“Accepted.” Heavy booted footsteps crunched grass and gravel. “I’ll notify you personally if any of my males spot him first. Vdaka”
Sage inclined his head, misting into vapor. “Neskôr.”
That strange
, static-fueled power stroked her skin once more. It seemed to be coming from the male standing in front of the other three werewolves. Slowly, Isla grazed his body, noting the not-so-subtle differences between him and the other males she’d encountered over the past six months. When she reached his face, she could do nothing other than gape.
“Well, well, well.” The blonde movie star the size of a city bus crossed his arms over his chest. He stood with his combat boots shoulder width apart, and she couldn’t spot a single weapon hidden beneath the jeans poured over his thick legs. Not that he looked like he needed weapons. His lips curved, though he wasn’t smiling. “Females, I see drastic measures are called for here.”
So he must be doing something right.
Fear never dissuaded but called to him. He survived on the rush of danger, on the success of justice being served. And he held a penchant for torturing immortal wrongdoers that made even his Master nauseated, but no one was perfect. All he wanted was to work in the streets or under the ground in the depths of seedy hedonism pushing to keep the fine line between the immortal worlds from crossing into human territory. Sure, all immortals walked and talked with humans, but there were boundaries set, ones held in place by powerful words inscribed on ancient scrolls. Promises made by those who could kill with a mere thought to humans who could barely scrape the gravel from their knees after a simple tumble. Unfortunately for those humans, boundaries were crossed daily. And those promises? Yeah, they were broken by the minute.
Right now, Oycher was staring down at a crossed boundary as he offered up a foul pledge of retribution in four languages. He couldn’t believe how young she was, how her life had been snuffed out. She must have been in her early twenties, her long limbs sprawled across the wet sand with her shimmering black hair flowing in a small pool of saltwater. He spotted hundreds of punctures dotting her throat. The blood had beaded and then drained in small rivulets down her porcelain flesh. If the human police had found her, they would have assumed she’d jumped from the causeway, died from impact, where thereafter small fish nibbled her throat.
Oycher knew better.
He pulled his eyes away from her, fighting his inherent urge to transform fully into his Vojak, a vampire who thrived on riding the warpath of killing sprees. He shook his head, back and forth, back and forth, fighting an ancient warrior from emerging. “Down,” he soothed, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he shook out his hands, his deadly claws protracting from his fingertips and tearing through the ends of his leather gloves. “Take it down.”
“Commander,” Sage misted next to him. “Why are you calling me to werewolf territory?”
Oycher lifted his fist and extended his forefinger toward the body.
Sage actually jerked, his eyes asking a million questions at once. Instead, he whispered urgently. “I hear human authorities nearing.”
“You don’t say?” Oycher snapped, gritting his teeth against the lowering of his fangs. He wanted blood, particularly that of any creature killing an innocent female. Unfortunately for the werewolves, this female wasn’t just any female. To the werewolf race, she would have been the epitome of hope. Hope for future mating; hope to keep faltering bloodlines alive. In return, she would have been cherished, and protected by a mate who loved her. If only the Pack had known she was here. Each male would have safeguarded her with his life, no matter who claimed her.
Where the hell had she come from?
Over the victim, Sage inhaled sharply at her throat. His irises expanded, his pupils narrowing. “She’s a mixed blood, mostly human and a fraction Beast,” he gasped with a small shake of his head. His fangs dropped in anticipation, though Sage wouldn’t act on his urge to feed, not on the dead. “Her blood…the flavor must be.”
Oycher understood. “I know.”
Sage forced himself to get down to business. “She smells faintly of the Highlands, laurel covered mountains, and innocence.”
And immortals, Oycher thought. One or more had killed her. The question rolling in his mind wasn’t why, but whom? He’d never scented anything like it.
Sage met his eyes, understanding the same thing without voicing aloud his surmise. As most Vojaks, Sage had received his position by birthright, kept it by earning scars across his mammoth warrior’s body and ignoring knee-buckling pain. Though still under a century old, he had been Merited recently by Prince Volos, an honor rarely bestowed any Vojak, since the prince of vampires had tried to dismantle the Vojaks’ protection over the human race on more than one occasion.
“Your directives, Commander?”
Oycher took a few steps, wrapping his tongue around his favorite fang. By the tumbling sea waves hitting the causeway, he found a snippet of peace in the sound. He turned around, rolled his shoulders, and sensed his Vojak settling to the background. “The Territorial Beta is on his way to bag her and place guards on her.” He lowered his darkened shades from his eyes, bursts of ocher instantly glimmering across the shadows like dawn against the night. Scanning for missed clues, he explained, “If a greedy vampire finds her body tonight, with her looks, he’ll sentence her to the life of an Undead, and I can’t add that on my weighted conscious.”
Sage patted the back of his weapons belt, frowning. “I’m left wondering how Pack knew nothing of the victim.”
A shadow descended upon them, cutting off Oycher’s reply. “I’m left wondering that myself.”
Oycher greeted Flynn, the Territorial Beta for Florida. “Take a whiff of her, see what you make out.” Some would say Flynn Ruyter was far too unassimilated to work around humans in this century, that his callousness to suffering and death were born of a true monster genetically too close to the original Were Beast. On most days, Oycher would agree.
Flynn solidified from his shadow, dropping to his knees and inhaling over the victim. He tied back his thick black hair as he scanned the female’s body with eyes of indigo flames. “What the hell is that?”
Oycher shook his head. “Got me.”
Flynn stood. “Suppose she’s tied to the others.”
Sage stepped closer. “Come again?”
“We’ve a killer on our hands. This victim fits a similar MO as two dead Lovci found just ten miles outside the Dynasty Empire’s gate.”
Oycher paused, thinking. “In Fort Myers?”
Nodding, Flynn explained, “Separate locations, though. One body was found on Fort Myers Beach, the other near the South Bridge connecting Fort Myers and the Cape. The Master Gryph beat you to both scenes.”
“You saw them personally?”
“No, I heard the chatter.”
Oycher pulled out his phone, scrolling for messages. “Nothing from the Master Gryph, imagine that.”
Sage sighed. “They must think it’s an inside job, which would explain why they’re circling downtown. Why else would they leave the miasma without alerting us?”
“You were downtown?” Oycher asked, thinking he and the Master Gryph were going to have a serious sit-down. “But I sent you to patrol Punta Gorda.”
“I was on my way but two mixed bloods were running in the streets, cowering from the Gryphs flying overhead.” He shrugged. “They mistook them for Lovci. All winged vampires look alike to them, I suppose. Anyway, the females were making a scene amongst the humans, so I took them to a local park and called you, Flynn.”
“I sent the call to Dax, when Oycher summoned me here.”
“Oh, Dax was there in record time.”
“We’re hunkering down on our female’s safety.” His eyes flicked back to the victim. “Not enough, though, she’s not even marked.”
Two Pack males made their way to the beach, a bag in hand. Oycher watched them gently pack her away in werewolf speed. That sight would stick with him for a while.
Flynn inclined his head, misting away, “Tomorrow, Commander, we need to meet.”
Oycher nodded in agreement. When the Beta’s essence left the area, Oycher turned to Sage. “Even if the mixed bloods you found knew of Lovci, why would they run, when they’re protected by Pack?”
“Yeah. I can go with the first thing that pops in my head or I can pretend to ignore it,” Sage replied. “But what’s bothering me the most is that one of those mixed blood females I found tonight, the curiouser of the two, has the same dark hair and bone structure as this victim.” He cocked his head at Oycher. “Did you examine the deceased’s eyes?”
“Cerulean, encircled with silver,” Oycher replied.
“Ah, same eye color, too,” Sage continued. “She appeared of Scottish werewolf descent, even held the scent.” He licked his lips slowly.
“Why didn’t you offer to meet her after patrol?”
Sage gave him a look. “It was evident she hated me.” He pointed to his belt. “In fact, I think she swiped a dagger, and I plan to collect. Getting to her problems, though, a Pack male was herding the females back here to Sanibel Island.”
Oycher leaned in, listening, as Sage explained the missing male and the promise he'd made to hunt him. Then Oycher’s mind seemed to drift, where he found himself inhaling longer, drawing the air into his lungs almost languidly.
Inhale.
The Highlands.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Laurel filled with budding blooms.
Exhale.
Inhale.
A dangerous erection moved up, flattening against his stomach.
Exhale.
His Species Vojak hissed inside his chest.
With blades suddenly in both hands, Sage spun a three-sixty. “What? What do you sense?”
Oycher had no idea what he sensed. It was something he’d never before experienced from his Vojak. “Nothing. Sage, you’re with me. Dead Lovci or not, the Master Gryph can’t leave the Dynasty Empire and swoop over my territory with his flying males as he pleases.”
He threw out his senses, zeroing in on the Master Gryph flying high, wings spread, over downtown Fort Myers. He dissolved into a vapor, misted over the Gulf of Mexico, and solidified in the worse possible place.
“Coming high!”
Oycher ducked, narrowly missing a flying blade spinning by his head. His fangs dropped as his temple lit afire, the blood pouring in pulsating time with his heart.
“What the fuck, Commander?” Sage misted in behind him.
What the fuck was right. Pressing the heel of his hand to his temple, he picked up speed. Everywhere he looked, Gryphs blocked the moon and the stars, casting shadows that would be easily noticed by humans. “This is a disaster.”
He matched Oycher’s gait. “Those bastards, it’s in direct violation to…”
“During chaos, directives mean nothing.” Oycher swiveled his body into a glide. “All the furious power weaving the sky is throwing off my senses, and I can’t re-lock onto the Master Gryph.”
“Now what?”
“Focus on the Pack male you promised to hunt.”
“His name is Terje Arud, Commander.”
“Could this night get any better?” Oycher spun heels over head and hung his boot on a fire escape. “I know Terje. If we don’t get to him before the Gryph’s play with him, Joint Faction relations will be a thing of the past, particularly in Norway. Find his scent trail.”
When Oycher swung up, an elderly human screamed on the other side of the window. He flashed his ocher-colored eyes her way, lulling her through the thin sheet of glass. “You saw nothing. Go back to bed, gorgeous girl.” She shook her head numbly as he jumped atop an apartment building filled with humans.
“I’ll have a listen for Terje’s mind. Sometimes I can hear the thoughts of Beasts.” Oycher closed off most of his senses and opened his internal highway to the rush of oncoming mental chatter:
A woman twisted her wedding band, ‘I bet that fucker isn’t coming home tonight’.
‘I’m going to turn up the heat,’ he mused, ‘see if she’ll suck me off.’
‘Shit,’ a teenager contemplated calling the police, ‘I could’ve sworn I saw something flying across the river.’
Another glanced out his window, ‘I’ve seen oversized bats before, but that’s ridiculous.’
‘I wonder where she is,’ a weary father groaned, ‘this isn’t like her.’
‘Bend over the kitchen counter,’ he stared over his drink, imagining sex with his best friend’s woman. ‘Spread those legs. Ass up, sex out. Entertain me.’
The inner growl of a caged Beast focused on females, thinking, ‘If only I knew they were safe.’ The werewolf pictured a curtain of midnight hair, cerulean eyes peeking between long chunks of strands, the tips curling around ripened breasts.
Fire erupted inside Oycher, a rush of erotism on the delicious images trekking his mind. “This way, Sage!” He jumped sideways thirty feet and caught the rungs of a rusty ladder bolted on the side of a boarded up club. When he swung upon that roof, he barely escaped another slice of blade.
“Werewolves,” Sage asked, yanking the blade now buried into mortar between bricks, “warning the Gryphs out of Fort Myers?”
Oycher closed off all the mental chatter before he rolled in low, pebbles and broken glass imbedding into his leathers. “Can you blame them?”
“Not unless they hit me.” Sage scissored his legs and spun over, landing on a squat. He scanned the adjacent rooftop. “You sensing the Master Gryph yet?”
“Still a cold trail,” Oycher said, wiping away the crust of blood from his already healed temple.
“The Pack male’s on the next roof somewhere past that elevator bulkhead.”
Oycher knew exactly where Terje was even without the aid of scent or mental images. He released a string of blistering profanities. “He’s fallen.” Because there was blood. So much blood filled Oycher’s head, his stomach howled and his fangs dripped in frenzied anticipation. He materialized right next to the dying male with Sage fast on his trailing mist.