The Alien Huntress Series

by Gena Showalter

  “Jaxon!” She begged him for more and he eagerly gave it to her, working yet another finger inside. He would always give her more, she knew. Whatever she desired, Jaxon would provide. I’ll do the same for him.

  Her heart pounded frantically. Stars winked over her vision, reminding her of the blow Mia had dealt her. Only this time, the blow was desire and it was so much more potent. An all-consuming force. Good versus evil, right versus wickedness, for surely she would die without release. Surely she would become all the more addicted to Jaxon.

  “So wet, so hot. Ready for me, baby?”

  “Yes.” Yes, yes, yes.

  His fingers pulled from her; she cried out at the loss.

  She was empty without him, hollow and bereft. How had she existed so long without him? Never again. For as long as she lived, she wanted to be with him. Despite pain, despite punishment. How many days did she have left? Weeks? Didn’t matter. Eternity would not have been long enough.

  “Hurry!”

  “How hard can you take it?”

  “As hard as you can give it.”

  A split second later, he plunged inside her to the hilt, stretching her, filling her. Her hips rose to meet him, to take him even deeper.

  “Damn,” he said, sliding out only to pound back in. Sweat poured from him and dripped onto her. Silver eyes flashed down at her.

  Her knees squeezed at his sides. Her nails sank into his back, drawing blood.

  “You’re not leaving me again,” he gritted out. The bed shook with the force of his claiming. “Say it.”

  “Not leaving.” Except in death, she vowed.

  “Good girl.” The head of Jaxon’s cock pressed exactly where she needed with every forward ram. He’d been made for her, this man. A perfect fit. “You’re mine.”

  “Yours.” That would be true now and always, no matter what happened. “Jaxon, oh God, Jaxon.” Over and over he rocked into her.

  “I’m going to take you in every way imaginable. I’m going to burn away the memory of everyone else.”

  Her head thrashed from side to side. Any moment now…

  “Raise your arms.”

  The moment she obeyed, her back arched of its own accord and he leaned down to suck her nipple. Release slammed into her as savagely as Jaxon, pouring wave after wave of pleasure in her.

  His lips meshed against hers, and he swallowed her screams. Her inner walls milked him; her tongue dueled with his. Then he, too, was climaxing and she was swallowing his roar.

  They lay together in silence for a long while, heartbeats calming, skin cooling, bodies too sated to do much more. Though Mishka had tried to roll away from him a few times, Jaxon mused. He’d pulled her back into his side every damn time. He’d meant what he’d said. He wasn’t letting her go.

  He’d never before enjoyed holding a woman afterward. They tended to talk. And talk and talk. They wanted to share their feelings and listen to his. Freaking nightmare-ville.

  With Mishka, the holding was almost as good as the sex. Almost. She was relaxed, at ease, soft and pliant. He wanted to hear her feelings, wanted to tell her his. Had from the beginning. Did he understand the reasons for it? No. Did he care? No again. He might be a pussy right now—might? Ha!—but he was a satisfied pussy, so again, he didn’t care.

  “Want me to show you the inside of Nolan’s house?” she asked sleepily.

  “I don’t want to leave this bed until morning.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Confused, he turned his head and peered up at her. She’d propped her rosy cheek on her upraised hand, both balanced by her elbow. The long length of her lashes cast spiky shadows on her cheeks. God, she was lovely.

  Her strawberry tresses tumbled to his chest in absolute disarray. He brushed several strands from her mouth and hooked them behind her ear. “What do you mean?”

  Grinning, she held up her bra with her free hand. “Camera.”

  He barked out a laugh, even as he reeled inside. That grin of hers was carefree and real, her entire face lit with her amusement. “So you did have a camera.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t take any pictures of you.”

  “Shit,” he said, still grinning and shaking his head. “I had no idea. You’re a better agent than I am.”

  “No, I just have the right tools.” Her smile widened. “The camera’s in the center of the bra, and that’s why my dress was so low cut. So men would stare at my cleavage and the camera could easily capture their eye patterns for retinal scans. If necessary.”

  He scrubbed a hand down his face. No telling what kind of expressions he would have been wearing if the thing had been turned on. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  “It isn’t much.” She scooted from him and laid the bra on the bed. Lines of concentration formed around her mouth as she twisted the underwires.

  She was adorable when she focused.

  As with any holocamera, a blue screen materialized above the lens.

  “All right,” she said. “This is Nolan’s entryway.”

  Normal enough, with open spaces and a wrought-iron bench, though there were family portraits on the walls. Human portraits. Jaxon frowned. “You sure this is Nolan’s place?”

  “The apartment belonged to one of the victims,” Mishka explained.

  “Not one I know about, because this address isn’t in any of my files.”

  “No. Estap has kept her identity and a few others to himself.”

  “Bastard,” he said, meaning Nolan and Estap.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did Nolan kill her?”

  “He says no.”

  Jaxon arched a brow. “You believe him?”

  She shrugged and pressed the wire. “I haven’t figured him out yet.” Another picture appeared. “Okay. This is the living room.”

  He studied the brown syn-leather couch, matching love seat, and concrete floor with a red and orange rug. “Homey.”

  “Yeah.”

  A cell phone suddenly buzzed. He recognized the fast-fast-sloooow pattern, which meant it was his phone, not Mishka’s. He frowned at the carpet, where his pants lay. More buzzing. “Probably Dallas. Or Mia.”

  Mishka stiffened and he didn’t have to guess what thoughts were running through her mind. They wanted him to leave her. Lock her up. Something.

  “I’ll call her back.” Soon he was going to have to talk to his friends about their treatment of his woman. Mishka came first. That’s the way it had to be. That’s the way he wanted it. He wanted them to like her, but if they couldn’t, if they refused, he…he didn’t know what he would do.

  Relaxing, Mishka twisted the wire again. “Bedroom.”

  He saw a queen-size bed with a bright red comforter, a stone vanity, and a dresser painted with flowers and vines.

  “What’s the bubbly plaster in the wall from?”

  Her gaze sharpened on the photo. “What bubbles?”

  “There.” He pointed to the wall beside the closet, nearly hidden by shadows.

  She messed with the wire until the wall came into better focus. Her frown deepened, a mirror of his. “I don’t know. Not from a punch or kick. It’s too thin.”

  “Looks like someone plastered a hole, didn’t know what they were doing, and let the mold get too hot around the edges before it dried.”

  “Think he’s hiding something there?”

  “Could be.”

  “I wasn’t in there long enough to study it. He didn’t like me in the apartment, so I had to sneak in. And unless I’m with him, he doesn’t leave. So I had to walk in, snap some shots, and walk out fast.”

  “I want an inside look.”

  His cell buzzed again.

  Mishka sighed. “Answer it,” she said, devoid of emotion. “They wouldn’t be calling back if it wasn’t important.”

  He pressed a kiss to her lips and lumbered from the bed, hating the tension humming from her. He dug for the unit. Though he didn’t recognize the number, he held the cell to his ear. “This is
Agent Tremain.”

  “And this is Senator Estap,” the voice on the other end proclaimed. “We have something to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Two-hour flight from New Chicago to New D.C. in a cramped ITS, an ionic transport system that ran on vibrations of subparticle strings of energy—no problem. Two burly guards greeting him at the airport, pyre-guns hidden below their coats as they frisked him and removed his weapons—whatever. Forty-five-minute drive to a palatial office building in the heart of the city—fine. Ten-minute walk along the streets—why not twenty?

  Being forced to leave Mishka behind—a killing offense.

  He’d finally found her, only to be dragged away. The person responsible would pay.

  He’d told her he’d been called away, that he’d be gone for a few days, and her face had washed of emotion and feminine softness. She’d paled, losing the rosy glow of satisfaction, and her naked body had stiffened.

  Where are you going? Why are you going? she’d asked, almost desperate.

  I’ll talk to you about it when I get back.

  Ha! I’m coming with you.

  No. Sorry.

  Yes, damn it! What’s going on?

  Miss me while I’m gone, ’cause I’ll damn sure miss you. Just trust me and stay here. And don’t kill my friends, okay? And don’t go inside Nolan’s without me. He’d dressed, kissed her—not that she’d kissed him back—and left with only one backward glance. That glance had nearly destroyed him, though. She’d been sitting cross-legged on the bed, hair tumbling around her shoulders, nipples peeking through the strands. Her hazel eyes had been glacial.

  All he’d wanted to do was gather her in his arms and hold her close. Damn, I’m worse than a woman.

  On the way to the airport, he’d called his friends and told them to work with her, not against her, and had warned them to play nice or else. They’d hung up on him. He didn’t think they’d attack her, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Jaxon scowled. Estap would soon be hurting. The bastard’s fate had been sealed years ago when he’d decided to use Mishka. Only the little details had been in question: how quickly, how painfully, and when death would come.

  During the flight, Jaxon had had time to think. How quickly—a few weeks hovering on the edge of death wouldn’t be enough. How painfully—there would soon be a new definition for the word suffer. The senator’s screams would echo long into eternity. When—the sooner the better.

  “We’re here.”

  Jaxon’s scowl faded and his lips curled in a slow smile.

  One of the human guards beside him saw the smile and frowned, brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Future’s looking good, that’s all.”

  They stepped from the warm morning light illuminating the sidewalk and into an abandoned alley, past a door painted to look like a wall, and inside the building. He soon found himself inside an empty, narrow corridor, blocked by another door.

  He didn’t think this had been their original destination. The two men had been driving north when they’d gotten a call. A terse exchange and a “Yes, sir” later, and the car had been reprogrammed and turned south.

  “Your prints aren’t loaded into the ID, so don’t think you can come back without permission,” guard number one said as he slapped his hand against an etched box. A light scanned his prints.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  A door slid open, revealing yet another corridor.

  “Plus, we’ve got cameras all over the place,” number two proclaimed. “You’d never get in undetected.”

  Wanna bet? “Am I here to chat with you or the senator?”

  The men shared an irritated look before stomping forward, a silent command for him to follow. As he strode behind them, he studied the walls. Bare, silver, and made from the same material as a pyre-gun, a nearly indestructible alien metal. At the back, front, and middle were tiny holes. The cameras, he was sure.

  Public places weren’t allowed cameras without a license. Too many images had been spliced and doctored, and too many people had been incriminated for misdeeds they hadn’t committed. Government officials automatically received a license for their “protection.” Too bad for Estap that Jaxon had learned long ago how to disable them, since many criminals used them without permission.

  A left, right, left, and short elevator ride later, one of the guards muttered, “Good luck,” and pressed his thumb to the ID pad. The elevator opened into yet another hallway.

  Jaxon’s shoulder was given a little push. Quick as a snap, he grabbed the guard’s hand and twisted one of the fingers before the man could rip away. There was a pained gasp, a howl.

  “No touching,” he said calmly. “Understand?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  He released the man and maneuvered his way past the only door, into a spacious, well-furnished office. Plush blue carpet and real wood shelves greeted him. The scent was amazing, very woodsy. Behind him, he could hear the other guard drawing a gun.

  “Put that away,” an irritated voice said. “For God’s sakes, he’s my guest and the broken finger was deserved. You do not push my guests.”

  Camera in the elevator, too, then. The door closed, blocking the guards from view.

  Silence.

  Jaxon studied his host. Estap sat behind a massive oak desk. An expensive antique that probably cost more than most people earned in a year. Average height, lean build. Thick brown hair, not a strand out of place. Intelligent hazel eyes, smooth, sun-kissed skin. Black suit. Red tie. He recognized the sense of entitlement radiating from the senator, as if the world owed him. As if citizens were beneath him and laws were not meant for him. That was me at one time.

  “Have a seat. Please.” Estap waved to the chair just in front of him.

  Jaxon sat, gaze roving over the rest of the office. Plaques and certificates of achievement adorned the walls. Family photos were scattered in between. Thirtysomething wife with bright red hair, freckles, and a happy smile.

  Was Mishka’s control panel hidden in here?

  “You had a smooth flight, I hope.”

  “Yes.” He said nothing else, hating the senator more with every breath he took.

  A sigh. “You’re probably wondering why I brought you here,” Estap said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his middle.

  “Not really.”

  Estap blinked in surprise.

  “Le’Ace or the Schön. Or both.”

  A tense pause, then, “You are correct.” Estap leaned forward, pinched a folder and tossed it to Jaxon. “We found a male victim. I wanted you to question him, find out who he’d had contact with, but he decided to eat his doctor’s heart for breakfast and kill himself after.”

  Though Estap spoke of murder and suicide, his tone was dry, slightly amused.

  “We tried to remove the virus from his system. No luck. We tried to kill the virus. Again, no luck. It was like the damned thing anticipated our every move and worked to prevent it.”

  “Have any of the victim’s family members exhibited any signs of the virus?”

  “He wasn’t married, but no, his male lover has not.”

  Jaxon flipped open the folder. Pictures of the now dead man stared up at him. Familiar graying skin as the disease rotted him from the inside out, patches of missing hair, sunken eyes. “Did you check him for recent sexual activity?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was he active?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you ask the lover for an exact date for the last time they’d had sex?”

  Estap shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “Yes. He refused to answer. Said it was personal.”

  “Nothing is personal during an investigation. Have someone ask again and again until he answers. If it wasn’t recently, you can conclude that the vic cheated. And if he cheated, it’s safe to bet it was with a Schön. What about your doctors?” Jaxon asked, looking up. “Have they exhibited any signs?�
�

  Estap licked his lips nervously. “Two. Having seen the other victims, however, they chose to kill themselves immediately rather than suffer.”

  Or had they been murdered?

  “What do you know about the virus?”

  “We suspect it’s alive. An alien being with a separate consciousness from the Schön, searching for a host. We believe that taking blood from a victim is like signing your own death warrant.”

  “We can’t not study it.”

  He showed no mercy. “Tell your doctors good-bye, then.”

  Hazel eyes narrowed menacingly. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “Lock them up, isolate them, and observe. But do not take blood, do not send people into their cells. Meanwhile, A.I.R. will hunt and kill the Schön without spreading the virus.”

  Estap snorted. “You expect me to sit back and do nothing? When A.I.R. has done such a poor job?”

  Jaxon pierced him with a dark smile. “You haven’t done any better. Sir.”

  Another bout of silence ensued.

  A tactic, Jaxon knew. He’d used it often enough himself during interrogations as a means of making his target uncomfortable, intimidated.

  How many times had Mishka been here? Had Estap berated her? Called her names? Hit her?

  No reaction.

  “I’ll be honest with you, agent,” Estap said, finally breaking. “There is one way to study the infected blood.”

  “And that is?”

  “Le’Ace.”

  At her name, Jaxon’s stomach clenched. No fucking reaction. “Oh, really?”

  “She’s immune to everything.”

  Calm. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure enough. There’s always a chance for failure, though.”

  “You’d be willing to sacrifice her?”

  A shrug.

  He’s testing me. Gauging my responses. “Whatever you think is best.” Bastard. You are so going to die.

  “She’s a machine, agent, no better than an animal.”