Desire Unchained (44 page)

mating.

So yeah, a few things had changed, but not enough. Wraith still remembered the horrors

of his past. He still cared about his two brothers and the hospital they had all started together.

Figured that although insanity ran in the family, he hadn’t inherited any of it. Eidolon

hypothesized that Wraith’s mother’s human DNA was responsible for mellowing out the

s’genesis
effects, and naturally, E and Shade thought that was a good thing, and couldn’t

understand why Wraith disagreed.

Wraith scented the air, taking in the recent rain, the rancid odors of stale urine, decaying

garbage, and spicy Haitian cuisine from the hovel next door. Darkness swirled around him,

cloaking him in the shadows, and a cold January breeze ruffled his shoulder-length hair but did

nothing to ease the heat in his veins.

He might be the epitome of patience while waiting for his prey, but that didn’t mean that

inside he wasn’t quivering with anticipation.

Because these weren’t your typical gangbangers he was hunting. No, the Bloods, Crips,

and Latin Kings had nothing on the mercilessly cruel Upir.

The very name made Wraith’s lips curl in a silent snarl. The Upir functioned like any

other territorial street gang, except those pulling the strings were vampires. They used their

human chumps to commit the crimes, to provide blood—and bloodsport—when needed, and to

take the falls when the cops busted them. For their service and sacrifice, the humans believed

they would be rewarded with eternal life.

Idiots.

Most vampires adhered to strict rules regarding turning humans, and when a vampire was

allowed only a handful of turnings in his entire lifetime, he didn’t waste them on lowlife

gangbangers.

Of course, the gangbangers didn’t know that. They played the streets, their

fangs-dripping-blood tats and crimson-and-gold gang colors screaming warnings others heeded.

No one messed with the Upir.

No one but Wraith.

The Upir came. Seven of them, talking trash, swaggering with overblown arrogance.

Showtime.

Wraith unfurled to his nearly six feet, six inch height, and then dropped the fifteen feet to

the ground, landing right in front of the gang.

“Hey, assholes. ’Sup?”

The leader, a stocky white guy wearing a bandana wrapped around his bulbous head,

stumbled back a step, but hid his surprise behind a raw curse. “What the fuck?”

One of the punks, a short, fat, crooked-nosed troll—not literally a troll, which was

unfortunate, because Wraith could have killed him then—drew a blade from his coat pocket.

Wraith laughed, and two other punks produced their own knives. Wraith laughed harder.

“The dregs of human society amuse me,” Wraith said. “Rodents with weapons. Except

rodents are smart. And they taste terrible.”

The leader whipped a pistol out of his droopy-ass pants. “You got a motherfucking death

wish.”

Wraith grinned. “You got that right. Only it’s your death I wish for.” He smashed his fist

into the leader’s face.

The leader rocked back, clutching his broken, bleeding nose. The scent of blood jacked

up Wraith’s temp a notch … and he wasn’t alone. The two gangsters at the rear zeroed in on the

scent, heads snapping around.

Vamps. One black male, one Latino female, both dressed like the others in baggy jeans,

hoodies, and ratty sneakers.

Jackpot, baby. Wraith was going to get some kills in tonight, after all.

Before any of the stunned humans could recover, Wraith sprinted down a side street.

Angry shouts followed him as they gave chase. He slowed, drawing the gangsters in.

Nimbly, he leaped on top of a Dumpster and then swung up to a rooftop and waited until they

passed. Their fury left a scent trail he could follow blindfolded, but instead, he dropped to the

ground, used his infrared vamp vision to see them in the darkest shadows ahead. He hated using

any of his vampire skills, including super speed and strength, but vision was the one he truly

despised.

Despised, because he hadn’t been born with it. Instead, it had come twenty-two years

later, with the eyes Eidolon had transplanted into his head nearly eighty years ago. Every time

Wraith looked into the mirror at the baby blues, he was reminded of the torture and pain that had

preceded the new peepers.

Kicking himself for letting the past distract him, he silently started the hunt. Normally,

he’d take out the vamps first, but the troll was just ahead, huffing and puffing and trailing far

behind the others.

He pounced, squeezed the breath out of the squat human and left his unconscious body

behind a pile of boxes. Next, he tracked the male vamp, who thought he’d gained the upper hand

by swinging around behind Wraith.

Wraith feigned distraction, standing in the open beneath the bright glare of a street light

as the vamp crept forward. Closer … closer …
yes.
Wraith spun, pummeled the massive male

with a flurry of fists and feet. The vamp didn’t have a chance to throw a single punch, and once

Wraith had hauled him into the darkness beneath an overpass, he took him down. With a knee in

the male’s gut and one hand curled around his throat, Wraith drew a stake from the weapons

harness beneath his leather jacket.

“What,” the male gasped, his eyes wide with shock and terror, “what … are … you?”

“Buddy, sometimes I ask myself that same question.” He slammed the stake home.

Didn’t wait around to watch the show as the vampire disintegrated. There was another one to

take out.

Anticipation shivered through his veins as he stalked the female through side streets and

alleys. Like the male, she believed
she
was the one doing the hunting, and Wraith caught her off guard as she crept in the shadows behind a building. He shoved her into the wall, lifting her by

the throat so she dangled off the ground.

“This was too easy,” Wraith said. “What is the Vamp Council teaching younglings these

days?”

“I’m no youngling.” Her voice was a low, seductive purr, and even as she spoke, she

lifted her legs to wrap them around Wraith’s hips. “I’ll show you.”

The scent of lust came off her in waves. His incubus body responded, hardening and

heating, but he’d rather kill himself than screw a vampire—or a human, though he had different

reasons for not bedding human females.

He leaned in so his lips brushed her ear, which was pierced all the way around. “Not

interested,” he growled, but still, she arched against him, affected by his incubus pheromones.

You shouldn’t play with your food.
Eidolon’s voice rang in his ears, but Wraith ignored it

the way he ignored pretty much everything his brothers said to him. He had no intention of

making a meal of this female.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she said, rolling her hips into his erection.

“Maybe you need some convincing.” Wraith pulled back and gave her an eyeful of

wooden stake.

Her eyes went wild. “Please …” She swallowed, her throat convulsing beneath his palm.

Her body wilted like a dying flower, and that fast the temptress was gone. “Please. Just … do it

quickly.”

He blinked. He’d expected her to beg for her life. He met her wide, haunted gaze, and

slowly, with a sick sense of dread, he shuffled his fingers on her neck. A raised pattern peeked

from beneath the collar of her hoodie.
Damn.

He shoved his stake into his pocket and tugged her sweatshirt aside to reveal a welted

pattern the size of his fist.

A slave mark. Not just any slave mark. The cross-bones brand of Neethul slavemasters,

the cruelest of the demon slave traders. This female had been forced to live in hell for gods knew

how long. Somehow she’d gained her freedom, had escaped, whatever … and now she was

doing what she had to in order to survive.

She’d suffered. Was probably suffering even now.

Something clawed at his gut, and it wasn’t until he lowered her to the ground without

realizing it that he identified the strange feeling. Sympathy.

“Go,” he said roughly. “Before I change my mind.”

She got the hell out of there, and so did Wraith. Rattled by his uncharacteristic display of

mercy, he ruthlessly shoved aside the incident. He needed to get back on track. He needed to

feed.

The punks had split up, and one by one, he tracked them down with almost mechanical

efficiency until only the leader was left. Somewhere nearby, a gunshot rang out, a familiar sound

in this part of the city, so familiar he doubted the cops would even be called.

The leader was ahead, pacing in front of a boarded-up shop front, his voice crisp with

agitation as he barked out orders on his cell phone.

“Yo, scumbag,” Wraith yelled. “I’m over here! Would it help if I wore a neon sign?”

Red-faced with fury, the leader bolted into an alley after Wraith. Halfway in, Wraith

pivoted around. The gangster pulled his gun, but Wraith disarmed him before he could so much

as blink. The weapon skidded across the wet pavement as Wraith put the guy’s back into a wall

and jammed his forearm across the human’s thick neck.

“This is disappointing,” Wraith drawled. “I expected more of a fight. I seriously wanted

to tenderize you before I ate you. When are you guys going to learn that a gun is no substitute for

learning hand-to-hand combat techniques?”

“Fuck you,” the guy spat.

“Guy like me?” Wraith smiled, leaned in so his lips grazed the guy’s cheek. “You.

Wish.”

An outraged bellow made him smile even more. He inhaled the man’s aroma, anger

tainted by a tantalizing thread of fear. Hunger roared through Wraith, and his fangs began to

elongate. Playtime was over. He sank his teeth into the gangster’s throat. Warm, silky blood

filled his mouth, and after a couple of spasms, his prey went limp.

Wraith could have used his Seminus gift to fill the guy’s head with happy, pleasant

visions, but this dude was scum. The things he’d done slapped at Wraith’s brain in rapid-fire

succession. Sure, Wraith was no angel—though he’d screwed a false one or two—but with the

exception of Aegis Guardians, he didn’t harm human women or children.

This guy … well, Wraith wished he hadn’t blown this month’s kill quota on the Sumatran

poacher. Still, tormenting the gangster could be fun. Swallowing the human’s alcohol-laced

blood with relish, Wraith used his mind power to feed the guy gruesome images of what Wraith

would do to him if he ever found out that he’d committed a violent crime again. Sure, for the

most part he could care less if a human lived or died, but he had a soft spot for human females,

and this slime got off on beating them.

Power surged through Wraith, power and adrenaline and flashes of heat lightning under

his skin. His
dermoire
, a history of his Seminus demon paternity, pulsed from the tips of the fingers on his right hand to his shoulder and neck, and all the way to the right side of his face,

where the swirling black glyphs marked him as a post
s’genesis
Seminus. Humans thought it was

a tattoo—some thought it was cool, the rest were appalled.

Humans were so freaking uptight.

His prey’s pulse picked up as his heart tried to compensate for the blood loss. Wraith

took two more strong pulls, disengaged his fangs, and hesitated before licking the puncture holes

to seal the wound. He’d never minded drinking from his victims, but he hated licking them,

tasting sweat, dirt, perfume, and worse, their individual essence. Cursing silently, he swiped the

holes with his tongue and tried not to shudder, but the shakes wracked his body anyway.

“You should kill him.”

The male voice, deep and calm, startled him. No one sneaked up on Wraith. Ever.

He released the gangbanger, letting the guy hit the pavement with a thud. In a fluid, easy

movement, he faced the newcomer, but too late he saw a flash and a blur, felt the sting of a dart

in his throat.

“Shit!” Wraith ripped the dart from his neck and threw it to the ground, even as he

charged the guy who had shot him with it. He was going to gut the bastard.

Wraith grabbed for the male’s shirt, some sort of burlap tunic, but his fingers only

brushed the collar. The guy was unnaturally fast—unnaturally fast for a human. This male was

demonkind, species unknown.

The male didn’t make a sound as he whispered through the night, moving in a blur

toward a sewer grate. Awkwardly, because his left side had begun to weaken, Wraith drew a

throwing star from his weapons harness. He hurled it, catching the newcomer in the back.

The male’s ear-shattering, high pitched scream rent the night as he fell. Wraith slowed, a

sudden sense of dread weighing him down, turning him sluggish and uncoordinated.

Something … something wasn’t right. He stumbled, tried to catch himself on the side of a

building, but his muscles had turned to water. His vision grew dim, his mouth went dry, and with

every breath it felt as if he was taking flames into his lungs.

He tried to reach his cell phone, but his arm wouldn’t work. And then his mind wouldn’t

work, and all went black.

SPECIAL_IMAGE-image004.jpg-REPLACE_ME

Throbbing pain in Wraith’s head woke him, and a serious case of cotton-mouth made him

gag. He smelled sickness. Blood. Antiseptic.

Shit, what had he done last night? He’d been clean for months … well, he hadn’t fed on a