Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply (5 page)

I leaned against the rough stone wall and scanned the area. My gaze rested on the tent where Dr. Jameson and her assistant lay sleeping. Moira was an interesting human. She was not a petite woman. She was tall, close to six feet, with lush curves that begged exploring. A strong woman—almost like a werewolf. She moved with grace and purpose, and yet when she rested, she was completely still. She had thick, waist-length red hair that she kept braided. I had not gotten close enough to see the color of her eyes, or to see the freckles that I bet were sprinkled across her nose like cinnamon.

“You like her.”

I turned and looked down at Jessica.

“Who?” I asked.

Jess rolled her eyes. “The redhead with the killer ass, that’s who.”

“Ah.” I tapped my chin. “I vaguely recall someone in the camp matching that description.”

“You are full of shit,” she said. “You’ve been watching her ever since we got here.”

“Everyone’s been watching the camp,” I said. I wasn’t feeling particularly defensive about getting caught in my viewing of Dr. Jameson’s assets. I don’t apologize for being a man. Or a werewolf. I just liked riling Jessica. “I’m only doing my duty.”

“Yeah, right. If by ‘doing your duty,’ you mean ogling archaeologists.”

I put my hand against my heart as though wounded by her accusation. “I do not ogle, Jessica.” I waited a beat. “I
leer
.”

She laughed and slapped my shoulder.

“Drake.”

The sharp tone of my brother, Darrius, had Jessica and me straightening instantly. We looked down into the campsite and quickly saw what had alerted him: shadows slinking between tents. My gaze was riveted on Dr. Jameson’s tent, and I saw the low light of their lantern flicker, as though something had crossed it.

“We should get to sparkling,” said Jessica. Ancient vampires, as well as some other paranormal creatures, had the ability to appear and reappear in locations. Jessica called it “sparkling,” much to the chagrin of her husband.

“We have speed,” said Patrick. “And stealth. I suggest we use it. We’ll be better able to control where we enter the camp.”

“I will see to Dr. Jameson,” I said. I looked at my brother. “Shift?”

He nodded.

The vampires took off toward the camp, mere blurs gliding over the sand.

Darrius and I had to take precious seconds to remove our clothes. Otherwise, shifting would rip them to shreds and we would have to stay in wolf form, or walk around as naked men. Darrius was already shifting by the time I got my jeans off. He raised his snout in the air and sniffed, then turned toward me and barked.

“I’m hurrying,” I said. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

He barked again and then raced out of the cave, across the moonlight sands of the Sudan desert.

I got down on all fours . . . and I let my inner werewolf out.

Moira

“M
oira!”

“Earthquake,” I mumbled as my body was flung back and forth. I opened my eyes. A distraught Dove was inches from my face. Despite the fact that I was looking right at her, she continued to shake me by the shoulders. “Ugh! If you keep doing that, I’m gonna need a Dramamine.”

She let go of me and dropped to her knees next to my cot. Her skeletal fingers dug into my arm. “Something just whooshed by our tent.”

“Like ‘death on swift wings’? You’re not gonna throw quotes from
The Mummy
at me, are you? I told you to knock that shit off.” I leaned up on one elbow and attempted to give her the evil eye. Unfortunately, I was too tired to be effective, so my eyes just crossed and my lids started to droop. There was a metallic taste on the back of my tongue, and my skin felt clammy. These were typical aftereffects of the nightmares . . . but I didn’t remember the terror-filled dreamscape. Maybe Dove had inadvertently saved me from the worst of it.

“Gah! You are the worst waker-upper ever,” she whispered harshly. She gave my shoulder a hard squeeze. “I’m telling you someone is out there.”

“Okay, okay. For the record, you’re the waker-upper. And I’m the waker-uppee.”

“I’m so glad you’re focused on the important issue,” she hissed. Her voice held a catch. The real fear in her tone was almost like a cold dash of water to my face. Almost. I really was a bad waker-uppee. I rolled off the cot on the other side, then reached under my pillow and took out my sub-compact Beretta. It was loaded with thirteen 9 mm rounds. If you’re wondering how someone on psychiatric medication is allowed weaponry, well, I have lot of money and I know a lot of the right people. Learning to shoot guns was actually part of my grandfather’s therapy, and knowing how to protect myself freed another part of my soul from that sea of rage.

“Sleeping with a loaded gun under your pillow?” she asked, sounding more like the smart-ass I knew and loved. “Really?”

“Relax. It has a manual safety and a decocker.”

She snorted. “A what?”

“Decocker,” I repeated. “It’s a lever that lets the hammer—”

“I don’t care.” She smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d say it again.”

“I hate you,” I said. And then because I was a heartless bitch, I demanded, “Go get Tikka.”

“Or not.” Dove imperiously pointed a finger at me. “You shouldn’t name weaponry, you know that?”

“She already had the name.”

“Nor should guns have gender. Personalizing the—”

“Shut up,” I snapped. Her sense of urgency had wormed through me, and now I was feeling surly. “Giving someone a dirty look doesn’t exactly have stopping power—not even one of your patented I-wish-you-were-dead specialties. If you want to be protected from whooshing things . . . then get the fucking rifle.”

“Whatever,” she hissed at me. Then she flopped onto her belly and crawled toward the footlocker that housed the rifle and other gear. Obviously she was too rattled to access the gun like a normal person. As she pulled out the weapon and the box of bullets, I glanced around. A single lantern cast a muted glow in our tent. Dove wouldn’t admit it, but she was scared of the dark. Why she was studying to be an archaeologist, a profession where exploring dark, cramped, and airless spaces was the norm, was beyond me.

While Miss Quiet as a Raging Storm rattled around trying to get the rifle loaded, I crept to the tent flap and peeked outside. If the grad students had gotten stupid enough to play a prank, or to sneak out of camp to go party in the desert, I would stake them all out in the sand and leave them to burn. And then I would fail them in every single class . . . and put big, red F’s on all their dissertations. And their graves. For failing life.

It took only a few seconds for my eyesight to adjust. The campfire had been doused and the supplies put away. No one was prowling around. All the other tents were dark, so it was difficult to tell if they were occupied. I glanced up into the obsidian sky, my gaze skittering across the moon and the thousands of stars, and wondered why I felt so uneasy.

It was ungodly quiet.

The hair rose on the nape of my neck. What had startled Dove out of a sound sleep? Maybe she had a bad dream, too, and had woken up so suddenly that it felt real. We were both tormented by nightmares, although Dove would never talk about hers. And neither did I. Those lingering wisps of terror were my burden to bear.

“Dove, what exactly did you—” I turned around as I spoke, and what I saw made my words tumble to a halt.

A tall, lean man held Dove by the neck in one of his hands, and the rifle in his other. How the hell had he gotten into the tent? He could’ve easily passed for one of my grad students, except he was dressed like fucking Indiana Jones, right down to the fedora and faded leather duster. Seriously? We were getting jacked by a Harrison Ford wannabe?

He was too lithe to have the strength to hold my terrified assistant a foot off the ground, but he was doing it. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat. What the—? I nearly pissed myself.
He wasn’t even breathing.
He was unnaturally pale, his eyes as dark as midnight. When he smiled, he revealed a set of sharp, ugly fangs.

“Vampire,” said Dove, her voice choked and her eyes wide. Fear emanated from her in waves. Or maybe that was me, because I was more terrified than I’d ever been in my life. See: confinement to nuthouse. Although scarier still was the time I’d thrown down with a Kardashian for a Bottega Veneta leather handbag (in butterscotch cream, if you were wondering), and won.

From my crouched position, I kept the Beretta pointed at his face. Sweat slicked my palms, but my aim didn’t waver and the gun didn’t move a millimeter. “Put her down.”

“Or what?” he asked, his voice thick with an accent I couldn’t place. “She’s merely the appetizer. You, my fine Amazon, are the meal.”

“Wow. Really?” I said, my voice filled with disgust. “That’s the worse pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

He grinned, and then he opened his mouth, showing off those terrible, sharp fangs, and jerked Dove downward, aiming for her neck. She tried to struggle, but it was like watching a ribbon wrestle with the wind.

My focus sharpened, and I felt myself go utterly cold and still. I lowered the gun and shot out his knees. The sharp crack of the pistol firing echoed in the tent as the bullets thudded into his patellas. I was not being altruistic, mind you. It wasn’t about saving his life. I wanted him to suffer.

And suffer he did. He screamed in pain and outrage as he buckled, dropping Dove and the rifle. She grabbed Tikka and hauled ass toward me.

“You have to remove his head,” she cried. “Sever it! Sever it!”

“These are bullets, not hacksaws,” I said as she scrambled behind me. Tikka smacked me in the shoulder as Dove maneuvered around, finally taking up position next to me. I looked at her, at the fear etched on her sharp features. “He’s down, all right?”

“Not for long. He’s the undead!” She brought Tikka upright, clutching the barrel. “I couldn’t get the bullets before that stupid asshole grabbed me.”

“I will rend your muscles from your bones,” said the stupid asshole, his gaze vitriolic. He bared his fangs. “You will die slowly as I feast upon you.”

“And you thought me quoting
The Mummy
was bad?” murmured Dove.

I wished we could call Ax, but cell phone service was nonexistent out here, and the walkie-talkies were over by Fang Boy. Shit. “Get Ax,” I told Dove.

“The hell,” she said. “We have to find something that will cut through an undead neck.”

“I’m not saying he’s
not
a vampire,” I said. Sweat dripped down my temple, but the gun, which I had re-trained on No Knees, didn’t waver. He was down, yes, but definitely not out. In fact, he was looking a little too perky for someone with shredded patellas. “Is decapitation really the way to go here?”

“The only way to kill a vampire is to take his head off or expose him to intense light. It says so in
Vampires Are Real!
”

“Oh, my God. That Theodora Monroe book? Really? That’s like taking advice from the Winchester brothers.”

“And you know exactly what about supernatural creatures?”

“Silence!” bellowed the vampire as he wobbled to his feet. His pants were torn and bloody, but his knees were nearly knitted back together. He eyed us with the kind of malevolence I usually witnessed only when it came time for me to approve departmental budgets. “You are both imbeciles. And you talk too much.”

“Holy shit!” screamed Dove. “Holy fucking shit!”

I shot at him again, but he swooped toward us, a blur of furious motion. I shoved Dove to the side and started shooting randomly. Yeah. That worked out well.

Then
I
was shoved to the side, and I flew backward, landing next to an outraged Dove. We both watched, openmouthed, as a huge black wolf leapt into the air, howling in triumph.

We looked at each other, and then we both scrambled forward. We stayed on our knees, crouching at the edge of my flimsy cot. The vampire (yes, I said “vampire,” all right?) was moving fast, very fast. Hell, I couldn’t really pinpoint his location, but it was obvious the wolf could. He howled, and then leapt—seemingly at random—landing on the bastard’s chest. The fanged Indiana Jones squirmed on the ground, unable to dislodge the big black-furred brute.

The fight was short and violent, ending when the wolf clamped its jaws onto the vampire’s neck and tore out his throat.

“Oh, crap,” whispered Dove.

We huddled closer together, creating fearful solidarity against our so-called rescuer. Was he merely dealing with the biggest threat in the room before he turned his attention to the shivering girly girls? My philosophy was that the glass was always half foe. I sat up and leveled my gun at the wolf.

Dove clutched the Tikka T3 rifle. She wouldn’t shoot it, even if she’d taken me up on my invitation for lessons. She had a thing about guns—as in, she hated them. But if push came to shove, she could use the rifle to whack the shit out of the wolf. For some reason she had no problem with bludgeoning.

Both of us were on high alert. I couldn’t take my gaze off the dead vampire, and I noticed that Dove was also riveted to the spectacle. Black blood pooled in the sand around the ravaged neck.

It was a gruesome scene that seemed right out of a horror movie. Except horror movies didn’t have smell-o-vision, and dead vampires smelled like feces wrapped in burnt cheese. As in, they smelled like deep-fried death. You know, like corn dogs at the state fair. A vampire showing up in my tent was fantastical enough—not to mention a supersized undead-killing wolf. (Weren’t vampires supposed to take wolf form, or something? I was rusty on preternatural mythology.) But oh, no, my night was about to get weirder. Our furry pal padded to a nearby space and morphed into a man.