Other books by Jaye Roycraft
Dance With Me, My Lovely
Rain Series
Rainscape
Crimson Rain
Image Series
Double Image
Afterimage
Shadow Image
Immortal Image
Hell Series
Half Past Hell
Hell’s Warrior
Hell’s Warrior
Hell Series
Book 2
by
Jaye Roycraft
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
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Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-92-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-55-4
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 by Jeanette Roycraft writing as Jaye Roycraft
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
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Cover design: Josephine Piraneo
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Model © HotDamnDesigns.com
Chicago © rebelml | Bigstock.com
Indian bead work and feather © Lucie Grenier
:Ewhu:01:
Dedication
To Mary D., Jill, and Olga
—thank you for your passion and joy, and I love you all.
Chapter One
Chicago, Illinois
Tomorrow
CHE KINCADE’S COLD blood boiled at the thought of his weekly sparring match with his counterpart at City Hall. He curved a lip. Not that they were true equals, by any means.
Cade had seen more than three centuries unroll on this land, while the mayor, at less than half a century, complained of getting old. And that, of course, was the foremost inequity—the oh-so-brief flame of mortality still burned in the mayor’s chest. But in spite of possessing a mortal’s many shortcomings, Chicago’s mayor was feisty, fearless, and commanded the respect of millions of Chicagoans, including Cade, and that was no small feat.
He dressed carefully for the meeting, forgoing his usual flair for color by donning a double-breasted suit of black linen. With his long jet hair and caramel skin he would never be mistaken for a stockbroker, but at least no one could accuse him of lacking in the trappings of savoir-faire. He knotted a narrow red tie, trailed his fingertips down the length of silk, and closed his eyes against the swell of anticipation that quickened his blood. There would be no hunt tonight, but this would serve. Indeed, this will serve.
He straightened the tie and fastened it with an onyx tie tack. He was coming to enjoy these meetings far too much. But what was he to do? For the undead to co-exist peacefully with their mortal neighbors, Chicago’s doyen and mayor had to play nice.
Cade glided down two flights of stairs to the front entrance of his Orchard Street townhouse. His tyro, Thorvald Sweet, was nowhere in sight.
“Thor!”
Cade hated laziness and arrogance. Thor had intelligence, a quick mind, and a desire to learn, but the main reason Cade had chosen him for the privileged position of being mentored by him was because the young vampire was neither lazy nor arrogant. He was a rare find, for vampires were by nature both. It was easy to procrastinate when you had forever to get things done, and it was just natural to be arrogant when you sat at the top of the food chain. But the two traits added together did not equal strength.
“Thor! Time to go!”
A moment later Thor strolled into the foyer. To his credit, he was properly attired, from his clothing to his expression. He wore a navy blue suit so dark it was nearly black and a peacock-blue tie so vivid it almost vibrated. Likewise, his blue eyes glittered with expectation, and the sin of tardiness was forgotten.
“Sorry, Cade.”
He nodded, accepting the apology and pleased that Thor hadn’t called him “boss.” He didn’t allow any of his tyros to refer to him as “boss” or even “doyen.” You couldn’t become a master with power of your own if you forever thought of yourself as subordinate. It was a fine line he expected his tyros to walk. Those who were either too submissive or too arrogant got booted back to the puddle of mediocrity. There were always new hopefuls in the pool of the undead masses who salivated at the thought of walking at his side.
Thor drove him downtown and deposited him in front of the Randolph Street entrance to City Hall. Cade opened the door and spoke before he got out.
“I’ll be awhile. You may as well go over to the club. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Thor nodded, and Cade exited, slammed the door, and watched the car ease back into traffic. Cade turned his gaze, as he always did, to the granite relief panels that flanked the entrance of the building shared by the city and county. The artist had obviously been a mortal who, in 1911, had never envisioned a future with bloodsuckers, for the panels depicted city playgrounds, schools, the park system, and the water system—facets of municipal government that were fairly useless to vampires. Useless, he thought, except maybe for the parks. Parks were increasingly becoming more important in providing feeding holes for the hunt in neighborhoods otherwise gated, fenced and locked. Which reminded him . . . a little tête-à-tête with the mayor regarding the parks was in order. Too many cops were using the parks at night to park, eat, write reports or catch a few winks. Their presence was scaring off potential prey.
City Hall was closed to the public for the day, but still open to privileged visitors like him for whom daytime hours were an impossibility. The two cops providing security inside the entrance knew who and what he was and nodded their acknowledgment without contempt or mockery. The last cop who’d smirked at Cade had quickly found himself bereft of his cushy security job and reassigned to a traffic corner. Even though these cops knew him, Cade was still required to pass through a metal detector and sign a log stating his destination and business. That done, they gave him a visitor’s pass, but Cade, not wanting to poke a hole in his fine linen, tucked it inside his pocket instead of pinning it on. The cops said nothing.
He ran up one of the wide marble staircases that ascended the eleven-story building, not to view the historic bronze tablets that graced the landings, but to disdain the elevators. Elevators were for the weak. He reached the mayor’s suite of offices on the fifth floor and took a deep breath. Mortal flesh and a single heartbeat. The mayor was here—and alone. He strode through the empty anterooms to the mayoral chamber. “Madam Mayor.”
“Mr. Kincade. You’re ten minutes late.”
“My apologies, Madam. Traffic was a beast.”
She gave a displeased “hrrmph,” but a smile she tried to repress made her lips twitch and gave her away. She always stifled her smiles. She still looked good. Even in the blue jacket and skirt that would make any other woman look like a police matr
on, she radiated femininity and grace as well as power. Likewise, her smooth blond pageboy exuded no boyishness, but spirited womanhood.
“Sit down,” she said, her tone making the two words more of an order than an invitation. “We have a lot to discuss.”
He sat on the leather cushion of an armed oak chair.
“The parks,” she began.
“Yes, the parks.” How good of The Honorable Deborah Dayton to read his mind.
She leaned back and tucked a few strands of hair behind one ear, a move he knew meant the gloves were coming off. The verbal sparring was foreplay to him, and his body’s reaction was a south-of-the-border hardening.
“Citizen complaints regarding the parks are increasing daily. Some, like Oz Park, are becoming a veritable bacchanal after midnight.”
The subject was a sore spot she loved to rub. He rubbed back. “Unless you want dead bodies popping up in the river, Madam, you need to allow the hunts to continue, and you need to allow feeding in the parks. You know as well as I do that in neighborhoods like Lincoln Park there’re precious few other places to feed. No one dies, the prey are willing participants in the hunt, and everyone is happy.”
“Except those citizens who don’t enjoy the public display of a vampire sucking the blood out of some college student. And believe me, there are a lot of people who feel that way.”
Self-righteous meatheads. He cocked one brow. “If they don’t want their sanctimonious sensibilities offended, they should stay inside at night and close their blinds.”
Her violet-blue eyes flashed with a brilliance that outshone the chandelier bulbs high above her head. “The night doesn’t belong to just you, you know. The council is proposing an ordinance to reinstate the eleven o’clock closing time on all the parks.”
“So veto it.”
“My veto can be rejected by a majority vote. You know that. You need to control your people, Mr. Kincade. That’s the bottom line.”
Control was the last thing he felt like exerting right now. “And how’s your control tonight, Deborah?”
She stood as if she were a lawyer in a courtroom registering an objection. “Don’t be impertient!”
He rose and impertinently invaded the private space behind her wide oak desk, reaching his hand toward her face. She neither slapped down his insolent hand nor turned away from his touch. She’d never told him her age, but he guessed she was in her mid-forties. Even so, her skin was as firm and smooth as that of a woman half her age.
“How would you have me be, Deborah? Docile like a dog that lies at your feet and pants in delight at your every word?” He ran the pads of his fingers down her cheek, and the skin beneath them was as hot as the stare with which she branded him.
“You know better than that,” she said, and he moved his fingers to her lips as she spoke, just to feel them move under his touch. His reply was a groan as he leaned forward to kiss her. Hard words; soft lips. He deepened the kiss, but she pushed at him and strutted to the hallway from which he’d entered her office.
He followed, knowing where she was going. They entered the elevator, and she used her ID card as a key to ascend to the roof, which was closed to the public but open to certain city employees. He didn’t mind taking the elevator this time. The last thing he wanted was for her to expend all her energy hiking up six flights of stairs in heels, and she’d never consent to being carried. At the top floor they ascended a short staircase, and she once more used her card to unlock the door to the roof.
The night air hit him, and he drew deeply of the fragrance of the rooftop park. It was a green smell, warm and lush—not as sweet as the crimson smell of blood, but just as alive.
“Are we alone?” she asked.
He knew she was aware that his senses were acute enough to detect the presence of any mortal or vampire flesh close at hand. In fact, as he was indulging in the pureness of the greenery, he was testing for the presence of others on the roof.
“We’re alone.”
This was no simple roof garden with a few containers of vegetation, but an elaborate park containing thousands of flowers, grasses, vines, shrubs, and even two trees. It was one of the marvels of Chicago ingenuity that made Cade ever proud of his city. He wandered over to the western roof edge, drew another deep breath, and for a few moments, forgot both the park and Her Honor. The South Branch of the Chicago River, just three blocks away, drew his gaze, as it always did whenever Deborah brought him up here. By night the river was alive with reflected light, a shimmering glaze of white, green, and bronze. All around him Chicago’s wonders sparkled with light, from the Willis Tower in the southwest to “Big Blue,” the bulbous glass Thompson Center across the street. Cade loved them all, even those buildings the critics had dubbed architectural nightmares.
He felt Deborah press herself against his back, and he knew it wasn’t so much affection as a demand for attention. Her Honor didn’t like being ignored, not even for the beauty of the city that was as much hers as his. Her arms embraced him, and her busy fingers popped the buttons on both his suit coat and shirt until she could burrow her way to pay dirt. He closed his eyes and shivered as the warmth of her hands woke every nerve ending in his body. She stroked the bare skin of his abdomen, up and down, until, bored with his abs, she unbuckled his belt, undid his trousers, and dug deeper. As her greedy little fingers traveled south, he stifled a groan. Her tiny hands were too small to encase his hardened cock, but they moved incessantly and possessively, as if he were hers, utterly.
He’d always gotten the impression she particularly liked the feeling that she could so easily bring Chicago’s most powerful vampire to a quick erection. In point of fact, almost any incidental contact with a mortal of either sex made him hard, but he allowed Deborah her little fantasy. It was a small enough price to pay for her goodwill, and besides, in the end she would be his, utterly.
He tolerated her ministrations a moment longer, then disengaged her little octopus tentacles, buttoned his trousers, and led her to the seclusion of the park’s hawthorn tree. The moonlight that struck her before the tree threw her into darkness brought out unflattering planes on her face, a foreshadowing, perhaps, of the harsh lines that age would someday render more visible. He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to him.
“You know, if you smiled once in awhile, you’d be more beautiful than you are,” he said.
“I hate smilers.”
“Smilers?”
“People who are forever simpering or smirking. I see it all around me. A smile is a mask, nothing more. There’s always something behind it.”
“What a cynical little creature you are.”
She shook her head to release his hold. “I didn’t become mayor by being friendly, being nice, or by kissing babies. I’m where I am because I’m tough and can hold my own with any man.”
That was only partly true. She was where she was because Cade had delivered the vampire vote at election time and because her hapless predecessor had made one too many bad decisions.
Even without his hold, she aimed her chin at him. “Besides,” she continued, “don’t tell me your opinion of smilers is any different. Surely your cynicism exceeds even mine.”
He smiled at that. She might disdain smiles, but she inspired them in him, and for that he worshiped her.
He kissed her unsmiling mouth, using his tongue as though it were a whip to bring a spirited animal to submission. Her restless hands settled on the back of his head and quieted, allowing his own to work on the buttons of her jacket. She dropped her hands so he could slip off the jacket, and her white silk camisole followed. He dragged her bra straps down until her taut little breasts caught dapples of moonlight.
“Don’t break the skin,” she ordered.
He never did. Not that he didn’t want to, but her pro-vampire political platform was worth a little restr
aint. He bent his head and raked the points of his fangs over the swell, such as it was, of one breast, hard, but not hard enough to draw blood.
“The last thing I need . . .”
He took the hardened nipple between his teeth and tugged on it.
She sucked in a breath. “ . . . is to have my doctor find vampire bites during my annual medical.”
Reform had only gone so far. They could be allies, but heaven forbid it become known that the mayor was more than just a political bedmate with the undead. He drew the nipple past his fangs and suckled her. Not that it mattered all that much. It wasn’t as though he wanted to marry her or that he even loved her. As long as they were both discreet, their weekly meetings worked for him.
He moved his head to her other breast and used his tongue to rub her nipple against the tip of one fang until she pushed him away, hoisted up her bra, and put her clothes back on. More sparring. He loved it, for it was all part of the game. Once more she led, taking him back to the private sitting room behind her office. He followed, locking the door behind him. She already had her suit coat off and was unzipping her skirt. He stared, and she stared back. “Don’t take me for granted, Cade, ever.”
He smiled as he shed his jacket and trousers. Her skirt dropped to the floor to reveal stockings held up by an old-fashioned garter belt. She wore nothing underneath the garter. No, no one knew better than he not to take any mortal for granted, but especially her. She was rare—steel encased in porcelain skin, a bombshell in every meaning of the word. “I will never take you for granted, I promise you that. But don’t pretend you’re making love to anything but the beast I am.”
That wasn’t exactly true. He was never as rough with her as he wanted to be, but there were always compromises in politics and love. Not they that had ever talked about love. He pushed her back against the wide leather sofa that still reeked of the cigar smoke of a dozen former mayors and gave her what she wanted. She made love like a warrior, giving as good as she got. Wasn’t conquering a strong opponent so much the sweeter? There was little pleasure in besting the weak. It was without reservation that he drove into her as hard as he could. She would berate him for anything less.
Hell's Warrior Page 1
