Fuller's hips lifted and rocked. Emma shifted her grip on his throat. Fuller's voice rose an octave, took on a sing-song rhythm. "But when I came to your house, I smelled her. Oh, Miss Letty, Letty, Letty—"
Emma tightened her jaw, cutting off the sick refrain, but the bastard's hips continued to thrust up and down.
"Hold still," Nathan ordered.
Fuller lowered his hand again, but his other hand moved beneath his waist, pulling out—
"Gun, Emma!" Nathan shouted. "Get back!"
Her jaws clamped around Fuller's neck as she twisted away. The rip of flesh was drowned by the roar of a gunshot.
Emma yelped. Nathan shoved her to the side, stomped his boot into the bloody cavity she'd opened in Fuller's throat. He aimed between the bastard's eyes and fired.
Nathan whipped around. Emma lay on the ground, blood spreading over and melting the snow beneath her.
"Emma, Emma, Emma." He fell to his knees, lifted her head onto his lap, stroked his hands over her fur, searching. It was a belly shot. Bad. Really bad for most wolves. "Tell me you're going to be okay."
He heard the crack, felt her ribs bulge beneath his hands. "Jesus Christ, Emma." He tore out of his coat, covered her with it, held her through the transformation. As soon as she lay panting and sweating in his arms, he said, "I just meant for you to nod your head."
She laughed breathlessly, showing him her pale stomach. Blood stained her skin, but the wound had vanished. "Nice trick, huh?"
His relief grabbed him by his throat, and took away any response he might have had. He hauled her up, sealed her mouth with his kiss, let her feel every emotion rushing through him. She clung to him, returned everything he gave.
He stood and swung her up against his chest, her bare legs dangling over his arm. They stared down at Fuller's body for a silent moment, then Nathan began carrying her toward the house.
He took a long breath. "So, in a little while, once we've got everything settled, maybe you'll take a risk with me."
She lifted her head to look at him. "Marry you?"
His stomach dropped, but there wasn't a bit of him that didn't like the idea. "Well, that, too. But I'm thinking more along the lines of you…biting me." He brushed his lips against her mouth which had fallen open in surprise. "I'd like to run with you."
Tears shimmered in her eyes before she buried her face against his neck. "Yes," she said. "Of course it's yes. We can be our own little pack." Her lips kissed his skin; her teeth followed it with a nip.
He laughed, pressed his lips over her hair. "Let me get you home first."
"I'm with you," she said simply, and her arms tightened around his neck. "So I'm already there."
THE END
About the author: Meljean is the bestselling author of the Guardians series and the Iron Seas series. She was raised in the middle of the woods, and hid under her blankets at night with fairy tales, comic books, and romances. Meljean left the forest and went on a misguided tour through the world of accounting before focusing on her first loves, reading and writing–and she realized that monsters, superheroes, and happily-ever-afters are easily found between the covers, as well as under them, so she set out to make her own. Meljean lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and daughter.
Find out more about Meljean at her website: http://meljeanbrook.com/
GRACE OF SMALL MAGICS
Ilona Andrews
"Never look them in the eye." Uncle Gerald murmured.
Grace nodded. He'd calmed down some when they had boarded the plane, enough to offer her a reassuring smile, but now as they landed, he turned pale. Sweat gathered at his hairline. Gripping his cane, he scanned the human currents of the airport as they entered the terminal building. His fingers shook on the pewter wolf's head handle. She'd seen him take out a couple of men half his age with that cane, but she doubted it would do them any good now.
He cleared his throat, licking his dry lips. "Never contradict. Never ask questions. Don't speak until you're spoken to and then say as little as you can. If you're in trouble, bow. They consider it below them to strike a bowing servant."
Grace nodded again. This was the sixth time he recited the instructions to her. She realized it calmed him down, like a prayer, but his trembling voice ratcheted her own anxiety until it threatened to burst into an overwhelming panic. The airport, the booming announcements spilling from the speaker, the crush of the crowd, all of it blended into a smudged mess of colors and noises. Her mouth tasted bitter. Deep inside her a small voice protested, "This is just crazy. This can't be real."
"It will be fine," Gerald muttered hoarsely. "It will be fine."
They passed the gates into a long hallway. The bag slipped off her shoulder, and Grace pulled it back on. The simple action crested her panic. She stopped. Her heart hammered, a steady heavy pressure pushing on her chest from inside out. A soft dullness clogged her ears. She heard herself breathing.
Twelve hours ago she woke up four states away, ate her usual breakfast of an egg and a toasted English muffin, and got ready to go to work, just like she had done every day. Then the doorbell rang and Uncle Gerald was on her doorstep with a wild story.
Grace always knew her family was special. They had power. Small magic - insignificant even - but it was more than ordinary people had, and Grace had realized early on she had to hide it. She knew there were other magic users in the world, because her mother had told her so, but she had never met any of them. She'd thought they were like her, armed with minor powers and rare.
According to Gerald, she was wrong. There were many other magic users in the world. Families, whole clans of them. They were dangerous, deadly, and capable of terrible things. And one of these clans had their family in bonded service. They could call upon them at any time, and they had done so for years, demanding her mother's assistance whenever they needed it. Three days ago they requested Grace. Her mother had told her nothing; she simply went in her place. But Clan Dreoch called Gerald. They wanted Grace and only Grace. And so she flew to Midwest, still dizzy from having her world turned upside down and listening to Gerald's shaky voice as he told stories of terrible magic.
Her instincts screamed to run away, back into the airport filled with people who had no concept of magic. It was just an animal reaction, Grace told herself. The Dreochs had her mother and if she did run, her mother would have to take her place. Grace was twenty six years old. She knew her responsibilities. She had no doubt her mother wouldn't survive whatever they demanded, otherwise they wouldn't have required her presence. Grace knew what she had to do, but her nerves had been rubbed raw, and she simply stood, unable to move, her muscles locked into a rigid knot. She willed her body to obey, but it refused.
The crowd of people parted. A man stood at the end of the hallway. He seemed too large somehow, too tall, too broad, and emanating power. He loomed, a spot of otherworldly magic among people who stubbornly ignored his existence. She saw him with preternatural clarity, from ash blond hair falling to his shoulders to the pale green eyes, brimming with mournful melancholy like the eyes of a Russian icon. His was the face of a brute: powerful, stubborn, aggressive, almost savage in its severity.
He looked straight at her and in the depths of those green irises she saw an unspoken confirmation: he knew. He knew who she was, why she was here, and more, if she were to turn around and dash away, he wouldn't chase her. The choice was hers and he was content to let her decide.
The flow of people blocked him and she reeled, released from the spell of his eyes.
Uncle Gerald thrust into her view. "What is it? You have to come now, we can't keep them waiting, we—"
She looked at him, suddenly calm. Whatever would be would be. Her family owed a debt. Her mother had been paying it for years, carrying the burden alone. It was her turn. "Uncle," she said, holding on to her new-found peace.
"Yes?"
"You have to be quiet now. They're here."
He stared at her, stunned. Grace shouldered he
r bag and walked on.
They reached the end of the hallway. The man was gone, but Grace didn't worry about it. She headed to the twin slope of escalators. Behind her Gerald mumbled something to himself. They took the escalator down to the baggage claim.
"Grace!" The shot laced her ears. She wheeled about and saw her mother on the escalator rising in the opposite direction. Her mother stared at her, a horrified expression stamped on her face.
"Mom!"
"Grace! What are you doing here?"
Mother turned around and clutched the escalator handrail, trying to head down, but two people in grey blocked her. She pushed against them. "Let me through! Gerald, you old fool, what have you done? I've lived my life, she hasn't! She can't do this. Damn it, let me through!"
The escalators dragged them in opposite directions. Grace spun around to run up the moving steps and saw the man with green eyes blocking her way. He towered behind her uncle, immovable like a mountain. Green eyes greeted her again. Power coursed through them and vanished, a sword shown and thrust back into its scabbard. Uncle Gerald turned, saw him, and went white as a sheet.
They reached the bottom. Three people in grey waited for them, one woman and two men. Grace stepped onto the floor, lightheaded as if in a dream.
"I've done... I've done the best I could..." Gerald muttered. "The best. I—"
"You've done wonderfully," the woman said. "Nikita will escort you back to your plane."
One of the men stepped up and held out his hand, indicating the escalator heading up. "Please."
The green-eyed man stepped past them. His gaze paused on her face. An unspoken command to follow. Grace clenched her teeth. They both knew she would obey, and they both realized she hated it.
He strode unhurriedly toward the glass doors. Grace matched her stride to his. She supposed she should have bowed and kept her mouth shut until she was spoken to, but she felt too hollow to care. "You robbed me of what might be my last moment with my mother," Grace said softly.
"It couldn't be helped," he answered, his voice quiet and deep.
They stepped into sunshine in unison. A black vehicle waited for them, sleek and stylish. The trunk clicked open. Grace deposited her backpack into it. The man held the rear door open for her. Grace took her seat on the leather.
The man slid next to her, filling the vehicle with his presence. She felt the warmth of his body and the almost imperceptible brush of his magic. That light touch betrayed him. She glimpsed power slumbering inside him, like an enormous bear ready to be roused and enraged in an instant. It sent shivers down her back, and it took all of her will to not wrench the car door open and run for her life. "You're him."
He inclined his head. "Yes."
The car pulled away from the curb, carrying them off. Grace looked out of the window. She had made her choice. She was a servant of Clan Dreoch and there was no turning back.
* * *
The scenery rolled by, scrawny shrubs and flat land, its sparseness mirroring her bleak mood. Grace closed her eyes. A whisper of magic tugged on her. It was polite touch, an equivalent to a bow. She glanced at him. Careful green eyes studied her. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Grace."
"It's a lovely name. You may call me Nassar."
Or Master, she thought and bit the words before they had a chance to escape.
"How much do you know?" he asked.
"I know that my family owes your family a debt. One of you can call on one of us at any time and we must obey. If we break our oath, you'll murder all of us." She wished she had been told about it sooner, not that it would make any difference at the end.
His magic brushed her again and she edged away from it.
"What else?" Nassar asked.
Say as little as possible. "I know what you are."
"What am I?"
"A revenant."
"And what would that be?"
She looked him in the eye. "A man who died and robbed another of his body so he can continue to live." The cursed revenant, Gerald had called him. A body snatcher. An abomination. Monstrously powerful, clouded in vile magic, a beast more than a man.
Nassar showed no reaction, but a small ripple in his magic sent her further away from him. She bumped into the door.
"Any further and you'll fall out of the car," he said.
"Your magic... It's touching me."
"If all goes as planned, you and I will have to spend the next few days in close proximity. I need you to become accustomed to my power. Our survival will depend on it"
She sensed his magic halt a few inches from her, waiting tentatively. She was a servant; he could force her. At least he permitted her an illusion of free will. Grace swallowed and moved within its reach. His magic brushed her. She winced, expecting his power to mug her, but it simply touched her gently, as if her magic and his held hands.
"I won't hurt you," he said. "I know how people in your family see me. Body thief, aberration, murderer. The Cursed One. What I'm called doesn't concern me. Neither I nor my family will torture, rape, or degrade you in any way. I simply have a specific task I need completed. I need you to want to succeed with me. What would make you want to help me?"
"Freedom," she said. "Let my family go, and I'll do whatever you ask."
He shook his head. "I can't give you permanent freedom. We need your services too much. But I can offer you a temporary reprieve. If you and I succeed, you can go home and I promise not to call on you and yours for six months."
"Ten years."
"A year."
"Eight."
"Five." The resolute tone of his voice told her it was his last offer.
"Deal," she said softly. "What happens if I fail?"
"We'll both die. But, our chances of success will be much better if you stop fearing me."
That was certainly true. "I'm not scared of you."
His lips curved slightly. "You're terrified."
She raised her chin. "The sooner we get done, the faster I can go home. What do you need me to do?"
Nassar reached into his jacket and took out a rolled up piece of paper. "In our world disputes between the clans are resolved through war or by arbitration."
Grace arched her eyebrow. "How many clans are there?"
"Twelve. We're now in dispute with Clan Roar. War is bloody, costly and painful for everyone involved and neither of the families can afford it now. We've chosen arbitration. The issue is pressing and the dispute will be decided through a game."
He unrolled the picture and held it. She would have to move closer to him to see it. Grace sighed and moved another three inches to the right. Their thighs almost touched.
Nassar showed her the paper. It was an aerial photograph of a city.
"Milligan City," Nassar said. "Squarely in the middle of the rust belt. A couple of decades ago it was a busy town, a blue-collar haven. Good life, family values."
"Defined future," she said.
He nodded. "Yes. Then the conglomerates shifted their operations overseas. The jobs dried up, the real estate values plummeted, and the residents fled. Now Milligan's population is down forty two percent. It's a ghost city, with all the requisite ghost city problems: abandoned houses, squatters, fires and so on." He tapped the paper. "This particular neighborhood is completely deserted. The city council's getting desperate. They've relocated the last of the stragglers to the center of the city and condemned this neighborhood. In nine days it will be bulldozed down to make way for a park. The arbitration will take place here."
"When I think of arbitration, I think of lawyers," Grace said. "Both sides present their case and argue to a third party."
"Unfortunately this case isn't something that can be settled through litigation," Nassar answered. "Think of it in this way: instead of having a large war, we decided to have a very small one. The rules are simple. This area of the city was warded off from the rest, hidden in the cocoon of magic and altered. It's been officially condemned, so no others are allowed ne
ar it. Those who try are firmly discouraged, but if someone does make it through, to their eyes the area will appear as it always was."
She chewed on that others. Normal, non-magical people. He said it in the way one might refer to foreigners.
"Arbitration by game is a big event. By last count, representatives of ten clans have shown up for the fun. Two weeks were allowed to each clan who so wished to dump whatever hazards they could manage into this space. It's full of things that go bump in the night."
"The other clans don't like you," she said.
"None of the clans like each other. We compete for territory and business. We have wars and bloody battles. And it will be up to you and me to help us avoid such a war this time." He touched the photograph. "Somewhere in the zone the arbitraries hid a small flag. Two teams will enter the game zone to retrieve the flag, while the rest of the clansmen will bet on the outcome and enjoy their popcorn. Whoever touches the flag first will win and be ported out of the zone. Whether the flag is retrieved or not, in three days' time the wards will constrict, sweeping anything magic from the area into its center. The pyromancers will destroy it in a preternaturally hot bonfire, while the locals blissfully sleep."
"Are we one of the teams?"
"Yes."
Now she understood. Mother was almost fifty and overweight. She wouldn't be able to move fast enough. They needed someone younger and she fit the bill. "Will the rival team try to kill us?"
Another light smile touched his lips. "Most definitely."
"I don't have any offensive magic."
"I'm sure," he said. "You're entirely too polite for that."
It took her a moment to catch the pun. "I'm a dud. I sense magic and I can do small insignificant things, but I can't foretell the future like my mother and I haven't been trained as a fighter, like Gerald. For all practical purposes, I'm the other, a completely ordinary person. I've never fired a gun, I'm not exceptionally athletic, and my strength and reflexes are average."
Under Her Skin Page 7
