Suddenly Jerry Morgan’s voice blasted from the radio on her shoulder. “Code Zero-zero! London, I need some help over here!” To someone else, he snapped, “Get back, sir!”
Zero-zero was the city police code for officer needs emergency assistance. Her heart in her throat, Diana clicked the button on her mike. “Morgan, what’s the problem?” She released the button and waited, tense.
He didn’t respond.
“Morgan, copy.”
Nothing.
“Shit.” She jumped up, grabbed her half-eaten sandwich and fries, and shot them toward the nearest trash can as she sprinted for her patrol car. “Come on. We’ve got trouble.”
Llyr scrambled into the front seat and slammed the door as she started the engine and threw the ancient patrol car into gear. She reached down to flip on the lights and sirens, and the car filled with the cycling wail as they screeched out of the city park parking lot.
“What’s happening?” Llyr demanded.
Diana didn’t answer, too busy keying her shoulder mike. “Verdaville Charlie One-Nine en route to Danny’s Bar and Grill to assist Charlie Two-Four. Requesting S.O. assistance.”
“Will do, Charlie One-Nine,” the county dispatcher replied.
“Diana, what is going on?” Llyr asked again.
She didn’t even glance at him, too intent on keeping the patrol car on the road. The 1990 Crown Vic had 120,000 miles on it, and its steering tended to get mushy at high speeds. “Sounds like somebody jumped the other Verdaville cop at our local bar. Could get really nasty, which is why I asked the Sheriff’s Office to back us up.” The car swerved as she rounded a corner. Diana corrected, swearing. “Dammit. I told the cheap-ass city council we needed to replace this relic, but noooo. We’d have to raise taxes. Well, they don’t have to drive this thing at ninety miles an hour through town. Stay on the road, you piece of shit.”
“Diana, my love,” Llyr said, his voice arch with understatement. “Please remember I don’t have my powers. I’m not sure, but I suspect running into a tree at this speed would not be pleasant.”
“Neither is a drunk beating Jerry Morgan to death. Dammit, it would help if Mike Williams hadn’t called in with the flu. And Jimmy Patterson worked fifteen hours of overtime on the murders and took the night off. We’ve got to do something about manpower…”
They rounded a curve and the bar appeared ahead of them. Diana started slowing the car in preparation for pulling in and got a good look at the parking lot. “Oh, fantastic. Every redneck in twenty square miles must be out on the town.”
A crowd of people milled around in the bar’s parking lot. A flurry of motion close to the door of the business had all the taletell signs of a brawl.
Diana’s heart began to pound as her stomach knotted. This could get ugly, even with her powers. She drove the car right into the crowd, the members of which immediately began to scatter like cockroaches.
But the knot of brawlers kept right on going, pounding at one another in a flurry of punches. She grabbed her shoulder mike and reached for the door with the other hand. “Verdaville One-Nine, 10–23 at Danny’s Bar. Where’s our backup?”
“Ten-four, Verdaville. Nearest S.O. units are tied up. They say it’ll be fifteen to twenty minutes before they can respond.”
And then they’d have to drive all the way to Verdaville. “Fan-damn-tastic. You stay in the car,” Diana said to Llyr as she threw open the car door.
“I think not.” He swung out after her. “I don’t care for the odds.”
Diana didn’t have time to argue with him. “Fine. Stick with me, then. And for God’s sake, try not to kill anybody.” She grabbed her PR-24 baton and started pushing her way through the crowd, making blatant use of her Direkind strength, Llyr striding at her heels.
They found Jerry Morgan rolling on the ground with three other men who were all enthusiastically whaling away on him. Two more knots of combatants brawled nearby, but Diana didn’t even break stride as she ran to help her fellow cop.
Something slammed hard into the side of her head. Glass exploded as beer showered her face. Stunned, she went down on one knee.
Llyr roared in fury. She sensed rather than saw him shoot by.
Diana reeled to her feet and swiped at her wet face. Her hand came away smeared in blood. She snarled, looking for the person who had coldcocked her.
Llyr had a man down on the ground, pounding his opponent without mercy. She grinned, knowing it was probably her attacker.
Since the Sidhe obviously had matters well in hand, she went for the knot of brawlers currently beating on Morgan. Reaching in, she grabbed the back of a shirt at random, hauled the owner out with Direkind strength, and shot her fist into his face.
Blood went flying. A wild-eyed face screamed into hers as the man grabbed for her, drawing his own fist back.
A big hand landed on his shoulder and smashed him onto the pavement. Then Llyr hit him twice. That was all it took before the drunk’s eyes rolled back.
Diana turned and aimed her PR-24 in a powerhouse swing toward a fat-padded shoulder. Its owner howled and rolled off Jerry. She pounced on the fat bruiser, planted a knee in the small of his pudgy back, and grabbed his wrist, dragging it back for the handcuffs she pulled out of her shoulder pouch. He cursed and bucked under her, but she bore down and got him cuffed anyway.
Suddenly somebody slammed into her, rolling her off the thug. She had an impression of red eyes and a five o’clock shadow before a huge fist plowed into her face. Her head snapped back into the pavement so hard she saw stars.
Then the weight of the man was gone, and she heard Llyr cursing steadily in Sidhe between grunts of effort punctuated by thuds.
Diana staggered to her feet just as a bloody face loomed at her elbow. She’d drawn back a fist before she recognized the badge on the man’s chest. “Damn, Jer, you look like hell.”
“You don’t look so good yourself.” Morgan’s uniform was covered in blood and dirt, and his left eye was swollen shut. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Who the hell is that?”
Llyr surged to his feet, having finished off the last of the fighters. The collar of his new shirt was ripped, and his hair had come half out of the tail she’d tied it into, falling around his blood-smeared face. As he whirled, teeth bared, she strongly suspected most of the blood was not his own. His too-pale eyes did not look entirely sane.
“Chit’ ca virat keva!” he roared at the mob around them, throwing out a brawny arm to point at her. “The next man who touches her dies!”
The crowd fell absolutely silent, staring at him as he stared back, blood running down his face. They might be drunk enough to tangle with a couple of city cops, but they weren’t sure what the hell Llyr was. Other than very big and very pissed-off.
Finally he bellowed, “Go home!”
To Diana’s surprise, the lot of them turned away and started moving off toward their cars.
“I repeat,” Jerry muttered in her ear, “who the hell is that?”
“My boyfriend.” The words were out of her mouth before she could call them back.
“Think we can recruit him?”
Diana stuck her tongue in her cheek. “I think he’s already got a job.”
She spent the next several hours bouncing between the county hospital and the county jail, checking on her fellow cop and booking the brawlers. Jerry ended up needing a head X-ray. Luckily, his concussion turned out to be mild, but she took the report for him anyway, since he wasn’t quite up to the task.
It seemed the three original drunks were friends of Ronnie Jones, the first victim of the vampire. When Jerry had shown up to deal with an unruly bar patron, the three had questioned what he was doing rousting drunks when he should be off catching a serial killer.
They hadn’t liked his explanation, and he hadn’t liked their attitude. Neither did Diana, who charged all three with aggravated assault and battery on a police officer, not to mention resisting arrest and public drunkenness. She full
y intended to add more charges as soon as she could think of them. Local prosecutors tended to drop a few charges; the more counts the idiots faced, the more likely one or two were to stick.
Clara Davies’s son, Roger, was the one who’d coldcocked her with the bottle, only to suffer Llyr’s impressive Sidhe revenge. Remembering the mayor’s instructions to let Roger walk the next time he fell afoul of the law, Diana bared her teeth and charged him anyway.
Clara and the mayor could kiss her ass.
The other two guys were the ones who’d jumped her when she’d tried to help. Warrants on them had to wait until they were released from the hospital; both had needed patching-up after Llyr got through with them. The Sidhe himself was in the clear, since he’d been defending Diana at the time.
Finally she’d worked her way through all the paperwork, and she and Llyr were free to head back to town for the rest of the shift. She planned a stop off at the house first, since she still smelled like a brewery from the bottle Roger had broken over her head. It was a good thing she healed fast, or she’d be cooling her heels in the ER with Jerry.
However, Diana also knew if she were to encounter any Verdaville citizens in the course of what remained of the night, they’d immediately leap to the conclusion she’d been drinking, just from the smell. Which made the shower a political necessity.
Llyr had been surprisingly quiet since their little battle at the bar. Now, between his silence and the drive back to town, she had plenty of time to think about the night—particularly the feral expression on his face when he’d threatened to kill the next man who touched her.
Diana felt a bloom of warmth within her chest. There was nothing like a man willing to break heads on her behalf to make a girl feel wanted. She felt she should mention it—Llyr deserved her thanks at the very least—but the whole topic made her feel strangely shy.
It wasn’t as if it meant anything, after all. Maybe if he’d been another man, things would have been different, but he was King of the Cachamwri Sidhe, and Diana was a werewolf.
And that was really all there was to it.
THIRTEEN
“Why do you do it?” Llyr asked suddenly from his side of the car.
“What?”
“This…police business.” He looked at her, a muscle flexing in his square jaw. “I heard them say at the jail that you are some sort of volunteer. You are not even being paid.”
“Well, no, but I have a responsibility. You of all people should understand that. I’m stronger than most humans, damn near impossible to kill, and the department is chronically shorthanded. If I can back the cops up, I should.”
“But they said reserve officers normally drive around with a paid officer who supervises them. You take a great risk.”
“Somebody said a lot.” She made a mental note to find out who it was and have a long talk with him. “Anyway, I’m not just your average wannabe playing cops and robbers. I’m city manager. Gist knows I can be trusted.”
“You could have been hurt tonight.” His eyes flashed at her. “I don’t like it.”
“I know what I’m doing, Llyr. And what I’m doing is my duty.”
Party to forestall further conversation, she reached over and adjusted the volume on the police radio. “At least we haven’t heard from Vampire Bitch tonight. Normally she’s killed somebody by now.”
“Aye.” He drummed his fingers on his bent knee. “I wonder what she is doing?”
Susan lay still in the utter darkness of her lair. Moving hurt. She ached deep inside, where that bastard Ansgar had pounded her without mercy. Even after he’d finished, he’d used his fist on her a few times, just to underscore his point.
Damn, she’d love nothing better than to leave this rotten town and its fairies behind her, but she didn’t dare. The bastard would find her.
So she had no choice. Ansgar’s brother had to die. But not tonight. Tonight she wanted only to lay still and heal.
Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Llyr tossed the shimmering ball of magic at the Sidhe child. Kevir threw up a magical shield, but he was a trifle late. The enchantment reached him, carrying the sensation of tickling fingers digging into his little ribs. He fell into the grass, his merry laughter ringing like birdsong as he kicked and wiggled.
Llyr pounced on him and swooped him up into his arms for a smacking kiss. “You’ve got to learn to be quicker, boy.”
The child collapsed bonelessly in his arms, his cheeks bright, long lashes veiling his opal eyes in gold. His hair was even paler than Llyr’s, almost white.
But though his coloring was his father’s, the shape of his face was all Isolde. Sometimes looking into the child’s face brought a stab of pain to Llyr’s heart as he remembered his lost wife. Luckily, the boy didn’t seem to remember the day his mother had tried to shield him from the assassin when their bodyguards fell.
Thank Cachamwri Llyr had arrived in time to rescue him. He only wished he could have been fast enough to save Isolde herself. Conscious of the risks the boy ran, Llyr put the child back on his feet. “Come, Kevir. Try the shield again.”
The boy pouted, his lips a pink curve. “But I don’t want to. I’m tired of doing magic. Anyway, I don’t need to know how to shield. You’ll protect me.”
Llyr tousled his son’s bright hair. “But I cannot be there every minute, child. I have a kingdom to run. Come now, once more.”
“No!” Stormy anger blazed up in the child’s eyes. Whirling, he ran.
“Kevir!” Frustrated, Llyr raced after the child, but his son moved with amazing speed. Still calling, Llyr ran on in pursuit. Fear stabbed his chest. He didn’t dare let the boy out of his sight.
But his legs felt like lead, and every running step he took drained the strength from him.
As he pounded along, all the light faded from the woods around him until he was racing through darkness. The air was so bitterly cold, he could see his own breath. “Kevir! Dragon curse you, boy, where did you go?”
There. Bright gold in the moonlight. The boy’s hair. “Kevir!” He charged on, forcing his leaden limbs to carry him.
His son lay in the leaves, a heap of pale limbs and court velvet. He’d grown into a man in the last few minutes—a man with a trace of Isolde in the shape of his mouth, yet with Llyr’s strong build.
A crossbow bolt protruded obscenely from the center of his chest.
“Kevir!” Llyr fell to the boy’s side and scooped him into his arms. His laughing jester of a son felt cold, leaden. “No! Oh, Dragon’s Breath, no!”
Suddenly opalescent eyes opened. “You were supposed to save me. Why didn’t you call the Dragon to save me?”
“I tried!” Llyr cried out, stroking his cold face as tears spilled free. “I tried, but Cachamwri would not heed me!”
Suddenly the pain in his chest became tearing agony. He fell back with a hoarse bellow. Writhing, he looked down in horror as the front of his tunic distorted as if something was forcing its way out.
Cachamwri’s head exploded from his chest. “Why would I answer you?” the Dragon God sneered. “You’re nothing.”
Llyr’s eyes flew open as he jerked upright in bed, sweating and cold. His heart was thundering so hard in his chest, he thought for a moment it was the pain of Cachamwri’s nightmare birth.
But no. It had been a dream. With a groan of relief and pain, he fell back.
“Llyr?” Diana lay next to him, her head lifted, her silver eyes questioning.
“Go back to sleep,” he said hoarsely. “It was only a nightmare.”
Hours passed before he could sleep again.
“Now this is the werewolf breakfast of champions,” Diana said, sliding the broiler pan into the oven. “Forget wimpy breakfast cereal—just give me half a cow on a plate.”
She straightened and turned to grin at Llyr, her gamine face so alight with mischief, he felt his mood lighten.
He’d woken this morning to find her draped over his chest in her customary position, wa
rm and drowsy as she’d lifted her head to meet his gaze with eyes of shimmering silver. Her pretty breasts had pressed softly against his ribs, the little nipples stiff with her habitual Burning Moon arousal. Her long legs shifted over his, the skin like silk.
He’d found himself making love to her before he’d even known what he was about, sliding into her tight little body with the reverence of a man taking a magical sacrament.
They’d showered together, and she’d combed her hair, and he’d kept thinking about watching that bottle fly out of the crowd and slam into her head. As she’d gone down, his heart had simply stopped with the memory of Isolde’s death at the hands of Ansgar’s assassins.
The next thing Llyr knew, he’d slammed into the fool who had hurt Diana. He’d beaten the mortal with a savagery he rarely allowed himself to express. He suspected he’d have killed the man if he hadn’t seen Diana rise to her feet a moment later.
She’d promptly waded back into the battle, fiercely ready to defend her policeman friend against the drunken mortals who threatened him.
Unlike Isolde, any assassin who came after Diana London would be fortunate to escape with his life. And if anyone dared lay a hand on one of her children, there wouldn’t even be enough of the man left to question.
The thought made Llyr smile until he remembered last night’s dream. He was so wretchedly tired of losing those he loved.
Brooding, he watched her bustle around the kitchen, cutting up fruit with deft skill, the blade flashing in her delicate hands. She returned to the oven, grabbed an oven mitt and opened the door, then looked up at him with an expression of chagrin. “I guess you like your food cooked rather than kind of warm on both sides, huh?”
Llyr’s lips twitched reluctantly. “I do prefer it that way, yes.”
Diana sighed hugely and closed the oven. “I was afraid of that.”
“You can take your own out now, you know.”
“Yeah, but I’ve noticed guys tend to find something unsexy about a girl with blood running down her chin.”
Master of the Moon Page 18