Kyn Series (7 page)

She loved it. Loved every hot, sweaty minute of it. Right up to the point where he’d bitten her. Anger rose again at that memory. She still couldn’t believe he’d done that. What did he think gave him the
right
to bite her? Without thinking, her hand raised to her neck. She checked the movement, annoyed with herself. It was only a little bite for god’s sake, so why did it feel as if it was lit up in neon, for all to see?

“Come on, Vixen, this is me, drop the act. You’ve been like a bulldog chewing a wasp all bloody night, so what gives?” Feral asked, sliding her a glance from the corner of his eye as they walked, easily covering the distance to their own patrol area.

“That bad, huh?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. That was why she and Feral got on so well. He didn’t talk a lot, but when he did, he was blunt as hell. A spade was a spade with Feral.

“He didn’t hurt you did he?” His comment caught her off guard, making her stride falter a little. His voice was calm, emotionless. Feral at his most dangerous.

Most of the warriors saw him as the sensible one, the guy always around to clean up and organize things when they needed it. Vixen, having patrolled with him, had seen him in action against the rogue. Like most of the warriors, he fought with bladed weapons. In Feral’s case, though, those blades were little more than sharp edges on a heavy pair of knuckle-dusters. They were ancient and brutal weapons that had come with the Kyn when they’d crossed into this world. Not many used them anymore, but Feral was lethal with them, a beast as wild as his name, lurking under his quiet and ‘sensible’ exterior.

“How’d you know?”

“You’re wearing a turtleneck. I can count the number of times I’ve seen you in one, on a single hand. Even in the middle of winter you wear a tee,” he pointed out, startling her with his perception. She hadn’t thought anyone noticed what she wore or didn’t wear.

“That, and I saw you two out on the terrace the other night. Don’t take an idiot to work it out. He’s the only one that puts you in a foul mood on a regular basis,” he added, his voice quiet in the darkness as he stopped, a hand on her arm turning her to face him. She took his expression to be a concerned one, his fingers gentle as he peeled the fabric back from her neck to check the healing wound. To her surprise, she let him.

“Not too bad, it’ll be gone by sundown. You’ll be back in your favorite t-shirt by tomorrow. I like the one that says ‘this bitch bites’ myself,” he said, then replaced her collar and smiled. His facial expression displayed a hint of sadness. “I guess this means there’s no chance for me then?”

“Huh?” She frowned, blindsided by the comment, and looked up into his eyes. Realization slammed home as she read the truth there—admiration and sad resignation. “Oh hell. Feral, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” was all she managed as her heart wrung for the proud man who stood in front of her.

He shrugged. “Don’t be. Should’ve had the balls to say something… just thought you’d notice if you wanted. Realized a long time ago you wouldn’t…I saw the way you light up whenever he enters a room. Just…if he hurts you, I
will
kill him, okay?”

Tears prickled at the back of Vixen’s eyes for the second time that night, although this time for a different reason. She pulled him into a fierce bear hug, too choked to speak. She’d grown up in a one-parent family on the outskirts of the Kyn community where a converted Kyn, nor a child destined to be a warrior, had been fully accepted. So apart from her mother, Vixen never had a family, and never had a big brother to look out for her.

“Well now, isn’t this cute?”

So caught up were they in their own conversation the voice startled both warriors. Leaping apart, they went for their weaponry at the same time. Feral’s hands drove into his pockets whilst Vixen’s went over her shoulders for the heavy blades sheathed across her back.

They were surrounded.

She cursed as she turned, putting herself back-to-back with Feral. Her gaze swept the alley. She saw figures leaning against walls, crouched on dumpsters and hanging off the fire escapes all around them. Tall, lean figures she recognized, her lips curling back to reveal her fangs as she hissed.

Dressed like street punks, their hair an array of bright colors cropped and styled into spikes or Mohawks, with bodies covered in piercings and tattoos, it would be easy to mistaken them for a standard street gang.

“Pixies, why does it have to be bloody pixies?”

Feral’s voice was filled with the same disgust Vixen felt. To be surrounded without realizing it was bad—an unforgivable mistake for the experienced warriors they were supposed to be—but to be caught with their pants down by pixies added insult to injury.

Nastier cousins of the fae, pixies were violent, bloodthirsty creatures who lived in packs. Unlike their tree hugger kinfolk, their ‘might makes right’ philosophy would have done the average warlord-dictator proud. They all appeared to be young men, but as with most of the night races, appearances could be deceiving. Pixies were as long-lived as the Kyn, and retained their youthful appearance well into old age. An elderly-looking pixie was as rare as ‘rocking horse shit.’

“Not here to get into a fight, lads,” Feral stated, his voice a deep rumble as they stood in the middle of the street. With blades drawn and bodies tensed for fight, all their senses were on alert, ready for the first sign of attack.

Old-looking pixies might be rare, but because of their volatile tempers, pissed off pixies were more common.
A lot
more common, especially if you mentioned toadstools. Thanks to the human fairytale books depicting pixies as cute, androgynous creatures who sat on toadstools, your average pixie tended to get somewhat sociopathic if the word was mentioned. Trouble was, that word was hovering on Vixen’s tongue.

“Don’t you dare.” Feral’s voice was pitched, so only she heard it. He had to know what was going through her mind. He’d worked with her for years. With a street load of pixies, and though they were massively outnumbered, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Spoilsport.”

She pouted in disappointment. A good fight was just what she needed to dump some anger from her encounter with Kalen earlier. Warriors on the whole didn’t have anger management issues. They just went and beat the living snot out of something, usually a rogue vampire, until they felt better. Problem sorted.

“Perhaps
we
are,” a pixie ahead of them said, with spiked hair colored a sky blue she knew hadn’t come out of a bottle, and an armful of tattoos that proclaimed him the leader of the little gang surrounding them. She frowned at the comment. Why would they pick a fight? Even though they were fiercely territorial, the pixies usually left the Kyn warriors alone. Then again, rogues in this area never did anyone any favors. Her hands tightened on the leather grips of the heavy machete-like daggers she favored. Something wasn’t right here.

“Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that?”

Unlike the man, Feral’s voice was soft. It was a question Vixen wanted answered as well, looking over her shoulder at the speaker with a frown. At least twenty pixies surrounded them. Even with those odds, they had to know some of them weren’t walking away from this. If the two Kyn were to go down, they would take as many with them as they could.

However, it seemed the pixies had their own thoughts on that matter. Her attention diverted over her shoulder for a second, and Vixen almost missed it, only catching a brief glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye at the last minute.

At first, she thought the pixie by the dumpster had a gun, which made less sense than a bunch of them picking a fight. A bullet had no chance of putting down a Kyn—not before they’d have the shooter, and not before they’d ripped his throat out. Hell, even a hail of bullets wouldn’t put one of them down for long. It was the reason the warriors fought with blades. Decapitation was the only sure-fire method of killing a vampire, that, and sunlight. So, any guns they carried were strictly backup and for dealing with other paranormals.

It wasn’t a gun in the pixies hand when he pulled it from his jacket, although it looked like one. Vixen’s green eyes widened as he pointed the device at them.

“Feral. Taser,” she shouted.

The weapon fired. She felt the metal barbs slam into her and puncture her jacket before they grazed her skin. She took a breath before electricity poured through her and tumbled her into darkness.

Vixen woke in a heartbeat, drawing in a ragged breath as the memory of pain, sharp and sudden, surged through her. The bastard had shocked her. Instead of bear, the pixies had been loaded for Kyn. Tasers—provided they were military or police spec—were amongst the only things that could bring down a Kyn. Not all Kyn were susceptible to the weapon, just some. Feral was one of the few that tasers had no effect on, but she wasn’t.

Facts connected in her sleep-addled brain: That street was on the regular patrol route she and Feral took, and they’d been carrying tasers. Which meant the pixies had been looking for her in particular, but why? Why would a bunch of pixies be looking for her?

All this crossed her mind in the spilt second before she opened her eyes and looked up and focused on the ceiling. She frowned, not quite sure what the ceiling was doing covered in fabric. A second later, she realized it wasn’t the ceiling, but rather the canopy of an old-style, four-poster bed. She sat up in a bolt of movement, looking around for Feral. Where was he, was he ok? What had the pixies done with him? With her out of the picture, he would have been easily overwhelmed. A taser wouldn’t take him down, but it would hamper him long enough for them to…

He wasn’t here. Not in the room with her, anyway. Worried, she bit down on her lower lip with her teeth, fangs safely retracted, as images of his beaten and bloody body lying in an alley someplace filled her mind. Worry rose. If he didn’t wake before sunrise…

She needed to find him, make sure he was okay. Her gaze swept the room. The bed wasn’t the only piece of furniture that was from a different era. The whole place was furnished with the ornate elegance of a bygone era, heavy dressers and wardrobes to match the bed surrounding her. If Vixen hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn she’d been transported back in time.

“I wondered when you’d rejoin us. How are you feeling?” a smooth voice asked from the other side of the room.

Having assumed she was on her own, Vixen jumped a little, turning to yank the half-drawn bed curtain out of the way.

Lounging comfortably in an old-fashioned armchair by a large fireplace was a pixie. Unlike those from the alley, he wasn’t dressed like a punk. His lilac hair was shoulder length rather than cropped and spiked, and instead of multiple piercings most pixies had, she saw only one, a small stud in his ear. Given the period feel of the room, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see him in skin tight breeches and a frilled shirt, but instead, he wore blue jeans and a black shirt. Although simple, Vixen was shrewd enough to realize it was the kind of simple that came with a price tag. All of a sudden, she felt grubby in her plain shirt and leathers.

“Me?” she replied. “Oh, not too bad. Just a nagging pain in my side you know? Like some asshole shot me with a taser, pumped a couple of thousand volts of electricity through my body before I hit the deck…oh, wait, that really happened.” Sarcasm colored her voice as she slid off the bed on the opposite side to watch him. “Who the hell are you and what did you do with Feral?”

She wasn’t at all fooled by his pleasant, non-threatening demeanor. Pixies were violent bastards, rising through the pack by means of brutal challenge fights, or otherwise killing off anyone who stood in their way. Legitimate match, or just having your opponent disappear, it was all the same to a pixie. As long as the disappearance couldn’t be traced back, it was all cool.

From the elaborate tattoos on his hands and his forearms, this guy was a hell of a lot farther up the ladder than the leader of the little band that had waylaid them in the alley. Which meant he was someone she didn’t need to piss off, or get taken in by, she decided, as she did a quick mental inventory.

Her weaponry was gone, no surprise there. Knocking out and kidnapping a Kyn warrior was a dangerous undertaking. Unlike Schrödinger’s cat, there was only one result when they woke—seriously pissed off. So weaponry in the vicinity wasn’t beneficial for the abductor’s long-term health.

He had the grace to wince at her comment. “I apologize for that. Soran is still young and has a slightly different interpretation of the word ‘persuade.’ Rest assured, he is being educated in the error of his ways. To answer your question, my name is Markus Lysander, and your friend is perfectly fine, at least he will be. Just a little bruised around the edges and will wake up with only a headache, I assure you.”

Vixen didn’t answer for a moment, watching him impassively as relief flooded through her. Was he telling the truth? Pixie’s were known liars.

“Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for him? The bastard shot me with a taser. I hope you damn well crucified him.” She stalked around the bed toward him, her movements angry as unblinking eyes fixed on him. Pixies were dangerous but so were Kyn, especially the warrior caste, and none more so than pissed off warrior bitches. Forget Xena, she had nothing on Vixen in a bad mood.

“So, handsome…” she began, “You sent your bully boys down to ‘persuade’ me. Since I’m here, and you’re still breathing, I’d say you got my attention.”

Whatever game he played, she’d already had enough of it. In fact, she’d had enough of men and their damn ‘games’ period. If she was inclined, she’d give some serious consideration into batting for the other team right about now. But she wasn’t, so she’d settle for beating the snot of out someone instead. Starting with tall, pretty and pastel-haired if he didn’t give her some straight answers in the next few seconds.

She stalked toward him, her long legs eating up the carpeted distance. Markus simply watched her, his lavender eyes dark as she placed a hand on the arms of the chair on either side of him.

“So…what do you want?” She leaned over him. “I warn you, I reached my bullshit level before nine this evening,” she added as her breath fanned across his neck and stirred the pale strands of his hair.

Markus looked up at her, his body and attitude relaxed despite the obvious tension swirling around them. She smiled, the barest hint of fangs at the corners of her lips pointing out how close to his throat she could get; a subtle reminder that he might have taken all her blades away but she wasn’t unarmed, not by a long shot.

“You. I want you,” he stated bluntly, arching an eyebrow pointedly. She felt a light tapping on her thigh, right over her femoral artery. She looked down, surprised. She hadn’t felt him move. But, in his right hand he held a small blade that hadn’t been there before, pressed against the black leather that covered her thigh. A small blade that looked totally innocent, until he twisted his hand slightly. A sickly green shadow moved over the metal. Not a reflection, but almost as if something moved under the metal.

A spelled blade.

Vixen went very still. Normally, she would have shrugged off the threat of a blade. Sure, he could have cut her femoral artery, which would have been painful and given the room a whole new look. But, it would take her at least a minute to bleed out, and far less time than that to get fangs in his throat and replace the blood she’d lost. Pixie blood wasn’t her preferred type. Like most paranormal blood, it had a hell of a kick and left you with a rotten headache in the morning. However, with the choice of bleeding out or drinking pixie blood, she’d go with the headache.

Spelled blades were a different matter. They were dangerous. Created by dark magic, they could visit everything from true death right through to soul theft on their victims. Some of them were even created from souls stolen and trapped at the moment of death, usually a violent one.

She looked back up, what he’d said registering. “Me? What do you mean you want me?” she asked.

He smiled, no humor in his eyes. “Wonderful device for focusing attention, don’t you think?” he asked, nodding toward the dagger in his hand. “I have two of them. This is the smaller one, Whisper—”

Vixen couldn’t help it. “So what’s the larger one? No, don’t tell me…’Shout?’”

His lips quirked, proving he did have a sense of humor. “Actually no, it’s called Midnight. They’re a matched pair.”

“So… Midnight Whisper? Sounds like a dodgy strip joint to me,” she quipped. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

He tapped her thigh again and Vixen obeyed the unspoken command, backing up a little to lounge one hip against a sideboard near the fireplace. She was more than happy to put some distance between them. That spelled blade made her as edgy as having her fangs within striking distance had obviously made him.

“No, I haven’t,” he replied still watching her.

“You plan to? Or are we gonna stare at each other all night?” she pressed, tilting her head to one side questioningly.

He laughed, a low chuckle under any other circumstances would have been pleasing. Vixen had always had a thing for guys with nice laughs. It said good things about a man who laughed nicely, a genuine laugh that crinkled his eyes and everything. That and a nice backside. She liked a good ass on a man. So, working where she did was a dream job, lots of lovely scenery on a daily basis. However, the fact he’d had her kidnapped negated any attraction his laugh, or his ass, might have held.

“Pushy, aren’t you?” he asked, his smile broad.

“Add impatient and violent to that and you’re bang on, sunshine.”

“And absolutely perfect. Just the qualities I’m looking for in a wife.”

This time it was Vixen’s turn to laugh.

“Well, don’t let anyone say you don’t have a sense of humor.” She wiped a tear of amusement from the corner of her eye with a knuckle before it dawned on her
he
wasn’t laughing. In fact, his amused look had faded into one of cold seriousness that sent chills down her spine. “You’re not joking are you?”

“Nope, I’m dead serious,” he said, twirling the small blade in his fingers, the green shimmer flashing with each turn it made—a daring feat considering how dangerous it was. Even a small cut would visit whatever action the blade carried upon him. “Emphasis on the dead part.”

Vixen looked at him for a long moment, utterly still as she considered his words. Her calm look concealed the wariness churning in her gut. “Okay. So I marry you, or you kill me?”

“Pretty much. After all, I went to a lot of trouble to get you here. Surely you don’t expect me to throw all that away just because you said ‘no?’”

“Might makes right?”

Her voice was light as she moved around the room and picked up objects at random to study them. Luck might be with her, and one of them would turn out to be heavy enough to knock him out with. The question was how she was going to get close enough to him to do it. She sure as hell didn’t intend to get within range of that blade without knowing what it did. Whatever it was, that sickly green sheen said it wasn’t going to be good.

He nodded. “I’m so glad you understand, my dear. There’s also the loss of face to consider. And as warlord, you can understand I can’t allow that,” he said. “I must admit I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation at all. Only a fool would look forward to being locked in a room with an angry Kyn.”

Vixen’s eyebrows winged up. Whatever else he was, she had to admit he had guts.
She
wouldn’t want to be shut in a room with an angry Kyn, either. Whilst his pixie heritage might have protected him from being turned into a vampire, it did buggar all to protect him from being dead. Which led to another interesting point.

“So what’s to stop me marrying you and very quickly making myself a widow? Like say, on the wedding night?” she asked with a grin, flashing her fangs to remind him.

“Have you ever seen a vampire defanged?” he asked conversationally, “it’s quite a simple procedure, but I’m told it’s intensely painful.”

She blinked as all the color leeched from her face. Chill fingers of fear tightened around her spine. Defanging, through accident or by design, was one of the worst things that could happen to a Kyn. As a punishment amongst the Kyn, it was rare, reserved only for the worst offences. With no way to feed naturally, a defanged vampire would soon weaken and die unless a blood supply, something like a blood bank or the like, was established. More than that, as her encounter with Kalen earlier had proved, biting and being bitten was all part of the sensual experience of lovemaking for the Kyn.

“I see you get my point. Perhaps we don’t need to go quite that far though…” he said quietly, standing as someone hammered on the door. “Bloody imbeciles. I told them I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he snapped, striding over to the door and flinging it open to reveal the pixie from the alley earlier. “What?”

Sky blue eyes flicked from Markus to Vixen. “Boss, we got a problem. The Kyn are here.”

Markus’ voice was rough with irritation. “So? Why is this a problem? The barrow won’t let them in, we’re safe.”

“Umm, yeah. There’s a slight problem, boss. They brought a warden with them. They’re waiting for you in the main hall.”