by Zoe Forward
“It’s not possible. You think it’s him? Michael Durand?” She bent away from him, shaking her head. Michael, the rumored bogeyman incarnate, in her car? The werewolf general who directed the current war on this side of the world?
Finn swiped sweat off his forehead, which had nothing to do with the effort it cost him to heft Michael’s body. “No other wolf was so dangerous that his owner shoved silver bolts into his bones and chained him to a wall for years. A normal wolf would’ve died in a day from silver toxicity. Jesus, the stories of what this guy did when he got free of the chains…”
“I know.” She massaged her temples against the blossoming headache. The pain Michael must’ve endured… This poor guy must’ve been in agony for so long.
Finn lay him down and shut the box. “He was already healed from the harpoons when I checked on him. But then I saw the marks and remembered Michael as legendary for fast healing.”
The myth behind the X-men’s Wolverine wasn’t all fiction. This wolf’s skeleton wasn’t reinforced with adamantium, though. She hoped claws couldn’t come out of his knuckles. That would be truly weird and disgusting.
“I darted him again twenty minutes ago. Not taking chances. I mean, he’s rumored to be insane. Like, not right in his head.”
“It’s going to be okay. Let me arrange to get him off our hands.” She strode away from the car and scrolled contacts on her phone. Who to dial…the werewolf king? Nope, too busy with political crap and too exposed for him to come to her. Viktor’s people would love to get a chance at killing the king. One of her people in the League? No, they’d freak out. Only one choice. Four rings. Come on, answer. Finally, he picked up. She rushed to say, “I’ve got an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?” asked Blaylock Lazlo, the oldest werewolf she knew. Although reclusive, rich, and a lead developer of werewolf innovative weapon tech, he didn’t directly participate in the current war. That didn’t make him a pacifist. He just didn’t get himself or his people out into the front line of action.
She’d never approached Blay for Nightshade League business. Even so, he kept tabs on her ever since her sister died, his mate. Tightness squeezed her chest at the memory of her long-dead sister. Sweet, loving Arie gone forever.
“I had an unplanned rescue in Paris tonight. Shit, I can’t believe this, but I’ve got Michael Durand passed out in my car. The Squad cornered him and darted him.”
“What?” There was a muttered curse from the other end. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near him, even if you are on our side of the war.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. We kind of skipped introductions when he was injured and being stubborn. I made a judgment call. If I’d left him, the Squad would’ve taken him.”
“Why must you be the suicidal heroine? This underground bullshit is too dangerous. But…are you trying to die, Kiera?”
“Of course I’m not trying to die. Death is always a possibility, though. I’m the one out here on the streets saving your people. I deserve a lot of appreciation for my work.”
“You’re an angel, and you know it. An insane, adrenaline-junkie angel.” A long, hard sigh came through the line. “Michael Durand. Haven’t seen him in ages. I heard rumors he’s very good at what he does, which is killing vampires like you. Are you sure he needed to be rescued? He’s an accomplished warrior and brilliant strategist. Him out there alone meant he had a plan.”
“How about you come and get him before he wakes up? I’ll meet you wherever you want in France. This has to happen tonight. I don’t want to deal with him awake.”
A strangled groan came through. “My plane is out of the country and won’t be back for at least a day. No way in hell I’m driving from Poland to you. I can’t have anyone there in the next few hours. I might be able to send someone your way tomorrow night or the following morning. If you need someone sooner, I can call Michael’s right hand to get him.”
“I don’t trust unknowns.” She hated that her voice wavered. She’d been attacked by werewolves out of distrust a few times. On one occasion, her location had been sold out by an unfamiliar wolf looking to buy a safety promise from Squad vamps. “That won’t work. Is there anyone else on your team who can come right now? Someone close?” Just get him out of my life.
“There isn’t anyone free right now who can handle Michael. I’m sorry.”
“What do I do with him?” She drummed her fingers silently on the phone as her mind whirled with options on where to take Michael.
“I wonder what Michael is doing in Paris alone. He doesn’t live there. He also never travels without an entourage of fighters. He’s…important to us. Given everything going on and who he is, his people would never allow him out alone. That means he gave them the slip. Something’s not right.”
“Suggestions?” She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the car, half expecting Michael to be awake and trying to murder her.
“Cuff him, drug him some more, and relocate him somewhere he’ll be alone in case he wakes up. Send me a text as to where you put him.”
“You can’t be serious. This is a general in the werewolf war effort we’re talking about. You want me to drug him and dump him?” Her stash of Nightshade poison in the SUV was so low that she wasn’t sure she had enough to keep him unconscious for longer than twelve to eighteen more hours.
“I’ll try to get someone to you as soon as I can.” There was silence from the other end for several long seconds. Finally, Blay said, “Be careful, Kiera. He’s not just a general. He’s the wolf that runs the entire initiative for this hemisphere. When he wakes up, there’s a high probability he’ll kill you.”
Chapter Three
Kiera looked up from the ancient book she’d been reading. Something was off.
The light from a few candles had lost their warm glow with the midday light shining around the blinds in her bedroom. The rain stopped hours ago, switching to snow.
Maybe the sensation of something not right was her inner vampire telling her she should be asleep. Most of her species couldn’t resist day sleep, no matter their age. She experienced insomnia.
That wasn’t her only peculiarity. After she’d been resurrected from almost-death by a druid almost a century ago, his magical healing triggered her evolution into something a lot less vampire—reduced her need for blood and food in general, and she now had little to no light sensitivity. That didn’t change her mortality status. Vampires could be killed, her included—by beheading and drinking werewolf blood—but natural death was a murky issue. Most lost interest in life after a few hundred years and went into a stasis state of long-term sleep or sought assisted suicide.
The other consequence of the change was her ability to do magic, not big stuff but little puffs like lighting candles without a match. Couldn’t say that was a useful skill since the advent of electricity. Turning on lights was hit or miss for her using magic. Although one positive was magic did enhance her ability to read and hook into people’s emotions, which came in handy.
The bad news? Vampires distrusted magical beings ten times more than they hated werewolves. That meant when not pretending to be a fake persona, she stayed far away from vampire gatherings just in case she accidentally did something others might pick up as magical. Only Finn and a handful of others knew of her abilities.
This was why she had to read the book she held in her lap, which Finn had recently acquired for her—to learn more about the origins of druidic magic.
But first… She texted Finn: Everything okay?
Finn: He’s still asleep. Nothing new.
Keira: Keep me updated.
She returned to slogging through the ancient druid text, An T-urram Draoidheil. Loosely translated, the title meant “The Magic Honor.” Gaelic had always been a tough language for her. Other copies of the book had been destroyed, sometimes within days of her putting in a bid to acquire
them. The book, by a renowned druidic shaman known as an abharain or ancient, discussed the truths of magic.
She skimmed a few pages and then paused at an interesting passage that discussed druidic ancestry.
She read the paragraph three times to be sure her translation was correct. What? True druidic magic couldn’t be acquired? Only a person descended from one of the druidic lines, of which there were four, could do powerful magic.
She could use magic. Yet she was about as pure vampire as anyone could be. She couldn’t work the formidable stuff like a druid—travel via energy tunnel, alter memories, heal mortal wounds. Her ability had strengthened as the years passed, now well over a century since she’d died and been brought back to life, but she still couldn’t do anything impressive. What did this news mean?
The druid who brought her back to life said any magic she had now came from what he’d done to save her. She returned to her book and kept reading. The next paragraph said sometimes magic could be learned but only small bits, never the powerful spells.
Whew. That explained it. The druid had given her something, at least enough to do bits of magic here and there. Nothing big.
The nagging sensation nudged her again.
Maybe the refugee, now housed in the hidden, underground guest wing of her Calais estate, was about to wake up. He should still be passed out from last night, given that they dosed him again upon arrival here at three hours past dawn. But his rapid healing ability made the drug’s effect unpredictable.
Her intuition rarely lied. It wasn’t quite precognition, since she never got visions, but more of a gut feeling. She snapped her fingers. Lights on the overhead candelabra magically went out.
She’d check on him. Sure, she shouldn’t have brought him home, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t dump him in Paris or lock him up somewhere and expect him to sit still until someone showed up.
Her silk designer robe rubbed decadently against all areas her lacey lingerie left exposed. No, she wasn’t wearing this for anyone in particular. She adored beautiful clothes and delicate underthings.
Minutes later, she hovered above the wolf’s bed. He hadn’t seemed crazy last night. Injured, furious, and distrustful, yes. Not insane, as Michael Durand was rumored to be.
The T-shirt Finn changed him into left no need to imagine the exact shape of his pecs. Her mind filled in details on the contours of the rest of his abdomen. She wondered about the rest of him as her gaze drifted lower…
What would it be like to be handled by someone so large? He was a big guy. Really big. All that power in the bedroom? Based on his hands and, well, everything, it seemed like Michael might blow her mind if she saw him naked.
Her body throbbed. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t dwelled on sex or been aroused like this in forever. Unlike werewolves, who relied on emotions and sensuality to survive, vampires became more detached from sensation as they aged, especially females. She couldn’t remember the last time she contemplated penis sizes and wild sex. Certainly, a werewolf never starred in her fantasies.
Oh my God. She was losing it. Maybe he wasn’t the crazy one. Instead, he made others lose their minds.
She had to get him out of her house before she did something stupid around him. But…oh my, he smelled incredible. So good that it tempted her to curl up next to him, touch the long wavy strands of his hair, and just breathe him in. Maybe she could steal a few seconds to nuzzle her nose against his neck.
No. Not the male for her. Not in this lifetime.
She debated moving him. Three hours from now, many would converge on her house for the quarterly meeting of the Nightshade League. They could handle the knowledge of a rescued wolf in residence, but most would freak out if they found out exactly which wolf lay tranquilized a floor below them.
If Michael woke up while they tried to move him, they’d have to contend with his promise to bring pain and death. That might lead to someone getting hurt. The League’s members would ask questions. She and Finn might both heal faster than humans but not in hours, not like Michael. She couldn’t brush off a fresh injury with an easy excuse.
No choice but for him to stay here until Blay sent someone. The cranky old werewolf wouldn’t come himself. Blay never left his fortified compound in Poland.
“You’re looking at him funny,” Adric said from the doorway.
“What kind of funny?” She straightened and gave the gangly teen her most challenging glare.
“I don’t know. All gooey kind of.” Adric goofy smiled, adding his patented staccato laugh. The kid was one year away from graduating his teenage years but couldn’t gain weight despite eating more in one meal than she’d eaten in a hundred years.
“I was not giving Michael Durand a gooey stare.”
Adric grinned. “Uh-huh. Sure. Maybe because you’re like a thousand years old, you don’t remember what it’s like to have a crush.”
“I also do not have a crush on him. I mean, that’d be—” She did circles with her finger next to her ear. She smiled, trying to throw Adric off.
So maybe she lusted a little bit for the guy. Perhaps, a big bit, but she’d never act on it. Even amongst the Nightshade League members, interspecies romance was taboo.
“I can watch him for you. Dad’s working with the caterer upstairs. He might be a while.” Adric tucked his laptop under an arm.
“We both love your father, but bless his heart, Finn can be a compulsive hardass about party details. Are you sure you want to watch the wolf? I don’t want you hurt if he wakes up. If rumors are true and he really does cycle between sanity and craziness, then it might not go well.”
“I’ve been at risk my whole life. What’s another crazy werewolf going to do to me?” Adric had his father’s gray-blue eyes, but the loveable blond goofiness came from his werewolf mother. “I’m less likely to get eaten by him than you.”
“You’re too young to trivialize life. If you were born in the seventeenth century like me, then you earned the right to be apathetic.”
“Apathy? You? Ha!” Adric broke out his soft laugh, the one that melted her heart. It took the bluster right out of her sails. Yeah, apathy wasn’t her mantra.
“I’ll stay.” He shrugged. “I’m unwanted in the vampire and werewolf world. I have no place being what I am.”
“Bull. Shit. You belong right here.” She pulled him into a hug, crushing his head against her chest. “You’re worth twenty of any vampire I’ve ever met.” She stepped out of the hug but didn’t let go of him, holding him at arms’ length until he made eye contact. “Get out the dart gun. If he threatens you—hell, if he wakes up—use it.”
Adric saluted her.
“Watch him. Seriously, don’t hesitate to use the gun.”
She marched over to Michael and whispered near his ear, “You put one a scratch on Adric, and I’ll make you regret it.”
…
Where the hell was he? Sweat coated his body, and his heart raced. Somewhere deep in Michael’s mind, he realized he’d just come out of a dream. Maybe this was still the dream.
No.
The room was too quiet to be the setting for his usual nightmares. Yet he remained imprisoned within memories of when he’d been chained and heaped with humiliation. They’d tested poisons on him. Some concoctions made him sick to his stomach. Some sent him out of his mind, hallucinating. Some made him scream as if someone had ripped him from the inside out. All of it still screwed with his mind nearly two centuries later. He wished he could forget the horror of that time long ago, but it was cemented into the foundation of his soul.
He concentrated on the white ceiling until his heart rate slowed.
Sometimes he was so fatigued from avoiding sleep for days that his trusted right hand, Bryan, would coerce him to accept chemically induced unconsciousness. Bryan’s drug mix worked a lot better to silence Michael’s brain tha
n whatever the vampires had shot him up with. He didn’t resent Bryan for forcing dream-free sleep. That would require feeling something when awake beyond his normal state of indifference. Many labeled it ennui—the time when a werewolf got so old, he no longer experienced regular emotion. Werewolves trapped for years in this state often suicided themselves or simply gave up existing, pretty much willing themselves to die. He didn’t have that option, at least not until the war was over. Too many needed him to keep the front line organized. But if he died fighting? There was honor in that death.
When the nightmares took over his brain, he was at the mercy of the rage inspired by long-ago events. Even that wasn’t real emotion. It was like a TV rerun, but the closest to genuine feeling he experienced these days.
Until he’d met the vampire in Paris. Whatever the hell he’d felt with her—yes, felt as in real feelings—had been new.
Time to figure out where he ended up.
He didn’t smell Bryan nearby.
He detected…vampire mixed with a heavenly flowery soap smell.
Her.
No sound of her nearby—though there was someone else outside—but she’d been in here recently. He’d never forget her essence. She was somehow the exception to his quest to eradicate any vampire who crossed his path. Because with her, he’d experienced a twinge of…something. Whatever it was, he felt it deep inside. The sensation assaulted his frontal lobe to the point of pain, where feeling it almost debilitated him. He’d been unwilling to kill her in order to find out what he might feel next.
In those few moments when they’d touched with the cold rain drizzling down on them, he hadn’t been able to stop staring at her. He’d been drawn to her, a fucking leech, and for good reason. She was so goddamned gorgeous. Tall with dark hair pulled tight to highlight the sculpted planes of her face, which made her blue eyes stand out even more. And then…for a single moment, she’d smiled. He didn’t even think she’d been aware.
Fuck. That momentary upturn of her pink lips had rendered him immobile.