Beautiful Danger

Chapter 7

The wolf didn’t see him coming. The idiot dog stood outside at the back of an SUV, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. He was probably dozing on his feet, waiting for a passenger or not.

Domingos had tracked him from the fifth quarter rooftop, where he’d left the female knight, to this dark street behind a redbrick warehouse with few windows, and those windows were barred with iron rods. He didn’t want to think about what could be contained behind those caged windows, but he suspected captive vampires a likely possibility.

If so, they needed help.

Domingos wasn’t a superhero. He couldn’t save anyone but himself. And he’d never get back to saving himself until all in the Levallois pack had fallen.

For once the whispers in his head agreed. The wolves needed to die.

Lunging for the wolf, he slashed the silver blade he’d pinched from the hunter through the air and brought it down hard across the wolf’s chest, diagonally from shoulder to hip. The blade sank in deep and he felt little resistance as it cut through rib bones. The silver would enter the bloodstream, and before the wolf could even open his eyes—

The phoenix inside Domingos let out a maniacal chuckle and reached inside the wolf’s gaping wound, punching through rib bones, and gripped the moon-dog’s heart. He jerked out his hand and thrust the slippery organ to the ground, where it landed beneath the SUV’s front grille.

The creature clasped at his chest and growled. He swore at Domingos, and stepped forward once, but that was the last step the wolf could manage.

The cut gaped and the wolf bent over backward, arms flailing madly. Then its body collapsed and began to boil from inside. Within minutes the silver poisoning would reduce the dog to nothing but a mass of goopy flesh and bone. The heart on the ground had been spared the silver poisoning and would remain intact.

Nasty mess for the mortal police to find, but that wasn’t Domingos’s problem. Most good paranormals called in a cleaner to take care of their messes. He’d never claim even a portion of good.

Wiping his bloodied hand down the front of his shirt, he kicked a stone at the SUV’s tire, then peered inside the vehicle. No other wolves. But this was a pack car. He could smell the mangy scent indicative of Levallois. It was something he’d never get out of his head, that horrid feral odor of twisted entitlement and the thirst to watch blood be spilled.

He eyed the warehouse. What he hadn’t noticed when reconning from the rooftops, he did now—smoke billowed out from a barred window.

“No,” he whispered. The utterance wasn’t out of fear, but rather in answer to his rising conscience to protect those inside who were weaker. “Not my place to consider a rescue attempt. Never again.”

Stringed instruments howled inside his brain, doubling Domingos over before the warehouse. He clutched his hair and tugged, gritting back the yowl that he wouldn’t give the dying werewolf the satisfaction of hearing. Slamming his head against the brick wall, he pounded his skull with a fist.

The phoenix wanted to turn around and kick the wolf, rage at the indignities it had been served.

The vampire in him pleaded for the compassion the mortal man he’d once been had possessed—and won.

Domingos ran inside the building. Smoke siphoned into his throat, making him choke, but he pushed onward and passed a man who was on his way toward the open doorway. The wolf didn’t notice him as he raced out to the car, yelling about a fire.

Go get him!

Domingos paused inside the threshold, smoke fogging about his legs and hands. One more kill, the phoenix whispered. So close. So easy. He could jump the wolf from behind and slash its throat, then roll it over to dig out the heart.

A yowl from inside the warehouse skittered up his spine and annihilated the screeching violin chord that had haunted him for months. Twisting down and pressing the crown of his head against the wall, he clutched at the wall and tried to press his skull through the wood.

There were others inside. Vampires, he suspected. Fire would not kill them, but the flame would damage them irreparably. Drive them mad, surely.

No man deserved the madness he carried in his soul. A quick death—hell, the stake—was preferable to madness.

Domingos turned and ran through the smoke until he collided with iron cage bars.

* * *

Curiosity had prompted her to follow the vampire after their rooftop bargain had sealed their fates for another twenty-four hours. Lark had watched him kill the werewolf with unflinching grace. Not a blink, nor a wince. As if dashing a mark in the air, he’d drawn the silver blade down the wolf’s chest. And then he’d torn out its heart and tossed it aside. Cold. Unrepentant.

It’s how you do it.

How she used to do it before she’d met Domingos. Never had it taken her so long to accomplish an elimination.

“I’m losing it,” she muttered. “He’s throwing me off my game.”

He, being the vampire she seemed to prefer kissing over staking. What was her problem? If watching him rip out some werewolf’s heart wasn’t enough to fortify her determination to slay him, then nothing else could.

Yet she’d watched Domingos vacillate about approaching the smoking building, and when finally he’d walked toward it, her heart had beat faster and her fingers had clasped about the iron railing in anticipation. He’d paused at the threshold, thrashing his head about and fighting some inner demons that she couldn’t understand, and then he’d rushed into the flames.

He’d been in the burning building five minutes. Fire engine sirens trilled about a mile off. Would they find a dead vampire inside? Fire couldn’t kill a vampire, only melt off his skin, a wound that would probably never completely heal, even though their breed was known to regenerate masterfully and could even regrow a severed limb, according to the Order’s teachings.

Lark believed that as much as she believed vampires had a moral compass.

Yet her gasp stifled her harsh thoughts. A tall dark-haired man stumbled out from the burning building, dragging two men behind him by their arms.

“Domingos. He rescued them?”

Clasping the cold railing to keep from rushing down the iron stairs to hug him, Lark chided her ridiculously romantic heart. Heroes did not exist. They belonged in movies and books, not real life. The vampire must have an ulterior motive for doing something so selfless. She had just watched him murder without conscience!

He dropped the men on the sidewalk and rushed back inside, disappearing into the black smoke that raged like storm clouds. The men on the street managed to stand, and one of them grabbed the other and they ran away as the sirens loomed closer.

“Vampires?” she wondered.

That could be the reason the werewolf had been standing outside, like a posted guard. The Levallois pack? Made sense. Domingos had been set on killing only members of that pack. For revenge.

Just like you, Lark. How can you fault him?

She didn’t fault him. But that didn’t mean she condoned his actions. So he’d saved lives. Vampire lives. Vampires who should have burned, for all Lark cared.

A twinge of remorse pinched at her spine. When had she become so cold?

“Stupid question, Lark.”

Domingos emerged in a cloud of dark smoke with a man’s body draped across his shoulder. He set him down on the sidewalk and slapped his face, rousing the vampire who must have inhaled smoke, yet who seemed to rally with a few deep breaths of fresh air.

The fire truck rounded the corner, and both men took off, Domingos tugging along the one he’d rescued. Wouldn’t be wise, or easy, to explain to a fire brigade why the smoke hadn’t killed them, or at the very least, knocked them out. And most certainly vampires would have to refuse mortal medical care.

And then there was the mass of dead werewolf on the ground before the SUV—and that still-beating heart.

“He’s not so crazy, after all.”

Tugging out her cell phone, Lark dialed up Tor, the Order’s spin doctor. Generally, when a crime scene contained remains, such as the werewolf, or in other cases, partially ashed vampires, the knight contacted Tor and he arrived to smooth things over with the public and any reporters who might be nosing about.

The dead werewolf—and the heart lying under the truck—would definitely require some spin.

* * *

Lark returned to find Rook waiting inside the safe house. His salt-and-pepper hair that teased at gentle curls was slicked back over his ears, and a scar at the corner of his left eye lifted it higher than the other, giving him a shifty appearance, even though she knew the man was all about honor and integrity. Armani business suits, always, and shoes so highly polished she wondered if he spent more time on those than, say, waxing his car, which was something ridiculously expensive and probably rare. She had learned he appreciated the finer things in life and could afford them easily.

She didn’t like the guy, but she didn’t hate him, either. Respect was due, and he had earned that from her. Rook had not once given her a break during her training—not that she’d expected one. The man was the only means for a member of the Order to speak to King. You had to go through Rook to get anything, and he kept a tight fist on all operations. He had a way of looking at her—at anyone—and seeing her truth. She suspected he wasn’t mortal, yet she had never dared ask him what he was or how he was able to divine truths.

She’d been knighted by King but hadn’t been personally introduced to him during that brief ceremony. Didn’t know the founder’s name, beyond which, she again suspected, was code: King. Didn’t know if in fact he was or had been a king, as was the rumor. The other rumor whispered about the Order was that their leader was actually a vampire. She always stopped herself from trying to figure out if it was truth. To know she was working for the one breed she hated most? Well. It just didn’t jibe.

She’d only just spoken with Tor, so she suspected he wouldn’t have had time to report to Rook yet, and so decided to keep the information about the fire need-to-know right now.

“Rook.”

He set down the cup of coffee he’d brewed. Sure, make yourself at home. Wasn’t as if it was her home. He’d probably already searched the closet and the bathroom, inspecting for God knows what. Good thing she’d cleaned the shower, washed the towels and adjusted the clothing in the closet after Domingos had left. So she’d never lost her domestic bone; sue her.

Lark sat on the sofa and slid the coat off her shoulders.

“Hard night slaying?” he asked.

“You could say that.”

“You smell like smoke.” The man didn’t miss an eyelash. But he had to be mortal. On the other hand, mortals weren’t always what they appeared. That much she had learned while studying the paranormal breeds during training. “Kill Domingos LaRoque?”

“Couldn’t find him.”

The lie didn’t make her feel as awful as she expected it should, and yet Rook’s tense jaw clued he might suspect her deception. The vampire had performed a heroic act not an hour earlier. He deserved a little slack. And she intended to stand good on her word, regardless of how crazy making a bargain—twice—with a vampire had been.

“I intend to go out after I’ve had some rest,” she said. “If he’s so allergic to daylight, he’ll be holed up somewhere soon enough. Might give me a chance to stake him when he’s down. Did you find any known addresses for him?”

“Research turned up some interesting stuff, but no address after five years ago. He disappeared off the face of the earth after he became vampire.”

That was interesting. He’d not been vampire even a decade? And had he alluded to being made a vampire against his will when they’d spoken on the roof? “What does the research show?”

“You’ve never asked for details before. Why this time? Why is this particular vampire eluding our best hunter with an ease that is embarrassing?”

“I’m not embarrassed. He’s giving me a good chase. For once. Most vampires are too easy. Spot ’em and smoke ’em. I rarely break a sweat.”

Rook smirked. “I’ll give you that. But I am embarrassed for myself, the Order and you. I trained you, Lark. You’re better than this.”

Yes, she was. You never should have looked into his eyes.

“Before he became vampire,” Rook continued, “Domingos LaRoque was a musician.”

A musician was giving her a good chase. Okay, now she was a little embarrassed. “What did he play?”

“Is that important?”

She shrugged. “No.” But she was a musician, and the tidbit intrigued.

“Cello,” Rook offered with disinterest. “He was a much-sought-after guest with symphonies and had worked on some sound tracks but never achieved a fame that would have made him a household name. Seems he preferred anonymity when working with others.”

“Music. Interesting.”

Lark thought of her violin she’d had to leave behind, and how she desperately wanted to pick it up to play. It was her one escape from reality and a sure balm to her aching soul. She hoped if the wolves had returned to her apartment they hadn’t smashed it. That would prove plain vindictive. “I just got a call from Principal Caufield a minute before you arrived here.”

Why was everyone up and about in the middle of the night?

“And?” She knew what he’d say and tucked her head against her chest to avoid eye contact.

“LaRoque has killed another pack member.”

Yes, but she felt sure the pack leader had neglected to mention that wolf had been standing guard before a smoking building filled with vampires.

“I don’t need to tell you how angry Principal Caufield is. He thought he’d hired a professional.” Rook leaned over her. His breath reeked of coffee. She could feel the tension in his fingers, gripping her knee. “Did he hire a professional? Or did he hire a little girl who likes it when her prey leads her on a good chase?”

Calling her “little girl” was how he’d taunted her throughout training. The little girl hadn’t strength to stand up to a vicious vampire. Little girls don’t like to get their hair mussed. Little girls should go play with their dolls and makeup and leave slaying to the men. Little girls cry over dead husbands.

That had been the last teardrop she’d allowed any man to witness.

“I’ll get the job done.” Lark straightened and lifted her chin.

“Good. I know you are a woman of your word. Your apartment has been cleaned and restored. It’s warded against werewolves, vampires and witches.”

“Witches?”

“Thought I’d throw that in as a bonus. Though I personally have nothing against witches, they can be terrible to deal with. So you can return. Which is fortunate. I need this place for a visiting dignitary.”

“Give me five minutes to gather my things and I’ll be gone.”

“I’ll give you one more day, Lark, before I pull you off this job and replace you with Gunnar.”

He walked out, leaving the door open.

Lark swung a fist after him. The one man she wanted to punch in the nose was the only man she had to respect. But she had to put up with him only until her revenge was complete. Then she was hanging up her stake and leaving the country to start a new life.