Harlequin Nocturne September 2014 Bundle: Beyond the MoonImmortal Obsession

by Michele Hauf

  The most important weapon is the brain, then the stake.

  Anger (aroused in the vampire) reduces awareness.

  Blood scent distracts the opponent. A good hunter will use his own blood as a weapon.

  Vampires are supernaturally fast. Hunters use agility.

  Without an invitation, vampires can only enter public buildings. If in a dire situation, entering a private domicile will give the hunter time to recover and concoct a plan. However, the risk of putting innocents in danger is great.

  Vampires are not stupid. (Most of them.) Always expect the unexpected.

  The old ones are not necessarily stronger, but they have greater determination to fight for survival.

  Each rule had been developed through trial and error over the centuries. Vampire comes at you spitting blood and flailing some crazy wild talons? The knight had better compensate for that flimsy column of ashwood he carved the night before and had pridefully thought would save his ass.

  King had tested a few disposal methods. He was always willing to make sure the tools and defense skills Rook invented were worthy—to a degree. Even King drew the line on occasion. The man had his pride.

  Once Rook had traversed the French countryside with an arsenal tucked into a large wooden traveling trunk and strapped to the back of a wobbly carriage; he’d since streamlined the tools of the trade.

  The Order coat was designed to protect as much of the knight’s body as possible without impeding movement. It was lightweight leather, reinforced with Kevlar where it laid over main arteries. Originally, chain mail had been sown into the leather, making it bulky and quite heavy. Thank the gods for modern technology.

  Over the years, Rook had refined the trunk of tools. The fragile vial of holy water had become a small syringe, hidden within the palm and spring-loaded to eject the contents with one click.

  A large wooden cross, inlaid with a brass figure of Jesus, had evolved into a streamlined silver weapon, again hand-sized and pointed at each of the four armatures. Gone was the holy figure; vampires laughed at the Christian symbol of hope. Silver did not harm vampires, but it was handy when werewolves were on the scene. Also, religious objects were only effective if the vampire had been baptized. But a holy wound would burn into a baptized vamp and never heal, slowly eating away at flesh, bone and organs until finally death arrived. The process could take days or even weeks.

  The handsaw Rook had used on more than a few occasions to remove a vampire’s head (when it was once believed removal of the head necessary for the final death) had been discarded and replaced with a thin gauged cable garrote that rolled up nicely, like a household tape measure. Again, it did not behead the vampire, but it hurt like a bitch, and not many of his opponents struggled for long when the cable chewed into flesh and bone.

  A small leather-bound Bible had been weeded from his arsenal sometime in the nineteenth century. Again, vampires tended to laugh at the holy word.

  Finally, the classic wooden stake, originally carved from ashwood and sometimes tipped in silver, had graduated into the titanium column he’d developed only a few decades earlier. Spring-loaded and tension controlled, it was capable of piercing skin, muscle and bones. Anyone could use it, even an unskilled human with little strength. Once the vampire’s heart burst, true death followed.

  Not all vampires ashed. The newest ones generally did not. As for clothing, it depended on how hot the ash burned. It varied from kill to kill.

  What he’d learned over the years was to know your enemy. Know what works. Know what doesn’t work. Never fear. Fear was a creation of the mind. And always take the first step toward the enemy before he lunged toward you.

  And when things went wrong? Fuck all the rules and go with instinct.

  Slamming his fist against a vampire’s chest, Rook held the stake there, the deadly point of it as yet unreleased. A squeeze of the paddles was all it took, then—ash. Even Oz got off on this part. Defiant sneers and cocky confidence were innate to the longtooth. Yet no vamp had ever survived if he allowed Rook to get in this position with him.

  “Namaste,” Rook growled to the Mohawked vamp with heavy carbonite rings stretching his earlobes and black eyeshadow smeared over his eyelids. “You know where I can find tribe Zmaj. You wear their mark.”

  A red painted handprint decorated the vamp’s leather coat. Rook was guessing the tribe had adopted that as an identifying mark.

  “The handprint? It’s old. I’m unaligned right now, dude. Chill with the stake, will you?”

  With his fist pressed to the vamp’s chest, Rook could read his fear. And his desperate hope. The idiot thought he could talk his way out of this one. He could also read the darkness that crusted about his soul, flake by flake, as he took yet another life in his quest to drain the victim to the point where their heart burst.

  “You like the danse macabre?” he asked the vampire, referring to the never-ending nightmares the vampire lived—stolen from the victim on their death.

  The creep licked his lips and winked at him. “You know it.”

  Wanting to compress the paddles and be done with the asshole, he calmed the urge with an exhale through his nose. “You give me Zmaj, I let you go.”

  “Those idiots don’t know how to do it right. Slater is a control freak. Asks too much of his tribe. There’s no freedom.”

  “Apparently you’ve been cast out by Zmaj.”

  “What of it?”

  “Just give me an address.”

  “So you can slay them all? Hell no. I won’t narc on my breed. Never.”

  Rook slammed the stake up against the vamp’s shoulder and compressed the paddles. The tip pinioned out, piercing muscle and bone. The vampire yowled, and Rook slapped his free hand over his mouth. He yanked the stake from the bone, an abrupt tilt upward, surely cracking the fragile collarbone and making the vamp squirm under his hand.

  “Where next?” he asked. “The neck? It won’t kill you, but it’ll hurt like a mother.” And it would heal too fast for the vampire to remember the pain unless he worked quickly.

  So he did.

  Rook slammed the stake against the throat and delivered the punch. He could feel the stake’s tip crush through spine and tap the brick wall behind him. Blood spattered his face. The vampire clawed at him.

  “Uncle!”

  Keeping the stake in the vampire’s throat, Rook studied his teared-up eyes. Ready to squeal. He gracelessly unscrewed the stake from his throat. The vamp gurgled up blood and spat to the side. Rook allowed him to bend over so the majority of the blood would not again be spattered onto his face.

  But time was of the essence. He yanked up the vamp by his hair and slammed his head against the wall. This time he pressed the stake over his heart. “Where?”

  “It’s in the eighth.” The vampire rambled off an address in the 8th arrondissement near the city park. “It’s not Slater’s lair. Not sure where he hides.”

  “But Zmaj makes its home there?”

  “It’s sort of a club where they hang out from time to time.”

  “Excellent. You’ve done well. I’ll make this easy on you.”

  “Easy on—”

  The stake tip plunged into the vampire’s heart, freezing the bastard in a silent scream of dismay to realize that had been his last second of life. Skin, hair and bones ashed. Clothing melted and shredded as the ash cloud fell in a heap at Rook’s boots.

  He wiped the stake across his pants leg and replaced it inside his coat.

  On to the Zmaj hideout.

  * * *

  The abandoned nightclub sported windows boarded over and spider webs aplenty aboveground. Rook had entered the narrow building from the street and, sensing the place was empty, had quickly discovered the stairway that led to an underground passage. Half the buildings in Paris had a back door
that led down into the cold depths beneath the city where the walls were dirt and limestone, some strung with useless nineteenth century electrical wires and plumbing pipes, and others marked with ancient writing or gang signs.

  The world beneath Paris was not so secret, quiet or even evil as rumors would whisper. Cataphiles spent days and nights navigating the twisting labyrinths to achieve status among their own. Raves were often held in secret locations, only found by knowing the right password or following the right glow-in-the-dark symbols. The homeless marked the caves and passages with a language of their own. And the unlucky few who sought a thrill were sometimes never seen again.

  The room below the nightclub was small but long, and it reeked of blood. Rook guessed the tribe must bring mortals down here to feed on them. Yet he found no bones, no signs of death. Did they bury their victims? Or had they another means to dispose of their travesties? A smart tribe would employ a cleanup crew for their victims.

  Just thinking about the midnight cleanup ritual lifted the bile in Rook’s throat.

  He ascended the dirt and wood staircase and rushed out into the night, scanning his surroundings as he did but certain that this night tribe Zmaj was far from their lair.

  Chapter 10

  Instead of waiting for Rook to call, Verity decided to walk over to his place today and surprise him. She wore a pretty blue dress, her gray sweater coat and ankle boots with big black ribbons that tied up the heel instead of laces down the front. After purchasing a bouquet of daisies from a seller by the river, she strolled toward the Ile St.-Louis nestled behind Notre Dame.

  She loved what she had with Rook. It was new and exciting, and he was a man like no other. He appealed to her in ways she’d never imagined possible. Certainly she was sexually attracted to him, yet he was also smart and strong and had that extra spice of humor she adored.

  Their souls belonged together. She knew it. And perhaps it was time to abandon the three-strikes-you’re-out rule. They’d seen each other three times, but if she was counting the sex, it had only been once. Keeping tabs was starting to feel like…keeping tabs. Unnecessary and a little foolish.

  Could Rook possibly be the man grandmother Freesia had entreated her to seek?

  She knocked once at his door, then turned the knob, finding the door unlocked.

  She wandered into the kitchen, flowers dangling by her side. “Rook, you home?”

  “In here! Just finishing up.”

  She strode through the living room and paused at the open bedroom door. Peeking inside, she spied Rook by the window, coming out of a backbend yoga pose and spreading his arms high above his head. He returned his palms to namaste position, pressed together in front of his chest. Eyes closed, he was in some kind of Zen moment that she didn’t want to disturb.

  He wore body-hugging gray boxer briefs, and the afternoon sun fell upon his hard, sinewy form as if he were a deity to inspire worship. Discipline stretched through his muscles. Control. And an innate coolness that made him more like the statue in the other room than a living, breathing human.

  Yet he was so real when in her arms.

  “Wait,” she said when he started toward her. “Stay there.”

  He paused, shoulders back and straight, lungs expanding from the exertion. Hips squared, he mastered the room. A warrior. An athlete. A hunter.

  A lover.

  Rationally, Verity knew nobody was perfect. It was a ridiculous ideal. Yet this man was as close as she could imagine to touching perfection.

  “You.” She strolled toward him, tossing the flowers to the end of the bed. “Are.” Closer, she could smell the rich spiciness of him mingled with perspiration, peaches and tobacco. “Fine.”

  She spilled her fingertips down his cool, moist chest. Steel muscle expanded and contracted with his breaths. He watched her explore him, and she liked that he didn’t move to touch her. She wanted this man to herself. He was hers. She just had to decide if she had the courage to keep him.

  Down to his abs, she traced the ridged muscle, feeling his strength shiver through her system like steam rising from hot asphalt. His skin warmed beneath her touch. “Yoga does all this?”

  “It keeps me in shape. Quiets me. Grounds me. Makes me flexible.”

  “I like flexible.”

  She drew in a deep breath and curved her fingers to his side to follow the extreme cut of the Adonis arches that veed down toward his crotch.

  Rook sucked in a breath. Beneath the boxer briefs, his erection pulsed against the tight cotton. “It’s Oz’s thing,” he muttered through a tight jaw. “The yoga. I just follow along.”

  “Interesting. The demon knows what’s good for the both of you. I think I like Oz. Hope you don’t mind me stopping by this morning. If you have Order business…?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Verity. I don’t have to work until later. And please, you can walk into my place whenever you desire.”

  “I’ll remember that. I have a show later, so I can’t stay too long. I usually practice in the afternoon. But I needed to see you again. To…touch you.”

  She skated a fingertip along the waistband of his briefs, drawing an invisible line that her tongue might like to follow. “Is everything okay with the knight who was attacked?”

  “He’s tough. Mmm…keep doing that. Touch me.”

  She stepped back but kept the tips of her fingers on his skin, gliding them along the demarcation between fabric and flesh. “Touch you where, lover boy?”

  “Anywhere, anyway you want,” he said. “Just don’t stop.”

  “Hmm…” She took her time, looking him up and down from the flex of his abdomen to the hard pulse of that telling muscle in his jaw that always drew her attention. “How about this?”

  Verity knelt at the edge of the yoga mat, the toes of her patent leather boots tapping the hardwood floor. Leaning forward, she blew a hushing breath upon his concealed erection, and it bobbed beneath the fabric. Drawing her fingernails up his toned thighs, she felt his skin shiver, and with a hiss, he grasped her hair.

  He didn’t force her to do anything, only tangled into her hair as if an anchor. Another breath against the gray cotton drew up a wanting moan from her lover. Verity walked her fingers up to the waistband and tugged. Slowly, as if opening a gift, she lingered on the unwrapping. This part was always the best. The head of his bold cock was revealed, the foreskin stretched around the thick neck of it. She kissed the smooth crown of him softly and dashed out her tongue to lick. Just once. Salt and man. A tease to challenge his patience.

  And hers.

  Gliding her fingers around the waistband and behind his hips, she slid it lower over his taut buttocks and squeezed the hard smoothness of him, his firm muscles pulsing in response. She pressed his hips toward her until his cock rested against her mouth.

  Looking up, she met Rook’s eyes. An intense pleading look asked her to continue, but he wasn’t going to speak it out loud. That wasn’t his style. He liked it when she begged. He was too calm and cool to take that role. And that would require he forfeit control.

  Touching the tip of her tongue to his shaft, she didn’t move it, only savored his salty, slick texture. He tilted his hips, indicating his need.

  “Ask me,” she whispered. A kiss to the pulsing thick vein that stretched along his erection. “What do you want, Rook?”

  He tilted his head, raking his hands through her hair, and eased his hips forward, pressing his hardness against her mouth. “Fuck.”

  “Tell me,” she cooed. “I need to hear you say what you want.”

  “Suck me,” he said tightly. “Please.”

  The win pleased her. A portion of control sacrificed. And so he would be rewarded with the spoils.

  Verity lashed her tongue along his length, gliding up to nibble ever so gently at the reddened, wide head of
him. Drawing her hands down his thighs, she dropped his briefs to the floor. She then gripped his shaft firmly and guided him into her mouth. Back and forth, she licked and savored and milked him of moans and read his desires from the subtle clues as his hands in her hair pressed lightly, then tugged for her to prolong her torture. When his fingers began to shake against her scalp and his shaft was engorged, she squeezed tightly under the head and cupped his testicles to stop him from coming.

  Rook groaned with frustration. “Yes,” he managed through his teeth. “Make me wait.”

  Oh, she would. And she’d take wicked delight in doing so.

  A sticky sweet droplet pearled at his tip, and she licked it off and then sucked him hard and steadily. His hips shook, and his abdomen tightened against her palm. Yoga had nothing over her mouth. The man was a god, forged from muscle and determination. And he was at her mercy.

  Teasing her teeth along the thick vein that lined his length summoned a hissing curse from him. She hadn’t hurt him. He was enjoying this too much, and in proof, he pulled her in more firmly.

  “Wicked witch,” he hissed.

  She squeezed him again, sensing his imminent explosion, and chastised, “Patience, lover.”

  “Fuck, Verity.”

  “You want to come?”

  “Yes. No. More.”

  Smiling against his hot rod, she licked up and down, tasting every hard inch of him and memorizing the map of veins and pulsing scents that alchemized into a heady perfume that seduced her into his realm. On her knees before him she offered what she could to become his.

  She had complete control over this man who lived his life regimented and restrained. He could not utter more than a word. His bones shivered inside his skin. He had grown so hard and thick within her mouth she could barely encompass the head of him, but she did so, sucking him as if a tasty dessert.

  “Ver…” he gasped.

  He dropped her hair. His hands slapped the wall behind him. The man’s torso arced forward, his hips seeking her heaven, his head tilting back as his body curved in an exquisite bend. Sunlight melted across his stretched abdomen. His body begged for release.