Dirty Blood Boxed Set, Includes, page 1
Dirty Blood © 2010 Heather Hildenbrand
Cold Blood © 2011 Heather Hildenbrand
Blood Bond © 2012 Heather Hildenbrand
Blood Rule © 2013 Heather Hildenbrand
Smashwords Edition
Updated Feb 2016
All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Except as permitted under the U.S. copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Please respect the hard work of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental.
Cover designs by SM Reine, Robin Ludwig Designs, Joe Aksel
Editing by Kristina Circelli at Red Road Editing, Jennifer Sommersby
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Dirty Blood #1
Cold Blood #2
Blood Bond #3
Blood Rule #4
By
Heather Hildenbrand
For my readers, thank you, thank you, a million times thank you. Without you, I wouldn’t have this life. I love every one of you for your loyalty, excitement, and general delusions that let us both pretend these characters are real enough to argue over. Mwah!
Dirty Blood
By Heather Hildenbrand
~ 1 ~
“C’mon, Tara, you didn’t even give tonight a fair chance,” George said, his blue eyes a mixture of pleading and irritation.
I returned the pool stick to the wall rack and tried to think of a fair answer before turning to face him again. I was careful to keep my voice down; the tiny pool hall was crowded for a Tuesday night. The smoky haze, a permanent fixture in the dimly lit room, gave the illusion of privacy around our corner table, but the couple next to us was already glancing over, trying to look as if they weren’t listening.
“George, you were an hour late picking me up because you were working on a press release with your agent.” I stepped closer. “Your agent,” I repeated, shaking my head. “Seriously. You haven’t even graduated yet, much less secured a scholarship. Why do you even need an agent?”
He ran a hand through his hair, evidence of his impatience, though he was careful to keep his tone light, in an attempt to win me to his way of thinking. “I told you already, my dad set it up. And a lot of the pros got one early, especially the big timers. And I’m sorry I was late, but I’m here now and I’m focused on us.” His expression became accusing and he added, “More than I can say for you.”
I rubbed at my temples, trying in vain to massage away the stress headache that had become a trademark of our relationship. “I’m sorry, George, but I’m not the one who messed things up. And I don’t fault you for a change in priorities. Football is important to you. That’s fine, but it’s pushing out everything else, including me. It would make it easier for you to just admit it.”
“You’re wrong, I can do both,” he insisted, shaking his head vigorously. His loose blond hair shook with it.
“You’ve cancelled on me three times in the last week,” I argued. “Not to mention standing me up two nights ago.”
“Tay-” he began, using his nickname for me.
I put my hand up to silence him. I couldn’t do this anymore. “Just stop, George. Stop with all the excuses. It’s just not going to work. You should go. I’ll find my own ride home.”
George stared back at me and I waited for him to argue some more. The tone of regret in my voice had been obvious, but so was the finality of my words. Finally he sighed.
“I’m going to find a way to fix this,” he said quietly.
I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. Reluctantly, he grabbed his jacket and left. I watched him until the door swung shut behind him and then turned back to our half-finished game. I went to the wall and retrieved my stick, as if the breakup I’d just initiated didn’t bother me one bit, and lined up my next shot.
I ignored the curious looks from the nosy couple beside me and focused on sinking the three ball. Only a small twinge of regret ate at me while I finished the game. I hadn’t wanted things to end with George. We’d known each other since sixth grade, and in a lot of ways he was my best friend. I cared about him. But he’d changed in the past few months. At first, it was so slow I’d barely noticed. We’d go two days without talking—a record for us at the time—which gradually turned into a missed date or a last-minute change of plans. Then he got an agent, and it was only downhill from there. And while I hated thinking I was throwing away everything we’d ever been to each other, I wasn’t going to be a “back burner” girlfriend, either. A girl had to have some self-respect.
With the game finished, and my pride still somewhat intact over letting a pool hall full of strangers witness my breakup, I called my friend Angela for a ride home.
“Hello?”
“Ang, you busy?” I asked, doubting she was.
There was a second of hesitation and then, “Um, Dave and I are having dinner.”
“Dave? That guy from pre-calculus?” I knew my surprise came through, maybe a little too loud and clear, and I felt bad for the way it sounded. “That’s great,” I hastily added. And it was great. Angela had been harboring a crush on this guy for months. And it wasn’t that she couldn’t get a date; she was really pretty with her long dark hair and sexy-librarian-style glasses, but she was mortifyingly shy.
“Thanks. We just ordered, so … Is everything okay? Are you already home from your date?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Never mind.” I decided against interrupting her. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And I want details.”
Angela giggled and I pulled the phone away from my head to stare at it like maybe it had just morphed into another life form. Angela never giggled.
We disconnected and I dialed Sam. Even if she was out, I wouldn’t feel nearly as bad interrupting her. Sam was always “out.” Unfortunately, it went straight to voice mail. Darn. I hung up without leaving a message. No point. She rarely checked it anyway.
The only option left was to call my mom but I quickly dismissed that. No doubt she’d have questions as to why I’d gotten myself stranded in the first place. Which would lead to what happened with George, which was something that, even though I loved her, I didn’t really feel like discussing with my mother. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t listen. The problem was, she’d listen too eagerly. My mother was a classic worrier, and because of that, she hovered. She always wanted to know every single detail of my day, down to what I’d had for lunch and who did I stand next to in gym. And it seemed like the older I got, the worse her worrying became. No way I was calling her.
With all my transportation options exhausted, I sort of regretted letting George leave. Only sort of, though. If he’d driven me, it would’ve extended the argument or his pleading attempts to change my mind, which in the end would’ve pissed me off. And I was still hoping to maybe salvage our friendship.
I turned in my rack of balls to the bar attendant and walked to the door. I stood there, staring out the foggy glass of the front window, and considered my last resort. There was a bus stop a few blocks away. Not ideal in the middle of February in northern Virginia but it was all I had. I yanked my arms into my coat sleeves and headed for the back hall, past the restrooms, to the back door to head through the alley. This shortcut would shave at least five minutes off my travel time, which was five fewer minutes I’d have to stand in the cold. I despised the cold.
I slipped out the metal door and pushed it closed behind me, making sure it clicked. A few yards to my right, a streetlamp cast a yellow beam onto the asphalt, but I turned left, toward the bus stop, and into the darkness. My eyes were slow to adjust, but the dark didn’t bother me. I’d made this shortcut dozens of times. I passed the free parking lot on the right, wishing I’d driven separately so that my hand-me-down Honda—and its wonderful heater—would’ve been waiting for me instead of the drafty city bus. Matter of fact, I wished I hadn’t come at all. George’s tardiness would’ve been the perfect excuse to change my mind. Especially when we both knew our relationship already hung in the balance, precariously leaning toward breakup before we’d even made it out tonight.
It was quiet and my boots thudded loudly against the sidewalk. I hurried to reach the bus shelter, hating the bite of the cold air, and glad that the surrounding buildings were high enough to keep the wind to a minimum. I drew my coat tighter around my neck against the chill that seeped its way into my skin, giving me goosebumps from head to toe.
I hated goosebumps because it meant the hair on your legs grew back twice as fast. And yet they were a chronic issue secondary to some weird cold chill that would come over me. Even in the summer, when everyone else was wearing shorts and bathing suits and thus shaved legs was sort of a priority. When I was younger, I complained to my mom about it a few times and she would always say that Godfreys were thin-blooded and easily chilled. Then she would stare at me, an odd expression on her face, and disappear, either into the backyard to weed the flowerbeds or to the pantry to reorganize the canned goods.
The tingling of the goosebumps subsided and my thoughts wandered back to George, and all the history between us. Like in sixth grade, when he’d tried growing his hair out, saying he wanted a surfer look, but really, I’d had no choice but to tell him he just looked … grungy. Back when grungy was NOT “in.” And seventh grade, when he’d shaved it all off again, after we’d watched a video on career day about the army. He’d talked about joining for months afterward, talking about how cool it would be to shoot guns for a living. In eighth grade, we’d each had our first kiss, though not with each other.
George had fallen hard for the girl until her family had moved away. She was military and her dad had gotten re-stationed. George changed his mind about enlisting after that. Ninth grade, he’d gone out for football, and made junior varsity MVP. He changed a lot that year, gaining a self-confidence that hadn’t been there before. By the end of sophomore year, I’d started to notice him as more than just a friend. Last summer had been awkward between us. I’d spent the entire time stressing over the uncharted territory of having feelings for him, and whether he might have feelings for me.
I’d never questioned being with George. It felt natural and right. He was my best friend for so long that the only thing dating had really changed was adding kissing into the mix. Not bad, as perks go.
Up ahead, a movement caught my eye, pulling me out of my thoughts. I stopped short and felt my pulse jump at the unexpected company. I didn’t usually see anyone else in this part of the cut-through, but just past the next Dumpster, a girl with long blond hair and pointy-heeled boots stood in the center of the alley, shaking uncontrollably. I took a step towards her, wanting to help in some way, and then stopped again when I saw her face. She was glaring at me with a look of hatred so raw, it sent a shiver down my back.
“Um, are you okay?” I called out, still trying to understand why she was basically convulsing. Was she having a seizure? But she was managing to stay on her feet. Her gloved hands were balled into fists at her sides, and she was breathing heavily now. I tried again. “Do you need some help?” Something about the way she looked at me made my skin tingle. I shivered again.
“Help,” she repeated, through clenched teeth. “Right.” Her words dripped with sarcasm and unconcealed malice.
Then, before I could think of something to say to that, her shaking reached its crescendo and then she … exploded. There was really no other word for it. With a harsh ripping sound, her clothes disappeared, scattering into the air in tiny pieces. In the same second, her body seemed to waver and then morph, leaving in its place the largest wolf I’d ever seen. My jaw dropped. Was I crazy, or had that girl just turned into a giant dog?
I had a split second to stare at her before she charged. The brown fur became nothing more than a blur as she rushed forward, teeth bared, claws extended. In that moment, I was completely sure that I was going to die. I didn’t even have time to be afraid; it would all be over too quickly.
Then, somehow, though my conscious brain had nothing to do with it, my body reacted. Just before impact, I twisted aside, dodging her. Using my body’s momentum, I brought my hand around and swung. I hadn’t even realized I’d made a fist, but my knuckles connected and I heard the crack of bone as my hand slammed into the wolf’s cheek. The hit drove it—her?—back a few paces, but then she straightened and seemed to right herself. Her yellow eyes locked onto mine and she came again. I shed my jacket, and let it fall next to me on the concrete; some hidden part of me knew I needed better use of my limbs.
Three more times I managed to dodge the wolf as she lunged. On the fourth, her claws caught on my shirt and raked down my abdomen on either side, driving me back. I stumbled and fell. My back slammed onto the pavement with a hard thud. Again, I accepted my inevitable death. I watched as she continued to come at me, slower and more confident now that I was on the ground. All I could see were razor canines aimed straight for my throat. I cringed and turned away, unable to look into those bright yellow eyes, knowing what was coming. When I turned, a glint of slivered moonlight caught a piece of piping nearby, probably meant for the Dumpster but somehow had landed here.
Again, subconscious reasoning took over and I felt myself reaching for it, my hand closing around the cold steel. With a grunt, I swung out.
I hadn’t expected to actually land the blow or for the crack to be quite so loud. I felt the vibrations from it all the way up my arm but managed to hold onto the pipe until I felt the wolf’s weight go slack. She crumpled in a heap, half on top of me. I pushed her aside, which wasn’t easy, and scrambled to my feet. I stood, staring down at the giant mass of fur, wondering how in the world no one else had noticed what just happened.
As I stared, the wolf’s form began to shake and then shimmer around the edges, going hazy, and then finally, it was the girl again. Her long hair covered her face in stringy waves, matting to her head on the side where the pipe had made contact. Blood seeped slow and steady from the wound to the pavement. Her body was naked and curled together, almost fetal, except for her knee wedged at an unnatural angle. I could see that her eyes were open and staring vacantly but I didn’t linger on that. I couldn’t. Shock and disbelief surged through me as I gaped at her crumpled form, struggling to accept what I was seeing. No way. It was impossible. People couldn’t be … wolves. That was a myth. A way for Hollywood to cash in.
But there was no mistaking it. The girl lying in a heap in front of me was definitely the same girl as before. And she smelled, distinctly, of animal.
I kept hoping she’d move, or at least groan, from the pain of the head trauma. Ignoring the feminine details of her bare body, I stared hard at her shoulders and chest, looking for any sign that might indicate breathing. I didn’t see any. And I knew, deep down, that I wouldn’t.
My hands began to shake. Maybe from the cold, but I was too numb to feel the temperature against my skin. I took a step back and stumbled.
Hands closed around me, keeping me upright. I jolted and tried to jerk away from the unexpected contact. A strangled scream escaped my lips as the hands whirled me around to face my attacker.
“Whoa, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
I didn’t answer. My ability to speak coherently had been momentarily lost; any sound would’ve been a scream, anyway. My breath came in uneven gasps and he waited until I got myself under control.
There was concern in his eyes but that didn’t go very far with me. I noticed vaguely that his eyes were the same exact color as his hair, a sort of bronzed brown. The color was fascinating: unlike anything I’d ever seen, and they seemed to hold some dark edge that hinted at danger, no matter how gentle they got. The rest of him wasn’t bad, either. His face matched his eyes, rugged and hard edges from his cheekbones to his jaw. When he’d spun me around, I’d grabbed out to steady myself and even now my hands still rested on his shoulders, where I’d first gripped. Underneath my fingers, and the leather of his jacket, was solid muscle.
The fact that I was actually checking him out—just moments after killing a girl—was my first clue I was in shock.
“Are you all right?” His gaze swept over me without waiting for an answer, critically inspecting the rest of my body, not unlike the once-over I’d just given him.
It dawned on me that he was trying to help, and thankfully, that dialed back my panic enough for me to find my voice. Then again, now that my brain was convinced the danger had truly passed, some switch seemed to release, giving me permission to officially freak out. “I think so,” I answered automatically, without really knowing if I was or not. I felt numb and strange inside my own skin.
“Did she bite you?”
His voice seemed to come from inside a tunnel. I blinked to try and clear the fog. “What?”
“Did she bite you?” His voice was firmer now and his hands pressed down on my shoulders, trying to keep my attention.
“No,” I answered, finding it easier to concentrate if I stared into his unwavering, gold-flecked eyes.
