Chapter 8
Iswipe a hand lazily over my face as I’m rousted awake, smoothing down the scruff of my beard.
The sound of soft, breathy noises registers in the fuzziness of my mind as I peek out through heavy eyelids.
The supple curve of the female to my right is curled against me and I peel my body away, only to find another female on my other side.
Slowly, the memories of our night together snake their way through my subconscious and I smile to myself at a night well spent.
I slip out from beneath them, pulling on a pair of worn blue jeans before I head towards the kitchen.
The hallways of our little clubhouse are quiet today.
And I hope I can use the kitchen uninterrupted to bring back a round of coffee for all parties involved in last night’s festivities before running into any other members of the Blood Order.
I run my hands through my hair, slicking back the stray blonde strands. I have to concentrate to make my feet move in a straight line—to no avail. When I haphazardly round the corner and look up, I’m surprised to find Aamon leaning against the kitchen island.
“Morning,” I say in a rough but satiated voice as I saunter past him, making sure he gets a full snapshot of the fun he missed out on last night.
I’m not going to stop him from punishing himself after a grim night in the ring, but I’m sure as hell going to rub his nose in it a bit.
He grumbles under his breath, not meeting my gaze as I grab the coffee pot and fill it with water from the tap.
“You could at least shower before you venture from your room, Quinn. You smell like a fucking brothel.”
I smirk, snapping the lid on the coffee maker shut and flipping the machine on. “Spoken as someone who’s resenting their decision to throw a pity party rather than join in the fun.” I lean back against the countertop as the coffee machine gurgles to life behind me.
Aamon’s eyes finally meet me, the open exhaustion in them accentuated by dark bags. The faintest hint of a bruise still lingers on his right eye, too.
Vampires don’t get tired, not in that sense.
And they sure as fuck don’t take days to recover from simple bruising.
My smugness falters for a moment, my concern for his well-being fighting to take priority.
But I know Aamon, and my pushing him to take care of himself for once will only work against my wishes.
The bastard has a rebellious streak as deep as the seven hells. Always has.
Instead, I plaster an insincere smile across my face and pour four cups of fresh, steaming coffee.
I set three on a tray and slide the fourth in front of Aamon.
“Drink,” I urge quietly. It’s the most I can get away with at the moment.
I let loose a breath when he begrudgingly lifts the mug to his lips.
“You know,” I hum, plucking my own mug off the tray and taking a long sip, “those sirens are still in my room.” I nod my head down the hallway, turning and nudging Aamon with my shoulder.
“They saw you at the fight . . . were more than interested in you. Actually”—I laugh, the sound dry and scratchy in my throat—“they wouldn’t fucking stop asking about you last night.
Thought I was going to have to drag you by the beltloops to my room just to satisfy them. ”
He doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead and continues sipping his coffee. I clear my throat, following his gaze to the spot on the floor he can’t seem to take his eyes off of.
“I’m sure," I try, keeping my tone casual, "they wouldn’t turn down a little morning merriment.”
Aamon huffs, shaking his head. “It’s evening, Quinn.”
I shrug, taking another sip of my coffee. “Okay, so an evening excursion, then.”
“I can’t. Not now,” is all he offers. I sigh, but I’m not surprised.
It’s felt like an eternity since Aamon and I have shared.
I miss it more than I care to admit, but I know Aamon's been working through some shit lately and I don’t want to demand or pressure him into anything he isn’t comfortable offering at the moment.
If there’s one thing I know about Aamon, it’s that he's delicate as fuck. He may put up an intimidating front, may handle more shit than the rest of us, especially from Andras. But I know this life affects him differently than it does me. But this is a long dry spell, even for him. If this mood doesn’t clear up soon, I might have to seriously consider more invasive measures.
“Come on, Aamon. It wouldn’t hurt to—”
“You can’t either.” Aamon cuts me off, draining the rest of his coffee and discarding the mug on the island. “Andras has another job for us today.”
I sigh, not feeling entirely inclined to obey Andras’ orders. Especially when I have two half-naked and exceptionally kinky sirens in my bed. “What is it?” I ask, not even remotely wanting the answer.
“An increase of ghoul activity on the outskirts of the ungoverned district. Just at the border of the WildLands.” Aamon strides through the kitchen, towards the adjoining garage. “Nothing huge—it'll probably be a waste of time. But Andras wants us to check it out, so we go.”
I let out an overexaggerated groan, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“I fucking hate ghouls.” I’m a good outlaw; I believe in equality for all touched by the Arcane and exiled from society.
But ghouls are filthy nuisances, little more than vermin in our streets.
It’s a fucking awful fate, to have the Arcane manifest in such a way.
It claims them hard and fast, driving them towards death and abandoning them in the space between worlds.
Forcing them to exist as something not in life but not quite death, pushing them to turn towards cannibalism as a way to cope with the endless hunger and resentment left inside them.
There’s seven factions, seven ways the Arcane can manifest in someone.
One for each circle of hell the Arcane magic slithered into our world from.
There’s Blood—that's us. Then Bone, Death, Wrath, Spirit, Lust. And lastly, Decay. The Watchers would have us believe the ghouls are nothing more than an example of the vile essence of the Arcane, a real world manifestation of Decay. We have our theories, though—that ghouls aren’t necessarily a faction of the Arcane, but rather what can happen to an individual who refuses to accept its touch.
Denying the Arcane’s power fights against nature itself and clings to what the Watchers would have us believe is right and pure and clean.
But if one were to accept that truth, then one would have to admit that the whole seven circles of hell bullshit is just that: bullshit.
Because without seven factions of the Arcane, there couldn’t be a true seven circles.
And there’s not many inside the city center who are willing to go that far, to be that blasphemous.
But we in the ungoverned district know better. Or at least, we like to act like we do.
I grab a bag of blood from the fridge tucked into the corner of the kitchen and run to catch up with Aamon.
The irony is not lost on me, how calling the ghouls cannibals can seem rather hypocritical when we need blood to survive.
But the vampire race has evolved, developed humane methods for keeping our kind not only fed but sated.
Sustainably. Our primal sides are still a necessary tool, our own bloodlust weaponized as a means to maintain order—but only when needed.
“Here.” I toss the bag at him without waiting for him to turn it down. He catches it, though I see the irritation in his black eyes.
“I know how to take care of myself, Quinn.”
“Obviously.” I roll my eyes. “That’s why that bruise is still lingering from the other night? If you want me to go with you today, to obey our orders from Andras, then you’re going to feed before we leave. Or I’ll march my ass all the way into Andras’ office and tell him I refuse to abide.”
Aamon narrows his eyes at me. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
I nod, grinning ear to ear. “And that’s why you love me.” I turn back to the kitchen and grab the tray of coffee, strutting down the hallway to my room.
“And what about you?” he calls out, lifting the blood bag in the air and waving it around for a moment.
My lips tip into a devious grin. “I’ve got two willing participants in my bed right now, Aamon. Don’t you worry about me.”
“Be ready in five,” Aamon counters, frustration in his tone. I lean against my door, pushing it open with my ass as I meet his gaze.
“Make it fifteen,” I say, and throw him a wink.