On the Hunt

  Vasili went to Nick's side. "Don't hold her hand again," he said, patting the man on the shoulder and nearly drilling him into the floor. He'd never thought to find himself the protector of a Walker—Rose excluded—but he did so now without reservation. Just because his woman had asked him.

  Dark eyes swung to him. The man remained in place, though he trembled.

  Rose reappeared with someone else, introduced him, then left again. Over and over she repeated the experience, until there were sixteen Walkers. They were scared, but didn't move from their spots. Perhaps because they were surrounded.

  "How did you get them here when it isn't their birthdays?" he asked her when she settled beside him.

  "I think because I'm bound to you, I can move between the two worlds at will. And I figured I could move other Walkers with me whether it was their birthday or not. I was right."

  Smart girl.

  "Now let's make nice between your people and mine so we can be together. Unless . . . I understand if you can't," she said, unsure. "If it's too painful. Your family was taken. All I ask is that you let me return these men without harming them. I just thought this would be—"

  Vasili planted a kiss on her lips for all to see. "You are my family now, and I will do whatever is necessary to protect you. Even this."

  Grigori stepped from the army ranks and joined them, placing his hand on Rose's shoulder in a show of support. "You have my protection, as well." His voice was gruff, but he was not a man to make false promises. He always meant what he said. "I have never seen my king so happy—or so upset when he thought he couldn't have you. I will do whatever is necessary to give him the life he deserves."

  Tears filled her eyes. "Thank you."

  "You have my support, as well." Jasha closed in their little circle and placed his hand on Rose's other shoulder. "Like Grigori, I want my brother happy. Always. No matter what that entails."

  God, I love my family. They might not agree with him, but they would support him. Even in this.

  "Thank you," Rose said again, chin wobbling. "I won't let you down. I swear."

  Vasili's people watched, listened, and issued no more protests. That was a start.

  And so, with Jasha and Grigori at his sides, he introduced himself to the Walkers and offered a vow to protect them. Most flinched under Grigori's stern gaze, but they seemed to lose a sliver of their fear.

  "You don't have to run from us anymore," he said. "Our goal is no longer to harm you. You are my wife's people, which means you are also mine." He reached back. "I protect what's mine."

  Rose knew what he wanted, and once again settled in at his side. She twined their fingers and gave a comforting squeeze. "Let's learn from one another," she said, the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "Let's embrace peace."

  She waited until each Walker nodded before at last taking them home. Vasili rushed to his bedroom, and when she next appeared, he jerked her into his arms. "You've given me so much, I'll never be able to repay you," he told her.

  "I can think of a few ways you can try."

  "It's like my birthday today."

  She chuckled, the sound of her amusement warming him. "Then happy birthday, love."

  He grinned down at her. "Are you my present?"

  "Well, my heart is yours. Now, forever."

  "Good, because that's exactly what I wanted."

  THE COLLECTOR

  SHANNON K. BUTCHER

  For Julie Fedynich, the best cheerleader an author could ever have

  Chapter One

  St. Louis, Missouri, December 12

  The woman had something Neal Etan wanted and he wasn't leaving until he got it.

  He hurried up the cement steps leading to her front door, his booted feet leaving behind tread marks in the dusting of snow that had just begun to accumulate. With any luck at all, he'd convince Viviana Rowan to give him the gadget Gilda said might cure his friend's paralysis, and be back on the road home to Dabyr before dark.

  Synestryn demons got more hours of playtime during the long winter nights, and Neal needed to be done with his errand and back out there fighting, ready to stop them before some unsuspecting human became a meal. Not to mention the fact that he really needed the physical outlet to help control his pain—an outlet only a good dose of hack-'n'-slash fighting or hot-'n'-sweaty sex provided.

  He wasn't going to get either in the house of some stuffy old antiques collector, so he needed to get in, get the gadget, and get out. Fast.

  The pain was grueling today, grinding against his bones until even his hair ached. The two hours of meditation he'd done earlier had barely eased the pressure of the power growing inside him.

  He told himself it was because he'd just lost another leaf from his lifemark—the living image of a tree that covered his chest—but he knew it was more than that.

  His time was running out. The leaves were falling faster now, thanks to a jolt of power a stun-gun hit had given him last summer. He'd absorbed a year's worth of energy in one instant, and he still had the nightmares and cold sweats to prove it.

  With only twelve leaves left, he knew the remainder of his life could now be measured in months.

  Maybe even weeks. And that was assuming that one of the Synestryn demons he fought didn't get a lucky shot in.

  Not that he was complaining. He'd been around nearly four hundred years now. It was a good run. He'd slain a lot of evil in his lifetime. He'd served his purpose and done his job. And when it came time to take his own life so he wouldn't become like the evil he was sworn to fight, he'd do that, too. No complaints, no regrets. He was a warrior destined to die for his cause, and no amount of wishing for things he couldn't have was going to change that.

  Just because other men like him had found the women who could save them didn't mean Neal had gone all soft in the head, thinking he would, too. He knew better than to let false hope sway him to hang on longer than was safe. This time next year, he'd be dead. No sense in getting all sappy about it.

  Neal's knuckles rapped on the frigid door, and a moment later, he could hear aging floorboards creak on the other side of the wood. It slid open two scant inches, revealing one long-lashed, hazel eye.

  "Yes?" said the woman, her voice low and soft.

  "I'm Neal Etan. I have an appointment with Ms. Rowan."

  "Is it four thirty already?" She sounded bewildered.

  "It is."

  She swung the door open and stepped back for him to enter. "I'm sorry. I was studying a new artifact and must have lost track of time. Please come in."

  Neal stared at her in a long moment of surprise.

  She was taller than he expected—only a couple of inches shy of six feet—and much, much younger. He'd had an image of some dried-up, bent old woman, someone who fit in with all the younger. He'd had an image of some dried-up, bent old woman, someone who fit in with all the ancient items she was reputed to have collected—one of which Neal wasn't leaving without.

  Instead, he guessed her to be in her late twenties, though her prim business suit and spinsterish bun gave her a more mature air. She was pretty in an untouchable kind of way—the kind of woman a rough man like Neal avoided when possible. He'd either shock her or hurt her or both if he was around long enough.

  He hoped he could conclude their business and be on his way before that became an issue.

  Neal stepped over the threshold as she extended her hand in greeting. "I'm Viviana Rowan."

  He didn't want to touch her. Her long, elegant fingers seemed too fragile for his sword-calloused hand. But even more than that, he didn't want to offend her—not when they hadn't even begun to negotiate.

  With an inward sigh of resignation, Neal took her offered hand, thinking of blown-glass sculptures and hollow eggs so he'd keep his grip light.

  He'd intended to make the contact as brief as possible, but the second his skin touched hers, his world fell silent. Decades of pain evaporated like snowflakes over a fire. A buoyant, weightless bubble swelled ins
ide him, driving away the pressure of the massive power he stored but could not use. The hair along his limbs lifted from his body, and a fine shiver eased down his spine, warming him as it passed. Even his shock at the reaction couldn't seem to penetrate the overwhelming sense of peace that settled over him. He was content to stay here in this quiet, warm peacefulness for the rest of his life.

  And then he felt her fingers slide from his grip and reality came crashing down on him once again. Pain thrashed inside him, as if angry that he'd had even that brief respite. It lunged against his bones, pummeling his organs as it punished him.

  Neal gritted his teeth against the scream that was crawling up his throat and locked his knees so he wouldn't collapse in a heap at the woman's feet. A cold sweat beaded up along his hairline, and his stomach gave a hard, sickening twist.

  ". . . you okay?" Her soft voice lapped against his nerves, quieting their rioting dance. "I'll call for an ambulance."

  "No," croaked Neal. "I'm fine." He was anything but fine, but the last thing he needed was to be dragged away from here and have human doctors poking at him. Not only would they be freaked-out by his lifemark, but he'd have a hell of a hard time explaining why there was an invisible sword strapped around his hips. "Can I have some water?" he asked, just to get her to leave him alone for a minute. He needed to collect his wits, and he really didn't want this woman to see him weak like this.

  She shut the front door behind him and hurried off, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

  Neal sagged against the walland blinked to clear the black spots from his vision. He was shaking like one of those scared little purse dogs, and about as tough as one right now, too.

  Sunset was in just over an hour, and he had that long to get his shit together and fix it before the nasties came out to play.

  One thing was certain: There was not a force on earth that was going to pull him away from Ms. Viviana Rowan's side until he figured out what she'd done to him.

  And how he could make her do it again.

  Viviana filled a glass with water and guzzled it down before she remembered she was supposed to get him the water. Her heart was racing, and her hand was trembling so hard it kept slipping from the faucet handle.

  When he touched her, something happened. And she wasn't entirely sure she liked it. She'd felt like someone had sent an electric current through her skin, making it tingle and buzz from the inside out. A swath of heat swept over her, emanating from his wide, rough palm. His touch had been gentle, but that had somehow allowed her to feel each ridge of his calluses, every minute detail down to the whorls in his fingerprints.

  That simply wasn't right. It had to have been some kind of hallucination. Maybe his skin had been drugged with a contact poison.

  Even as the thought entered her mind, she dismissed it. Deep down she knew what this was.

  She'd felt it before, albeit never so intensely. That buzzing, resonant humming that filled her wasn't new to her. She'd felt it every time she touched one of the precious artifacts she collected.

  The only problem was, Neal Etan was not some centuries-old artifact. He was a living, breathing, incredibly warm man. One who was waiting in her foyer.

  What was she going to do with him? He couldn't stay. He was here to buy one of her artifacts, and although she hadn't before suspected he'd want one from her special collection, she now realized that had to be the case.

  She wouldn't let him have one of those. They were hers—the only things that made her feel connected to this world. Without them, she would be doomed to live with that meaningless, disconnected feeling she'd suffered through most of her life. She couldn't let that happen.

  Not that she could keep him from taking something he wanted. He was far too big and powerful to stop. She was going to have to outsmart him and get him to leave as soon as possible. She could not let her entire life's work be torn apart. Especially not so soon after losing Mother.

  This was going to be her first Christmas alone with only her collection to keep her company.

  Viviana covered her mouth with the back of her hand to stifle a whimper, and swore she could smellhis masculine scent lingering on her skin. It soothed her nerves, which only frightened her more. She'd never had a reaction like this to a man before, and she hoped it was only temporary.

  She scrubbed her hands in the sink to rid them of his scent, and then hurried out with his glass of water. The sooner she got him to leave, the better.

  She rounded the corner and nearly ran right into his broad chest. He grabbed her arms to steady her, and she was thankful the layers of fabric between them muted the effect of his touch.

  Only a trickle of that tingling energy reached her skin, but it was enough to heighten the trembling of her hands, causing water to slosh over the side of the glass onto his boot.

  "I'm sorry," she said, as she tried to step back out of his grasp.

  He let her go, but his dark blue eyes slid over her face, lingering at her mouth.

  He was handsome in a deeply masculine way. His features were big and bold and starkly angular. The wide ridge of his jaw was sharp, shadowed with new beard growth. His neck was thick, as were his thighs and arms beneath the snug leather jacket. There was nothing soft or gentle about this man, making him completely unlike the men she chose to date. Though, why she'd make such a comparison was anyone's guess. He wasn't here to ask her out. He was here to take something precious from her.

  She thrust the glass at him, hoping it would distract him and that steady gaze. Instead, his fingers grazed the back of her hand as he took the water.

  Instantly, another jolt of power shot through her, ricocheting inside her heart until she was panting for air.

  "Who are you?" he asked, his deep voice tinted with suspicion.

  She tried to sound unaffected, but her words came out breathy and panicked. "I know I promised you a meeting, but I forgot about an incredibly important appointment. I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel."

  "Like hell."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You made me a promise, and where I come from, that means something." He started to set the glass down on a seventeenth-century writing desk, and Viviana lunged to stop him before the damp glass could make contact.

  Her hands closed over his and that resonant energy flooded her system, weakening her knees and making her eyes flutter shut. A deep groan of satisfaction rose between them, and she couldn't tell if she'd made the noise, or he had. Not that she cared. Whatever he was doing to her—whatever poison or magic the man possessed—she was starting to like it.

  That thought jolted her, forcing her to remove her hands from his. She'd sacrifice the writing desk to a water mark if it meant he'd leave before setting his eyes on any of her treasured artifacts.

  As she broke contact, he sucked in a pained breath and doubled over. The glass slipped from his hand, shattering against the floor.

  "Sorry," he grated out.

  She didn't care about the glass. She only wished she could say the same for the man. But she did care. She hated seeing any living thing in pain, and that included big, strapping men who were here to ruin the calm of her peaceful existence.

  "Sit down before you fall down," she ordered as she guided him to a chair in her living room.

  She was careful not to touch his bare skin, choosing instead to use the sleeve of his jacket to tug him in the right direction. He landed on her settee with a thud, making the delicate wood creak in protest of his weight.

  One of his thick arms was wrapped around his middle. His head hung down, propped against his hand as if it weighed too much to support. On that hand he wore a ring that pulsed and swirled in a mesmerizing combination of colors that reminded her of aged parchment and ancient wood.

  Viviana stared, wondering where he'd found such an interesting item. It was definitely old. She could feel the vibration of years emanating from it, along with something else—something faint and elusive.

  She reached out to touch t
he tip of her finger to it, but Mr. Etan saw the movement and leaned smoothly away, out of her reach. "How about we both keep our hands to ourselves for a while so we can talk about the gadget, okay? I'm not sure how much more of a beating I can take right now."

  She wasn't sure which part of that confused her more—the part about a gadget or the part about him hurting. Fortunately, she had manners to fall back on in such an occasion and gave him a prim nod. "Certainly. I'm not usually so forward. But as I said, I have an appointment, so we'll need to reschedule."

  He gave her a disbelieving look. "Listen, lady, I've driven for hours to get here. I made a promise to bring this gadget home and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

  "Gadget?"

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he smoothed flat against his thigh before he handed it to her.

  Viviana took the paper, being careful not to make any further contact with his skin. She sat down across from him, putting some much-needed distance between them.

  On the page was a printed image from her Web site of one of the artifacts from her special collection. It was a carved wooden box, and inside, snuggled into perfectly shaped recesses, were two engraved metal disks. The markings on both the box and the disks were elaborate and painstaking in their detail, covered with trees, leaves, and vines. She'd found this item in the attic of a three-hundred-year-old home that she'd bought with the plans to restore it. And while she had no idea as to the artifact's purpose, it belonged in her collection, and she wasn't going to part with it.

  "I'm sorry," she said, giving him back the paper. "It's not for sale."

  "So you do have it?"

  "Yes."

  "Show me."

  The demand in his tone made her spine straighten in indignation. "Even if it was here, which it isn't, I wouldn't show it to you. Not if you're going to be rude and demanding."

  The man rose to his feet, looming over her. At five-ten, she wasn't used to it, so she stood, trying to put them on a more even footing. Even with her in heels, he was still a few inches taller. The hard set of his jaw and the way his nostrils flared made him even more imposing.