by J. K. Beck
No more.
He checked his perimeter, finding no sign of Zor himself, then approached the cage.
"Non." The woman scrambled backward, eyes as wide as coins, but the word was dull, without conviction, as if she understood that protesting would do no good but had to go through the motions anyway.
"I will not hurt you," Rand said in the woman's language. He studied her face, recognizing her as a female from the fifteenth arrondissement, though he did not know her name. "Je suis un ami."
The words were hollow, though, and she remained in the corner, as far away as possible.
He crouched down and inspected the cage into which she'd been shoved, and the anger he'd boxed up flared again when he saw the dog dish filled with kibble next to a bowl of stale water. One lone water bug moved across the surface, disturbing a thin layer of grime.
After a moment of searching, he found the hidden hinges as well as the lock that kept the cage sealed. He tugged at the door, but it didn't give. Apparently he would have been better served bringing acid and C-4 and leaving the knives behind. He peered at the woman. "La clef?" A hint of hope fluttered across her shell-shocked features. "Je ne sais pas." Rand had expected as much; most likely Zor kept the key on his person. Still, he stood and moved purposefully through the small room, unwilling to abandon the hope that Zor kept the key in the tomb, hidden, but convenient for accessing his prisoner. Nothing.
Two ancient sabers hung mounted on the wall, forming a cross above an interred soldier. As Rand considered the swords' usefulness for freeing the woman, a new sound caught his attention. The rough scrape of stone against stone. The woman's cry of " Monsieur! " filled the chamber as Rand spun toward his attacker, the switchblade extended and tight in his hand, as comfortable as an extension of his own body.
He sliced through the para-daemon's shirt and knocked the bastard backward, but not before the para-daemon grabbed the hilt of the knife sheathed at Rand's thigh, taking the weapon with him as he tumbled away. Zor's reflexes were sharp, honed from his recent feeding, and the monster sprang back to action almost immediately, greasy strands of pure white hair covering his face as he crouched near the opening to the tunnel through which he'd entered, the stone still shoved aside to reveal a dark maw that smelled of dirt and decay.
"Running, Zor? Go ahead. You won't last long."
"Against you? I'll barely have to flex my muscles."
"I wouldn't bet the ranch." The para-daemon might have the advantages of age and a preternatural strength that exceeded Rand's weren gifts, but in this fight, Rand 210
knew he wouldn't lose. He had fury on his side. He had his memories, and most of all he had the wolf snapping inside him, demanding release.
Zor would die tonight, and it would be Rand's hand that delivered the killing blow.
The para-daemon seemed to hesitate, as if he could see the certainty shimmering around Rand and was wary of it. For the briefest moment, Rand thought that the creature really would dive into the tunnel and run. But Zor wasn't so easily intimidated, and instead of bolting, he attacked, Rand's own knife tight in Zor's hand as he lunged at Rand with all the focus of a daemon determined not only to survive but to destroy his enemy. Rand dove to the side as the beast lunged, the blade slicing through the back of Rand's shirt and the flesh of his shoulder blade. The wound was hot and deep and stung like a bastard, but Rand ignored it. Not the time; not the problem. Instead, he rolled over, taking his weight on the wound as he kicked up and out, his heel intersecting Zor's wrist, forcing the beast to drop the blade, which skittered across the stone floor until it was consumed by shadows.
His own blood stained the blade now, and Rand could smell it--covering the steel, seeping into the floor, soaking the shirt on his back.
He breathed in deep, the scent and the pain rousing him, thrusting him into the familiar black where nothing mattered but the hunt.
He sprang up, fueled by an overwhelming need to end the para-daemon right then. Not possible. Even as strong as the weren infection had rendered him, he was still no match for Zor, whose heritage lay in the bowels of hell. Thoughts of a quick kill might fuel his imagination, but the soldier in Rand knew that he needed to seize whatever advantage he could. Take, and kill.
And so the battle became a defensive game, with Rand holding his own as he looked for opportunity, the para-daemon's exceptional life span and equally impressive arrogance working against him. They both knew that the beast had defeated elder werewolves with dozens of years on Rand. Hundreds even.
In Zor's mind, a werewolf barely twelve years into the curse--and not even fully affected by the lunar pull that night--posed little threat.
And that, thought Rand, would be the beast's downfall.
Sure enough, the creature leaped forward, wiry muscles propelling him high into the air. He lashed out on descent, his kick soundly intersecting Rand's chin, and although the blow sent Rand's neck snapping back, he didn't falter, managing to snag the beast around the ankle and sending the creature to the ground.
Rand didn't squander the advantage. He lunged forward and slammed his knife through the para-daemon's gut, releasing a gush of snot-yellow liquid through which ran thin strands of crimson blood, together but separated, like oil and water. The scent rose, and the wolf within him snapped and growled, begging for release, and for the first time since he'd been made weren, Rand didn't fight it. He'd never felt the tug so strong at only ninety-two percent, but damned if he didn't want it now. Damned if he didn't need it. Because although he had the upper hand at the moment, this fight wasn't over until Zor's body lay limp and lifeless on the cold stone floor. He crouched over Zor, snarling, teeth bared, feeling the strength surge through him. Not fully a wolf, and yet not still a man. Cursed. But right then, with Zor pinned beneath him, the curse felt like more of a boon.
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He leaned in close, hot breath on the beast's ear. "If I could destroy you eight times over, I would." He gripped Zor tightly around the neck as he straddled him, his knees crushing into the beast's sides as he kept him pinned to the ground. "Eight painful deaths for each of the females you tortured. Eight descents into hell. Eight times you would look into my eyes and know that I brought about your demise."
"Destroying the mortal shell will not destroy me, you foolish animal." Zor's eyes filled with loathing. "You, however, will stay dead." His body seemed to erupt from within, the force of the internal assault tossing Rand backward and knocking the knife from his hand. Zor leaped to his feet, larger now, all sinew and muscle and taut, tight skin. Even the wound through his stomach had healed, with no indication that there had ever been an injury. His eyes glowed a savage orange, and when he spat at Rand, the spittle ate a hole in Rand's shirt. Acid.
"Playtime is over, wolf cub. Time to die."
He charged, and Rand didn't even have time to wonder how he'd so quickly lost the advantage. He could only react. Could only trust his training and his strength and the wily cunning inherent in his animal nature. He spun out of the way, slamming himself against the side of the tomb and using the momentum to propel himself at an angle to the opposing wall. He came to a halt under the crossed sabers, and he reached up, grabbing them down even as Zor leaped behind him.
Rand couldn't see the beast behind him, but he could smell him, could feel the shift in the air, and without thinking, he extended the sabers at his sides, then whipped around, scissoring his arms as he did so. It worked. The steel made contact with the daemon's middle, the blades sinking into the daemon's flesh, too dull to cut all the way through, but it didn't matter. Rand had him now, and he used the force of the blow to knock the beast backward.
Zor fell, his expression one of utter disbelief, and he had time only to haul back and spit before Rand pressed his foot on the creature's forehead, held him still, and used the saber as an ax to chop off the creature's head.
Only after the head rolled to the side, eyes staring blankly, did he realize that a bit of the spittle's spray had landed on his fa
ce. He reached up and wiped it away, ignoring the acrid scent of burning flesh as he bent to pick up his switchblade. Then he turned to the woman, whose wide eyes contemplated Rand with an expression usually reserved for quarterbacks and MVPs. The only hint of her fear, in fact, was the pure white of her knuckles as she held tight to the bars of her prison.
"We'll get you out," Rand said, and when a pat down of the daemon failed to turn up a key, he lifted the head, jammed the blade of his knife into the back of the beast's throat, and then used the acid that spilled from the ripped salivary gland to eat through the lock.
The door swung open, and he took off his shirt and tossed it gently at her feet. She bent slowly, then put it on, the hem hanging down almost to her knees. She stood in the doorway of the cage, looking at him as if waiting for a signal. Rand rolled the head across the tomb, out of sight. Then he retracted the blade. "Il est fini." He turned toward the door, then back to her when he realized she hadn't moved.
"Allons-y. Vous etes sure."
Slowly, very slowly, she walked toward him, pausing a few feet away. "Mon mari?"
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"We'll find your husband," Rand promised. "We'll go right now." Her eyes flickered, as if trying to smile, and she reached for him, wanting comfort, but he wasn't the one to give it. He'd given her life; that would have to be enough.
Slowly, she lowered her hand.
"Let's go," he said, then saw her eyes widen with fear. In one motion he turned and put his back in front of her, blocking her petite frame as he flipped open his blade. He let it fly toward the tomb's doorway, a rectangular void highlighting the form of a man who lashed out, slamming his hand against the knife and shifting its trajectory.
"Have I been that poor a leader that you would seek to take me out by a blade to the heart?" Gunnolf asked. He reached down to pick up the knife, then slid his fingers along the blade's edge, drawing a thin line of blood. "A steel blade will render no permanent harm to a werewolf, lad. You know that, aye?"
"That was a warning," Rand said, inclining his head both in respect to his leader and to hide his amused grin. "But next time maybe you shouldn't sneak up after a fight."
"Och, aye. You have me there." He crossed the room in three long strides, his wild mane of fiery red hair more suited to a Viking than a political leader. Not that the Shadow Alliance was a typical political entity. Nothing within the Shadow world was typical.
It had been Gunnolf who'd found him, confused and angry and changed. Gunnolf who'd tended him and sheltered him. Gunnolf who'd taught him what he now was, and who took no shit when Rand railed against the reality that had been thrust so rudely upon him.
Gunnolf glanced down at the woman, who now stood behind Rand, clinging to his shoulders. "Do you know who I am, lass?" Gunnolf asked, compassion softening his sharp features.
The woman nodded, stepping close, finding the comfort with Gunnolf she hadn't found with Rand. "Oui."
"She needs to find her mate," Rand said. "And she needs medical attention."
"It will be done." He pressed a hand to the woman's shoulder, then glanced down at Zor's body. He shot Rand an ironic smile. "You found the bastard, then?"
"I did."
The Alpha turned slowly, disgust filling his features as he took in the tomb, the cage in the corner, the rank smell of death and decay, and Zor lying dead across the floor.
"You took a hand to the matter yourself, I see," Gunnolf said, his meaning clear. Rand had gone after Zor without official sanction. Without involving the Preternatural Enforcement Coalition, the organization with jurisdiction over all the Shadow creatures.
"Sir, you wanted the problem solved, and I solved it. He killed our women."
"Aye," Gunnolf said slowly. "You did right." He paused, stroking his chin. "There is another matter. A delicate one."
Rand stood at attention, waiting.
"There are not many I can put on this task," he said, shooting the woman a quick glance. Rand understood his Alpha's shorthand. He was referring to the kyne, a secret group of warriors assigned to each of the Alliance representatives. "Of those I can ask, you are the one I want."
"There is very little I would deny you." Gunnolf said nothing, and the heavy 213
weight of dread settled on Rand's shoulders. He shook his head. "No. Do not ask me."
"I haven't."
But he had. Even in silence, Gunnolf was asking him to do the impossible. "The answer is no."
Gunnolf looked pointedly at the female. "Let us return the woman to her pack, and then we can discuss this."
"Now."
Gunnolf's shoulders dropped, and for a moment Rand thought he'd pushed too far. Then Gunnolf lifted his chin, and though Rand saw compassion in his Alpha's eyes, what he saw most was determination. This wasn't a request; it was an order.
"I need you to go home, Rand. I need you to return to Los Angeles." 214
When Blood Calls is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 2010 Bantam Books Mass Market Original
Copyright (c) 2010 by Julie Kenner
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. BANTAM B OOKS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90793-3
www.bantamdell.com
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Table of Contents
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Excerpt From When Pleasure Rules
Copyright