by Karin Harlow
God, he had loved kissing those lips. For hours, they would lie tangled in each other’s limbs on the beach and just kiss.
He scowled hard. But she wasn’t the same woman he had loved. The light that had shone in her eyes was gone. Now they were haunted and bitter. Her womanly curves were still prominent, more so since it looked as if she had lost some weight. But she was also leaner, more muscular.
She’d be even more dangerous now. Harder to kill. There was no doubt in his heart, he was going after her. And as Godfather had said, he was a whole lot better at killing now.
Nikko dragged his eyes from the screen and looked up at Godfather. “Where is she?”
“Miami.” He tapped the touch pad and another round of photos flashed up on the screens. They were of Miami’s Gold Coast. “She owns a club in South Beach called Lost Souls. High-end, frequented by high-end-criminal types.”
“What the hell is she doing in Florida? Is she so arrogant to think she can walk around and no one would notice that I was sentenced to death for killing her?” Nikko shook his head, not understanding anything. Why had she saved him?
“She keeps a very low profile and goes by de la Roja now. There isn’t much intel on her. What I have I got from running a photo-comparison search of her autopsy photo. The feds have been surveilling several Cuban cartel members in Miami. She’s popped up in a few of the surveillance photos. I couldn’t find anything on her connection to Balderama. But that doesn’t mean I won’t. What concerns me is the fact that a man like Balderama went to such lengths to make it look like she was dead, and then she shows up in our hunting grounds halfway across the world. Why was she there? Does she work for Balderama, or is she working for a cartel? But more important, was she there for the same reasons we were?” Godfather looked at Nikko, who had still not digested that his ex-lover was alive. “I find the fact that she was on-site at the same time as you more than coincidental.”
Nikko jerked his head back and looked at his commander. “Are you insinuating I had something to do with her presence there?”
“Calm the Hell down, Cruz. Of course not. We were compromised in Kyrgyzstan. Then in an elaborate sleight of hand, we lost our target, and now this connection between you and de la Roja. It just doesn’t add up. I want to know why she saved your sorry ass after your attempt to kill her. I want to know her intentions and just how much she knows about you and L.O.S.T. I want to know why she was after the cask of enriched uranium, and if she has it—and for whom.”
“I want to know what she injected you with,” Cassidy said.
“I want the same answers,” Nikko said. L.O.S.T. being compromised aside, it didn’t matter to him that Selena had saved his life. She had ripped out his heart and soul when she killed their daughter. He had died as much that day as his daughter had.
He sat back in his chair, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. All these years he’d hated himself for what he had done to Selena. He had loved her completely. That she’d ripped his heart out did not change that he had murdered her in cold blood. Or so he’d thought. The grief and the self-loathing had eaten away at him. He had done nothing more than walk through the motions of life these last eight years. He ate, he drank, he slept, he worked. Sex was a release, nothing more. He had not lived. He had existed. Now everything was different. He looked up at the screens, and something deep and dark inside him lit up. Selena’s smoldering sensuality reached out from beyond the grave and grabbed him.
The door buzzed. They all looked up at the monitor to the right and saw Dr. Soto standing outside. Godfather buzzed him in.
Dr. Soto glanced at Nikko before he looked at Godfather. He handed a flash drive to Godfather, who said, “Tell us in laymen’s terms what’s going on with Cruz.”
The doctor cleared his throat and looked at Nikko again, then at Cassidy, then back to Godfather. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen blood work come back like his.”
“Like what?” Nikko demanded, coming forward in his chair. “Am I infected with something?”
“I don’t know. Everything came back normal except your blood. It has compositions that I can’t identify. I took draws each hour. The compositions doubled in each subsequent draw, as if building, not dissipating.” Dr. Soto looked at Cassidy. “Cassidy has several of the same properties in her blood. But Cruz’s has traces of others I can’t even begin to guess at. I’m working on it though.”
Holy shit.
“Your research will stay here on the compound, Doctor,” Godfather directed. “Anything you need that you don’t have here can be brought to you.”
“But I can’t—”
“The samples stay here,” Godfather firmly said.
The doctor nodded. “Of course.”
The door buzzed again. Cross on the video monitor.
Marcus Cross. Vampire or not, he was one hell of an intimidating bastard. And Cassidy’s lover. Nikko swiped his hand across his chin. It was all still so damn surreal. During Cassidy’s first mission, she’d told the team Cross was a vampire. They’d laughed her into the next state, then pleaded with Godfather to pull her. He’d refused. And it was a damn good thing. Cross proved to be not only a vampire but a damn good one with a human Special Ops background. The son of a bitch had nearly single-handedly saved the US of A from eternal damnation. As time passed, Nikko’s initial apprehension had grown into a grudging respect. That didn’t mean he was okay with the vampire thing. Even if Cassidy was. It was her life, and she seemed happy. So who was he to judge?
Godfather buzzed Cross in.
He glided into the room as if he were on a conveyor belt. Just as Nikko had earlier.
Cassidy nonchalantly nodded, but Nikko smelled her excitement. Cross was a little more cordial, grinning at Cassidy and showing sharp incisors. Stone crossed his arms over his chest, while Satch and Dante nodded their hellos. Dr. Soto did not utter a word. Godfather extended his hand. Cross took it.
“Thank you for coming in, Marcus. We seem to be out of our element here and could use your help.”
Cross nodded as he proceeded into the room. Nikko caught the vampire’s surprised stare. Cross’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed as their gazes clashed. So, Cross detected Nikko’s change. And apparently didn’t like it. Nikko sat forward, feeling a sudden rush of power coupled with the insatiable urge to fight. Cross felt it, too. Nikko glanced around the room at his team. They sat silent but expectant, picking up on the tension. Cross strode past Nikko and took the seat next to Cassidy, casually draping his arm along the back of her chair, then looked pointedly at the doctor. Godfather quietly escorted the doc out of the room, saying he would be in touch.
Nikko let out a long, slow breath, wrangling with his potent urge to fight the vampire. Was it because he had the same blood?
Ignoring Nikko, Cross looked up at the images of Selena and narrowed his eyes, but did not say a word.
“Do you know her?” Godfather asked, dispelling some of the tension.
Cross nodded. “I’ve seen her in the company of one or two vampires.”
Nikko’s blood ran cold. “Who?”
“She runs with the Miami underworld boss, Joran Cadiz.”
“How is that possible?” Cassidy asked. “I thought you guys had a handle on that kind of stuff.”
Cross shook his head and said, “As in your world you have those who don’t follow protocol, we have ours. Cadiz is one of them. He does just enough to look respectable, but he’s got his own game. He’s formidable and has the backing of many powerful vampires, as well as a host of human unsavories.”
Nikko shook his head. Selena was human, not some damn bloodsucker. Rather, she had been human. He’d bet his life on it. Now? Fuck, now she could be anything. Maybe she’d been brought back from the grave by a vampire?
“How unsavory and who are they?” Nikko demanded. His shock aside, the only way he was going to get answers was by finding Selena, and that meant tracking her down. Starting with the undead she hung out
with.
“There is proprietary information I am not at liberty to discuss. What Cadiz is and does falls under that umbrella.”
Nikko stood and turned to face Cross, who postured in response. Anger washed off Nikko in waves; he struggled for control. “I’m sure your vampire code of ethics doesn’t include allowing vampires or whatever the hell he is to threaten national security.”
“Sit down, Cruz,” Cross said levelly.
“Give us the information,” Nikko bit off, stepping closer.
In the blink of an eye, Cross stood. As he did, he shoved his hand, palm open, straight at Nikko, who went flying toward the wall. Just as he was about to smash into one of the flat screens, he slowed to a stop and settled gently on his feet. Incredulous, Nikko looked at everyone in the room. Then to Cross for answers. “How’d I do that?”
Cross smirked and sat down next to Cassidy, who had not flinched. He dropped his arm across the back of her chair again and said, “You thought it. Now, before we proceed on the other matter, tell me what happened so I can identify what got you.”
Nikko nodded, not sure if he really wanted to know. He sat down in a chair away from his team, then slowly and precisely explained to Cross what had happened in Kyrgyzstan.
“So she injected you with something that you think caused to you become Superman?”
“Yeah. What the hell was it?”
Cross just scowled. “How long has it been since you were injected?”
“A little more than forty-eight hours.”
“And you still feel as potent as you did when you came to?”
“More so. It’s like it’s time-released.”
Cross sniffed the air and stood. Slowly he walked toward Nikko.
Nikko didn’t like the look in Cross’s reddening eyes and barely stopped himself from taking a step back. “Don’t fucking try to bite me,” he warned.
Stone, Satch, and Dante stood and closed in. Cassidy stood, too. Godfather didn’t move.
“Hold out your arm, Cruz, and man up.”
When he refused, Cassidy strode across the room, grabbed Nikko’s right arm, and shoved up his shirt-sleeve. “It doesn’t hurt, you big baby.”
Nikko steeled himself. Cross did his dirty work quickly. His fangs sank into Nikko’s wrist; instantly he jerked away, spitting the blood from his mouth.
“Jesus!”
Nikko ignored the throb in his wrist. He looked down at the bite wound and the blood oozing from it. “What is it?” he demanded.
Cross swiped his hand across his lips. “It’s vampire blood, but something else with it. I’m not sure. But it’s potent as hell and tastes like shit.”
“A mixture of substances?” Godfather asked.
Cross nodded and looked at Nikko, then up at the screen where Selena’s face still beckoned. “If she injected you, she’ll know what’s in it or at the very least where to get that information.”
“If you had to hazard a guess, what do you think we’re dealing with, Marcus?” Cassidy asked.
“Some illegal controlled substance, not of your kind,” he flatly said.
Nikko knew there was more to it. Much more. “Like what, vampire steroids?” he demanded.
Cross’s face had hardened to granite, and Nikko felt his seething anger. “In a word, yes.”
“Is there such a substance?” Cassidy asked.
Cross hissed in a breath, then evenly said, “There have been attempts in the past. But it’s strictly forbidden. The penalty is death for producing, distributing, or possession.”
“But it’s possible?” Godfather asked.
Cross nodded. “Possible, and”—he looked at Nikko—“probable.”
“How do I get rid of it?” Nikko demanded.
“A transfusion might dilute it, but like my blood, once it gets into your system, it doesn’t leave, it only wanes. Except it appears to be doing the opposite in you.” Cross stepped closer to Nikko. “Have you had any visions or nightmares? Since you returned?”
“I haven’t slept since I came to on the side of that road in Kyrgyzstan. Why?”
“Curious if you’ve felt the pull of a stranger. When a human receives vampire blood, regardless of how he or she received it, there is a telepathic bond with the donor.”
“What if the donor is dead?” Cassidy asked.
Cross smiled down at her and smoothed away a lock of hair from her cheek. “A very good question, love. In that case there would be no contact.”
“Is it possible that someone or something is draining vampires, then killing them?”
Cross scowled. “If vampires were being drained and dying for it, there would be an uprising in a world you humans have no idea exists. However”—he strode up to the screen and tapped Selena’s face—“this one attracts the type of people who have their finger on the pulse of the underworld. We start with her.”
Godfather looked pointedly at Nikko. “Pack your bags, you’re going to Miami.” He looked at Cross. “I’d consider it a personal favor, one I will be happy to repay, if you tag along. Cassidy goes with you both.”
“Of course,” Cross said.
Nikko was already headed for the door.
CHAPTER SIX
After Joran’s visit, Selena tried to think of anything except Johnny, her father, and the anger Señor would express when she told him of her failure to secure the cask. Always in control, now she was out of sorts, off-balance. Her office felt like a cage, the air stifling. Too much pressure. Too much to do. And save the world while you’re at it. The urge to bolt and never look back had never been stronger. Her temple throbbed. She rubbed it and sat down at her desk.
She wanted the quiet sanctity of her house. Rarely did she leave the club before closing, but tonight she would instruct Amy Siedlecki, her GM, to take care of it. Selena wanted the solace of solitude and her big, comfortable bed. And sleep.
In minutes, she was at her private dock, then on her Chris-Craft motorboat motoring toward her sprawling Mediterranean manse on Star Island. The mortgage was hefty but the protection priceless. There, surrounded by water, the chance of her father or any daemon getting into her head was nil. Daemons were terrified of water; even big bad Hellkeepers avoided it at all costs. Luckily, she had not inherited that inconvenient trait from her sperm donor.
She docked and disembarked, thinking how nice it would be to have a regular dockmaster/groundsman greet her when she left for work or returned. But that was not in the cards. The fewer people she interacted with regularly, the better. It greatly reduced the chance of her father possessing someone close to her. It was why no one else knew of Marisol’s existence. Paymon could not hold anyone’s mind hostage for that information. Not even Selena’s. While her mother had failed to keep Paymon out of her thoughts and dreams, Selena was half-daemon and possessed the knowledge and will-power to keep her mind closed to the most determined daemon.
That had kept her alive all these years, that and Paymon’s being as convinced as the judge who’d sentenced Johnny to death that she was dead. Or so it had seemed. But it didn’t matter if Paymon knew she lived. She was stronger now. Wiser. A seasoned killer.
Laughter bubbled from her chest. “Oh, Daddy, I can’t wait to see the look on your daemon face when you realize it is your daughter who is cutting out your black heart.”
Selena let herself in via the kitchen, and though she wanted nothing more than to climb into bed, she made a detour to her home office. She expected to meet el patrón later that day in Little Havana. He would, as he always did, expect a full report. She sighed and plopped down in her chair and turned on her laptop. He was going to be angry. While she could deal with his anger, disappointing him distressed her more. He was a good man, he trusted her, he gave her great responsibility, and she had failed him.
But she still had a chance to redeem herself by obtaining the location of the cask. She smiled as her fingertips struck the keyboard. She hadn’t come home completely empty-handed.
A familiar kno
ck disrupted Selena’s focus.
The door to her office slowly opened. Selena smiled up at Jujubee.
Ten years Selena’s senior, her distant cousin was the equivalent of Dracula’s Renfield. Except Juju wasn’t daft, deformed, or delusional. Juju was the polar opposite: smart, beautiful, and a realist who had brought Selena back from her own delusional dreams on more than one occasion. A dozen years ago, her mother’s third cousin had taken a chance on a better life in America along with fifty other cubanos and braved the ninety-mile stretch of Atlantic between Cuba and Florida. Since her mother had welcomed Juju with open arms, so had Selena.
Juju had told Selena just after her mother’s death of her dedication to and involvement with Los Cuatro. Selena had come to respect and love the cause with as much conviction as her mother had.
It was good to trust someone in a world where everyone was a potential enemy. Selena trusted Juju as she had trusted her mother. And Johnny. Once.
Juju cocked her lovely face, her dark-brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her milk chocolate—colored eyes snapping in aggravation. “Prepare yourself, Selena.” Juju set her hands on her slender hips and looked pointedly at her. “Señor Balderama et al are docking as we speak.”
Selena sat up ramrod stiff in her chair. “Here? Now? It’s four o’clock in the morning!” She hadn’t written her report. She hadn’t slept in almost two days! She was not prepared to bear el patrón’s disappointment. Selena stood up and smoothed her hands down the soft wrinkles of her slinky Chanel jumpsuit. She was still wearing the same clothes from last night. Selena chanced a glance in the mirrored back of her office door.
She might feel like crap, but, thank goodness, she didn’t look like it. As always, she looked pulled together. Expensive. Seductive. She dressed sexily on purpose. As the owner of Lost Souls, she projected sleek, understated elegance wrapped snugly around smoldering sensuality. Like a magnet, it attracted daemons because sex gave them power, just as being sexy fueled her flame. She dressed to thrill so that she could kill.
