The ringing of a cell phone interrupted his inappropriate thoughts.
“I’m not answering,” he murmured.
“You need to. It’s your brother’s tone.”
Shade tucked Runa beneath him and let voicemail pick it up. Eidolon was going to have to wait.
Eidolon’s voicemail message turned out to be urgent, so Shade and Runa showered, scarfed down breakfast—he made her pancakes, because nothing tasted better than carbs after three nights of raw meat—and sped to UG on his Harley. They found Eidolon in his office, scowling at a stack of paperwork on his desk.
“I finally got the inventory report back for the storeroom,” he said without a hello. “We have a problem.”
Shade took a seat and pulled Runa into his lap. “So Roag definitely got away with something?” When E nodded, Shade cursed. Their brother was gone forever and yet he was still causing trouble. They’d known he’d broken into the storeroom somewhere around the time he’d tried to kill Luc, but they hadn’t known what, exactly, he’d stolen. “What did he take?”
“Among other things, Eth’s Eye and the mordlair necrotoxin.”
Eth’s Eye was a crystal orb used for divination, but the other … the name rang a bell, but only vaguely. “And that is?”
“A poison for which there is no cure.”
Shade cocked an eyebrow. “And you had it … why?”
“Because I’ve discovered that in microscopic amounts, it can cure Lecepic Pox in Trillahs.”
Hell’s rings. “I’m going to guess that Roag wasn’t after it to go on some demonitarian mission to save Trillahs from a disease that strikes one in a thousand every hundred years.”
“You think?”
Runa’s warm hand slid up his back to his neck, where she massaged the muscles that were starting to tense up. “Well, the bastard is, for all intents and purposes, dead. He can’t hurt anyone with it.”
“I hope you’re right,” E said, and then rolled his eyes at Shade’s amused snort. “Yeah, I’m paranoid.”
“No shit.”
E gave him a blank stare.
“You need to get laid.”
Eidolon’s eyes lit up, and Shade knew his brother had Tayla on the brain. Shade pressed a kiss into Runa’s neck, because he knew exactly what it was like to have a sexy, gorgeous female on the brain. And on his lap. And on his—
“What’s E paranoid about now?”
Shade looked up to see Wraith standing in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the doorjamb, arms crossed and … holy shit. This was the first they’d seen of Wraith in a month, which wasn’t unusual.
But he sported a facial dermoire.
He’d gone through s’genesis.
A full year early.
Silence stretched, and Runa’s hand stilled on Shade’s neck.
“Son of a bitch,” Shade muttered.
E leaned back in his chair, arms across his chest, a grave expression on his face. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
Wraith shrugged, like all of this was a big joke. “The sorceress who gave me the transfer chant for Shade’s curse? She helped the s’genesis along. For a price, of course.”
From the sly grin on Wraith’s face, Shade could guess what the price had been. He wanted to ask why Wraith had done it, but he knew. As an unmated Seminus capable of doing what their species had been born to do, he’d have few cares or concerns save for one—impregnating females. Wraith had lived in hell for the last ninety-nine years, and while The Change wouldn’t erase his past, it would make it seem distant. With no time to think on it and his mind completely full of no thoughts other than where to find the next female, Wraith would, in a way, be free.
Hell, Shade was shocked that Wraith had even bothered to stop by the hospital.
“Why is his mark on his face instead of his neck?” Runa’s fingers feathered over Shade’s throat, and Shade nearly started purring.
“Because he’s an unmated male.”
“And he’s going to stay that way,” Wraith said, shifting his gaze to Runa, who had shrugged out of her jacket. “Hey, she’s mate-marked!”
E’s head swung around. “How?”
“Cool, huh?” Shade brought Runa’s marked hand to his lips. “No idea how it happened. Or why. We woke up this morning, and there it was.”
“Last night was a full moon,” Wraith mused, and then it was his turn to frown as he looked at Runa. “Were you in season?”
Runa turned about eight shades of red. Shade stroked her arm, tracing the new marks, and answered for her. “Yeah. And I have the fucking scars to prove it. Why?”
Wraith shook his head. “Something Luc told me once. He said wargs only become mated during a she-warg’s season, and then, only if she gets pregnant.”
Shade’s breath caught. “That’s what it might have taken to complete our bonding.”
“You mean …” Runa’s voice was a whisper.
“Let’s see.” Shade’s hand shook as he grasped her hand in his. His dermoire shimmered, and warmth spread down his arm as his power entered her body. He traveled through her bloodstream until he reached her womb. He held his breath as he probed—and found what he was looking for. A fertilized egg.
“Shade?”
He had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could talk. “Wraith’s right. Oh, man, we’re going to be parents.” He paused, his power flaring to another egg. And another. “Three of them. We’re having three babies.”
By the stunned expression on Runa’s face, he couldn’t tell if she was happy or not, but he was grinning like an idiot. Sons. He was going to have three of them.
“Congrats, bro,” Wraith said, slapping him on the back on his way out the door. “Better you than me.”
With that, Wraith was gone. Eidolon started after him, his worry over Wraith’s new condition coming off him in waves. Wraith was an unpinned grenade ready to blow.
But at the door, his brother paused. “I’m happy for you, man. Just don’t ask me to babysit.” Eidolon grinned, and he was out of there.
Shade drew in a shuddering breath and framed Runa’s face in his hands. “Are you okay with this? With everything that’s happened to you because of me?”
A slow, radiant smile lit her face. “I’m more than okay, Shade. For the first time in my life, I’m alive. And you gave me that.” She trailed a finger down her dermoire. “Guess you’re still cursed. Cursed to be with me.”
“I can live with that,” he croaked, his eyes stinging again. Runa brought out the best in him when he’d believed there was no best in him.
Being cursed to love Runa was the best curse of all.
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Passion Unleashed
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One
When you are dining with a demon, you got to have a long spoon.
—Navjot Singh Sidhu
There were three things Wraith did well: hunt, fight, and fuck. He was going to do all three tonight. In exactly that order.
Crouching on the rooftop of a shop run by immigrants who had probably come from such a shitty country that the violence in the streets of Brownsville, Brooklyn, didn’t faze them, Wraith waited.
He’d spied the gang members earlier, had scented their aggression, their need to draw blood, and Wraith’s own need to do the same stirred. Like any predator, he’d chosen his target with care. But unlike most predators, he didn’t go for the weak or the aged. Screw that. He wanted the strongest, the biggest, the most dangerous.
He liked his pint of blood with an adrenaline chaser.
Unfortunately, Wraith couldn’t make a kill tonight. He’d already met his one-human-kill-per-month limit set by the Vampire Council, and no way in Sheoul would he go over. He hadn’t once since learning that his oldest brother, Eidolon, paid the price when Wraith went over his allowance—E’s martyr complex at work.
Both
Eidolon and the Council had refused to negotiate new terms now that Wraith knew the truth. They figured that with E taking the punishment, Wraith would be more careful about breaking the rules.
They were right, but given Wraith’s history, they’d taken a risk. Ten months ago, Wraith had happily gone through his s’genesis, a change that should have made him a monster who operated only on instinct—an instinct to screw as many demon females as possible, with the goal being to impregnate them. An added bonus of the s’genesis was that male Seminus demons became so focused on their sex drives that they cared little for anything else. But, in Wraith’s case, he was also a vampire, so killing things was in his blood. So to speak.
Eager to get started with his new life, Wraith had found a way to bring on The Change early. Unfortunately, it didn’t change a damned thing. Oh, he wanted to screw and impregnate females, but that was nothing new. The only difference was that now he could impregnate them. Oh, and he also had to shapeshift into the male of their species to do it, because no female on Earth or in Sheoul, the demon realm, would knowingly bed a posts’genesis Seminus demon. No one wanted to give birth to offspring that would be born a purebred Seminus despite the mixed mating.
So yeah, a few things had changed, but not enough. Wraith still remembered the horrors of his past. He still cared about his two brothers and the hospital they had all started together.
Figured that although insanity ran in the family, he hadn’t inherited any of it. Eidolon hypothesized that Wraith’s mother’s human DNA was responsible for mellowing out the s’genesis effects, and naturally, E and Shade thought that was a good thing, and couldn’t understand why Wraith disagreed.
Wraith scented the air, taking in the recent rain, the rancid odors of stale urine, decaying garbage, and spicy Haitian cuisine from the hovel next door. Darkness swirled around him, cloaking him in the shadows, and a cold January breeze ruffled his shoulder-length hair but did nothing to ease the heat in his veins.
He might be the epitome of patience while waiting for his prey, but that didn’t mean that inside he wasn’t quivering with anticipation.
Because these weren’t your typical gangbangers he was hunting. No, the Bloods, Crips, and Latin Kings had nothing on the mercilessly cruel Upir.
The very name made Wraith’s lips curl in a silent snarl. The Upir functioned like any other territorial street gang, except those pulling the strings were vampires. They used their human chumps to commit the crimes, to provide blood—and bloodsport—when needed, and to take the falls when the cops busted them. For their service and sacrifice, the humans believed they would be rewarded with eternal life.
Idiots.
Most vampires adhered to strict rules regarding turning humans, and when a vampire was allowed only a handful of turnings in his entire lifetime, he didn’t waste them on lowlife gangbangers.
Of course, the gangbangers didn’t know that. They played the streets, their fangs-dripping-blood tats and crimson-and-gold gang colors screaming warnings others heeded. No one messed with the Upir.
No one but Wraith.
The Upir came. Seven of them, talking trash, swaggering with overblown arrogance.
Showtime.
Wraith unfurled to his nearly six feet, six inch height, and then dropped the fifteen feet to the ground, landing right in front of the gang.
“Hey, assholes. ’Sup?”
The leader, a stocky white guy wearing a bandana wrapped around his bulbous head, stumbled back a step, but hid his surprise behind a raw curse. “What the fuck?”
One of the punks, a short, fat, crooked-nosed troll—not literally a troll, which was unfortunate, because Wraith could have killed him then—drew a blade from his coat pocket. Wraith laughed, and two other punks produced their own knives. Wraith laughed harder.
“The dregs of human society amuse me,” Wraith said. “Rodents with weapons. Except rodents are smart. And they taste terrible.”
The leader whipped a pistol out of his droopy-ass pants. “You got a motherfucking death wish.”
Wraith grinned. “You got that right. Only it’s your death I wish for.” He smashed his fist into the leader’s face.
The leader rocked back, clutching his broken, bleeding nose. The scent of blood jacked up Wraith’s temp a notch … and he wasn’t alone. The two gangsters at the rear zeroed in on the scent, heads snapping around.
Vamps. One black male, one Latino female, both dressed like the others in baggy jeans, hoodies, and ratty sneakers.
Jackpot, baby. Wraith was going to get some kills in tonight, after all.
Before any of the stunned humans could recover, Wraith sprinted down a side street.
Angry shouts followed him as they gave chase. He slowed, drawing the gangsters in. Nimbly, he leaped on top of a Dumpster and then swung up to a rooftop and waited until they passed. Their fury left a scent trail he could follow blindfolded, but instead, he dropped to the ground, used his infrared vamp vision to see them in the darkest shadows ahead. He hated using any of his vampire skills, including super speed and strength, but vision was the one he truly despised.
Despised, because he hadn’t been born with it. Instead, it had come twenty-two years later, with the eyes Eidolon had transplanted into his head nearly eighty years ago. Every time Wraith looked into the mirror at the baby blues, he was reminded of the torture and pain that had preceded the new peepers.
Kicking himself for letting the past distract him, he silently started the hunt. Normally, he’d take out the vamps first, but the troll was just ahead, huffing and puffing and trailing far behind the others.
He pounced, squeezed the breath out of the squat human and left his unconscious body behind a pile of boxes. Next, he tracked the male vamp, who thought he’d gained the upper hand by swinging around behind Wraith.
Wraith feigned distraction, standing in the open beneath the bright glare of a street light as the vamp crept forward. Closer … closer … yes. Wraith spun, pummeled the massive male with a flurry of fists and feet. The vamp didn’t have a chance to throw a single punch, and once Wraith had hauled him into the darkness beneath an overpass, he took him down. With a knee in the male’s gut and one hand curled around his throat, Wraith drew a stake from the weapons harness beneath his leather jacket.
“What,” the male gasped, his eyes wide with shock and terror, “what … are … you?”
“Buddy, sometimes I ask myself that same question.” He slammed the stake home. Didn’t wait around to watch the show as the vampire disintegrated. There was another one to take out.
Anticipation shivered through his veins as he stalked the female through side streets and alleys. Like the male, she believed she was the one doing the hunting, and Wraith caught her off guard as she crept in the shadows behind a building. He shoved her into the wall, lifting her by the throat so she dangled off the ground.
“This was too easy,” Wraith said. “What is the Vamp Council teaching younglings these days?”
“I’m no youngling.” Her voice was a low, seductive purr, and even as she spoke, she lifted her legs to wrap them around Wraith’s hips. “I’ll show you.”
The scent of lust came off her in waves. His incubus body responded, hardening and heating, but he’d rather kill himself than screw a vampire—or a human, though he had different reasons for not bedding human females.
He leaned in so his lips brushed her ear, which was pierced all the way around. “Not interested,” he growled, but still, she arched against him, affected by his incubus pheromones.
You shouldn’t play with your food. Eidolon’s voice rang in his ears, but Wraith ignored it the way he ignored pretty much everything his brothers said to him. He had no intention of making a meal of this female.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she said, rolling her hips into his erection.
“Maybe you need some convincing.” Wraith pulled back and gave her an eyeful of wooden stake.
Her eyes went wild. “Please …” She swallowed, her throat
convulsing beneath his palm. Her body wilted like a dying flower, and that fast the temptress was gone. “Please. Just … do it quickly.”
He blinked. He’d expected her to beg for her life. He met her wide, haunted gaze, and slowly, with a sick sense of dread, he shuffled his fingers on her neck. A raised pattern peeked from beneath the collar of her hoodie. Damn.
He shoved his stake into his pocket and tugged her sweatshirt aside to reveal a welted pattern the size of his fist.
A slave mark. Not just any slave mark. The cross-bones brand of Neethul slavemasters, the cruelest of the demon slave traders. This female had been forced to live in hell for gods knew how long. Somehow she’d gained her freedom, had escaped, whatever … and now she was doing what she had to in order to survive.
She’d suffered. Was probably suffering even now.
Something clawed at his gut, and it wasn’t until he lowered her to the ground without realizing it that he identified the strange feeling. Sympathy.
“Go,” he said roughly. “Before I change my mind.”
She got the hell out of there, and so did Wraith. Rattled by his uncharacteristic display of mercy, he ruthlessly shoved aside the incident. He needed to get back on track. He needed to feed.
The punks had split up, and one by one, he tracked them down with almost mechanical efficiency until only the leader was left. Somewhere nearby, a gunshot rang out, a familiar sound in this part of the city, so familiar he doubted the cops would even be called.
The leader was ahead, pacing in front of a boarded-up shop front, his voice crisp with agitation as he barked out orders on his cell phone.
“Yo, scumbag,” Wraith yelled. “I’m over here! Would it help if I wore a neon sign?”
Red-faced with fury, the leader bolted into an alley after Wraith. Halfway in, Wraith pivoted around. The gangster pulled his gun, but Wraith disarmed him before he could so much as blink. The weapon skidded across the wet pavement as Wraith put the guy’s back into a wall and jammed his forearm across the human’s thick neck.