Simultaneously, he prayed, hoping that even though it hadn’t been his God who’d visited him two weeks ago, and even though he hadn’t prayed to Him in a very long time, God was still there and willing to hear him.
Special Agent Felicia Locke knew the minute she saw the willowy dharmire that there was going to be trouble.
She’d chosen the bar because it was as far from Pennsylvania Avenue and the J. Edgar Hoover Building as one could get and still be in Washington, D.C. With its spray-painted façade, dim lights, and ramshackle assortment of tables and chairs, the Black Hole was also light-years away from what a typical federal agent would consider reputable, let alone palatable. In its favor was the fact it served the best brandy in the state, strong and undiluted. That and some privacy was all Felicia wanted. She’d just locked her car and was walking toward the bar’s back entrance when a dharmire, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, stumbled around the corner of the building and into view.
Felicia immediately recognized the female as half-Other; although she had a vampire’s silver hair and black eyes, her skin was sun-toasted, just a shade lighter than a graham cracker. She clung to the arm of a stocky man with no neck, squinty eyes, and slicked-back hair. The man pushed her against the side of the building and covered her slim body with his own.
Felicia’s prediction of trouble formed not because the man was ugly, but because he was unkempt and, considering the foul things he was saying, obviously uncouth.
She’d never met a vamp who’d willingly suffer the company of someone so appallingly unrefined. It would be like asking one to wear jeans or, God forbid, drive a beat-up old truck down a public highway. As a rule, vamps didn’t do casual or tacky.
Even so, she tried telling herself that maybe the girl just looked young. There was no accounting for poor taste, after all. But the closer she got, the more apparent it became that the dharmire was under the influence. Her silver pupils were dilated and glassy, and she appeared to cling to the man out of necessity rather than affection.
The man shifted to the side just as Felicia walked within ten feet of them. She saw the fine gold chain and pendant around the dharmire’s neck—a smaller, more feminine version of the one Knox wore and an exact replica of the one Noella had worn all her life. The same pendant Felicia’s best friend had been wearing on the day she’d died, a gaping hole in her chest where her heart had once been.
Felicia came to an abrupt stop and blinked her eyes several times to make sure she wasn’t imagining it. But no, it was real and it was a real bitch of a sign. Noella had died exactly one year ago today and it couldn’t be coincidence that, before Felicia even had a chance to get rip-roaring drunk while avoiding Knox at the same time, a female appeared who was from Noella’s clan—
Knox’s
clan—and in obvious need of help.
Thoughts of Knox assailed her. Had Kyle Mahone gotten in touch with him? She’d been fully briefed on the Bureau’s plan to add a new team to the FBI’s elite, super-SWAT group referred to as the HRT, Hope Restored Team. She knew that team was the crucial step toward stabilizing relations between humans and the Otherborn races they’d once fought. And despite her preference to stay as separated from Knox as possible, she knew he was the right choice to lead it. Most civilians craved peace now, but it was a constant, often bloody battle given the insurgents, humans and Others alike, that resisted.
On the other hand, Felicia thought, still staring at the man and the dharmire . . . There would always be individuals who just naturally preyed on those weaker than themselves.
Okay, okay. Message received.
No rest for the wicked.
Despite how shaken Mahone still felt, he didn’t flinch when Special Agent Leonard Walker threw open his door and stalked into his office. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited calmly for the explosion.
He didn’t have long to wait.
Even so, compared to an ethereal creature with the power to enter his mind and, oh yeah, the apparent ability to destroy the earth, Walker was hardly a threat.
The man planted himself in front of Mahone’s desk, thrusting his face forward as if to compensate for his lack of height. “This is some kind of joke, right?”
It was obviously a hypothetical question. No sooner had Walker asked it than he thumped his fist on Mahone’s desk.
“Ten years ago we were hunting these fuckers down, and now we’re supposed to fight next to them?”
“Not too long ago,” Mahone reminded him, “I wouldn’t have been able to sit at the front of the bus with you, Walker. Now you answer to me. Times change.”
Walker narrowed his eyes, making Mahone stiffen. Most of the time, Walker was an okay agent; what he excelled at was training exceptional ones. Walker had all the right moves, but only in theory. When it came to applying them in the field, where subtlety or quick thinking was required, Walker became set in his ways. He trained with all the special ops teams, but he wasn’t going to train Team Red.
“Don’t give me that ACLU, politically correct, we’re-allequal bullshit, Mahone. Regardless of the color of our skin, you and me, we share the same DNA.” Walker jerked his thumb toward the office window. “These—these freaks are—are . . .”
Mahone cocked a brow, amused at the blustery man’s red-faced loss for words but equally pissed at his lack of restraint. He allowed a hint of steel to edge his voice. “Don’t let the fact that we graduated the Academy together make you forget your rank, Walker. Stay civil. And shut my door. Now.”
Licking his lips, Walker searched Mahone’s face, then quietly shut the door.
“Freaks or not,” Mahone said a moment later, “the Others we’ve selected are half-human and they have special skills that no amount of training can duplicate.”
“Our men are the best—”
“No question about that. But being fully human means they have limitations. The Others aren’t aliens that just landed on Earth a decade ago. They’re citizens. They live among us openly now. Hell, some of their ancestors roamed Earth before we did.” He laughed at the irony. “We just didn’t know it.”
“’Cause they didn’t want us to know. ’Cause they needed victims—”
“Victims like Manson’s? Ng’s? Dahmer’s?” Mahone snorted. “Find me a species that hasn’t been tainted by bad blood and I’ll hand in my resignation right now.”
“I’m not going to let you do this.”
Mahone’s brows lifted at the blatant threat in Walker’s voice. Mouthy was one thing. Insubordinate something altogether different. “You might want to reconsider how you—” Mahone began, his voice low.
A commanding knock on the door interrupted him.
Walker spun around as Mahone got slowly to his feet.
Knox Devereaux was early.
Mahone couldn’t say how he knew the half-vampire/half-human was standing outside. He just did. Mahone refused to attribute his racing pulse to fear, but it pissed him off anyway.
Mahone had known Knox for over ten years. The dharmire wasn’t as overtly hostile as Hunt, but in some ways, his calm, formal mannerisms were twice as unsettling. Probably because anyone with an ounce of intuition could sense the passion boiling just beneath his controlled façade. Mahone had picked Devereaux to lead Team Red because his strategic skill, leadership ability, and calm under pressure couldn’t be beat. Yet he knew there was so much more to the vamp. Mahone had seen for himself how dangerous the dharmire could be when his control gave way to blood lust, or straight-out lust—always for one particular woman.
Several more knocks shook the door.
Mahone’s gaze found Walker’s. “Team Red’s a done deal,” he snapped, hoping the decision wouldn’t turn out to be the biggest mistake of his life. “And if you threaten me again, you’ll wonder if we share the same DNA, after all.” In a louder voice, he called, “Enter.”
The door opened and Knox Devereaux stepped inside. He was, as always, impeccably dressed. Tall and grim-faced, his dark pants, expensive black duster jacket, and polished boots made him look like a
GQ
outlaw.
Yes, indeed, Mahone thought. The times had changed.
The right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness no longer applied just to humans.
Wraiths had the right to vote. A court had just ruled that a mage’s right to practice magic was akin to one’s right to worship. And vamps, both full vampires and dharmires alike, couldn’t be denied health coverage based on “malnourishment” being a preexisting condition.
The Others were demanding their due and making their presence known.
Soon, they’d be protecting some of the same individuals they’d fought just years before.
God bless the U.S. of A.
And just to be safe, the Goddess Essenia bless them all.
He’d done his best. By assembling Team Red, he’d either save the world or damn it. If Team Red failed, they wouldn’t know the full ramifications of doing so.
Mahone, on the other hand, would take the knowledge straight to Hell.
Maybe, just maybe, Knox Devereaux could help make sure that didn’t happen.
TWO
W
alking into Mahone’s office, Knox instantly sized up the two men in front of him. Mahone was the only one of importance. The other man—loose jowled with thinning hair and a soft middle straining the buttons of his suit jacket—had “bigot” spelled all over his pinched, disapproving face, but Knox couldn’t have cared less. Everything about him—from his hostility to his poor dress—radiated grunt. A bigoted grunt wasn’t worth his time. But even so, Knox thought evilly, he couldn’t just ignore the man.
That would be rude.
“Am I interrupting?” Knox murmured, his solicitous tone failing to disguise his lack of concern any more than his wraparound Ray-Bans disguised what he was. The men couldn’t see his silver pupils and coal black irises, but Knox’s unusual height, deceptively lanky frame, and “prematurely” silver mane would have given him away even if he hadn’t been wearing the chain and medallion with his clan’s insignia—three inverted triangles, linked together, two on top and one beneath. The two represented a vamp’s fangs, while all three symbolized his clan’s most enduring principles: strength, honor, and constancy.
Knox had always worn the medallion with pride, long before these humans had learned its meaning. It had helped him endure the years of hiding. Helped ease the sting of cowardice he felt each time he stood alongside his mother, telling his people they had to hide what they were.
Now?
He smiled, deliberately flashing the bigot a good view of his incisors. Without even trying to use his mind-reading powers, Knox knew his name was Leonard Walker.
With a low curse, Walker skirted past him, taking great care to navigate around Knox as if the slightest brush of their clothing would contaminate him. He barely breathed the words, but Knox heard them loud and clear.
“Filthy bastard.”
Knox considered letting the man walk past, but frankly, he didn’t want to. Within seconds, he had him by the throat. He tsked and leaned in close, close enough that he could smell the man’s fear radiating off him. Knox closed his eyes and acknowledged that while he was far from enraged—he felt mildly angry, annoyed really—his actions felt good, like stretching muscles he too often kept bound.
Walker gasped Mahone’s name, the sound snapping Knox’s eyes open. A quick glance confirmed the director had taken his seat again, a look of mild interest on his face. Knox turned back to the man, lifting him higher until his feet barely touched the ground. “Maybe you don’t know my parents were married, Mr. Walker, but I take umbrage at you calling me filthy. Like all vamps, I’m quite particular about my hygiene. Filth isn’t something we abide if at all possible.”
Any remaining color drained from Walker’s face. Knox released him, removed a linen cloth from his jacket pocket, and wiped his hands with insulting deliberation. Walker followed the movements, swallowed, then glared at his boss. “I’ll remember this, Mahone,” he wheezed.
“Good. Now get the hell out of here.”
Walker slammed the door shut behind him while Knox pocketed his handkerchief.
“I’m sure the asshole deserved that, but you know mind-reading is off limits,” Mahone said.
Knox stiffened. As if he could forget. As his clan’s primary leader during his mother’s weakening, Knox had signed the Humanity Treaty and agreed to the UN’s corresponding resolution, which was designed to prevent further bloodshed if and when the Others outside the United States chose to reveal themselves fully. Both documents limited a vamp’s ability to mind-read or wield the power of persuasion unless “absolutely necessary.” He’d signed them because it had been in his clan’s best interest. And no matter what someone like Walker thought, vamps were creatures of honor. Knox lived by the rules he set, just like everyone else.
Narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses, Knox planted his palms on the director’s desk, and leaned in close. That this man—this
human
—would dare doubt Knox’s integrity after what
he’d
done to Knox’s mother was beyond insulting. “And you know,” he said softly, “that some information just telegraphs, whether I’m in someone’s mind or not. Plus, I’ve got eyes and ears, and he didn’t bother hiding his disdain.”
Mahone didn’t blink. “There are many who feel the same way.”
Straightening, Knox tilted his head and flexed a brow. “Shocking. You mean there are humans that don’t like bloodsucking immortals? I suppose my first clue should have been when one shoved a wooden stake into my mother’s chest. Didn’t kill her, of course, but it sure did piss her off.”
That had been over a hundred years ago, when fears of the occult, Charles Darwin, and aliens were challenging man’s faith in God and a human-centered universe.
Mahone hesitated. “How
is
your mother?”