by Gena; Butcher Showalter; Gena; Butcher Showalter; Gena; Butcher Showalter; Gena; Butcher Showalter
She shoved the pallet that was pinning him down off his legs. His jeans were dark with blood.
Hope patted his face, hoping to wake him. His eyes fluttered open, but she doubted his ability to focus. His pupils were huge, and sweat covered his brow. "Logan. I need Logan. Poison. He can fix it."
Hope didn't know how he knew that, but she doubted he'd waste his breath lying.
Her gaze slid across the room to the fight. The man battling that beast must be Logan. She had to help him. She had no idea how to defeat the monster, but she'd seen a length of metal pipe near the door, and she wasn't afraid to use it.
If you like bad boys, hot magic, and high stakes, be sure to check out Jessica Andersen's latest installment in the Nightkeeper series,
STORM KISSED
Available from Signet Eclipse in June 2011
Reese didn't know Cancun that well, but she knew cities. She knew the taste and smell of their dark underbellies, and understood the creatures that ruled them.
She also knew that if Strike and his crew went looking for her, they would start with the airports, bus terminals, and hotels, all the normal places that normal people went to. So, heart thudding sickly in her chest, she headed for what her gut told her was the bad section of town and flung herself into a warren of narrow streets that dwindled rapidly to alleys, losing layers of respectability in the process. And becoming entirely familiar.
Scrawny alley cats and lean, hard-eyed mutts of both the human and animal variety slunk in the shadows.
This was her world.
As she worked her way deeper into the maze, moving fast but not too fast, she was aware of beady eyes watching her from shadows, and the way they shifted, sending a silent message flashing ahead: Grab her. We'll share.
A minute and three alleys farther in, a lean-hipped youth with shark-dead eyes and a four-inch blade dangling from one hand moved out from behind a Dumpster and gave her a spittle-flecked,
"Hey, baby, you looking for me?" in English rendered almost singsong by his thick accent.
She rattled back in barrio Spanish, "Get these cops off my ass and you can have whatever you want."
"Fuck that." He disappeared himself, and the shadows melted away. They wouldn't stay gone for long, but the threat of the cops had bought her a few minutes, a little space to think.
Not that she wanted to think. It hurt too damn much.
Dez. God. Throat so tight it hurt to breathe, she kept going until her gut told her she had gone far enough, and then picked out a narrow, open-ended alley that smelled pretty much like every other alley on the planet—a melange of piss, body odor, and rot, with a spicy overtone that said she was far from home.
Putting herself about halfway down the alley, she scoped out her exits, both horizontal and vertical, before she leaned back against a padlocked doorway, causing her .38 to dig into her lower back. Then she braced her hands on her knees, let her head hang for a second, and concentrated on not losing her shit.
Dez was alive. As in not dead. Which meant . . . "Nothing," she told herself, hating that her voice cracked on the word. This didn't change anything.
She couldn't let it change anything. He wasn't her cowboy or her white knight, wasn't her best friend, wasn't her partner, wasn't anything to her anymore. She had saved his life by putting his ass in jail long enough for Fallon to get the guys who were gunning for him, and then cutting the deal that had gotten him out again. Word had it he'd even straightened up—to a point—while he'd been inside. She doubted he had found God, but she had hoped he had found some perspective, and maybe even a few shreds of the guy who had saved her ass back in the day.
That had evened them up. A life for a life. Which meant she didn't owe him.
Her stomach rumbled.
This isn't your problem. She didn't need to get involved—hell, she shouldn't get involved. She should give the info to Fallon, and let him decide what—if anything—to do about it. And if the thought brought a twist of grief and regret, she made herself ignore them both as she dug into her carryall, going for the false bottom where she kept a second set of IDs and plastic that would get her home and ought to keep her off the radar unless Strike and his people had major clearance or a big-ass back door into the system.
Given that they were looking for Dez, the latter seemed a far stronger possibility, as did their being paramilitary. He hadn't been—wasn't?—an acronym kind of guy.
Dez. God. Her throat closed; a sob rattled in her chest, but she made herself keep going, her fingers shaking as she popped the bottom of the carryall.
Then, unexpectedly, a strange tickle shimmied down the back of her neck and her instincts kicked hard. Oh, shit.
She spun, but didn't see a damned thing. Then a strange crackle laced the air, displaced air whoomp ed, and Strike freaking materialized right in front of her. He looked around, saw her, and looked profoundly relieved.
Relieved? What the hell? She went for her .38 reflexively, but his expression shifted to one of fucking-get-it-done determination. Moving lightning fast, he grabbed her wrist with one hand, twisted, grabbed the gun with his other hand, and chucked it away.
"Sorry about this," he said, which didn't make any sense, either.
Then the air crackled. The shimmies got worse. And sudden vertigo slammed into her, tunneling her vision.
"What . . . ?" Heart hammering, she reeled, tried to run, and staggered drunkenly instead. She had been drugged!
She felt herself falling, felt strong arms catch her in an impersonal grip. Then there was only a strange, shimmying darkness that took the world away but left the panic behind.
Don't miss the next thrilling installment in Deidre Knight's Gods of Midnight series,
RED MORTAL
Coming from Signet Eclipse in April 2011
Leonidas swung Daphne down off the horse and into his arms. Cradling her close, he stared into her pale blue eyes until his breath hitched. Lovely didn't begin to cover her ethereal beauty. A demigoddess, an immortal creature of Olympus, a Delphic Oracle . . . and, of late, a Goth girl. Any sane king would've kept his distance and never taken on the challenge.
But he'd come up the hardest way, in the Agoge training school of Sparta, where he'd clawed for every crumb he'd ever gotten. It had been true survival of the fittest, with Leo struggling to thrive like a desperate weed in the sundried bricks of that place. That was when he'd learned to face any challenge, physical or psychological. He'd brought that iron-will ed strength to Thermopylae, to all the battles he'd waged in the old days and ever since, and he wasn't about to start backing down now.
Daphne belonged to him; it was only a matter of fully claiming her before the Highest God himself. In his human life, he'd loved his wife, Gorgo, deeply, but now, all these years later, he could no longer recall her face, much less her touch. But when he kissed Daphne, something unearthly, mystical, ignited inside his heart; it was an eternal love, the kind that could survive the bonds of death and rebirth. And if that bastard brother of hers continued to separate them by intimidation, Leo wasn't above waging war against the cruel god. He'd done so already, besting Ares in two recent battles.
She slid both arms about his neck as he lowered her slowly to her feet. She was light, so light, in his grasp—and yet so fully a woman that his breath hitched as her breasts pressed against his thick chest. For one long moment their gazes locked—Daphne with her thin arms twined about him, her breath warm against his skin as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck. His lips parted slightly, and he nearly pressed his mouth to hers. But no . . . Not yet.
There was something he wanted much more than a kiss. To feel her body, that lithe, feminine body, beneath his own much larger, bulky one, just as he'd promised. Maybe it would be awkward, a bit inelegant, but he didn't care. He always had been the bull dreaming of making love to a fairy queen, of holding a butterfly against his warrior's chest. And he'd had plenty of practice taking Daphne without hurting her—all in his fantasies. He would be gen
tle with her now; he vowed it.
Rummaging through his saddle bag, he located his crimson cape. He'd brought it intentionally, with a particular plan in mind. Keeping one arm about her waist, he unfurled the crimson fabric with a romantic flourish, making a blanket for them in the crisp field of grass. He watched the Spartan cloak settle and, swallowing hard in anticipation, he turned to Daphne. Her blue eyes had grown wide, and a rosy flush infused her cheeks as she stared at the makeshift bed. She chewed her lower lip, seeming troubled. Wasn't this what she wanted?
But then she turned back to him, her pale blue eyes flashing with heat and desire, all hesitation completely gone. He seized the moment, pulling her into his arms, and into a fervent kiss. Pain spiked through his right knee as they sank to the ground, tumbling together—the ancient war wound had been hurting more with each passing day. But for once, he ignored the torturous injury, losing himself in Daphne's arms. Her hands were in his hair, tangling in his short, thick curls, grasping as if she couldn't possibly have enough of him.
Shifting his hips, he used his thigh to part her legs, and settled heavily there. He was an imposingly large man, and she was so delicate and small by comparison. He tried to go slowly, but after all these months it was hard to rein himself in, especially when she drew her knees up about his legs. The shifting movement positioned his groin squarely against her intimate place, and he ached to feel her, damp and wet with desire, and to stroke her there.
She seemed to crave that very thing because she squeezed her thighs, lifting and urging him onward with a muffled, enthusiastic cry against his neck. In response, he began a subtle rocking motion, each thrust tightening his groin even more, every motion causing her to respond in kind, the two of them mimicking the act he so desperately longed to complete.
"Oh, gods, Daphne." He released a low, hot groan against her neck. He could smell the sweet aroma of arousal on her skin, feel the way her pulse fluttered beneath his lips. "Daphne mine, you're blessed torture."
She smiled up at him, a gleam in her eyes. "I want to make you hot and bothered and unable to hold back. I want you begging me. . . ."
He released a groan of frustration and desire. "So . . . that's your evil plan. I hope you will see it through to the very end."
She tangled her thin arms about his neck, pulling him closer. Pressing her lips against his temple, she whispered, "I intend to rule the universe, with you my only subject."
He pulled back, gazing into her eyes. "Are you saying you would consent to be my queen?" he asked, searching her face. He'd spent the past year so intent on simply capturing her that he'd never even contemplated formalizing their relationship.
She answered by holding him closer, drawing his mouth to hers for a kiss. He grew so aroused that he ached with it, his cock pushing painfully against the metal zipper of his pants, and his balls tightening like bowstrings.
But she didn't shy away; in fact, she kissed him harder. She stroked her tongue against his in slow, tantalizing sweeps, each time seeming to taste him more deeply. Her hands roamed his back, his hair, his shoulders. In response, he cradled one palm beneath her buttocks, drawing her upward on a twin surging motion of their bodies.
After a moment, when he felt drunk with that kiss, she finally pulled away. Sinking back against the ground, her breathing came in ragged, uneven pants. "Leo, I want you . . . more than I've ever wanted you."
He stared down into her eyes, the clear blue of them like gazing into the Aegean . . . but with a tempest coming. He kept his body atop hers, suspended there, wanting her with more desperation than he'd ever felt before. And yet an invisible force held him in check: the knowledge that she would likely leave him again after this. Every separation from her became more unbearable.... What would such a parting be like once they became lovers? Unendurable, he was certain.
"Daphne." He leaned up on both elbows, staring at her solemnly. "Promise me you won't vanish on me, not after this. Not if we become . . . if I take you, uh . . . make . . ." His face flushed, and finally he clamped his mouth closed, giving up on the effort. Why did his asinine shy streak always surface with Daphne, and when he most needed composure?
"Go on, Leo," she prompted, smiling up at him with gentle patience. She placed a cool palm against his heated face. "You know you can speak your mind with me."
He drew in a sharp breath and started again. "If we are lovers," he managed to force out, "then you will stay."
She stroked his cheek, studying his face with an intensity he didn't quite understand. As if memorizing his features, trying to ensure she knew every line, every scar. "I won't go again, Leonidas. Not this time," she vowed, threading her fingers through his hair.
Suddenly her eyes grew wider, and panic filled her gaze. Her hand froze, still twined in one of his short, wiry curls.
He frowned at her. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head mutely, her gaze flicking over his countenance with silent intensity. What had she just seen in him? What was causing her to be so fearful that she began trembling beneath his big body?
"Daphne, tell me," he urged, but she responded by tugging his head downward decisively. She covered his mouth with hers and sank her tongue deep inside his mouth, as if she meant to consume him, take him into her very core and hold him captive. It was the most fervent, aggressive kiss she'd ever given him. She began pulling at the hem of his linen shirt, working it upward. He complied hungrily, breaking the kiss only long enough to strip out of the rough fabric.
Her small, warm hands swept over his back. She didn't seem to notice the hideous scars that marred his shoulders and middle back, kneading her fists against his muscles, moaning into his mouth as they kissed.
He cupped a hand firmly along her nape. "Daphne," he murmured against her lips, "I love you. I love you with all that is in me, and—"
He wasn't able to finish; a hard male laugh rang out, piercing the field's mellow, late-day quiet like a pistol shot.
Índice
Chapter Eleven , _Teaser chapter_
EVER NIGHT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
THE COLLECTOR
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
CRYSTAL SKULL
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
RED ANGEL
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven