by Jory Strong
His gaze went to a picture at the corner of his desk. Dressed in her school uniform, Aubrey smiled at him. She'd painted the frame, decorated it with hearts and brought it with her on a visit to the office, placing it just where she wanted it to remain.
Love swelled, not just at the memory but with thoughts of her. A fierce protectiveness gripped him.
He closed his eyes. He rubbed his fingers over them, as if he could erase the temptation that passed through them and traveled to his groin.
It didn't help. The howling need returned, magnified with yesterday's events. It was no longer a question of whether he would satisfy the craving, but when and how.
He opened his eyes, concentrating on replacing the image of Aubrey wet from giving her dog a bath with the sight of the girls in the Russian's picture. There were subtle differences between them, but not enough to choose one over the other, not while they were dressed in the nightgowns.
He thought he detected a touch of freshness remaining in them, though he didn't lie to himself. They were damaged goods.
His gaze flicked to the picture at the corner of his desk then back to the one in front of him. What was important right now was to avoid doing something he would never be able to live with.
He swiveled the chair so he faced the window. Rather than the expensive real estate and the parade of luxury cars the view afforded, he saw the streets he'd driven down after disposing of the body. He saw the young prostitutes there to ply their trade.
Given time, he could arrange to safely acquire one of them. But it was never without risk, and it depleted the magic, forcing him to kill sooner.
Was he smarter than Korotkin? That should really be the basis for any decision he made.
He smiled, turning back toward the desk and the photograph of the two girls. Of course he was smarter than the Russian.
He'd work in his office for another couple hours, then he'd visit several of his clients, including the one rumored to enjoy underage lovers—in case Korotkin's man was watching. Afterward, he'd call the Russian's private number to arrange a meeting.
* * * * *
Caleb liked the lay of the land. He liked the odds of getting in and out of the Brides' office undetected. None of the businesses anywhere near it were good targets for random break-ins, which meant the area probably wasn't heavily patrolled by the police.
The Brides' office space was at the end of a four-unit building. A telephone line came off a pole and dropped to the front corner then down to a box on the side of the building. Easy access. Easy to temporarily disable the lines going into the offices so the system couldn't dial whoever was responsible for security if someone entered but didn't disarm the alarm with a code.
The first office was empty. The same held true for the next two. Businesses gone bust in a bad economy.
Dusty Venetian blinds prevented him from seeing into Brides From Russia, but didn't hide the wire running along the sill and announcing the presence of an alarm system. Either the tech who'd installed it was too lazy to bother with subterfuge, or there were secondary sensors and the obvious one was meant to lull a burglar into carelessness.
He was betting on the first. The building was old and whoever was behind Brides From Russia had probably accepted the already installed system as good enough, especially if they were used to relying on terror and intimidation.
Caleb stepped into the office, shoving his hands into his pockets and rolling his shoulders, pulling on the persona of a guy a little embarrassed about wanting an imported bride.
An older woman wearing heavy makeup, and a platinum blonde he was about ninety-nine percent certain was a face Hayden had captured from the porn videos, glanced up from their work.
Suspicion was their initial response. It was fleeting, but he caught it before the older woman went back to work and the younger smiled.
"Are you in the right place?" the actress asked, clear English with a Russian accent.
He used the question as an excuse to look around, searching for evidence of motion sensors or additional security.
Wedding photographs and newspaper clippings announcing impending nuptials decorated the walls. Baby pictures were anchored at the corners of several frames.
He understood why Iosif had trusted the women in this office. At least part of what they were doing was legitimate.
More than once his gaze caught on a couple who seemed happy. Looks could be deceiving. Time could change things, turn bliss into hell, but he had to give these people respect for going after what they wanted in their lives, someone to share it with, to come home to, maybe have kids with. All the things he'd told himself he wanted, but hadn't been ready to do anything about because he'd liked the rush that came with hunting bad guys more.
That was his excuse. He wondered what Mallory's was. Slammed the door on the question.
"I'm in the right place," he said, having worked his way to the keypad next to the door. Suspicion confirmed. The plastic was yellowed with age and the alarm system old. Getting in shouldn't be a challenge.
He plastered on a sheepish expression, turned and moved to the actress's desk. "I wanted to see if this was legit. So how does this work? What happens after I sign up online?"
"You will be able to e-mail the women you are interested in. Many speak some English, but there are differences in culture. We will translate the messages to promote better understanding."
"And this will cost me?" he asked, putting suspicion into his voice.
"A small amount. Maybe only a couple of dollars, maybe as much as ten, but no more. You are free to use another e-mail address, of course, but at first, before there is trust between a couple, it is better to avoid unnecessary heartache or disappointment. Don't you think so?"
He hesitated. "Okay. I can buy that. What happens if I find someone I want to marry?"
"You must go to Russia to meet the woman. This is a requirement of the United States government. We have translators you can pay there. This is not something we make you do, but it is recommended, to ease your visit and prevent problems from arising. There are also places we can help you get a room if there is no hotel you wish to stay in."
"And if it's a go? And I definitely intend to marry the woman?"
"There are filings and fees you will pay directly to the government both here and in Russia. There will be documents you will need translated. Usually we will do this for about two hundred and fifty dollars. There will also be a fee for the making of a successful match."
"Okay. That all sounds reasonable." He took a deep, audible breath. "What if the e-mail thing doesn't really work for me? I'm not good with writing down stuff."
The actress gave him an encouraging smile. He glanced at the older woman. Her body language said she was listening though her attention remained on her desk and the papers there.
"Many men feel as you do," the porn-star said. "It is difficult, yes, to find love and be sure of it?"
"Yeah," he said, deep enough into the role to have heat crawl up his neck.
"We arrange for groups of men to travel through Russia together. Depending on the trip, some stay only in one city, where each day there are many events allowing them to meet women. Others prefer to stay a few days in each city. Sometimes a match is made and the trip ends with an intention to marry, but many times, a man returns with several possible choices and then gets to know the women better through e-mail."
"It all sounds good."
Risk setting off alarm bells by asking if it'd be possible to pay for the woman to come to him for the actual first meeting?
No. His gut said no. He'd gotten what he came here for.
He smiled at the actress. "Thanks for talking to me. I feel a lot better about this now. I'll let you get back to your work."
"It has been no bother, answering your questions. You will not have a problem finding a bride through our service. There are many in Russia who will want to meet you when they see your picture. It is my hope you will let us introduce you to
the perfect woman. It is not so much more expensive than courtship in America, I do not think. And it is an adventure."
"True. Thanks again."
He left the office, heard the faint sound of blinds being opened, and was glad he'd left the bike out of sight. At the end of the building, he felt a hard stare between his shoulder blades.
Not a good sign they'd bought his act if they were trying to see what he drove.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, rolled his shoulders forward a little bit, getting back into mental character, a guy with no agenda except thinking about getting himself a wife.
By the time he got to the corner, there was no one standing in the doorway.
His thoughts turned to Mallory. She kept invading them in dangerous ways.
When she'd just been a series of images on the flash drive he'd gotten from Zack, it had been far easier to convince himself that he could handle himself around her and not want to save her from herself. But now that he was on the inside—
I'll do what I have to do.
* * * * *
Chapter 15
Mallory entered the ring room behind Dane. Mikhail sat at the desk. She put a hand on his shoulder, the warm hum of connection traveling up her arm. "You look good today."
He covered her hand with his. "Hayden said it was bad."
She squeezed his shoulder. "We got through it. You're okay now. Hayden told you about the girls and their mother?"
"Yes."
"Have you guys found anything?"
"Nothing to tell us where they are. We need to get into the Brides' office, Mal."
"Matthew's going to get us in."
Mikhail pulled away, dark eyes meeting dark eyes, mushroom scent clouding the air, confusion in his gaze. "Matthew? I can still feel Bastian in the pack."
"Matthew's human, but he's got Dane's skill set."
Hayden entered the room, nostrils flaring. "You smell like the guy who was in here last night, Mal."
"Turns out we're neighbors."
His lips thinned. "I don't like it."
"You don't have to. He's what we need right now. He's doing recon at the Brides' office."
"I don't fucking believe you, Mallory. You don't know anything about him except you're attracted. You didn't even bother asking for a background check."
"I trust my nose. He hates traffickers. He'll do what it takes to find the girls and their mother."
"This is a mistake, Mal."
"Do you have a better candidate? A different one? Another solution?"
"Get laid, Mal. Scratch the itch and fucking be done with it. That's the best use of humans."
"I'm human. So are you, Hayden."
"You need to stop telling yourself that, Mallory."
Never.
She put the doll and stuffed animal on the desk. Retrieved the broken watch from a pocket and set it next to them.
"Iosif didn't show. Matthew and I went to the rooming house. The guy whose scent is on DVDs was there before us. The guy running the place is scared shitless. He disappeared. Even if we find him, he isn't going to volunteer a name. Not easily anyway."
Hayden's eyes ambered then returned to black. "A lot of prey to choose from. A lot of temptation."
She shivered. She didn't want her brothers killing in cold blood any more than she wanted to become a cold-blooded killer.
Let the police swoop in. Let the legal system prevail. Every kill made the next one easier.
"I take it there weren't any useful prints on the DVD cases."
"None that led anywhere. Same is true of the apartment where some of them were shot. Right now it's not worth incurring the cost to search Russian prison records."
"So we've got nothing," she said.
"A link between a couple of the porn companies and several strip clubs through shell companies. No names when it comes to who's behind them. Nothing that ties any of them directly to the Internet bride operation."
"Any faces in common?"
"Not yet."
"What about police records, prostitution charges?"
"Dead end. Not that much of a surprise. We're not talking street hookers. We're talking women kept in houses and fed clients, strippers turning tricks in places where Vice would have a tough time infiltrating, or porn stars receiving gifts from fans."
They needed to get into the Brides' office. They needed Matthew. They needed to find—
The magic came in a surge outward from the ring. It smelled of fire and tasted of dangerous, nighttime forests. It filled her mind with remembered screams and her heart with echoes of horror.
Mikhail moaned, eyes closing and head tilting back is if to soak in what he could from the world he considered home.
Dane went utterly still while Hayden jammed fisted hands into his pockets as if to prevent an act of violence—or suicide.
Their sire manifested, stepping from his world into theirs on a wave of dread and filling the air with the stink of patchouli. He left the circle, the black cape he wore swirling in still air, a rustling of feathers or the stirring of leaves preceding a predator's attack.
Myth and legend might name him dark fey or fallen angel or demon. She thought him the embodiment of Hell.
He spared a glance at Hayden, then Mikhail, lingered on Dane before settling on her. "Mallory," he said, reaching across the desk.
He stroked a finger along her cheek, filling her veins with ice and making her skin pebble with dark magic and learned terror.
"You grow more beautiful every day."
A compliment—to himself—because they all looked like him. And despite what Rahmiel had said, she understood enough of the Reaper Lord's motivations. He owned them in the way a human huntsman owned his hounds. He wanted them trained to his will.
His hand fell away and from inside the cape he pulled a black satin bag marked with golden symbols. Its shape didn't define its contents, but she knew what it contained and balled her gun hand into a fist in silent refusal of the weapon Bastian had last fired.
"Take it, Mallory," their sire said.
She stood firm though her heart raced and her legs trembled with the need to step back, to flee his presence and what he meant for her to become. "No."
The Reaper Lord smiled. "Not even for a boon? Not even to gain Dane's release from fur?"
She swallowed a whimper before it could escape. Her breath locked in her throat.
She didn't know the fate of every Hound who'd ever accepted that gun, but she didn't think it differed from Bastian's.
No shot fired from it would miss its target.
No shot fired from it would pass through the heart it struck.
No shot fired from it would be survived.
No body dropped because of it could be moved or reduced to ash in order to hide the crime.
It was a murderer's weapon, and once in the possession of a Hound, it had to be kept close at hand.
A hard shudder took her, imagining herself using the gun, caught with the gun, behind bars because of the gun.
It could happen. It could so easily happen.
But it was more than that. It was about what she would become if she took it. What it could mean for Sorcha and Austin and her mother. For Phillip, who'd threatened to take them away, and what she might do to prevent him from doing it.
Her heart tripled its beat, becoming a machine gun firing in her chest. "No."
What's wrong, Mal? Don't love Dane enough? He's not really family so you'll sacrifice him?
Her eyes burned. Her throat burned. Her heart burned. "No."
Their sire's laugh sounded like shattering glass. "Very well."
The bag disappeared into the cape. He withdrew his hand and what he held fluttered to the desk carved from the heart of a tree in his domain.
Mallory's attention went first to the two photographs of girls close to Sorcha's age, girls who looked like Sorcha, and then to the folded newspaper clipping.
She opened it, read about the body of an unidentifi
ed young girl found dead from a suspected overdose behind a dumpster.
A vicious fist squeezed her heart, though she'd expected this, known after the encounter with Rahmiel that an Earthly hunt was coming.
The Reaper Lord allowed time for her fear and hate to build, so she'd clearly understand this choice of predator had been deliberate. Then he tossed the soul jars, three of them.
They clattered when they hit the desk, one of them sliding, coming to a rest among the items belonging to Iosif's family.
They were less than two inches in length, and half that in circumference, like something a child would offer to a miniature doll for a pretend meal or drink.
Another two followed, all five of them the black-green color of one of his forests.
"We'll run beneath the Hunter's Moon," he said, and the clock started ticking.
They had two days.
He reached out again, cupped her jaw, forcing her gaze to meet his. "Find the man I want or Dane will suffer because of the failure."
He released her and left on another wave of magic, freeing Dane from restraint.
Dane lunged, taking up one of the fight gloves and shredding it in his savagery.
Mikhail slumped unconscious in the chair.
Hayden's eyes burned with fury, spearing her, condemning her. He grabbed one of Mikhail's arms, snarled, "Help me get him into the ring."
They dragged Mikhail to the center where he curled like a puppy.
"When did he shoot up last?" she asked.
"Like you fucking care. You should have taken the gun."
Hayden returned to the desk with angry strides. She followed, throat raw, not wanting to meet Dane's eyes.
Hayden's hand covered the newspaper clipping, sweeping it toward her with force. "Get the fuck away from me, Mal. Go talk to that cop. See just how quick he is to help you."
Her gaze flicked to the soul jars. Five of them, but the obvious conclusion wasn't necessarily the correct one.
She pulled the folded flier with Amanda Edson's information from a back pocket and dropped it alongside the other photos. "You need to give this some of your time."
