“There’s nothing in your wardrobe but leather and jeans,” Jem complained.
“If I can’t go in jeans and a tee, I’m not going,” Jas said emphatically, closing the bathroom door behind him, but to no avail. Before he turned on the shower, he heard Jem say something about finding clothes from his own closet.
***
“Are you done primping yet?” Jeremy’s voice called through the bathroom door ten minutes later. With a grunt to the affirmative, Jasper finished drying himself. He shot a glance to the mirror to make sure his face was clean, the sum total of his preparations for the night. His gaze fell on the tattoo circling his right bicep, a thorn wreath inked in deep red, the mark of a full-fledged Circle warrior. He was proud of it. He had other tattoos too - his left shoulder and upper arm were covered in black tribal swirls - but on his right arm there was only this one.
Hanging the towel to dry, he turned his back to the mirror. He didn’t have to worry about shaving or having his hair fashionably coiffed. He kept stubble shadowing his chin and shaved his hair so short it was almost impossible to tell its colour. He scarcely remembered it himself, but it had to be dark brown, if his eyebrows and the hair that covered his body were any indicators. He had looked the same for centuries, long before it became fashionable among human males to shave their heads more diligently than their faces when they wanted to conceal their receding hairlines or look tough. He saw no reason to change.
Jasper wasn’t exactly balding - he was a vampire after all - but his hairline had begun to recede before his promise was fulfilled when he was twenty-nine. Using Might, the energy surrounding all living that only the two-natured races were able to access, he had been able to correct some minor details. He had reset his nose he had broken as a lad and again as a soldier for the king, but it hadn’t seemed important to make his hair grow back. Just as he hadn’t seen a point in removing the thick scar that ran horizontally across the right side of his head above the ear. It was a memento from the Battle of Killiecrankie in 1689 when a Highlander had tried to take the top of his head off with his claymore.
It had been a killing blow, and the only reason Jas was alive today was Foley. He had found Jas after the battle, lying bloodied and dying on the field, and had saved his life with his ability to heal. Then he had moved Jas to his own camp, the vampire division of the troops fighting for William of Orange.
Saving his human life hadn’t been the only thing Foley had done for him. He had told Jas that he had promise in him - the vampire variation of the two-natured gene, as modern science called it - and had offered to fulfil it - trigger it so that Jas would become vampire instead of remaining human. Jas hadn’t hesitated. There may not have been any vampires in the village where he grew up, and he hadn’t encountered many during his career as a soldier either, but the near-death experience had convinced him that there were great advantages to being a vampire. He had even asked Foley to test Jem for the promise. Together, the brothers had been made vampires and they had pledged their allegiance to Foley and the Crimson Circle.
With their newly acquired vampire handicap of being unable to operate in daylight for the first century or two, they couldn’t have continued as soldiers for the Crown anyway. But the Circle more than made up for the loss of profession, offering them plenty of chances to fight during the night. Moreover, the brothers had proven to be strong in Might despite being human-born. It had taken them less than a century to win the sun, opening a way for them to become full-fledged Circle warriors.
Jas exited the bathroom in his birthday suit and shot a disgusted glance at Jem who was standing right outside. “What’s the rush, little brother?” Jasper was three years older than Jeremy and he liked to bring it up every now and then. Or, you know, like every day.
Jas actually liked having Jem around, even on evenings when he was being more annoying than normal. He was the only family he had left, including the progeny of their human siblings; the last one of those had died about a century ago. They had their warrior brothers of course, but it wasn’t the same as having one’s blood relations around.
That didn’t mean they always had to be nice to each other though.
Jas’s glowering made Jem only grin wider. The bastard was enjoying this. He was holding a black silk shirt from a hanger and he pushed it towards Jas. “You can wear this.”
The shirt wasn’t much different from those which men had worn in Jas’s youth, but times had changed. “No way am I wearing that. I’ll look like a sad, clueless rocker, especially if I wear it with leather jeans.”
“So wear denim instead. Or, you know, proper trousers. I’m sure there’s a pair somewhere in your wardrobe.” Jem himself was wearing black suit trousers and a white dress shirt with its top buttons open and sleeves rolled up to the elbows so that some chest hair and muscular, sinewy arms were showing. He was even wearing shiny leather shoes.
They looked much alike, but Jeremy had always taken greater interest in his looks. His full, dark brown hair didn’t show signs of receding, and he had shaved carefully so that his strong angular jaw, much like Jas’s own, was perfectly visible instead of hiding behind the stubble. Prominent nose - magically mended like Jas’s - stark brows and puppy brown eyes that always regarded the world with enjoyment made him look if not handsome then manly. Jas wasn’t sure the same could be said about him. And the only thing he truly enjoyed was fighting.
Grumpy old bear, Jem always called him, and he was probably right.
Since Jas had already pulled the leather jeans on, he wasn’t about to change. “Jeans don’t go so well with kickers.”
Jem rolled his eyes. “Then put on trainers.”
Jas wasn’t sure what was considered appropriate footwear for a nightclub and he didn’t really care. “Just give me the bloody shirt.”
He snatched the shirt from Jeremy and put it on. At least it wasn’t one of those pseudo-historical shirts with ruffles and billowing sleeves and only strings with which to tie it closed at the throat that were so popular among human men who pretended to be vampires. What was with that shit anyway? They never got it right.
The shirt was rather close fitted and it didn’t hang all the way to his knees like the shirts of his youth; in modern eyes, it would have made the shirt look like a dress. It didn’t look half bad, actually. Of course, tight as it was, he wouldn’t be able to flex his biceps for fear of tearing the fabric. Or lift his arms up even.
“Leave the top buttons open,” Jeremy instructed him. “And don’t tuck it in.” Sighing in annoyance, Jas stopped what he was doing, leaving the shirt tails hanging loose.
“Let’s just go so we can get this over with.” And even though he wanted to put on his combat boots, he took out a pair of black trainers and wore them instead. Who cared whether they suited the outfit or not. He contemplated putting on a long leather coat too, to ward off the late February chill, but they were driving and the coat would be a nuisance inside the club. He was a vampire; he could handle a bit of cold.
They met the rest of their group in the grand hall of the Crimson Manor, a rambling Elizabethan building Foley had built at the end of the sixteenth century to replace the earlier medieval castle the Circle had called their home. The place was large, opulent, and thanks to modern refurbishing, very comfortable. Jas remembered when times were different.
The grand hall was made to impress anyone entering the place for the first time: it was huge, with dark oak wainscoting, a high painted ceiling, stone floor, and gilded leather tapestry. Long hallways led to three wings of the manor and a grand staircase to upper floors. In the enormous fireplace on one wall a fire was always lit and the warriors gathered around it when they were on their way out or returning home.
Of the two men waiting for the brothers, Zach Hamilton was more striking. He was over six and half feet tall with a body full of lean, well-defined muscles. He resembled his father in size and colours, and like him was also so handsome as to be beautiful. In addition, Zach had his mother�
��s curling hair, deep dimples and laughing blue eyes that made him look like a fallen angel, mischievous and deadly.
“Look who deigned to join us,” Zach hailed Jas with a grin when the brothers reached the fireplace. “I feared I’d have to come and fetch you myself.”
Jas greeted Jem’s patrol partner with a grunt, feeling that Zach’s comment didn’t deserve stronger acknowledgement. Zach was dressed in his usual party gear - something tight-fitting to emphasize his body, as if it mattered what he was wearing. He could dress in a Hessian sack and the ladies would still fall at his feet.
Not that Jas cared. He hadn’t tried to make ladies swoon in more years than he cared to count. Not since Gwendolyn.
“Do I have to go without breakfast?”
“Hey, if you’d gotten up with the rest of the house, you’d have had your breakfast,” Nicholas Fortier, Jas’s patrol partner and the fourth man in their group, pointed out. Nick was a century younger than Jas, but he was vampire-born and thus strong in Might. He was slightly bigger than Jas as a result of his purer blood, but not as huge as Alexander’s progeny. He had russet hair that was always cut in the latest fashion, and blue eyes that had retained their innocent look despite centuries of fighting for the Circle; the man himself was far from innocent. They got along well even though Nick was more sociable than Jas. They balanced each other out.
“It’s my night off!” Didn’t anybody bloody respect that anymore?
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. We’ll stop to buy you something on the way,” Zach promised.
By the door, the warriors on duty that night were preparing to head out, led by Gabriel Hamilton, Foley’s First Son. While not much bigger than the more leanly built Zach and Alexander, he was huge compared to most of the warriors, at least six foot eight tall and carrying over three hundred pounds of muscle and heavyset bones. Dressed in the customary fighting gear of the Circle warriors, a sleeveless leather jerkin - Kevlar-lined these days - soft leather jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt and combat boots, he looked frightening, even with the Hamilton handicap of an overly handsome face. Gabe compensated for his looks with long black hair bound in a tight queue in the style of warriors past, and cold, black eyes.
Jas didn’t have the mass of his leader, who could claim vampire blood in his ancestry going back for generations. He was a shorter five foot eleven tall and weighed less than 250 pounds, but that had made him a huge man back when he was still human. Well, he hadn’t had that kind of bulk back then, not with the food they ate when he was growing up. Nowadays, with a solid protein intake and steady workout regimen, not to mention the benefits of having had his promise fulfilled, he didn’t look half bad. And he was a good warrior.
He wished he was heading out on a patrol too. Five teams of four warriors were heading to London, namely to the City, the square mile at the heart of the town with its swarming businesses that kept the country running during the day. During the night, something else did the running.
Renegade vampires had begun to show up some three centuries ago, targeting proper vampires, but the Sentient War raging among the two-natured races had prevented the Circle from tackling the issue in its infancy. It had allowed the dissidence to grow, and renegades were a menace now.
Jas didn’t know why their enemy chose to hang out in the City. London was a huge place - had been larger than the City’s walls already three centuries ago - yet the square mile of the City was where the Circle warriors patrolled and with good results too. It was as if renegades were tethered to the place.
As the last of the warriors disappeared through the door, Jas sighed. “Let’s go then. I’m driving.” The faster they got to the club, the faster he could get home.
You can find Warrior's Heart on Amazon.
***
The third Two-Natured London novel, A Wolf of Her Own, is published in December 2013. Read a snippet from chapter two:
Not a clan member after all, but a strange woman.
Kieran couldn’t tell much more about her than that. Was she one or two-natured? He tried to get her scent but the wind was against him. Her clothes were loose-fitting, hiding her body; a scarf covered her hair, and her face—as well as her clothes—was a grey mask of mud, which made it difficult to sense anything about her. Had she been in an accident? Did she need help?
He was about to act on the thought when she spoke. "Well, don’t just stand there. Open the gate!"
The command made him draw himself straighter. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me, wolf. I need to see your alpha. Now!"
Only two-natured were able to see the translucent manifestations of shifters’ animal forms, but his aura wasn’t out. It wasn’t much of a leap to assume he was a wolf, however, so she could as easily be a human making an educated guess.
He rejected the notion immediately. A human wouldn’t know about this gate. It was in the middle of shifter and vampire territory, private land accessible only to their people. And since she wasn’t one of his clan, it had to mean she came from the Byrd farm.
Vampire or human, she was a stranger and he wasn’t about to give in to her command. He shook his head, firmly. "No."
She was taken aback. "What do you mean, no?"
"Nobody marches in here—or drives—and demands to see our alpha. State your business and I’ll call him to see if he’s available."
She frowned, annoyed that he wouldn’t simply obey. They could argue forever, but two-natured had more subtle means of communicating. He increased the impact he had on Might, the energy all two-natured were dependent on. He could not let her pass and the changes in Might would tell her that. Her gaze remained steady on him, his dominance having no visible effect on her, but she nodded.
"Fine. A pack of wolves has eaten three of my pregnant ewes. I demand justice and I will see that your alpha delivers it."
Kieran stared at the woman for a few slow heartbeats as his mind struggled to comprehend her accusation. His hands squeezed the iron bars, physically trying to repel her words. But they couldn’t be unheard.
Not this again. His fury surfaced so fast that only the gate prevented him from acting on it. His wolf surged out and growled, and he let the sound escape his mouth. "That is bloody rich of you, woman, coming here to accuse our clan of such crime." He knew all too well where false accusations would lead. "Greenwood clan has been here for centuries, and I can assure you we have never touched a single sheep. Ever!" He shouted the last word, but the woman didn’t even flinch.
"I know what I saw," she said angrily. "There aren’t other wolves here. It had to be you."
"And I say you’re wrong. You’re seeing things."
She moved so fast he barely registered it. One moment she was on her vehicle and on the next she was at the gate, her face pressing in through the bars. "Are you calling me a liar?"
She was of average height, five-six, tops, but it didn’t stop her from trying to look down at him. Her natural scent was covered with mud, pig and horse; not an attractive combination. He resisted an urge to snort like a wolf to clear his sinuses against the olfactory onslaught. Mud concealed her features, but her eyes were clear, shining almost golden with anger. And there was no mistaking the sharp long fangs, very unlike wolfs’, she had bared at him.
"So, you are a vampire!" As if there had been any doubt.
She rolled her eyes, much like Vincent had earlier. "Give the man a gold medal for being FUDGING OBVIOUS!"
Her sarcasm broke the tension. "Fudging? What sort of a vampire says fudging?"
She shot him a superior look before retreating from the gate and withdrawing her fangs. "One that has been brought up to know better."
"From the Byrd farm?"
She gave him a slow look in return, his question not meriting an answer. Kieran thought quickly. This wasn’t the first time sheep had been killed on the Byrd farm, and it hadn’t been wolves back then either. Yet it had led to his brother’s death.
Never again.
Pain for Colm surfaced anew
and he squeezed the bars to push it down. Vampires hadn’t killed him. Humans had. She had no reason to lie that he knew of, and nothing could be achieved by blatant denial.
"I had better take a look at it myself." And if he found out she had been lying after all, he would show her exactly what kind of wolf she was dealing with.
About the author
Susanna Shore is my pen name for urban fantasy and paranormal romances. I also write contemporary romances as Hannah Kane. When I'm not writing, I'm reading or - should my husband manage to drag my outdoors - taking long walks.
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The Wolf's Call (Two-Natured London) Page 16
