Hunt the Darkness

by Alexandra Ivy

“But of course.” Levet glanced around the empty cavern. “There is no one else about.”

  There was a beat before the man managed a smile. “Have you come to petition the Oracles?”

  “Moi?” Levet’s wings fluttered in disbelief. “Do you not recognize me?”

  “Should I?”

  “But of course. I am, Levet, recently reinstalled member of the Gargoyle Guild and savior of the world.”

  The man offered a stiff bow. “And I am Brandel, Historian for the Commission.”

  “You are an Oracle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. . . .” Had Levet been a lesser demon he might have been frightened by the information. There were Oracles who would destroy entire villages for an imagined insult. Levet, however, had promised himself that he would never be intimidated again. “Very well. I have been brought here by Yannah. I wish to see her.”

  “Then I suggest you locate a servant to alert her to your presence.”

  The man turned, as if he were intent on escaping, but Levet was waddling forward to block his path.

  “Wait,” he said, leaning forward, sniffing the thick robe. “What is that scent?”

  A strange humming filled the air as the demon shoved Levet away with a surprising strength.

  “Stay back.”

  Levet frowned, recognizing that precise scent of salty air that clung to the fabric of Brandel’s robe.

  “Have you been to Canada?”

  The humming intensified, creating a vibration in the air. Levet stepped back in concern.

  He didn’t know what was causing the peculiar hum, but he didn’t think it could be a good thing.

  Not when it was making his insides feel . . . icky.

  Then as swiftly as the humming had started it disappeared and Levet was distracted by the scent of brimstone.

  Spinning on his heel, he expected to see Yannah standing in the arched entrance that led deeper into the caves. Instead he discovered a female demon who was almost her exact double.

  The same short stature and slender body covered by a white robe. The same oblong eyes that were a solid black, the same delicate features and sharp, pointed teeth. They even had the same long braid that nearly brushed the floor, although Yannah’s was a pale blond, while her mother’s was gray.

  Siljar also carried with her the sort of power that blasted through the air like a freight train.

  Yannah didn’t yet possess her mother’s strength.

  Dieu merci.

  “Is there a problem?” the tiny demon demanded, her black gaze focused on Brandel.

  “Siljar.” The Miera lowered his head in a respectful nod. “This . . . creature is searching for your daughter.”

  Siljar’s gaze never wavered.

  “Are you just returning?”

  Brandel kept his head lowered, his fingers nervously plucking at the hem of his sleeve.

  “Yes, I heard a rumor that a rare manuscript had been discovered in a harpy nest near Singapore,” he explained in timid tones. “Unfortunately it turned out to be a fake.”

  Levet stepped forward. The demon was lying. He’d bet his favorite Fabergé egg.

  “But . . .”

  “You must be tired,” Siljar gently overrode his words.

  Brandel lifted his head high enough to give a relieved smile.

  “Exhausted, actually. If you will excuse me?”

  “Certainly.”

  Siljar stepped to the side so Brandel could scurry from the cavern, her expression distracted.

  Levet clicked his tongue. “I may not be an Oracle, but I do have a highly sensitive nose.” He turned his head to one side, allowing Siljar to admire his snout. “In profile I am told it resembles Brad Pitt’s.”

  “Ah, so I see.” Siljar cleared her throat. “And what did your magnificent nose tell you?”

  Levet turned back to meet the Oracle’s steady gaze. “Brandel the Historian has not been to Singapore.”

  “No?”

  “Non.”

  “Then where has he been?”

  “Canada.”

  A slow blink was Siljar’s only reaction to the information one of her fellow Oracles was liar-liar-pants-on-fire.

  “Interesting.”

  Levet shrugged. Eh bien. If she did not care, then neither did he.

  “And odd,” he muttered.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I, myself, was in Canada before I was so rudely transported here.”

  “Indeed.” Siljar smiled. “Why were you in Canada?”

  Now she was interested?

  He grabbed his tail to polish the tip, attempting to appear modest.

  A difficult task for a gargoyle as formidable as himself.

  “As usual the vampires were in need of my considerable skills.”

  She nodded, naturally eager to learn of his bravery. “Any skills in particular?”

  He dropped his tail back to the ground. He needed champagne to get a true gloss.

  “The clan chief of Nevada was searching for his missing mate.”

  “The witch?”

  “Oui.” Levet heaved a sigh. “Lovely Sally. I hope that she can find the truth of her past. I sense it might be important.”

  “As do I,” Siljar said, so softly Levet barely caught the words.

  “Levet.” The female voice came without warning, and Levet flinched as Yannah stormed into the room, her long braid swaying and her white robe brushing the ground. “What are you doing here?”

  Levet scowled, caught between the familiar sense of delight and annoyance as the female halted directly in front of him.

  “How can you ask such a ridiculous question?” he demanded. “You are the one who brought me here.”

  The black, oblong eyes flashed with fire. “I most certainly did not.”

  Levet waved his hands in the air, his tail twitching. “Then how do you explain the fact that I was in one place and then . . . poof . . . I was in another?”

  “Mother,” Yannah muttered and they both turned to discover Siljar had silently slipped away. “She must have brought you.”

  Perversely, Levet didn’t care why Siljar would have gone to the effort to bring him to the caves. He was too annoyed by the fact it hadn’t been Yannah.

  If he was going to be zapped and poofed and yanked from one location to another, he should at least be rewarded with a kiss and a snuggle.

  Where was his snuggle?

  “Why do you keep running from me?” he abruptly asked the question that had been bothering him for weeks.

  Yannah tilted her tiny nose in the air. “I am not the only one to run.”

  Oh.

  Busted.

  Levet grimaced. Perhaps she had a point. He had traveled to Paris without explaining where or why he was going.

  “I had to confront my past,” he said, defending his hasty escape from her lair. “It was a spiritual journey.”

  Yannah wasn’t impressed. “And when you returned you took every opportunity to be apart from me.”

  Levet spread his fingers in a helpless motion. “I am a male.”

  Yannah frowned. “And?”

  “And I am not supposed to make sense.”

  “You . . .” She appeared to have trouble speaking. Strange. She’d never had trouble before. Then she lifted her hand and Levet felt that weird tugging in the middle of his belly. “Go away.”

  Darkness closed around him.

  “Eek.”

  When Roke had promised he was going to make sure she was well fed, he hadn’t been kidding.

  Sally had been too weary to protest when he’d urged her to sit on the edge of the cot. And if she were completely honest, she couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of the badass vampire fumbling with the unfamiliar task of opening various cans of food to heat them over the kerosene hotplate.

  The man was ruthlessly powerful, impossibly beautiful, and so sexy he made her ache with longing.

  Who could blame her for the knowledge he wasn’t
perfect?

  But as he brought her dish after dish, carefully testing the temperature before he placed the plate in her hands, her petty amusement was replaced by an unexpected stab of pain.

  Which was ridiculous.

  So what if Roke was only pampering her because he was compelled by magic? Or that if he was in his right mind, he’d sooner be stuck in this hidden lair with a rabid pit bull than her.

  She didn’t need to be coddled.

  Her mother had taught her that only the strong survived and that a woman stupid enough to depend on anyone was destined to be betrayed.

  A lesson that had only been reinforced during her brief stint as a disciple of the Dark Lord.

  She didn’t want or need anyone to be fussing over her.

  She grimaced. Okay. Maybe in her deepest dreams she’d imagined a future where she found a man who could see beyond her training as a witch in the dark arts, and her desperate decision to gain protection from those who worshipped evil, and even her mongrel blood.

  But that man would never be Roke.

  No.

  He was looking for some perfect Xena warrior who he could introduce to his clan with pride.

  Not a tarnished witch who was universally reviled.

  That unexplainable pain once again slashed through her, and with a jerky motion she rose to her feet to toss the disposable plates into a small trash can.

  Instantly Roke was at her side, his expression filled with a concern that threatened to tug at her heart.

  Stop it, Sally, she silently warned herself.

  It wasn’t real.

  None of this was real.

  “You didn’t finish,” he chided softly.

  “Roke, I’m not a turkey that needs to be stuffed for Thanksgiving.”

  “You’ve burned through a lot of energy,” he said, his fingers gently tracing the shell of her ear. “You need to replenish your strength.”

  She took an awkward step away, refusing to meet the stunning beauty of his silver eyes.

  “Any more replenishing and I won’t fit into my pants.”

  His gaze slid down her body to linger on the tight fit of her jeans across her slender hips.

  “I’ll give your mother credit for following the Boy Scout motto,” he muttered in absent tones.

  She licked her dry lips.

  Had the room shrunk?

  Suddenly he seemed to fill every inch of it, his frigid power pulsing through the air to brush her skin with an enticing caress.

  “What motto?” she managed to ask.

  He stepped forward, his gaze returning to her guarded expression.

  “Always be prepared.”

  She made a sound of disgust. Oh yes. Her mother had been all about “an ounce of prevention.”

  Except when it came to getting pregnant.

  Maybe if the powerful witch had done more thorough research on Sally’s father before hopping into his bed, Sally wouldn’t have spent her life running from people who wanted her dead.

  Her futile broodings were shattered as he cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip.

  The cool touch sent shockwaves of pleasure zinging through her body, but this time she didn’t pull away.

  She told herself she was too tired to fight him, but she knew that she was lying to herself.

  Roke only had to be in the same room for her to melt with longing.

  Dammit.

  “You’re not going to try to convince me you were ever a Boy Scout?” she asked, trying for a distraction, but the words came out as a breathless invitation.

  He moved in close, lowering his head to speak directly in her ear.

  “No, and before you ask, I never ate one for breakfast.” His lips brushed the curve of her ear. “I prefer peaches.”

  Her hands lifted, somehow slipping beneath his leather jacket to explore the wide chest covered by nothing more than the thin tee.

  “Roke.”

  He growled in satisfaction as his seeking lips found the pulse that beat at her temple.

  “This isn’t the mating.”

  Her fingers grasped his shirt, her brow furrowed in confusion as tingles of excitement raced down her spine.

  She could barely breathe; how was she supposed to think?

  “What?”

  “This heat that burns between us.” He pulled back, the candlelight reflected in his pale eyes. “It has nothing to do with the mating.”

  She shook her head, refusing to admit that she’d been in lust with this man since she caught sight of him.

  She needed to cling to the pretense that there was nothing but the spell between them.

  Otherwise . . .

  She slammed the door before the dangerous fear could form.

  “Of course it does.”

  There was a hint of fang as he trailed his mouth over her flushed cheek, his fingers sliding down to circle her throat.

  “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me,” he growled. “This desire ignited the moment we met.”

  The denial died on her lips.

  He was right.

  The scent of her stirring arousal had to be blatantly obvious to Roke. Her short time in captivity had taught her there was no hiding anything from a damn vampire.

  Just one of the countless reasons they were such pains in the ass.

  Instead she did what every witch trained in the dark arts did when backed into a corner.

  She went on the attack.

  “You mean the same moment I was locked in a cell and you told me how much you hated witches?”

  He stiffened, unable to deny her accusation. “I didn’t claim our first meeting was particularly romantic.”

  “You wouldn’t know romantic if it smacked you in the face.”

  “Probably not,” he grimaced. “My social skills are questionable.”

  “You think?” she snapped, trying to ignore the unexpected emotion that flared through the silver eyes.

  That hint of the stark loneliness did something dangerous deep inside her.

  “But I do recognize when a woman wants me,” he stubbornly warned, his hand slipping to cup her nape. With a tug he had her pressed against the unyielding width of his chest. “And you, Sally Grace, want me.”

  “Why you arrogant . . .” He swooped down to steal a kiss. She jerked her head back to glare at him. “Ass . . .” He kissed her again, his lips unexpectedly tender. “Roke . . .” she pleaded, shivering as a honeyed heat flooded through her. “Stop that.”

  “Why?” he rasped, blatantly rubbing his fully erect cock against her lower stomach.

  She sucked in a strangled breath, a fierce need jolting through her and for a dazed second she couldn’t remember why.

  She’d wanted this aggravating vampire with a fierce craving that was making her nuts.

  Why not rip off the tee and lick her way down his body? A few tugs and she could have him stripped of his clothes, then she could take that cock in her mouth and bring the proud vampire to his knees. From there it would be a simple matter to press him backward and climb on top of him and . . .

  The vivid fantasies refused to be banished, even as she kept her hands from straying over the chiseled muscles beneath her palms.

  “We’re supposed to be finding a way to get rid of each other, not making things worse.”

  “How could this make things worse?”

  He lowered his head and nuzzled a path of destruction down the curve of her neck. Sally trembled, raw heat flaring through her at the erotic feel of his fangs scraping against her tender flesh.

  “I—”

  “Yes, my love?”

  She struggled to hold on to the unraveling thread of her protest.

  “I don’t have sex with men who hate me.”

  He jerked his head back, as if genuinely surprised by her words.

  “You think I hate you?”

  “Don’t you?” she accused.

  “No.”

  “You b
lame me for the spell that forced you to become my mate.”

  His lips twisted, his brooding gaze sweeping over her tense body.

  “I feel a lot of things, but hate isn’t one of them.”

  “If the spell was broken—”

  Stark hunger flared through his eyes. Oh . . . goddess.

  “I’d still want you,” he growled, lowering his head, to allow his fangs to scrape down the curve of her neck. “Like this.”

  “Roke,” she breathed.

  A tiny voice warned that she should be terrified by the threat of those enormous weapons so close to her veins, but her body instinctively arched to rub against the hard thrust of his erection.

  Roke groaned, his hands slipping beneath her sweatshirt to tug it up and over her head.

  The cool air brushed over her skin, but it did nothing to ease the feverish heat that flowed through her veins. A heat that only intensified as he cupped her bare breasts in his hands, his thumbs teasing her nipples to tight beads.

  Sally squeezed her eyes closed, savoring the agonizing pleasure of Roke’s touch at the same time she could feel the hunger that pulsed through him.

  Perhaps their bond was an illusion, but there was a heady sensation in experiencing their mutual reaction as his lips traced the line of her shoulder and then down her inner arm, sketching the intricate crimson scrolling with the tip of his tongue.

  Sally’s startled gasp echoed through the shelter.

  She’d never realized a mere brush of his lips over her mating mark could be so . . . erotic.

  Her skin tingled, electric darts of anticipation arrowing straight to her womb.

  She released a shaky groan as his cool, clever fingers skimmed down her body, tugging at the zipper of her jeans.

  How many nights had she fantasized about this vampire? His touch . . . his kiss . . .

  The feel of his fangs striking deep into her flesh.

  Lost in the cascading pleasure, Sally arched her back in silent encouragement.

  Roke growled in appreciation, turning his attention to her naked breasts. His tongue tortured the sensitive tip as his hands skillfully slid the jeans down her slender hips, pausing long enough to yank off her shoes before the jeans were removed and tossed across the floor.

  Slowly his fingers explored the slender curve of her hip, as he trailed kisses over her opposite breast. Sally forgot to breathe as she restlessly ran her hands over his chest, her body trembling with need.