by J. K. Beck
"I had to stay," he said slowly. "We talked about this, remember? There are things I have to take care of in Los Angeles."
"But what if they come for you?"
He looked at the monitors, clenched his fists at his sides. "They won't."
"Then why did I have to leave?"
He almost laughed. Sometimes he really didn't give Tasha enough credit. "Just in case," he said. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. Is Serge there?" A rustle as she handed the phone over, then Serge's rough voice came over the line. "What kinda shit you got yourself into this time?"
"Nothing I can't get out of," he said, with another quick glance at the monitors.
"Although to make sure that happens, I probably should hang up now."
"You will tell me," Serge said.
"I will," Luke agreed before hanging up. Someday, when the truth wasn't so dangerous, he would share everything with his friend. In the meantime, he needed to make this look good.
And yeah, it was gonna look beautiful.
Everything was in place. The system's inherent corruption working for him, rather than against him. Plans within plans within plans.
He focused again on the monitors, because although Luke had anticipated Doyle's participation, the para-daemon was a wild card. A pawn of the PEC with a hard-on for Luke, and enough power that he just might manage to bring Luke's carefully constructed house of cards crashing down.
"Fuck him," Luke growled. The plan would work. It had to. Because if this didn't go down exactly the way he'd laid it out, he'd soon feel the sting of the executioner's stake 14
slamming home.
No.
His time upon this earth was not yet over. He had to stay; had to ensure that Tasha was never without protection.
More than that, though, he had no desire to die. Even after all his centuries, there was too much yet to live for. The pattern of stars that played across the night sky. The steady pulse of the surf outside his Malibu condo. The sweet nectar of a woman's lips beneath his own.
Oh, yes, he would miss the women.
Over the past two decades, he hadn't sipped from that cup nearly often enough, so he supposed he owed a silent thank-you to the raven-haired beauty in whose arms he'd lost himself only one night before. As the saying went, at least he would go out with a bang.
Lord knew, she qualified.
Sara. Her name alone triggered lust in his veins, and he reveled in the memory. When he'd picked her up in the bar Wednesday night, he hadn't planned to sleep with her. He'd been perched on a stool, his sights on Braddock, his daemon screaming for release. But then Braddock had looked straight toward him, and Luke had done the first thing he'd thought of to shield himself from recognition--he'd pulled the woman sitting beside him close and pressed his lips to hers, never expecting the maddening heat that burst through him when she gasped, then relaxed and opened her mouth under his. She'd been soft and pliant in his arms, yet utterly there, as if she controlled the moment as much as he. And then she'd deepened their kiss, and the daemon within had purred and backed off, abandoning the anticipation of a kill for the pure pleasure of the woman.
His head had spun from the desire rolling off her, wanting to soak it in, to explore its depths, but hesitating because he knew her reactions were fueled in part by alcohol. His cock suffered from no such moral quandary, its hard length demanding only satisfaction.
He'd had no doubt that she would provide exactly that. He could smell it on her-the arousal, the need. The victory. She'd come into the bar to celebrate. And Luke was the spoils of her war.
With fresh triumph pumping through her veins, she'd deepened their kiss, and he'd drunk his fill of gin and olives and the merest hint of vermouth that sweetened her mouth. The keen edge of his lust had been like nothing he'd experienced for centuries, and it had taken all his restraint not to take her right then, right there, and damn the consequences. When she broke away to look at his face, her eyes soft with drink and her smile quivering with lust, he was certain she felt the same way.
He scanned the bar, saw Braddock leave with two other suits. Tonight, at least, the man would live.
He'd slid off the bar stool, held his hand out for the woman. The scent of hesitation faded beneath the heady fragrance of her desire, and she touched her fingers to his.
"Come with me," he said.
She quirked a brow, then looked him up and down, a sultry smile blooming on those deep, red lips. "Yeah," she said. "That's kind of my plan." 15
Luke stiffened, remembering how well they'd executed that plan. Remembering the way her naked body had felt beneath his. The way she'd traced soft fingers over his rough skin. The way her hips had bucked when he'd lost himself deep inside her. The way reason and sanity had disintegrated in the fiery passion of lust and physical need.
Oh, yeah. She'd come with him, all right. And him, with her. Even now, his cock stiffened, and if he concentrated, he could still detect her scent lingering on his skin. Even now, he wanted to claim her once again, this woman who had managed to both rile him and soothe him in ways he had never imagined. Stop.
He clenched his fists, forcing himself to scan the monitors, to calm down and see how much further his ultimate doom had progressed.
Not much. Doyle really was playing it safe. The RAC team still circled the property, but had moved in no closer. Luke glanced at the clock and realized why--dawn was approaching. And what better way to keep him contained during the takedown than to make sure he couldn't race outside the walls of his mansion. Of course, Luke had expected just such a plan. Still, it amused him to watch Ryan Doyle run around with his head up his ass, thinking that he was running the show. In the meantime, the earth continued to rotate, and dawn would come, with Doyle and his team moving in on the heels of the sunlight.
He pushed back from the monitors and stood, raw energy flooding his veins. When it was all over, he would be a fugitive.
He could live with that. If it kept Tasha safe, he could live with that for eternity.
"He's not stupid," Tucker said. "He might not know you popped a vision, but the guy's gotta know he lost the ring. Not like he's going to hang around the house watching Oprah while we pull our party together and storm the place."
"I think Lucius is more a Cops kinda guy," Doyle said as he stepped into the RAC
jumpsuit. Not standard procedure--broke about a dozen regulations, actually--but no way was he hanging back and letting the strike team go in first. With Dragos, Doyle intended to be front and center. And close enough to see the hate in the smug SOB's eyes when Doyle snapped the binders around his wrists.
But Tucker was right. Lucius Dragos wasn't stupid. Far from it, in fact. If Doyle didn't hate the bloodsucker so much, he'd actually respect the hell out of him. So Doyle had to assume that Dragos knew he'd lost the ring. And if he knew that, he also knew they were coming.
And if he knew that ... well, he was either long gone, or the wily bastard had one hell of a contingency plan.
The only question was what?
Beside him, Tucker started climbing into a RAC suit as well.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Going with my partner."
"You think that's a good idea? Your brand of mojo ain't gonna work on a guy like Lucius. And as fucked up as it might be, I've gotten used to having your scrawny human 16
ass at my side. I'd rather not see it get ripped to shreds."
"You go, I go." He smiled broadly, then slipped on the face cover. "Besides, I got my magic duds."
Doyle bit back a curse. "I'm not watching your ass." Tucker returned an evil grin. "But I got such a cute one." His eyes narrowed, the levity fading as he squinted at Doyle. "Seriously, man, you up for this?" Doyle knew what Tucker was driving at. The visions drained him, and until he recharged, he wasn't operating at full strength. Any other perp, and he'd hang back, head over to Orlando's for a little pick-me-up. With Dragos, though, Doyle could be weak as a kitten, and he'd still go i
n for the takedown. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said, then turned to Tariq, the RAC team leader, before Tucker had the chance to slide another protest into the mix.
"We ready?"
Tariq's yellow eyes flashed in the glow of the rising sun. "Let's do this thing." The muscular jinn lifted an arm, signaling to the team, and then Tariq rushed forward, his magic disintegrating the lock on the mansion's front door.
"Clear."
"Clear!"
"Over here, too. All clear."
Within moments, the team's calls echoed through the marble entrance hall as the men split up and searched the premises. Eight thousand square feet, and not a soul, dead or alive.
"He's here," Doyle said, cutting off comment before Tucker or Tariq could raise a counterpoint. "The bastard is here someplace."
"Crypt?"
"None in the plans," Tariq said, paging through his handheld. "But the property survey shows it backs up to Silver Dreams Cemetery."
"Fuck," Doyle said. The cemetery dated from the late 1800s as the resting place of the local rich and powerful. During the silent film heyday, it had become the burial place for many a silver screen celebrity. A tourist destination, the place was modeled after European cemeteries, with crypts and mausoleums instead of the traditional stone lawn markers. It was, Doyle thought, the perfect place for a vampire to hide.
"That's his escape route," Doyle said. "He's got his little rat tunnel from here to there."
"Hang on ..." Tariq tapped the screen, navigating through electronic pages. "Just give me some time."
Doyle waited, impatient. "Where's Murray?"
"In the vehicle, running ops."
"Why the hell isn't he in here?"
Tariq stared him down. "Because he's damn good at coordinating, and when I put together a team, I make it solid."
Doyle nodded, thinking. Wasn't one thing suspicious about Tariq's answer, and yet his bullshit meter was tingling. "You know the suspect?"
"Who doesn't?" Tariq answered, which was a fair enough response. But Doyle knew that Tariq and Dragos had gone head to head a half dozen centuries before. And they were both still standing. On most days, the question of why would be an academic 17
one to discuss over a pint. Today, Doyle's gut was telling him that the question was key. Not that he needed the answer; he simply needed to address the problem.
"Switch," he said, looking Tariq full in the eyes and watching as his diamondshaped pupils shrank to nothingness.
"Come again?"
"Murray in here. You in the van."
"You wanna tell me why?"
"Not really," Doyle said, stepping closer. "Why don't you tell me why?"
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Tariq said, rage boiling behind his usually calm features.
"And you don't need to," Doyle said. "So long as you go out, and Murray comes in."
Tariq looked from Doyle to Tucker and then back again. "Fuck it," he finally said.
"You want to play hot cop in charge, you go for it." He shot a withering look back toward Doyle, then stormed out of the room. Tucker looked at Doyle. "What was that about?"
"Ancient history," Doyle said.
Tucker pondered that, nodded. "And who the fuck's Murray?"
"Werewolf. And I want his nose on the job."
Five minutes later, J. Frank Murray stopped in front of an oak bookcase. "In there," he said, his nose twitching.
Doyle gave the order. "Open it or go through it, but get us inside now."
"Damn shame we gotta ruin a nice piece of furniture like that," Tucker said.
"Don't fuck with me," Doyle replied. "Just get me inside." Murray cocked his head, and two RAC techs rushed forward. Within seconds, they'd bypassed the hidden mechanism. A sharp click rang out through the room. And then the entire shelf rotated slowly inward. "Told ya it was a nice piece of furniture." They found themselves in Dragos's security room, the banks of monitors still showing footage from around the house, each now set in playback mode so that Doyle and crew were watching themselves suit up outside.
"Son of a bitch."
"Least we know he was here," Tucker said.
Doyle pointed to Murray. "Find the exit."
But Murray was already on it, nostrils flaring and muscles twitching as he walked the entire perimeter. Nothing.
The men in the room looked at one another.
"Maybe he backtracked out," Tucker suggested.
"And maybe he's making fools of us all," Doyle countered. He turned in a circle, taking in the walls, the ceiling, the floor.
The floor.
He pointed to the marble floor, the seams between the tiles appearing perfectly sealed.
They weren't. Only moments after Murray confirmed that Dragos had slipped through the floor, the team's techs had pried up the marble, exposing the tunnel below.
"In," Doyle said, and followed Murray into the black. Two hundred yards later, they reached a set of stone stairs. The beam of Murray's 18
flashlight followed the stairs to an ornate iron door and the blackness behind it. Doyle cocked his head, drawing in the scent. His prey was in there, playing dead.
"Blow it," he said.
Within seconds, the door exploded, dust and bits of iron scattering as the team rushed in, stakes at the ready. They fanned out, backs to the stone walls for safety, as they quickly laid a hematite perimeter, the mineral barrier that would prevent Dragos from transforming into animal or mist. Someone lit a flare and tossed it on the ground, and the cramped tomb filled with an eerie reddish glow.
And there he was.
Lucius stood not seven yards away, clad in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a long black duster, which undoubtedly hid a variety of weapons in its folds. His arms were crossed over his chest, his hands hidden.
His quarry wore wraparound sunglasses, the lenses so opaque that Doyle couldn't even glimpse his eyes. But Doyle didn't need to see the bastard's eyes to know that Lucius was looking straight at him.
And then he turned, his gaze sweeping over the group, examining each face.
"Tariq's not here," Doyle said. Then he smiled. "Psych." Lucius's face remained hard as stone, his jaw firm. But the angry scar that cut across his right cheek twitched. Fear? Doyle couldn't imagine Lucius Dragos being afraid of anything, no matter how much he should be.
No, Dragos wasn't afraid. The sorry bastard was plotting.
Not that it would do him any good.
"Hands where I can see them," Doyle said. "Now." One second of insolent hesitation, then Lucius slowly pulled out his hands. He held them up, showing the backs and then the palms as the team rushed in. Five men surrounded the perp, crossbows at the ready.
Another five fanned out, inspecting the crypt.
"Over here," one cried, shoving the stone lid off a sarcophagus. "Tunnel."
"Place is wired," someone else chimed in, bending down to inspect the floor. "Not explosives, though." He followed a lead wire around the room. "Aw, shit. Nerve gas. Gonna put us all to sleep."
"And without any vamps on the strike force, you'd be the only one not affected. Then you slip into your tunnel and go your merry way?"
"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Lucius drawled. "Right now, I'm thinking a few more hours at the drawing board would have served me well."
"Glad you're so amused," Doyle said, "considering we have you dead to rights on a solid murder charge."
"I seem to recall something about a trial," Lucius said. "This isn't over, Ryan."
"Oh, it is. You're done, Dragos. Finished. There's nowhere left to run."
"There's always somewhere."
Doyle's hand fisted at his side. He wanted to smash Lucius in the face. Wanted to wipe away that smug grin.
Oh, yeah. Doyle wanted to see the bloodsucker burn.
Lucius turned his head, then the beast reached slowly up and pulled off his sunglasses. The familiar amber eyes stared straight at Doyle. Calm eyes. And too damn arrogant.
19
"You're going down," Doyle said, stepping forward to slap the binders on his wrists.
"Right now, perhaps," Lucius said. "But there's always a plan B." 20
Chapter 3
There was a balance to Manhattan, Sergius thought. Wants warred with disappointments. Pain complemented pleasure. And in this empire that never slept, the darkness was beaten back by nothing less than the sheer force of will. He belonged here, both his homes fulfilling his ever-dueling needs. The deep, windowless den he'd acquired beneath abandoned train tracks, far away from prying eyes. And this penthouse of marble and glass in which he now stood, peering down at the city below.
The glass had been manufactured to his own specifications. Glass that blocked the rays of the afternoon sun, casting the city below in eternal night. It pleased him to stand there now, looking down at the humans scurrying like ants forty-seven stories below. Did they have any idea of the horror he could wreak upon them should he choose? Did they know the effort it cost him to stay here, behind glass, fighting the urge to take and to kill? To rend and become?
Every day, the battle within him grew more fierce, and every night he fought to remain inside, to keep himself far from the scent of blood.
He had told no one of his growing hunger, not even Lucius, his closest friend. His kyne.
Soon, though, he would have to reveal his secrets. Either that, or he would have to kill.
And then, of course, he would have to run.
"How long must we stay here?"
He looked up, startled by the female voice that echoed his thoughts. Then he saw her reflection in the window and relaxed. Tasha. Luke's ward.
"I don't know." He spoke without turning, transfixed by the image of her as it approached him, gliding across the polished wood floor. Her auburn hair hung in loose curls to her waist. She moved in front of his floor lamp, and for a moment, she was illuminated from behind, a halo of red and gold dancing around her, her hair crackling with unknown power. A vision. A goddess. Something untouched and pure, her face carved by the gods themselves, her fiery red lips seeming to call to him. To lure him in. Begging him to discover if the purity was only an illusion.
She wore a gown of white silk with nothing under it, and he clenched his hands tight at his sides, fighting his body's reaction to her soft curves and moon-white skin. A seventeen-year-old's body, yet it had walked this earth for centuries. A saint with a seductress's form.