“You don’t look fine.” Sheriff Jones frowned as the other cops gathered around them in an interested mob. “You need to get checked out. You could have been hurt in that blast more than you think. And what the hell were you doing, running off into the woods like that?”
“Looking for the killer.” She swayed.
Blue eyes narrowed. “Dammit, you’re a civilian. Hunting bad guys is
our
job.” The big man’s jaw worked in frustration, and he made a throwaway gesture with one hand. “Wasting my breath. You don’t even know what planet you’re on.” He glowered around in irritation. “Where the hell are the paramedics?”
“Right here, Sheriff,” a man called, carrying a backboard into the clearing.
Giada managed a glare, swaying. “I don’t need a doctor.” “I say you do,” Jones told her firmly. He glanced at Logan, hovering by her elbow. “And while you’re at it, check out the lieutenant,” he told the paramedic. “He doesn’t look so good either.”
“Yes, sir.” The man put down the backboard as his partner dropped the medical kit beside them. “Have a seat, y’all.”
Logan didn’t even consider offering an argument. He felt like crap—bloody, exhausted, and nursing a headache that felt as if a Dire Wolf was whaling away on his skull with a hammer.
“Come on.” He pulled Giada gently to the ground. “Let the nice paramedics do their job.”
Terrence John Anderson
hung across the monster’s furry shoulder and worked hard not to heave. Vomiting down the creature’s back wouldn’t be the best career move he’d ever made.
In fact, it would be right up there with taking this fucking job to begin with. The witch was right—he’d been underpaid. Three million was nowhere near enough to deal with this shit. Witches. Monsters. Men who wouldn’t fucking
die.
And he’d pissed himself. The scalding humiliation of that made him want to kill something. Again.
Right when he was getting ready to heave last night’s moo goo gai pan into its fur, the monster came to a skidding halt in the leaves.
A moment later, Terrence hit the ground with a teeth-rattling thud. Despite his rebelling stomach and throbbing ass, he didn’t waste time scrambling to his feet.
The creature towered over him, seven feet of muscle, fur, claws, and really,
really
big teeth.
Jesus Christ,
he thought, staring up at it in disbelief,
it’s a freaking werewolf.
Its head was unmistakably lupine, with a long, fanged muzzle and pointed ears. Thick fur the color of cinnamon covered its head and shoulders in a fluffy mane that fell to surprisingly round, full breasts. The fur was shorter elsewhere, a fine red-brown pelt, though it thickened over the creature’s groin. Its—her—body had a lean elegance that reminded him of a leopard’s. And her claws were the length of Ka-Bar knives.
A ball of ice formed in his stomach. She could rip him apart and eat him before he knew what hit him. He took a step away and said the first thing that came into his head. “I’ve got money.”
“You should.” Her eyes gleamed down at him, bright as the LEDs on a bomb timer. “I paid you enough up front.”
Okay, that was a good sign. Capable of rationality. Maybe he could—
This thing had hired him?
“You’re my contact?” She didn’t sound like the woman on the phone. He wouldn’t have mistaken that deep, growling voice for anything human.
“Yes.” She leaned down until her muzzle was a foot from his face and peeled her lips off long, gleaming white teeth. “Which is why I strongly suggest
you don’t give me up to any fucking witch.
”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The words emerged as an embarrassing squeak.
She snorted, stirring the hair on his head. “You were about to sing like you were auditioning for
American Idol
.”
Terrence licked his lips and dared, “Nobody said anything about witches.”
She tilted her massive head. “Would you have believed me, asshole?”
There was no percentage in answering that one. “So what do you want me to do now?”
The werewolf turned away and began to pace, moving with odd grace on legs more like a dog’s than a biped’s. “MacRoy is still alive, but you tossed a fine wasps’ nest among those cops today. That was good.”
Maybe she would let him live. “Thank you.”
She shot him a narrow-eyed stare that made him step back a pace. “I’d be happier if MacRoy was dead.”
He gave her a sickly smile. “I’d be glad to try again. I like a happy customer.” That was closer to groveling than he liked to come.
Another gusting snort. “I’ll bet.” The silence stretched as she paced. The werewolf moved with amazing silence, considering she had to weigh four hundred pounds. “I want something bigger next time. Something really dramatic. Civilians.” She gave her massive head a short and decisive nod. “Lots of dead civilians, something that will send a message nobody can ignore.” Pivoting, she lifted those knifelike claws in an unmistakable threat. “But this time MacRoy dies. Or you do.”
Terrence stretched his mouth into a semblance of a wide smile. He was all too aware of his wet pants. “Got it.”
Yeah, he got it. Him or MacRoy—and the werewolf would kill him in a way he really wouldn’t like. So it would damn well have to be MacRoy.
It was late
afternoon when Logan stepped out on the deck outside his house, his broad shoulders slumped, one big hand wrapped around a beer bottle as he leaned a hip on the railing.
Giada pulled the French door open and stepped outside. She still felt vaguely as if she were floating, power fizzing just under the skin. Whatever Smoke had done to heal her had quite a kick.
Even the call to the Mageverse had been effortless, daylight or no daylight. Guinevere hadn’t been happy to learn a Dire Wolf was involved. Still, it did explain how the killer had been able to block their magic. She’d said they’d contact the Direkind as soon as Arthur woke from the Daysleep. Their new allies should be able to help them track the killer down easily enough.
Then she’d thanked Giada for saving Logan’s life. Her gratitude had stung, considering what had happened to Mark.
Giada eyed the beer bottle in Logan’s hand as she crossed the deck to join him. “Should you be drinking that?” The ER doctor had said Logan had a mild concussion.
“No.” He took a deliberate swallow.
“Ah.” She badly wanted to heal him. Though the sun was still up, power buzzed through her like the snap and crackle of electricity. Her own power, not the emerald’s.
Unfortunately, Logan would definitely notice any attempt to heal him, no matter how subtle she was about it.
Maybe when he was asleep . . .
Giada frowned. On second thought, that sounded a bit questionable.
It seemed she’d been doing questionable things a lot lately. The results had not been good, especially for Mark Davis and his family.
Guilt stabbed her, a knife-twist of pain right in her heart.
As if reading her mind, Logan spoke. “The sheriff’s telling Mark’s wife right now,” He took another deliberate swig of his beer. “Her whole fucking life is imploding. And then she’s got to tell her daughter Daddy ain’t coming home. Ever.”
Giada winced. “I’m sorry.” The words were automatic—and utterly useless.
“So’m I. He was my man, and I let him get killed.”
“How could you have prevented it?” She crossed the deck, drawn as helplessly to his pain as iron fillings to a magnet. “You had no reason to believe somebody was targeting first responders.”
Because I didn’t tell you you’re the target of an assassin
. Another vicious stab of guilty pain accompanied the thought.
“I was his superior officer.” A muscle worked in his tight jaw. “It’s my job to foresee possibilities and look out for my men.”
Giada studied Logan’s stony profile, seeing his father clearly in the line of his nose, the sweeping angle of his brows, the jut of his chin. Which was probably why what he’d just said sounded as if it had come out of Arthur’s mouth. It probably had.
“What, you were supposed to use your X-ray vision to detect that bomb, then fly Davis to safety?” Giada asked tartly. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s a badge on your chest, not a big red S.”
He slanted her a look and snorted. “Your inner nerd is showing.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to snap,
And your Arthur is showing
. But that, of course, would open a can of worms the size of boa constrictors.
She could only grind her teeth in frustration.
The thing was,
Giada had a point. Logan was only human—but he didn’t have to be.
If he’d been a vampire . . .
You would have been in the Daysleep, dumbass, because it was still daylight
.
But given a similar situation at night, could he have used his vamp abilities to detect the bomb?
Maybe, maybe not. It was impossible to tell. And pointless to wonder. Mark was dead, and nothing would change that. As Dad liked to say,
“Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Didn’t.”
And in this business, you didn’t get a second chance. If you fucked up, people died. Logan had fucked up, and Mark’s wife and daughter would spend the rest of their lives with an aching emptiness instead of the man they loved.
There were things Logan could do to make their lives a bit easier, things he
would
do. Mark’s insurance would kick in, and the deputies would band together to do whatever they could for the fallen cop’s family, just as they always did.
But Logan had access to considerable financial resources as the son of Arthur Pendragon, resources he rarely tapped. He would make sure Mark’s bright little girl went to college, that she and her mother wanted for nothing. But none of it would make up for Mark’s loss.
Neither would finding the bastard who had done this and making him pay. Logan was going to do it anyway, just for the sheer joy of taking the murdering bastard down. Even if it meant fucking the first Maja he could find and becoming a vampire.
Even if it meant never seeing Giada Shepherd again.
That thought hit him with a sword stroke of pain, an ache that rivaled his guilt. He turned to look at her hungrily, studying her face in the light of the setting sun. Rose and gold painted the line of her nose, the soft tilt of her lips, the rounded curve of her chin. Her hair was down for once, distilled sunlight lying in tousled curls around her shoulders. Her black T-shirt had bright green lettering that read, “Don’t make me get my flying monkeys.” The shirt was a little too tight, emphasizing the round, lovely swell of her breasts. Jeans clung to her runner’s thighs, faded almost white over the knees and fly.
And she was mortal.
Mortals and Magekind could never marry. He had never questioned that rule. The truth of it was too self-evident. It was one thing to grow old with someone, but to grow old while your partner remained young caused inevitable bitterness and jealousy. It was better to let a mortal find happiness with another mortal.
But Logan had also never fallen in love with a mortal before.
As that thought sliced into his consciousness, he froze, stunned by its sheer power.
In love? With Giada Shepherd?
Holy hell.
He certainly wanted her. Logan remembered the hot, slick grip of her sex, those long, warm legs wrapped around his waist, the taste of her hard nipples, her intoxicating response to his every hard thrust.
But there was more to the attraction than her eager body or her elegant blond beauty. There was that keen intelligence, that sly sense of humor, the courage that had her returning to the job even after a would-be killer took a shot at her.
She was the kind of woman he could imagine spending the rest of his life with. Too bad it wasn’t possible.
Too bad it was time for the Gift. He’d put it off by telling himself he wasn’t ready to attempt the transition, but in truth, he’d had the needed emotional maturity for a while now. He was not a kid anymore.
Maybe on some level he’d been waiting for his Gwen—the Maja who’d capture his heart and draw him into a spiritual Truebond so profound, they became one being.
Instead, he’d met a mortal who made him want what he couldn’t have.
“There is such pain in your eyes.” Giada lifted a hand and laid it against his cheek. Her fingers felt cool and smooth. “I’m so sorry about Davis.”
He started to tell her his pain was not caused by Davis—or not only by Davis. But before he could speak, she rose on her toes and covered his parted lips with her own.
The kiss was exquisitely gentle, an offer of comfort, as delicate as a rose petal. Yet it detonated in his consciousness in a rolling burst of feral need.
His mind catalogued each dizzying sensation: her breasts, so lusciously, delightfully soft, the tips pressing hard against his chest. The warmth of her long legs against his. Her fingers threading through his hair. Her tongue, stroking wet and slick through his lips to touch his own.
Raw sex. Pure tenderness.
With a low groan of hunger, Logan caught Giada’s hips and pulled her against him, wanting to touch every inch of her with every inch of him.
God, she felt incredible. Strong, slim, delightfully female, seduction incarnate.
He was going to have to give her up. There was no choice. But not now.
Not tonight. He could have tonight.
Logan kissed Giada
with a white-hot intensity that made her breath catch. Strong hands tugged her against his hips, branding her belly with the hard length of his cock. Arousal curled through her, a response to all that heat, that delicious male strength.
He slid a hand up under the hem of her shirt to take warm possession of her breast. A thumb teased her nipple to full hardness, sent sweet arousal flooding through her. He bit her lower lip, gentle but demanding, and she opened to him with a soft, helpless groan.