Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  A longing for the same swelled inside her and didn't want to dissipate.

  They got out of the Jeep.

  Mallory's throat thickened at seeing the happiness in her mother's eyes, the hope there. She wished she could be the daughter her mother thought she was, the one who was all human, living a human's life.

  "This is a surprise," her mother said, hugging her tightly, the sudden tensing an indication she'd felt the gun.

  "I needed to talk to you."

  Mallory breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of summer fields.

  She hated the fear and worry her visit was about to bring, but she'd hate it worse if something happened to this family.

  Pulling away, she introduced Matthew then took her mother's hands in hers, squeezed. "Mom, I need you to take Sorcha and Austin and leave Los Angeles. Phillip, too, if you can convince him to go."

  The raw scent of fear invaded her nostrils.

  "What's going on?"

  She had to tell her mother something, enough so she would do as asked. But Mallory's stomach clenched. This was more ammunition for Phillip. More reason for him to get a job elsewhere. Maybe ultimately, this would be the thing that could make her mother agree to move away.

  "A man came to me for help looking for his family. There's a chance the Russian mafia has discovered I'm involved."

  The scent of fear deepened. "Then you come with us."

  "I can't, Mom. That'd just put you in danger. Please, promise you'll leave, that you'll call Phillip and head out of town for a few days, maybe a week."

  She thought it'd be done by then. One way or another.

  Knowing Phillip, there'd be cops on scene within the hour, providing protection until his family could be gotten to safety—and then there would be questions.

  "Promise, Mom."

  A brisk nod was followed by a rib-crushing hug. A whispered, "You and Matthew look good together. He feels right for you."

  Another hug. "Be careful, Mallory," her mother said, the shakiness in her voice contrasting with the fierce strength in her arms. "I can't lose you again."

  You won't. But she couldn't promise that any more than she could bring herself to leave until her mother had disappeared into the house.

  "Where to?" she asked.

  Matthew leaned forward, programming their destination into the GPS, his scent laced again with the burn of jalapenos.

  "Why can't you just walk away and be done with the junkie and Hayden? You know there's going to be spillover on this other family of yours."

  "The junkie's name is Mikhail."

  "Point taken, but the question stands."

  She rolled her shoulders but there was no way to shed the truth. The bonds between the Reaper Lord's sons and her were unbreakable.

  "I can't. Believe me, I've tried."

  "I don't buy that."

  "And I'm not going to waste the energy trying to sell it. If you want out, I can drop you at the apartment and check the lead solo."

  The jalapeno scent faded, Matthew shaking off the angry, remembering the missing girls, the women lured into slavery.

  Mallory checked the map visible on the GPS then pulled the flier she'd gotten from Nathan from her pocket, flipping it to Matthew. It couldn't matter that Nathan would have preferred her to stay away. Not now.

  "I think Amanda Edson's place might be on the way."

  Matthew put the address in. "You're right."

  "We might as well stop there first and try to talk to the mother."

  The call Mallory had been expecting came as she got out of the Jeep a block away from where Amanda Edson lived.

  "I want names," Phillip said, his voice loaded with hostility.

  Her first reaction was to meet hostility with hostility as she had a hundred other times. But it was immediately tempered by the acceptance that he was afraid for his family, that he wanted to protect them as much as she did, that getting him to listen to her when it came to moving away from L.A. meant opening up instead of shutting down.

  "I don't have any names. That's the truth. I'm trying to find them. Davidson sent a man my way, a Russian whose ex-girlfriend and their two daughters were trafficked here. The girls are Sorcha's age."

  Hostility gave way to weighty silence. And that silence stretched between them, but instead of hardening and sharpening to become like the shiny obsidian in her sire's realm, it filled with something else, something she couldn't identify, not given her relationship with Phillip.

  "Bastian Kerr was shanked this morning. He bled out before the guards could reach him."

  She felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She'd hated Bastian, avoided him, fought the bond between them from the time she was allowed to return to L.A.—and still, he'd been a constant, a known, the alpha.

  "Russians?"

  "Seven of them. He took five of them with him."

  "Then you're the one with the name. Who was behind the attack?"

  "I don't know."

  Yet. And when he did know, if that man was later found in a remote location with a forty-five chambered in his heart, what then?

  "When did it happen?"

  "At breakfast."

  Meaning it had probably already been set in motion before the break-in was discovered.

  Her skin chilled, pebbling despite the warm air. They'd made the connection between Iosif and her, then somehow between her and Bastian—unless this was coincidence.

  The guilt sweeping through her negated that possibility.

  News flash, no good deed goes unpunished.

  Even in death, Bastian's voice mocked her, taunted her.

  "Are Mom and the kids gone?"

  "Under escort now."

  She didn't ask to where and he didn't volunteer.

  "Watch your back, Mallory."

  "You too."

  She slipped the cell into her pocket, responded to Matthew's questioning glance. "That was my mom's husband. The brother in prison was jumped and killed by Russians this morning."

  Despite his earlier anger, Matthew pulled her into his arms. "You were close?"

  She laughed, but it was a raw, ugly sound. "I hated him."

  He'd been a stand-in for the Reaper Lord.

  "Make me understand, Mallory."

  She rubbed her lips against his neck, breathed him in. "I wish I could."

  Truth. But that truth was no barrier against reality creeping in.

  Bastian's death changed things.

  "After this I need to swing by the Brass Ring."

  Matthew's arms tightened on her, then released.

  They followed a trail of gang graffiti to the apartment building Amanda Edson had called home. Rap music boomed through open windows, overpowering the hum of air-conditioning units that dripped rust-colored water onto cracked cement.

  "Third floor," she said, checking the flier. "Probably a back unit."

  A shriek of fury came as they approached it, the crash of something hitting a wall, a woman screaming, "You bitch! I've got feelings you know!"

  "Looks like we're about to break up a cat-fight," Matthew said, pounding on the door.

  It was flung open by a blonde with stringy, unwashed hair and no bra. She straightened her back, thrust her chest outward and smiled at Matthew.

  "Are you Sharon Edson?" he asked.

  "Yes. What do you want?" The question came with a bounce of her breasts.

  "We're here to ask you about your daughter."

  Sharon's mouth took on a bitter twist. "You're too late. She's dead. According to my sister the bitch."

  She tried to shut the door.

  Mallory straight-armed it at the same time Matthew did.

  Sharon whirled and stomped away.

  They entered the apartment.

  The sister was blonde with a short haircut. She wore a brown UPS uniform and cradled a battered Raggedy Ann.

  "Have the police contacted you?" Mallory asked as Sharon disappeared into a bedroom but left the door open.

  "No
. Are you here to tell us…" The woman swallowed, blinking rapidly, her face reddening. "Are you here to tell us Amanda's body has been found?"

  Mallory exchanged a glance with Matthew, both of them wondering what the hell they'd walked into.

  "Is there some reason you think your niece is dead?" she asked.

  Amanda's aunt skirted a coffee table loaded with empty beer cans and gossip rags. "I'm Amy. You look familiar. Have we met before?"

  Mallory took a breath. There was no scent memory.

  "No, I don't think so."

  They introduced themselves.

  Matthew repeated the question she'd asked. "Why do you think your niece is dead?"

  Amy's attention shifted to the doorway Amanda's mother had gone through. "I shouldn't have bothered coming here, but I wanted Sharon to be prepared, not that she cares. She gave Amanda's things away weeks ago."

  Sharon was in the doorway in a flash. "I needed the rent I could get for the room. Not everyone can sleep their way into a good job."

  Her voice was a whine. Amy's arm tightened on the doll. "And there are plenty of people who go to work every day and never steal while they're on the job."

  "Bitch!" Sharon took a step back and slammed the door.

  "It would help us help the police if you'd tell us why you think Amanda is dead," Mallory said.

  Amy drew a long, shuddering breath. "We used to be close. More like mother and daughter than—"

  "Bitch!" Sliced through the thin wall.

  Amy crossed her arms, the gesture moving the doll so it was hugged to her heart.

  "Two nights ago I dreamed Amanda died. When I woke I couldn't stop crying. The loss felt so real. And the emptiness…"

  Color rode into Amy's cheeks. "I contacted a psychic. This morning was the soonest she could see me. She asked me to bring something belonging to Amanda, something personal."

  "The doll."

  "Yes. It was Amanda's favorite when she was younger. She couldn't go to sleep without it."

  "The psychic told you Amanda was dead?"

  "She said the police would find her body either today or tomorrow."

  Mallory didn't ask for the name of the psychic. She didn't need to believe in its accuracy to know she had to be prepared to collect the soul.

  "There's a psychic I trust," she said. "Could I borrow the doll, just to be sure?"

  Amy's arms tightened on it. Somewhere along the way a round button eye had been replaced by a square one.

  The muscles in Amy's throat moved up and down. "You'll let me know what your psychic says? You'll get the doll back to me? If Amanda is really… If we bury her, I want her to have it."

  "I'll let you know. I'll make sure the doll is returned."

  Amy hugged the Raggedy Ann then handed it to Mallory.

  She and Matthew left, letting themselves out as tears dripped off Amy's face.

  He waited until they'd cleared the apartment building with its loud music and dying air-conditioning units before saying, "You didn't ask who Amanda's friends were or where she hung out."

  There was a growl in his voice, uneasiness in his scent. She wondered if he was thinking about the items she'd taken from Iosif's room, the palomino horse that belonged to Caitlyn.

  "If she could be found by tracking down her friends, the police would have found her."

  "In a city teeming with runaways? When every detective's desk is loaded with open cases?"

  She halted, the move forcing him to stop and face her. "What are you really asking me?"

  "Are you going to tell me you're the psychic?"

  The hopeful possibility that she could share the truth, that he could learn it, handle it, live with it, was like a burr she couldn't get rid of by scratching. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

  He glanced away. She caught a faint whiff of primordial, ancient bogs.

  "Fuck, I don't know what I believe anymore."

  She breathed in.

  Truth.

  "Well, you don't have to believe I'm a psychic. I'm not that."

  They returned to the Jeep and got in.

  "Brass Ring?" Matthew asked.

  "Yes. I need to tell the others about Bastian."

  He nodded, took her hand and squeezed, sending a wave of heat upward to catch in her throat.

  She didn't pull her hand from his until they'd reached the Brass Ring.

  They entered together.

  Mallory slammed to a halt.

  Matthew stopped next to her.

  A blond played pool alone. His attitude stretched to the doorway as if he'd already laid claim to the building.

  Dane appeared from around the bar. He came toward them, black eyes locked on Matthew, his growl low and deep, a menacing rumble that was a prelude to an attack.

  "Stop it, Dane."

  She put a growl in her own voice, the promise of a fight.

  "You need to leave," she told Matthew, attempting to thrust the car keys into his hand.

  The blond Hound laughed. The pool stick dropped onto the table with a clatter. "Why spoil the fun?"

  He came toward them, gaze speculative, heating as he looked at her.

  "You know this asshole?" Matthew asked, and a part of her reveled in the hint of possessiveness in his voice, the scent of jealousy rising off his skin.

  "No," she answered.

  The blond's hands went to the front of a light blue shirt. His attention remained completely on her.

  He freed the buttons as he walked. "You don't know me yet. But you're going to."

  The shirt parted to reveal a brand worn over his heart, a baying hound unlike the one she wore.

  Matthew's scent changed, adrenaline mixed again with the bog smell of fear rooted in human subconscious.

  The blond's nostrils flared. His eyes shone with the look of a killer who enjoyed his work.

  Mallory stepped between Matthew and the Hound.

  The Hound laughed. "Protecting your pet?"

  Her lips pulled back.

  He laughed again, reached, as if to stroke her face, the pack bond humming between them though he wasn't alpha, wasn't her sire's get.

  Dane lunged, snapped without making contact.

  Amusement doused in an instant.

  "I'm Sabin. We've got business to attend. Bring your pet into the ring room and let him watch us fight, or don't. In the end, it doesn't matter."

  Because Sabin intended to win. Because if he did and became alpha, Matthew would be killed.

  Mallory's heart banged violently. "Go," she told Matthew. "You need to leave. Believe what I told you in the Jeep last night and again this morning."

  You need to run as far and as fast as you can. You need to stay away from us.

  "Save it, Mallory. If you're not giving me a pass to go in with you then I'll wait out here."

  He meant it. She read it in his gaze and scent and body. She fought the urge to plaster herself against his, to touch her lips to his, to wrap herself around him and never let him go.

  Pulse throbbing in her throat, she followed the others into the ring room.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 25

  Sabin immediately stripped out of his shirt and stepped into the challenge circle. He kicked the fight gear, sending it sailing and sliding beyond the inlaid brass.

  Magic beat against Mallory's senses in mounting waves. It was strong, stronger than it had been during the summoning.

  "How long has he been here?" she asked Mikhail, standing close enough their shoulders touched, wishing his body heat could eradicate the soul-deep chill.

  "The door between opened with Bastian's death."

  Hours ago. So he knew what they knew about the man they hunted. He probably knew more. He was her sire's creature if not his creation.

  "Do you recognize the brand?"

  "Yes." Mikhail shuddered. His arm went around her. His cheek rubbed against hers.

  Hayden entered the ring bare chested, a knife in either hand, their long slender blades send
ing Mallory's heart climbing into her throat.

  Sabin pulled similar weapons.

  The two began circling.

  There was a waiting quality in each of them.

  The magic grew stronger, as if from his own realm, their sire served as ringmaster.

  The scent of Hell arrived like an explosion.

  Hayden and Sabin began fighting.

  They lunged.

  They danced with deadly thrust and slash of gleaming blades.

  They feinted and parried, a graceful ballet of violent intent, beautiful movements scored in red with each successful strike.

  A slash opened Sabin's chest deeply enough for blood to flow to his waist.

  He retaliated with a vicious surge that gutted Hayden.

  Mallory whimpered as skin and muscle parted and internal organs bulged and protruded.

  Mikhail's arm kept her from crossing the brass ring.

  Sabin's leg swept out.

  Hayden dropped to the floor and Sabin following him down, knee digging into the wound on Hayden's abdomen, his blade against Hayden's throat. "Do you yield?"

  "Yes," Hayden growled, his eyes and voice vibrating with hate.

  Magic rushed toward the combatants, creating a breeze that lifted and tugged Mallory's hair so it rippled like a black flag.

  The Reaper Lord's power swept over Hayden and Sabin, healing their wounds but leaving them scarred by the battle.

  Sabin stood.

  "Next," he said, arrogance in his stance, in the way he spread his arms.

  Mikhail entered the ring.

  Mallory's throat locked.

  Instead of knives, Mikhail chose to use his body as a weapon.

  They went round after round.

  A punch broke Sabin's nose.

  Another broke his jaw.

  A jab bloodied Mikhail's lips.

  Their breathing became harsher and harsher.

  Bruises blossomed on both of them.

  "Come on," Mallory said. "Come on."

  Sabin laughed. He punched, shattering the boney ridge above Mikhail's left eye.

  The blow sent Mikhail to his knees.

  Sabin's kick to his face flung him backward.

  He yielded rather than die.

  The magic healed him.

  Dane entered the ring, teeth bared and eyes molten amber.

  Sabin turned to face Mallory.

  His smile was a twist of sensuality. His nostrils flared to catch her scent as his hands dropped to the front of his jeans.