The Slayer

by Brenda Huber

  Perhaps more than anything, what bothered Niklas the most was Xander’s unwillingness to be parted from his female. While Niklas had grown—fond, he supposed was the right word—of Kyanna, he still couldn’t understand how Xander could have given up all he had for one human woman. Immortality? Heaven?

  For a woman?

  It just wasn’t logical. There was no strategy involved, no gain that he could see. And yet, he’d never seen Xander like this.

  Happy. Or as happy as the Slayer could get. And that itself was just freaky. The Slayer…happy.

  Deep shades of pink and crimson surrounded not only Kyanna, but Xander as well. Niklas had never seen colors of any kind surrounding Xander before, or any of the other Fallen either. And to see pink, the colors of love—and red, the color of lust—around the once cold and emotionless, colorless, Xander? Yep. Freaky. Besotted was definitely the right word. Shaking his head, he downed the last of his champagne and then vanished his glass. Love. Lust. It all equaled stupidity.

  Vulnerability, a dark inner voice echoed disdainfully.

  Whatever the hell it was that Xander had become afflicted with, Niklas wasn’t getting within ten feet of it. He didn’t have the time or the inclination for that crap. Never mind the fact that he could potentially live forever. He had more important things on his plate.

  Never in a million years did he ever figure he’d be fighting to once again keep bad old Lucy in power down under, but that’s exactly what they were doing. In a roundabout way. Galling as hell was what it was, actually. Drawing a deep breath, he straightened and caught Mikhail’s eye. Getting the nod from Mikhail, he flicked a glance first to Gideon, and then Sebastian. The last scowled.

  Sebastian might be too well mannered to cut out early, but he wasn’t. Neither was Mikhail. One could always count on Mikhail to be the ultimate lone wolf. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, where he wanted. No one in his right mind would try to stop him. And those not in their right mind? Well, they weren’t in any shape to object for long. Of course, lately, Gideon wasn’t much better.

  They’d discussed assignments earlier in the morning after they’d gathered to share intel. The plan had been to depart in the morning for their various destinations. Mikhail had volunteered to head up the search in Maine. Gideon was headed to the jungles of Mexico. Sebastian was on his way to Michigan. And Niklas was off to Iowa, of all places.

  Now was as good a time as any to leave. Frankly, he’d personally had about all the PDA he could stomach. All this mushy, emotional stuff was giving him the creeps. For the love of all that was holy, Xander had even smiled. More than once. Freaky! It was time to get back out there and hunt the rest of those relics down before they lost anymore to Stolas.

  Without saying goodbye, he shimmered himself to his flat in Paris.

  Space.

  That was what he needed. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be getting enough of that in the near future. Asher had turned up information on another nest, and a larger than normal surge in demonic power in northern Iowa. In a matter of minutes, Niklas conjured himself into his customary attire. Black pants, combat boots, T-shirt, and full arsenal. Niklas grabbed a bag he kept packed for personal convenience, but then he hesitated. He needed to get the hell out of Dodge, but his gut was telling him something about this next mission was going to get sticky.

  Grim, he went down on one knee and reached under the bed. Energy transferred through the handle and hummed up his arm as he pulled the trunk out. Might as well go loaded, he figured. And ammo—at least ammo in a fight against his own kind—didn’t get any more powerful than what he had stashed away in this trunk.

  He shrugged on a long trench coat, slid his shades up the bridge of his nose, grabbed up his bag and trunk and headed for the door. He had places to go, relics to find and demon ass to kick.

  About the Author

  Brenda Huber lives in Iowa with her husband, her two children and her very spoiled dog Sam. You can learn more by visiting her on her website (brendahuber.webs.com), or follow her on Facebook (http://on.fb.me/1F4VsNc).

  Look for these titles by Brenda Huber

  Coming Soon:

  The Seer

  One murderous mission. One killer case of PMS. Who said “the curse” was a myth?

  Hunting Medusa

  © 2014 Elizabeth Andrews

  The Medusa Trilogy, Book 1

  Ever since the original Medusa ticked off Athena by bragging about her beauty, her cursed daughters have been paying for that mistake. To this day, successive Medusas play cat and mouse with the descendants of Perseus, known as the Harvesters.

  When Kallan Tassos tracks down the current Medusa, he expects to find a monster. Instead he finds a wary, beautiful woman, shielded by a complicated web of spells that foils his plans for a quick kill and retrieval of her protective amulet.

  Andrea Rosakis expects the handsome Harvester to go for the kill. Instead, his attempt to take the amulet imprinted on her skin without harming her takes her completely by surprise. And ends with the two of them in a magical bind—together.

  Though their attraction is combustible, her impending PMS (Pre Magical-Curse Syndrome) puts a real damper on any chance of a relationship. But Kallan isn’t the only Harvester tracking Andi, and they must cooperate to stay at least one step ahead of a ruthless killer before they can have any future, together or apart.

  Warning: A hunter who’s fallen for the woman he’s bound to kill, a Medusa who must trust him with her life, and a magical curse only love can break.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Hunting Medusa:

  “Time for bed.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  Kallan gave her a bland smile. “Time for bed.” He guided her out of the bathroom and steered her into the next doorway, flipping on the light as they went. Her bedroom.

  The bed loomed large in the middle of the space, reminding him uncomfortably of being pressed up against her back in the dark kitchen.

  She balked, then stumbled when he gave her arm a gentle yank. “I am not sleeping with you.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recall asking you.” He pushed her toward the bed.

  She tried to dig her feet in, but she didn’t get any traction with her boots on the hardwood and skidded into his side.

  He nudged her onto the edge of the bed. “Boots.”

  She stared up at him, appalled, for a long moment. “You are insane.”

  One of his eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  “You really don’t have a choice, Medusa.” He sat down and caught one of her knees, lifting her leg to untie the shoe and push it off.

  She struggled against him, making him grunt when she elbowed one of the slash marks on his arm.

  He wrestled her other shoe off and then dragged her onto the bed before stretching out beside her.

  She sat up, tugging on her arm. She could go nowhere so it was a futile effort.

  Kallan smiled at her. “It’s been a long night. Lie down.”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  He laughed. She never stopped. “I think that’s my job, my Medusa.”

  “I’m not your Medusa. I’m not your anything. My name is Andi.”

  He put his free hand behind his head and studied her for a long moment. “Andrea Rosakis. I know your name.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I don’t think we’ll discuss that. But I suppose I should inquire as to whether there are any weapons in your nightstand I need to worry about tonight.”

  Her look of disbelief made him sit up. He crawled over her, then straddled her and tried not to think about the position while he used his free hand to pull open the drawer. A flashlight, hefty enough to bash him in the head. He tossed it away so it clattered across the floor and landed near the closet.
A tattered book. He flipped it over to look at the cover. A romance novel—the half-naked hero on the cover ravishing the slightly more dressed woman in his arms. The worst she could do with that was give him some paper cuts. Or another painful erection.

  Kallan cleared his throat and dropped the book back into the drawer, where there were still some scattered papers, a pen—which he threw in the direction of the flashlight—a black satin sleep mask, and way in the back… He closed his fingers around something more substantial than the pen.

  A vibrator, he discovered when he pulled it out of the drawer.

  He shot her a quizzical glance and found her face averted, but not enough that he couldn’t see the hot color staining her cheeks. He glanced back at the toy, imagining her using it despite his best intentions. He could understand a woman like the Medusa having the same needs as other women. But why wouldn’t she indulge them with a flesh and blood man? She only suffered the effects of the curse for a few days each month. He flipped the tiny switch on the bottom of the vibrator, and the thing hummed to life.

  Under him, she stiffened, turning her face further away.

  He shut it off and dropped it back into the drawer. “Well, I don’t think I’d consider that a weapon,” he said lightly. He was suddenly aware of how close she was again, her breasts a scant inch from his belly, her thighs pressed tight between his knees. Her scent teased his nose—something with wildflowers and herbs. He sniffed. Basil, maybe. And sandalwood. Something else. He resisted the urge to lean nearer to find out what and climbed off her, ignoring his body’s protest. It had definitely been too long since he’d indulged his own needs if he couldn’t control these urges around the Medusa for even an hour.

  “Lie down.”

  When she didn’t immediately obey him, he gave her a gentle push until her head hit the pillow. She glared up at him, her cheeks still bright pink.

  “You’re going to need your rest. We have work to do tomorrow,” he said.

  She averted her gaze.

  He had to find out if any of the lore talked about the amulet being embedded in the Medusa’s skin. And if so, why hadn’t he seen it before now? Why had no one mentioned it?

  He stretched out beside her once more. “I hope you have something in the refrigerator for breakfast.” He hadn’t planned on spending the night, after all.

  “You don’t really think I’m feeding you, do you?” Horror and anger mingled in her tone.

  He didn’t look at her, though he really wanted to see her expression. “I have two good hands. I can feed myself. I’m just hoping you have breakfast food here for me to do that with.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  He grinned, restraining the laugh that tried to work up from his chest. His Medusa was a lot of fun. A lot more fun than anyone he’d encountered in a long, long time.

  She huffed and shifted. “Unbelievable,” she repeated, under her breath this time. She inched away from him on the mattress—cautiously, slowly—then lay still for a long moment.

  Andi tugged uselessly at her wrist, but his arm didn’t move from his side. “Hey, Harvester.”

  The obnoxious grin slid off his face. “Stop calling me that.”

  “It’s your name.”

  He glared at her, then folded his arms over his chest, dragging hers along and forcing her to half roll toward him again.

  She yanked away but he put his other hand over her wrist.

  “Go to sleep.”

  She shot him a disbelieving glance. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to sleeping in handcuffs. Or with all the lights on. And I’m not tired.” That last sounded rather childish, she admitted to herself, but the man had nerve.

  He observed her for a long moment, until she wanted to squirm under his scrutiny. Then another slow grin started at one corner of his mouth, gradually curving his full lower lip all the way to the opposite corner. “I bet I can fix that.”

  “I don’t think so.” She leaned as far away as her trapped arm allowed.

  He moved fast, flipping her on top of him before she realized his intent.

  Andi blinked, then felt her heart pound faster. The Harvester had muscles on his muscles.

  Not the best time to be noticing that, perhaps.

  She watched him warily as he shifted under her, settled her close, then stretched their cuffed wrists away from their sides. She put her free hand on his shoulder and pushed herself up a little. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting you tired.” His other hand slid up her spine to the nape of her neck, where his fingers started massaging the tight muscles.

  “Stop it.” She shifted her head to one side, then the other, but his strong fingers continued exactly what they’d been doing. She frowned down at him.

  He smiled innocently.

  “That doesn’t work for me.” It did feel good, though. Not that she’d tell him.

  Kallan’s bright gaze slid down from her eyes to her mouth, almost like an actual touch on her lips.

  She swallowed. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Too late,” he murmured, using his grip at her nape to bring her closer.

  Andi sucked in a startled breath when he brushed his mouth along hers. “You’re sick.”

  It was his turn to blink. “What?”

  “You’re here to kill me, right?”

  His brows dipped into a frown.

  “You’re not supposed to be…screwing me too.” She blushed.

  His frown disappeared. “I’m not trying to screw you. Just kiss you, Andrea.”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock.

  “Well, that makes it much easier,” he said softly, lifting his head to catch her lips.

  His kiss wasn’t what she’d expected. Not that she’d been imagining it. Not really. His lips were warm and soft on hers, not demanding or ruthless—although she was certain he possessed both qualities, and probably far worse, knowing his gene pool. His kiss was more an exploration. A gentle caress.

  And for a moment, she decided, she could enjoy it. It had been a very long time since a man had kissed her.

  Reluctant allies; dangerous lovers.

  The Death Skull

  © 2014 Cassiel Knight

  Relic Defender, Book 2

  Fallen angel Marisol Asheni Fell when she unwisely chose to follow Lucifer. Unlike many of her fellow angels, she has no desire for redemption. Instead, she prefers fighting the followers of the Dark when they step over the line. Except, in the deepest part of her soul, she longs for a reason to stop fighting.

  Jackson’s only loyalty is to himself and his mother, but even he has boundaries he won’t cross. When his last job threatened the life of a young woman, he tossed aside the lucrative pay, and finds himself fighting evil. He’s attracted to Mari despite her hard, seemingly emotionless edge. And while Mari finds the tall human reluctantly appealing, she has no intention of finding herself in a relationship with a human.

  Brought together by the Archangel Michael, they must find and destroy the crystal Mayan Death Skull before the son of Lucifer uses the skull to destroy the world’s leaders and throw the world into chaos to begin Hell on Earth.

  Their search for the Death Skull takes them from Chicago to Central America to the lost city of Lubaantun in Belize, the heart of the Mayan civilization, and into a battle for their souls.

  Warning: This title contains a kick-ass fallen angel with only one weakness: a man who makes her crazy in the best—and worst—possible ways. The hero? Picture Indiana Jones, even sexier, who isn’t going to let a little hellfire get in his way.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Death Skull:

  Jackson leaned against the gymnasium door. He flexed his right knee, which was still sore and tender from his near-death slide down a mountain a couple of weeks ago. Once off the slopes and in the hillside city of Nagarkot,
he’d been pronounced fine by the local doctor. The little joyride down the mountainside had left Jackson with a banged up kneecap and strained and bruised neck and shoulder muscles. Not much more severe than the normal scrapes and cuts he’d gotten over the last six months since he’d turned over a new leaf and joined a band of do-gooders to save the world.

  How had his life changed so fast from the neatly roped-and-tied, orderly affair to the messy, knotted circle it had become? Six months for a complete turnaround was fast for a man who had been perfectly content as an unscrupulous mercenary working for the rich and powerful.

  Especially the rich.

  Now, instead of traveling the world to work for men willing to part with their ill-gotten money, he lived in a goddamn huge mansion with an angel who turned down Heaven, an ex-exotic dancer with a sassy mouth and a destiny to save mankind, a shape-shifting rock with aspirations to be a 1920s mobster, a cocky tech expert and—

  Her.

  The woman currently kicking the crap out of the poor punching bag.

  Correction. Not a woman. Fallen angel. Demon, actually.

  Christ. Jackson swept a hand through his hair. When he found trouble, he went all the way. Said woman, Marisol Asheni—a flowery name for a hard-ass demon—struck the bag, the force of her blow rocking the heavy sack violently. He half expected the damn thing to crash to the floor.

  Even as she pounded the hell out of the bag, her body flowed in lovely symmetry. Much like the woman herself, each of her movements was precise, effortless and made with minimum motions. And a helluva lot of grace.