If it wasn’t for therians enforcing blood laws and protecting the mundanes who lived in Crimson Bay, blood would run like rivers down their streets. Mundanes would notice the disturbance in their blissfully ignorant lives. They’d discover something paranormal working and living among them. And they wouldn’t stop hunting, digging, and unearthing their society until they fleshed out everything not like them.
Therians would not take the fall for vampires’ sick urges. Not anymore. They would not stand idly by, watching vampires draw attention to themselves. Therians knew where that attention turned next—to other “unnatural” creatures roaming the streets. To shape-shifters.
It happened thousands of years ago in the dirty, plague-riddled alleys of Paris; therians were nearly wiped off the map. It wouldn’t happen again. It was a Sheik’s only duty—preserve the therian race, calling upon the shifters in his command to do whatever, whenever.
Which was why Slade hesitated, despite himself, at the mention of Moses’s name.
“I haven’t talked to Moses in almost a hundred years,” Slade said. “When I left, he wasn’t too keen on having me back. Tell him to fuck off.” He could find someone else to do his dirty work.
The therian smiled, wild and toothy, sizing Slade up. “Looks like you’re the one who needs to fuck off.”
In a flurry of movement, Slade gripped the messenger’s popped collar, spun him round, and pinned him against the wall. Before he dropped the fucker, Slade realized that his living room wall had seen more action in one night than his sniper rifle had seen in nearly a century
It was a damn shame.
“He’s still in Crimson Bay,” the shape-shifting therian grumbled. “Runs a club in the city called Mirage. You get your flickering ass down there tonight.”
Slade huffed into a mock laugh. “There’s no way I’m going back to Crimson Bay. You can tell him my answer is—”
“It’s an order, not a request. Not even you can disobey a direct order from your Sheik.”
Damn him for throwing that in his face. No one, not even a shape-shifting therian who hadn’t had a mission to assassinate a soul in a hundred years, could ignore an order from their highest in command.
Slade shoved the therian against the wall for good measure, then stood back and watched him leave. After the silence in the apartment became too thick for his own thoughts, Slade turned to the blonde and said, “Time for you to go.”
He took a twenty out of his back wallet for cab-fare and handed it to her.
She didn’t take the gesture, just walked out the door, her fuck-me pumps click-clacking over the tile floor all the way down the hall.
Standing in the middle of his empty apartment, an ache in his balls crying out for rough-handed justice, Slade thought his earlier assumption couldn’t have been more off-base. He hadn’t seen everything under the sun with a woman shifting forms on his Johnny. His boss was calling him back into action.
Hell had officially frozen over.
Also by Kristin Miller
Vamped Up
InterVamption
About the Author
KRISTIN MILLER writes the dark and sexy Vampires of Crimson Bay series for Avon Impulse and fantasy paranormal romances for Harlequin. When she’s not plotting a way to kill her fictional darlings, she’s busy raising two children in Northern California with her devilishly sexy Alpha-male husband. Find out more about Kristin at her website, www.kristinmiller.net.
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Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at three brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
NIGHT OF FIRE
THE ETHER CHRONICLES
By Nico Rosso
STORM BOUND
A CABIN FEVER NOVELLA
By Alice Gaines
THE SHORT AND FASCINATING TALE OF ANGELINA WHITCOMBE
By Sabrina Darby
An Excerpt from
NIGHT OF FIRE
THE ETHER CHRONICLES
by Nico Rosso
Night of fire, night of passion
U.S. Army Upland Ranger Tom Knox always knew going home wouldn’t be easy. Three years ago, he skipped town, leaving behind the only woman who ever mattered; now that he’s seen the front lines of war, he’s ready to do what he must to win her back.
Rosa Campos is long past wasting tears on Tom Knox, and now that she’s sheriff of Thornville she has more than enough to do. Especially when a five-story rock-eating mining machine barrels toward the town she’s sworn to protect.
Tom’s the last person Rosa expects to see riding to her aid on his ether-borne mechanical horse. She may not be ready to forgive, but Rosa can’t deny that having him at her side brings back blissful memories . . . even as it reignites a flame more dangerous than the enemy threatening to destroy them both.
CHAPTER ONE
The Sierra Madre Mountains, California
He wore his gun. And hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The war was behind him. Tom Knox headed west.
His saddle creaked. The ends of the leather reins slapped lightly against the body of his steed. The wind whistled in his ears. Six hundred feet below him, small hills gathered into a larger mountain range.
Instead of being filled with screaming ether-charged bullets and explosive cannon shells, the sky here was peaceful. A red-tailed hawk skimmed below him, head twitching from side to side, tracking prey. In the distance, three turkey vultures spun wide circles over a shady hill. Tom was part of the calm. His Sky Charger kept a steady pace, pushed by the high whispering whir of the tetrol-powered fan at the back.
Weeks ago, the skies to the east and behind him had burned. Enemy airships and friendly Sky Trains had blazed brighter than the sun as they crashed toward the vast soya fields of the Great Plains. Men had fought and died.
As an Upland Ranger in the U.S. Army, he’d seen it all. He’d smelled the gunpowder and felt the recoil of his Gatling rifle as he fought to turn the Hapsburgs away from American soil. A couple of searing hot bullets had found their way into his flesh, but he’d healed fast enough to get back onto his ether-borne Sky Charger and fly into war.
Tom leaned forward, patting the cool zinc metal neck of the charger. Strange modern times he was living in. When he’d left this territory three years before, it had been on a real horse.
Adjusting the levers at his stirrups, he took the charger higher into the air. Tall pines whisked beneath him, then thinned as the rocky peaks took over. White patches of snow clung to the shaded angles of the mountains like forgotten sun-bleached bones.
Just at the top of the range, Tom stopped his charger and turned to look behind him. The battlefields and scarred skies were hundreds of miles away. The fighting wasn’t over. The war waited.
He stared into the distance, remembering all the Hapsburg soldiers alive and dead who’d aimed their guns at him.
Keep your pants on, he thought. You’ll have plenty of chances to put me in a grave later. Until then, I’m heading home.
Kicking the charger’s levers, he powered the one-man ether airship over the mountain ridge, leaving the flat expanse of the east at his back. The mountains spread out into hills that bunched and gathered like an unmade bed. The winter’s green still lasted, revealing the fertile farms and orchards that took advantage of any flat land.
Tom squinted behind his goggles and pulled the brim of his black cavalry hat low. The far horizon was a bright silver knife’s edge. The Pacific Ocean. He could already smell the salt, even this far inland. A few more miles and he’d hear the gulping squawk of the seagulls that rode the high wind currents. It felt like home.
The hairs at the back of his neck stoo
d up, same as if he and other Upland Rangers were flying out for a dawn raid on a Hapsburg artillery camp. There were plenty of dangers at the front lines of the war. And battles to be fought at the home front.
The Sky Charger picked up speed. Tom felt himself pulled into the inevitable.
He reined back on the mechanical steed and wound over the hills. Twisted oaks dotted the land. Through the lenses of his goggles, they almost looked like their branches were outstretched arms, warning him. But there was no turning back.
The war had stopped to take a breath. Tom and the other front line soldiers were allowed some time of their own. Without a fight in front of him, his compass spun. There was no answer other than west. Home to Thornville.
And Rosa.
A needling voice in his head sounded a lot like his younger self, mean with an edge of whiskey on its breath. Surely seeing her again will go as smooth as silk, it mocked him.
He tugged at the knot of the black bandana around his neck. The charger dipped closer to the ground, heading toward a shady notch running between the hills. The mechanical flying horse didn’t shiver or twitch its muscles in response to coming closer to home.
Tom took a long breath and spoke in a whisper quickly lost to the breeze. “Nothing was ever easy with Rosa.”
Don’t lie. Looking at Rosa had been easy. Before he’d left town three years ago, he could sit and stare at her until all the candles burned down in his one-room shack. There seemed to be no end to the depths of her large, dark brown eyes. Black hair framed her face, high cheekbones, and full mouth. Tom had memorized every detail. He didn’t need to carry a small lumiscopic picture of his sweetheart like other soldiers did.
But she wasn’t his sweetheart anymore. A stolen horse and a moonless ride out of town had made sure of that.
Maybe a raid on a Hapsburg camp would be easier than going home after all.
The sound of the charger’s tetrol engine was quickly drowned out by the loud roar of a rushing river. It tumbled along a winding path, and Tom followed it, trading the steady sun for shade. Where the river widened and calmed, he took the charger even lower, toward the water.
If the mechanical horse had had legs, it would’ve been standing chest deep in the water. Tom tipped his hat back, letting it rest against his shoulders by the stampede strap. He pulled off his goggles and clipped them to the leather lanyard slung over his shoulder. The other end of this lanyard was looped through the butt of the pistol on his hip. He didn’t need to look to know it was still there after the long flight over the planes. The weight of the Rattler was a steady presence.
Leaning low over the side of the charger, Tom dipped his bandana into the cool river water. The silk danced in the flow, tugged by the current, pulled toward Thornville and Rosa. He drew the bandana from the river and used the cool cloth to wipe the dust from his face. After tying it around his neck, he went back to the water, filling his canteen, taking a long drink, and filling the canteen again. Mountain water tasted of cool stone, pure and fresh. A relief after the muddy streams of the Great Plains.
He unbuckled the auxiliary reservoir from one of the saddlebags. The Sky Charger wasn’t a real horse, but he still had to water it. He filled the tin tank with water and then screwed on the top.
Everything was squared away. Tom could keep moving. But he stayed, hovering over the running water.
That voice kept stabbing at him. Rosa’s down at the river. Doing the wash, or collecting water. Probably gathering blackberries. Safe and secure, like her parents wanted for her. Not like anything you could’ve given her. No land, no family. Just a wildcat breaking horses for hourly pay.
Tom tried to swat the voice away as if it were a night mosquito, but it went on. Bet she took Parker’s offer and married him. That guy was a great carpenter. The dull brass of the wedding band around Tom’s finger seemed almost black in the shadows over the river.
He kicked the Sky Charger’s ascend lever and climbed higher into the sky. Parker built nice things. Cabinets and tables and a stable life. His tools had been handed down from his father and his father’s father. All Tom had of his family was a dead-end last name and the saddle he sat on.
The voice in his head was silent but present, mocking him. Tom responded to himself: I’m gonna play it as cool as snowmelt when I see her.
Horseshit. His younger self spat and took a drink from a cloudy bottle.
Tom countered, I can be a gentleman and tip my hat and congratulate her on her marriage.
But when he saw her parents, that would be another story. Tom shifted his weight in the saddle, feeling the Rattler on his hip, the Gatling rifle in the scabbard at his knee and the knife in his boot. Might need every bit of hardware to get out of a “conversation” with Rosa’s mother and father.
After the din of the front lines and the skies raining fire around him, all he should have wanted was a little peace and quiet. But if that were true, he’d have found another mountain range or another town, where no one knew his name. He had to go to Thornville. Even if there was no one waiting for him, no yellow ribbons, no family. He’d just drunk his fill of river water, but thinking about Rosa made him thirsty all over again.
“Peace and quiet.” He said it out loud as if that could make it real. “How hard can that be to find?”
The river bent and dove into a jumble of rocks. Tom pulled on his hat and flew higher, breaking from the trees and nearly running straight into the side of a five-story mobile mining machine.
He yanked hard on the reins, wheeling in the air to avoid the wooden slats that made up the outer structure. A blast of invisible heat washed over him as he passed an exhaust stack from one of the tetrol engines that powered the lumbering beast. All of the cool calm he’d pulled from the river burned away.
“What in holy hellfire . . . ?”
Turning the charger again, he dove toward one of the men who walked next to the giant machine. Tom had to shout over the sound of the giant conveyor treads that propelled the beast forward.
“You boys got a lot of nerve breaking up the scenery out here.”
The man tensed slightly, revealing a black rotary shotgun slung over his shoulder and an ether pistol in a holster. A lot of hardware for a dude in a pinstripe suit. Tom’s Rattler was ready at his hip if he needed it.
But, hopefully, words would be enough and he could leave the shooting to the war. “What claim you headed to?”
No response from the man. He only turned and looked at Tom. It was almost like a piece of the mining machine had broken off and started walking like a human being. The man wore a leather and brass mask that encased him from his bowler hat to his jaw. A shiny brass capsule covered the man’s mouth, and a flexible metal tube ran from the mask to a cup attached to his ear.
“Goddamn.” Tom had seen this technology before on guards stationed around a bank in Chicago. “Whisperers.”
The din of the rolling mining machine swallowed the man’s low words, but Tom could tell he was saying something by the way he moved. The communication was broadcast out to the others around the device, and they all turned to look at Tom. Sunlight glared off the glass goggles built into the masks. There were at least twenty Whisperers, all armed and coordinated by their masks.
Even though everyone knew there was over a million dollars’ worth of gold locked in that Chicago bank, no one dared take on the Whisperers to try and nab it. It was like facing a single man who had forty eyes looking in every direction and guns at the ready.
“I get that you won’t tell me your claim, but there’s got to be a gang boss around here who can talk.”
The men just kept watching him as the machine rolled forward. It was still folded up for travel, but when it reached its destination its teeth would be deployed to eat through anything in its way. Giant saws, grinding wheels, and conveyer belts would stick out of the front, tearing apart a mountainside and dra
wing it inside the device. Then automated sifting trays would shake the debris, searching for gold or silver or whatever the mining company had decided was valuable that day.
“We all got a job to do.” Tom’s patience was shrinking, crushed under the treads of the mining machine. “But you’re dealing with a sergeant in the U.S. Army Upland Rangers. I’m asking you a question, and you’re obliged to answer me.”
The man moved and Tom nearly drew his Rattler. The first bullet would hit the Whisperer in the chest, if things came to that. But Tom’s reflexes were good enough to hold off on shooting the man. The pinstriped man wasn’t going for his gun; he was merely pointing at a spot on the mining machine.
A brass plaque riveted to the side of the rolling monster read: MODEL IV. CRANDALL MINING COMPANY. SAN BERNARDINO, CALIFORNIA.
“All right then, it’s someone else’s problem.” He kicked a lever on his charger, rising higher in the air. “Just wish your machine was as quiet as you dudes.”
The technological din was left behind. Tom was back in the quiet and calm of the sky. That’s right, he told himself. Let everyone else deal with the world’s problems. He’d been fighting fiercely for months, and it felt like the United States had been holding its breath while trying to resist the Hapsburg advance. Now was the time for a sigh of relief. Some brave sons of bitches had snuck deep into the enemy’s homeland and blown up a key munitions plant.
Those shock waves carried all the way to the Great Plains. One minute Tom was running belt after belt of ammo through his shoulder Gatling rifle, trying to pick off flying skiffs full of Hapsburg shock troops; the next minute the bad guys were circling their airships way behind their lines and trying to figure out what to do next.
“I know what I’m doing next.” He licked his lips as the landscape rolled far below him. Saying it out loud might make it real. “Chicken. Berry pie. A shade tree . . .” That was how he and Rosa would spend long summer days at a hidden spot at the bank of the river. Her kisses were always sweeter than any berry they found in the brambles.
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