by Tes Hilaire
The sense of eyes boring into the side of his head had him looking down the bar to the right. The barkeep was staring at him uneasily, his hands drying and re-drying the same glass over and over again. WTF? What was the asshole staring at? He was a goddamn paying patron, after all. Tom’s anger bubbled, his hand clenching the shot glass. Some of the precious top-shelf splashed over the rim. The waste of the expensive shit pissed him off further.
Shit. The shot was half-empty but not because he’d drunk any. A quick review of the last couple minutes told him he’d probably been nodding and gesturing to himself like a fucking crazy person. And now Greg thought him the next candidate for the loony bin.
Well, he wasn’t. He wasn’t crazy. Crazy was seeing things that weren’t there. Crazy was thinking the fucked up dreams that came after an evening of binging were real. Crazy was letting said dreams fuck you over the next night too. Well, that wasn’t happening here. Nope. Tom was going to finish his shot, grab up his money—no tip for busybody Greg—get into his GT500, and do what a real man would do, which was do what he always did. He had at least another decade before his looks went to total shit, and his money couldn’t lure out the pretty coeds. He was a former all-star college athlete, a successful banker with a good crib and a better car. Yeah, he was still a player to be reckoned with. Red eyes or not, nothing was going to keep him from living life to the fullest.
With the decision made, Tom tossed back the shot—there was a reason they called it liquid courage—slammed down the glass, and pushed up off his barstool. Then, with a jaunty swagger, he made his way out the door into the parking lot where he stopped and took a deep breath of night air.
A smile cracked on his face, his body thrumming with purpose as he began to whistle on the way to his Mustang. The night was young yet and all his. Carpe diem and all that crap.
***
Roland examined the peeling linoleum floor, the pads of his fingers brushing over the dark brown stains that were layered over what must have been decades of other stains. Karissa’s home. Her sanctuary. The place where she should have felt safe, yet murder had occurred here. Recently. The blood was old enough to oxygenate but not so old as to leave no clues.
Killer. The accusation, and the fear that he might let loose his frustration and rage on his best friend when Calhoun returned for his shift, had driven Roland into the night. He’d been able to trace the faint taint of death that still clung to her back to her Brooklyn home.
Karissa was right. He was a killer. And for this he would be again. Whoever had taken the life of the man who had fallen here would pay in kind. An eye for an eye. Death for death. So it would be.
Whoever the man was, he was a relation to Karissa. He could pick up enough lingering scent to know that. Someone had removed the body. Not the police either, for there was no blatant yellow tape, despite the obvious crime scene. Whoever this man was to Karissa—father, brother, uncle—his absence had only been noted by one.
Was Karissa here when he died? Did she watch? Or did she return home to find a loved one’s dead body sprawled out on the floor?
Another memory of bloodstained tiles flooded Roland, overlapping his vision so that it wasn’t this kitchen floor he stared at, but a grand hall, pristinely kept and polished except for the awkward splashes of red that splattered the damask silk on the walls and streaked wavering lines across the cool-white marble floors.
His nails dug into the floor, it dimpled, then gave way. Not marble. Cheap 1980s linoleum. Roland shook off the memory, concentrating again on the present. Whatever had happened, it had been violent. He wondered if Karissa was now, like him, plagued with nightmares.
“I wondered who would show up. You or Logan.”
Roland spun around on the balls of his feet, remaining crouched. A girl sat casually on top of the washing machine stuffed into the short hall attached to the room. A mudroom of sorts. She must’ve slipped in through the broken window. Plain and simple, he was distracted and she sneaked up from downwind.
“Who would you have preferred?” He straightened casually. Gabriella was not a true danger. Not unless her maker was close enough to control her. A quick opening of his other senses showed no dark and oily essences in the area. Well, other than her. But she wasn’t all dark, only around her edges.
“Logan, of course. That man is positively delicious.” She bared her fangs as she slid down off the washer, strutting across the room. Her hips performed a shimmy that was far too erotic for her gangly, adolescent angles.
“How’s Mom?” he asked, knowing it would annoy her.
She wrinkled her nose, dropping the seductive swagger with an equally skilled foot plant and thrust of the hip. “Still six feet under. Where you left her, I believe.”
His lip curled up. “Too bad. I would have liked to kill her again.”
She shook her head, red locks bouncing. “No way. If somehow Christos finally manages to convince Lucifer to waste enough stolen souls to resurrect her, I get to kill her.”
Roland chuckled. Gabriella had been trying to kill her birth mother off long before she’d been made vampire. It was probably what got the poor girl turned. Glena had, most likely, hoped she could get her daughter under control with the help of a master vampire. Speaking of which…
“So, where is your maker? He doesn’t normally give you too much leash.”
“He’s your maker too.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t control me.”
That earned him a dirty look. Not that he had expected anything less. The fact that Gabriella couldn’t quite manage to break the blood bond Christos had over her was the proverbial thorn in her side. She still had the rebellious nature of the fourteen-year-old she’d been when she was turned and hadn’t lost the you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do edge that got her in so much trouble.
She continued to ignore his question, stalking around the room as she did her own study of the blood splatter patterns. He watched her carefully, looking for any signs of guilt, satisfaction, or outright pleasure. All he saw was disgust. Good.
“Must have been messy,” she said.
“You weren’t part of this, I take it.”
She peeled her lips back. “Vegan, remember? I don’t do anything that is, or might have been, alive.”
He believed her. There was a rumor that she’d been trying to kill herself since the day she’d been turned. Her master, of course, wouldn’t have that. Christos couldn’t get Gabriella to feed, no matter how desperate the bloodlust was, but he could give her transfusions when she was too sick from starvation to object. Judging by the healthy glow of her creamy skin, Roland suspected she’d been given a few pints rather recently.
Roland glanced back at the bloodstained linoleum, wondering if the body of the victim here had gone on to be a donor. If it was fresh enough, the blood would have still been good. His jaw tightened at the thought.
“So, how is Christos?” he asked, hoping the answer was miserable. The bastard deserved to rot in a fiery pit in hell—right beside Glena.
“Awful as ever.”
“You not giving him what he wants?”
She curled back her lips in a feral smile.
Roland chuckled, letting a spark of amusement flash in his eyes. “Good girl.”
Gabriella gave him her first true smile of the night before clamping down on the genuine emotion. She looked at her nails, pursing her lips over a chip on her pinkie. “Christos isn’t my biggest problem right now, though.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Ganelon.” Her lips turned into a distinct pout. “He has the whole gang on orders to bring him this girl—alive. What’s so special about her anyway?”
His eyes narrowed. “What girl?”
She rolled her eyes, giving him a my-you’re-dense kind of look.
His jaw clenched. Answer enough. Ganelon himself was after Karissa. Shit. “What’s his interest in her?”
“You mean other than the fact that she’s the first female Paladin in almost a cent
ury?”
Roland grunted. “Doesn’t explain why he wants her alive.”
Yeah, alive should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. A Paladin alive and in Ganelon’s hands brought with it a whole new meaning to the term suffering.
Not Karissa. Roland would not let that happen.
Gabriella shrugged. “All I know is that Ganelon thinks she’s going to be the weak chink in the Paladin’s armor.”
“And how is that?”
“He’s convinced she is the key to their downfall,” she said, her words sending a chill of knowing down Roland’s spine.
***
Foreboding flashes of a future he couldn’t quite see chased Roland all the way back to his loft: His Karissa, strapped down. Crimson blood spilling from her vein. Vampires. Paladin. Death in the light of day.
He shook the images off, concentrating on Gabriella’s words instead, knowing that they were the key to unlocking the why and how behind the broken vision and thus preventing it from coming true.
The weak chink in the Paladin’s armor was understandable. There wasn’t a Paladin out there who wouldn’t lay down their life for Karissa. With the distinct lack of female offspring in the Paladin lines, more often than not, male Paladin were forced to turn to human women, some gifted, some not, to find a compatible partner. The problem was that Paladin genes became diluted with each subsequent generation, their gifts fading. A Paladin-Paladin pairing was more valuable than all the treasures of the world. Karissa didn’t realize it yet, but she was the last hope the current Paladin generation had of rejuvenating their line.
And if Ganelon finds a way to get to her, he’ll use her as bait.
It was the only explanation. The only reason to keep her alive. Her death would bring down upon Ganelon the brunt of the Paladin fury, but that fury would be over ice. Vengeance was a dish best served cold.
If she was alive though…Well, men did foolish things when they were desperate. And given how diluted the Paladin lines were with human blood, there wasn’t a man among them who wasn’t a bit of a fool.
The muscles in Roland’s legs coiled, he pushed off, leaping over the last block of clogged traffic. He landed with a grunt, knees bent, arms splayed for balance—getting too old for this shit—then was up and running toward the rooftop door. His senses were already telling him he was too late, but he had to check, just in case Calhoun had decided to shield her for some asinine reason. Like, maybe, she was in danger?
Thirty seconds later, he was barreling through the empty rooms of his loft. Hall, bedroom, kitchen, great room, study…Karissa wasn’t here. Panic squeezed his lungs while, conversely, adrenaline forced his veins and arteries to open wider.
“There’s no sign of a struggle,” he told himself. “No scent of fear.”
Well, other than the lingering fear from when she’d run from first him, then Calhoun.
“Shit.” He spun around, his hand smashing through the drywall beside the fireplace.
Where the hell were they? Calhoun wouldn’t have been stupid enough to bring her to his place; that left…Ah, fuck.
Chapter 6
Roland entered the anteroom to the Hall of Haven, slipping in with a curl of shadow from the adjoining servant hall. Keeping his sights on his quarry, he drifted across the deep recess behind the line of statues that rimmed the room and melted into the far corner. The risk he was taking by coming here was great. Any of his former peers, if they were to see him, would take it upon themselves to eradicate his presence—and not just from Haven. And then they’d go after Calhoun, because Calhoun was supposed to have eliminated his fallen friend long ago. And if Roland still existed, then it meant Calhoun had lied about doing so.
Of course, right now Roland didn’t give a shit about Calhoun. Bastard had brought Karissa here.
From his shadow, Roland watched Karissa pace. His entire body tingled from the mere proximity of his mate. Karissa, however, appeared to be too busy wearing down the wool on the Persian rug to have noticed that she was no longer alone. A fact that sent a wave of unease coursing through his system. She was alone, unaware, and completely vulnerable. What if it hadn’t been him who’d sneaked into these hallowed halls? Sure, the chances of that were slim, but still, what the hell was Calhoun thinking?
Didn’t matter. As soon as Roland got Calhoun alone and wrapped his hands around the pretty Paladin’s throat, the answer wouldn’t matter anymore. Wouldn’t matter because the stupid fuck would be dead.
Ah, hell. Roland closed his eyes and concentrated hard on taking a few deep breaths, forcing his anger to dissipate, the red haze to clear from his vision. It was the bond calling. The need to protect was sending his sensibilities into a tailspin. Calhoun wouldn’t have dared bring Karissa into Haven’s Hall without gaining permission first, and he wouldn’t have trusted another here to watch her while he asked for that permission.
Probably smart, actually. The chances of a breech of Haven’s defenses were next to infinitessimal, and another Paladin might take the opportunity to try to put his mark upon her. Not that it wouldn’t happen the moment she walked through those massive, carved doors, but at least then there would be witnesses to keep some of the less scrupulous among them in line. Unlike claiming a mate, which was more of an acknowledgement of a bond than a creation of one, forming a pairing was a long, drawn out procedure. Petitions submitted, permissions granted, marking, courting, then the bonding ceremony. Finally, the presentation before the One God to sanctify the pairing.
There’d been times when one, if not all of the preliminary crap had been skipped, but never the last. And since Karissa was his bond mate, there would be no sanctifying of any bond to anyone but him.
That wouldn’t keep them from trying to claim her, though. When no mate became immediately apparent, every Paladin in there would go by the rule that possession was nine-tenths of the law. Some might try to court her first, but eventually it would become a free-for-all to see who could mark her and see if it stuck.
Over my dead body.
Roland stood up from his half-crouch, stepping into the light cast by one of the dim globes that soared a good two stories above them. Karissa was so anxious she almost paced by him again, but just as she was about to pass, she yelped and stumbled back, her foot catching on the rug.
Roland’s superior speed saved her. He was immediately beside her, grasping her elbow and pulling her upright.
“You scared the crap out of me!” she accused, her pulse skittering under his grip. Fear laced her scent, causing him to cringe.
“I’m sorry. That was not my intent.” He released her, thinking it might reassure her that his intentions were honorable—or, at least, not dishonorable.
She glanced over her shoulder, worry furrowing her brow as they landed on the entry to the room, which currently contained at least half the Paladin force. Not just the elders. Calhoun must have requested an emergency session. Damn, what was the fool thinking?
Karissa took a step closer to them, away from him, but then stopped. As if torn.
When, after a few more moments, the doors to the hall didn’t bang open—and she didn’t race to them—she turned her attention back to him. “What are you doing here? I wouldn’t think it was exactly, um, safe for you here.”
Her big brown eyes, filled with concern—for his welfare—warmed him to the core, driving away the chill that had seeped into his bones upon finding her gone from his loft.
“No, not exactly,” he drawled.
Her gaze fell on his mouth, her lips parting slightly as if remembering what his had felt like upon hers.
He arched a brow, giving her an amused smile. “You going to scream and bring them racing in here?”
There was a brief moment of hesitation. “No. I just didn’t expect for you to show up here. Why did you?”
“Because of you, my dear Karissa.” He let the name slide off his tongue like a caress, enjoying the way it sounded. More enjoyable was the shiver that ran through her slight fram
e.
She edged back another step, drawing farther away from him and closer to the hall. He didn’t like it but could understand how she might be torn between the pull of the mate-bond and what she felt was logical.
“You, my dear, are the most popular girl in the city right now.” And whether she realized it or not, she was about to become even more so. Unless he could talk her into leaving with him now.
“They’re, um, still looking for me?”
He gave a nod. After he’d run into Gabriella, he’d had to sneak his way back through a half-dozen demons, two dozen vamps, and three merkers, all of whom had come out to prowl the rundown neighborhood where she’d lived. The demons were there to scent her out, of course. The vamps on the street were fishing for information—even managing to keep their canines hidden long enough to ask questions of the neighbors. And the merkers, well, they were there to make sure no one got any ideas about keeping Ganelon’s prize for themselves.
She shuddered, her gaze going back to the heavy wood doors. “I guess coming here was the best option then.”
He could sense the apprehension behind her words. Logically, she might think her words were true, but she too seemed to sense that there was danger here. But then, why had she come? He knew he made her nervous, but he thought she’d gotten past outright scared.
That so, Roland? Then why did she just inch back another step toward a room filled with unknown men?
He frowned. “Did Calhoun talk you into coming here? Did he say something to make you think the loft was unsafe?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I can’t live my life locked in your apartment. You said yourself that those creatures are still looking for me. I need help. Logan and the other Paladin can provide that.”
