by CJ Ellisson
This bitch had fangs. Real fangs.
Darryl bent his knees and kicked, using the tree for support. Nothing moved. He sensed her nearing, her chin at his shoulder…her nose tipping his jaw upward, displaying his neck for her. Her tongue licked along his pulse where it beat against his throat. The slightest shudder ran through her frame as she moved closer to him. Placing what felt like pretty nice breasts against him. Darryl writhed. Squirmed. And then turned into a shoving, kicking, flailing, trapped creature. Nothing worked. He might as well be glued to the tree with iron bands. He felt a sting. A minute wetness.
“Mmmm.”
She purred it, and the very next moment, he was adding his groan. Liquid ecstasy pumped through him, sent there with every beat of his heart. Thrill chased excitement through his veins. Stimulation pulsed with pleasure. Exhilarated. Agitated. And then added more. Darryl felt himself grow hard. His buttocks tightened. His gut clenched. The sensation grew. Her body came even closer to him. Her purr changed.
To deep, throaty moans.
A staccato of gunfire erupted behind them somewhere, peppering the leaves about them. It altered the sensual aura she’d somehow created about him. She lifted her head, looking him right in the eyes. There wasn’t much light purple color in hers at the moment. They were solid black. Deep. Vast. Containing oceans of mystery and puzzlement. As if questioning and considering and wondering. Darryl blinked. And the next instant, she was gone.
He dropped like an anvil, his legs slamming onto the ground, delivering a crunching blow to his old injury. The fall killed every bit of arousal with the absolute agony. He didn’t dare move, so he just stayed there. Breathing shallowly. Fetal position. He didn’t note Dan’s lifeless body beside him, leaning against the tree’s trunk as if just taking a break. He didn’t notice all the indecipherable Spanish getting spewed through the scene as Ted bore down on him. He was blocking it. It was the lone way to get the pain to a bearable level. He reached a hand to his neck, touching where that thing had bitten him. His fingers brought back fresh blood. He’d just gone up against a vampire. A real vampire. And been bitten. This blood was proof.
Or he was going insane. And nobody needed to witness that.
“Bailes? You alive, man?”
A quick glance showed Maria at Ted’s side. She must like big men. She reached the bodyguard’s waist. And that was with five-inch platform heels on. Ted went to his knees beside Darryl. The ground should’ve trembled. It didn’t. And then they put a flashlight on him, blinding him. Jackasses.
“What the hell happened?”
“Assassin.” Darryl ground out the word. It didn’t sound like him, even to his own ears.
“No shit. You see him?”
Darryl licked his lips. They were the only thing dry. It was so wet on the ground the moisture was seeping through his trousers. And then his jacket. No way was he telling. Not one word.
“No,” he replied.
“You had to.”
“Did you see him?” Darryl asked instead.
“No…but I don’t have my knives stuck in these daggers.”
Darryl moved his eyes and looked over the two wicked-looking daggers Ted carried. The man was right. Two of Darryl’s prized combat knives were buried in both dagger hilts. Perpendicular. Making large “X” shapes. He’d never seen long knives like those. They looked deadly. Efficient. Double-edged. Archaic.
“Give me those.”
He put out a hand. And watched it tremble.
Chapter Two
Reika was restless. Jumpy. Anxious. She paced the storage area of the jet, shoving things aside in order to get room. Baggage got shifted over. She even scratched one of the four prized automobiles the plane was transporting. She hadn’t meant to gain four more cars at auction, but the instructions she’d given her assistant, Bracken, had been ambiguous. Bracken handled almost everything. Reika could’ve. She’d been dead long enough to gain immunity from all but blazing sunlight. That’s what came of being one of VAL’s senior assassins. She’d been dead over seven hundred years. She just didn’t like making travel arrangements, or anything else that required paperwork.
So…Bracken had purchased four new automobiles for her collection. He’d chosen well. This one was a lovely two-door coupe. Reika glanced at the damage she’d caused and shrugged it off. It wasn’t important. That was another oddity to add to this. Her vehicles were all pristine, kept in a temperature controlled environment. Perfect condition. Mechanically sound. Ready at a moment’s notice for a driver. But that scratch was the least of her worries at the moment. She was worried? That was another bit of strangeness.
Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
She’d never felt like this. Agitated. Nervous. Acting like one of those drug addicts she’d seen more than once. And not just on television. Despite every effort to stay in the trunk marked ‘Fragile’, she couldn’t. The walls felt like they were too small. The area too cramped. And she could swear she heard the faintest heartbeat.
She slapped her hands against her bare arms, amazed not only that she felt it, but that it helped dull a chill she shouldn’t be suffering. So, the cargo area was cold. And she wore little more than black leather – long, slim fit trousers and a hacked-off cami. This was what she always wore, and this was how she always traveled…since purchasing that leather trunk in the early twentieth century, anyway. Her extra large trunk was roomy, it carried a sprinkling of dirt from her transformation scene, and it was nondescript, the outside scuffed and worn and covered with travel stickers.
There was no excuse for having an issue with it now, more than a century later.
Reika pulled a miniscule phone from her back pocket, slipped the front open, and pushed a three digit code into it. She had several of these phones. All the assassins carried them. Programmed with just one number, each phone got one use before being discarded. Safe. Efficient. Clean.
“VAL Headquarters.”
She’d reached Invaris, the Crusader knight who handled the technology behind the Vampire Assassin League. He sounded chipper. But that was normal since finding his mate. It wasn’t going to happen to her. Every vampire seemed to undergo a personality change, with a resultant leave of absence, once they found their mate. Except maybe…Invaris. Then again, he wasn’t an assassin. He was just the guy in front of the curtain. At the moment, she wanted the guy behind it.
“It’s Reika. Get me Akron.”
“Anything for you, Gorgeous.”
“Invaris, you ass—”
“Transferring.”
Ugh.
The knight cut her off and she waited for Akron to answer. The head of the Vampire Assassin League was older than dirt. Or so he claimed if anyone asked. Reika didn’t truly know his age. Or his history. She couldn’t even remember his appearance. None of them did. He was just there. At the core. The rock. The base. He’d always been there.
He’d come for her when she’d been walled into the hut. The villagers had given her a death sentence, along with the rest of her family. Only the others were already dead. And hers wasn’t going to be from plague. No. She was going to perish of thirst. Maybe starvation. Or even horror from looking at the macabre members of her extended family, riddled with blackened, diseased pustules; grotesque in death, worsening as the hours wore on. Akron had saved her. He’d come. Appearing somehow in the center of that hovel. He’d taken her from living hell; changed it to living death. He’d put the first knives in her hands, decided her training, sent her to learn from the best swordsmen, decade after decade, until there wasn’t anyone left that could beat her.
She never looked back. No reason.
“Reika.”
Akron had a voice that evoked shivers. Impossibly deep. Incredibly moving. Promising all sorts of illicit delights. If she had a soul, it would have been ferreted out and violated. And loved every bit of it.
“I’ve got a problem, Akron.”
Reika subconsciously rubbed her empty palm against her thigh, disbeli
eving the sensation of cool, supple leather as it met her skin.
“Let me see…”
She heard the sound of fingers hitting keys on a keyboard. Rapid-like. Without finesse. Only speed.
“Last assignment was…yes. Here it is. 16820. Columbia. No collateral damage. No trace. No reason for a D-team. Excellent work. Funds are already transferred to your account.”
“It’s not that kind of problem.”
“Oh.”
The word spoke volumes. It was deep. The tone wary. Even through the tiny speaker of her phone. As if he already knew what she was suffering…and it was bad.
“It’s…uh—”
How to explain it? The feelings got worse if she put her mind on them. Her veins expanded or something, as if the fluid she fed on actually flowed again. And her heart? Oh my. That muscle hadn’t existed in nearly three quarters of a millennium. Yet, right now….she could swear the faintest beat trembled through her chest. She licked her lips and felt wicked. Wanton. A thrill rippled down her abdomen, teasing the skin as it went. And then moistness, springing from deep within, to hamper and weaken everything. Just like what happened the moment she’d bitten that man. Her skin had reacted, and it still did. It was impossible!
Every part of her felt like it was preparing. Regenerating. Priming. Every inch coming to life for…something. Something vast. Enormous. Terrifying. And supremely exciting. Like she’d stepped on a downed power line and it sent zings of electricity through her. Over and over. Ceaselessly. Nothing felt chilled, either.
Anywhere.
She opened the door of her new sports coupe and dropped into the driver seat. The interior reeked of new car smell. Real wood. Formaldehyde. Leather. Sensual indulgence. Reika shoved her rear into the seat and slid downward, her spine thoroughly enjoying the lumbar support while her inner thighs twitched against the upraised section of the molded seat. The moist sensation got worse. She could swear the stitching in the seat was even calculated to create this arousal. Stimulation. Inducement.
Sweet Freya!
Reika had possessed vampiric senses for centuries. She’d never had them turned against her so effectively. Or with such impact. She tightened her muscles and pushed back upright, tossing the phone to the passenger seat, in order to grip the steering wheel so hard it warped slightly. She forced her fingers to feel and absorb the reality of wrapped leather, rawhide stitching, and nothing else.
“You going to tell me what happened?”
Akron’s voice echoed weirdly from the seat beside her. Reika grimaced at the phone before picking it back up.
“Um. There was…this guy.”
Her voice went dreamy, her eyes closed. She was back in the jungle looking into shocked brown eyes that held a glimmer of paradise.
“And you’re going to tell us about him?”
“Us?”
Reika’s eyes flew open. She frowned at the dashboard in front of her. The speedometer registered to 180 KPH. This baby probably had a 450 hp motor in it. Or larger. She’d have to test it.
“I called Invaris in. Okay with you?”
“I guess.”
“I’m going to need Invaris to assist. Don’t worry. He’s already mated. He knows exactly what you’re suffering.”
“I am not mating.”
“Sounds like you found him, though.”
“No.”
The word should have been final-sounding. Brisk. Clipped. Rude. It wasn’t. It sounded more like a plea.
“Details?”
That was Invaris’s voice. Reika looked inward. She wasn’t speaking of one thing she suffered. Not one!
“There was this guy at the hit. A bodyguard. And everything’s weird now. Only…he’s not my mate. He can’t be. The world didn’t rock. Nothing shifted. Nothing.”
“You let him live?” Akron asked.
“Yes.”
“Enough said. Lucky guy. Give Invaris his characteristics. We’ll find him for you.”
“I don’t want him found.”
“Reika. Douschka. You want him found, or you wouldn’t have called me.”
She didn’t answer for a bit. She sat and listened to the heartbeat that couldn’t exist. And then she started speaking.
“He’s big. Muscular.”
“How big?”
“The size of the Icelandic twins.”
Invaris whistled.
“But leaner.”
“How much leaner, please?”
“Two forty. Maybe two-forty-five.”
“That’s leaner?”
“Don’t tease her, Invaris, or I’ll invite the twins in to sit on you for reference. Athelrod and Ethelstone tip the scales at two seventy five. Each. “
“Fine. No levity. All business. Got it.”
“We have seventy seconds left on this call,” Akron informed him.
“Oh. Moving on then. Hair color? Eyes?”
“Brown. And brown.”
“Nothing like exact descriptions. A little help please? Dark brown? Light? What?”
“Oh. Medium brown. With golden highlights.”
“I hope you’re talking his hair.”
“Both.”
Hmmm. She almost moaned it. That man definitely had gold flecks in his eyes, too. They’d been especially noticeable since he’d had them wide as he’d stared at her.
“Occupation?”
“Bodyguard.”
“Pasquale had an army of relatives guarding him. Oh. Here’s a list of his employees. Some guy named Theodore. Scratch that. Too big. Samuel…no. Apparently he just lost his head. Sword wound. How about Daniel? Nope. Also recently deceased. Here we go. This sound like him? Darryl Bailes. Ex-military. Special Forces. Master Sergeant rank. Oh. Looks like your mate suffered a bullet wound seven months ago in Black Ops. The bullet is still inside. Inoperable. Lower back. Explains his rushed retirement…and subsequent employment as a mercenary. Oh. Look at that.”
“What?”
Reika and Akron said it simultaneously.
“His specialty is knives. Any type and size. Any range. The guy is deadly with a blade. What are the odds?”
Reika smiled. That explained how he’d deflected two of her prized seventeenth century Italian daggers from their mark.
“He’ll be unemployed, Invaris. Send him an invite.”
“Sorry Sir. The man has skills and connections. He’s already on his way to his next job.”
“Where is it?”
Reika held her breath.
“St. Moritz, Switzerland. Land of snow and skiing and really rich kids. Looks like your guy is now a bodyguard for a…Miss Felicia Trent. Really spoiled, naughty, seventeen-year-old daughter of…let’s see. Her daddy is the shipping line, Trent Conglomerate, owner and CEO. Hmm. You want me to send info to Bracken?”
“You have twenty-two seconds left, Invaris. Get going.”
“On it, Sir.”
“Looks like we’ve found your mate, Reika. You will call and let us know the details? Yes?” Akron asked.
“He’s not my mate.” Why did that sound so unsure?
“Ah Reika. Reika...”
“He’s not my mate,” Reika reiterated. “I don’t have one. I don’t happen to believe in them.”
“Belief isn’t necessary. Only fact. It’s impossible to fight, I’ve heard. The pull is too strong. You’d have to ask Invaris here if you want particulars. I’d be jealous, except I’m living proof that the best things come to those who wait. That being my motto, my mate – when they arrive in my sphere – should really be something.”
“He’s not my mate,” she said again.
“About finished, Invaris? I’d like confirmation and we’ve got five seconds.”
“And…done, Sir.”
“Well, there you have it, Reika. Try not to kill him before you change him. It’ll be messy otherwise.”
The connection died before she could end the call. Reika looked at the phone for several long moments. And then she tossed it to the passenger floorb
oard.
Chapter Three
Eleven minutes to midnight.
Darryl checked his watch again. It gave him something to do other than scan the area about the barely clad body of his charge, as she writhed among her many partners. She was dancing, but he’d lost track of exactly whom she was dancing with. There were four bodyguards among them, disguised as fawning testosterone maggots to her estrogen feast. They were exactly the right size and age to blend right in. If Darryl hadn’t met them beforehand, he’d have had trouble picking them out.
The Senior Trent was smart. He knew his daughter wouldn’t behave. So, he hired men to watch her that fit right in with her crowd. Lean. Early twenties. Fit. Agile. Quick. And then he paid Darryl to watch over all of them.
He took another sip of his ice water. Or what had been iced water a half hour ago when he’d ordered it. He didn’t have a choice. The lightly clad waitress with the heavy accent wouldn’t let him be. And he was trying not to be noticeable. He settled the glass in one hand and slipped the other beneath his jacket, running his fingers along the wood grip, the twisted wire wrap, and the Turk head of the dagger strapped to his belt.
And felt it vibrate against his fingers. Just like it had ever since he’d gotten it.
It was one of the pair from the Pasquale hit. He wasn’t tossing it. He had combat knives for that. He carried this one because it looked lethal and dangerous hanging from his belt. And it was an extraordinary blade. Seventeenth century. 1680 to be exact. The antique weapons dealer he’d checked with had been both amazed at the knives and thoroughly dismayed at their treatment.
The amazement came from the condition of the daggers, especially their hilts. Never had the dealer seen such perfection. Museum quality. Most blades were pitted from age and the hilts were ragged and worn. The man was also dismayed and a little censorious about the surgical-looking slits in both hilts. That’s what came from having two combat knives inserted through them. The dealer had looked at Darryl as if he’d desecrated religious icons. And then the man offered. The opening bid had been four figures. With his last call this afternoon, the offer had gone over ten grand.