by Lisa Kessler
Ginger scanned the sky, patches of velvety morning blue visible through the fog. No archangel in sight. She stepped onto the rotting porch, happy to find the wood sturdier than it appeared, and tried the front door. The old mahogany opened an inch before it hit what appeared to be a heavy piece of furniture. Wren must have barricaded the entrance.
She pried a moss-covered plank away from a broken window and stuck her head inside. “Hello? Wren?”
Silence.
Wary of the broken glass, she wiggled through the small opening and fell into the kitchen. Her butt went through a rotten floorboard. She cursed and got to her feet.
The air inside the house felt colder than the brisk morning outside. Stray beams of sunlight penetrated the boarded windows, but darkness obscured most of her surroundings. The smell of mold made Ginger cough. She stepped to the base of the stairs.
“Wren?”
No answer. No surprise.
“If you’re hiding in here, you need to leave. Poachers will be here any minute!”
She climbed the stairs to the third level, testing each step before shifting her weight. At the top, she opened the first door on her right. No furniture occupied the large room, but blankets and a tattered pillow lay on the floor. Apples he must have snatched from the orchard and a pile of paperbacks sat nearby. A white down feather longer than her hand lay on the floorboards.
Curiosity took over, and she picked up the feather. She ran her fingers along the edge, the texture sublime enough to put silk to shame. Acid rose in her throat and she let the feather drift to the floor. The money people paid for archangel plumage kept the poachers in business. Religious hysteria gave the murderers a convenient smoke screen.
“Greed knows no boundaries,” she said to herself.
Ginger checked the other rooms, found nothing, and left the house. She hurried around to the back of the property and found a spot to sit where she could see the balcony, which had been stripped of railings. Cold dew on the grass soaked her jeans. Her heart pounded as she strained to see the sky through the lingering fog. What would he look like? If archangels were as breathtaking in person as they were in photos…
Three poachers emerged from the woods and crossed the lawn to the front porch, their gruesome tattoos covered by black jackets, an arsenal of guns and knives strapped to their hips. Ginger crouched lower in the grass, her palms sweating, her mouth dry and sticky. She was damned lucky they hadn’t seen her, that she hadn’t been trapped in the house.
Minutes passed and Ginger stayed still. The poachers didn’t come out. No sound carried from the house. After an agonizing eternity, the last remnants of the fog thinned, and movement drew her attention.
The archangel, moving swiftly, flew in low over the treetops. Wings blurred as he landed on the balcony. The resulting breeze fanned her skin.
Wren’s twenty-foot wingspan framed his body, more striking in person than in any of the pictures she’d seen. No wonder the balcony railings were gone. He found his footing and folded his white wings, the black markings forming a pleasing angular pattern reminiscent of a snowy owl. His flight feathers overlapped behind his legs.
Beautiful, yet purely masculine. Wren’s body was carved from long, elegant muscles that could only belong to someone who needed to lift his body weight in flight. He wore tattered black pants that set off both his feathers and the almond skin of his upper body.
He rolled his shoulders, ran a hand over his dark, spiky hair and reached for the door.
Ginger jumped to her feet, her heart pounding.
“No! Poachers! They’re inside!”
The archangel stared down at her, his eyebrows high in surprise, and spread his wings. He leapt off the balcony and ascended in a flurry of wing movement. Ginger trembled with relief. She watched him fly, mesmerized.
Wren circled high above the house, his wings fully extended as he soared. The sensation of his gaze on her made her breath hitch. Why wasn’t he leaving?
“You goddamned, meddling bitch!”
She whirled around and came face to face with the poacher from the café. Brown eyes wide with rage, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off her feet.
…
Wren dove, his wings angled for maximum speed. The woman below had saved his life. He couldn’t just leave her. The poachers would kill her for her interference.
The woman twisted within the poacher’s grasp and threw a punch. The human let go of her, raising both of his hands to his face. After a brief stumble, she took off full tilt toward the road. Excellent, maybe she’d make it on her own…
Two more poachers came out of the house and cut her off. Sunlight glinted off knives in their hands. The first poacher recovered and closed in behind her.
With practiced precision, Wren soared mere feet over the grass, aiming for the group. The men blocking the woman’s escape pivoted and threw themselves to the ground. Eyes wide, the woman’s jaw dropped and she tried to scramble out of Wren’s path.
Wren seized her jacket and hauled her into the air. Wren’s flight feathers missed the third poacher by inches. The human scum flailed and fell backward into the grass.
Wren beat his wings and carried the woman toward the road. She clung to his neck, her breath rapid and warm on his skin. Her hair hit him in the face and her heady, jasmine scent filled his lungs.
“Do you have a car?” he yelled over the noise of flight.
She nodded vigorously.
“Then go. Fast.” He landed on the dirt road at a run and let go of her. She stumbled and fell. Back on her feet a second later, she disappeared into the trees. Relieved, he ascended and banked to head north.
The first gunshot missed him, but a second pierced the muscular part of his wing. Air rushed out of his lungs in a strangled scream. He fought through the blinding pain, landed behind the abandoned house, and sank to his hands and knees in the tall grass. Warm blood streamed down his feathers.
The poachers closed in, their guns aimed in his direction. Wren braced himself and stood, dragging his injured wing. His body shook and cold sweat broke out over his skin from shock, but he faced the humans with his shoulders squared and his chin high.
Wren’s blood iced over as the poachers encroached. He had one weapon at his disposal, one chance left to walk away alive. He flexed his fingers, preparing to strike the moment they stepped too close.
But the poachers wore gloves, boots, jeans and leather jackets zipped up to their throats. Damn it. If he couldn’t touch their skin, he had no chance. His pain momentarily took a back seat to bone-deep fury.
“Lark sent you.” Who else but Lark would know to tell them to cover their skin, that Wren could leach their life away at will if he touched them? Fully aware of Wren’s macabre talent, the former Guardian had worn leather himself the night he’d murdered Wren’s parents, eighteen years ago.
“Yes.” The nearest poacher held Wren’s gaze, his mouth a thin line, his brown eyes narrow. He stood well out of Wren’s reach, gun aimed and steady.
Wren fisted his hands at his sides and braced himself.
The poacher lowered the gun an inch and cocked his head. “You look just like your old man.”
“You are not fit to speak of my father!”
“Would it interest you to know he’s still alive?”
Wren flicked his uninjured wing. What kind of sick joke is this? “Fuck you!”
The poacher lifted his shoulders. “You’ll see.”
Knots of pain formed in Wren’s chest. His father, Lark’s prisoner for nearly two decades? But alive? Or were these poachers just lying for the sick fun of it?
Another poacher, a short man with a black bandana around his head, holstered his semi-automatic and drew a tranquilizer gun. Wren dodged, but the blood loss left his legs cold and heavy. A dart struck him in the shoulder. His skin burned. He ripped the dart out and backed further away, but his vision blurred and his legs collapsed. With his face in the cold, wet grass, he fought to remain conscious.
The brown-eyed poacher came forward, knelt, and stroked Wren’s outstretched wing as if showing affection to a prized pet.
“Get your damned hands off me!” Wren struggled to speak, his lips as numb as the rest of his body. His vision grew blurry.
His form an indistinct smear against the blue sky, the poacher yanked a feather free and tucked it behind his ear. He fisted his leather-gloved hand and ground his knuckles into the gunshot wound.
Wren clenched his teeth and suppressed a scream. The agony pushed him over the edge, into oblivion.
Keep reading for sample chapters of
BREAK OUT
the first book in the Blood Hunter series by
Nina Croft…
The year is 3048, Earth is no longer habitable, and man has fled to the stars where they’ve discovered the secret of immortality—Meridian. Unfortunately, the radioactive mineral is exorbitantly expensive and only available to a select few. A new class comprised of the super rich and immortal soon evolves. The Collective, as they’re called, rule the universe.
Two-thousand-year-old Ricardo Sanchez, vampire and rogue pilot of the space cruiser, El Cazador, can’t resist two things: gorgeous women and impossible jobs. When beautiful Skylar Rossaria approaches him to break a prisoner out of the Collective’s maximum security prison on Trakis One, Rico jumps at the chance. Being hunted by the Collective has never been so dangerous–or so fun!
Chapter One
Rico hurled himself behind the huge trunk of a tree and stood, back pressed against the rough bark as the missiles whizzed past.
An arrow thwacked into the wood behind him, and every muscle in his body tensed. He reached gingerly around and snapped it off. In the dim light, he held the shaft to his face and cursed loudly—wooden arrows. It was almost as though they were expecting him.
“Goddamn heathen peasants.” He might as well be back in the Dark Ages.
In the distance, a pack of hounds bayed for blood. His blood. And they weren’t getting it.
He braced himself and peered around the trunk, through the thick stand of trees, and spotted the crimson glow of a hundred torches not too far in the distance. Breathing in, he caught the oily scent of burning pitch.
A triumphant roar filled the air. The hounds must have picked up his scent.
Rico cursed and darted off again, weaving through the dense forest with blurring speed. He could outrun the mob and the hounds, but it was a damn poor way to end an evening.
When the sound of voices faded behind him, he slowed down and finally came to a halt. Time to get the hell out of there. Leaning against a tree, he switched on his comm unit.
“What is it?” Tannis sounded irritated, and Rico frowned.
“I need picking up.”
“It will have to be later—I’m busy.”
He cocked his head to one side, listening for the sound of the mob, judging its distance. His pursuers would be on him soon. Tannis had better get unbusy and fast.
“Tannis, stop whatever it is you’re doing, bring my goddamn spaceship, and pick me up.”
She was silent for a moment. “I’ll think about it.”
The line went dead. He stared at the comm receiver on his wrist. She’d cut him off. Gritting his teeth, he imagined the pleasure of tossing her mutant body out of the ship’s airlock. Only first, he had to get back to the ship. He pressed his finger down until he heard the line open.
“What?” she snapped.
“Tannis, are you aware that I’ve rigged The Cazador to blow if I don’t input a unique numerical code every twenty-four hours? Come and get me or the whole ship goes up.”
“Good try, but I don’t believe you. You don’t think that far ahead.”
He took a deep breath. “Do you remember that time last year?”
“What time?”
“The time I saved your worthless life. At great personal risk to myself.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So bloody well reciprocate.”
A shaft of burning pain shot through his leg and he jumped, then stared down in disbelief at the arrow sticking out of his calf, an inch below the knee. “I’ve been shot,” he said.
“Shot? By what?”
“By a big fucking arrow. Get down here. Now.”
He yanked the arrow from his leg and flung it to the forest floor. “Or you’re fired,” he added and shut off the connection.
His pursuers were close now, so close he could hear the fierce crackle of flames mixed with the rise and fall of excited voices. He ignored the pain in his leg and took off through the trees again. A few minutes later, he skidded to a halt.
Straight in front of him, the land fell away abruptly. He peered over the edge. A long way below, water roared. A lot of water. A lot of cold water. He hated cold water. He searched the sky for any sign of Tannis, but a thick layer of cloud obscured the moons and he saw only darkness. He jammed his finger onto the comm unit. “You here yet?”
“Have a little patience. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Great, just great. The problem is, I might not be here in five minutes.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. Just hold on.”
He stared over the edge into the dark, turbulent water. “Hold on to what?”
A low snarl sounded behind him. With a sigh of resignation, he turned to face his pursuers. They emerged from the shadowy tree line, torches held in front of them, before fanning out to form a semi-circle around him.
One of the hounds crept toward him, belly close to the ground, growling softly. It reminded Rico a little of the dogs back on Earth, probably even had some real dog DNA in there somewhere. Rico growled back, baring his fangs. The animal got the message, turned tail, and ran.
A tall man stepped forward to stand at the center of the group. He wore the long black robes of a priest, and Rico groaned. Not heathens after all. Bloody religious fanatics. He should have expected it.
When man had fled to the stars nearly a thousand years ago, the old religions had gone into an abrupt decline. By the year 2500, they had all but vanished from the universe, and good riddance as far as Rico was concerned.
But that had changed with the discovery of Meridian.
A rare, radioactive element with the ability to bestow immortality on those lucky enough to afford its exorbitant price, Meridian heralded the evolution of a new class—the Collective. Super rich and virtually indestructible, the Collective quickly gained power. Now, they ruled most of the civilized universe.
But while not everyone could afford Meridian, everyone wanted immortality, and the old religious beliefs had gained a new popularity. The Church of Everlasting Life offered a cheaper, if less reliable, alternative with its promise of an afterlife in paradise.
On these isolated outer planets, the Collective’s influence was slim and the Church took advantage of that and jumped in to fill the gap. A shudder of loathing ran through him. Rico had no feelings either for or against the Collective, but he hated the Church as only someone who had lived through the Inquisition could.
“Son of Satan,” the priest cried, and the mob behind him roared.
Rico rolled his eyes. “We’re not actually related.”
A second man stepped forward, dragging a girl with him, and the priest grabbed her hair, tugged back her head. In the flickering light, Rico saw the puncture wounds in her ivory neck and had a flashback to the sweet taste of her blood.
“I have been ordained by God,” the priest said, “for the punishment of the wicked and the eradication of evil.”
“Get a life,” Rico muttered. “Look, it’s honestly no big deal—the marks will heal in a couple of days. You won’t even know I was here.”
His words didn’t seem to impress them. Of course, the Church was rarely impressed unless they were slaughtering innocents, and Rico was the first to admit he hadn’t qualified as an innocent in numerous lifetimes. If ever.
Five men stepped forward, and Rico watched them warily. They raise
d their bows, cocked their wooden arrows. Drew them taut and aimed them straight at his heart.
Rico glanced over his shoulder at the icy water below. He was going to have to jump. “Shit.”
He tensed himself, ready to dive over the edge, just as the sky filled with noise and light. His gaze shot upward. He released his breath. The shuttle hovered above them, and a laser beam shot out, cutting the ground between him and the archers. A voice boomed from the open hatch.
“Lower your weapons.”
But they were already edging backward. The shuttle flew lower, almost touching the ground, and Rico lunged for the open hatchway. “About bloody time.”
The mob was almost back in the trees now, but at the last moment, the girl pulled free and raced toward the shuttle. She stared up at them, imploring. “Take me with you, Rico.”
He looked at Tannis, raised an eyebrow.
“No freaking way.” She reached across and slammed her palm to the door panel.
Rico had a last brief glimpse of the girl. He hoped she’d be okay, that her people would treat her as a victim, though she’d hardly been reluctant.
“What took you so long?” he growled as the hatch slid shut behind him, and the shuttle sped away from the planet.
Tannis swiveled her chair to face him. She ran a hand through her short, dark hair and raised one brow in accusation. “Been eating the natives, Rico?”
“Dios, you go out for a snack and all you get is hassle. I’ve got to eat.”
He hobbled across and sank into the seat next to her, rubbing his leg and tossing Tannis a wounded look. His ship’s captain was no Florence Nightingale, but dammit, his leg hurt. “They shot me.”
“Aw, poor baby.” She uncoiled her lean body from the chair and came to stand over him, her cold, yellow eyes looking him over. Reaching down, she tore open his pants leg. The bleeding had already stopped, the wound healing over. “You’ll live.”
He frowned. “So what kept you?”