"The blonde is Polina. The brunette Tania."

"I appreciate the offer, but no, not tonight."

"You are sure? They are very talented, with legions of fans."

"I am sure." Said with a polite touch of regret, but a firmness that would make it awkward to continue the conversation.

If another man looked as uninterested and unimpressed as his current guest, he would have been offended, but for Linden there was respect. They were alike, the two of them, not men to be controlled by their cocks. Not men who'd let a woman distract them from important business.

"Leave," he told the whores, more satisfaction coming from their immediate obedience than from the sight of their naked bodies as they went quickly to the office door. "Tell Fyodor to take you home."

To Linden, he said, "Brandy? Vodka? A glass of something else? My bar is fully stocked. Surely a drink should mark your visit here, yes?"

Linden heard the barest edge in Korotkin's voice. The Russian had accepted the refusal of the Cuban cigar and the women—as if he'd ever put himself in a compromising position where he might be photographed—without taking offense, but the refusal of a drink would be a slight not to be forgotten or forgiven. As it happened, he felt in need of something, a prop that would feed the illusion he had no vested interest in what came next other than as an agent trying to head off trouble with a client who might otherwise be jailed.

"Vodka."

Korotkin's smile indicated it was the perfect choice.

"Straight?"

"Of course."

"Excellent."

The Russian went to the bar. He poured vodka into fine crystal glasses and returned to take the seat next to his rather than the one behind the desk.

Korotkin lifted hand and glass. "To men with much in common."

"To men with much in common."

They touched glasses, both of them downing their drinks.

Korotkin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Yes, much in common. Another?"

Linden smiled, wondering if the Russian's goal was to make him careless with drink. "One more. That's my limit. As you can imagine, I've got a client anxious to hear from me."

Korotkin laughed again, a loud jovial sound. "And scripts to read, yes?"

"Most definitely."

They drank a second round.

Korotkin stood. "Come. I wish I had a better selection for you, but you can understand there is greater risk with this type of merchandise."

"Certainly."

They entered a narrow hallway with rooms on either side, the doors close together and locked from the outside. Korotkin said, "This time, it is a gift, between you and me. Return the gift or don't. Things play out as they will. But next time, we will set a reasonable fee, one where both of us profit. Yes?"

"Of course."

Korotkin stopped near the end of the hallway and unlocked a door on the right. "Do not worry about being recognized. They do not know this city or its people. Even if they did, they are close with one another. They know better than to speak of certain things, especially when one of them remains here."

He opened the door to reveal a mattress pushed into a corner. The girls huddled on it, clinging to each other. They wore the same gowns they'd been photographed in, but up close, he could see the cheapness of the material.

The hint of freshness he'd glimpsed in the picture translated to a horrible vulnerability, to innocence victimized. They trembled, and he thought of Aubrey, tucked away in bed, undamaged, and she would remain that way, safe during his nightly check and the goodnight kiss she often partially awakened for, her mumbled "Daddy" only reinforcing how precious she was to him.

Taking one of these girls away from here would be a mercy. But which one?

"The one on the right is Angel," Korotkin said. "The other is April."

He doubted it. He doubted the Russian knew for sure which of the names the girls had been forced to accept along with their captivity and exploitation.

"They are twins?" If so, then it probably didn't matter which of them he picked.

"Nyet. No. The one is older by a year." A casual flick of Korotkin's hand might have indicated either girl.

A year could make all the difference. There was only one way to be positive of the choice, but he was reluctant to ask the Russian for what he needed.

The girls clung, their fast breathing filling the silence. The longer it went, the more anxious he became to escape the Russian's warehouse.

Finally Korotkin barked an order and the girls stood, cowering, hopeless despair preceding the glassy look of minds retreating from terror and horror.

Nightgowns fell to their feet, leaving them standing naked.

Linden's heart beat too fast to go unnoticed for long in the pulse of his throat.

"Perhaps your client has certain requirements?" Vadim asked and the icy fear that had plagued Linden with the Russian's overture at the party returned, suppressing the physical reaction to the girl who was now the perfect choice, the only true choice, and making him grateful for the fear though he reined it in.

Korotkin couldn't know. That wasn't what had prompted his command to the girls. He was just a peddler in flesh, a man used to displaying his merchandise, a man who understood that a wide variety of appetites existed.

"The girl on the right," Linden, said, turning away from them though he continued to envision his choice, budding breasts but free of the light blonde pubic hair her sister was starting to grow.

Korotkin locked the door behind them. "Your client will take receipt tonight?"

"Yes. I'll need to make the delivery in person."

"Of course." Korotkin clapped him on the back again. "Pyotr will return you to your office. When you arrive, he will tell you where you can pick up the girl."

The enormity of what he was about to do had sweat gathering beneath his arms and on the back of his neck. It was too late to turn from this, and he didn't want to. But he was no monster to rape and terrorize. Far from it. The thought of either, of needing to engage in either, was abhorrent.

"I don't want her high when I deliver her to my client, but it would be safer and easier to transport her if she were heavily sedated."

"She will be good. She understands what will happen if she is not. But why take unnecessary chances, yes? She will sleep. Where you will find her, she will be alone, like a runaway hiding and taking a nap."

Linden nodded. He wondered if this was somehow a trap intended to catch him in a compromising position, then dismissed the thought. No, it was far more likely a precaution, protection for Korotkin, especially given the girl's age.

"I rely on your expertise in this," he said, silently laughing as Korotkin's chest thrust outward like a strutting pigeon spotting discarded food.

"We work well together. Yes?"

The amusement disappeared beneath a coat of oily slime. He changed his agenda to include a long soak in the tub instead of a hasty shower when he got home. "I will contact you after I've read the scripts and had a chance to contemplate them."

"I look forward to it."

At the sedan they shook hands.

"We will speak soon," Korotkin said. "My apologies again, for the necessity of the hood. But it protects both of us, yes?"

"Yes."

Unlike the direct route they'd taken to the warehouse, the one back to his office was meant to shake any sense of direction and give Korotkin time to drug and transport the girl.

Angel. Hardly a name he'd allow her to keep. In fact, he would insist on knowing and using her real name.

Surely she would appreciate his rescue and be grateful for the comfort he provided. She would come to trust him, and as a result of it, play the part he needed her to play—until it was time for her to play the part of sacrifice.

In the dark protection of the hood, he smiled at having the foresight to arrange for the rental car to avoid being followed.

The call finally came. The driver said, "The hood is not needed."

Linden tugged it off, guessing with the sight of his office building that they had been circling the block repeatedly.

The driver stopped at the curb, naming a Russian bakery and the cross streets closest to it. "You'll find the package behind the dumpster."

Linden exited the sedan and it glided away like some dark predator, leaving him feeling exposed. Caution prevailed over paranoia. He retrieved the rental car, and though he didn't waste magic to mask his appearance, he took a circuitous route to the bakery.

The parking lot behind the building was small, meant primarily for employees. A graffiti painted wall of cinderblock shielded two sides of the lot from street view while the bakery itself blocked off a third.

He stopped close to the dumpster, angling the rental car to provide cover, though the blanket the girl had been rolled in was thick enough to hide what it contained. He knelt, slid his hand inside it, encountering warm skin and the up-and-down movement of a small feminine chest before lifting the bundle and quickly placing it on his back seat.

He hurried to put distance between himself and the bakery, assuming there were watchers in place, to ensure that the transfer was safely made.

Worry and fear fell away with each mile, with each minute that passed, as his surety grew that he had not been followed. He felt like laughing, like pounding his hands against the steering wheel as a surge of exhilaration swept through him. He'd done it! He'd dealt with the Russian. And he would be able to do it again.

Possibility blossomed, a sudden explosion of rich promise. Maybe this girl could last beyond the six months that some of them had lasted, maybe he could stretch out his enjoyment of her for a year by taking receipt of a woman from Korotkin, drugged and easy to immediately sacrifice to feed the spell that kept him healthy. Perhaps the Russian could be used to dispose of the body. He'd have to think on it.

Routine and the plan he had created for this approach to the house took over. He used just enough of the stored magic to change his features to pass as a black man, the full disguise not required given that he drove a different vehicle.

He used the remote to open the garage door. A whimper sounded from the backseat as it closed behind them, quickening his heartbeat.

He hurried to get her inside. Then punched in the code to get into the bedroom. It was the date he'd lost his virginity to a girl about the same age as the one he now placed on the bed.

He peeled the blanket back to see her face. Beautiful. Innocent and vulnerable in a way it hadn't been when she was in the Russian's possession.

Linden allowed himself to stroke a cheek, as he'd wanted to from the first instant he'd seen her in the photograph. The softness of her skin had his chest swelling with hope and a touch of infatuation.

Perfect. She was perfect.

He wanted to get rid of the blanket and the cheap nightgown she was no doubt wearing beneath it. Both only served as a reminder of where she'd come from. But he thought it best to leave her as she was. Trust had to begin somewhere, and waking unmolested in a protective cocoon, in a comfortable room containing everything she would need, seemed the best means of conveying to her that she'd been made safe.

He turned away from the bed, going to the dresser and removing the panties. He would replace them tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after. He couldn't be certain when he'd return. Or rather, when it would be wise to return.

She had everything she needed. Food. Water. Entertainment. Shower and toilet and tub. Security.

With a final look at her, he left the room, though not the house. He wouldn't stay long, but he wanted to make sure she came out of the sedation.

Going to the television, he turned it on, changing the input setting with an unobtrusive switch that activated the camera in the bedroom. His reaction to her was visceral, the scenes playing out in his mind bringing with them a near painful longing to begin their relationship.

His gaze skittered to the schoolgirl uniform draped over the back of a chair. Soon. Soon. But not until she was willing.

He settled in to wait. Watched as her thumb went to her mouth and she began sucking, pity moving him so he had to fight the urge to go to her.

 

Mama.

The cry never stopped being inside her. She wanted Mama, but Mama was gone forever.

A sob broke through into the silence, and in that silence, she heard the sound of the evil man's fists hitting Mama over and over again while his men laughed and she and Kseniya screamed and screamed and screamed.

She wasn't strong like Mama had been. Like Kseniya was.

There was a boy in their apartment building in Moscow. A sad, sad boy who'd gone to the roof and jumped off.

It did not seem like such a terrible act now.

She could pretend to sleep, but eventually the man who'd taken her away from Kseniya would come back. He would do the things the other men had done. He would make her do the things they had made her do.

Over and over and over, and it would never stop.

She would rather be dead like Mama.

And if she was gone, then there would be nothing to keep Kseniya from escaping if she could.

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 20

 

 

Hayden delivered them to the front door of the Brides' office in the Jeep, eyes glinting red when he turned toward her. "Make it fast, Mal. And lose him afterward."

She got out of the car and entered the building with Mikhail, leaving Dane outside, hidden by the night.

Matthew was going through the far desk. He glanced up. "Both of the computers are password protected. Most of what I'm seeing in the drawers is Cyrillic."

"Let Mikhail take the desks."

Matthew surrendered them, moving to the bank of file cabinets.

He jingled a ring of small keys and went down the row, unlocking one cabinet after another until getting to the end. "I'll start here. Meet you in the middle."

Mallory went straight to the Bs. There was no Kent Beck.

Her throat burned at knowing the file had probably been destroyed after Iosif's visit, at knowing there probably wouldn't be any evidence of Viktoriya or the girls here.

Look anyway. Something here will lead to them.

She abandoned the Bs for the beginning of the As.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

They could spend hours on the files alone.

They didn't have hours.

Without days of surveillance to establish schedules, every minute risked getting caught.

She pressed on.

Nothing.

Nothing.

"I've got something," Matthew said.

She paused her own search to meet him in the middle. He held a thick, opened file.

A picture was stapled to the left side of the folder, a handsome blond with the look of a successful businessman. Beneath it were his details.

The first photograph in a stack of them was one of the women Hayden had pulled from the porn.

Matthew flipped the picture. On the back were several dates along with dollar amounts and something that looked like a coded identification.

The next photograph was a different woman.

There were notations on the back of her picture too. Different dates, different dollar amounts, different coding.

Flip.

Flip.

Stop.

Another face she recognized.

Flip.

Flip.

Flip.

Flip.

A third.

She doubted any of the women had joined the ranks of those on the wall with a happy ending.

Matthew snapped the folder shut and dropped it on the desk. "Our best bet is going to be to grab the thick files."

She nodded and returned to her spot. A drawer later she added a file to the one on the desk. Another drawer and she found Mark Horowitz, only it was the same picture Iosif had of Kent Beck.

"Matthew."

He dropped three more folders onto the pile. "I just found the first guy again as Stuart Palmer."

Mikhail slammed a drawer shut with a deep growl of frustration. Mallory half-turned to find him unhooking the tower, freeing it from its power and monitor cord moorings.

His eyes glinted red. His lips curled in a show of teeth. They'd fight if she tried to stop him, but taking the computers meant there'd be no hiding the break-in, no real point in photographing the contents of the files, not when leaving them risked their being destroyed.

"Take both of them," she told Mikhail. "I'll call Hayden to pick you up."

Mikhail untethered the second computer.

She made the call and Mikhail left.

Minutes later she met Matthew at the Ls.

They went through them together, their bodies touching in a transference of heat, a reawakening of need that was deepened by the danger, the rush of doing something righteous that was also illegal.

He scored one last file, added it to the others.

She called Hayden then took possession of the stack. "Ready?"

Matthew speared his fingers through her hair, pulled her in. The heady scent of desire was mixed with the adrenaline pumping through his system.

"Jesus, I love working with you."

His lips covered hers. His tongue plunged into her mouth, the taste of danger adding to the heat pulsing between them.

She wanted to wallow in the moment. Luxuriate in it. Extend it.

Felt his reluctance to end it in the second before he pulled away, breathing fast.

"We need to get out of here," Matthew said. "Clock is ticking."

They left the office. The Jeep was already there, the back door open.

Dane emerged from the alley and jumped in. She slid in after him, watching Matthew disappear around the corner, going to his Harley.

Hitting the gas, Hayden asked, "Anything solid in the files?"

"Nothing easy. The computers are the better bet."

They had until morning until the break-in was discovered. Maybe. They had until then to find a possible location for Viktoriya and the girls.

After that there was a good chance they'd be moved. If they hadn't already been made to disappear after Iosif appeared with a picture of Kent Beck and the knowledge that the address for him was false.

Whoever was behind Brides From Russia knew Iosif had been looking for his family. Now they'd know someone was still looking.

Her heart spasmed at wondering if Iosif had told the man who'd killed him about coming to her. Her breathing shallowed thinking about her mother and Austin and Sorcha.

Protecting them would mean making Phillip aware of the potential threat. But doing that, when Phillip had already threatened to take them away from L.A.—

"Stop it," Hayden growled. "Whatever's going on with you, stop. You sound like fucking prey. You smell like prey."

She bared her teeth but worked at managing the fear. By morning she would know for sure what Iosif had revealed, though regret gripped her and her heart ached. There was no summoning without also trapping the dead, at least not for her, and no avoiding calling Iosif to find out what he knew about his killer.

Her hands clenched and unclenched on the stack of folders in her lap. Time was running out.

In the side-view mirror, the Harley closed the distance.

"I told you to lose him, Mal."

"Let me worry about Matthew."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Why not take him to the morgue with you? He's already a dead man walking."

The knife was in her hand and she had no memory of pulling it.

Hayden laughed. "Going to try and make me take it back?"

"Enough," Mikhail growled, and it felt as if the Jeep had become a balloon, the magic pouring off him expanding, driving out the air until both she and Hayden were gasping.

"Truce," Hayden said.

"Truce."

She pocketed the knife, suppressed the shudder that tried to take her, at having displayed a Hound's instinctive answer to threat with the offer of violence.

* * * * *

Caleb rode close, the Harley nearly kissing the Jeep's bumper. They'd try and cut him out now but he wasn't going to let that happen.

His gut burned. How many women had there been in the files they found? Sixty? Eighty? More than a hundred? He'd get justice for those women even if he never found them, even if it took the rest of his FBI career.

In the Brass Ring parking lot he stopped just a little over a door's width from the Rubicon's passenger side. "Just so you know," Mallory said, getting out. "Dane will bite you if you put a dent in the Jeep."

Only a hint of amusement made it into her eyes, but he had to fight the urge to grab her and pull her to him.

"That so?"

Her nostrils flared. Her arms tightened on the files hugged to her chest. Her dark eyes became molten tar, a trap ensnaring them both until the dog pushed between them with a low growl and a ripple of muscle.

Caleb stayed loose, acted like he fully expected to go into the back room with them.

The dog got there first, jumping and slamming a paw against the palm plate.

The flash of reflected light from the laptop was a beacon that had Caleb's mind clearing and sharpening. It was a risky move, grabbing a look at the screen, but he dared it, needing leverage, needing to make sure they didn't shut him out of their hunt.

"There's a hit on a pedophile," he said. "Convicted of possession of child porn, first offense, sentenced to five years, out in two-and-a-half. Wayne Cleary, former teacher, drives a 2009 black Subaru."

A charge of electricity went through the room, so visceral it jerked his head up.

"Get him out of here, Mal," Hayden said, violence edging his voice, and if looks could kill, Caleb knew he'd be a dead man.

He yielded the spot in front of the laptop and didn't waste his breath acknowledging just how good Hayden was at getting information. He had to have hacked traffic and retail cameras, snagging relevant details and comparing them to DMV records and criminal records to have isolated a suspect.

How long had he been working on it? A day? Five? Ten?

All that talent to end up jailed for murder. It was a fucking waste.

Mikhail set the stolen towers down on the desk. Mallory dropped the folders next to them. The junkie started pawing through the pictures of the women who'd been victimized, whimpering softly, the sound of it stirring pity at the same time it made the skin at the back of Caleb's neck tight.

"What's the pedophile's address?" she asked Hayden.

Caleb answered before Hayden could so they'd know he was in, all the way in.

"Matthew and I will check Cleary out," she said, ending any chance of staying with the files and the towers.

The dog stood as if he knew they were getting ready to leave.

The junkie reached out and touched Dane's nape.

The dog sat and Caleb's skin iced at witnessing the exchange.

"Let's go," Mallory said.

Hayden's gaze followed them to the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you, Mal."

Outside the bar, she said, "I need to deal with something else first; meet you at Cleary's."

"Related?"

"Yes. That's all I'm willing to give you, Matthew."

He grabbed her upper arms, pulled her close and she made it closer still, her body heat bleeding into his. "How long until you show up?"

"I don't know."

He wanted to push, wanted to find out where she was going and why. His gut told him not to, same as it told him the dog staying with the junkie meant something else was going down.

"I'll meet you there." And Jesus, he couldn't stop himself.

His hands transferred to her sides. The shirt was no barrier against the need that slid from her body into his. It poured into his bloodstream.

Her lips parted. Her tongue welcomed his. Thrust and parry and glide were invitation and honest desire blotting out reality.

It was becoming harder and harder not to imagine this going further. Not to feel desperate to take it there.

He pulled her tighter. That first kiss merged into a second, a third, a fourth.

His hands tugged her shirt upward. Sought and found soft skin over toned muscle. Explored the length of her spine as he fought against unhooking her bra and cupping her breasts.

Pleasure shuddered through him with the grind of her pelvis to his, the stroke of her fingers against the stud he wore in his ear, part of the persona he'd adopted the first time he went undercover.

Enough that sane part of him urged, trying to remind him that he was undercover now, but it took another kiss, and another before he could stop.

"We should get going," he said, lips still against hers.

"I know. Be careful."

"You too."

He released her, stepped back before guilt could rise and get tangled in the attraction between them, before it could change his plans or alert her to them. He drove away first, swapped the Harley for the car he'd stashed nearby and returned to watch the Brass Ring.

He didn't have long to wait.

The junkie came out, Mallory's dog at his side.

Caleb's guts burned. His chest burned.

Was she in on this?

She hadn't called Dane to her. Hadn't looked back, hadn't acted as if she even owned a dog.

Mikhail and Dane got into Hayden's Jag.

Their probable destination crept up on Caleb when business signs began appearing in both English and Cyrillic. They were close to the strip club where Iosif and a homeless man had been murdered.

Just how good was Dane? Good enough to track Iosif's killer? By now there'd be scent on top of scent, cops, crime scene techs, coroner, followed by the curious.

Blocks ahead of him, Mikhail pulled to the curb.

Caleb made a quick turn then parked and got out, automatically pulling his gun. He'd have to be careful of the dog. The warning signs were there and now Mallory wasn't.

He got eyes on Mikhail and Dane just as they entered an alley, probably the kill site.

In less than a minute they emerged.

The lack of a leash made him itchy. The dog was out front, as silent and deadly as a Delta Force operator on a mission.

In a few blocks, they'd reached the strip club. It was a standalone place, squat and ugly with no pretense of being a gentleman's club.

To the left of the door the outline of a naked woman flashed on and off in red neon, to the right a martini glass did the same.

Mallory's dog peeled away from the junkie, disappearing into the night like he was made of it.

Adrenaline pumped into Caleb's system, reaction to the times Dane had stared at him, muscles bunched with impending attack.

Mikhail entered the club.

One minute slipped into two, into three and four and five like a slow spread of black ink.

Jesus. Go in after him?

They'd never buy that he was worried about their junkie brother, so worried that instead of heading where he'd said he was going, he'd staked out the Brass Ring and tailed Mikhail.

Come on, come on. Get out of there.

It took another seven minutes before Mikhail emerged. He'd barely cleared the parking lot before a man exited the bar. An enforcer. No question. Russian mafia not just a paid bouncer.

The guy moved quickly.

Where was the fucking dog?

Mikhail ducked into an alley.

The enforcer pulled his gun, entering the alley fast.

Gunfire punched through the night.

One shot followed instantaneously by a terror-filled shout abruptly silenced.

Caleb's hindbrain woke with a start, icing his skin and urging him to turn and run.

Combat training, hours of drills and conditioning kept him moving forward.

Close to the alley he heard the junkie's voice and chill sunk deep, spreading through his chest and gut and threatening to freeze his heart.

Mikhail wasn't speaking Russian, wasn't answering questions at gunpoint. His words rose and fell and melded together like the chanting the kids had done at the Satanists' temple.

Jesus.

He didn't want to look, but duty compelled him to.

He edged forward, breath held but heart hammering.

Mallory's dog had taken the enforcer down, ripping out his throat.

No doubt about cause of death.

Mikhail knelt next to the body.

Dane sat across from him, eyes trained on the corpse.

There were no defensive wounds. The gun the enforcer had entered the alley with lay against his palm, fingers loosened but angled enough for Caleb to make out the skulls tattooed above the knuckles.

Maybe it would be enough to ID him, either that or he'd have to come back for a closer look and prints. Somehow he couldn't see them cramming the dead man into Hayden's Jag.

He eased away, but not smoothly enough.

The dog's attention jerked from the corpse, eyes a glowing red for a split second.

Caleb froze. Not breathing. Not blinking. Not swallowing.

He'd have stopped his heart if he had the choice.

Dane slowly stood and it was as if Caleb were thrown back to caveman days. As if thousand-year-old instinct and images had been hard-wired so the dog was more than a dog, more than simply another predator, more than something that was flesh and blood. So the dog became the embodiment of primal menace, of the things that went bump in the night, the things that couldn't be explained and yet they killed all the same.

The junkie's voice rose.

Caleb's skin crawled.

Something in the cadence, the rhythm, forced the dog's stare back to the junkie and the corpse.

Caleb retreated, gun hand up.

If the dog came at him, he'd shoot.

A step.

Two.

Three.

Near euphoria hit him at reaching the car, at having steel between him and them.

Christ.

A breath.

A second.

The adrenaline started dumping out of his system.

He swallowed against the urge to vomit. Pride kept him from opening his door and puking—that and the possibility the dog would separate itself from the darkness and tear out his throat like a hound from hell.

Jesus. He needed to get a grip.

Whoever was behind this investigation should never have named it Operation Hellhound. His imagination was starting to fill in the blanks, turning a dog into a red-eyed specter, turning a junkie's rambling into weird, ritualistic chanting.

Distance allowed more rational thought.

Had Mikhail lured the guy into the alley to question him? Or just to kill him?

There was no way of knowing without asking, and no way to ask. But his gut told him the Russian would never have left that alley alive. And as he headed toward the pedophile's house, he hated thinking Mallory might have known what the junkie intended, and left Dane with him, accepting that he'd kill.

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 21

 

 

Jonathon met Mallory at the morgue door. She'd always known she would end up calling in this favor.

He was still as pale and thin as he'd been when he'd hired her a year ago to find his missing niece. She didn't ask how the girl was doing; she'd seen her since, naked and high beneath a hairy biker, one of Hunter's skips.

Mallory matched Jonathon's hurried pace, the air getting colder and thicker until she expected smoky puffs with each exhale, her lungs compressing until she wondered if she'd pass out the way she had in the columbarium.

Scent assailed her. Disease and rot mixed with perfume and shampoo and body wash.

There were places in Hell that smelled similar, that had the same stench without the overlay of industrial cleaners, where some of those claimed by her sire were reanimated and lay suffering for days and months and years.

Her skin grew clammy. She swallowed against the bile, against the memories, the fear that had once haunted her, that she'd grow hungry enough, desperate enough to slink into those living cemeteries to end the ceaseless cramping of an empty stomach.

"First time in the morgue?"

"Yeah."

"You're not going to puke are you?"

"Probably not."

"Probably?" Jonathon's voice was an octave higher.

"No. I'm not going to puke."

She covered her mouth and nose, creating a filtering hollow with her palm. Matthew's scent lingered on her skin, the subtle mix of man and motorcycle.

It chased the morgue cold away with a curl of heat, with riotous hope. She wanted him. She shouldn't but she did.

He's already a dead man walking.

Her lips pulled back though Hayden wasn't there for the warning.

She and Jonathon entered the room where autopsies were performed.

They headed toward the banks of stainless steel drawers where the dead waited. Where Iosif waited.

The pressure around her built with each step. And though she couldn't see the wraith-like souls, she was aware of them in a way she'd never been in this world.

Mallory shivered at remembering the brush of the Reaper Lord's finger across her cheek in the ring room.

In front of her, spirits gathered like a mob. They bunched like a cold front unrestricted by physical barriers

The mass of them pushed against her as if to drive her back.

They thickened as if to freeze her in place and keep her from reaching them.

And then it was as if she'd crossed some unseen line.

The mob burst and scattered in an explosion of movement, in a hurricane swirl of souls. They tore around the autopsy room, their terror beating against her, driving her heart into a frenzied race.

Translucent faces appeared, mouths open in silent screams, eyes wide with the fear of being sent to Hell.

Papers lifted off desks and counters.

Collection containers and instruments hurtled through the air.

Jonathon shrieked and spun.

She ducked a tray.

It slammed into him. Bounced and hit a table with a clang.

Jonathon collapsed to the floor and didn't move.

"Stop!"

But acknowledging her awareness of the dead only made the air vibrate and the walls crawl with their terror.

She bent down. Found Jonathon's speedy pulse then grabbed his arms to drag him from the room before the random poltergeist effect became a concentrated, collective assault.

A foot.

Two.

A scalpel spun toward her face.

Instinctively her hand lifted to protect, to deflect. Instead it felt as if she'd latched on to one of the souls, as if she could draw it to her, as if she could do more, absorb some of the energy pulsing against her palm and use it as she'd seen her sire do. She didn't know if it was the soul's frantic struggle or her use of it, but something slammed into the scalpel and sent it sideways into a wall.

Calm descended with the scent of sunshine and sand and date trees.

"I see you're starting to discover that you're your father's daughter," Rahmiel said.

There was just the slightest emphasis on the word daughter, confirming horrifying suspicion that she could feed on the dead.

Mallory released Jonathon. She straightened and turned to find Rahmiel leaning against an autopsy table.

Black hair caressed a white shirt left unbuttoned and parted to reveal a strong throat and smooth chest. He tugged a crumpled pack of Camels from his pocket, tapped it against his palm to eject a cigarette to capture between sensuous lips.

"Really?" she asked.

"Too much time among humans. I don't suppose you could help me with a touch of fire?"

"You'll want Mikhail or Hayden for that."

"Too bad. They don't interest me at the moment."

"And I do? Why? Because I'm my father's daughter?"

"Let's just say I'm attracted to the unusual."

The glimmer of beautiful teeth and glitter of oasis-green eyes revealed his amusement. He stuffed the pack of Camels into his pocket. Speaking around the unlit cigarette, he murmured words from his realm, though their cadence and sound wasn't so different from those spoken in Hell.

The dead returned to their bodies like haunting sentinels.

Rahmiel pushed away from the table and crouched next to Jonathon. Strong, burnished fingers touched Jonathon's forehead. "We've got a few minutes before he wakes with nothing more than a headache."

He stood. A sweeping hand indicated her original destination. "Shall we?"

If the dead remained aware of her, they no longer tried to prevent her from reaching their bodies.

Rahmiel took the cigarette from between his lips and used it to tap a drawer before casually leaning against one of its neighbors.

"You should exercise more," she said. "You'd have more energy."

His smile was a flash of temptation, honeysuckle nestled among poison ivy.

Mallory opened the door, grasped the morgue tray handle and pulled.

The scent of his killer rose from Iosif's corpse, faint, like drying flowers left at a graveside.

She reached into her pocket for baggie and knife.

"Don't bother," Rahmiel said.

Like a magic trick, he held his open hand above the corpse, closed it, opened it to reveal a translucent globe similar in size to the spirit jars that had clattered against the desk after her sire's arrival.

"His soul was mine to claim but I'm feeling generous. This one I'll give to you."

He tossed the pale blue orb into the air as if he could cast it into a different realm.

It spun and sparkled like a snow globe.

The orb dropped.

Mallory snagged it above Iosif's body, expecting cold but finding heat that seared her palm. When she glanced up, Rahmiel was gone, leaving behind the scent of a desert oasis.

She pocketed the orb and closed Iosif's corpse into its refrigerated compartment.

In the autopsy room, Jonathon moaned. His eyelashes fluttered then remained open.

He sat, fear invading his scent at seeing the papers and instruments and trays on the floor, but that scent was quickly washed away by denial and then resolve.

He touched his forehead, grimaced, looked around him again and said, "The air-conditioning fans must have gone on the fritz."

She understood his desire not to believe, not to acknowledge, not to allow an alternate reality to disturb a carefully preserved one. She helped him to his feet then helped restore order, afterward allowing him to lead her to the refrigeration units and show her Iosif before escorting her out of the morgue.

The glass sphere in her pocket gained weight beneath star-laden sky and bright moon. Images from her nightmare crowded in along with the gut-wrenching fear that she'd be too late to save Iosif's daughters and their mother, too late to save the next victim of the man they were hunting.

I won't be. But she hadn't convinced herself it was the truth by the time she reached the pedophile's house.

She circled the block without spotting Cleary's Subaru, though she saw Matthew's Harley.

Hayden would have dug into Cleary's financial records by now, looking for hotel charges or some connection to the Russians. Even angry over her choices, even suspicious of Matthew, he would have called if he'd found something.

It was possible that Cleary had always trolled for underage prostitutes and paid cash, and that's why they'd only gotten him on possession of child pornography instead of catching him molesting one of his students.

He'd be even more paranoid now. He'd done time. He wouldn't want to go back.

Teens came and went from nearby houses, getting in and out of cars, bursts of music and the squeal of tires marking their movements.

She grabbed a parking place a short distance away and on the opposite side of the street, the perfect spot for watching, though she wanted to kick Cleary's door open and rush into the house.

Her hand strayed to the globe in her jacket pocket. It pulsed against her palm like a heartbeat, speeding hers as her thoughts returned to the morgue, to the feel of the soul struggling in her grasp. She shivered despite the orb's heat.

Matthew appeared several blocks down, walking toward her. He cut through the night as if he owned it, with the confidence of a man who didn't know humans carrying guns and knives weren't the only things that roamed it.

A flutter went through her stomach. Her body tightened in anticipation, with the need for touch and connection even though now there was more reason to resist the attraction, more reason not to draw him deeper into her world.

He dropped into the passenger seat. Leaned forward, and rational thought fled as their lips connected in sensual collision. Parted for the slick rub and glide of tongue against tongue.

His hand fisted her hair while hers pushed beneath the biker jacket. His heart thumped against her palm, strong and sure and steady. And despite everything, being with him felt right, natural instead of impossible.

A moan escaped, pleasure. And then a second, in protest when his mouth left hers and he retreated fully to the passenger seat.

"You were in the house?" she asked.

"Yeah. I thought you'd be here sooner."

The grasshopper scent of curiosity reached her.

"It took time to find the guy I needed, then time to meet up with him."

"You get what you were after?"

"Yes and no."

"There's a clear answer."

Reality was a wind cooling hope and banishing fanciful possibility. She tried to imagine telling him about the dead and Rahmiel, couldn't. "What about you? Anything in the house?"

"No porn. No souvenirs. No pictures or incriminating diaries. Nothing, and I did a thorough search. Looked for hidey holes but didn't find anything."

"Could be a long night then."

He cranked the seat back, reached over and snagged her hand. "Maybe you could tell me more about yourself."

Her heart did a traitorous roll. A part of her wanted to. "And you'd do the same?"

"Good question."

Caleb brushed his thumb across her knuckles. Dangerous question. On so many levels. But Jesus, if he could turn her, maybe get her an immunity deal…

"Why'd you leave the dog behind?"

"He wanted to stay."

His heart kicked up a beat. The times he'd noticed how little she treated Dane like a dog, at how little Dane acted like one, congealed with the memory of eyes turned red by moonlight and blood.

"You're right to be scared of him," she whispered, dark eyes finding his. "You're right to be scared of all of us."

"Even you?"

"Time will tell."

Hayden's words coming from her mouth.

"Because you're all killers?"

His hand tightened, keeping hers prisoner when she tried to pull away. "Don't," he said, carrying her hand to his chest and pressing it against his heart. "I'm already deep into this thing with you."

And it went beyond the job.

"Hayden's not wrong. The less you know, the less involved with us, the safer you'll be. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't even know about this." Her eyes dropped to his lips. "We shouldn't be doing this, whatever this is. It's a mistake. For you. For me."

Yeah, it was. But the best he could do was to say, "Maybe," and even that didn't sound heartfelt.

She glanced in the direction of the pedophile's house. "From what I can see, there's no alarm system. I could have gotten in and out on my own."

"With nobody watching your back?"

"I'd have gone back for Dane."

Meaning she knew what the junkie intended?

Caleb couldn't help but see the Russian that Dane had taken down, his throat torn and gaping like a bloody shout. Couldn't stop the kick and sudden race of his heart.

He tried to cover it by asking, "What's your brother going to think when he gets back and finds you named your dog after him?"

"He'll be okay with it."

"You got any other brothers?"

"Only one in L.A."

His gut tightened at the implication, that there were others elsewhere, probably in some cult compound with the man who'd fathered then kidnapped her. It was the only thing that made sense given the brands they all wore.

"That brother going to show up at the bar?"

"No. Bastian's in jail, awaiting trial on three counts of murder."

"Justified?"

She moved closer, close enough that a tip forward and he'd taste her lips again. "Can murder ever be justified?"

"I can think of cases."

She tilted her head toward Cleary's house. "Like in those cases?"

"Yeah." The word puffed out of him. "Yeah, but I'd let the cops handle it before I risked a murder rap. I'd let him be found guilty and do the time."

Easier for him to claim because it didn't matter if things went sideways. His badge allowed him to make a righteous kill. His rifle and his oath and his orders had given him that same right overseas.

What would he do if the girl involved was Grace?

He wouldn't stop until he found the guy.

And then?

Could he stop?

He knew what it was like to take a man's life, to live with having done it.

Mallory's slight smile said she'd read something in his eyes, his scent, his body. It sent heat curling through him when it should have killed the attraction.

She wouldn't flinch away in horror if he told her the number of men he'd killed, if he admitted that he had the death of innocents on his conscience too. In war, the distinctions weren't always clear until after, until it was too late to change anything, leaving survivors stumbling around empty or grieving or lost.

The brutality required in his last undercover assignment wouldn't send her running or have her backing away in revulsion. She could know it all and accept him.

Don't go there.

But the strength of his desire to tip forward, to obliterate thought and end conversation with the press of his mouth to hers was like the clang of arrival bells announcing he was already there.

"And yet Cleary isn't in jail," she said, not letting the conversation drop.

"If he's guilty. Nothing in there proves he is. There's no going back after you've taken a life."

"You've taken them. Overseas? While you were in the service?"

"Yes."

Her fingertips stroked him through the shirt, tiny circles sending streaks of fire downward whether she meant them to or not.

Cleary's Subaru turned onto the street.

Caleb's body protested the loss of her touch.

"So does he have a security system?" Mallory asked.

"No. He's relying on locks and barred windows."

Every house on the street had the same. This was a neighborhood where dogs served as alarms and a gun in the nightstand stood for the police.

"Garage is full of junk. He can't pull in."

"There's a back door?"

"Into the kitchen."

"You go in that way, I'll go in through the front."

Cleary pulled into the short, narrow driveway.

Mallory's hand dropped to the Jeep's door handle.

He grabbed her arm. "No killing."

"We've got killing in our blood."

"Bullshit. Tell me you don't really believe that."

Cleary let himself into the house.

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 22

 

 

Matthew's hand tightened around her arm like a manacle. "If your plan tonight is to kill him, I'm not going to let it happen. If it's just to scare him, I'll play that game, but it only goes so far."

"I hear you," Mallory said. The time for being soft was over. The translucent globe in her jacket pocket had become the weight of one of her choices.

She could have kept Iosif alive if she'd acted on what Hound senses told her, if she hadn't done the human thing and allowed him his pride.

She wouldn't fail again. She'd use terror if that's what it took. She'd been bred to deliver it, conditioned in Hell to know its sound and scent and taste.

She opened the door, pulled from Matthew's grip and shoved the 9 mm into her waistband so it rode at the base of her spine. "He'll be alive when we leave."

Dead in this world, if he was their prey, he wouldn't satisfy her sire's desire for an Earthly hunt. Dead, and Dane paid the price.

Matthew crossed the street and disappeared from sight. She gave him a few minutes more before going to the front door.

The scent of sex clung to the air, left there in Cleary's wake.

She pounded with a cop's authority, her hearing keen enough to know Cleary was on the other side of the door.

She pounded again, felt his gaze through the peep hole and knew he'd see what he was scared of seeing, someone working sex crimes or Vice.

"Open up. Now."

The deadbolt clicked.

A second lock snicked.

He cracked the door open.

She shoved it into him, forcing her way into the house.

He cried out, a squeak of protest, kept from escalating by Matthew behind him, his hand against Cleary's pale, vulnerable throat, his voice rumbled menace. "Don't yell. Don't scream. Don't resist. Understand?"

Cleary nodded.

Matthew used the grip to guide him deeper into the house, stopping in the kitchen and tugging a chair away from the table, turning it and forcing Cleary to sit.

Mallory pulled a second chair and positioned it in front of the pedophile.

Matthew hadn't found evidence of guilt, but she read it in the stink coming off Cleary in waves. Felt the truth of it in the way her skin stretched tight, muscles and organs and bones aching to bunch and change, to shed human form and become Hound.

The purple-haired teen selling her body for drug money had tagged him accurately. Sweat beaded and rolled down a round, long face, wider through the jaw than at the forehead. Eyes too close together darted nervously above a prominent, bulbous nose with a scrap of a mustache beneath it and over thick lips.

Mr. Potato Head. But she'd just call him scum. Scum of the Earth.

In the eternity of Hell, she'd chased men who smelled the way he did. If he wasn't her sire's prey, then she'd make sure the police got him.

She'd watch and wait. She'd be ready for him when the sick craving for children overpowered tonight's terror.

She tugged the gun from her waistband and Matthew's free hand twitched as if he'd go for his own to keep her from killing. She pointed the weapon at Cleary's crotch.

The pedophile's upper body bobbed down as if to protect his genitalia. Up when that brought the gun's muzzle closer to his face.

Her hand brushed against the globe in her jacket pocket as she retrieved a picture. A flick of her wrist and the photograph of Caitlyn was in his lap. "What did you do with her body?"

He pressed against the chair back, trembled violently enough that its metal feet chattered against the cheap linoleum.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Truth.

She dropped the picture of the Satanist's daughter onto his lap.

He whimpered.

"Look at her. Have you ever seen her?"

Sweat dripped from his chin onto his shirt. His tongue darted out, too dry to wet his lips.

"Maybe. Maybe. I can't be sure."

Truth.

"What about these two," she asked of Zinaida and Kseniya.

"I've never see them."

The smell of his fear lessened.

She'd purposely saved Amanda Edson's picture for last.

She dropped it into his lap.

Fear scent flared again, this time accompanied by a spontaneous burst of pheromones marking remembered pleasure.

"I don't know her."

"You're lying. I can smell the rotted meat stink of it."

She stood and he rocked backward, whimpering.

"You picked her up. You took her somewhere. You paid her for sex."

"I thought she just looked young. I thought she was eighteen."

Her stomach churned.

Despite the gun she had trained on him, it was the knife she pressed against his neck, slicing through skin.

Blood ran down his throat, small shallow streams that could so easily become a river, a fountain.

Matthew's hand locked around her wrist. Numbness spread toward her elbow and into her fingers.

"You picked her up. You took her somewhere. You paid her for sex. You killed her. Where's the body?"

"I didn't kill her. I swear, I didn't kill her. I took her back to the corner she works. I haven't seen her since the last time."

There wasn't even the smallest whiff of carrion.

"Truth."

Mallory let Matthew force the knife from Cleary's throat. She asked, "How old do you think the girl you picked up tonight is?"

"Twelve. Thirteen," he whispered.

Her body vibrated with the desire to change form, to send him running so she could chase him as she'd done so many just like him in Hell. And if she couldn't do that, to lunge forward, substituting the knife for a Hound's bite.

Her vision wavered. A thousand memories overlapped, the Reaper Lord's conditioning gaining purchase.

"We've got what we came here for," Matthew said, something in his voice pulling her from dark forests and bloody images.

Her eyes met his. The desire to rid the world of a sexual predator was in them, but the desire to do what many considered morally right was stronger.

His strength shored up her own.

She wiped the knife clean on the pedophile's leg, close enough to the juncture of his thighs for his breath to catch and his body to go rigid.

The blade closed with a snick. She slid it into her pocket and once again jammed the 9 mm into her waistband at mid-back.

Picking up the pictures of the girls, she said, "I'm ready."

They left Cleary trembling violently, too afraid to move from the chair.

At the Jeep she slid her arms around Matthew's waist, inhaled his scent and let his warmth chase away the chill. She could have easily killed Cleary. She would have regretted it less tonight than this morning. Her humanity was slipping away with every act that would meet with the Reaper Lord's approval.

Matthew rubbed his cheek against her hair. "He'll get what's coming to him."

She shivered. "Yeah. Yeah, he will."

Matthew touched his lips to hers. "You're going to the Brass Ring?"

"I'm stopping by long enough to tell Hayden that Cleary's a dead-end. I'll be in and out in a couple of minutes."

She hated the necessity of lying. But there were things Matthew couldn't learn or witness.

"You'll call me if Hayden's got anything new?"

"He doesn't, or he would have texted."

"You're dodging the question."

"I'll call, if there's something new." If there's something we can't do without you.

Disbelief scented the air, just a hint of it to accompany the taste of jalapeno that arrived with the hard smash of his mouth on hers, the rough thrust of his tongue.

She met his aggression with aggression. The pent up longing escaped to turn his anger into deepened kisses, into the hard length of an erection grinding against her, into the lush, intoxicating scent of soul-deep desire.

They parted, each of them breathing hard.

She wanted to tell Matthew that she'd come to his apartment when she was done.

She didn't. She couldn't. Giving in to the temptation would only pull him further into her world.

She wouldn't do that to him. She wouldn't be the cause of his death.

"I can't," she said. The words that acknowledged the need and denied the possibility of acting on it felt torn from her throat.

His laugh was rough, edged with husky regret. "Yeah, I know. Getting involved isn't smart."

She forced herself away from him.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, hoping that by then Hayden would have a lead and they wouldn't have to pursue the one Matthew claimed to have.

He nodded and headed in the direction of the Harley.

Mallory dropped into the driver's seat. She sent Nathan a text that Cleary had picked up Amanda Edson, and at least one other underage girl hooking, then she went to the Brass Ring.

Mikhail slept in the middle of the ring. Dane lay curled in a corner, head on a boxing glove. Both opened their eyes and looked at her.

"Anything?" Hayden asked, leaning back in his chair, stretching, his eyes bloodshot from so much time in front of the laptop.

"He trolls for young girls and he had sex with Amanda Edson, but he didn't kill her."

"Prey, but not the one we need to produce."

"What about you, anything useful in the files or on the computers?"

"Nothing."

"What about the school uniform the Jane Doe wore?"

"No solid suspects. No possible ID on her. You got into the morgue?"

"Yes." She pulled the orb from her pocket.

Hayden was on his feet in a heartbeat. His chair crashed to the floor.

"Where the fuck did you get that?"

She decided against telling him about the party, about what had happened with the dead in the morgue. "Rahmiel. Smells like sunshine and date trees and sand. Looks like a desert sheik."

"Fuck, Mal. First a human and now this?"

"I didn't go looking for Rahmiel. He came to me. He said Iosif's soul was his to claim."

"You know that saying, The enemy of my enemy is my friend? It's bullshit, Mal. Pure bullshit."

"I'll take my chances."

"Yeah? Well thanks to your new friend, there's no summoning Iosif for answers. Get a fucking jar, Mal. Get the horse."

So much for the truce.

But she couldn't rail against Hayden's anger. He was right, Iosif had been turned into a dead-end. Even collectively, they didn't have the power to free Iosif's soul from the orb any more than they did to free one from their sire's jars.

Not yet, anyway.

Her fingers closed reflexively on the orb.

What would it mean for her in this world, if she knew more about the Reaper Lord's world? About what it meant to be his daughter? Would it allow her to better protect the ones she loved?

She opened the box, her wrist brushing against the worn blue velvet dress of Kseniya's doll.

Too late. Too late. Too late.

They didn't know that for sure.

She placed the orb next to the jar with the Jane Doe's trapped spirit and picked up one of the remaining four. They couldn't risk a summoning if there was doubt. Combined, their magic was strong enough to draw and trap a soul, living or dead. But choose one of the living, and the body became a vessel ready for possession.

She picked up the small horse she'd stolen from Caitlyn Lawrence's backpack. It'd meant something to her, enough that she'd taken it to school. Maybe it'd been given to her by the classmate who disappeared at the same time.

Bile rose. Mallory swallowed it. She curled her hand around a second soul jar then joined the others at the ring, taking up the same position she had in the cemetery.

Hayden handed her the knife, saw the two jars. His smile became as sharp as the blade. "Getting pragmatic, Mal? Shedding some of that wasted conscience?"

"Go to hell, Hayden."

He laughed. "Been there, done that. Haven't we all?"

He put the horse and red candle in the center of the ring. The ceremony was similar, the words only subtly different, but the magic was powerful riptide and heart-shrieking whirlpool.

It sucked the breath from Mallory. It required sustenance first, sending pain burning through her with the slice of the knife across her forearm.

It pulled blood from her in a wide wash of red that coated the soul jar she'd set on the circle and splashed onto the brass to disappear like an offering made to their sire.

Caitlyn formed, an image of grief with her knees held tight against her chest by arms locked around her legs. Her body rocked. Tears streamed across emotion-bruised features.

"He killed Bailey. He killed Bailey."

She was unaware of them, and without bone or ash or hair or proximity to the corpse, they couldn't change that. The tenor of Hayden's voice altered, indicating a second summoning, demanding a second offering of blood.

Mallory cut. Bled.

Bailey Morsey formed. But with nothing belonging to her, their hold on her was more tenuous than it had been with the Jane Doe. She was little more than pale wisps of color.

Hayden's chant turned into a wind driving the two souls toward Mallory. And though she sensed their resistance, the blood-coated jars overwhelmed, enticed them into the trap, first Bailey and then Caitlyn.

Fire sparked from the candle Hayden held to the one in the center then jumped, traveling the circle. It reached Mallory, trapping the dead with hot wax and cauterizing the slashes in a sear of flesh.

She pushed away from the circle, exhausted, nauseous, hurting.

She curled as a Hound would.

Dane joined her, his back against hers.

In a little while she'd go home.

If she thought she could crawl into Matthew's bed, she'd go now.

That brought a smile. It brought the beginning of a dream she hoped wouldn't turn into a nightmare.

* * * * *

Caleb crouched in the alleyway next to the spot where Mallory's dog had ripped out a man's throat. He'd thought it worth the risk to try and get an ID on the dead Russian, but now…

His heart beat unevenly. His thoughts kept rushing to that instant Dane lifted his head, to the unnatural glow of red eyes, to Mikhail's voice, the sound of ritualistic chanting like that at the Satanic temple.

Long day. Overactive imagination. Too much weirdness. But it didn't settle him.

There was ash everywhere, as if first a body had burned so hotly that no trace of bone remained, and then an unnatural wind had swept into the alley.

An incendiary device could explain this. But the hum along his nerve endings didn't quiet.

He thought about the woman who'd bee-lined to him at the bar, who'd been his babysitter at the cemetery. Had they made him? Were they playing him?

Not Mallory. It felt too real with her.

But her brothers? Playing with someone they'd made prey? Planning to kill him in the end?

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 23

 

 

Vadim surveyed the desks that had been stripped of their computers, and behind them, the cabinet drawers his mother had opened. There were gaps visible in the files.

The sight of them had his heart pumping like an enraged bull's, his breath heaving in and out through his nostrils.

Someone would pay for this. And then they would die.

His mother's lips were tight, her spine straight, daring him to treat her as he would one of his whores, to strike her for convincing him to keep records, to think of himself as a businessman and treat the women brought here as assets to be kept track of, like cuts of meat in a butcher's shop.

She was safe from his anger because his memory of his drunken father was so strong. If not for her, he might never have escaped that grinding poverty. She had scrimped and saved. She had helped him come to America.

He rolled the phone in his hand, over and over and over, his grip tightening on it as he imagined the give of flesh, the crushing of a throat.

He did not bother calling Pyotr again. Three times he had called. Three times there had been no answer, no return call.

Vadim's knuckles whitened on the phone. He did not need this trouble, not now, with the scripts in Linden's hands and their association cemented by last night's gift.

The smart thing would be to sell the remaining girl, to wash his hands of her. She would bring good money. He could send her to the East Coast where she would soon disappear completely.

The young ones lost their value as they lost their freshness. They died. Drugs. A violent customer. Disease. If they weren't sold to someone who used and killed them.

He looked again at the missing files, the missing computers. Yes. That is what he would do.

Tomorrow he would send her away. He would eliminate the risk, the threat to his dreams that keeping her posed.

A call was all it would take.

He would make that call today, initiate a negotiation though he would be clear that another party had expressed interest and the sale could not yet be finalized. He would hold off disposing of her for a day because Linden might want the sister.

He did not wish, so soon in their relationship, not to be able to deliver. He turned slightly as the door opened. Oleg entered the office, grunted softly at seeing what had transpired.

Vassily's advice, to send a message by killing Mallory Cassel's brother had been sound, but now Vadim regretted taking it. The woman was behind this. There could be no other explanation. Though Iosif Gruzinsky had been dealt with, she had not ceased working for him.

I think he will be great trouble, Oleg had said, and his words had become truth.

"Speak to Vassily about this Mallory Cassel," he told Oleg. "Vassily knows of her family. He can help you find her. I want her brought to me."

Oleg silently cursed. He should have killed the woman and the man and the dog when he had a chance.

Perhaps she could be made to run in front of a car or tumble down stairs or fall from a high place as she tried to escape him. And if not, he would have to ensure that she couldn't talk, couldn't use her hands to write.

He did not want Vadim to learn about the DVDs. He did not want to reveal that he'd allowed Iosif to follow him to the strip club and then the apartment, that such a loser had been able to trick him.

Vadim would not care about the taking of the movies. He was not a man to care if another man took great pleasure in urinating on women. But now because of Iosif and this woman, there was a chance that Vadim's business would come to the attention of the police.

He could not allow that to happen. He could allow nothing of this to point toward his own failure.

If it became necessary, he would speak to Vassily. But he did not trust the lawyer. To curry favor, Vassily would arrange for the woman to be taken if he knew that Vadim had given the order.

"I will hunt this woman now."

He started to turn toward the door but was stopped by Vadim saying, "She did not act alone when she came here. Last night a man went to the club where Iosif Gruzinsky also went. He asked about him. He asked about the woman and the little girls."

Trouble and more trouble. But it would be dealt with.

In front of him Liliya, always pale, now looked like a ghost, a corpse.

And maybe she would become one.

Someone would pay for this invasion, this theft, this disrespect. Vadim's pride would require it.

Oleg did not want it to be him.

From behind her desk, Vadim's mother addressed her son. "A man came here yesterday. Liliya talked with him. Did she tell you this?"

Her eyes blazed with triumph. She did not like sharing the office with Vadim's latest mistress. She did not like the lessening of her importance or her status when it came to running this business for her son.

Vadim's hand lashed out. His fist struck Liliya's cheek with enough force to send her staggering sideways. "Describe this man."

She trembled but did not dare return to the desk to steady herself. "He had hair to his shoulders. It was black, his eyes brown. He wore a biker's jacket and a stud in his right ear. He said his name was…"

Oleg tuned her out. This was the man he should have killed, the pathetic American who took orders from a woman, who allowed her to think she was his better.

Liliya finished speaking. Cowered, waiting for the next blow.

She flinched when Vadim lifted his hand, but it was only to show her his phone. "Did he look like this woman?"

"No."

"Then the man who came here is not the man who came to the club. From Pyotr's description, I think that man is related to the woman."

"He has already been dealt with?" Oleg asked.

"Nyet." Rage boiled in the word. "The man left the club. Pyotr followed him. Now Pyotr does not answer my calls."

"I will question the whores at the club. Then I will look for both men. They will be with the woman, or she will lead me to them."

Vadim's hand lashed out but this time to land between Oleg's shoulder blades in a gesture of appreciation. "I can count on you to deliver what you promise. Kill the men. Bring the woman to me."

Perhaps he would. Perhaps there was no need for her to die in an accident. If she couldn't speak, couldn't write—not that Vadim would bother communicating with a woman that way—she would be useless, not worth the cost of food to keep her alive so she could service men who bought pleasure five and ten dollars at a time.

Yes, that would be the way to handle it, kill the men but let Vadim find pleasure with the woman. Vadim would deal with her quickly, working his rage out with his fists, his pride restored.

* * * * *

Caleb watched through his apartment window as the same old lady who'd staked out Mallory's apartment the morning before climbed into the same white car, camera in hand.

Guess she didn't realize Mallory hadn't brought the dog home last night.

His amusement died on the thought. He rubbed the back of his neck, but if there was comfort to be had, it was in knowing she hadn't gone anywhere other than the Brass Ring after they'd visited the pedophile. Or at least, she hadn't gone anywhere after he'd checked out Dane's kill site and then watched the bar until tailing her home. That much he could swear to.

He picked up the dog tag that'd been waiting for him in the apartment. He ran his thumb along the edge. The silver chain swayed as he imagined putting it on Mallory.

Christ. He wanted her and that want got stronger with every kiss, every touch, every moment in her company, hell, with every thought of her.

It wasn't just physical attraction. He'd been blinded my lust before, during high school. Once during college. Never since.

Mallory was the perfect blend of soft and tough, feminine and kick-ass. It wasn't the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of murder that was driving her, it was concern for people she'd never met, a moral compass that pointed to what was just even if the law didn't deem it righteous.

His cell lay on his thigh. Tapping the face several times got him to the tracker's app, hidden in a game he'd downloaded from a link left along with the package.

A red dot located his apartment. A tap on it and an address appeared, along with coordinates. Another tap and he'd have a compass guiding him to the tracker.

His attention returning to the tag, his eyes traced the message there. Freedom Does Not Come Free. A reminder, too, that he was on the job, that despite the desire for Mallory, the ache to save her from herself, when this was done, she'd be in jail and he'd be out from living undercover.

He fisted the tag then put it on, shutting down the app. He didn't intend to let Mallory slip away from him today.

* * * * *

Too late. Too late. Too late.

Mallory woke with the haunting refrain echoing in her mind, her heart pulsing in rapid, knife-sharp beats.

The sheets were twisted around her like a snake's slick coils. She kicked her way out of them, her skin sticky and clammy.

She showered, scrubbing her hands over her face. Nightmare images from her dreams remained like jagged puzzle pieces.

Her heart thumped painfully and she met that pain, pressed her knuckles into the place above it as if she could make the ever-present fear go away with her fist. She had to tell her mother it wasn't safe to stay in Los Angeles, even if it would give Phillip more cause to take his family away permanently.

She toweled dry and dressed. Went to the gun safe, her attention catching on the small stuffed giraffe that lived on top of it.

Phillip had won it for her, at Sorcha's insistence since she hadn't been with them on that vacation. She and Dane had been busy hunting skips, trying to build a reputation and make a go of their business.

She lifted the giraffe, polished a dark eye with her thumb. Sorcha had one just like it, the first one Phillip had scored at an arcade game, impressing his daughter so much that Sorcha had come back from vacation intent on seeing how her older sister's shooting skills compared to her father's.

Hopefully they'd never know the answer to that one.

Mallory set the giraffe down, hand lingering on it, heart swelling at remembering what it had been like that day Sorcha was born, when she'd held that tiny bundle of helplessness in her arms and realized that despite the years in Hell, she could still feel love and be overwhelmed by it.

She'd felt the same when Austin was born.

Could she really take their father from them, if the only other option was to let him put them at risk by moving them into territory claimed by another Reaper Lord? Could she really hurt them that deeply when she loved them so much?

She'd lived with the fear for so long…

But today its grip was somehow loosened. Why?

She shrugged on a shoulder harness then slid the gun into its holster. Leaving the bedroom, her gaze snagged on the portrait done at her mother's insistence, four blondes and her, so obviously different than the others, but today that wasn't the difference that seemed important.

Half-brothers had come and gone in Hell. Only Mikhail and Dane had been a constant in her time there.

What if she only had one sister? What if the Reaper Lord only had one daughter?

You have advantages your brothers will never possess, Rahmiel had said.

Let's just say I'm attracted to the unusual, he'd told her, amusement in his voice and eyes and smile.

Her heart skipped and raced, finally calmed. She might be unique but it didn't change what the Reaper Lord meant for her to become, a cold-blooded killer. It didn't change what would happen if they failed to find the man he wanted to hunt. It didn't lessen the need to find Iosif's missing family and Amanda Edson.

Mallory stepped out of the apartment.

Matthew sat on the hood of the Jeep.

His smile warmed like heat off the desert, easing the burden and turmoil of her thoughts. "Dane would bite you for doing that if he were here."

"Your dog doesn't need an excuse. He doesn't like me."

"He's protective."

Matthew slipped off the Jeep and met her several feet away from it. His hands settled on her sides and slid downward to her hips, sending hot curls of need spreading through her like sinuous, ethereal smoke.

What was it about him that drew her? What was it about him that made her want to ignore impossibilities?

"Ready to pursue my lead?" he asked, brushing his lips against hers. "Or did Hayden come up with a new one?"

Time was running out, whittling down the options. They had today. Tomorrow until darkness fell and the Hunter's Moon rose.

She wanted desperately to believe there was time, to save Amanda Edson, to save Zinaida and Kseniya and Viktoriya. "What's your lead?"

Matthew's hands moved around, drawing her closer. "You get it on one condition. Take the offer or leave it. You don't ditch me."

"Hayden's warning aside? My warning?"

"I can take care of myself."

Not against them. Not against her—if she let this thing between them deepen, if he betrayed her.

The gun she wore grew heavy and cold. She could feel the phantom weight of the one Bastian had used as if it were already clasped in her hand.

If she'd accepted it… If Dane had been freed from fur…

She slid her hand across Matthew's chest, pressed it above his heart, its steady beat and his heat burning away the chill. "I have a condition of my own. I won't ditch you, but you don't get automatic entry into the ring room. That's on my say so. Mine. The more you know, the more dangerous it is for you."

He rubbed his cheek against hers, sending a shiver of desire sliding downward. "I've been in dangerous situations before."

His warm breath caressed her ear, making her fight against pressing her body to his. She tried to pull away but he didn't let her escape.

His mouth took hers in a fierce kiss.

Then another. Their tongues dueling, their bodies touching, and she clung, burying reality for minutes at a time in his rich scent. Longing building, that he could know the full truth, that he could accept it. The strength of that longing finally enough to push away from him.

"What's your lead?"

"I'll tell you when we get there."

"Don't trust me?"

His lips firmed and something like regret moved through his eyes. "It's not as simple as that."

"Throwing my own words back at me?"

"Yeah." Jalapeno scent came with memories of her shooting Mikhail up the night before, his anger making her heart ache.

"I've got a stop to make before we check out your lead," she said.

He got in the Jeep, the smell of grasshoppers and swirling leaves replacing jalapeno. "Where to?"

"My mother's house."

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 24

 

 

Mallory parked in front of the blue adobe house.

Her mother emerged, the smile and quick, light steps saying she must have been in one of the front rooms and spotted Matthew.

Mallory groaned. "There's probably not much point in telling you to stay in the Jeep."

He laughed, a rich, toe-curling sound. "She's trying to get you married off?"

"Something like that."

A longing for the same swelled inside her and didn't want to dissipate.

They got out of the Jeep.

Mallory's throat thickened at seeing the happiness in her mother's eyes, the hope there. She wished she could be the daughter her mother thought she was, the one who was all human, living a human's life.

"This is a surprise," her mother said, hugging her tightly, the sudden tensing an indication she'd felt the gun.

"I needed to talk to you."

Mallory breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of summer fields.

She hated the fear and worry her visit was about to bring, but she'd hate it worse if something happened to this family.

Pulling away, she introduced Matthew then took her mother's hands in hers, squeezed. "Mom, I need you to take Sorcha and Austin and leave Los Angeles. Phillip, too, if you can convince him to go."

The raw scent of fear invaded her nostrils.

"What's going on?"

She had to tell her mother something, enough so she would do as asked. But Mallory's stomach clenched. This was more ammunition for Phillip. More reason for him to get a job elsewhere. Maybe ultimately, this would be the thing that could make her mother agree to move away.

"A man came to me for help looking for his family. There's a chance the Russian mafia has discovered I'm involved."

The scent of fear deepened. "Then you come with us."

"I can't, Mom. That'd just put you in danger. Please, promise you'll leave, that you'll call Phillip and head out of town for a few days, maybe a week."

She thought it'd be done by then. One way or another.

Knowing Phillip, there'd be cops on scene within the hour, providing protection until his family could be gotten to safety—and then there would be questions.

"Promise, Mom."

A brisk nod was followed by a rib-crushing hug. A whispered, "You and Matthew look good together. He feels right for you."

Another hug. "Be careful, Mallory," her mother said, the shakiness in her voice contrasting with the fierce strength in her arms. "I can't lose you again."

You won't. But she couldn't promise that any more than she could bring herself to leave until her mother had disappeared into the house.

"Where to?" she asked.

Matthew leaned forward, programming their destination into the GPS, his scent laced again with the burn of jalapenos.

"Why can't you just walk away and be done with the junkie and Hayden? You know there's going to be spillover on this other family of yours."

"The junkie's name is Mikhail."

"Point taken, but the question stands."

She rolled her shoulders but there was no way to shed the truth. The bonds between the Reaper Lord's sons and her were unbreakable.

"I can't. Believe me, I've tried."

"I don't buy that."

"And I'm not going to waste the energy trying to sell it. If you want out, I can drop you at the apartment and check the lead solo."

The jalapeno scent faded, Matthew shaking off the angry, remembering the missing girls, the women lured into slavery.

Mallory checked the map visible on the GPS then pulled the flier she'd gotten from Nathan from her pocket, flipping it to Matthew. It couldn't matter that Nathan would have preferred her to stay away. Not now.

"I think Amanda Edson's place might be on the way."

Matthew put the address in. "You're right."

"We might as well stop there first and try to talk to the mother."

The call Mallory had been expecting came as she got out of the Jeep a block away from where Amanda Edson lived.

"I want names," Phillip said, his voice loaded with hostility.

Her first reaction was to meet hostility with hostility as she had a hundred other times. But it was immediately tempered by the acceptance that he was afraid for his family, that he wanted to protect them as much as she did, that getting him to listen to her when it came to moving away from L.A. meant opening up instead of shutting down.

"I don't have any names. That's the truth. I'm trying to find them. Davidson sent a man my way, a Russian whose ex-girlfriend and their two daughters were trafficked here. The girls are Sorcha's age."

Hostility gave way to weighty silence. And that silence stretched between them, but instead of hardening and sharpening to become like the shiny obsidian in her sire's realm, it filled with something else, something she couldn't identify, not given her relationship with Phillip.

"Bastian Kerr was shanked this morning. He bled out before the guards could reach him."

She felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She'd hated Bastian, avoided him, fought the bond between them from the time she was allowed to return to L.A.—and still, he'd been a constant, a known, the alpha.

"Russians?"

"Seven of them. He took five of them with him."

"Then you're the one with the name. Who was behind the attack?"

"I don't know."

Yet. And when he did know, if that man was later found in a remote location with a forty-five chambered in his heart, what then?

"When did it happen?"

"At breakfast."

Meaning it had probably already been set in motion before the break-in was discovered.

Her skin chilled, pebbling despite the warm air. They'd made the connection between Iosif and her, then somehow between her and Bastian—unless this was coincidence.

The guilt sweeping through her negated that possibility.

News flash, no good deed goes unpunished.

Even in death, Bastian's voice mocked her, taunted her.

"Are Mom and the kids gone?"

"Under escort now."

She didn't ask to where and he didn't volunteer.

"Watch your back, Mallory."

"You too."

She slipped the cell into her pocket, responded to Matthew's questioning glance. "That was my mom's husband. The brother in prison was jumped and killed by Russians this morning."

Despite his earlier anger, Matthew pulled her into his arms. "You were close?"

She laughed, but it was a raw, ugly sound. "I hated him."

He'd been a stand-in for the Reaper Lord.

"Make me understand, Mallory."

She rubbed her lips against his neck, breathed him in. "I wish I could."

Truth. But that truth was no barrier against reality creeping in.

Bastian's death changed things.

"After this I need to swing by the Brass Ring."

Matthew's arms tightened on her, then released.

They followed a trail of gang graffiti to the apartment building Amanda Edson had called home. Rap music boomed through open windows, overpowering the hum of air-conditioning units that dripped rust-colored water onto cracked cement.

"Third floor," she said, checking the flier. "Probably a back unit."

A shriek of fury came as they approached it, the crash of something hitting a wall, a woman screaming, "You bitch! I've got feelings you know!"

"Looks like we're about to break up a cat-fight," Matthew said, pounding on the door.

It was flung open by a blonde with stringy, unwashed hair and no bra. She straightened her back, thrust her chest outward and smiled at Matthew.

"Are you Sharon Edson?" he asked.

"Yes. What do you want?" The question came with a bounce of her breasts.

"We're here to ask you about your daughter."

Sharon's mouth took on a bitter twist. "You're too late. She's dead. According to my sister the bitch."

She tried to shut the door.

Mallory straight-armed it at the same time Matthew did.

Sharon whirled and stomped away.

They entered the apartment.

The sister was blonde with a short haircut. She wore a brown UPS uniform and cradled a battered Raggedy Ann.

"Have the police contacted you?" Mallory asked as Sharon disappeared into a bedroom but left the door open.

"No. Are you here to tell us…" The woman swallowed, blinking rapidly, her face reddening. "Are you here to tell us Amanda's body has been found?"

Mallory exchanged a glance with Matthew, both of them wondering what the hell they'd walked into.

"Is there some reason you think your niece is dead?" she asked.

Amanda's aunt skirted a coffee table loaded with empty beer cans and gossip rags. "I'm Amy. You look familiar. Have we met before?"

Mallory took a breath. There was no scent memory.

"No, I don't think so."

They introduced themselves.

Matthew repeated the question she'd asked. "Why do you think your niece is dead?"

Amy's attention shifted to the doorway Amanda's mother had gone through. "I shouldn't have bothered coming here, but I wanted Sharon to be prepared, not that she cares. She gave Amanda's things away weeks ago."

Sharon was in the doorway in a flash. "I needed the rent I could get for the room. Not everyone can sleep their way into a good job."

Her voice was a whine. Amy's arm tightened on the doll. "And there are plenty of people who go to work every day and never steal while they're on the job."

"Bitch!" Sharon took a step back and slammed the door.

"It would help us help the police if you'd tell us why you think Amanda is dead," Mallory said.

Amy drew a long, shuddering breath. "We used to be close. More like mother and daughter than—"

"Bitch!" Sliced through the thin wall.

Amy crossed her arms, the gesture moving the doll so it was hugged to her heart.

"Two nights ago I dreamed Amanda died. When I woke I couldn't stop crying. The loss felt so real. And the emptiness…"

Color rode into Amy's cheeks. "I contacted a psychic. This morning was the soonest she could see me. She asked me to bring something belonging to Amanda, something personal."

"The doll."

"Yes. It was Amanda's favorite when she was younger. She couldn't go to sleep without it."

"The psychic told you Amanda was dead?"

"She said the police would find her body either today or tomorrow."

Mallory didn't ask for the name of the psychic. She didn't need to believe in its accuracy to know she had to be prepared to collect the soul.

"There's a psychic I trust," she said. "Could I borrow the doll, just to be sure?"

Amy's arms tightened on it. Somewhere along the way a round button eye had been replaced by a square one.

The muscles in Amy's throat moved up and down. "You'll let me know what your psychic says? You'll get the doll back to me? If Amanda is really… If we bury her, I want her to have it."

"I'll let you know. I'll make sure the doll is returned."

Amy hugged the Raggedy Ann then handed it to Mallory.

She and Matthew left, letting themselves out as tears dripped off Amy's face.

He waited until they'd cleared the apartment building with its loud music and dying air-conditioning units before saying, "You didn't ask who Amanda's friends were or where she hung out."

There was a growl in his voice, uneasiness in his scent. She wondered if he was thinking about the items she'd taken from Iosif's room, the palomino horse that belonged to Caitlyn.

"If she could be found by tracking down her friends, the police would have found her."

"In a city teeming with runaways? When every detective's desk is loaded with open cases?"

She halted, the move forcing him to stop and face her. "What are you really asking me?"

"Are you going to tell me you're the psychic?"

The hopeful possibility that she could share the truth, that he could learn it, handle it, live with it, was like a burr she couldn't get rid of by scratching. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

He glanced away. She caught a faint whiff of primordial, ancient bogs.

"Fuck, I don't know what I believe anymore."

She breathed in.

Truth.

"Well, you don't have to believe I'm a psychic. I'm not that."

They returned to the Jeep and got in.

"Brass Ring?" Matthew asked.

"Yes. I need to tell the others about Bastian."

He nodded, took her hand and squeezed, sending a wave of heat upward to catch in her throat.

She didn't pull her hand from his until they'd reached the Brass Ring.

They entered together.

Mallory slammed to a halt.

Matthew stopped next to her.

A blond played pool alone. His attitude stretched to the doorway as if he'd already laid claim to the building.

Dane appeared from around the bar. He came toward them, black eyes locked on Matthew, his growl low and deep, a menacing rumble that was a prelude to an attack.

"Stop it, Dane."

She put a growl in her own voice, the promise of a fight.

"You need to leave," she told Matthew, attempting to thrust the car keys into his hand.

The blond Hound laughed. The pool stick dropped onto the table with a clatter. "Why spoil the fun?"

He came toward them, gaze speculative, heating as he looked at her.

"You know this asshole?" Matthew asked, and a part of her reveled in the hint of possessiveness in his voice, the scent of jealousy rising off his skin.

"No," she answered.

The blond's hands went to the front of a light blue shirt. His attention remained completely on her.

He freed the buttons as he walked. "You don't know me yet. But you're going to."

The shirt parted to reveal a brand worn over his heart, a baying hound unlike the one she wore.

Matthew's scent changed, adrenaline mixed again with the bog smell of fear rooted in human subconscious.

The blond's nostrils flared. His eyes shone with the look of a killer who enjoyed his work.

Mallory stepped between Matthew and the Hound.

The Hound laughed. "Protecting your pet?"

Her lips pulled back.

He laughed again, reached, as if to stroke her face, the pack bond humming between them though he wasn't alpha, wasn't her sire's get.

Dane lunged, snapped without making contact.

Amusement doused in an instant.

"I'm Sabin. We've got business to attend. Bring your pet into the ring room and let him watch us fight, or don't. In the end, it doesn't matter."

Because Sabin intended to win. Because if he did and became alpha, Matthew would be killed.

Mallory's heart banged violently. "Go," she told Matthew. "You need to leave. Believe what I told you in the Jeep last night and again this morning."

You need to run as far and as fast as you can. You need to stay away from us.

"Save it, Mallory. If you're not giving me a pass to go in with you then I'll wait out here."

He meant it. She read it in his gaze and scent and body. She fought the urge to plaster herself against his, to touch her lips to his, to wrap herself around him and never let him go.

Pulse throbbing in her throat, she followed the others into the ring room.

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 25

 

 

Sabin immediately stripped out of his shirt and stepped into the challenge circle. He kicked the fight gear, sending it sailing and sliding beyond the inlaid brass.

Magic beat against Mallory's senses in mounting waves. It was strong, stronger than it had been during the summoning.

"How long has he been here?" she asked Mikhail, standing close enough their shoulders touched, wishing his body heat could eradicate the soul-deep chill.

"The door between opened with Bastian's death."

Hours ago. So he knew what they knew about the man they hunted. He probably knew more. He was her sire's creature if not his creation.

"Do you recognize the brand?"

"Yes." Mikhail shuddered. His arm went around her. His cheek rubbed against hers.

Hayden entered the ring bare chested, a knife in either hand, their long slender blades sending Mallory's heart climbing into her throat.

Sabin pulled similar weapons.

The two began circling.

There was a waiting quality in each of them.

The magic grew stronger, as if from his own realm, their sire served as ringmaster.

The scent of Hell arrived like an explosion.

Hayden and Sabin began fighting.

They lunged.

They danced with deadly thrust and slash of gleaming blades.

They feinted and parried, a graceful ballet of violent intent, beautiful movements scored in red with each successful strike.

A slash opened Sabin's chest deeply enough for blood to flow to his waist.

He retaliated with a vicious surge that gutted Hayden.

Mallory whimpered as skin and muscle parted and internal organs bulged and protruded.

Mikhail's arm kept her from crossing the brass ring.

Sabin's leg swept out.

Hayden dropped to the floor and Sabin following him down, knee digging into the wound on Hayden's abdomen, his blade against Hayden's throat. "Do you yield?"

"Yes," Hayden growled, his eyes and voice vibrating with hate.

Magic rushed toward the combatants, creating a breeze that lifted and tugged Mallory's hair so it rippled like a black flag.

The Reaper Lord's power swept over Hayden and Sabin, healing their wounds but leaving them scarred by the battle.

Sabin stood.

"Next," he said, arrogance in his stance, in the way he spread his arms.

Mikhail entered the ring.

Mallory's throat locked.

Instead of knives, Mikhail chose to use his body as a weapon.

They went round after round.

A punch broke Sabin's nose.

Another broke his jaw.

A jab bloodied Mikhail's lips.

Their breathing became harsher and harsher.

Bruises blossomed on both of them.

"Come on," Mallory said. "Come on."

Sabin laughed. He punched, shattering the boney ridge above Mikhail's left eye.

The blow sent Mikhail to his knees.

Sabin's kick to his face flung him backward.

He yielded rather than die.

The magic healed him.

Dane entered the ring, teeth bared and eyes molten amber.

Sabin turned to face Mallory.

His smile was a twist of sensuality. His nostrils flared to catch her scent as his hands dropped to the front of his jeans.

I'll be your mate.

She read it in his gaze, in the slow strip he did for her benefit, in the wide-stanced posturing and ripple of muscles.

She rejected it. "Never."

He laughed. "As you've seen, I enjoy a challenge."

He changed then, his Hound form larger than Dane's, his fur making her think of a black abyss rather than the color of midnight.

The battle was savage. Bloody. Eerily silent.

She paced the edge of the ring. Feelings of desperation grew with each rip and tear of Dane's fur.

A thrill spiked through her when it was Dane whose teeth sliced and opened skin.

He fought for her.

He fought for the control that would allow him to take human form.

She allowed herself to hope.

Sabin lunged then, catching Dane's front leg between powerful jaws.

It snapped. The sound of bone breaking speared into Mallory's heart.

Dane's entire body jerked.

Sabin released him and leapt, taking Dane to the floor.

His canines buried in Dane's neck, threatening to open jugular and carotid, to crush his throat.

Dane continued to fight and Mallory was reminded of those early days in Hell, when he'd protected her, putting himself between her and the pure Hounds.

"Yield, Dane," she whispered. "Yield."

He stilled and his body softened, not in death but in surrender.

The magic swept inward and Sabin shifted forms, aroused in victory. The dominance of an alpha poured off him as he looked at her with the confidence of a male who believed it was only a matter of time until he'd claim his mate.

Dane came to her side. He looked up at her, eyes liquid with apology, his body vibrating where it pressed to hers.

She cupped his neck, stroked.

Sabin's gaze met hers. "It was sloppy and dangerous involving a human in our affairs, Mallory. But at least he's here where it'll be convenient to deal with the body."

He took a step forward as if to leave the circle.

She made her choice, ditching the harness and gun before crossing the inlaid brass in silent challenge.

"No knife? You think you can take me without one?"

His eyes skimmed the length her body. He smiled, the same twist of sensuous lips. "Maybe you can."

The magic swelled.

The circle filled with the stink of Hell.

She forced her mind into the moment.

Everything inside her stilled though adrenaline surged in, demanding she act.

He'd never seen her fight, didn't know what she was capable of, while she had seen his moves.

She readied herself, followed him as he circled, gauged her moment.

Attacked.

With hands.

With feet.

With teeth bared.

Desperation built when her blows missed, when they slid off him without doing any damage.

She was fast.

He was faster.

Her heart hammered.

Sweat rolled down her sides.

Her lungs labored.

Fear made a grab for her at understanding Sabin only played at fighting.

She fought that fear, launched another attack.

He dodged.

He pulled his punches.

He danced away from hers.

On and on—until he tired of the game.

He hooked his foot around her ankle. Dropped her to the floor and immediately covered her with his naked body.

She wriggled and struggled.

He pinned her with manacled wrists and weight.

She bucked and twisted, her mind flooded with wild desperation as he ground against her, leaving his scent on her clothing and skin, his taste when she couldn't evade his lips.

She snapped, willing to tear him apart with teeth. Her muscles burned, sweat coated her skin. Her breathing was harsh and shallow as she warred not only against him but everything he represented.

Sabin's smile flashed. He laughed. Rolled with her buck and shove, putting her on top.

She jammed her forearm against his throat. Pressed her knee hard against his unprotected balls.

"I yield," he said, and she understood the trap for what it was when magic poured into her along with knowledge, the bonds between her and the others shifting, making her the thing she'd never wanted to become—alpha.

Use it. Use it to free Dane from fur.

She scrambled off Sabin and stood to concentrate on Dane.

She could see his human form curled inside fur like a fetus that only needed call and tug to come forth. The knowledge of how to do it was there, the power was there, but when she pulled, he jerked in pain, whimpered as if slamming against a wall.

Once, twice. Three times, the desperation growing with each failed attempt.

A fourth and Sabin said, "It's too late for that. You should have taken the gun when it was offered."

She felt the phantom weight of it in her hand. Coldness filled her at the thought of using it, of becoming a killer.

Too late. Too late. Too late.

The refrain from the nightmare was a line thrown to the drowning. It didn't have to be too late for all the girls.

Sabin rose to his feet, slowly putting on the discarded jeans, hands lingering at the front of them suggestively. She looked at Hayden, gazes meeting, unified now by the presence of a common enemy. Something good could still come of this. And maybe, just maybe because she was alpha, she could keep Matthew safe.

"Tell Sabin where to find the Satanists. He can question them and get something of Maven Stone's."

Hayden smiled, dark eyes glittering. "He'll be right at home with them."

Sabin only laughed and saluted her. "Until next time, Mal."

She turned away from him, put the haltered gun on and said, "You're with me, Dane."

 

Caleb glanced up as Mallory emerged from the private room.

Her shirt clung to her skin. Her hair was free. A wildness radiated from her and Jesus, he'd never seen anything as beautiful, never wanted a woman more.

He set the pool cue on the table and straightened. It was shades of that first glimpse of her, made worse at having felt Mallory's body along the length of his, at having tasted her lips and breathed in her honeyed scent.

He could almost ignore the dog at her side. Almost, because he remembered the dog's initial greeting. He remembered the dog looking up from the corpse and realizing there was a witness.

"You settled things with a fight?" Caleb asked. He'd seen the gloves and headgear in the ring. He'd heard the blond's words but hadn't taken them as literal, until he'd seen Mallory.

"For now. Let's get out of here."

In the Jeep, he keyed the GPS to their destination.

"Who are we going to find there?" she asked.

"Dwight Brooks. He does reptile parties. He did one at the Lawrence house. It was the last time Landon saw Caitlyn. Landon said the guy couldn't take his eyes off her. Kept trying to get close but she avoided him. Finally got in a fight with her mother over having to be there and stormed away. The kid's carrying a load of guilt since the party was for him. He saw Dwight the next day, driving down their street."

"Did he tell his parents? The private detective they hired? The police?"

"Yeah, it didn't go anywhere."

His gut said it would this time.

The police didn't know about the other girls.

The police weren't looking for connections.

The police weren't Mallory.

They made good time.

The house was narrow, a green adobe shoehorned between squat brick apartments.

No one answered the door.

He pulled his picks. "Go in?"

Mallory's hand dropped to the knob, twisted, foreboding hitting her instead of surprise.

"It's unlocked," she said, opening the door.

The smell of reptiles spilled out onto the stoop.

Her skin crawled. Her body resisted taking that first step into the house.

She shivered, remembering the snake-filled pits in her sire's realm, remembering the screams of those chased into them—her own screams and the acid-burn of poison as she'd been bitten repeatedly while scrambling to escape.

A whole body shudder gripped her. Her lungs seized as if to ward off further memories by refusing breath.

Matthew pulled her backward against his chest, warm arms and masculine scent eradicating the freeze of memory and the smell of reptiles. His lips touched her neck in a murmured kiss. "You okay?"

She allowed herself to lean into him, soaking him in, a part of her soul wallowing as a Hound would until necessity forced her forward. "I'm good."

Cages and terrariums filled the front room. Snakes coiled in rocky pits, in nests of sand, around branches and struggling, dying rodents.

Lizards blended, scurried, stared with beady eyes.

"Look," Matthew said, and her gaze followed his to a small urn set in an asp's enclosure.

Ashes. It had to be given the picture of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl.

"Another victim," she said.

"Unless she was his first and he's recapturing the thrill by recreating it with girls who look like her."

Matthew moved toward the enclosure. He was halfway there when a black cobra with faint yellow banding slid from an opening between two displays, already in striking distance.

It rose, hood flared.

He froze.

Mallory pulled her gun.

The cobra had the low, growling hiss of a king. It was a massive specimen, eighteen feet and at least twenty-five pounds. It was beautiful death, though usually they avoided confrontation, were only aggressive when provoked.

It swayed. Back and forth. Back and forth, like the pendulum of a lethal clock.

If it struck, they wouldn't get to the hospital in time. If it struck, Matthew would die.

Her heartbeat became constant thunder matched to the swaying cobra. She aimed, not wanting to kill, deeply reluctant to kill. The hair along her nape rose like a Hound's ruff at envisioning magic unleashed by the snake's death and cage doors falling open, freeing viper after viper.

Instinct? Premonition?

It's guarding the urn.

She knew it with a surety she couldn't explain.

"Ease away from it."

Matthew remained frozen.

"I've got my gun aimed at it. Trust me, Matthew, back away."

Don't force me to shoot. We won't make it out of here alive if you do.

Time might as well have been measured in eons, in the crawl of a centipede across a mile-long field.

Finally he moved. An inch. Two. Three.

Not out of striking range, but the cobra's growling hiss softened. Its thick, sinuous body lowered, and continued to lower with Matthew's retreat.

"I wondered if you'd be the one to come," a woman said, appearing in the hallway doorway unannounced by sound or movement, her presence deepening the smell of reptile.

Hound reaction had Mallory fighting contradictory urges, to flee, to attack.

The woman moved deeper into the room, and just as Mallory had seen Dane's human form curled inside fur, the hundred golden-blonde plaits of woven hair became snakes, the triangular beads at the tips, venomous heads.

Mallory holstered the gun.

The cobra retreated, disappearing into the crevice.

Mallory's gaze flicked to the urn. "Who is she?"

"Belinda, sister of Dwight. But you need nothing of hers. You'll take nothing of hers. Our dead are protected, as you have discovered."

"When did she die?" Matthew asked, his voice strong, assured, as if he were used to encountering cobras and dealing with the supernatural.

The woman cocked her head, sending the braids slithering across her shoulders. "A little over two months ago."

Shortly before Amanda Edson went missing.

Matthew asked the follow-up question. "How did she die?"

"A black man caught her in an alley when she was cutting through on her way home from checking on a friend. He hit her with a tranquilizer dart but she managed to get away from him. In her panic, she ran into the street and was hit by a car."

"Did the police get anywhere?"

The woman's eyes slid from him to Mallory. "You wouldn't have found the door unlocked if the man's identity were known."

Did the medusa know about Amanda Edson? Was she somehow responsible for Nathan getting the flier, knowing ultimately that he might pass in on? Was she Rahmiel's ally?

Mallory shrugged the questions aside. They didn't matter. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"Don't come here again unless you seek death or are prepared to offer service."

"Understood."

They left the house. Matthew's hand settled at the base of her spine, its heat burning through her clothing.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?"

I'd love to. "You were there, same as I was and this is your lead."

He let it drop.

The fur along Dane's spine rose when they slid into the Jeep, as if the scent of reptiles clung to them.

Her cell rang. She didn't recognize the number but took the call.

"This is Detective Marlon Gerke, Homicide. I need to talk to you in person."

Guilt crept in with thoughts of Iosif. "If you want to do it today or tomorrow, it'll have to be at my office. Do you have the address?"

"I have it. Can you head there now?"

Better to get this behind her. If Hayden had anything new he'd have called, and she doubted Sabin was back from visiting the Satanists' high priest.

"I'm on my way."

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 26

 

 

Linden dropped into the chair in his home office. Sweat coated his skin as if he'd run for miles instead of merely descending the stairs. He was short of breath, drained of energy.

What if this wasn't some flu he'd picked up from a client, from attending the party, from the girl now in his possession?

A shiver wracked him. Then a second and a third, stripping away years and years of good health with resurfaced memory.

Once this fatigue, this sweat-coated skin, this lack of energy had been everyday existence. The disease whose first symptoms had manifested when he was five had caused muscles to atrophy and will to wither by the time he was ten. It had trapped him in a wheelchair, well on his way to becoming nothing more than a drooling waste of humanity.

Fear clawed at the barrier of denial. Subtle tremors rippled through him.

What if the Russian girl had succeeded where the last had failed?

He concentrated on the medallion. He felt the faintest hum of the magical life-force stored there and connected to what had been collected and remained at the house.

Was there less of it?

The sweat on his skin turned cold.

There had to be for him to feel so weak.

It had been decades since he'd felt the warning signs, the subtle indicators that he needed to kill—and those had been nothing like what he now endured.

Aubrey entered his study with Zeus at her side. The sight of her with the Old English Sheepdog slowed the frantic race of his heart and engulfed it in warmth.

The love and concern on her face as she came to him, slender arms hugging him, filled him with resolve. He would do whatever was necessary to overcome this setback.

"Mommy said you're not feeling good. If you're too sick to go to the dog show tomorrow, I'll understand."

"I'll be there. Absolutely nothing will keep me from it."

He buried his nose in silky hair and breathed in the scent of her shampoo. The feel of her against him stirred desires he refused to be tempted by.

He set her aside. His thoughts became dominated by the need to get to the house.

Aubrey picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV mounted on the wall across from his desk. The screen filled with familiar images.

Linden's breath became leaden weight from lips to lungs. He'd expected them to find that last body. But the others…

The girl he'd left behind a dumpster.

The girl who'd cursed him, claiming to use some demon's name.

The girl he'd acquired thanks to her friend, two sacrifices, one he killed immediately while the other, a policeman's stepdaughter, he'd enjoyed for six months.

His stomach shriveled and burned.

Had the authorities found the house?

Were they already on their way to arrest him?

How could this be happening?

He didn't deserve this!

The pounding in his ears muffled the male reporter's voice, but slowly the words filtered in. "Police haven't been willing to confirm rumors that a serial killer is preying on young girls, possibly targeting runaways, but inside sources say that consideration is being given to forming a task force."

Safe. He was safe for now.

He pressed a kiss to Aubrey's soft mouth. "Would you get me some orange juice?"

"Of course, Daddy."

Her sweet smile pierced his heart.

She left.

The onscreen location changed. An Asian reporter stood next to a woman wearing the unattractive brown uniform of a UPS driver.

"We're standing with Amy Edson, the aunt of Amanda Edson. Earlier today, after being approached by a bounty hunter, she grew suspicious that her niece's disappearance wasn't the only one being investigated. When talks with the police yielded no answers, she contacted our investigative unit."

Two pictures appeared in the right hand corner of the screen, a young child and an adult version of that child.

The sight of them stripped away his feeling of safely. He'd glimpsed that woman as he'd been leaving the party.

It's a coincidence.

He couldn't bring himself to believe it.

"Ironically enough," the reporter said, "the bounty hunter in question is Mallory Cassel. Viewers might remember her from news coverage nineteen years ago, when at eight, she was abducted from a grocery store while there with her mother. Calls to her have gone unreturned. As have calls to her stepfather, Phillip Ackerman, a senior level prosecuting attorney."

The news anchor asked, "Is there reason to believe she's working for or with the district attorney's office?"

"At this point, I can't confirm or deny."

Aubrey returned with the orange juice. He muted the TV, taking the glass and asking, "What are you up to today?"

"Mommy and I are going shopping. She wants a new bracelet for the show. We're leaving as soon as she changes clothes."

"Tell your mother to buy you something pretty. Tell her Daddy said so."

Aubrey giggled. "I will."

She hugged him again and peppered his cheeks and lips with kisses before skipping out of the office.

He woke the computer.

There was little to be found on the adult version of Mallory Cassel. She wasn't mentioned in gossip rags. She wasn't heralded for bringing in famous criminals. She was a nobody, except for her past, a nothing living what passed for a normal life.

He wouldn't allow her to ruin his. He wouldn't allow her to unearth his secrets and expose them.

Maybe he could use the Russian…

No. No.

On the television screen the pictures of the dead girls appeared, lined up like tombstones.

He couldn't risk Korotkin making the connection.

He might already know.

He can't.

I've been careful. If anything, he'll believe I know who the killer is and am protecting a client by trying to find a safer way to procure girls.

Korotkin wouldn't waste time on subterfuge when a threat would do.

Linden shivered, discovered himself grasping a handful of shirt, the medallion pressed hard against his palm.

How much does the woman know?

Could he get close, capture her, sacrifice her?

He Googled Phillip Ackerman.

His fear deepened the more he read. Cops and cops and more cops. It didn't need to be the stepfather who'd sent the bounty hunter looking for answers.

He followed another link and fear was beaten back by sudden temptation, by Phillip Ackerman's beautiful young daughter, all dressed up and sitting with her parents and brother at some ceremony.

"No," he whispered. Too risky, though with her innocence and upbringing, she resembled Aubrey more than the Russian girl, more than the ones before her.

Taking her could be made easy—if he was willing to expend a huge amount of stored magic to change his appearance into a familiar one so he could lure her away.

Trying to rid himself of temptation, he scrubbed his hands over his face. Doing it brought the scent of Aubrey's shampoo, the remembered heat of her warm body so trustingly held against his.

Desire stirred and he hated himself for it. So great was the depth of his love for Aubrey that he'd castrate himself rather than harm her. But there was no need, and he was no hypocrite to deny being grateful for it.

His gaze strayed to the computer screen. A call and he could find out where the girl lived.

Don't!

But he did, speed-dialing Jason. The private investigator had yet to fail him.

"A news story caught my attention," he said. "About a bounty hunter named Mallory Cassel. Hunt down her address and her mother's. There's a movie there, if I can pitch the possibility and lock them in as clients quickly enough. The mother is married to a prosecuting attorney. Phillip Ackerman."

"Probably take me less than an hour. I'll get back to you."

It didn't hurt to know.

Linden struggled to his feet. Sweat coursed down his sides.

He was glad he'd called his secretary. He couldn't have appointments hanging over his head. He needed to go to the house.

The spell that kept him in remission was specifically targeted. He needed to determine if he'd caught some bug or if the sigils had been desecrated. If they had—

I'll find a way to get them fixed. Luck isn't going to fail me now.

He had wealth, connections, power.

They didn't reduce his caution.

It took several hours and most of the remaining magic in the medallion to change his appearance before he felt confident enough to approach the house.

He drove into the garage. Its door closed behind him.

Entering the house, he felt drained, his skin slick, his muscles lax and his bones heavy. He couldn't afford to allow the appearance of a black man to fall away like a discarded costume.

He hated that truth. Without the change, he'd be a stranger to the girl, this first time they were alone together and she was aware of him as her savior, her protector, her soon-to-be lover.

He didn't bother turning on the TV to see what she was up to. He stepped into the bedroom, stumbled.

His heart seized at discovering that all the stored magic was gone. His eyes frantically traced the glyphs.

"What have you done!" he yelled, voice edged with hysteria, and hearing it in himself opened the floodgates to fury.

Rage energized him like an infusion of powerful life force. "Don't you know that I saved you? Come here!"

She remained hidden, cowering out of sight.

He stormed over to the bed, gripped the frame and jerked upward rather than lower himself to the floor.

She wasn't there.

Hard, fast strides took him to the bathroom.

He froze in the doorway.

She hung from the shower head, the desk chair lying on its side against the white tile.

"No!"

"No! No! No!"

He couldn't believe this was happening.

He didn't deserve this.

"No!" he screamed. "No!"

She'd stolen his magic. In killing herself, she'd undone all of his sacrifices.

He couldn't accept it.

"No!" he shouted.

"No," he whispered, sounding weak, pathetic, sounding like he had as a child, before his mother had taken him to Haiti, before that first killing.

Fury dumped out of his system in a rush. He swayed, numb. His body trembled. Fever came in sweaty waves and coated his skin until the stench of perspiration and the stink of returning disease overwhelmed his deodorant.

"Think," he whispered, feeling more feverish but unsure whether it was real or imagined.

"Think."

He turned away from the small body still wearing the cheap, thin nightgown.

He forced himself to visually trace the sigil-scripted spell.

It was unbroken.

Think.

Why did this happen?

He began to theorize, to gain assurance, to hope again.

No two deaths held equal value. He'd learned that early on.

Being loved made the difference. Chickens, rabbits, goats, one girl versus another, their value, how much time they gave him when they surrendered their lives fluctuated.

Korotkin had claimed that the sisters were close, that one could be controlled by knowing what could befall the other. What if the girl had sacrificed herself, stolen his magic in an ignorant, wasteful effort to make it easier for her sister to escape? If that were so, wouldn't he then gain a tremendous boost by killing the surviving sister?

Like a starving man, he grasped at the possibility. He would take back what had been stolen.

When he was well away from the house, he would call Korotkin. He would make arrangements to take possession of the other girl.

He had no real choice. Just as he had no choice as to how he would spend the remainder of the day.

He'd sworn he would never again use pets and farmyard animals to sustain himself, but he couldn't afford otherwise.

Revulsion gripped him, anger at being reduced to this. The dead girl wasn't the bounty hunter's fault, but because of her, fear crawled through his stomach.

He wished he could sacrifice her, but he'd settle for striking out at her in a different way.

Not now. He couldn't risk it now. But soon, when he had enough magic to be sure of success, he'd find a way to take Mallory Cassel's sister. She'd know what it was like to rage and fear and fail.

 

 

* * * * *

Chapter 27

 

 

The sick taste returned to Oleg's mouth at seeing the sedan stop in front of the office across the street. Police. He did not need to see their badges to recognize what they were.

Sweat gathered beneath his arms. He should have killed the woman the other day instead of making Vadim aware of her existence.

Now she was bringing more trouble. Perhaps he would need to kill the policemen also, because she had talked to them.

Nyet. No. That would draw too much attention.

What could she know? That he liked to piss on women. He would do the same to her after she'd known his fists and cock, and then he would turn her over to Vadim.

Vadim would work out his rage and it would calm him, and these problems started by Iosif Gruzinsky would be gone.

Files were missing, the computers, but that was not proof of wrongdoing. It would cast suspicion, yes. But there would always be suspicion.

Vadim did not need the bride business. That business was extra, not the way most of the women came to owe debt. It was a place for Vadim's mistresses to work and a way for his mother to have power of her own.

Other things could be found to occupy his mother, and the whores Vadim made into his mistresses were often replaced. Yes, this trouble would soon be at an end. He did not think the police would remain parked in front of the office if they didn't expect the woman to arrive.

He licked his lips, the bad taste in his mouth sliding away. Today he hoped the man and the dog were with her.

He pulled the gun from its harness and screwed on the silencer. Let the police draw them to their deaths.

* * * * *

"Looks like they're waiting for us," Caleb said.

"Sure you don't want to opt out?"

"I'm going to get a complex if you keep trying to get rid of me."

She glanced at him, expression somber. "The smart thing to do would be to run."

Yeah. Yeah it would be.

"Not happening."

She parked the Jeep behind the unmarked sedan. A tall black man with a receding hairline got out on the driver's side. A mixed-race woman exited on the opposite side, curvy and attractive, the jacket and slacks only serving to highlight that she'd gotten the best of Hispanic and African-American roots.

She held a folder, crime scene photos, maybe. And a shiver went through him remembering another alley and a different dead Russian.

Their eyes met and she flashed a quick smile meant to disarm. She'd be the good cop, the sympathetic cop, the let's work together and make it go away cop. Her partner would play the hard-ass.

"Leash," Mallory said to Dane, blocking him. "Or I can leave the windows open."

The dog showed his teeth but didn't resist when she tugged a thin rope from beneath the seat and slipped the looped end around his neck.

Caleb shook his head. "Like that'd really stop him?"

"It's not meant to."

"That's not exactly comforting."

Dane jumped out, ignoring the detectives when they reached the Jeep.

The man was Marlon Gerke. His partner, Isabella Jordan.

"You wanted to talk," Mallory said, not moving.

Jordan smiled big, tilting her head toward the office. "Okay if we talk inside? Might as well do this sitting in a cool place. You've got air-conditioning, right?"

Caleb's lips quirked at having nailed what role she'd play.

Mallory gave in with a shrug.

Steps away from the front door, she slowed. A heartbeat later Dane growled, a deep, low sound of menace that sent an adrenaline surge into Caleb and had him reaching beneath his jacket for the gun.

The cops did the same.

Dane's hackles rose. He tilted his head, making eye contact with Mallory.

The sun caught on the dog's eyes so for an instant they were molten amber, like that glimpse of gold in Mallory's before she'd fainted in the columbarium.

Caleb's hindbrain awakened. Primordial fear crawled into his consciousness like dark ooze climbing out of genetics coded when what counted as human squatted in caves and equated fire with safety and survival.

Not real. But it didn't make it go away.

Dane strained at the end of the leash, looking back over his shoulder as if asking to be freed to track the scent.

She gave a small negative shake of her head.

He showed his teeth.

"Enough, Dane."

For now. While the cops are here.

That's what Caleb heard.

"What's he alerting on?" Gerke asked.

"Someone came by. He doesn't like their smell."

She unlocked the door, opened it, let Dane go in first.

His hackles flattened.

Caleb's hand dropped from the gun.

"You got a permit to carry concealed?" Gerke asked, lips thinned, hand remaining on his weapon.

"You want to see it?"

"Yeah," Gerke said, playing the hard ass.

Caleb pulled his wallet and extracted the permit.

Gerke looked it over, studied it like he was checking for a forgery.

Mallory unleashed Dane and claimed one of the chairs. The dog positioned himself next to it.

Caleb took the other chair, forcing the cops onto the couch.

Showtime.

Gerke's attention was on Mallory while Jordan watched him, looking for a reaction when her partner said, "We're here about Wayne Cleary."

Caleb went cold at hearing the pedophile's name instead of Iosif's. Experience and training kept him from glancing at Mallory, from allowing even a hint of speculation or suspicion into his expression, but he could sense her tensing, could feel the sudden pounding rush of her heart as if it were his own.

"I texted Detective Davidson what I knew about him," she said, sounding calm and controlled.

"What time did you text him?" Gerke asked, but they'd already know the answer.

She pulled her phone, tapped the screen and handed the cell off, the gesture saying, I don't have anything to hide.

"Where were you when you sent this?"

"Outside of Cleary's house."

Gerke returned the phone. "Alone?"

"Matthew was there."

"And Cleary?"

"In his house the last time I saw him."

"Alive?"

"Yes."

Mallory's hand went to Dane's neck. Seeking comfort?

"You've had no contact with him since then?" Gerke asked.

Mallory shrugged. "Why would I? He answered my questions."

"Under duress?"

"He was a pedophile free because the drug war has the jails so overcrowded that guys like him get out on so-called good behavior. Was he killed in his house?"

"What led you to him?" Gerke asked, ignoring her question.

"Confidential sources."

Jordan leaned in, smiling, her voice friendly. "Come on, give us a name."

"And have people stop talking to me? No."

Earlier anger returned, spiking through Caleb. She'd never give up Hayden.

"Where were you from the time you texted Detective Davidson until we contacted you?" Gerke asked.

"Tell me when Cleary was killed and I'll fill in the timeline."

Gerke opened the folder his partner had been carrying. He pulled a photo out and dropped it onto the coffee table.

Cleary's throat gaped like someone had carved a second smile there, widening and finishing Mallory's initial slash.

Suspicion made Caleb's heart stutter. Do you know who killed him?

His gut answered for him. She knew. Or could guess which one of her brothers had finished what she started.

We're all killers.

He wasn't ready to believe she was one. But the others, the dog…

"You like using a knife," Gerke said. "Word is that you brought a bond skip in with a cut in about the same place."

He glanced at his partner. "What was that guy's crime?"

"Rapist."

"Rapist. Child molester. Not so far apart, are they?" Gerke's gaze drilled Mallory. "Where were you from the time you texted Detective Davidson until we contacted you?"

"Narrow it down or charge me with something and wait for me to continue this talk with a lawyer present." Her eyes flicked to the phone in her hand to communicate that she was done.

"We're all on the same side here," Jordan said, conciliatory, shooting her partner a back-the-hell-off look that had probably been perfected within days of their starting to work together. "The coroner puts time of death at eight a.m."

"She was in her apartment," Caleb answered. "I saw her roll in at around four fifteen."

Hell, he'd followed her in the car, body and brain arguing, the one wanting her to knock on his apartment door at spotting the Harley parked in front of it, the other praying she didn't.

The detectives looked at him hard for alibiing her, probably pegging him as an accomplice but going after Mallory as the softer target.

"Did she see you?" Gerke asked, his tone sarcastic disbelief.

Caleb gave a nonchalant shrug. "Doubt it. She looked done-in after hanging out with Hayden at the Brass Ring."

Let her asshole brother finish alibiing her. Let him enjoy the detectives' company.

Gerke and Jordan spent a few more minutes, alternating plays until Gerke finally called it quits.

From the window Caleb watched the detectives get into their sedan, the car continuing to sit in front of the office.

Good luck with that intimidation tactic.

Mallory joined him at the window.

"You shouldn't have pointed them at Hayden."

"Who killed Cleary?"

"Would you believe me if I said I don't know?"

He turned toward her. Fuck. Would he?

Yeah, but he couldn't be absolutely sure whether it came from a gut read or a desire for her to be completely innocent.

The dog padded to her side, eyes on Mallory's face, hackles lifting then smoothing, an unnatural communication that tightened his chest and had Caleb taking a step deeper into the weird.

"Who was here?"

"Iosif's killer."

He believed her. Absolutely. "Then there's a good chance he's close."

"Let's hope so. Let's give him a reason to come for me."

Caleb's hand gripped her forearm, forcing her to face him. "Fuck no. It's too dangerous."

The dog wouldn't have the advantage of darkness and surprise that he'd had when she left him with the junkie.

Her palms landed on his chest. Her lips curved slightly, obviously pleased with his protectiveness even though the quick hardening of her expression told him he wouldn't win this battle.

"We need answers, Matthew. Iosif's daughters and their mother are running out of time."

If it hadn't already expired.

If they weren't already long gone.

Or dead.

He let her push him away.

She slipped the asinine excuse for a leash onto Dane.

"He won't think a woman can defeat him. If I'm alone, he'll make his move." She offered the leash. "You drive away. Let Dane out around the corner."

Caleb's gaze moved to the window visible through the open doorway of her office. Christ, she had to know what Dane was capable of—except a dead man couldn't answer her questions.

"What if he gets in before your dog does?"

"He won't. But if he does, I'll shoot him."

Jesus.

Jesus.

But what did he expect?

He should resist. He knew he should resist.

He gave her a hard kiss.

"I'll drop Dane, but I'm not staying away."

"So you've been telling me since yesterday."

Her smile hit him center mass, hard, like a forty-five caliber round. His stomach roiled at the thought of not making it back in time.

He took the rope. It was slack, but it might as well have been pulled taut. The dog's desire to kill surged into him like jolted electricity.

* * * * *

Oleg lifted a small wooden frame from the dresser, bringing it closer for a better look at the picture of the woman. It was too bad she wasn't home.

She was pretty. He would have enjoyed having her entertain him while he waited.

That would not be a good thing for the man smiling so adoringly at her. Another weak, pathetic American.

Oleg returned the picture to the dresser. It was just as well neither had been home when he entered their apartment.

Already this was messy. He did not wish Vadim to think he had become a liability.

He could imagine Vassily whispering such things in Vadim's ear. Wanting to curry favor, to make himself more valuable.

The police car drove away.

Oleg smiled in anticipation of finally dealing with the stupid cunt who had caused him so much trouble. Killing the man and dog, that would be like foreplay.

His cock stirred, thinking of the pleasure he'd find in it. He swept his arm across the dresser, the gun crashing into the photographs, breaking the glass and sending most of them to the floor.

Imagining the fear that would come when the woman and the man in the pictures returned and found their home violated, that was also foreplay.

Across the street the office door opened.

He cursed, his pleasure wiped away at not being close enough to act. He could not reach them without their becoming aware of the threat. He could not shoot from his location because the distance and angle did not allow for success.

The dog stepped outside and then the man. The woman stopped in the doorway. She smiled at the man like a bitch in heat.

Oleg's pleasure returned.

The man retraced his steps. He kissed the cunt who had caused so much trouble, not the demonstration of a man of power but the touch of one who allowed a woman to control him with her pussy.

Oleg stroked the gun's trigger. This was a man who deserved killing.

He and the dog walked to the Jeep. They got inside and drove away.

She was alone now.

Oleg would have preferred it to be nighttime but he did not think such an easy opportunity would come again. The street was not a busy one. Only a few people had come and gone as he waited, only a few cars had traveled down it.

He would need to subdue her quickly and get her to his car. She would tell him where to find the man responsible for Pyotr's disappearance. She would tell him how to find the man and the dog. And he would enjoy his time with her before he took her to Vadim.

The glass and wood and plastic of the picture frames crunched beneath his feet as Oleg walked away from the window. He checked the hallway before leaving the apartment and moving purposefully down the stairs.

He was glad he had not entered the office earlier. He'd thought to wait for the woman, to rifle through her files and discover a home address, or the address of someone she loved.

He hadn't wanted to risk the dog being inside. Now there was no such risk.

The lock would take him seconds to open. It could be done quietly, though it amused him to think of knocking on the door and having her answer.

He smiled as he left the shelter of the apartment stairway.

 

Dane jumped through the office window and padded to Mallory's side in the reception area. Her mouth watered as she watched the man's approach.

He looked like a man who'd once fought in a ring. He moved with confidence and purpose.

What she'd experienced standing in front of the pedophile was nothing compared to what she felt now. Her body ached. Her fingers flexed. Ancient, powerful words hummed through her.

She hadn't worn fur in eleven years and now that she could evoke the change, the need to was nearly unbearable.

Dane bumped against her, urging her toward her office. He growled and she met his gaze, knowing her eyes held the same amber sheen.

Another growl, the flash of his teeth and her own bared, coming with an alpha's desire to pin a challenger to the floor.

That shook her nearly as much as the depth of her desire to change into a Hound's form.

Dane pressed his head against her hand and she could see the human version putting both hands in the air. She could hear him saying, We're good, Mal. Just make the fucking smart move here.

Her brain said that move was retreating to her office, where she'd be a visible target, where she'd serve as a distraction.

They'd hunted countless times in Hell, one of them human, the other hound. She didn't doubt that Dane would take the Russian down before he'd managed a single shot, and still…

Her mouth watered. Her body hummed with the desire to be the one to engage.

She couldn't expel that desire, only counter it with, "He's all yours."

Fast, long strides took her into the office.

It was the smart move.

But she wondered if it was the smart move simply because it would distract the Russian, or if it would also reduce the chance that she'd lose control and shift form then kill.

She heard her assailant's footstep.

The soft touch of his hand on the doorknob.

The slow turn and she imagined him smiling at finding the door unlocked.

A shove and he entered, arm extended and holding a silenced gun.

His gaze met hers.

Satisfaction and anticipation flashed between them.

Dane leapt.

Powerful jams clamped on the Russian's arm.

And the hunter became the prey.

 

Adrenaline flooded Caleb's system. He left his hiding place at a run. He would never have been able to leave Mallory in the first place if he didn't know she anticipated the attack, that she could handle a threat, if he didn't know what Dane could do, just how fast the dog could take down an armed assailant.

He reached the door, shoved through it, breathing hard. And still, relief slammed into him.

Dane had the Russian pinned to the floor face up. His teeth were clamped onto the man's throat in a crushing grip.

The Russian's suit jacket was shredded. The skin on his gun arm was ripped and punctured and bloody.

Mallory held the silenced weapon in her left hand and her gun in the other. "Cuffs are in my back pocket."

Caleb holstered his weapon and tugged the cuffs from her pocket.

He got one of the Russian's wrists bound.

Dane shifted his grip and his weight to accommodate rolling the Russian onto his front to get both hands secured behind his back.

Ice mixed with the adrenaline pumping through Caleb's system at how intuitive the dog was, how fucking human.

Caleb patted the man down. "No identification. No phone."

Hayden could probably tap into surveillance and find the Russian getting out of a car. Or Dane could find the car with his nose. Fuck, Mallory probably could.

That sped Caleb's heart.

Dane's head jerked, eyes suddenly trained on him.