Area of Influence (Immortal Ops Book 8) Page 3

  Live to fight another day.

  Pierre had missed the look of repulsion Beowulf had held that night, and Thor had filed the knowledge away, hoping to one day find an ally in the newcomer, not an enemy. Time would tell which way the coin would fall. For now, they still held a good deal of contempt for one another.

  Beowulf lowered his gaze. “I need to know how you resist the urge to feed. I need a real answer.”

  “I’m sure you have already been told as much, but I didn’t take to the dark gift as well as others,” said Thor, hoping that, by pointing out what Pierre saw as a shortcoming, he could throw Beowulf off. It was the truth, he’d never developed the dark thirst to the extent of the others, nor had he developed their drive to kill everything around them.

  Beowulf let out a long breath. “I understand.”

  There was a sadness in his voice that Thor understood all too well. It was all too easy to feel hopeless. “After I speak with the master, I can work with you in the training room, if you want.”

  “Will it help curb the hunger?” asked Beowulf, tipping his head, his fangs distending. He shook his head, his teeth returning to normal. “It eats at me from within. It’s all I think about.”

  “I know,” returned Thor, stepping closer to the man. He put a hand on Beowulf’s shoulder. “Work with me in the training room tonight. It will help. Learn to channel it into something else, be it working out, or hell, even rage. You’ve got a lot of that built up. Use it to resist the need to feed daily. I’ve seen you eating real food. That means you didn’t fully convert either. We just have to train your body to respond differently to the bloodlust.”

  Beowulf glanced away, shame evident on his face. “Pierre encourages me to feed as much as I want.”

  Thor knew that Beowulf could be playing him—gathering intel for Pierre on whether Thor was loyal—but that didn’t stop him from speaking the truth. “He encourages a lot of things that aren’t exactly on the level. I guess you have to figure out what your end goal is. Be like him, or not? I’m not a big fucking fan of being an indentured slave to the bloodlust—or to him.”

  “If he heard you say that, he’d punish you,” said Beowulf.

  Thor nodded. “Yep. Or find me amusing. Depends on the mood he’s in at the moment.”

  “True. He’s a fickle son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

  Thor didn’t respond.

  Beowulf swallowed hard. “What about resisting his blood? How is it you’ve gone so long without drinking from him?”

  “First, you need to learn to control the bloodlust. From there, you work on controlling the urge to drink from Pierre.”

  “I hunger for a taste of his blood all the fucking time,” Beowulf said, sounding disgusted. “And I don’t even like the taste of his blood. It tastes off. Like old milk or something. Why the hell do I want it so bad? Is it because he’s right? We’ll die without his blood?”

  Thor wasn’t sure how to respond because he didn’t have a good answer for the man. Hell, he’d had the same questions for as long as he could remember. Offering clarity on the subject wasn’t something he could do. “I don’t honestly know.”

  Beowulf nodded. “You’re a dick, but you’re honest. I respect that. I’ll work with you in the training room when you’re done meeting with the master.”

  Thor held his ground.

  Beowulf gave a curt nod and then pulled away quickly. He walked ahead of Thor, down the long corridor, past the other doors, each a room for another of Pierre’s pets.

  Pierre’s bedchamber was in the basement. He had a fear of light finding its way to him during the day. It didn’t seem to matter that the windows were UV protected, and some rooms had the windows bricked over.

  Pierre’s paranoia knew no bounds.

  Some of it was probably warranted. If his business associates were anything like him, they too were scheming to kill him and take what he had.

  Thor made his way downstairs to the main living level and Beowulf splintered off, heading in the direction of the kitchen. Thor had a pretty good idea of what Beowulf was going for—the bagged blood stores they kept on hand. Thor would need to dip into the reserve soon if he didn’t give in and feed. Even sucking on bagged blood made him hate the vampire side of himself.

  Still, it was better than feeding from a human.

  He really hated that.

  It went against every fiber of his being.

  The sound of music filtered through the air, and he cringed when he heard what was playing. Classical. That meant the master had not only risen for the night but was partaking in the nightly festivities. It would also mean there would be a high volume of blood and sex coming into play.

  Thor entered the oversized room that held multiple antique, ornate loveseats and fainting sofas. All were upholstered in black material. Red accents filled the room and the walls were draped in blood-red fabrics. End tables were placed next to each sofa. The tables had white candles on them, each lit, offering the only light in the giant room. The room confused one’s senses and made the occupants feel as if they’d stepped back in time, as everything in it was antique in some manner.

  “Thor, come.”

  Thor tensed as the sound of his master’s voice filtered over the large room to him. The Louisiana mansion wasn’t one they normally spent a large amount of time in, despite its stunning spaciousness. The master had decided he wanted to spend a couple of months there so he’d issued the orders to make it so. Thor had grown used to the whims of his master. Used to the man acting like a spoiled child more often than not.

  Unsure how old, exactly, the master was, Thor simply observed in silence. Already he was too far up in the ranks of the servants, and he’d achieved it in a short period of time. It was best to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself, so he went along with whatever flights of fancy Pierre had.

  “Thor,” the master repeated, his tone held a warning—disobey again and there will be consequences.

  Quickly, Thor tried to mask the disgust he felt at the very sound of the man’s voice. If Pierre knew the truth, the best Thor could hope for was death. Pierre was criminally insane. He derived great pleasure out of others’ torment and misery. And he had a stupid love of naming all his pets something from mythology. The very sight of the man caused Thor’s fingers to curl as he pictured himself wrapping his hand around the vampire’s throat and squeezing the life from him.

  Stop, he thought, knowing Pierre would figure out Thor was no longer under his thrall.

  Pierre sat in the center of the enormous room, on an oversized chair draped in red clothes. The chair was made to look like a throne, playing into the master’s power complex. The man wanted everyone to obey him, and he wanted to rule the world. Already he was scheming to betray the criminals he’d aligned himself with.

  They were in Louisiana because a longtime business associate of Pierre’s was based out of the area, and the master had decided it was time to make a play for the man’s territory.

  On each side of the master vampire was a manservant, dressed in black leather pants and dog collars. Nothing more. Their chests had been well oiled, to make them shine and draw attention to them. The sight did nothing for Thor.

  Another manservant knelt before the vampire, stroking the man’s leather-covered leg. Pierre wore a puffy white pirate shirt and a pair of knee-high, lace-up leather boots. Thor had to bite back a laugh. The man looked ridiculous.

  He lifted an imperious brow, his gaze raking over Thor’s attire. His lip curled. “Why do you insist on dressing like you’re about to dispense petrol at a service station?”

  Glancing down at himself, Thor shrugged. His clothing choice felt right. He had his hair pulled haphazardly in a messy bun, acutely aware of how much Pierre disliked the look.

  It made Thor want to wear his hair like that all the time.

  “Where are the leather pants I had sent to your room?” demanded Pierre, reaching out and petting one of his manservants.

  Thor cri
nged for the man. The manservant’s mind was no longer his own. From the moment Pierre had put the human under his thrall, he’d been nothing more than a puppet. A walking blood bank and sex toy.

  Thor’s fingers clenched into a fist, and the overwhelming urge to charge the vampire and rip his throat out struck him hard. He wanted to let his mouth shift shape into animal form before sinking his teeth deep into the man’s pale throat. He wanted to be brutal and feral. He wanted to be sure the man could not heal the damage.

  As suddenly as the thoughts came over him, they were gone.

  The near outburst was happening more and more as of late. The first time Thor had fought the urge to try to kill Pierre, it had scared him. Now he was used to it. Used to his hate and loathing of the master.

  Everyone else he surrounded himself with seemed to adore him. They remained swept up and enraptured by him and his power. They saw him as a thing of beauty, power, and authority. Thor saw him as a puppet master. A monster. One he wanted to rid the world of.

  But why?

  Pierre had saved him.

  At least that was what Thor had been led to believe. He’d been told by the master himself that the government had betrayed him and left him for dead. That Pierre’s bite and his blood had breathed life back into Thor’s broken body. Now he wasn’t sure what he believed. The vampire was a master of lies and deception. And Pierre took great joy in manipulating circumstances to suit his twisted desires.

  “Thor, you try my patience,” drawled Pierre slowly, still petting one of his manservants. “Have you fed tonight?”

  “No, Master,” said Thor, careful to avoid glaring at the man. Feeding held little appeal to him. He didn’t want Pierre to know that food seemed to sustain him far better than blood. With that said, Thor did notice his strength starting to wane when he went too long between feedings. He didn’t like biting anyone and drinking from them. He preferred to drink from a mug or direct from the bag whenever he could find an untainted one, which also seemed to drive Pierre mad. “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Pet, we have been over this topic before. It bores me. If you continue to push back, I will force your hand in the matter,” warned Pierre. “You are the only one of my pets who does not jump at the chance to feed. Some I’ve had to put down from drinking far too much, but not you. Why is that?”

  Thor winced, thinking about the number of his brothers and sisters, those who had also been sired by Pierre, he’d been forced to hunt and destroy. They’d all gone mad with bloodlust, killing humans at an alarming rate. Some were savages when they killed, others killed cleanly, but far too often for Pierre’s liking. For as insane as the man was, he knew they had to keep a low profile from humans or risk being hunted to extinction.

  Pierre told stories of times long ago when some vampires weren’t as careful to hide themselves among the living. They ate freely and did as they wished openly. Humans had risen up against them, as had the supernatural community. While vague on the details, Pierre’s message was clear. Be as ruthless as you wish, but do not leave any evidence for humans to discover.

  “Thor, your expertise and skill set are required in New Orleans. I’ve made arrangements for you. You’ll be heading out within the hour.”

  “What is it you need me to do there?” asked Thor.

  With the flick of his wrist, Pierre dismissed the manservants near him and sat up in the large chair. “Gérard has sat on his ass too long, collecting the spoils of the territory. He lacks the drive he once had and is no longer fit to be a master with his own den. From what my spies tell me, Gérard’s favorite pet is currently calling New Orleans home. Seek out Chilton. Discover why Gérard has him stationed there when he normally never leaves Gérard’s side. Once you have that information, destroy him.” Pierre glanced away and looked far off in thought before focusing on Thor, his gaze narrowing. “Make it messy. I want Gérard to get the message loud and clear. I am the new master here.”

  “Yes, sire,” he said before turning to seek out Beowulf to inform him their training session would have to wait.

  As suspected, Thor found Beowulf in the kitchen, sitting at the table, drinking from a bag of blood. He glanced up at Thor and pulled the bag from his mouth, his teeth coated in red. “Is he sending you to New Orleans?”

  “You overheard?” That was impressive. Most newly sired hybrids didn’t have that much control over their senses at first. That came with time and practice.

  Nodding, Beowulf took another sip from the bag of blood. “Guess our training will have to wait.”

  Thor took pity on the man and grabbed a bag of blood for himself. He bit the top open and took a drink. While the liquid tasted great to him, the very idea of what he was doing sickened him. But he didn’t have a choice. He’d gone too long without it and needed to build his strength, especially if he was about to go hunting.

  Beowulf snorted. “My wolf isn’t repulsed by blood either. It wants to hunt and kill prey though. It doesn’t like the bagged shit.”

  Thor chuckled. “I get it. My panther isn’t a big fan of it either. It likes the idea of killing for blood too, but I think it hates sharing me with the vampire side, so it behaves.”

  “Ditto,” said Beowulf. He leaned back in the wooden chair. “I heard Pierre talking on the phone with someone before he sent me to retrieve you. Whatever’s in New Orleans is pretty badass. Sounds like it has taken out more than one person sent to handle it. And I think we both know that while Chilton is a force to be reckoned with, he’s not the ultimate evil that I’m hearing whispers of.”

  Thor remained in place, the bag of blood in his hand. “So, I’m being sent on a suicide mission?”

  “Try not to be another notch in its bedpost. I like you more than most of these insufferable shitheads,” said Beowulf.

  Thor’s brows met. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “We’re not gonna kiss or anything, so stop looking at me all doe-eyed,” Beowulf grunted. “You’re not my type. I’m not a fan of blonds.”

  Laughing, Thor headed out of the kitchen with his blood. “Asshole.”

  “Dick!” shouted Beowulf, only serving to make Thor laugh harder.

  “There you go again, focusing on my dick!”

  Chapter Three

  Emanaia (Emi) Zaharie looked at the couple near her and felt bad for the horrors they’d gone through. Their place was haunted by a malevolent spirit that had tried its best to not only run them off but ruin their relationship as well. They’d been terrorized in their safe haven, their home. Most would have already cut their losses and left, but the couple was stronger than that.

  She admired that about them. Their strength had gotten them this far, and they were still standing. Not many would be after the ordeal they’d suffered. When most humans, with no past experience with the supernatural, came face to face with evil, they screamed and ran until they couldn’t run anymore. Some even crawled under their covers, hoping that would keep the big bad monster from getting them. Spoiler alert. It never worked.

  The couple before her had more gumption. More strength than most. When the horrors they’d been enduring escalated to physical violence, they went to a friend who, in turn, put them in contact with a local Catholic priest.

  That was how Emi had come into the picture. Father Angelo was a friend of hers. When he’d done all he could, he’d sought her assistance.

  Never having set out to be something of a ghostbuster, Emi had been reluctant to get involved, but when she’d heard what the couple had lived through, and then met them in person, she’d found it hard to say no. The desperation on their faces had moved her.

  She knew what living in fear was like and wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy. It was why she’d agreed to come and do a house cleansing for them. She’d had no idea just how powerful the thing inhabiting their home would be. It had almost been too much for her, which was saying something, as she wasn’t exactly a lightweight when it came to dealing with the dead or demoni
c. Yet this one had packed a lot of supernatural punch. Either her gifts were slipping, or she’d managed to uncover the one rock with a super spirit hiding under it.

  “Is it over?” asked Helen Joy as she clung to her boyfriend. At twenty-five, they were both just starting their lives. They’d moved to New Orleans because they’d gotten jobs in the area and had romantic notions of what living in the city would be like.

  They’d gotten far more than they’d bargained for.

  Sam, the boyfriend, kept his arms around Helen Joy in a protective manner, his gaze darting around the small place. Everything was in complete disarray. The spirit had decided to flex its muscles and throw things about, causing Helen Joy and Sam to scream and shake in fear. Unimpressed with the theatrics, Emi had continued with her cleansing, ignoring items floating about and ducking when called for. That had only served to infuriate the spirit more. It had shouted threats and even appeared before Emi, though she’d been the only one able to see it.

  The thing was ass-ugly. There was simply no other way to describe it. The spirit had drawn the short straw when it came to afterlife looks. It was locked in a state of rot mixed with the start of turning more monster-like than not. She’d seen that happen with bitter spirits. They stopped looking like the humans they’d once been and started looking like the stuff people told ghost stories about. It was as if their attitude became the defining factor for what they morphed into.

  And the spirit in the house had a really bad attitude.

  Surprisingly, she’d actually seen uglier ones. Some were so hideous they had lost any and all resemblance to a human. Then there were the ones that had never been human. Who had never had a soul. They were the inhuman, or as most people called them, demons.

  Demons pretty much sucked the big one. They were not only horrifying to look at, but they took malicious to the extreme. It was sport for them to ruin lives. Which was why she really friggin’ hated demons.