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PRAISE FOR SHERRILYN KENYON AND HER NOVELS
"Kenyon's writing is brisk, ironic, sexy, and relentlessly imaginative."
-- The Boston Globe
"Kenyon's Dark-Hunter books are changing the face of the vampire novel, making it hip, darker, and all the more appealing to the next generation of readers."
--Publishers Weekly
"Kenyon delivers the goods readers have come to expect and more."
--Booklist
"An engaging read."
--Entertainment Weekly
"Acheron is a must read."
--The Post and Courier
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THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
IN OTHER WORLDS
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley mass-market edition / July 2010
Copyright (c) 2010 by Sherrilyn Kenyon.
"Fire and Ice" copyright (c) 2004, 2010 by Sherrilyn Kenyon, a previous version was published in Man of My Dreams.
"Knightly Dreams" copyright (c) 2005 by Sherrilyn Kenyon, previously published in What Dreams May Come.
"Dragonswan" copyright (c) 2002 by Sherrilyn Kenyon, previously published in Tapestry.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-45766-5
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FIRE AND ICE
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ONE
"So you're a badass assassin, huh? You don't look like much to me."
Adron Quiakides paused his drink halfway to his lips. His blood rushed through his veins like lava as he narrowed his gaze on the beefy human in front of him.
His elite military training allowed him to size the bastard up in a nanosecond. Dressed in black because he thought it made him look tough, the man wore an abundance of weapons in plain sight, which said he didn't know how to use any of them properly. The obnoxious idiot was hoping the sheer number alone would deter anyone from messing with him.
As if . . .
His clothes were two sizes too small to show off the muscles that were out of proportion with the rest of him, no doubt from steroid abuse. He stood with his hip cocked, blustering and preening for a group of like-minded clingons who were laughing at his braggadocio.
Bully. Trash. Free assassin too incompetent in his trade to pay his own bills. In short, he wasn't worth the cost of a blaster charge to eliminate him from the master gene pool. Lucky day for him because in the past, Adron wouldn't have hesitated to perform that public service. Adron knocked back his drink with one gulp, then poured himself another. "You have three seconds to evaporate or I'm going to spray your brain matter all over your crew behind you."
The man laughed, then sneered at Adron's black silver-tipped cane resting against the table. "You're a pathetic cripple. What can you do besides get drunk and glower? I'm surprised they even let something like you in here with the rest of us." He turned to his friends. "Help me, guys. Help me. You have to protect me from the drunken waste. I'm so scared. Please don't hurt me," he mocked. "Look, I'm crying like the little bitch I raped last night."
Adron's fury fled as that old familiar cold seized him. Without hesitation, he kicked the table over, knocking the man back. Even though his body screamed out in agony at his movements, he rose, yanked one of the blasters from the bastard's belt, and aimed it between his eyes. One shot. One kill.
That was the assassin's creed, and true to his promise he dispatched one more piece of vermin out of this plane of existence.
Too bad he hadn't done it one day sooner before the trash had found his last victim. Screams erupted as several patrons ducked for cover or ran for the door. Others merely looked on in curiosity at the blood splatter. Typical Crona behavior. Adron chucked the blaster at the man's body, then calmly retook his seat and adjusted his coat around him.
Edsel, the owner, who was a man in his late twenties, came forward with a heavy sigh as he looked over the body. He picked up the cane from the floor and handed it to Adron. "I would ask what happened, but I've got a pretty good idea." He returned the table to its previous position. "How anyone with even a single brain cell can mess with you is beyond me. Not like you don't telegraph to the world that you're only one step this side of crazy--looking for someone to kill and alleviate your boredom." He glanced back at the body. "Then again, he has no brains at all . . . now. Impressive shot, by the way."
Adron held out his card but didn't speak. He didn't like wasting breath, and Edsel knew the card meant he'd cover all damages and buy drinks for anyone disgruntled over the bloodshed. Not to mention the small fact that it seriously hurt to speak. So he'd learned to keep his comments to the bare minimum when dealing with people.
Edsel took the card and kept bitching. "Thanks." He held the card up between his thumb and forefinger. "This is the only reason why I still let you in here--'cause you always make good on the messes you make, unlike the other drunken bums. Though why every few times you're in here some asshole has to challenge you, I'll never understand. Stupid dregs. If they can't tell you're lethal, they're too dumb to live. Hell, I consider this a public service. You probably do, too." Edsel stepped back as a waitress brought another bottle of Tondarion Fire and set it down in front of Adron. Edsel mot
ioned to the patrons who were staring at them. "Go on, everyone. Just a little Page 4
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misunderstanding. The fire-works are over. You're all safe now." Then added under his breath, "As long as you don't screw with a pissed-off assassin. Morons."
He motioned for his security to come over. "Guys, get this cleaned up. I don't want to see it, and I know no one else does either." Then louder, he spoke to the crowd again. "Free drinks for anyone who has brain matter on their body or clothes. Sorry for the frayed nerves and inconvenience. What can I say? This is an exciting place."
Edsel shook his head as he turned to Adron. "I'd ask if you have a permit for that killing, but I don't want to be laying next to him on the floor. Don't worry. Any authorities come in, I'll tell them you ran for the door after the shooting."
Adron scoffed as he knocked back another drink. He ran from nothing, which was exactly why he was here tonight.
Damn fucking bastards.
Edsel and the others faded into the crowd.
Adron narrowed his gaze on the dead man's friends who'd been laughing earlier. Their faces were pale as they tried to come to terms with what had happened and the speed with which he'd eradicated their sick buddy from their putrid lives. They might have wanted to avenge the dead man, but their common sense prevailed, and one by one they walked over to the bar to claim their free drinks. The waitress cast one last terrified glance at him, then scurried off to what she perceived as a safe distance. Once upon another life, he could have tracked her to the farthest corners of infinity and killed her.
But those days were gone.
Adron poured himself another drink and savored this one a little slower than its predecessors. His pleasures in life were minimal, and consuming buckets full of the yellow-orange liquid gave him the solace his battered soul craved.
Because tonight, more than ever before, his memories hurt.
He glanced at his chronometer and winced. This very hour marked the eighth anniversary of the night he'd made the "noble" decision he would spend the rest of his life paying for. Fuck all of you.
But in the end, the only one who'd been really screwed was him. Adron gripped the bottle tight in his right hand, unable to believe it'd been so long since he'd last walked without a pronounced limp. Moved without pain. Spoken without his throat aching from the effort of it.
Eight years since he'd experienced any comfort or peace whatsoever. He'd lain in bed for hours trying to sleep. Trying to forget, and finally he'd realized the only way to silence his demons was to drown them out. And nothing worked better than Tondarion Fire, which he'd been out of at his place.
Forgetting the glass and the manners his mother had drilled into him, he tipped the large bottle to his lips and let the fire pour down his throat.
"Hey, baby," an attractive redhead said as she sauntered over to him and propped a thin hip against his table. "You want some company?"
He tried to wave her away, but she didn't take the hint. Angry over her stupidity, he cleared his throat and braced himself for the pain of speaking. "I have company." His deep raspy voice grated on his ears.
"Me, myself, and I."
She raked a hungry look over his body, then leaned across the table to show him her ample breasts.
"Well, there's enough of me to make all three of you happy."
There had been a time, once, when he wouldn't have hesitated to take her up on that offer. But then life was nothing if not ever-changing, and usually it altered on the hairpin of a second. She licked her lips. "C'mon, handsome, buy me a drink."
Adron glared at her. She wasn't the first woman to proposition him tonight. And in truth it mystified him that any woman would bother, given the vicious scars on his face. But then, the women in the Golden Crona weren't all that discriminating, especially not when they sensed money. Page 5
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"Sorry. None of us are interested."
She sighed dramatically. "Well, if any of you change your minds, you let me know." With one last wistful look at him, she headed back into the human and alien crowd that drifted through the packed bar. Adron shifted uncomfortably in his seat as a bone-deep pain shot through his left leg. Clenching his teeth, he growled low in his throat.
One would think the amount of painkillers he lived on, when combined with the alcohol, would squelch any amount of ache or kill him. But it barely numbed his physical hell. And it did nothing for the burning agony in his heart.
"Damn it all," he snarled under his breath. He threw his head back and finished off his drink. He grabbed a passing blue-fleshed waitress and held the bottle up with two fingers to let her know he wanted more.
A lot more.
As he waited for her to return, he saw another woman headed his way. The fierce glare he narrowed on her sent her fleeing in the opposite direction.
He was through playing around. Tonight he intended to get fully flagged, and he pitied the next fool stupid enough to approach him.
Unless they came bearing more alcohol.
Livia typpa Vista had lived the whole of her life in protective custody. More hostage than princess, she'd long grown weary of everyone's dictates for her behavior, and at age twenty-six, she'd had enough. She was not a child.
And she was not going to marry Clypper Thoran in two weeks. Not even if he were the last male in the universe.
"You will do as you are told and you will not question me. Ever."
She winced at her father's imperious command. High Eminence he might be, but she, not her older brother, had inherited his stubbornness. No matter the cost, she refused to marry a Territorial Governor sixteen years her father's senior. The very thought made her flesh crawl. Since Clypper had demanded a virgin for his bride, she knew a way to thwart them both. After tonight, she would be a virgin no more.
Tomorrow, her father would kill her for it. But better to die than to be married to a cruel, goat-faced ancient who groped her with cold hands every time he got near her. That will not be my future. The one thing she had control over was her body, and as of tonight, she was taking charge of it. As the cold rain poured over her, Livia stared at the sign above her head. The Golden Crona. Her maid, Krista, had told her about the club. Inside it held all manner of heroes and villains, and though she would rather give her virginity to a hero, she honestly didn't care. So long as he was passably attractive and gentle, he would be good enough for the night.
Gathering her courage, she opened the door and stopped dead in her tracks. Never had she seen anything like it. A sea of aliens and humans danced and bobbed through the smoky bar that smelled of sweat from many species and of cheap alcohol. The obnoxious music was so loud, it made her ears throb.
A big, orange reptilian male frowned at her as she hesitated in the doorway.
"In or out," he snarled. "Make a choice quick. I ain't got all night and it's cold outside--so close the damned door."
She took a deep breath to fortify her courage. That, and she mentally conjured an image of Clypper's fat jowls and beady, lust-filled eyes. Shuddering, she stepped inside and let the door pulse closed behind her.
The reptile man blocked her from entering. "Twenty-five credits."
What was he talking about? "Excuse me?"
"Twenty-five credits. You pay or I toss you out on your ass."
Livia arched a brow at him. It was on the tip of her tongue to put him in his place, but then she Page 6
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remembered he had no idea who she was.
And she must keep it that way.
If anyone learned she was a Vistan princess, she'd be sent back to the hotel where they were staying and her father would beat her just for having left without proper escorts and chaperones. For that matter, he'd beat her for being in public dressed like she was.
> Not to mention the fact that her time was short. She had to find a man before someone missed her and started a search.
Pulling out the money she'd stolen from her brother, she paid the fee. The alien put an iridescent mark on her hand before he allowed her access to the bar. Her heart pounding in fear, dread, and a dash of excitement, she surveyed the large room full of people. "It's time to find him." She walked through the crowd and flinched as several unwashed humans eyed her with interest. They definitely weren't any better than Clypper. Most appeared worse.
Livia quickly amended her list of qualifications to include a man who bathed. A tall, dark human male smiled at her, displaying a set of black teeth. Okay, she would also add one who knew how to use a toothbrush.
As she crossed the room, she saw a brunet at the bar who looked like a hopeful prospect. She headed for him. But as soon as she drew near enough to see his face clearly, she froze. It was her father's personal runner.
If she knew how to curse, she would definitely curse at her luck. Just don't let him see me.
Falling back into the crowd, Livia kept an eye on him while trying to scan the beings around her for her target. Surely, there was someone here who could . . .
A commotion at the entrance caught her attention.
Livia turned to look.
No! She panicked at the sight of her father's royal guard swarming into the bar. Immediately, the gray-clad soldiers began questioning patrons as they spread out to cover as much of the bar as they could.
Fear tore through her. For them to be here in force and that grim meant Krista had volunteered her location, and no doubt her intent as well. She groaned at the very thought. Father's going to kill me.
How could Krista betray her? Her maid had been so helpful in the planning and execution of her escape.
But then for some unknown reason, Krista lived in fear of Livia's father, and one scowl from him would have easily caused her maid to tell everything.
Right down to the grittiest of details.
She cringed at the thought of her father's reaction. But at least Krista, unlike her, would be spared his wrath. Krista was protected by their laws. Only a male of her own family could punish her, and since Krista had no living male relative . . .
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