Tribal Law

by Shannon Curtis

  He remembered the instant when she’d let her instincts surface. His lawyer was a bit of a vamp—but only a bit. He’d seen her fangs. Not quite as prominent as a full-blood vampire, they were more delicate in size and shape, but no less lethal, considering she’d faced off against two werewolves. Oh, and the talons …?

  “Oh, you’re awake. About time,” she snapped, glancing his way. Her eyes were nearly brown again, only a faint glow remaining to add fire to her glare. “Do you know how hard it is to get a six-foot-plus deadweight into a damn hatchback?”

  “What happened?”

  “We nearly died, damn it. Why didn’t you hit her when you had the chance?”

  He levered himself up in the seat, pulling his feet into the car. “Because I didn’t have any reason to,” he said as he fumbled with the seat release, wincing as the backrest jerked upright.

  “No reason? She was about to rip your throat out.”

  “She’s just angry because I killed her mate.”

  He turned at the choking noise, and she lifted her hand from the steering wheel for a moment, shaking her head. “Don’t say any more, Max, for God’s sake. Not yet.”

  “My name’s Ryder.” He turned to look out the window and frowned. “Where are we?” The car was heading down a highway and he could vaguely make out the shape of dark mountains against the pale grey sky. He didn’t see anything familiar in the landscape, though.

  “We passed Lake Selwyn about an hour ago. Should be coming up to Summercliff in a few minutes. We’ll stay there for the day, then get back on the road in the evening.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, considering the welcoming committee that was waiting for us at your car, I can’t imagine the reception you’d get at your place. I’m guilty by association, so I don’t think my place would be any better. This is part of the Nightwing territory, so we should be safe enough.”

  She had a point. Wolves would be reluctant to trespass into vampire territory. He took a deep breath. He’d known he was a marked target—hadn’t realised it would affect his lawyer, though. Regret tightened in his gut at what he’d already put her through—and what was likely to come their way.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Should have thought of that before you killed an alpha prime.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” he retorted, then sighed. Damn. He knew he was contradicting himself, but he was confused as all hell. One of his patients had died under his care—there was no getting away from that. But he sure as hell hadn’t committed murder. He didn’t know what had caused Jared’s death, but he hadn’t wanted to kill the werewolf. “I didn’t want him dead.”

  “You don’t need to convince me, Max. My job is to defend you whether I believe you or not.”

  She met his glance briefly, her eyes narrowed and darkening to a deep black, as though she was trying to peer inside his skull. He ignored the sting he felt at her words. He’d heard a lot worse in the cells, and nobody had believed him there, either. Her gaze dropped to his shoulder, and the golden glow in her eyes flared briefly before she blinked and looked away. He looked down. His shirt was torn and bloodied. And he was sitting in the car with a vamp—yet felt no threat. Interesting. Belatedly he realised she was driving as the sun started to glimmer across the tops of the mountains. He frowned.

  “Are you okay? Shouldn’t we find someplace for you to take cover?” He’d seen what happened to vampires caught in the sun.

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” A sign appeared on the road ahead, pulling her attention, and she took the turnoff into Summercliff.

  “You’re a daywalker?” That was rare. Every moment he spent in this woman’s company just made him more intrigued. What was she that she could withstand a touch of sunlight? He found himself wondering what other touches she could withstand …

  “Does this tin can have chains?” She hadn’t answered his question.

  He blinked, trying to shake off the mental images that were causing his blood to heat. “Hey, Blanche is a beauty, don’t insult her. Chains are in the boot. Why?” She had to mention chains. Visions of her chained to a bed, her eyes glowing as he caressed her. What would she look like out of that prissy little outfit?

  Vassiliki turned to him for a moment, her mouth agape, then she finally blinked. “You’re a dentist, you drive a hatchback, and you named it Blanche. I don’t think you could possibly be any more of a nerd.”

  His eyebrows rose, successfully distracted. Nobody had actually called him that before. At least, not to his face. “Why do we need the chains?” he repeated, this time his voice almost a growl.

  “We’re going to need them where we’re going.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Alpine territory.”

  * * *

  Vassi glanced around the motel room, wrinkling her nose. The once-cream carpet looked grey wherever it wasn’t stained. The brown curtains reeked of cigarette smoke, and the bedspread on the one queen-sized bed in the room looked like a clown had thrown up all over it.

  But when she had pooled her available cash with her client, this was about as much as they could afford. She’d had to use the corporate credit card, too, but hopefully the small amount wouldn’t set off any alarm bells in the finance department just yet. While they were an equal opportunity employer, Campbell, Singh & Partners was predominantly staffed by werewolves. She crossed to the TV and turned it on, surfing the channels until she found a twenty-four-hour news station, and felt the usual sense of comfort as the low hum of conversation played like a soothing soundtrack in the background.

  “I’ll take the floor,” he said from behind, and she turned to catch a fleeting expression of distaste cross his face as he gazed down at the filthy carpet.

  “Thanks, Max.” She sure as hell wasn’t about to share a bed with an alpha killer, no matter how smoking hot he was.

  She gestured to his shoulders. “We should get you cleaned up. That has to hurt.” They’d stopped off at a pharmacy on the outskirts of town where she’d bought some supplies—along with ‘I love Summercliff’ t-shirts for both of them.

  His shirt was torn, ripped in shreds across his shoulders, and the scent of his blood, sweet and seductive, with a hint of unfamiliar spice, called to her. For now, she could resist the temptation, but the sooner she got him patched up, the better for both of them. He frowned at her. She assumed he was noticing her attire. Her dress wasn’t much better. Damn it, it was her favourite power outfit for work.

  “Why do you do that?” he asked, his voice muffled by fabric as he pulled the shirt off over his head.

  Thank God his face was hidden. Vassi gaped at every exposed inch of skin. His chest was sharply delineated by corded muscle, his stomach banded with a smooth, sleek six-pack. No eight. No—good lord, more? She raised her hand before she realised what she was doing, and had to snatch it back before she touched him. She pretended to casually play with her hair instead.

  She’d dated a few werewolves—and maybe vampires, a jerk of a bear, changelings and an angel or two—in her time, and most of them sported chest hair. The man who stood in front of her was all smooth golden skin, apart from the alarming number of faint, silvery scars criss-crossing his body like the coloured veins in a block of carved marble. Quite simply, he was beautiful. She wasn’t bothered by his imperfections—she had her own, after all, and perhaps it was his imperfections that made him damn near perfect.

  “What?” Had he said something? Was she supposed to be talking? Damn, look at that chest. A pale slash marred one pectoral muscle. It must have hurt like the blazes at the time, but it had the light sheen of aged scar tissue. Her gaze followed the line. It stopped just short of a dusky nipple. She licked her lips as it pebbled in the cool air of the room, then bit her lip. Damn, she needed to get back in the dating scene as soon as she could shirk this nightshift. She was getting all hot and bothered over a client, for heaven’s sake. A lying, murdering client. Maybe Seraphina could fix her up on a blind date
.

  He hissed as he peeled the cloth where it had stuck to cuts on his shoulders, then bunched the fabric up into his hands and tossed it at the bin in the corner. The bunch and flex of his muscles was mouth-watering.

  “You called me Max. My name is Ryder.”

  What? Oh, right. They were supposed to be holding a conversation. She picked up the first aid kit from the bed and walked toward the ensuite. “You seem more like a Max to me.”

  “But I’m not. My name is Ryder.”

  The mental fog hazed over his words. She was hopeless with names. Her mind threw alternate, more fitting names at her, to the point it obscured the person’s real name. A quirk of her gift, her mother had told her. But she didn’t need to mention that to all and sundry. Let them think she was hopeless with names, or just plain rude. She put the toilet lid down and gestured for him to sit while she readied the first aid supplies. She had to distract herself. With his dark hair, pale blue eyes and lips made for kissing, he looked like wicked sin incarnate.

  Then she turned and her gaze was drawn to that impressive chest—and his wounds. She had a weakness for blood, but her human compassion won out. She winced. “Oh, Max, that’s got to hurt.”

  He shot her an exasperated look as she dampened the washcloth and gently cleansed his cuts. They were silent for a while as she gingerly wiped away the congealed blood and dirt. Surprisingly, they’d survived an encounter with two werewolves. That was rare, and she still wasn’t quite sure why the tawny lycan had retreated once she’d knocked him unconscious against the car. She wet the washcloth, wrung it out, then cleaned his shoulders and chest. Once she got control over the blood temptation, it was quite easy.

  Her hand glided over the smooth pectoral muscle, tracing the scar, and she watched as his skin pebbled with goosebumps under her cool ministrations. She wanted to lean down and lick his nipple. Vassi swallowed as heat warmed her cheeks. She looked up and met his gaze. He was watching her watch him. She drew the cloth back up to his neck, smoothing it over his shoulder, feeling his gaze on her like a hot flame.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” she said huskily as she wet the cloth again, wrung it, and went back to gliding the cloth over his skin. His gorgeous, golden skin. She really should get to work on those cuts. She ran the cloth from his shoulder down over his arm, skimming across a bulging bicep, then blinked. He had no cuts on this arm, she just wanted to stroke him. She tossed the cloth onto the counter and started digging into the first aid supplies.

  “What do you want to know?” His voice seemed husky, too.

  She shrugged. She just wanted him to talk to distract her from groping him. “Why did you become a dentist? No, wait,” she said, holding up a cotton ball. “Why did you become a miscreant dentist?”

  He frowned. “I hate that term, you know?”

  “Dentist?” She nodded with a shudder. “I hate that, too.”

  “No, I mean miscreant. Miscreatures. There are so many of us … vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, changelings—perhaps we’re not miscreatures at all.”

  She arched an eyebrow as she upended a bottle of antiseptic on a cotton ball. “What are you? You seem human.”

  “I am, mostly.”

  She pressed the cotton ball to one of his cuts. He didn’t even flinch. “Mostly human? How does that work?”

  “Well, you’re not a full vamp, are you?” His hand rose and he lightly clasped her chin, gently pulling her lip down to expose her teeth. His touch spread a warmth through her chin and face, and she was tempted to lean into the contact.

  “Half-blood,” she admitted. He still held her, his gaze focused on her mouth. She swallowed as she stepped back. He appeared reluctant to let her go. “You know your teeth.”

  “Is that why you can walk in the sun?”

  “Yes. It’s uncomfortable, but not dangerous.” She turned back to get more antiseptic.

  “What else?” he asked, his gaze intent.

  He’d neatly side-stepped the question. Fine. She could work with that. “I can walk in daylight, I can control my bloodlust better than most, and verbena and silver sting, but they’re not lethal to me.”

  “But? Your humanity seems to offer some strengths, so I’m pretty sure it cuts both ways. How does your vampirism affect you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have the full strength and speed of a vampire, and I don’t seem to be able to compel.” At least, not without help. She was sharing, but she wasn’t stupid. She didn’t give away any of the weapons she depended upon for survival. She decided to turn the focus back on him.

  “So, what made you choose dentistry?”

  “Family business.”

  “You—you’re family are dentists, too?” Oh, her nerd-finder was flashing lights and ringing bells. She dabbed at more of his cuts.

  “My father and brother are dentists,” he told her. “Actually, my brother is an adept, so he can work in all healing disciplines. I worked with them for years, but now have my own practice.” She focused on her senses. There was warmth there, yet still accompanied by the soft breeze of deceit. He was mainly telling the truth, but there was more to it. Maybe not so much a lie, but an omission. He’d definitely lied to her in the car, though. She could sense it when he discussed the death of the alpha. She sighed. Her father may have been a vampire, but her mother was a truthseeker, so she’d inherited traits from both sides of the family, one of which was her own built-in B.S. meter. It was a great tool in the courtroom and corporate negotiation—not so much on the dating scene, though, and she’d learned not to ask “does my butt look big in this?”—it never ended well.

  “Are they miscreant dentists, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you branch out on your own?” She’d had to visit a miscreant dentist once, when she was a teen and she’d been run over by a werewolf in full stride. A complete accident, but she’d needed a little work on her central incisors as a result. While in the surgery she’d seen a vampire go full bloodlust on a dentist. That didn’t end so well—at least, not for the dentist. No wonder his body looked like a road map for the metropolis of Irondell. “It’s a dangerous job. Wouldn’t you want the security of a large practice with backup?” Preferably armed backup, with enough horse tranquilisers to knock out a den of wolves.

  “I wanted to create my own destiny, work my own way, take on my own clients.”

  While there was a thread of truth here, the overwhelming wash of cool deceit was undeniable. Not quite a truth, not quite a lie. Her incisors lengthened as she cut a length of tape and covered his wounds with gauze. She was finished. She didn’t have any more excuses to touch him. She reached out to smooth an imaginary crease in the tape. Okay, she really did have to stop petting him.

  She gathered the supplies, tossing the rubbish into the trash and led the way back into the bedroom. A news bulletin was just starting.

  “Why are we heading into Alpine territory?” he asked as he wandered into the room behind her. She had a spare t-shirt for him, but refrained from offering it. He seemed comfortable enough walking around bare-chested, and it was probably better for his injury if he limited movement, like dragging on a t-shirt.

  Oh, look, her own B.S. meter was going off.

  “I’m not sure if there are any lycans there, they all seem to be out hunting you. It could be the safest place for you.” Or not. “I’m doing this pro bono for you. I don’t have a truthseeking investigator on my payroll, so we’re going to have to do our own research to offer another explanation at trial as to what happened.” She didn’t bother to disclose her own talents in that area.

  Her client sat on the end of the bed and folded his arms. His biceps bulged with the movement. “What were you thinking?”

  “Jared was an alpha prime,” she said as she crossed to her handbag sitting on the bedside table. “There has to be some competition for that position. We’ll see if we can come up with an alternate theory to what happened.”

  “Like what?”


  She shrugged as she withdrew a vial of lipstick. “Like a reason one of Jared’s pack might want him dead.” She sat on the other side of the bed and scooted up to rest her back against the bedhead. “Did you kill Jared?” she asked carefully.

  She relaxed, opening her awareness.

  “No, I did not kill Jared.”

  Liar. That phrase had a significant chill to it, the fog in her mind clouded by a dark trail of deceit. She slid the lid off the lipstick and twisted the bottom. “What happened, Max?” she asked, curious to see what he’d come out with.

  He shot her a quick glare at the use of the name, then shrugged. She marvelled he felt no pain at the movement. Years of working with miscreants had toughened him. “Nothing. I was working on him. And then he died.”

  Okay, so that was truth, but it still left a lot unsaid. “But you didn’t kill him?”

  “No.” This time the chill was almost a burn to her senses.

  She took the compact mirror out of her bag and quickly, casually, applied her lipstick. It was a vibrant scarlet, blood red. Her mother had a sense of humour. She carefully retracted the lipstick. It was an old family recipe that compelled folks to tell the truth. As a half-blood, she lacked the ability to compel, but her mother’s side was well-versed in the art, with loads of little tricks to drag out the truth. Unfortunately there was only one way to get others to expose themselves to this particular dose. She glanced at her client who was staring at her lips, his handsome face almost disturbing in its intensity. Her heart pounded just a little faster. For once, she was going to enjoy this.

  She dropped the compact and lipstick back in her bag, then rolled up onto her knees.

  His eyes met hers as she advanced on her hands and knees, prowling across the bed like a kitty on the hunt. A line appeared on his forehead, as though he was surprised—or maybe confused—yet definitely interested. She paused in front of him. Suddenly the confusion was replaced with something more—an awareness, a hot desire that energised the very air between them. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She could feel his breath against her lips, and her own breath hitched. They paused there for a moment, as though enjoying the closeness, the anticipation.