by Chloe Hart
There was no denying the truth of that statement. “Okay, so we’re sexually deprived superheroes. Isn’t that an occupational hazard? I mean, we do have other things to think about.”
Celia grinned. “You’re the only superhero here. I’m a sexually deprived sidekick, thank you very much. But you’re missing my whole point. This is your golden opportunity to not be sexually deprived.”
Liz shook her head. “I’ll never be desperate enough to beg Jack Morgan to sleep with me. Not even to save the world. Especially since he’d just turn me down, which would be very, very bad for my ego.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Celia agreed, which oddly enough was a little depressing. The least her friend could do was insist that Jack wouldn’t be able to resist her, or something.
Which would be a lie. Jack Morgan hated her every bit as much as she hated him, and he would have no trouble at all resisting her.
Not that it would come to that, of course. Liz was completely confident—or, well, mostly confident—that she’d find a way to defeat this new enemy all on her own.
Only a few hours later, that confidence had evaporated.
Chapter Two
Jack was in a rotten mood. The city stank of evil, and for the first time since he’d gotten into the evil-fighting business, he hadn’t been able to find out a damn thing about whatever was killing people in his beloved city of Boston. Rumors were all he’d gotten hold of, most of them contradicting each other, until it was impossible to separate truth from fear.
All he knew was that the threat was real. Three people had turned up dead, and while the local police had no clue what had caused their deaths, Jack had taken one look at the bodies and known immediately that something supernatural was involved.
Which meant it was his enemy to fight.
Despite what that vampire-hating bitch thought about him, the alliance he’d made with the Fae was more than skin deep. He was committed to protecting his city and the people who lived here. That was the mission that kept him going, that gave meaning to his existence. For the past thirty years it had been his sole focus.
It should be his sole focus now.
He was pacing back and forth across his living room, thinking about his next move. Or trying to think about his next move.
If only thoughts of Liz Marlowe didn’t keep intruding.
He pictured her as she’d looked earlier that evening, her witch black hair tumbled around her shoulders and her green eyes full of loathing. There was so much energy in her, so much passion, so much life. She was more fiercely alive than any creature he’d ever known.
He hated knowing she was out there somewhere, looking for trouble. Spoiling for a fight. Drinking that green poison, risking death with every sip. It was like watching something beautiful and precious hurtling towards the edge of a cliff, knowing destruction was inevitable and that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Not that she wasn’t a good fighter. She was an incredible fighter. She more than made up for her slightly lesser strength with speed and skill and naked ferocity.
The night they met, he’d known immediately that with a little more time and training she could stand shoulder to shoulder with the Green Fae. But instead he’d found himself arguing with Yana after Liz had gone home, advising her to turn Liz away from the clan.
Yana had refused.
Applying cold logic to the problem, he’d been forced to acknowledge that, for whatever reason, he had trouble being objective where Liz was concerned. So he’d done his best to avoid her, even though his alliance with the Fae meant a few encounters were inevitable.
The fact that she hated his guts made it a little easier to stay away. From the very beginning, Liz had treated him like something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
She didn’t trust him. She’d never trust him. So how could he convince her to stay out of this particular fight? To let him handle it? His concern for her was starting to affect his ability to think clearly about the mission in front of him. Maybe he could lock her up in a basement somewhere until it was all over. Maybe he could—
There was a sharp knock at the door.
He wasn’t exactly in the mood for company, but it might be an informant. He strode to the door, glanced through the peephole, and froze.
Liz Marlowe stood in the hallway, blood staining her fingers where she pressed them against her side. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
He pulled open the door, and powerful flavors assaulted his senses. The metallic tang of blood, the pungent reek of adrenaline, and beneath it all the faint, subtle scent that was uniquely Liz. His jaw clenched tight.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, forcing himself to look at her face and not the red stain on her hand.
“Bleeding to death, you idiot.”
“And you thought I’d finish the job? Put you out of your misery?”
She took a ragged breath. “Very funny. I thought—I thought maybe you’d have some bandages.”
There was a short silence. “You’re serious,” he said finally.
“Of course I’m serious!” she shouted, the effort making her grimace. “I heal faster than normal people, but I still need to get patched up.”
She was glaring at him, fury making her eyes seem greener than usual.
She was obviously in pain. He took a grip on himself and risked a glance downwards, confirming that she’d taken a deep slice in the belly.
As far as he knew, she’d never been seriously injured before. Her reflexes were like lightning and she was one hell of a fighter. What kind of creature could have been strong or fast enough to...
“I don’t believe it,” he said suddenly, his eyes snapping back to her face. “You’ve been fighting that...thing.”
She didn’t ask him what thing. She knew perfectly well there was only one thing they could be talking about.
“It’s more than I can say for you,” she said through gritted teeth, and wound or no wound he had to take a deep and unnecessary breath to keep from hitting her.
“Get inside,” he said instead, and when she crossed the threshold he slammed the door behind her. “Sit down,” he ordered, and without waiting to see if she obeyed he went to the bathroom for supplies.
When he came out she was still standing, which came as no surprise. She was panting a little, like a wounded animal, and she looked fierce and defiant and—yes, afraid. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Liz Marlowe look afraid before.
Her white tee-shirt was stained with blood, and her jeans were covered in dirt and grime. There were smudges of dirt on her face, too, which for some reason made her look very young.
Her black hair was tucked behind her ears. Her skin was pale and her eyes looked too big for her face, but that might just be the pain.
“Fine, don’t sit.” He sat down instead, on the leather chair by the fireplace, and gestured for her to stand in front of him. She did so, a little hesitantly.
“I need to see it,” he told her, pointing at the hand she held pressed to her side. When she didn’t move he reached out, intending to be rough, but found himself touching her wrist almost gently. She jerked her hand out of the way.
The cut was four inches long and at least an inch deep. It was a good thing he didn’t need to breathe, he thought. The sight of the blood was bad enough.
“Only you would be stupid enough to come to a vampire with an open wound,” he said, reaching for alcohol and gauze.
“Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly my first choice,” she answered coldly. “There’s something I’ve got to talk to you about when we’re finished with this.”
The creature who’d done this to her, presumably. For the first time in her short life Liz Marlowe had run up against something she couldn’t deal with on her own, and she wanted his help.
She’d never come to him for help before.
He touched the alcohol-soaked pad to her skin and felt her shudder. “This is going to ne
ed stitches,” he told her.
“Fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. I haven’t handled a wound this serious in a long time and I don’t have any anesthetic. You need go to the hospital and—”
“I don’t need anesthetic.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to prove how tough you are, Liz?”
There was a short silence. It was the first time he’d ever used her first name.
“Screw you, Jack. And stitch me the hell up.”
He almost smiled. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, or you’ll find this can hurt even more than it has to.”
“Just do it, okay? And spare me the sweet talk.”
It did hurt—a lot. But the vampire’s hands were unexpectedly gentle, and Liz found herself relaxing in spite of herself. Remembering Yana’s teachings, she willed herself into greater calm, deeper breathing, a slower, stronger heart beat. All of which would help her torn flesh to heal.
She had no desire to watch the surgical operation on her belly, so she let her eyes roam around Jack’s apartment.
Liz wasn’t sure what she’d expected from a vampire’s lair, but it wasn’t this. She herself wasn’t much of a housekeeper—there were dust bunnies the size of cats in her apartment, along with a sink full of dirty dishes and piles of laundry on the floor—but there was something restful about the order in here. The hundreds of books neatly shelved, giving off a scent of leather bindings and old paper; the well-polished wood floors, glowing in the amethyst and ruby and sapphire light of stained glass lamps; and the mellow, soft brown leather of the furniture. The fire on the hearth wasn’t lit, but a fragrance like spice and wood smoke hung in the air.
Liz glanced down at Jack. He was frowning, the muscles around his jaw tight as he used needle and thread to draw the edges of her wound together. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, dark blue, and his forearms flexed as he worked. She could see the fine hairs on his skin, a small pale scar on one wrist, and the latent strength in the big hands that sewed with such surgical precision.
It was a strange sight, considering those hands were usually busy fighting and killing demons.
Fighting and killing the demons who were her rightful prey. She was the Green Fae warrior sworn to protect this city.
Was coming here a sign of weakness? A sign that what Jack had said about her was true? That she wasn’t cut out to be a demon hunter?
She’d always been afraid of weakness, even before she’d known about her Fae heritage. Her mother had raised her to be strong. She’d been a soldier, a master sergeant in the Army, and one of the bravest women Liz had ever known.
She’d been killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan ten years ago. At the memorial service, her grandfather had taken her aside.
“Don’t shame her by crying,” he’d said. “If you want to honor her, be strong.”
She’d always tried to be strong. And when she learned at eighteen that she was descended from a line of elven warriors—called the Green Fae because of the absinthe they drank, in a yearly ritual that enhanced their powers—she’d thrown herself into her new life with ferocious intensity.
No longer would she feel like the odd girl out at school, trying to figure out who and what she was. She was destined to be a warrior, a soldier like her mother, but waging war against supernatural enemies instead of human ones.
She had dedicated herself to that mission, mind and heart and body and soul. She would stand between the city she loved and the darkness of the demon world.
She would be strong.
Liz closed her eyes. She couldn’t do what she’d come here to do. She couldn’t beg Jack Morgan for help—especially considering how humiliating the request would be. She had to find a way to solve this on her own, to fight this thing herself, to—
“Stop it.”
Her eyes snapped open, but Jack was still focused on his work.
“Stop what?”
“Stop thinking whatever you were just thinking. Your heart rate’s going up. Think about something...soothing. Calming. Whatever.”
Damn that vampire anyway. Liz took a deep breath and released it slowly, frowning down at him as he continued to mend her torn flesh. His head was bent and she studied the way the strong neck muscles rose into his black hair. His hair was shorter around his ears. Funny how she’d never thought about ears before. Jack’s were finely made, set close to his head, and—
He looked up suddenly, and Liz flushed brick red.
“All done.” Seeing her face, he added, “You look a little feverish. Maybe you should—”
“I’m not feverish,” she snapped. “It just hurt a little, that’s all. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
An embarrassing lie, but not as embarrassing as the truth.
“You were the one who wouldn’t go to the hospital,” Jack said coldly. “I was a medic in World War I but that was a hell of a long time ago, princess. I did the best I could.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining.” She glanced down at herself, and saw the cut had been bandaged neatly with gauze and tape. “You did a good job,” she said, her voice as stiff as his had been. “Thank you.” She glanced back at him and saw that he had leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
“You’re welcome. Now you can return the favor by telling me what did this to you. And then maybe we can come up with a plan to stop it.”
We, he’d said. Maybe this wouldn’t be as impossible as...
“But first,” he went on, glancing at her torso, “I think we need to get you a new shirt. If you don’t mind.”
She bit her lip, realizing how ghastly she must look. Not to mention that wearing a blood-spattered shirt in front of a vampire was like waving a chocolate bar in front of a woman with PMS.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll wash up a little, too, if that’s all right.”
“Good idea.” He disappeared into his bedroom and came out with a black tee shirt. “This will be big on you but it’s better than what you’ve got.” He pointed at another door. “Bathroom’s in there, princess. Take your time.”
A minute later Liz was gritting her teeth as she pulled off the blood-encrusted shirt, moving carefully so she wouldn’t pull her stitches loose. Her cotton bra had gotten blood on it too, and it stank of sweat. Liz threw it in the trash along with her shirt and looked down at her bare torso.
Cuts and bruises, dirt and dried blood. Around her waist, a bulky bandage. Liz smiled grimly as she thought about her mission here. She’d never looked or felt less sexy in her entire life.
Not that this was about sex—in the traditional sense, anyway. She wasn’t here to seduce Jack Morgan. What she was proposing was more like a business transaction.
God, she had to be out of her mind. Was this really the last option?
Taking a deep breath, Liz turned on the faucet and found a washcloth, dabbing at her skin until she was reasonably clean, if not exactly presentable. Then she pulled on Jack’s tee-shirt. It reached the middle of her thighs and the short sleeves hung past her elbows, but it was clean and smelled...good.
Another deep breath and she was ready to go back out there.
Back to the vampire.
Jack looked up when the door opened, and held back a smile at the sight of Liz Marlowe, the arrogant, badass warrior, in a pair of dirty jeans and a tee shirt that hung down to her knees. She looked uncomfortable, even vulnerable, and a part of him—not the nicest part, he had to admit—relished that.
Her friend Celia had tried to explain once why Liz hated vampires so much. It turned out she’d been attacked by a vamp back when she was newly called. She’d killed him, but not before he’d marked her—a thing no warrior would ever forget or forgive.
Jack’s eyes went to her neck.
There they were—nearly invisible to the human eye, but unmistakable to a vampire who knew what to look for. Two scars, pale as moonlight, marking an otherwise flawless throat.
There was no warning. One moment he was himself—controlled, detached. The n
ext, blood lust stabbed through him. Only a powerful effort kept him from showing it. His incisors ached unbearably, burning like fire, as his fangs threatened to burst through his gums. He recognized one of the ancient instincts of his kind—to obliterate the marks of another vampire with his own.
His hands clenched into fists for the few seconds it took him to beat down the impulse. Normally, a vampire only felt that particular pull when he wanted to lay claim to someone of the opposite sex. Jack hadn’t felt that urge in more than twenty years, and never for a human.
It was clearly an aberration, brought on by all the blood he’d seen and smelled on her and the fact that he’d been subduing his basic instincts for decades. He cleared his throat.
“So, princess. Now that you’re not bleeding to death, have a seat and tell me about the thing you faced tonight.”
He was under control again, thank God, and Liz hadn’t noticed anything. She was focused on the story she was telling him now. At her description of a shadowy form she could never see clearly, the grip of something like tentacles, the tang of ocean water, and the slash of icy talons, he knew.
A cold weight settled in his stomach.
“Child of the Kraken,” he muttered to himself. “God damn the luck.”
The last time one of those surfaced, an entire village on the coast of South America had been slaughtered.
Liz heard him and sat up straighter in her chair.
“Child of the Kraken? But...the Kraken is a sea monster. I’ve never heard of one venturing toward a coastline, much less coming on land.”
“The Kraken lives in the deep ocean and stays there. The Children of the Kraken are also ocean dwellers, but they can and do come to shore once in a while—usually when something is out of balance in their realm. They hide in the shadows and kill in the shadows. They’re deadly, elusive, and almost impossible to destroy.”
Liz stared at him in silence for a moment.
“I know a way to destroy it.”
Chapter Three
Her heart was pounding. This was it. This was the time to tell him, to ask him, to—