Deep Kiss of Winter

by Kresley Cole

  He wore tasteful clothes, a black button-down and jeans with a jacket that made her feel warm just looking at it. She herself was wearing the thinnest backless dress she could find.

  He strode with an air of confidence. The male was gorgeous— and he knew it. How could he not, with the women gaping at him? Then she frowned. He seemed oblivious to the prancing coeds in low-cut tops angling for his attention.

  His body was big, muscular in a way that hinted at immortal, but what he was exactly eluded her. Considering his size, he was probably a demon, or even a Lykae—those animals had begun prowling the Valkyries’ turf as bold as they pleased.

  Or could he be . . . a vampire?

  She trained her gaze on his chest, watching for the rise and fall of breaths. Seconds passed. Historically, the vampires had shunned Louisiana. Yet on this night her Valkyrie coven had heard that members of both warring vampire armies, the Horde and the Forbearers, could be out in the Quarter.

  What they didn’t know was why.

  His chest is still. Bingo. Vamp.

  Since his eyes were a normal gray and clear—not crazed and red with bloodlust—that meant he was a Forbearer, one of an army who didn’t drink blood straight from the flesh.

  Vampires who didn’t kill. At least, that was their mission statement.

  The Lore was still waiting to see how that worked out for them.

  Though Danii knew she needed to report back on this sighting, she couldn’t take her gaze off him. What was it about this vampire? She was aware of only two Valkyrie who’d ever been with his kind. One still lived. Danii knew the danger; so why this attraction?

  Yes, he was breathtakingly cocky, with his leading-man face and broad shoulders, but she’d never been so absorbed by a male. Not a real one, anyway.

  Broken-doll Daniela . . . wanted. Him. A vampire.

  When he was almost directly below her, she noticed that he seemed burdened, preoccupied even. Hardly the expression of someone who’d been stalking her.

  But if he hadn’t been, then who—

  The unmistakable twang of bowstrings sounded behind her.

  She dove for cover, and a swarm of arrows sliced the air where she’d been standing. A second volley skittered against the brick where her head had just been, ricocheting off the low ledge wall.

  She recognized the creosote-like scent of the arrowheads. Poison on the tips, fire poison. Which could only kill ice creatures like her. Oh, gods.

  Without looking back, she vaulted over the side of the roof. When she landed in the alley below, she tore off at a sprint.

  The bows, the poisoned arrow-heads—this wasn’t a Lykae threat. Not a vampire attacking.

  Icere assassins were hunting her. My mother’s people. How had they found her?

  No choice but to flee, knew she couldn’t remain to fight. These assassins traveled in bands, and the number of arrows indicated at least half a dozen men.

  Even as she raced directly toward the mortal gauntlet, her mind rebelled. She hadn’t seen another of her kind in centuries. I thought I’d be safe from them here.

  Her only hope was to outrun them, yet she knew how fast they would be. Like her, they were born of the fey—

  She dashed right in front of the vampire, nearly knocking him over.

  TWO

  MURDOCH HAD JUST RUBBED THE BACK OF HIS NECK, then peered upward, convinced he was being watched.

  He’d spied nothing, started on his way again . . . and almost ran over a small blonde in a skimpy backless dress.

  With lightning speed, she darted in front of him, sparing him the briefest glance. He caught a glimpse of high cheekbones and alarmed silvery eyes before she sped across the main thoroughfare toward another alley. A pointed ear had peeked out through the wild spill of her long fair hair.

  Pointed ears, silver irises, running too fast to be a human.

  An immortal—possibly one of them.

  That glimpse of her was all it took, and the chase was on. He hurriedly followed her into the alley, then traced, vanishing and materializing ever closer to her.

  Though small, she was swift as she navigated through a maze of shadowy blocks, heading toward the river. He was barely gaining on her.

  What kind of being could run as fast as a vampire could trace?

  As he neared, he made out finer details of her appearance. Her legs were taut and shapely under her short dress. Her bared back and arms were slim. She wore silver bands above her elbows, and elaborate braids threaded her long hair.

  She seemed foreign, unusual. Like women from faraway lands in olden times. I can’t wait to get a better look from the front.

  That thought threw him. Since the night he’d been turned into a vampire three hundred years ago, he’d had no interest in women, no need for them, just as he never reacted to the scent or sight of food.

  Why would I give a damn about what her front looks like? He would wrest information from her. He could do little else.

  His body was deadened. And he preferred it that way.

  Just then, she glanced over her shoulder as she ran, and he caught sight of her elven face once again.

  Those pointed ears . . . several factions in the Lore had them, at least that he knew of. Valkyrie were among them. He was becoming more and more convinced he’d found his quarry.

  But she seemed to have lost sight of him altogether, focusing in another direction.

  With each minute that passed, they traveled deeper into a decaying labyrinth of abandoned warehouses and stacks of railcars.

  Finally she was slowing. She stumbled in a puddle, then tripped on the corner of a shipping pallet.

  He stopped tracing and began running toward her. He was close enough to hear her heart drumming, her gasping breaths.

  The Valkyrie his brother had encountered had known no fear of vampires. Maybe in the last five years they’d learned they had reason to flee from one. The thought made him pursue her with even more excitement. His vampire instincts rushed to the fore. The thrill of the chase overwhelmed him, and Murdoch played with her, letting her lope until she tired.

  Just as he decided to end this, he turned a corner after her, running into a four-way crossing.

  There was no sign of her.

  Only silence.

  Danii crouched on the second floor of a storm-ravaged warehouse, struggling to catch her breath and shuddering from heat.

  She still couldn’t believe the Icere were here. She’d thought she was safe living in such a warm climate, believing they’d never look for her this close to the equator.

  Like the Icere, Danii didn’t sweat. Unlike them, she could go into thermal shock if she grew overheated. But she was more accustomed to the temperature here than they were. And she knew every twist and turn of these downtown streets. As long as she didn’t catch a fire arrow, she could handle the Icere.

  The vampire was another matter entirely. When she’d seen him tracing after her, she’d gaped in disbelief that yet another pursuer had joined the chase.

  A clear-eyed vampire, a true Forbearer.

  Though hidden, she could still see him from this vantage. With a narrowed gaze, he turned in circles below, determining her direction.

  Any superficial and misguided attraction she’d felt for him was drowned out by annoyance. If this male would just move on, the Icere likely wouldn’t find her here.

  Otherwise, he was going to get her killed.

  The assassins would separate to trap her, driving her with the threat of those poisoned arrows. They wouldn’t lob their notorious ice grenades at her—they’d lose valuable cold and she’d simply take the impact with a smile on her face as she soaked the chill into herself.

  But those arrows . . .

  Tipped with a poison that ravaged through an ice being’s veins like liquid fire.

  I would know. This wasn’t the first time a faraway Icere king had dispatched killers after Danii, the rightful Icere queen. . . .

  Instead of leaving, the vampire called
out in a deep voice, “I know you’re here.” His words were thickly accented. Russian? Perhaps Estonian. “You’re a Valkyrie, are you not?” He stilled, listening for her. “If so, you’ll want to know that my brother just captured Myst the Coveted.”

  Myst. Danii loved all her half sisters equally, but she owed Myst.

  Wait . . . a Forbearer’s brother had taken her? There was one Forbearer—an Estonian—who wanted Myst above all others: Nikolai Wroth, the Overlord. He’d done Myst wrong, but then she had definitely retaliated.

  And the Overlord had brothers.

  Danii had to find out what had happened to her sister. If Nikolai alone had her, then Myst probably wouldn’t be in danger, since she was his Bride. But if Nikolai had surrendered her to the Forbearer king . . .

  I have to know. Danii could trap the male below in a cocoon of crushing ice, then question him, but how much more cold—and time—could she stand to lose?

  “Why do you cower?” Anger blazed off him. “A true Valkyrie would face me.”

  True Valkyrie? His taunt struck home, like a jab at an exposed nerve. She wanted nothing more than to be like her half sisters. To enjoy all the things they took for granted. Broken doll. . . She rose unsteadily, crossed to a gap in the wall, then stepped out.

  At once, his gaze locked on her, following her down. His lips parted, revealing barely visible fangs, but he made no move to close the thirty or so feet between them.

  Had she truly thought the gray of his eyes was normal? Recognition seemed to flare in them. Recognition? But how? She’d never seen him before—she’d definitely have remembered.

  His gaze was focused . . . predatory. Then his irises turned black. Black in a vampire meant intense emotion. Yet his earlier fury seemed to be fading.

  As they stared at each other, all other sounds—the eerie thrum of barges churning the river, the distant screech of streetcars—were drowned out.

  “My brother warned me that your kind are vicious.” His voice went even lower as he frowned. “I cannot see you as so.”

  “Where is my sister, vampire?”

  “I can take you to her, Valkyrie.”

  I’ll bet. Yes, the male before her was a Forbearer, which meant that he was clueless among the Lore.

  He’d have no idea how dangerous Danii in particular could be.

  THREE

  A LIVING, BREATHING VALKYRIE STOOD BEFORE HIM. And she was so stunningly beautiful. . . .

  Murdoch’s view of her front had proved far more rewarding than he’d imagined.

  He shook himself. Was she one of those who’d shot Nikolai? Had she been there to laugh at the idea of his brother’s agony?

  For some reason, he couldn’t imagine her like that. He knew she was an enemy—one among an army of females who sought the annihilation of all vampires—and Nikolai had just warned him not to underestimate them. But this one looked even more fragile than Myst.

  Though her features and lithe body were perfection, her blond locks were tangled around her pointed ears, and dust smudged her cheeks. Her face was feverishly red, and she was subtly swaying on her feet. She looked sad and miserable.

  And spooked.

  Chasing a female who feared him sat ill. Nikolai had sworn they were taunting, sadistic warriors. Yet this creature had hidden from him—after fleeing as if her life depended on it.

  “Listen, Valkyrie, I don’t want to hurt you. I just have some questions for you to answer.”

  She raised her hand, but lifted no weapon. Instead, she flattened her palm just below her lips as if to blow a kiss good-bye. The breath that left her mouth looked like a cloud of frost, surging forward, surrounding him.

  Ice flash-froze around his boots. He couldn’t move his legs. Couldn’t break free. “What the hell is this?” Her breath continued to surround him, ice growing up past his knees, climbing to his thighs.

  Then she coughed, bending over and rocking on her feet. The buildup stopped, leaving him fettered by this bizarre binding.

  He strained against the ice, which seemed stronger than any he’d ever known, but he was unable to break free or trace from it. “Take—this—away.”

  She stalked closer. “Who has Myst now? Nikolai or the Forbearer king?”

  “How do you know my brother’s name?”

  “Nikolai or the king?”

  He spied the points of her ears twitching, and her gaze darted past him. Just as she hissed at something behind him, he heard movement and twisted his upper body around.

  There stood half a dozen men, large Viking-looking warriors, with swords at their sides and arrows already nocked to the strings of their raised bows.

  Their breaths smoked in the warm night air and their ears were pointed.

  She hasn’t been fleeing from me—

  Arrows darkened the air around him, whizzing past his head. They’d aimed for her.

  But somehow she was twisting to dodge the onslaught. Whirling around in the air, she turned to dart into another alley, her speed incomprehensible.

  Then she was gone.

  His hands shot down to claw his legs free, his fingers swiftly going numb. Just as the males behind him ran after her, Murdoch heard more fighting.

  There are two groups. They’re organized, flushing her out. Can’t get this fucking ice off me.

  Suddenly, her small body came flying out of the intersecting alley before him.

  Thrown. She’d been thrown.

  The force of her landing sent her skidding across the pavement. As she stabbed her claws against the bricks to right herself, a cloud of arrows followed her. The momentum took her out of his field of vision.

  Then an unfamiliar scent swept him up. Though his instinct told him it was blood, his mind rebelled.

  Never had it smelled so exquisite. So irresistible.

  At last Murdoch broke free, tracing to intercept her. When he reappeared, his every muscle tensed in an instant.

  The scent had been blood—hers. She was kneeling in a pool of it, her chest full of arrows. One of the males was holding her up by her hair, speaking in some foreign tongue. In his other hand, he held a glowing red blade.

  She gazed up at Murdoch as crimson streams snaked from her wounds to the dirty street.

  They’d done this to her?

  What had you been about to do to her? His vampire nature warred with memories of the man he’d been. . . .

  —I would never have hurt her.

  —She was my prey. They stole her from me. My prize.

  Just . . . mine.

  At the thought of those men loosing their arrows at her, the idea of her pain and fear, rage erupted in him. The need to protect her, to destroy those who sought to harm her, burned within him.

  Mine.

  Two realizations struck him.

  This strange female belonged to him alone. And these killers would die before they relinquished her.

  Her gaze held Murdoch’s, and she weakly extended her small hand. With tears running from her silvery eyes, she spoke, a whisper directed to him, loud above all sounds.

  “Mercy.”

  FOUR

  WILL HE HELP ME? Emotions warred on the vampire’s face. Danii saw them with her vision flickering.

  The poison was taking hold, leaching away her precious reserves of cold.

  So hot . . . felt like she was cooking from the inside.

  When she’d faced him earlier, he’d been filled with anger. Now his brows had drawn together at the sight of her injuries.

  He grated, “Mercy?” Then something seemed to . . . snap. His fists clenched, and he bared his sharpened fangs. His body appeared to get even bigger. “I’m going to give you their heads, female.”

  Why would he? And how?

  The vampire didn’t understand how deadly these Icere were. They were expert bowmen, their fey speed unmatched in the Lore. And there were too many of them. At least eight stood between the vampire and her. They were already building ice grenades in their palms.

  With an
unholy roar, the vampire charged, half tracing, half sprinting. Five of the Icere rushed to intercept him, lobbing grenades with lethal speed. But he dodged each volley, and the ice the warriors had just surrendered exploded all around him in the alley.

  Like some living thing, a freezing glaze crawled over the battered brick walls, skittering all the way up to the fire escapes, coating the street.

  The vampire clashed with the wall of Icere, battling his way to her, slashing through the warriors with a startling brutality. When he snatched one’s jugular and blood arced out like a fountain in the night, her Iceren captor began to drag her away by her hair.

  The poison had weakened her, but she still fought him. Her claws sank into his arm and tore, rending skin and bone, all but severing it.

  He yelled in pain and dropped her hair to take his knife in his good hand, shoving it against her neck. The blade’s heat seared her skin, and a scream erupted from her chest.

  In answer, a savage bellow sounded; she and her captor looked up just in time to see the vampire flying at him.

  One second the knife was at her throat. In the next, the vampire had wrenched the Iceren’s head free.

  The others took up their bows and charged him as one, the sound of their bowstrings louder than their footfalls. The impact of the arrows slammed the vampire against a glazed wall, shattering the ice.

  He roared with fury, his arms twisting back to pull the arrows free. Just as he tore all but one of them from his body, the Icere were upon him.

  She could see him grappling again and again to get to her, yet they kept hold of him, preventing him from tracing.

  Danii tried to crawl away from the skirmish, but the arrows jutting from her chest made movement impossible, and the poison was too strong. If she didn’t get them out soon . . .

  Thermal shock. A nightmare way to die. She was about to be executed, and for no reason. She didn’t want her crown, only wanted to be left in peace—