by J. K. Beck
"Did Braddock touch you?" the bitch persisted.
"Wouldn't. Not at first. Told him to. Lucius wouldn't, so I told the judge to. He wouldn't, either. Said he was being good now, and no touching allowed." She smiled, thin and cold. "But I changed his mind. Told him what I wanted. All the naughty things in my mind. Told him, and touched him, and then he did them. Naughty and nice, and all for me. Do you want me to tell you, too?"
"No." The bitch frowned, as if she didn't like the story. "Luke went after him to protect you."
"Sweet, sweet Lucius," she said. "I got there first."
"Because you knew that Lucius would cover for you. Knew that he'd put himself at risk for you."
"He loves me. Had to show me. I had to know." She took a step toward the bed.
"So you see, he can't be yours. He'll always be mine. Mine, mine." Tasha smiled, and drew a stake from the folds of her gown. "I think it's time to say good-bye now."
"I don't," the bitch said, and suddenly she didn't seem so small and vulnerable. Suddenly, she was up in the bed, a stake in her hand, too, and she had it aimed right at Tasha.
Tasha laughed. "You think you're a match for me? For us? Newly made against so, so strong?"
"No," the bitch said. "I don't."
"But I am."
Luke spoke from behind Tasha, having moved to her with lightning speed, the edge of his sword now pressed hard against her neck. She turned slowly, eyes wide.
"Lucius ... Where--"
"Closet," he said, flicking his head only slightly to the closet in which he'd waited and watched and listened.
"But you went away. You drove off to get me. I saw you. I saw you leave." Luke thought of the Mercedes with its tinted windows, and Ryan Doyle in the driver's seat. "Psych," he said.
She closed her eyes in concentration--then opened them again, surprised.
"Hematite sword," he said. "You're not transforming, Tasha. You're staying right here."
Fear filled her eyes, and he steeled himself. Remembering what she was. What she'd done. To Sara. To those murdered young girls.
"Lucius, no. Please. It's me. It's Tasha. You love me. You protect me. You watch over me. I'm yours, yours, yours."
"You are," he said, remembering the snowy night when he'd succumbed to the horror of what he was--a night when he'd tried to find redemption for the death of his daughter in the immortality of this addled young woman. His hubris had been dwarfed 202
only by his pain, and he'd made a foolish choice, then compounded it by arguing so vigorously for special dispensation.
He'd looked at Tasha and seen Livia. He'd looked at her and seen life and love and the promise of a future without the pain of his errors hanging over his head. He'd been a fool, and now they were both paying the price. And though it tortured him, he knew that now it was time to step up and do what he had not had the strength to do so many centuries before.
"You are mine," he repeated. "My child. My ward. My responsibility." And with preternatural speed, he swung the sword out and around, the razor-sharp blade slicing through the skin and tendon and bone of her neck. "You are," he repeated as the body collapsed to the ground. "And I do now what I must." He closed his eyes, steadying himself, letting go of regret and loss and sadness. And then he looked at Sara through tear-filled eyes. "There will be no trial," he said. "No court. This is your justice, right here, rendered by my hand." He looked at her, saw the anguish in her face, and knew they'd reached a line across which Sara might not follow.
"Can you stand for that?"
She looked from him to the lifeless body of Tasha, the child who'd been his surrogate daughter. The daemon who had betrayed him.
Then she moved across the room and pressed her hand into his. "I stand with you," she said, and relief poured through him. "And I always will." Moonlight cascaded through the leaves, casting long shadows across the graveyard as Tasha's casket stood closed, ready to be moved into Luke's crypt, the first body ever to be placed there. Sara stood by Luke's side as he looked down at the simple steel box, her fingers twined with his, so overwhelmed with love it took her breath away. She wished she could make this night easier for him, and at the same time, she knew that he had to do this. Had to say good-bye to the young woman he'd once thought to save, the young woman he'd once loved and protected.
"Not all of her was vile," he said, looking not at her, but at their reflection on the cool metal lid. "There were moments when it was truly Tasha under my protection." He shifted, then met her eyes. "I have to believe that."
"And you should." She thought of the girl he'd once described to her who'd danced on the beach and played with her dolls, and in her heart she knew that he was right. The real Tasha, that poor addled child, was hidden somewhere beneath the daemon.
"You freed her, Luke," she said, then blinked back tears. "No matter what else happened in that room, the Tasha you once loved is free now."
He pressed a hand to the casket, closed his eyes, then nodded. "I'm ready," he said after a moment, then stepped back from the casket.
She nodded to the men standing near the crypt door, and they came slowly--Nick, Doyle, and Tucker.
The four men lifted the casket, then carried it into the crypt, settling it into one of the previously unused stone sarcophagi. Nick stepped back, then pressed his hand to Luke's shoulder. "Shall we slide the stone into place?"
"Not yet," Luke said.
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Sara started to follow the men out, but Luke held her back with a hand to the arm.
"Don't leave."
"Never," she promised.
He reached over and lifted the lid on the coffin, and when he looked in on the girl, she could see the pain on his face, and tightened her hand in his.
"Luke?"
As she watched, he pulled Livia's ring from his pocket, then gently placed it on Tasha's finger.
He turned to her, and she forced herself to speak through a throat clogged with tears. "You're certain?" He'd carried it with him for so long that she feared he would miss not having it in his pocket.
"I am," he said. "It's time."
Gently, she lifted her hand and placed a palm to his face, a warrior's face, strong and scarred, yet soft with love.
He had buried two children tonight--Tasha and Livia--and the pain he felt burned through her. Yet he stood tall and strong beside her. He would heal, she knew. They both would.
"Come," he said, taking her hand. And together they left the crypt and stepped back into the night.
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EPILOGUE
"Are you nervous?"
Luke's soft words from behind made Sara jump, and she twisted around to smack his hand away with her pen. "No. Of course not." Hell, yes, she was nervous. "Now go sit down. You're supposed to be in the gallery, not at the bar."
"I believe, Counselor, that court is not currently in session." No, it most definitely wasn't. She knew because she'd been stalking the halls of Division for the past six hours, waiting for the jury on her first trial to come back. A daemon who'd set up shop on the Internet, luring in aspiring actresses for screen tests, then using a specially manufactured camera to suck the life out of the human females as they read their lines. She'd been prepping the case for more than a month now. The facts and the law were solid.
Now all that was left was for the jury to do its job.
According to Martella, the jury had finished, and the parties had been asked to return to the courtroom for the verdict.
Sara had been the first to arrive.
"There is very little more nerve-racking than waiting in a courtroom for a jury's verdict," Luke said.
She lifted a brow. "And how would you know? You've avoided the courtroom in at least as many cases as I've tried."
He pressed a hand over his heart, his overly innocent expression making her laugh. "Counselor, I'm shocked. I don't know what you're talking about."
"I only wish that were so." But she was teasing as well. Over the past several weeks they'd r
eached a tentative sort of truce. Luke stayed out of her courtroom--well, out of the defendant's chair, at least--and she wouldn't question what he did for the Alliance. What he did, she knew, to keep his own daemon at bay. Nostramo Bosch pushed through the gate with a curt nod toward Luke. Sara shooed him away, then watched, exasperated, as he took his time moving out into the gallery to sit directly behind her.
Slowly, the courtroom filled, and when all the parties had returned, the bailiff--a skinny gremlin--announced the judge with a shrill, "All rise!" The judge, a wizened old vampire who sipped blood during testimony from a plastic travel mug, polled the jury, then asked the defendant to stand as the foreman read the verdict.
Sara held her breath, certain she could feel Luke's support wafting from behind her.
"Guilty."
Sara sagged with relief. Beside her, Bosch offered a hand in congratulations, along with a hearty, "Good work, Constantine."
At the opposite table, the defendant snarled as the bailiff came forth with the shackles.
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In the gallery, the applause was deafening, as all the prosecutors and staff from Sara's section celebrated her first trial, and victory, within Division. She saw both Martella and J'ared, each of whom smiled and waved. She returned the gesture, but the man she was really looking for had already pushed through the crowd and was standing beside her at the table.
"You did good, Counselor," Luke said, laughing after she drew back from the kiss that she swore she wouldn't give him, not while she was at work. "Perhaps we should go home and celebrate?"
"I can't think of a better idea," she said, hooking her hand in his and tugging him toward the door, following the path Bosch had taken.
In the hallway, she paused as a reporter from one of the Shadow news organizations fired questions at her. "The defendant was a true monster," she said, "and there's no doubt that justice was served."
She clung tight to Luke's hand as they walked toward the elevator, ignoring the additional questions shouted behind them. Justice. She'd thought a lot about what was just and right since she'd joined Division. Since she'd met Luke. She thought of Jacob Crouch. Of Tasha. Of Luke himself.
"You're right, you know," she said, stopping in front of the elevator.
"About what?"
"Sometimes, things are gray. Especially in this world." She pressed her finger on the button, focusing on it instead of on him. "I can't condone what you do, but maybe I understand it. A little." She shifted, nailing him with a hard glare. "But don't ever let me see you in the defendant's chair again."
His mouth curved up, his smile reaching his eyes even as his arms pulled her in.
"Ah, Sara," he said, then brushed his lips softly over hers. "I promise, I'll never let them catch me. You, though," he added, his tone tugging at her heart. "You, darling Sara, have captured me completely."
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Can't get enough of J. K. Beck's sexy Shadow Keepers?
Get ready to sink your teeth into When Pleasure Rules, the next book in J. K. Beck's hot new trilogy.
WHEN PLEASURE RULES
Coming from Bantam October 2010
Seven innocents have been brutally murdered on the streets of Los Angeles, yet the Shadow Alliance has no suspects and no leads. And as more bodies are discovered, the age-old feud between the vampires and werewolves threatens to explode and turn the city into a living nightmare.
With her back to the wall, Lissa Monroe--a strong-willed, ravishingly beautiful succubus who entices men to surrender their souls--agrees to go undercover for the Alliance. Her mission: infiltrate the mind of werewolf leader Vincent Rand, a ferociously alluring enemy who has a powerful hold over her. Lissa has never lost control of her deepest desires, but Rand is an impenetrable paradox, a principled soldier who fears nothing--except perhaps the darkness of his own past. As the City of Angels teeters on the brink of apocalypse, these two adversaries must join together to have even the slimmest chance of surviving a more lethal enemy hidden in plain sight. Turn the page to take a peek inside....
207
The moon hung heavy in the Parisian sky, its silvery light choking out the feeble glow of distant stars.
Ninety-two percent waxing gibbous.
A dozen years ago, he wouldn't have had a clue what that meant. Now the phases of the moon pulsed through his blood.
Any other day, ninety-two would be too much, the animal within struggling to break free.
Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted the full meal deal, one hundred percent. No. Not full. Better a ninety-nine percenter. When the moon was full, the wolf took over, focusing on nothing but the hunt. The kill. But at ninety-nine, Rand kept a hint of control, a little bit of awareness.
Tonight, he wanted to be aware. Very aware.
Tonight, he wanted the kill.
He made no noise as he moved over the cobblestone surface of the Avenue des Peupliers toward the Avenue Neigre in the Cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise. On either side of him, the houses of the dead rose in the moonlight, their smooth stone surfaces gleaming. It ends tonight.
He eased into the shadows and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the night surround him, the scents find him. He'd been a soldier before the change, a hunter who used his training and skill to track down enemies of the state, men selected for quiet elimination by an unseen force.
He remained a hunter now. A man searching for an enemy. A wolf hunting its prey.
There.
He opened his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he twisted his head, catching the paradaemon's scent. He followed it, the fevered excitement of the hunt burning in his gut as he moved in silence down the rough cobbled street and then onto the narrow gravel lane that was the Champs Bertolie.
The bastard was here. Nearby.
Hidden.
Tree branches shivered in a light breeze, and Rand searched the shadows for his quarry. The change that had intensified his senses and augmented his strength became more pronounced as the moon grew full, and now he could see into the deepest shadows, could hear the softest whisper. The brush of wind over wood. The scurrying of insects. But what he hunted didn't breathe, and as long as Zor remained still, Rand couldn't find him.
He couldn't remain still forever.
Tonight, Rand had the advantage of surprise. Not to mention the raw rage that flared when he thought about what Zor had done.
The para-daemon would die tonight, even that ultimate price insufficient payment for the females' lives he'd taken.
Rand froze, then slowly lifted his chin. Movement. Only a hint, but enough for Rand to know he'd found what he'd come for. He made no unnecessary moves. Did nothing to telegraph his presence to his quarry. But within, he tensed, coiling his muscles to prepare for the strike.
With the moon at only ninety-two percent, his canines hadn't erupted and his 208
claws hadn't extended. He was human, or appeared to be so. But the beast was close, straining and yowling, half-crazed by the thought of the kill, and Rand would call on the animal tonight. More than that, though, he'd rely on the weapons he'd brought with him. The knife sheathed at his thigh. The switchblade in his hand. The length of wire he habitually kept in his pocket.
He'd dressed in black, his clothing and dark skin nothing more than a shadow in the graveyard, his shaved scalp covered by black knit so as not to reflect the snatches of errant moonlight through the thin blanket of clouds. He shifted his gaze left, then right, trying to pinpoint the movement. As he searched, a faint metallic click sounded in the dark.
Rand cocked his head, calling on both skill and instinct to isolate that one small noise now heard only in his memory. Left. He veered in that direction, moving swiftly but silently between two marble tombs, the cold stone gleaming in the moonlight. He paused, realizing that the sound had been the sharp snap of a grate creaking open. His quarry had entered one of the tombs, and Rand lifted his chin, nostrils flaring as he tried to determine which tomb had been breached, tried to catch the stale, earthen scent of the pa
ra-daemon he'd been chasing. Like rotting acorns. He couldn't find it. What he smelled instead was fear.
Fear?
A hint of foreboding twisted in his gut. Because there was no way he had scented Zor's fear. Even if the para-daemon knew he was being tracked, he wasn't smart enough to fear Rand. Yet the scent was unmistakable, and as he reflected on the oddity, he realized with sickening surety the source of the fear.
A female.
The goddamn bastard had abducted another female.
Even though he'd received no word that any more Parisian were-women had gone missing, there could be no other explanation. Zor had taken another, and even now the female was trapped and terrified and quite possibly dying.
White-hot fury pummeled through him, so intense that it threatened to overcome reason. He pushed it back, calling up his training to use the rage rather than be used by it. And when he was certain that control was once again within his grasp, he followed the scent, easing toward the north and curving around the monument until he stood, back pressed to the stone, near a wrought-iron gate that acted as a door to where the dead lay within.
Another step, along with a slight tilt of his head, and he could see inside, his superior vision finding the woman kenneled in the corner, eyes rimmed in red, her lips pressed tight together as if she refused to give her captor the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Alicia.
He shook his head, pushing away the memories and forcing himself to concentrate on the moment. On Zor. And on this terrified woman now cowering in a cage.
The female was naked, and even from a distance, Rand could see the long red welts on her back. Not from a beating, but from the methodical removal of the skin. Zor would strip every inch of skin off the woman, feeding on her pain. Taking his own pleasure from her suffering and forcing her to endure the unbearable. And only then, 209
when his appetite had been fulfilled, would the para-daemon free the captive. Not from her cage, but from her suffering.
Seven females. Eight including this poor woman. And all of them compelled to endure horrific brutality, all for the purpose of feeding a para-daemon's perverted appetite.