chapter Two
Death was not as Synjon had imagined. There were no wild, untamed winds to ride or sunshine that didn’t inflame his skin. Instead it was unbearable, teeth-clenching pain surrounded by utter blackness. How could this be? It was not what the Pureblood scholars had promised.
And where was Juliet?
It was in death that they could finally be together; no lies, no tricks, no need to be each other’s true mates—as the laws of their kind had no rules in the afterworld.
“Pull the covering to his chin. He’s in shock. The shaking will lesson if we keep his body warm.”
Black nothingness coated the exterior of Synjon’s mind, but this sound, this voice . . . it wasn’t Juliet’s. It had a lower resonance and held no claim on his memory.
“Are you going to wake him up?”
This time the voice that snaked inside his ears, his mind, was female, and oddly familiar, but he wasn’t sure why.
“No,” the male said softly. “He won’t be able to handle the pain. It’s best to keep him sedated until there is some semblance of healing.”
“Why is the salve having no effect?” she asked.
“It is a miracle to our shifters. But this male’s skin is different, thinner, yet far more durable. It’s a strange combination.” The male sighed with frustration. “I am hoping if we keep reapplying the salve there will be some change.”
“I don’t understand this, Brodan—how this happened to him.”
It was the female again, sounding concerned, perhaps even fearful. Synjon tried to focus, tried to force connections in his mind. Where was he? Why was he blind? The pain of thought was acute, but two absolutes floated to the surface of his consciousness.
The female wasn’t Juliet.
And he wasn’t dead.
“Most likely it’s an allergy to sunlight,” the male said as Synjon felt something cool press against his neck. “I’ve seen something similar on our shifters who have little hair. But nothing this severe or as fast as you described it happening.”
There was a moment of silence, then the female spoke again. So quietly, Synjon had to strain to hear. “Do you think he’s human?”
“I don’t know what he is.” The male’s tone held both curiosity and distrust. “He has no heartbeat yet he breathes. I’ve never encountered such a creature.”
“No Shifter has had such an anomaly?”
“Never.”
The female was quiet, and Synjon wondered what made her so. What made her voice thin with sadness when she spoke of him?
“You’re not going to tell anyone about him?” she asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“Good.”
“With the lack of heartbeat they could deem him a possible threat.”
“I know.”
“We haven’t had a mystery in our community since—”
“Me,” she finished for him.
The male laughed. “Yes, Pets, but it’s not a worrisome or potentially problematic mystery like our male without a heartbeat here.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You and the animal you will someday become is a mystery I look forward to unraveling.”
A low growl permeated the air, and it took Synjon a moment to realize the sound had come from his own throat. Shocked, he forced himself to swallow. Bloody hell. What was going on? Why was he angry? Why had he reacted to the male’s words with such aggression?
“Did you hear that?” the female whispered. “Is he waking, Brodan? Can he hear us?”
Yes, Female. But unfortunately that is all I can do.
“Back up,” the male said, all lightness and flirtation now stripped from his tone. “If he is waking, the pain will be too great for him to handle. I’m going to give him another dose, keep him under until we see how his healing progresses.”
Syn’s mind flared with panic. This prat was drugging him, holding his body hostage. He wasn’t dead, this wasn’t the afterlife, and Juliet . . .
The growl sounded once again, and this time Syn felt it deep within his chest. He had to stay awake.
He felt the male’s hands on him. There was a quick, sharp prick in his arm. Goddamn, ruddy bastard. Syn wanted to grab him by the throat, throw him against the wall—
The light in Syn’s mind dimmed and he felt a rush of warmth move through him before he dropped back into blackness once again.
* * *
When he woke, perhaps hours later, perhaps minutes, his eyes still refused to open. He tried like hell to get himself to move; just a finger, an eyelid, anything that would tell him that he still retained some semblance of control.
But every inch of skin, muscle, and bone refused him.
F*ck!
Where was the female? The one who worried for him? The one who might come to his aid if he could manage a word or two? Bloody hell, he wanted to hear her voice.
But when he listened for movement, all his ears picked up were the sounds of machinery, beeps and clicks, and the scent of antiseptic and something verdant. The scent? Had his sense of smell returned?
He concentrated on bringing in air, flaring his nostrils. With his scent intact he could predict danger, he could figure out where he was . . .
“I can’t keep you a secret for much longer, Male,” a voice said above him. A familiar voice. But not the female’s . . . “It’s been a week and you haven’t healed.”
A week? Christ. He couldn’t have heard the male right. It wasn’t possible. Wasn’t possible that a week had gone by since he’d seen Juliet. Since he’d laid her in the sun.
A week since he’d nearly followed her there.
A warm hand gently prodded his neck, his chest. “She won’t like it,” the male said with a sigh, brushing something cool and wet onto his neck. “I think she feels a kinship with you. Both being different, both being anomalies of sorts.”
Who was the male speaking of? Not Juliet. The female? he wondered. The voice that had made him feel grounded, the voice that had soothed him? Scent floated into his nostrils again. That same scent. What was it? Something pungent. Antiseptic? Oh yes, of course. The talk of salve, healing—the prick of a needle. He was in a medical facility. But why? What had happened to him?
“How did the sun do this to your skin?” the male said. “And how the hell do you live and breathe with no heartbeat?”
The answers, the full and unedited truth, which had clearly being perched on the edges of his mind, suddenly came back to Synjon in a panicked rush. Juliet was dead. The mad vampire Cruen had killed her. Synjon had flashed her out of her caged prison and to the rainforest she’d loved so much, the forest where she’d wanted them to live out their long lives together once upon a time. But instead of them living there, Synjon had come alone, to release her body to the sun.
Inside his chest, something squeezed. After placing her on the solid earth, he hadn’t been able to walk away, hadn’t been able to leave her when he’d just found her again. Instead, he’d stood his ground, choosing to die with her, follow her into the afterlife where they could find another rainforest to live within.
Christ . . . and he’d almost done it, almost succeeded. He’d felt the sun blazing down on him, claiming his skin as it had hers. Until something had rushed him, covered him.
Saved him.
Wrenched him away from Juliet.
“You look pained again, Male,” said the doctor, his voice drifting upward. “I know no other answer but oblivion. Rest easy. Perhaps tomorrow you will know peace.”
Synjon felt his lips move, part, then black warmth sucked him in once again.
* * *
This time when Synjon woke, the pain in his face and neck was so excruciating it felt as though a truck were driving back and forth over them. But with that pain came the awareness that his body was no longer heavy and immobile. He swallowed, inhaled deeply, feeling both the action of his throat and the rise and fall of his chest. He made a quick mental inventory. Every muscle felt alert and ready to spring, every bone ached with lack of use. His mind was clear, and if he wanted to open his eyes and take in his surroundings for the first time, he knew he could.
But he wasn’t sure if that was the wisest course of action. What waited for him? Who might attack? Though he felt the readiness in his blood to fight, he didn’t know if he had the strength to match it.
“Why won’t he heal, Brodan?”
The female. She was back, Synjon mused, his skin humming as her voice wrapped around him like a soft blanket.
“I don’t know,” the male answered, his tone ever frustrated. “Nothing I give him seems to have any effect.”
“But he will recover,” she said with deep conviction. “I know it. We just have to give him more time.”
“We don’t have more time, Petra.”
Petra. So she had a name, this one who fought for him. “No one has to know he’s here,” she continued. “You have him in a secluded area. Keep him medicated. I won’t say anything to anyone.”
The male sighed. “You don’t understand, Pets. He is in horrific pain, and keeping him asleep has become far more difficult. His body is starting to reject the drugs.”
“Then give him different drugs!” she cried.
There was a moment of silence, and Synjon had the most desperate desire to open his eyes and see the look that was passing between the pair.
“Why are you acting like this?” the male demanded, his tone far less gentle now. “You don’t even know this male. He is nothing to you.”
“I saved his life!” she exclaimed.
Synjon’s blood froze in his veins.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have.”
“What?”
The male sighed. “Maybe you should’ve let him die.”
She’s the one! Syn cried out in his mind. She was the one who’d pulled him from the sun, from Juliet . . .
“I’m pretty sure doctors aren’t supposed to say things like that,” the female said with barely masked fury.
“You need to face some facts here, Pets. The male’s burns are dire and he won’t heal. I’ve done everything I can. And shit, even if he did heal, what kind of existence would it be? Look at him. He’s a monster. No one will care for him. No one will touch him. And if he’s anything like us, desperate for the touch of another being, he won’t want to continue living.”
“That’s bullshit,” the female said, her tone resolute.
Even through Synjon’s extraordinary physical and mental pain, heat rumbled within his chest. How was it possible that this female fought for him? This female he didn’t know? It was extraordinary.
Petra’s voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke again. “If you were burned and in pain and no one knew how to help you, would you expect me to turn away from you, Brodan?”
“Come on, Pets. Our . . . friendship is different.”
“How?” she asked. “This male could have the same kind of friends elsewhere. Family. A lover.”
“A lover, eh?”
The grin, the lightness, the heat, in the male’s voice inflamed Synjon, and he nearly allowed another feral growl to escape his chest. Clearly this male wanted Petra, and even clearer was her disinterest in him. Didn’t the doctor get it? Didn’t he understand what stood beside him?
Synjon’s mind squeezed.
What . . . ? What was he saying? What stood beside the doctor?
A rush of heat surged into his veins.
“All right, Pets,” the doctor said with a reluctant chuckle. “You fight for him, I fight for him. I just wish I knew what to use as a weapon.”
His blood pumped fast and thick. What was wrong with him now? The female . . . her scent was pushing into his nostrils. No, not female.
Veana.
A tsunami of pain and hunger and desire unlike anything he had ever known slammed into Synjon. He had no breath, no ability to reason or remain still and silent. With a gasp, his eyes slammed open, and when he saw the veana above him, he roared.
“Oh my gods,” the female cried out and grabbed his hand.
But Synjon saw only sustenance before him.
“You!” he cried out, his gaze raking down her neck to her arm. “Your blood, Veana! I need your blood.”
He yanked her hand to his mouth and twisted, his fangs striking the inside of her wrist with shocking force.