Hakan/Séverin

by Alexandra Ivy

  “That’s not true,” Sheridan said tightly. Although she couldn’t help but wonder if it were. Not that she was going to share that thought with the woman across the table. If Deacon got wind of her admiration of his brother, she could lose her job. And she’d worked way too hard to endanger her career over a pretty face.

  A very pretty face.

  She mentally rolled her eyes at herself.

  Something caught Mac’s attention out the window and she sniffed. “Well, well… speak of the devil.”

  Sheridan turned to see what the woman was talking about.

  “Holy cripes,” Mac said. “He’s got one of the mustangs out. Is he nuts? Riding that stallion down Main Street like he was a tame little pony driving to Sunday service.”

  Sheridan’s pulse jumped and her skin tightened around her muscles. A man was riding down the street atop a very rebellious-looking black-and-white horse. No. Not a man. A cowboy. The hottest cowboy she’d ever seen in her life. Dressed in jeans and a black thermal, pieces of his brown hair peeking out from under a black Stetson, James Cavanaugh kept strict command over the snorting, frustrated animal beneath him. Not by being big and loud and cruel, but with that quiet strength he always seemed to possess. It was one of the many things about him that intrigued her—one of the many things that would remain a tightly held secret from the woman across from her if she wanted to keep her job secure.

  “Looks like he’s in the process of breaking that stallion,” Mac observed, chin lifted, eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard about his work, but I’ve never seen him in action. Quite a sight, eh, Sheri?”

  Sheridan was just about to tackle the “Sheri” issue when James Cavanaugh turned to look in the direction of the bakery and caught her staring at him out the picture window. As heat infused every cell of her body, Sheridan held his gaze. For a heartbeat, or maybe two, she forgot everything else around her. All she saw was his gorgeous blue eyes. Then, completely without her permission, her hand lifted and gave him a small wave. To her dismay and embarrassment, he didn’t wave back. Just nodded once, then turned back to the mustang and continued down the street.

  Unnerved, she blinked and the world came back into focus. What was that? she wondered, turning to face Mackenzie once again, her cheeks flaming and her breathing uneven. What had just happened?

  “That was a beautiful animal,” she managed to say, then quickly added, “the mustang.”

  Mac nodded, amusement glittering in her eyes. “They’re his passion—that’s for sure.”

  “Do you think he’s going to stick around River Black? To care for them?” Nice, Sheridan. Real subtle.

  Mac shrugged. “There’s a lot that ain’t decided over there. With Everett’s will. The wedding. And maybe new information about Cass’s passing.”

  The sudden yet soft heat in Mac’s voice gave Sheridan something solid to focus on. Cass was not only Deacon’s and James’s sister, but she had been Mac’s best friend. Sympathy rolled over the lingering unease James Cavanaugh had ignited within Sheridan.

  “But I ’spect with the mustangs on Triple C land James’ll be here for quite a while. I hope so anyway.” Mac’s eyes connected with Sheridan’s again and they were ripe with more questions. “For everyone’s sake.”

  Sheridan eased back her chair, placed her napkin on the table, and got to her feet. She tried not to think about how unsteady her legs felt or why that would be. “I should get back to the office.”

  “Which one are you in today?” Mac asked, taking up her fork again.

  “Town. But I’ll be heading out to the ranch in the afternoon.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll see you there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Sheridan turned to go, but Mac grabbed her hand. “Hey.”

  Sheridan turned, brows drifting together.

  Mac chewed her lip for a second. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’re here to work. Deacon’s your boss and you don’t want any problems with that. I’m being a pushy jackass.”

  Sheridan couldn’t help but respond to Mac’s forthright ways and gave her a bright smile. “No problem. And, Miss Byrd, I’m here for whatever you need.” She slipped her hand out of Mac’s grasp and headed for the door. But halfway there, she stopped and glanced back. “I think the chocolate cake would be a wonderful choice. Like Charles Schulz said, ‘All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.’ ”

  James slid off the mustang’s back and gave the young creature a few strokes down his warm neck. Bringing a nearly wild animal into town wasn’t the best idea he’d ever come up with, but Comet—that’s what he was calling the stallion for now—needed to be looked at. And after all the mini bombs Dr. Grace Hunter had been dropping lately regarding her father, the ex-sheriff of River Black, and what he did or didn’t know about Cass’s killer, James wanted another chance to see if he could get any more information out of her.

  As he moved his hand down the stallion’s withers and back, Comet eyed him suspiciously. You using me, cowboy? he seemed to be asking. Because I’m sound. Nothing but a little scratch. What d’ you say we head back through town toward home, see if that pretty redhead with the sexy gray eyes is still in the bakery? Get us a slice of carrot cake or somethin’.

  James frowned. None of what had just come ticker-taping through his mind was from the stallion or his cautious gaze. Hell no. That was all him. And unfortunately, it was not the first time he’d been entertaining thoughts like this. Ever since he’d come upon Sheridan O’Neil in the rain a couple weeks ago, stranded on the side of the road near the Triple C, her beautiful yet wary eyes, that smart mouth—hell, that ass—had been assaulting his mind fast and furiously. They were the kinds of thoughts that normally made him antsy, made him get out the duffel, pack up his duds, and head to one of the many hang-your-hat spots he’d purchased over the past five years or so.

  But this time he didn’t have the luxury of a quick and painless departure. There were too many glass balls in the air here in River Black. Someone needed to stand beneath them. Catch them before they fell and shattered and did some permanent damage. So the unwise attraction to Sheridan O’Neil? Hell, he’d be ignoring that. Because women, in his experience, were even more fragile than glass balls. And his track record for catching the fallen ones was dismal.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh?” Dr. Grace Hunter emerged from the small veterinary clinic and came down the path toward him. She was a pretty thing—Cole’s type all the way. Probably why his little brother’s voice changed when he talked about her. Small, lots of curves, thick dark hair. She came to stand in front of Comet, her green eyes so guarded James wondered if he’d lost the battle before the war had even begun.

  “Morning, Doc,” he said.

  Her gaze shifted to the stallion. “Something wrong with your horse?”

  “Matter of fact. And since you couldn’t come out to the ranch, I thought I’d come to you.”

  “Right,” she said quickly. “Sorry about that. I’m just really swamped at the moment.”

  He took a gander at the empty parking lot. “Yeah, I see that.”

  “So, a flesh wound on his hindquarters you say?” She headed around back to check things out.

  “I did the best I could to treat it, but it didn’t seem to heal, and then it started to look infected.”

  She gave Comet, who was uneasy at best, a gentle pat on the croup, then ran her hand down his thigh. “Probably something still inside the wound.” She took out her bag and riffled through it. “I’m going to clean it up first, and then we’ll see what we got.”

  James watched her work, watched as she used Comet as a protective barrier between herself and him. Anything to discourage a real conversation between them. When he could get a ten-second glimpse of her, he found himself impressed by her manner and skills. She had a calm, gentle way about her, yet was unwilling to take any bullshit from the animal she was treating. Recipe for the perfect country doc.

  After a minute or two, she held up a p
air of silver tweezers, a thin strip of brown pinched between the tips. “Looks like we got a wood splinter. From a fence, no doubt. I’m going to put some topical on the wound, but I’m also going to prescribe antibiotics.”

  “Sounds good,” James said, rubbing Comet’s neck. “Then after that maybe we can talk.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Dr. Hunter—” James began.

  “Nothing to talk about, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she answered abruptly, her focus remaining on the horse’s hindquarters. “I told you and your brothers. What I said in the Bull’s Eyes, what I thought I heard from my daddy, it was a mistake.”

  Yeah, she’d been saying it for days. Every time they’d tried to get her to talk. She’d made a mistake. Her daddy wasn’t right in the mind. Dementia. Blah blah blah.

  What horseshit. None of them believed her. Didn’t want to believe her.

  It took supreme effort in that moment to tamp down the frustration simmering inside James. This woman didn’t understand the magnitude of what she’d started, what she’d put out there for them to chew on—or, Christ, the situation they were all in. No matter what she said, or tried to get them to believe, her father might very well hold the key to a twelve-year-old mystery. The truth—the hell of his sister’s murder. His gut tightened. All that time not knowing what had happened to Cass. Or who had happened to Cass.

  His sister had lay dead and alone, with no comfort and no justice. That would not stand. James and his brothers owed the truth to the sister they had all failed. But he knew that to get that truth, he and Deacon and Cole had to go easy. No matter how pissed off they became, they had to handle this skittish woman with care. Break down the reason she was backpedaling on that declaration she’d made at the Bull’s Eye. He summoned his calmest voice. “If you’d just let one of us speak with your father—”

  “No,” she said tightly. She stood up, her bag in hand, her eyes lifting to connect with his. “My father’s ill. His mind’s not his own anymore. He’s highly medicated.”

  James bit back the urge to snarl, And my sister is dead. “We wouldn’t push him, Doc. You could be there to make sure. We just want to ask him about what he said to you—”

  “He didn’t know what he was saying,” she interrupted caustically. “He doesn’t even remember saying it.”

  “What about the diary? You said he has it.”

  “I looked in all his belongings. There’s no diary,” she insisted, her tone as tense as her body language. “It was just ramblings. Something he’d wanted to find, no doubt, and hadn’t.”

  Who was she really trying to convince, him or herself? He ground his molars. Clearly, the woman in front of him was trying to protect her father and backing her into a corner wasn’t going to make her tell him the truth. It would just make her dig her heels in further. For now, he’d leave it. He and Deac and Cole would have to find another way to get the information they needed.

  “Well, thank you for patching him up, Doc,” James said in a careful voice. “Better be on my way.”

  Grace looked momentarily startled, as if the last thing she expected was for him to drop the subject. Then relief and professional distance settled over her features. “I’ll get that prescription.”

  He watched her walk up the path, then disappear inside the clinic. Was it possible? Could it actually be possible that Sheriff Hunter was just a sick old man with wild ravings about a past he couldn’t remember, a past that didn’t exist? Hell, he didn’t know. But he was going to find out. Because discovering and revealing the truth about Cass’s disappearance and her killer was the only way the Cavanaugh brothers could honor the sister they failed.

  And maybe have some chance for a sane and happy future.

  Blood Assassin

  Release Date: December 30, 2014

  The history of the Sentinels was mysterious even among the high-bloods.

  Most people knew that there were two sects of the dangerous warriors. The guardian Sentinels who possessed innate magic and were trained by the monks. They were heavily tattooed to protect themselves from magical attacks, as well as any mind-control and were used to protect those high-bloods who were vulnerable when they were forced to travel away from the protection of Valhalla.

  And then there were the hunter Sentinels. They had no magic, but they were equally lethal. Hunters were used to enforce the laws of Valhalla, and since they were able to ‘pass’ as human and capable of moving through the world undetected, they were used to track down high-bloods who might be a danger to themselves or others.

  It was also well known that both sects of Sentinels were stronger and faster than humans, with an endurance that was off the charts. And both were trained to kill with their hands as well most known weapons.

  But that was as far as public knowledge went.

  How they were chosen and how they’d become the protectors of the high-bloods were closely guarded secrets.

  No one but Sentinels knew what happened behind the thick walls of the monasteries where they were trained.

  CHAPTER 1

  One glance into the private gym would send most humans fleeing in humiliation.

  What normal male would want to lift weights next to the dozen Sentinels?

  Not only were the warriors six foot plus of pure chiseled muscles and bad attitudes, but the very air reeked of aggression and testosterone fueled competition.

  Hardly a place for the weekend jock trying to battle the bulge.

  It was, however, the perfect place for the Sentinels to work off a little steam.

  The vast gym was filled with mats, punching bags, and treadmills. And. at the back of the room, there was a row of weight machines where the baddest of the bad-asses was currently bench-pressing enough weight to crush a mortal.

  Fane looked like he’d been sculpted from stone. A six foot three behemoth, he had the strength of an ox and the speed of a cheetah. A result of the natural talents that came from being born a Sentinel, and the fact he’d been honed from his youth to become a weapon.

  He was also covered from the top of his shaved head to the tips of his toes in intricate tattoos that protected him from all magic.

  The monks who’d taken him in as a young child had trained him in all the known martial arts, as well as the most sophisticated weapons.

  He was walking, talking death.

  Which meant very few bothered to notice the dark eyes that held a razor-sharp intelligence or the starkly beautiful features beneath the elegant markings.

  Something that rarely bothered Fane. For the past decade he’d been a guardian to Callie Brown. All people needed to know about him was that he would kill them the second they threatened the young diviner.

  Now, he...

  Fane blew out a sigh, replacing the weights on the bar so he could wipe the sweat from his naked chest.

  Three months ago Callie had nearly died when they’d battled the powerful necromancer Lord Zakhar, and during the battle she’d fallen in love with a human policeman. Or at least Duncan O’Conner had been passing as human. Turned out he had the extra powers of a Sentinel as well as being a soul-gazer, which meant he could read the souls of others. He was perfectly suited to take over the protection of Callie.

  Fane’s hand absently touched the center of his chest where he’d once felt the constant connection to Callie. They’d transferred the bond last week, but he still felt the strange void that was wearing on his nerves.

  He needed a distraction.

  The thought had barely passed through is mind when a shadow fell over him and he glanced up to discover a tall, lean man with copper-tinted skin and ebony eyes. Wolfe, the current Tagos (leader of all Sentinels) had a proud, hawkish nose, with heavy brows and prominent cheekbones gave him the appearance of an ancient Egyptian deity.

  It was a face that spoke of power and fierce masculinity. The sort of face that intimidated men and made women wonder if he was as dangerous as he looked.

  He was.

  Just as arres
ting was the shoulder-length black hair that had a startling streak of gray that started at his right temple. There were whispers that when Wolfe was a babe he’d been touched by the devil.

  Something Fane fully believed.

  Swallowing a curse, Fane tossed aside his sweaty towel. Damn. This wasn’t the distraction he’d been wanting.

  Wolfe was dressed in jeans and a loose cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had his arms folded over his chest and was studying Fane with an expression that warned he wasn’t pleased.

  Around them the gym went silent as the other Sentinels pretended they weren’t straining to overhear the potential confrontation.

  “I heard through the grapevine you’ve taken a position as a trainer,” he said. That was Wolfe. Always straight to the point.

  Fane scowled. It’d been less than twenty four hours since he’d made the decision to seek a position as trainer in a monastery half way around the world. How the hell had word spread so fast?

  “The grapevine should mind its own business.”

  The ebony eyes narrowed. “And I shouldn’t have to listen to gossip to learn when one of my Sentinels is leaving Valhalla.”

  Fane met his Tagos glare for glare. “I have no direct duties here, at least not anymore. I’m allowed to return to the monastery without clearing it with you.”

  The air heated. Sentinels’ body temperature ran hotter than humans, and when their emotions were provoked they could actually warm the air around them.

  “Don’t be an ass. This isn’t about duties, I’m worried about you.”

  Oh hell.

  This was exactly what Fane didn’t want.

  He’d rather be shot in the head than have someone fussing over him.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. You know that I was a trainer for years before coming to Valhalla. I’m simply returning to my brothers in Tibet.”