by Jory Strong
It sucked the breath from Mallory. It required sustenance first, sending pain burning through her with the slice of the knife across her forearm.
It pulled blood from her in a wide wash of red that coated the soul jar she'd set on the circle and splashed onto the brass to disappear like an offering made to their sire.
Caitlyn formed, an image of grief with her knees held tight against her chest by arms locked around her legs. Her body rocked. Tears streamed across emotion-bruised features.
"He killed Bailey. He killed Bailey."
She was unaware of them, and without bone or ash or hair or proximity to the corpse, they couldn't change that. The tenor of Hayden's voice altered, indicating a second summoning, demanding a second offering of blood.
Mallory cut. Bled.
Bailey Morsey formed. But with nothing belonging to her, their hold on her was more tenuous than it had been with the Jane Doe. She was little more than pale wisps of color.
Hayden's chant turned into a wind driving the two souls toward Mallory. And though she sensed their resistance, the blood-coated jars overwhelmed, enticed them into the trap, first Bailey and then Caitlyn.
Fire sparked from the candle Hayden held to the one in the center then jumped, traveling the circle. It reached Mallory, trapping the dead with hot wax and cauterizing the slashes in a sear of flesh.
She pushed away from the circle, exhausted, nauseous, hurting.
She curled as a Hound would.
Dane joined her, his back against hers.
In a little while she'd go home.
If she thought she could crawl into Matthew's bed, she'd go now.
That brought a smile. It brought the beginning of a dream she hoped wouldn't turn into a nightmare.
* * * * *
Caleb crouched in the alleyway next to the spot where Mallory's dog had ripped out a man's throat. He'd thought it worth the risk to try and get an ID on the dead Russian, but now…
His heart beat unevenly. His thoughts kept rushing to that instant Dane lifted his head, to the unnatural glow of red eyes, to Mikhail's voice, the sound of ritualistic chanting like that at the Satanic temple.
Long day. Overactive imagination. Too much weirdness. But it didn't settle him.
There was ash everywhere, as if first a body had burned so hotly that no trace of bone remained, and then an unnatural wind had swept into the alley.
An incendiary device could explain this. But the hum along his nerve endings didn't quiet.
He thought about the woman who'd bee-lined to him at the bar, who'd been his babysitter at the cemetery. Had they made him? Were they playing him?
Not Mallory. It felt too real with her.
But her brothers? Playing with someone they'd made prey? Planning to kill him in the end?
* * * * *
Chapter 23
Vadim surveyed the desks that had been stripped of their computers, and behind them, the cabinet drawers his mother had opened. There were gaps visible in the files.
The sight of them had his heart pumping like an enraged bull's, his breath heaving in and out through his nostrils.
Someone would pay for this. And then they would die.
His mother's lips were tight, her spine straight, daring him to treat her as he would one of his whores, to strike her for convincing him to keep records, to think of himself as a businessman and treat the women brought here as assets to be kept track of, like cuts of meat in a butcher's shop.
She was safe from his anger because his memory of his drunken father was so strong. If not for her, he might never have escaped that grinding poverty. She had scrimped and saved. She had helped him come to America.
He rolled the phone in his hand, over and over and over, his grip tightening on it as he imagined the give of flesh, the crushing of a throat.
He did not bother calling Pyotr again. Three times he had called. Three times there had been no answer, no return call.
Vadim's knuckles whitened on the phone. He did not need this trouble, not now, with the scripts in Linden's hands and their association cemented by last night's gift.
The smart thing would be to sell the remaining girl, to wash his hands of her. She would bring good money. He could send her to the East Coast where she would soon disappear completely.
The young ones lost their value as they lost their freshness. They died. Drugs. A violent customer. Disease. If they weren't sold to someone who used and killed them.
He looked again at the missing files, the missing computers. Yes. That is what he would do.
Tomorrow he would send her away. He would eliminate the risk, the threat to his dreams that keeping her posed.
A call was all it would take.
He would make that call today, initiate a negotiation though he would be clear that another party had expressed interest and the sale could not yet be finalized. He would hold off disposing of her for a day because Linden might want the sister.
He did not wish, so soon in their relationship, not to be able to deliver. He turned slightly as the door opened. Oleg entered the office, grunted softly at seeing what had transpired.
Vassily's advice, to send a message by killing Mallory Cassel's brother had been sound, but now Vadim regretted taking it. The woman was behind this. There could be no other explanation. Though Iosif Gruzinsky had been dealt with, she had not ceased working for him.
I think he will be great trouble, Oleg had said, and his words had become truth.
"Speak to Vassily about this Mallory Cassel," he told Oleg. "Vassily knows of her family. He can help you find her. I want her brought to me."
Oleg silently cursed. He should have killed the woman and the man and the dog when he had a chance.
Perhaps she could be made to run in front of a car or tumble down stairs or fall from a high place as she tried to escape him. And if not, he would have to ensure that she couldn't talk, couldn't use her hands to write.
He did not want Vadim to learn about the DVDs. He did not want to reveal that he'd allowed Iosif to follow him to the strip club and then the apartment, that such a loser had been able to trick him.
Vadim would not care about the taking of the movies. He was not a man to care if another man took great pleasure in urinating on women. But now because of Iosif and this woman, there was a chance that Vadim's business would come to the attention of the police.
He could not allow that to happen. He could allow nothing of this to point toward his own failure.
If it became necessary, he would speak to Vassily. But he did not trust the lawyer. To curry favor, Vassily would arrange for the woman to be taken if he knew that Vadim had given the order.
"I will hunt this woman now."
He started to turn toward the door but was stopped by Vadim saying, "She did not act alone when she came here. Last night a man went to the club where Iosif Gruzinsky also went. He asked about him. He asked about the woman and the little girls."
Trouble and more trouble. But it would be dealt with.
In front of him Liliya, always pale, now looked like a ghost, a corpse.
And maybe she would become one.
Someone would pay for this invasion, this theft, this disrespect. Vadim's pride would require it.
Oleg did not want it to be him.
From behind her desk, Vadim's mother addressed her son. "A man came here yesterday. Liliya talked with him. Did she tell you this?"
Her eyes blazed with triumph. She did not like sharing the office with Vadim's latest mistress. She did not like the lessening of her importance or her status when it came to running this business for her son.
Vadim's hand lashed out. His fist struck Liliya's cheek with enough force to send her staggering sideways. "Describe this man."
She trembled but did not dare return to the desk to steady herself. "He had hair to his shoulders. It was black, his eyes brown. He wore a biker's jacket and a stud in his right ear. He said his name was…"
Oleg tuned her out. This
was the man he should have killed, the pathetic American who took orders from a woman, who allowed her to think she was his better.
Liliya finished speaking. Cowered, waiting for the next blow.
She flinched when Vadim lifted his hand, but it was only to show her his phone. "Did he look like this woman?"
"No."
"Then the man who came here is not the man who came to the club. From Pyotr's description, I think that man is related to the woman."
"He has already been dealt with?" Oleg asked.
"Nyet." Rage boiled in the word. "The man left the club. Pyotr followed him. Now Pyotr does not answer my calls."
"I will question the whores at the club. Then I will look for both men. They will be with the woman, or she will lead me to them."
Vadim's hand lashed out but this time to land between Oleg's shoulder blades in a gesture of appreciation. "I can count on you to deliver what you promise. Kill the men. Bring the woman to me."
Perhaps he would. Perhaps there was no need for her to die in an accident. If she couldn't speak, couldn't write—not that Vadim would bother communicating with a woman that way—she would be useless, not worth the cost of food to keep her alive so she could service men who bought pleasure five and ten dollars at a time.
Yes, that would be the way to handle it, kill the men but let Vadim find pleasure with the woman. Vadim would deal with her quickly, working his rage out with his fists, his pride restored.
* * * * *
Caleb watched through his apartment window as the same old lady who'd staked out Mallory's apartment the morning before climbed into the same white car, camera in hand.
Guess she didn't realize Mallory hadn't brought the dog home last night.
His amusement died on the thought. He rubbed the back of his neck, but if there was comfort to be had, it was in knowing she hadn't gone anywhere other than the Brass Ring after they'd visited the pedophile. Or at least, she hadn't gone anywhere after he'd checked out Dane's kill site and then watched the bar until tailing her home. That much he could swear to.
He picked up the dog tag that'd been waiting for him in the apartment. He ran his thumb along the edge. The silver chain swayed as he imagined putting it on Mallory.
Christ. He wanted her and that want got stronger with every kiss, every touch, every moment in her company, hell, with every thought of her.
It wasn't just physical attraction. He'd been blinded my lust before, during high school. Once during college. Never since.
Mallory was the perfect blend of soft and tough, feminine and kick-ass. It wasn't the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of murder that was driving her, it was concern for people she'd never met, a moral compass that pointed to what was just even if the law didn't deem it righteous.
His cell lay on his thigh. Tapping the face several times got him to the tracker's app, hidden in a game he'd downloaded from a link left along with the package.
A red dot located his apartment. A tap on it and an address appeared, along with coordinates. Another tap and he'd have a compass guiding him to the tracker.
His attention returning to the tag, his eyes traced the message there. Freedom Does Not Come Free. A reminder, too, that he was on the job, that despite the desire for Mallory, the ache to save her from herself, when this was done, she'd be in jail and he'd be out from living undercover.
He fisted the tag then put it on, shutting down the app. He didn't intend to let Mallory slip away from him today.
* * * * *
Too late. Too late. Too late.
Mallory woke with the haunting refrain echoing in her mind, her heart pulsing in rapid, knife-sharp beats.
The sheets were twisted around her like a snake's slick coils. She kicked her way out of them, her skin sticky and clammy.
She showered, scrubbing her hands over her face. Nightmare images from her dreams remained like jagged puzzle pieces.
Her heart thumped painfully and she met that pain, pressed her knuckles into the place above it as if she could make the ever-present fear go away with her fist. She had to tell her mother it wasn't safe to stay in Los Angeles, even if it would give Phillip more cause to take his family away permanently.
She toweled dry and dressed. Went to the gun safe, her attention catching on the small stuffed giraffe that lived on top of it.
Phillip had won it for her, at Sorcha's insistence since she hadn't been with them on that vacation. She and Dane had been busy hunting skips, trying to build a reputation and make a go of their business.
She lifted the giraffe, polished a dark eye with her thumb. Sorcha had one just like it, the first one Phillip had scored at an arcade game, impressing his daughter so much that Sorcha had come back from vacation intent on seeing how her older sister's shooting skills compared to her father's.
Hopefully they'd never know the answer to that one.
Mallory set the giraffe down, hand lingering on it, heart swelling at remembering what it had been like that day Sorcha was born, when she'd held that tiny bundle of helplessness in her arms and realized that despite the years in Hell, she could still feel love and be overwhelmed by it.
She'd felt the same when Austin was born.
Could she really take their father from them, if the only other option was to let him put them at risk by moving them into territory claimed by another Reaper Lord? Could she really hurt them that deeply when she loved them so much?
She'd lived with the fear for so long…
But today its grip was somehow loosened. Why?
She shrugged on a shoulder harness then slid the gun into its holster. Leaving the bedroom, her gaze snagged on the portrait done at her mother's insistence, four blondes and her, so obviously different than the others, but today that wasn't the difference that seemed important.
Half-brothers had come and gone in Hell. Only Mikhail and Dane had been a constant in her time there.
What if she only had one sister? What if the Reaper Lord only had one daughter?
You have advantages your brothers will never possess, Rahmiel had said.
Let's just say I'm attracted to the unusual, he'd told her, amusement in his voice and eyes and smile.
Her heart skipped and raced, finally calmed. She might be unique but it didn't change what the Reaper Lord meant for her to become, a cold-blooded killer. It didn't change what would happen if they failed to find the man he wanted to hunt. It didn't lessen the need to find Iosif's missing family and Amanda Edson.
Mallory stepped out of the apartment.
Matthew sat on the hood of the Jeep.
His smile warmed like heat off the desert, easing the burden and turmoil of her thoughts. "Dane would bite you for doing that if he were here."
"Your dog doesn't need an excuse. He doesn't like me."
"He's protective."
Matthew slipped off the Jeep and met her several feet away from it. His hands settled on her sides and slid downward to her hips, sending hot curls of need spreading through her like sinuous, ethereal smoke.
What was it about him that drew her? What was it about him that made her want to ignore impossibilities?
"Ready to pursue my lead?" he asked, brushing his lips against hers. "Or did Hayden come up with a new one?"
Time was running out, whittling down the options. They had today. Tomorrow until darkness fell and the Hunter's Moon rose.
She wanted desperately to believe there was time, to save Amanda Edson, to save Zinaida and Kseniya and Viktoriya. "What's your lead?"
Matthew's hands moved around, drawing her closer. "You get it on one condition. Take the offer or leave it. You don't ditch me."
"Hayden's warning aside? My warning?"
"I can take care of myself."
Not against them. Not against her—if she let this thing between them deepen, if he betrayed her.
The gun she wore grew heavy and cold. She could feel the phantom weight of the one Bastian had used as if it were already clasped in her hand.
She slid her hand across Matthew's chest, pressed it above his heart, its steady beat and his heat burning away the chill. "I have a condition of my own. I won't ditch you, but you don't get automatic entry into the ring room. That's on my say so. Mine. The more you know, the more dangerous it is for you."
He rubbed his cheek against hers, sending a shiver of desire sliding downward. "I've been in dangerous situations before."
His warm breath caressed her ear, making her fight against pressing her body to his. She tried to pull away but he didn't let her escape.
His mouth took hers in a fierce kiss.
Then another. Their tongues dueling, their bodies touching, and she clung, burying reality for minutes at a time in his rich scent. Longing building, that he could know the full truth, that he could accept it. The strength of that longing finally enough to push away from him.
"What's your lead?"
"I'll tell you when we get there."
"Don't trust me?"
His lips firmed and something like regret moved through his eyes. "It's not as simple as that."
"Throwing my own words back at me?"
"Yeah." Jalapeno scent came with memories of her shooting Mikhail up the night before, his anger making her heart ache.
"I've got a stop to make before we check out your lead," she said.
He got in the Jeep, the smell of grasshoppers and swirling leaves replacing jalapeno. "Where to?"
"My mother's house."
* * * * *
Chapter 24
Mallory parked in front of the blue adobe house.
Her mother emerged, the smile and quick, light steps saying she must have been in one of the front rooms and spotted Matthew.
Mallory groaned. "There's probably not much point in telling you to stay in the Jeep."
He laughed, a rich, toe-curling sound. "She's trying to get you married off?"
"Something like that."