Shaking his head, Aiden rolled up into a sitting position, giving her his back as he moved to his feet and headed toward the bathroom. He got rid of the condom, then walked back into the room, grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt and began pulling them on. He didn’t look directly at Liv, but he was eating her up from the corner of his eye. She lay on the floor with her legs folded to the side, arms crossed over her naked breasts, her skin steamy and pink and damp, driving him out of his mind. Making him go as hard as a friggin’ spike, as if he hadn’t just unloaded so violently he was still reeling from the pleasure. He wanted to say something to make it right, but knew that anything that might come out of his mouth at that moment would just be a mistake.
Something had happened to him—broken him open—and now too much was crashing down on him. Lingering fear of what he could have lost earlier that day. Soul-shredding terror at what might happen if he failed to protect them in the future. Not to mention how she would react if she ever learned all the dark, ugly truths about him. And then there was the lust, stronger than anything he could ever have imagined. That biting, twisting need for possession. Somehow it was all wrapped up in a strange, fragile weave of tenderness and longing and things he had no bloody frame of reference for.
It was dizzying, disorienting, and with no idea how to handle it, Aiden sought the only option he could think of. Retreat. Hard and fast and necessary, if he was going to be smart and stop this thing before it snowballed any deeper into madness.
“Where are you going?” Her voice reached out to him across the moonlit room, her gaze burning against his back as he pulled on his boots.
“You take the bed,” he told her. “It’s time for me to head out on patrol.”
It was a bullshit excuse, and he knew she thought the same. But she didn’t argue or bitch or demand that he stay as she grabbed a folded blanket off the foot of the bed, wrapping it around her naked body. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or absurdly irritated by her reaction, which didn’t make any sense, considering he was the bastard running out on her. With each second that passed by, it was getting harder to hold himself together, but he stopped at the door, knowing he owed her the truth before he left. At least about Jamie. “Before I go, I need to tell you something. Something that bastard told me today. It’s about your sister.”
“Monica?”
“Yeah. You see, the way the Mallory magnify emotions,” he explained in a low voice, still not looking at her, “it, uh, affected the Casus who took her life during the kill. That’s why they’re so desperate to get their hands on her daughter.”
Shocked silence, and then a soft, shaky rush of words. “But…b-but Jamie’s not even in her powers yet.”
“Yeah, well, she will be soon.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“For those of us who aren’t human,” he murmured, hating the fear he could hear in her voice, “it’s easy to pick up.”
“Are you telling me that they want to kill an innocent little girl because it will…” She could barely get the words out, not that he blamed her. “What? Give them some kind of sick power high?”
“No,” he muttered, twisting the handle to open the door. Aiden knew what his next words were going to do to her, but he couldn’t be the one to stick around and comfort her. Not tonight. Not after what had happened between them. “The Casus don’t want her power, Liv. They want to kill her because of how it would make them feel. Because to one of those sick sons of bitches, her death would be something that increased their pleasure. Something that made them feel…unbelievably good.”
And with those gruff, ominous words, Aiden walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Prague, Czech Republic
KIERLAND HAD BEEN on the move, working to track down Gideon Granger, since the moment he’d walked out of his hotel lobby late that afternoon. The body count of his fellow Watchmen was stacking up, and he wanted to know what was going on. Despite hitting all the Deschanel haunts in town, as well as Granger’s private apartment in the city, he’d been unable to find the vamp, and his frustration was mounting. Gideon hadn’t been in contact, and Kierland wanted answers to his questions.
It would be dawn in a few hours, which meant that his time was running out if he wanted to find Granger before daybreak. There was one last nightclub that a young group of swan-shifters had suggested he check out, the club’s clientele reportedly more clan than human, and he was making his way there now. Cutting through an alley in one of the seedier parts of town, along the east side of the river, he turned left and headed down a dark, foggy lane that dated back centuries. Stone-faced buildings crowded close on both sides of the cobbled road, the only light provided by the occasional flickering gas lamp, the orange flames casting maniacal-looking shadows against the pale stone walls. Up ahead he could hear the muted beat of some jarring, god-awful modern dance music, and he frowned, finding it hard to believe that Gideon would actually hang out in a club that played that kind of crap, even if he was a vamp.
Making his way down the center of the road, Kierland had covered no more than half the distance to his destination when a low, eerie thread of laughter whispered through the foggy night, raising the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. The childlike sound twittered like bells, but when he looked behind him, there was no one else standing on the cobbled lane with him. As he turned in a slow circle, a thick, rank stench reached his nose, confirming his suspicion that he was finally getting a visit from whatever kind of creature had attacked Aiden on Saturday morning.
“You gonna act like a coward?” he called out, his hard voice echoing off the ancient stone walls of the surrounding buildings. “Or show some balls and come out where I can see you?”
Turning in another slow circle, he struggled to see through the deep, impenetrable fog, but it was like staring through dark, murky water. He could find no trace of the creature…and then he heard a slight rasp of breath just behind his left shoulder. With a quick spin, Kierland found himself face-to-face with something that looked like death warmed over, but only for an instant. Acting as if he’d startled it, the creature immediately scurried back into the foggy darkness.
He’d have thought it had disappeared, except that he could still hear its harsh, erratic breathing. “If you went to the trouble of finding me,” he said in a low voice, “why bother hiding?”
Coming forward once more, the creature slithered through the shadows as if it was nothing more than smoke, its form apparently as vaporous as the one that had attacked Aiden, which meant that he was going to have a hell of a time fighting it. “Granger was right,” Kierland rasped, holding its yellow-eyed stare. “You’re not Casus.”
“Nice,” it lisped, its white lips spreading in a slow smile that revealed jagged rows of sharp-tipped teeth. “One point goes to the vampire.”
As it moved closer, he could see the bite marks that covered its pale, cadaverous skin, the wounds jagged, as if pieces of flesh had been torn away from its body. It was similar in appearance to the creature that Aiden had described, except for a few significant differences. For one, this thing didn’t have any of the Regan characteristics that had been apparent in the other one. Instead, it had dark markings around its slanted eyes, reminding Kierland of the Vassayre, one of the more reclusive clans that seldom came out of the underground caves where they dwelled.
“Not to be rude,” he muttered, thinking that if he could keep it talking, it might reveal something useful, “but you look like something that’s been to hell and back.”
It clapped its chalk-white hands together, its oval-shaped head tilting a little to the side as it scraped out another eerie spill of laughter. “Very good, wolf boy. And a point goes to you, as well.”
“Yeah? You don’t look like a demon.”
“You’re right, of course,” it conceded with a low bow, the moonlight glinting off the small horns protruding from its forehead. “But then, not all demons dwell in hell
, do they? And of course, not everyone in hell is a demon.”
“If not a demon, then what are you?” he asked, shifting his body so that his back wasn’t exposed to the open street, since he didn’t know if this thing was on its own…or if it’d brought company.
“I’m something that has suffered more than any living creature should ever have to endure. Tell me, do you have any idea of the things they do to a body down there?” It glided closer, its feet not even touching the ground. “Some of it’s so depraved, you can’t even imagine.”
“And how did you manage to escape? Far as I know, it’s not exactly an easy place to break out of.”
Another soft thread of laughter filled the air, its smile a sadistic blend of horror and hatred. “There’s so much that the Watchmen don’t know. That you don’t understand. You try to play God and everything gets all topsy-turvy.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he grunted, quickly losing his patience.
“Oh, I can’t make it too easy for you, Lycan.” It seemed to be gaining substance, becoming less vaporous as it slithered through the air, slowly circling his body, careful to remain just out of his reach. “Some things you’re just going to have to figure out for yourself.”
“Then tell me how many of you there are,” he growled, taking an aggressive step forward. He wasn’t going to cower before this bastard, even if he didn’t know how to kill it.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” It laughed, clucking its tongue.
“You won’t be able to take the Merrick, if that’s what you’re after. They’re too—”
“Who said anything about wanting the Merrick?” it asked, cutting him off, its yellow eyes burning with purpose and passion. “It’s the pets we want. You and the other Watchmen. That’s who we’re after. At least to kick things off.”
“And just what do you have against the Watchmen?” he demanded, keeping his hands loose at his sides. He was ready to release his claws the second it attacked, which he expected to happen at any moment.
“What don’t we have against you?” it murmured, slithering along one of the ancient walls, its claws clicking against the pale stone. “I mean, you ratted most of us out to the Consortium. Hunted us down. Killed us. Convicted us to hell. Nosy bastards, the lot of you. Always meddling in things that don’t involve you. You can’t imagine how long we’ve been waiting for payback.”
Kierland jerked his chin toward the creature and snorted. “If you want sympathy, you’re looking in the wrong place. In my experience, things end up in hell because they belong there.”
“Do you want me to tell you how it’s going to be?” it asked, the sharp bite to its words telling him that he’d gotten under its skin. “You see, while the Merrick and the Casus are busy ripping each other to pieces, it won’t be the meek who inherit the earth. It’s going to be us. The ones who feed on misery and pain, thanks to our time in the pit. Once we remove the Watchmen, there’ll be no one to go tattling to the Consortium when we’re naughty. We can kill amongst the various clans, picking them off one by one, making it look like the work of their enemies. And their pride, their conceit, will keep them from asking for help. But they’ll seek revenge. They’ll war, reviving the ancient feuds. And while the world bleeds, my brothers and I will feast on the spoils.”
Ah, there it was. The thing that might finally help them piece this madness together. Kierland and the others had been racking their brains, trying to determine if there was any truth to the claims Ross Westmore had made to the Collective Generals about a time of anarchy coming to the clans. They hadn’t seen how such a thing could be possible, but he could see it now. Could see the chaos that would overtake the clans if this crazy son of a bitch’s words proved true.
It made him furious—the fact that Westmore had known this was coming, while the Watchmen had been left in the dark. But that was the problem with the Consortium. Everyone was so concerned about their political clout that half the knowledge got locked away as secrets, allowing important information to fall through the cracks. Westmore had obviously garnered his information through his involvement with the Deschanel, and it occurred to Kierland that Gideon could be an excellent source of intel, if he were willing to talk.
And are you actually thinking of buddying up with a Deschanel and making a deal?
Kierland curled his lip, but didn’t bother denying it. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he was man enough to own up to the fact that they needed help. There were still too many unanswered questions, the least of which being how this “creature” had escaped from hell, if his claims were to be believed.
“I can see the wheels turning in your brain, Lycan. You’re trying to figure it out, but you won’t.”
“And why’s that?” he muttered, wanting nothing more than to wipe the smile off its smug face.
“Because you’re out of time,” it whispered, and before Kierland could so much as blink, it attacked. It got in a lucky shot that busted his lip on its first charge, but he parried with a swift swipe of his lengthening claws that caught it perfectly across the throat, the same thick, black ooze that Aiden had described spraying out in a wide arc. With a sharp hiss, it came at him again, this time catching him on the shoulder as it sped by, its claws digging deep, though he managed to spin away before too much damage was done. Panting hard, Kierland spun in a circle, trying to pinpoint its location, his fangs descending as the wolf punched against his insides, eager to join the fight. A movement off to his left caught his attention, and he readied himself, striking first as the creature charged through the fog. This time he managed to rip his claws across its white chest before it punched him with a crushing blow to the side of his face, his nose cracking from the force of the impact. Ignoring the blood pouring down his face, Kierland gave a bloodthirsty growl and aimed for its throat again. But the creature was too quick, and he found himself swiping at air.
Readying himself for its next strike, Kierland accepted the frustrating fact that he was getting nowhere fast, but he was determined to find some way of weakening it. No way in hell was he going down without taking this bastard with him.
“Well, this looks like fun.” The smooth, lazy drawl cut its way through the thickening fog, and though he couldn’t see its owner, he recognized the distinctive voice of Gideon Granger.
“Where the hell have you been?” Kierland grunted, addressing the Deschanel while keeping one eye on the creature, which had scurried like an insect up one of the nearby buildings at the sound of Gideon’s voice. Its breath hissed through its jagged teeth as it watched them from above, black ooze still pouring from its damaged throat.
With a dry dose of sarcasm, the vampire said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take that tone with me, considering I’ve been slumming my way through the Deschanel Court for the last two days. That place is so oily, I feel dirty just thinking about it.”
“What’d you learn?”
“Not nearly enough. But I can tell you one thing. Your little friend up there is called a Death-Walker, and he broke out when a portal opened up for one of the Casus souls you and your friends sent to hell.”
Shock reverberated through Kierland’s system like a jolt of electricity. “Are you actually telling me that thing escaped when one of the Markers was used to kill a Casus?”
Gideon gave a slow nod. “You know what they say about how no good deed ever goes unpunished? I’m afraid the analogy is entirely true in this case. And it makes perfect sense, if you think about it,” he murmured. “Whenever a door opens, there’s always a chance that something else might leak out. The portals that open for the fallen Casus lead into the part of hell that holds the tainted souls of the ancient clans. That’s why the Watchmen deaths have each been slightly different. It’s not one race that’s making the kills. The Death-Walkers are made up of souls that come from each of the clans.”
“He’s right, you know,” the creature lisped, shivering as the wind blew down the lane in a frigid blast.
“Did I tell you that this place reminds me of home? It’s so cold it hurts.”
A bitter laugh jerked from Kierland’s lips as he slid the creature, the Death-Walker, a wry look. “Seems to me you’d be used to something a little warmer.”
“Ahh, see, that’s where the living get it so wrong. Hell isn’t a place of heat. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s cold. The kind of cold that sinks down so deep into your bones, you feel the ice moving through your veins. And do you know why?” it asked with another eerie, childlike burst of laughter. “So that we can feel the fire better when we burn.”
“Speaking of burning,” Gideon drawled, pulling a small vial from his pocket and twisting the lid off, “I think this might do the trick.” Lifting his hand, he flung the contents of the vial across the creature’s face, making it shriek with pain. Steam rose from its scorched flesh as it curled its arms over its head, its body losing its definition, as if it were retreating back into a vaporous form. Peeking beneath its arm, it cut one dark, baleful look toward Gideon, then whirled away with a sudden burst of speed, disappearing into the moonlit sky.
“What the hell was that?” Kierland asked, sliding a curious, wide-eyed look toward the small vial still clasped in the vampire’s hand.
“A little holy water,” Gideon explained, balancing the vial on his open palm, “with some salt thrown in.”
“Will it kill him?”
Gideon shook his head, one sable lock of hair falling over his brow as he returned the vial to his pocket. “Unfortunately, no. And don’t ask me what will, because that’s something I’m still trying to find out. What I do know is that the water will cause enough pain to scare them away.”
Kierland lifted his right hand and rubbed at the knots of tension in the back of his neck. “Well, for what it’s worth, I appreciate the help,” he said in a low voice, managing to get the words out with only a trace of a grimace. “So, uh, thanks.”
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