His Dark Bond

by Anne Marsh

  He wasn’t that kind of killer. Not yet.

  Had Michael known what he’d condemned the Fallen to? That question tormented him, but it didn’t stop him from drinking, sucking down the taste of the female’s soul like she was water and he was dying in the desert. Stale water, yeah, but water nonetheless. He could feel the power flowing through him, the sick ecstasy of feeling, even if they were secondhand emotions. The female coming apart in Nael’s arms thought she’d died and gone to heaven, but she had no clue.

  Zer had been to the Heavens. He knew what she was really missing out on and what a faint substitute the bliss Nael could shower on her was. The Heavens were worth fighting for, worth protecting even if they didn’t want the protection of the likes of him. He’d stop Cuthah no matter what he had to do, because for once in his too-long life he was going to make the right call. Was going to win the battle that mattered.

  This was a race to get to the next soul mate first, winner take all.

  If Nessa St. James was fortunate, the Fallen would get there first.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nessa St. James stared across the fake teak desk at the bastard who’d just declared he was shutting down her lab. Putting her out of business. Tears burned the edges of her eyes but, God, she wouldn’t cry. Maybe, if she didn’t blink, the tears would stay put and she could play this out. On the other hand, if she gave in to the urge to sob, she could probably justify punching the bastard in the nose, because, if she were going to be unprofessional, she’d go the whole nine yards. Do something she’d really regret. The dean smiled right back at her, patting his tie into place as she breathed her way through the beginning of a panic attack. The cheerful pink and blue stripes marched straight down the line of buttons on his white oxford without missing a step.

  “Clearly,” she said, “I didn’t hear what I thought I just heard.”

  “We’re closing your lab,” the dean repeated. His gaze dipped south of her jaw and then slid smoothly back up. She fought the urge to check the neckline of her own white blouse.

  “Why?” Don’t panic. She’d worked too long and was too close to the answers she needed to quit now.

  “How long have you been working for us?”

  “Three years.” She was up for tenure next year. He’d promised in her interview that she’d be a candidate for early tenure, wouldn’t have to wait the full six years for her review. His promise had been just one of the many reasons she’d elected to live in M City, to take a position here when she could have worked anywhere in the damned world. They both knew this. So, why was he threatening her?

  “You’re an impressive researcher.” The dean settled back in his chair, increasing the distance between them. His wife had either bought the oxford at the start of their marriage or had idealized her husband’s weight. The cheap cotton stretched over the well-defined start of a paunch. Too much fast food and too much stress; his genetics weren’t coded to handle that double-barreled onslaught. His body’s response to the overload had been to build him a spare tire.

  “Thank you,” she said cautiously. They both knew it was true.

  “And that’s why there may be a junior position we can offer you in Professor Markoff’s new lab. That would be a good move for you,” he continued smoothly, and this time his eyes definitely strayed from her face to the narrow vee of skin exposed by the collar of her blouse. “Given your unfortunate background.” He leaned forward as he delivered his bombshell, folding his hands on the teak desktop. Either he didn’t know her history with Markoff—or he didn’t care. “Your research credentials are impressive, of course, as I’ve said, but most of our business partners prefer dealing with humans.” He licked his lips.

  “You don’t believe I’m human.” She loved her lab, her research. She’d never missed a day of work, and undergraduates actually bothered showing up for her lecture. Plus, she knew just how much money the university had made from her patent on an over-the-counter DNA testing kit. Pee on a stick; find out what you were. Apparently, none of those accomplishments mattered because of one extra chromosome. A chromosome that marked her, clear as day, as belonging to the paranormal camp.

  The problem was, she felt human.

  “There is nothing in the university rules that prevents a paranormal from taking a teaching position.” She felt compelled to point this fact out to the dean. “You hired paranormals prior to my arrival at this university. Nothing in the university’s human-resources manual prevents it.” She’d double-checked, twice, after her unfortunate discovery.

  He looked smug. “You didn’t disclose this information when we hired you.”

  “I didn’t know it,” she snapped. “Believe me, this is as much of a shock to me as it is to you. I didn’t know until I took a DNA test that there was anything unusual about my ancestry. None of this affects my work here, what I’ve accomplished.”

  “Maybe we could work something out,” he offered, and a new smile, one she’d never seen before, creased the corners of his mouth. “If you could bring in some more funding. And if you were interested.”

  God, she needed a shower. Surely, he wasn’t suggesting what she thought he was. While she was no beast, she wasn’t a beauty, either.

  “Like I said, Professor Markoff is eager to work with you.”

  Over her dead body. Markoff had been a mistake, but she’d been lonely. He was interested and was no slouch in the looks department, so she’d accepted his dinner invitation. Unfortunately, Professor Markoff had been under the mistaken impression she would accept a lot more than that. He’d been livid when she’d refused his invite to spend the night. No way she was joining his lab now. He’d have her playing junior assistant forever while he took all the credit for whatever research came out of their happy little merger.

  “I’m not interested in working with Professor Markoff.” She blinked slowly, cautiously, but the tears still stayed put.

  “That’s too bad.” The dean shrugged. “Maybe you should go home, think it over. Consider what your options are.”

  “Have you read my latest paper? I’m the principal investigator, and that’s a peer-reviewed journal our entire field reads.” Most junior faculty would have sold their souls to the damn Fallen for that sort of exposure. She’d worked nonstop for six months putting together that paper. Getting it reviewed and published had been a major coup. She had precisely the chops she needed to make it in this field.

  “The twelve tribes of Israel.” He nodded, but his face didn’t change. His fingers stroked the smooth edge of his desk, tidied an already perfectly aligned pile of papers. “Professor Markoff briefed me.”

  Professor Markoff couldn’t tell his ass from a hole in the ground unless someone else had already written about it, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up.

  “Thirteen,” she said, and she savored the dean’s wary blink. “There are thirteen tribes. One is missing from biblical records, and I’ve found it.”

  “Twelve.” The dean levered himself out of his chair. “Everyone knows that there are twelve. Your hypothesis is an interesting piece of fantasy, but I’d question your research methodology. No one is going to fund that kind of fantasy.”

  “It’s not a fantasy,” she countered. “I can trace the DNA ancestry of that population. The region’s right. There’s a genetic affinity—and there’s the paranormal gene. This tribe carries that gene. This is incontrovertible fact.”

  He blinked slowly. “You can prove this? And you have the funding to do so?”

  “Yes.” Damn it, she could. Prove it. Funding, however, was a little less certain. “I can. I’ll be able to.” If her hypothesis was correct. She squelched the uninvited niggle of doubt. She needed time to finish her experiment. Then, she’d have all the proof her dean required. And the answers she needed about her own unexpected bloodlines.

  What had started out as academic curiosity, the thrill of discovery and of breaking new ground, had turned into a too-personal quest. No one in the academic community had d
one work on paranormal DNA. Hell, no one had realized the paranormals had DNA. DNA was, after all, a human trait, a recipe for building humans. Paranormals were, by very definition, inhuman. Except for the crossbreeds like her. And that had been her first clue.

  The dean sighed. “Go home, Nessa. Think over my offer; let me know what you decide. I’d like to hear from you in three days. Give me funding and facts, and we’ll talk. Otherwise—” He shrugged.

  Otherwise, don’t let the door hit you on your way out. He hadn’t fired her, but he’d made it crystal clear that she either had to find funding, take a demotion, or get squeezed out of the department. That gave her precisely three days to rescue her career or watch everything she’d spent a lifetime working for head straight down the crapper. She was going to have to put her backup plan into play.

  She cleared the door and made it past the department secretary before the tears finally spilled over. She should have made a beeline for the restroom, but she refused to cry in a stall because her reptilian dean had decided to destroy her career on what appeared to be a whim.

  Besides, campus lately had a decidedly less than friendly feel. Maybe it was her paranoia kicking in, or maybe, it was the half dozen times this week that she’d caught something out of the corner of her eye. It felt like someone was following her.

  Ducking into the bathroom still seemed like a bad idea, however, despite the cheerful flood of students streaming past her. Most of them were paired off in couples, arms wrapped about each other. She didn’t know what they saw when they gazed into each other’s eyes, but she knew lust when it strolled by her. Spring always hit campus hard, and her students were busy doing what came naturally. Maybe, there was something wrong with her, but she’d clearly gotten hit with the short end of the mating stick. Maybe, she should make more of an effort. Going home lonely night after night wasn’t anything to be proud of. She needed a cat. Maybe, two cats.

  If, of course, she still had a paycheck to buy the Friskies with.

  With a timeline of three days, she wasn’t going to have a choice. It was going to have to be the backup plan. Genecore Foundation had sent her a frozen DNA sample, requesting a workup. The anomalies she’d found had piqued her curiosity. Genecore had extended the possibility of a collaboration—a well-funded collaboration—but she’d only just begun checking out the group. She wasn’t going to leap from frying pan to fire. But the foundation’s president was very, very interested in her work. She’d make that call before her lecture, she decided. Let the guy know that she was seriously interested in signing on to the DNA project he’d proposed.

  Elbowing open the door to the building where she had her lecture, she slipped inside, heels clicking on the black-and-white flooring that was older than she was. Heels were a vanity, but, damn it, she was short. She’d take all the extra inches she could get. Plus, the thin heels changed her walk, made her aware of the movement of her hips, the slide of the skirt’s fabric over her skin. Made her feel different. More confident. Sexier.

  She might not be married, engaged, or even dating, but nothing had ever topped the thrill of setting foot on this campus, of knowing that she belonged here. She wasn’t leaving, and she wasn’t working for Professor Markoff. There was a way to sort out this situation and she’d take it.

  With a sigh, she flipped open her cell and dialed.

  This was home, and she was damned good at what she did. Never mind that she was as meat-and-potatoes as they came and that the Stalinist architect who’d designed the campus had had a penchant for Gothic curlicues and stonework. On gray days like today, she half expected the gargoyles to come down and strike up a conversation, which meant she was even more tired than usual.

  The call went through and a cool voice invited her to wait while she was connected to her party at Genecore.

  Time to rescue her own ass.

  Zer blew through the door of the building because the rogues riding his ass weren’t going to knock first, and his was only a party of three. Get in. Secure the female. Get out. Quick action would minimize human casualties, as well, and that couldn’t hurt his chances with Nessa St. James.

  She was probably just as tenderhearted as most of them were.

  He motioned for Nael and Vkhin to peel off. “Secure the lobby.” Nael looked like he was jonesing for a good fight, but Vkhin would guard his back. That left Zer free and clear to fetch the good professor.

  His booted foot hit the inner door, then paused, because his hands were busy palming weapons. Conveniently, one rogue stopped to mow down the campus security guard. The guard had been a squat, out-of-shape human male, his nose buried in a day-old paper. Most likely a rent-a-cop and from a piss-poor outfit, because the male hadn’t even gone for his weapons. No, he had ducked and covered like a good boy, so Zer hadn’t bothered with him. The rogue nearest Zer, however, had apparently disliked leaving loose ends behind to call for backup and had vaulted over the desk, blades flashing. Nael and Vkhin were moving in, but Zer’s blades cut deep, and, sure enough, there was a high-pitched scream from the murderous rogue, a little quick splatter, and the hallway got a whole lot quieter.

  Shit. He needed to pick up the pace.

  He took stock. A voice was speaking inside the room. Smooth. Cool. Modulated. Bingo.

  He burst through the shattered door and ignored the scream-and-run of the panicked students inside. None of them was dumb enough to run in his direction. A quick eyeball told him where the other exits were. Two more sets of doors. Good. He was going to need all the outs he could find.

  His first sight of the professor stopped him in his tracks.

  She was ...

  She was two kinds of sexy, and no way in hell was she a biblical scholar and world-renowned geneticist. The clothes were right: a buttoned-up, no-nonsense white blouse in some sort of synthetic fabric that wouldn’t wrinkle if he drove his SUV over it. God, he was a dirty bastard, though, because he couldn’t stop staring at her breasts. She turned away from the whiteboard, and the smooth movement pulled the supple material of her blouse against those breasts. Full, generous handfuls that made him want to suck each of those candy nipples into his mouth and tongue her until she came undone.

  Hell, yeah.

  She stopped speaking when he exploded into the room, her hands moving, gripping the edge of the lectern hard as they slid beneath its lip. Panic switch. He’d have bet his last breath that she’d have a panic switch installed under there. Good. A strong instinct for self-preservation would make his job easier.

  She stared at him, so he glared right back and wondered if she had any idea just what a turn-on that damp, nervous little stroke of her tongue over her lower lip was.

  Christ, she was sexy. And he’d bet that she had no idea.

  She’d twisted her chocolate-brown hair into a neat chignon and skewered the heavy mass with a well-aimed pencil. Just as sweet as sugar. Her skin was pale from too much indoor time, and he could just make out her dark eyes as he took inventory. Two arms. Two legs. Two breasts. All the standard accoutrements for her kind and nothing special, so he shouldn’t be so turned on. Then she opened her mouth. She didn’t seem to raise her voice, but he heard her clear in the back of the lecture hall.

  “Security has been alerted. I advise you to get the fuck out of my lecture hall. Now.” That liquid voice ran straight down his spine and took up residence in his balls. That voice didn’t match her prim, buttoned-up exterior at all.

  Christ, she had no idea who she was baiting. What. That, or she just didn’t give a flying fuck.

  Her delicious, icy glare had him hardening, and he so needed to get a grip on his cock. “Down, boy,” he muttered, as he headed down the main aisle. The slower students or the ones unfortunate enough to be trapped behind their companions scrambled out of his way.

  He knew what they saw. Coldhearted killer with ice in his veins. They weren’t wrong, and, from the look in his professor’s eyes, she saw it, too. She abandoned her death grip on the lectern, grabbed her laptop,
and made a beeline for the nearest exit.

  If she’d been dealing with another human, she might have made it.

  He didn’t bother with explanations—because there just wasn’t enough fucking time. He could hear the next rogue thundering down the hallway, mowing through the crowd of panicked students despite whatever Nael and Vkhin were throwing at him, and she wouldn’t have listened to him, anyway. Shoving one blade between his teeth, he vaulted over the rows of seats one-handed. He kept the other hand weapons-ready. Three rows. Two. And bingo.

  He cut her off, wrapping one leather-clad arm around her chest—yeah, he was a bastard, all right, because he noticed precisely how those buttoned-up breasts felt cushioned against his arm—and yanked her off her feet, releasing the blade in his teeth. She let loose with a multilingual barrage of curses that the entire useless U.N. couldn’t have outdone as the laptop slid away from her.

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” He hauled her up against him just to prove he could. “I’m on your side.”

  She stopped her cursing long enough to bring her fingers up to do her level best to claw his eyes out, while her feet did a number on his shins with her damn pointy heels. Again, too bad for her that he wasn’t human. She had no chance at all.

  He took her down to the ground because that was simplest and lowered his full weight onto her. No way that petite frame of hers was bucking off his weight, although she gave it her best shot. Three enjoyable seconds of that—after he shifted his weight just enough to pinion her legs as far apart as the fabric of that pencil skirt would let her move—and she stopped. Fighting for breath, he figured, because most humans prioritized living, and living included breathing.

  Her brown eyes glared up at him. “If you’re the good guy,” she said, “who’s playing the villain in this scenario?”

  Genetics was predictable. The male pinning her to the none-too-clean tiles of her lecture hall was wildly unpredictable.