by Jory Strong
They left the ring room, her realities colliding when her eyes met Matthew's. She ached to have what her mother had with Phillip—love, security without any secrets between them, an existence without fear of what she might become.
She crossed to Matthew, reminded of the impossibility of it. Humans are a liability, Hayden had said, but the truth was that she came with liabilities, the greatest of which was that getting involved with a Hound was deadly.
"Everything okay?" Matthew asked.
"For now. I need to head out."
"See you around?"
"Probably unavoidable since we're neighbors."
"Good."
She breathed deeply, his scent pitting fantasy against reality.
* * * * *
Chapter 9
Linden barely noticed those around him. He felt distanced, almost like a cameraman seeing the glittering world of A-listers through a lens, separated from it even as he was an integral part of it.
Like short movie clips, his thoughts were a kaleidoscope of flashing images and sensation.
Gloved hands keeping the rope taut around a slender neck.
A knee against bound hands and naked back.
The surge of power as life ended and magic was captured and stored.
The bathtub and the body that needed to be disposed of.
Sightless blue eyes and floating, golden rays of hair.
His daughter's happy greeting when he'd returned home.
The warm feel of her pressed to his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck.
Her familiar scent and the sweet trust of kisses against his cheek and mouth.
The stirrings of arousal created a flash of panic. If only he'd had a son instead of…
The thought fizzled, choked off by the intensity of his love for Aubrey. She was too precious for him to wish away.
A tuxedoed waiter stopped next to him. Like the gathered, those chosen to serve them had a camera-ready attractiveness. He noted the waiter, but wasn't moved to reach for a business card and leave it on the tray in exchange for a drink.
On a dais near Dutch doors that opened to reveal other party goers, a gowned and diamond-adorned pianist accompanied by a tuxedoed brass section played something sleep-inducing, barely a step above elevator music.
Excusing himself from the small cluster of movers-and-shakers he'd been standing among, he headed toward where he'd seen Julia last. Perhaps with her at his side, time would stop crawling and the conversations wouldn't register as tedious.
He'd only just spotted his wife and returned her smile when he was intercepted, his path blocked by men whose blocky builds and expressionless faces radiated a subtle menace. He angled away from them and found himself facing a short man with a bull neck, the expensive green silk tie and monogrammed tie-tack doing nothing to disguise the fact that the man was a thug.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vadim Korotkin."
It was said with a slight accent and accompanied by an extended hand. Linden performed a perfunctory shake, recognizing the name as one he'd had his secretary decline a number of requests to meet.
This city was full of rich men who wanted to dabble in making movies. When they were partnered with those who had a track record of success, he considered them worth an investment of time. Otherwise, they were a waste of it. And the Russian came with other liabilities.
Linden stepped to the side, to continue on his way. It was earlier than he'd intended to claim an emergency called him away so he could deal with the body, but—
"You are no stranger to the darker appetites of sexual gratification," Korotkin said, causing a chill to sweep through him.
The instinct of self-preservation kicked in automatically. He shrugged. "Who isn't familiar with them? This is L.A."
Korotkin's laugh was a drum roll calling attention to himself. "You are right of course. One of your clients has a dangerous pastime. Recently it came close to ending his career and sending him to jail. Yes?"
Tension flowed out of Linden, making him aware of its presence as it left his body. There'd been no hope of suppressing the rumors of kinky sex that had nearly ended in the death of a groupie, not when his client had panicked while surrounded by idiots.
He prided himself on being a full-service agent, a man who fixed problems before they derailed careers, but there was the occasional client-created crack, and things slipped through, to be swooped on by the paparazzi. "The situation you allude to is hardly a secret."
"This kind of desire, it is an addiction. I believe you and I can be of use to one another. I am no stranger to the movie business, though to date, what I have financed has been limited to an adult audience."
Not that the private investigator Linden kept on retainer had found proof of it. The Russian's income appeared to come from legitimate sources, low-end rental property for the most part—but Jason had thought there was more, something confirmed by the fact that his sources had been too afraid of this man and those he surrounded himself with to offer anything concrete. That had been enough to refuse Korotkin's calls.
"Porn," Linden said, allowing a hint of dismissal into his voice.
A hardness appeared in Korotkin's eyes before being shrugged away. "Sex has always been a means to wealth. My involvement in a number of different ventures allows for access to many actors and actresses, some of them quite young, and none of them important or valuable enough to be missed should their destinies play out elsewhere. A word from me and they can be made available for private entertainment, and unlike groupies or prostitutes, their silence can be guaranteed."
Linden's heart skipped, his senses sharpening, alert to the possibilities encompassed by the words quite young. Temptation gained the upper hand, and it did no harm to ask, "What do you want from me?"
"A business arrangement that will make us both a great deal of money. I have formed a small production company and optioned a number of scripts. What I wish from you is the talent to turn those movies into box office gold."
No. The voice of reason interjected. While he might dread the acquisition phase, his skill and the additional spell woven into the medallion—allowing him to change his physical appearance—meant he would continue to prevail against the odds of being caught. He didn't need to be involved with someone like Korotkin.
Julia's arrival was a sign. He'd make his excuses and move away from the Russian.
Her arm slid through his and he smiled. They worked a crowd well. She'd seen his interception and, reading his body language, come to extricate him.
With a laugh she said, "I think maybe we need to get home, darling, and save the furniture. The babysitter just sent this."
She held her cell up for him to view.
Unwelcome desire rushed in at the sight of Aubrey in the process of bathing the Old English Sheepdog they'd given her when she turned ten.
Her shirt was wet, molded to a sleek body and budding young breasts. He managed a smile, while inside panicked desperation surged.
He needed to dispose of the body. He needed to replace the dead girl with a live one.
A candidate presented herself, not for the first time. There was a girl named Grace in Aubrey's doggie acting class. She had a mongrel terrier.
No. Too risky. Too closely associated.
He'd denied himself earlier when he'd watched them together, doing a run through of some of the tricks they'd have their dogs perform at the show.
He needed to keep denying himself.
Drawing on the skills that made him good at what he did, he leaned over and touched his cheek to Julia's. His tone held only amusement as he said, "I suspect the damage will already be done before we get home, but I agree, it's time to leave. Why don't you go ahead and have the car brought around. I'll catch up to you." And when he did, he'd say a client emergency required they part company.
"See you in a few minutes then." She slipped the phone into her purse and walked away, catching the attention of more than one man so that he was suddenly
anxious to get home and make love to her.
He turned toward Korotkin, good sense warring with temptation, the first winning. "If you'll excuse me."
"Of course." But Korotkin didn't leave it at that. He leaned in, murmured, "You have a reputation as a man who can keep a secret. It is why you command the fees you do and hold on to your clients. Yes? But certain types of behavior, once a man has a taste for them, they become an obsession, a distraction. Is it not better to provide what your clients need, discreetly, so they can work unhampered by the cravings for it?"
He felt the race of his heart as he let himself be drawn back into the earlier conversation. "You make a valid point."
"That is why I believe you and I can be of use to one another. Playing at strangling a woman during sex isn't the only vice indulged in by one of your clients. Another is said to like his lovers young. Very young, well, well below what you Americans say is the legal age. What is done in the bedroom, it is of little concern to me, men will be men after all, and great actors… They are a privileged lot, yes?"
"Certainly in this town they are."
Korotkin's smile was wide and full of good humor. "If my interests and yours were aligned, then making sure those in your care aren't jailed would become important to me. I can ensure that you have the resources available to prevent trouble. The first time, as a gift, at no cost you must pass on to another, and always, with no questions asked. Your skills and your time are a commodity I am very appreciative of. They are far too valuable to be wasted on matters of sexual transgressions. Yes?"
Acid burned and spread in his stomach as he imagined cruising the streets where the underage prostitutes worked, looking for a girl young and beautiful enough to be his daughter. He'd done it before. He'd do it again if need be. But why not explore another possibility? Cautiously.
"You say you've optioned several scripts?"
"Five, but I am prepared to buy others if these are deemed unsuitable. It is the end result I am most interested in."
"Send them to my office. I make no promises beyond being willing to read them."
"Of course. That is understood. They will be delivered tomorrow."
Korotkin retrieved a business card from his jacket pocket. "This is my private line. I do not expect an immediate answer, but should you find yourself needing a demonstration of just how mutually beneficial our relationship could be…"
Linden accepted the business card, pocketing it, attention caught for a moment on a woman who'd just entered the room. She was arresting with her black hair and eyes, in the way she cut through the crowd with long strides and a disregard for those around her.
She was assured in the way of actresses who had no need to look into a mirror, and if she'd arrived earlier, he would have taken the time to determine if she was looking for representation. But not now.
"I'll be in touch," he said, turning from Korotkin, his thoughts moving beyond the woman and the Russian and the party, to the gnawing ache that would settle and intensify after the disposal of the body, a craving that had nothing to do with the need for magic.
* * * * *
Mallory moved through the multimillion-dollar home with a sole focus. Get in, get out, get it done.
Expensive art.
Expensive furniture.
Expensive people.
All of them tastefully put together and arranged.
She felt their gazes, their speculation, their questions.
Was she someone important? Someone useful? Someone to be seen with?
She needed Jeffery Carlisle to be here. She needed this skip.
Whiffs of sulfur marked the places where other Hell-spawn had passed, cutting through the crowd, circling and mingling like sharks hunting prey.
L.A. sprawled and glittered below like honeyed, golden promise, but there was no forgetting this was her sire's territory, a hunting ground for well-fed demons.
She spotted one of them, a woman with blood red lips and alabaster skin, the rich shoulder-length mahogany hair like woven strands of fishing line meant to snag prey.
Mallory shuddered, changed course in reaction to the being who had been one of the Reaper Lord's favorites in that final span of time in Hell, when he'd separated her from Dane and the pack of pure Hellhounds, forcing her to remain at his side in the throne room.
It'd be far harder to spot Jeffery Carlisle if they were both orbiting. She stopped near refreshment tables loaded with food, lifted a glass from a waiter's tray, willing to watch and play the odds that if Larsen's skip was here, he'd eventually come to her.
There was no shortage of gorgeous men in her field of vision, but the one who took center stage was the one she'd left at the bar. She'd take Matthew's rougher, edgier looks over the polished, fabricated perfection in this place.
Stop thinking about him.
It was a directive mind and heart and soul rejected.
She loved Dane and Mikhail, but the thought of being limited to their masculine companionship, because it was safe, made her ache inside. While the thought of picking up men or being picked up left her feeling empty. Better to do without than that.
Casual wasn't enough anymore. Maybe it had never been, but for a while she'd managed to fool herself that it was.
Time crawled. With each passing moment she became more impatient, more restless.
She'd rather be prowling the streets for Amanda Edson. She'd rather be watching for a dark car driven by Mr. Potato Head.
She repeatedly fought the urge to check her phone. Hayden would call or text if he found something on the DVDs.
The desire to escape the party built with every advance she fended off. One man after another approached and hit on her, most of them tendering favors and slippery promises in exchange for sex.
Pressure built in her chest. She began mentally tracing the steps to the front door.
She was halfway there in another imagining when she spotted a bounty hunter who specialized in high-end skips—and was spotted in turn.
Alphonso sent a salute her way then slid from view.
She surged forward.
A cluster of partygoers scattered, leaving her facing a man with long black hair and brilliant green eyes.
"Hello, Mallory."
The smell of sunshine and sand and date trees engulfed her. His scent was as obvious a calling card as the stench of brimstone. Angel or light fey or forgotten god, he was the opposite of those in Hell—and the same. Dangerous and deadly.
"And you are?"
Sensuous lips curved upward. "Rahmiel."
"You meant for Iosif Gruzinsky to find me. You sent him to the station where Nathan works. Why?" she asked, even as hope was spawned, that she and Hayden were wrong in thinking their sire would soon arrive and call a Hunt.
Rahmiel's laugh turned heads. "So direct. So impatient. Where's the fun in that?"
She fought a lip curl, a flash of teeth.
He laughed again, harder.
"Thinking to bite me?" There was sensuality in his voice. Invitation.
"What do you know about the missing girls?"
"The? The world is full of girls who have gone missing." He swept an arm outward. "What do you see when you look at them?"
"People."
Dark eyebrows lifted. "Just people?"
His voice held a hint of disbelief.
"Yes. Just people. What do you see?"
"That this world would be better off without any number of them."
It startled a laugh out of her though it probably shouldn't have. "So you're advocating early judgment? I would have thought you'd be more interested in redemption."
"Redemption is overrated."
"Is that why you set Iosif on a course that would lead to me? Did you think I'd do what I was bred to do?"
"Your sire's interests and goals happen to align with mine at the moment."
Her pulse rabbited. The hope she'd been wrong about an Earthly hunt died.
He lifted a glass of red wine from a passing
waiter's tray. "It's a shame really, your lifespans are so short. In this world, none of you live long enough to understand the laws governing your being here. You know so little about your sire's realm, about his motivations."
A hard shudder passed through her. For an instant her nostrils filled with the scent of brimstone and patchouli.
Green eyes lost their sheen of amusement. "Have you ever considered that your hate for him blinds you to possibilities? That it keeps you from discovering you have advantages your brothers will never possess?"
Jeffery Carlisle darted into view.
Mallory went after him, escaping the conversation with Rahmiel.
Carlisle glanced over his shoulder and saw her. He changed direction, heading toward open French doors.
She altered course, moved faster, losing sight of him behind a knot of men who looked like a security detail. When she reached the group, a thick-bodied guard blocked her, thinking whoever he protected was her target.
She was curious enough to spare a glance but didn't recognize the man with VAK engraved on his tie-tack. Dismissing him from her thoughts, she moved on.
Mallory passed through the French doors.
Carlisle was nowhere in sight.
She felt the swell of frustration. Inhaled but couldn't be sure which, of the thousands of scents, was his.
Minutes later, Alphonso stopped next her. He sighed. "Easy come, easy go. Almost had him. Would have if Hunter hadn't stressed the don't create a scene."
Mallory choked down a howl at having missed the chance for much needed cash, at knowing in her gut Alphonso or someone else would beat her to Carlisle while she looked for Amanda Edson and Iosif's missing family.
* * * * *
Chapter 10
Iosif huddled against the window of the bus, unsure of how much time had passed. He should have told Mallory the truth about Oleg. He should have told her that Oleg might guess who'd broken into the apartment and taken the DVDs.
But maybe Oleg didn't yet know they were missing. It might not be a place he visited every night.
Brutish pig. Monster.
