Magick Rising (30 page)

sweet. Dessert, almost.”

Rurik didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he planted a fist in Dane’s face,

sending the man staggering back. Dane answered with a blow of his own.

They fought like normal men with punches and blows. While Rurik

held his own against Dane, he wasn’t likely to stop him that way. Dane was

too powerful, especially sated with her blood, her life.

Hayley struggled to move her hand, watching it as if it was a part of

someone else. Only a little farther. There. Her fingers touched the stake in

her belt. Drawing on her little remaining life force, she wrapped her hand

around it then tried to speak.

Her ravaged throat made even simple sounds painful. “Rurik.”

He heard her. Turned.

“Here.” She tried to toss the stake to him. Her throw barely made it off

the bed, but he caught the stake and whirled as Dane rushed at him again.

“No more,” Rurik cried as he sank the wood into Dane’s heart. “No

more killing.”

Dane’s eyes widened, and he stared down at the weapon in his chest

then disintegrated in an explosion of dust.

Rurik ignored Dane’s departure and scooped Hayley into his arms, his

eyes telling her what she already knew. She was all but dead. Nothing could

save her now. By the time an ambulance arrived, she’d be gone. Already she

could feel the coldness spreading through her limbs, the widening gap

between her heartbeats. Soon it would stop altogether.

“No, Hayley.” Tears filled Rurik’s eyes as he tried in vain to cover her

gushing wound with his hand.

She tried to raise her hand, to touch him one last time, but even that

refused to obey her any longer. Words no longer fit through her throat. She

could only stare at him, loving him.

Rurik smoothed back her hair, his head bowed. “I remember my

promise,” he murmured, his voice husky.

Promise? To stop her from rising as a vampire. But couldn’t he save

her, make her a
strigoii
? Didn’t he realize she’d changed her mind about this

type of vampire? She wanted to be with him. Being one of the living

vampires was better than
moroii
or the ultimate death.

He slid her silver knife from its holder at her waist and studied it, the

light glinting off the blade even as it sizzled against his palm. “I know how

much you don’t want to be a vampire.”

No. That was before. Not now
.

But no words emerged as death drew closer.

He raised the knife high. “Forgive me, Hayley.”

The last thing she remembered was seeing the knife slice down.

HAYLEY BLINKED. Once, then twice before the room swam into focus.

Where was she?

Not the hotel, but a bedroom with soft lighting, wood furniture, gentle

colors. What . . . ?

Memories flooded back, almost painfully, and she gasped. Was she

dead? She reached for her throat only to find it unmarred and smooth. What

was going on?

She struggled to sit up, her head swimming. Blood stained her

sweatshirt. She hadn’t dreamed it then.

Thirst hit her so hard she doubled over. She needed a drink.
Now
.

“Hayley.” Rurik rushed into the room and handed her a glass. “When

you started stirring, I knew you’d need this.”

She gulped the contents, draining the glass, not noticing the substance

until she finished, the thirst finally quenched.

Blood.

Placing a hand on her chest, she waited. No heartbeat. No discernible

breath. She glanced up at Rurik. Had he . . . ?

He caught her hand in his and sat on the edge of the bed. “I couldn’t

keep my promise. I couldn’t lose you.”

Awareness dawned. She could hear the sound of a faucet dripping

somewhere in the house, smell the scent of decaying leaves outside, feel the

intensity of Rurik’s gaze as a physical touch.

“I gave you my blood to drink. I made you
strigoii
.” Rurik looked away.

“I’m sorry.”

“Rurik—”

He turned back, his dark eyes ablaze with passion. “I love you, Hayley.

I know this isn’t the life you wanted, but it
is
living.”

And she was thrilled to have it. She caught his hand, holding him close,

and beamed a smile. “Thank you.” She had to grin at his expression of total

surprise.

“What?”

“Thank you. I wanted you to save me. I wanted to be with you.” She

placed her palm against his cheek. “I love you, Rurik.”

His smile held more joy than a child opening gifts on Christmas

morning. “Then you don’t hate me?”

“I couldn’t. Even when I thought you might be the Destroyer, I loved

you. I finally realized you couldn’t be a killer. Then Dane came.” She

scowled. He’d fooled her well.

“He’s dust.” Rurik spat the words.

“I know. Thank you for that, too.” She kissed him, sharing all the love

she felt.

Rurik crushed her to him. “We will have a wonderful life. You’ll see.

We can go anywhere. Do everything.”

She slid her hands inside his shirt. “There’s only one thing I want to do

right now.” Experience her version of heaven. Surely she deserved it after

dying . . . well, almost dying.

Chuckling, he followed her lead, sliding his hand beneath her shirt to

cup her breast. “I’m happy to assist.”

“Good.” She lost herself in his kiss—a kiss even more pleasurable

because neither needed to break apart for air. Every sensation felt

multiplied, more erotic, more intense. Desire flared to life, hungry,

demanding, rising to claim him.

She ripped his shirt off then tugged her own over her head, before she

sought his mouth again. “Good,” she repeated against his sensuous lips. “I

never want to let you go.”

He grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

The End

A SHIFT IN MAGICK

Laura Hayden

As a kid, when Laura Hayden wasn’t watching TV, she was reading.

So, her seventeen books and short stories straddle multiple fiction

genres and include vivid characters with action, suspense, and humor.

JONATHAN CRAFT stepped around the sleeping man whose cardboard

lodgings spilled from the alley to the sidewalk. The cops would be around

soon enough to roust the homeless from their makeshift shelters, making

Hollywood safe again for the tourists. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Ugly American

and all their little uglies would ignore the stars in the sky to concentrate on

the ones embedded in the sidewalk beneath their feet.

Jon always tried to stay out of their paths if for no other reason than he

hated crowds. Too much noise. Too many faces. And yet, he couldn’t help

but be fascinated by the structures of all those faces. How tempting to study

each set of features, to learn each unique expression, to catalogue it.

To use it.

He paused before turning the corner. Something ahead made his skin

prickle in alarm. Whether the warning came from his street smarts, his

subconscious, or simply his gift, he knew to recognize and respect any

awareness of potential danger.

Normally, booze dulled his senses along with the urge to change, but

for some odd reason, he’d foregone his usual morning shot or twelve of Jack

Daniels. So he backtracked to the sleeping bum, squatted, and touched the

man’s grimy hand just long enough to copy some of his features but not

wake him.

Jon braced for the momentary wave of pain that typically knocked him

off his feet. Fast changes always hurt the most, but it was the price of

shifting, and he accepted that. When he studied his reflection in a grimy

window, he confirmed that he’d borrowed enough detail to no longer look

like himself. He pulled off his overcoat and slung it over one arm.

When he strolled around the corner, he spotted what had triggered his

internal alarms—a young punk with a suspicious bulge beneath the left side

of his leather jacket. The young man eyed him first with contempt then open

dismissal. But that look of disinterest didn’t mean Leather Jacket—Jon

searched his memory for a name: Ronnie Bentley—that Bentley would

allow any able-bodied man to approach without some ego-inflating act of

challenge.

With menace darkening his face, Bentley shifted between Jon and the

building. The message was obvious: if you can’t threaten the one you want,

threaten whoever’s handy.

“What’cher bidness, here?” the young man snarled.

Jon disguised his voice by adjusting his pitch slightly higher than

normal. “Me? I’m here to check out that corner office. It just became

available for rent.” Jon glanced up to the second floor window, the only

source of light into his own, otherwise dingy office. “Any idea what

company used to be there?”

Bentley followed his gaze. “Yeah. Some asshole PI. Got me locked up.”

He curled his lip in disgust and disappointment. “I just got out of Chino,

yesterday. Didn’t know he’d moved.”

Jon remembered the case far too well; Bentley liked to beat up on his

girlfriends, and his most recent victim had gathered enough courage to hire

Jon. Thanks to a couple of lucky breaks, Bentley went to jail, and the girl

escaped back home to Dirt Road, Kansas or Nebraska or wherever.

“Damn it!” Bentley turned and threw a punch into the building’s

downspout, leaving a large dent in the quivering metal. “Shoulda been his

face.” He paused to give Jon a dull stare sharpened only by a shred of guilt.

“You ain’t a cop or nothin’, are ya?”

Jon shook his head. “Absolutely not. If you’ll excuse me.” He stepped

past Bentley, faking a stumble that not only gave him enough skin to skin

contact to catalogue the young man’s fascinating features for future use, but,

more importantly, allowed Jon determine that the bulge in Bentley’s jacket

pocket was a gun.

Shit
.

Jon had a split second to make his decision. In a dip that would have

made his father proud, Jon lifted the gun, fully intending to keep it. But the

moment he palmed the weapon, he realized he knew the model, and that

gave him an additional option. Hiding the weapon beneath the overcoat

slung over his arm, Jon ejected the gun’s ammo clip.

Luckily, Bentley made it easy to return the weapon. He grabbed Jon’s

lapels, pulling him closer for some nose-to-nose intimidation. “Watch where

you’re going, asshole!” he growled

Jon apologized and slipped the weapon back into Bentley’s pocket,

having reduced the punk‘s ability to kill from thirteen chances down to only

one—the bullet in the chamber. Although Bentley didn’t follow him into the

building, Jon decided to change identities for safety’s sake. Once inside the

dingy foyer, he adopted a random face from his repertoire and lightened and

lengthened his hair slightly.

As he headed toward the stairs, Jon spotted a rather nicely-dressed

woman standing by the building’s directory sign. Nicely-dressed women

seldom visited the building, or if they did, they didn’t stay nice or dressed for

long. She stared perplexed at the signboard, evidently trying to make sense

out of the jumble of letters.

His own listing read “C__ft _nv_stig_t_o_s 2nd 20_.”

He stayed a respectful distance away. “Could I be of assistance,

ma’am?”

She jumped, turned, then blushed. “Sorry. I didn’t see you.” She

consulted a ragged piece of paper. “I’m looking for Craft Investigations.”

A client?
Distrust settled in.
Or a shill.
Jon studied the woman. She wasn’t

the usual type that hung around this neighborhood, neither call girl nor

tourist. Instead, she was clean, neat, and pretty in a sort of

Next-Door-All-American Girl sort of way
. Too pretty for this dump.

She didn’t set off his mental alarms, but his motto was better safe than

sucker-punched. He offered her a benign smile. “Mr. Craft’s office is on the

second floor. I’m headed up there, myself”—he searched for an appropriate

excuse—“to work on his computer. Follow me.”

SERENITY WORTH HID her sigh of relief. Sure, there were other

investigators she could hire. Los Angeles was full of them—good, bad, or

otherwise. But none came with recommendations quite as glowing as the

one Father McCauley had given Jonathan Craft.

When she’d told the priest about the inheritance and her inability to

reach David, he’d readily agreed to help but admitted that the club was no

place for a celibate seventy-five year old man with heart problems. But he

said he knew someone who could help.

The good father didn’t explain how or why he knew Craft, but Serenity

got the impression that they’d known each other a long time, maybe not as

friends but in a confessional-type relationship.

Now that she’d met the investigator, he didn’t strike her as the type of

person who confided much, to many. The veiled light in his eyes suggested

that the windows to his soul were hung with impenetrable blinds. However,

the condition of his soul didn‘t matter. He was willing to take her case, and