by J. A. Saare
He reached out with his mind, listening for any thoughts she might inadvertently share. After a terse minute, he stopped, confused and agitated. It was as if there was an impenetrable barrier between them shielding her mind from his.
“What is she?” he asked, curious and intrigued.
Greyson’s throaty growl demanded his attention once more. “Off-limits.”
Further argument was silenced when the door opened and Taylor Martinson walked in with four vampyren in tow. They seemed completely out of place in their business suits, expensive cuff links, and ties.
“That’s my cue.” Greyson slid out of the booth, stopped at the edge of the table, and peered down. “I meant what I said. Steer clear of that female. Things won’t end in the way you’re hoping for.” He reached into his pocket, removed a set of keys, worked one free and then tossed it over. “I’m not sure where you’re staying, but the apartment is yours if you want it.”
Wolfe accepted the key and slid it into his pocket. “Appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
Greyson’s departing back brushed past Taylor’s shoulder as he weaved through the accompanying entourage. Wolfe didn’t bother rising to greet them. He remained quiet and observant while Taylor took a seat and the vampyren took places behind the booth, standing at the ready.
“Wolfe.” Taylor’s voice was different, bordering on lyrical. It was a common occurrence when one ingested vampire blood on a regular basis and began taking on their traits.
“Taylor.” He acknowledged the greeting by notching his head.
“You look well.” Taylor got settled as he spoke, undoing the buttons on his expensive navy blue jacket and then smoothing the matching tie. His straw blond hair was neatly combed, his skin clear of stubble and baby-bottom smooth.
Wolfe didn’t bother echoing the sentiment. Vampires had an angelic and beautiful appearance, but it didn’t erase their lifestyle or morbid eating habits. Something Lycae abhorred.
Instead, he polished off his drink and said, “That’s always good to hear.”
“Better than the alternative?”
“I don’t know,” Wolfe quipped sardonically. “You tell me.”
The thin smile on Taylor’s face evaporated. “Let’s just get to it, shall we? Lucius is willing to accept your olive branch, but he has a stipulation.”
“I wasn’t aware we were negotiating.”
“If you want to keep the peace, a display of solidarity is necessary to prove it.” Taylor’s once-brown eyes went black. “Your Alpha killed a powerful master, someone that cannot be easily replaced.”
Feigning disinterest, he shrugged and asked, “What exactly would you like me to do?”
Taylor smiled broadly and leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table and interlocking his long, pale fingers. “That’s simple. Someone followed us here. Someone we want taken care of. You do this, and all is forgiven.”
Wolfe snickered and lowered his head, smiling just the same. It figured. Vampires were never good at ridding themselves of unwanted problems. They were fast and powerful, but relied on brains, not brawn.
“You want me to kill someone?”
“That would be preferable.” Taylor nodded, smile intact. “But a maiming would work just as nicely. We want to send the message that acting against the king isn’t in anyone’s best interest—especially hers.”
Wolfe’s smiled vanished, and he narrowed his eyes at the all-but-human blood drinker across the table. “Her?”
The response was purely condescending. “Surely the prospect of cowing a female doesn’t intimidate you.”
“I don’t attack women, Taylor.” He couldn’t contain the throaty snarl that accompanied his words.
The former friendliness was gone, replaced with an uncompromising finality when Taylor said, “That is the price of peace between the vampyren and the Lycae. Take it or leave it.”
“I won’t kill a female for your king—any female.”
“Then don’t.” Taylor’s lyrical snarl was laughable at best. “Leave her breathing, if you must. But ensure that she understands the position she places herself in by killing off our kind. We’ll appreciate a hard lesson learned equally as much as a loss of life or limb.”
Wolfe’s grin was as his named implied—wolflike. A female killing off leeches couldn’t be all bad. Not to a Lycae.
“She’s killing off vampyren?”
“Yes,” Taylor quipped furiously. “And she’s targeting masters specifically.”
Even better.
“Seems to me”—Wolfe sat back and placed his large arms along the back of the booth—“that a Master should be able to take on one measly little female. If he can’t, he’s not worthy of leading his own army.”
“She kills them while they rest,” Taylor spat, fingers winding into tight fists that landed with a heavy thud on the table. “No vampire—vampyren, Thymeria, or otherwise—can defend themselves when the sun is at its zenith.”
His curiosity was officially tweaked.
He arched a thick, dark eyebrow and asked, “She’s a slayer?”
“No.” Taylor inhaled sharply and shook his head. “She’s something far more deadly.”
“And what might that be?”
Taylor slid from the booth, and the vampyren were instantly behind him, taking up the space at his back and sides. “If you want to know, you can find out right now. Will you accept the terms? Or do I need to tell Lucius you’ve decided the vampyren and Lycae must war?”
Chapter Two
Arden left her chair and exited Greyson’s Pub the instant the vampyren slave rose from his seat across from the Lycae. She took refuge in the shadows provided by the building across the way, moving to stand alongside a large black limo with tinted windows while she waited for her target to exit the building.
Her body hummed in excitement, adrenaline pouring through her central nervous system and coursing through her veins. The electricity created by anticipation spiked in a dizzying high crafted by the ever-smart glory of nature, allowing her to observe in a triple focus—eyes, ears, and nose sharp.
Taylor was the only known individual with access to Lucius Mercoix. He was the liaison for all vampyren matters, speaking on behalf of the king in all things. And tracking him had been absolute hell.
Vampyren were reckless because of bloodlust, but they weren’t stupid.
She closed her eyes and forced calm to replace eagerness. Now was not the time to bask in the promise of retribution. Years of diligence were about to meet fruition, but only if she got her head on straight and focused. The information from a dying master vampyren that had led her to Taylor may or may not have been tainted.
This opportunity was good—too fucking good.
Remembering her purpose, she removed her gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of her coat before allowing the long layers of leather to slide down the tight black turtleneck to rest in an indistinct lump at her feet.
Taylor was accompanied by his trusted four, assassins who would rend an immortal in two. And he was meeting with a Lycae, of all things. She shivered when she recalled how massive the hound of hell was, envisioning him as he sat relaxed and imposing at the table. His chiseled body, chin-length black hair, and darkly shadowed face were impressive as hell. But there was a very real danger waiting beneath the cool façade.
A danger called death.
Regardless of his reason for meeting with vampyren, Lycae detested vampires. It was a well known and indisputable fact.
There was no better time than the present to prepare.
Drifting over daggers attached to harnesses on each leg and Berettas slung beneath each arm, she went through the weapons attached to her with a familiar, lingering caress. Clips were arranged along the back of her belt, ensuring ammunition wouldn’t be a problem.
With a deft motion, she freed the gun to the right, emptied the clip into her opposite hand, and scanned the rounds before snapping it back in place with a firm thr
ust of her palm. She returned the Beretta to the holster and felt for her back pocket. The poor man’s dental pliers were ready and waiting.
She drew a deep breath and released it just as slowly, savoring the moment and what it meant. The time was at hand. A vow would soon be settled, and a life would be avenged. All that was left was an additional period of waiting. She’d been patient this long, a little longer wasn’t asking for much.
Soon, Portia.
Soon.
Wistful, she perched her shoulder against the brisk brick wall and started whistling.
Chapter Three
Mindful of his much longer legs as he slid free, Wolfe squeezed out of the booth to follow Taylor and his men. It was a blessing and a curse, being so large. On one hand, it ensured a heated glance got the job done with minimal physical effort. On the other, it meant low ceilings and too small furniture were a common occurrence.
He glanced at the corner. The girl Greyson warned him away from was no longer occupying the seat. It had been decades since he’d been interested in any female, and even longer since he’d had a decent fuck.
It hadn’t bothered him before, but it did now.
He recalled Deidre Varmour, and his hackles rose in disgust. The bitch used magic to bewitch him as a pawn in her own personal fucking vendetta, and had all but ruined him in the aftermath. He hadn’t had much use for females after that, swearing them off them permanently.
Perhaps it was best the mystery woman was gone, he thought grimly. He’d likely take his contempt for one female out on another.
“I’ll take the front,” one of the vampyren announced, moved before Taylor, and then strode to the front door. He exited the building, the remaining vampyren directly on his heels.
The crisp autumn air crashed into the building, the delectable scent of jambalaya and red beans in the distance causing his stomach to rumble. Dinner was next on the agenda. Nothing sated hunger like fresh biscuits, refried beans and rice, and a side of gumbo. His plane had landed before he’d enjoyed a proper meal, and alcohol on an empty stomach was just asking for trouble.
The motion of the line came to an abrupt halt, and he stopped thinking with his suddenly ravenous appetite and peered up and over the heads of the guards. A small black shape appeared, standing in front.
A soft feminine voice warned, “I suggest you move.”
Her request was met with the threatening baritone of the vampyren in front. “Move me.”
A wet gurgle sounded, bubbly and out of place, and Wolfe watched in disbelief as the vampyren’s head wobbled and then detached from his shoulders. Taylor pressed back against him as the remaining guards flew from the building and went on the offensive.
Growling thickly and shoving him away, Wolfe demanded, “What the fuck?”
“It’s her.” Taylor’s fear was apparent in both his face and his voice. “I told you the bitch would be here.”
Wolfe watched the small figure spin and duck, dodging blows and kicks, and he froze in astonishment when he placed her as the female inside the bar. Her skill at physical combat was impeccable, her speed uncanny and decisively inhuman. The daggers in her grasp were like an extension of her hands, delivering deep slices that spewed blood into the air in a vivid red spray.
“If you want peace with Lucius, you’ll stop her.” Taylor’s voice was wheezy and weak, accompanied by a stark fear that burned Wolfe’s nostrils.
“How will he know I didn’t?” Wolfe derided, his eyes following the girl as she moved with a grace that belied her nature.
She is too damned fast to be mortal.
He turned to Taylor and returned his stare, adding sarcastically, “You’ll be too dead to tattle.”
“Fool.” Taylor pressed into the door as if he could vanish into the leather. “My death is how he’ll know. If I don’t return, he’ll take it as a declaration of war.”
“War means two sides engage in combat. Your king doesn’t want to fuck with the Lycae. He knows better.”
“You’re right, he doesn’t.” Taylor smiled arrogantly. “No more than your cousin wants another burden on his back to derail his ascension as Alpha. We didn’t come here because you fear our kind. We came here because we are another obstacle you cannot risk.”
Wolfe smiled back, this time in anger. His vision shifted, allowing him to see in wolf clarity. Taylor stopped sneering and backed away, but not before Wolfe delivered a hearty blow to his nose and broke the bone with a satisfying crunch. A pitiful cry of pain was muffled by the hand that rushed to stem the gushing fountain of blood.
“You’re right. It’s an obstacle Luke doesn’t need at the moment. But for future reference, don’t threaten me or mine. You might get what you want, but you won’t leave happy.”
Wolfe turned and watched the battle unfold. One of the vampyren moved close and the female seized the opportunity, lurching into him and then whipping behind his back. Her hand latched onto his jaw, and she forced his head up and back. The dagger severed the tissue and muscle easily. She released the body, dropped the head, and crouching down and breathing shallow, went back to work.
The two remaining vampyren went for guns in their jackets, but she interrupted them with gunfire of her own, sliding the daggers into the sheaths on her legs and retrieving the guns tucked against her ribs in the same smooth motion. She stood tall to unleash hell’s fury into thick heads and spongy torso’s. Bullets whizzed past her and she ducked behind an alley for cover, reappearing in seconds with fresh clips and more gunfire.
“What the hell is she?” he whispered, awestruck and fascinated.
Taylor removed a handkerchief from his pocket, padded his nose, and spoke scathingly through the thin material. “She’s an outcast, unwanted by either race that bore her.”
Wolfe’s jaw clenched and he stared at the vampyren slave through narrowed eyes. “She moves like a vampire and fights like the Thymeria.”
“That’s probably because she was a member of the human faction. But that was years ago. As for being vampire—”
Wolfe stopped listening as he was forced to intercept the oncoming female in question. The remaining vampyren were down and squirming weakly atop the blocked concrete, and she was homed in on one person he didn’t particularly care for himself—Taylor.
Damn it.
Subduing an unwilling female wasn’t how he envisioned his first night back in New Orleans. He had wanted to relax with decent food and even better music. Not engage in a scuffle with a tiny girl that just put the beat down on four vampyren.
Should be thanking her for the community fucking service.
“Get the hell out of here,” he snarled at Taylor and stepped forward.
If she was intimidated by his much larger size, it didn’t show. She never slowed in her trek, releasing the clip in her sidearm with a flick of her thumb and sending it dancing along the asphalt. Her free hand wound behind her back in the same motion and returned with a new, fully loaded clip. She swiftly slammed the cartridge into the gun and locked it in place with her palm.
She was forced to peer up as she moved, and he finally got a glimpse of her eyes. The irises were a deep hued blue, as dark and vast as the clearest midnight sky. And the threat glimmering inside those devastating, beautiful orbs was exacting.
“Out of my way, Lycae.”
Her soft voice was like brandished velvet against his spine, causing his skin to ripple and the hair on his arms to rise in recognition. The bones in his body seemed to thrum, along with something else that had lain dormant his entire life. He shook his head hard and faced the furious female with the voice of a siren, the face of an angel, and the body of a goddess.
“I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can,” she purred, lifted the gun, and cocked the hammer for added effect.
Christ, but she’s ballsy.
Mindful of the shiny obsidian sidearm, he reminded her softly, “Bullets don’t work on us, cher.”
“Sure they do.” Her voice was h
usky and slightly accented, as lullingly sweet as the honeysuckle radiating from her skin. “If they’re made of silver.”
He stepped forward and was rewarded with a bitch of a sting in his chest, followed immediately by another. The excruciating burn that accompanied the sharp bite scoring the skin inside his chest and rending tissue was devastating. He withheld the grimace that would reveal the pain she wrought, meeting her level stare and grinding his teeth together.
“I missed the heart intentionally, Lycae.” She peered around him for a moment and returned those glorious blue eyes to his face, gun level and at the ready. “I won’t a second time.”
