Forbidden Blood

Chapter 1: Mercury Eyes

Vaelthorn City. Two days before the semester begins.

Lena's POV

The bass slams into me at the doors, vibrating through the sidewalk and up into my bones deep enough to throw my heartbeat off rhythm for half a second. My eardrums ring from how loud the music is.

Mara grabs my wrist, pulling me forward into the line. "You promised you'd try to have fun tonight."

"I said I'd show up. You thought otherwise."

"You're exhausting." Mara rolls her eyes skyward, though her grip doesn't loosen.

The bouncer steps in front of us near the entrance. He has tanned skin and a bulky build, his black suit stretching tight across wide shoulders. A dark mask hides the lower half of his face, but there's something about his almost golden gaze that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

Mara flashes him a familiar smile. "Hi, Nico."

He unclips the velvet rope without looking at her, his attention dragging over me. Then he steps aside to let us through.

Mara tugs me behind her, navigating the narrow entryway just in case I change my mind and disappear on her. I was never the party type, not changing anytime soon.

Heat rolls over my skin the moment we step inside, carrying a heavy mix of clashing perfumes mingled with sweat and alcohol. Underneath all of it sits another smell I can't quite name. Wet iron maybe? That's the closest word I have for it, except that's not quite right either.

My feet halt two steps inside at the sight ahead.

Bodies crush together beneath the dim lights, hips grinding together with fingers slipping under clothes and mouths finding whatever skin they can reach. A girl laughs with her head tipped back against the chest of a man swiping his tongue up her sweaty throat. Gross and nobody seems to think anything of it.

Neon flashes over the crowd in violent bursts, making faces appear and vanish in the darkness. It flickers at the exact time a top gets yanked down, pink nipples on fair skin bouncing free and a mouth lowers toward them. The light cuts away, hiding the rest.

What the hell kind of club did Mara bring me to?

Every instinct tells me to leave, but curiosity plants my feet where they are.

As if summoned, Mara appears at my side, pressing a drink into my hand with condensation dripping down the glass onto my fingers. The liquid glows swirling blue.

"You're doing that face again." She looks at me over the rim of her cup as she sips.

"What face?" I lift a brow.

"The serial killer observation face."

"I'm observing."

"You're judging."

"Then I'm doing both."

She snorts and scans the room. "Relax. Rich college kids grinding on each other isn't new."

Maybe. But this place presses against my nerves in a way I can't explain.

I take a cautious sip of the blue liquid, tasting sweetness first, followed by a metallic flavor that floods my tongue. My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth, checking for a cut. Nothing.

My mouth pulls into a grimace. "This tastes concerning."

Mara steals the drink from my hand for a sip. "Tastes expensive."

"So does bleach."

She laughs so loud it earns a dirty look from a couple near us. Mara grins directly at them until they turn away first.

I envy that about her. Mara moves through every room as though nothing in the world could ever touch her. I never knew people moved that way cause I walk into unfamiliar places counting the exits before I even notice the décor. Like now I've noticed the front door behind us. Emergency exit beside the main bar.

And a dark hallway near the back, partially hidden behind black curtains.

A figure stands in the shadow of it, dressed entirely in black. A hood hides most of his face, leaving only the line of his jaw visible when the lights sweep past. Light reflects a black cross pendant at his collar, swinging loose. He notices and tucks it away. He moves through the crowd without touching anyone, pulls the hood lower, then turns his back, and slips into the corridor.

Hmm, strange person in the club number 1.

An elbow strikes my rib, snapping my attention back. I scowl, glare already loading. A woman whips around, her hair sticking on my lip gloss and I yank it free.

"I'm…so sorry, I didn't see you." She slurs, hugging a bottle of red liquid, then disappears through the crowd.

Guess nobody moves through a packed club untouched. My fingers rub the ache beneath my ribs.

A scream rises from the balcony overhead, echoing down from the VIP section where the lights hit the metal railings in silver instead of red.

My eyes lift.

And land on him.

Dark hair, eyes pale as mercury in the strobing dark. A woman sprawls across his lap, her dress barely counting as fabric riding up her thighs. Her fingers grip the collar of his black shirt, her blonde hair spills across his shoulder.

My gaze drops lower to find his fingers underneath her red lace panties, sliding in slow. She rocks her hips shamelessly into his hand, whimpering like a dog in heat.

I look away fast, heat crawling up my neck.

Okay, definitely a sex club.

A weight presses between my shoulder blades and that's when I know someone is staring. I look up anyway. Big mistake.

His eyes lock onto mine, pinning me in place. His lips move as he talks to the men around him while his hand keeps its rhythm inside her. His other hand turns his glass in an unhurried circle.

Nearby, somebody curses over a spilled drink as glass shatters against the floor near the bar, but he never breaks contact. Staring at me as if it could suck my soul.

I've had my share of attractive men look my way. None watch like this. An old, unreadable weight sits behind his stare, and the room shrinks around it.

He tips his glass toward me, the corner of his mouth lifting into what isn't a smile, but worse.

I look away first. Obviously.

Mara appears beside me again and follows my stare upward. "Oh no."

"What?"

"You made eye contact with balcony boy." Her whole face goes dramatic, her eyebrows climbing.

"I did not make eye contact with balcony boy."

"You're flushed."

"The club is one hundred degrees."

"Mm."

I hate that sound.

My attention drops to my drink again, condensation coating the glass thick enough to drag a line through. My thumb's already moving across it subconsciously. A line curves through the fogged surface, followed by another that crosses it, and then one more.

My thumb stops when I realize what I'm doing.

This symbol again. I track every curve of it as the bass rattles the glass in my hand. I've drawn this symbol for as long as I can remember. On steamed bathroom mirrors, in notebook margins, and across mom's rusty, fogged-up car windows. Even once, during a math final, I looked down and found it inked across the back of my own hand without no memory of picking up the pen.

I wipe it from the glass fast almost causing the cup slips and spill the drink. A sudden heat flares against my hand the moment the lines disappear. I jerk my hand back, slamming the cup down onto a tray nearby.

What just happened? I stare at my hand still feeling the heat traveling through my fingertips.

A laugh drifts down from above cancelling my thoughts. It comes out raspy and masculine.

I know I shouldn't look but I do.

Mercury eyes are still waiting, watching me.