Page 115 of Claimed By Blood

We finally leave behind the winding main street and head up the mountain, deeper into the forested hills. I used to ride along this path all the time. I patrolled these woods endlessly. Yet, I recognise almost nothing. As much as I want to tell myself it’s just the daylight making the scenery look odd, I know I’m just kidding myself. Unlike me, this place has moved on. Aged.

I glance over at Frost, only to see his face is carefully blank. Like he also doesn’t know how to feel about returning to the place where we first met.

There’s a strange, sad wistfulness in returning to a place you once considered your home, and finding it’s moved on without you. But dwelling on those thoughts won’t help me now. I push them from my mind and force myself to turn to the task at hand.

“What are we looking for?” I ask, directing the question at Finn, who’s been buried in research for most of the trip.

He chews at his lip before he replies. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“I thought you were researching?” Gideon growls.

Thankfully, Vane elbows his alpha, saving me the trouble of doing it myself.

Gideon sighs and shakes his head as if to dispel his own bad mood. “I’m sorry. I just hoped there would be more to go on.”

Finn rubs a hand over his short hair and straightens his round glasses. “Unfortunately, the only thing most of my researchdoesagree on is that witches passed their traditions down through their families. There’s very little just lying around for the general public to find. That’s why I wanted to test the DNA theory.”

That makes sense.

“There’snothingelse?” Gideon is barely holding his exasperation in check, and I wonder idly if a quickie against a tree would fix his mood. I dismiss the idea just as quickly when I see Finn’s face and feel his anxiety down the bond.

The omega in him doesn’t like disappointing his alpha.

And I already decided that I want to discuss what happened with Finn to make absolutelycertainthat he’s still okay with our agreement before we do anything else.

Gideon drags his head out of his ass after a second elbow to the ribs from Vane. Finn misses the motion only because he’s so close to his monitor his glasses are almost touching it.

“You did great,” the alpha grunts. “The DNA idea was a good one.”

Finn visibly brightens, then grimaces. Feeling him down the thrall bond is the weirdest thing. The lycan side of him instantly relaxes, yet the human in him understands what just happened and feels conflicted over it.

Just being a bystander to all of his confusion is giving me a headache. I don’t envy lycans one bit.

“I can feel a lot of ghouls nearby,” Frost mutters. “Too many.”

“Cain lets them terrorise the villagers, remember?” Silas glares out of the windows. “Think you can do anything about that?”

Frost nods. “Someone cover up D for a second.”

Silas dutifully throws a coat over Draven’s sleeping form. Frost waits until the vampire is completely covered before he presses the button to roll down the window a crack, and sticks a hand out, letting it float in the breeze.

“I can gather them around the manor and keep them away from the village,” he begins, thoughtfully. “But there are a lot of them. Maybe even more than there were in New York.”

“Makes sense,” Vane mutters. “If these people have no protection from other immortals at all, then the ghouls must think this is an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Even before Cain took over the world, vampires and lycans played their part in keeping ghoul populations small. Mostly to protect themselves or their food supplies, but it had the indirect effect of keeping the humans safe and helping all three species avoid detection.

For Cain to just leave such a large nest unculled… It shows just how much he hates this place. After a second, Frost pulls his hand back in, shuts the window, and Silas takes the coat off Draven once more.

“Why doesn’t everyone just leave?” I whisper. “It makes no sense.”

No one seems to have an answer for me, and we sit in silence until we reach the manor.

The grand old house is little more than a husk of its former self. The once colourful windows are broken, the bricks are covered in moss, black mould, and lichen, and the wrought iron weather vanes which once crowned the roofs are missing—likely stolen and sold for scrap.

Even the lawns, once immaculately trimmed in the latest style, are yellowed and overgrown. The forest around has begun to encroach on the grounds, and in the distance I can see a small building which I don’t remember being there before.

“The mausoleum,” Immy whispers, following my gaze. “That’s where he…”

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