Circus of Blood
Page 6
I love how you have really embraced this world that I created. I do it for you, and you have repaid that in spades. Now hang on tight because it’s only gonna get crazier from here! Trust me, Blood and Magick is where the wheels come off. Turn the page to get a sneak peek.
Stay True,
James R. Tuck
Taking out hellish creatures—not a problem.
Armed with blessed silver hollow-points
and the ability to manipulate magick,
he’s ready for anything—except betrayal
he never saw coming . . .
Deacon Chalk knows the biggest danger
in fighting monsters is becoming one.
Just another day at the office for your friendly
neighborhood occult bounty hunter.
If keeping three helpless Were-dog children safe
means battling a malevolent trio of witches
by any means necessary, so be it.
If that means partnering with a ruthless government
agent to stay one step ahead of the allies
and friends he must now suspect,
he’s not going to cry about it.
The only way Deacon can save humans
and shape-shifters alike is to embrace a power
beyond his imagining, putting his team at stake—
and his soul on the line . . .
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek
of the next Deacon Chalk,
Occult Bounty Hunter novel
BLOOD AND MAGICK
coming next month!
1
I should have known.
There were signs. I’m supposed to be the damn expert. I should have caught the warnings.
I should have.
But I was completely clueless until the minute the restaurant exploded in a wave of eldritch flame and burning glass.
“You look absolutely amazing tonight.”
She really, really did. It was the God’s honest truth. Tiff was wearing a black evening dress that crossed her shoulders and plunged in a scalloped V, baring her back from the base of her neck to the dimples at the bottom of her spine. I had seen that expanse of skin before, but to have it so elegantly displayed was downright damn breathtaking. The dress was a frame on a piece of art.
She turned, face close to mine, body tilted just so toward me. The front of the dress plunged sharply to just below her breastbone in another deep V that was working overtime to display a gentle swell of cleavage it was impossible for me to keep my eyes off of.
This was nothing new. I had a hard time keeping my eyes off Tiff in general, but in that dress? Her in that dress you could set me on fire and I wouldn’t notice.
Her blue eye twinkled. “You think so?”
“I know so. You are a knockout, little girl.”
A tilt of her head made dark chestnut hair fall over the left side of her face. It was an unconscious move, a habitual twitch she had developed. The sweep of hair covered the eyepatch she wore. I was used to the movement, but it still sent a sharp pang through my heart.
Six months ago she stood with me in a battle against an asshole Were-lion named Leonidas. Lives had been on the line and she had gone after him and one of his gang, a Were–great white, by herself.
I got there in time to save her life but not her eye. Where it once was, she had four razor-thin scars, mementos left by Leonidas’s claws.
I killed the bastard, but that didn’t give her her eye back.
Her hand pulled my face to hers. Soft lips touched mine with an almost electric shock. Just a brief press and then gone. Her smile twitched, voice low and breathy. “Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”
It was a nice compliment, but I knew better. I looked like a thug. It was the suit’s fault.
Because we were out to a nice dinner with friends, I had pulled out a suit I hadn’t worn in over six years. It was dark gray and summer weight. When you’re my size, you wear a summer-weight suit no matter the season; winters here in the South are just too mild. Back in the day it had set me back over five hundred dollars and had been tailored to fit.
Occult bounty hunting had made me a bit leaner in the stomach and broader in the shoulder than I had been the last time I wore it. It still fit with room for my shoulder holster and two big-bore Colt .45s.
I had taken them off a dead Yakuza assassin with a Japanese demon trapped under his skin as a tattoo.
No, I’m not kidding. Why would I make that up? I’m the one who killed him.
They were a matched set. Nickel-plated with ivory grips carved into grinning skulls. Delicate scrollwork swirled and whorled along the slide. They were pretty sweet.
My head was freshly shaved and my goatee slightly managed with some product Tiff had in the bathroom. It smelled like strawberries.
The suit also covered most of my tattoos. Not the ones on the backs of my hands, or the ones that crawled out of my buttoned collar to spread under my jawline and across the back of my head. Put all that together with my size and I looked like a real leg breaker.
Like I said, a thug.
Tiff began to pull away, turning back to our dinner companions. My hand snaked out, sliding along the smooth skin of her neck, coming to rest in the thick hair at the back. My fingers tensed slightly, pulling her back to my mouth.
Her lips parted, yielding. I pressed in, her tongue warm against mine. The sweet taste of her overwhelmed me. My head spun just a touch, making my fingers tighten in her hair. She made a little sound in her throat that vibrated up through the kiss, igniting me like a match to fuel.
“Okay, okay. You two get a room, the dessert’s here.”
We broke the kiss. Pulling away, I could still taste her. Dessert was going to be a disappointment now.
One long, chestnut hair tangled around my finger. Shaking it off, I picked up my spoon as the waiter sat a small bowl of crème brûlée in front of me.
Looking to the couple on the other side of the table, I pointed the spoon at Larson and Kat. “Alright, you two. Spill with the announcements you wanted to make after dinner.”
Larson opened his mouth to speak, wavy, ginger beard brushing his suit lapel. He was stopped by Kat’s hand clamping on his arm.
She cut eyes at him. “Not yet. Not until after dessert.”
He looked at me, shrugging in a what-are-you-going-to-do motion. He had filled out over the last few months, getting back to his normal weight of one-forty. His hair was still long, blending into a full beard like a redheaded hippie Jesus, but the weight gain had erased the dark hollows that used to rest under his eyes. He looked healthy. He looked happy.
Hell, he looked sane, which was an improvement.
Kat rubbed his arm, affection shining in her eyes. She still had her corn-fed, midwestern, girl-next-door looks. Straightforward and simple. Even dressed in a midnight blue evening gown, her impossibly thick, honey blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Tiff leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Now you two are just being mean.” Her hand fell on my thigh under the table, palm hot through the thin material of my pants. “We’re both dying to know what you two have to tell us. We’re betting it has something to do with a date.”
Tiff and I had speculated about Kat and Larson’s relationship. It was intense. Both of them had been through bad stuff, some of it together and some of it apart. I hadn’t seen the two of them getting together, nobody had, but now that they were, it felt . . . inevitable. Like they had always been a couple.
Kat and Larson just grinned.
“After dessert.” Kat’s voice was firm. “The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”
We all picked up our spoons. The crème brûlée in front of me was beautiful, caramel crust a dark-roasted honey brown, tiny bubbles of captured air marking the surface. The edge of my spoon pushed against it. It was thick, resisting the pressure. Tightening my fingers on the slim, silver stem, I pushed harder. The crust split with a
tiny, audible crack.
The dessert breathed out a sour, clotted stink.
It wafted up, crawling into my nose, tickling my gag reflex. The air at the table filled with it as the other desserts belched out the same rotten, sour-milk stench.
“Ugh.” Kat’s fingers pinched her nose shut, making her voice hum. “That is disgusting.”
Larson pushed away from the table. His shoulders bunched, spinning his wheelchair around. “I’ll be right back. I’m getting the waiter.” His hands jerked harshly on the wheels of his chair, rolling him away.
Larson had lost the use of his legs almost a year ago in a battle against a hell-bitch named Appollonia and her horde of mind-controlled vampires. It was only the last few months he had stopped hating the chair and learned to work with it.
“That’s weird.” Tiff covered her dessert with the thick linen napkin from her lap. “Must have been made with a batch of spoiled cream.”
From the corner of my eye I saw a woman two tables over pull a small mirror from her purse. She held it in front of her, using it to examine a large wart on her cheek. Her voice came to me as she spoke to her dinner date. “But where did it come from? I’ve never had a mole there.”
Larson was rolling back, waiter trailing him, apologizing.
The lights blinked, flashing fever-bright, flickering off, and then back on.
That’s when the whole world exploded.
I had no idea it was coming until it knocked me flat on my ass.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by James R. Tuck
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8065-7
First Electronic Edition: February 2013