by Kresley Cole
Somewhere in the stands, the assistant coach for the Olympic team watched this nail-biter keenly. Even Chloe’s dad had carved out time from his constant work travel to be here. He stood off by himself in the corridor beside the VIP seats, giving her hand signals. Her part-time trainer and biggest fan.
Yes, she’d been on fire this game. But she was also seriously on edge. Over the last few days, she’d been going through some . . . changes, as if all her senses were becoming supercharged.
Or, she was going crazy.
She’d see tracers in her vision and hear sounds from much too far away. Even now she swore she could smell the roll of Tums in Coach’s pocket.
And the cherry ChapStick one of the fanboys wore.
Each night, she’d been waking up drenched in sweat, fresh from bizarre dreams that left her shaken. . . .
The ref blew the whistle. Ball in play. Uneasiness forgotten. She and Handbagger jockeyed.
“Here comes the boom, bitch,” Chloe said as she spun, evading her. She secured a flying pass, did an inside hook turn, and readied the ball for the launch—
Suddenly she stumbled. Above all the noise in the stadium, she’d heard a single cell phone ring, a pinging so loud she winced. Handbagger capitalized, almost snaring the ball, but Chloe passed it behind her with a heel kick; luckily a teammate was right there to collect. It would all look planned.
Only her team would know something was off. Whenever Chloe got the ball within this proximity to the goal, she was lethal—and selfish. As a finisher, she’d been trained to ball-hog in the strike zone.
As Dad liked to say, “You don’t hand off to a weaker player, and they’re all weaker players. They feed the ball to you.”
So why had she botched her shot? Why had she heard one phone above all the rest of the sounds? She glanced at her dad, saw he’d taken a call, pacing the corridor. What the hell was more important than his only daughter’s championship game? Sure, he often had work concerns, but if he managed to get to a game, he was here.
Across the field, the Breakers’ right wing snagged the ball with a clean tackle. Chloe could only wait and hope as the player ran it down the field. The crowd was now deafening, the other team’s momentum building.
Yet Chloe could somehow hear her father’s voice as if he were just beside her.
“Is the Lykae capture complete?” he asked.
Lykae? Capture? Even weirder than hearing her father was that she could make out bits and pieces—from the caller. She detected tons of background noise, like you’d hear from a war zone on CNN, and a man’s voice: “In progress, sir . . . not going down without a fight . . . tranqued him . . . matter of time now, Commander.”
Had he just called Dad “Commander”? Of freaking what?
“How much damage?” Dad asked.
“. . . threw our own tank at us, sir.”
Dad scrubbed his hand over his salt-and-pepper buzz cut. “I warned you against targeting a wolf without Magister Chase present.”
Magister. Wolf. Lykae. Tank-throwing. What the hell?
Her dad was ex-army, now sold computer systems to military installations. Dustin Todd was, in essence, a tech guy. The driest, most unfanciful man ever to live. He simply didn’t talk about paranormal stuff, much less riff with some guy like they were Dungeons and Dragons fanatics.
She grew light-headed, the moment surreal. How could this be possible?
“I still don’t understand the soothsayer’s insistence with this one,” Dad said. “What’s the tactical value of one werewolf? Did she say?”
Dear God, her dad was talking about a mythological monster and a psychic.
“No, sir . . . left as soon as we’d laid the . . . wolf’s going down at last. They’re moving in . . . I’ll confirm the capture.”
Apparently, her dad was having some kind of psychotic break.
Maybe she was too. She couldn’t actually be hearing him. She was losing her sanity and—equally important—this game.
“T-Rex!”
Chloe jerked her head around. She had missed a pass, missed the entire tide of the game changing. And now Handbagger had the ball, charging across the midfield, about to pass to her own striker. . . .
Eyes narrowed, Chloe ran down the woman, giving her a two-foot slide, tackling the living hell out of her from behind.
“You twat!” Handbagger screeched, just as the ref blew the whistle.
Dirty tackle. Yellow-carded. Shit!
Coach went ballistic on the sidelines; Handbagger got a free kick in scoring range.
As the woman positioned the ball, Chloe told herself she couldn’t fix her dad’s breakdown right now—all she could do was finish the few minutes left of this future-making game.
Dad was the one who’d taught her to focus, to stand her ground and see things through when the going got tough.
The keeper snagged Handbagger’s missile—aww, too bad—then punted it into Breaker territory.
One of her midfielders fed Chloe a hospital ball, a pass that would likely result in injury.
She charged for it anyway with Handbagger breathing down her neck. The bitch slid, knocking Chloe off the ball and onto her ass. Chloe’s ankle twisted. Handbagger couldn’t resist a late hit, a nice elbow to the throat.
No whistle? As Chloe scrambled up, she raised her hands in a WTF gesture. Tied game, two minutes left in regulation—she didn’t have time for this shit. The crowd booed, but the ref gazed on stonily.
Trying to shake it off, Chloe trotted to position, wincing as her ankle began swelling up like a balloon.
She ignored the pain, repeating to herself, Rub some dirt on it.
For all of Chloe’s life, coaches had been telling her that in response to everything from a skinned knee to a concussion. It was coach-speak for Grin and bear it, or I’ll send in second string.
The saying had become her life view. Bad practice? Rub some dirt on it. Fender bender? Rub some dirt on it. It’d turned into an optimistic catchphrase that allowed her to grit her teeth at any obstacle, and muster an I’m just happy to be here, Coach smile. It made her hunt hard for an upside.
Her dad going loco was hovering outside the realm of dirt rubbing. There was no upside. He was all the family she had in the world.
Concentrate, Chlo. Focus.
But just as she finally settled in and got her head back in the game, from the other end of her dad’s phone call came a . . . roar—the most terrifying animal roar she’d ever imagined. Chills breaking out on her sweating skin, she swung her head toward her father.
Then stood there, in the middle of the field with thousands of spectators, gaping in shock.
Because when Dad had heard that sound, he’d smiled—
A toe-kicked ball took her square in the face like a cannon shot. Her body was sent airborne. Pitched onto her back, she lay there dazed, watching the stadium lights swirl above her as the crowd grew quiet.
Rub some dirt on it. Upside? She now had her dad’s full attention, his call disconnected, and the wolf’s haunting roar was no more.
TWO
Orleans Parish, Louisiana
ONE HOUR EARLIER
Never let it be said that you doona drive like an ace,” Will told the three-thousand-year-old mad Valkyrie in the driver’s seat beside him, “but if we’re in a hurry, perhaps driving in reverse is no’ the best solution?”
Nïx the Ever-Knowing was doing about twenty miles per hour in the left lane on the Lake Pontchartrain bridge section of I-10. Backward.
She was slinking along with the flow of traffic, somewhat, but the headlights of her abused Bentley were beaming the driver following them.
To navigate, she used the rear-view mirror—and bloody foresight, for all he knew.
Though vehicles were backed up for miles behind her, she seemed oblivious. Cars would pass, their bellowing drivers shooting her the bird—until they got a look-see at the hot mess that was Nucking-Futs Nïx.
She was preternaturally beautiful bu
t vacant-eyed, with a tangled mane of wild raven hair. She wore a neon pink T-shirt with big bold letters: S L U T
In smaller text below that: SEXUALLY LIBERATED UNINHIBITED TART.
Atop her shoulder? A live bat.
The soothsayer was fairly much crazed, losing track of time, of reality. Understandable, since she’d been seeing the future for millennia.
With a wrist slung over the wheel and Jay-Z on the radio, she said, “It’s ridiculous that a car this expensive doesn’t have cruise control for reverse.”
“You want me to drive, then?”
She’d called his private number, divining the digits he supposed, wanting to meet alone. She’d made him vow to tell no one about their “rendezvous,” not even Munro. Will had already asked why she’d wanted to meet him (answer: blank stare) and if he could do anything for her (answer: blanker stare).
“Mayhap I should call one of your sisters? You’re looking a wee bit tired, Valkyrie.”
“I’m fine,” she said absently. “I have Bertil with me.”
Oh. The bat. Will decided that if Nucking-Futs Nïx wanted to drive backward and answer none of his questions, to hell with it.
He had nothing better to do than enjoy the ride, so he relaxed back in the plush seat, proud of his nonchalance. Though he didn’t like surprises and loathed it when females pressured him to keep secrets, he was managing his unease tonight.
Mayhap he’d finally—finally—started to turn the corner.
Just then, Nïx glanced at Will, blinking in surprise, her expression saying, Well, how’d you get in here, fellow?
Her face brightened. “Hot of the Hot and Hotter Twins!” she said in greeting. “Or are you Hotter? I can never tell you apart—both of you with those smoldering golden eyes and dreamy features. Perhaps one of you has slightly longer hair?”
He and Munro hated it when females called them Hot and Hotter, as if they were interchangeable cogs in a joke. “Nïx. It’s good to see you,” he said, for the second time tonight.
At least she was interesting to be around. And most would consider a meeting with her to be priceless. She could help a Lore creature get out of whatever predicament he found himself in.
No present predicaments for Will. Unless Nïx could send him back in time or make him forget the past, he’d keep idling.
For the last few centuries, he and Munro had lived in Bheinnrose, a colony they’d founded in Nova Scotia. Will was the leader of that arm of Clan MacRieve, but for fuck’s sake, who couldn’t do that job? All he did was sign a lot of forms. Customarily after Munro read them.
Without a nice grisly war to occupy them—or missions from their king—the brothers had headed south to Louisiana, looking for a change of pace. During an Accession, something was always happening near a Lore hot spot like New Orleans. Such as a meeting with Nïx.
Plus, Will had burned through all the available nymphs in the North, since he never slept with the same female twice.
Usually by mutual agreement.
A big-rig driver pulled abreast of the Bentley and blasted his horn so loud the car vibrated.
“Mortals,” Nïx sighed. “So what did you want to talk to me about, Oolay-ahhhm?”
He frowned at the slaughtered pronunciation of his first name, but thought he caught a twinkle in her eye. “Just call me MacRieve. As for the meeting, you rang me, remember? I assumed you wanted to talk about Munro.”
“Umm, no.”
Awkward silence. Well, as long as he had a soothsayer here . . . “Mayhap you want to give me the goods on where to find his mate.” One of a Lykae’s most compelling drives was to find his fated one, and Nïx had helped three members of the clan locate and win theirs—against all odds—during this Accession alone.
“You ask about his before your own?”
“Munro craves his.” He needed that female in order to get the bairns he was keen to have. He longed for offspring more than a mother hen did. Already his brother was fostering two Lykae lads in their house.
Yet Munro had best be careful what he wished for; an old oracle had once predicted he’d be cursed with a “harridan” for his mate.
“And you don’t crave yours? Spill to Nïxie. I won’t tell anyone anything. This night is our little secret.”
As if those words weren’t disturbing enough to Will, Nïx’s bat chose that moment to climb down her front, unfurling its wings to span her collarbones, its wee talons embedded in her shirt.
“It’s complicated.” He’d once thought he’d possessed his mate. What a bluidy fool you were.
“Don’t make me turn this car around, wolf.”
He raised a brow. “Verra well. I’ve envied other males who’ve found theirs. But I’m no’ in a good place right now.” He pulled on his collar. Understatement. Hi then, I’m MacRieve, and this is my Lykae beast. Get used to him, because you’ll be seeing a lot of him.
Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Have you foreseen mine, then?”
“Oh! Here’s my exit!” With expert precision, Nïx cut across the second lane of traffic to an off-ramp. They turned, still in reverse, onto a smaller country road.
Before he could repeat his question, Nïx asked, “So what are you going to wear to the apocalypse? I’m thinking something sparkly and transfixing.”
“Apocalypse?”
“We all must band together, enemies and allies, gods and men. Or they will win.”
“And who would they be, Valkyrie?”
“The Møriør. Bringers of Doom. By the time I even foresee them, it’s already too late.”
Ominous words. “You can’t drop a line like that without unpacking it.”
“Just did, You-Lame!”
“It’s MacRieve!”
“Where?” she gasped, jerking a glance toward the side of the road. She swerved sharply before righting the car. They collected another horn honk.
“Nïx, answer me.”
She faced him again, waving that away. “Let’s just put it this way: smoke ’em if you got ’em.”
Will tried to muster the appropriate apocalyptic concern. But if you’d lived as long—and as badly—as he had, impending end-of-world scenarios lost their bite.
Nïx’s expression perked up. “Here’s our turn.”
He finally twisted in his seat to glance over his shoulder. It was a dirt road overgrown with banana trees and kudzu. As they wound deeper into a gloomy, fog-laden swamp, Will again felt sorry for this Bentley.
After bottoming out—backward—for a fourth time, Nïx pulled into a small clearing and parked. “Oh. We ended up being early.”
“For what?” Did she want to show him something out here? “Where are we?”
“Our destination. Consider it a waypoint.”
“Why? Am I going somewhere else?” he asked, the hair on the back of his neck rising. Was there a threat? He scented nothing, and his Instinct remained quiet.
But then, these days it was usually quiet.
In any case, Nïx would have foreseen any trouble, and she’d specifically driven to this place.
She turned to face him, giving him the full view of her crazy. The bat’s placement on her T-shirt made it seem like Bertil had been captioned SEXUALLY LIBERATED UNINHIBITED TART.
Nïx was so lovely and so . . . damaged.
“Let’s talk a sec, just you and me. Relax, don’t you trust me?” she asked in a playful tone.
“Face it, Valkyrie. There are few in the Lore that I trust, and you’re one of them.” She was a tested and true ally of the clan.
“How sweet, Ahllomeam—”
“MacRieve, Nïx.” Just because she was trusted didn’t mean she couldn’t be a pain in the arse. “Could you call me MacRieve? Or wolf, or prick, or anything but my given name? Now, back to my mate. When will I find her?”
“Before Munro finds his.”
“That tells me nothing. Are we talking decades, centuries?”
“How boorish of me, divulging all while you’re
divulging nothing.” She leaned in closer to him. “Look into my eyes. Let me see your history.”
History? Not just foresight? “I doona know about this—”
“Ruelle did a number on you,” she said softly. “But I already knew that.”
He jerked his head back. “And what have you heard, then?” Whisperings of his shameful time with the succubus had passed among the older Lykae of the clan.
Had other factions learned of that?
“Not heard, wolf. Seen . . .”
He swallowed. Could Nïx see that he’d wiped out most of his family by succumbing to that parasite? Could this Valkyrie see that Ruelle still seemed to control his mind and body even from beyond the grave?
When he had been not yet double-digits in age, that bitch had gotten her claws into him. And I’ve borne them in one way or another ever since.
She’d ruined the boy he’d been and perverted the man he would become.
Nïx gazed at him with pity, and he knew she could see. Gods, he despised the pitying looks. Had received them all his miserable life! Was he truly so pitiable? Just because I hate myself and have no control of my beast?
“Yes, wolf, I see all. And by all, I mean some.”
Sweat dotted his upper lip.
“What is it the nymphs say about you? I remember! You’re all ‘good and fucked up,’ ‘dark and twisted.’ But they don’t know why.”
They called him Bucket List, one to do before they died—because they knew they wouldn’t be getting vanilla.
He had nothing to give but dark and twisted.
Suddenly, he had difficulty catching his breath, as if a weight pressed on his chest. As if Ruelle pressed on his chest.
He wanted away from the soothsayer, from this car, this swamp, this bloody state. His earlier nonchalance had vanished. Mayhap it was time to return to the North—
“And then, as if Ruelle wasn’t bad enough,” Nïx said sadly, “you had to endure Dr. Dixon’s tortures.”
Will froze. He didn’t know this person. “Never heard of a Dr. Dixon.”
“The psychotic mortal scientist? From the Order’s island prison?” At his confounded look, she said, “Surely you must remember all those experiments she performed on you when you were captured by humans? Electrocutions, beatings, weapons testing, vivisection? How could you forget when she cracked open your chest with a rib separator and sliced out your still-beating heart? She beamed proudly as she showed it to you. Of course, she was only following Webb’s orders, but she did seem to take a sick interest in you.”
