispered as he clamped down on his true aura.

  She moaned, then was quiet a moment.

  “Antoine’s, I think. I mean, I’m not sure, but that’s who I’d guess.”

  Antoine was another one of Gilles’ Elders, but he’d been out of the country much of this past year.

  Which was exactly why Colin had been feeding on that line lately to maintain his cover.

  He chuckled, then breathed into her ear again.

  “You are so right. And just for that, I’m going to give you a surprise when we get to my place.”

  “It better be a big one,” she cooed.

  He laughed out loud this time.

  “Bigger than you can imagine.”

  ~ * ~

  Colin endured Chelsea’s flirting the remaining blocks and felt relieved when they finally climbed the stairwell to the apartment, one of several he maintained throughout the city as part of his cover. Its primary purpose was for meeting with his donors, and he only slept here occasionally.