The Bonds of Blood (The Final Formula Series, Book 4.5) Read online

  THE BONDS OF BLOOD

  Becca Andre

  The Bonds Of Blood

  Copyright © 2016 by Becca Andre. All rights reserved.

  First Smashwords Edition: July 2016

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  James studied the body lying facedown at his feet. A crossbow quarrel was buried in the man’s side, making a closer examination unnecessary to determine how he had died. But apparently, the Paranormal Investigation Agency needed further confirmation.

  “Shot through the heart.” Agent Bruner rose to his feet, shucking off his gloves.

  James remembered Agent Bruner from the last murder scene he had attended. James’s brothers had been framed for the three deaths at that scene, but as it had turned out, they were not to blame. That wasn’t the case here. This man had died at his brothers’ hands—which left a knot of guilt in James’s stomach.

  “He collapsed almost instantly,” Agent Bruner continued, turning to Director Waylon. “I think you are correct about the shooter’s position.”

  “Amazing shot.” Director Waylon nodded at the open drive-through window behind the dead man. The quarrel had been shot from the woods bordering the building. A witness who had been pumping gas verified that no one had been at the window at the time of the shooting.

  “He was a little off,” James spoke up.

  “What makes you say that?” Rowan asked from his place beside Waylon. Rowan had called James at the hospital and asked him to drive over. James hated to leave Elysia’s side, but so far, he hadn’t had any success waking her from her coma. He might be able to help here. Besides, his brothers were his responsibility.

  “The shattered rib,” James answered.

  “You can tell the quarrel hit a rib by its placement?” Agent Bruner asked, sounding impressed.

  “No. I smell bone marrow.”

  Agent Bruner glanced at Waylon, his brows lifting.

  “You’re certain it was them?” Rowan asked. They were having some difficulty viewing the security footage from inside the store. A couple of agents were working on that now.

  “It is the quarrel George prefers.”

  “I’m sure a lot of hunters use them.”

  James took a step closer to the dead man and squatted beside the body.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Agent Bruner spoke up. “We haven’t dusted for prints.”

  James didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned forward and sniffed the fletching. The victim might have died quickly, but he had still left a pool of blood on the cement floor beneath him. The iron scent permeated the air, but James had no trouble discerning George’s familiar scent.

  James settled on his haunches to frown at the quarrel. “George fired the shot.”

  “Then we’ll find his prints on the quarrel.” Waylon nodded to a couple of agents standing nearby. They came forward to help Bruner with the body.

  “Sir?” another agent called to Waylon from the doorway to the back room. “We got the footage up if you want to see it.”

  “Excellent.” Waylon walked toward the man.

  Rowan followed and James fell in beside him, not so certain he wanted to see this. He knew Henry had been in the store and had been the one to empty the register, but he didn’t want to watch it transpire.

  The lights were off in the cramped back room that served as storage as well as the nerve center for the surveillance equipment. That equipment being an old 13-inch TV and a VHS recorder. No wonder the footage had given the agents so much trouble.

  “The tape has been recorded over many times,” the agent was explaining to Waylon. “The quality is rough. But we should be able to enhance it at the lab.”

  “Go ahead,” Waylon said.

  James crossed his arms and waited for the video to start playing. The agent was right. The image quality was terrible, but it was good enough to make out Henry as he stepped up to the counter and set a six-pack of beer on the surface. The camera was mounted above the drive-through window behind the clerk.

  Henry nodded and smiled, apparently in response to something the clerk said. The register drawer popped open, and the clerk stumbled to the side as a quarrel seemed to erupt from his ribs.

  James grunted.

  “What is it?” Rowan asked.

  “George wasn’t off on the shot. He hit the guy from the side so he wouldn’t fall straight forward and potentially close the register drawer. Sorry. I should have seen that.”

  Still smiling, Henry casually stepped behind the counter, pulled a plastic bag off the rack beside the register, and began emptying the drawer.

  “I don’t see how you could have possibly seen that,” Waylon said to James.

  James didn’t comment. He watched Henry finish filling his bag, then return to his place on the other side of the counter. He said something, smiling the whole time, before he picked up the six-pack and calmly walked out of the frame.

  The agent manning the video recorder stopped the tape and looked up at Waylon. “Chilling, huh? This man might not have killed the clerk, but he’s just as cold-blooded as the guy who fired the shot.”

  Waylon sighed, but didn’t comment. Maybe out of respect for James.

  “Director?” a male voice called from behind them. “We’ve completed our search of the woods along the line of trajectory. Nothing.”

  James turned to find a familiar agent addressing Waylon. The man glanced over at James and his eyes went wide. With a gasp that was almost a cry, he threw himself back, but slammed against a stack of boxes beside the door.

  Waylon moved almost as fast, catching the man’s splinted wrist before he could draw his weapon.

  “Marcus. Stop this,” Waylon commanded.

  James eyed the man, remembering well their last meeting. The agent had succeeded in drawing his gun that time and getting off a shot. The bullet had grazed Addie’s cheek. The scent of her blood had sent James straight into the Hunt. The Hunt for this man’s blood. How the agent had escaped with just a broken wrist was still a mystery to him.

  “Agent Marcus, are you listening to me?” Waylon demanded, struggling to hold the guy.

  James met the agent’s wide, dilated eyes. He was still annoyed that the man had come so close to hurting Addie, but in the absence of the Hunt, James now understood, and almost felt sorry for the guy.

  “Maybe a few more weeks of unpaid leave will help you regain control of your temper,” Waylon continued.

  “Don’t punish him for listening to his instincts,” James said.

  Waylon frowned. “If I release him, he’ll shoot you.”

  “It won’t hurt me.” Well, it would hurt, but it wouldn’t kill him. You couldn’t kill what was already dead.

  A flash of light, and Agent Marcus’s holster was suddenly empty.

  James glanced over at Rowan in time to watch the fire fade from his eyes. “Rowan.” James wanted to reprimand him, b
ut he couldn’t in front of the PIA. Addie had somehow helped Rowan rebuild his crumbling control, but he shouldn’t be using his magic. They had no idea how long Addie’s fix would last.

  “I don’t trust his aim,” Rowan said.

  James sighed.

  “Can I let you go, Agent?” Waylon asked his man. “Or do you need to be escorted out of here? Perhaps a psych evaluation is in order.”

  “He’s not crazy; he’s a Sensitive,” James said. Agent Marcus was one of those rare humans who could sense magic, but possessed none of their own. They were the only type of magical Waylon would hire. “He sees what I truly am.”

  “A grim,” Waylon said. “Every man in this room knows that, but none of them are trying to shoot you.”

  James took a step closer, but when Agent Marcus’s wide eyes went even wider, James stopped. “Tell him what I am.” James held the man’s gaze.

  “Death,” Agent Marcus whispered. His focus shifted to Waylon. “He’s Death. He shouldn’t be here.”

  “We need his help with this investigation,” Waylon said.

  “He doesn’t mean here.” James lifted his arms to indicate the building around them. “He means the mortal plane.”

  “Because you’re dead,” Waylon concluded.

  “No,” Agent Marcus insisted, his voice rising in pitch. “He is Death. The reaper of souls. He doesn’t belong here.”

  “He’s helping us.” Waylon frowned at the man. Clearly, the director wasn’t getting it.

  “I’m going to take a look in the woods,” James said, his eyes meeting Rowan’s before he headed for the door. He gave the terrified agent a wide berth and left the room. Crossing the small store in several quick strides, he stepped outside.

  A pair of agents stood just beyond the door. They had been talking, but fell silent when James walked out. He gave them a nod and headed for the side of the building.

  “Jesus, I didn’t know he was here,” one of the agents whispered to the other.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s magical. Some kind of shapeshifter. I saw him turn into a dog—except it was like no dog I ever saw.”

  His friend chuckled. “Scary.”

  James turned the corner, but he had no trouble hearing the agent’s soft reply.

  “Seriously. Ask anyone who was at the triple homicide at that cemetery. He’s not…natural. When he looks at you, I swear to God he can see your soul.”

  James sighed. That was a surprisingly accurate observation for a mundane human. He crossed the parking lot and stopped at the edge of the woods. A collection of old cigarette butts littered the area, their harsh scent competing with the smell of damp earth and new grass.

  James smelled neither of his brothers’ scents, but he still called the hound, using its vision to search the surrounding area for two familiar souls. Solid objects were not a hindrance, but distance was. George and Henry were not within his range, but that wasn’t to say they weren’t watching through binoculars—or a riflescope.

  Closing his eyes, James gave his animal instincts free rein. Was he being watched? It was hard to tell with Rowan’s eyes on him.

  “Anything?” Rowan stopped beside him.

  “Nothing. They’re gone.”

  “Are you going to search the trees?”

  James opened his eyes, gazing at the awakening woods before them. The undergrowth was turning green with the recent spring rains, and most of the trees were budding.

  “No need,” he answered Rowan. “They left nothing for me to find.”

  Rowan stared into the forest a moment before turning to him. “What that agent said… I know it bothers you.”

  “He’s a Sensitive. A powerful one. He sees the true nature of magic.” James shrugged. “And he’s right. I don’t belong here.”

  “James.”

  “Even Marian saw what I truly was. Remember? She told you that you’d meet Death.”

  “Marian adores you.”

  James smiled, thinking about the precocious eight-year-old seer. “She also thinks my other form is cute.”

  Rowan chuckled. “As long as she doesn’t think this form is cute.”

  James smiled at the joke, though he continued to study the trees.

  Rowan’s hand settled on his shoulder. “I think you’re more than Death’s unwelcome face on the mortal plane.”

  “Thanks, but that doesn’t change what I am.”

  “What’s that? My brother?”

  James pulled his attention from the forest to stare at Rowan. “Brother?”

  “You’re part of my family.”

  “I’m not New Magic.”

  Rowan smiled. “How do you know? You weren’t even born when magic returned.”

  “Gavin was,” James said, referring to the grim that had preceded him. “Prior to that necromancer finding him, he had been entombed for centuries. The grim isn’t New Magic. One has always been around since the first was created—with alchemy.”

  “Addie says that when one grim dies, another is born. How does that work?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Babies take nine months to develop.”

  “Human babies.” James returned his attention to the trees, though he could feel Rowan watching him.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  James sighed. “What I know comes from George and Henry. How accurate their story is, I can’t say. Brian was too young to really remember more than our mother’s screams.”

  When Rowan didn’t speak, James glanced over and found him frowning.

  “Yeah, I know,” James said. “Another horror story from my past. I had the childhood from hell—literally.”

  “You do know that none of that was your fault. You had no control over the magic.”

  “Much like you didn’t have control of yours in the beginning?” When Rowan lost control of the Fire and accidentally killed his entire family.

  Rowan dipped his head in acquiescence. “Touché. Though I would argue that I had a little more control of my magic at that moment than you did at your birth.”

  James grunted. “I will concede that.”

  Rowan watched him, clearly expecting him to continue the story.

  James sighed. What the hell. “George was twelve and Henry was eight. They were all sitting around watching TV when something came over our father. He went into some kind of frenzy, grabbed our mother, and took her right there.”

  “Dear God.” Rowan lifted his lip in disgust. “In front of his children?”

  “I was born the next morning.”

  “The next morning?” Rowan’s brows rose almost to his hairline. “How is that even possible?”

  “It’s not meant to be. My mother didn’t survive, and I was stillborn, though I shifted forms almost immediately. I’m told I remained that way for the first few weeks.”

  “You could shapeshift at birth?”

  “I spent most of my first year as an animal. Probably because the mobility was better.”

  Rowan laughed at the joke, but James couldn’t help but wonder what he really thought, especially when Rowan fell silent, seeming to consider all James had told him.

  “But your father was a Hunter, right?” Rowan asked after a moment. “How did he father a grim?”

  “The grim is born of the Hunter line. When Gavin died, my father was the only adult Hunter. That’s how it works.”

  Rowan grunted. “And you developed at the normal rate after your birth?”

  “More or less. My senses and reflexes weren’t normal, but I was always the same size as other kids my age—not that my brothers let me fraternize much.” Friends were a luxury he had never been allowed—until Addie.

  “I’ve noticed that they’re a little protective of you.”

  “To put it mildly.
”

  Rowan studied him. “And George and Henry are the last of the line?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain? They don’t strike me as the type to do the right thing in any situation. I doubt a box of condoms makes it on their grocery list very often.”

  “Maybe the universe decided that enough is enough.” James fumbled around for some distraction. He did not want to discuss this with Rowan. “I need to get back to the hospital. I’ve done all I can here.”

  “Let’s go grab a bite to eat first. You haven’t left that hospital in a week. The food has got to be getting old.”

  “It won’t kill me.”

  Rowan smiled. “Avoiding death is not the only reason to eat.” His expression sobered. “Has there been any change at all?”

  “None.” James glared at the trees. Elysia was showing no signs of coming out of her coma. “I might be Death’s unwelcome face on the mortal plane, but I can’t do shit about the real thing.”

  “I think you’ve been sitting alone listening to those monitors beep for too long. Spend some time with Addie. She thinks even Death will bend to her will.”

  “I usually do.”

  Rowan laughed. “Come on.” He clapped James on the shoulder and began walking toward where their cars were parked.

  “I can get takeout somewhere,” James relented.

  “Elysia’s grandmother is with her. She’ll call if they need you.”

  “Hospitals are haunted. I keep the ghosts from bothering Elysia.” Necromancers tended to be ghost magnets. Elysia certainly was.

  “Is she aware of the ghosts?”

  “I don’t know. But it gives me a purpose.”

  “I understand. Takeout it is.”

  James stepped through the door of Elysia’s hospital room, the bag containing his burger and fries crinkling in his hand. His eyes were drawn to the narrow bed where Elysia lay, her position the same as when he left.

  “Any change?” he asked Grams and Livie, who were already on their feet collecting their coats.

  “No,” Grams answered with a sigh.

  James had known what the answer would be. He had been listening to the steady rhythm of Elysia’s heart monitor as he came up the hall. It hadn’t changed, either.