The Blade Chaser's Son

by Brenna Lyons

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Blade Chaser's Son

  Copyright ã 2005 Brenna Lyons

  ISBN: 1-55410-553-6

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2005

  Look for us online at:

  www.zumayapublications.com

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  The Blade Chaser’s Son

  A Night Warriors Book

  By Brenna Lyons

  He tossed the towel away, planting his arms across his chest, his muscles bunching. “And precisely what are you inviting?” he asked bluntly.

  Good. He was cutting to the chase with her, just as she’d hoped. “I’ll let you know if something is out of bounds. There isn’t going to be much that—”

  Scott fisted the edges of her jacket, dragging her against his body, his breath fanning over her upturned face, his mouth closing over hers. He pushed the jacket away, his tongue parting her lips as his hands pressed her closer by the meat of her buttocks. He explored her mouth completely, laying claim in the most primal way she could imagine possible. His palms slid up and forward, his fingertips tracing the side seams of her shirt. His thumbs stroked the hard points of her nipples through the single layer of black silk.

  He pulled away, rapt on his still-circling thumbs. “Out of bounds?” he ventured.

  Katie traced the outline of his erect length through his jeans. “Not remotely.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter One

  September 10th, 2049

  Scott Danvers surveyed the bar around him, hoping for a fight tonight. It wasn’t that he wanted to prove he was needed. His boss wasn’t about to fire him; with all the fights that broke out at Hanger Seven, an efficient bouncer like Scott was Jason’s dream come true.

  Neither did he want anyone to get hurt. Scott always stopped fights before anyone got hurt—except the instigators, if they fought him. Tonight, he hoped they’d fight him.

  No. Some nights, working out with the bag and on mat wasn’t enough. Sometimes, sparring just didn’t cut it, and Scott itched for a knock-down fight until his teeth ached, most likely from gritting them.

  The fact that it was always him knocking someone else down didn’t bother him. If there was one thing that his mother taught him, it was that a man should always be in control of himself. When one of the bar patrons started throwing punches, he wasn’t exercising control, and a lack of control was one thing Scott absolutely could not stand.

  He made himself inconspicuous, hoping it would work as it had many times before.

  Scott didn’t really understand how it worked; it just did. At six feet three of muscle, it hardly seemed possible that anyone could miss him, but he’d proven that they could many times. Sometimes, they even walked into him, claiming later that they hadn’t seen him standing there—if he concentrated hard enough on not being seen. As insane as it sounded, he’d wondered more than once if he was literally making himself invisible when he did it. It was so disconcerting that he didn’t concentrate on it that hard very often.

  He grinned. It was fun, however, to stride into the middle of a fist-fight and turn off whatever he was doing. From the looks on the combatants' faces, you’d think he suddenly sprouted six inches and seventy pounds before their eyes. When asked, they usually stammered something about not realizing he was that big.

  Scott grumbled a curse, checking his watch. The bar would shut down in half an hour, and there’d been no sign of a fight in more than a week.

  Maybe it was time to change jobs again. When the troublemakers moved on, so did Scott. Otherwise, he never had the opportunity to engage in a decent fight, and that wasn’t acceptable. He had to restrain himself too much with his sparring partners to blow off the ever-rising tension in him adequately.

  He showed the last of the patrons to the door with a grumbled curse. It would be another long day before he’d have a chance to release his tension. Unless...

  It didn’t seem sporting to go looking for a fight, though he’d resorted to it more than once in his life. Every city had areas where the crime rates were high, areas where a man who looked inconspicuous could count on being accosted. He didn’t like stooping to that, but desperate times did call for desperate measures.

  He ached for the simple times, back when he was a teenager and training was enough. No matter how little they had, his mother had sacrificed to make sure Scott had whatever self-defense and martial arts training was available. It was one of the truly selfless things the woman had done in her life, and he owed her for it.

  But, it wasn’t enough now. It hadn’t been since he was seventeen. “Sure you don’t want me to stick around while you lock up, Jason?” he offered. Maybe someone would be stupid enough to try a robbery. It was unlikely, but at least the hope of it would carry him for another hour.

  “No. Go on home.” He raised an eyebrow with a knowing grin. “Or wherever you feel the need to.”

  Scott nodded, pocketing his offered pay, biting back a sigh. On another night, when he wasn’t strung so tight, a good fuck might be enough. It wasn’t tonight. He closed the side door behind him, considering the bad side of town as a serious possibility.

  It was too quiet here. It was definitely time to move on.

  He was halfway to his cycle when he felt it, a disconcerting sense of something wrong. It was a sensation he’d felt before, sometimes followed by a wrenching pain in his stomach. Scott didn’t know what it was, only that following it guaranteed that it disappeared before he arrived.

  Unless you make yourself really inconspicuous. He’d never tried that before. It was worth a shot. There had to be some way to find out what caused this sensation, and he wouldn’t give up until he managed it.

  Since he was already playing inconspicuous, forcing it further wasn’t much of a stretch. Scott headed in the direction his senses led him, rounding the bar and moving silently toward the loading dock.

  And then he saw it. The couple were all over each other, hands exploring bodies, his large frame pressing her to the wall while her sounds were muted into his mouth.

  So? his mind argued. They certainly weren’t the first couple to have drunken sex behind a bar. Scott had even indulged himself from time to time, though he preferred to make it to a bed...or at least shelter of some sort.

  The feeling intensified, and Scott’s heart started pounding. Little details stood out from the rest, the woman’s trembling, the way her hand fisted on the man’s jacket.

  Not right!

  Fury rose up fast and hard, more powerfully than he’d ever felt it before. His mother’s commands to control the emotion seemed to fade into the background. Every thought but destroying the man in question fled.

  In the blink of an eye, his commando knife was out and he was halfway across the distance that separated them, his attempts at hiding himself abandoned. Though he made not a sound, the
woman’s attacker moved swiftly aside.

  Scott turned, placing himself between them, growling out a warning for the man to back off. The woman sobbing into his back kicked up his fury another notch.

  The glowing red of the eyes facing him made his heart skip a beat. The—thing bared its fangs, and its fingers elongated into yellowed claws.

  Was this what his mother meant? Was this the danger she’d warned him was lurking? The kind of beast she’d feared would find him? Maybe Mom wasn’t quite so crazy after all. Who would have believed it?

  Of course, Scott wasn’t about to let Dr. James in on this one. If he didn’t end up in the padded room next door to her, he’d still be releasing Lynne back into a world populated by the beasts she feared. She seemed calmer in the institution. If all of her stories were true, it was probably a blessing to be locked away from them.

  “Armen,” the beast rumbled, a sneer twisting its lips.

  “What?” Scott demanded. What the hell did that mean?

  “You think I can’t smell your family’s stench on you, Warrior?” The beast’s nostrils flared. “One of the close-born ones. Matthew Armen. Yes, that is your sire, pup.”

  Oh, God! No one knew that. Even his mother wasn’t sure if his father was Matt or Jordan. She’d planned to have a son from one of the brothers; she hadn’t cared which. It was one of the many reasons he’d never demanded his fathers’ last name and tried to find them. They certainly hadn’t asked to be saddled with a son. What would finding out about Scott do to their lives? Then there was the fact that their religion didn’t account for children born out of wedlock.

  “Big deal,” Scott drawled. This was definitely a subject he didn’t intend to discuss with a foul beast.

  “What is an Armen doing in Maher range?” it continued. “And without his sacred weapon?”

  He pretended not to be confused by the questions. “Are you fighting me or not?”

  “If you wish.”

  He moved fast, faster than Scott had anticipated by far. Hampered by the woman he was protecting, the damned thing actually sliced his arm open before he managed to land his blade across its chest. A stench like a mixture of skunk spray, sewage and noxious industrial waste filled the air around them, making Scott’s lungs and eyes burn, and thick dark blood rolled down the beast’s chest.

  Scott didn’t look at the damage to himself. No matter how long it had been since someone had managed to injure him, he knew it would heal quickly. The beast seemed as hardy as he was and more. That slice would have downed any human man, but it was still standing.

  Knowing his adversary’s strengths, the next two passes were a different matter. The beast sliced for his throat, and Scott turned, shouldering the woman away with him. The next swipe was aimed for his face. He blocked it and cut the beast’s exposed throat neatly, spilling more of the foul blood.

  To his surprise, the creature still didn’t die. It stared at him, seething hate, the stomach-churning blood oozing from both wounds.

  “Another night, Warrior,” it growled.

  Then it was gone, not quite vanished but insubstantial and moving away at incredible speed. Scott marveled at that. He could feel it moving. Was this why his mother thought they would kill him given the chance? Because he could track them? Or was there more?

  Warrior... His mother had called his father and uncle Warriors, and so had the beast. He’d always assumed it was some romantic notion of hers, but what if it was more than that?

  “Where is it?” the woman asked shakily.

  “Gone.” Too far away for Scott to sense anymore.

  She remained silent, walking around him in seeming shock.

  “Do you want me to call the police?” he asked, wincing at the thought. What would we tell them if we did?

  She looked at the foul, black blood on his blade and hands. “Do you think they can find it? Do you think they even want to try?”

  Scott turned, using the outside spigot to clean his burning hands and stained blade. As an afterthought, he cleaned his own blood from his arm, exposing the already-clotted wound that would be gone in days. What am I?

  “No. I don’t,” he admitted. “What do you say I take you home and we both forget all about this?”

  * * * *

  Adam Lord Maher rounded the bar toward the site of the battle, determined to get to the bottom of this mess. Warriors did not hunt the range of other houses without leave. If one entered Maher on a track, he should have checked in with the manor by phone from the border.

  Yet, there was no question that a Warrior was poaching his range. The border was three hundred miles away; there was no way this was an accident.

  All of the Mahers had responded to his IM immediately, as had Curt and Erin. He’d even checked on his niece and nephew, but Kates and Bear were in Crossbearer on their way to Smith. With a Warrior injured in an area no one was reported in, no matter how mild the injury was or what house he hailed from, it was Adam’s duty as lord to see to his health and safety. Once he’d exhausted all possible Warriors who might legitimately be hunting in Maher, he’d asked Curt to use the power of Lord König to find out from the houses who had a Warrior in or around Maher at the moment. So far, no one had responded positively to that query.

  The smell of beast blood hung heavy in the air with a slight flavor of human—or Warrior blood beneath. That confirmed what he’d sensed of the battle: sloppy coercion of a victim, Blutjagd, a Warrior injured slightly and not hiding it, and a beast sent to ground.

  Past that, there was little to go on—tracks of three shoes in a patch of dirt near the loading dock, a woman and two men, one in heavy tread boots and one in dress shoes. This track was going to be more difficult than most. He had no vehicle to trace, no name, nothing but the certainty that he was tracking a Warrior. Until someone admitted to culpability, there was little chance that he’d find his man.

  “Smells like skunk scat out here,” a man’s voice complained, coming around the corner of the building.

  Adam didn’t ghost himself fully. Maybe this man had seen something of use.

  The human stopped cold, a man about Adam’s age, heavily grayed and lightly wrinkled though Adam didn’t show much sign of his years yet. “What the hell are you—” He faltered, squinting into the area beyond the circles of light at Adam. His voice gentled into an almost apologetic tone. “Oh, sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

  So, he knew the Warrior. That could be useful. Adam stood, smiling warmly to put the man at ease. “Yes, my cousin and I do bear a bit of a resemblance.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for Scott, I sent him home at closing time.”

  Adam searched his memories of the current houses. The only Scott was a Kaufmann. It was unlikely that he was in Maher range; more likely that the Warrior had assumed a fake name for some reason. That alone was suspect. A rogue Warrior was bad news. He glanced at his watch, wincing. Damn! He has almost an hour lead time. “Don’t know where I can find him, do you? I got into town late and missed him here, I guess.”

  “Ah, so that’s why he was trying to hang around late.” He ran a hand through his already-mussed, heavy salt and pepper hair. “Well, if he’s not at his place, he’s probably picked up some hot young thing for the night. Boy gets more pussy than a randy Tomcat.”

  Adam managed a heartfelt laugh at that one. That described most Warriors. Even if they weren’t genetically predisposed to needing frequent sex by the curse, what young man could resist women throwing themselves at him because of his looks? “Yeah, well, Scott was supposed to lead me to his place from here. Don’t suppose you could give me directions, could you?”

  The man looked uncomfortable for the first time, scanning Adam’s six feet eight and swallowing hard. “Sorry, friend. Can’t give out my employees’ information. Privacy, you know.”

  Adam nodded, nearly laughing in relief. If the Warrior had an honest job here, he could have his information without help. The man had given him everything he needed and
more. “I understand perfectly. Thanks for your help.”

  He returned to his truck, firing up his computer system behind the heavily tinted glass. The hack into Hanger Seven’s state income records didn’t take long. The backdoor they had into the DMV didn’t take any longer. Within half an hour, he had Scott Danvers’ name, picture, physical description, social security number—It’s going to be interesting finding out who he stole that from!—address, phone number, vehicle description and date of birth.

  Within another half an hour, Adam was completely confused. Maybe this wasn’t a Warrior, after all. He’d uncovered school records, tax forms, and even a juvenile police record. Unless ‘Scott’ was a master of computer forgery, he’d lived a human life for more than twenty-three years. There could be a Warrior too, and it was happenstance that Scott Danvers resembled one. Maybe he’d just wasted two hours of tracking time on a false lead.

  Maybe not. The only way to know for certain would be to pay Mr. Danvers a visit.

  * * * *

  Scott roared through the nearly-deserted streets with Melaina behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. Since he never wore a helmet, he didn’t have one to offer her. That made her nervous until he promised to stay off the main roads, though with his reaction time, he’d never had an accident and didn’t anticipate one anytime soon.

  He’d started thanking God for that promise about five minutes earlier, about the time Melaina’s fear and shock gave way to arousal. Scott was hard as a gun barrel now, straining toward her teasing fingers. He sorely hoped he was going to see some action on the other end, or his cock was going to be mighty peeved at a simple beat-off.

  No, even that wasn’t an option. If she led him on, he’d have to find an after-hours joint to pick up a woman. Like fighting, there were some nights when close didn’t cut it.

  Melaina shouted the final directions over the road sounds, her busy fingers never pausing. Scott forced his mind to the road when he wanted to pull over and finish where they were. Control, he reminded himself.