by J. K. Beck
158
He drew himself up, his lips still warm with the taste of her, finding her mouth, battering it, taking. Claiming.
She struggled to free him from his jeans, and once he was naked, he rose over her, a dark god, a fierce warrior, and she reached for him, wanting to be his spoils, his battleground, and knowing that he would fill her. Her body, her emotions, her deepest desires.
Her body trembled with anticipation, and she whispered one single word. "Now." That was all it took. His eyes darkened with desire, his fingers pushing her thighs apart, and then the sensual, erotic assault as he thrust himself into her. She groaned, so wet and so ready, her body opening for him, taking him, drawing him in. The pleasure was exquisite, and she bucked against him, matching his thrusts, the need rising within her again as she cried for him to not stop, to never, ever stop. His touch was a promise, his thrusts a caress, and as she traveled up, up, up, she knew that he was coming with her. "Now," he said. "By the gods, Sara, now. " She exploded. Shattered. Her body--her mind--held together only by the force of her will and his firm hands upon her.
"Luke." The name was soft, like a tribute, and he pulled her close.
"Ah, Sara. My Sara."
And right then, with his arms tight around her and her body warm and sated, she could almost believe that she was his. Could almost believe that somehow, someway, they stood a chance.
159
Chapter 29
The security in Lucius's Malibu home rivaled Buckingham Palace, but that was hardly a deterrent to a man like Serge. He slipped through the defenses in mere moments, then stepped inside among the shadows that roamed within his friend's home. The ocean, he told himself, eyeing the shadows with trepidation. Not the manifestation of nightmares.
The home perched on the beach, the west wall nothing but glass. And tonight, the moon reflected on stormy seas, the shadows cast inside the home both beautiful and frightening.
He exhaled loudly, scoffing at his own foolishness. A man like him jumping at shadows. A man who could kill with hands or fangs, who had done exactly that many times over. The very thought shamed him.
No more.
First, he had to find Tasha. That much, he owed to Lucius.
He lifted his nose and breathed deep, finding her subtle smell in the air. But how long she had been gone he did not know. Days, perhaps. Or possibly only hours. A flutter of hope danced in his chest, and he followed the scent, searching for her room, hoping in vain that she had returned to this place.
He found what he was looking for on the second floor. Not the girl herself, but the room that she had made. A child's room, a girl's room. White and pink, with porcelainfaced dolls on shelves that ran along the wall, a foot or so beneath the ceiling. An innocent's dolls, but she wasn't innocent. Not anymore.
He could remember the look of her, the scent of her. And he had longed for the feel of her.
A low growl eased from his throat, and his cock, hard and ready, strained against the seam of his jeans. The daemon wanted to come out to play. No.
Damn her.
And damn himself and the daemon within. He wouldn't succumb, couldn't destroy that innocence.
Except the innocence was gone, and he'd seen something new within her. But whether it had been there before, or whether Braddock corrupted her, he didn't know. All he did know was that he wanted her.
Yes, he wanted to find her for his friend, to satisfy his obligation. To ensure that she was safe. And he told himself that was where his motivation ended. That, however, was a lie. He wanted. Him. Serge. Daemon. By the gods, how he wanted.
He could feel her, the scent of her enveloping him, caressing him. Soothing him. He lay there, not moving, not even breathing. And then he reached for one of Tasha's porcelain-faced dolls and slowly and deliberately threw it against the wall. 160
Luke left Sara's house well before dawn, and now the Mercedes's headlights cut a path through night as he maneuvered the curving Malibu canyons. He would have liked to have stayed--would have liked to have made love to her again and again--but he needed to be home during the daylight hours. He might not be able to hunt or prowl, but he could work the phone and the computer, and by the time night fell again, he would have a lead on Tasha. On Caris.
It was not over yet.
His phone rang, and he hit the button for the speaker, then listened as Slater's deep voice filled the car.
"Nothing yet," Slater said, "but I've got a bead on a few para-daemons the staff at the Slaughtered Goat says used to come in there about the time Caris first showed up. I'm going to track them down, see what they know."
"Get back to me as soon as you do."
"You got it. Something else, though, my friend. Some shit went down here the other day. Maybe you heard about it?" Slater asked, his tone making clear that he knew exactly who had killed Hasik.
"I've picked up some rumblings," Luke said. "What of it?"
"Apparently, there was a witness. Division's been called in." Luke bit back a curse and thought of Sara. Of the disappointed way she would look at him when they met again. "Interesting."
"Thought you might think so. I'll keep you posted," Slater said, then clicked off as Luke considered this new inconvenience. Alinda. There was no other explanation. Nick's little elf had gone and ratted him out.
It was not, however, a problem that he could address now, so he put it out of his mind, focusing instead on sliding the car into the garage, and then stepping inside his beachfront home. Not as convenient as the home in Beverly Hills, but he longed for the sound of the ocean. More, he had no desire to spend his nights surrounded by the lingering scent of Ryan Doyle and his RAC team.
No lights burned in the house, yet the moment Luke opened the door, he knew that someone had been there. Not Tasha, though. Sergius. Luke tensed, nostrils flared, shoulders rolling into a fighting stance as his temper reached the boiling point.
Back it up. Back it up and keep the daemon at bay.
This wasn't the time, he told himself. Not the time to lose control. Not when so much was riding on him remaining calm. On him thinking rather than acting.
"Serge!" he called. "Where the hell are you?" No answer.
"Dammit, Serge. We do this now or we do it later. Choose." Silence echoed in return. The house was empty.
The ocean.
The moment the thought entered his head, Luke knew that was where Sergius would be. Like himself, Serge had always had a fondness for the sea. For the sting of salt in the mist, the tug of the currents, and the mystery of black, unplumbed depths. He stepped onto the back deck, then climbed down the steps to the private beach, 161
the sand glowing in the moonlight.
At first, he thought that he was mistaken, for he saw no sign of Serge. Then he looked closer and saw the faint outline of a body prone in the sand, the surf crashing over it. He stalked to the water, then stood over his friend, who lay sprawled in the surf.
"Get up," Luke said, extending his left hand to his friend to draw him up, the slow burn of rage and disgust growing within.
"Fuck you. Fuck me. We're all fucked anyway, aren't we?" He pulled Serge to his feet. And when the other man had steadied himself, Luke reached back with his right arm and punched his friend and fellow kyne hard in the face, knocking him back down into the sand. He fell upon him then, his hand splayed wide over Serge's heart.
"Do you remember?" he whispered. "Do you remember what we did? In the village outside of Prague? How we took over the town? How we killed our competition?" His fingers tightened on Serge's breast, nails digging into skin. "There are only two ways to kill a vampire, friend. A stake through the heart or a blade to the head. But the heart doesn't have to be inside the body for the vampire to live. Do you remember, Sergius? Do you remember how we cut the hearts out? How we lined them up? And how we let our victims watch as one by one we staked them into oblivion?" His eyes met Luke's, the pain evident behind the daemon-fire. "I would die rather than be that monster again."
"I would not give you the satisfaction," Lucius spat as the daemon rose up in fury, preening and roaring and ready for a fight. "You lost her," he hissed, as his fists rained down on his friend, face, bone, and cartilage breaking under the assault. "I trusted you, and you lost her. You touched her. Did you fuck her, Serge? Did you fuck my ward?" The answer was immaterial. It was only the wrath that mattered. As hot as molten steel, as sharp as any blade, and the daemon fed on it. Tasted it. Sucked it in. And, yes, grew strong.
With clawed fingers, he reached down, his hand over Sergius's heart as he clutched, hard, wanting to rip through flesh, wanting to dig through muscle. Deep within, a voice yelled for him to stop, to wait, but he was too far gone, and soon the man he had once called friend would be gone, too, the daemon having taken action, having gotten rid of traitors and fools.
Hot hands clutched his wrist, and Lucius met Sergius's eyes. Serge may have wanted to die, but the same could not be said of his daemon, and Lucius gave a roar of satisfaction as the beast met him, challenged him in combat. A pretty fight it would be, he thought, as Serge rose up, slamming his forehead into Luke's and knocking him backward.
Sergius did not waste the advantage, springing up and attacking, the daemon within not hesitating, not planning or considering.
They'd been changed on the same day, and both men and daemon were equally matched. This night, however, Serge held the advantage, as his daemon flowed wild. Lucius knew the cost, and held back, determined even within the throes of daemon-fire to cling to the shred of both humanity and sanity.
Serge's heel intersected with Luke's jaw, rattling his teeth, and Lucius considered that sanity was overrated. He rushed, sideswiping Serge's steadying leg before the kick came back to center. Serge lost balance and Luke pressed his advantage, falling hard 162
upon his friend, his enemy, his brother.
He had no stake, but that seemed hardly important at the moment. He crushed his hands against the sides of Serge's skull. Beheading killed a vampire just as well, and right then, Lucius could rip the bastard's head off.
Deep within, Luke pressed back, trying for control. Trying to surface. On the beach, Lucius held fast, eyes on Serge's face, relishing the moment when the fiend was ripped apart.
"I didn't," Serge said, his eyes flashing red, but his body going limp. Lucius hesitated, the daemon wary, looking for some trick. "Speak," Lucius demanded.
"I did not touch her," Serge repeated, the fire fading from his eyes. "I swear." Within Lucius, the part that was still human battled back, taking advantage of the daemon's surprise, finally beating it under. "Serge," he whispered, releasing his vise grip on his friend's head. "By the gods, Serge."
"We haven't fought like that in over five centuries," Serge said, drawing in deep chunks of air. "Now I remember why." He rolled onto his side. "You always beat me."
"You are yourself?"
"For now," Serge said. "I don't know for how long. It comes," he said. "It stays."
"You're going to have to find the strength to fight," Luke said, fearful that strength was fading within him. It was far too easy for the daemon to come out this night. It needed release if it was to be crushed back, docile, within.
"My daemon is not the problem," Serge said. "Tasha is gone. Graylach was slaughtered. Your enemies, Lucius--"
"I know," he said. "Caris has taken her."
"Caris?" Serge asked, his confusion clear.
Luke kept his voice flat, unemotional, and told his friend all that had happened.
"What can I do?"
Luke unbuttoned his shirt. "Who designed this device?" He watched as Serge's brow knit, as he reached out and touched the cold metal.
"I've heard of these, but I have never seen one before." He looked up at Luke. "Someone of great power made this."
"Can you find him?"
"Perhaps. If not, I may have another solution. I'll leave word where and when to meet me tonight, and we'll see what can be done."
163
Chapter 30
"Nothing new on Stemmons's location," Sara said, hanging up the call from Porter and turning back to face her team. "So we switch gears for a moment and focus on the Dragos matter. We've got three weeks until trial."
Her attention moved to Doyle and Tucker as J'ared floated in and took a seat.
"What more have you two got for me on the rape?"
"We've run down five victims now," Doyle said. "The judge was a damn prick, and hell on wheels for keeping secrets. But once we tugged on the thread, it all started to unravel."
"And Tasha?"
"Not a word, not a whisper." Doyle narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "You ever consider that Dragos is blowing smoke up your skirt?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That he knew Braddock was dirty, and he's tossing you this load of crap about his ward figuring you'll do exactly what you're doing."
"Not buying it." She'd seen the pain in Luke's eyes. No way was she going to believe he was bullshitting. "So I want you to keep looking. And I also want you to flag the interviews with the other rape victims. Have Martella make copies and send them to Dragos."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Doyle said, as beside him, Tucker almost choked on his salt-and-vinegar chips.
She turned to J'ared. "That rule plays down here, too, yes? We come across evidence that might clear the defendant, we have to turn it over?"
"Check," J'ared said. "Pretty sure humans took that one from us. An earlier incarnation of the PEC established that rule in, oh, about 600 B.C." He frowned. "Maybe 1600 B.C. Anyway, before that, it was pretty much anything goes."
"Reading that rule awfully broad, aren't you?" Doyle said, blood rushing to his cheeks, and his eyes flashing red to match. "Dammit, Constantine, do you want the guy to get off?"
"What I want is justice." She pressed her palms flat on the conference table and leaned over into his face. "And that means, Agent, that we don't try to stake innocent men. So if you find anything that suggests Dragos didn't murder Braddock--or if you find anything that suggests mitigating circumstances--then you flag it, you copy it, and you send it to the defendant. Are we clear, Agent?"
"I get you," Doyle said. "But we're not going to find anything. Dragos is a son of a bitch. And for once--finally--he's going to get what he deserves." His phone buzzed and he answered it with a growl, then looked up at Sara with the kind of bright smile that made her very nervous. "Well, well. Look what we got here," he said. "A double murder in Van Nuys, and an eyewitness who swears it was Dragos." 164
"That's him," the girl named Alinda said, pointing a bony finger at an image of Luke.
Sara felt her mouth go dry. "You're certain."
"Totally." She turned toward Doyle. "Just like what I said when I called it in. I was in the alley, and I saw him break in."
"Hasik and Tinsley died late Friday. Why are you coming forward now?" She licked her lips. "I was talking with people. Checking Web pages, for the news, you know. Our news, I mean. And I saw his picture. He's the one who killed that judge, right?"
"Lucius Dragos is the defendant in the Braddock matter," Sara said. "Had you seen him before?"
"His kind don't much come into a place like this."
"His kind?"
"Vampire," Doyle said. "This is a were-den. Mostly, anyway. Get a few hellhounds, a few daemons. Vamps mostly avoid it. The breeds don't really get along."
"But he didn't come in, right?" Sara said. "Didn't you say he went in through the alley?"
Alinda nodded. "There's a keypad. He used it."
"Did he know the code?"
"Sure," the girl said. "He got in, right?" Sara didn't bother answering.
"Let's go in," Doyle said. "Don't know what we're going to find. Can't catch an aura without a body."
"Guess we'll have to rely on old-fashioned detective work," Tucker said, then cringed under Doyle's dark look.
"Hardly a challenge," Doyle said. "We got an eyewitness. This thing is wrapped." The ow
ner, a burly man named Viggo, escorted them to a small office off the back hallway. There was nothing remarkable about the crime scene. The victim's office looked as Sara imagined it always had, slightly unkempt, very lived in. It wasn't until Doyle passed her his PDA with the crime scene photos that the full impact of what had happened here--of what Luke had done--hit her.
Two bodies seemed to cover the floor. One, a heavyset man with his neck broken, his head lolling at an obscene angle. The other, a wiry creature that lay in a pool of its own blood originating from the long gash across its neck.
She closed her eyes as bile rose in her throat, the acid taste lingering in her mouth. She'd seen thousands of crime scene photos and dozens of actual crime scenes, many much more brutal and bloody than this.
But she'd never before seen one rendered by Luke's hand.
Around her, Doyle and Tucker inspected the room. "Got security cameras?" Doyle asked.
Viggo shrugged. "Tinsley had cameras. Whether he bothered to turn them on--"
"Pull them."
"Don't bother." They all turned toward the doorway and saw Nostramo Bosch stepping into the room. The victory evaporated from Doyle's expression, replaced with cold wariness.
165
Bosch turned to Viggo. "Leave us."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Tucker said, the moment Viggo closed the door.
"Prosecutorial discretion," Bosch said. "We'll not be pressing charges against Dragos. Not for this."
"Fuck that!" Tucker said, even more loudly than Doyle. Even Sara, who had no desire to see Luke charged, couldn't comprehend the insanity of Bosch's statement. Yes, she'd reviewed the file. And yes, she'd read the list of terrible things that both Hasik and Tinsley had done. But that didn't mean they should be cut down in cold blood. So why the hell would Division decide not to press charges when they had two dead bodies and an eyewitness?
Bosch, however, wasn't saying.
Doyle took a step forward. "This is bullshit. Goddamn vigilante Alliance bullshit." He shoved a finger in Bosch's face. "It's not right," he said, and with that, Sara had to completely agree.