Blood Ties Bundle: Blood Ties Book One: The Turning / Blood Ties Book Two: Possession / Blood Ties Book Three: Ashes to Ashes / Blood Ties Book Four: All Souls' Night. Jennifer Armintrout

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      “No shit? And he left you there?” He sounded as surprised at Nathan’s actions as I was.

      “He thinks I can’t defend myself.” I looked over at the computer desk in the corner. “Listen, a fax came after he went out. From VVEM? Is that the Movement?”

      His curse resonated down the line, and no doubt through the stark, sterile emergency room. “Yeah. That’s them. I wonder what they want.”

      “I didn’t read it,” I said, compounding my lie.

      “It’s probably another kill order.” He cleared his throat. “Just stick it on the fridge. It’s the first place he goes after a fight.”

      “Thanks, Ziggy.” I bit my lip. “When exactly did the order come down for Cyrus?”

      “The original one? I don’t know, he’s got like forty by now. Hey, somebody’s here to take my blood and they’re not happy I’m on a cell phone here, so—”

      “No, the last order for him,” I practically shouted into the phone. “When did that come through?”

      “Why?” Ziggy’s tone was suddenly suspicious. “Maybe you should ask Nathan when he gets back. I have to—”

      “Ziggy, wait!”

      The line went dead. I threw the phone to the floor in frustration. This was too much of a coincidence, I concluded as I stared at the map. Three days. What were the chances he’d gotten this message about a different vampire three days before he’d attacked Cyrus?

      I flipped a page. There was my answer, in black and white.

      From: VVEM

       To: N. Galbraith Re: Case #372-96 Part 9Y

      Assassination Order: Simon Seymour, aka Simon Kerrick, aka Cyrus Kerrick for Crimes against Humanity.

      Well. There it was.

      I glanced guiltily at the door and wondered how long Nathan would be gone. But did I really care if he found me missing?

      Remembering his condescension earlier, I decided that I definitely would not care. This wasn’t any of his business, and I only had a few precious days left to make my decision about the Movement. I deserved to know the truth about my undead birth. As much help as Nathan had been, it wasn’t his blood flowing through my veins.

      A curious ache filled me at the thought of Cyrus, and I wondered if this yearning was a symptom of the blood tie. And if it was, would this strange link protect me from more harm at the hands of my sire?

      Without allowing myself to dwell on fear, I stuffed the map into my pocket. I called in to work to say I wouldn’t be in. When I hung up, a vaguely empty feeling came over me, the realization that I might not return to the hospital. I forced the thought aside and opened the closet.

      Though there were plenty of weapons at my disposal, I took a stake, the smallest and easiest to conceal of the bunch. Besides, I knew what to do with a stake. The spiky-ball-on-a-stick thing looked considerably more complicated to operate. Of course, a stake wouldn’t protect me from Dahlia, if she was still waiting for me. But Nathan was a vampire hunter, not a witch hunter. I suppose I could douse her with water and melt her like in The Wizard of Oz, if it came to that.

      I almost left a note for Nathan but decided against it. I realized there was nothing I could write that wouldn’t seem like I’d turned my back on all of his help. There was no way to soften the truth.

      As helpful and considerate as he’d been, there were some questions Nathan couldn’t answer. For those, I’d have to face my fear the way I had that night in the morgue.

      I had to meet my sire.

      Six

      John Doe

      The day obviously hadn’t been a warm one. The twilight air was cold enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

      I’d found my wool coat hanging over the towel rack in the bathroom. It appeared Nathan had spot-cleaned the blood from it. But it didn’t keep me warm as I walked the miles from Nathan’s apartment to the address on the paper. Being dead had some serious disadvantages, like constantly assuming room temperature, no matter what that temperature might be.

      While my car still sat at the curb outside the bookshop, the keys were probably still on the ground outside the donor house. There was no way I’d go back there. I preferred walking.

      I was familiar with the posh neighborhood. When I’d been new to the city, I’d often drive through the winding streets and marvel at the modern mansions and fairy-tale châteaus. They looked completely out of place in the sparsely wooded area. Tall brick walls and elaborate gates wrapped around the lots. Some had privacy hedges with formidable-looking security cameras that glared at passersby with cold, glassy eyes. From the shelter of my car, I’d daydreamed about the people living in these houses and imagined living in one myself ten years down the road. The fantasies had always featured a handsome yet oddly faceless husband and our adorable, ambiguous children. Only one house had ever been the feature of a horror story in my mind.

      That one turned out to be Cyrus’s.

      A severe Edwardian manor, it sat far back on a lawn surrounded by a stone wall. The wrought-iron gate at the drive looked as though it hadn’t been opened in centuries. There was no intercom or bell. I gripped the iron bars and gave a push. The hinges didn’t creak, and the gate swung open to admit me.

      I’d never felt so exposed in my entire life as I walked toward the house. The driveway cut a paved swath through the lawn, which glowed an eerie green in the moonlight. Any moment, they’d release the dogs, I was sure. And I hated dogs.

      Lucky for me, no one seemed to notice my presence, even as I neared the front door. With every footstep my confidence built, until I got close enough to grasp the doorknob.

      The door was open.

      I froze. I’d believed no one had seen me coming. As I looked over my shoulder at the broad expanse of lawn, I realized how foolish that assumption had been. The full moonlight might as well have been stadium lighting. Not to mention someone was probably watching me through the security camera mounted above the lintel. I swallowed my fear and stepped inside.

      “Hello?” I called, my voice sounding like the dumb female protagonist of a slasher flick. “Your door is open.”

      “I know.”

      Before I could turn to find the source of the voice, strong arms wrapped around me. The echo of the slamming door sounded final, like the felling of a judge’s gavel.

      Whoever held me was not a vampire. I don’t know how I knew. I just did. Maybe it was the smell of his blood, or the surge of power I felt at the realization I could easily overcome him and make my escape. But the foyer was completely dark, and I had no idea where I’d find the door. Healing abilities and heightened reflexes were cool and all, but I really wished we came equipped with night vision. I cursed the total unfairness of it.

      “The Master doesn’t like that kind of language,” the man holding me admonished.

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