by Thorne, Elle
There were more difficult ways to make a living. Eira was more than sure of that, because she’d made a living in those other ways over the years.
Years?
More like centuries.
Eira was part of an ancient and immortal sisterhood. Not only was the sisterhood immortal, so were the members. And their kids.
Okay, well, there was one way—and one way only—they could die. But the sisterhood didn’t age. They were frozen in their prime by the touch of the one who created them. Born mortals and turned to immortals in their twenties in a ceremony that was private and personal, and never discussed.
At the age of seven, all girls were sent to their training schools to learn the arts of their kind.
That art? Specifically, fighting. The sisterhood was composed of female warriors. Strictly. Men had no place in this sisterhood.
Once a year, each girl would be returned to her mother for a month before returning to the school to continue her education.
Where did men fit in? They didn’t. Men’s roles in the world of the sisterhood was simple. They had two purposes: procreation and the release of those needs that on occasion built up.
And so, it was with glee that several members of the sisterhood were looking forward to putting on their short skirts and heels and charming the pants off the mortal men while Eira was on assignment pursuing one dirt bag or another.
Eira was part of a group of four roommates, all in the sisterhood, of course. It wouldn’t do to room with mortals. Too many questions would come up.
Their apartment was flanked by others from the sisterhood, four of them in the apartment on the left, and three in the apartment on the right.
The sisterhood lived together, based on sects. Sect members stayed near each other. They were not to reveal anything to others, humans or otherwise, else be put on trial by tribunal. A decision would be immediate. Sentence was carried out instantly.
These bad ass, hard ass women?
A proud and ancient breed, deciders of the slain.
And very capable of adding to the numbers of slain men over the millennia.
Chapter Three
The Heights, Houston, Texas.
Range wiped the sweat from his brow. This was one hell of a hot town. He missed home fiercely.
The fellas had agreed to let him take this case. Well, that wasn’t hard to achieve. He pulled rank as the oldest.
It had taken him a few days, but he’d found her. The woman in the picture with the striking eyes.
Her name was Eira Winter, according to the paperwork. The file also mentioned she was in the private investigative business, but it didn’t list an agency. He’d tracked down every PI in Houston, and none had her on their employee records. But he’d gotten lucky when one of the seedier agencies bitched about an attractive redhead who seemed to have taken a job or two from him.
Mere days since the call from George, a few resources, and plenty of bribes later, Range had an idea of where to find her.
And sure enough, there she was.
She walked out of her apartment complex in the Heights, red hair blowing in the breeze like a flame, jeans hugging curves that hinted at muscles beneath. Just enough muscle to get his attention. She walked with the stealth of a predatory feline.
If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was a shifter.
But no. Clearly, it was just his wolf’s senses in overdrive, because she gave no indication that she was a shifter.
Range cursed the damned testing that had occasionally made his and his wolf’s wires cross.
She strode out of the building that had a decent amount of security, but nothing he couldn’t overcome, if needed. The complex could only be accessed from the front door and there was a man sitting at the desk.
For the briefest of seconds, her eyes had landed on Range.
He’d looked down, not wanting to catch her attention.
When he glanced back up, she’d turned her gaze from him.
She checked both ways before she crossed the street and headed toward a shopping center. He kept his eyes on her, but his attention was drawn to the movement at the front door of her apartment complex.
Two women exited. He sucked in a breath. Their resemblance to Eira was uncanny. Could they be related? Same carriage, same proud bearing. Close to Eira’s height, which by the way was about five-foot-ten, if he were to wager. One had red hair, but a different shade, lighter than Eira’s. The other’s hair was blonde, but with red highlights.
They took off in a different direction than Eira. He was tempted to follow Eira. Curiosity and all that.
Plus, there was something about her. Something…
Damned, if he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Do your job, he told himself. And the job was simple. Get her address and turn it over to Slick George.
He took the phone out then shoved it back into his pocket. He still had some research to do. His wolf howled at him.
And sadly, Range had no clue what his wolf was howling about.
Chapter Four
Downtown, Houston.
Eira walked into the club with her roommates.
Naturally, heads turned. Two redheads, a blonde, and a brunette. Hélène liked to change her hair color. Their kind usually had red hair, in one shade or another, but long ago, when she’d first learned about hair coloring, which was centuries back, it seemed, Hélène had decided she wanted to be a brunette. That ranged from a gothic sheer black mane that was straightened, to a tangle of chocolate curls. It all depended on Hélène’s mood that day.
Eira ordered a round of fancy drinks with fancier names from a bartender who offered her more than alcohol, if she wanted it.
“No, thanks.” She forced a smile. Now where the hell was the guy she was supposed to be catching in the act?
She’d intercepted his texts to his secret girlfriend. They were meeting here tonight, then heading to the other clubs in the vicinity.
She tipped the bartender a hefty amount, then pushed the drinks toward Hélène, Lina, and Emme. “Next round’s on you,” she told Emme.
Emme smiled. “If we’re here long enough.”
“And if we move to another club, same deal.”
Emme laughed.
Eira never made her buy. What did it matter, anyway? Their funds were merged.
Eira was accustomed to feeling eyes on them when they entered a place, but something seemed odd. Someone in there was watching, and whoever it was, they were giving her the heebie-jeebies. A phrase she’d picked up from the TV, because who would have thought a being that old would use that language.
Then again, Eira—all of them—made it a point to fit into today’s society, whichever society they were in, on any given day.
She studied the area as nonchalantly as she could, her gaze going over every person in the room to see if anyone was watching her with more than passing interest.
She’d had the same feeling this afternoon when she’d left the apartment.
By damn, she hoped they hadn’t found them. They’d been in Houston for just under a year. She’d like to spend more time here.
Always on the run, it seemed. Always. She sighed. Could they have been found already?
Was it time to move once more?
“What is it?” Emme studied her face, reading her expressions.
“Nothing,”
Emme raised a brow. “If you say so.” Her sister knew her too well.
“Go have a good time.” Eira gave her a tiny shove, then turned back to scanning the room.
Hélène and Lina were already toting their drinks toward a group of men who hadn’t been able to take their eyes off the statuesque foursome.
Understandable.
Eira didn’t fault the sisterhood for hunting for a bit of companionship. She’d done that before. Lust was a need, just as food. Except lust didn’t seem to be very high on her priority list these days. This year. Maybe even this decade.
She sig
hed and kept scanning.
There. He’d glanced away the second her eyes alit on him. Definitely avoiding eye contact.
She studied the man, blatant in her curiosity, because it would be best he knew she’d found him out.
She couldn’t tell how tall he was since he sat at a table, but it looked like six-two or six-three, if she were to guess. The thing that stood out: his eyes screamed predator, and his body was full of muscle stacked on top of muscle.
Not in an obscene, I’m competing for a body building contest way. No, he definitely wasn’t that bulky. He was just flat out muscular. He reminded her of a gladiator she once knew…
She pushed that thought aside. That was a long time ago, and that night had not been matched in centuries.
She narrowed her eyes as she studied him.
Military.
That would be her guess.
Hot, too. Hot as hell. Full lips, chiseled features. He could have been a cover model for a soldier’s magazine.
But there was something off about him. He wasn’t pure human. There was something supernatural about him.
But he’s not the enemy.
That’s true. He wasn’t. She’d have known if he was the enemy. An age-old enemy that hunted her kind.
Berserkers.
The man raised a bottle to his lips and took a long hard draw from it, at the same time, he raised his eyes to hers for a brief moment.
Lightning coursed through Eira. She looked away swiftly.
What the hell was that?
She rubbed her head to clear it and stall for time while she tried to figure out what in the world was going on. She’d never had a reaction of that magnitude to a man. Not ever.
She stirred the beverage she hadn’t bothered to drink, moving the straw about the frothy, girly concoction, trying to figure out why her body was acting as if she’d suddenly been dropped into a convection oven and then hit with a few thousand volts.
Who cares? I’m not looking for companionship tonight. I’m here on a job. A job that paid very well. Not that they didn’t have plenty of money in their accounts scattered around the world, but Eira had an irrational fear of poverty. Except she didn’t think it was irrational. Being afraid of sustaining life was not irrational in the least, in her eyes.
She pointedly turned away from him, and headed toward a spot she’d picked out as perfect for surveillance. Her smartphone would take the pictures of the dirt bag and his flavor of the month for the attorney.
Maybe I’ll have a good time, kick back, after the job’s done.
Maybe.
She watched Hélène and Lina as they flirted with the guys that sported what she would have called white collar, techie haircuts.
So not her type.
Her type?
She fought the urge to turn back and look at him, reminding herself why she was here.
Dirt bag.
Ah. There’s the dirt bag.
And the girlfriend.
Holding hands and heading for a semi-private booth. One that would yield lovely photos.
She glanced up, and he was gone.
Oh, well. Back to work.
Chapter Five
Downtown, Houston.
Range stepped outside the club.
Dammit. What the hell was that about?
She’d caught him looking, or almost. And then he’d felt her stare on him.
What in the world possessed him to look up at her at just that moment? He knew she was watching him. His wolf sensed it.
And yet I looked up—like a dumbass.
He’d fucking fail Surveillance and Reconnaissance 101 with actions like that.
He heaved a breath, then sucked in the hot, humid Houston air.
Damned Texas coast.
Mosquitos, humidity, heat.
And hot women.
Woman.
Make that singular.
One woman. Hot as hell.
And when she’d looked at him, it felt like his nerve endings had been branded with a hot poker.
He’d never had that happen before.
His wolf howled at him.
Zip it.
He was in no mood to hear his wolf’s theorizing on this matter.
He scratched at the fashionable scruff that adorned his face. Not that he gave a shit about fashion. Hell, he had scruff before scruff was popular.
And he occasionally sported a beard. Because shaving sucked. Big time.
Eira Winter. Who are you?
He knew what his brothers would say if they were here. As one, they’d chant, “Just turn the information over to the client, get paid, get back to Alaska.”
True, they’d say that. But if they were here, and they saw her…
If they’d felt what he felt.
No. He couldn’t just flat out do that. Couldn’t.
Or could he? He should. Was there a workaround?
One thing was for certain. He couldn’t hang around here and attract her attention. What happened to staying low key? Working undercover?
He was either off his game—or that redhead had thrown him for a loop.
He smiled wryly at the predicament.
* * *
The next morning, with coffee in hand, and perched in a nice hiding spot outside Eira’s apartment in the Heights, Range reached into his pocket and snagged the burner phone he’d bought when he arrived in Houston and punched in George’s number.
George answered on the first ring. “Speak.”
What the fuck does he think I am? A dog?
He’d noticed that George answered the phone the same way the other times they’d talked.
“I have an address for you,” Range said without pleasantries.
“Let’s have it.” George’s words were clipped.
“Payment, first.”
“I don’t think so,” George countered.
“You’re the one who needs me. My reputation clearly brought you here. Else you’d have the address on your own already.”
Heavy breathing of irritation came through the phone.
“Payment, first,” Range repeated.
“Fine. Come to our offices.” George gave him an address.
“Cash.” Range hung up the phone and felt like he needed a bath.
He felt dirty. Of all the jobs he’d ever done, and there were plenty of them, this one for some reason left him feeling grimy, so gross that a shower with a firehose wouldn’t wash that kind of scum off.
* * *
An hour later, he was in The Woodlands, an area north of Houston that insisted the letter T be capitalized when one wrote The Woodlands.
Pretty damned pretentious, he noted.
The glass building was several stories high and bore no markings to indicate the industries or offices contained within.
He took the stairs—not one to trust being locked up in an elevator, or as he called them, a steel box with no door handle—and found the suite that George had given him.
The door opened before he could knock.
A thug with greased-back, ponytailed hair stood back and let him in. “George is in his office.” He waved toward a hallway, then indicated for Range to precede him.
Range stepped back. “Lead the way.”
The guy studied him, looked like he was about to argue, then for whatever reason, decided against it, and started down the hallway.
Once in the office, corner office, of course—Range figured George would have no less—he took note of the expensive furniture glossed to a high polish. And noticed what was missing. The signs that business happened here.
No calendar.
No notes.
No inboxes.
No computer.
What the hell kind of office is this? What kind of company do they run?
He reminded himself that it was none of his business.
He finally took the time to appraise George—his contact—the intermediary between Range and the client.
If George were to resurre
ct in the animal kingdom after death, Range was certain the manicured, coiffed, Italian suit and Rolex adorned dweeb would come back as a weasel.
He took his measure while at the same time, George’s glance was dismissive.
George pulled out a notepad and a pen. “The address. We’ve waited long enough.”
Range said nothing, standing still.
George frowned, reached for an attaché case. “Here.” He popped it open.
Range didn’t bother counting it.
“Remind me again why it is that the client wants Eira Winter’s whereabouts?”
“She has something that’s his.”
“And legal means wouldn’t handle this?”
What did she steal? A damned Picasso?
God, I hope not. That dude had zero art talent.
George shook his head as though in disappointment. “You weren’t hired to ask questions. The file you received covered what you needed to know.”
Range didn’t care for his tone at all. He was tempted to teach George—and his hired thug, if need be—a lesson.
But one thing came to his mind.
The image of Vince’s daughter on the website they’d set up to raise funds for her treatments. All the tubes going in and out of that little one.
He sucked in a deep breath and counted to ten. But he still wasn’t quite ready to roll over.
“I’ll tell the client directly.”
George scoffed. “What?”
Range leaned against a wall, his eye on both George and the thug.
“That’s my terms.”
“He’s not even in this country.”
“Fine, get him on the phone.”
“Do you realize what time it is over there?”
Since Range didn’t even know where the hell there was, how was he to answer that question? He shrugged.
George huffed, composure and haughtiness gone. “He won’t be happy.”
“I bet he’d be less happy if he didn’t get what he wanted.”