Page 8 of Blood of a Huntsman

He was a monster.

His fingers trembling, he dug through the satchel he had to carry everywhere for one of the dozen plastic bags full of blood.

Plain blood that smelled so very boring. Nothing like the scent of actual people.

But it did the trick. At least for a while. After draining the contents of the bag, he could think.

He redirected his attention to the crystal, and, to his surprise, the thing levitated a few inches above his palm.

Quite suddenly, Fin Varra appeared in front of him.

The man made him extremely uncomfortable. He smelled better than anyone else, but Bash knew that even thinking about his blood could be suicide.

"Well done, fledgling. It appears you have more control than anticipated."

Bash had to laugh at that. Yeah, right. Him. In control.

“I just drank blood,” he explained. “That must be why it worked.”

The professor tilted his head. "And taking what you need negates your accomplishment somehow?"

Bash wondered how often the man complimented anyone. He certainly hadn't heard him do so before. So, he said, "Thanks."

"You are doing well, child. I expect great things of you. Do not disappoint."

Now why did that sound like a threat?

At midnight,Bash met Luke at the Institute's entrance. The brown-skinned, handsome, and slender man who'd been Levi's assistant since sometime around the seventeenth century had been kind enough to volunteer as chaperone when he needed one.

"Ready to go?" the man asked as Bash slid into the passenger seat of his Audi.

He nodded, and without another word, Luke was off.

Just about anyone else would have asked why he hadn't at least brought a change of clothing. Bash was scheduled to spend the weekend with his family.

But he knew he wouldn't. One night, fortnightly, was as much as he could stand. He used to be so close to them, spending all of his spare time with them. Another thing he’d lost, along with his job, when he’d died.

Things could have been worse. He had to keep telling himself that right now so he could manage to appear cheerful when he arrived home.

The drive from Oldcrest to Edinburgh might have taken anyone else around two hours, but Luke did it in one, his fancy, tuned-up car flying down the road. Bash might have said something about the speed had they not both been immortals. The speed limit, like any other law of man, didn't apply to vampires. Besides, his reflexes were considerably faster than any human; they weren't likely to get into an accident.

They parked in a private hangar and flew straight to London in a private jet, treatment Bash wasn't about to get used to. Bloodsuckers, particularly new ones like him, shouldn't be locked in with a bunch of mortals who smelled like snacks for any extended amount of time. But still, they could have just driven there.

Bash tried to consider himself lucky. Actually, he knew he was the most fortunate fucker out there. Come on, he'd been bitten by a feral. Normally, that was a one-way ticket to the madhouse, as well as a clear death sentence. The huntsmen would have been forced to kill him. Maybe his friends would have had a hard time doing it, but in the end, they would have done their duty and cut his head clean off. Instead, he'd been saved, brought back to as near a state as possible to what he'd been before the attack. He was himself, mostly. Still liked jazz and blues. Enjoyed reading novels. He could think.

But while his mind had returned to him, the thirst hadn't diminished.

Vampires were the responsibility of those who turned them. As he'd been changed by a long-dead piece of feral filth, he could have been left to his own devices. Instead, Levi and Chloe had taken him under their wing. Levi had power, money, and servants like Luke who facilitated everything he needed. Chloe gave him something even more valuable: friendship. She always had a smile, a joke, wanted to know about his day. It didn't even feel forced.

She’d also offered him a job, of sorts. Chloe had asked if he wanted to be part of her household, an Eirikrson knight. That, he’d refused. He was in no state to be useful to anyone. Or to hold such a prestigious position.

Bash knew why they were so kind: guilt. He'd been hurt when their home had been attacked by vamps who'd wanted to get to Chloe. Somehow, they thought his turning was her fault. Ridiculous. Bash had been a huntsman. Protecting people from danger was his vocation.

Had been.

Now, he was one of the things huntsmen preyed on.

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