by Autumn Dawn
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New Concepts Publishing
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Copyright ©2006 by Autumn Dawn
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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FALLON
By
Autumn Dawn
© copyright January 2006, Autumn Dawn
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2006
ISBN 1-58608-806-8
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
It hurt. Rain glanced over her shoulder, crouched on the gritty ally floor. The fall had skinned her palms and knees, and the wounds stung. But they were coming—she could hear them over the sounds of midnight traffic, though she didn't try to peer past the black ally into the glare of streetlights. She ran.
But then it seemed she'd been running all of her life, ever since she'd discovered who she was, what she was. The vigilantes in the cult that chased her were determined to catch her and use her to wipe out the rest of her kind. Their war had been going on for millennia, and the cult was winning. Rain knew she wouldn't be able to resist their torture if they caught her. She'd talk. They'd find out about the others, and they'd kill them. Human and Haunt could not coexist.
Breathless, trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, she forced herself into a stumbling lope, ignoring her cold, sweat-soaked jeans and t-shirt. She would have loved to ditch her ragged black jacket and pack, but didn't dare; they comprised all of her worldly goods, and she needed them in the chill London fog.
Her father wouldn't have felt the cold. He'd simply have changed into his werewolf form. Faster and more powerful than humans, the weres were called Haunts by the humans who knew of them. If Rain had been a full blood, she might have been able to leap up onto a rooftop and escape the hunters. While she had the speed of the Haunt, on foot in the streets she was loosing the deadly race.
Scaling the chain link fence at the end of the alley was easy—evading the snarling Doberman who went for her throat was not. With no time for regret, she got in a hearty kick, sprinted across the lawn and jumped up, grabbed the top of an ornate stone fence. Barely making it over before the dog sunk teeth into her, she slipped over the top, landing in another empty ally.
Trying to catch her breath, she moved cautiously down the white-lit brick canyon, praying she'd lost them. Already she felt her strength failing, and the next time she fell, she might not make it up.
Listening, straining her preternaturally keen ears to catch any noise, she searched for sounds of pursuit. Finding none, she slowly relaxed and sank against one chilly wall, ignoring the trash at her feet. She'd made it.
Suddenly light exploded into the ally. Deafened by the shouts of men and barking dogs, blinded by the sudden glow, Rain saw death coming and despaired.
* * * *
"Wake up!"
A slap accompanied the brutal voice, jerking Rain from the comfort of darkness. Moaning, she pried open her eyes and blinked at the murky cell. She didn't remember coming there, but she did recall being jabbed with something. Cuffs bound her wrists behind her, and her rear was planted on a hard wooden chair. Did they mean to question her? The word torture flitted across her mind, and she shuddered. Please, God, no!
Her tormenter—a scarred blighter in working class clothes—took a narrow-eyed look at her, then glanced at a the other man in the cell, an older gentleman in a suit. What hair he had left was iron gray, perfectly matching the winter coldness in his faded blue eyes. He looked her over, then smiled without humor. “Rain, is it? Daughter of Rian Miller?"
She shivered. “Who are you?"
"Taught you some unusual things, didn't he? Lock picking, shooting ... how to run and how to hide."
Nervous now, she felt the cold sweat start again. Her father had been dead for a year, killed by the very people she now suspected held her, but few people had really known him, known what he was. These people were not so blissfully ignorant.
By the chill satisfaction in his eyes, he was enjoying her torment. “I have a few questions for you, my dear. Rory!"
A tall, dark man entered at his command, favoring the gent with a cold look. “I'm not deaf, Trent."
"Mr. Trent,” the scarred one said aggressively, stepping toward him.
Mr. Trent held up his hand, stopping his goon. To Rory he said, “Question her."
Rory sent a cold look her way. “Question is all I'll do. I'm getting bloody sick of your games, Mr. Trent."
"Strive to remember what happens when you fail me,” Mr. Trent said coldly, “and remember who gets hurt."
His lip curled, but Rory turned to Rain. Softening a little, he asked gently, “What's your name, love?"
Rain hadn't lived twenty-two years without seeing some good-looking men. This one, however, put them all to shame. Black hair, deep green eyes and a face to make an angel weep were temptation enough, but there was something more, something she couldn't place. Did he wear cologne? That had to be it, for a scent of tempting power hung about him, though she'd never known a fragrance to addle her so. Just breathing it made her tired blood stir, and the longer he stood by her, the worse the sensation became. Sex in a bottle, her muddled brain exclaimed, trying dimly for a warning, but whatever it was trying to tell her became lost in his eyes.
The goon said something to Mr. Trent. The haze she was under dulled their words, but she thought she heard the goon say, “This one's got it bad."
Pheromones, her mind whispered, but the warning was blanketed by a rush of sensation. Dully, she remembered the warnings about rare human women who were born with pheromones so powerful to the male Haunt that they could render him powerless. The male would be so muddled that he'd give his questioners the names and locations of even his dearest family. The cult sought and used those women, but she'd never heard of a human male with the pheromone. This Rory couldn't be one, could he?
Rory smirked at her, but the scent seemed to mess with her perceptions, because her heart insisted it was an expression of sympathy. “I don't think we'll need these, will we?” he said, moving slowly around her to touch her cuffs. She felt a key slide into the cuffs, then they fell away, granting her blessed freedom. Rubbing her aching arms, she felt gratitude swell. He was so beautiful he made her feel weak. “Thank you."
Rory looked her over. “What's a sweet thing like you done to get yourself in this mess? Don't you have mates who will be looking for you?"
In the background, she could hear the goon asking Mr. Trent, "I'll bet he asks for this one when he's done. She'd be a looker if she cleaned up, and our Rory does like to have his fun before you dispose of them."
She heard, but the words meant nothing. So long as she could smell Rory, feel the thunder in her blood from breathing him in, nothing else mattered. “Friends ... no, I have no friends."
Rory frowned. “How can that be? A fantasy like you must have lots of friends. What about your father's mates? Won't they help you?"
She thought, very willing to tell him everything she knew. “I ... I haven't seen anyone since my father died."
He smiled comfortingly. “But you know where they are, right? Those ma
tes of his?” He glanced at Trent, then moved closer to whisper in her ear, “I can help you. Tell me where to find your father's friends, and I can help them find you."
The touch of his mouth against her ear sent shockwaves down her spine. Longing seized her. Just let him touch her....
"Like animals for him, I hear. Scream and scratch while he's riding him, and beg for more, they say. Makes me wish I were the Sylph. Lucky bloke."
"Shut up! And make sure that recorder is working. We want to get every name."
Blocking her view of the men with his body, Rory hunched down to her level, tracing the skin of her face with one finger. “Tell me the names, sweetheart. Tell me how to find them."
It was too much. Breathless, desperate to please him, she opened her mouth. “My father's cousin used to live in—"
An enormous blast shook the cell, obliterating her words. Screaming, she threw her hands up and ducked her head, instinctively protecting her face. Dust clogged the air and Rory cursed as soldiers in black burst into the room, killing the goon and capturing Mr. Trent.
She didn't spare a thought for him, but instantly got in front of Rory, protecting him with her body. The pheromones had her convinced that he was her mate. She didn't care what happened to her, but she had to save him.
A tall man strode through the dust, and everything around them stilled. Command shadowed him, powerful as the desert sun, though impossible to see. Not all of his size was in his legs, either—those powerful shoulders of his were enough to give her pause. His long blond hair was tied back, and though it was too murky to tell the color of his eyes, the expression in them chilled her.
But those eyes were not fixed on her. “Hello, Rory.” Cold menace vibrated in every word.
"Fallon. Fancy meeting you here,” Rory said flippantly. “Come to shoot the breeze, or is this business?"
Fallon looked at Rain, and she quickly inched back. Rory was directly behind her, but she wasn't taking chances. “Leave him alone!” she warned the stranger.
Rory laughed. “Feisty, ain't she? What can I do, mate? Your women all love me."
"Move out of the way, Rain,” Fallon ordered her calmly, looking her in the eyes.
Beyond the point of wondering why he knew her name, why he was here, she tensed to fight. “No! You won't touch him! He was trying to help me.” She saw one of the soldiers inching to her left, but was too distracted by the menace in front of her to do anything.
Slowly, Fallon's eyes lifted to Rory. “How many women has it been now, Rory? How many of us have you helped to kill?"
"He's a liar,” Rory told her soothingly, when she shot a quick look at him. “Don't worry over it, love."
She relaxed and glared at Fallon. “I won't listen to you.” There was a game afoot, though she was oblivious to its rules. Somehow she was the center, though why was elusive. Caring was elusive. In this close proximity, with Rory's scent teasing her nose, it just didn't matter. The pheromones were her drug, and their source her only god. She would die for him.
But Rory's distraction had proved fatal. With a sudden roar, the soldier who'd shifted to their left charged, taking Rain down in a flying tackle. Shots were fired, but she was so tangled up she couldn't see. Twisting, the soldier managed to land on the bottom, taking the brunt of their fall, and as they landed, she saw Rory jerk. His gun discharged, the bullet striking stone, and he toppled to the floor on his back.
Rain began to scream.
* * * *
Fallon's jaw clenched as he watched two of his men trying to subdue the wild woman. Taking Rory down had taken precious time, and they couldn't allow this. Pity she hadn't seen the gun at her head, threatening her life, but he wasn't surprised at her fury. The Sylph's pheromone was a dangerous thing, and she'd already been in his power when they'd arrived. A nap would do her a lot of good.
Striding to her side, he evaded her kicking foot and applied pressure to her carotid artery. In seconds she collapsed like a doll.
"Bring her,” he ordered them. They had to extract to the choppers in a hurry, before the cult figured out their bird had flown and sent reinforcements. They wouldn't like losing an informant; though to his knowledge the cult had already killed most of her friends and family, thanks to her cousin's unwilling help. Fallon was determined that the Cult of the Black Sylphs wouldn't get another shot at her, even if he had to shift her off-world himself.
His fellow Haunts, as humans had labeled them long ago, closed in around him and their precious cargo. Females of their species were well protected, and not a man there approved of what had almost happened to her. Rory was Trent's truant son, and he'd had a bargain with his father. He'd used his sexual pheromones and suggestive abilities—effective only on female Haunt—to question the women. The names of other Haunt were coaxed from her, his father went on a killing spree, and Rory used the women until he tired of them. The bodies were disposed of when he'd finished.
It was reason enough to take a man's life, and Fallon had enjoyed doing it.
They made it to the choppers, thankful that the blast had taken out the portion of Trent's estate that had housed his troops. The snipers that remained were picked off by Fallon's own men. They needed no night goggles to pierce the inky night, and all of them were expert marksman.
Fallon glanced at Trent and the girl. Trent would be questioned and disposed of like the carrion he was, and Fallon had to find a safe place for the girl. Off world was best, but he didn't know how much she knew, or even if she'd be willing to use the gate. It was going to take time to settle her, and there was only one place he would have leisure to do that.
Chapter Two
Rain woke in the chopper, but was wise enough to stay silent. She couldn't have said much over the chopper's blades, anyway, but she kept her mouth shut until they'd landed and herded her toward a sleek private jet. Dawn was beginning to lighten the horizon and a chill breeze had kicked up when she demanded, “Where are we going?"
The one called Fallon glanced at her. “Home. Wait until we're in the air and I'll answer your questions."
Having no choice, she obeyed him. By his accent, he was an American, so she assumed she was going back the States. She'd been born there, but had run to the UK when her father had been taken. That gambit hadn't worked, but it no longer mattered. Whoever these men were, she wasn't going to get away from them easily.
Thinking of her father still caused a dull ache. She missed him, even as she wavered between blaming his aggressive marketing of her inventions and her own foolishness in making them. She'd been born with an IQ off the charts, and invented gadgets that made investors drool. She'd been too young to understand the dangers some of them held, so entranced by her curiosity, the thrill of doing the impossible. Before her father could market her last invention—which she hadn't wanted; even she could see the danger of it in unscrupulous hands—he'd been killed by someone trying to steal it. She'd escaped, only to spend hellish years running from the Cult.
If she'd been just another dumb teen, her father would still be alive today. If she'd been fully human, a chance encounter with a Cult member in Scotland wouldn't have mucked up the rest of her life. She still didn't know if the thieves and the Cult were the same people.
Fatigue sapped what energy she had. She'd been running for thirty-six hours, and the strain was devastating. Whatever would happen next was beyond her control, and even her first sight of the inside of a private jet gave her little joy. Cold, hungry and parched, she sat where she was asked.
"Water?” Fallon handed her a bottle, which she sucked down greedily. He gave her another.
"Bathroom?” He raised his brows in question, then gestured toward the tail of the plane.
Grateful, she made her way past the half-dozen others settled into deluxe chairs and locked herself in the bathroom. The face in the mirror shocked her. Dirt smeared her skin, and her greasy hair was half-out of her braid, hanging around her face in shaggy brown hanks. There was nothing she could do about the clo
thes, but she washed up, pulled her hair back into a proper tail and ignored the shadows under her eyes.
Dinner was waiting for her. It was hot and she didn't remember the last time she'd eaten, so she attacked it, uncaring at that point whether it was drugged or who served it. Besides, her pack was gone, and she didn't delude herself that her “rescuers” had come in with explosives and M16's to collect her, only to use her for their amusement. Whatever their agenda, she was safe for the moment. After they got on the ground ... she'd deal with that later.
Exhaustion hit hard. She needed to lie down, but a few facts wouldn't kill her. “Why did you come after me?"
Fallon studied her. “We'd heard a rumor about one of our females being hunted. By the time we found your trail, the Cult was a step ahead of us. You know why we broke into the compound—they would have used your information to locate and wipe out others of our kind. Too many have died already."
He was right. The human bigots wouldn't stop until all the Haunt were dead. Their motive? A simple dread of anyone different than they were, a fear that the Haunt would rise up and take over the world.
Yeah, right. She'd seen the world, and they could have it.
Sluggish as it was, her mind was still awake enough to connect a few dots. “Rory was a Sylph. How? I was taught that only human females had the pheromone, and only one in a million, at that.” The Cult of the Black Sylph had been in existence for a long time, and they were frighteningly competent at wiping out her people. They used the Sylphs—willing or not—to capture and control the shape-shifting Haunt males, using them as informants. To her knowledge, there'd never been a human male with the pheromone. Discovering him hadn't been a pleasant experience.
Grimness tightened Fallon's mouth. “Apparently they come in different flavors now. Our friends in the Cult are dabbling with gene splicing."
Oh, joy. Too tired to dwell on it, she grabbed a couple of the pillows that had been laid out for her and arranged them, reclining her chair as much as it would go. She had very little time before sleep snared her. “Where we going?” she slurred, closing her eyes.
