by Kresley Cole
The wench covered a yawn.
His grin faded.
"I might meet you," she said, "if you agreed to talk with me over coffee."
As a prelude to sex? What the hells could he discuss with her, a woman he planned to bed? He got tunnel-visioned at that point.
She added, "I'm not a big coffee drinker myself, but isn't that what people do?"
Her desire to talk must be a ploy of some kind. Otherwise, this would mean a female wanted something of him . . . other than sex? No, that made zero sense. "What would we discuss?" He laid his palm against the wall over her head. "You'll tell me your truth, and I'll tell you a lie?"
A shadow crossed her face. "All my truths are lies."
Curiosity flooded him. Bloody fascinating female. He reached forward to brush her hair over her shoulder. Her little ear was blessedly rounded on top. Two small rings decorated the helix, highlighting the perfect curve.
He bit back a groan. To a male like him, that couldn't be sexier. He wanted to kiss her ears, nuzzle and nip them. "Look at those piercings. Any hidden ones on your body?"
"Yes." A single word. Succinct. No additional explanation.
Just enough to send his imagination into overdrive. His claws dug into the brick wall. "If I meet you, I'll seduce you to do more than talk."
She exhaled as if she'd reached the end of her patience with him. Which, again, made zero sense. Rune elicited many responses from females: lust, possessiveness, obsession. Never exasperation.
"You've gotta be satisfied after four babes."
"Those nymphs were a warm-up. I'm called Rune the Insatiable for a reason. I'm never satisfied," he told her honestly, as if this were a good thing. He jested with his compatriots, but in reality, his existence could get exhausting. Always seeking the next conquest, the next secret . . .
He'd considered hibernating after this Accession.
Then he'd remembered he would need at least five hundred years to savor his victories.
He leaned down to rasp at her lovely ear, "Maybe you'll be the one to sate me at last." If it hadn't happened in millennia, he didn't expect it to now, but tarts ate that line up. He dangled the prospect because Lore females liked challenges.
This one pressed her hot palms to his chest, digging in her black nails. "You wanna know a truth?" She held his gaze. Her eyes were mesmerizing, her hazel irises flecked with brilliant blue and amber.
Finally they were getting somewhere! "I do."
In a breathy whisper, she said, "Maybe I wouldn't give a good goddamn if you were sated or not."
Sexiest voice. Bitchy words. "What are you?"
"You really don't know?"
He shook his head, but she was already looking past him, her interest turned off in an instant.
"I'm done here." She patted his chest, then sidled under his arm. "Later, Rune."
"Wait, I didn't catch your name."
She walked backward, flashing him a dazzling smile. "Because I didn't toss it, sport. Only good boys get rewards." She pivoted to saunter away from him.
His lips parted in disbelief as she strutted down the street. She turned every head, leaving mortal males agog. Rune's muscles tensed to pursue her, but he ruthlessly quelled the urge.
He'd become the master of his impulses. For the first hellish centuries of his life, his body and his mind had been commanded by another.
No longer.
But the damage had been done. He'd grown so detached during his early abuse that he'd felt like two separate beings. And one was dead.
Rune had stifled the fire within himself for so long, he'd extinguished it. And yet his heart thundered in his ears as he watched his voyeur melt into the crowd.
SIX
Jo could still feel Rune's gaze on her back, so she kept up her casual pace down the street.
She'd just met another freak! Had talked to one!
But even he hadn't known what she was. So she'd ended her encounter with the womanizing dark fey, the dogged one obsessed with sex. He truly would have lined her up like those others, making Jo fifth of the night (if not more).
Now that she knew what to look for, she would find other paranormal-type people, more knowledgeable ones.
Despite his arrogance, she burned to glance back. Were all male freaks that conceited? Were they all so seductive?
The more she'd talked with him, the more attractive he'd grown. She'd watched that calm, steady pulse point of his beating faster and faster as they'd bantered. And she'd dug the hints of tattoos peeking up from his collar and the ancient-looking silver bands he wore on most of his fingers. When he'd lifted his hair to reveal one slightly pointed ear (which was badass), she'd seen that the sides of his head were partially shaved (also badass).
And, good God, that man could wear leather. His powerful, lean legs had stretched his pants just right, as had his huge cock--which he'd put her freaking hand on! The temptation to keep rubbing it had almost won out.
Even if she hadn't witnessed him in action, she'd deem his look: bad-boy lady-killer with a big, swinging dick.
His grin had been so sexy she'd had to cover her gasp with a feigned yawn.
Yet more than just his appearance attracted her. Beneath the smell of sex and nymphs, his innate scent was irresistible. Like leather and evergreen.
After one hit of that, she'd had the urge to kiss him, despite his poison. She could've reached up and fisted his cool hair, yanking him down to kiss until her fangs sliced his tongue.
Whoa. Sharing blood through a kiss? Stutter-step. She'd never fantasized about that before. Her fangs had always remained dormant during hook-ups.
Damn, that image was filthy hot. Instant wettie.
She needed to get hold of herself. Just as her emotions could make her embody, she could accidentally ghost as well, and Rune might still be watching her.
The lady-killer had wanted to know her name. He'd wanted to screw her, lining her up and knocking her down like the nymphs. He'd wanted a connection to her, however brief.
She'd craved a connection too.
So she'd stolen the contents of his pocket, one rectangular object. When she turned the corner, she opened her palm, peeking at her take. It was some kind of etched bone.
How weird. He must value it for some reason. Not as good as the "priceless" bow she'd eyed, but she'd have to make do.
Would he notice his empty pocket soon? She grinned. How pissed would he be that a dove had rolled him?
Her grin faded. Aside from her name and her body, he'd wanted her truth.
I could contact my little brother at any time, barging into his can't-possibly-get-better life, and he'd welcome me with open arms. No damage done to my boy at all. For now, I'm fine. I'm not slowly dying of loneliness. I don't fear I'll float away. I don't regret that no one will even know I'm gone.
Her truths were all lies.
She reached for her necklace. You can never go back for him.
Never. Never. Never.
So why did she continue to look for excuses to do just that?
She was antsy, not ready to return "home" to her dingy room at the Big Easy Sleeps motel (known to regulars as the Big Sleazy Weeps).
She needed a hit of her favorite drug. Just a little one. Her eyes darted. Suppliers. She needed suppliers--
There! A middle-aged couple strolling hand-in-hand.
Perfect. She ghosted into the woman, relaxing to flow with her. Boneless. Effortless. Like floating in water.
Jo imagined she could feel the man's rough hand, the warmth coming off his body. She pretended she was the one he loved.
The two walked along in silence, but the vibes between them weren't awkward or strained, just . . . peaceful.
She inwardly sighed. People took the wonder of hand holding for granted.
Down by the river, the couple sat on a bench. Stars twinkled above, a half moon low over the water. Strains of jazz carried on the breeze.
The man took his hand away. No--
O
nly to wrap his arm around his woman. He tugged her close. Bliss. They murmured in a foreign language, but Jo didn't need to understand it. Whatever he said made the woman rest her head on his shoulder, as she'd probably done a thousand times before. They leaned back and gazed at the stars.
Jo's past was a mystery, and she sometimes sensed the stars held the answers. She loved to stargaze. Well, she did for the first ten or so minutes. Then the realization of her friendlessness would steal over her. Stargazing for one had to be the loneliest hobby.
Now she had company. This couple.
For what might have been hours, they remained like that, lost in their own little world as a mist rolled in from the Mississippi.
No one had ever cherished Jo. No parents, no boyfriend. All on her own, she'd discovered how much she craved this: an unbreakable bond between two people.
Love and a future she could count on.
She was a killer with blood on her hands, but she wanted to give her heart away. As these two had. They were partners, two halves of a greater whole. Jo yearned for her other half with all the desperation of someone who'd always known something was missing.
She soaked up the feelings between these two like a sponge. Maybe she was a love junkie.
Yet pretending wasn't as good as the real thing.
Recalling the warmth of Rune's body affected her. When she imagined sharing a blood kiss with him, she feared she'd solidify inside the woman, killing her. She swiftly disentangled.
As Jo looked on, the woman shivered, so her man drew her closer.
Jo sighed. If she had someone real of her own, he would hold her like that. He'd own her heart, and that would anchor her to him.
He'd never let her float away.
SEVEN
Expectancy.
As Rune hunted for Nix along the most decadent street in the town of New Orleans, anticipation thrummed inside him, seeming to grow like the thickening fog.
Why? He was on a routine mission, one among thousands.
For hours he'd searched, questioning low creatures and staring down alphas of other species.
Maybe he craved a fight. He hadn't been raised as a frontline warrior, but he'd come to enjoy a good battle with his fellow Morior.
They warred seamlessly together. Sian would charge into the fray to massacre troops with his mighty battle-ax. Blace would use his great-sword and unmatched skill to behead waves of warriors.
Rune's "bonedeath" arrow would explode into reverberations so violent the bones of their foes would disintegrate, never to be healed.
Darach would already have sped behind the army to track down and maul any who fled.
Allixta created shields and neutralized others' magicks. Rune supposed her talent would be helpful if the Morior ever faced a worthy adversary. For now, the tart looked decent in a hat.
Orion amplified all their strengths and directed them to their enemies' vulnerabilities.
The Morior who still slept? Well, the weakest one could consume a city.
When Orion and the Morior offered opposition the chance to surrender, they accepted. Or died. . . .
This anticipation Rune felt could not be about the voyeur. She'd held his interest only because she was a rarity--no, a singularity.
The one woman he hadn't been able to seduce.
Which was saying something, as his professions had always involved sex. He'd started young in the fey kingdom of Sylvan, because his queen had discovered uses for Rune, her husband's halfling bastard.
Queen Magh the Canny had forced Rune to become an assassin.
With malice in her gleaming blue eyes, she'd explained, "Many of my foes could be tempted by a sensual creature like you. My assassins fail to get past sentinels, yet you would seduce your way into a place where no guards attend: the bedroom. Even if divested of your weapons, you'd carry death in your very blood. Your escapes would be easier still. With some help, you could pass as a full-blooded fey; who would suspect you can teleport like a demon?"
Keeping secret his potential for magicks and knowledge of runes, he'd learned fey ways and customs. He'd tapped into his demon side, learning to trace. The combination had made him unstoppable.
He'd had such success as a hitman that Magh had expanded his duties to become Sylvan's secrets master, spying and interrogating--while still killing of course.
For all three pursuits, he'd used sex as a weapon, callously exploiting his targets' weaknesses or perversions. There'd been little challenge.
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the streets for his voyeur. Maybe Lore females weren't the only ones who liked a challenge.
Midnight neared. If he decided to show in that courtyard, would she be there? Perhaps she still had hopes of meeting him. His lips thinned. For coffee.
No. He refused to chase after her like some slavering lad. Captivation was as involuntary as captivity.
Remember how far you've come, from such humble beginnings.
With Orion's help, he'd turned his life around. The Undoing wasn't Rune's friend, nor a father figure (as some supposed). Orion was . . . an idea. A feeling.
He represented triumph--something Rune hadn't known until he'd sworn fealty to Orion.
Soon Rune would prove to be Sylvan's undoing. How would that realm fare when he assassinated their present king, along with their entire line of succession . . . ?
Seeking focus, he reached for his most cherished possession, his talisman, a last gift from his mother. She'd been a Runic demon, one among a breed that could harness magicks through symbols. The talisman had been accompanied by a note that had raised more questions than answers. The runes themselves presented a puzzle he often contemplated.
He dug into his pocket.
Gone.
Gone? He froze. He would never have left it anywhere; had never in all these eons lost it. The nymphs wouldn't have dared to steal it.
Realization. Only one other person had gotten close enough to him.
Under his breath, he muttered, "That beautiful little wench." The voyeur had picked his pocket! Oh, she was good. He'd been hard as rock, stretching his trews taut--yet he'd never perceived her hand dipping beside his dick.
What a surprise.
What a bad girl.
He turned toward the courtyard. Bad girls got punished.
If she'd stolen anything but his most prized belonging, he could have grinned.
Back at her rundown motel room, Jo set Rune's bone thingy among her other mementos. They lined the top of a picnic table she'd teleported from a park.
She'd stolen most of these items from her shells. Though she couldn't feel through any of the people, for the most part Jo got to be them.
She'd inhabited a cellist during her concert and had received a standing ovation. She'd served coffee at Cafe Du Monde (and later she'd punished patrons who'd grabbed "her" ass). She'd crashed a bachelorette party and laughed with other girls, pretending they were old friends from camp.
At a grand southern wedding, she'd been a bride for a day. She'd danced in a candlelit ballroom and had given away her garter as her new husband gazed on with adoration. Later, violins had played into the night as her groom had made love to his bride. He'd looked into her eyes so intently, Jo had pretended he could see her.
Which meant she existed.
That groom's voice had cracked when he'd made vows to her. I would die for you. I'll love you alone for the rest of my life. You are everything.
Jo reverently traced her fingers over the dried roses from her stellar concert performance. With those, she could pretend she'd once been admired. With the tiara from that bachelorette party, she could pretend she'd belonged. A dollar-bill tip from Cafe Du Monde allowed Jo to believe she'd once been just a normal girl.
She straightened the cuff links stolen from her romantic groom. They were her favorites. She could rub her thumbs over them and pretend she'd once been beloved.
With a wistful exhalation, she scuffed across the worn carpet of her room. She would've l
iked to stay somewhere less shitty, but she didn't have an ID, could never get one.
Because she couldn't read the application form.
She turned to the banged-up set of drawers. One was filled with Thad memorabilia--scrapbooks and the Thadpack. She opened the drawer, brushing her fingertips over the nylon material. At times, her three years with Thaddie felt like a dream, as if it were just as imaginary as the rest of her life experiences.
She drew out her most recent scrapbook, filled with pictures of him holding up trophies or Eagle Scout badges or community service awards.
Wherever she'd ended up in the Southeast (she couldn't stray too far from him) she had descended upon the closest library for a computer. Using the text-to-speech feature, she'd learned about his sports, charity work, and honor-roll grades.
She knew when his football team was going to the playoffs and when his . . . mom had won a pecan pie cook-off.
Jo stalked his social media so much she could tell when he was nervous about a big game, or even when he had a crush. Through his online yearbook photos, she'd watched him grow into a handsome seventeen-year-old with an easy grin that said, All is right with the world.
He was tall and strong, a world away from the tiny boy she'd carried everywhere.
Fourteen years ago, she'd made a heartrending choice, but obviously it'd been the right one. Every day Jo stayed away, his life seemed to get better and better.
Yet to spare Thad from grief, she'd suffered, willing each minute of her lonely existence to hurry by. She only slept for about four hours a night, so she had twenty hours each day to kill.
At least in New Orleans, there was the prospect of other freaks!
A knock on the door sounded.
She hissed with irritation. Few dared to disturb her.
When she'd first moved here, she'd been one of the motel's only guests. After a month of her hunting--crushing testicles and "disappearing" rapists and fight-stealing pimps--the rooms had filled up with women, mostly prostitutes, many with kids.
Another knock. Jo traced to the door, removing the brace--she usually ghosted past it--and opened up.
The smarmy motel owner. He was always leering at the women here. Automatic probation. One strike, and he's out.
His expression was a mix of fear and lust, his attention dipping to her body.
