Often she washed in lavender body wash, but that was meant to calm her nerves and to help with her insomnia. Lavender was soothing enough to put a crying baby to sleep. Trix had always used it as a means to counteract the constancy of the violence that had been a daily presence for all her adult life, to help separate her mind from her duties as a woman who took lives for a living.
Never human lives, of course; those were sacred. Well, most of them were, so long as one didn’t count the asshats. She only killed the Lapsed, creatures who’d become something far from human or shifter, who’d long since had their souls stolen away. Occasionally she’d been hired to bounty hunt an otherwise average shifter who’d strayed, turning on its own kind in a search for power or revenge. But, whatever her reason for going after them, taking any life posed a challenge. And as much as Trix lived for her job, even she needed the odd distraction to remind her that she was human, after all.
By midnight, the sky had already turned a deep shade of onyx, a thick cover of clouds obscuring the moon and stars. Street lights had long since flared to life overhead, casting a pale, diffused glow on passersby who kept their heads down, their destinations their only immediate concern.
Feeling like she hadn’t shifted her weight in hours, Trix had her eyes fixed on an elaborately crafted front door of iron and glass, the main entrance—and exit—of the condominium building across the street. The structure was on the new side, one of London’s large-windowed, modern buildings, its units likely priced in the millions of pounds.
A little research had taught Trix that the entire building was owned by a wealthy businessman from overseas, who had apparently chosen not to allow tenants into its units, so the building had remained almost completely empty. It seemed that he was preserving the condominiums in mint condition as investment properties to sell at a huge profit a few years down the road.
But one unit was occupied. The sole resident had apparently persuaded the owner to give him access to one of the more lavish residences on the top floor. A Mr. Farell. Little was known about him except that he kept to himself, worked from home and had very little interest in London society.
But it was easy enough to deduce who—and what—he was. The place exuded the darkness associated with the Forsaken. New and pristine though it was, the building may as well have been a condemned mess of bent metal and crumbling concrete. The feeling of death swirled about it like a gruesome mist. And anyone less brave than a Hunter wouldn’t have hung around outside its entrance for any money.
A stiff breeze swept by, and as a shiver overtook Trix, she regretted not having dressed more warmly. Leather jackets and t-shirts were fine for autumn days, but the nights were growing frigid, and hardly helped by the constant drizzle that seemed to leak from the overhead clouds on a nightly basis.
“Damn it, you pasty-faced bleeder,” she muttered. “Hurry up and show yourself so some Dragon-man can introduce his fangs to your face.” She was beginning to wonder what to do if he didn’t show, and pulled out her phone to check the time. She was being paid for this madness, of course—the Dragon Guild had put all Hunters in the Alliance on a very generous full-time salary—but still, waiting for the appearance of a potentially psychotic creature on the hunt for human blood was remarkably dull.
All she wanted by now was to find her way to a pub and to make intimate friends with a pint of ale. Although, there was one thing she could think of that she would have enjoyed more than beer. Her eyes moved upwards, briefly scanning the overhead clouds for Dragons. So far, nothing. Or if there was one up there, she couldn’t yet see him against the thick layer of velvet blackness.
She rubbed her hands together, blowing heat on them, her forearms restricted in their movements by the daggers tucked into her sleeve-sheaths. Those were for emergencies, but not her specialty. An expert in East Asian weaponry, her favourites were the shuriken, the throwing stars sheathed in pockets inside her leather jacket, and the sai blades, tucked into sheaths strapped to her thighs. She’d left her long katana sword at home, for once. After all, she wasn’t supposed to fight, was she?
Each of the weapons in her vast arsenal was crafted of Dragon bone, the gifts that the Dragons’ Guild had bestowed upon the Hunters. And she wielded them with a power and precision that made her the envy of the Syndicate’s Hunters. No one threw like Trix, and no one handled a sword quite as she did.
Of course, the last time she’d used her weapons was weeks ago now, and she found herself wondering if it was possible that she’d gone rusty with lack of practice, though she made almost daily trips to a target range in the basement of the Syndicate’s tower. She’d gotten very good at hitting paper cutouts of human-like forms in the eyes, neck and groin, though that was nowhere near as satisfying as the real thing.
As she remembered the last time she’d had to fight a living creature, the memory came to her of wind whipping at her face, her legs straddling a Dragon’s back. She’d shot a barrage of shuriken down towards the Lapsed lumbering beneath Lyre’s massive form, taking them down expertly even as he’d used his Dragon’s gifts to assault them from above. The two of them, for those few minutes before all hell had broken loose, had made a formidable team.
And now as she stared at the unmoving door across the way, her mind stayed on Lyre, as it so often did these days. She thought of the very last exchange they’d had, at the base of the Watchtower. From a distance she’d smiled at him, considering wandering over to gesture awkwardly, unable to do much more than wave and hope that he understood. If only she knew sign language. Did one even ask a Dragon shifter out, as one might do with a normal man, or was it hideously disrespectful?
He’d smiled back at her, his face quietly lighting up, and for a moment she’d felt encouraged—as though he were confirming what she felt. Yes, I feel it too.
But it had only taken a moment for his expression to alter into something cold, distant. He’d left silently, no words or thoughts shared with her. She’d lost him, just when she’d thought she might be making progress.
She shouldn’t have felt the sting of rejection, but she did. And the stupid thing was that none of it should have mattered one bit. She wasn’t exactly little Miss Commitment. Much as she enjoyed men, and had strayed more than once into brief physical encounters, Trix wasn’t the sort to devote herself to one guy. On occasion she got to play with a male body, finding some young buck in this or that pub and easily convincing him to bring her back to his place to get her fill of sexual pleasure. But never did she give them her real name. And never did she spend the night with any man.
So this insidious invasion of her mind and soul on the part of the Dragon shifter should have been all but an irritation. A sweet, sensual one, but an irritation all the same. Over the course of several sleepless nights she’d swayed back and forth between trying to force herself to forget him and pondering how hard it might be to learn sign language, just in case she ever ran into him again. How did one sign, “I think I’d really enjoy sucking your splendid cock, beautiful Dragon man?”
She was pondering the possibilities, bending her fingers in every conceivable direction, making a fist and drawing it towards her puckered lips in a less than ladylike manner, when a movement across the road pulled her out of her lascivious thoughts.
Her gaze darted to the building’s front door, hands quickly yanking a dark cotton hood over her sweeping locks. A chill overtook her—more a shiver of dread than the cool night air this time. It was Farell. It had to be.
She’d never seen a Forsaken in the flesh, as much as she could picture them after Neko’s thorough description of the villainous Umbra. Tall, gaunt, skin so white as to seem translucent, she’d said. This man had all of it, and more. The look of hunger hovered about him, his eyes large, hollow. He reminded Trix of a crazy person. Vacant, yet utterly focused on what was no doubt going to be a grim hunt. In all likelihood, he was intelligent. But in that moment all she saw was the primal need to feed. A starving creature, and desperate, like a wild
wolf who hadn’t caught prey in weeks.
His coat, well-tailored, dark wool, had a high collar that accentuated a long neck. His shoes appeared new, well-polished and expensive. But everything else about him screamed “madman.”
He left the building on hurried feet, not seeming to notice her or anyone around him.
If Trix could get behind him with her Dragon bone weapons, she knew that she might be able to take him down. For the time being, he was likely no more powerful than most human men. Weakened by hunger, he was an empty shell at best.
“Don’t do it,” she muttered, remembering her boss’s orders. “Damn it, Bertie. I could kill him, I know I could.” But she remembered what Neko had been through, mistakenly thinking herself strong enough to take Umbra on alone. He’d been deceptively powerful, almost crushing her windpipe before Lumen got to them. He’d later torn her shoulder open with massive, cruel teeth, and on that second occasion, as on the first, all of Neko’s strength and Lumen’s had been just enough to take him down.
So with a deep breath, Trix resolved to follow Bertie’s irritating orders and keep her distance. Taking off at a trot, she followed him from her side of the street. The Forsaken moved in a smooth, straight line, his hunger not significant enough to render his stride anything short of elegant, like that of a large cat stalking through tall grasses, eyes fixed ahead on its prey.
Trix alternated between glancing over at him and staring ahead, hands jammed into her pockets, doing her best impersonation of an antisocial, moody young Londoner. As a precaution she extracted her cell phone, illuminating its screen and poking at the keys so that he wouldn’t be tempted to think her entirely alone in this world.
All the bodies that had been discovered recently were homeless, most identified as John Does with no family, no connections. In all likelihood, the Forsaken were seeking out homeless stragglers, people with no identities, who wouldn’t be missed by anyone. It was horrible, to think that their kind saw human life as nothing more than potential sustenance. An energy drink; a protein shake. And that was why the Foreskins had to be taken down. The only way to fight fire was with fire. Or blades.
When the man reached a traffic light and stopped to let a cab go by, Trix glanced over, fingers feeling inside her opposite sleeve for the dagger that she’d tucked into the built-in sheath, its reassuring hilt a welcome friend. The Forsaken’s face turned her way before he advanced, his eyes remaining locked on her for a second too long. And as soon as she met his stare she regretted turning his way.
Trix wondered if somehow he knew what she was. Perhaps he could smell the Hunter on her, or at least the jasmine scent. Shit. He was half-shifter, of course. He’d have the nose of a fucking bloodhound. She should have done something to make herself less conspicuous.
Finally, when the light changed he began walking again. This time at a faster clip, his already long stride lengthened. Trix noted a new determination locking his jaw in place, as though his plan had altered in the last few seconds.
And a moment later, as dread surged through her in a cold tempest, she understood what was happening.
Ahead, walking towards him on the same side of the street, she noticed a mother and small child, no doubt on their way home from a late night somewhere. The boy seemed unfazed by the late hour; he’d probably had a nap, and was now all excitement and bliss at being out in the middle of the night. The pair seemed distracted, the son holding his mother’s hand as he pointed across the street to the top of a tall building that apparently thrilled him in the evening light. The woman stopped for a moment, crouching next to him, a smile on her face as she appeared to discuss the structure with him.
The Forsaken was fast approaching them, his cold eyes locked on the boy. For the first time, something other than simple hunger seemed to be propelling the pale creature. This was a new plan of action, and Trix knew that it was all because of her. A rebellion against the Hunter stalking him.
If he made his move, she would have no choice but to try and stop him.
Even at the risk of her own life.
* * *
Partnership
Lyre’s blue-white Dragon soared in wide circles over London’s East End, as he’d been doing for several hours. Thankfully, nothing had drawn his attention downwards; no sudden movements, no darting forms. None of the sickly-sweet scent, smelly evidence of a Forsaken who’d just had his fill of human blood. Perhaps there wouldn’t be any cause tonight to descend to street level.
It was shortly after midnight, when he glided towards the tall spire of an old church, that his keen nose picked up a familiar scent, bringing with it a host of pleasant memories and filling him with apprehension at what was to come.
Jasmine.
He’d smelled it the first moment she’d approached him at the Syndicate’s tower. The fiery-haired beauty, the smile on her lips enough to charm the most cynical of men. A smile that was so contagious, so delicious, that he’d wanted to taste it on her. The lips that could form that smile must be delectable.
The grin had been brought on by the Dragons, of course—she’d been seeing them up close for the first time, and like any human in sudden close quarters, she was excited to be in their presence. It must have felt like something out of a dream.
Her scent, pulsing through the air about her on that morning, had reached his keen nose before she’d even touched him, and now, thanks to her, jasmine had become an aphrodisiac and a half. What should have soothed him did exactly the opposite, sending waves of excitement through his body, blood flowing to all the right—and wrong—places when he picked it up in the odd shop, or walking by a stranger on the street. Of course, everything reminded him of her by now. A shock of red hair, a pair of tight trousers on a woman. But everything else was just a pale imitation of the real thing.
And now, her scent swept upwards alongside London’s other smells. Exhaust, leaves cascading to the ground, damp and decaying. But the jasmine was his focus, sending his mind reeling at the thought that she was so close by. As he inhaled, Lyre recalled the memory of her legs wrapped around his Dragon’s broad back. Her body, pressed forward and her excited, soothing voice echoing in his mind. That sweet, inquisitive edge, the feminine lilt, a touch of Scotland in her accent.
She was down there somewhere now, far beneath him. Desirable, dangerous, sexy woman. Had Lyre succumbed to his first instinct he would have been shooting downward by now, transformed into human form even as his feet hit the ground. A hand reaching for her, lips mouthing the words. I want you. I’ve craved you since the first second I saw you. I should never have walked away. Hearing was of no consequence when it came to claiming her. All that mattered was that she would know how much he wanted her.
But captive inside his Dragon, his human side fought a hard battle against the beast’s needs, reminding himself that she wasn’t to be his. That he should stay miles away from her. She was too alluring, too sexual, too much perfection wrapped up in a tight little package. Too enticing.
And a bond between them was too dangerous a prospect.
Hers had been the first woman’s voice he’d “heard” in decades; it had been years since he’d allowed any female that sort of closeness, let alone to ride on his back. To reach inside him and to speak, with anything other than gestures of the hand or words on a screen. And never had he felt so drawn to anyone in his life. This—this really was torture. Sweet, wonderful torture, but cruel as well.
As he glided in expanding circles he reminded himself of all of it; that he wasn’t meant to be with her or anyone. That he would continue to live as he always had. Alone, isolated, celibate. It was for everyone’s good—particularly hers. And so he fought against his senses even as another breeze brought the jasmine to him.
Must eliminate the scent from his mind. Must forget about her.
But with each attempt he only became more aware of how close she was, drawing him down towards the earth. He wanted—needed—to see her again.
Even as indecision dan
ced through his mind in a sparring match between temptation and resolve, though, a quick shot of panic burst violently somewhere in his chest.
His keen senses picked up that she was on the move now. But something else had invaded her delicate scent.
The smell of fear.
Dragons were powerful, stubborn and all-around giant pains in the arse. But their strongest instinct was to protect their treasures, whether material objects or something far more precious—a potential lover, for instance. So there was no arguing anymore as the icy-white beast dove towards the ground below, bent on finding out what was frightening her. He was going to help her; it was not only his duty but his deepest wish.
He’d seen her fight, knew her skills. The woman had taken down at least ten Lapsed in one brief battle on the grasses of Hampstead Heath; she was a killer. And so if fear was overtaking her, it had to be something powerful that was causing it. A Forsaken, no doubt. Which would mean that she was in serious danger.
The keen-eyed Dragon craned his neck downward as he slowed his pace, searching the streets below for a shock of thick red hair. At first he saw no such thing, despite the occasional head bobbing up and down as strangers paced the darkened streets under the embers of overhead lights. It was at moments like these that he most missed his ears. The perpetual silence was palpable in his head, the only sound greeting him that of an empty wind chamber, a torment of helplessness forcing him to rely entirely on his keen vision and nose. He wanted to scream in frustration, to call out to her. To find a way to reach her.
But then at last, he saw her below. Unharmed, it seemed, and whole. A dark hood half-covered her head, a thick lock of red hair jutting out beside her left cheek. In an apparent hurry, she darted along a mostly empty sidewalk. But it only took a moment to recognize that she was running towards a flurry of activity. A man with pale flesh was grabbing something in one hand as he struck a leg out, sending another woman reeling back into the street.
Dragon Seeker: Part One (Dragon Hunter Chronicles Book 5) Page 3
