by Tracy Tappan
They headed up one more flight to the mansion’s main floor.
Not exactly a paperwork guy, Jaċken maintained an office in the rec room—basically little more than a desk crammed into a corner by the Foosball table. “Take a seat.” Jaċken indicated the chair situated at the corner of the desk, while he landed in the one behind it. He got right to the point. “You split your team.”
“I did,” Dev admitted. “One of the women had been—”
“Sedge and Thomal debriefed me about what happened to the women,” Jaċken cut in. “Your orders were to extract the Dragons and bring them safely into Ţărână. Nothing more.”
Dev leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “It was my assessment that this kind of abuse would be repeated unless we taught the Om Rău a lesson.”
“Bullcrap, Nichita,” Jaċken returned. “You’re not stupid. You know damn well that nothing you could ever do is going to stop Om Rău from hunting Dragons…and being assholes about it.”
Dev felt the muscles in his body tighten, a defensive anger rising in him like a hot wind. “I didn’t botch the mission, Jaċken. I made sure the women were securely on their way to the community before I broke off with Gábor.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You didn’t see this girl Videön raped, okay? She’s the tiniest damned thing, couldn’t weigh more than a buck-and-a-nickel, and there she was, looking at us with these big eyes, and her—”
“You take whatever risks necessary to save a woman, Nichita, absolutely, but in this case, the deed had already been done. You acted out of a need for vengeance, pure and simple.” Jaċken gave his head a taut shake. “And it’s exactly unwarranted risk-taking that puts a burr up Roth’s butt, and makes it ten times more difficult for us to get mission clearance the next time.”
Dev sat back again. “Since when do you let Roth dictate what the Warrior Class does?”
A tic pulsed in Jaċken’s cheek. “The Council was created for a reason, Nichita. It exists to help make decisions about important issues that affect the community. Reasonable decisions, and not half-cocked judgment calls that could end up getting men killed.”
Dev knotted his jaw. This wasn’t a debriefing, it was a hand-Dev-his-ass session. “I didn’t think,” he said through set teeth, “that it was half-cocked to try and track those fuckers into their lair. When else would their scent be so fresh? You do want to know where this topside faction holes up, don’t you, Jaċken?”
“Why sure, Dev. So what was this, then?” Jaċken arched his brows in a way that brought a sting to Dev’s cheeks. “A recon mission you were on or a lesson-teaching one?”
He glanced away, cursing under his breath.
“It was a different mission for a different time, that’s what it was.” Jaċken gestured abruptly. “You were already outnumbered, for chrissake, and then you take only one man with you to go chase down two factions of Om Rău?”
Heat burned through Dev’s chest. “There wasn’t one warrior on the team who didn’t agree with what I did.”
“Who gives a shit? Leadership isn’t about providing everyone with a happy hard-on. It’s about the ability to make difficult decisions.” Jaċken thrust to his feet. “We clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Dev stood, too, fighting the urge to ball his hands into fists. “And I should probably make it clear that if I had it to do all over again, I’d make the same decision.” Because he hadn’t been fucking wrong.
Jaċken paused, then exhaled forcefully. “You’re one of the best fighters I have, Dev, quick and strong and a great strategist, but this is where you fall off the vine—you do what you want to do and damn the consequences. I have plans for you, but you need to learn to view the big picture when you’re out in the field and not just your own self-involved version of it.”
Dev’s throat filled, but this time, he kept his comment to himself.
“I won’t pull you off leadership for now. But I need you to think about what I said.” Jaċken jerked his chin toward the door. “Hit the showers.”
Dev turned on his heel and stalked out of the rec room, heading straight for the armory. He slammed his mangled M4 into the gun rack, then took off for the mansion’s front door rather than continuing one more flight up to his bedroom. He smelled like a dump—an actual pile of shit or a garbage site, it was a toss-up—but, screw it. He was going to Garwald’s Pub for a drink.
Chapter Seven
Luvera stole soundlessly along the mansion’s second floor landing, the thick burgundy Berber carpet silencing her footsteps. Murals of famous European cities decorated the doors lining the hallway on either side of her. Rome, with a beautiful depiction of the Colosseum came first, situated right across from Paris and its famous, soaring Eiffel Tower. Here, she faltered. This was Tonĩ’s former room, now occupied by her brother, Alex, the only man on this floor of single males who wasn’t a warrior. She stared at the door for several long minutes, until she started to feel stupid, then moved on. From Rome, the doors continued along with Oslo, London, Dublin—her brother, Dev’s, room—and Berlin, Jaċken’s old room, now home to Vinz. On the other side, Paris led to Copenhagen, Vienna, Amsterdam, which, with its whimsical tulips, was the oddest room to give to Nỵko Brun, the biggest, scariest-looking warrior of them all. And next door to that, her destination: Istanbul.
She knocked right on the soaring minarets of the Blue Mosque.
A moment later, the door swung open, and Shọn Brun stepped into the jamb.
To say that Shọn was the smallest of the three Half-Rău Brun brothers would be officially accurate, but far from precisely descriptive. Being a few inches shorter than his brother, Jaċken—it wasn’t even fair to compare him to gigantic Nỵko—didn’t qualify him as small. And if his muscles bulged a little less, they were still steely and whipcord taut, not an ounce of softening fat visible on his body.
He had strong, angular features, a sullen mouth, and his eyes were black and bright at the same time, like coals halfway through the process of becoming diamonds. His hair was currently a mass of tangled black spikes, making him look like a porcupine or hedgehog…with the personality of a cobra. Yes, to say that Shọn, despite his smaller stature, exuded the most dangerous energy of the Brun men…well, now, that would be right on the money. An aura which was only enhanced by his long, glistening canines; even when retracted, they protruded into his mouth a bit, the longest fangs of any Vârcolac.
She believed he’d been politely asked to make himself scarce around the new Dragon women. Not that he was being kept from anything he could’ve had; only Dragon women of the rare Royal variety, similar to Tonĩ, were the type of females the Half-Rău Bruns could safely have children with. And until another came along—if another came along—Nỵko and Shọn were pledged to remain celibate in order to keep their tainted demonic genes out of the community.
Restraint, unfortunately, wasn’t one of Shọn’s strong suits. He tended to go a little bonkers around the scent of an unmated Dragon woman. Luckily, Luvera, as a Vârcolac woman who only ovulated about twice a year, gave off a scent that was much less…aromatically motivating than a Dragon’s.
“The lovely Miss Nichita,” Shọn drawled, propping a shoulder against the doorjamb. “What do you want?”
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, saw Shọn’s gaze follow her boobs lifting up, then dropped them again. Okay, still…never a good idea to underestimate Shọn’s capacity for going bonkers. “You took a package of mine from the post office, Shọn.”
“So?”
So? He didn’t have anything to say for himself. “Why would you do such a thing?”
He straightened and braced a forearm high up on the door frame, his hand hanging relaxed, the bulky swell of his bicep put on display. She wanted to take a step back, but forced herself not to. “Thought it might have something interesting in it.” He flicked his fingers forward, flipping the hair on her forehead. “What do you want with medical books, anyway?”
“Shush!” she hissed, s
hoving him into his room. “Be quiet, would you!” She followed him inside and shut the door. “I can’t believe how rude you are to have opened my—” She broke off when she noticed the state of his room. My goodness. It felt like she’d just stepped into the inner workings of an insane mind.
There was clutter everywhere, shelves and shelves of books and more piled on the floor, covering every topic from mechanics, engineering and gadgetry, to mysteries, history, and the Kama Sutra; even the classics were represented, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Faulkner. A pile of sports equipment dominated one side of the room, tools another, and on his bed, there were so many blankets and clothes piled on the mattress, there could’ve been three dead bodies buried underneath and no one would’ve known. On the counter of his wet bar—a supplement to every bedroom in the mansion, complete with microwave and mini fridge—were beakers, stoppered bottles of chemicals, along with Petri dishes and test tubes in various stages of growth.
“You want to be a doctor or something?” Shọn idly rubbed his jaw with the edge of his thumb, a hint of scorn around his mouth. “Now here’s a surprise, a Nichita who thinks she’s above everyone else.”
Her face burned. Not fair. Just because her mother and Dev were a couple of bigheads, didn’t make her one, too. “I’m studying to become a nurse, okay? Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Well, last I checked, doll-cake, the community wasn’t sending anybody topside for college.”
None of them had exactly been of college age for years, seeing as the reproduction of their genetically kaput race had come to a standstill. Except for the Stânga Town kids, but they’d never go. They were too busy hanging out almost exclusively in their own squalid part of the cave and engaging in all manner of troublesome behavior.
“I’m taking some Internet courses to start,” she said, although she had no idea why she was explaining herself, “until night classes become an option. So I need those books, Shọn. I’ve got a quiz coming up.”
“All right.” He scratched the top of his head, pushing more spikes of hair up. “I’ll trade you.”
“You’ll…?” She blinked. “For what?” What could she possibly have of his?
His chin edged down slightly, his glittering eyes peering up at her through the think fringe of his lashes.
The hairs on her nape prickled and rose. He hadn’t moved an inch, but suddenly she felt like he was circling her.
“A kiss.”
“A—? Oh, my stars!”
“For each book.”
“That’s it,” she snapped. “I’m leaving.” She turned around and headed for the door.
“Am I threatening you, Luvera?”
She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. No, and, shoot, she needed those books. She turned back around.
He laid an arm across a bare space on the counter of his wet bar, displaying a forearm tattooed with the same black interlocking teeth that his brothers, Jaċken and Nỵko, wore. “I’m asking you, not trying to force you.”
“No, you’re manipulating me with my medical books.”
He showed her his long fangs in a mordant smile. “I did think some leverage might help.”
“You…you planned this?” Dear heavens.
His smile slowly closed off. “I want to know what it’s like to kiss a girl.” He walked towards her, his hips rolling with serpentine grace. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like to kiss a guy?”
“Of course.” She edged back against the door. “With my mate.”
“You’re willing to wait for that?” He snorted. “Because last I checked, it’s been more than twenty years since Roth shut down all procreation within the race, and how many eligible Dragon males have been brought in for you women since then?” He sneered. “One.”
She blinked hard. “Things are different now that Tonĩ’s here. The Council’s working on getting Dragon males into Ţărână soon. Tonĩ said so.” Tartly, she added, “Besides, aren’t you bound by a vow of celibacy, Shọn? I can’t imagine kissing a girl was included in the fine print of that agreement.”
“You let me worry about what my vow does and doesn’t include.” He reached for her face.
She sidled away. “Well, I’m bound, even if you don’t feel like you are. No fraternization between Vârcolac, remember?”
“We don’t exactly have to tell anybody, Luvera.” He reached for her face again, his fingers grazing her cheek.
Her face tingled, and a small breath slipped past her lips. His touch was shockingly gentle.
He followed the movement of his hand with his eyes, seeming fascinated by the look and feel of her, as if she might actually be…special. She swallowed hard, a strange ache tightening around her heart. Just another manipulation…
He drew his thumb across her lower lip. “Let’s put our tongues inside each other’s mouths, too. It’ll feel really good, I bet.” He eased his thumb between her lips and touched her tongue.
She pulled away, surprised by the small leap of fire in her belly. “No, Shọn.”
He dropped his hand, his eyes glittering black basalt. “What are you holding out for, Luvera? Alex? Is that it? You think you can snag him away from Jennilĩth?” He laughed coldly. “All right, just for kicks, let’s say you could. The community would hate you for ruining such a perfect genetic match.”
She exhaled in a sudden rush, feeling like she’d just taken a hammer to the gut. She’d never thought of it that way before. A sick feeling balled in her throat. The dream of turning Alex’s attention away from the stunning Jennilĩth long enough for him to see her as more than just a friend was already sufficiently out of her reach without her having to contend with everyone’s hatred.
“Here’s the reality of how things are going to play out,” Shọn went on ruthlessly. “Alex and Jennilĩth are going to hook up in marital bliss while you pine away until maybe you’re in your hundreds for the next Dragon male to come along, hoping that you’re the one women in all the community to catch his eye. Meanwhile you’ll waste your life in pathetic solitude, never experiencing a damned thing because you wanted to wait for a mate.”
Tears sprang into her eyes. “What’s wrong with you, Shọn!?” Her chest jerked, a small cry hiccupping inside her. “It’s not going to be like that.”
He turned his head aside, exhaled a long breath from his nostrils, then looked at her again. “You know what? Maybe I should give those medical books back to you. So your life can have meaning for once, right? Because that is what they’re for.”
“Would you shut up!?” She didn’t want to hear any of this. She had fears enough of her own to contend with—pretty much everything he’d just said. “You stand there ripping apart my hopes and dreams,” ripping chunks out of my soul, “and for what? To get a stupid kiss.” Anger surged into her face as a dark cavern of loss opened in her heart. She hauled back her fist and punched Shọn in the shoulder, her Vârcolac strength sending him reeling backward. “I hate you, you selfish bastard!”
He caught his footing. “No, you don’t,” he said with infuriating calm. “You hate your life.”
“Go to hell.” She tore open his door. “I’m sure you know the way.” She fled down the hall, the truth of his words squeezing tears from her eyes.
Chapter Eight
Topside, 7:42 a.m.
Pändra Parthen shoved open her older brother’s bedroom door and set her hands on her hips. She couldn’t see him under the tangled pile of blankets on his bed, but she knew he was there. Jorgé, their butler, had told her that all the masters had returned home about six this morning. Only about two hours of sleep, then. Poor babby. “Wakey-wakey,” she called to him. “Out of bed, lazyhead.”
The lump of blankets shifted, then Mürk’s head appeared. He squinted at her. “Knob off, Pändra, you bleedin’ whore.” His head crashed back down.
She crossed her arms and tilted her chin. A bugger of a night, had it been? “Never a good idea to arse about and hide from Father when you’ve cocked u
p a mission, Mürk.”
Mürk shot to a full sitting position. “Soddin’ shit.” Oh, he was fully awake now. “How the hell did Raymond find out?”
“That one called Tøllar sent an email.” Pändra herself had been the one to set up the single Internet line for the Underground Om Rău, Raymond having insisted on an efficient way to communicate with his uneasy allies. The trogs hadn’t had much more than a few tellies before she came along.
Mürk swung his legs over the side of the mattress. “What did the farty prick say?”
“He said that his leader, Lørke, claims that since the Dragon women you brought to the warehouse were stolen before the exchange took place, they don’t count toward the ten we owe them.”
Mürk curled his lip. “That’s utter bilge water.”
She shrugged. “Fill Raymond’s ear with it, Mürk. He wants to see you and the lads in the sun room right away.”
“Jesus sufferin’ fuck,” Mürk muttered.
She turned around, heading out the—
Mürk was suddenly at her side, wrapping his hand around her arm.
She stopped, set her brows into a high lift, and turned back around. Her eyes skimmed downward. So her brother slept in the buff, did he? Dispassionately, she noted each striation and sinew articulated beneath his naked skin and the thick male langer that hung between his thighs. A puffy jaw, various bruises on his body, and a line of puckered bullet holes along his right shoulder confirmed that, yes, it’d been a bugger of a night. Her scrutiny hesitated on the nasty scar on his belly. Whatever Mürk had done to earn one of Raymond’s more legendary punishments, she hadn’t the foggiest notion. “You’re touching me,” she informed him in a bored tone.
Mürk dropped his hand. “Raymond’s no doubt spittin’ tacks over this muck-up, ducky. So you’re goin’ to help me strategize before I face the old man.”
Mürk, as the eldest of their seventeen-sibling blended family—Rën, formerly the eldest, had been killed in a scrap with the vamps—obviously knew that the blame for this bodged mission would fall primarily on his broad shoulders.
