Fortunately for him the Shifter King, Darius, had instantly taken a liking to him, and proved as much when he had his own people come out of the shifter closet to Lazarus. All this time, Laz had been assuming that the redheaded Baxter sometimes made his cat allergies act up because the man owned a cat – when in fact, he’d been one himself. A cheetah, to be exact. Laz had to laugh at that. No wonder his partner was so fast on his feet.
Still, there were no Akyri in place in Lazarus’s network, so he’d acted quickly, making certain to arm himself with help. One of the best choices he’d made was to make certain Draecus was hired on the force and that he’d have easy access to Laz. Now Draecus wasn’t the only Akyri on the force, or around it. There were others in the precinct, in the fire department, working as emergency response technicians, and there were even a few manning the 9-1-1 lines. It was amazing how much easier it was to keep a lid on the goings-on of the various supernatural worlds when their arteries into the mortal world were headed-off by agents who knew what was going on and knew how to handle it.
Now Laz looked once over both shoulders as he ducked into a shadowy recess beside a brownstone and called up a portal. As an Akyri, he could use the magic of warlocks. However, unlike warlocks, it didn’t come naturally. It was borrowed – or taken, rather. It wasn’t like it could be given back. Lucky for him, as the king of the Akyri Laz didn’t have to make any promises or deals with anyone for his sustenance. He didn’t have to wait around for a warlock to take pity on him in order to use the dark magic they wielded so easily. Rather, he could take it from anyone he wanted at any time he wanted. And he’d just stocked up good and strong.
The portal that would take him into Dorchester swirled to life in front of him. He knew better than to waste time with portals; if a human so much as caught a glance of something as bizarre as a portal, alarms would go up all over the place claiming everything from aliens to time rifts to gas leaks making everyone hallucinate. So he stepped hastily inside and made sure it shut securely behind him as it whisked him to his destination.
*****
Dahlia’s eyes looked up at the sound of footfalls and radio communications outside the warehouse doors, but the rest of her body didn’t move. Her fangs were still embedded in her victim’s throat; his heart was still beating. She hadn’t killed him. She didn’t have to if she didn’t want to… but those final drops were the most life-giving for her. A give and take. Death for life. There was no fairness in nature.
Still, she knew that to even hint at something akin to vampirism these days to a human was to hint at mass hysteria. A zombie mania that ironically would not die, religious fanatics foretelling and re-foretelling the apocalypse, an entire body of youth inherently in hatred of itself, and a public massively jaded toward violence were a volatile combination. It was a populace ripe with the intense need to have something to believe in. All anyone had to do was count the quantity of crosses dotting a standard sky line and the number of ghost related programs airing in a week’s time, and that was easy enough to confirm. The last thing Dahlia wanted to do was give humans any more fuel for their credent bonfires. They could barely deal with their own problems; dealing with those of other realms was yet beyond their capabilities.
So she pulled her teeth from the young mage’s throat and ran her tongue over the dual wounds they left behind, knowing that they would heal up within seconds. With great effort, she forced her fangs back into hiding. She hadn’t finished feeding, and the dark force she’d displayed in her earlier battle with the blue-eyed stranger had truly drained her. She was still hungry. But there were invisible lines drawn in every situation, and these lines she wasn’t quite ready to cross.
As the large metal doors to the warehouse were at last broken open and police officers poured into the building with weapons drawn, she stood to greet them. “Well, hello boys,” she said slowly. Her voice had remained in vampire tones, sultry and low, deep and enticing. Her words greeted the men like a siren’s echo along the metal and cement of the warehouse. It brought every last officer to a frozen halt as they entered the space. She smiled what she knew good and well was a drop-dead gorgeous smile. “What brings you into my neck of the woods?” she asked, totally meaning the “neck” pun and chuckling at her own private joke.
“You! Get your hands up!” one of the officers had enough remaining faculties to command.
Dahlia’s gaze narrowed, but her smile stayed. “Sure thing,” she said. She could feel the magic lacing every one of her words, an inherent spell woven into the fabric of her voice. She slowly raised her hands above her head, and then swayed them gently in time with her hips, dancing to a melody no one could hear. “Like this?” she asked.
She smiled to herself, knowing the gazes she felt locked on her form were connected to swiftly hardening bodies. There was a distant alarm ringing in the recesses of her mind, something trying to remind her that this might not be a good idea. But she was trapped in the sway of her own power now, mad with it, hungry with it, and she was frankly feeling just a little mean.
“What’s the matter boys?” she asked casually as she slowly turned back around to face them. She was right. Their weapons had lowered a few inches, as if attached to arms that no longer realized the weight at the ends of them. A few mouths were open a little too far, and the room was filling with a scent she would recognize anywhere. It was lust, pure, strong and heavy.
Her chuckle filled the hollows of the warehouse. “Afraid I’ll bite?” she asked. Her smile slipped dangerously.
“Oh, I think they know you will.”
Dahlia froze, stunned by the sound of the new voice. It was as clear and resonant as her own, with words that cut like scythes through the silence, slicing up the magic around her as if it barely cared that it was there. It was a voice of undeniable power, with a tone that meant no-nonsense, and Dahlia Kellen was suddenly and severely turned on.
Very slowly, she turned to face the newcomer. A figure in the shadows at the far wall stood tall and strong against the darkness. But the shape moved forward, his boots clicking clear on the pavement. As he stepped closer, his eyes caught the light.
Irises like a sea on fire gazed out at her from the hollow black. “You’re a little far from home tonight, aren’t you?” he asked softly.
Dahlia felt what blood she had drain from her face. The cracked pavement of the warehouse beneath her feet tilted a little. Her head was too light, and the space around her was expanding too far. In the silence that grew stronger like a distant ringing, she heard her own heartbeat quicken. She licked her lips.
He continued out of the shadows and stepped into the light.
In that single moment, Dahlia’s world changed. Her mind flashed to a white stag with gemstone antlers. The ringing that had been distant engulfed her. The mortal realm slid back out of the way, leaving only her and the man who now stood before her.
She had never seen him before, but she knew him. Her gut clenched, her already racing heart slipped into overdrive, and her hunger redoubled – but this time focused. Now she wanted to feed. But only on him.
“How would you know?” she asked. Her words had grown tight, some of the power siphoned from them by the strength of her surprise.
The man smiled a white smile of perfect teeth… and a hint of something more. “Well, you’re definitely not human, and you’re standing in the middle of the human world. So I’d say you’re far from home.”
Dahlia swallowed hard. Her throat stuck, having suddenly dried out. She managed to keep from coughing, but her gaze was glued to the stranger.
She was a Tuath fae, so it wasn’t as if she were unaccustomed to being surrounded by beautiful men. Her entire realm was populated with them, some more so than others, but all striking in their own unique and entirely desirable way. She’d also met a few of the Thirteen Kings, and had even made the acquaintance of some of the males from their various realms. It was just a sorry fact that non-humans were usually more beautiful than humans. This w
as the case for many reasons, not the least of which was magic.
But just then, caught in the gravity of the man before her, Dahlia felt like she’d never seen a beautiful being before in her life. This was her first. He wore tight blue jeans, black engineering boots, a white tee-shirt that hugged every ridge of his six-pack, and a worn black leather biker jacket. It was the ultimate, iconic uniform of a man who couldn’t be bothered to pick out anything different. It was casual perfection.
He was a masterpiece of carelessly gorgeous thick hair, strong shadowed chin, and shoulders that looked as though they could easily carry the weight of the world… and maybe they did. A police badge shined where it was clipped to the waist band of his jeans. He had an aura about him of epic responsibility, one of fierce determination and a will like steel. As perfect as he was, he had the impossible scent of humanity about him. Whatever he was, he was part human.
There was something else, too. Was it… Akyri? There was a touch of that, yes. She recognized it at this point. But it was like a dusting of salt on an evening meal; it wasn’t the main course. There was something else there, something much stronger. Darker.
And most beautiful, perhaps most perplexing of all, was that he seemed to be looking at her the same way she was looking at him. With keen interest. With a touch of confusion. And with unmistakable hunger.
Quite suddenly, a spike of stark independence speared its way into Dahlia’s mind. She blinked. What the hell was she doing? She blinked again and took a step back. She needed to get out of there. With more effort than she’d expected it to take, she pulled her gaze from the stranger’s and glanced at the police over her shoulder. There were roughly half a dozen of them. They hadn’t moved since the other man had appeared. In fact, they seemed oddly hypnotized even though she was no longer concentrating on them.
This wasn’t turning out the way she’d wanted. When she’d left her house earlier that evening, she’d only planned to cause a bit of a scene, maybe get herself arrested or taken off the “future queen” list. She hadn’t meant to get caught up in some sort of ritualistic summoning, she hadn’t meant to use up all her power, and she hadn’t meant to do whatever she’d done to all those men. She certainly hadn’t planned on being caught in her vampiric state, feeding on a human and desperately wanting more. She hadn’t meant to lose control. Not like this. Not in front of someone like….
She turned back around – to find that the stranger had closed the distance between them and was standing over her, larger than life and smelling like leather, men’s soap, gun powder and dark, dark magic.
Not him! she thought desperately. Most of all, she hadn’t planned on going out tonight and running headlong into him.
Chapter Sixteen
“How positive are we that it’s one of the remaining kings?” Roman asked. He was sorry almost immediately after the question had left his lips. He hadn’t meant to question Lalura’s capability in reading and interpreting visions or prophecies. He’d really just been thinking about the few kings left who hadn’t yet found their queens, and he hadn’t meant to voice the thought aloud. It was just that sometimes it was a little too easy to let his guard down, especially around someone he’d known as long as he had Lalura Chantelle.
“It is the only thing I am certain of,” said Lalura in her ancient, scratchy voice. She slowly rose from the cushioned rocking chair she’d been reclined in, leaning heavily on the cane in her hand for support. Her hand appeared knobby and weathered where it wrapped tightly around the cane’s head, and Roman could swear it was more so than it had been in the past. He could count each vein, and even see it throbbing beneath the painfully thin tissue paper that was her skin. It was like the old woman had aged another ten years overnight.
He was wondering how much more the witch could take. She’d been personally attacked more than half a dozen times in the last six months. Whoever and whatever the Entity was, it wanted her dead and it didn’t appear as if it were going to tire of trying to make that happen. Maybe it was hoping she would simply tire out and die of exhaustion. Roman was beginning to worry the same thing.
“I’ve run the spell countless times, my friend. Fate will reveal nothing more. Nothing but….” Her ancient voice trailed off.
Roman sat up a little straighter in his wing-backed chair. Lalura had made her way to the hearth across the room. It was dead right now, not so much as a pile of smoldering ashes to give the fireplace life. It was June and this particular safe house wasn’t in the redwood forest, as many of Roman’s homes were, but in the lush forestry of Vermont, tucked away behind miles of privately owned woodland and abutting a stream. Forest or not, Vermont was warm in June and a fire wasn’t needed. Roman tended to steer clear of unnecessary real fire unless he needed to speak with Pi, the fire elemental. But Lalura gazed into the space anyway, as if its flames were dancing merrily before her on a cold autumn night.
Roman waited. He knew she would continue. He knew she wouldn’t keep him hanging, not because she didn’t have it in her, but because she’d never been one to take unnecessary chances just to spare someone’s feelings. She was far more interested in doing what was smart than what was socially acceptable.
“One of you will die, Roman. One who has claimed a companion.”
Roman braced himself. It was like bracing yourself for the after shock when a bomb went off. The damage was already done.
She turned and pinned him with her blue eyes. “One whose queen has been found will soon take his final breath.”
It wasn’t truly as if he hadn’t expected something like this. The last time he’d discussed visions or prophecies or seers with Lalura, he’d learned that one of them had seen a crown engulfed in flames. He wasn’t stupid. Of course, the ultimate demise of one of the Thirteen had come to mind. But he’d hoped it would be the traitor. Or he’d hoped that perhaps that it had been a vision of something already transpired, such as the death of the Gargoyle King.
This… was not what he’d wanted to hear. And yet, somehow he wasn’t surprised.
Roman took a deep breath. “Very well. Then we know one of the mated kings will die, and we know one who has not yet found his queen will be the reason.” He had half a mind to kill the remaining five.
Wait. Had he seriously just had that thought? Seriously? Had that truly and honestly gone through his head just then? What was he, the King Herod of Christian mythology? Christ, he thought – ironically.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, not because he had a headache or anything remotely like one, but because it seemed the right thing to do at this juncture. Then he took a second deep breath and waved his hand almost dismissively at the hearth Lalura stared so intently into. Flames instantly leapt to life within the fireplace, dancing and crackling merrily.
Lalura looked at him over her bent shoulder. She smiled a thanks, and he returned it silently.
Then he said, “You can’t continue like this.”
She slowly turned to face him.
“Not for long,” he went on. “How much more do you think the human body is meant to endure?”
Lalura chuckled softly, then sighed heavily, and he could practically see the weight of thirteen worlds settle itself across her bony shoulders. “Well, when I find out,” she said, “at least that question will be answered.”
The first attempt on her life had been a poisoning. Lalura, however, was infinitely picky about her tea. To say that she was a connoisseur of the beverage would be an understatement of worldly proportions. She knew something was wrong, not even by the scent of it and definitely not by the taste of it, seeing as how she never took a sip. She knew something was wrong by the look of the steam.
The second attempt on her life had nearly taken two mortals down with it and had left a crater in the middle of Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, that news crews and the police department were chalking up to a sink hole. Roman had a feeling that cover story had a lot less to do with the truth and a lot more to do with some of the men working for the
NYPD, namely one of their detectives, Michael Salvatore. He’d only seen the man in passing, but the power radiating from him had been unlike anything Roman had ever felt. It wasn’t necessarily stronger – Roman knew some very strong people. It was just… different. What Salvatore was, he had no idea; new supernaturals were cropping up every day, and he didn’t have the leisure at the moment to study them all. But it was reassuring to know that a fellow supernatural was influential in the police department in such a big city. Salvatore was more likely than not going to do everything in his power to cover up the truth and hide the paranormal realms from the human world. Their secrets were more or less safe.
The third attempt on Lalura’s life had left a portal rip between two worlds that had taken six mages to close. The attacks became worse each time, yet Lalura seemed strangely unbothered by them. She was honestly unfazed, as if they were inconsequential to her because the attacks were nothing in comparison to something else – something she wasn’t sharing with him.
He wondered if the first attempt on her life had really been the first. He wondered if there were secrets, not only amongst the Thirteen Kings, but between the kings and the mother hen witch who had taken them all under her wing long ago.
Roman’s phone chimed. He pulled it from his front suit pocket and stared down at the small message scrolled across the top of his screen. “We are required elsewhere,” he said calmly as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Steven Lazarus is in need of a clean up.”
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