by Donya Lynne
As he tried shoving them into the leather pouch, his right hand shook so violently that half the small rocks dropped back onto the ground.
“Where are you going, Tracy?” One of Mason’s friends shoved him from behind.
He flew face-first into the dirt, scuffing his cheek on a patch of gravel. The scent of his own blood lit inside his nostrils like metallic vapors.
“Let me go.” His voice whispered out of him.
“What?”
“S-stop. I need my mother.” Mother would know what was happening to him. She could stop this terrifying strangeness.
His whole body trembled, the pressure building, tightening his insides like he was being wound up like a top, spun tighter and tighter.
“Look at the freak!” Mason roared with laughter, pointing at him. “He needs his mommy!” He kicked dirt and rocks toward him. “Scrawny little piggy with your silly rocks! Why do you even collect these stupid things?” He eyed the white and black stone in his hand.
“Just give it back!” Trace tried to sit up but couldn’t. Whatever was going on inside his body wouldn’t let him.
The howls and whoops of the others echoed in his ears, suddenly sounding far away, like he was in a cave.
He clawed, trying to find purchase on anything that would give him leverage to push himself up.
Mason turned the lump of quartz over and over in his hands, sneering. “I think I’ll keep this,” he said with pompous propriety.
Rage rocketed through Trace’s muscles. No! That was his rock. His prize. He would protect it. Mason would never take what belonged to him!
Righteous fury ballooned within Trace’s soul.
“Better yet . . .” Mason glanced over his shoulder toward the pond. He laughed, and the sound was like acid to Trace’s ears.
What happened next played out in slow motion, stretching through time, even though it only took seconds. Mason fisted the piece of quartz, cocked his arm, and threw the rock as hard as he could toward the center of the pond.
Trace’s heart froze. His gaze zoomed in on his prized treasure as it hurtled toward the overcast sky then down, down, down . . .
The moment it broke the water’s surface, Trace’s right arm shot out almost of its own free will, his fingers splayed.
“NOOOO!”
All the coiled energy inside him blasted from his hand.
The earth tremored as a low boom sounded. The trees shuddered. An instant later, each of the children catapulted away from him as if they’d been snapped back by a puppeteer’s string.
Seconds ticked by in the aftermath, but all Trace could do was stare at his hand, his heart racing, his blood roaring in his ears. How had he done that? What sorcery had he inherited from his mother to have such power? Was this the darkness she’d spoken of and warned him about so many times? He’d felt its presence before and often toyed with making small objects move, even though he’d been told not to. But he’d never felt such a powerful force rise inside him with such intensity.
It terrified him.
Six pairs of eyes turned toward him in horrified awe.
They were no longer laughing, too frightened to do anything but gawk.
They were right. He was a freak.
“Demon!” Mason’s eyes were wide with fear. He scurried to his feet. “You’re a demon!” His legs cranked so fast as he tried to flee that his feet went out from under him. He fell, caught himself on his arms, pushed off the ground, and sprinted away as the others did the same, crying and screaming in terror.
Inside his cell, Trace’s eyes flew open as the memory came to an abrupt end. He was curled in a fetal position on the floor, his body a shivering heap, his arms hugging his torso as if that could stop the teeth-chattering chills drawing his muscles into tight, spasming masses simply by holding himself.
He’d survived two weeks in King Bain’s dungeon without going mutant, yet after five minutes of flashing back to the first time he’d lost control of his power—and the ultimate price his mother had paid for his lack of discipline—he was one breath away from tipping the scales. His vision was sharp enough to see the feathery, microscopic cracks in the ceiling, his hearing keen enough to hear the scratch of a pen on paper out at the desk he’d passed on his way back to his cell. Shit was going critical, and with his voice locking up inside his throat, he could do nothing but wince and curl more tightly into himself, praying Micah would get there soon and bring him back from the brink before he lost control altogether and lost his soul to the beast.
Chapter 2
Cordray stepped out of the bar. There went thirty minutes of her life she would never get back. All that mind sweeping, and all she had to show for it was a snippet of thought about an underground fight club named Grudge Match. That and a bad taste in her mouth from watered-down beer.
She checked the time on her black MTM Special Ops Predator watch. Maybe the nine-hundred-dollar watch was a bit overkill, because, really, when was she ever going to chase a bounty six hundred feet underwater? But the watch was boss-ass matte black, durable, cool as shit, and each was individually numbered and shipped in its own watertight tactical case. So top that, Rolex. Anyone who thought she was being a diva over her choice of timepiece could suck it. She liked what she liked, and while she wouldn’t be wearing her Predator to any cocktail parties, it made her feel extra badass in the field when she was tracking a bounty, a suspicious dreck, or a wayward vampire who’d jumped to the wrong side of Bain’s law.
Tonight, she was on the hunt for information that would help her unravel the truth behind Bishop’s operation. Someone had to bring that maniacal asshole down and put a stop to his war-provoking lab experiments on vampires. And since Premier Royce seemed too preoccupied with staring at his own reflection, masturbating to the sound of his own voice, or whatever else he did to turn a blind eye to the destruction a member of his own race was causing, it looked like stopping Bishop was up to her. After all, there was only so much her half-brother, King Bain, could do without risking all-out war.
In the last several months, she and the members of AKM had uncovered a shit storm of dreck activity, and it all pointed back to Bishop. Including this bit of intel about Grudge Match.
From what she’d picked up from the thoughts of the pair of drecks making out in one of the bar’s back booths, Grudge Match was a secret fight club where vampires and drecks alike beat the shit out of each other for fun. Not only did this pose a possible peace treaty violation, but it also gave any drecks working for Bishop a prime opportunity to scout and kidnap vampires he could use in his fucked-up experiments.
If only she had more time. This lead looked promising, but duty called. She was due to meet Micah in twenty minutes to sign Trace over to him upon his release, which meant if she didn’t leave right now, she would be late. Hell, even if she left this very second, she’d probably be late. She still had to hoof it back to her Range Rover.
Trace, otherwise known as the thorn in her side, was supposed to be released into her custody, but he and Micah apparently needed to flog each other’s logs or some shit to get Trace’s beast under control before she could put him to work at the ranch, so she’d agreed to sign him over to Micah for twenty-four hours upon his release. Putting a lit fuse like Trace around her kids wasn’t going to happen, so she had no problem letting Micah do whatever the hell it was Micah did to tame Trace’s itchy hand first, and then she would take him to the ranch when he was nice and docile. Or as docile as a raging, irritatingly virile male like Trace could be.
She took a shaky breath at the thought of being near him. There was just something about Trace that flicked her Bic. All the more reason to make Trace’s life as miserable as she could for the next three months so he stayed away from her. She didn’t need him touching her and setting off any more waves of physical sensation inside her body. She enjoyed her lack of feeling very much, thank you. As long as Trace and his wicked hand gave her a wide berth for the next three months, nobody would get hurt. He�
��d already awakened too many of her memories as it was. She didn’t want to remember any more.
The wind picked up on her way back to the Range Rover, and a low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Looked like the storms were arriving a few hours earlier than expected. Good thing she hadn’t listened to the weather forecasters, otherwise she would have ridden her Ducati into the city. And wouldn’t that have just put the shit-flavored icing on her roadkill cake if she’d been caught in the storm on her way back?
For the love of God, how hard was it for meteorologists to use all that science at their fingertips to come up with an accurate—
Movement caught her eye out of her peripheral vision, cutting her thoughts off cold.
She stopped abruptly and frowned as her gaze trained upward, toward the Sentinel apartment building and the shadowy figure rappelling down the building’s east face. What the hell?
She cocked her head in disbelief as the hooded, black-clad figure lowered halfway down the building then stopped. A moment later, a hand pressed against the glass. She heard a brief, high-pitched sound—kind of like a dog whistle—and a moment later the pane of glass shattered and Mr. Mysterious vanished inside.
At least she assumed the burglar was a Mr. and not a Mrs. The way the figure moved was much too masculine to be female.
But my, my, my, what fun toys he had.
The first drops of rain splattered the sidewalk. One splashed on her nose.
She really needed to go, but her curiosity was piqued. She couldn’t just leave like she’d never seen the guy. She had to know what he was up to.
Cursing under her breath, she glanced around to make sure no one was watching then projected herself up to the broken window and into the dark apartment.
She rematerialized inside the living room. A quick inhale confirmed her earlier assumption. The thief was a male. A vampire male, but obviously not a full-blood. A full-blood wouldn’t have used rappelling gear to gain access to the apartment. He would have just poofed there the way she just did, which told Cordray she was dealing with a mixed-blood who couldn’t dematerialize. Good to know. It meant his exit options were limited.
She glanced around and frowned as she homed in on his trail, which led down a hall to the left.
Wait a minute. There was something familiar about this place. She’d seen it before. Inside Trace’s mind.
She sucked in her breath. Holy shit on a plate. This was Micah’s apartment. Not that she gave two shits about what happened to that ball sac’s digs, but anyone who knew Micah knew not to mess with him. He was AKM’s deadliest enforcer with a nasty reputation to match, and he had powerful friends.
Trace came to mind. He could turn a perfectly good body into ground meat with a snap of his fingers.
Which begged the question, why would this guy be fucking around with Micah’s shit? Micah’s reputation preceded him even in civilian circles, so the burglar had to know how hot the fire would get once Micah learned his apartment had been broken into.
From the high-end rappelling equipment, as well as the fancy toy that shattered the window, the thief was sophisticated. He wasn’t the type of cat burglar who didn’t do his research. He knew who he was hitting, and he knew him well. And as a vampire himself, he knew the consequences of his actions, both according to Bain’s law, as well as Micah’s, because Micah tended to operate in the grey area between what was legal and what wasn’t. And sure as bears shit in the woods, Micah would go after this guy with everything he had once he found out what had happened.
Then again, maybe that was the allure. Maybe this guy was an adrenaline junkie, and what greater rush than to rob a live wire like Micah and evade him all while breaking royal law?
Cordray knew a thing or two about adrenaline rushes. Without the ability to feel physical sensation, such states of excitement were just about the only pleasurable experiences she enjoyed, which was probably why she got off on the thrill of the chase as much as she did. There was nothing like a shot of biological get-up-and-go to tingle her insides when, on the outside, she felt nothing.
Except with Trace.
For the first time in eight centuries, she had been able to feel again, and it was because of Trace. He’d awakened something she thought she’d lost forever. Physical sensation. And every time he was near her, he awakened it even more.
Quiet rustling from the room down the hall drew Cordray’s attention. Dismissing thoughts of Trace and what he could do to her sense of touch, she slinked silently toward what she assumed was the bedroom, hand on her sidearm, eyes sharp in the darkness.
She peered around the doorframe. Yep. Bedroom. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious was in the closet, rummaging through God knew what. But he was being quiet about it, as if he knew at any moment someone could show up and catch him.
Slipping into the dark room, she watched the beam from his flashlight bob back and forth then go still as if he’d set it on the floor. Tiptoeing closer, she peeked into the closet. He was kneeling in the back corner, facing away from her, slowly spinning the dial on a small, black safe nestled against the wall. He’d pressed an elaborate stethoscope to the metal beside the lock. The scope was hooked up to what looked like a portable computer the size of a small tablet. Numbers flashed on the screen, filling in as he spun the dial left and right.
When the final number filled the third space, he entered the combination, releasing the lock a moment later. After quickly pocketing his equipment, he pulled the door open to extract an intricately carved wooden box. His hood was still up, so she couldn’t get a look at his face as he set the box on the floor, pulled out a slim tool with a prong on one end, and inserted the prong into the keyhole. She heard a click. A second later, he flipped open the lid.
Rifling efficiently through the contents, he removed a purple, velvet pouch, loosened the drawstring, reached his black-gloved hand inside, and pulled out a gold artifact that looked like an Egyptian ankh. A ruby filled the space at the top where a loop normally would have been.
Cordray unholstered her gun and raised it, the business end aimed toward his head.
“Whatcha got there?” she said, stepping into the open.
The thief spun around. Under his hood, he wore a skeleton mask that appeared custom made to deliver fear into the hearts of the beholder. The skull face was menacing and marked with scars, and instead of human canines, the mask had fangs. Nice touch for a vampire.
Cordray admired this guy’s style. The mask was like the Grim Reaper combined with Charon from Medusa’s underworld. Scary as shit and more badass than her watch.
As enviable as his mask was, though, it was his almond-shaped, come-hither eyes that made the most striking impression. They were surrounded by greasepaint, which made his slate irises pop. Not quite gray, not quite blue. Dusky and vivid.
She took a step toward him. “Who are y—”
He thrust his open hand toward her, and the high-pitched shrill of his glass breaker pierced her eardrums. She smacked her free hand over her ear a second before a blast of energy pulsed from the tiny contraption, flinging her back against the solid bedframe hard enough to knock her gun from her hand. She tumbled over herself and slammed onto the floor beside the bed.
Before she could recover, he dashed past her, fleeing down the hall toward the living room.
Motherfucker! Cordray bounced up, retrieved her gun, and gave chase, her ears ringing, her arm heavy as if she’d pulled something. Good thing she couldn’t feel pain or this might have been a short chase.
There was nowhere to go in the living room but out the window, and surely this guy wouldn’t take that route.
Think again.
He launched himself out the window like he was swan diving off the high platform at the Summer Olympics.
Seriously?
Cordray rushed to the gaping, rectangular hole in the glass in time to see him pull a rip cord at his left shoulder as if he were opening a parachute. But instead of a chute, gossamer wings unfolded like a m
iniature hang glider from a slim pack on his back, and his outfit turned into a wingsuit.
Damn, this guy was good.
Not to be outdone, Cordray darted back into the living room then sprinted toward the window and leaped into the frenzied wind a split second before dematerializing.
This fucker wasn’t getting away that easily. She still had a few tricks up her sleeve.
She rematerialized on his back, landing ingloriously, pitching them into gravity’s grip as the burglar fought to regain control of his descent.
“Get off me, bitch!” He tried to reach around and dislodge her, but she ducked and pulled away. “You’ll kill us both!”
“Doubtful, mixed-blood!” From the strong, vibrant scent gushing out of him, her earlier assessment that this guy was a major adrenaline junkie was right on target. “Who are you? Why were you in Micah Black’s apartment? What’s with the ankh?” She had to shout to be heard over the wind rushing past them as they shot between buildings on a steady, haphazard descent toward the ground.
Raindrops pelted her face like tiny bullets, stinging her eyes, making it hard for her to see, but she didn’t miss the way he looked over his shoulder at her, or the way the outer corners of his eyes lifted as if he were grinning behind that evil-looking skull mask. And not just grinning, but smiling as if he were having the time of his life.
Then he winked at her. Actually winked.
And disappeared.
Motherfucker!
She pitched into a freefall and barely managed to dematerialize before slamming headfirst into the concrete.
Okay, so maybe the bastard could dematerialize. Maybe he was a full-blood, after all. So much for making assumptions.
Either way, this cocksucker was seriously starting to piss her off.
Skimming just above the sidewalk, she gathered her bearings then rose upward until she detected his vapor trail.
Whoever this guy was, he had his shit together. He’d known who he was hitting, and he’d had a plan for both entry and egress. What else could she expect before this cat-and-mouse game was over?
