Bloode—magic and blood that makes a vampire a vampire; vampires are known as those “Of the Bloode”
Blood—the substance within humans and magir on which a vampire feeds

1

Outskirts of Crimson Claw territory
Noblewood, WA   February

It didn’t take a genius to realize she was being followed.

Riley twitched her ears and lifted her muzzle but didn’t detect anything more than snow and pine.

Despite not scenting, hearing, or seeing anything in the thick forest, she felt, deep in her bones, that a predator lurked nearby. Riley hadn’t lived through nearly a century of infighting and the constant need to prove herself only to fall prey to whoever, or whatever, thought it could take her on and emerge unscathed.

The notion she might have been followed by one of those creatures from that strange house on Mercer Island lingered at the back of her mind. Just the thought caused a shiver, then she snarled at herself for that shadow of fear that remained.

But no. It had been over two weeks since she’d rescued her cousin, and she’d had no inkling of pursuit since returning home with him.

Besides, had any of those creatures found her, she’d be dead already. Drained of every drop of her blood after being tormented and brutalized. Though the local upir clan in Seattle tended to keep to themselves, every now and then vampires ventured out into the wild to screw with the packs. With no love lost between blood-drinkers and lycans, the two species typically kept to themselves.

But not always.

The new clan of vampires in Seattle bothered the hell out of her. Dangerous, evil, and up to no good, they should have been exterminated on sight. Instead, the pack leaders didn’t seem to mind that a new faction of fangers had moved into the city. The upir clan was bad enough. The new Night Bloode clan had kidnapped her cousin and no one seemed to care.

She wanted to rip throats out. But her uncle would make no move until he’d resolved their issues with the Wildridge pack making threats and eyeing the proverbial throne.

Her alpha had his priorities seriously out of order. She’d once seen a vampire tear the arms off a witch, just because he could. It had taken all the pack’s enforcers—including her now deceased parents—to destroy the mad monster while the pack leaders had bargained with mages to hide the deed. A debt the pack was still paying off, as evidenced by their unfortunate association with the Rainier mage council.

Vampires never minded warring with each other, but they turned on any non-vampire with prejudice. Kill one and expect death to be waiting on your doorstep before you could blink.

The crackle of a branch pierced the eerie stillness of night, and she froze, her legs and tail stiff, her ears erect, her hackles up. She did her best to capture the scent of whatever pursued her. But no. Nothing but pine, snow, and…blood? No, not blood, exactly. Something tantalizing though. Sandalwood and copper, and a hint of spice she wanted more of.

Interesting.

She sniffed, looking all around.

The smell faded as if it had never been, and though she tried, she couldn’t recapture that sultry tang in the air.

The moonlight made the snow glisten, too bright to ignore while pale shadows caressed the undersides of the pines providing cover for whatever might have trailed her.

She snarled low and turned all around. Impatient to tear into an enemy, she wanted nothing more than to sink her teeth into battle and rid herself of her building frustration.

After the past week spent dealing with raving direwolves out west, she’d had enough lycan drama to last through her next century. And now this ghost of a stalker?

She barked a warning, waited, and saw nothing but a clump of snow fall off a tree limb and sink into a foot-deep mound. The wind whispered, and the moonlight promised life and strength.

Nothing else moved.

Annoyed with herself and with no help for it, Riley turned and continued toward home, wondering if she’d been imagining things. But as she neared the outskirts of Noblewood, deep in the heart of Crimson Claw territory, the scent of blood grew stronger.

She increased her pace, wondering at the unnatural silence.

A thickness in the air warned her to be ready for the subtle pop of sound and color. Between one breath and the next, all hell broke loose as she crossed the boundary of the spell shielding the mess before her.

Gone was the empty, peaceful forest, replaced by an open field covered in half-naked lycans in human and direwolf form along with a bunch of robed mages, everyone fighting over muddied and bloodied snow. Spells of fire and water flew in the air. A host of dires snapped and snarled; others laughed their human asses off while toasting each other with full tankards of beer. The noise grew into a cacophony of curses, growls, and threats from both canine and human voices.

What the hell?

About to jump in and help her aunt, who fell under the meaty fists of a lycan from the Nightguard pack, she paused when her cousin—who should still have been in his sickbed—leaped into the fray, taking a few lycans down with him.

“Get’ em, Max,” his mother ordered while punching a blond in the face. Several times.  

“Take that, you cheating scum. The rights to the hoard belong to the Crimson Claw!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not that stupid game again.

Howling and barking joined the chorus, a familiar refrain from the battle song the pack had recently adopted, straight from the video game they embraced as their new field of play—Arrow Sins & Siege.

Idiots.

Seeing her, Max grinned and waved before his younger brother knocked him over and claimed victory in the name of the barbarian savages of Winterwind—more silly game references.

“Stay down, Max.” Flint nodded to her. “Hey, Riley. You’re late.” Before he could say anything more, a blast of water hit him in the face and knocked him flat. He tried to rise, only to be tackled by two rowdy dires and the water mage, all of them laughing as they held him down. Then Max whaled on him. Typical brothers.

She growled under her breath, ignored the morons playing at war, and trotted past them toward her cabin. Max better not have screwed with anything in my personal quarters.

Shifting on the move back into her clothed, human form, she entered the back of her comfy one-bedroom cabin and glanced around, pleased to find it undisturbed.

Located between Packwood and Ashford in Northern Washington, Noblewood (population 542) boasted the largest lycan town in the Pacific Northwest and sat at the nexus of three packs.

Noblewood existed mostly off the grid. They did get the occasional lost tourist making a wrong turn off a hiking trail in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, but only those with some affinity for magic ever made it through the many spells and totems protecting the town.

Known for their arts and crafts, her pack dealt with the city dires, liaising from Seattle, to sell their goods and used those funds to keep the town alive. Since lycans tended toward creative endeavors and lived for hundreds of years, Noblewood had been thriving under the current pack’s leadership. Forty years of peace and prosperity had filled Noblewood’s coffers, minds, and hearts.

Life had been just about perfect until they’d uncovered that blasted artifact. Now the Wildridge pack kept hinting at a civil war while the Raven’s Eye dires nipped at her alpha’s heels, warning of unrest.

So when Max, the alpha’s heir and her favorite cousin, had gone missing a few weeks ago, she’d been sent to bring him back. Berserker for the Crimson Claw pack, Riley was used to cleaning up messes. But her efforts usually resulted in the offender permanently disappearing, which hadn’t been an option when dealing with blasted vampires.

But hey, Max was back, fighting with his family and clearly on the mend, so she needed to do her best to stop thinking about how to avenge her cousin on beings even the gods avoided.

Freaking bloodsuckers. Her curses echoed in the empty cabin, and she grabbed a rag to wipe away the gathering dust and cobwebs that seemed to appear overnight. Well, technically, it had been a good two months since she’d last cleaned the place. Constantly on the go with all the dysfunction lately, she hadn’t had much time to herself at all. And cleaning was at the very bottom of her list of things to do.

Riley hated cleaning as much as she hated the drama always building around her pack. As the head of the lycans in the Northwest, the Crimson Claw had a duty to protect. And as one of the few berserkers, not only in the pack, but in existence, she had a duty to serve her kind as well, those at home and in the city.

She’d do it, but she wouldn’t like it.

Riley much preferred the dark forests and quiet mountains to the bright lights and crowded streets of Seattle. She winced when the howling started and mentally added, and I really dislike the loud theatrics of drunk dires and mages too.

She sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have hurried home after scouting that mess in Olympia after all.  

*

Kraft of the Night Bloode studied the tableau of violence, never so happy as he was when in the middle of a battle. Or in his case, high above the field in an evergreen, spying on the combatants twenty feet below.

Fur flew. Growls and roars filled the air. Sweet blood dotted the once-pristine white snow gathered on the ground, with more falling from storm clouds that continued to gather overhead, obscuring all but a few beams of moonlight.

The winter blossomed like a fragrant flower, lush and icy cold in its beauty. He watched water droplets of breath linger in the air over the fighting lycans and warring mages.

Though he didn’t need to breathe, Kraft exhaled and watched proof of his existence crystalize in the air before him. A sure sign of life from what many considered the undead.

He snorted. As if he was anywhere close to being a zombie.

Clearly, the lycans fighting in their brutish, overly large direwolf forms were doing more damage to each other than their pack members in human skin, but those in human shape weren’t doing too badly themselves. He liked that they kept it fresh, not going for the straightforward kill with easily ripped human flesh and frail bones.

Then he frowned. They weren’t going for the kill at all. Merely… playing?

One of them said something about a hoard and the Crimson Claw—a name he recognized as the lead lycan pack in the Pacific Northwest. And the lycan doing all that yapping?

Just the prey he’d been sent to find.

But not the one he really wanted.

He glanced around, having lost track of her when she’d cut through the chaos of lycans and mages. Damn. He didn’t see her.

He narrowed his eyes. A lesser being, the female should have been his prey weeks ago. Yet she continued to evade him after stealing his quarry. Disappointed, he had to content himself with the fact that he’d at least tracked down the headquarters of the Crimson Claw pack. They knew about the artifact. He had orders to bring it back to the goddess he “served.”

Kraft winced. Serving any kind of deity went against a vampire’s very nature. They didn’t worship anyone but themselves. Not gods, demons, magir, or humans—all of whom vampires considered lesser beings. Kraft in particular, from the toughest of all the vampire tribes, bowed to no one. He respected his patriarch, of course. And he appeased the goddess currently bossing him around due to a bloode-debt incurred by his old clan.

But no way in hell he’d worship her. Secretly, though, he liked what she and her servant had done by binding him and his new kin together. The Night Bloode—a new clan of vampires filled with six warriors from different tribes.

He smiled, so pleased that his good friend, a vrykolakas vampire from the Greek island of Santorini, had finally returned.

His smile soured. Unfortunately, the vryko had returned with a mate.

Kraft scowled as he watched the fight below break up. Of the six original members of his clan, not counting the non-vampire additions, three now had mates. Mates that lived with the group and would likely remain well after they gave birth. So unlike the way normal vampires existed.

Kraft himself had never known his mother. His bonds with his sire had been nothing but biological, having been raised by his clan as a whole. The nachzehrer tribe were known to be fierce, savage killers with a strength beyond compare. Probably why Kraft liked the vryko so much, because Orion could give Kraft the kind of battles he used to get at home.

His old home, back in Germany.

But he was Night Bloode now. A member of an elite group of vampires who controlled the city of Seattle, no matter what the local upir clan might think.

He paused in thought as the lycans below stopped and stared up at the tree from which Kraft watched, which in turn caused the mages to focus on him as well.

“We’re not alone,” his prey muttered and with a snarl at those near him, pointed up. “Bring it down.”

“Alive?” one of them asked.

“Or dead. Trespassers aren’t allowed,” an older lycan said. This one likely an alpha, power radiating from him like the light of the moon, strong and thick. “Come down, son, or die like the dog you are.”

“Well, with that invitation, how can I resist?” Enthused over the fight he could sense coming, Kraft jumped down and landed light on his feet. The grin on his face widened when his prey recognized him.

The lycan—Max, Kraft thought he’d been called—paled and said, “Oh, shit.”

“Ja. My little friend. I’ve missed you.” Before they could blink, Kraft had the male in a headlock. One wrong breath and he’d break the lycan’s neck. “Your move.”

2

Riley had just grabbed a load of clothes for the washer when her door banged open and a panting soldier with panicked eyes rasped, “Vampire.”

“Great. I’m home for five minutes and we have even more drama than that stupid free-for-all.” She followed him out the door. Secretly freaking out, because she now had a feeling she knew exactly who had been following her, she pushed past the soldier, raced to the field, and found Max in a large vampire’s arms.

Unlike others of his kind, this fanger had massive height and brawn in addition to shaggy dark hair, burning black eyes, and a grin. She hated when they grinned. Especially because the fangs on this guy put most lycans to shame.

“Let him go,” Uncle Jack ordered, every inch the alpha despite the faint trace of trepidation she could scent thanks to her berserker sharp sense of smell. Not that she blamed him one bit.

Everyone feared vampires. They were incredibly hard to kill, fast, lethal with sharp claws and fangs, and determined. Plus, they viewed death and dismemberment as a game, enjoying wounding others and lavishing the ending of lives.

“Come now, where is the fun in letting this little fish go?” the vampire asked in a light German accent. He also felt…wolfish…to her.

Though most of the vampires in this region of the States tended to be upir, she’d seen other tribes from afar. The revenants and strigoi tended to be tall yet lean, and both tribes possessed the ability to seduce prey. But this guy felt like something else. From what Max had told her of his imprisonment, his captors had seemed very different from one another, as if from different tribes, which should have been impossible.

Vampires could only gather in small groups, instinctively hating others not in their family collectives to the point they would fight until the death.

Max had sensed something wolf-like about one of them, which made Riley think the vamp might be nachzehrer, especially with that faint German accent and all that brawn. Geesh. He stood as tall as Max, and Max was one of the biggest lycans in the pack in human form.

But the Crimson Claw didn’t falter. To her relief, she felt the presence of many direwolves gathering. Though one vampire could take on a good dozen enemy, he couldn’t take on two dozen, the alpha, and a berserker without feeling some pain.

She repeated her uncle’s order. “Let him go.”

The vampire looked her way and blinked. “Ah, the berserker.” He grinned wider, his fangs growing, his gaze intent. “There you are.”

She didn’t feel like waiting for him to obey her alpha. Meeting the vampire’s gaze, Riley shifted into her direwolf form as she rushed him.

He shoved Max aside and went down under her aggressive lunge. She managed to gouge flesh and blood with her claws and teeth before he suddenly shoved her off.

“Not bad.” He licked his arm, and she watched as he healed almost immediately.

Damn it.

“Is that all, kleines Mädchen?”

“Little girl,” Flint translated in a low voice, watching with the others.

Fucker. Riley snarled and barked, warning him back. Vampire or not, he would not cow her. Especially because in her shifted form, her rage enhanced her strength. Heck, her head came up to his neck, no mere shifted lycan, but the fiercest of her kind—a direwolf hybrid capable of killing even a vampire.

She snapped at him, nearly biting the clawed hand that neared her.

He laughed. “You’re good. I like you. Such spirit.”

When she would have launched herself at his neck, her cousin yanked her back by the tail, and she turned to show him her teeth.

“Easy, Riley.” He’s playing with you, he sent telepathically, as only an alpha or alpha-in-waiting could. Be smart.

Smart, my ass. She glared at him.

“Stop talking about me behind my back. Well, in front of my back. You know what I mean.” The nachzehrer shrugged. “It’s rude.”

“Rude?” Max glared at the vampire. “Rude is kidnapping and torturing me.”

“Torturing you?” The vampire laughed. “That was a bit of sport. Nothing more. You haven’t really lived until you’ve been scalped or had your innards consumed while you watch. Trust me. It’s not as fun as it sounds.”

Around them, lycans continued to congregate in shifted form, the low growl of pack and protection welcome.

The vampire glanced around and sobered, finally starting to take them seriously.

“You’re not welcome here,” Uncle Jack said. “Leave now.”

“Or?” The vampire looked at her while asking the question.

She answered by moving closer, the fur on her back rising in challenge.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m here to talk.”

“You were told to leave,” Max growled, his voice that of man and lycan.

She nearly caught the vampire’s shin between her teeth, but he darted back before she could snap through the bone.

“Fast.” He nodded at her. Then he moved and had her in a bear grip, lifting her around her torso, so that her back rested against his chest, her rear paws dragging on the ground. He remained on his feet, his strength insanely powerful.

The entire field waited and watched. Until she asked for help, they knew better than to get between her and an enemy. Being on display while she tried unsuccessfully to wrestle out of his hold bothered her. No matter how hard she shook or how many times she managed to claw into him, he refused to surrender.

Kill him, she told her cousin. Now, while we have the upper hand. With everyone so close.

He’ll kill you first, Max shot back.

I don’t care. Take him down.

“Stop or I’ll snap her neck. And that would be a great pity,” the vampire said, his voice deep, his accent oddly charming despite her loathing of his kind. He had the nerve to pet her side, his fingers soft on her dense fur. She tried to rip herself away, only to feel his steel-hard claws at her throat.

But Riley had never been one to play it safe, and she struggled in his hold, ignoring the sting of pain at her neck.

“Cease, female,” the vampire snapped. “I’m talking to your leader.”

Is he talking about you as our leader? she said to Max, who flushed and frowned at her, answering, You’re such an ass.

“Why are you here?” Uncle Jack asked. “We’ve done nothing to your clan, yet you imprisoned Max and now you do harm to my niece. You seek war.”

“I seek an artifact.”

Her uncle exchanged a look with his wife. “An artifact?”

“A small statue that belongs to my patron.” When Riley squirmed again, the vampire squeezed her breathless and whispered close to her ear, “Easy, lycan. I mean you no harm.”

An odd thing to say with his claws out and his fangs so close to her neck, but since he seemed to be sincere in wanting to talk to her uncle, she stopped moving, deciding to become a dead weight to hamper him. Instead, the weirdo cuddled her and sighed, his breath ruffling her fur.

Ew. So gross. And no, she wasn’t noticing how easily he held her, how firm his large, broad chest and arms felt. I hate this so much.

She glared at her cousin, the instigator of it all.

He shrugged. Not my fault.

“Perhaps we could sit down, share a beer, and talk like civilized beasts, eh?” her uncle suggested, which had everyone looking at him as if he’d lost his marbles.

And maybe he had.

The vampire laughed. “An excellent idea.” He gently set her down, as if she were a puppy and not a three hundred plus pound berserker. Even worse, he ignored the way she bristled and showed her teeth, just daring him to touch her again. She’d bite his damn hand off. “Let’s talk later, eh, beauty?”

Fuck off.

In a low voice, he said, “Such soft fur, yet so thick too, a gift from mother earth.”

She turned on her heel and left, ignoring his murmured compliment. Max owed her big for this. But first, she had to make sure the vampire didn’t kill anyone in the pack.

She trotted to Cole, their beta, to affirm the security measures already in place and grab that vampire stake she’d bought from the mages a few days ago, just in case. Then she’d return to protect her alpha, with her dying breath if need be.

Kraft watched the most magnificent lycan he’d ever seen leave with an angry step. Mother Night, but he felt his heart racing as he watched her. That ash-gray fur flecked with black and those blazing blue eyes entranced him. She’d trembled in his arms. Not with fear but with rage, and he was shocked to find himself so intrigued by the angry creature.

“You wanted to talk?” his prey reminded him.

He glanced back at the lycan he’d played video games with in their basement in between interrogations. “Ah, my prey.” He glanced at the alpha, seeing the resemblance, and smiled. “The alpha’s son?”

“Correct.” The younger male nodded.

“I am Jack Bramson,” the alpha interrupted, his voice low, authoritative. “Alpha of the Crimson Claw. My son, Max, you apparently know,” Jack said drily. “Come. We’ll talk in the commons. Surrounded by our soldiers and enforcers. Step out of line and we’ll kill you, vampire. That’s a promise.”

Kraft could appreciate that. “Fair is fair.” He nodded. “I am Kraft of the Night Bloode. I  was told your son has information we need.”

“We?” Jack asked as he walked side by side with Kraft.

Impressed with the older male who showed almost no fear, only a small trickle Kraft could barely scent, Kraft answered, “My mistress.” And didn’t that leave a bitter taste on his tongue. “Hecate.” Maybe the witch goddess’s name would open doors that torture and threat of dismemberment hadn’t.

Jack blinked. “Your mistress is Hecate? I thought vampires didn’t worship gods.”

“We don’t,” Kraft growled.

They walked on the edge of what seemed like a small village, a cluster of rustic cabins to one side separated from the town by a dirt road and trees everywhere. The town looked as if it had been built to exist with nature, not despite it.

He saw a post office, a bar, a diner, and a restaurant. And across the street, a mercantile and clothing store. A few larger, nondescript buildings anchored the small storefront, but other than that, forest swallowed up the civilized space. Kraft liked it. A hidden town full of direwolves in the middle of nature. It kind of reminded him of the home he’d grown up in, across the ocean.

Jack took him and the small entourage of soldier wolves, all large and bristling with hostility, to the end of road. Like him, they ignored the snow, the cold temperature not bothering hot-blooded creatures. By design, vampires were immune to most bodily threats, but they tended to run cold. Except for nachzehrers, who always felt warm, like the wolves into which they could change shape.

He subtly glanced around him, seeking the snarling berserker he wanted to get to know better. Unfortunately, he didn’t see her. He did spot several mages, though. Outwardly, most magir looked the same. But those who could shift into some kind of animal typically moved with a grace not found in others. The lycans all walked light on their feet, prepared to defend themselves or pounce. The mages moved as if less in tune with their surroundings, less gracefully too, in Kraft’s opinion.

They entered a wooden warehouse two stories tall and walked past pallets and empty space to a conference room, the double doors open to reveal a long table and many chairs. Jack sat at the head of the table, his son and a female—presumably his mate—on either side with him. Good. A lycan pack that didn’t relegate females to the bottom of the pecking order. Kraft had never seen a healthy pack that structured itself as a patriarchy. Vampires did, but only because there were no female vampires.

Lycan soldiers lined up along the walls, leaving him to sit wherever he liked at the table. He sat next to Max and smiled. “Max, huh? Not sure why you refused to tell us your name.”

The large bastard smiled back, and there was a bite in the expression. “Maybe if you hadn’t grabbed me off the street and tortured me for nearly two weeks, I would have.”

“Oh please. So you got beaten up a few times. I just saw you wrestling your pack for fun.”

“Because they’re my pack, asshole. Not vampires.”

“You held your own, mostly.” Kraft shrugged. “And I never hurt you, except at Apex.” A video game Kraft had mastered.

Max flushed. “You got lucky. You lost at checkers, chess, and backgammon though.”

“Those are games for old people.” Kraft snorted.

Max sneered. “True, you’re the one the others called a fledgling.”

Kraft scowled. “You’re lucky I didn’t eat you, puppy.” He would have said more when he realized everyone was watching him and Max with wide eyes. “What? I let him win a few games out of pity.”

“You wish.” Max laughed at him. “What the hell do you want with that statue, Kraft?”

The sudden change in subject had been meant to throw him, though it wouldn’t have if the delectable lycan hadn’t entered the room just then. She wore plain jeans and a sweatshirt, her dark brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail, emphasizing her strong features and a gaze so direct he felt it skewering him. She was considerably smaller than him in her human form, her frame athletic and fully female, her scent like earth and pine. It was all he could do not to lift his head and drink her in.

She sat across from him, no sign or scent of fear. Just more of that delicious rage. “Blood-drinker.”

“Berserker.” He knew berserkers were in short supply in the lycan world. Centuries ago they’d been in abundance, living war machines that powered through rivals and other magir. But for some reason their numbers had dwindled, and now any pack having a berserker had a definite leg up on their rivals. Rumor had it the Crimson Claw had two. No wonder they ruled the lycans in this region.

“We don’t have what you want,” Jack said, drawing Kraft’s attention once more.

“I very much doubt that.” Crap. Kraft didn’t want to have to kill everyone to prove his point. Normally, he wouldn’t mind doing so. But he doubted the berserker would talk to him if he mowed through her pack. Unlike many of his kin, Kraft couldn’t seduce or hypnotize his prey. He had to rely on strength to take what he wanted, that or stealth or trickery. But he’d never been one for mind games.

Jack glared at Max, who slunk in his chair. “Tell him.”

“It really wasn’t my fault.”

The berserker across from him huffed. “Oh please. It was. Start thinking with the right head, you idiot.”

Max turned red.

Kraft started to think maybe they hadn’t been lying after all.

“Riley.” Jack shot her a look.

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry.

 Her name was Riley. He studied her, startled to feel so attracted to a female. He’d bedded plenty in his ninety-two years, but typically, once the urge for sex faded, so did any lingering affection for the woman. He’d mostly bedded humans, because he didn’t drink from bed partners, and magir had richer blood than mortals. Fucking what he considered food felt tacky, and he’d been more than confused to learn his kin frequently took blood from their mates.

But sitting so close to Riley, he wondered what it would be like to drink her down. After he fucked her, of course.

“You keep looking at me like that and you’ll lose an eye,” she warned in a low rumble.

Which had him grinning from ear to ear. Oh, foreplay.

“Kraft, I’m telling you, we don’t have the artifact,” Max said.

Determined to complete the mission so he could come back and try Riley on for size, Kraft turned back to Max. “Okay, lycan. Time to tell me everything.”

Between Bloode and Wolf