Lucky Break (3 page)

As shifters moved around to give us room, I belatedly considered the fact that I wasn't exactly dressed for a fight in a wrap sweater and ballet flats. But it was too late to worry about that now.

Niall circled me, light on his feet, his arms corded beneath a short-sleeved T-shirt, flipping his head to keep shaggy hair out of his eyes. “Come on, then,” he said, beckoning me forward. “You've got that nice big sword. Show me how you use it.”

“As you wish,” I sweetly said, and opted for speed and simplicity. My first strike made immediate contact, spilling blood across his arm. The air bloomed with peppery spice. I regretted that I hadn't eaten on the plane, because the smell of it—the promise of the magic it carried—was nearly intoxicating.

Niall screamed, more with insult than pain, and launched toward me. I used the katana's spine to block a punch he aimed at my face. But he was strong, and I nearly hit my knees with the effort of holding him back.

I huffed out a breath, garnered my strength to push the katana back against him like a lever, trying to reverse our positions. And when he decided to spin—and signaled the move—I used the sword as a brace, flipped over his arm, landed, and spun with just enough time to block his kick. Still, the force of it shuddered through me like an explosion.

Not that a little pain was going to stop me. I kicked twice, two fast jabs to his side that had him lurching away with gritted teeth. He swung back with an elbow, and I ducked quickly beneath it, swiping the katana horizontally and striping his abdomen with blood.

He let loose a full-throated scream, eyes swimming with fury and pain, the bright scent of blood flashing in the air again. Niall's arm was out and moving before I had time to react, the back of his hand connecting with my cheekbone. I flew backward from the impact, hit the ground five feet away with a thud, hard enough to shove the air from my lungs. Panic tightened my chest as I fought to suck in air again.

Sentinel.
There was fear in Ethan's voice.

I'm fine,
I told him, glad I didn't have to use precious breath for it.
Stay with Nessa.

My breathing eased, but pain filled the void left by the receding panic. My cheek sang with it, the throbbing strong enough to drown out every other sensation and feeling . . . except for the glorious rush of hot fury. I flipped back, bounced to my feet, pain pulsing with every heartbeat, and stared down Niall.

He wanted a fight?
Fine.
He'd have one, and this time, I wouldn't pull my punches. I pushed down the pain and kicked the katana into the air, snatched it on the descent. I didn't pause to let him catch up, but sliced diagonally, then again, pushing him backward as he dodged the blows. He hit gravel, stumbled. I swung the sword again and sliced his upper arm, blood welling and scenting the air.

Three strikes,
I thought,
and you're out.

He stared at me, blood from his wounded arm seeping to the ground with soft
plinks
. And in his eyes, the energy and power of shifters, their metaphysical connection to the lands they roamed. Jagged mountain peaks. Rushing streams. Dense forests that smelled of dirt and resin. Shifters were part of a world we couldn't enter, would never understand, their connection to surf and sky as fundamental as the sunrise itself.

And matched with that connection, equally strong, was Niall's unswerving belief that Nessa had murdered her husband.

The sound of a whirring siren broke the spell between us, a car approaching from the direction of the airport. Niall wiped a hand across a cut on his arm, then smeared the blood across his T-shirt like a badge of honor, or a mark of victory.

“Move out,” Rowan said, and the McKenzies hauled ass to the truck parked near Ethan's ride. It was a white behemoth, with an extended cab and enormous tires.

It was the first time I'd noticed the truck. And although it wasn't flattering to my vampire sensibilities, it was also the first time I realized there was someone else watching. A young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, sat in the front passenger seat, one arm draped through the open window, staring at us. Her face was thin, her hair the same thick, multihued blond. Shifters were a relatively patriarchal bunch, so it wasn't unusual that the men had done the fighting while she watched from the vehicle. But her expression was as angry and fierce as the others'.

“Cormac,” Rowan called out, drawing my attention back to one of the shifters who remained behind.

Magic vibrated, pulsed, as Cormac drew a gun from the back of his jeans.

I didn't think, but reacted, running back to the porch and ensuring Ethan and Nessa were out of the way. The shots weren't aimed at me, but our escape. Four
pops
filled the air as he punctured Orangesplosion's tires, air hissing angrily from the fissures as they deflated.

“In case you decide to leave before we're done with you,” Rowan said. They climbed into the truck and sped down the road in the other direction.

You're all right?
Ethan asked.

I glanced back at him.
I'm fine.

Assured of it, he nodded.
You aren't especially good at making new friends.

There wasn't a chance in hell they'd be friends with vampires like us.

And yet, you had a moment,
Ethan said.
Shifter magic?

Yeah. A reminder of who they are, and what we are. And, at least for Niall, the utter confidence that Nessa killed her husband. He's convinced he's right.

Have you ever met a shifter who wasn't?
Ethan pointed out.

“That's what we're fighting,” Nessa wearily said. “The hatred.”

“So we see,” Ethan said, handing back my scabbard.

“Who was the woman in the truck?”

“Darla. She's Niall's sister.”

As I nodded, the cruiser, white with a blue and yellow seal on the door, pulled into the driveway. A man in a taupe uniform climbed out, glanced at the cloud of dust that hung in the air. I guessed this was Tom McKenzie, the sheriff. While he might have shared a name with the shifters, he was decidedly human. I found myself grateful for that, if confused.

He walked toward us, hands on the black utility belt at his waist. I wasn't certain if he took the position out of habit or to remind people of the power he literally wielded.

“That Rowan?” he asked, gesturing toward the road.

Nessa nodded.

“Everyone all right here?” He glanced at my face, took in what felt like swelling. “I heard the shots.”

“The car suffered the worst of it,” Ethan said. “There was a scuffle, but they left when they heard the siren. I'm Ethan Sullivan of Cadogan House. My Sentinel, Merit. You're Sheriff McKenzie?”

“I am.” He looked us over, then turned his gaze—flat but attentive—to Nessa. “You disappeared.”

“I started walking, ended up here. I called Vincent. He was going to let you know where I was.”

“He did, and I've found you. We need to talk.”

Nessa nodded and looked suddenly exhausted by the reminder of her loss. “Let's go inside, and I'll tell you what happened.”

“I'd been in town,” Nessa began, sitting on the edge of the heavy leather couch, her feet pressed together on the floor, hands worrying between her knees. “I went to the market.”

“Dunleavy's?” Tom asked. He stood near the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantel, but his eyes on Nessa.

Nessa nodded. “Taran wanted steak, and we had nothing in the house. I got what we needed, came home, put the groceries away. I called his name, but he didn't answer. I thought he was wrapped up in a project.”

“Project?” Ethan asked.

“He's a professor.
Was,
” she said, squeezing her eyes closed, releasing tears. “
Was
a professor at Eastern Colorado Tech. He taught history, night classes, and studied exploration in the West—cartography, natural history, Native American societies. He was working on a book.”

She cleared her throat. “I thought he hadn't heard me, so I walked into the living room. That's when I found him. I thought”—she looked up at Tom—“for a moment, before I saw the blood, I thought he'd tripped, that he'd just fallen down and was about to get up again, but he didn't. He didn't.” She pressed fingers to her eyes.

“You touched him?” Tom asked.

“I shook him, I think. I told him to wake up.
‘Wake up, Taran!'
But he was gone. He was obviously gone. His body—” She looked up at us. “Shifters are warm. So warm. But he was cold. Cold like we are.”

“How did he die?” Ethan quietly asked, shifting his gaze to Tom.

“The medical examiner is still looking, but it appears to be trauma,” Tom said. “He was hit on the head. We haven't found the weapon yet.”

“What about the house?” I asked. “Was anything disturbed? Anything taken?”

Tom's brows lifted with surprise at the question.

“We assist the Chicago Police Department and Ombudsman's office with investigations sometimes,” I explained.

“Her grandfather is the Ombudsman,” Ethan added.

That seemed to impress the sheriff. “You don't say. Lot of talk about his office in the law enforcement community, as we're learning how to deal with supernatural problems.

“And to answer your question, no. We didn't notice anything out of place—at least, nothing obvious.” He looked at Nessa. “When we've finished, it might be a good idea for you to take a look around. See if anything looks out of place to you.”

Nessa nodded. “I don't see what anyone would want from us. Certainly not that they'd kill for.”

Tom nodded. “Just think about it. Anything else unusual lately? Any trouble with Taran at school or at home?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing. It was a very quiet winter. We were grateful.”

“A quiet winter?” Ethan asked.

“The feud,” Nessa said. “Like I said, I thought it was over. There hasn't been an incident, a volley, in over a year.”

“Closer to two, I think,” Tom said, and Nessa nodded.

“And before that, how often were there conflicts?” Ethan asked.

Tom sighed heavily, scratched his temple. “It depends on what they're reacting to. Both sides enjoy confrontation equally. But they go about it in different ways. The McKenzies are more up front; the vampires are more subtle.” From his tone, it was clear he didn't consider that a compliment. “There could be days between strikes. Weeks. Months. Tempers are often high, and slights are taken very personally.”

“You're a McKenzie, yes?” Ethan said.

Tom smiled lightly. “By affiliation. I was adopted into the family, grew up with this generation, but on the outside.”

“They didn't have qualms about bringing a human into the family?” I asked.

“Humans aren't vampires,” Tom said, “and they definitely aren't Marchands.”

“Unlike me,” Nessa quietly said.

“Tell me about the last incident,” Ethan said.

Nessa nodded. “It was October or November, the year before last. We woke to find blood painted across the door.”

Ethan frowned, looked between them. “I'm not familiar with the symbolism. Does that mean something here?”

“It's an insult to Taran,” she said. “An accusation that he'd been blooded, that he'd given up his true nature to me. But Taran talked to Rowan, and there'd been nothing since then.”

“Because Rowan was the perpetrator?” I asked.

“We don't know,” Nessa said.

“Likely because Rowan's the de facto leader of the family,” Tom said.

“He isn't very old to be a leader,” Ethan observed.

“No, he isn't,” Tom said. “That's the nature of a war of attrition. The old guard is taken out, leaving the children—relatively speaking—in charge.”

“You're the sheriff,” Ethan said, his tone less than subtle. “Isn't it your job to keep the peace?”

Tom's eyes hardened. “I don't know how things work in Chicago, Mr. Sullivan, but I'm the only human straddling two supernatural communities that have been at war for over a hundred years. If peace was that easy to come by, the wider world would be a very different place. Sups don't care much for prisons, and politicians in the county seat, which is miles from here, don't care much about an interspecies dispute that keeps, as they've told me before, ‘the herds thinned.'”

“In other words, there've been no human deaths,” Ethan concluded, “so the humans aren't interested in helping resolve things.”

Tom nodded. “That would be accurate.”

I understood bad blood and revenge. But it all seemed so unnecessary. “Why not just leave?”

Tom glanced at me. “Because they're stubborn. Because they've got connections to the land. Because they've raised families here and they know the world is getting smaller, in part because of what happened in Chicago.” There was a bite in his reference to the fact that Chicago, through another House, had been the first place supernaturals—vampires—had come out of the closet.

“That puts them both here, facing each other down, virtually unfettered.”

“At least until we kill each other off,” Nessa said.

“A dire thought,” Ethan said, and there was an edge in his voice that Nessa detected. She glanced up at him.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “It had been so long since the last attack. I thought, after Taran's last talk with Rowan, that we were finally done, finally moving forward. That there would be peace here for all of us, and we could get to the business of living. But it seems the violence, the hatred, is unavoidable. I'm so sorry for bringing you into it.” She looked down at her hands again, grief settling into her shoulders. “I'm so sorry.”

Ethan put a hand over Nessa's. “We're here now, and we'll do what we can.”

“Let's go back to Taran,” Tom said. “Have you or Taran had any unusual visitors? Anything otherwise unusual happen?”

Nessa shook her head. “Nothing involving me. Like I said, he was absorbed by his work as usual. If he'd been in any trouble or had any problems, he didn't mention it to me.”

“What about his family?”

“I didn't talk to them,” she said. “But they were still close. Taran was the unofficial family archivist, so they'd talk about the family's history, the valley.” She sighed deeply, looked up at Tom. “What happens next?”

Tom didn't pull the punch. “Taran will be moved to the county morgue and autopsied. The house is being photographed. Once that's done, we'll release the house and you can go home. Or, if you prefer, you can go to the Marchands'. Vincent mentioned that he wants to see you and these vampires. In fact, they're probably waiting for me to leave. I can do that; plenty more to do yet tonight.”

Tom pushed off the fireplace, adjusted his utility belt, glanced at Nessa. “You need to stay available.”

“I will.”

“There can be no reprisals,” he said, looking us over. “We had peace for so long. We should keep it that way.”

She nodded. “I'll tell Vincent. I think he wants peace, truly.”

Tom didn't look entirely convinced by that, but he nodded, walked to the door.

I watched through the front window as Tom climbed into the cruiser and drove off in the direction the McKenzies had taken earlier. I guessed it would be their turn for questions.

***

The shifters had gone, but the parade of supernaturals continued.

“They're here,” Nessa said moments later from the living room. I was prepared to argue; I was standing in front of the window, would have known if we had visitors.

I glanced back to look, to firm up my position, and found them standing on the porch.

Three vampires, two men and a woman, all in simple clothing made of homespun linen fabrics. The one in front, who looked like a man in his early forties, had straight, coal black hair that fell to his shoulders from a high widow's peak that topped a narrow face. He was tall and lean, and his hands were clasped behind his back. His expression was one of utter patience, as if he knew we'd be checking him out and was allowing us the opportunity.

Nessa rushed to the door, yanked it open. “Vincent!” she said with ringing relief, falling into the arms of the dark-haired man. “Thank God, Vincent.”

Vincent stroked a hand down her hair. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Nessa. So sorry. Taran was a good man.” He pulled back, looked her over. “You're all right? You weren't harmed?”

Nessa shook her head, wiped at her eyes. “I'm fine.”

“I'm so glad.” The affection in Vincent's eyes was obvious and deep, but Nessa seemed oblivious to it.

Nessa greeted the other two vampires, and we moved aside so she could bring them into the house.

“Vincent, Astrid, Cyril,” she said, gesturing to them in turn. Cyril had short hair so pale it was nearly translucent, his eyes a watery blue against equally pale skin. Astrid was tall, with dark skin, equally dark eyes, and closely cropped hair.

“This is Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House and member of the Assembly, and his Sentinel, Merit.”

The vampires dropped suddenly and immediately to their knees.

“Sire,” they said to Ethan in unison, with obvious gravity. The McKenzies might not have cared much for the Pack's authority, but these vampires were ready and willing to accept Ethan as their leader. They'd apparently heard about the Testing.

Ethan looked both taken aback and a little dubious. But when he spoke, his voice was all gentility. “Please, rise.”

The vampires climbed back to their feet, and Vincent stepped forward. “I'm sorry you've come all this way to rest, only to be embroiled in our struggle.”

“Vincent is the founder of the Marchand Clan,” Nessa said.

Vincent nodded, gestured to the living room. “Perhaps we can sit?”

“Of course,” Nessa said, chagrined, as if she'd breached some point of Clan etiquette. We followed her into the living room and took seats, Ethan and I on one couch, Nessa and Vincent on the other, Cyril on the floor at Vincent's feet. I wasn't sure if that was a seat of honor—at the feet of the Clan's master—or prostration.

“I'll prepare the blood,” Astrid said and, at Nessa's nod of approval, disappeared into the kitchen.

“Are there are any developments?” Vincent asked, his roving gaze on Nessa.

She shook her head. “They're taking Taran to the morgue for an autopsy. They're nearly done at the house, but . . .” She looked at Vincent. “I don't want to go back there. Not now.”

Vincent smiled, patted her hand. “You'll come home with us.”

“I don't want to impose—,” she began, but he cut her off with a nod.

“Nonsense. It is your home. Or one of them, at any rate.”

Nessa nodded, her eyes filling again, and let Vincent wrap her in his arms again. She nestled against him and wept quietly.

“You have a house?” Ethan asked.

Vincent's smile was quick. “Not of the scale or scope of an official House,” he said. “Nothing like your Cadogan. But it is ours, and it is home.”

Astrid walked back into the room with a tray of six glasses of blood. She walked to Ethan first, bowed to lower the tray to him. “Sire.”

Ethan took a glass, glanced at Vincent.

“It is a traditional welcome for our Clan,” he said, gesturing for Ethan to drink.

I could see that Ethan was hesitant to drink something prepared at the behest of a man he wasn't certain was a friend or enemy—but he knew diplomacy and took a drink before raising his glass. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Vincent said. “And welcome. It isn't often that we find Masters in our midst.” He took the next glass Astrid offered, and the remaining glasses were distributed to the rest of us.

I took a small sip, tasted cinnamon, clove. The kind of blood a vampire might drink warm on a long and cold winter night in the mountains. Odd, but comforting.

Ethan drained his glass, set it aside. “Very nice,” he said. “Tell us about the feud.”

“Let me start at the beginning,” Vincent said. “The beginning of the Clan. I was born in Vienne in France. Made in Savannah in 1779.”

“During the Revolutionary War,” I noted, and Vincent nodded.

“I lived in Savannah for many years. Drifted, in time, to Atlanta. That's where I met Christophe. He had come to America after losing his family in Europe, had become a vampire in a very violent encounter. He was searching for something more, something new. I felt similarly. Three of the American Houses had been set up by then, but I did not feel myself in any of them.”

Cadogan was the fourth House, established in 1883. So he hadn't yet had an opportunity to be impressed by us.

“We met a third, Bernard. When Atlanta fell, we decided to travel west, to look for new beginnings.”

“And you settled here in the valley,” Ethan said.

Vincent nodded, lifted his gaze to the windows behind us and the valley beyond it. “There were stops along the way, a summer here, a winter there. But when we reached the valley, for all its beauty, we knew we had found our home. It was empty of people. Travel in the winter is difficult,” he explained. “There's one narrow pass through the mountains, and it's treacherous enough even in the best of weather. We lived peacefully, here in the quiet, for many years.”