Downside 4: Series by Stacia Kane

I've been wondering for so long after I've read the 3rd series, when will I get my hands on the 4th book.  It was an experience reading those 3 that I've been itching to know what's gonna happen to Terrible and Chess.  As far as I know, no release date as of yet but Ms. Kane has started with Downside 5 already which means Downside 4, incidentally, it's official title has been posted at Ms Kane's Blog , as SACRIFICIAL MAGIC, is probably to be released soon!! happy, happy! Joy, joy!

Here's a teeny weeny snippet from downside 4, just to whet your appetite:




“His mouth on hers, the kind of insistent kiss she knew well. The kind that made her blood race through her veins until it found a good place to stop, that made her clutch at him harder than she meant to.”

Well Helloo There! I'm Back!(Hopefully) And Snippets!!

Ok so I've been neglecting to blog for months and months.  I have a good reason though but I wouldn't want you getting bored.  So anyhow, let the good times roll!! Here's a snippet from my fave author and series: Ilona Andrews and Magic Slays. Enjoy!! (I seriously need to catch-up on reading blogs here.)

PROLOGUE~

The ringing of the phone jerked me from my sleep.  I clawed my eyes open and rolled off my bed.  For some reason, someone had moved the floor several feet lower than I had expected, and I fell and crashed with a thud.

Ow.

A blond head popped over the side of the bed and a familiar male voice asked,  “Are you okay down there?”

Curran.  The Beast Lord was in my bed.  No, wait a minute, I didn’t have a bed, because my insane aunt had destroyed my apartment.  I was mated to the Beast Lord, which meant I was in the Keep, in Curran’s rooms and in his bed.  Our bed.  Which was four feet high.  Right.

“Kate?”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you like me to install one of those child playground slides for you?”

I flipped him off and picked up the phone.  “Yes?”

“Good morning, Consort,” a female voice said.

Consort?  That was new.  Usually the shapeshifters called me Alpha or Lady, and occasionally Mate.  Being called Mate ranked somewhere between drinking sour milk and getting a root canal on my list of Things I Hated, so most people had learned to avoid that one.

“I have Assistant Principal Parker on the line.  He says it’s urgent.”

Julie.  “I’ll take it.”

Julie was my ward.   Nine months ago she “hired” me to find her missing mother.  We found her mother’s body instead, being eaten by Celtic sea demons who had decided to pop up in the middle of Atlanta and resurrect a wanna-be god.  It didn’t go well for the demons.  It didn’t go well for Julie either, and I took her in, the way Greg, my now deceased guardian, had taken me in years ago, when my father passed away.

People around me died, usually in horrible and bloody ways, so I’d sent Julie to the best boarding school I could find.  Trouble was, Julie hated the school with the fiery  passion of a thousand suns.  She’d ran away three times in the past six months.  The last time Assistant Principal Parker called, a girl in the school’s locker room had accused Julie of being a whore during the two years she’d spent on the street.  My kid took exception to that and decided to communicate that by applying a chair to the offending party’s head.  I’d told her to go for the gut next time – it left less evidence.

If Parker was calling, Julie was in trouble again, and since he was calling at six o’clock in the morning, that trouble had a capital T attached to it.  Julie rarely did anything halfway.

Around me the room lay steeped in gloom.  We were on the top floor of the Keep.  To my left a window offered a view of the Pack land: an endless dark sky, still untouched by dawn, and below it dark woods rolling into the night.  In the distance the half-ruined city stained the horizon.  The magic was in full swing – we were lucky it didn’t take out the phone lines – and the distant industrial-strength fey lanterns glowed like tiny blue stars among the crumbling  buildings.  A ward shielded the window, and when the moonlight hit it just right, the entire scene shimmered with pale silver, as if hidden behind a translucent gauzy curtain.

The female voice came back online.  “Consort?”

“Yes?”

“He put me on hold.”

“So he calls because it’s urgent and puts you on hold?”

“Yes.”

Jackass.

“Should I hang up?” she asked.

“No, it’s okay.  I’ll hold.”

The world’s pulse skipped a beat.   The ward guarding the window vanished.  Something buzzed in the wall and the electric floor lamp on the left blinked and snapped into life, illuminating the night table with a warm yellow glow.  I reached over and turned it off.

In the distance, the blue feylantern stars winked out of existence.  For a breath, the city was dark.  A bright flash sparked with white among the ruins, blossoming into an explosion of light and fire.  A moment later a thunderclap rolled through the night.  Probably a transponder exploding after the magic wave receded.  A weak red glow illuminated the horizon. You’d think it was the sunrise, but the last time I’d checked, the sun rose in the east, not south-west.  I squinted at the red light.  Yep, Atlanta was burning.  Again.

Magic had drained from the world and technology had once again gained the upper hand.  People called it the Post-Shift resonance.  Magic came and went as it pleased, flooding the world like a tsunami, dragging bizarre monsters into our reality, stalling engines, jamming guns, eating tall buildings, and vanishing again without warning.  Nobody knew when it would assault us or how long each wave would last.  Eventually magic would win this war, but for now technology was putting up a hell of a fight, and we were stuck in the middle of the chaos, struggling to rebuild a half-ruined world according to new rules.

The phone clicked and Parker’s baritone filled my ear.  “Good morning, Ms. Daniels.  I’m calling to inform you that Julie has left our premises.”

Not again.

Curran’s arms closed around me and he hugged me to him.  I leaned back against him.  “How?”

“She mailed herself.”

“I’m sorry?”

Parker cleared his throat.  “As you know, all of our students are required to perform two hours of school service a day.  Julie worked in the mail room.  We viewed it as the best location, because she was under near constant supervision and had no opportunities to leave the building. Apparently, she obtained a large crate, falsified a shipping label, and mailed herself inside it.”

Curran chuckled into my ear.

I turned and bumped my head against his chest a few times. It was the nearest hard surface.

“We found the crate near the leyline.”

Well, at least she was smart enough to get out of the crate before it was pushed into the magic current.  With my luck, she’d end up getting shipped to Cape Horn.

“She’ll come back here,” I said.  “I’ll bring her back in a couple of days.”

Parker pronounced the words very carefully.  “That won’t be necessary.”

“What do you mean, not necessary?”

He sighed.  “Ms. Daniels, we are educators.  We’re not prison guards.  In the past school year Julie ran away three times.  She’s a very intelligent child, very inventive, and it’s painfully obvious that she doesn’t want to be here.  Nothing short of shackling her to the wall will keep her on our premises and I’m not convinced that even that would work.  I spoke to her after her previous caper, and it’s my opinion that she will continue to run away.  She doesn’t want to be a part of this school.  Keeping her here against her will requires a significant expenditure of our resources and we can’t afford to be held liable for any injuries Julie may incur in these escape attempts. We’re refunding the remainder of her tuition.  I’m very sorry.”

If I could reach through the phone, I’d strangle him.  On second thought, if I had that type of psychic power, I might pluck Julie from wherever she was instead and drop her in the middle of the room.  She would be begging to go back to that bloody school by the time I was done.

Parker cleared his throat again.  “I have a list of alternative educational institutions I can recommend to you…”

“That won’t be necessary.”  I hung up.  I had a list of alternative educational institutions already.  I had put it together after Julie’s first escape.  She shot all of them down.

A wide grin split Curran’s face.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny.  Besides, it’s better this way.”
I swiped my jeans off the chair and pulled them on.  “They kicked my kid out of their school.  How the hell is that better?”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find Julie and I’ll ground her ass until she forgets what the sun looks like, and then I’ll go over to that school and pull their legs out.”

Curran laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s also not their fault. They tried to help her and cut her a lot of slack.  She hates that damn school.  You shouldn’t have put her there in the first place.”

“Well, thank you, your Furriness, for this critique of my parenting decisions.”

“It’s not a critique, it’s a statement of fact.  Do you know where your kid is right now?  No, you don’t.  You know where she isn’t: she isn’t at the school and she isn’t here.”

Pot kettle.  “As I recall, you didn’t know where your Chief of Security and his entire crew were for almost a week.”  I pulled on my turtleneck.

“I knew exactly where they were.  They were with you.  I could’ve fixed that situation, but some wanna-be pit fighter stuck her noise into my mess and made a mistake into a disaster.”

I picked up my sword.  “No, I saved the day.  You just don’t want to admit it.”

Curran leaned forward.  “Kate.”

The sound of my name in his voice stopped me in mid-turn.  I don’t know how the hell he did it, but whenever he said my name, it cut through all other distractions and made me pause, as if he’d clenched me to him and kissed me.

Curran rubbed my shoulders.  “Put the sword down for a second.”

Fine.  I put Slayer back on the night table and crossed my arms.

“Humor me.  What’s the harm in keeping Julie here?  With us?  She has a room already.  She has a friend – Doolittle’s grandniece really likes her.”

“Maddie.”

“Yes, Maddie.  There are fifteen hundred shapeshifters in the Pack.  One more screwed up kid isn’t going to break anything.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?”

“People around me die, Curran.  They drop like flies. I’ve gone through life leaving a trail of dead bodies behind me.  My mother is dead, my step-father is dead, my guardian is dead, my aunt is dead – because I killed her, and when my real father finds me, he’ll move heaven and earth to make me dead.  I don’t want Julie to live stumbling from one violent clash to another, always worried that people she cares about won’t survive.  You and I will never have normal, but if she stayed in that school, she could have.”

Curran shrugged.  “The only people who can have normal are the ones unaffected by all the fucked up shit that happens around them.  Julie doesn’t want normal.  She probably can’t deal with it.  She’ll get out of that school and run right into the fire to prove to herself she can take the heat.   It will happen one way or another.  Keeping her away just ensures she won’t be prepared when she’s on her own.”

I leaned back against the night table. “I just want her to be safe.  I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

Curran pulled me close.  “We can keep her safe here.  She can go to one of our schools, or we can take her to somewhere in the city.  She is yours, but now that we’re mated, she’s also mine, which makes her the ward of the Beast Lord and his mate.  Trust me, nobody wants to piss the two of us off.  Besides, we have three hundred shapeshifters in the Keep at any moment and each one of them will kill anything that threatens her.  Can’t get safer than that.”

He had a point.  I couldn’t have Julie staying with me before, when I lived in a shabby apartment with failing heat.  It got attacked every time I found a lead on one of my cases.  I’d worked for the Order of Merciful Aid back then, and it demanded every ounce of my time.  Julie would have been on her own for most of the day, without me to take care of her and make sure she ate and stayed safe.  Things were different now.  Now Julie could stay here, in the Keep full of homicidal maniacs who grew teeth the size of switchblades and erupted into a violent frenzy when threatened.

Somehow that thought failed to make me feel better.

“You will have to train her one way or another,” Curran said.  “If you want her to hold her own.”

He was right.  I knew he was right, but I still didn’t like it.  “We’re about a hundred miles from Macon?”

He nodded.  “Give or take.”

“She’ll be staying away from the leyline and she’s carrying wolfsbane.”

“Why?” Curran frowned.

“Because the last time she took off, Derek picked her up at a leypoint and brought her here in a Pack Jeep.  He even stopped to get her some fried chicken and ice-cream.  She had a great time, so I told her that if she pulled this stunt again, she wouldn’t get anywhere near the Keep.  I would either come myself or send somebody who would find her and take her straight back to the school.  No going to the Keep, no getting attention from me and Derek, no gossiping with Maddie, no passing go or collecting two hundred dollars.  She wants to avoid being caught, so she’s walking home.”

Curran grinned.  “She’s determined, I’ll give her that.”

“Could you send a tracker out there to watch over her but keep out of sight?”

“What are you thinking?”

“Let her walk.  A hundred miles over rugged terrain, it will take her a couple of days.”  When I was a kid, Voron, my stepfather, would drive me into the woods and drop me off with nothing but a canteen and a knife.  Julie wasn’t me. But she was a smart kid, good on the street.  I had no doubt she could make it to the Keep on her own.  Still, better safe than sorry.

“Two birds with one stone: it’s a good punishment for running away and when she gets here and we let her stay, she’ll feel like she earned it.”

“I’ll send some wolves out.  They’ll find her and they’ll keep her safe.”

I kissed his lips and picked up my sword.  “Thank you.  And tell them not to spoil her with fried chicken if they have to pick her up.”

Curran shook his head.  “I can’t promise that.  I’m not a complete bastard.”

A Magic Slay Snippet

Finally! I found a new snippet from  Magic Slays and I've been meaning to share it in my blog since last week.  But alas, the daughter got sick and I was busy being paranoid and taking care of her that I haven't found the time.  It was actually a stolen snippet by Gordon (I subscribed from their blog).  Those couple are funny (grins).  So, I'm not gonna delay anymore.  Read on below!


A few feet down, a floor to ceiling glass window offered the view of Beast Lord’s private gym.  His Majesty was in residence, doing dips on the high parallel bars.  I stopped and watched him through the glass.
He’d taken his ripped up sweatshirt off, presenting me with a view of a broad back in a white T-shirt.  He wore a pale leather belt eight inches wide with two sets of clips, one set in the back and one in the front.  Curran had threaded chains through the weights and hooked them up to the clips.  He gripped the bars, lowering and raising himself, his movements smooth and unlabored.   Four weights, forty five each, a hundred and eighty pounds, plus the chains, plus his own weight.  It’s good to be the Beast Lord.
Up and down, up and down, working the triceps, smooth muscles bulging and relaxing.  The bars creaked a little.  Sweat slicked his short blond hair.  His skin glowed with a slightly damp sheen.  A slow insistent heat spread through me.  I could picture him in bed above me and the thought sent a pleasant thrill all the way down to my toes.
I missed him so much, it almost hurt.  It started the moment I left the Keep and nagged at me all day.  Every day I had to fight with myself to keep from making up bullshit reasons to call to the Keep so I could hear his voice.  I was like some sort of lovesick puppy.   My only saving grace was that Curran wasn’t handling this whole mating thing any better.  Yesterday he’d called me at the office claiming that he couldn’t find his socks.  We talked for two hours.
He was all mine.  I could walk in there right now, slide my hands along that shimmering skin, feeling the steel-hard muscle underneath, and make him drop off the bars.  He would land on his feet and then he’d turn around and kiss me.  When Curran kissed me, everything else disappeared.  I wanted that right now, I wanted to feel his hands touching me, I wanted him to kiss me.  I wanted to know that I was home and safe, and that he still loved me.
I’d been standing by the glass for a while now, but Curran gave no indication of knowing I was there.  He had to have heard me come down the hall – the gym door stood wide open and the shapeshifter hearing was legendary.  His Majesty was in an ill humor, indeed.  Just as well – having him turn around and seeing me drool like some sort of idiot would’ve completely cramped my style.  A woman had to have some dignity left.
I headed to the open door of the gym.  Usually we sparred after work.  I’d been looking forward to it.  I needed to blow off some steam.
I stopped by the door and shrugged off my cloak.  I unbuckled the back sheath with my saber in it, placed it down on the floor, took off my shoes,  and stepped into the gym.
I was on my fourth step when I realized that the parallel bars stood empty.  The weight belt, complete with chains and weights still attached to it lay on the floor.
I wheeled around.  Curran leaned against the door, blocking the exit.  His arms were crossed on his chest.  Carved muscle bulged on his biceps.  Grey eyes met my gaze.  “You have something to tell me, Lucy?”
Oh-oh.  “Nope.”
He peeled himself from the door.  “You sure?”
Let’s see, a dead vamp, a dismembered journeyman, a nice GBI officer who came to see me, a fifteen year old bouda having group sex in public…  “Positive.”
“So your day was uneventful?”
“My day was fine.”  I waved the box at him.  “Chocolate?”
Curran moved across the floor with fluid predator grace.  I moved with him, circling toward the mat.  He made no sound as he walked, stalking me like a ghost.  A gold sheen drenched his irises and vanished.  Ill humor, my ass.  He was pissed as hell.  He couldn’t possibly know about the whole People-Gray affair this morning.   And what he didn’t know, couldn’t hurt-
Curran lunged.  Stopping him in mid-lunge was like trying to halt a battering ram.  I dropped the chocolate, grabbed his T-shirt, planted my foot on his waist, and fell backward, using all of his momentum to throw him over me.  He had a lot of momentum.  I threw him clear over my head and about ten feet out.
He landed on his back, sprung up, and leaped back at me.  I rolled into crouch, shot up, and caught his chin with the heel of my hand as he landed.  His head snapped back.  I rolled clear and backed away.
Curran shook his head.  Ha-ha.  Felt that, Your Majesty?
He started toward me.  At heart Curran was a grappler.  I’d learned the hard way that if he got a hold of me, the show was over.  I snapped a light front kick to his side and backed up.  Tap.
He kept coming.
Tap to the thigh.
Nothing.
Tap to the thigh.  Tap to the side, tap.
Curran moved forward and right.  My kick missed by a hair.  He grabbed my shin with his left hand, clamping it between his arm and his side, and swept my other leg from under me.  Nice!  A kung-fu takedown.   The mat slapped my back.  I tried to roll back up, but he landed on top of me, catching my wrists.  That’s it, game over.  Once he clamped me down, I didn’t have a prayer of breaking free.
“Pretty,” I breathed.  “When did you learn it?”
Curran put my hands together, holding my wrists with one hand, and peered into my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
Curran moved my hands to the other side, looked into my eyes again, and touched the tip of my nose with his finger.  “Pupils don’t seem to be dilated.  You aren’t high, you aren’t drunk.  What the hell possessed you to run out of a nice safe office into a gun fight?”

City Of Ghosts (Downside 3) By Stacia Kane: An Excerpt And A Snippet

Now, I'm obsess with everything Downside.  Last night, I mean, Early this morning like 1:30am,  I googled Ms Kane and browsed through her website/blog.  And look what I found! An excerpt and a snippet! Yipee!

“Not all of your duties will be pleasant. But that is the sacrifice you make, for as a Church employee you must always remember that you are privileged above all others.”
–The Example is You, the guidebook for Church employees

Chapter One

The guillotine waited for them, its blackened wood dark and threatening against the naked cement walls of the Execution Room.

Chess limped past it, trying not to look. Trying not to remember that she deserved to kneel before it, to place her neck on the age-smoothed rest and wait for the blade to fall. She’d killed a psychopomp. Hell, she’d killed people.

Only the death of the hawk meant automatic execution.

But nobody knew about that. At least, nobody with the authority to order her death knew about that. She was safe for the moment.

Too bad she didn’t feel safe. Didn’t feel the way she should have felt. The dull ache in her thigh with every step she took in her low-heeled Church pumps reminded her of the almost-healed gunshot wound; her limp reminded everyone else, drew attention to her at a time when she wanted it even less than usual.

Elder Griffin’s hand was warm at her elbow. “You may sit while the sentence is read and carried out, Cesaria.”

“Oh, no, really, I’m—”

He shook his head, his eyes serious. What was that about? Granted, an execution wasn’t exactly a party-it-up event; very few Church events were. But Elder Griffin looked even more solemn than usual, more troubled.
He didn’t know, did he? Had Oliver Fletcher told him about the psychopomp, about what she’d done? If that bast—no. No, she was being stupid and paranoid. Oliver wouldn’t have told him. When would he have? As far as she knew the two men had only shared one conversation since that night, the night she’d killed the psychopomp, the night Terrible had been—

Her breath rasped in her chest. Right. This wasn’t the time, or the place. This was an execution, and she had testimony to give, and she needed to calm the fuck down and give it.

So she sat on the hard, straight-backed wooden chair, breathing the disinfectant stink heavy in the room, and watched the others file in after her. Elder Murray, the rings painted around his eyes as black as his hair, almost disappearing against the rich darkness of his skin. Dana Wright, the other Debunker who’d been at the bust at Madame Lupita’s, her light hair curling around her face.

For Lupita herself, no one came. Anyone who might have cared about her, who might have wanted to be there for her in the last moments of her physical life, had either already been executed themselves or were locked in their cells in the prison building.

Last—last before the condemned woman herself—came the executioner, his face obscured by a heavy black hood. On his open right palm rested a dog’s skull; his psychopomp, ready to take Madame Lupita down to the spirit prisons. Clenched in his left fist was a chain, and at the end of that chain was Madame Lupita, her legs and wrists shackled together with iron bands.

The door thunked shut behind them, the lock popped; it would not open for half an hour. Time enough for the execution to take place and the spirit to be taken to the City of Eternity. The timelocks had been instituted in the early days of the Church, when a series of mishaps had led to a ghost opening the door and escaping. Like everything the Church did, the timelocks made sense, but Chess couldn’t help the tiny thrill of panic that ran up her spine. Trapped. Something she never wanted to be.

The executioner fastened the chain-end he held to the guillotine, and began setting up the skull at the base of the permanent altar in the corner. Smoke poured from his censer and overpowered the scent of bleach and ammonia; the thick, acrid odor of melidia to send Lupita’s soul to the spirit prisons, ajenjible and asafetida, burning yew chips to sting Chess’s nose. The energy in the room changed, power slithering up her legs and lifting the hair on the back of her neck, that little rush that always made her want to smile.

She didn’t, though. Not today. Instead she pressed her teeth together and looked at the condemned woman.
Lupita had changed since Chess saw her last, in that miserable, hot little basement that stunk of terror and burned herbs and poison. Her big body seemed to have shrunk. Instead of the ridiculous silver turban Chess remembered, Lupita wore only her own close-shorn hair; instead of the silly sideshow caftan her bulk was hidden beneath the plain black robe of those sentenced to die.

But her eyes had not changed. They searched the little crowd, found Chess, and glared, hatred burning from their depths so hard Chess almost felt it sear her skin.

She forced herself not to look away. That woman had almost killed her, slipping poison into her drink; had almost killed a roomful of innocent people, summoning a rampaging, violent ghost. Fuck her. She was going to die, and Chess was going to watch.

Something slithered behind Lupita’s eyes.

Chess’ breath froze in her chest. Had she seen that? That flash of silver? That flash, which meant Lupita was Hosting a spirit in her body?

Her eyes widened; she stared at Lupita now, focusing. Waiting. It shouldn’t be possible. Lupita hadn’t been Hosting when she was arrested—they would have caught that immediately when she was brought in—and there was no way in hell she would have been able to pick up and bond with a spirit in the Church prisons. It simply wasn’t possible.

The flash didn’t reappear. No. She was imagining things. All the stress, the tension of her personal life—what there was of it—and the overbearing sympathy of the Elders and the other Debunkers, crushing her beneath their concern for her leg and their good intentions. Add to that a few extra Cepts and a Panda, and half a Nip to keep her awake… No wonder she was seeing things. What was next, pink elephants?

Elder Griffin stood before the guillotine, cleared his throat.

“Irene Lowe, also known as Madame Lupita, thou has been found guilty by the Church of the crime of summoning spirits to earth. Further, thou has been found guilty of the attempted murder of Church Debunker Cesaria Putnam. Cesaria, is this woman responsible for those crimes?”

Chess stood up, despite the protests of her right thigh and Elder Griffin’s slight frown. “Yes, Elder.”

“Thou testifies this based on what?”

“I saw this woman commit those crimes, Elder.”

“And thou swears thy word to be Fact, and Truth?”

“Yes, Elder. I do.”

Elder Griffin gave her a curt nod, turned next to Dana Wright while Chess sank back onto her chair. A woman was about to die, based on her word. When her word—the word of a junkie and a liar, the word of someone who’d betrayed her only real friend in the world—wasn’t worth shit.

He was never going to speak to her again. She’d given up calling the week before. She’d given up hoping she might see him out at Trickster’s or Chuck’s, given up hanging around the Market in the cold waiting to see if he turned up. He was still out there, of course. People had seen him.

People who weren’t her. She’d never known anyone could avoid another person so thoroughly. It was like he could sense her coming.

Shifting movement in the standing crowd drew her attention back to the proceedings; the execution itself was about to happen.

The room thrummed with power now, beating like a heart around them, steady and slow and thick. No need for a circle; the room itself was a circle, an impregnable fortress with iron sandwiched into the cement walls.

Elder Griffin started pounding the drum, letting his hand stay in the air for so long between hits Chess felt herself waiting, breathless, unable to move or allow her lungs to fill until the next heavy thump. The room’s magic slid into her, finding those empty spaces and filling them, making her something more than she was. It felt good. So good she wanted to close her eyes and give herself to it completely, to forget everything and everyone and do nothing but exist in the energy.

She couldn’t, of course. She knew she couldn’t. So instead she watched as the executioner’s psychopomp formed, the dog growing out of the skull, flowing like a river from a mountain peak to become legs, a tail, hair sprouting glossy and black over the bare skin and bones.

The drum beat faster. Drums…there had been drums at Lupita’s séance, that night, played by a duo of speedfreaks with eyes like ball bearings. Now the drums again, keeping monotonous dragging time under Elder Murray’s voice.

“Irene Lowe, thou are found guilty and sentenced to die by a tribunal of Church Elders, and this sentence shall now be carried out. If thou has any last words to speak, speak them now.”

Lupita shook her head, staring at the floor. Chess reached out a little with her own power, trying to get some sense of something from the woman. Some fear, some anger. Anything. Lupita was too quiet. Too calm. This didn’t feel right.

The executioner helped Lupita to her knees, placed her neck on the divot. The drum beat harder, louder even than Chess’s blood in her veins or the thick sweet magic air rasping in her lungs. Louder than her own thoughts.
She reached out further, letting her power caress Lupita’s skin, trying to find something—

Oh fuck!

Her leg gave when she threw herself to her feet, almost falling over. “No! No, don’t—”

Too late. The blade fell, its metallic shnik slicing the air as cleanly as Irene’s neck, thudding into place like the slamming of a prison door.

Irene’s head tumbled into the basket. Blood erupted from the stump of her neck, poured over her head, over the dull cement floor.

Her spirit rose; her spirit, the spirit that had been Madame Lupita. The dog lunged for it, ready to drag it below the earth, into the prisons outside the City of Eternity.

The other spirit rose as well. The spirit Lupita’d been Hosting. The one there was no psychopomp to take care of, no graveyard dust to subdue. The one an entire roomful of Church employees were helpless against in that room with its iron walls and locked door.

Chess’ scream finally escaped, bursting into the air. It was drowned out by the others, the shouts of surprise and fear.

Elder Griffin dropped the drum. The dog grabbed Lupita’s spirit—she had a passport on her arm, she was the one he’d been summoned to retrieve—and dove into the patch of wavering air behind the wall. The last thing Chess saw of Lupita was her mouth stretched into a horrible grin as she left them all to die.

The ghost hovered in the air before the guillotine. A man, his hair slicked back from his forehead, his eyes blank, his face twisted with savage joy. Elder Murray shouted something, she couldn’t be sure what; her skin tingled and itched and threatened to crawl away from her body entirely. A powerful ghost, too powerful. What the fuck was he, how the fuck had she—

“I command you to be still!” Elder Griffin’s voice rang out, echoed off the walls, speared through Chess’ body. “By my power I command it!”

It wouldn’t work. She knew without even looking that it wouldn’t. But the executioner…did he have another skull? Some graveyard dirt?

Dana screamed. Chess glanced over and saw the ghost fighting with Elder Murray, its mouth open in a ghastly smile, its eyes narrow with effort. The ghost held the ritual blade in its hand, the one the executioner had used to summon his psychopomp.

No time to watch. No time to look at them, and it wouldn’t do any good anyway. The room was filled with noise and energy and heat, a confusing mishmash of images her brain couldn’t process. She focused on the smoking censor, the stang in the corner, the black bag beside it. The executioner dug through it frantically, pulling things out—

Someone fell into her; she tumbled to the hard floor with a thud.

More screams, more shouts. Something clattered to the floor. The energy was unbearable. It wasn’t a rush anymore, wasn’t a high. It was an invasion, shoving her around, distorting her thoughts and her vision and infecting her with everyone else’s panic.

She had to calm down. Her hands refused to obey her; her tattoos prickled and burned, as they were designed to do. The ghost’s presence set them off, an early warning system she was usually grateful for but would gladly have done without at that moment. Chaos reigned in the execution room, and it carried her along on a wild riptide of blood.

Okay. Deep breath. Pause. She closed her eyes, dug down deep to the emptiness in her soul. The place where things like love and happiness and warmth should be; the place that was an almost-empty room for her, the place where only two people lived, and one of them hated her.

But it was enough. It was enough to have that moment of silence, to tune out the terror and noise around her and find her own strength.

She opened her eyes. Her limbs obeyed her. She sprang to her feet, ignoring the pain, and almost lost her hard-fought calm.

Elder Murray was dead. His body lay stretched across the floor, flat-out like a corpse ready for cremation; a gaping bloody wound leered at her from his throat.

Behind him the executioner slumped against the wall, his robe soaked with blood. She barely saw him through the ghost, blazing white, bloated with the energy he’d stolen. Chess groaned. A ghost with that much power was like an ex-con on Cloud-laced speed; unstoppable, without feelings, without logic. A killing machine who wouldn’t stop until he was forced to.

And they were locked in with it.

Oh shit, they were locked in with them. The iron walls kept the spirits of Elder Murray and the executioner locked in just as surely as the rest of them; Chess saw them out of the corner of her eye, faint shapes struggling to come into being.

There was a chance they wouldn’t be hungry, that they wouldn’t become murderous, but the odds were about as good as the odds that she’d be able to fall asleep that night without a handful of her pills. In other words, not fucking good at all. In a minute or so the ghosts would find their shapes, find their powers, and things would go from worse to totally fucking awful.

Blood spattered the walls, dripped off the shiny blade of the guillotine and ran in thick streams along the cement. It dripped from the ceiling where it had sprayed from Elder Murray’s neck; it formed a glistening pool around the body, outlined footprints in a dizzying pattern, and smeared around the broken remains of the dog’s skull. Fuck. No psychopomp. Did he have another?

Elder Griffin was covered with blood. Dana too, her eyes wide. But Chess wasn’t the only one who’d rallied. Dana’s eyes were dark and fierce with determination; Elder Griffin fairly glowed with power and strength.

Chess caught Dana’s eye, jerked her head toward the bag. Dana nodded and took a step forward.

“By my power I command you to be still,” she said, each word loud and clear. “I command you to go back to your place of silence.”

The ghost turned to look at her, and Dana edged back, drawing it away. Chess inched to the left, trying not to catch the ghost’s attention. She had to get to that bag. Had to get to the bag or they would all die. Maybe they’d die anyway, but she was damned if she wasn’t going to at least try to save them. Life might be a pool of shit but the City was worse—for her anyway—and she had no intention of going there. Not that day.

Her feet in their stiff shoes slipped in thick blood; the scent of it filled the air, a coppery tang beneath the herbs. How long would those burn, and was there more?

The ghost moved toward Dana, who kept talking, words of power flowing from her mouth. He clutched the knife in one semi-solid hand, blood dripping down the blade and covering his spectral skin. Viewed through him it looked black, like ink.

She glanced at the ghosts of Murray and the executioner again. They were almost fully formed now, slowly squirming into being like maggots erupting from a slab of rotting steak. She—they—didn’t have much time.
Dana screamed. The ghost jumped at her. Elder Griffin leapt to the side, joining the struggle, as the ghost attempted to slice Dana’s throat.

Chess dove for the bag. More herbs, first—she grabbed the little baggies, dumped them on the dying fire in the censor. The smoke thickened. Another psychopomp, please let him have a spare…she threw things from his bag, not watching where they landed, the hair on the back of her neck practically trying to pull itself out of her skin. She couldn’t hear much, what was happening? Were Dana and Elder Griffin dead? Oh, shit—

Her hand found something solid, and her body flooded with relief. Another skull. Thank the gods who didn’t exist, he had a spare. She yanked it out, tore at the inert silk wrapping it, barely glanced at it as she set it down.

A roar behind her; the ghost had spotted her. Dana and Elder Griffin tried to hold it but it made itself transparent and sprang at her, through the guillotine. She ducked out of the way. “I call on the escorts of the City of the Dead,” she managed, stumbling, trying to keep within reach of the skull but away from the ghost’s grabbing hand. “By my power I call you!”

The skull rattled. Chess pushed more power out, as much as she could, not an easy task when trying to keep from being turned into an energy snack for a rampaging dead man.

Another problem faced her as well. No passport. The spirit hadn’t been accounted for, didn’t have a marking on his body; there was a chance the dog wouldn’t know which spirit to grab, when it came. It had happened to Chess once before, a few months previously, and the dog had gone after her. She would never forget that feeling, the horrible sensation of her soul being pulled from her body like a banana from its peel…

Not to mention the additional spirits forming not five feet away, the executioner and Elder Murray.

“No passport,” she managed to say, and Dana’s eyes widened. She glanced at the knife in her hand, raised her eyebrows, and Chess nodded because she had no choice.

Dana tossed the knife. The ghost spun around when it clattered to the floor, leapt for it. Chess grabbed the executioner’s ectoplasmarker and popped the cap, held it ready in her fist, and shouted.

Just as she’d thought, the ghost wheeled back around and came after her with the knife. Dana and Elder Griffin moved, Chess didn’t see where. She was too busy watching the ghost, seeing his solid hand raise over her head, grabbing his wrist with her left hand and bringing the marker up with her right.

He didn’t have a passport; they hadn’t expected him, hadn’t designed one. Oh fucking well. The blade hovered above her eye, its point tacky with coagulating blood, while she scrawled a series of X’s on the spectral skin. The ghost’s face twisted with rage.

Now for the worst part. With every bit of strength she had left she pushed herself to the side, to the skull, and, dropping the marker, brought her right hand to the blade’s point.

She hadn’t expected it to hurt instantly but it did. Ow, it really fucking did, and her blood poured from the wound onto the skull, and she shoved all of that pain and all of her power into her next words.

“I offer the escorts an appeasement for their aid. Escorts come now! Take this man to the place of silence, by my power and by my blood I command it!”

The dog roared into being, huge and shaggy. Its jaws bared; this wasn’t just a dog it was a wolf, what the fuck was the executioner doing with an unauthorized psychopomp—

The ghost’s eyes widened. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he tried to jump away, all thoughts of killing forgotten. The dog—the wolf—went after him, its body moving low and fast like the predator it was.

The ghosts of the executioner and Elder Murray were fully formed now, huddled in the corner. Chess could practically see the last vestiges of sanity, of who they were in life, draining away, could see them trying to hold on.

It didn’t matter. The wolf howled. A hole ripped open in the thin veil between her world and the spirit one; the wolf snatched the original ghost in its massive jaw. Ectoplasm burst from the ghost’s body under the wolf’s teeth. The ghost screamed, an act somehow more horrible because of its silence.
The wolf turned, aimed at Elder Murray and the executioner. They huddled together, trying so hard; tears sprang to Chess’s eyes. She’d never known Elder Murray well, never dealt much with him, but his last act was to struggle to retain some humanity, and she couldn’t help the surge of affectionate sadness, of pride, that threatened to overwhelm her.

Dana and Elder Griffin were beside her, Dana squeezing her hand. The wolf leapt, still clutching their unwelcome visitor in its teeth, and caught Elder Murray and the executioner in a bizarre sort of bear hug; he carried them through the wavering hole and it snapped shut behind them, leaving the three still alive to stare open-mouthed at where it had been.

Here's the Chapter 9 Snippet:

Once inside the car he thrust the file into her hands and shot the car off the curb in a maelstrom of squealing rubber. She looked at him sharply, her back tensing in anticipation of an argument.

She’d fucked him over hardcore. She’d betrayed him and she’d lied to him, and she knew as far as he was concerned she’d led him on and used him as well, had consorted with people who wanted to see him dead and given them information to help them make him so. Most of all she’d hurt him. And if the pain in her chest was anything close to what he’d felt she was more than willing to admit he deserved to get his own back. Was willing to do more than admit it; was willing to take it, in the hopes he’d eventually decide she’d been punished enough and they could maybe move on.

But at that moment they were on their way to interview the man—Ratchet—who’d found the body parts in the vacant lot. She needed her wits about her, not to be waiting for the next verbal barb or dirty look. He could slash at her with knife-sharp words later; maybe if he did it enough her blood would finally flow clean.

Somehow she doubted it ever would.

But he didn’t speak at all. He’d flipped on his sunglasses so she couldn’t see his eyes, but the set of his heavy jaw and lowering brow, the tension in his arms and the way his lips pressed together…

“Are you okay? I mean,” she added quickly, “do you feel okay. That guy back there, I don’t know about you but he made me feel kind of twitchy. He had some power and I felt it. So I just wondered if maybe you did too.”

“Ain’t no witch.”

“Yeah, I know, but you look like— He was creepy and I just wondered if you’d felt it too, is all.”

When he didn’t respond, she tried again. “That sigil in your chest, have you been feeling—”

“I’m right.”

“I’d really want to help—”

“Said I’m right, dig?”

She bit her lip and turned to the file. Thanks to his sneaky thief act the night before she hadn’t even had a chance to look through it, only to skim it before trotting outside like a good little doggie to wait for Lauren.

And she hadn’t missed much. At least she hoped she hadn’t; but no, they wouldn’t have stolen anything. Copied it, sure, she had no doubt. But not stolen.

Sun glinted off the heavy chain around Terrible’s right wrist and stung her eyes, and for once she had her sunglasses. She was digging around for them when he pulled the car up in front of an empty-eyed building with dead weeds poking out of the ground floor windows, its walls dark with remembered flames. A squat.

She grabbed her notebook and pen, secured the edges of the file with a rubber band and stuffed it into the depths of her bag.

He didn’t ask if she was okay, but opened his trunk while she climbed out of the car and stood on the patch of crumbled cement that had once been a small parking lot. Ahead of her dried blood crusted the street; she could still see the tire tracks he’d left when he peeled away the night before.

The pig carcasses were gone, of course. And now that she thought about it—yes, the air carried the faint fragrance of roasting pork. She couldn’t imagine the glee that little bit of magic must have left in the hearts and stomachs of the neighborhood, most of whom had probably never seen that much meat in their lives. Didn’t want to imagine if any of those lives had been lost in the battle over who got to eat it, either. None of her concern.

She tried to shrug off the heavy stares she knew the two of them were getting and headed for the empty doorway when she heard the trunk slam shut.

The entire bottom floor was choked with weeds as high as her chest, long spiky stalks of ivory-colored grass gone to seed, spindly bushes. A thin trail had been worn through them into a darker space in the corner. The stairs. Terrible slid in front of her without touching her and pushed his way along the path; the dead plants tried in vain to grab his arms as he passed.

Soft sounds drifted down the stairs when they hit the bottom. Chess paused, took a deep breath. Something rang in the building; so faint it was more of an implication than an actual fact, but there nonetheless. Magic. The slow, deep slither of magic, inching up her legs and along her arms, curling into her stomach.

Not just average magic, either. Almost everyone did some; there was an entire successful industry in spellbooks and items designed for the average person who had little or no skill or natural ability. Most of them didn’t really work. They relied more on the practitioner’s belief that it would be effective than any actual results.

She was familiar enough with how those spells and charms felt. She’d encountered enough of them in the homes of her subjects; dream safes designed to ward away nightmares, or charm bags for wealth or safety, or occasionally sex spells planted in bedrooms. Those tended to be the most effective—and thus the most irritating for Chess, who did not like sex magic—simply because sex was the most accessible type of energy for most people. Any idiot could get turned on.

But this didn’t have the blunt edge of amateur magic, not at all. Too subtle; too well-hidden.

She didn’t realize she was staring at the landing above them until Terrible’s low voice broke her reverie. “Any wrong?”

“Feels like magic in here,” she said, echoing his quiet tone.

“Some do, aye? Them with them luck spells or aught.”

“Not like this, though. Spells like that—spells done by people who really aren’t talented—they don’t feel…finished, if you know what I mean. They’re not well-formed, they’re just like little blobs of weak energy. This isn’t—” She stopped, suddenly aware that they were having a conversation. A normal conversation.

One that wouldn’t last if she even considered pointing that out. Oops. “This isn’t like that. Whoever’s been casting in here knows what they’re doing. And they’ve tried to hide it. The magic, I mean. They’re trying to hide what they’re doing.”

“All Bump’s here, dig. Them to keep the eye out. Ain’t should be doin up that shit here.”

“All of them? They’re all Bump’s people?”

He shrugged. “What they ought, aye.”

“I guess we should go see, huh?”

Another small shrug, like he couldn’t really be bothered to complete the movement, and he preceded her up the cement staircase. The floor had once been covered in linoleum; curled edges of it remained like bookends where the stairs joined the walls.

The smell hit her nose at the same moment her feet hit the landing. Terrible stopped short; she would have run right into him if she hadn’t done the same. He turned to her, and in that moment she wasn’t thinking about what she’d done or what he’d done or what she wished they could do. She was thinking about the scent of death and how it raised the hairs on her arms, and she was thinking things had just gotten a fuck of a lot worse. For everyone.

Woohooo!

A Collection of Curran's POV is now available for download FREE!

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/18799

Ilona Andrews is just awesome!

Snippet 2 Of EKOD

Here's another snippet as promised! Enjoy:



“Yes, please!” 

The cry yanked Mencheres out of his musings. Gods, he’d been caressing Selene and unconsciously sending out strands of his power to stroke and stimulate her nerve endings. How could he have gotten so lost in his thoughts of Kira that he’d forgotten he still held Selene in his arms? 

Mencheres pulled back his power and set Selene away from him. 

“I’ve taken all I need,” he told her.

Her eyes opened as she pressed against him. “Let me give you more than blood,” she offered in a husky voice.

“No,” Mencheres replied. Selene was beautiful, willing, and desirable, yet he didn’t want her.


Kira’s face flickered in his mind, but he wiped her image away before he allowed himself to dwell on it. 

“No,” he repeated to Selene in a tone that brooked no argument. 

She left after one last lingering look that he pretended not to notice. Selene, like all the others, didn’t only want him. She also wanted the power, security, and supernatural pleasure he could give, but somehow, that was no longer an acceptable trade. 

Selene had only been gone a few minutes before Gorgon, the only vampire Mencheres brought with him to this house, came into the library. 

“Sire,” Gorgon said. “We have a situation with the human you brought home this morning.”

Mencheres rose, already striding up the stairs to Kira’s room, when Gorgon’s voice stopped him.

“Ah, sire? You might want to go outside instead.”

Another Snippet (With Curran)!!

I almost missed this!! I was just laughing and giggling while reading this. My abso fave of all snippets!

****

Forty minutes later Saiman pulled into a parking lot before a large mansion. We’d climbed north, far into the affluent part of Atlanta, but this house made “affluent” sound like an insult. Too large for its lot, the building sprawled, rising two oversized stories into the night and edging its southern neighbors out of the way. When Atlanta’s rich built new houses, they typically imitated antebellum Southern style, but this monster was decidedly English: red brick, huge windows, dark ivy frosted with new snow, and a balcony. All it needed was a fresh-faced English miss in a lacy dress.

“What’s this?” I eyed the windows that spilled yellow electric light onto the snow.

“Bernard’s.” Saiman sank a world of meaning into the word, which whistled happily over my head.

I glanced at him.

“It’s a party house.”

“I hope for your sake it’s a very tame party.” If he had taken me to some sort of sex orgy, he would fly right through one of those pretty windows, headfirst.

“Not that kind,” he assured me. “It’s a place where Atlanta’s rich and influential gather to be seen and to be social. Technically it’s a restaurant, but the patrons are the real draw, not the food. The atmosphere is informal and most people mingle, drink in hand.”

Oh boy. Rich and influential. Precisely the crowd I wanted to avoid. “And you brought me here?”

“I warned you that you would be on display. Please don’t grind your teeth, Kate. It makes your jaw look more square.”

Saiman parked at the end of the lot.

“No valet?”

“People who patronize Bernard’s rarely relinquish control of their cars.”

I slid Slayer between the seats and opened my car door. Getting out without catching the heel of my shoe on my hem took a moment, and by the time I had accomplished this feat of dexterity, Saiman was there with his arm and his smile.

Why did I agree to this again? Aaah yes. Because I had no choice.

I let Saiman walk me up the steps. Above us a couple on the balcony laughed at something. The woman’s laughter had a slightly hysterical pitch.

We negotiated a vestibule and a luxurious staircase, and Saiman escorted me to the second floor, where a number of small tables dotted a wide room. A smiling hostess in a tiny black dress led us to a table. I sat so I could see the door and surveyed the crowd. Expensive women and expensive men traded pleasantries. A few glanced at us. No hired help. Odd.

“Where are the bodyguards?” I murmured.

“Bernard’s is a sanctuary,” Saiman said. “Violence is strictly prohibited. Should someone break the rule, the entirety of Atlanta’s elite would rise to bring him down.”

In my experience, when the violence broke out, the entirety of Atlanta’s elite scattered and ran for its life.

Saiman ordered cognac, I ordered water. The drinks arrived almost immediately. Saiman picked up his heavy crystal glass, warming the amber liquid it held with his palm. Déjà vu. We’d done this song and dance at the Midnight Games.

“Just so you know: if a rakshasa shows up, I left my sword in the car.”

Saiman’s affable expression gained an edge. “It was a dreadful affair. Thankfully it’s behind us.”

He drained his glass. In seconds he had another, emptied that one as well in a single swallow, and was brought a fresh one.

I leaned forward and nodded at the cognac about to chase its fellows down Saiman’s throat. “What’s the rush?”

“It’s simply sugar.” He shrugged and emptied the glass. “I exerted myself earlier today and need to replenish my resources.”

The waiter flittered by and deposited a huge square bottle of cognac on the table. “With our compliments, sir.”

Saiman nodded and splashed cognac into his glass. His hand shook slightly. Saiman was nervous. I scrutinized the set of his jaw. Not just nervous, but angry. He was psyching himself up for something and fueling it with liquid courage. Not good.

He noticed me looking. Our eyes met. His lips curved in a smile. Unlike the self-satisfied smile of an expert taking pride in his accomplishment, this was the smile of a man looking at a woman and fantasizing.

I gave him my flat stare. Down, boy.

“You look so surprisingly striking, Kate,” Saiman murmured and gulped cognac down like it was water.

“Slow down.”

Saiman leaned forward. “I would buy you a new dress every weekend just for the privilege of sliding it off of you.”

Not in this lifetime. “You’re drunk.”

“Nonsense.” He poured more liquor. “It’s my third glass.”

“Fifth.”

He studied the amber liquid. “Do men often tell you you’re enchanting?”

“No. Men often tell me I hit very hard.” Hint, hint.

“Every woman should be told she’s attractive. Men are seduced by their eyes, women by their ears. I would tell you every night and every morning.”

He was just going and going. “That’s nice.”

“You would like it.” Half of the cognac was already gone. Even with his racehorse-on-crack metabolism, he had to be wasted. “You would like the things I would say. The things I would do.”

“Sure, I would.” Maybe if Mr. Casanova drank himself under the table, I’d get the waiter to help me carry him down to the parking lot and we’d call it a night.

Worry nagged at me. I’d never seen Saiman drunk. Drinking, yes, but not drunk.

I glanced behind me. At the far wall sat a large table full of hors d’oeuvres. If I couldn’t prevent him from drinking, perhaps I could distract him with food.

“Would you mind if I helped myself to some?”

He rose, as expected. Drunk or not, Saiman’s manners were flawless. “Allow me to escort you.”

We strolled to the appetizers. I positioned myself so I could have a better view of the floor. Saiman loitered next to me.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked him.

“Not particularly.”

“What about replenishing your resources?”

“Ah yes! Thank you for reminding me.” He raised his empty glass and within seconds a waiter brought him a full one.

Bertram’s six, Kate zero.

I surveyed the food. Directly in front of me was a silver platter filled with tiny fried squares. Each square supported a cube of minced meat, flecked with tiny pieces of green onion, sesame seeds, and what might have been grated ginger.

“Tuna tartare,” Saiman told me. “It’s delectable.”

I picked up a square and popped it into my mouth. Saiman’s gaze snagged on my lips. A few more drinks and he might strip naked and offer to dance with me in the falling snow outside. How the hell did I get myself into these things?

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It’s go—”

Jim walked through the door, wearing a black cloak and a scowl.

Oh, hell.

He paused in the door, surveying the crowd and radiating menace. In the gathering of Atlanta’s glittering elite, the alpha of Clan Cat stood out like a solid block of darkness. He saw me and reeled back, wide-eyed, looking like a cat who’d been unexpectedly popped on the nose—shocked and indignant at the same time.

I would never live this down.

Behind him, Daniel and Jennifer, the alpha wolf couple, strode through the door. Interesting.

Jim flashed his teeth. A young man quickly detached himself from the opposite end of the room and hurried over.

A bulky form blocked the doorway next. Mahon. The Bear of Atlanta, alpha of Clan Heavy, and the Pack’s executioner. What the hell was going on?

Jim drew the young man aside. Green rolled over his eyes. He said something. The man glanced at me. His eyes widened.

A tall handsome man came through the door, side by side with a leaner, darker man a few years younger and pretty enough to be stunning. Robert and Thomas Lonesco, the alpha rats. More people followed, all with the liquid grace of shapeshifters.

Houston, we have a problem. “We need to leave.”

“Oh no.” Saiman’s eyes flared with a crazy light. “No, we must stay.”

Jim continued his fierce chewing-out. It was a very one-sided conversation.

A plump middle-aged woman stepped through the door next, registered me, and pursed her lips. Aunt B, the alpha of the boudas. Saiman had dragged me into a restaurant where the Pack Council apparently had dinner. Alphas from every clan were in attendance . . .

My ears caught a voice I knew very well. I couldn’t have possibly heard it all the way from across the room, but I sensed it all the same. My fingers turned ice-cold.

A familiar muscular figure walked through the door.

Curran.

He turned his blond head. Gray eyes looked at me.

Time stopped.

The floor dropped down from under my feet and I floated, disconnected, seeing only him. For a second he looked as if he’d been slapped.

He thought I’d rejected him.

Curran’s gaze shifted to Saiman. Molten gold flooded his irises, burning off all reason and turning it into rage. Shit.

Jim said something at Curran’s side, then said something else.

Curran gave no indication he heard him.

He wore khakis, a black turtleneck, and a leather jacket. For him, that was the equivalent of formal wear. He must’ve come here for some special occasion. Maybe he wouldn’t rip Saiman to pieces in public. Maybe pigs would fly.

Next to me, Saiman smiled. “We all want what we can’t have, Kate. I want you, you want love, and he wants to break my neck.”

Dear God. The fool had actually orchestrated the whole thing. I was on display for Curran’s benefit. I opened my mouth but words failed to come out.

“He can do nothing here.” Saiman sipped from his glass. “After the Red Stalker affair, the People and the Pack instituted a monthly rendezvous held here in neutral territory, to keep the lines of communication open and discuss business. Any deviation from the protocol would mean war. He can’t move a finger out of line.”

Jim was still talking, but Curran wasn’t listening. He was looking at us with that unblinking focused stare.

I finally forced my voice to work. “You brought me here to humiliate the Beast Lord? Are you out of your mind?”

An ugly grimace skewed Saiman’s features. The civilized mask slid off his face. His voice was a rough snarl. “Would you like to know what humiliation is? Humiliation is being forced to sit quietly and mind your manners sandwiched between two brutish animals at your own venue. Humiliation is being told when to leave and when to arrive, to be confined to your quarters, and to have claws on your neck at the slightest deviation from your orders. That’s what he did to me at the Midnight Games.”

Saiman had spent the tournament sitting between Aunt B and Mahon. So that’s what this was all about. His towering arrogance couldn’t take it. He must’ve seethed for weeks, and I had played right into it. That’s why he’d drunk his weight in booze. Curran was pressurized violence and Saiman had expected a confrontation.

“Of course, you know that he wants you.” Saiman grinned, a savage bearing of teeth.

“He can hear you.” Shapeshifter hearing surpassed human, and Curran had to be straining every nerve to catch our voices.

“I want him to hear. I’m an expert at lust and he lusts after you. He’s possessive. He would’ve tried to claim you and you must’ve rejected him the way you had rejected me; otherwise you wouldn’t be available to join me here. I wanted him to see it. To drink it in. I have you and he doesn’t.”

Idiot. “Saiman, be quiet.”

Curran’s face was unreadable.

Saiman bent toward me. “Let me tell you about love. I once seduced a bride and a groom on their wedding night. I had him before the reception and her afterward. I did it solely for fun, to see if I could do it. Two people at the start of their new life together, having just promised to forsake all others. If that’s not proof of the impermanence of love, what is?”

Curran graduated to a full alpha stare. It was the primeval, merciless glare of a predator sighting his prey. It slammed my senses. I stared right back into the golden irises. Bring it. I have a lot of pent-up aggression I saved just for you.

Aunt B turned to the two rats, said something with a smile, and together they walked into the side room marked PRIVATE PARTY. One by one the alphas followed her.

Saiman laughed softly. “We aren’t without similarities, Curran and I. We both fall prey to lust. We both guard our pride and suffer from jealousy. We both employ our resources to get what we want: I use my wealth and my body and he uses his position of power. You say I want you only because you refused me. He wants you for the same reason. I remember when he became Beast Lord. The boy king, the perpetual adolescent, suddenly at the head of the food chain, granted access to hundreds of women who can’t say no. Do you think he forces them into his bed? He had to have done it at least a few times.”

A muscle jerked in Curran’s face.

At the corner Jim nodded, and a couple on our left and the recipient of Jim’s chewing-out followed the Pack Council. Jim had pulled his people in. They were giving Curran a clean playing field. No Pack witnesses, so no shapeshifter could be forced to testify against the Beast Lord. Nice.

Curran’s eyes promised murder. I could practically see the headline: ORDER’S CONSULTANT TORN APART BY BEAST LORD IN EXCLUSIVE NORTHSIDE RESTAURANT. I had to keep Saiman alive. I needed him to help me with my petition, and I had extended the Order’s protection to him when I agreed to this idiotic date.

I had no sword, no needles, nothing.

Saiman signaled for a new drink. “There is only one difference between us. The Beast Lord will lie to you. He’ll tell you he loves you, that you’ll always be the only one, that he’ll sacrifice everything to be with you and keep you safe. I won’t lie to you. I won’t make promises I can’t keep. Honesty, Kate. I offer honesty.”

How could a man so smart be so stupid? It was like he couldn’t stop himself. He’d gone beyond the point of reason. “Saiman, shut the hell up.”

“You’re all mine tonight. Kiss me, Kate. Let me nuzzle your neck. I bet it would send him over the edge.”

Saiman reached for me. I sidestepped.

Something snapped in Curran’s eyes. He started toward us, moving in an unhurried, deliberate fashion, his gaze fixed on Saiman.

If Curran got his hands on him, he’d kill him. I had seconds to prevent it.

I stepped in front of Saiman. “Stay behind me.”

“He won’t hurt me. Not here. It would mean repercussions.”

“He doesn’t care.” Saiman knew that society operated by certain rules, and as long as he stuck to those rules, he would be safe and respected. No emotion ever touched him deep enough to contemplate breaking those rules. He couldn’t fathom the fact that Curran could throw everything out the window just for the chance to grip Saiman’s throat.
Another one! And it has Curran!! Absolutely love it!! Four more days till Magic Bleeds!! {doing a happy dance}


Curran wove his way between the tables. I started toward him. Weapon. I needed a weapon. On my right a couple was laughing at the table, a mostly empty bottle of wine sitting on the white tablecloth next to them. I swiped the bottle and kept moving.

Curran’s eyes shone.

I showed him the bottle. You can’t have Saiman. I’m guarding him.

He picked up speed. I don’t care.

I hefted the bottle and picked a spot between two tables. Fine. Keep coming. You wanted to talk. We’ll talk.