The Warrior Vampire (12 page)

“Ready to roll?” He tried not to think about how badly he wanted her. Or about what the consequences of taking what he wanted would be. Instead, he turned his attention to something he could control: finding Chelle and delivering a violent death to the bastards who'd taken her.

“I should apologize.” The charge of energy that had sparked between them evaporated into an awkwardness that settled over Ronan like a black cloud. It ignited his already-volatile temper and he swallowed the emotion down, stuffing it to the soles of his feet. “I've never let magic control me like that and I won't let it happen again. I'm sorry.”

She was fucking
apologizing
to him? As though what had happened between them was some shameful thing. The Collective scratched at the back of Ronan's mind and he pushed at the memories that threatened to crest over him. A blood exchange between a tethered pair was sacred. An act that always accompanied sex and was meant to solidify the bond between them. Had she been a vampire or even a dhampir, Ronan would have offered his vein to her in his eagerness to sustain his mate.

She wasn't a vampire, though. Just another obstacle that lay between them.

“Don't apologize.” Ronan would be damned if he let her see how deeply her words cut him. “Let's just get a move on. We're wasting time and burning night.” He pushed himself from the couch and stalked toward the door, his jaw welded shut. Trothed to a female he couldn't escape and tethered to another who wanted nothing to do with him.

“Sure, let's get moving.” Naya gave him a nervous smile that didn't shine past her lips. “We'll pick you up a few T-shirts on our way through town.”

Fuck it all.
What was the use in having his soul returned to him only to feel it crushed beneath the weight of his many disappointments? Oblivion would be a relief in comparison to the pain he felt now.

 

CHAPTER

9

Christian Whalen paced outside of the director's office, waiting for the imperious bastard to grant him entrance. It was easier to get an audience with the goddamned Pope, and Christian should know: He'd done business with the Vatican a couple of times. He flipped the bird to the two guards flanking the door and they each took a step in as though he'd actually try to muscle his way past them.
Whatever.
Like he'd waste his time with a couple of powerless pussies like them.

He was too antsy to sit down, so while he paced he checked the spread for the upcoming LSU/Georgia game on his phone. If he laid down his bet by the weekend and if LSU's defense could actually pull their weight, he might make a shit-ton of cash. A familiar tingle danced across his scalp and down his spine, the urge to make the wager like an itch he desperately needed to scratch. If he won, the high would be triple since the spread was so wide. If he lost … eh, it'd sting. But he'd make it up on the next game. Winning and losing didn't matter as much as the high he felt just taking the chance. Placing a bet was like walking through an alligator-infested swamp. Blindfolded. He felt a trickle of adrenaline just thinking about it.

“Christian?” The director's secretary poked her head out of the door. “He'll see you now.”

Goody
. Christian gave the secretary a flirtatious smile and raised both of his hands to the guards, giving them each the finger one more time as he walked past them. They actually thought they had a sweet gig standing in front of a door all day.
Morons.
Jesus, the director was so paranoid that Christian hadn't even been allowed to wait in the small foyer where the director's gatekeeper answered phones and directed calls. Christian wondered how much longer it would be before the director's gatekeeper's gatekeepers had gatekeepers. Jesus.

“Moneypenny,” he said with a wink in his best James Bond British accent as he sauntered past the secretary's desk and into the director's office.

“What is it, Christian? I'm busy.”

The director of the Sortiari didn't even bother to look up from his computer screen as he addressed Christian with less-than-casual disinterest. And why should the director give a shit? He'd been sitting in his ivory tower while agents like Christian risked their necks out in the field. Tristan McAlister had become obsessed over the past couple of years, stationing guards all around him and going nowhere without an armed escort. He used to be a damned good leader, but that was before a simple rumor reduced him to nothing more than a paranoid shut-in.
The guy hears one little rumor about his impending death and turns all single-minded, I-don't-give-a-fuck-about-anything-except-for-finding-my-rumored-killer obsessed.
Death threats or not, if he was that uptight about it he should have resigned from his position a long time ago.

“It's been over three weeks and Gregor hasn't checked in,” Christian said. “There's no trace of him or any of his men anywhere in the city.”

“He hasn't left,” McAlister replied with more of that wonderful disinterest. “Ian Gregor isn't going anywhere. He's in the city, Christian. Find him.”

Christian gave a derisive snort. “Has being holed up in this office deprived you of oxygen, McAlister? This is
your
protocol he's violated. Gregor knows the consequences. There's no way he'd stick around. The bastard is probably halfway to Scotland by now.” Along with an army of the Sortiari's berserker warlords. Christian didn't dare voice his concerns, but McAlister had to know that without Gregor and his brethren the Sortiari were as good as impotent.

McAlister paused and turned to face Christian. It wasn't exactly concern in his expression, but Christian hoped he'd gotten his point across. “He won't run. He's been harboring too much hatred for far too long to flee. Penalties be damned. Truth be told, I don't give a great hairy fuck about Gregor or his vendettas. What I am concerned about are the three hundred berserkers who would abandon their service with nothing more than a word from him. Find him. Kill him if he won't come back. Just bring me his army.”

Well.
It looked as though McAlister had priorities beyond saving his own ass after all. Christian folded his arms across his chest. “It's hard to win loyalty from men when you murder their general.”

He was answered with more of McAlister's derision: “I'll buy their loyalty. I'm not concerned.”

What an asshole.
Christian wasn't about to let the director bait him into an argument, and so he stood stoic and silent, staring a hole right through the fucker's forehead.

The director sighed and turned away from whatever had kept his attention focused on his computer screen. “A purchased man can be just as loyal as one with an axe to grind. Gregor's men won't stand by and play along to his overinflated ego or skewed sense of vengeance for long. Get me my army back.”

McAlister's arrogance rivaled Gregor's. That the director didn't recognize it was going to cause a hell of a lot of trouble for all of them. But the asshole was right. Gregor's men, whether his kinsmen or not, wouldn't entertain his madness for long. “I'll need at least a week,” Christian said, turning on a heel. “If I can't track him by then, I'll assemble a team—”

“No!” The director barked out the word as if he was afraid Christian was going to evacuate the place and leave him unprotected. “You take care of this yourself. I'm not wasting personnel or resources on this. Gregor will expect me to send a force of men and that's not going to happen.
You
go. Alone.”

What a crock of shit.
If this wasn't a suicide mission, he didn't know what was. “It sucks balls that you just don't give a shit about this organization or its people anymore.” Christian opened the door and turned to face the director before closing the door behind him. “Have fun hiding in your fortress, McAlister. If you think Gregor has fucked up by abandoning his post in favor of his own personal agenda, maybe you'd better take a look in the mirror. Because if you ask me, you're not interested in doing anything but saving your own neck. I just hope it's worth all of the lives you're putting in danger because of your own irrational fear.”

Christian didn't give McAlister a chance to respond. He slammed the door behind him and stalked through the secretary's office. “Hope he lets you out of your cage every once in a while,” he murmured as he passed her desk. “If I were you, I'd watch my back, though. No telling who he might use as a human shield.”

You had to give it to her; the secretary was loyal. She didn't even bat a lash at Christian's harsh words. “Good day, Christian,” she said in a stiff, professional way. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

Yeah, he sure as hell could. He just couldn't understand what could prompt that sort of devotion. God knew Tristan McAlister didn't deserve it. Christian gave her a lazy salute as he stormed out into the hallway. He didn't even bother to heckle the apes standing watch at the door. He was too riled to get any real enjoyment out of taunting them.

Christian checked his watch as he continued down the dimly lit corridor. The track opened in a half hour; he could probably make it there by the second race. Nothing like a few harmless bets to take the edge off. And one fucking thing was certain: He'd need all of the calm he could get if he was going to single-handedly take down an immortal warlord while simultaneously usurping control of his army. Fuck the races. Nothing short of a trip to Vegas was going to level him the fuck out.

 

CHAPTER

10

“It's good to hear your voice, Ronan,” Mikhail said through the line. “We were starting to worry.”

“It's been a hell of a few days,” Ronan said. His cell had gone missing. Presumably wherever his rental car had gotten off to. He used Naya's landline to check in, knowing that if he didn't Mikhail would send someone after him and he didn't want his king left without protection.

“What's going on up there? There's a period of time where there are no memories of you in the Collective. I've never experienced anything like it before.”

Neither had Ronan. The blank space in his memory was a sore reminder that there was a mystery here for him to unravel and he needed to get his ass in gear. “Yeah, well, it's a long story. One I'll be more than happy to tell you when I get home. How's everything there?”

“Quiet,” Mikhail said.

Ronan knew his friend. Mikhail was leaving something out. “The Sortiari?”

“Holding to a tentative truce, it seems,” Mikhail replied. “No sign of Gregor, though.”

The slayer was smart to stay off the radar. Once Mikhail found him, he was as good as dead. “Jenner will find him.” The male was damned good at finding people who didn't want to be found. He'd worked as a skip tracer when he wasn't working for Ronan. Jenner could find anyone.

“Jenner is…”

“What?” Ronan asked. He knew Mikhail had been holding out on him.

“The transition has been difficult for him. I've tried not to pile too much on him until he's had time to adjust.”

“How long has it been?” Gods, Ronan hated that he hadn't been there for Jenner's transition. To help him with his new senses. His magnified appetites.

“Only a couple of weeks,” Mikhail answered. “Give or take. I thought he'd have a grip by now, but his control is tenuous. He hasn't learned to manage his thirst and Siobhan complains that he's rutting on all of the females in her coven.”

Ronan's stomach sank like a stone in the ocean. “Is that all she's complaining about?”

“She's prepared to hunt you down to the ends of the earth,” Mikhail said without humor. “And I think she'd gladly torture any soul she suspected knew where you were.”

“Let me hire more people to watch over the house. I'd feel better if I knew that you and Claire and the little human weren't in danger of her doing something stupid.”

“I can handle Siobhan,” Mikhail said. “Don't worry. I'm making progress here. Dhampirs are coming to me now. Relationships are being formed. Plans made. In a few months' time I hope to see our numbers doubled. It would be nice to have you here for those who need help with the transition.”

That had been the plan. Until his life had completely run off the tracks. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Before a month.”

“Have you found Chelle?”

Ronan dragged his fingers through his hair. “No. We're going out tonight again to search for her. You'd think she'd be easy to find in a small town, but there are thousands of acres of forest out here. She could be anywhere.”

“We?” Ronan tried to ignore Mikhail's arch tone. “Who have you employed to help you up there?”

He wasn't ready to discuss Naya or his tether. “A local tracker, that's all.”

“I suspect that isn't all, but I will allow you your secrets for now.”

Of course, all it would take was a glimpse into the Collective if Mikhail wanted the truth. Weeding though millions of memories wasn't easy, but it could be done. Mikhail wouldn't do that, though. He kept his vows and wouldn't press the issue.

“You have this number on the caller ID?”

“Yes,” Mikhail said. “I can call you there if I need to?”

“Sure, but only call if it's an emergency. Siobhan is shrewd and I wouldn't put it past her to find a way to track your calls. I'll deal with her when I get back as well. I need to go. The tracker is waiting.”

Mikhail chuckled. “I can't wait to hear all about it.”

“Tell Claire I said hi.”

“I will. Take care of yourself, Ronan.”

“You too. Later.”

Ronan hung up the phone and let out a slow breath. He needed to get back to L.A., back to his king and his duties. Jenner needed a hand, and until someone kicked him in the ass Ronan doubted the male would settle down anytime soon. A quick glance at the closed bedroom door caused Ronan's stomach to knot up. Another night. Another hunt with Naya so close he could touch. The scent of her blood teasing his thirst.