by Nalini Singh
“Paris,” Deacon said again.
She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “What was his name—Jarvis?”
“Jervois.”
“Right.” Jervois’s weakness had led to a disorganized European Guild. Vampires had taken immediate advantage. Most had simply escaped, planning to lose themselves into the world. But a few . . . “Several vamps gave in to bloodlust. The news reports said the streets ran with blood.”
“They weren’t far wrong. Paris lost ten percent of its population within a month.”
Put in such finite terms, the horror of it was chilling. “Why didn’t the angels step in?” In her native New York, Raphael ran the show, and as far as Sara knew, no bloodlust-ridden vampire had ever set foot in the city. Since that was statistically impossible, obviously Raphael had taken care of any problems with such flawless efficiency no one had heard so much as a murmur.
“Word is”—Deacon’s voice turned cold—“Michaela decided the humans needed a lesson in humility.”
Michaela was one of the more visible archangels, a stunning beauty who enjoyed attention enough to pose for the human media on occasion. “I think that one,” Sara said, “would be happy to push us all back to a time where she’d be looked upon as a goddess.”
“There are a lot of people even now who see the angels as God’s messengers.”
“What about you?”
“Another species,” he said. “Maybe they’re what we’ll become sometime in the next million years.”
It was an interesting hypothesis. Sara didn’t know what she thought. Angels had been around since the earliest cave paintings. There were as many explanations for their existence as there were stars in the sky. And if the angels knew the truth, they weren’t telling. “So, why Timothy Lee?”
“He’s been in the city during every one of the murders; he’s capable of doing the job—”
“We’re all capable.”
“Yes. So that wouldn’t matter as much, but Timothy’s a very dedicated hunter. He sees it not as a job, but as a calling.”
“Is he hunter-born?” Having been best friends with Ellie for so many years, she knew that for those born with the ability to scent-track vampires, entering the Guild was less a choice than a compulsion.
“No. But he worships the hunter-born.”
“Not healthy, but not psychopathic either.”
Deacon nodded. “That’s why he’s one of three. The other two have their own little idiosyncrasies but all hunters are strange to some degree.”
“You’ve met Ashwini, haven’t you?”
She heard him choke. “‘Met’ isn’t quite the right word. She shot me the first time we came into contact.”
“Sounds about right.” She grinned, but it didn’t last long. “If it is one of these three, you’ll execute him?”
“Yes.”
“No police?”
“I’m authorized to do this. The law will never become involved.” A pause. “They’re glad we police ourselves. Hunters who turn bad have a way of upping the body count.”
“Like vampires.”
He didn’t say anything, but she felt his agreement in the tense stillness of his body. Eerily quiet, the night seemed to discourage further conversation, and they rode in silence until Deacon pulled over to the side of a still, dark street. “We’ll go on foot from here.”
Stowing her helmet alongside his, she followed him as he led her down the street and to a chain-link fence. She frowned. “This looks like a junkyard.”
“It is.”
Okay, that was truly odd. Hunters almost never lived in crappy places. They were paid very well for sticking their necks out chasing vampires who might just tear those necks off. “To each his own.”
“He has a hellhound.”
She thought she’d heard wrong. “Did you say hellhound?” Visions of red eyes pulsing in a miasma of sulfur danced through her head. Then the pitchforks started circling.
“Big, black thing, probably bite your hand off if you look at it wrong. Timothy calls it Lucifer’s Girl.” He took something from his pocket. “Tranquilizer dart.” Then he was gone, and if she hadn’t seen it, she’d never have guessed he could move that fast.
She stayed with him, both of them scrambling over the chain link to land with hunter silence on the other side. There was no bark, nothing to alert them they’d become prey—Lucifer’s Girl came out of the darkness like a raging whirlwind. Sara ducked instinctively, and the dog’s body jumped over hers . . . to meet the clearly rapid-acting tranquilizer in Deacon’s hand. Instead of allowing the dog to fall, Deacon caught its muscled weight and lowered it gently to the ground.
“You like her,” Sara said, incredulous.
Deacon stroked the dog’s heaving sides. “What’s not to like? She’s loyal, and she’s strong. If I have to execute Timothy, she’ll miss her master.”
“You’d adopt her, wouldn’t you?” She shook her head. “There go your chances of ever again getting a girl.”
He raised his head, looking at her in that intent way of his. “Not a fan?”
“She’s got nine-inch fangs.” Only a slight exaggeration. “A woman would have to love you an incredible amount to put up with that kind of competition.” She jerked her head toward the building on the other side of the mountain of scrap metal and God knew what else. “Yes?”
“Let’s go. Tranq will keep Lucy out for a while.”
Lucy?
They took their time finding a path through the junk, checking for booby traps in the process. When they finally reached the tumbledown shack that Timothy called home, it was to discover the place empty. A little breaking and entering later, they were inside, but saw nothing even close to a smoking gun. The fact that Tim wasn’t home meant nothing—hunters kept irregular hours as a rule.
She watched as Deacon took something from his pocket and placed it on the bottoms of all the shoes he could locate. “Transmitters,” he told her. “Battery life of about two days. So if there’s a kill in that period, and he wears a pair I’ve tagged, I’ll be able to trace his movements.”
“Who’s next on the list?”
He told her after they scaled the chain link—petting Lucy along the way, and waiting long enough to ensure that she was coming out of the tranq okay. “Next is Shah Mayur. Loner, does the job but doesn’t seem to have any contact with other hunters.”
“Like someone else I know.”
Deacon ignored the comment as they straddled his bike and took off.
Grinning, she pressed herself to the heat of his back. “What put Shah on your radar?”
“He’s had five complaints filed against him by the VPA.”
The Vampire Protection Authority had been set up to stop cruelty and prejudice against vamps. They never won court cases—it was extremely hard to make a vampire look the victim when you had pictures of their blood-soaked kills—but they could kick up a serious stink. “What for?”
“Excessive violence against a vampire during retrieval.”
“Hmm.” She thought about that. “Why don’t you sound more excited?”
“Because all five complaints came from the same vamp.”
Her own burgeoning excitement deflated. “Probably someone with an ax to grind.”
“Yeah, but we have to check him out.”
Shah Mayur lived in a much more ordinary home—in terms of its attractiveness to hunters. His apartment occupied the entire third floor of a freestanding town house.
Sara frowned. “Getting in’s going to be a problem.” Deacon had already told her there was no internal access, so they couldn’t break in downstairs—and the ladder that Shah used to get up and down was currently pulled up. That didn’t mean he was home. According to Deacon’s intel, it could be raised or lowered by remote. Shah wasn’t a trusting sort. But he was also supposed to be on a flight to Washington as of an hour ago. “Any ideas?”
Deacon was staring up at the back wall when she turned to him. “Can you c
limb that?”
She followed his gaze to what looked like some kind of a water pipe, a reasonably substantial one. “Yeah.” The request surprised her. “I thought you were babysitting me.”
“We’re probably under surveillance,” he told her, voice matter-of-fact. “I can’t defang you completely.”
“That implies you could.” She shot him a sweet smile laced with bite. “We have to consider something else—if we are being watched, then the angels and high-level vamps have to know what we’re up to. I’m not going to deliver a hunter into their hands.” Angelic vengeance could be soul-destroyingly brutal.
Deacon looked into her face, unblinking. “That’s why we have to get to him first. We’ll deliver death with mercy.”
Giving a nod, she accepted the transmitters he held out and ran to the pipe. She was light enough—and, more important, had enough muscle—that it was fairly simple to pull herself up. When she reached the window ledge, she found it an easy, wide perch. So close, it was tempting to push up the window and go in, but she took her time checking everything out.
Just as well, as it turned out.
Shah had rigged a garrote across the opening, at the exact height to cut anyone coming in. From the faint glitter, she guessed it was covered with crushed glass. Gruesome, but home security wasn’t a crime. Double-checking for any electrical wires that might be connected to an alarm, she glanced down at Deacon and signaled her intention to enter.
He nodded once and signaled back. Two minutes.
Pushing up the window, she stepped in with care, avoiding the lethal stroke of the garrote by bending low. She found herself in what looked like the living room. It was dark. But not dark enough to hide the man sitting silently in the armchair.
4
“I expected Deacon,” he said in a silky soft tone.
“Shah Mayur, I presume.”
“Sara Haziz.” A lilt of surprise. “Since when are you a Slayer?”
“Call it a sideline.” She noted the gun in his lap. “You’re prepared.”
“Didn’t want my head lopped off before I had a chance to explain that I’m not a homicidal killer.” This time, the tone was wry.
She liked him. Didn’t mean he wasn’t a murderer. “So if I leave?”
“I’m not going to shoot you. Tell Deacon I’ll meet you both outside.” A pause. “And Sara, it’s not good form for the future Guild Director to be breaking and entering.”
“Why does everyone act like it’s a done deal?” she muttered and backed out, keeping an eye on his hands the whole time. If necessary, she could jump—it would break a few bones, but it wouldn’t kill her. Not like a bullet would.
If Shah replied, she didn’t hear. It was far easier to go down the pipe than it had been to come up. “He’s heading down to talk.”
Deacon’s face went very quiet. Dangerous. “He’s not supposed to be here.”
“He knew you were coming. And he knows your name.”
That made him go even more still. Sara found herself fascinated. Did Deacon ever let himself go? Or was he this contained even in the most intimate of situations? It was tempting to kiss him and find out, but with the way he drew her, she knew she wouldn’t stop at a kiss.
The whisper of Shah’s ladder sliding to the ground was a welcome distraction. She waited as the other hunter descended, his gun nowhere in sight. Of course, that simply meant he was good at hiding his weaponry. Elena would approve, Sara thought. Her best friend usually had spikes secreted in her hair, and knives strapped to her thighs. That was just for starters.
“Hello, Deacon.” Shah turned out to be tall, dark, and very handsome, with shining black hair that swept his shoulders.
“I’m impressed.” Deacon subtly angled himself so he protected Sara.
She stopped herself from rolling her eyes and used the chance to retrieve her own gun from the small of her back. Then she moved out of Deacon’s night-shadow so she’d have a clear line of sight.
“Spying’s my thing. I work intel for the Guild.”
The Guild had an intel division? Sara wondered how many more secrets she’d learn as Guild Director. It was temptation indeed for a woman as curious as her. But was she willing to give up everything she was, give up the possibility of a family, children? Yes, there were men who’d be more than happy to sleep with the Guild Director, but they weren’t the kind of men she’d touch with a barge pole.
No, Deacon was her type. Cool, controlled, strong. And about as likely to sleep with the woman who’d effectively be his boss—if she accepted the directorship—as he was to start spouting jokes. Reining in her wandering thoughts, she met Shah’s gaze. “And we’re just supposed to believe you?”
Shah shrugged, giving her a secretive smile. “Or I could tell you all about the time you and Elena decided to try out the stripper pole at Maxie’s.”
How the fuck had he learned about that? She scowled. “If you work intel, why didn’t Simon clear you?”
“Deacon runs his ops independently.” He shrugged. “I could’ve played hard to get, but I figure you two are a good bet when it comes to keeping secrets. The future director and the Slayer. Who’re you going to tell?”
Deacon suddenly had his hand around Shah’s neck, a knife to his abdomen. “Take off your shirt.”
Shah blinked, hiding his surprise behind charm. “Didn’t know you swung that way.”
Deacon pushed the knife a little.
“Fine.” Unbuttoning the shirt with rapid fingers, Shah shrugged it off.
“Sara, check his body for marks of a struggle. One of the vamps put up a hell of a fight.”
Sara did a close inspection, but all she saw was smooth, unblemished skin. “He’s clean.”
Shah rubbed at his throat when Deacon let him go. “You could’ve asked nice.”
“And you could’ve stabbed him in the heart.” Sara snorted. “Drop the act. You’re about as helpless as a piranha.”
“Can’t blame a boy for trying.” He smiled, revealing dimples he no doubt used as a tool. “If you want my take, I’d put my money on Tim. Have you seen that dog of his? Probably made a deal with the devil and got that as insurance. Now the thing’s possessed him.”
Sara shook her head, noting the gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I don’t think you should throw stones—I saw the teddy bear on your couch.”
Interesting. A suave, sophisticated spy could go bright red under cinnamon-dusted skin. “It’s my nephew’s. And if you don’t need to manhandle me anymore, I’d like to go to sleep.” With that, he turned and left.
“He didn’t hit on you.” It was a quiet statement.
She pursed her lips. “And you felt the need to point that out, why?”
“Shah doesn’t have any close hunter friends, but he’s popular with the ladies. He hits on anything with breasts, but petite dark-haired women are especially his type.”
“Thank you for crushing my self-esteem under your boot.” Restraining the urge to kick him, she grabbed her helmet and thrust it on.
Deacon took his seat, putting on his own helmet before starting the engine. They were ten minutes from Shah’s home and cutting through a deserted parking lot when Deacon came to a halt. “Fight or run?”
She’d seen the vampires in the shadows. How many? Five—no, seven. Seven against two. “Run.” Stupidity wasn’t what had kept her alive this long.
It was only as Deacon was peeling out of the lot that she realized he’d left the choice up to her. It was . . . unexpected.
Their third stop of the night was a gay bar. Sara stared up at the bar’s name. “Inferno.” She turned to the silent man by her side. “Is it me or are we seeing a trend here?”
A quirk of his lips. It was sexier than a full-fledged smile from any other man. “I’m leading you into sin.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Obviously, suspect number three is gay. Right?”
“Marco Giardes.” He nodded up. “Lives above the bar.”
“Huh?”
“Owns the place. Bought it with an inheritance.”
Sara shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. Bother you?”
A bit of red stained his cheeks. Her mouth fell open. “What?”
He blew out a breath. “You’ll see.”
“We’re going in?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t know about me—unless he’s another spy. We’re just two hunters who heard about his place and decided to drop in.”