by Young, S.
The vampire’s silver eyes widened in outrage before her entire being burst into ash.
She was so shocked by her first vampire kill, she could only stare at the cloud of supernatural dust that caught in the harsh light of the aluminum bars on the ceiling.
Rookie mistake, that, losing focus.
An animalistic roar filled the corridor seconds before the male vampire slammed her to the floor. Burning pain flared up her neck, disorienting her for a moment until he lifted his head and she stared, aghast.
His long incisors, his lips, his mouth were covered in … her.
Wet gushed from her neck even as she felt the tingle of her skin repairing itself.
The bastard had torn out her throat.
His eyes widened as he watched her heal in a way no ordinary supernatural could.
And there was that burn in her chest again.
Except worse.
It was growing in a blaze and suddenly, it wasn’t the vampire she saw in front of her. It was him.
It was them.
And they deserved to die for what they did to him.
The rage consumed her.
It was like a black veil over her eyes.
When it eventually lifted, there was another pile of dust in the corridor.
What had happened …
Tears filled her eyes as she looked at her blood-covered hands. The rust of it was thick in her fingernails, like she’d clawed someone apart. Her hair swung into her vision and she saw it was wet.
Nausea roiled in her gut and she stumbled back against the corridor wall.
She slammed her eyes closed and thought of her hotel.
The dull noise of the club faded, replaced by the hum of late-night traffic. When she opened her eyes, she found herself in the middle of her hotel room. Weariness hit. The building was in Old Town, and traveling always shattered her. She used to call it teleporting until … a friend offered her a different name for it.
Afraid but needing to know, she moved slowly toward the bathroom, careful not to touch anything with her bloodied hands.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink.
Blood splattered her face, the globs of wet dark red in her hair turning those strands a muddy brown. Her clothes were stained with it.
Clearly, she’d inflicted some serious damage on the vamp before she dusted him.
She’d obviously torn him apart.
She couldn’t remember.
How could she not remember this level of violence?
She lunged for the toilet just in time.
Shuddering, shaking, she hovered over the bowl for a while before she could gather the courage to stand and look at herself again.
What she’d seen those vamps do in her vision was traumatizing. They’d inflicted terror and pain beyond imagination.
But what had she done in return?
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
Who was she?
With a swipe of her hand, the tingle of magic, the blood was gone. Her clothes gone, replaced with clean ones. It was like it had never happened.
But as she peered into the mirror with the same aquamarine eyes as his, she still saw the blood in her hair, even though it was gone.
Who was she?
She didn’t know anymore.
All she knew was that she wasn’t the woman she used to be.
Raising her hand, she gave her wrist a flick and magic transformed her hair color.
She was now a brunette.
You couldn’t see blood spatter on dark hair, could you?
A chill shuddered through her at the wicked thought.
1
February
Moscow, Russia
It had been many years, but he still remembered winter in Japan during his mortal life. The icy burn of a brittle wind on his cheeks, the heavy wet of snowfall soaking his clothes, and the tingling sensation from the relief of fire from the hearth they called an irori.
Now Kiyo didn’t feel the cold as he had when he was human.
Then again, he’d never experienced a Moscow winter.
For the first time in a long time, he felt the chill. Not as the humans did, but still … the icy dampness tried to invade him as he stalked through the well-lit darkness of the Kitay-gorod district.
To blend with the humans he wore a winter coat and scarf, forgoing a hat and gloves. His feet were sure and steady on the paved ground of Manezhnaya Square. Although the square was mostly clear of snow, small patches of ice and muddy rocks of frozen, dirty water lingered here and there.
As he neared the hotel his quarry resided within, Kiyo slowed.
His timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
The tall brunette stepped outside the entrance of the Four Seasons and forged out into the subzero temperatures without a glance left or right.
He narrowed his eyes on her short dress, her legs bare and uncovered except for her calves, protected by a pair of knee-high wedged boots. She turned left, walking with a steady grace, uncaring of the weather. Her conspicuous behavior knew no bounds, apparently. Humans shook their heads at her supposed stupidity as she walked through Moscow without a coat.
They didn’t realize that as fae, although she felt the freezing temperature, it didn’t affect her.
Following, Kiyo tried to keep enough distance between them that she wouldn’t sense him. He’d been told that her kind had a radar for fellow supernaturals.
Impatience niggled beneath his skin. He wanted this part of the job over with.
At first, he thought she was heading north, but then she took another left, leading them east. He had a sneaking suspicion regarding her destination. As difficult as it had been these past few weeks to keep up with her, reports placed Niamh Farren at nightclubs throughout eastern Europe.
Either the fae-borne woman liked to party after playing Superwoman, or she was still playing Superwoman at these bars. As cliché as it was, vampires loved a dark nightclub.
Kiyo knew Niamh was rescuing people from bus crashes and burning buildings, but if she was also playing dark hunter, she was in more trouble than he’d thought. And according to his employer, Fionn Mór, Niamh was already buried under a pile of enemies. The last thing they needed was the Consortium coming after her on top of the Blackwood Coven and The Garm.
Twenty minutes later, he watched from a distance as the brunette disappeared into a club not far from the Kitay-gorod Metro station. Kiyo waited a minute and then followed her in after two huge doormen gave him a once-over. He hated clubs. He much preferred the ruckus of an underground fight.
He immediately felt enclosed by the dark, concrete walls of the venue. Kiyo paid the entrance fee and took the stairs upward to an open landing. Music pounded and pulsed behind a set of double doors guarded by two men as large as the doormen outside. To the right was a cloakroom where clubbers removed their layers of winter clothes to reveal uniforms of mostly jeans and T-shirts.
Relieved to be rid of it, Kiyo removed his coat and scarf and took the ticket he’d need to recover them, already knowing he’d have no time to.
He pulled out his cell and typed a quick message to Val to let him know which club he was in.
Stepping inside the main venue, Kiyo scowled as he tried to focus out the noise of the rock band playing on stage at the north end of the room. It wasn’t a huge space, and it was crammed full of mostly young people. He looked up into the darkness; lights flashed overhead, revealing a U-shaped gallery crowded with more humans.
From the ages of the average patron, the kind of music the band was playing, and the low-cost entry to the club despite its location in the most tourist-driven area of the city, Kiyo would guess this was a local student spot.
Ignoring the jostling of the surrounding bodies, Kiyo grew very still as he attempted to filter out the band and zero in on his prey.
His cell vibrated in his pocket.
Val had replied. He’d hired Val, a local criminal with a reputation for k
eeping his mouth shut, to drop the car where he’d need it. There was a parking lot behind the club, used for its employees and those of the businesses in the surrounding buildings. Val had left the keys on top of the driver’s side tire.
With his exit strategy confirmed, he slid his cell back into the ass pocket of his jeans and pushed into the crowds. With his nose and ears on high alert, he scoured the throbbing space for the fae.
A whiff of familiar caramel caught his attention and his head snapped to the right.
There.
She stood in among the crowd as the humans jumped around her, fists pumping in the air, voices rising with the music as they sang along with the band.
Her base scent was the same as Fionn’s and his mate Rose. Rose’s and Fionn’s individual scents had joined, proclaiming their identity as true mates. The notion of true mates was ridiculous to Kiyo, but he couldn’t deny that such a thing existed—two souls fated to be tied to one another for all eternity.
It sounded like hell.
Niamh’s base scent held the same heady caramel sweetness as the fae couple, but it was overlaid with something spicy. Almost like cinnamon, but not quite.
It was such a distinct scent that it would make it easy to keep track of her from now on when she was in the vicinity.
Niamh had no apparent interest in the band.
Instead, she stared intently at something in the middle of the crowd.
Kiyo followed her gaze, searching … searching … and then he spotted what had her attention.
There was a man harassing a young woman in amongst the revelers, and no one seemed to be paying attention except Niamh. The girl kept trying to push his wandering hands off her body, but he was having none of it. He laughed like it was a joke.
Looking back at Niamh, Kiyo caught the hardness in her expression as a beam of light lit her face.
Fionn had explained that Niamh was psychic. That she’d spent most of her life following her visions. Is that what was happening here? Had Niamh seen something that brought her to this nightclub, to this girl and this man?
Moving toward the couple, Kiyo lifted his head and sniffed the air. They were definitely both human.
But if Niamh was here to stop something from happening, then it was his opportunity to divert her attention. A werewolf stalking a human would be of much more interest to her, no matter her visions. She’d probably even think he was the reason her visions had led her there.
Kiyo reached the struggling couple and took a small amount of pleasure in shoving the man off the girl with just enough strength to put him on his ass. The place was so packed, the prick took down a couple of people in his path. But Kiyo couldn’t be sorry.
Especially when the girl looked up at him with hero worship and interest in her dark eyes.
Well, this is going to be easy.
Her cheeks flushed prettily as Kiyo stared down at her. She was perfect for snaring Niamh in his trap.
The girl leaned onto her tiptoes and he bent his head toward her. Her lips brushed his ear as she said, “Spasibo.”
He nodded and lifted his head. “You’re welcome.”
She frowned.
He searched his memory for the little Russian he knew. “Pozhaluysta.”
Beaming, she grinned flirtatiously. Kiyo took hold of her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He mimed taking an invisible drink with his free hand and raised a questioning eyebrow.
The girl lowered her lashes and nodded coyly.
Kiyo led her through the surging bodies. But not toward the bar at the back of the room. As he moved, he looked for a glowing exit sign. Discerning the green one that read выход was it, he stalked toward it. He felt the girl wrap her other hand around his wrist and give a tug. Glancing over his shoulder at her, he found her frowning warily.
As he offered her a reassuring look, he tried not to appear triumphant as the smell of caramel and spice grew closer. His skin tingled with awareness, the hair rising on the nape of his neck.
Niamh was following them.
Gripping the girl’s hand tighter, he pulled her to the exit door, ignoring the barely there sting of her nails on his skin as she resisted. He yanked open the door and hauled her past him, thrusting her into the darkly lit hallway. Steep concrete stairs led down to a fire door.
The exit door slammed shut behind him and the girl backed away, her eyes round with fear.
Kiyo let the growl of the wolf rumble in his voice as he ordered, “Run.”
She might not have understood English, but she understood his command. She ran. Without hesitation.
She took the stairs three at a time and blasted out through the fire door without looking back.
A shiver cascaded down Kiyo’s spine, shocking him as his claws unleashed, as if his body had a mind of its own. Something satisfying and needful tugged at his gut. It was like the call of a full moon. As her scent tickled him, Kiyo realized the sensation was Niamh drawing near.
Darting into the darkest corner of the hall, he retracted his claws and held his breath as the exit door opened again.
Niamh stepped into the hall, her scent enveloping him.
The hair on his arms rose.
His heart raced.
What the hell?
“Hello?” She turned toward the staircase.
Kiyo knew Niamh was fast. Faster than even him.
It was a risk to take her like this.
But he really saw no other choice.
Niamh tensed, turning her head so she was in profile. Her lips parted in surprise and he knew she’d sensed him.
Too late.
Faster than most werewolves, Kiyo was a speedy blur as he crossed the short distance between them, grabbed her head between his large hands, and snapped her neck.
The fae crumpled, and he quickly swept her warm body into his arms. Her head lolled horribly, but he refused to feel guilty. Guilt was a foreign emotion. Anyway, a fae didn’t stay down long from a broken neck. Or so Fionn and Rose had told him.
As he pushed out into the freezing Moscow night, he searched the parking lot for witnesses and was relieved to find none. They were alone. He rounded the vehicle and swiped the keys off the tire, pressing them to open the car. Remembering how important this woman was to Fionn, Kiyo found himself easing her onto the back seat of the car with a gentleness that did not come naturally.
And was pointless, really, considering he’d just broken her neck.
Before coming for her, he’d torn open the leather of the car bench and lined the inside with pure iron, and then taped the leather back up. If Niamh awoke before he returned to the apartment, the iron would weaken her without hurting her.
Pure iron, Fionn had confessed, was the only weapon on earth that could harm a fae. They did not have pure iron on Faerie, which was why the fae were truly immortal in their own world.
Sometimes he had to remind himself this shit was no longer a fairy tale supernaturals scoffed at or the religion that some of them clung to, to explain their existence.
It was real.
Still, Kiyo reckoned it would never feel truly real unless he, one day, saw Faerie. And if that happened, the world was screwed.
Moving with urgency, Kiyo got in the car and tried not to speed out of the parking lot. The heat from the traffic within the city center melted the snow and ice, but Kiyo drove west at an inconspicuous speed. At this hour the traffic wasn’t bad, but it still took thirty-five minutes for them to reach the apartment in the Solntsevo District.
Niamh had been awake for most of that.
She healed with remarkable speed.
Kiyo knew she was awake because only five minutes into the drive, an almost imperceptible whimper had escaped her lips. Glancing in the rearview mirror angled toward her, he found her lying limp, eyes closed.
But her neck no longer lolled at a hideous angle, and her chest rose and fell ever so slightly. His gaze darted down her sweetly curved body to the long legs that he’d had to bend at the knees to
make them fit on the bench.
Staring back at the road, Kiyo felt every muscle in his body lock with tension. He had no idea if the pure iron sewn into the seat would work.
Eventually, he relaxed. The fact that she hadn’t attacked him the entire ride or traveled out of the car using fae magic was evidence that his strategy was a success.
Parking the car in a dark neighborhood of dangerous reputation, one chosen specifically so if anyone saw him hauling a woman into his apartment, they might be less likely to do anything about it, Kiyo waited a moment. He had excellent vision and even in the car’s dim light, he could make out Niamh’s every feature. She still pretended to be unconscious.
That strange shiver cascaded down his spine again, and his pulse jumped. He frowned. It was unlike him to be anything but calm in a situation.
Reaching into the glove box, Kiyo removed the handcuffs he’d had specially made. They were pure iron but covered in thick leather so they wouldn’t burn her. He’d seen the burn scars on Rose’s wrists from whoever had held her captive. To press pure iron to Niamh’s skin would be tantamount to torture.
And while he wasn’t in the habit of torturing innocents, Kiyo also wasn’t keen on testing the unbreakable contract with Fionn. If he hurt or abandoned Niamh, Fionn would be able to summon Kiyo to him using magic. Though Kiyo was unkillable, he was pretty certain Fionn would be able to imprison him for all eternity or until he found a way to end Kiyo’s life. Kiyo didn’t mind the ending his life part, but he knew with absolute certainty there was no way to kill him.
Unlike every other being on Earth, Kiyo was a true immortal.
Eternity was a terrifying prospect Kiyo avoided the thought of by working as a mercenary and battling in underground fights.
Eternity in prison … he didn’t dare contemplate the hell it would be.
So, he’d do as Fionn asked, even if Niamh Farren turned out to be the biggest pain in the ass. He was being generously compensated to do so.
Kiyo exited and rounded the car to the passenger side where Niamh’s head rested. He didn’t want to take the chance of opening the other side and her using what strength she had to kick him to Timbuktu. Moving at wolf speed, he fastened the handcuffs around her wrists. She couldn’t hide her flinch.