Ax patted my arm. “I’ll make the java.”
I grimaced. Ax could cook like Martha Stewart, but his coffee had driven otherwise hardened souls to attempt suicide. “Don’t you dare, you miscreant. Your sludge tastes like ass-flavored gelatin.”
He grinned, and the wicked gleam in his eye forced a laugh out of me. He knew I wouldn’t let him make the damned coffee. “G’night, Moira.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I waved at him.
Dove was already tucked into her cot, snoring away. Ah, the sweet sleep of ornery bitches.
Exhaustion weighed on me like the Great Pyramid.
I considered the rucksack sitting like an accusation next to my cot. Within its leathery confines were prescription bottles, including one with the magic pills that kept nightmares from manifesting. But I was exhausted, and also feeling stubborn. I didn’t want to rely on a pill. I couldn’t really choose not to take the others. Me without meds was like the Hulk without Bruce Banner.
I sat on the cot, my shoulders sagging. I put my hand on the rucksack’s clasp, and hesitated. I blamed Ax for this sudden need to delve into dreamland unencumbered. Ax loved me, which was why he still prodded me about going to therapy and dealing with my shit. Maybe one day I would. Probably the same day I discovered Egyptian vampires . . . on the twelfth of never.
I let go of the bag, went vertical on the cot, and pulled up the scratchy blanket. I fell asleep before the discomfort of my crappy sleeping arrangements had the chance to annoy me.
Chapter 2
Dove
I’m lying in the dark, listening to Moira move restlessly in her sleep. I don’t sleep well, either, but her nightmares are far worse than mine. I watched her wrestle with the decision not to take the sleeping pill, and when she didn’t, I didn’t feel particularly relieved. I know Ax stays on her ass about therapy, but what does he know? We live in an era where people can be saved by medicine.
If they have the money.
I was not always an orphan.
But I always felt alone. This fact I will never admit to a living soul because: A. It is lame. B. It is no one’s business. C. Moira would Mother Earth me to death.
I do not think Moira realizes she is a born caretaker. But I have never met a lonelier soul . . . and I have been very lonely. Lest you think I pity myself, let me say this: I shall indulge in self-pity if I like. So fuck off.
In any case, I was talking about Moira. She takes care of people. And things. And situations. And matters. If you enter her orbit, and she deems you worthy, then you belong to her. This is my observation. Despite the heinous attitudes of the college administration—all of whom need those sticks surgically removed from their asses—Moira takes care of everyone at the school, from the landscapers to the president. She doesn’t allow bad attitudes, or ungratefulness, to get in the way of her caretaking. She is quite admirable.
Not many people are.
Especially not I. Me? Not me. Damn the lack of Internet access and the heaviness of reference books. Lo, though I weep, for I cannot access grammar guides here in this sand-covered hell.
Why she picked out my essay, why she picked me, remains a mystery I have yet to unravel. The question I really wanted answered, however, was: What does she see in me that no one else does?
Not that I require outside validation of that which is my awesomeness (ha! take that, grammar!). I am merely curious why Moira deems me worthy. Perhaps I am . . . slightly more than curious. Perhaps I want to know what glimmer caught her eye. Certainly not my personality. I have been called caustic, dry-humored, sarcastic, coldhearted, an emotional black hole (bitter boyfriends are the worst), depressing, soul-despairing, and to quote my last date, “a ball-busting bitch.” Of course, that was a literal description, given that I punched him in the genitals for sticking his hand down my pants.
Men are imbeciles.
Yes, I’m generalizing and stereotyping an entire gender, but in my head space I make the rules. It’s funny how the mind works. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m not interested in exploring, as I too often do, the reason I’m the only biological evidence walking the planet that my family existed. My mother was pregnant with me when a car accident took her and my father’s lives. Well, my mother lived long enough to be removed from the car. The firefighters extracted me right before she gave her last breath. My first name was Baby Jane Doe.
My second was given to me once my parents’ identities had been established.
I don’t use their name.
I never belonged to them.
I was raised by a woman named Aunt Peg, who was not my blood relation. I have no idea how I came into the care of dear Aunt Peg (whom I fondly nicknamed Peg-a-saurus Wreck). She’d fallen under the categories of “batty,” and “eccentric.” But eventually those quirks became full-on crazy.
No one understood Aunt Peg. I wasn’t sure I understood Aunt Peg. But I loved her. And I tried to protect her. Unfortunately, the fierce resolve of a thirteen-year-old is a thin shield against reality.
My nightmares are guilt-wrapped and tied with an anger bow.
Moira’s nightmares are . . . forays into memory and madness. Level Ten crazy.
I know she takes sleeping pills to avoid them. And I know there have been times, though rare, when she has not, and she has witnessed the results of my own forays into sleep’s dark realms. But I do not choose to escape bad dreams. I know my sins. I will not look away from them.
Moira is very smart, but she runs from the monsters that inhabit her past. I want to tell her that the monsters will come no matter where you hide. They will crawl under your bed, slip into your closet, creep under your covers. They will find you. And destroy you . . . unless you destroy them first.
Rumors chase Moira to this day. She lost her mind when she was fourteen. She went into an asylum for months until the day her grandfather scooped her out of that place and dragged her to the desert. Everyone within a hundred-mile radius of the college knows this about her.
Ax told me a little more about what happened. Not many details, though. He’s not much for talking. And I don’t know why he shared anything at all about Moira. He’s very protective of her. Besides, Moira doesn’t hide who she is; she doesn’t pretend the world doesn’t know she was insane in the membrane for a while. But neither does she invite you into her space—not her home, not her head, not her heart.
But not for the same reasons.
Chapter 3
Drake
“The desert sucks. I don’t think I’m ever gonna get the sand out of my underwear.”
Unsurprisingly, this exclamation arrived from Jessica, the mate of Patrick O’Halloran, both vampires and both my good friends. I smiled at Jess. She had volunteered for this trip into the Sudan because her children were grown: Her daughter was in college and her son was a successful journalist who didn’t spend a lot of time in the United States.
Jessica was also extremely proficient with the double swords her husband had gifted her with during their courtship, and she was a fierce warrior. I liked having her protecting my backside.
There were six of us: myself, my brother Darrius, Jessica, Patrick, Eva, and Lorcan. Lorcan and Patrick were twins, and their biological father, Ruadan, also happened to be the first vampire ever. Vampire families had different abilities depending on their Family lineage. Jessica, Patrick, and Lorcan had the ability to fly. Eva had the extraordinary gift of being able to glamour—beyond what most vampires could do. She was also very emotionally in tune with animalkind. I had witnessed many love matches, especially in the town of Broken Heart, Oklahoma, where we were headquartered. It always seemed a process that brought as much pain as it did pleasure. I did not really understand falling in love—nor why anyone would choose it. Jessica told me that sometimes love chooses you . . . and beats you into bloody submission.
My conclusion: Love is messy, contrary, and chaotic. And to be avoided.
I enjoyed passion, but love? That seemed to be far too much trouble. Look at my
brother Darrius, who still pined for a woman dead many years. And our older brother, Damian, ensnared by a lovely woman who bore him a son and daughter. Tragic, really.
I am, of course, completely in love with Kelsey and my niece and nephew. If Damian were not king of the werewolves, I may have killed him for his family.
But though I am second in line to rule the werewolves, I would rather be tossed into a pit of scorpions than have his job.
Speaking of scorpions . . .
“Holy freaking crap!” squeaked Jessica, apparently forgetting she was a vampire, deadly with swords, and wearing thick-soled boots. She jumped into her husband’s arms, and Patrick laughed before foot-shooing the creature out of the cave where we all crouched. Below us was the campsite of Moira Jameson and company. We had been sent as a protection detail—at least partially.
We were here at the behest of Queen Patsy Marchand, who had her hands full with four children and the rulership of the undead and another breed of werewolves called the loup de sang. A vampire by the name of Karn, who had been thought dead, had recently crawled out of the earth after more than six hundred years. He’d been healed from the fire he’d been tossed into by vampires who’d punished him for being a complete douche bag, so he was also carrying around six centuries’ worth of fury and vengeance.
He’d gotten wind of our ongoing project in the Sudan, and our goal to find and recover two ancient vampires who’d been lost to the world for more than three thousand years. Dr. Jameson, though she did not yet realize it, was close to uncovering the vampires’ locations. Her grandfather had started the work, and she unknowingly continued it.
We had arrived several hours earlier, right after the sun had set, and crouched in this cave, watching the camp below us. Since I was a werewolf, my senses were vastly more attuned to sights, sounds, smells, and movements. I scented the remnants of the humans’ meal—a thick stew of meat and potatoes—as well as the wisps of campfire that fluttered in the air like fine silver threads. Shadows moved in the camp, people in their tents turning off lanterns, restless in their efforts to get comfortable in a place that offered no comfort—not the air nor the ground nor its very being. The sand had movement, too, wind and creatures that made it shift and skitter. Above us, the sky looked like tiny diamonds that had been spilled across black velvet. I think the desert was the perfect place to hide secrets. It was very much earth’s graveyard.
I leaned against the rough stone wall and scanned the area. My gaze rested on the tent where Dr. Jameson and her assistant lay sleeping. Moira was an interesting human. She was not a petite woman. She was tall, close to six feet, with lush curves that begged exploring. A strong woman—almost like a werewolf. She moved with grace and purpose, and yet when she rested, she was completely still. She had thick, waist-length red hair that she kept braided. I had not gotten close enough to see the color of her eyes, or to see the freckles that I bet were sprinkled across her nose like cinnamon.
“You like her.”
I turned and looked down at Jessica.
“Who?” I asked.
Jess rolled her eyes. “The redhead with the killer ass, that’s who.”
“Ah.” I tapped my chin. “I vaguely recall someone in the camp matching that description.”
“You are full of shit,” she said. “You’ve been watching her ever since we got here.”
“Everyone’s been watching the camp,” I said. I wasn’t feeling particularly defensive about getting caught in my viewing of Dr. Jameson’s assets. I don’t apologize for being a man. Or a werewolf. I just liked riling Jessica. “I’m only doing my duty.”
“Yeah, right. If by ‘doing your duty,’ you mean ogling archaeologists.”
I put my hand against my heart as though wounded by her accusation. “I do not ogle, Jessica.” I waited a beat. “I leer.”
She laughed and slapped my shoulder.
“Drake.”
The sharp tone of my brother, Darrius, had Jessica and me straightening instantly. We looked down into the campsite and quickly saw what had alerted him: shadows slinking between tents. My gaze was riveted on Dr. Jameson’s tent, and I saw the low light of their lantern flicker, as though something had crossed it.
“We should get to sparkling,” said Jessica. Ancient vampires, as well as some other paranormal creatures, had the ability to appear and reappear in locations. Jessica called it “sparkling,” much to the chagrin of her husband.
“We have speed,” said Patrick. “And stealth. I suggest we use it. We’ll be better able to control where we enter the camp.”
“I will see to Dr. Jameson,” I said. I looked at my brother. “Shift?”
He nodded.
The vampires took off toward the camp, mere blurs gliding over the sand.
Darrius and I had to take precious seconds to remove our clothes. Otherwise, shifting would rip them to shreds and we would have to stay in wolf form, or walk around as naked men. Darrius was already shifting by the time I got my jeans off. He raised his snout in the air and sniffed, then turned toward me and barked.
“I’m hurrying,” I said. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”
He barked again and then raced out of the cave, across the moonlight sands of the Sudan desert.
I got down on all fours . . . and I let my inner werewolf out.
Chapter 4
Moira
“Moira!”
“Earthquake,” I mumbled as my body was flung back and forth. I opened my eyes. A distraught Dove was inches from my face. Despite the fact that I was looking right at her, she continued to shake me by the shoulders. “Ugh! If you keep doing that, I’m gonna need a Dramamine.”
She let go of me and dropped to her knees next to my cot. Her skeletal fingers dug into my arm. “Something just whooshed by our tent.”
“Like ‘death on swift wings’? You’re not gonna throw quotes from The Mummy at me, are you? I told you to knock that shit off.” I leaned up on one elbow and attempted to give her the evil eye. Unfortunately, I was too tired to be effective, so my eyes just crossed and my lids started to droop. There was a metallic taste on the back of my tongue, and my skin felt clammy. These were typical aftereffects of the nightmares . . . but I didn’t remember the terror-filled dreamscape. Maybe Dove had inadvertently saved me from the worst of it.
“Gah! You are the worst waker-upper ever,” she whispered harshly. She gave my shoulder a hard squeeze. “I’m telling you someone is out there.”
“Okay, okay. For the record, you’re the waker-upper. And I’m the waker-uppee.”
“I’m so glad you’re focused on the important issue,” she hissed. Her voice held a catch. The real fear in her tone was almost like a cold dash of water to my face. Almost. I really was a bad waker-uppee. I rolled off the cot on the other side, then reached under my pillow and took out my sub-compact Beretta. It was loaded with thirteen 9 mm rounds. If you’re wondering how someone on psychiatric medication is allowed weaponry, well, I have lot of money and I know a lot of the right people. Learning to shoot guns was actually part of my grandfather’s therapy, and knowing how to protect myself freed another part of my soul from that sea of rage.
“Sleeping with a loaded gun under your pillow?” she asked, sounding more like the smart-ass I knew and loved. “Really?”
“Relax. It has a manual safety and a decocker.”
She snorted. “A what?”
“Decocker,” I repeated. “It’s a lever that lets the hammer—”
“I don’t care.” She smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d say it again.”
“I hate you,” I said. And then because I was a heartless bitch, I demanded, “Go get Tikka.”
“Or not.” Dove imperiously pointed a finger at me. “You shouldn’t name weaponry, you know that?”
“She already had the name.”
“Nor should guns have gender. Personalizing the—”
“Shut up,” I snapped. Her sense of urgency had wormed through me, and now I was feeling
surly. “Giving someone a dirty look doesn’t exactly have stopping power—not even one of your patented I-wish-you-were-dead specialties. If you want to be protected from whooshing things . . . then get the fucking rifle.”
“Whatever,” she hissed at me. Then she flopped onto her belly and crawled toward the footlocker that housed the rifle and other gear. Obviously she was too rattled to access the gun like a normal person. As she pulled out the weapon and the box of bullets, I glanced around. A single lantern cast a muted glow in our tent. Dove wouldn’t admit it, but she was scared of the dark. Why she was studying to be an archaeologist, a profession where exploring dark, cramped, and airless spaces was the norm, was beyond me.
While Miss Quiet as a Raging Storm rattled around trying to get the rifle loaded, I crept to the tent flap and peeked outside. If the grad students had gotten stupid enough to play a prank, or to sneak out of camp to go party in the desert, I would stake them all out in the sand and leave them to burn. And then I would fail them in every single class . . . and put big, red F’s on all their dissertations. And their graves. For failing life.
It took only a few seconds for my eyesight to adjust. The campfire had been doused and the supplies put away. No one was prowling around. All the other tents were dark, so it was difficult to tell if they were occupied. I glanced up into the obsidian sky, my gaze skittering across the moon and the thousands of stars, and wondered why I felt so uneasy.
It was ungodly quiet.
The hair rose on the nape of my neck. What had startled Dove out of a sound sleep? Maybe she had a bad dream, too, and had woken up so suddenly that it felt real. We were both tormented by nightmares, although Dove would never talk about hers. And neither did I. Those lingering wisps of terror were my burden to bear.
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