Rogue Spotter Collection

by Kimberly A Rogers

  * * *

  Lauren

  The old man grinned before he beckoned for me to come closer. “Show us the rest.”

  I pulled out the second apple only to bite back a protest as he snatched them both from my hands. He handed one to Demetrius. “Well?”

  The centaur ran his fingers over the apple and then smelled it before handing it to Cassandra. “It is indeed a golden apple of the Hebrides variety.”

  The old man gave a creaky chuckle. “Very good.” He waved at me again as Mathias translated the next bit. “Come forward and offer the golden apple to your Myrmidon.”

  We met directly in front of the old man and the two centaurs. Mathias looked . . . distant and a little cold, showing no emotion as he stood in front of me. I pulled out the last golden apple. “For you, heart-love.”

  Mathias touched the apple, the tips of his fingers just grazing against mine, and then a little smile appeared to just curve his lips. The old man laughed again and pronounced something that Mathias failed to translate. There was a pause as Cassandra handed him a ribbon, which was promptly wrapped around our hands as well as my wrist, and then, as dawn streaked the sky above us, the old man pronounced in accented English, “The Trials of Achilles are complete. A Myrmidon’s frozen heart is unthawed by the bride who has proven her worthiness in every way, and who has returned honor to the Myrmidon people.”

  He rested a hand over my wrist and murmured a few more words in what I guessed to be Myrmidon. Then, he unwrapped the ribbon. I raised my brows at the sight of the tattoo, which had returned to its original gold coloration. The old man winked at me before he stated loudly, “Bear witness now to the union of the Myrmidon and his bride.”

  Demetrius and Cassandra spoke in unison. “We bear witness.”

  In the pale light of dawn, I could finally see Mathias’ face. His blue-green eyes were warm with emotion even before he smiled. He plucked some leaves out of my hair and said, “You did it.”

  I could only laugh before I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. Awareness of the bruises and aches, even of the centaurs and the elder, all of it faded as I lost myself in his kiss. A thought struck my muddled brain and I pulled back from him. “Was this a wedding?”

  Mathias grinned. “Yes.”

  “I want a proper wedding where I’m not covered in sweat and dirt.”

  He was still grinning as he cupped my face between his hands. “Anything you want, love. Anything at all.”

  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lauren

  The morning sun sparkled on crystal blue waters as I emerged from the house. I raised a hand to shade my eyes as I searched for my husband. It was still a little weird to think of him like that, but I enjoyed it. A smile curved my lips as I finally spotted him standing on the beach. Water splashed over his bare feet but since he was wearing blue board shorts, he was in no danger of getting wet. It looked as though he had already been in the water judging by his damp hair and the unbuttoned cotton shirt that had molded itself to his back.

  I picked my way down to where he stood. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “A fair amount of women have asked me that, but I must say you’re the only one I hope to know.”

  I laughed softly. “We’ve met before, I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you now?”

  “Oh yes, you see I have a thing for numbers and I find you rather unforgettable, Mr. 10.”

  Mathias’ laughter was a balm after all those weeks and months of worry. He wrapped an arm around me and pulled me close before stealing a quick kiss. “Morning, love.”

  “I take it you’ve only heard good news from Demetrius’ scouts.”

  “It depends on what you consider good news. Some of the hunters have extracted themselves from the entanglements with the dragons and are headed to Thessaly.”

  “Not quite a week for us here then.” I looked back at the shadow of Mount Pelion before I added, “I suppose this was as much of a honeymoon as we could hope for, though.”

  “Nonsense. Our honeymoon has barely begun.”

  I laughed softly. “I guess that means you have a plan of attack.”

  “Not quite. My mind has regrettably been occupied with other activities.” He grinned wickedly as my cheeks grew warm, but his voice turned serious as he continued, “You may not have ruptured your tendon again, but it was a near enough thing that you need to take it easy. So what we will do is go on an extended tour of Greece and the rest of the Mediterranean for a month or two while you’re healing. It can be our extended honeymoon.”

  “What about Weard Enterprises? If there really is a rogue dragon in charge, the fighting with the draconic families and the Fae will only escalate. The norms are going to notice.”

  “Right now the fighting is reserved to skirmishes. And Weard is going to have their hunters on high alert for a while longer. It is too dangerous to move openly against them right now. If they believe they have driven us to ground, then their guard will be relaxed.” Mathias hesitated as though he intended to say more, then he offered a slight smile as he kissed my temple. “Leave that worry for another day. We must enjoy this time while we have it. Come on, let’s go pack.”

  I started to move away only for him to catch me up in his arms. My arms wrapped around his neck as he startled a laugh out of me. “Mathias! What are you doing?”

  “Cassandra did say you should stay off that ankle as much as possible.”

  I shook my head at him, enjoying the way his eyes gleamed with humor, even as I made a show of protesting. “You can’t just carry me around all the time.”

  “I could do just that, but I suspect you would complain after the first three hours.”

  Another laugh escaped me. “Do you have a destination in mind to start this honeymoon tour? Or will I need to find more maps?”

  “Sparta.” His gaze grew warmer as he added in a low whisper that sent shivers down my spine, “It is an extremely fitting place for our honeymoon. Many Myrmidons would train the Spartans before the Trojan War occurred and even afterwards for a time. And . . . Sparta is known as the birthplace of warriors.”

  “You’re being cheeky,” I scolded, trying desperately to ignore my growing blush.

  Mathias sighed. “I was attempting to be flirtatious. It seems I must practice with you some more.

  Another laugh escaped me as he carried me toward the cottage we had been staying in since our proper wedding, late the same day as the Trials ending. He was right about one thing. We needed to enjoy this time together. It probably wouldn’t take long for Weard to send more hunters to Greece, and eventually they would catch up to us. Until then, well, I was going to enjoy the fact that I had saved my Myrmidon and leave future troubles for another day.

  * * *

  Hunt by Numbers

  Rogue Spotter

  Book Four

  Kimberly A. Rogers

  Dedication

  To Mom for always being a willing sounding board and helping me realize the Rogue Spotter universe touched more than I first thought. Thank you!

  Chapter One

  Lauren

  “What do you see?”

  The soft words tickled my ear with their delicious British accent, but I couldn’t afford to be distracted by Mathias and his accent right now. I scanned the crowd milling around us as tourists and locals alike wandered across the Piazzetta di San Marco. Above their heads, the steady glow of numbers filled my vision. 4s, 5s, and 6s for the most part. But, there were so many people that their numbers blurred together into an indiscernible mass if they weren’t closer to me. A distinct disadvantage to my ability.

  We stood at the base of one of two granite pillars framing the end of the piazzetta where it met the lagoon dotted with hordes of boats and gondolas shepherding tourists through the canals. Venice was a gorgeous and ancient city, and I was quite honestly surprised there weren’t more high numbers.

  “Lauren?”

  I blinked,
silently scolding myself for not staying wholly focused on the numbers. I scanned them again, willing them to be more discernible. Everything rested on my ability to assess this latest threat. A small knot of tourists, their pointed ears revealing their heritage as High Elves, moved deeper into the Piazzetta toward the Piazza proper and the iconic St Mark’s Basilica letting me catch another glimpse of the first number to head into the more dangerous high numbers . . . A 7, and he was walking toward us. The man’s olive complexion and middling height was almost nondescript with no visible features to pinpoint him as a paranormal. However, the way he moved lithely through the crowd belying his stocky build and barrel chest screamed paranormal to me, especially when combined with his number. Most norms didn’t get above a 5 or 6 unless they were armed to the teeth and currently on a rampage, thank God. He didn’t act as though he had noticed us. Then, he stopped and sniffed the air.

  My heart started beating against my ribs like a trapped bird. He was a shifter.

  Mathias’ hand settled on my shoulder, and he pulled me around the pillar. I looked up into his blue-green eyes in time to catch a hint of concern in their depths before they changed to something very like consternation. Before I could question him, he tilted his head down bringing the 10 blazing above his head further into my line of sight as he touched his mouth to my ear. His breath was warm as he whispered in an undertone, “It’s Titus. Bear shifter.”

  I swallowed hard. Bears could be obnoxiously tenacious. “Face or scent?” I breathed.

  “Both,” came the clipped reply.

  It was worse than I thought. For Mathias to have this reaction, the shifter could only be employed by Weard. I bit my bottom lip as my mind raced with possible ways to get away without drawing unwanted attention. Mathias was no longer looking down at me. Instead, his attention was fixed on the towering block of a building on the far side of the Piazzetta, the Doge’s Palace with its whit stone façade of curved arches and pillars. A faint frown pulled at his mouth.

  Following his gaze, I couldn’t keep from tensing as my gaze caught on movement in the shadows of the arches. Three men hurried out of the shadows of the Doge’s Palace with 8s blazing above their heads, their movements swift and focused. I couldn’t look away as they hurried across the square, passing far too close to our makeshift shelter. Mathias’ hand on my shoulder gripped tighter and compelled me to look up. He brought his hands up to cradle my face just before he ducked down to kiss me.

  There were a few chuckles and whistles from those passersby who noticed us, but my awareness of them faded as the kiss overwhelmed all of my senses. It was almost enough to distract me from our situation until he broke the kiss. I was struggling to catch my breath when I caught a glimpse of three 8s retreating toward the Doge’s Palace as Mathias straightened, and reality threw a cold wave on whatever warmth his actions had stirred to life. They had Titus with them. The crowd instinctively parted before them, and I was able to track their progress until the moment they vanished into the shadows of the palace.

  I let out a shaky breath as I leaned more of my weight against the pillar at my back. My heart still pounded in my chest, though now it was likely due to the combination of a close call with the high numbers and the kiss. If I weren’t so terrified of being caught, I might have laughed at the thought of kissing the only 10 I had ever known. It marked Mathias as one of the most dangerous men in the world, if not the most dangerous given that the others of his species I had met never rose above a 9. If anyone had told me a year and a half ago that I would have any sort of willing involvement with a high number, I would have called them crazy. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had a delicious British accent or not. Oh, how things had changed since I first encountered Mathias in Olympia, Washington.

  My name is Lauren Hope . . . and I’m what’s called a Spotter. I spot the people who are or can be threats. I see numbers floating over their heads that indicate their threat potential. The higher the number, the more dangerous the person, and the greater the threat. No other paranormal has this ability, and that makes it a very dangerous gift due to the fact that there are just as many people who would love to control me as there are who would kill me to keep their deadliness secret. Exploitation or destruction weren’t the kind of choices I wanted to make, so I spent my entire life hiding what I am and keeping my head down. Until I met Mathias.

  A small cynical voice still occasionally piped up with a longing for the simple days before Mathias showed up at Halliman’s, the premier PR firm for the paranormal community, on loan from Weard Enterprises . . . the preeminent security company in both paranormal and norm society. Technically, he had been sent there to flush me out of hiding since Weard was now in the business of openly hunting innocent paranormals for their unique abilities. We had been on the run almost a full year now, fleeing first across the States, before making our way to Scotland where I learned the truth about Mathias’ own unique abilities. He was one of the last of the Myrmidons, a heritage doused in infamy to the point that Mathias shouldn’t even exist. There were many who would kill him out of fear if they knew he was of the same species as Achilles.

  I quickly silenced the voice. I never would have survived on my own this long as the target of Weard without Mathias. And, he wasn’t even the one who had exposed me. Weard had only sent him to try and confirm what they already suspected.

  Mathias pressed another quick kiss to my lips, then wrapped his fingers around mine and tugged me forward. He moved with unhurried casualness through the crowd easily joining a knot of tourists. All of them were 5s with a couple of 6s near the front of the group, and every last one of them was chattering with a British accent. Mathias at least would fit right in. I had to take three steps for his every one since he towered over my slender five foot two by a foot. It was exasperating at times.

  As he led the way along the fringes of the group, I caught whispers of conversations that weren’t preoccupied with admiring the historical beauty of Venice. There were murmurs of Weard pushing its bounds, and a couple of them exchanged nervous looks before glancing around and then whispering something about war. I swallowed hard and quickly directed my gaze to admiring the face of the Doge’s Palace as we made our way along its front. It wasn’t just the talk of war that bothered me. When we fled to the British Isles after escaping Weard’s trap in Olympia, Washington, Weard had resorted to fabricating claims of my being a criminal complete with news coverage and my face plastered across the paranormal media.

  I reached up nervously to touch my dark hair with my free hand, wishing I hadn’t left my shawls packed away when we arrived in Italy. My Turkish heritage had granted me the dark features and olive-toned complexion to blend in with my pick of countries in Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and around the Mediterranean. Yet, wearing a shawl over my hair usually did the trick to finish convincing people that I just had one of those faces. I never wore the shawl when working at Halliman’s so it was enough of a difference that it usually worked as a simple disguise for me. If one of these paranormals recognized me from the news coverage at the beginning of the year, it could ruin what little distance we had managed to put between Weard’s dedicated hunters and ourselves.

  Mathias’ grip tightened on my hand as the gondoliers called to tourists, and part of the group split off just before the bridge to walk down the stone steps leading to the gondolas. We didn’t follow. Instead, we walked up the neatly arched stone bridge and paused at the top. Mathias maneuvered his way to the railing, then pulled me around in front of him. I stared down at the greenish-blue water just as the tip of a gondola appeared from beneath the bridge.

  Remaining a warm presence at my back, Mathias braced his hands on either side of the railing. “It’s called the Ponte della Paglia. Best place to view the Ponte dei Sospiri, the Bridge of Sighs.” He pointed at the enclosed arch bridge connecting the Doge’s Palace to the building across the canal, white stone both beautiful and intimidating with even the two square windows covered by stone bars.


  Remembering that we were pretending to be a newlywed couple happily enjoying an Italian holiday, I forced a smile. “Why is it called the Bridge of Sighs?”

  “You can thank Lord Byron for that. He claimed there was a story that the prisoners being marched from the Doge’s Palace into the New Prison would pause on that bridge and sigh as they gazed out on their last view of beautiful Venice before they were taken down to their cells. Never more to gaze on the jewel of Italy’s crown, the Queen of the Adriatic, Venice.”

  My smile grew genuine as I murmured, “You’re poetic. Ever considered getting into theatre?”

  Mathias chuckled. “Poetic it might be, but it was hardly realistic. You can’t see a bloody thing from that bridge.”

  He handed me a camera, which I immediately used to take a picture of the bridge. As I lowered the camera, my eyes caught on the gold tattoo wrapped around my right arm. Stretching from about mid-forearm to my wrist, the tattoo looked like a spiral bracelet ending with a fox’s head that rested directly across my right wrist. A souvenir of our time in Thrace and Greece this spring, and now a sign that I was permanently attached to a Myrmidon.

  It had been so humid this morning that I had left behind my jacket, opting instead to only wear a sleeveless cotton top with my jeans and boots. So far, no one had seemed to notice the tattoo or its significance. A small benefit to being involved with a man whose species wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Still I kept my voice low as I asked, “Are you sure this is wise? A bear shifter . . .”