Dire Wants

by Stephanie Tyler

  “The police are the ones who are after you—you saw that for yourself,” Stray reminded her as he numbly maneuvered the vehicle through the wet roads without the car losing speed or feeling out of control.

  Unlike her, who was seriously spinning right now. She pulled the blanket tighter, put her face close to the vent so the warm air blew against her cheeks.

  “We’re almost there; then I can get you some dry clothes,” Stray told her as the truck began to make a slow, grinding climb up a hill. And then, suddenly, he stopped the car and turned to her. “I’m going to put a blindfold on you. It’s for your own safety.”

  Could she even argue? Before she had a chance to, he was tying a bandanna over her eyes and securing it, and then the truck moved again. She heard a garage door open, then close, and then Stray cut the engine.

  She heard him get out and shut his own door, and she had a second to reach up and grab the cloth over her eyes. But somehow he was opening her door and reaching for her hand faster than he should have been able to.

  “Let’s go.”

  He helped her down, her sneakers squishing on the floor. He put his hands on her shoulders and walked her forward ahead of him as the odd feeling overtook her. There was something in the air—if she didn’t know better, she’d call it magic.

  But the blindfold was making her too claustrophobic to focus on much of anything else and so she allowed Stray to guide her, his hands on her shoulders.

  She forced herself to keep going, not to collapse in an embarrassing heap, but she knew she soon would. She could tell by the way her body still shook.

  Before that happened, she found herself in a soft, comfortable chair. The blindfold came off and a soda was in her hands.

  The light in the room was low enough to allow her eyes to adjust easily. She drank the sugared soda greedily as she got her bearings.

  They were in a big living room in what she believed to be a giant house, based on how tall the ceilings were. It was clean, and dare she even say cozy, thanks to the roaring fire.

  And still, the low-level hum of energy zinged through her. The brand was reacting, but it wasn’t hurting the way it normally did when she felt danger of any kind.

  But you are in danger.

  “You are in danger, yes. But you’ll be okay here,” Stray told her.

  She was about to ask him if he was a mind reader when she realized she hadn’t been able to read his mind. At all.

  Maybe a better question for Stray would be, What are you?

  “Stay here. I’m going to get you dry clothes and then we’ll talk.” When he left the room, she peeled off her wet shoes and socks, but kept the blanket draped over her shoulders, and padded around the living room. Her skin was clammy and she’d welcome the chance to change, but where was she?

  They hadn’t driven for much longer than twenty minutes. Then again, he could’ve been driving in circles—she’d been too distracted to notice.

  The one time she really did need to break into someone’s mind and she couldn’t do it. What were the chances of that happening?

  She turned to see him standing behind her. How such a big man moved so silently was beyond her, but he did.

  He held out folded clothing to her. “I know they’ll be big, but they’re dry.”

  A T-shirt that was more than huge, a flannel shirt that was equally so and sweats she’d need to roll up several times at both the waist and the legs. She took them gratefully and followed to where he pointed at the large bathroom down the hall. She wanted to strip, dry off, change quickly. Instead, she sat on the edge of the tub and put her face against the flannel that, although clean, still smelled like Stray, and when she inhaled, the brand on her back flared … with pleasure.

  Weird.

  Yeah, like the rest of the night had been so normal.

  *

  Stray scented Vice—and weretrappers’ blood—before he heard the house unarm and rearm with the wolf’s entry. In seconds, he saw the Dire round the hallway and step into the kitchen. He dropped whatever he’d been holding, followed in short order by his leather jacket.

  The cold rain had washed Vice semi-clean, save for the mud he tracked all through the house. “Dude, now, that’s what I call a good night. Is she here? The witch?” Vice asked as he took off the heavy black boots he’d worn for the ass kicking. Stray pointed to the bathroom. “What, did you chain her up?”

  Stray sighed. “She’s changing. I saw her push Shimmin and one of his men—with her mind. She threw them ten feet.”

  Killing Shimmin wasn’t an option. Thanks to a witch’s spell, Shimmin’s blood was poison to Weres. And although Shimmin’s blood wasn’t deadly to Dires, it might have been able to incapacitate Stray long enough for him to be taken prisoner. Although it had killed Stray to leave the man behind, he had the most important piece of the puzzle safe and sound.

  “Did they see you?”

  “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”

  “And they were both gone by the time I got there,” Vice confirmed. “I’m sure by now he’s gone to her apartment and figured it out partially. I didn’t leave any traces of them or us, but hell, some Weres can scent me. If Shimmin brought a trained dog to the apartment …”

  Vice trailed off and Stray figured all they could do was wait and see Shimmin’s next move.

  “Doesn’t much matter—we have the most important thing.” Stray glanced toward the bathroom door. The windows were all alarmed, and while he wasn’t worried about her leaving without him noticing, he knew escape was definitely on her mind and he had to do something to change it. “She’s reeling.”

  “Don’t see how she couldn’t be.” Vice shrugged out of the rest of his wet clothes and strode to the fridge naked.

  “Dude, you need to leave in case she comes out here—she’s already on edge.”

  Vice looked nonchalant as he chugged chocolate milk. “Killing weretrappers makes me hungry. You gonna tell her she’s a witch now?”

  “Can’t think of a better time. It’s going to be the only explanation she’ll buy. She’s far from stupid.”

  “She’s hot, too.” Vice took a step back. “What? I saw a picture of her in her apartment. And I’m stating a fact. Down, wolf.”

  Stray hated the way his wolf reacted, but there was no denying it wasn’t only the wolf. No, his other form was protective of her as well.

  “Hey—I grabbed these books from her apartment.” Vice pointed to two wet paperbacks with the word witch in the title that lay next to his jacket. “They’re kind of how-to guides. So maybe she knows something.”

  Stray scooped them up and paged through them as he brought them into the bedroom where Kate would stay. He’d bring them up to her after he got Vice away from here. But the wolf seemed in no rush and was still eating straight out of the fridge.

  “You know, if I’d seen Shimmin, his throat would’ve been ripped out, poison or no poison,” Vice assured him, his mouth half full of tortellini salad.

  It had been a seemingly perfect opportunity for Stray to do so as well, but that could’ve cost him Kate’s trust. Besides, Shimmin wasn’t the only problem they had with the weretrappers—not by a long shot. Rumors that other covens had recently joined Seb in exchange for protection from wolves and humans were more than that—the twins had reported seeing witches entering the trappers’ makeshift compound, and Stray had broken into a server where the witches were discussing what they would do for the trappers.

  “Go get dressed, man. I need Kate to have some privacy when I tell her everything.”

  Vice took the chocolate milk bottle with him and bare assed it out of the kitchen, saying, “I’ll bring the others up to speed while you work your magic, young one. Do you need any pointers?”

  “Fuck you, old man—I know what I’m doing.”

  Vice shot him the finger and turned the corner.

  *

  Kate thought she’d been holding it together really well.

  She’d been w
rong. Now that she wasn’t running for her life, her body was rebelling. Her legs shook and her panic refreshed itself. She didn’t know how long she’d just stood there, but when she decided to finally move, her head spun. She put a hand out to catch herself and then Stray was there, holding her up, despite the fact that she’d locked the door and checked it several times.

  “This is becoming a habit,” she muttered, even as she clutched his arms.

  “Let me help you.”

  She wanted to tell him she could damn well dress herself, but she’d already proven she couldn’t. Her cheeks burned as his hands deftly moved her shirt off her shoulders, then unhooked her bra expertly before forgoing the T-shirt and opting to help her put on just the flannel shirt.

  She didn’t know if his gaze settled on her naked breasts or not, because she refused to look at him until he pulled the fabric together to cover them.

  His scent enveloped her. Intoxicated her. She watched, mesmerized, as he held her up with one arm and buttoned the shirt one handed, reluctant, it seemed, to button it up all the way. His hand brushed over the top of her breast and she shivered—he did too—and finally he had covered her up nearly to her neck.

  But then his hands slid down to her hips, skimming her bare skin, and she almost hit the ceiling. His gaze smoldered as he hooked his thumbs in the waist of her jeans and underwear and tugged both down.

  “Relax. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he murmured.

  God, she wanted …

  She blew out a soft, nervous laugh and kept watching him as he maneuvered her to sit on the tub’s edge again and then bent to put the sweatpants on. The top was long enough to cover her but she’d never felt more exposed in her life.

  “I can run you a bath later. First you need food.” His voice surrounded her like the promise of the soothing warm water.

  She nodded because she didn’t quite trust her voice yet—or him, entirely—but for immediate survival, it was necessary. Finally, she managed, “I’m not used to being helped.”

  “Except by Shimmin.”

  He sounded … jealous.

  “Should I be?” he asked with a possessiveness that raced through her blood.

  “No. Not at all.”

  He appeared satisfied with her answer. “You need to get used to help.”

  With that, he helped her up, gathered her wet, discarded clothing in his free hand and led her into the kitchen. “I’ll wash your clothes—you need to eat.”

  She didn’t bother protesting, because her stomach rumbled and she needed food so she could wrap her mind around whatever was happening here. She needed to keep her strength up in case she had to run—or fight—again.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked as they crossed the first giant room and went into an even bigger kitchen with shiny stainless-steel appliances everywhere and dark wood cabinets.

  “Because my brothers and I need your help.”

  At least he didn’t lie. “With what, exactly, can I help you? Do you need a sketch artist?” Even as she spoke, her brand burned. She resisted the urge to put her hand back there and feel for it. “And how did you know I was in danger tonight?”

  “You called for me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You sketched me,” he pointed out. She flushed as he pulled out the pages that had dropped from her sketchbook and handed them to her.

  He’d been at her apartment looking for her. “You’re a good-looking man. It wasn’t a hardship drawing you.”

  He gave her a small smirk even though she swore she saw a slight rise of color on his cheeks.

  “You want to tell me why you ran?” he asked.

  “Which time?”

  “Both.” He pointed to a chair and she sat at the big, scarred oak table. He grabbed a bottle of juice from the fridge—her favorite kind—and asked, “This okay?”

  She nodded. He also laid out sandwich meats and bread on the table between them and made a lot of sandwiches. Like he was expecting an army.

  He pushed a sandwich toward her. In between bites, she started to talk about the phone call and her panic in her apartment. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I just felt … something was wrong.”

  “It was,” he said, halfway through his fifth sandwich. He ate calmly, slowly. But, man, could he eat.

  She realized her body had stopped trembling. “Will they really not find me here?”

  “Not in the house, no.”

  “Are you some kind of … secret agent or something?”

  He snorted. “Hardly.”

  “Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful you helped me. But Leo Shimmin … he’s not going to stop looking for me, and I don’t understand any of this. Maybe I screwed up a case or something? I mean, he’s never been anything but good to me.”

  “Then why did you run when he called?” he asked.

  She had no real answer for that, except that she’d followed her gut. And ultimately, that had saved her life.

  Chapter 7

  Seb heard Leo come into the compound, knew the head of the trappers would rush immediately to him for retribution.

  The witch called Kate had escaped because of the Dires. Seb’s familiar had told him the story earlier and Seb had thrown himself into his other work rather than worry about the wrath he’d face because of the loss.

  He’d been bringing the Dire ghost army through their first training exercise. For tonight, they’d been let loose upon the dead only, and it took every last bit of power Seb had to keep the reins on them. Getting them to attack the living was the next step—and it would require help.

  Meeting the ghosts face-to-face was like being in Rifter’s past—one he’d heard so much about when they’d been best friends for centuries, Seb felt as though he’d lived it alongside the Dire king. Now he was signing something akin to Rifter’s death warrant as much as he was his own.

  He wished the demon that possessed his body would drag him to hell, because he’d rather that than dealing with this.

  You always knew it would happen—could’ve taken steps to avoid it.

  But he hadn’t, and he was paying.

  He’d been brutally punished—deservedly so—for sending Leo’s brother, Mars, into the fray and letting him get killed by Rifter and Gwen. It would be the last time Seb helped any of the Dires. He’d continued to let punishments be meted out to him because the demon liked it that way.

  Seb was turning into a puppet who had no control of his own strings—hand shoved into his back like a bad episode of Angel.

  At least he’d finally gotten the demon to admit who he’d been in life—a powerful warlord who deserved to burn in hell. Problem was, the warlord liked hell far too much to think of it as punishment. As he was in life, he remained in death, and Seb was now taking the full brunt of his punishments.

  The demon called himself Kondo, which was the Swahili word for war.

  Fitting.

  “The witch escaped!” Seb heard Leo Shimmin yelling as he got closer. “My best men are dead. It could’ve only been the Dires.”

  Seb agreed but didn’t say so out loud. Kondo did speak, though, and Leo wasn’t happy.

  When the man kicked through the door to Seb’s cage, as Seb thought of the octagon-shaped room at the top of the tower three towns over from the Dire mansion, Seb stood and readied himself for battle. The demon laughed softly in his ear.

  “You said the brand would mark me as the one.” Leo spoke through gritted teeth as he attempted to menace Seb. “You said it would work.”

  “Might work. Kate’s witch is strong. Discerning. I can’t change destiny.” Seb pushed Leo on the chest with both hands and the cop nearly flew across the room.

  Leo hadn’t sold his soul the way his brother had. Mars had been strong because he’d allowed a demon to possess him. Gwen had killed him easily because the demon had vacated Mars’s body before she’d borne down on him. Leo had refused the possession option; instead, his mind was guarded against witches
’ spells, his blood poison to wolves, but he remained completely mortal and still in need of the immortal demon bodyguard who went everywhere with him.

  “She threw Finn across the damned woods,” Leo said. “You said she wouldn’t be strong enough to do that to a demon at this point.”

  “I guess I was wrong. These powers are unpredictable.”

  Leo Shimmin’s plans were less so, and so far-reaching, they chilled Seb to the bone. Capturing, experimenting on and killing wolves were horrible enough. But the weretrappers’ reign of terror had expanded exponentially since they had gained Seb’s help to include raising demons to possess, influence and use politicians for their personal gain.

  So the attack against humans and wolves was many pronged. Shimmin was looking for domination by using the supernatural—and smartly left lion shifters, vamps and most witches out of the equation.

  Those groups were currently flying under the radar, and word was, if they stayed out of the weretrappers’ way, they’d be left alone. Since those groups had no use for humans or wolves, their way of life wouldn’t be affected and their leaders were advising they turn a blind eye and let the wolves fight their own battles.

  Hell, even Weres, the form of the outlaw pack, were selling out their own kind and blaming the Dires in an attempt to save themselves.

  The weretrappers had succeeded in fracturing the supernatural world and using that divide for their own massive gain.

  The main flaw in the trappers’ plan that would return to bite everyone in the ass was the use of the dark arts. Although the Dires knew they could survive anything, going up against evil forces and legions of the dead was a deadly distraction, one that Seb had planned carefully.

  But the demons and the dead could quickly override his power and take over humans themselves.

  There would be no winners in this war.

  Leo paced the room, muttering to himself. After several minutes, he’d regained some kind of inner calm. “What’s set in motion remains. Nothing else matters.”

  That was a partial truth. Seb was raising an army that could capture the Dires, kill Weres and help enslave armies. “The Dire army is practicing,” Seb assured him. “Growing stronger, more organized. The Dires are still working on a way to stop them.”