Blood Law (4 page)

Conan
scowled and quietly contemplated her. Every instinct told her to turn and run
as fast and as far as she could, but she didn’t.

Mr. D
was trussed up somewhere, probably needing medical attention. She wasn’t going
to thank him for looking the other way when she ripped him off by turning
yellow.

She
took a threatening step forward and raised her karate-chop-ready hands higher.
“Go now, and I won’t call the cops.”

“Cops
cannot help you, Slayer,” Conan said in a thick accent she could not place. He
extended his ham-sized hand, his thick, callused fingers distended toward her.
A large gold and ruby ring glittered on his third finger. The stone, depicting
the eye of a howling wolf, glowed. “Your place is with your people.”

Pain
jabbed her temples. She blinked several times. She’d seen that ring before. A
long time ago . . .

“Come
with me, now,” he softly commanded.

Stunned,
Falon could not react. Her brain fogged. Her joints froze as if clogged with
Play-Doh. Somewhere in the midst of her fear, however, she felt the bubbling of
astonishment.

If
this guy thought she was going to trot out of here with him and his blond
sidekick, he was too stupid to live.

“My
people?” she choked out. “I have no people. You have me mixed up with someone
else.”

He
stepped toward her, and somehow, despite her terror, she was able to hold her
stance. “I have not made a mistake, Falon Corbet. I have searched for you for
nearly a decade. You are the one I seek.”

Her
jaw dropped. No one knew her real name. No one except her long-gone foster
parents and the poor excuse of a caseworker who had turned his back on her when
she needed help all those years ago. She’d been on her own since she was
fourteen, and since then had always used an alias. Better to keep the cops at
bay when she skipped town and her financial obligations and to keep her name
out of the system that had turned on her.

Despite
wanting to show this guy some game, Falon took several steps back. “Who are
you?” she whispered. “How do you know my name?”

“I am
Viktor Salene.” He gave her a short, curt bow. “Jager, master Slayer of
Lycans.”

She
narrowed her eyes. The guy was definitely smoking something. “What’s a Lycan,
and how do you know who I am?”

The
man scowled, his eyes darkening until he looked demonic. “Lycans are an
abomination of nature. The scourge of the earth! They are the creatures a great
king charged our ancestors to destroy over seven hundred years ago. The
creatures I have spent my life hunting.”

Falon
took another step back. The guy was crazy. She looked past him to Blondie, who
was nodding reverently.

Right.

Okay.

She
almost made a crack about Halloween being months away, but didn’t. These guys
were serious. Crazy, but serious. And that just made them all the more
dangerous.

“I’ll
tell you what, boys. Tell me where Mr. D is. Let me make sure he’s okay, then
we’ll take our conversation outside.”

“If
it is the shopkeeper you speak of, he cannot be helped,” Conan the jager said.

As
his words trailed off, Falon felt it. The bitter coldness of death followed by
a profound sense of loss. And guilt. Mr. D was dead because he had befriended
her. “You killed him?” she demanded incredulously, knowing, yet still not
wanting to believe what she instinctively knew to be true. Falon cringed,
squeezing her eyes shut. She also knew poor Mr. D did not die easily or
quickly. Her eyes flashed open. Heat radiated from her face, and the rage
erupted. This time she didn’t fight it.

The
barbarian nodded.

Her
vision clouded then cleared as fury ripped through every part of her, pumping
more adrenaline into her system. The kick of it gave her a sudden urge to
retch, but she swallowed the bile back. “You bastard! He was a kind old man!
You had no right to kill him!”

She
grabbed a box cutter from where it lay on top of a partially unpacked box of
produce and swung it wide. It caught Conan’s face, slicing open his right
cheek. He didn’t flinch. The only clue to his fury was the narrowing of his
shiny black eyes and the intense wave of pain that flashed over her. The
bastard! He’d attacked her with—what? Some kind of invisible force? Whatever it
was, it hit her like a wall, but one she held her own against. Her fury and
despair over Mr. Delico’s fate reigned supreme, causing something unbelievable
to happen.

Conan’s
massive body jolted as if he had been slammed by a wall. Instinctively, Falon
knew she had done it, but she had no idea how. She didn’t question it. She’d
never know, so she’d just go with it. A snide smile twisted her lips.

His
eyes narrowed to black slits. “Do not challenge me, Slayer!” he roared. “I am jager!
I will cut you down where you stand for your insolence!”

Visions
of poor, sweet Mr. D begging for his life as these two thugs ripped him to
shreds nearly brought her to her knees in anguish. The anguish, however, made
her stronger. It fueled the rage in her. It gave her the will to see if that
small jolt of power had been real and if she could do it again. She leaned
forward, as if pressing against a great wind, when in truth it was the force of
Conan’s will she battled. Concentrating, she pulled the furious energy swirling
around her inward, until it was pulsing inside her chest like a fireball. In
one Herculean surge, Falon flung her hands forward with her last ounce of
strength, expelling the buildup. And it was enough to nudge Conan the jager
aside.

She
bolted for the front door.

Conan
cursed, and his mad aura took the form of a steel blade that speared her from
behind. Searing jabs of heat pierced her skin. This time, however, the pain was
more than mental.

Her
skin split open.

Blood
erupted from the wound. She felt the warm rivulets drip down her back.

He
followed with another sharp slice of heat, this time cutting through the black
leather of her left boot and across her ankle. Falon howled in agony.
Stumbling, she zigzagged awkwardly through the store. The front door was only a
few feet away. If she could . . . just . . . get . . . to it—

Another
searing shot of heat cut across the back of her ankle, severing her Achilles
tendon. She screamed again and fell face-first, sprawling onto the hard
linoleum floor. Blood, warm and slippery, pooled around her, preventing her
from getting the traction she needed to crawl to the doors.

Hard
footsteps thudded behind her. She focused, pushing the agony from her mind, and
concentrated solely on escape.

Deep
laughter infiltrated her focus. Large hands grabbed her by the hair and pulled
her up. “You cannot outrun your destiny, Slayer.”

Falon
closed her eyes. With every cell in her tattered body, she channeled her rage
and mentally forced a harsh shot of pain into her captor.

He
yelped, his hands loosening. She watched his dark eyes widen, then narrow. His
face morphed into something so disturbing she thought she’d lose control of her
bodily functions. When he opened his mouth, long sharp teeth glinted under the
fluorescent lights. “You will learn, Slayer, I am jager, and as such, I own
you.”

He
lowered his face to her chest but kept his gaze on hers. “Now,” he hissed, “we
will become a part of the other. The next time you lash out to inflict injury
on me, you will also inflict it on yourself!”

“No,”
she screamed, thrashing against him.

“Don’t
fight me—” he growled just as the front doors of the small grocery slammed
open. A harsh, hot wind chaotically swirled inside, swooshing across Falon’s
face, lifting her hair in a spiraling torrent before sending items from the
surrounding shelves flying across the aisles and crashing to the floor.

Conan’s
head jerked up, eyes narrowing as if catching sight of an enemy. “Take care of
him, Barrak,” he growled furiously to his flunky. Blondie stepped forward.
Before he took another step, he screamed and went flying across the top of
three aisles before crashing onto the floor.

“Still
picking on little girls are you, Viktor?” a deep masculine voice sneered.

Falon
tried to raise her head to see who was speaking, but Conan’s gaze snapped back
to hers at the same time he shoved her down. His eyes glinted with a
preternatural shine, warning her off. Despite his superior strength, she felt a
shift in his body and energy at the other’s presence. Falon forced her head up
to get a look at what caused the satanic bastard such anxiety.

For
the brief span of several heartbeats, she could not breathe. She could not have
uttered a single syllable had her life and the fate of the free world depended
on it. Fierce gold flashes of energy snapped and popped around the blond,
black-leather-clad man. He was, in very plain speak, magnificent. And lurking
beneath his glory was a deadly supernatural energy. The commanding presence of
the man standing at the threshold of the store could not be denied. Nor could
the contempt twisting his lips. She swallowed hard and wondered which man was
more of a threat.

“Vulkasin,
you cur. How dare you show yourself!” Conan spit.

Vulkasin
strode into the store, his chin raised, his nostrils flaring. “The stench of
death follows you, Slayer. Do you never grow weary of the kill?”

Conan
raised Falon up and held her out toward the intruder. “The quickening has
begun, Lycan. Prepare yourself.” Falon tore her gaze from the intruder, who had
not even glanced at her, and turned to the lunatic who held her so tightly she
could scarcely breathe. He turned rabid black eyes on her.

“No,”
she croaked, knowing he was going to bite her. She shoved at him, madly trying
to gather her thoughts and blast him one last time. His grip tightened. He
ripped the front of her sweatshirt open with his teeth, revealing her naked
breasts. His eyes glinted hungrily. Not, she realized, with lust but with
possession. As if he had won the lottery and he was mentally counting all the
terrible ways he could spend the money.

“We
are destined to be one,” he breathed.

A
dark shadow fell over them. Falon screamed, not sure if it was because of the
bite Conan was about to take out of her or because she’d locked gazes with the
one he called Vulkasin—the one that looked as if he’d just escaped the bowels
of hell with every intention of bringing them right back with him.

CONAN
DROPPED FALON to the floor, then swept her behind him with a booted foot to her
chest. She slid several feet on her own blood before slamming into a wall hard
enough to force the air from her lungs.

Even
as Falon gasped for breath, she was very aware of the two furies before her,
and of her need to get the hell out of there. Fast.

But
even as she tried to flee, her bloody hands offered no traction on the slippery
floor. Her right foot throbbed with pain as she tried to backpedal away from
the two whatever-the-hell-they-weres.

The
sharp shaving sound of steel against steel echoed in the small grocery. Aside
from her gasps for air, it was the only sound. As the two beasts circled one
another to the left of her and away from the door, Falon rolled, trying to inch
closer to escape. She turned over and looked up, paralyzed by awe.

The
fantastic sight before her was breathtakingly terrifying. Vulkasin stood
battle-ready with two gleaming broadswords, one in each fist, the fluorescent
lights glittering off the sharp edges in a weird play of colors.

Conan
held only one sword, but it was larger, with a hook at the end of it. He
slashed it down on the dark one’s right sword and yanked. Vulkasin yanked
harder, pulling Conan toward him. Mere inches from Conan’s nose, Vulkasin
sneered. “Do you really think, Viktor, you can best me at swords?”

The
barbarian spun around, shoving the hooked end of his sword down to the pommel
of Vulkasin’s. Vulkasin laughed and kicked Conan in the chest. “Is that all you
have? And in front of the girl? How do expect to win her with such a pathetic
show of strength?”

“You
overrate yourself, Vulkasin. My powers are equal to yours, but my mind is not
befuddled with your archaic sense of honor.” Conan flew backward in the air,
but even as he did, he twisted in a Matrix move, landing squarely on his feet.
Fear turned Falon’s blood to ice. She told herself to run, to flee while they
were distracted, but her body disobeyed her. Stunned, she could not look away.

“You
flaunt your arrogance, Viktor. How do you think I found you so easily?”
Vulkasin leapt high over Conan, tiptoed across the ceiling, then—with arms
extended wide—somersaulted in beautiful symmetry. Body and blades formed a
perfect iron cross. As he came down, the jager leapt up in the air to meet him.
The two furies clashed in a spellbinding kaleidoscope of furious blade sparks.
Red, black, and orange rained down upon her, the heat prickling her skin. The
sensation jolted her, ripping her body from its paralysis. Falon rolled over
again, concentrating on her path toward the door.

They
could kill each other for all she cared. She prayed for exactly that even as
she continued to roll. As the furious clash of steel continued, Falon made it
to the closed doors. She pushed with her hands and opened them just a crack. On
her elbows, she dragged herself forward, ignoring the harsh scrape of her skin
against concrete as she made it outside. It occurred to her that the sidewalk
was eerily quiet even as she collapsed on the dirty concrete. In slow, thick
flows, her strength drained from her body.