“You win tonight,” she said. There was always tomorrow night.

“So what’s my prize?” he asked.

His prize? If he expected what she had just denied the wolves, she would slay him right here and now, and be damned if she fell to her death.

“I can’t bite you,” he said, dashing his tongue along one fang, “because you’ve got that damned collar. Too sharp. Though pain—gives me a thrill. But I can do this.”

And he kissed her. Hard and urgent, forcing his sweet breath into her mouth. The vampire persisted, pressing his body against her knee, challenging her to hurt him, to deny him this stolen prize.

Training had not covered this sort of attack. She could feel his fangs pressing into her lip, but not cutting. Insanity! Never would she—

Suddenly the hard crush of their mouths softened. Lark dropped her knee. And like a moth with tattered wings surrendering to the flame, she granted the vampire his prize.

About the Author

MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and of creatures she has never seen.

Michele can be found on Facebook and Twitter and at michelehauf.com. You can also write to Michele at PO Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303, USA.

Beautiful Danger

Michele Hauf

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The music from the cello-rock band Apocalyptica

inspired this story so I want to thank them for

filling my brain with fantastical images of

beauty, danger and love.

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

Prologue

Smoke billowed and clouded the halls and rooms in the Levallois pack complex. Werewolves, in both animal form and human form, retreated from what had once been their sanctuary.

The alarm sounded a droning cry but didn’t coerce the pack leader to work more swiftly. Remy Caufield, pack principal, stuffed a valise with valuable financial records taken from the safe, along with other documents he was unwilling to leave behind. Sure, the safe was fireproof. But he could not guarantee he would be first on the scene following the fire’s devastation to claim what was inside the safe.

The door to his office slammed open, and thinking the flames had raged this far, he held up the leather valise in a protective manner to block his face.

What stood in the doorway was not flame or a fellow werewolf.

The haggard creature who bounded into the office, right leg dragging limply, and wild black hair tangled about his head so only his eyes showed, was the pack’s pet vampire.

Well, pet defined the man ironically. They’d had the longtooth for countless months, and had used him well. The thing just would not die. It had become a sort of experiment to see how long the creature would cling to life. He had defeated every opponent put to him in the circular steel cage kept in the compound basement. And remarkably, the UV sickness, while it maddened the creature, only seemed to make him stronger in the ring.

The werewolves had made a mistake last night. Remy hadn’t known the vampire they’d matched against this creature was a phoenix. The phoenix was a powerful vampire who decades ago had survived a witch’s blood attack, which had once been poisonous to vampires. Drinking his opponent to death must have infused their pet’s blood with the nearly indestructible phoenix’s blood.

Domingos was his name. Maybe. Remy didn’t care.

“You’ve gotten loose?” he asked stupidly.

The vampire slapped his filthy hands on the desk before him and growled, showing his bloody fangs—blood that could only have come from Remy’s men.

“You will pay for this!” the creature raged. “I will return!”

Remy scoffed, but his heart cringed. The vampire’s eyes were black as hell and yet bright, so frighteningly bright. He looked into a strangely lucid madness.

“Serve me your worst,” Remy said bravely. “You won’t make it beyond the flames.”

The vampire grinned maniacally. For a second Remy thought he would leap the desk and attack. But instead the longtooth grabbed the office chair and tossed it toward the window. Glass shattered.

Leaping to the windowsill—they were three stories up from the concrete courtyard—Domingos turned and saluted. “I will kill every wolf in the Levallois pack.”

And then he jumped.

Remy slapped the valise to his chest, knowing he would see the vampire again.

Chapter 1

One month later

The pack complex had not been rebuilt after the fire. The pack principal, Remy Caufield, had created a sort of family home in an eighteenth-century town house at the edge of the sixteenth arrondissement, close to the forested Bois de Boulogne.

Or so Lark had been briefed an hour earlier by her supervisor.

The Order of the Stake tendered a fragile relationship with werewolves. Knights in the Order exclusively slayed vampires, but there was nothing to keep them from tracking and killing a werewolf should it prove a threat to mortals. The Order, populated exclusively by mortals, allied with none from the paranormal nations.

“Ah?” The principal of the Levallois pack looked up from his desk as she approached to stand quietly before him. His dark eyebrows furrowed curiously. “I hadn’t expected a woman. I thought the Order was strictly men.”

“You thought wrong,” she answered curtly. “You have a job for me?”

“No introductions? I’m Principal Caufield.” He offered his hand to shake across the desk.

Lark did not accept the offer but instead returned an acknowledging nod. Best to keep him appeased. She didn’t like paranormals of any kind, but her training had taught her diplomacy.

“You can call me Lark.”

“Lark. Pretty, in a…” His pale eyes took in the sleek black cleric’s coat she wore, tight black leather leggings reinforced with Kevlar on the thighs and high leather jackboots. At the collar of her coat gleamed the bladed edging designed to keep away vamps looking for a thick, juicy vein. “Well, you seem to fit the bill, Miss, er…Lark. You’ve been knighted?”

“As are all who serve the Order. If you need reassurance that I can do the job, Principal Caufield, you’ve only to check with Rook, as I’m sure you have. But I am here now, and I assume you wish little time wasted. A third of your pack has been slain?”

He nodded and exhaled as he settled back in the office chair. “Yes, a third. Utter insanity. Eight of my pack slain in a month’s time. The culprit is the vampire Domingos LaRoque. He is mad.”

“Truly?” Lark hated to think of madness overtaking any man, yet while her tone professed lacking belief, her heart believed. Too deeply. “Or is he merely angry over crimes the Levallois pack perpetrated against him?”

The principal leaned forward, eyeing her with some concern. “You show pity toward a vampire?”

“Not at all. I simply want to deal with the facts. Lies complicate things. So tell me the truth.”

“Very well. To cut through the bullshit, it is no secret the pack engages in the blood sport.”

Illegal fights that pitted captured vampires against one another to the death, but those fights only occurred after months of starvation and forcibly induced UV sickness. Such callous disregard for the sanity and welfare of those not their breed was a good reason for Lark to not let down her guard around werewolves.

“Domingos was an odd one,” the principal continued, thumbing his chin in thought. “Normally the vampires we engage in the sport last a round or two before expiring. But LaRoque lasted six months. That vampire possessed a twisted will to live. Even the UV sickness could not defeat him. Although I believe it made him mad—literally. He’s a dangerous opponent. Can you take him out before he murders the remainder of my family?”

“Of course.” Lark nodded once and then, before turning to leave, said, “The first time I lay eyes on Domingos LaRoque will be the last time he takes a breath.”

The pack had spread out as he’d thinned the herd. Heh. He’d stood good to his word upon breaking out of that hellacious complex. But no time to celebrate. He had a werewolf to track—if he could just keep the music in his head from distracting him. It wasn’t even a song. More like a gathering of distorted violin chords, like a cat in heat yowling for attention. That, and the slithery whispers that never left him alone. He never understood any of the words, if they were words; it was just an eerie constant murmuring. It was enough to drive a man mad.

“Been there, done that. Still doing it,” Domingos muttered.

He banged the side of his head against the brick wall where he hid in a dark alley. That helped. Joggled his brain. Focused him. Until the cacophony resumed.

Clenching his teeth, he smacked a fist to the side of his skull. Ah, silence.

“Finally,” he muttered, and snuck forward through the night.

Cool shadows calmed him and relaxed his muscles. Always tense lately. Ever on guard. A man couldn’t find peace with so much to tend, both mentally and externally.

Didn’t matter. So he was mad. He dealt with it as best he could. Besides, the madness proved an advantage when he leaped for his prey and ripped out its heart. Yet that wasn’t Domingos LaRoque who stood holding the pulsing heart. That was the phoenix inside him.

That other vampire. The one you drank dry in order to survive.

Heh.

A clatter focused him on a mangy scent on the dark Paris streets. The werewolf was not using stealth. The dogs were not known for grace or silence.

Feeling his veins tighten in anticipation of the deed, Domingos crept forward. He would have his revenge. Again.

The wolf spoke with someone. Female, and…mortal. He scented her blood, sweet and tainted with floral perfume. Good thing he’d fed an hour earlier. But damn, the last thing he needed was a mortal witness.

Domingos turned and looked down the alleyway he’d come from. He clasped his fingers over the brass-framed goggles that hung from around his neck. He wore them always; be it day or night, he never ventured outside without them. If he so much as looked toward UV light, his vision went completely white.

What was that? A shadow moved not half a block away. Had he passed someone without realizing? Did another wolf follow him?

Never let down your guard. Stay alert. They are everywhere. Snap out from nowhere to grab you and take you back. Don’t go back!

Disregarding the werewolf putting the moves on the mortal, for he hadn’t yet verified if it was from pack Levallois, Domingos slunk back the way he had come. Inner whispers forced him to snap his head back and forth, as if he were a headbanger with Tourette’s. The move was not successful. Yet in between the clamor of distorted musical notes and hideous whispers taunting his brain, he managed to pick up a heartbeat. Calm, yet aware.

Casting his gaze across the rooftops—two stories up—he ran a short distance and made a leap, landing on the slate tiles with ease, for his bare feet gripped the smooth tiles and held him there. Squatting, he clasped an arm about his tattered leather pants and leaned over, much like a gargoyle, seeking the mysterious shadows below. Yet unlike the gargoyle, he was not positioned—and had no intention—to protect.

Down the alley, the werewolf laughed counter tempo to the click of the mortal woman’s heels. His prey had hooked up. Lucky bastard.

You don’t need a woman. You seek only the blood from those who tortured you.

He wasn’t sure the wolf had been Levallois, and he wasn’t about to take out the wrong wolf.

The violin scratched at the inside of his skull. Domingos made to slap his head but paused. A curious shadow moved below. And he wanted a closer look.

He could do this to a sound track—even one that screamed like a burning cat.

Leaping, Domingos descended with a grace that loosened up a chuckle. He sometimes forgot that his inner madness manifested in voice. The shadow, alerted by his laughter, dashed between buildings as he landed on the cobbled street crouched, fists to the ground.

Another chuckle echoed into the night. Domingos laughed at himself from the grandstand. His other self—that sane self—could never quite manage belief in the antics perpetrated by the phoenix, the true darkness within him.

But he’d given himself away.

Quickly, he slipped into the shadows, becoming but a heartbeat. He listened, straining to hear the mysterious other over the insistent skull clatter. Cars rolled by, exhaust fumes billowing into the night. The werewolf’s scent lingered, yet he knew that ship had sailed. Pity the mortal woman should she not expect an animal in her bed tonight. The moon was half crescent, so the wolf needn’t shift, unless that was his thing.

Forget the wolf, Domingos thought. I want to play with the mystery shadow. He scented her now. Yes, female. And close by. As if it was her intent to remain. Could she have been tracking him?

Interesting.

He hadn’t gone to Club Noir tonight. The erratic thrash-metal bands they featured provided an escape from the noise in his brain. When he was there, females hung on him, attempting to get his attention, to entice him into learning their salacious secrets. He hadn’t the interest.

They all need to die.

So what was he doing now?

Playing with the shadows.

Right.

Slipping past the open doorway of an abandoned building, Domingos moved swiftly. He made out the shape of her now. Her back to an old iron street pole, she stood tall and slender. Alert.

He moved like the wind, and just at the moment he sensed she knew he was behind her, he grasped her around the neck and pulled her spine against the pole. One hand pressed across her throat, choking her, while the other moved to the hand she slashed back toward him.

His fingers grazed cold metal. He clamped his hand about hers, sliding his fingers up along the metal cylinder. He recognized the shape of the weapon only from a close encounter years earlier. Fuck. She held a—She couldn’t be!

Her free hand gripped the pole and while her body moved slightly forward as she kicked back with one foot. Something sharp on the back of her heel tore through his pants and thigh. Domingos cried out at the pain of it, but he didn’t release her.

No, he wanted to play with this prize.

Blood scent blossomed as he squeezed his fingers about her trachea. Blades? He wasn’t about to let go, despite the icy sharpness cutting into his palm.

He felt her grip on the cylinder loosen and snatched it from her. Slamming the blunt end of it against the back of her shoulder, he growled, “You want to die, hunter?”

“You first!”

This time he avoided her kick but released her as he backed away. Chuckling, and wielding what he knew was a deadly titanium stake, he lunged and wrapped himself about her back. The force of their collision knocked her to the ground, facedown with her palms to the tarmac.

Straddling her, Domingos shoved the stake against the base of her skull, execution style. He’d never slain a mortal, but he’d make an exception this night.

“Why are you following me?” Stupid question. If she was a hunter, the answer was obvious. “Where’d you get this fancy stake, eh? The Order doesn’t hand these out as Halloween treats.”

“It’s mine!” Her hand slashed backward, cutting across his forearm.

The blade she held cut deep, and Domingos jerked his fist away from her skull. Forcing up a hip, she managed to twist onto her back beneath him, and slashed the blade again. He slapped a hand about her wrist to contain the flailing weapon. It looked like brass knuckles, with a blade cupped in the palm.

Strong and determined, this one. Dark bangs hung to eyes of a color he could not discern in the darkness. Dirt blushed her cheeks. She smelled like brightness and courage. At her neck the blades on her collar glinted with moonlight.

In Domingos’s brain, the phoenix performed a maniacal jig to celebrate his stolen survival instincts.

“You’re Order of the Stake,” he said. “Good for you, little girl. I didn’t know they were knighting chicks these days. Too bad you die tonight.”

“If I die, I’m taking you with me.”

The violin ceased tormenting his brain. The sound of her heartbeat thundered into focus. And suddenly—Domingos heard his own heartbeat, which he hadn’t noticed for weeks. Why was that? The woman’s fierce gaze didn’t mesmerize, but instead pierced his heart without aid of a weapon. That pain he felt more deeply than he had the knife.

He crushed her wrist and gave her hand a shake, and the blade looped about her fingers dropped to the cobbles with a clatter. Still she resisted, willing to fight to the end. He liked that. Most women would scream and beg for mercy. And he wanted to hear her beg.

“Mercy,” he hissed. “Ask for it.”

“Fuck you, longtooth!”

“You’re one tough mortal. Why are you after me? I thought the Order didn’t stake vamps unless provoked? I have done nothing to bring harm to mortals.”

“This conversation is over.”

He took a blade in his back. She’d kicked him with those nasty boots. And now she wrestled to get the stake from him. Domingos released his prize and propelled himself over her head, landing deftly on the tarmac, and ran out into the main street.

She twisted up to a running pursuit, slashing the deadly stake toward him. Moonlight gleamed on her long black hair queued in a ponytail and at the bladed collar. Focused grit tightened her face, yet her lips were so red. Sensual.

Domingos stood but a kiss away from death.

He didn’t have time for death.

“Adieu, my pretty little hunter.” He bowed, danced a few steps to the side and just as the stake whisked the air near his cheek, he leaped to a rooftop.

Standing at the tiled edge, he looked down over the frustrated hunter. She flipped him off. He made a motion to capture the gesture and smashed it against his heart.

“Until we meet again!” he called, and hurried across the tiles until her heartbeat faded from his senses and only the violin caterwauled in his brain.

Chapter 2

Lark marched purposefully north. The vampire had gotten the better of her. And how had that happened? She’d had him. And then she had not.

This was her first failure since she’d been knighted into the Order six months earlier. The night wasn’t over yet, so she wasn’t about to call this one in the vampire’s favor.

He might be tracking across the rooftops now, but he had to come down sometime. And he’d taken off in this direction. She couldn’t see or hear him, but so far, the line of same-level houses with mansard roofs continued.

Stake held firmly at her side, she kept her head up, and ears honed for noises above and behind her. The titanium cylinder housed a spring-loaded stake. She had only to slam the cylinder against the vampire’s chest, right over his heart, click the release paddles and wham. Dead vampire.

This kill would be number seventy-two. She was less than a third of the way to her goal.

“Three hundred sixty-six,” she muttered sharply.

He’d had opportunity to use the stake on her when she’d felt the cold metal pressed against the back of her neck. Stupid creature. He would regret not using that one and only chance.

The block ended, and she looked around, scanning the rooftops populated with bird droppings, sooted gargoyles and ancient slate tiles. Paris at night was crisp, dry and noisy with traffic. There were stars above, somewhere, but the City of Light dulled their twinkle. He couldn’t have gotten down, crossed the street and disappeared.

Well, he could have, but she would have noticed. He had been chuckling to himself, for heaven’s sake. The vamp was not in any way stealth. And he’d been barefoot. What was that about? Truly, he must be mad, as Principal Caufield believed him to be.

Didn’t matter. One vampire, be he tattered and barefoot or cloaked in finery and charm, was the same as the next to her.

Crossing at a light, Lark holstered the stake at her hip and insinuated herself into a crowd of hipsters that lingered outside a nightclub blasting out technopunk loud enough to frizz her eyelashes. If the vampire wanted to lose her, he’d go where the crowds were.

Lark didn’t like rubbing elbows with all these free and happy drunk people, so she slipped into an alley. Near the end, puffs of smoke signaled someone standing alone sucking on a grit.

She walked swiftly, head up, and fierce mien carrying her slender frame as if she were a quarterback headed for the end zone. No one would mess with her. Until a man flicked the half-smoked cigarette and it careened through the air and landed on the cobblestones before her steel-toed boots.

Lark stopped before the smoldering ember and slammed her hands to her hips. Her forefinger touched the stake. In her left hand she’d concealed brass knuckles that were bladed on the palm side.

“Hey, demoiselle, you are lonely.” It wasn’t a question.

Lark rolled her eyes. Smoke and whiskey shrouded the man. The scent was obnoxious. But beyond the normal smells she’d expect from a patron lingering near a nightclub, something deeper clung to him. Wild and feral.

And then she sensed others. Two to her right and one to her left.

Shit.

“What do you say, boys?” the whiskey-scented man asked. “We need a little fun before we go for a run, eh? Too bad the full moon ain’t out.”

Lark bit her bottom lip. Werewolves? They gave off a distinctive aura that she sensed, more alpha than most mortal men were capable of. They had better not be from the Levallois pack, or she would insist on double her pay for enduring these half-wits when finally she had slain the longtooth.

“I’m not into dogs,” she said, and turned quickly, backing up to hold a firm stance with the open alley behind her.

A pack of four stood before her. Double shit. All of them looked like bodybuilders, arms flexed out at their sides, and wearing muscle shirts and blue jeans that enhanced their meaty, rugged builds. Wolves were rowdy but usually never gave her problems. They couldn’t know what she was—that she was trying to help them.

She didn’t need them to know.

Holding out her hand, she revealed the blade tucked against her palm, and bent it in a come-get-me gesture. She didn’t go so far as to say “bring it,” but she was thinking it.

“Oh, she’s spunky! Henri, you hold her down.”

“With pleasure.” A brutish blond wolf lunged for her.

Lark slashed her blade across his cheek and stepped aside to avoid the blood spatter. The wolves saw the gaping wound on their buddy’s cheek and charged all at once.

Not too proud to save her ass the smart way, Lark turned and ran down the alleyway but paused when she felt the breath of one at her back. Times like this she questioned her sanity.

She spun on one foot, swinging her leg up into a high roundhouse, and clocked him against the skull with the hard rubber sole of her boot. It was never easy to bring down a behemoth. The wolf grabbed her leg and toppled her off balance. She hit the cobbles, back and shoulders first, an unladylike grunt forced from her lungs.

She should have kept running. Panic had distorted the calm she had been trained to maintain.

Kicking at the next wolf who lunged for her, she slashed his jaw with the blade that sprang from the toe of her boot. Using her hands as springs, she jumped to her feet.

“She’s armed to the teeth!” one growled. “What are you, lady?”

“She’s a walking death wish,” one said.

“I like ’em feisty,” another said, revealing with a smirk his thick canines made for tearing meat.

Lark felt a beefy arm wrap about her waist. The shing of talons grazed her Kevlar vest. Another of the wolves shifted out his claws. Not good. She didn’t want to deal with four fully shifted werewolves. Did they dare shift in the city? So close to mortals?

“You don’t want me enough to risk exposure,” she said, and drew her blade across the wolf’s wrist, which granted her a howling release.

Lark stumbled against a brick wall, and realized the alley was fenced off with wrought iron topped by pointed spindles, a dead end. Four wolves stalked toward her, bleeding and flexing their muscles, each with a hunger for something she wasn’t willing to give them.

“I say we rip her limb from limb,” the one commented as he sucked at his bleeding wrist. “She’s too nasty to screw.”

“Me first!”

The big blond one named Henri charged her, and when Lark wasn’t sure what her next move would be, she slashed blindly through the air—yet impact of wolf to her slender frame did not happen. The wolf howled and landed up against the brick wall to her left.

And before her stood Domingos LaRoque, his back to her, standing tall, with arms out as if to shield her.

“Come on, puppies,” he said. He whistled, short and quick, as one would to call in a dog from the yard. Twisting his head to the side, he flipped back his wild tangle of hair. “Pick on someone your own size.”

“A bloody longtooth,” one growled.

“Get him!”

And the battle began.

Wrestling only momentarily with the weirdness of the vampire protecting her, Lark found her bearings and pulled out a stake. She preferred not to kill werewolves unless it was life or death, but she would do what was necessary to save her own life.

The vampire tossed one wolf down the alleyway as if it were a rag doll, and followed by crushing another’s face into the brick wall. His moves were erratic yet swift. Though tall, he was much leaner than the wolves, and anyone watching would have laughed to see the werewolves get their asses kicked by the slender vampire.

Henri grabbed Domingos from behind. Lark swung around her arm and stabbed the werewolf in the back with the stake. The wolf yowled but didn’t ash. She hadn’t expected him to. Only vampires were reduced to ash with a death punch to their heart. But the wolf did bleed and whimper at the well-placed strike that had, no doubt, pierced a lung.

Disengaging the stake, she swung toward the next attacker.

The vampire ducked and yelped, “Watch that thing! I’m trying to help you here!”

“Sorry.” But she didn’t mean it. If she could take out the vampire amid the ruckus, then bonus points for her. The stake landed in the skull of another wolf, and she had to tug hard to reclaim it. “Thickheaded beast.”

She kicked the slumped wolf aside, and turned to catch the vampire against her chest. The last two standing wolves had tossed him at her.

Hanging over her shoulder, his face close to hers and his breaths panting, he suddenly licked her cheek. “Mmm, tasty. But I knew you would be.”

Before she could shake off the disturbingly sensual shiver that tightened her nipples and react by plunging the stake into his heart, he pushed away from her and charged both wolves.

The vampire was truly insane, because the wolves were twice the size of him and surely twice as strong. The only advantages a vampire had against a werewolf were speed and stealth. Which he was utilizing to his maximum capability. But was it enough?

Domingos tossed one wolf over his shoulder, and Lark lunged to draw her blade across the wolf’s throat. Hot blood sprayed her legs and dripped down the shiny woven Kevlar that reinforced the thighs of her pants. Protected the femoral artery. A fashion must when slaying vampires.

A wolf yipped, and, being the last one, he smartened up and took off down the alley. Three wolves lay groaning on the ground, not dead, but one or two could be close.

Domingos scooped her into his arms and ran toward the wrought-iron fence blocking off the alley.

“What are you—?” She kicked the air but couldn’t manage to get free.

“You don’t want to stick around for those dogs to get their second wind, do you?”

He leaped to the top of the fence, and then the roof, as if he had wings and carrying her was no burden.

Lark pressed the stake against his shoulder, though it would do little more than damage muscle and bone. A direct hit to the heart was required for death. “Put me down!”

“More distance,” he hissed, racing across the rooftop. “Quiet the music!”

“The what?”

She struggled and managed to jump from his hold, but he tugged at her and tried to pick her up again. Lark’s boots slid on the tile rooftop. Trying to place the stake on his heart and maintain purchase on the slate tiles was impossible. She lost her balance.

The vampire grabbed her wrist and shoved her around against a chimney. “Ungrateful wench.”

“Bloody insane vampire. I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah?” He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his leather pants, which were torn in spots along the outer leg seams, the hem shaggy. Blood glittered from where she had stabbed him in the thigh earlier. “You like being puppy chow?”

“I could have handled them.”

His laughter echoed across the rooftops. And he said nothing more, only squatted and eyed her through the tangle of his dark hair. Disturbing, to say the least. His silence prodded at her confidence. Lark scanned her periphery. Nowhere to run without experiencing a punishing fall.

“I’ll give you a head start,” she said. Where had that come from? Clinging to the chimney, she marveled at his ease of keeping traction on the slick tiles. Of course, the man was barefoot. “Five seconds. Then I come after you.”

He remained, defying her with a curious tilt of the head and a smooth of his fingers over the ill-shaven goatee and stubble that scruffed his jaw.

“Run!” she warned.

He spread out his arms and stood. A bend of his fingers defiantly invited her closer.

Lark stepped forward, but her boots slid on the tile. She wouldn’t be able to run across two feet of this roof, let alone attack the longtooth. And what if she fell?

“I win,” he said. “That means I get a prize.”

He lunged for her, pinning her hips against the chimney and clamping her wrists to the brick so the stake was directed skyward. He smiled widely, revealing descended fangs. A pair of goggles clacked around his neck, small ones, like something out of a steampunk novel. And he smelled like smoke. Not cigarette smoke, but rather a sweet firewood scent.

“You’re pretty,” he said, again giving her that curious look, much like a boy looking over an insect he’d crushed in the backyard. “And deadly.”

“You win tonight,” she said, hoping to appeal to the sane part of him that would have compassion and let a woman go. There was always tomorrow night.

“So what’s my prize?” he asked.

He pressed his body against hers and she could feel his hard muscles pulse with movement. Not bulky like the wolves, but sleek and dangerously strong. A predator to the core.

His prize? If he expected what she had just denied the wolves, she would slay him right here and now, and be damned if she fell to her death.

“I can’t bite you,” he said, dashing his tongue along one fang, “because you’ve that damned collar. Too sharp. Though pain gives me a thrill. But I can do this.”

And he kissed her. Hard and urgent, forcing his sweet breath into her mouth. She didn’t like it, and twisted to get away—he slapped a hand to her head and held her still. Lark struggled, and shoved up her knee into his groin. The move hadn’t the punishing force she’d hoped for. The vampire persisted, pressing his body against her knee, challenging her to hurt him, to deny him this stolen prize.

With her heartbeat thundering, Lark’s rationale scrambled for a solid hold. Training had not covered this sort of attack. What to do? How to…She could feel his fangs pressing into her lip but not cutting. Insanity! Never would she—

Too long since you’ve been kissed. If you’re going to fall, shouldn’t it be like this? Less painful than splattering on the street below.

Suddenly the hard crush of their mouths softened. Lark dropped her knee. And like a moth with tattered wings surrendering to the flame, she granted the vampire his prize.

Because nothing in her life made sense anymore. And everything was opposite what it should be. Now she dealt with strange paranormal creatures on a daily basis, when once she’d never even believed in them.

And because it hurt her heart to remember the last time her husband had kissed her.

A regretful protest rumbled in her throat, and the vampire pulled away from her. The city was bright with the glow of neon and streetlights, and the eerie illumination fell upon his handsome yet deceptively brutal features. Too much facial hair to decide if he possessed true beauty.

The vampire studied her face and touched her cheek, drawing away to inspect the droplet wobbling on his fingertip.

A teardrop? She had become a mental case herself!

“What’s this from?” he asked, pointing the tear-soaked finger at her. “I am so awful to you?”

She nodded. That was as good a reply as any. Not the truth, but she needed that lie right now.

He licked her pain from his finger and nodded. “Of course. I can be nothing more to one so beautiful as you.”

And then he turned and ran across the rooftops, leaving her clinging to the chimney like a bird without wings. And Lark wondered how in hell she was going to get down from this aerial perch.

Chapter 3

He felt freest and safest walking above the city, but Domingos sensed the sun was not far off, and exposed on the roofs was the last place he wanted to be for that terrible event.

He leaped, landing on the tarmac, and moved sinuously up into a walk, but he turned as he did to spy the hunter. She was rappelling down the side of the building. Must have pulled some rope from her utility belt. Heh. Wasn’t that what vampire hunters wore? Some kind of superhero belt to hold all their crazy weapons?

“Smart chick. Pretty, too.”

And vicious. He sucked at his palm where the blade had cut deep. Almost healed, it wouldn’t scar, but there was humiliation in actually taking the cut. From a woman. Yet it hadn’t been her deft punches and kicks that had hurt him most. Her rejection following his kiss had hit him in the one tender spot remaining within him after all he’d been through.

“No, it didn’t,” he argued with what little clear conscience he could find. The whispers slithered accusingly. “Stupid hunter. Not pretty.”

A chuckle burst from his mouth. He hated the part of him that did that, but it wasn’t a reaction he could control.

Yet he remained, watching, to ensure that she landed on the ground safely. The werewolves would not give up. They had her scent and would retaliate like dogs to her bones. But if distracted they’d forget the bone in favor of another more meaty treat.

The hunter wasn’t meaty, by any means. But she’d done the one thing that would ensure that the wolves didn’t lose her scent—she’d stood up to them.

And for that Domingos could overlook her nasty rejection and applaud her moxie. “Too bad it’s going to get her killed.”

But better the hunter than him, eh? Heh.

She headed west. Drawing up the goggles over his eyes and tugging his sleeves down over his hands, Domingos decided to parallel her, for the heck of it.

Lark slammed the apartment door shut behind her, dropping her weapons on the gray leather sofa and stripping off her coat and shirt as she made way toward the back of her home. Dawn was not far off, yet the apartment was dark. She navigated the murk with ease. In the bedroom, she unlaced and pulled off her boots and pants and beelined into the black-and-white-tiled bathroom to turn on the shower.

Tonight had been a complete failure.

Standing before the vanity mirror in a black lace bra and panties, she stared at her reflection, assessing the damage. The months-old brand of the Order marred her left shoulder, the design of four stakes within a circle pink and rough. Part of the knighting ceremony, the branding had hurt like a mother. She was proud of it, though; she’d endured a lot to earn it.

She’d taken a nasty bruise from a werewolf’s fist on her right arm, and it had already blossomed deep purple and red. Studying a thin slice dashed under her jaw, she realized one of the wolves’ talons must have done that. With the adrenaline pumping at the time, she hadn’t noticed the cut.

Pulling out the band from her ponytail, she shook out her long, stick-straight hair. Her eyeliner was smeared up on one corner, giving her a half-cat’s-eye look.

Staring at her pitiful reflection, she wondered when she had last cared. Had she ever cared?

Yes. The world had been different two years ago. Dreams had felt fluttery and fun, ambitions solid and achievable. Fashion and beauty had been important to her, because she’d known she was pretty and liked to look her best. Music—oh, music—it had been more than a hobby. Despite working nine-to-five for a local attorney’s office as a file clerk, her real passion had been her music, and she’d been practicing to audition for a seat in a small community orchestra. But she’d abandoned the fine arts after falling in love.

During a trip to Paris, she had fallen in love and married Todd Cooper, knowing what he was. And, okay, so the falling-in-love part had come after the marriage. After four months of dating, she’d discovered she was pregnant and Todd had gotten down on his knee and promised to take care of her and their family. She’d been ready to plunge into the unknown of family and the new known regarding his profession, but only because fear had motivated that readiness.

And that fear should have forewarned her of this dangerous future in which she now existed.

Fool, she thought now. To have thought she could change a person? That had been her mind process as she’d said “I do.” She hadn’t liked Todd’s profession and had hoped a new family would lure him out of it. Yet she’d quickly learned people didn’t change; they only grew more deeply into themselves, altering imperceptibly, minutely, but at their core, ever remained the same.

While she waited for the water to warm up (she could brew a cup of tea faster than it took to summon hot water from the pipes in this old building), she wandered out to the living room to get her coat. Best to keep it hung when not wearing it. The Kevlar vest and pants she let lie on the floor. She was too tired to do housecleaning right now.

No, not tired. More like annoyed. Yes, by that irritating vampire!

She selected a hanger from the movable rack she’d pushed against the back door, because the iron staircase that climbed the rear of her building was unsafe and coming loose from the outer wall so she never used it.

She heard a knock outside. On the back door that sat atop a dangerous staircase that only someone very stealth might navigate.

“Shit.” Lunging toward the end of the bed, she grabbed her pants and shuffled them on. Then she ran into the bathroom, shut off the water and grabbed a stake from the linen closet. She kept weapons hidden throughout the apartment.

Returning to the door, she slowly pushed aside the hanger rack but didn’t get it moved all the way when the door burst open, shoving the rack of clothes toward her. She stepped aside, stake raised—and recognized Domingos LaRoque behind the funky brass goggles.

The vampire remained on the threshold, his palms flat before him, pressed against…nothing. A vampire could not enter a private residence without permission. That he’d been able to push the door inside surprised.

Lark exhaled but didn’t let down her guard. She wasn’t safe by a long shot.

“Save it for later,” he said, eyeing the stake held aloft by her shoulder. “The wolves are at your front door.”

Without taking her eyes off him, she tilted her head but didn’t have to try to hear if someone was at the front door, because it also smashed inside. Wolves did not need permission to cross any threshold, private or public.

“This way!” Domingos yelled.

Tempted to go after the nuisance wolves, Lark checked her bravado. They were more than merely nuisance. Apparently, the brutes wanted to punish her for showing them up. And when weighing her chances against two or three wolves or one vampire, she’d go with the better odds.

She stepped toward the threshold and gestured that Domingos move aside. Once her hand crossed over the threshold, that was all he needed. The vampire grabbed her hand and tugged her outside, lifting her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. She beat a fist against his back, directly over the kidney, but that didn’t stop him. He didn’t take the stairs to the ground, but instead went up the rickety iron staircase.

“Let me go!”

“They’re in your bedroom.”

He tossed her up to land on the roof, which was shingled, and since she was barefoot, she had better hold than if she wore boots.

With a deft jump, he landed beside her and pressed a finger to his lips. “Quiet.”

A wicked clatter preceded the entire iron staircase landing on the small, private courtyard below. Lark moved to look over the edge of the roof, but Domingos tugged her back and shook his head in admonishment.

Below, a werewolf said, “They went down and took the stairs out behind them. Let’s go!”

The vampire eyed her breasts, the nipples peaking beneath the thin lace bra fabric. “No treats for the puppies this morning.”

“They think we went down, but they’ll figure it out as soon as they pick up my scent. They’ll find us up here.”

“That’s why we’re not going to stick around. Come on.” He stood and offered her his hand.

She should stake that hand and then plunge the stake through his heart. But she’d dropped the weapon when he’d pulled her over the threshold. And going anywhere with a vampire was out of the question.

“I’ll be fine on my own.” She took off across the roof, thankful for lacking shoes because that softened her footfalls and provided traction.

Lark crossed two rooftops with ease because the buildings in Paris were so close together, and by the third rooftop she was congratulating herself for her agility and finesse. But she knew she was not alone. The vampire followed, silently, mocking her with his easy stroll. Hands behind his back and head bowed, he merely stood there each time she looked over her shoulder, as if a child’s game and if she saw him move that would mean he was playing.

Wolf howls echoed from below. They either hadn’t figured where she had gone, or else they were tearing her place apart. She didn’t mind losing her things to raging wolves. Save the violin she valued, and perhaps a few photos she’d tucked away in a drawer.

Now if she could just lose the vampire.

As suddenly as she had the thought, she turned and the vampire crashed into her, sweeping an arm around her back and lifting her as he took the twenty-foot leap to the next roof. They landed softly, with a grace that only a winged creature could possess.

Lark knew vampires could not fly, nor did they have wings, but he presented curious evidence that the mythology the Order had taught her may be incorrect, or perhaps incomplete.

Tugging her along behind him, Domingos ran toward a roof door. They descended a concrete staircase into an empty loftlike space, floored in rotting hardwood that reeked of chemicals and coated with what looked like centuries of dust. A former factory long vacated of workers and industrial equipment?

Here they would be safe. Unless they turned on each other, which Lark wasn’t beyond doing should the vampire have the same thought.

At the far end of the loft a circular window boasting a ten-foot span looked over the rapidly brightening city sky. It reminded Lark of the rose windows found in cathedrals, yet without colored glass.

“So,” she said after catching her breath and moving to position herself near the window. A door stood to her left. An escape. “You’ve saved me twice tonight. Though I guess it’s morning now.”

“That means I get another prize.” Shoving the goggles to the top of his head, Domingos walked before her, pacing in a random circle, his bare feet leaving trails in the dust. “What shall it be this time?” He conked the side of his head as if trying to dislodge something. “Tell me!”

Lark startled at his shout, and reminded herself that no matter the kindnesses he’d granted her, he was a monster. Hell, she didn’t need an excuse to label him monster; he simply was, end of story.

“No more kisses,” she stated flatly.

“Of course not. You find my kisses disgusting.”

“Absolutely.”

He lifted his head and eyed her sharply, giving no sign that she’d offended, but perhaps his tight jaw was the signal. His goatee was scruffy, a match to his disheveled hair. Looked as though he hadn’t combed it in a month. And perhaps he had not. Despite the lean muscles she had noticed while fighting with him earlier in the alley, he was too thin. So incredible that he’d defeated those hulking werewolves.

His gaze fell to her chest. She wasn’t embarrassed by her lacking top. But that she’d raced across the rooftops in but a bra and pants might have raised a few eyebrows if any early risers had been gazing out their windows, coffee mugs in hand as they contemplated yet another day.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. About five in the morning?”

“Sun’s up soon.”

Lark smirked. Sometimes the stake wasn’t necessary. The sun would do her work for her today, if she could just keep him talking a little longer…

“How about…as my prize,” Domingos suggested, “you don’t kill me today?”

Lark bristled. She slapped her palms to her hips. She’d intended to kill him hours earlier. And the longer she went without killing him, the worse it damaged her record. But she did owe him. And tomorrow was officially only nineteen hours away. She believed in reciprocation, damn her soul.

Yet if the sun got to him first, she couldn’t be held responsible.

“Deal,” she said.

Oh, really? Inwardly, she cursed her hasty reply. She was tired, that was it. Not thinking clearly.

“How are you a hunter?” he asked. Another hit to the side of his head. “Damn it! Stop!”

“I didn’t do anything.”

He leveled her with a vicious sneer, and Lark backed toward the window, pressing her palms to the cool dusty glass.

“It’s in my head. Skull clatter.” And then he laughed that thoughtless chuckle Lark was beginning to associate with madness. “Don’t go!”

“I’m not leaving. You’re the one who needs to get the hell out of here if you want to beat the sun.”

“I will.” He thrust out a placating hand while shaking his head as if fighting whatever it was inside his skull. “But I need your name first. Only fair.”

“I’ve already given you nineteen hours. That should be enough—”

“Name!” he shouted.

Lifting her chin, Lark stepped forward, daring to approach a man she suspected would lunge for her neck at any moment. No protective coat to keep him from her carotid. Yet he was not capable right now. She sensed he waged an inner war, and she’d never been one to walk away from a damaged individual.

As she approached him, he still held out a hand as if to keep her back. He yowled and pounded his head, then stomped the dusty floor. She reached out but retracted as if burned when he looked at her. That fanged grin was too sharp to be kind.

“I can’t watch this,” she decided, and turned away from what could become the beginning to a very bad day filled with memories she had thought to lock away when joining the Order.

“You don’t want to watch the insane vampire go through his contortions?” he hissed. “Because torture is not pretty, is it?” He leered, and leaned toward her. “You don’t want to see inside this.” He pounded the side of his head with a fist. “Pretty girl, look away!”

“Lark,” she offered, breaking into his tirade. “That’s my name.”

Domingos tilted his head. “Sounds like a bird. Can’t be your real name.”

It wasn’t. She’d shed Lisa Cooper when entering the Order. That woman no longer existed. She couldn’t exist and survive.

“Listen,” she said, pacing back to the window. “You know where I live, but if you value your life, don’t return.”

“Not even to keep away the wolves? Damn it!” He stomped the floor, then bent forward to catch the back of his head with both hands. His hair swung across the dusty floor.

Get out of here, Lark! Don’t look at this. All those wonders you had about what Todd suffered? This vampire can show you. You don’t want to see!

And yet his apparent pain touched her profoundly. While she wanted to avoid experiencing it at all costs, at the same time, the man was like an accident you slowed down to gawk at.

“Why didn’t you kill those wolves?” she asked, curiosity gaining the better of her discretion.

Domingos straightened and smoothed a palm down his shirt, which was only buttoned once in the center. He lifted his chin proudly. “I’m not a killer.”

“You’ve slain a third of the Levallois pack.”

“I am only taking the justice owed me!” He rushed her, pinning her against the windowpanes, which creaked with their weight. “Is that not my right? You’ve been hired by the Levallois pack to stop me, haven’t you? Stop me from claiming the justice owed me.”

“Murder is not justice.”

He shook his head violently, brushing her cheek with his hair. “Can’t tell me that. Stop the violins!”

He smashed a fist through the window beside her head, and Lark reacted by putting up her fists. Domingos saw her defensive pose and shook his head that he would not hurt her. He put up his hands in surrender. Blood trickled down his fingers, yet she watched the cuts heal instantly.

Vampires are creatures. Do not forget that.

“We have a truce for the day,” he said. “You don’t kill me. I don’t hurt you. Too bad. You smell sweet. Your blood would taste delicious.”

“You bite me and you die.”

“Fair enough. But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying.”

“Why? I’m a hunter. You know I want you dead. Why don’t you run away from me?”

“Pretty little hunter without weapons to protect herself?” He laughed quietly now and tapped the floor with his toes. A flick of his fingers unbuttoned his shirt. “You are the sweetest thing I’ve known since before I was taken by the pack. I will crave you even as you plunge that metal stake into my heart, Lark. And yet you’ve not a lark’s song, which pleases me. Don’t like music.”

“Is that the violins in your head you were talking about?”

He nodded and bowed his head. Their distance remained but a hand’s width apart.

Lark exhaled shallowly. She didn’t want to know—yes, she did. “What did they do to you?”

No. You don’t want to know!

“Blood games,” Domingos muttered, and bent forward, clasping his arms across his chest, as if protecting his heart. “Very bad. Not stuff for pretty girls to know.”

He shook his head side to side violently, then murmured deep in his throat. And Lark reached out to stroke her fingers down his hair. It was ratted and tangled, but he closed his eyes and moaned softly as if her kindness eased a balm to his inner struggles.

Questioning her own sanity, she retracted. Don’t pick up another stray. “I should leave. The wolves will be gone by now.”

“No, they’ll linger around your apartment to see if you return. Give it a day. Or better yet, find a new place to live.”

He squinted and turned from the window. The sun flashed a sharp orange line on the horizon.

“How will you get home?” She didn’t care. Number seventy-two? Coming right up.

He pulled the goggles down over his eyes and slipped off his shirt.

“Most vampires can walk in sunlight for a few minutes without harm,” she stated. “But your goggles—”

“No!” He pounded his head. “UVs. They burn me. Cannot look at the light.”

Lark recalled that the pack principal had mentioned UV sickness. It resulted when the vampire was kept imprisoned under harsh UV lights. She wasn’t exactly sure of the results, beyond burns and sensitivity to light, but Domingos’s strong shoulders actually shivered now.

It was too close to home, seeing a man cower from torture. Get away from him, Lark. You don’t need a plunge back to memory now. She must stay strong, and make a call to Rook to secure a safe house for a day or two.

“Take it!” He thrust out his shirt, not meeting her eyes.

“I—No. You’ll need protection from the sun.”

“I’ve ten minutes.”

“If you’re lucky and you move right now.” What was she doing? She wanted the bastard to get fried.

“You shouldn’t be walking through Paris in your bra like that. I don’t want them to see you.”

“Them?”

“All of them. The men. They will look at you wrong. Take it!”

She grabbed the shirt to appease the agitated vamp.

“Now go!”

Startled into motion, Lark hustled through the doorway near the shattered window. When she stood on the other side of the wood door in a stairwell that descended to the ground floor, she flinched when feeling the thud against the other side. He stood there, body slammed against the door. Listening? Waiting?

Shirt clasped to her chest, she placed her hand on the door. “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

But she wasn’t asking about Domingos’s torture; rather, she had never dared to ask her husband about his 366 days of captivity.

She had wanted to know. The vampires had changed him. Irrevocably.

Domingos held in the yowl clawing inside his throat until he dashed across the threshold to his home and plunged against the wall. Alone in the cool, quiet darkness of his sanctuary, he released the scream that had been building.

His fingers clawed into the wall painted a calming slate-gray. He banged his forehead against it to redirect the icy pain. He smelled burned flesh. The sun had flashed across his bare back, searing the already scarred tissue. He could see whiffs of smoke from over his shoulder, and he beat a fist against the wall, which had begun to crack, the thick layers of paint flaking off.

Tugging off the goggles he tossed them aside and then dropped to his knees. Rocking forward, he assumed the all-too-familiar rhythm, back and forth, arms clasped across his chest, to distract his mind from the pain.

He’d given his only protection to the hunter. “Lark,” he whispered.

The sacrifice had been worth it.

Chapter 4

Lark picked through the remnants of her life in the living room. The smell of rank wolf seemed to linger on everything. Actually, it wasn’t so much a smell as a feeling. They’d touched her things, violated her sanctity. In the bedroom, she fit the back door into the frame as best she could. Under her bed, she located the violin she’d owned since she was thirteen, still in its case, safe.

The plan was to take away only what was important and leave as quickly as possible. She couldn’t trust the wolves wouldn’t return. And this place was no longer livable. It needed to be physically cleaned and warded.

Gathering her valuables was easy. She pulled a manila envelope from the safe at the bottom of the linen closet. Inside were bank numbers and some credit cards and stock certificates. She should have put them in a security box at the bank, but she didn’t trust banks.

The violin was too large to carry around with any stealth, so she had to trust leaving it behind and, again, tucked it under the bed. Everything else was expendable. Save the picture in her bureau drawer. She retrieved the folded photograph and tucked it in the envelope without looking at it. She remembered his face. But the face she remembered was much different from that on the glossy photo paper. The image in her memory had hardened and grown thinner, desperate.

“Stolen,” she whispered as she tucked the envelope into a backpack. A soul stolen in a slow and methodical way that tortured her to consider what he must have endured.

The vampire LaRoque was living, breathing evidence of such torture. She hated looking at him. And at the same time she couldn’t turn away from Domingos’s crazy gyrations and manic actions. That bedraggled soul needed some tender attention.

In a way, coming en garde with the vampire might prove her penance. She deserved to pay for the suffering she had not been able to stop. And what better way than to stand up to it and face it in all its horrid and terrifying glory?

Changing into a pair of leather pants, gray T-shirt, the Kevlar vest and her cleric’s coat, she then gathered her weapons. Half a dozen stakes, some blades, brass knuckles and a retractable garrote that hooked at her belt. A vial of holy water also fit in a loop on her belt.

Pausing in the kitchen, she picked up the black shirt Domingos had given her and, without thinking, pressed it to her nose. Smoke was the only scent she could get off it, and yet the soft fabric tempted her to hold it pressed against her cheek longer than any sane woman should.

How many times had she done the same with one of Todd’s shirts after he’d been away a few nights on a job? Her husband’s leather-and-pepper scent had always made her smile.

The vampire didn’t have a scent, beyond smoke, and that disturbed her only because she wanted him to have a telltale odor. Something to remind her…

Lark shoved the shirt away from her face and dropped it as if it were suddenly on fire.

“Don’t think like that. You are not attracted to a vampire.”

Even one who would offer the shirt off his back with the sun glinting on the horizon?

“Even so,” she chided her thoughts.

Grabbing the gear she’d stuffed into a black nylon backpack, she locked her front door because it felt right—even though the back door was off its hinges—and shuffled down to street level. She dialed Rook as she hailed a cab and slid into the backseat, telling the driver to “Drive until I know where I’m going.”

The phone clicked and a gruff French voice answered. The second-in-command to the Order’s leader went only by the single moniker, which Lark suspected was a code name and not his real one.

“Rook, I need a safe house for a few days.”

“You are having trouble with the assignment?” he asked in thick French. He never used English, though she knew he spoke it. He looked down on Americans, of which, she was an expatriate.

“No, I stumbled onto some werewolves last night. Pissed them off. To thank me, they trashed my place.”

“I’ll send a cleaning crew and ward master immediately.”

“Thanks.” The ward master would provide the plastic seal, so to speak, over her newly cleaned apartment. Should make it safe to return without fear of intruders.

“Were they Levallois?”

“I don’t think so.” She hadn’t a physical ID on the entire pack, but noted that Domingos had not killed any of them, which led her to believe they had not been his target wolves. “So the safe house?”

“I can manage one for a couple days, which is all you’ll need. It’s located in the fifth arrondissement, tucked along the Jardin des Plantes. But tell me your progress with Domingos LaRoque. He has been eliminated? You haven’t reported in, which is very unlike you. Are you sure you’re not having trouble with this one?”

Lark sighed and tapped her fingers upon her knee. It had begun to rain, darkening the morning sky through the water-streaked cab windows. Somewhere out there a vampire who needed to wear goggles to protect his eyes against the UV rays must be rejoicing over this weather.

“I ran across him, but the situation with the wolves aggravated it, and I wasn’t able to make the kill.”

She heard Rook’s soft yet admonishing tut on the other end.

Always an astute student, no matter what the study, Lark had taken to the Order’s training program with zeal and a determination that had surprised even herself. She’d always been a girly girl who liked fashion and partying, and, well, the idea of exercise and martial arts, and honing her muscles and fighting skills had never been on her radar. But tragedy had altered that girl, changed her into something adamant. Something Lark still didn’t recognize in the mirror.

After being knighted into the Order of the Stake, she’d proven herself a ruthless hunter. When she went after a vamp, it was dead less than twenty-four hours later. Nothing could dissuade her from her quest.

“I’ve got the situation under control,” she said.

Oh yeah? What was that stupid “one day to live” deal you made with LaRoque? A vampire! You don’t deal with them. You slay them.

Every hour she allowed the vampire to breathe, she let Todd down a little more.

“Expect to hear from me tonight,” she said. “What’s the address?”

Rook gave her the address to a safe house, along with a digital entry code, and after hanging up, she gave the cabdriver directions.

The safe house was clean, the walls bare of decoration, and the modern furniture a plain beige leather accented with uninspired black pillows. Lark didn’t like it. She needed personal things around her to make her feel…

Admit it, Lark. You don’t feel safe here.

It was called a freakin’ safe house for a reason. But nothing she looked at reminded her of home. Of him. Yet would anything ever bring back that feeling of safety, of feeling loved and cherished?

Had it ever been love? Or simply her clinging to the idea of love, marriage and happily ever after?

Shoving away doubt, she sighed. She wouldn’t be doing this if it hadn’t been love.

“Only a few days,” she said, and dropped her backpack on the floor by the beige sofa.

Even the rug was uninspired, no texture or color. At home she’d liked to dig her bare toes into the thick, soft pile of the sapphire rug before the gray leather sofa. More than a few times she and Todd had made love on that rug.

Shaking her head rattled at the intrusive memories. Looking over the rug, she decided flat and no color was best for her now.

At that moment a knock on the door startled her hand to her hip, fingers glancing over the stake. Perhaps it was Rook come to check on her? Made little sense. The man oversaw the Order from his office and the training facility; he didn’t often go out in the field. If contact was required with a knight, the knight went to Rook. And forget ever casually running across King, the leader of the Order. It never happened.

“Lark,” called from the other side.

The skin at the nape of her neck tightened. How had he found her here?

She strode to the door and jerked it open, not fearing that he would rush inside to attack her. They’d made a deal. And besides, he needed an invite.

The scruffy vampire leaned against the door frame, goggles pushed onto his forehead and head bowed. He wore a turtleneck beneath a hooded jacket, and leather gloves. The only skin visible was on his face, and the scarf hanging about his neck clued her in that he used that as a mask.

“Did you track me?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Why? What’s wrong with you? Most people would put distance between them and the one person who had explicitly stated she’s of a mind to kill you.”

“It’s afternoon,” he said. “I’ve still got a good eight hours before our deal expires. May I come in? It’s raining out.”

“The rain won’t make you sizzle.”

“Actually, it feels great on my skin.” He tilted up his head to show the side of his jaw where the scruffy beard revealed red skin, as if plunged into hot water, yet not beset with a boil. “It was sunny when I set out after you.”

“Is that why you keep a beard? To protect as much of your face as you can?”

“No. I hate this stuff.” He stroked the thick black facial hair. “I just haven’t gotten to a barbershop lately. They don’t keep the same hours as I do.” He rapped the air in the exact position of the threshold, and his hand did not penetrate the invisible barrier to Lark’s side. “Pretty please? I promise I won’t bite. And I’m getting soggy.”

“I thought we had a truce? Me not stabbing you. You not biting me.”

“It makes me feel special to know you intend to hold good on that.” All kinds of snark in that statement.

The vampire winced as heavy raindrops spattered his face.

Lark sighed and stepped back. She would not invite him in. That was insanity. Yet he looked so pitiful. Like a wet kitten scamming for a pat on the head. If she even began to relate him to the homeless menagerie she’d helped in the past…

“You’re not hearing tunes right now?” she wondered.

“I’d hardly call them tunes. But no, no cats screeching in my brain. The whispers are there. Always prodding me. You going to invite me in?”

“I have no reason to.”

“Can’t we be civil to each other during the truce? I want to get to know you, Lark.”

“I don’t understand why.”

“Because you’re pretty, and feisty. And maybe I came so I can get my shirt back from you.”

“It’s not here. It was torn and—” had no scent beyond the smoke, which had frustrated her “—not wearable.”

“It’s one of few I own.”

Struck by that confession, Lark swallowed back surprising guilt. Maybe the guy was homeless? And she’d taken his best shirt? Because what he was wearing now didn’t look much better. The linen scarf and turtleneck looked thin. Though there were no holes in the jacket and he didn’t smell like smoke now.

“Please,” he said. He shook his head like a dog against the wet, yet it was that erratic shake that clued Lark he battled inner demons. “She’s dangerous!” The vampire chuckled lowly, and slapped his arms across his chest as if to stave off the insane mirth.

“I am dangerous. And you…” she started.

Baffled her. Yet at the same time, the man’s presence tugged at some inner threads that coiled about her heart, threads she’d thought severed and the ends singed.

Before her better judgment could strangle her conscience, Lark invited the vampire inside. Because he looked pathetic standing there with his goggles and burned skin and dripping hair. Damn her, but she’d never been able to walk past a stray kitten, either.

Rook would have harsh words for her if he discovered she’d invited a vampire into one of the Order’s safe houses. Hell, the man would speak with his fist. He had never been averse to punching her while training.

Lark closed the door but clenched the doorknob, clenching her jaw as tightly as her fist. What was she doing? Had such merciless training taught her nothing? Getting friendly with a vampire—not even with the excuse to cozy up to the subject—was strictly forbidden. Vamps were known to charm and manipulate, yet beneath the sometimes sexy—or crazy—exterior, they were nothing but deadly predators.

Domingos wandered to the couch, but before he could sit she asked him not to. He flicked her a wondering look over his shoulder.

“You’re filthy,” she stated. “Your clothes look like something you dragged out of a Dumpster, and your hair…Hell. Why don’t you clean yourself up?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and, head down, simply stood there.

And Lark’s shoulders wilted. Why must she be so cruel? The alley cat only wanted to be picked up and stroked, not scolded for his appearance. The man wasn’t all there in the head. He probably didn’t even comprehend his tattered attire. Fashion couldn’t be a concern if he had in mind only to slay werewolves and, hell—to survive.

Lark straightened. This knight wasn’t going to abandon her hard-earned training at the first pitiful meow from a stray. “Don’t you have wolves to slay?”

“Thought I’d enjoy my free day,” he muttered, looking longingly at the couch. “I’d clean up if you wanted me to.”

Lark crossed her arms. “Is that so? You going sweet on a hunter, vampire?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know the meaning of that word. Sweet. Heh. Only dark and heinous in my world lately. I am getting a bit scruffy. Call it camouflage. Helps me blend when I’m stalking wolves.”

His chuckle was maniacal, and it set the hairs upright on Lark’s arms. He jerked, as if with Tourette’s, trying to shrug off the strange outburst.

Once, Todd had brought home a stranger who, due to his tics and constant shouts of nonsense words, she suspected had that very disease.

Oh, Lark, what would a little water and soap hurt?

It was apparent he was here for a visit, and she couldn’t shove him right back out into the rain. And conversation was not tops on her list, especially not with the enemy. Best to put him to work.

She marched into the bathroom, grabbed a razor and strolled back out to hand it to him.

Why did she care?

She didn’t. But this offer felt…familiar. As if she was doing something that she was supposed to do—something she’d once done willingly with her husband at her side.

“I get it,” Domingos said. “You need to clean me up before you stake me. For reasons beyond my ken.”

“I’m just offering a kindness, vampire. Take it or leave it.”

He snatched the razor and pointed to the bathroom.

“There’s shaving cream in there and you can use the towels. This place is stocked for men, so you’ll find everything you need.”

“An Order safe house?” he wondered as he strode into the bathroom.

“I’ll never tell. But you were never here. You know nothing about this place. We didn’t even talk. We’ve never had a conversation. Got that?”

Silence.

Lark waited, listening for the water to run, or for some sound that he was shaving. She slapped her arms over her chest, and now her conscience jumped up from the bleachers in revolt.

What are you doing? Rook will banish you from the Order. Todd would hate you for this. And you! Don’t you care about yourself? Because every moment you allow him to intrude on your life he pulls the emotional threads tighter and makes you…

Feel.

Sighing, Lark remembered the stray kitten she’d nursed for a few months when she was a teenager, only to have it die from feline leukemia on her lap one rainy fall evening. At least it had died safe and cared for.

And really? Todd wouldn’t have hated her for this act of kindness (though he would have raged to know the benefactor of her kindness was a vampire). If Lark had been the kitten magnet, it was Todd who had attracted the homeless. He had often taken in strangers. He’d bring them home, offer them a shave and a hot meal and then he’d send them off with a few crisp ten-euro notes in their pocket. Lark had always protested. They left a ring in the bathroom sink. They could be scoping the place out to later return and rob them. Todd would always dismiss her complaints, and later kiss away her protests and coax her into bed.

So here she stood. Razor secured in the homeless man’s hand. Assuming her husband’s role.

Dead husband. He’s not really your husband anymore, because he can’t be if he no longer exists on this mortal plane. Right?

Why did she cling to that label? Husband. It gave her no comfort to remember his last breaths. Nor did questioning whether or not she had truly loved him appease her aching heart.

She glanced down the hallway. Yesterday she had scuffled with the wily creature now lurking in her bathroom, and had almost taken a stake to the back of her skull. And today she was playing house with him?

Tilting her head back to prevent tears from spilling down her cheeks, Lark noticed Domingos stood in the bathroom doorway holding out the razor. Shaving cream frosted his chin and jaw.

Bother. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this myself.”

“Why not?” She walked into the bathroom and found he’d set out the shaving cream can on a towel draped over the sink. He moved in behind her and she looked up in the mirror. And saw nothing. “Oh.”

The Order had taught her about a vampire’s lacking reflection. She’d even used a compact mirror on a few occasions while out in the field to verify her marks before slaying them.

“Will you do it for me?” He offered the straight-edged blade that most barbers would sharpen along a leather strap.

She snatched the razor and looked along the keen edge. Sharper than the blades edging her coat collar. And a fine weapon, that with just a flick of her wrist—

“You would trust me with a blade to your neck?”

“Eight hours,” he countered.

“Closer to seven now.”

He sat on the toilet seat and lifted his chin. “I trust you.”

“Me. A hunter?” She approached, hand to one hip, blade hand held up in challenge. “What if I’m a liar? Best way to lure the enemy to his death is through deception. That’s Order rules 101.”

“You’re not lying to me now. I can feel you are impeccable in your manner and word.” He tilted back his head and waited.

If only she had as much confidence in herself. Yet lies were a bane she despised. She lied rarely, and would never trust a person who she felt could lie to her.

Todd hadn’t lied; she’d just never wanted to believe his truths.

For reasons beyond her grasp, Lark leaned forward and stroked the blade across Domingos’s jaw. The steel glided smoothly over his skin, softened by the spicescented shave cream. Turning to rinse the blade in the sink, she returned for a few more swipes. She was half finished before he spoke again.

“You’ve done this before.”

“My husband used to let me shave him. He said it was a symbol of his trust.”

“Just like I said. I trust you.”

The blade wobbled near his bottom lip, but she avoided nicking him. The vampire grasped her gaze and Lark noticed an oddity. One eye was golden-brown, while the other was completely black.

“What happened to your eye?” she asked.

“I think my pupil got blown out, or something like that. UV light. Fuck, I hate it.”

It must have happened when he’d been in captivity. “Does it hurt? Can you see out of that eye?”

“I can, but it’s the first eye to freak out if I don’t time the sunlight correctly. When the UVs hit my eyes, feels like a hot stiletto getting pushed through the pupils.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Details. You wanted details.

No, she hadn’t. Maybe? No.

Lark tended the other side of his jaw. He was still and calm; she was surprised at his composure after witnessing his ticlike behavior and his raging at the inner voices.

“You’re not hearing voices now?” she wondered. “You seem pretty calm.”

“Strange, isn’t it? I’m not going to question. Though, as always, the whispers are present.”

“Just don’t start banging your head when I have the blade to your neck. Or do. It’s no biggie to me if your death is accidental.”

“You cutting my throat won’t kill me. You know that, hunter. But maybe you like taking a vampire’s blood, eh? Watching your victims bleed before you end their life?”

“Not at all. My kills are clean and quick. Never bloody, if it can be avoided. A well-placed stake reduces the vampire to ash.”

“I’d expect that from you. Efficient and graceful when granting death.”

She was about to protest that assessment. He didn’t know her. She didn’t grant death; she took out predators using skill and stealth, plain and simple.

What are you doing, Lark? Just get him shaved, stuff the euro bills in his pocket and send him on his way.

The vampire tilted his head to allow her access and closed his eyes, humming a few notes that she recognized as Mozart. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? Interesting. And did his fingers tap the precise beat on his leg?

“Tell me about your husband. What happened to him?”

Startled by that question, Lark firmly gripped the curved metal handle of the blade before it could slice his skin.

With a deep inhale, she resumed calm. “Why do you assume something happened to him?”

“He’s dead. Otherwise he’d be protecting you right now. That, I know.”

A lucid assumption. This vampire was not crazy. Did he use the madness act to deflect from his true evil? If she had thought to keep her enemy close, he could be utilizing the make them think you’re not all there, and then strike method.

Suddenly Domingos grabbed her wrist and thrust away her blade hand. She struggled, planting her feet and lowering her hips to focus her strength at her core. She’d guessed his plan exactly—but when a ragged moan came from between his gritted jaws and his eyes closed tightly she realized he was having another manic episode. Music in his head? Didn’t sound so terrible if it was Mozart. But he’d said something about constant whispers. That sounded creepy.

“Damn it!” He kicked out a foot and clutched the sink with both hands, struggling against what seemed like his body wanting to rage and flail. “Get out!”

Lark backed toward the door.

“No! Stay! The voices—” He gasped and hung his head, heaving and breathing deeply. And with a chuckle that danced a rigid insanity, he looked up, then straightened, tilting his head up to expose the unshaved side of his neck. “Gone now.”

Closing her eyes and breathing through her nose, Lark vacillated between tossing the blade into the sink and finishing the job. She didn’t need this. Todd wasn’t even alive, so what could he care if she showed kindness to a homeless man on his behalf? The vampire probably wasn’t even homeless. He might own a fine estate and just didn’t buy new clothing or have a care for his appearance.

“Please,” Domingos said, “I’m good now. Finish?”

Heartbeat thundering, Lark exhaled and forced her body to stand upright from the defensive stance. Another inhale and she drew out the breath slowly as Rook had taught her to find her calm.

“You try me, vampire, and I will cut you.”

“Fair enough.” He tilted back his head.

And Lark returned the blade to his neck and slid it through the shaving cream. She wanted to do this more than she knew why the want existed. And the challenge of that ineffable desire kept her from ending this tense tête-à-tête with a rough dismissal.

“Your husband,” he prompted. “You were going to tell me about him.”

No, she was not.

And yet…

“Do you want me to arrange a visit with a psychiatrist? To talk about his death?”

Rook hadn’t waited for her answer before nodding and suggesting the option was always there. The implied message had been that if she’d taken him up on his offer, that would prove her weakness. Women were not meant to be knighted into the Order.

She hadn’t needed talk. Action had always worked best to soothe her aches, both physical and mental. Even after the horrible event early in their marriage—no, that was one thing she would not mentally revisit. She had enough on her plate as it was.

“He used to be in the Order,” she said quickly. And then more words spilled out before her heart could rule against the confession. “Todd Cooper was one of the best hunters the Order had. Until vampires captured him and tortured him for a year and a day.”

“Captivity hurts,” Domingos said, emotionless and still.

“Yeah? So does sitting at the edge of a big bed every morning, looking over at the undisturbed side and wondering if your husband is still alive, or if he’ll ever be set free.”

She drew the blade across the last narrow patch of stubble and then tossed it into the sink with a clatter. “I’m done. Wash up. Take a shower, and toss out your clothes so I can burn them.”

“I’ll have nothing to wear.”

“There’s men’s clothing in the bedroom. Help yourself. But don’t linger in the shower. This is not your wake. I want you to leave as soon as you’re dressed.”

Chapter 5

The cool shower felt so good, Domingos had lingered, his scarred back facing the shower stream, but not more than twenty minutes, he suspected. On the other hand, who knew? He’d lost the ability to gauge time without a watch since his adventure in the pack complex had damaged his innate sense of place—his very sense of self.

Or maybe it was the phoenix who raced through his blood, urging him toward the crazy train, which required no ticket but guaranteed him a lifetime pass. Just thinking about that other part of him made him chuckle.

Rubbing himself dry with a towel, he wrapped it about his hips, then slipped down the hallway to the bedroom. Rain drooled down the windows behind sheer white curtains. He was disappointed not to find Lark in the quiet, undecorated room.

Wanting to find a woman lying on the bed in wait for you? You really have slipped a cog, LaRoque.

“All my cogs, actually,” he muttered. “Heh.”

He listened and heard her moving about in the living room.

Why was she being so kind to him? He was still amazed she’d invited him in. He could now enter this safe house whenever he wished. It was bizarre that she would offer such compassion when not long from now she’d wield a stake against him. Of course, she had mentioned something about luring the enemy in with kindness.

Didn’t matter. She’d lose. He wouldn’t like killing her in defense. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Perhaps he could injure her enough to keep her away from him. Because he wasn’t ready to die when their daylong pact ran out at midnight. His death mustn’t come until the rest of pack Levallois had suffered his wrath.

And after that? Come what may.

Wincing, because he hadn’t been concentrating on blotting his back carefully he’d dragged the towel across the tender flesh, Domingos gritted his jaw to prevent crying out.

Shaking his head back and forth, he tried to hold off the screeching that always accompanied his pain, but he wasn’t fast enough. His head filled with the horrid noise. So he shook his head harder, faster, trying to race the madness over the edge.

Slamming a palm to the closet door, he yowled.

Letting loose his voice allayed some of the dizzying noise. He waited, wondering if Lark would check on him after his outburst, but didn’t hear movement.

No one cares about you. Get over it, vampire. Slay the rest of the pack, then disappear. That’s how you have to do it.

Right. But he couldn’t do it naked.

Domingos touched the clothing hanging in the closet. All the items were fashioned in black and dark gray fabrics. Suit coats and slacks. Sweaters and a few crisp, ironed shirts. There had been a time when he’d possessed fine things and had taken care for his appearance. He’d liked deep purples and forest-greens for shirts, colors of royalty and wonder.

Wonder had fled his life.

Even after he’d been transformed to vampire against his will five years ago, he’d continued the personal care regimen and had slowly accepted vampirism, inch by inch, confidently growing into the creature he’d become.

Thanks to Truvin Stone, who had taken him under his wing a month after his attack, he’d learned all he needed to know about vampires. Truvin had hooked him up with tribe Zmaj, and they had taken him in within a few months of his transformation. He’d almost felt a semblance of family and companionship for his fellow tribe mates.

Monsters? No, his kind were simply a breed apart from mortals. He had been this close to grasping pride for his vampiric condition.

Until he’d walked right into a pack of smirking werewolves.

Pressing his face against the fine clothing, Domingos wondered over his thoughts. They were so clear. The mind-creasing whispers had left as if on tiptoes. Rarely did that happen, unless he was focused on tracking a wolf. Focus was the key to touching sanity.

Did Lark’s presence alleviate the cacophony? Did it somehow enter his brain and push out the rubbish and twisted shrapnel?

“Can’t be that easy,” he said, clutching at a shirtsleeve. “Never that easy.”

A black shirt loosened from the hanger, and he decided to go with it. He fumbled with the tiny pearlescent buttons, but managed to get it halfway buttoned from neck to midchest. He searched for a pair of jeans, but the most casual he could find were a pair of black leather pants, which fit him well, though they hung low on his hips. He’d lost weight while in captivity, and didn’t feel quite like the man he’d once been.

Make that vampire.

When tossed in the ring and surrounded by bloodthirsty werewolves, he’d learned to scrap, to fight dirty in order to preserve his life. No man would claim pride for the things he had done to survive. Yet he must own the heinous acts he’d committed. Besides, he’d gained the strength of a phoenix, and so he’d worry about his physical shortcomings some other time.

Back in the bathroom, he claimed his goggles, draping them around his neck, then decided to comb through his hair. It took a while, because even though he’d shampooed, his hair was horribly snarled. Bet he’d scared the shit out of Lark kissing her last night.

No, she’s a hunter. Tough girl like that can take anything.

Even your unwanted kisses.

He wished she hadn’t reacted so offensively to his kiss. But why should he have expected anything even close to acceptance?

“Well, that’s a one hundred percent improvement.” Lark leaned against the bathroom door frame.

He set down the comb and spread out his arms for her to inspect. “I feel like a new bit of tatter.”

“You look great.”

He rubbed his smooth jaw, momentarily forgetting his real life, and taking on the suave he’d once possessed around women. “You think I’m handsome?”

Her dark brow quirked above eyes that were so dark he couldn’t determine if they were midnight-blue or mossdeep-emerald. Lark, of the sparkling eyes and naturally rosy lips.

Not a bird. Don’t crush her. Or do! Yes, crush the mortal hunter—

“I’ll give you handsome,” she said, and strolled back into the living room.

“Really?” Had she just pronounced him attractive?

Domingos followed eagerly, a puppy that had been tossed a bone, and then he realized he was acting like a puppy that had just been patted on the head and he assumed a nonchalant, careless posture, not meeting her eyes. He could do casual with the best of them. “How much time left?”

“Six hours, give or take. Enough to give you a good head start. You going to leave?”

“Do you want me to?” Please say no. Don’t reject me.

“I need to shower, eat and…get things in order.”

That was a yes. It sure as hell hadn’t been a no.

“Now that I’m clean it’ll be harder to track my scent. Or wait.” He sniffed the air, noting the fruity scent. “Now I understand. You had me shower and use that smelly cherry shampoo so now you can track me even better. Well played, hunter. Very clever.”

“Leave, Domingos. I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Be friendly with the guy on my hit list. It’s not working.”

“I think it is working.”

“It’s not supposed to work!”

“And you are losing your cool.”

He stepped up to her, his bare feet landing on the rough, flat rug before the sofa. He stood but inches from her body, defying her to look him in the eye, to see that he had once been like her. Human. Capable of emotion and—hell, all those other things he couldn’t grasp at the moment.

“Don’t do that.”

“Stop me,” he defied, not sure if she would stand good on her word, but prepared to go on the defense if she did not. “Does the big bad vampire with the broken fangs scare you?”

“Nothing scares me anymore.”

“Anymore? What used to scare you, Lark?” He took another step, and she didn’t back away, boldly holding position. He liked the challenge of her. It kept back the whispers. “Monsters under the bed?”

“Please.”

“Snakes? Spiders? Creepy crawlies?”

After a thoughtful pause, she said, “Falling.”

He noted her cool composure. Truly, not scared. She was a trained killer, through and through. And yet he’d just peeled back a thin layer from her hard exterior. “So, on the roof last night?”

She nodded.

“That’s the only reason I was able to kiss you. Because you were afraid of falling.”

“You think I’d ask to be kissed by a man with fangs?”

He ran his tongue along a fang, cursing the fact that he could not will them up as any normal vampire could. UV sickness had really worked a number on him.

A violin screeched in his brain. He caught his head against a palm.

“What is it?”

“Nothing but my own madness. Time to leave you.” As if mocking him, the violin played a series of notes that mimicked what he’d just spoken. “But not without one final plea for my life.”

Domingos slid his arms around Lark’s back. Pulling her to him, he bowed to kiss her. He wished his fangs were not down, but so be it. He was bruised, broken and beyond repair. The hunter would have to deal with it. He did not want to risk cutting her and tried his best not to let the fangs graze her lips too hard.

Warm in his embrace, her body felt liquid and bright, something that would never again be his to own. Tender, yet strong, she was a prize he had not earned, could never rightfully own.

When she gasped, he opened her mouth with his, but did not dash out his tongue. Too presumptuous. And the danger of poking her was real. He pressed a palm to her jaw and bowed his forehead against hers.

“Too sweet,” he murmured. “Never again mine.”

Dashing for the door, Domingos fled the temptation of softness that had been stripped from his life by the werewolves’ heartless blood games.

“He said he didn’t know what sweet was,” Lark said as she stroked a finger over her mouth. The rasp of his parting words had brushed her jaw and she still felt the tingle of that touch warming her skin.

Twice now the enemy had kissed her. And she couldn’t deny that her curiosity for the enigmatic vampire was growing stronger.

A kiss could be used to manipulate—by both of them. But she sensed no untoward intentions from Domingos. And that worried her. Because she liked a challenge. She needed that challenge to feel pride for a job well done. If the vamp was just going to stand back and let her at him with stake at the ready, what was the thrill in that?

As well, it mattered little whether she liked him or despised the very marrow in his breed’s bones; if the vampire wouldn’t stop kissing her she’d never be able to stake him. Never would she be able to move on to number seventy-three, and seventy-four, and so on. She’d be stuck, paused.

Because a kiss…? Well. Such intimacy. Their bodies needn’t even touch, only their mouths, breathing, tasting, granting permission. And in such a startling manner. She honestly did not know how to deal with it.

Lark closed the door and leaned against it. “What do I do now?”

Rook would slap her soundly and tell her to get a grip. If Todd were still alive he would—

“No,” she whispered. “He’s gone. When can I finally bury him so that my heart can move on?”

Only after she’d achieved her goal. A goal that had suddenly stalled at number seventy-two.

Chapter 6

Lark snapped upright on the sofa. The digital alarm on her cell phone played the opening notes to the Brandenburg concerto. Earlier in the evening she’d set it to go off at midnight, knowing she was tired and would probably doze after she’d showered and ordered in Greek.

With the stoic resignation she’d gained during her training, she turned off the alarm and padded into the bedroom. Behind a secret door in the closet she found full Order gear: Kevlar-lined leather trousers, Kevlar vest over a T-shirt, cleric’s coat and leather gloves. Inside the coat and around her belt she wore three titanium stakes, a syringe filled with holy water (worked on baptized vamps), a pistol with silver bullets (would kill a werewolf but only slow down a vampire) and numerous nonstandard-issue blades that she’d used more often than any of the other weapons.

She had no idea whether or not Domingos had been baptized. Didn’t matter. The physical fight was her strong point. Up close and in their face was the only way to bring vampires down. Rook often chided her for taking the risk of putting herself so close to the opponent, but she’d argued that staking required close contact anyway, so why stake them and make it easy when a fight served to ignite her need for vengeance?

The physical struggle actually soothed something deep in her soul. It was the only way she could do what she did. And if she began to question her motivations, then she’d be lost.

She pulled her straight black hair into a tight ponytail and fluffed her bangs. A little eyeliner and some lip gloss (just because she was on the hunt didn’t mean she had to look like a pale ghost), and then she stepped into the pair of running shoes she’d packed. The soles on these had better traction than the Doc Martens she normally wore. The boots were outfitted with hinged blades she utilized often during the fight, but tonight she wanted stealth.

Because she knew exactly where to look for Domingos LaRoque.

She locked the front door and strode down the outer walkway that hugged the building, and headed back inside to the main hallway. Smoothing away a strand of hair from her mouth, she touched her lips and experienced a flash of kissing the vampire, of feeling his seeking mouth against hers and of not at all reacting defensively to the hard slide of his fangs. He’d had to be careful not to cut her. At the moment she’d felt the fangs her blood had run cold, and yet the kiss had been too amazing for her to want him to stop.

As had been their first kiss up on the roof. After her initial horror, that is.

Lark sighed and shook her head miserably. It had been too long since she’d been kissed if she was thinking vampire kisses rocked. Either that or crazy was a communicable disease.

She tugged open the roof-access door and made her way up the rubber-padded concrete stairs, stealthily, a stake gripped at her side. She emerged in the warm summer night air. Moonlight sparkled on the tin eaves, but Lark didn’t admire the beauty. Instead she strode over to the man sitting on the mansard roof, leaning back on his elbows, bare toes jutting over the edge.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

“According to the last church bells I heard, it’s past midnight,” he said without looking up at her. “Time’s up.”

Now the moonlight would not allow her to ignore the beauty surrounding her—and that right in front of her. The vampire had cleaned up well. Lark had never been interested in men with long hair—or vampires, for that matter—and had always preferred clean-cut blonds. The fresh-from-the-beach-volleyball-game and I’mso-healthy-I-beam look appealed to her standards for health and fitness. Maybe it was Domingos’s straight nose, or the way the shadows played across his newly shaven jaw? Couldn’t be the fangs that peeked out between his lips. Nor could it be the pale, almost translucent skin that reminded her of pearls and fine things Lark had once liked to lay against her skin.

Something about him…

Then again, this one would never enjoy the sun on a sandy beach anytime soon.

“You’re making this too easy.” She stalked over to him, straddled his outstretched legs and crouched, slamming the flat base of the stake against his chest. The knights called their stake the death punch. She liked that term.

Lark peered into his unflinching gaze, not expecting him to return a defiant look, and he did not. “Say goodbye, vampire.”

“Goodbye, vampire.”

“I’m serious. I thought you wanted to live.”

“I do. I have over a dozen werewolves left to take out.”

“Then what if I promised not to stake you if you promise to leave the rest of pack Levallois alone?”

What was she saying?

“Can’t do that,” Domingos said. He eyed the stake. “I stand by my word, as I would expect you to stand by yours.”

Lark gritted her teeth, gripping the stake more firmly. All it required was one squeeze of her fingers about the paddles and the spring-loaded stake would eject out from the cylinder. The power of the release was so forceful it always bounced her fist upon the victim’s chest. It needed to be that strong to permeate fabric, flesh, bone and finally, the thick, sinewy heart muscle.

Once the vampire’s heart burst, it was dead. There was no coming back from a stake through the heart. She certainly didn’t believe the urban legend about the one vampire who had survived a stake by keeping it in and allowing it to slowly heal, thus pushing out the stake.

“Lark?”

Why she had given him her name was beyond her reason. Too intimate, that. Almost as intimate as a kiss.

Domingos’s eyes were soft, glittering with the gorgeous moonlight that managed to clear a way through the leftover rain clouds. Feeling her neck and throat flush hotly from his insistent regard, Lark strained to move her fingers. To squeeze the paddles. To finish him right here and now.

If only he wouldn’t look at her like that, with just the hint of a curve to his mouth to reveal fang and a decidedly wry smirk. Only one other man had possessed such a devastating smirk. It had been enough to cloud her eyes from his dangerous profession and fall blindly into his charms. To give up her plans to become a professional musician touring with a symphony. To believe that they could do the family thing and make it work. To hope that they could simply exist for one another.

Never again would charm seduce her. Not to the same end she’d had to bring her husband. It hadn’t been right, she being forced to such a thing. And it was all because of creatures like Domingos.

“Ah!” She thrust herself away from the vampire and, turning, sat, clasping the stake to her chest. Todd’s charming smile was right there, so close she could touch it, feel it, remember the way it had made her heart go pitterpatter. Until his smile had been lost, stolen by torture.

She was right there now, in the middle of the kitchen, kneeling on the tiled floor next to Todd. He’d been left at the doorstep an hour earlier. The man she had worried over for a year and a day writhed in agony on the floor, his clothing in tatters upon his emaciated form. Wounds on his forehead, arms and legs angered Lark. He’d been lashed. Over and over.

But those weren’t the most troubling wounds. Two puncture marks on his neck told her what the pain would not allow him to put into words.

Until he did speak—and then it was to beg.

“He begged me to kill him,” she gasped out.

“Your husband?” Domingos guessed. He hadn’t moved, and looked out across the rooftops that featured jagged spines silhouetted against the sky. “Why would he beg for such a thing?”

“Because they’d bitten him,” she said tightly. “He was going to transform into a vampire. The blood hunger was too strong to fight. To become a creature who feeds upon human blood was the last thing he could bear. So he begged me for hours to stake him, to end his agony.”

Todd’s moans had wended through her veins, cringing into her bones, until she’d crouched against the wall and had covered her ears with her hands. She hadn’t been able to look at him, and so he’d crawled up to her and slapped the titanium stake into her hand.

“Did you?” Domingos asked softly. “Stake him?”

Lark bent her head against her knees and squeezed her arms about her legs, not willing to voice the obvious reply. Tears did not come, because she’d cried more than a lifetime’s worth over the year and a day that her husband had been in captivity. Yet her body shuddered, racked by the pain that could not manifest.

She didn’t deserve forgiveness. Rook and the Order certainly hadn’t given it to her. She didn’t need it, didn’t want it. She’d done what had to be done. The cruel act had become her cross to bear, and she understood that.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t torture her as much as she believed her husband had been tortured. All as a means to prove to the Order that they, the vampires, would not stand for the Order’s brand of vigilante justice.

But if the Order did not police the vampires, then who would? The Council? The little Lark knew about that organization of paranormals who oversaw the paranormal realms was that they watched, and rarely intervened. They would never act against one of their own simply because he’d slain a mortal to feed his blood lust.

Lark felt a hand on her arm. Or maybe Domingos brushed the end of her ponytail. The vampire’s touch didn’t land on her for long, just testing, making the briefest yet cruelest contact.

The longtooth bastards had never touched Todd so gently.

She flipped her hair over a shoulder and pounded the slate tiles with a fist. Through gritted teeth, she growled, “Would you get the hell away from me?”

“You don’t own the roof. I can sit where I want to.” Domingos leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his legs and crossing one ankle over the other. He wiggled his toes. The Order clothing fit him well, and—She wasn’t going to admire him. “Do I bring all this bad stuff up from inside your tender little soul?”

“Tender?” She scoffed. “It has nothing to do with you, vampire.”

“You’re lying.”

“You think yourself far more important than others do, obviously.”

“I am the least important thing to walk this world. Insignificant.”

“Save me the self-pity. We all have our crosses.”

“And yours is dragging through my path to salvation.”

“Poetic.”

“Just making an observation.” He rapped the tiles smartly. “I don’t like to see you sad.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“You are my death,” he said softly.

His words fluttered over her skin like something fragile, too delicate to hold without breaking further.

“Yeah?” Lark dismissed the ridiculous image. “If I’m your death, you don’t look too worried. I can take you out, vampire. I’m just a little…off…tonight. I’m tired. I’ve only slept a few hours.”

“Then we should reconvene tomorrow night. Same roof? Same stake?”

Lark smiled wearily, then tucked her head against her elbow, looking over her arm at him. His crazy smile wasn’t so much insane as charming, and charming promised nothing good for her.

“I can’t figure you out,” she said. “I can see the madness. But I also see a soul behind your fucked-up eyes.”

“I bet you’ve never looked into the eyes of your victims before you stake them, eh?”

“It’s not very smart. Track ’em and take ’em out. That’s the way of it. Live to serve. Serve until death. Die fighting.”

“Is that the Order’s motto? Special. You gotta love an organization that has its own kick-ass yet self-sacrificing motto.”

Lark was amused but couldn’t manage a smile. It was true. The knights kicked ass and sacrificed all for the cause. Rarely did the knight have a family and friends, though certainly Todd had tried. He had known his job demanded all. He just hadn’t realized a family life would demand as much of him. Nor had she.

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