Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
RACHEL VINCENT
“I liked the character and loved the action. I look
forward to reading the next book in the series.”
Charlaine Harris
“Vincent is a welcome addition to this genre!”
Kelley Armstrong
“Compelling and edgy, dark and evocative, Stray is a must read! I loved it from beginning to end.” Gena Showalter
“I had trouble putting this book down. Every time
I said I was going to read just one more chapter,
I’d find myself three chapters later.”
—Bitten by Books on Stray
“Vincent continues to impress with the freshness of her
approach and voice. Action and intrigue abound.”
—RT Book Reviews
Blood Bound
Rachel Vincent
Find out more about Rachel Vincent by visiting
mirabooks.co.uk/rachelvincent
and read Rachel’s blog at urbanfantasy.blogspot.com
Also available from Rachel Vincent
The Shifters series
STRAY
ROGUE
PRIDE
PREY
SHIFT
ALPHA
Soul Screamers series
MY SOUL TO TAKE
MY SOUL TO SAVE
MY SOUL TO KEEP
MY SOUL TO STEAL
And look for the thrilling second instalment in
Rachel’s new Unbound series
SHADOW BOUND
Available in 2012
To #1, who understands that a writer can never really leave her work at work. I live in my own head, constantly distracted from the real world by the ones I make up, and it takes someone special to put up with that. I hope you know how special you are. And I didn’t even have to make you up.
Acknowledgments
Thanks first and foremost to my husband, my #1 fan, for listening to all the crazy brainstorming that went into this book without betraying any hint that the author may be as crazy as the ideas. You’re the most wonderful sounding board ever.
Thanks as always to Rinda Elliott, my longtime critique partner and the first to see every book I write. You’re my second pair of eyes, and I always appreciate the fresh viewpoint.
Thanks to my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, for guidance and patience. And for pronouncing this manuscript “twisted,” then liking it anyway.
And thanks to everyone at MIRA Books, who made it all happen. There are so many more of you behind me than I would ever have guessed when I was first starting out, and I sometimes think books should get credit reels, like movies.
One
Only two-thirty in the morning, and I already had blood on my hands. The most messed-up part of that? It was the hour that bothered me.
“You sure it’s him, Liv?” Booker swiped one hand over his sweaty, stubbly face as we stared at the lit window on the third floor. The apartment building was long and plain, like a cracker box on its side, and the moonless night only smeared the sides of the featureless building into the ambient darkness.
I nodded, shoving both cold, chapped hands into my jacket pockets. It was warm for early March, but still cold for me.
“How sure?”
My eyes closed, and again I clutched the blood-stiffened swatch of cloth in my right pocket, inhaling deeply through my nose, and the world exploded into a bouquet of scents. Relying on years of training, I sorted through them rapidly, mentally tossing aside those I couldn’t use. The metal tang of several huge trash bins. The chemical bite of Booker’s cologne. And the pervasive, ambient smells of life east of the river—motor oil, fried food and sweat.
What was left, with those more obvious smells out of the way, was the trail I’d followed all over town, as much a feel as a true scent, and a virtual match to the blood sample in my pocket.
I am a Tracker. More specifically—and colloquially—I’m a bloodhound. Given a decent, recent sample of your blood, I can find you no matter where you hide. Officially, my range is about eighty miles—on the high end of average. Unofficially … well, let’s just say I’m good at what I do. But not too good. Too much Skill will get you noticed. And I know better than to get noticed.
Booker cleared his throat and I opened my eyes to find myself staring up at the lit window again—the only occupant still awake. “Ninety-five percent. It’s either him or a close male relative, and that’s the best you’re gonna get with a dry blood sample,” I said, as water dripped from a gutter somewhere to my left. “Tell Rawlinson I’ll send him a bill.”
Booker pulled his black ski cap over his ears. “He’s not gonna like that.”
“I don’t give a shit what he likes.” I turned and walked back the way I’d come, listening as my steel-toed work boots echoed in the alley. I was exhausted and pissed off from being woken at two on a Friday morning, yet still pleased for the excuse to charge nearly double my usual rate. Office space in the south fork doesn’t come cheap.
“Warren!” a deep voice barked from behind me, and I groaned beneath my breath. I turned slowly to see Adam Rawlinson step out from behind a rusty Dumpster, his dark hair, skin and expensive wool coat blending into the thick shadows. No telling how long he’d been there. Watching. Listening.
Travelers—shadow-walkers—were notorious for shit like that. They can step into a shadow in their own homes and step out of another shadow across town a split second later. You never know they’re coming until they’re already there. It’s a convenient Skill—except when it’s annoying as hell.
