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Kerrick stood by the bar at The Blood and Bite, looking for a woman, the right woman, the one that would keep his head straight, the one he craved. Hunger lived in him now, deep, begging, fierce. He was a vampire and a warrior. He needed what he needed. His gaze slid around the south Phoenix club, into the many dark corners, the deep padded booths covered in red velvet, past the flashing strobes meant to disguise the various dark deeds which brought mortal women in droves to the vampire joint. The bar had the only real light, enhanced by a tall mirror behind a landscape of hundreds of gem-like bottles.
The rest of the club slid to darkness all around the edges. Not here. Kerrick leaned his hips against the bar and turned to scan the dance floor. Loud sexy music pumped through the dark club. Shadows passed back and forth, women giggling, men chasing as they had from the beginning of time. He shook his head. Kerrick palmed the back of his neck and rubbed. How long had he been here? Yeah, his muscles had been tight for twelve centuries. What would it be like to have the strain worked out of every muscle?
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He turned in the direction of the barkeep then tapped his glass on the counter. Kerrick nodded his thanks then threw back the whisky. He was used to the burn as he swallowed. He let the fire eat up his throat.
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He breathed in the vapors, felt his veins melt a little, yet no relief. Never relief, just a slight unwinding. Again, what the hell is with you? Kerrick scowled. Sam refilled. He always took care of the warriors, staying close.
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He flipped Kerrick off then slashed the small flat card to his ear. Kerrick shifted hips and torso, his gaze locked on Thorne. Thorne kept his fingers around the tumbler, stroking his thumb up and down the cold glass. She headed the main peacekeeping force in their world and the warriors were hers to command. She was also a stick of dynamite, lit, ready to go off. Kerrick drew in another deep breath.
His gaze drifted to the dance floor. A wicked beat had the ladies gyrating and the men putting their hands everywhere. A few fangs pierced necks, which forced Kerrick to take another deep breath. He should get out there and get some relief. Blood would help. So would getting inside a woman.
Yet, how long would the buzz last? These days, not even two minutes so what was the point? What he needed was a scent meant only for him, a myth, a woman who could fill all the deep gorges of his heart.
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Even if he found her, he was bound, hands together, ankles lashed, mouth gagged, heart blocked by a steel cage of guilt. He looked up at Kerrick but kept speaking into the phone. In fact, I think he ought to be pulled for the night. Kerrick could hear the shouting and the words were the same set he used when he was just a little pissed off. He smiled and sipped.
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Endelle had lost her subtlety a few millennia ago. The Warriors of the Blood loved her, hated her, goddam respected her. Finally, he thumbed his phone and replaced it in an upper slit of his black leather kilt. He wore battle gear and would soon head out like the rest of them. Battling always helped, always took some of the strain from his neck. He stood upright ready for action.