Black Werewolves: Books 1–4

by Gaja J. Kos

  “So now you’re taking Sander’s mission to be a pain in my ass seriously?”

  “He will never get near the curve of your ass.”

  A simple statement, backed up by a will of iron. And spoken with such an authoritative tone that Rose felt moist warmth grow between the vee of her thighs.

  Veles burned the cigarette away like he had done so many times to her clothes, slowly exhaling the smoke from his lungs. He cocked his head to one side, drinking in the image of her beneath him.

  She blew out a hoarse breath. “Isn’t sex the reason Sander wants to spell your ass to death—and possibly mine as well?”

  The expression on Veles’s face never faltered. “Yes, the beefcake holds a grudge over some niavka that happened to end up in my bed as well as his. But you—”

  “You screwed a forest nymph?” Rose grimaced, the werewolf within her demanding blood. The god was hers, and that primal, animalistic part of her would tear away the limbs of anybody who wore—or had worn—her mate’s scent.

  And bathe in their carcasses.

  The god must have sensed the response that had stirred within her, his olive flames dancing in amusement. A small, satisfied smile formed at the corners of his lips, revealing a teasing hint of fang.

  “But you, Rosalind,” Veles said in the same unyielding tone, “are mine.”

  Warmth spread from Rose’s core, burning through her veins, through her skin. Her fingers itched to tear away the unnecessary clothes and run her hands down Veles's body; to feel that carved labyrinth of muscles and drown herself in the taste that was purely him.

  With some effort, she swallowed the impulse.

  “That won’t make a difference if the Kolduny find out about the special blend of Vedmak blood that runs in my veins,” she said softly. “They won’t allow me to walk the earth.”

  She felt something ancient, something of absolute power seep into the god’s gentle, olive-scented energy.

  His fingers were soft against the skin of her neck, but his voice held a lethal edge.

  “They’ll try.”

  Evelin picked up the photographs, stacking them together in the process, and placed them in their respective envelopes. The previously blank back sides were now filled with at least the basic notes about the people in them, whereas some even carried full profiles.

  Perko, a season ticket holder at the theater, was able to provide a name for almost everybody who had been present, leaving less than ten faces unidentified.

  Though he wasn’t acquainted with Alex personally, he had known the vampire by sight. And as far as Perko remembered, Alex had spent most of the time in his partner’s company, rarely leaving his side.

  Evelin filed away a mental note to ask Mark if he could go through the events at the theater with Dragan. The vampire had taken him up on the offer once he had realized that he needed council. They booked a few sessions, and the grieving vamp profited greatly from having a professional to talk to.

  So far, Mark hadn’t wanted to force Dragan into discussing the traumatic event. With the vampire’s commitment to therapy, they would get there eventually. At a natural pace.

  However, the need to close this case was breathing down their necks. And time was something they didn’t have. Not with the information they now possessed.

  Fragile or not, they needed to push Dragan. Because as brutal as the idea was, he was the one individual of all the spectators who had most likely seen Alex drink the poisoned blood. And quite possibly, his subconscious stored away where the blood had come from.

  “Thank you for your assistance.” Evelin smiled at the graying man sitting opposite her. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time...”

  “No problem at all,” Perko said with a warm tone, but his words were weighed down by a concealed sadness. “If it truly was the same person that had killed Damir... I would do anything to give Lara some closure. Honestly, this was nothing.”

  Evelin nodded, remembering how good it had felt to rip into the flesh of her sister’s killer on the battlefield of Mračaj.

  Lara would get her closure. Maybe not the bloodied one Evelin had reveled in, but the werewolf was intent on finding the killer and gifting the widow with the confirmation of his capture. Perhaps even death.

  It wasn’t just a case of keeping up appearances for The Dark Ones any longer.

  She shook hands with the aged man. They had agreed that Evelin would call him if she needed any more information about the theater, and Perko promised to contact her if he remembered anything of importance.

  The pack was waiting outside, standing in a circle on the half-empty parking lot. As always, the sight of them caught in idle chatter wrapped Evelin in the gentle sensation of home. She crossed the parking lot, her trench coat flapping behind her in the wind, and wiggled her way underneath Mark’s arm.

  It was only after the were had placed a tender kiss on top of her head that Evelin noticed something that should have been obvious from the moment she stepped out of the bar.

  Wide-eyed, she looked at the rest of the werewolves. Neither of them seemed to be flabbergasted by the magic lingering in the air. “Wait, are the—”

  “Mm-hm,” Mark answered, placing another kiss on the silken surface of her black hair.

  “But it’s the third day.” Evelin exhaled, her mind racing. It made no sense. Not with the Kolduny’s aversion to extend their hospitality. “Were they up yesterday as well?”

  “Yup.” Zarja grinned. “What have you been doing to miss a town-wide spell?”

  Evelin opened her mouth. And closed it again.

  Things didn’t just slip past her like this.

  It was true she hadn’t left Nikolai’s house the previous night, but with all the augmented senses usually ringing the alarms for even the minutest of things, missing a complex ward was unacceptable.

  Treacherous flesh, she seethed silently.

  “Come on, guys, no need to be mean,” Jens intervened in an easy tone; only a faint twitch of his lips gave him away. “Evelin’s a MILF with a rowdy old wolf to take care of. I’m sure her killer body was picking up way more tangible things than wards.”

  Jürgen was the first one to crack up, followed by the rest of the pack. Mark looked like he was about to choke on the laughter he tried so hard to seal inside himself.

  Evelin smacked the laughing blond werewolf on the nose with the thick envelope full of photos.

  “Ouch,” Jürgen said, trying for a hurt tone, but failing to control his snickering. “He’s the one that made fun of you.”

  He pointed his finger at Jens, but Evelin smacked away his hand.

  “Peas in a pod. You hit one, you hit the other.” She grinned, flashing her canines. “Besides, you were standing closer.”

  Another round of laughter erupted, but the easy atmosphere was cut short as Tim's voice sliced through it like a blade.

  “But why would the Kolduny keep the wards up?”

  Truthfully, Rose couldn’t think of a single valid reason as to why the Kolduny had chosen to extend their aid. Especially not with Sander’s stalking interest in her.

  Even murderous vamps didn’t seem grave enough for the Kolduny to risk the exposure.

  Unless they knew something.

  “Like what?” Mark asked.

  Rose had forgotten to close the bond between them, broadcasting her thoughts as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud.

  “Fuck,” Rose said softly, the realization sinking in. “‘Find the fomenter that walks the line between races, wishing to tip the scale.’ That’s what Agata said.”

  The weres’ gazes were fixed on her, unmoving. Rose had no facts to back up her hunch, but it made sense.

  It finally made sense.

  “What if the person inviting the vamps to slaughter humans is, in fact, the one who slaughtered the twentyfourhourlies in the first place?”

  “The end justifies the means?” Tim asked, his eyes growing darker.

  Give the vamp
ires something to rally about. Wind them up enough for them to lash out. And activate the traditionals, using them not only as an encouragement for the rest of their kin, but to spread fear among the humans.

  Because if people retaliated for what had been done at the factory…

  There would be war.

  And the few remaining humans left standing after the dust settled would do anything and everything to hold on to their fleeting lives. Even concede to be nothing more than well-kept food.

  Zarja cursed. “He did call them ‘weaker brethren’ in the note. I bet they were nothing but a small sacrifice to the sick fuck.”

  “Jürgen, you need to call Katja, see if she’s made any progress,” Evelin spoke up. “Perko said there were only four vampires that he had noticed. If one of those was Vaclav, we have our killer.”

  Chapter 27

  It had been snowing since early morning, and the weres were grateful to exchange the slush-filled streets for the cozy interior of Pri Sojenicah. Frank had chosen some easy rock tunes that soaked the room in a rolling rhythm, dulling the impact of the conversation they were about to have.

  Nobody had slept well with the thought of an uprising weighing down on their minds.

  It was too soon.

  Too soon after the wolf-man worked to overthrow Veles’s reign and break down the boundaries between realms, taking the world for himself.

  Too soon after the blood-drenched ground of Mračaj—still painfully vivid in their memories.

  By the time the pack had intervened, the corpse army of vetalas had grown in numbers almost too vast to control.

  They couldn’t—wouldn’t let the vampires rise.

  The werewolves were already sitting behind their usual table by the wall when Katja and Jürgen walked in, looking even more at ease in each other’s company than they had before. Their untroubled demeanor caught everyone’s attention.

  Rose observed them with lifted eyebrows, sensing the others were entertaining the exact same thought. When Jürgen held out a rustic wooden chair for Katja, and carefully slid it back towards the table once she had sat down, there were no more doubts left.

  Rose tried to hold back a snicker, not wanting to put the gleeful vampire in an awkward position, but failed miserably. Jürgen was a lot of things, but gentlemanly was definitely not one of them.

  She caught Katja’s gaze, carefully at first, but when the vampire flashed her a triumphant smile, any restraints the pack had had disappeared.

  “You tamed the untamable!” Zarja exclaimed with her hazel eyes shining and fell into a fit of laughter.

  “I never thought it would be you, man.” Frank’s voice carried from behind. He placed a martini and a small assortment of coffees and beers on the table, crossing his arms around the platter when he finished.

  Rose peered up at the werewolf, knowing the speech that was about to follow all too well.

  “I admire the dedication.” Frank nodded with a serious face, his ruffled hair following the quick movement. “You’re still young. To give yourself over like that... I don’t think I could have done it. I need my freedom. I can’t—”

  “Cram my life into a routine where I have to consider the other person in every decision I make,” Rose finished, doing her best imitation of Frank’s voice.

  The were snarled and poked Rose in the shoulder. He began to open his mouth, preparing for some typical Frank comeback, but Katja was faster.

  “We’re sleeping together; it’s not like we’re having were-vamp babies.” She laughed, looking even more magnetic than usual.

  Frank waved his hand at the group in false exasperation, holding back a snicker, and turned to attend to his other patrons.

  Katja continued after the laughter subsided, her tone leveled. “The two other vamps at the theater weren’t old ones.”

  Disappointment weaved through the bond; it would have been too easy, but still, they had hoped. Katja sipped her discreet cup of blood. It was obvious she felt that something had stirred among the werewolves around her, but didn’t pry. And for that, Rose liked her even more.

  “I knew one of them and asked him to grab a coffee with us this morning,” Katja continued once the moment had passed. “Jürgen was with me since he knows all the facts.”

  “And just happened to be sleeping in your bed,” Jens added quietly, masking a chuckle.

  “And that, yes.” she flashed a brief grin before resuming her recollection. “Albert, my contact, never talked to Alex, since he was busy flirting with his date for the night. With sex on the table, I’m honestly surprised he even remembered anything.”

  She shook her head, a faint smile resting on her face at the thought.

  “But,” Katja continued, her sensuous lips slightly pursed, “he did give me the name of the second vamp. An acquaintance of his. From what Albert could recall, Simon was his usual self until about an hour after the show.

  “But when he bumped into him a little later on, the vampire was disoriented, a little dazed. Albert thinks he might have taken some drugs since it wouldn’t be the first time Simon partied a little too hard with the actors…”

  “But you don’t?” Evelin asked, likely not questioning Katja’s judgment, merely wanting to hear her answer.

  “No, I don’t,” she said in a dark tone, a deeper knowledge filling her words. “I’ve seen how it is when the old ones hold influence over other vamps. It has the same effect. The disconnection, the disorientation. Loss of short-term memory…

  “And get this, Albert saw Simon walk out of the bar with two glasses of blood in his hands. Just before the vamp met Alex outside for a cigarette.”

  Mark sat in the dark brown leather armchair in his small but snug office, observing the thin vampire who was curled in the seat across from him, wiping away the steady flow of tears with a badly crumpled handkerchief.

  The circles under Dragan’s eyes were lighter than the last time Mark had seen him, but they were still there.

  He hated himself for pushing the vampire. Hated that he couldn’t do his job properly.

  Dragan was still in a state that was too fragile for him to face the night he had lost his partner. They had only begun to make some progress, touching the subject with care.

  But with what the pack had learned from their visit with Simon, the werewolf was left with no other choice.

  “Dragan,” Mark said softly. “That night at the theater—did you talk to Simon?”

  Dragan shook his head, sinking deeper into the chair. Nothing but silence stretched between them, echoing the gray day outside.

  Just when Mark thought the vampire would break again, Dragan began to speak. His voice was weak, filled with tremors, yet they didn’t prevent him from answering.

  “But Alex mentioned he saw him by the entrance. He asked Simon to keep him company while he went out for a cigarette. I don’t smoke and I don’t particularly like the cold, so I didn’t go with him...”

  The werewolf shifted uncomfortably, glad that Dragan’s attention was fixed on the handkerchief he fumbled between his fingers. Despite being a social worker for years, and becoming an expert at masking his own discomfort, this situation was something he couldn’t pretend to be okay with. The shadows of grief on Dragan’s features, the trembling upper lip…

  Mark had to fight against his instincts to terminate the line of questioning.

  But there was no other way.

  “When Alex went outside, did he take a glass of blood with him?” he asked once Dragan seemed calmer.

  “No, he just drank the one I got for us,” the vampire answered quietly, then went perfectly still. He looked up at Mark, the color draining from his face. “But he had one when he came back. Was that—oh, no, no, no...”

  Dragan shivered violently, his shoulder shaking beneath the oversized woolen sweater. Mark moved out of his chair, gently, and crouched in front of the distraught vamp. With caution, he placed a hand on Dragan’s bony shoulder, keeping his grip light yet reassuring.
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  “We believe that was the blood that was laced, yes,” Mark said, struggling to keep the strain in his voice from showing. “Simon did give him that glass, but he wasn’t the one that poisoned it.”

  The vampire’s head shot up, his short dark hair wildly disheveled. Anger, aggression, and remorse flashed across his eyes, but what remained in the end was bewilderment.

  Mark pushed down the were impulse within him that had been ready to lash out at Dragan if the vampire made a threatening move. He repositioned himself in a more relaxed crouch, locking his fingers in front of him.

  “How well can you sense vampires?”

  Something shifted within Dragan as he processed the words; his back became straighter, his features sharper.

  “I have a solid mile radius,” the vampire answered. “Why?”

  “How many of your kind were at the theater?”

  Dragan leaned back in thought, hooking his arms around the leg he had curled underneath his body. Mark used the moment to return to his own seat where he waited silently for the vampire to continue.

  “Including me, four.”

  Mark exhaled, his hopes beginning to shatter.

  “No, wait...”

  Mark’s breath caught at the words. He stared at Dragan, observing the smooth skin of the vamp’s forehead turn into a frown.

  “There—there was another. But I only sensed him briefly.”

  When? Mark wanted to ask, but there was no need to. Dragan read the question perfectly well from the acquisitive expression that must have been locked on Mark’s face.

  And knew the answer.

  Fury blazed in the vampire’s eyes. He curled his hands around the cushioned arms of his chair, his fingers sinking into the leather surface, and calmed himself with deep breaths.

  When he met Mark’s gaze, the vampire was as composed as Mark had ever seen him. And newly lethal.

  “When Alex went outside.”