by Sierra Dean
“You invaded my dreams?”
“It’s only an invasion if the receiving party fights it. You…” he looked right at me, “…didn’t fight at all. You were so open, in fact, I got back in while we were both still awake.”
So my awkward moment earlier tonight hadn’t been my imagination. I shuddered from the deep feeling of violation. Worse still, according to him, I’d let him in.
“How?” I should have asked why, but it wasn’t what came out.
He shrugged. “I was your warden. Wardens have a pretty unique connection with their wards. Before shit hit the fan, my power increased. I think I was about to advance to sentry. The extra power meant I could take better advantage of our connection. It didn’t hurt when they advanced you to warden. The more power both parties have, the better the connection is. Or so I’m told. Getting into your dream earlier this week was my first attempt. And tonight, well—”
“Never again,” I shouted. “You violated the most private experience. I should kill you for that.”
“You could try. But you’re unarmed right now. I’d kill you.”
I couldn’t stop myself. I crossed the room without thinking and punched him as hard as I could right in the face. It made a satisfying crack, and his head snapped back. Then he sat up straight, tentatively touching his nose, and a pinpoint of pain in my hand exploded to a full-blown searing agony. The crack I’d heard had been from one of my knucklebones breaking. I’d never broken my hand punching a vampire before. I was out of practice.
Broken hand or not, I hauled back to punch him again, but this time he saw it coming. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me easily onto the bed. I kept trying to lash out at him, until he climbed on top of me and held both of my hands above my head, sitting on my legs to keep me from attacking him with any well-placed kicks.
“Calm down,” he snarled. “Jesus, Secret, I’m sorry. I opened up the connection with the dream, but I didn’t know it would stay open. It wasn’t intentional.”
“You bit me.” I still struggled against his hold, the desire to claw off his face now all I seemed focused on. “You fucking bit me.” If we were going to argue semantics, he actually bit me while we were fucking. But neither of us brought up that point.
“It was a dream,” he reminded me.
“So? If you bit me in a dream, you probably want to do it in real life.”
“You let me do it in the dream. Does that mean you want to do everything we did in the dream in real life?”
I stopped struggling. Goddamn vampires, how could they be so logical all the time, no matter the situation? The problem was I didn’t know what the dream had said about me or what I wanted. I really didn’t need him to know that. Sensing the fight had started to seep out of me, he released my arms.
I slapped him with my unbroken hand, but it was more of a statement than an actual attack. “You’re an asshole.”
“I needed to know if you were going to go through with the contract.”
“I kind of want to now.”
“You’re not going to kill me because I was the interruptus to your coitus.”
Sighing, I looked up at my water-stained ceiling. He was still sitting on my legs, so I couldn’t go anywhere. A captive audience, as it were.
“You swear to God you aren’t rogue?”
“I don’t believe in God, but I swear to the true immortals and the wrath of the Tribunal I’m innocent of whatever charges they have against me.”
“You mean you don’t even know what you’re being accused of?”
“No. I just know I’m being framed for something huge, because no one is willing to help me. I figured they would have to tell you, if they’d convinced you to take the contract.”
“Sig didn’t give me a choice in taking the contract. I left, and he kidnapped me to bring me home so I’d complete it.”
He let out a long sigh. “You have to help me.”
“How am I supposed to help you?”
“You need to find out what it is I’m being accused of and prove I didn’t do it.”
“Would you like me to solve the mystery of the JFK assassination while I’m at it? Or perhaps you’d like me to waltz up to the Tribunal and say ‘Well, he says he didn’t do it, so let’s brainstorm a new solution.’” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Juan Carlos will eat the still-beating half-breed heart out of my chest before he tells me what you’re accused of or believes me when I say you’re innocent.”
“What about Daria?”
“Daria follows the rules. She’d never break the council rule about guarding the accusation.”
“Then you need to convince Sig. He’s their leader, and he already has a weak spot for you.”
I ignored his comment. “You risked your life coming here. Why?”
He rolled off me, allowing me to sit up, and rose to his feet. “I had to believe our history meant something. That you wouldn’t immediately assume I was guilty.”
“That was a big risk.”
“Are you saying it hasn’t paid off?”
When I got up we were standing face-to-face at the end of my bed. He looked down at me, worry deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. How could I say no after everything we’d been through and all the times he’d saved my life in the past?
“If I’m wrong about this, they’ll kill me,” I confessed. No sense in sugarcoating it, the reality of our situation was ugly. “And then they’ll kill you.”
“If I’m wrong about you, I’m already dead.” With cunning vampire speed, he dipped his head and kissed me. It sucked the breath out of my lungs and left my head spinning. Out of instinct I moved my hand to his neck so I could hold my balance, and then found myself kissing him back. The embrace was a whirlwind, and the cool electricity of the kiss swam all the way into my toes and sparked throughout my whole body. His lips were cold, but not in an unpleasant way. It felt like a kiss in the winter, one where you could see your breath when it was over.
He pulled away first, and I didn’t fight him. I staggered a little, surprised by the intensity of the incident. Holden and I had always had a weird chemistry. We ignored it in the past, all but once, but now with the dreams and this unexpected kiss, it was hard not to think about it.
“My life is in your hands, you know.” He touched my cheek, one cool hand against the flushed warmth of my skin. “I need to trust you.”
“I—”
He was out of the room, and the sound of the front door clicking closed echoed through the darkness. I flopped backwards onto the bed and let out a whoosh of air.
Welcome home, indeed.
Chapter Thirteen
“You’re on your own on this one, McQueen.”
I was sitting in the office of Francis Keats, my business partner, mentor and one badass assassin. We were facing each other across a large oak desk in an unassuming study, neither of us suiting the role we filled. Keaty looked nothing like an assassin, which was one of the most genius things about him. He could have been a doctor or an accountant.
His dark blond hair was cut short and styled with precision. His shirt and pants were tailored, but generic enough to not say anything about his income or status, and his face was as unreadable as always.
I, on the other hand, was dressed as low-key as possible in my tank and shorts. My hair, as predicted, was a mess of curls down past my shoulders with no hope of being brushed smooth. I was biting my fingernail and tapping my shoe against the edge of his desk. He remained composed, but I knew him well enough to know I was driving him crazy.
“You have to help me, Keaty.” I was repeating Holden’s words from last night.
“I don’t have to do anything, Secret. You know that perfectly well.” He leaned back in his leather desk chair, lacing his fingers together across his stomach. The expression on his face told me nothing. This was the man who’d saved my life when I first came to the city. The man who had trained me to be the topnotch vampire killer I was today. And here he was, telling me
he wouldn’t help me in my hour of need.
“But—”
“No.”
“I—”
His face broke from its meticulous calm, setting into a deep frown, his brow furrowing and all the fake friendliness seeping from his eyes. For an instant he appeared every ounce the killer he could be, and although he was a hundred percent human, right then I was genuinely afraid of him.
I stopped arguing.
If parents knew how to give that look, teenagers would never act out.
“The only time I’ll help a vampire is if it involves killing another vampire. So if you want to let me kill Chancery for you, then by all means I’ll help you. I will not, however, dedicate time and resources to help you prove he’s innocent of some unknown vampire crime I don’t give a rat’s ass about.”
Well, he didn’t beat around the bush.
“I can’t kill someone who is innocent, Keaty. It would be immoral.”
“He’s a vampire,” he said, as if this made it okay.
“So am I.”
“It’s not the same.” For all of his bravado and posturing, Keaty had one hell of a soft spot for me. He, who hated monsters in all shapes and forms, had made a huge exception when he allowed me into his life. Not only was I part monster, I was all monster. He—and Mercedes, who knew only of the werewolf half—seemed able to rationalize their way around this fact by focusing on how much they liked me as a person.
I decided not to fight Keaty on this point. He knew all too well what I was, and I found our relationship worked better when we didn’t discuss it. He only brought it up when it benefitted us in some way.
Francis Keats, ever the pragmatist.
“I can’t do this alone.”
“Then kill him and be done with it.”
I sighed loudly and picked up a large rock with no discernable purpose off his desk. I tossed it back and forth between my hands until he held his hand out, palm up, and waited. I dropped the rock into it, and he put it on the table behind him.
“The displaced soul of a Cheyenne shaman is trapped in that stone. I don’t think he likes to be bounced around like a hacky sack.”
I continued to tap my foot on the desk, and finally he relented.
“I can’t help you personally, because I can’t afford to burn my rather rickety bridge to the Tribunal. I need to stay in their good graces, you understand?”
I did, but I didn’t want to admit it.
“I do, however, know of some people who might be able to steer you in the right direction. As much as it pains me.”
He turned and unlocked the top drawer of a file cabinet behind him, then pulled out a small address book. From inside, he withdrew a business card and handed it to me. It was black, except for a small silver inscription which read Bramley.
“Bramley?” I flipped the card over, and then back, but it told me nothing else. I didn’t know if Bramley was a person, a place or some kind of password. The font was Banknote Gothic, which told me nothing else about the mystery word except that it was pretentious.
Keaty leaned back in his chair again, looking every bit like the cat who’d gotten the cream.
“On 96th and 1st you will find an unassuming little hole-in-the-wall Irish pub. It has no sign, and it is not the most welcoming place.” Sounded like a few werewolf and vampire locales I knew of, enchanted to make them unappealing to the human population. Keaty nodded to the card in my hand. “If you have that, you’ll get past the man at the door.” His lips tweaked into a smile.
“And after that?”
He sniggered a little, the amused sound out of place coming from Keaty.
“Just tell them your name.”
“And how are a bunch of antisocial Irishmen going to help me?” I slipped the card into the front pocket of the ivory-colored linen shorts I was wearing.
“Let’s put it this way, McQueen—if you and I are the Yankees of demon hunting, the folks at Bramley are the farm league.”
My lip curled in disgust. “Wannabe vampire slayers?”
“I’d turn down the snobbery a few levels. In case you missed the memo, your favored status within the Tribunal hasn’t exactly made you popular with the monsters who want to stay hidden. And working with me makes it pretty damned unlikely anyone with any information on your warden—”
“Sentry. He would be a sentry now.” I remembered what Holden had told me about his power shift, and couldn’t stop myself from correcting my partner.
Keaty didn’t amend himself, he just looked annoyed by my interruption. “The bad guys can’t trust you, Secret. You’re too well connected and have too high a profile. The people at Bramley, they can still talk to your average, low-rung vamp or half-demon. If anyone knows anything, it will be them. Ask for Jameson.”
“Well, it is an Irish bar.” I smirked.
“The man, not the whiskey.”
“Obviously, Keaty, geez.” I rose from my chair, and he mirrored the motion, less out of chivalry than a killer instinct to stay on the same level as someone who could pose a threat to him. I was flattered and offended all at the same time.
I was wearing a sheer black top with the shorts, and a short-sleeved black jacket to hide my shoulder holster. After the last two days I had no intention of going anywhere without being armed, so my trusty SIG 9mm was sticking with me. For all the good guns seemed to do me. If I could avoid being knocked unconscious or shot, I could make use of one.
I was also sporting a brand-new accessory—a pretty, three-finger ring made of a heavy-duty alloy. It was a feminine take on brass knuckles. It also wasn’t real silver or I would have no skin left on my fingers.
After my ineffectual smackdown on Holden the previous evening, I wanted more bang for my buck. Leary Fallon, the owner of the gun shop on 8th where I special ordered my silver bullets, was more than happy to sell me something that fit the bill. It even had little diamonds set in it to give it the illusion of a ring set.
“Just see what they know. If anyone can help you, it’s Jameson,” Keaty said, getting the final word.
I stepped out onto West 80th and was greeted by a wall of hot air and the putrid reek of summer garbage festering on the street corners. East 96th and 1st was on the complete opposite side of the city from where I was, and since I couldn’t take the subway, I was left with few options—a cab or walking.
It wasn’t that New York had a no monster hybrid policy for the transit system. The problem was I had difficulty controlling myself in small spaces. It was worse still in small spaces cramped with bodies. That spelled trouble for my self-restraint.
The last thing I needed was my fangs popping out on the A train during the evening commuter rush. I’d taken the subway a few times and the results were always the same—me, dizzy and anxious, desperate to get away from the crush of warm human bodies before the monsters in me decided to stop acting in opposition and finally worked together to create one hell of a memorable massacre.
I’d had my fair share of drama in the subways before. Not to mention, I hadn’t eaten in over a day, which was foolish at the best of times and given my emotional turmoil would be a recipe for disaster.
Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather be one of the good guys and stick to walking. A cab would have been nice, especially one with functional air conditioning, but we’d have to skirt Central Park and double back. Walking across the Park would save me time.
Not to mention money.
I hadn’t checked my bank account since I’d been home, but I was fairly certain four months of rent, plus the overdue utility bills and my shiny new fisticuff bling, meant the five grand I’d earned for bringing in Alexandre Peyton would be almost gone. If you think your life doesn’t have a price, you’re wrong. Almost losing mine didn’t even pay for the cost of living in a city like New York for six months. It was a sad statement on my existence.
I didn’t exactly make a consistent income from the Tribunal. Keaty paid me biweekly, but since I’d been gone for three months, I
understood why those checks hadn’t kept coming.
I trotted down the steps of Keaty’s brownstone, heading east towards the park. Ah, the glamorous life of a vampire hunter. I guess the plus side of it was I didn’t have to worry about buying groceries.
I ensured the safety on my gun was off before entering the park. It was still early in the evening—couples and families continued to wander around the better-lit paths—but I planned on taking a more direct route, and one never knows what can be found in the darker woods of Central Park after nightfall.
Chapter Fourteen
I emerged no worse for the wear on East 83rd about twenty minutes later. I was grateful but a little disappointed by my uneventful walk. I was wound up, and I wasn’t sure if I needed a good lay or a good fight to get my head right.
Probably both.
As I moved northeast through the nighttime street of New York, I thought about the last day and a half. I’d woken up in bed with Sig, made love to Desmond, made out with Lucas and beat up—then kissed—Holden.
It was a little too much for me to deal with. I felt dirty just taking a mental inventory.
I used to think I was a one-man woman. Then, after a particularly disastrous blind date orchestrated by Mercedes with one of her fellow cops, I almost accepted being a no-man woman. A few months ago that had to be reassessed when Fate forced me to become a two-man woman. But there was no effing way I could be a four-man woman.
Even metaphysics couldn’t keep that from being whorey.
Before I knew it I had arrived outside of a small brick building in a row of pathetic-looking small brick buildings. The garbage had been collected recently, so the lingering smell in the air was that of sweat and hot concrete.
Hot town, summer in the city.
“Can I help you, miss?”
It took me a moment to process the question because of the man asking it. He stood about three and a half feet tall, wearing all black, with a thicket of dark red hair. He was broad and had the semi-flattened nose of a boxer, which was incongruous with the explosion of freckles over his entire face. That same face told me he was all business, but his voice was what surprised me the most.
