Return of the Assassin (All the King's Men) (3 page)

She knew most males weren't like Armand. But enduring such violent trauma at Armand's hands had left her shattered and unable to fathom ever getting that close to a male again. The thought that history would repeat if she took another mate was irrational, because Armand was the exception, not the rule. But she couldn't help herself. Not after all she suffered. Armand had been like an IED she stepped on at the side of the road…only all the damage from the blast was on the inside, and she had the PTSD to prove it.

Still, desperation made people do strange things, and she was desperate for these mind-numbing anxiety attacks to stop before they killed her. Like it or not, only one solution seemed evident. She needed to go back to the source. To Malek. So she could face him and put an end to his fantasy that they were supposed to spend the rest of their lives together.

Fuck biology. Fuck the physiological bond that tethered him to her. She wasn't having it. All she wanted was to be done with him. Discussion over. If it killed him, it killed him. Not her problem.

She frowned at the thought. She didn't want to hurt Malek, but her number one priority had to be herself. She had put others' needs before hers for too long and needed to take care of herself this time.

"Well?" Trevor prompted her again. "Thoughts? Suggestions? New York, maybe? We could go to—"

"Chicago. We need to go to Chicago." She glanced across the seat at him.

"What?" He looked surprised. "I thought you said you never wanted to go back to Chicago."

She hadn't told him much about what happened in the Windy City—only enough to give him an idea of how bad the situation was. Now it was clear that running away from the past was a fast track to hell, and if going back to Chi-Town could release her mind and her heart, then the sooner they returned, the better. And maybe that would get this Micah asshole off her back, too. Right now, Micah's constant e-mails were making the situation worse, even though she no longer read them.

"I changed my mind," she said. "I need to go back to Chicago."

Reluctant acknowledgement tainted Trevor's expression. "Okay, Chicago it is, but I hope you know what you're doing."

Gina chewed on her thumbnail again as she glanced out the window. "Yeah. Me, too."

Several silent minutes later, Trevor's phone rang and he picked it up. He listened then said, "Good, I'm on my way. Tell Axe we're going to Chicago."

Looked like Colby had their things and was on his way to meet them.

Trevor shot to the highway and made a beeline for the airport. They arrived in record time. Axe already had the jet prepped and the engines fired as she and Trevor tossed in their luggage and rushed to their seats.

"Go!" Trevor called up to Axe.

Without a word, Axe pulled the jet away from the terminal and taxied toward the runway.

Before she knew it, the jet lifted off, Chicago bound.

When she looked down at her hands in her lap, she realized that for the first time in forty-five minutes she wasn't shaking. The pain in her chest was also gone.

For some reason, she didn't think that was a good sign.

* * *

Searcy's booted feet landed with a thud a moment before his son, Vaydon, appeared beside him. Wind blew their long, pale hair off their faces as their yellow eyes, sharp with hunting sight, turned up in tandem to watch the private jet take off. Dark malevolence shrouded them like poison.

He cursed, and the sound came out like the spit from a cobra despite his calm demeanor.

Their prey had gotten away. For now. But that male, and his female partner with the anxiety problem, wouldn't get far. Searcy imprinted their scent, panic and all, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he caught them. He swirled the fragrance of the two assassins around and over his sensory glands, embedding their essences into his memory. Familiarity touched him from the female, but he couldn't recall where he had scented her before. It would come to him. Such things always did.

Without taking his eyes off the private jet, which grew smaller as it climbed, Searcy took a deep, steadying breath and said, "Find out where that jet is going. Kill whoever you have to."

Without so much as a nod in Searcy's direction, Vaydon strode toward the edge of the building, calm, collected, and unhurried. His long hair billowed on the wind. His broad shoulders stretched the calf-length, black trench across his back, and his boots thunked with measured heaviness over the surface of the flat-topped roof. Then, as if falling into shadow, Vaydon disappeared into mist.

Searcy stared at the small pinpricks of light blinking from the jet's wings.

So, the Knights of Justice were finally onto him and Vaydon. It had been inevitable. What did he think? That he and Vaydon could continue their treacherous dealings and illegal
transgressions forever and go unnoticed? But he hadn't counted on King Bain's royally disbarred Knights catching his trail so soon.

Impressive.

But futile.

His plans were already well under way. It wouldn't be long before he shook things up in the vampire community, and by then, King Bain's AKM enforcers and the KOJU vigilantes would have to play catch-up. And by the time they did, the throne would be his again. Back in his bloodline where it belonged.

Vaydon reappeared from the ether and strolled toward him, a smear of blood on his chin. "Chicago," he said, turning his gaze toward the jet as it disappeared behind a cloud.

Ah, Chicago. The king's backyard. How perfect. Searcy issued one final glance toward the jet that held those who had just tried to kill his son. No doubt he had been in their sites, as well, but they were either too inept or poorly trained to finish the job. Now he and Vaydon were kicked dogs, sleeping giants awakened, and it was their turn to become the hunters.

"Chicago it is then," he said, turning one perfectly arched brow toward Vaydon as his eyes shifted back to silver.

His son's thin mouth curved into a loose, crooked grin. Vaydon loved the hunt as much as Searcy did. Like father, like son. They thrilled over the kill…the pain…the suffering of others…especially when it came to the blasphemous vampire clans who had overthrown Dacian rule countless millennia ago. He would teach them. Searcy would show them the error of their ways. After all, he hadn't spent centuries in exile without a plan to take back what belonged to him. The traitors would pay. He had been patient for what seemed like forever, but the time for patience was almost over.

The fact that this hunt for his would-be assassins would take place in King Bain's backyard made it all the sweeter. And once he recalled where he knew that bitch who had taken a shot at Vaydon was from—and he
would
remember—killing her would provide the icing on the cake.

As if teasing him, a memory flashed, and then vanished in a blink. Ah well, soon enough. He would remember how he knew her soon enough.

"Let's go. We have a trip to get ready for." Searcy turned on his heel and paced away with measured steps, disappearing into ether as he went. Vaydon followed and faded into the night with him.

Those two Chicago-bound assassins had just fucked with the wrong Dacians. And he would see them both dead before the next full moon.

Malek gasped and jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat.

Another nightmare about Carmen. Dead. Lying broken on the floor. This was why he hadn't slept more than a few hours in the past two weeks. When he did, the same nightmare stole into his dreams and he awoke torqued, gasping for air, soaked with sweat, and ready to put his fist through a wall.

Slamming the heels of his hands over his eyes, he shook his head.
No, no, no! She's not dead. She's only sleeping. She's only—

She's dead.

Malek threw his hands away from his face and scowled.
Shut up.
The Voice had riddled him for over a week, but he wasn't in the mood for its antagonism right now.

She. Is. Dead.

Malek growled at The Voice, but a moment later hung his head. It was right. Carmen
was
dead. On some level he knew that. He just hadn't accepted it. Not entirely. But he was beginning to, which was why the suffering throttled him harder each day…why he was such a mess…why he wasn't eating or feeding…why he was buying whores every night and fucking them to within a brink of insanity. Well, the last he wasn't doing because of Carmen. That was Gina's doing.

Gina
…
The Voice sighed.

The Voice liked Gina. No, it loved her. But Malek couldn't give her to it. For one, she was gone. Secondly, Malek refused to disrespect Carmen by taking another mate, and since The Voice lived in his mind, to give Gina to it meant he would have to accept that he had mated her. Still, his body broke a little more each day with the need to claim her. His
calling
urged him to find her…to complete the mating and bind himself to her…to fulfill his biological obligation to procreate.

Yeeesssss.

Malek threw off the covers and jumped out of bed, pissed off, wound tight, and about to explode. His cock throbbed. Hard. Again. It was always hard now. Always ready to betray him. All he wanted was Carmen, his beautiful first mate. But she wasn't here. She never would be again, no matter how hard he denied it or tried to reason otherwise.

In the bathroom, he cranked on the shower and hopped in before the water grew hot. The blast of cold stung and quieted his mind for a few seconds, and then the water warmed. The mental storm began again. All he could do was hang his head, let the hot water saturate him, and breathe. If he could. Every breath he dragged into his lungs made his chest ache. Just like his traitorous dick, his chest ached all the time now.

Heartburn.

He chuffed as he pressed his knuckles against his sternum and rubbed. This wasn't what humans referred to when they said they had heartburn, but the expression was accurate. His heart definitely felt like it was burning, and the inferno only seemed to worsen every day.

Rub-rub-rub.

He worked his hand over his chest until the water began to grow cold again. Then he turned off the faucet and grabbed his towel as he stepped out of the shower. The bathroom was filled with mist, and the mirror was covered in condensation.

What did the night hold? He should report to work but didn't have the energy. And wouldn't Micah love that? In the past few weeks, Malek had excelled at getting on Micah's shit list.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement and a flash of wild, auburn hair and spun to follow it.

"Carmen?" He looked back over his shoulder then turned around again, but no one was there. He was alone.

This wasn't the first time he thought he'd seen Carmen out of his periphery. He'd caught glimpses of her numerous times in the past few days, but every time he looked, she was gone.

A reflection of auburn hair in the foggy mirror brought his attention back around, but once more, when his gaze stole into the area where he thought he'd seen her, she was gone. No one was there but him.

Alone.

The word held new meaning for him. While Carmen had been dead for centuries, he had never really felt alone…until now. Now the solitude encroached and bound him, clawed at his insides, and made him mad with desperation.

He was in the in-between…Switzerland between two adversaries. Except he was being forced to choose a side. Either he stayed with Carmen's memory and died, or he joined Gina and lived. Each side had pros, and each had cons. If he chose Carmen, he would die, but at least he would hold Carmen's memory intact. If he chose Gina, he would live but forever disgrace his first mate.

Rock, meet hard place.

He got dressed, snagged the keys to his truck off the dresser, and headed out. There was no sense in denying himself. He knew what he needed, and he knew where to get it. Fuck Micah. Malek would just have to suffer another tick mark on Micah's list, because work didn't appeal to him tonight.

* * *

An hour later, Malek was settled in his favorite booth at Four Alarm, head hung over his drink like a vulture. Heavy bass throbbed the darkened, sweat-scented air, and techno dance beats pumped through the club's speakers, jarring his already flayed nerves.

Four Alarm was packed tonight. Wall-to-wall bodies. Men trolled for action, and women who wanted to give it—for a price—eyed potential clients, as well as the size of their wallets. It's why Malek was here. He needed what these women offered. And his wallet was very thick. All the better since his needs had grown more depraved every night since Gina left.

Gina.

What he really needed was Gina. She was the only one who could give him what his body truly needed. Too bad he didn't want it. Good thing she was gone, because he wasn't sure he could handle her presence if she was still around.

Gina
.
The Voice whispered her name inside his brain as if it was pleased he was thinking about her.

He slammed his eyes shut and hunched farther over his shot glass as if he had been punched in the gut.

So this was what it felt like to lose a mate. This despair and agony. A knife to the chest would have been less painful. The problem was, Malek hadn't just lost one mate, but two. After hundreds of years, he was finally dealing with Carmen's death. Mating Gina had ripped open the wound he had successfully tucked away for centuries—one he had avoided facing—and now Carmen's death pummeled him as if she had only died yesterday. So, not only was he suffering the loss of Gina, but also the death of Carmen. Maybe he should just walk into the dawn come morning and end his misery.

Not a bad idea.

Malek opened his eyes and scoffed into his glass of whiskey. And this wasn't the fancy shit, either. This was burn off your tongue, stab yourself in the eye, cripple your liver rotgut.

Nothing but the best.

But the liquid sewage helped quiet The Voice.

She's dead, moron. Deal with it.

Or maybe not.

He pinched his eyes shut again and grimaced at the vision of Carmen lying on a dusty wooden floor worn smooth by his boots and her dainty slippers. Their home. He saw the home they had shared long ago in the European countryside during the Middle Ages. That simple cottage had been the sanctuary he shared with Carmen. His mate. His life. His reason for being. Her body was bent at an unusual angle, her head turned toward the door, her eyes open and lifeless. One arm lay outstretched beside her, as if she had been reaching for something, or maybe putting something away on the shelves. A jar of fruit preserves lay shattered nearby, and the footstool was toppled beside the table.

The sour taste in Malek's mouth intensified.

No! She's not dead.
He forced the image back and replaced it with another. One that was more acceptable. Carmen was lying in bed, eyes closed, body peaceful. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The rhythmic pattern of sleep.
See, she's just sleeping.

Fine, buddy. You just keep telling yourself that.

Malek glanced down at the shit-brown liquid in his shot glass.
Fuck you. Just fuck you, asshole. She's not dead. And I'm not your buddy.

He waited for a retort. Anything to contradict him and piss him off even further, but The Voice silenced and left Malek alone. Finally, blessedly alone with his drink. Maybe The Voice had finally gotten the hint that he wasn't interested in dissenting opinions. There was only one right answer to the question of Carmen's whereabouts. She was sleeping, damn it. Just sleeping. She was human and needed her rest, for God's sake. Couldn't everyone see that? And yesterday she had been away washing his tunics and trousers in the stream that ran through the woods by their cottage. And the day before that, she had been out in the fields, chasing the vermin from the garden. There was an explanation for where she had been all this time.

Riiiight.

I thought you were gone.

Nope. And I won't be until you see.

See what?

That Carmen is dead.

Malek slammed back the whiskey as if he had a fire in his belly and wanted to fuel it. Maybe he could burn The Voice out of his head. Little fucker. Another glass, another swallow. Another, and still another. One after the other, he kicked them back, the bottle in one hand and the shot glass in the other. Pour, drink, pour, drink, until…

His bloody knuckles stopped him cold. How had that happened? The flesh was ripped, and dried blood filled the creases of his knuckles. Oh, that's right. He had gotten into a fight on the way here. With a brick wall. The wall won. But his hand should have healed by now. Why hadn't his injuries healed? He dismissed the question with a bemused chuckle.

Hitting the wall had felt good. Almost purifying. And it had shut up The Voice for a while. Not long enough, but any reprieve from the heckler in his head was welcome. Because The Voice didn't have anything good to say. Just shit, crap, and lies. Pain seemed to silence it, though, so Malek would need to keep up a steady supply to fill the demand.

Suicide Economics.

He chuffed in amusement from the new term that popped into his mind. Maybe somebody should create a class and teach all male vampires about suicide economics. That way, they would be prepared for losing a mate, because when a male lost his mate, his body would demand a kind of pain he would have to supply or else, even if that pain led to suicide. Hence the name of the course.

Perhaps he could teach suicide economics to young males hitting their transition into adulthood. The class could be a prerequisite for vampire sex education, because all males needed to know what they were getting their balls into by going down Happy Lane with a pretty, young female who could turn out to be their mate, and consequently their downfall. Heck, maybe he should petition his commander, Tristan—oh wait…no. Micah was in charge now, wasn't he? Well, maybe he could petition Micah to talk to his good buddy, the king, about funding for a class in suicide economics for all the young males. Hell, he had plenty of firsthand experience with the subject matter. He would make a fine instructor. The perfect teacher.

If he survived the week.

He chuckled almost maniacally at his ludicrous musings before somber melancholy settled into his heart once more, and he stared down at the brown, high tech plastic table that supported his arms.

Carmen…Gina…Carmen. He was lost without them. Without
both
of them, but he refused to see Gina for the savior she was at the sacrifice of Carmen's memory. He couldn't take a new mate when his heart still clung to the memory of another. Tears threatened the lower rims of his eyes as pain, sorrow, and something darker—something forlorn that reeked of self-loathing and defeat—ate away at his soul and burrowed deeper into the recesses of his gut.

Growling out an exhale, he blinked away his emotions and leaned back in the darkened corner. He caressed the lip of his shot glass with his fingertips as if it were the pristine nipple of the woman he wanted. Gina's nipple. Her lovely, perfect, heavenly…

Gina. You need Gina. You want her.

No!
He winced and jerked his fingers away from the glass as if it were, in fact, Gina's breast and he had committed adultery by touching her with such longing.

What kind of male was he to cheat with Gina when he was already mated to Carmen?

You fool. Carmen's dead. Gina's alive. Get on with your life before you lose your mind.

He groaned.
Before
he lost his mind? He felt like he already had.

Every bone ached, every muscle protested. Even his eyes felt weary, his eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. When was the last time he actually slept? Really slept? He couldn't remember, and his brain hurt when he tried.

Eh, he would figure it out later. Right now, he needed only one thing other than the vile liquid he kept pouring down his throat, and he searched the room for it.

Four Alarm's crowd was target rich tonight. As it was every night. But the way he had been burning through the whores the past couple of weeks and building a reputation as a depraved sex addict with a thing for kink, he would have to find a new source soon. Perhaps he might eventually be forced to venture into the seedy Underground, a place enforcers like him were more inclined to raid than visit for recreational purposes. But the clientele at The Underground was better suited to fill his debauched needs. He would keep it in mind, but for tonight he eyed a few good prospects at Four Alarm who, as yet, still seemed oblivious to his degenerate reputation from the way they eyed him from their perches.