He wants redemption...

She only knows damnation

Oliver Connery left a secret paramilitary group because he couldn’t stand the thought of torturing supernatural beings. Lucy Smok’s mission is to send infernal creatures back where they came from. When Lucy learns that Oliver has been harboring hellhounds, she wants to think of him as an enemy—and Oliver wants to think the same of her. But their feelings for each other are another story...

JANE KINDRED is the author of the Demons of Elysium series of m/m erotic fantasy romance, the Looking Glass Gods dark fantasy tetralogy and the gothic paranormal romance The Lost Coast. Jane spent her formative years ruining her eyes reading romance novels in the Tucson sun and watching Star Trek marathons in the dark. She now writes to the sound of San Francisco foghorns while two cats slowly but surely edge her off the side of the bed.

Also by Jane Kindred

Sisters in Sin

Waking the Serpent

Bewitching the Dragon

The Dragon’s Hunt

Seducing the Dark Prince

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Kindling the Darkness

Jane Kindred

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08213-6

KINDLING THE DARKNESS

© 2018 Jane Kindred

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the freaks who suspect we could never love

anyone…and just need someone to save us from

ourselves. (With thanks to Aimee Mann,

who expressed it so eloquently.)

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

A timeless monument to spiritual devotion—and a 1950s architectural marvel that somehow managed not to insult the majesty of the burnished sandstone buttes into which it was wedged but to grace them—Sedona’s Chapel of the Holy Cross wasn’t where you might expect the gates of hell to open. But open they did, for a few brief moments on one gorgeous midnight last spring. On Lucy Smok’s twenty-fifth birthday, to be exact. Funny thing, though, about opening the gates of hell to let something in: stuff got out. And it was Lucy’s responsibility to round up the wayward “stuff” that escaped and put it back in. Cleaning up after Lucien. As usual.

Not that it was really his fault this time. It was their father who’d traded her twin’s soul to the devil. And when Edgar Smok died, the bill had come due. Lucien’s transformation into an infernal being had opened the gates until his descent to rule the nether realm closed them. In that brief interim, the path between the nether realm and this one had been a two-way street.

Dozens of hell beasts were now running amok.

The one she’d tracked this evening—or rather, early this morning—wore a female skin suit: a haggard-looking twentysomething waitress at a greasy spoon, dishwater-blond hair slipping out of a limp ponytail and into her eyes as she took Lucy’s order. She was such a cliché that she had to be infernal.

Lucy had tracked the fugitive with a little help from the thousand-year-old Viking who happened to be dating Lucien’s sister-in-law. Leo Ström was the chieftain of the Wild Hunt, and the instincts of the Hunt wraiths under his command functioned like a metaphysical GPS, homing in on any vicious killers in the area. As much as Lucy hated the idea of them, connections among the not-quite-human came in handy for her present mission. And Theia Dawn, Lucien’s wife, had an entire family of not-quite-human connections. The Carlisle sisters, who claimed the demoness Lilith as their ancestor, seemed to attract it.

Lucy had other means of finding infernal fugitives, of course. As the CFO of Smok International and its subsidiaries, Smok Biotech and Smok Consulting—as well as its acting CEO in Lucien’s absence—she had access to the world’s most sophisticated database for tracking and logging unnatural creatures. But the fugitives from hell weren’t in any database, and those that hadn’t made themselves obvious through their sheer audacity in attacking humans right out of the gate, so to speak, were extremely good at blending in with the human population and keeping a low profile.

The stop at the coffeehouse had been serendipitous. After losing the trail, Lucy had taken a break to refuel, and the little downstairs café was the only thing open this early in the morning. She hadn’t been sure until the waitress brought her order. A telltale flick of the woman’s tongue at the corner of her mouth accompanying a rapid eye blink had given her away as a reptilian demon. Anyone else would have missed it. The demon saw Lucy’s recognition in the same instant, eyes widening with alarm.

Before it could make its escape, Lucy grabbed it by the wrist and pinned its hand to the cool wooden tabletop.

“Let go of me.” The eyes narrowed to reptilian slits with an unnerving clicking sound, like a muted camera shutter.

“You’re out of your element.”

The demon bristled, a reptilian reflex beneath the borrowed skin. “And you’re about to discover how far you are out of yours.”

Lucy smiled darkly. “You’d be surprised how far my element extends.” She’d been banking on the fact that the demon wouldn’t want to make a scene in the middle of a brightly lit coffeehouse with a small but decidedly human audience. She hadn’t counted on the demon’s desperation.

A hissing sound provided an instant’s warning before the demon spat, giving Lucy the chance to duck and dodge, narrowly missing a face full of demonic acid. Unfortunately, the evasive action also loosened her grip, and her quarry was off in a flash.

Lucy catapulted over the counter into the short-order kitchen in pursuit of the creature, startling a busboy and a tired cook. The demon flung the busboy across the kitchen as a distraction, but Lucy wasn’t here to pick hapless busboys up off the floor. She was here to stop a hell fugitive.

She leaped over him and followed the demon through the back door into the alley. It had given up its pretense of humanity, shedding its skin and leaving the corpse of the unfortunate woman it had been wearing in a heap among the trash bins as it dropped onto all fours and scuttled through a crack between two buildings.

Lucy spared a glance back up the alley to make sure she wasn’t observed before using the advantage of her own unnatural blood to scale the back of the building and race over the top. Inheriting some of Lucien’s curse came with a few perks. She leaped down onto the unlit street just in time to block the demon’s egress as it crept out. The demon reared up on its hind legs in surprise, poised for an attack, as Lucy drew her gun—she’d brought her favorite, the Nighthawk Custom Browning Hi Power 9 mm—and aimed between the thing’s inhuman eyes. The skin it had shed evidently wasn’t the corpse of a human after all, but a sort of shifter’s shell, as evidenced by the demon wriggling to redon the same form like a translucent skin coat, albeit a slightly fresher version. It was an obvious ploy to appeal to Lucy’s humanity. Always a mistake.

“Please.” The demon held its human-appearing hands in the air. “I have babies at home. I’m a single mom.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Appealing to her womanhood was an even bigger mistake. Lucy palmed the slide to chamber a round. “Hope you kissed them goodbye.”

Before she could pull the trigger, something barreled into her from her left, knocking the gun from her hands and her to the ground. Her Russian martial arts training kicked in automatically, and Lucy flipped over and onto her feet before her attacker could grab her, swiping his leg with a roundhouse kick from a crouch and incapacitating him with a one-two punch to the neck as he fell. When he hit the ground, Lucy leaped on top of him and dug her fist into the hair at his forehead to slam his head back onto the concrete. He managed to block her as she swung at his jaw simultaneously, trapping her arm inside his with an elbow jab toward her throat. They were deadlocked.

Lucy glared down at her attacker, sizing him up. A dark hood framed salt-and-pepper hair and a tightly compressed, disapproving mouth in a tan face offset by a sharp, muscular jaw. For a middle-aged man, he was in damn good shape. Not an ounce of fat on him.

“That was an escaped fugitive whose rescue you just came to, G.I. Joe. Thanks to you, a violent predator is in the wind.”

“From where I’m lying, you seem to be the violent predator.” He let go of her arm, and she let him yank his hair from her fingers. “I’d like to see your badge.”

Lucy snorted with derision and rose to collect her pistol from where it had spun against the corner of one of the buildings. “I don’t have to show you anything.”

“Maybe I’ll just make a citizen’s arrest, then.”

Lucy let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “I’d like to see you try.”

The demon’s rescuer rubbed the back of his head with a grimace as he got to his feet and observed her for a moment with a frown of mistrust. “Exactly what did that one-hundred-pound woman do that’s so dangerous?”

Lucy checked her clip. “Killed at least five people last week, for starters. I tracked her here from Flagstaff, where she left a trail of bodies. Two of them kids. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say she’s got an appetite for skin.”

Midlife G.I. Joe frowned and shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong girl. She’s been working at the Mine Café for a month. Hasn’t strayed beyond a ten-mile radius since she got here.”

“How would you know?”

“I make it my business to know when someone extra-human is in my neighborhood. And this one’s harmless.”

So he’d peeked beyond the veil. Lucy studied him. Seemed human. Didn’t necessarily mean he was. “My sources say you’re wrong.”

“Well, your sources are mistaken. I’m part of a neighborhood watch—of a sort—and I’m telling you this girl can’t be your perp.”

Lucy holstered the gun in her shoulder strap. “You think I’m law enforcement?”

“Not ordinary law enforcement, obviously. But yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a private contractor. I track things that don’t belong in this plane. And I tracked an infernal flesh-eater here.”

His eyes had narrowed in a glower at the words private contractor.

“Maybe you tracked something here, but it wasn’t her.” He pulled up his hood as it began to drizzle, warm skin tone reduced to a craggy monochrome silhouette under the flickering sodium streetlight. “And we don’t need any private contractors stalking our citizens. The town of Jerome takes care of its own.”

“I don’t really care what you ‘need.’ There’s a killer on the loose, and I intend to take it down. Wherever it attempts to hide out.”

He glared down at her, trying to use his height to dominate. “If I see you in Jerome again, I’ll consider you hostile.”

Lucy gave him her best death stare through the now-pouring rain. “Why wait? You can consider me hostile right now.” She turned and strode away before he could form a retort, heading through the downpour back toward Main Street, where she’d parked her car.

As she wound down the two-lane highway, the beat of steady autumn rain against her windshield was already slowing, and the sun had made a dismal appearance through the dull steel of cloud cover in the five minutes it took to reach the bottom of Cleopatra Hill. The town of Clarkdale ahead of her was the first sign of civilization—if you could call it that—in the Verde Valley Basin. After that, the somewhat larger sprawling suburban town of Cottonwood laid claim to the title with a population of twelve thousand. Not that her current base, Sedona, was really any bigger, but it felt like a larger town with its hip vibe and nonstop stream of tourists who came for the metaphysical ambience and stayed for the real magic of sun and stream and stone.

After filling up at the Clarkdale Gas-N-Sip, Lucy headed for the restroom outside the convenience store, unwinding her knotted braid and separating the soaking hair into three dripping plaits as she rounded the building.

She sensed the presence in the bushes before it leaped, but there was only time enough to meet its force with a full frontal attack of her own. The creature snarled and went for her throat as she aimed for its solar plexus. She was taking a guess at where that was, but her left fist landed solidly while she followed up with a right to its jaw. Sharp teeth grazed her knuckles—luckily, she was immunized against lycanthropy—but the blow to its gut had slowed it down.

While its footing wavered for an instant, Lucy drew her Nighthawk Browning and emptied four rounds into it point-blank. It made a sort of furious yelp and snarl and took off so swiftly she couldn’t follow. More angry than wounded, it seemed. Which was impossible. She hadn’t gotten a clear look at what kind of wolf it was, as it had been mostly fur and blur, but the snout was clearly lupine and the upright frame humanoid. Four Soul Reaper bullets should have incapacitated it almost immediately. It should be writhing in its death throes on the ground in front of her right now.

Though it wasn’t the impact of the bullets in Lucy’s gun that killed infernal creatures. It was the poison inside. “Soul Reaper,” Lucien had nicknamed it, because it obliterated anything not human from within the host flesh, and if any remnant of a human soul happened to remain within the infernal, Soul Reaper sent the remnant to hell.

After cleaning up in the restroom, Lucy paid for her gas and hit the road, grateful that no one else had been outside the Gas-N-Slip. She was bone tired—by her count, she’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours—and ready for a hot shower followed by a stiff drink and bed by the time she got home.

She glanced down at her bloody hand as she unlocked the door. It was a little bit more than a graze. Immunization or no immunization, she had to take care of the bite. With a growl of her own, she went inside, gun firmly in both hands while she made a quick survey of the place. It had become a habit. When she was sure the villa was empty, she took off her jacket and slipped the shoulder holster off and tossed it on the couch along with her piece. She’d meant to find something more permanent and less ostentatious than a villa at an exclusive resort once she’d decided to stick around after Lucien’s departure, but apartment hunting took a back seat to rounding up hell beasts.

After cleaning the wound, she decided on a bath instead of a shower. Baths weren’t really her thing, but every muscle ached at this point, and Epsom salt was a thing she believed in.

As the tub filled, Lucy wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her forehead on them, replaying the wolf’s moves and her own, analyzing what she might have done better. Merciless postmortem had been ingrained in her from Edgar’s training since she was a kid. She’d let down her guard because she was tired. Mistake number one. Vigilance was mandatory. But for the most part, she’d followed protocol. It was the creature that was the unpredictable element.

What the hell was that thing? How could it have kept moving with four Soul Reaper bullets in its chest? It was infernal. It had to be. But it moved faster—and it was larger—than any garden-variety werewolf she’d encountered. And it had seemed somehow less...furry.

The tub had filled, and Lucy shut the water off and leaned back against the built-in headrest. It really was a hell of a tub. She hadn’t paid much attention to it when she rented the place, since she’d only intended to use the stand-alone shower. But it was deep enough and wide enough for her to stretch out both arms and legs and let them float in the silky water without touching anything.

Eyes closed, she ran through the encounter in Jerome with the same critical review. The reptilian-demon waitress wasn’t in the Smok registry, so, killer or not, it was definitely a fugitive. But was it possible it wasn’t the killer she was tracking? What were the odds more than one hell fugitive would be hanging out in Jerome, Arizona? The artsy haven carved into the side of Cleopatra Hill in the Arizona Black Hills, a former copper mining boomtown that had turned its colorful history into a touristy cash maker as an active “ghost town,” had a grand total of less than five hundred permanent residents.

The vigilante—which was what G.I. Joe likely was, given his skulking around in a dark hoodie in the middle of the night on his “neighborhood watch of a sort”—had been adamant that the waitress wasn’t Lucy’s killer. Not that Lucy was going to take his word for it, but he hadn’t struck her as a liar, whatever else he was. He genuinely seemed to believe the girl was harmless. And he claimed he’d been watching her for a month.

Maybe he was just a perv who liked watching young women. But he hadn’t given off that vibe. And he hadn’t made any typical masculine overtures toward Lucy, who was just a few years younger than the waitress appeared to be. Honestly, it had kind of annoyed her. She was used to being noticed by guys his age—just hitting their midlife-crisis stride and hyperaware of any younger woman in their vicinity to project their insecurities onto and gauge their own desirability. Not that she wanted middle-aged dudes creeping on her, but it was almost suspect when they didn’t.

So what was this guy’s deal? Middle-aged but in almost-military shape, living in tiny, artsy Jerome in the middle of nowhere keeping tabs on its “extra-human” population? Maybe he was a fugitive. Lucy opened her eyes. Maybe he was her fugitive.

The phone rang from the living room. She’d left it in her pocket when she stripped out of her wet clothes. Lucy sighed and climbed out of the tub.

She got to the phone after the call had rolled to voice mail, and she listened to the message on speaker while toweling off. An older woman spoke a bit hesitantly, as though her request was awkward. She spoke on behalf of “the council,” which wanted to contract Lucy’s services to investigate a werewolf sighting. In Jerome. So much for taking care of its own.

Chapter 2

Whoever this “council” was, they were clearly desperate. Lucy called the woman back to verify the job’s legitimacy before agreeing to take it. Despite the unorthodox call to her personal phone, they’d been referred to Smok Consulting through the proper channels. They were anxious to meet with her this morning, in an hour, wanting to take care of the problem before too many residents—or more likely, tourists—became aware of it. This “werewolf” was probably the fugitive she was tracking. She could kill two hell beasts with one stone.

Lucy pushed down the exhaustion. She’d stayed up this long. Might as well go for two days. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten—she’d left a gorgeous plate of hash browns cooked into a giant pancake, plus a sweet side of bacon, at the coffeehouse—but there wasn’t time for a proper breakfast. Maybe she could grab coffee and a muffin somewhere in Jerome before meeting her contact. Lucy sighed. As much as she’d resented Lucien’s attitude about Smok Consulting’s work, it had sure seemed easier handling these kinds of jobs with two people. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely useless.

* * *

The road to Jerome, once she’d left Sedona and driven through the flat stretch of valley beyond Cottonwood and Clarkdale, was straight up the escarpment separating the Black Hills from the valley. One thing Lucy hated was driving slow, and driving up between the stacked limestone retaining walls that hugged the mountainside meant driving slow.

Arriving in Jerome with fifteen minutes to spare, Lucy parked in front of an artsy-looking shop in the bottom of a restored Victorian on lower Main Street near the Ghost City Inn, an old miners’ boardinghouse turned B and B. A wrought-iron sign hanging over the door declared the shop was Delectably Bookish. She wasn’t sure if it was a café or a bookstore, but she thought she smelled coffee brewing inside. She opened the door, pursuing the scent. It looked like a reading room, with comfy mismatched chairs and couches strewn among tables beside stacks of hardback books—and, hallelujah, a shellacked wooden counter at the back bearing an espresso machine and a case of pastries and treats.

Lucy made a beeline for it. Coffee was definitely brewing. But there was no one in sight.

“Hello?” She leaned over the counter, peering into the back through a beaded-glass curtain. “Anyone back there?”

Nothing.

She was running out of time, and she really needed that coffee. She’d been awake for almost thirty hours at this point. “Hey, hello? You’ve got a customer out here.”

In frustration, she tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter and grabbed a lemon poppy seed muffin, stuffing a bite into her mouth while she went around the counter and helped herself to a cup of coffee. There were no paper cups. She’d have to bring back the cappuccino cup after her meeting.

Lucy sipped her coffee as she headed back around the counter and nearly dumped it on herself as she looked up. At the bottom of the staircase that led from the book stacks to the second floor of what she assumed were more book stacks, a ruggedly handsome middle-aged man stood watching her, arms folded—and they were seriously impressive arms packed tight into a white T-shirt—a scowl on his tanned face. It was her G.I. Joe vigilante.

“Find the cash register all right? I hope that pesky drawer didn’t give you any trouble. It sticks sometimes.”

“Cash register? No, I—just needed a coffee. There was nobody here. I left money on the counter.”

“Jerome isn’t your personal hunting ground. You might want to learn some manners before someone mistakes you for a thief and treats you accordingly.”

Heat rushed to Lucy’s face. “Yeah? Well, you might want to be a little more responsive when a customer is waiting. In the real world, baristas don’t get tips when they ignore people. Maybe you shouldn’t be taking bathroom breaks when you’re supposed to be working.”

“Maybe you should learn to read.” His head tilted toward the words printed in large gold lettering on the outside of the glass panel on the door. “We open at noon.”

Lucy tried to maintain some dignity, the stupid muffin crumbling in her hand as she set down the coffee cup. “Why the hell is the door unlocked if you’re not open?”

Barista G.I. Joe studied her for a moment, his expression giving away nothing. “We generally trust our neighbors around here. This is the first time I’ve ever been robbed.”

“Robbed?” Lucy picked up the five-dollar bill and waved it at him. “I paid you. But you know what? Forget it. Keep the coffee and the muffin. And the damn change. Maybe you can buy yourself a functioning lock.”

She tossed the muffin and the money on the counter and stalked to the door, willing down the prickly heat in her skin threatening to top off her humiliation with a furious blush. She made it all the way to the door—and then pushed instead of pulled.

His soft laughter as she adjusted her grip on the handle followed her out.

Lucy wasn’t easily flustered. Years of practice being the “good” daughter under Edgar’s strict rules and dealing with supernatural rogues, paranormal entities and therianthropes—or shape-shifters, in layman’s terms—of every description had made her preternaturally calm under pressure. Everything was to be kept inside. A Smok wasn’t supposed to react with emotion but with a cool head to defuse the most unpredictable situations. And she certainly didn’t get embarrassed. What was it to her if some petty wannabe-vigilante barista chose to call her a thief just because he couldn’t be bothered to man the counter at his day job?

Normally, she’d have already forgotten the encounter. Maybe it was the lack of sleep—and caffeine—affecting her, but her blood was boiling, and she couldn’t shake it off. She wanted to go back and punch the guy in the mouth.

Lucy gritted her teeth and entered the landscape-dominating Civic Center building on Clark Street that housed the town hall, an odd mix of classical architecture and Mission Revival that defied the small-town-Victorian aesthetic.

With a few minutes to spare, she stepped into the bathroom to make sure she was presentable. Charcoal-gray pin-striped suit immaculate, white shirt crisp, nothing out of place. After tucking a few stray hairs into the loose braid that hung down her back, she touched up her Blood Moon lip stain—the dark, dramatic hue was the one concession she made to traditional femininity; the over-the-top color went beyond sexual appeal, making an aggressive statement that made her feel in control—and headed upstairs to her meeting.

The door to the meeting room opened outward—like a respectable door. Lucy pulled it open and stopped on the threshold in disbelief. Among the three council members sitting at the table was Barista G.I. Joe.

His dark brows drew together into a disbelieving scowl that matched the one she was no doubt displaying as he met her eyes. “You have got to be kidding.”

The elderly woman who’d risen from the seat next to him at Lucy’s entrance glanced from him to Lucy and back. “Do you two know each other?”

“No, we don’t,” said Lucy before he could answer. “We just had a misunderstanding about coffee.”

“I see.” The woman reached a hand across the table. “I’m Nora Peterson.”

Lucy stepped forward with a nod and shook Nora’s hand, trying to ignore the unfriendly glare emanating from beside her. “Lucy Smok.”

Nora indicated the chair opposite her. “Please have a seat.”

As Lucy sat, she reevaluated her initial assessment of G.I Joe’s age. Prematurely graying hair had made him seem older at first glance. He was definitely on the nearer side of forty.

She smiled politely at Nora and the other council member, avoiding the glowering eyes. Even though they were compelling. And an intense deep cinnamon, just a shade darker than amber. Not that she noticed.

“I didn’t realize the town council would be here. Generally, people like to keep these matters hushed up.”

Nora tilted her head. “The choice of meeting place may have been unintentionally misleading. We’re not exactly the town council. We’re more like...the paracouncil.” She gave Lucy a slight smile. “We’re a volunteer group. But we’ve taken it upon ourselves to manage incidents that fall outside the normal operations of the town. With the council’s blessing. Unofficially.”

Lucy took out her phone to take notes. “So they do know about these paranormal occurrences.”

“Everyone knows.” The man on Nora’s other side shrugged. “Jerome is a small town. It’s hard not to know things. We just don’t talk about them. Except for the ghosts, of course.” He smiled. “They’re sort of our livelihood.”

Lucy nodded, uncertain whether he was being facetious. “I see. Thank you, Mr...”

Nora clucked her tongue. “So sorry, Ms. Smok. This is Wes Mason.”

Wes reached over the table to shake Lucy’s hand, his dark skin weathered and rough. “How do you do?”

“And Oliver Connery.” Nora indicated Barista G.I. Joe.

Lucy turned to him with a bland, polite expression. “Mr. Connery.”

He rose to shake her hand, maintaining a similar expression in return. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Smok.” The handshake was firm but not too firm.

Lucy sat back in her chair. “So you said there’s been werewolf activity?”

“We assume it’s a werewolf,” said Nora. “We haven’t personally gotten a good look at it.”

“You’re sure it’s not coyotes or stray dogs? And you’re certain it’s only one?”

“I think we all know the difference between a dog and a werewolf.” Oliver Connery wasn’t quite as unflappable as he’d pretended. The other two members of the council glanced at him, as if the defensive tone was out of character. He seemed to realize it and dialed it back. “We’ve spotted tracks matching the profile of wolves that disappear into human footprints. Normally, this wouldn’t be cause for alarm. Most shape-shifters just want to be left alone, and we believe in a live-and-let-live philosophy.”

“That’s not consistent with my experience, Mr. Connery.” Lucy calmly met his eyes. Now she was in her element. “Rogue shape-shifters are never benign. Every one I’ve dealt with has caused chaos and destruction.”

“Your experience? Forgive me, but you can’t really have much experience. I’m a little surprised, honestly, to find that someone so young is the CFO of Smok International. Or that the CFO herself would take this job.”

Lucy fixed her gaze on him. “I’ve been deeply involved with the company operations—both the biotech side and the paranormal-consulting side—since I was fifteen, and I started working as a consulting agent when I turned eighteen. I spent the last five years traveling Europe and the eastern states as Smok Consulting’s premier field agent before my father turned the business over to me prior to his death. And I am telling you—from experience—that shifters who aren’t actively managing their conditions and integrating with normal society are dangerous.”

Oliver opened his mouth, but Wes spoke first. “Ordinarily, I’d agree with Oliver, but this is a different breed. We’ve never encountered any so malevolent. It’s been responsible for at least three vicious attacks in the area—official reports are attributing the deaths to a rabid mountain lion, but we have eyewitnesses who claim to have seen a large, misshapen wolf. That’s why we’ve called you in. This is bigger than we can handle. We took a vote.” He glanced at Oliver a bit apologetically. “It was two to one in favor of bringing in professional help.”

“Well, you’ve made the right decision.” Lucy spared a cool glance at Oliver. “This is my area of expertise.”

Oliver’s strong jaw was tight. “I’m not sure I care for your use of the word normal, but despite my reluctance to bring in an outsider—whose motives are purely mercenary—I concurred with Nora and Wes’s assessment that this isn’t ordinary. If it’s a wolf, it’s like no wolf I’ve ever encountered.”

“You can’t have encountered many, Mr. Connery. Smok Consulting tracks this kind of activity closely, and we have no previous evidence of any werewolves in Jerome, Arizona.”

“You assume every werewolf in existence announces itself to you.”

Now, that was an odd thing to say. Perhaps Oliver Connery had experience after all. Personal experience.

“You assume all the unnatural creatures in our database are aware that they’re in it.”

One dark brow, in stark contrast to the silver in his hair, twitched.

Nora made an effort to regain control of the meeting. “So how do you usually approach these matters? Despite the fact that people are aware of certain odd goings-on in Jerome, we do want to maintain some discretion.”

Lucy nodded. “Absolutely. I’d like to start with a list of all reported sightings, including times and dates and any physical contact. And then I’ll survey each of the sites, interview any eyewitnesses who are willing to come forward and get to work tracking the creature or creatures down.”

“I’m not sure how many eyewitnesses will be willing to talk to you.” Nora and Wes shared a look. “But I’ll give you what I can.” She rose and shook Lucy’s hand again. “We’re very grateful for your help. In the meantime, Oliver will take you to the location of the most recent sighting so you can examine the physical evidence.”

Lucy paused as she rose with the others. “Oh... I wouldn’t want to put you out, Mr. Connery. I’m sure I can find it on my own.”

“Please, call me Oliver. And I’m sure you can’t.”

“You doubt my abilities?”

“I don’t have any idea what your abilities are. It’s not about your abilities. It’s just that it’s not something we can simply write down and give you directions to.”

One of her abilities was being able to kick the asses of men twice her size. She supposed she could put that ability to use if she had to. Again.

Lucy shrugged. “Well, if it won’t inconvenience you.” She nodded to Nora and Wes as they headed out into the hallway before she turned to give Oliver a pointed look as he came around the table. “I suppose you have someone to cover your shift?”

“My shift?” He stopped in front of her, forcing her to look up.

“Aren’t you working at the coffee shop?” She smiled darkly. “You did say it opened at noon.”

Oliver chuckled, hooking his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans. “I don’t work there.”

Lucy frowned, the usual potency of her practiced icy stare diluted by having to look up. “Then what were you doing there?”

“I live upstairs.” He smiled back at her as if they were having a perfectly friendly conversation. “I own the place.”

“Oh.”

“So that coffee and muffin you stole come directly out of my profits.”

She didn’t normally lose her temper, but there was something about this guy that totally pushed her buttons. “I paid for the food!” Her fists were clenched at her sides as she resisted the urge to punch him in the face. The urge was strong.

His eyes were laughing at her, crinkled at the corners. “A large coffee is two fifty, and the muffin was four seventy-five.”

“Four seventy-five for a muffin?” Lucy yanked her wallet from her inside pocket and pulled out another five and shoved it at him. “That’s two seventy-five you owe me, then. I’m not leaving a tip for such poor service.”

Oliver stared down at the bill as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it or how to respond to her, thumbs still firmly in his pockets. When she continued to hold out the money, he took it at last and tucked it into the pocket of the flannel shirt he’d put on over the T-shirt since she’d seen him in the shop. It gave her the impression she must have caught him getting dressed.

Lucy cleared her throat deliberately. “My change?”

That dark eyebrow twitched again. “I don’t keep a cash register on me. I’ll just consider this an advance on your next muffin.” He rolled up his sleeves and reached to open the door, and Lucy took a broad step past him to get it herself.

As she pushed it open and went through, he chuckled once more behind her. “I see you figured out how doors work.”

Chapter 3

Oliver studied Lucy Smok’s profile as she followed his directions and drove toward the Gold King Mine & Ghost Town attraction just outside the town proper. When he’d clashed with her the night before, he was focused on her militant intrusion into his world, her unwarranted attack on poor Crystal Harney, an “undergrounder” who was just trying to get by.

Crystal belonged to a certain class of the not-quite-human who were shunned by those who ran in elite circles like the world of Smok International. Oliver had seen his fill of vulnerable undergrounders being victimized and demonized among the paranormal-aware community, and he’d vowed to watch out for them when he could, since no one else would. Lucy’s arrogant insistence that Crystal was a killer rubbed him the wrong way, the sort of attitude he’d seen from law enforcement types all his life.

Then, today, when Lucy had appeared in his shop after raiding his kitchen, Oliver took her for a spoiled brat. In the dark and the rain the night before, he hadn’t noticed how young and slight she was, and it was hard to reconcile the two versions of her. But discovering she was Lucy Smok, the high-powered twenty-five-year-old CFO of Smok International the council had brought in to deal with their problem, had thrown him for a loop. How all three things could exist simultaneously in one compact—and highly opinionated—person was difficult to process.

She was also one of the most visually striking women he’d ever seen.

Pale aquamarine eyes and porcelain skin contrasted sharply with almost-ebony hair, and the deep red lipstick she wore—like the stain from a beet—enhanced the effect. The paleness of her eyes made her seem like a dangerous wolf. He might have suspected her of being a shifter herself if she hadn’t been so adamantly bigoted against them. She also possessed a sharp cockiness he didn’t see in most women, the kind of confidence a woman would need, he supposed, to run a multimillion-dollar corporation—especially at such a young age.

He kept coming back to that. Because, beyond her puzzling contradictions, he was having trouble reconciling his own powerful attraction for a woman almost ten years his junior. It wasn’t the image he had of himself. Later in life, ten years wouldn’t matter so much. But a man in his midthirties chasing after a woman in her twenties was just embarrassing. Not that he was chasing after her. He didn’t chase. And he wasn’t interested in any kind of intimate involvement. He was done with that. But the attraction was undeniable.

It was almost visceral, like he’d been waiting for her, his senses pricking up in anticipation as if his body recognized her. And not in a sexual way—though he couldn’t deny there was that, too—but with a sense of familiarity, of knowing, that he couldn’t explain and didn’t particularly care for. Her scent seemed made for him, a blend of cardamom and amber, something both earthy and exotic at once. And he didn’t think she was wearing perfume.

“Now where?”

Oliver blinked. “What?”

She glanced over at him, annoyance drawing her ebony brows together. “Where do I turn?”

They were at the crossroad where Jerome-Perkinsville Road split off in two different directions, one toward the rustic museum of antique mining machinery and the other up into the hills.

“Oh, sorry. To the right. You can pull over by the gate.”

Lucy turned a bit too swiftly, tires kicking up dirt and gravel, and drew up in front of the rusted barrier chaining off the private road. “It says No Trespassing.”

“We’re not going in. We’re just heading up the forest road a bit. We could drive in farther, but I don’t think your car is made for dirt-road driving.” Her expensive convertible two-seater looked like it was designed more for show than for sport.

He noticed the dress boots with a two-inch block heel under her tailored suit as she stepped out of the car. She was even shorter than she seemed. He could probably pick her up and carry her under one arm like a caveman claiming his mate. Not that he approved of cavemen scooping up and claiming women. Or that he considered her a potential mate.

Oliver swallowed and reined in his idiotic thoughts. Sometimes it seemed like his brain took pleasure in going off on tangents that would make him uncomfortable. At any rate, how such a slight-looking woman could possibly be one of Smok Consulting’s premier field agents was beyond him. Going after someone small and defenseless like Crystal was one thing. And Lucy obviously had some kind of martial arts training. She’d briefly overpowered him with the element of surprise on her side. But what was she going to do when she tracked one of these things down? Call animal control?

Lucy was eyeing him with a mixture of impatience and annoyance. “Well?”

“This way.” Oliver strode past her, hands in his pockets, up the dirt and gravel road, not waiting to see if she’d followed. Her expensive, unscuffed boots crunched on the gravel behind him. They weren’t going to be unscuffed for long. He led her around the bend, where he veered off the road and headed downhill over the remains of old mining spoil, only to realize she was no longer behind him.

He turned to find her standing at the top of the hill with her arms folded, watching him. “Too steep for you?” he called up to her.

Lucy uncrossed her arms and rested her fists on her hips. “Mr. Connery, is there a point to this little trek?” Her ability to project was impressive. She must have had stage experience.

“It’s Oliver,” he yelled back. “And yes.”

After regarding him with suspicion for a moment longer, she finally headed down the side of the hill with a sigh—extremely sure-footed on the damp earth despite the boots that didn’t look like they were made for hiking. It occurred to him as she came closer that perhaps it looked like he was leading her out into an isolated area for nefarious purposes. He’d forgotten to put himself in her shoes—not that he’d fit them—which was a large part of his meditative practice.

“Sorry about that,” he said when she reached him. “I should have told you what we were doing. This is where we tracked the creature after it was spotted lurking around the Ghost Town. The lupine tracks disappear here, to be replaced with human footprints.”

She looked where he was pointing, and Oliver stepped aside and moved off a few paces to let her examine the area without him hovering behind her. Lucy sank into a crouch, perfectly balanced on those thick-heeled boots, and took out her phone to snap some pictures before straightening and walking around the prints to get some shots from another angle. After walking farther down the hill to follow the now-human prints for a ways, she turned and headed back up.

“I see what you mean. The animal tracks aren’t standard wolves. I’ve never seen any quite like that. Certainly not that size. But those are definitely human prints leading away from them, with no sign that anyone else was out here until they appeared.” She glanced at Oliver’s footwear—a much more utilitarian pair of old brown work boots. “Except you, evidently. And now me, of course.”

Oliver tilted his head and studied her, amused. “You think I’m the werewolf?”

“Are you?”

“Would I tell you if I were?”

Lucy shrugged and headed back up the hill. Oliver followed, and they walked in silence until they reached her car and got in.

“I’m not,” he said as she started the engine.

“Not...?”

“The werewolf. For whatever my word is worth to you.”

“Exactly as much as any man’s is worth.”

He had the distinct impression that meant “zilch.”

She turned the car around and pulled back out onto the paved road. “Besides, I don’t think we’re dealing with a werewolf.”

“Oh?”

“Lycanthropic transformation isn’t instantaneous and smooth. The creature would have struggled and fallen, and the human shape would have been on all fours before the footprints began. There’s no sign of any transition at all with these tracks. It’s as if the creature simply chose to be human at that moment.”

“What kind of shifter could do that?”

Lucy was quiet for a moment before she answered. “None that I know of. So where to now?”

“Haunted Hamburger.”

She looked over at him. “Haunted...what?”

“Best burgers in town.” He smiled. “I think I owe you a meal.”

* * *

The outdoor seating overlooked the entire Verde Valley—the hundred-mile views the restaurant boasted of along with burgers, brews and “boos.” The distinctive red-rock formations that defined the Sedona landscape, made blue and soft by distance, marked the horizon like the rim of another world. Lucy gazed out across the panorama while they waited for their food, wondering how much of this territory might “belong” to the creatures she was hunting.

“It’s a pretty great view, huh? The ghosts seem to like it here, anyway.”

She turned toward Oliver, who was sipping his porter. “Hmm?” Lucy glanced at the valley once more. “Oh. Yeah, it’s nice. I was just thinking about the direction this thing might have gone. The tracks we looked at must have been made within the last few hours since the rain stopped.”

“That’s right. We got the report of the sighting about an hour after I caught you harassing one of our citizens.”

Lucy ignored the bait. “And what makes you think the tracks were made by the same creature responsible for the ‘mountain lion’ attacks?”

“Because similar tracks were seen at the sites of those attacks. And a kid was found close to that spot yesterday with his throat torn open and his intestines missing.”

The same MO as the beast she’d been tracking from Flagstaff.

Oliver grimaced as the burgers arrived. “Sorry. I wasn’t planning to talk about that while we ate.”

“Why not? Isn’t that why you brought me to Jerome? I didn’t come for a social visit.”

“No, of course. And to be clear, I did not bring you here. I was outvoted, if you recall. But don’t you ever take a break?”

Lucy shrugged. “I’ll take a break when they do.” Which seemed like it was going to be never. She dug in to her burger, having forgotten how hungry she was until now. “So, where were the other attacks?”

“A hiker was killed in Deception Gulch near the old mine at Hull Canyon, and a couple of campers were torn to shreds near Woodchute Trail. And there was one more sighting recently at Hogback—the Old Miners Cemetery just south of town. But no contact there.”

“So it’s staying close to Jerome.” Lucy washed down her burger with a sip of root beer. “I wonder why.”

Oliver gave her a wry smile. “Some people like it here.”

“No, I’m sure they do. I mean, why, specifically, would it gravitate toward a small town with limited hunting and few places to hide in an area that’s neither urban nor wooded. Werewolves tend to prefer hunting grounds near large groups of people where they can blend in and stalk at night, or they isolate themselves and hide in undeveloped forestland and hunt small game. But this one—if it is indeed just one—has gone a few miles out, perhaps to hide, but then returned to the center of Jerome, where it made a brazen kill that it could have been caught at.”

“Maybe it isn’t afraid of being caught.” It was an unsettling idea.

While they both concentrated on their food, Lucy pondered where to start her hunt.

After a moment, Oliver set down his burger and took a drink of his porter. “So, how do you intend to catch it?”

“I don’t intend to catch it. I intend to kill it.”

His hard jaw was set even harder. “So you’re judge, jury and executioner.”

“That’s right. That’s what people like you pay me to be. What did you expect me to do, put it in a zoo?”

“Doesn’t your biotech company develop drugs to help shifters lead ‘normal’ lives?”

“We have certain promising pharmaceuticals in development but none on the market yet.”

“Isn’t that your brother’s bailiwick? You both inherited the company, didn’t you?”

Lucy breathed evenly. “Lucien has a lot of responsibilities that keep him from the day-to-day operations. But yes, Smok Biotech is Lucien’s particular area of interest, and the anti-lycanthropy project is one that he’s spearheaded.”

“There are rumors about him.”

Her hand remained perfectly still around her glass, and she kept her expression neutral. “Rumors?”

“That he’s actually at some swanky rehab center in California, and his addiction is being quietly covered up.”

She made a dismissive sound and emptied her glass. “Lucien isn’t an addict. Rest assured, the company is in very capable hands. My brother just happens to be a rather private—and busy—person. You can spread that around your rumor mill.” Lucy set her napkin on the table and pushed her plate away. “I’ll take a drive out to Hogback and see if I can spot anything unusual. In the meantime, a sketch of the creature would be useful in determining what we’re dealing with. Did you get a detailed description from any of the eyewitnesses?”

“I’m afraid not. We have fairly limited resources at our disposal. But I do have this.” He took out his phone and displayed the photo, turning it toward Lucy on the table. “The eyewitness at the Gold King Mine got a picture of it before it took off. I’m afraid it’s not very clear.”

Lucy studied the blurry image, like a photo of Bigfoot through the trees, only this was a large, dark, doglike shape on its hind legs, its muzzle caught in midsnarl. As unclear as it was, there was something unsettling about the image. The creature seemed fully aware it was being photographed, as if it was posing for the camera, the snarl a ghoulish grin.

And it was a dead ringer for the thing Lucy had shot this morning.

Chapter 4

Lucy studied the photo on her phone while she waited for dark. It was blurred—as her glimpse of her attacker this morning had been—but she was certain that if it wasn’t the same creature, it was one of its kind.

After seeing the picture, she’d changed her mind about the sighting in the cemetery. What this creature wanted was prey, and it seemed to prefer getting as close to populated areas as possible. It was likely to try again closer to town. And the creature that had attacked her this morning was intelligent and had sought her out on purpose. She needed to begin thinking the way it would.

Most likely, it knew she was here. And it was probably proud of its kill. It would return to the site of its latest victory to gloat, knowing she’d be there.

As dusk fell, she got out of the car and walked down the embankment where they’d seen the tracks before climbing up the other side of the hill into the area marked No Trespassing. Full dark had hit. It was a new moon. But Lucy had no trouble seeing in the dark. Her cycle was perfectly aligned with the lunar month—and with PMS came the weakening of the drug that suppressed her condition.

Lucien’s anti-lycanthropy compound had come in handy after their twenty-fifth birthday ushered in the transformation. There had been just one little problem with Edgar’s calculations when he’d sold his firstborn son’s soul to the devil: he hadn’t figured in the fact that Lucy and Lucien represented a rare occurrence of opposite-sex monozygotic twins—genetically identical except for an extra X chromosome—and the curse had affected both of them. Lucy’s change was only partial, but partial was enough. She’d become sufficiently practiced that she could use her infernal enhancements when she needed them, but Lucien’s compound kept her from being a slave to them. It was “shift control.” And like birth control, it only effectively balanced her hormonal cocktail about twenty-one days out of the month, leaving her vulnerable to accidental transformation during that critical week.

Lucy scanned the darkness for movement. She didn’t have to wait long. Along the perimeter of a tailings pond—the slurry from leftover mining waste—something was skulking. It crouched on all fours, stepping out slowly into view, before rising on its hind legs to face her, letting her know it saw her, too. If it was the same creature, it showed no sign of being injured. And this time it laughed. The unnerving sound carried unnaturally, echoing across the hillside, and Lucy made the mistake of reacting, a slight recoil, a barely perceptible shudder. In that split second of reaction, the creature sprang into motion, striking her as it pounced and rolling with her over the ground with its claws slashing.

She couldn’t reach for her gun from this angle. She should have had it ready. Her reflexes and instincts were shit when she was this tired.

Lucy scrabbled left-handed for the knife in her boot while defending herself from the creature’s claws with one arm, her fingers closing around the handle just as the massive jaws clamped onto her left shoulder. With a primal shriek, she grasped the knife firmly and punched upward with it between her attacker’s ribs. The thing howled with outrage and stumbled back, sheer hatred in its eyes.

It was readying for another attack, but this time Lucy was prepared. The shriek and the punch had been impelled forward on the strength of the infernal component in her blood, and as the creature came for her, she jerked the shifting bones at her shoulder blades to unleash her wyvern wings and leaped into the air to meet the creature’s advance head-on, talons extended as they grew from her nail beds.

Weakened by the knife in its gut, it couldn’t match her ferocity, and a final kick to the knife itself drove it in deep. The furious creature snarled and howled again at the dark of the moon before turning tail and loping away into the brush. As it disappeared among the foliage, she saw the distinct shape of a fully clothed man.

Ordinarily, she’d have flown after it, but she’d reached the limits of her second—or maybe third—wind. With the rush of adrenaline fading, Lucy wobbled on her feet, wings and talons retracting. The compound was still working for the most part, but she’d have to get another dose soon or risk transforming at an inopportune moment—and being unable to shift back on her own. In the meantime, she needed to clean up her new wounds and get some goddamn sleep.

Climbing back up to the car took a monumental effort. Lucy leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed her eyes just for a moment. When she opened them, the stars visible through the windshield had shifted significantly. The clock on the dash read two in the morning. Her muscles ached, and her shoulder was killing her. She touched her fingers to the torn cloth over the bite; it was soaked with blood. There was no way she was going to make it home like this. And she knew the address of exactly one person in Jerome. He’d said he lived in the building his shop was in, which meant the upstairs must be his residence.

Lucy drove back to Main Street in Jerome and managed to find parking in front of Delectably Bookish once more. Her head swam, and the ground dipped and swayed as she got out of the car. Lucy gripped the post beside the entrance of the shop to steady herself and pounded on the door.

A light came on above, followed by the lights in the shop a moment later. Oliver Connery appeared, shirtless, salty hair askew and glaring furiously out of those cinnamon-brown eyes as he unlocked the door.

“What the hell is—” He stopped, staring openmouthed as he took in her appearance. “Jesus. What happened? Come inside.” Oliver put an arm under hers and led her in to sit on one of the couches. “The werewolf?”

“I’m even more sure now that it’s not a werewolf.” Lucy rubbed her brow with the back of her wrist. “It’s incredibly fast and resilient—and strong—and it shifts with the wind, like it just decides when it wants to be human.”

Oliver had gone to the café counter to grab some towels, and he returned with them, shaking his head as he pressed one to the shredded shoulder. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of handling this thing now that I know what I’m up against.” She was sure of no such thing, but she wasn’t about to listen to more of his criticism of her age and experience. Or implicit criticism of her sex.

“So you didn’t kill it.”

Lucy grabbed the towel from his hand. “It wasn’t for lack of trying. You need to get over this idea that all lycanthropes are misunderstood people who need to be given a chance. This thing is a monster.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Oliver frowned down at her. “You’re going to have to take that suit off. We need to disinfect the bite, and you’re probably going to need stitches.” He held out his hand. “Come with me.”

Lucy bit back another retort about being fine and not needing any help and instead took his hand to let him pull her up from the couch. Because as much as she hated to admit it, right now, she was not fine.

Upstairs in the bathroom of Oliver’s apartment, Lucy peeled off the torn suit and blood-soaked white shirt—both of them ruined by her transformation before the creature’s teeth had even sunk in—and sat begrudgingly on the covered toilet to let Oliver clean the wound and sew her up. “I can do that myself,” she complained between gritted teeth. “I know how to stitch up a wound.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, stop trying to impress me. I get it. You’re experienced. You’re tough as nails. You’re a total badass.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“That wasn’t sarcasm.” Oliver glanced up, his cinnamon eyes dark with concern. “I am impressed. I’m also very worried about this bite. If it’s a werewolf—”

“It’s not a werewolf. And... I happen to be immune.”

Oliver’s dark brows drew together. “Immune?”

“One of the perks of owning a biotech firm that specializes in parapharmacology.”

“I see. I don’t suppose that particular pharmaceutical is on the market for ordinary folk?”

“It’s part of a limited trial.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing else.

As he tied off the stitches in her shoulder, Lucy became acutely aware of the fact that she was sitting here in his bathroom in her bra and underwear while he was wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. One of the other aspects of her heightened senses at this point in her cycle was unusually intensified sexual desire.

After putting the first aid kit away, Oliver glanced up and seemed to realize her state of undress, as well. “Let me get you a robe.” He slipped out of the bathroom and returned with one in blue-and-black flannel that matched his pants.

“Thanks.” Lucy rose and attempted to slip her left arm gingerly into the sleeve and nearly pitched forward into him.

Oliver steadied her, instinctively avoiding her arm and shoulder, instead catching her about the waist. His hands nearly circled her. Lucy looked up into his intense russet eyes. There were similar-colored highlights in the salt-and-pepper hair, and what she’d thought of as a tan was a matching cinnamon-bark undertone in his skin, evenly warm...everywhere.

Her spine twitched as she resisted a full-body shiver. This was no time to indulge her overactive wyvern hormones. It would be a disastrous mistake. She breathed in his scent—a damp, dusty smell like the desert after rain when the creosote bushes released their resin. She could swear she felt one of her ovaries dropping an egg.

“No, no. Hell, no.” Lucy pushed his hands away and pulled on the rest of the robe, tying it with a jerk. Her hands were sweating.

Oliver blinked and took a step back, his expression mortified. “That wasn’t a move. I was just trying to make sure you didn’t crack your head on the basin.”

“I know it wasn’t a damn move. I wasn’t talking to you.”

He blinked again. “Who...who were you talking to?”

Lucy’s head was starting to throb. She groaned and clutched it in both hands, unconsciously rubbing the spots at her hairline where a pair of ruby dragon horns had protruded just hours ago.

“Are you all right?”

Lucy shook her head and regretted it. “I need to go home.”

“You can’t drive in this condition.”

“Don’t tell me what I can do.”

Oliver sighed patiently. “Your injuries aside, when was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“You don’t sleep.”

“I don’t have time. I catch a power nap when I can.” The truth was that she couldn’t sleep at this time of month. And she really had to stop smelling his desert-dusty-rain smell right goddamn now.

Lucy pushed past him and headed for the door. She wasn’t sure if it was chivalry or indifference that kept him from trying to stop her as she advanced into the hallway weaving like a drunk. She stumbled and landed on her ass on the carpet runner at the top of the stairs. Good move. Idiot.

Oliver stood watching her, arms folded, from the doorway of the bathroom. “Would you like the double bed or the queen?”

She let out a low growl of defeat. “Can I just sleep here? Maybe put a grave marker on it and call it done.”

He laughed, his right cheek dimpling in a way that made her want to growl more. “I’ll get you a blanket.” He crossed to the linen closet and took one out. “Of course, the queen room is right here if you prefer.”

Lucy followed his glance to the open doorway on the other side of the bathroom. A high, fluffy-looking bed with a down coverlet posed invitingly beneath a sloped ceiling. “Why do you have so many rooms?”

“It’s just three bedrooms, actually. But I’ve been planning to turn it into a B and B since I bought the place and took over the bookstore. I’m thinking of calling it Bed, Book and Candle.”

“Nice.” The bed really did look enticing. “Maybe I could catch a few winks.” She got to her feet, steadying herself against the wall, and accepted the blanket. With a questioning look, Oliver offered his arm. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she touched his bare skin right now, but she knew it wouldn’t be good. “Thanks. I think I’ve got this.” Somehow, she managed to pull off a semblance of normalcy, making it inside the bedroom and closing the door before she collapsed gratefully into the downy oasis.

She was almost asleep after all when something she’d been aware of in the back of her mind came to the fore. Oliver’s bare chest had been notable for more than its exquisite form. He had four puckered scars, impact craters with jagged starred edges that looked distinctly like the kind made by bullets. It meant nothing, probably. Maybe he’d been in Afghanistan or Iraq. But they had the pale pink color and sheen of a recently healed injury. And they were placed almost precisely where the shots she’d fired into the hell beast would have landed yesterday morning. And lycanthropes were known for rapid healing.

Chapter 5

Lucy was gone in the morning. Oliver hoped to God she’d gotten some sleep. His sleep, on the other hand, hadn’t been good. He couldn’t get her off his mind. For an instant last night, when he’d caught her from falling, she’d looked at him with what he could have sworn was naked desire. It had shocked him. And the next instant, the look had been gone, leaving him wondering if he’d imagined it.

He worried the ring on his right hand with his thumb. Vanessa’s ring. She’d been gone for more than five years, but he still couldn’t take it off. Transferring it from the left hand to the right was the most he’d been able to do. It reminded him not only of his loss but also of his part in it. He was responsible for Vanessa’s death.

Oliver imagined what she’d say to him. You can’t take credit for the failures and ignore the successes. But the raid that day had been more than a failure. Darkrock had no business going into an unsecured nest without doing the proper reconnaissance first. And Oliver had gotten cocky, imagining that despite the disadvantage of not knowing how many vampires were holed up in the meth lab or how organized the vamps were, he had what it took to handle whatever they found. Darkrock had sent him, so Oliver had gone.

Vanessa had been his partner, in life and on his Darkrock team. Their team was first, positioned in a side alley near the den, and Oliver and Vanessa had scaled the fence into the weeds and garbage. Oliver had kicked in the back door while the other members of the team made a frontal assault. They’d expected a handful of meth addicts sharing needles and sharing each other’s depleted blood. They’d expected any vampires, at least, to be sluggish with the daytime hour. What they hadn’t expected was an ambush.

A very sophisticated operation had been overseeing the nest—a nest of donors, not vamps. They’d fed Darkrock an anonymous tip about the place, one that seemed reasonable on its face. It was a known hangout for meth heads, and meth heads were often mixed up in the trafficking of blood. Because of that symbiotic relationship between addicts and vampires, a house full of addicts often ended up breeding a house full of low-rent, weak vamps. And those that remained donors had only a short shelf life, so the siring vamps would move on once the supply dwindled.

When Oliver and Vanessa and the rest of the team had busted into the house, they’d expected to round up the victims and vamps with little resistance. Instead, they’d been set upon by very healthy, bloodthirsty vampire lords. One of them had Vanessa before Oliver even knew what had hit them, and the rest of the team was dead. The vampire lord holding Vanessa had smiled at Oliver, reading his mind, knowing what Vanessa was to him, before taking a drink.

Oliver slammed his fist down on the counter, jarring the coffee cups. He didn’t need to go down that road again. That was a dead end. In more ways than one. As he got the coffee started for the morning, his phone vibrated on the counter beside him, skittering across the slick shellac. He was on call for the Jerome Volunteer Fire Department this week, and they were calling him in.

After shutting down and locking up, he headed over to the firehouse, expecting some cat in a tree or a kitchen fire at the burger place, but a two-alarm fire was in progress at the newly built storage facility off State Route 89A on the road down the mountain toward Verde Valley. Oliver’s crew was assigned to search and rescue while the first crew fought the blaze. The storage units were brick and metal, but the summer had been dry, and maintenance hadn’t been kept up to clear weeds and brush from around the facilities. And some clever asshole had thought treated wood-shingle roofing would be a good idea for a storage facility on a mountainside. In a town that had burned down more than once.

Since most of the units were locked up, scanning for occupants was simple enough, but after calling in the all clear on his section, Oliver caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He thought at first that he’d seen a coyote or a stray dog, but it had withdrawn into the shadows among the trash bins at the back of the rear units where the yard ended in a high cement fence. An animal might have been skittish around humans, but animals weren’t generally good at hiding—particularly when they were trapped near fire.

“Hey,” he called. “Anybody back there?”

Silence answered, but there was movement behind the bins.

Oliver moved closer cautiously. If it was a trapped animal, it could be dangerous. And if it was a person, it could be an arsonist. Why else would someone hide nearby during a blaze? He switched on the flashlight on his shoulder strap as he stepped around the industrial bin, illuminating the dark corner. Huddled beside the bin, a wide-eyed, sandy-haired youth stared up into the beam of his light, frozen in terror.

Instinctively, Oliver knew the boy was “family.” It was the term he used in his head for Jerome’s not-quite-human residents. And just as instinctively, he knew better than to call this in. No one helpful was looking for this boy.

He made sure his radio was off before crouching down to the boy’s level. “Hey.” He kept his voice neutral, his body relaxed. “I’m Oliver. You need some help?”

The kid’s eyes widened a bit farther, as if he hadn’t expected kindness. He shook his head, lowering his eyes under Oliver’s continued scrutiny.

“You hungry?”

The dark eyes darted up once more, the answer obvious in them, though the boy didn’t speak.

Oliver took a protein bar from his pocket and offered it to him. After glancing past Oliver as if to see if this was some kind of trick, he snatched the bar from Oliver’s hand and tore it open, gobbling it down in two bites. As the boy looked up hopefully for more, Oliver took inventory of the dirty T-shirt, torn jeans and bare feet. The kid had been living on the street—or in the wild—for a while.

The boy jumped and scrambled back at the sound of Oliver’s radio crackling with an announcement from the team leader that the fire was contained.

“It’s okay,” Oliver assured him. “Everybody’s going to be leaving soon. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

Looking only slightly less mistrusting, the kid nodded.

“So you can understand my language, yeah?”

Another nod.

“Can you speak it?”

No answer.

“Okay, forget about that for now. Do you have a name?”

The kid blinked at him, understanding but clearly having no words. Whether it was because he didn’t have a name or simply couldn’t speak at all, Oliver wasn’t sure.

“Can I give you one? Just to make it easier for me to talk to you.” When the boy didn’t shake his head, Oliver pondered it for a moment. “How about Colt?” He reminded Oliver of one, skittish and wild.

The boy considered it and seemed to recognize its meaning, as a shy smile spread slowly across his face, and he nodded.

“Okay, Colt. I have to go right now, but I’m going to come back in a little bit. Will you stay here and wait for me? I can bring you some proper food and some water, give you someplace warm to sleep—but I’m not going to take you anywhere, don’t worry,” he added as Colt looked alarmed at the last bit. “I’m not going to bring anyone, either.”

Colt’s demeanor relaxed to his previous level of vigilance, and he hugged his knees, resting his chin on them with a slight, wary nod.

Oliver’s radio went off again, his partner wanting to know where he was.

He straightened and responded before nodding to Colt once more. “Be back in a bit.”

As he arrived at the front of the lot, a little zing of dismayingly pleasant recognition went through him at the sight of Lucy Smok conversing with one of the other firefighters. When she turned her head as if feeling his gaze on her, he smiled. And then felt like an idiot. What the hell was he smiling about? They weren’t friends. He tried to look nonchalant and let the smile fade naturally. Lucy’s expression made it pretty clear that he’d only succeeding in pulling off “idiot.”

She took in his uniform as he came closer and managed a perfect Spock eyebrow lift. “So now you’re a firefighter, too?” The words sounded like an accusation, like she thought he was messing with her.

“It’s a volunteer fire department, and I’m a volunteer. So, yeah, I guess. I mean, yeah.” Jesus. Why was he on the defensive all of a sudden? Something weird had happened last night. With that one little look from her as he’d kept her from falling, he’d lost his own mental footing with her.

The eyebrow was still halfway up. “Okay.” She seemed to be waiting for him to say something else.

Oliver cleared his throat. “What brings you here?” Jesus.

“The fire. I got a tip that someone had seen a wild dog out here right after the fire broke out. I thought I’d check and see if our...” She paused and glanced at the crew packing up around them. “If there was any connection to the case. Did you see it?”

Oliver had been watching her lips move, the dark lipstick she favored mesmerizing, and he’d forgotten to listen to the words she was saying. “Sorry, see what?”

Lucy gave him that inscrutable look once more. “The wild dog.”

He shook his head, and even as he said no, a certainty struck him in the gut. Of course he had. Colt.

“Well, it sounds like it wasn’t big enough to have been...the animal in the other reports, but your chief says this fire looks suspicious. Definitely arson, but I’m getting another vibe. Like the origins don’t make sense. No incendiary devices, no clear starting point, just combustion out of nowhere. Which is right up my alley. With Smok Consulting, I mean.”

“Smoke.” He was just blurting out dumb-ass shit now. So they sounded the same. Smoke/Smok. This wasn’t news.

Lucy squinted at him. “Right.”

“Well, I’ve gotta run. I’ll see if I can get any more details about the cause.” Halfway to the truck, he paused and glanced back. “How are those stitches? You look rested.”

“I... It’s fine. Yeah, I did. Get some rest.” Now Lucy was stumbling over her words, too.

He tried not to smile. “Okay, I’ll check in with you later?”

She nodded, and Oliver climbed onto the truck, avoiding looking at her as they pulled out of the lot, because looking at her made him feel warm. God, he was completely regressing to an adolescent state.

He shook himself mentally, remembering that Colt was waiting for him.

* * *

He gave it an hour before heading back in his regular clothes, a few boxes and a small rolled-up carpet loaded into the back of his pickup. The storage facility attendant didn’t bat an eye. They hadn’t had any direct interaction when he was here in uniform, so Oliver hadn’t expected him to, but he still felt guilty, like he was doing something illicit. Which, of course, he was. But not because of the fire. At least, he hoped it wasn’t because of the fire.

He asked for a unit in back, saying he didn’t want his stuff to smell like smoke, and the attendant accommodated him without question. The unit was just two down from the trash bins where he hoped Colt was still waiting.

After unrolling the carpet on the floor of the unit and moving his boxes into it, Oliver unpacked the inflatable mattress and pump and set it up before heading to the trash bins. At first glance, he thought Colt had taken off, but the boy scrambled out from between the bins and the wall after evidently seeing that it was Oliver. It had probably taken Colt a moment to recognize him out of uniform.

“Hey, Colt. So I brought you some stuff, and I’ve put it in that storage unit over there, see?” He walked back to the opening between the rows and pointed, waiting until Colt moved forward cautiously to see where he was pointing. Oliver held out the key. “You can use it if you want. It’s not meant for living in, but you can stay here overnight if you promise to stay out of sight if anyone comes around. Can you do that?”

Colt stared at the key and eyed the open door again warily.

“Come on. I’ll show you what I brought.” Oliver walked back to the unit, and in a moment, Colt followed, skittish and scuttling, moving in short bursts. He had definitely learned to stay out of sight in however long he’d been on his own.

Inside the unit, Colt gaped at the bed and blankets, but was even more impressed by the cooler of food and cold water Oliver directed his attention to.

“There’s more water in here.” Oliver showed him the box. “And some hand wipes. And there’s a lantern that works on batteries. There’s also some stuff to read if you want it. I don’t know if you read.”

Colt was already busy tearing into the sandwiches and fruit in the cooler. In a few minutes, he’d settled on the little bed, eating his lunch and looking with curious interest at one of the comic books Oliver had taken out of the box. It looked like the makeshift hideout was a hit. Now he just had to figure out a longer-term plan. And determine exactly what Colt was—and whether, as Oliver suspected, he was the cause of the morning’s fire.

Chapter 6

Oliver Connery was up to something. If that was even his name. He’d had a guilty look on his face the entire time Lucy had been talking to him. And what better cover would some kind of paranormal arsonist have than being a volunteer fireman?

She loosened the top two buttons on her shirt as she sat in her car outside the Civic Center building after picking up the list of eyewitnesses Nora had finally compiled. For November—or was it December now? That might explain all the irritating lights and decorations she kept seeing around Jerome—it was awfully warm. Except it wasn’t the weather. It was her damn wyvern thermostat.

Lucy swore softly. “A fireman? He’s a goddamn fireman. Firefighter. Whatever.” But “man” was the part her stupid hormones were focusing on, for sure. He’d been suited up in a heavy bunker jacket and loaded down with gear. It wasn’t like he’d been shirtless and posing for a “Hot Firemen of Jerome VFD” calendar, for God’s sake. But she’d already seen him shirtless. “Dammit.” She didn’t need this. She should just stop by Polly’s Grotto in Sedona tonight, pick up some dumb, harmless satyr with an overactive libido and get her itch scratched.

Except that itch increasingly wanted to be scratched by Oliver Connery. Who was probably a fire-starting were-beast.

She’d phrased it that way in her head to remind herself of the dangerous territory she was heading into and shut off her train of thought, but her libido immediately responded with another spike of temperature. You know you want a fire-starting were-beast.

“I do not want a fire-starting were-beast!” Saying it aloud didn’t help. She was never going to be able to concentrate on these eyewitness interviews if she didn’t do something about this nonsense. It was only three o’clock—a little early for drinking, but Polly’s had the distinction of being a sort of free-floating alternate dimension. There were always a few patrons inside from other time zones. Lucy could take care of business and be back in Jerome by full dark to hunt.

She stopped by the villa to change into something that would be easy to get out of and back into—a knee-length shift in black stretch velvet—and took her hair out of the braid before heading to the Grotto. Any hope of slipping in under Polly’s radar was dashed almost as soon as Lucy arrived.

“That time of the month, is it, darling?”

Lucy gritted her teeth as she turned from the bar where she was waiting for her drink. Polly was sporting lavender locks this evening—and a silk sheath dress in the same color that was so transparent it ought to have been illegal.

“I’d say the same to you, except I’m pretty damn sure you’re on the prowl all the time.”

Polly blinked matching lavender eyes, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “So you’re admitting you’re on the prowl, then. That’s refreshing. Until your accidental transformation when Lucien ascended—or rather descended to the throne, to be precise—I had the impression you were a bit of a cold fish.”

Lucy snorted. “I thought you were the one who was a fish.”

Polly looked offended. “I am not a fish. Sirens are not fish.”

Lucy’s drink had arrived. She put her money on the bar and picked up the highball. “Honestly, Polly, I don’t care if you have a mermaid’s tail and scales or slippery shark bits. I didn’t come here to socialize with you. I’m on a job tonight, and I have about thirty minutes to—” She felt her skin flush as she realized what she’d been about to say.

Polly laughed. “I have just the boy for you. It is boys you like?” She grabbed Lucy’s hand before Lucy could move it out of reach and dragged her through the misty club to a set of booths in a dark corner.

“Finn, meet Lucy.”

From one of the shadowy booths, a figure peered out—and instantly seemed to create his own bioluminescence. Lucy swallowed. Finn was about as far from human as a creature could get while still maintaining a human appearance—but what an appearance. The glow seemed to be coming from inside his pale green skin. He looked like a ghostly Channing Tatum.

Finn rose and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Lucy. Won’t you sit down?”

Lucy turned toward Polly and murmured, “What am I dealing with here?”

“Finn is a kind of deep-sea undine,” Polly said without attempting to be discreet. “An electric mer-eel, if you will. He has a unique talent.” She pushed Lucy into the booth. “Why don’t you two kids get to know each other?”

Lucy glared at Polly’s back as the siren turned and flitted away, trying to retain her dignity as she sipped her drink. “Sorry. I don’t know what Polly was thinking—” Lucy’s words cut off on a gasp as Finn took her hand while he slid back into the booth. His touch was like a light surge of current that traveled up her arm and over her skin in a tingly ripple. It was as if he’d instantly licked her all over then traced it with a violet wand.

“Is that all right?” Finn’s voice was sensual and soothing. “You’re unusually receptive. I normally have to ask first before a pulse is received.”

“A...pulse?”

“My energy seeks to fulfill desire. Every time I breathe, it sends out a pulse.”

Another one went through her. “Oh, shit.” Lucy set her drink roughly on the table, sloshing gin and tonic over the rim. “Oh. Wow.”

“And the pulse is translated by the receiver into whatever he or she is in need of.”

He smiled and exhaled, and Lucy nearly had an orgasm.

But Finn’s smile faltered. “Ah, I’m sorry.” He looked a little sad as he let go of her hand. “Your need is more specific.”

“What...my...specific?” She tried to regain her composure and resist the urge to snatch for his hand like a kid in a candy store grabbing for a sweet.

“Your desire is for an individual.” Finn sat back. “If you want my advice, I wouldn’t seek to fulfill it elsewhere, and I wouldn’t try to resist it. It’s not good for your health—physical or emotional—to bottle that up. If he reciprocates that desire, there’s no time like the present.” He smiled, and the smile seemed to set Finn’s skin glowing in a slightly warmer hue.

Lucy downed her drink and cleared her throat. “And if he doesn’t reciprocate it?”

Finn’s gaze flitted over her with a little shake of his head. “I’d find that hard to believe.”

After thanking Finn, Lucy made her escape. Polly winked at her from the bar as Lucy slipped out the door.

She collapsed into the seat of her car once she’d reached it. What if he doesn’t reciprocate it? What the hell was she thinking? She was not going to throw herself at Oliver Connery just because her wyvern hormones had fixated on him. They weren’t the boss of her. And they’d subside on their own in a few days if she could just keep her shit together.

Her phone, which she’d tucked into the waistband of her underwear, buzzed, and Lucy nearly jumped out of her skin. Jesus. Who needed a...whatever Finn was...when you had a vibrating phone? On second thought, Finn had been decidedly more satisfying. Just not...satisfying enough.

It buzzed again, and Lucy hitched up her skirt and yanked out the phone and answered. “Lucy Smok.”

“Are...you okay?”

Oliver’s deep voice rumbling against her ear made her wet. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You just sound a little funny. Sorry. I wanted to let you know that we’ve had another sighting.”

Lucy sat up straight. “During daylight?”

“Sort of. It was in one of the mine shafts.”

“Did it attack?”

“No, some tourists caught sight of it and got the hell out of there. They’re here at my shop now. Do you want to come interview them?”

“I’m in Sedona, but I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

It would take too much time to head back to the villa for a change of clothing, but she kept a “go bag” under the seat, a habit from her days of globe-trotting for Smok Consulting.

Lucy stripped off the dress where she sat, ignoring the looks from a couple who’d pulled into the space next to her, and wriggled into the garments she’d pulled from the bag: a pair of soft faded jeans and a comfortable shirt from her alma matter that she liked to travel in. After trading her heels for a pair of white slip-on sneakers, she was on her way. Dusk was just settling over Mingus Mountain as she made her way up.

* * *

Oliver did a double take when he came to unlock the door. This was a decidedly different look for Lucy. In a pair of well-worn jeans and a gray rugby shirt that said University of Oxford, she was wrapping her loose hair into a makeshift knot at the nape of her neck as she stepped inside. Her beet-stain lipstick was even more striking with the casual clothing.

“They’re in back, having some hot chocolate.” Oliver nodded toward the Hendersons sitting on the couch by the counter. “They were pretty spooked, but they’ve calmed down some.”

Despite her uncharacteristic attire, Lucy introduced herself to the couple with her usual cool professionalism. “I’m Lucy Smok. Can you folks tell me what you saw?”

Mrs. Henderson held her mug between her hands as she looked up. “We found one of those old mine shaft openings out near the park. You’re not supposed to go inside, but we just wanted to take a quick look around, and I think we...woke...whatever it was.”

Her husband continued. “I thought it was a dog, but it was huge, like a wolfhound. Shaggy.”

“And it smelled terrible,” Mrs. Henderson put in.

“I figured it must be a stray, and I took a step toward it...and its eyes shot open.” Mr. Henderson shuddered. “They weren’t...right. We hightailed it out of there, and thank God it didn’t follow.”

“Tell them what you heard,” Oliver prompted.

Mr. Henderson hesitated. “It’s going to sound ridiculous.”

“It spoke,” said his wife.

Lucy had been looking slightly bored and annoyed at the pedestrian encounter, but she perked up at that. “It spoke?”

“It’s crazy, I know. But I swear—”

“What did it say?”

Mr. Henderson studied Lucy with surprise. “What did it say?”

“You said it spoke. I assume you mean words. What did it say?”

“Sorry. I just didn’t expect you to believe us. I mean, Mr. Connery was very understanding, and—”

“What did it say?”

He swallowed. “It said, ‘Give my regards to the...the Queen of the Damned.’”

“It had to have been someone in a costume,” Mrs. Henderson cut in. “I mean, it was very convincing, horrifyingly realistic, but of course it must have been a person.”

Lucy was quiet, obviously thinking intently.

Oliver pushed himself away from the chair back he’d been leaning against. “We really appreciate you letting us know about this, no matter how odd it may seem. Ms. Smok is absolutely the best person to figure this out.”

Lucy gave him an odd look.

The couple rose, recognizing that their exit was being announced, and Mr. Henderson shook Oliver’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Connery. Ms. Smok. I’m not sure how much we helped.”

“You’ve been a great help,” Oliver insisted as he walked them out. He turned around after locking up and shuttering the door to see Lucy sitting on the couch, staring at her hands poised on her thighs. “Did that mean something to you?”

Lucy’s head shot up. “What the hell could it possibly mean to me?”

Oliver tucked his hands into his pockets as he neared the couch. “You just looked pretty startled.”

“I was shocked that it would speak to a victim.”

“But maybe they weren’t intended to be victims. Maybe it was sending us a message.”

“Or me, you mean. You think I understood the message.”

“Do you?”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “It means I need to get out there and find this damn thing.” She rose decisively. “It’s getting dark. I’m going to go check out this mine shaft. Where is it?”

“That thing tore your shoulder open last night. You need to let it heal.”

“I told you, I’m fine. I’m a fast healer.” She tried to walk past him, but he sidestepped in front of her.

“Let me take a look at it. You should have gone to a hospital today instead of rushing off to wherever hunting things.”

“As a matter of fact, I saw my doctor. She took a look and said it was fine. She approved of your stitching skills.”

“Is that so? Then you won’t mind if I verify that you’re healing.”

If Lucy’s eyes could start a fire, he was sure they would be doing it now. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

Lucy glared at him for a moment. “I’m trained in Systema. Russian martial arts.”

“I’m familiar with it. I’m pretty sure I can take you.”

“Take me?” Lucy’s stance seemed to turn instantly rock hard and immovable, a promised threat emanating from her, though she hadn’t moved. “I seem to recall you ending up on the ground under me the last time you tried.” After a split second’s pause, her skin grew flushed. With anger, presumably. But he was getting a weird vibe.

“I wasn’t actually challenging you to a fight.”

“You just said you could take me.”

“You brought up your Systema skills. Which seems pretty strange, because all I suggested was that you let me look at the stitches and see how you’re healing. Is there some reason those are fighting words to you?”

Lucy let out a slow, deliberate breath, as if trying to breathe out her own anger—a gesture he was familiar with. “No, I suppose not.” They stared each other down for another few seconds before Lucy unexpectedly crossed her arms in front of her waist, grabbed the hem of her shirt and whipped it up and over her head. She turned her bandaged shoulder toward him. “Well? Take a look. I haven’t got all day.”

Oliver stepped closer and peeled back the edge of the bandage. The skin was healthy looking. No redness or swelling. Little bruising. And soft. Really soft.

He drew back his hand with a jolt as though he’d touched a hot stove. “You’re right. It looks good. Glad to see it.”

She turned to face him, the T-shirt still balled in her fist. “Now let’s see yours.”

“Mine?” Oliver had to check himself from reflexively covering his crotch.

“You have some interesting scars. They looked fresh.”

“Scars?” Oliver tried to keep his voice even, his expression believably puzzled.

“On your chest. From bullet wounds.”

“Bullet wounds?” If he pulled this off, he deserved an Oscar. “I think your sleep deprivation may have gotten the better of you last night. It’s understandable if you were a little confused.”

“Was I?” Lucy’s fists went to her hips. “Then take your shirt off and let’s see.”

“This is silly.”

“It’s a little weird that you won’t just do it if I’m being silly.”

Oliver blinked at her. “Maybe you should just put yours back on.”

Lucy swore and yanked the shirt over her head, shoving her arms into the sleeves with two sharp jerks. “Quit stalling and take your shirt off, Oliver. Or I’m going to assume my suspicions are correct.”

“And what suspicions would those be?”

“That you’re something I should be hunting.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” His temper threatened to spike. He hadn’t meditated yet today. Oliver pulled off his T-shirt and held his arms out at his sides. “Satisfied? No bullet wounds.” He tried to keep his breathing steady as she stepped toward him, her nose scrunching with disbelief.

Lucy’s fingers settled lightly on the pale thin line beneath his bottom right rib, and Oliver drew in his breath sharply. “What is this?”

“A scar from an accident I had a while back. If you think that’s from a bullet wound, you need your eyes examined.”

She glanced back up at his chest. She hadn’t moved her hand except to relax it against his side. “I was sure I saw them.” Lucy shook her head. “Maybe it really was sleep deprivation.” She raised her eyes and met his gaze, her thumb stroking absently along the scar.

Oliver looked down at her hand. “What are you doing?” He’d meant for it to sound slightly accusatory, disapproving, a little annoyed. It came out sounding rough and low and hopeful.

“I don’t know.”

Her thumb was still tracing the scar, and he grabbed her hand. “Well, stop.” He moved her hand away from him, which seemed to take a monumental effort. But he hadn’t let go of it. It was like her skin was a magnet.

“I don’t like you.” Lucy’s voice was equally throaty. “You’re pompous and...” She seemed to be grasping for adjectives. “Full of yourself.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“See?”

She’d surprised a smile out of him. “I don’t like you, either.” His delivery was utterly unconvincing.

“Then let go of my hand.”

He was barely holding it. “You let go.” She didn’t.

Whatever was happening here was a bad idea. His rational mind knew it. He didn’t do romantic involvement. Or sexual. He should have meditated this morning. He should let go of her hand and put his shirt back on.

He put his other hand on her waist. No. No, that is the opposite of letting go. Definitely do not kiss h—

Oliver swore silently at himself as their lips came together.

Chapter 7

Lucy switched off her brain and let the hormones take over. Oliver was swearing softly against her lips, and she didn’t think he was aware of it. It was sexy as hell. As if by silent, mutual agreement, their clasped hands released at the same moment—two seconds too late—and Oliver cupped her face in his hands and deepened the kiss as Lucy put her hands on his chest and stroked the hard terrain, moaning appreciatively.

When her hands moved down over his abs and traced the V of his obliques, Oliver let go of her mouth and cradled the backs of her thighs to lift her off the floor so that she had to wrap her legs around him, hooked behind his ass, and walked her swiftly backward to drop her into a plush, roomy armchair next to a pile of books.

Lucy unbuttoned his jeans while Oliver lifted her shirt from the back. He tugged it over her head as she finished unbuttoning him, and she let go for a second so he could draw the shirt away. His erection pushed against the briefs exposed at his fly, and Lucy tugged down the shorts and freed him while he unhooked her bra.

Oliver groaned as she encircled his cock in her hand, warm and hard like an eminently satisfying stick shift, and stroked upward, letting the bra strap slip off her other arm before trading hands to remove the other and toss the bra aside. She brought her right hand beneath the left. He was easily a two-fister. He swore a little again as he unfastened her jeans and tugged them down. Lucy lifted her butt to let him take them off, kicking off her sneakers, and wrapped her legs beneath his ass once more, using them to jerk him toward her.

Oliver pulled her hands away, locking his fingers in hers, and held her arms against the back of the chair as he dipped in to kiss her once more. The slick heat of his mouth and his tongue made her want to taste his cock.

“Stand up,” she murmured against his lips, letting her legs drop.

Oliver paused. “What?”

“Just stand up straight for a minute.” She wriggled forward on the seat, and he must have thought she was just trying to get more comfortable because the little strangled yelp as she swallowed him was more surprise than pleasure. But his soft grunts and groans—along with more delightfully muttered expletives—quickly turned into the latter as he gripped the arms of the chair. God, she needed him inside her. She needed to hear those little bursts of sound at her ear as he burst inside her.

Lucy released him and pulled Oliver down toward the chair, wrapping her arms around his neck and putting her mouth to his ear. “Do you have a condom?”

Oliver blanched. “Oh, shit. I don’t... I don’t think so.” What kind of guy didn’t have condoms?

She nodded toward the jeans balled up on the floor. “In the little wallet in my back pocket.”

With a raised brow, Oliver extricated himself and dug in the pocket for the wallet, which was really more of a coin purse, containing two condoms and two applicator-free tampons. Part of her go bag supplies. Because you just never knew.

Lucy watched him don one of the condoms while she stripped off her panties and teased a finger into her pussy, getting herself ready. Hell, whom was she kidding? She’d been ready for almost twenty-four hours. With his pants still on, Oliver scooped Lucy out of the chair and sat in it himself, pulling her onto his lap and onto his cock. Lucy moaned with relief. Oliver kept his movements inside her slow and sensual, focusing on pleasuring her with his hands, one at her breast and one at her clit, until Lucy was squirming and pushing herself deeper onto him, her moans louder and more plaintive.

When she reached her arms over her head and back around his neck to bury her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, he finally let go of all restraint and drove himself into her deep and hard. She knew he was coming when he started swearing against her temple, like a stream of X-rated endearments, and his expert fingers at her pussy brought her to climax just moments after. It was as though they’d been racing to a frantic finish before either of them could back out of the game, and Lucy relaxed into him with happy little noises, whimpers of contentedness, relieved to have made it to the end.

Oliver wrapped his arms around her and kissed the side of her neck. “Still don’t like me?” he murmured after a moment, and Lucy laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh; she wasn’t in the habit. It felt comfortable. As did his arms hugging her. It was almost as much a relief as having him inside her. Almost. Oliver kissed the underside of her jaw. “You didn’t answer.”

Lucy grinned. “I like certain parts of you a great deal.”

“Just certain parts?” Oliver sighed. “Any in particular?”

Lucy smacked his arm. “Now you’re just fishing.”

“Just name one part.” He gyrated his hips under her. “One big one.”

She laughed again. “Your ego.”

“Ha. Touché.”

Lucy relaxed in his arms and closed her eyes for a bit, almost falling asleep, until her eyes shot open as she remembered where she was. She glanced toward the door and let out her breath with relief. He’d lowered the shades and locked the door after the Hendersons left.

“What’s the matter?” His voice was sleepy, too.

“I had a moment of panic thinking everyone could see us.”

“Nah, just the ghosts.” Oliver grinned. “We could probably get more comfortable upstairs.”

Lucy yawned and shook her head reluctantly. “I should be getting back to work. You’re not paying me to...” She paused, realizing how awkward that sentence was about to be. Because he was her client. Whom she’d come on to—and whose bones she’d jumped—while in the middle of a very serious job. She scrambled off his lap and snatched up her scattered clothes, trying not to look at him as she yanked them on. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d let her hormones take complete control. This was so unprofessional. This was so pathetic.

“Lucy.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and glanced up reluctantly while she braided her hair. Damn. There were two really good reasons not to have looked at him. That rock-hard body glistening with sweat and those deep cinnamon eyes watching her with disappointment. Or was that three reasons?

“You’re just going to take off? That’s it?”

Lucy sighed. “Your council hired me to do a job, and people’s lives are on the line here. This was a mistake.” She cringed internally even as she said it. He’d take it the wrong way. Or the right way. “I’m sorry.”

* * *

If the sexual release hadn’t left his body feeling blissed out, his rage would have gotten the better of him. Not at Lucy, but at himself.

Oliver cleaned up bitterly, everything that had been relaxed and loose moments earlier once more tense and tight. “Mistake” was right. He’d just ended five years of celibacy for an ill-advised twenty-minute romp with someone far too young for him. He should have checked himself, knowing his age and life experience tilted the power balance between them toward him, no matter how much professional experience she had or how tough she acted. And he’d betrayed Vanessa’s memory.

He glanced down at the ring, toying with it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He hadn’t allowed himself the weakness of giving in to sexual desire since her death. He didn’t deserve to be alive—let alone indulging in hedonistic pleasure—when Vanessa was dead.

For a long time, every meal he’d eaten, every breath he’d taken, had felt like a betrayal. With his daily meditation, he’d finally moved beyond that, but he didn’t indulge his passions, like decadent foods and spirits. And he certainly didn’t indulge in sexual intimacy.

And with Lucy Smok, of all people. Someone who made a living persecuting the paranormal.

Damn. He could still smell her. She was all over him, like she’d marked him. He was never going to be able to sit in that chair again.

Oliver went upstairs and undressed with angry jerks. He needed a shower. He needed to wash her out of his brain. But all he could think about under the almost-scalding water was how soft her skin was and how she’d sounded as she came. And how pale her naked body looked against his, contrasted with the rich darkness of her hair where it tumbled against her neck out of its makeshift knot, while she’d writhed in his lap.

Jesus, this was bad. He’d lost his mind. He had to end their association. Let Wes and Nora deal with her on this case. He was done. If she came pounding on his door in the middle of the night with battle wounds, he wouldn’t answer. There was an emergency room in Cottonwood. If she was such a badass, she could get herself there.

But when insistent knocking woke him hours later, Oliver jumped out of bed and hurried downstairs to open the door anyway.

Lucy stood on his doorstep. Not bleeding. Not injured. Just Lucy, in her jeans and Oxford rugby shirt and a black leather jacket, bloodred lips in a pallid face and pale blue eyes boring into him, like the Queen of the Night.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

He tried to breathe normally. “Are you coming in?”

“No. Maybe.”

Oliver took her hand and pulled her inside and kissed her with her back against the door until their mouths ached. When they came up for air, Lucy wriggled out of her coat with a swift, sexy shrug and went for his belt buckle, but Oliver stopped her.

“Upstairs.”

Lucy nodded and let him lead the way, both of them taking the steps two at a time, and they were half-undressed by the time they reached the bed. She’d braided her hair again, and he unbraided it while he sucked on her neck and nipped at her throat, and the dark hair spilled across his white pillow like clouds of dark paint in water while he rocked and thrust and drove himself inside her for almost an hour. She came twice before he finally did—once underneath him and once on top—and he was almost sorry to come because he had to stop fucking her. Almost.

Oliver collapsed onto his back, exhausted and dripping with sweat. He hadn’t had an aerobic workout like this in ages. Lucy curled up against his side and promptly fell asleep. He didn’t realize she’d done so until he’d been talking for ten minutes—about politics and the messed-up state of the world and about being a widower and how he hadn’t been with a woman since and how he was constantly questioning himself and his values and feeling adrift in his own mortal frame. After he’d asked her twice why she’d decided to come back and she hadn’t answered him, he finally realized he’d been talking to himself. Thank God.

He played with her hair where it snaked across his chest. It felt like silk. Oliver curled it around his fist and smelled it—crisp and cool, like cucumber or avocado—and wondered what she used to keep it so luxurious.

It was too cold to lie here unclothed, as much as he would have been content to look at her being naked and still, her body for once without its uneasy coil of tension and mistrust. He pulled the comforter up from the foot of the bed and covered them both.

When he woke—more rested than he could remember having been for a very long time—he found himself alone.

Chapter 8

Lucy huddled on the floor of her car in the parking lot outside the villa and cried until she was too exhausted to keep doing it, despite the fact that it hadn’t provided her with any kind of release. People always said, “Let yourself cry. You’ll feel better.” It was bullshit. Crying always made her feel a thousand times worse. And this wasn’t how a Smok comported herself.

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