A Kiss of Blood (Vamp City #2)(46)

“So now the Traders won’t come near you.”

“No.”

“And you’re trapped in Vamp City, too?”

“We have been trapped since Vamp City’s earliest years. Like the human Slavas, the weres here turned immortal and now can never leave.”

This place just got more and more complicated.

“What if I could get you a shipment?” To free Arturo, she was certain that Micah would find a way to smuggle the contents of a butcher store into Vamp City.

For the first time, the werewolf looked at her with something approaching interest. “I have forty wolves, sorceress. That is a lot of mouths to feed. How would you procure such a feast?”

“I actually have better connections than you might think.” It was odd to realize that was true.

“But that would mean releasing you. And trusting you. And that would be foolish.”

“You have a reason for me to return.”

The werewolf scoffed. “He is a vampire. Not reason enough.” His hand sliced the air. “No more. I am through discussing this.”

She wasn’t through, not by a long shot. But she’d bide her time. And hope the vampire still had time.

As hungry eyes bored into her back, the alpha led her into a room, a study that looked like it belonged in a different house. A large desk dominated the room, and bookshelves lined the walls. A woman sat on one of the chairs, wearing what appeared to be a sleek green satin nightgown, but at least she had something on, unlike the two muscular, naked males standing on either side of the hearth, each with a glass of amber liquid in his hands.

The tableau had a genteel quality about it. Or it might have had if not for the dangling penises.

The three looked at her with interest and the same hunger she’d seen in the other wolves’ eyes. She remembered too well how Gunroth had leaped at her as he’d sought to eat her.

Her jaw turned rigid, sweat gathering at the back of her neck as the suspicion that she’d been led to a private slaughter raised its ugly head. Once more, sparks began to dance and burn beneath her skin.

“The sorceress?” the woman asked.

“Yes.” The alpha began searching through the books on his shelves. “The rumor that sorcerer flesh empowers the eater refuses to die.”

One of the males scoffed and took a sip of the liquid. Probably whiskey. “It’s a stupid myth. There’s not an ounce of logic to it.”

“And yet the pack continues to believe it,” the woman murmured.

“We need her alive,” the alpha said. “The magic of Vamp City must be renewed.”

“We could feed them her legs,” the second gentleman drawled. “She’d survive that. At least long enough to renew the magic.”

“You take my legs, and I won’t be renewing any magic.” But the thought of it sent chills along her spine just as Cristoff’s threat to cut off her feet had. “Nor will I procure that shipment of meat for you that I offered your alpha.”

She’d expected . . . hoped . . . to see some spark of interest in their expressions. Instead, they just eyed her with amusement.

“Why did you let her out?” the woman asked, her tone deferential but curious. Straight, shoulder-length hair framed an attractive, middle-aged face.

“Gunroth picked the lock on her cage. I’m not going to be able to let her out of my sight.” The alpha made a sound of satisfaction and pulled down one of the books. “Here we go. I’ve done a lot of research on the old ways, recently, seeking a strategy for surviving the magic’s failing. Long ago, when the world was full of sorcerers, the wolves often aligned themselves with a magic wielder for protection.” He glanced at Quinn. “And power.”

“The sorcerers shared their power willingly?” one of the men asked.

“At times,” the alpha said cryptically. “The protection went both ways.”

“How?” the woman asked.

“The moon ritual.” The alpha flipped through the book. “Ah, this is it. Waiting until a full moon would be best, but it’s not necessary.”

“What exactly is the moon ritual?” Quinn asked. Inside, she was terrified—that Arturo was going to die before she could get him out of that trough, that the wolves were going to kill her before she could renew the magic and save Zack. But if werewolves were anything like real wolves, the last thing she could afford to do was show that, or any, weakness.

“It speaks again,” one of the males drawled.

Quinn glared at him. “It thinks you might look better as a toad.”

The male stared at her, his eyes widening a fraction. “You wouldn’t.”

If only she could. She snorted. “Try me.”

“Enough,” the alpha said without heat. “You’ll survive the ritual, sorceress, but the moment the ritual is over, word will be sent to Cristoff that we have you.”

“What? Do you really think he’ll bring you meat? He’ll kill you, werewolf. He’ll slaughter your pack or capture them for torture. He’s the last person you want to call.”

The alpha glanced up at her as if she were a difficult student interrupting his class. “Cristoff will pay handsomely to get you back.”

She wanted to scream her frustration. What could she possibly say, or do, that would make a difference to them?