Travis grinned, flashed his smoke-stained teeth in a parody of a smile, and his greasy hair fell forward into his eyes. Then he grunted and thrust the robe in her direction. “Take off your clothes, and put it on!” he ordered, licking his bottom lip.
Kiera almost hurled.
She inched the tuning fork further down between her fingers, prongs facing out, and slowly stepped toward him. As she reached for the robe with an extended left hand, she gouged him in the stomach with her right, directly below his ribcage. She drove her full weight into the thrust, then forced the fork inward and upward.
Travis gasped in shock, but she didn’t wait for his reaction.
She let go of the fork, twisted toward the table, and grabbed the statue in both hands. Then she brought it down over his head, like a baseball bat, her body whirling off balance from the force of the swing.
Travis crumpled to the ground, and she tripped over his falling body, sprawling onto the floor. Her socks could not gain purchase on the smooth wooden planks, so she crawled toward the bedroom on her knees.
“You bitch!” she heard Owen bellow from the living room as he scrambled into action.
Kiera’s heart sank to her stomach, and her breath hitched in her throat. “Oh, God, oh, God…oh, God,” she panted, clambering to get back on her feet. She reached down to her ankles—first the left, then the right—and yanked the socks off, flinging them away. Her toes dug into the wood, gaining traction, and she rose to her full height, like a sprinter coming out of the blocks.
She didn’t bother to look behind her.
She knew Owen was close on her heels.
Rather, she sprang through the bedroom door, slammed it behind her, and scurried to the nearby armoire. Slamming her body against the side of the dresser, she grimaced as a jolt of pain shot through her shoulders. Nevertheless, she yanked and she pulled until the tall, heavy piece of furniture toppled over.
Owen slammed his shoulder into the bedroom door just as the armoire blocked his passage.
Thank God!
The door was blocked, and there was no way they were coming through that alcove—not with all those iron inserts.
She sprinted into the adjacent bathroom, spun around, and locked the door. Once again, they weren’t getting through the alcove windows. She opened the top drawer of the nearest vanity, removed a length of violin E-strings, the thinnest of the bunch, and clutched them in her fist. Earlier that week, she had laced the strings together and hidden them inside the drawer. She had also removed two medium-sized nails from behind two pieces of artwork, and pounded them into the door frame—one on the left, and one on the right—about six inches above the tile floor.
Dropping to her knees, she twisted the ends of the strings around the nails, looping them as tight as she could, while drawing the trip-line taut. With any luck, Owen would break down the door—or use tools to remove the lock, something that would eat up time—and when he dashed into the bathroom, he would trip over the cord and bust his head on the vanity.
She could only hope.
Her lungs burning as if they were on fire, she dashed to the linen closet, retrieved the rope made of sheets, and shot through the open Tuscan shower—beyond the jetted bathtub—to the single-pane window. Her hands shook like she was afflicted with a neurological disorder as she fumbled with the latch, slid the window open, and punched out the screen.
Tears of desperation fell like rivers down her cheeks as she tied the sheet around the window frame, frantic to secure it tightly.
God help her if the sheet came loose.
Finally, once the sheet was secure, she took a deep, ragged breath for courage, climbed into the windowsill, and turned around to start scaling the building.
And then she froze in place.
The five-story, cement-gray warehouse was covered with slick, vertical siding, and that meant there was a fifty-foot drop down to the waiting pavement.
Kiera’s throat constricted, and her palms began to sweat.
She couldn’t do this!
There was just no way!
She heard Owen, and what sounded like a few other guests, slam the bedroom door against the armoire, and the heavy piece of furniture scratched the floor as it slid slowly out of the way, making a terrible grating noise.
And that pushed Kiera past her fear.
Briefly closing her eyes to whisper a prayer, she fastened both fists over the first bulging knot and slid out the window, her bare toes immediately seeking the first knot beneath her.
She felt the protruding lump against the arch of her feet and hooked both ankles around it, pressing her knees together for stability, and then she shimmied downward, like a caterpillar, searching for the next handhold…and the next protruding lump.
Panting—or hyperventilating—it was all a matter of perspective, Kiera inched her way down into the cold, damp night, undaunted by the elements: the wind swirling up behind her; the soft fall of rain beginning to pelt her shoulders; the faint stench of garbage rising up from the alley beneath her.
“Don’t look down,” she told herself as she took one section of the rope at a time, one knot after the other. Her arms burned. Her thighs began to tremble. She wasn’t in shape for this climbing. “Stop it, Kiera, just keep going. Keep moving. You’ve got to get to the ground.”
Xavier Matista receded into the shadows of the alley, trying to keep the rain off his skin.
He had promised his trite human followers a victim—a ceremony—an opportunity to blow off some steam, and he had delivered Kiera Sparrow on a silver platter.
However, by the looks of it, the humans couldn’t even get that right.
He growled deep in his throat as he thought about the whole demented setup.
The vampire-hunting society was useful to the lycans—the humans could go where werewolves could not—however, they were so simpleminded and irrational. While Owen had been a competent leader of the Metropolitan Cell, and Travis had made a good lackey, they were so obsessed with mounting their captive, they couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
Hell, even Rachel, the deranged biker chick who was still rebelling against society for rejecting her as a teenager, was chomping at the bit, at the age of thirty-five, just to watch the other males take Kiera.
Xavier had wanted no part in the ritual, and not because he gave a rat’s ass about Kiera, about the destiny of an immortal vampire. He had chosen to abstain because he thought it was a waste—the woman had an exceptional talent—and also, if and when he needed to slake his masculine urges, he had his own plaything tied up in his Earth-realm apartment.
No, Kiera Sparrow—that was all about business.
He had enough vials of blood, enough tissue samples, and enough containers of urine to take back to Mhier, turn over to the lycans, and allow greater, scientific minds to do the research.
His goal was to murder Saxson Olaru—strike a blow for the Lycan kind, for a change.
His goal was to use Kiera’s sister to strike back at Keitaro Silivasi’s clan, and she was right on the verge of doing it.
Just the same, he had been unable to resist standing out in the alley: listening to Kiera play the violin one last time with his superior, supernatural hearing; scenting the brutal sex-play; or sniffing the perfume of death.
Knowing all the while that it was finished…
Saxson’s last breath was intrinsically linked to Kiera’s…
And Xavier had made it happen.
Watching now as the determined human female shimmied down a rain-soaked string of bedsheets, he chuckled.
Damn, she had really tried.
Oh well…
Arching his back and stretching his neck, he began to shift into his lykos form.
While razor-sharp teeth and a savage canine muzzle protruded from his collapsing skull, he grew to his primordial ten-foot height, reveling in the raw, unchallenged power that enveloped him.
And then he bounded into the alley and loped toward Kiera.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ciopori Demir-Silivasi replayed the short conversation in her mind…
“I don’t mind checking on your little one—I absolutely love kids,” Kyla Sparrow had said. “Either way, I’m afraid I need to excuse myself for a moment.”
“Are you sure?” Ciopori had asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Kyla had answered. “If someone would just point me in the right direction—to the bathroom and the baby—I’d be happy to peek in on his room.”
Ciopori had pushed gently into Marquis’s mind on a private telepathic bandwidth: Warrior, what say you? she had asked.
Before Marquis could answer, Kyla had raised her brows. “If he’s awake, do you want me to bring him down?”
Ciopori had hesitated, but only for a moment, taking the opportunity to glance at Kyla’s inner left wrist, the markings of Lord Cetus that branded the female as Saxson’s mate. Prior to the party, and with a bit of prodding, Marquis had shared the purpose of Saxson’s pre-dawn visit on Wednesday morning; and Ciopori had found it all so terribly sad: the fact that warriors could no longer trust their Blood Moons, the fact that Saxson was grappling with so much angst—but this was altogether different.
This was about Nikolai, their son.
She had smiled warmly at Kyla and answered in a motherly tone: “He should be sleeping soundly, but if he is awake, just come back and get me.” She’d quickly nudged Marquis again. Warrior, what does Saxson think?
The Ancient Master Warrior’s psychic voice had been firm and resolute. My love, don’t be alarmed: The sentinel is already tracking her heartbeats—he is intimately aware of her position in time and space. I don’t know if he’s just being cautious or if he fears she might try to escape their fate—but I believe it should take the average human female about four and a half minutes to use the facilities; five and a half minutes if she messes with her hair and makeup; and it should take another two to three minutes to look in on Nikolai. Anything beyond that, and I will follow up.
As Braden Bratianu gave Kyla directions, Ciopori fought the urge to frown. After all, it was a private conversation. No disrespect, warrior, she had said, but how in the heck did you come up with those numbers?
Marquis didn’t hesitate to frown. Are you making fun of me, my love?
Never, my handsome gladiator, she’d quipped.
He’d harrumphed in her mind. I took an aggregate of the last ten times you and Vanya have excused yourselves to the bathroom, considered what I knew you were doing in there, and calculated an average. Then I added some time based on a human’s slower responses.
At this, Ciopori nearly chuckled…and then grimaced. I’m not even going to ask why you are monitoring both myself and Vanya in the restroom…I don’t even want to know. She paused to let her censure sink in. But I will defer to your…calculations…as I know you are quite precise. However, if Saxson’s destiny takes longer than eight and a half minutes, I will follow up, instead of you—you are far too high-strung, and she is Saxson’s destiny. There’s no need to frighten the girl half to death; I just want to be cautious.
Marquis leveled a sideways glance at his mate, then nodded his head, reluctantly.
“Thank you,” Kyla said to Braden, and Ciopori watched as the female walked away.
Kyla Sparrow darted into the upstairs bathroom, just long enough to turn on the water and allow it to run in the sink—if Saxson was listening from afar, he would just assume she was bashful and drowning out any noise in the presence of so many vampires. She removed her right spiked heel, detached the small rubber tip at the end of the spike, then slipped it back on her foot.
Careful to open and close the door as noiselessly as she could, she tiptoed quickly to the last bedroom on the left and carefully tilted the knob until the door drifted open.
Holding her breath, she peeked inside.
If the little vampire was awake and playing, her plan would need to be aborted before it had begun.
He wasn’t awake.
In fact, he was sleeping peacefully, like a little angel, tucked inside a light green blanket.
How odd, Kyla thought. They treat these little monsters like real, human children…
Well, that was about to end.
She crept softly toward the crib, eyeing the large mass of raven-black hair swirling around the infant’s scalp in thick, gentle waves. With Marquis for a father and Ciopori for a mother, Nikolai’s hair could not have been anything other than gorgeous, raven black. For a moment, she wondered about the color of his eyes, but she quickly steeled her resolve and refocused her attention on the task at hand.
Bracing her left hand on the top bar of the crib, she bent her right knee and twisted her body to remove the unstrapped red heel. She took a deep breath in an effort to slow her breathing, reached slowly into the crib, and drew back the light green covering. The vampire was wearing a onesie, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Kyla had sharpened the point of the already razor-thin heel at Saxson’s estate earlier that morning, before covering the tip with the smooth rubber plug. Unless she had worn it down by walking, it would cut right through the fabric, flesh, and muscle.
Assuming she applied enough pressure.
She would only get one chance.
Moving so slowly—so quietly—that her motion was barely detectable, she bent over the babe and lined the edge of the heel right over his little heart.
His chest rose and fell with a loud, exhaled breath, and she froze, waiting to see if the feather-light pressure on his chest had woken him up.
Nothing.
He wriggled his nose and fell back asleep.
Kyla sighed in relief.
Child or not—this was still a vampire—she had no idea what the toddler could do with his claws or his fangs, how loud he could scream…or hiss.
Placing the heels of both hands over the heel of the shoe, she locked her elbows in place for greater penetration, and leaned forward into the thrust.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kiera Sparrow shook her head rapidly from side to side, trying to extricate her rain-soaked bangs from her eyes. She couldn’t release the rope in order to clear her vision, yet she was terrified of descending any further with her sight compromised.
The rain was icy cold. It had already soaked through her T-shirt, and her feet were growing numb. She needed to feel every inch of the sheet—and every protruding knot—in order to grasp the surface firmly. Not to mention, her sweatpants were growing way too heavy. As it stood, she was quaking like a leaf, trying to support all 125 pounds of her five-foot-eight frame. She didn’t know if she could hold on if her body grew any heavier.
“Don’t think like that, Kiera,” she whispered to herself, glancing up at the shadowy moonlight. “You can do this. You have to do this. You’re already halfway there.”
Despite her previous resolution, her determination not to look down, she glanced beneath her freezing toes, toward the pavement, hoping to be encouraged; but what she saw seized her heart, stole her breath, and rocked her all the way to her bones.
There was a giant beast with a wild mane of deep, golden brown hair beneath her. He was coated in thick, wiry fur, and his mammoth jaw jutted forward, flashing a mouthful of vicious teeth. The wolf was positively enormous. His muscles rippled as he stalked up the building, scaling it like a spider, as if he were climbing an unseen web: naturally, effortlessly, and with terrifying ease of efficiency.
Kiera’s eyes met the creature’s, and she froze in place.
His demonic eyes were adorned with pale amber irises and rimmed in a circle of black…
Xavier Matista!
The werewolf from her dream.
The nightmare from her waking reality.
He was everything he had claimed—all her subconscious had sensed—and he was crawling up the building to kill her.
She screamed and let go of the rope.
Her heart plunged in her chest, as if gravity was yanking it out of her body, and her arms flailed
at her sides as she pitched through the air, plummeting toward her death.
The lycan slammed up against her, wrapped a steel, corded arm around her waist, and continued to scale the building as if nothing had interrupted his climb. He snarled against her ear, and she felt a wet, sticky trail of saliva trickling down her neck.
Keira thought she would die, right then and there.
Not from Xavier’s canines, and not from the harrowing fall.
The twenty-eight-year-old violinist was certain she would die of fright.
What happened next was so seamless and surreal, she wasn’t even sure it had happened. Xavier, the wolf, arched his back and rolled his spine as Xavier, the man, crashed through the warehouse window, landed on the bathroom floor, and shoved Kiera forward, toward her waiting captors. In an instant, he was gone, and Kiera was facing Owen, alone: a vindictive, rage-filled human who was blinking like he’d just seen a ghost.
Kiera instantly got it.
These stupid, clueless vampire-hunters had no idea that werewolves existed, and Xavier intended to keep it that way. Owen had probably seen a blur, and he was too dim-witted and brainwashed to question the laws of physics. For all he knew, Kiera had given in to a fear of heights, or been overcome by the frigid rain, and climbed back up the rope, on her own.
Yeah, because that would have ever happened.
She shook her head in both terror and defeat as Owen lunged forward, fisted her by the hair, and began to drag her backward across the travertine floor.
“Travis is on his way to the hospital—Rachel is taking him!” he snarled. “So it’s just you, me, Jon, Mike, and Nick.” He kicked what was left of the trip-rope out of his way, and by the uneven dotting of blood on the floor beneath the curled E-strings, Kiera knew that the snare had worked.
At least temporarily.
The next words Owen spoke pumped ice into Kiera’s veins, and she wished with all her might that the werewolf would have killed her: “I’m going to carve you up into creative, musical pieces. Then I’m going to slit that divine, celestial wrist and watch you bleed out while Jon, Mike, and Nick take you—all three of them, at the same time. And when they’re finally finished, you will still be alive—but barely. Do you know why?” He bent over to press his nose against hers, and his breath was rancid. “Because I want the last thing you see in this lifetime to be my eyes—I want you to watch them roll back as I mount you.” He cackled like a fiend. “Think of it this way: I get to come, and you get to expire, all in musical harmony. And that, Princess Kiera, is the only destiny that awaits you.”