Undead on Arrival, Page 2

  Sasha kept her gaze trained on the window, trying her best to ignore the sight that haunted her peripheral vision—of Hunter prepping a vein. She then mentally shunted aside the sounds in the room until she could only hear the revelry going on at Finnegan’s Wake bar across the street . . . a fitting name for the merry Fae community that frequented the establishment, but the happiness had long been bled out of their room.

  For more than three weeks after the blue-moon-coordinated United Council of Entities Conference, Hunter had hidden his worsening condition from her like a junkie. The only reason he’d been able to shape-shift so quickly at the conference was because Doc had slipped him some meds. If she’d only known then, maybe she could have convinced him to go in for a full eval before it got this far. Hundreds of thoughts battled for dominance in her brain. There had to be something that could be done! Why had he hidden it for so long?

  But little by little his condition had grown impossible to conceal from the person who’d shared his body and bed. Now his need eclipsed the shame and he’d simply stopped trying to pretend anymore. It was what it was.

  She’d seen the tracks; knew what they were from having taken those same meds at Doc’s insistence. After a while, shooting up in less obvious places just didn’t cut it; you needed a vein, a mainline artery. Denial had claimed her—making her pray they were spider bites, when she knew better. Now he was needle-dependent . . . even though he’d ironically been the one to free her from the purgatory of life on metabolic drugs. There was no justice in the world. Each injection worked more slowly, was more painful. That’s how she’d found out—the night he’d shot up in the bathroom and had fallen, convulsing.

  The look of humiliation in his eyes remained burned into her mind. For all Hunter’s strength there was a pleading quality that begged her not to flee, not to leave him, but also not to come help him up as his canines ripped through his gums. She’d been paralyzed in the doorway, just as she was paralyzed now sitting on the side of the bed sipping shallow breaths while he pumped a fist with his belt in his teeth and tightly pulled against his bicep.

  Where was his inner wolf . . . that pristine, free being who disbelieved in Western medicine? The drugs would make his wolf senses dull. He would no longer be able to hear at peak efficiency, or move like lightning, or see in the shadows . . . or become one with the shadows. He wouldn’t see auras or sense approaching danger—all the things he’d given her a glimpse off when she came off the meds were now denied him because of a cruel blow of fate. Because an honorable man had tried to do the right thing, he’d been handicapped by the very scourge he’d hunted. He’d battled evil, and it had bitten him, polluting his system so severely that his Shadow Wolf immunity was not kicking in to stop it. The injustice of it stabbed her spirit. There had to be a way to get Max back to normal, back to his glorious Shadow Wolf self. And that was the part that made her so angry that she snarled at him; his inner wolf wasn’t fighting back.

  Tasting tears as she swallowed hard, she refused to let them fall. “Tap the oxygen out of it,” she said quietly, knowing that he was so eager for a second hit of his meds, he was about to make a deadly mistake.

  A first-quarter moon washed a blue-white haze across Hunter’s handsome, ebony face, and she watched him struggle to stop to take a few seconds to tap the hypodermic. It wasn’t even a full moon yet and already he was in agony. She wondered what would happen when the luminous disk in the sky became a waxing gibbous then went full. His disheveled hair spilled in an onyx wash across his broad shoulders. It had lost the eagle feather and leather thong, along with some of its natural luster. That made her sadder as she stared at him wondering if this time would be the tipping point, the point of no return for his Shadow Wolf.

  “I waited too long,” he said with a wince. “Let it get too near dark and let the moon come up on me. Every time I keep hoping this will be the last, but it isn’t.”

  Sasha stood and quickly walked toward him, drawing on all her military training to remain calm despite the weight on her heart and soul. “Let me prep your needle before you kill yourself,” she said in a quiet but firm tone.

  “If it’s gotten this far where I can’t even wait to prep a damned needle,” he said with a bitter chuckle, “then it doesn’t much matter, does it?”

  She held his sinew-thick forearm. “Yeah. It matters to me. Kill yourself on your own watch, but not in front of my face.” She snatched the needle from him, held it up to the moonlight, and gave it a few quick taps before expressing some of the serum. “After you take this, we need to talk.” She stabbed into a bulging vein without mercy, tears that she’d refused to let fall slightly blurring her vision. “That’s a double dose . . . more than enough to hold back a hard transition.” She yanked the needle out and stared at him as he shuddered and his lids lowered. “Enough to get you high. When did you start double-dosing, Max?”

  Hunter nodded and allowed his head to slowly loll back. “Yeah . . . enough to get me high.”

  Sasha hurled the needle across the room and went in search of her jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. She had to get out before she shot him. Yet at the same time, in her soul she knew it would be the same as murdering the victim.

  “You okay?” he asked calmly, finally lifting his head with a lazy smile and appraising her in her French-cut gray cotton briefs and midriff cotton camisole.

  “No! I’m not okay,” she shouted, whirling around to snatch her nine-millimeter off the dresser and to slip on her shoulder holster over her T-shirt.

  “Why not, beyond the obvious?” he said, rubbing his palms down his face and sitting forward in his boxers.

  “Why not? Why not! Because you’re not okay, Hunter!” Her fingers felt like they’d become fat sausages as she tried to work her weapon into place and zip up her jeans. Her mind was scrambled, her words unclear, her vision blurry. She couldn’t breathe.

  “So what else is new?” he said drily. “Is this the part where you tell me we’re breaking up, or what?” He stood, no longer looking at her, and began searching for his jeans.

  “We have to get you to Doc. You have to stop overdosing on the meds. The amount you’re taking is—”

  “Killing the fucking pain, Sasha,” he said in a low, rumbling murmur that came out near a growl. “So if you’ve leaving me, then do it in one swift, decisive move—like a razor cut. Don’t stab me over and over again with the goddamned threat.” He yanked on his pants and stripped the belt from his arm as an afterthought. “I’ve gotta go eat; this bullshit makes me nauseous on an empty stomach. I would ask you to join me, but on nights like this, it’s gotta be raw.”

  For a moment she just stared at him. Then slowly, very slowly, she turned away without a word, opened the door, and walked down the hall toward fresh air.

  CHAPTER 2

  Purpose filled each of Sasha’s long strides as she walked down the hall and then jogged down the curved staircase. Giving the genteel house staff a quick greeting, she then pushed past the ornate, antebellum-furnished space, through the French doors, and out into the humid night. Freedom.

  The contrast between the air-conditioned, upscale interior she’d just left and the bawdy tourist district, compounded by thick, warm air, made her seek balance in the tavern across the street. Finnegan’s Wake had a Corona with her name on it. She was now a woman on a mission.

  But as that instant-reflex thought crossed her mind, it also gave her a moment of pause. What was different about her going on a beer bender and what Hunter was doing? Pain was pain, painkiller was painkiller, and self-medication was exactly that, either way.

  Sasha quickly thrust through the tavern doors and let the air-conditioned coolness and hard thrum of music flow over her senses. Thinking too hard about it all would make her upgrade from a beer to Wild Turkey or tequila, maybe even kamikaze shots with the fellas.

  The local supernatural citizenry smiled at her or gave a respectful nod as though the sheriff had just walked into a Wild West saloon. If only the
human tourists and kids escaping school on break knew.

  There were only a few Fae peacekeeping forces left in the area since most of the conference diplomats had pulled out. Sasha had to smile as a couple of very handsome archers discreetly lifted an ale in her direction with a question in their eyes after they’d quickly scouted the premises for signs of the big wolf who normally escorted her. That was a factor she hadn’t expected: how things would look if she suddenly started showing up places in the supernatural community alone. She hated that it now made a difference, when all her life she’d gone wherever she’d wanted as her own woman—not somebody’s woman. The entire concept was not only alien but Neanderthal-thinking as far as she was concerned. However, she’d also been a diplomat long enough to know these things mattered. Every species had a protocol.

  Sasha let out a quiet sigh and looked harder through the crowd for her team. Country music and its sad-story lyrics chafed her nerves. Why couldn’t it have been all-things-Irish night? Sasha glanced at the Fae soldiers again as she elbowed her way toward the tables in the rear. At least it wasn’t R&B or the blues.

  Two pairs of dark, intense eyes stared back at her from beneath a heavy fringe of dark lashes. One of the archers wore a chocolate leather jacket, pants, and boots so finely tooled that she shoved her hands in her pockets to stem her longing to touch them.

  On first glance she might have thought he was a Vampire, because the pure sensuality that oozed off him was completely hypnotic. Yet his multihued aura and the warmth that emanated from him told her he was anything but dead. His smile also told her that he’d appreciated her thorough assessment of him and that she’d given herself away.

  Still, it was hard not to stare at him or his patrol partner. They were both stunning. The first one in brown leather had a wash of silky milk-chocolate tresses that shone like glass spread over his broad shoulders, and his lush mouth was set so perfectly in the flawless café-au-lait frame of his face, complete with deep dimples, that he was mesmerizing. A thin darkening shadow of new beard covered his jaw like velvet. Yet for all his Fae beauty, she was a wolf down deep and preferred her males a bit more rugged. Maybe a cut over the eye, an imperfect nose from a brawl . . . it was sick but what could she say? The fact that any of this had entered her mind was disturbing, though.

  The first archer’s partner leaned forward, his midnight-blue irises filled with wonder, and his face no less handsome in its stark contrast with the spill of blue-black hair that draped his black-leather-clad shoulders. What he lacked in dimples, he made up for in a regal aquiline nose, chin cleft, and dashing smile. Tall, sinewy like ballet dancers, with long graceful hands, they were absolutely breathtaking as a pair.

  They lifted a brow at the same time, brought their ales up to their mouths slowly, and then set them down in unison with exact precision. It was like watching a synchronized dance. However, the very serious proposition was in the subtle eyebrow gesture and the way they glanced at each other for a moment before taking a very purposeful sip from their steins.

  Ménage à trois . . . ? Noooo. Sasha chuckled quietly and kept walking.

  They seemed disappointed as she tilted her head, bowed slightly, closed her eyes for a beat longer than a normal blink required, and thus declined without a word. Yet that would be enough to keep the more bashful of the species at bay. It was clear that if she’d said no to the tall, lithe archers, who were positively gorgeous, then the Gnomes and other less aesthetically gifted members of the Fae society could assume she wasn’t about to cross the line. Cool.

  But she was also well aware that this wouldn’t mean jack to any Werewolf males present. Any Shadow Wolf males would be respectful of the so-called mate bond that had been displayed at the UCE Conference, but Werewolves . . . it was all about continual presence and show of force. New awareness of just how precarious this situation had become stoked defiance within her. Screw it. She wanted a beer.

  Thick-bodied males from The Order of the Dragon smiled at her as she shoved past them to get to the bar where she could better scout for her squad. They seemed to take her subtle refusal of the Fae as an invitation that only meant she didn’t do that species . . . and since her big Shadow Wolf was AWOL, hey. She cast them a glare with a low, warning snarl, which they cheerfully accepted as she passed them. Damn, why did it have to be all of this? She was just glad that the Vampires had been so completely offended by the events of the conference, they’d retreated to their own private blood clubs for now. Tonight she wouldn’t have the personal wherewithal to remain politically correct if a member of the undead propositioned her.

  Sasha ruffled her hair up off her neck in frustration. Where were her guys, and when had entering a bar gotten so complicated? It was bad enough navigating all this bull as a human female; now she had to deal with the supernatural crap, too—all because of a change in rank in relationship to Hunter? Geez!

  “Finally by yourself, I see,” a deep voice said in a low, sensual growl behind her.

  This particular voice didn’t make her spin on it with anger. Instead it made her stomach do flip-flops.

  “Just came in for a cold one and to catch up with my squad before we move out,” she said as calmly as possible, straightening her spine and turning slowly.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Both took their time openly assessing each other.

  “You look good,” Shogun said in a low rumble, not hiding his admiration.

  “You do, too,” she replied quietly, wishing she’d put more cavalier confidence in her tone. “Thanks for the support back at the UCE Conference. We needed your voting bloc—as well as the show of force. We also deeply appreciated your willingness to go down swinging with us in a firefight.”

  An intense stare met hers. A graceful mouth slowly lifted into a lopsided smile. Dazzling white upper and lower canines caught the tavern’s overhead lights before receding into a perfect human dental line. A ruggedly handsome, copper-hued face slowly grew serious as they said nothing. Almond-shaped eyes appraised the shape of her mouth, and she watched an Adam’s apple bounce in a throat that seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

  He’d tied his dark hair back into a ponytail—a new image; he once was bald. Through his light cotton, collared polo shirt and jeans, she was well aware that his wolf wanted out. It seemed as though every tense, sculpted muscle in his toned biceps, abs, and chest was trying to hold it back. It was the kind of thing that could start a civil war.

  “I notice you’re using the terms we and us but I only see you here tonight. Am I reading too much into things, or is there an opportunity present because you’ve finally made some hard personal decisions?”

  Now it was her turn to swallow hard. Of all the individuals who could have approached her, why would it have to be this one?

  “Nothing’s changed,” she said with false bravado. “I just came in for a beer and to hang out.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah,” she scoffed. “This is America, last I checked. Women are allowed to go to a bar alone for the sole purpose of having a drink.”

  His smile widened. “True,” he said, stepping closer. “In the human world. It’s just that, this close to a full moon, when one has openly declared a mate . . . it could send mixed signals in our world.” He gave a swift nod in the direction of the disappointed Fae archers. “That’s why they tried a bedazzling spell.”

  Sasha blinked twice and refused to comment. The last thing she wanted was to seem ignorant of yet another supernatural cultural fine point. Damn, she should have known that!

  “There’s a lot your Shadow might not have exposed you to as a permanent mate,” Shogun said with a confident chuckle, ignoring how her gaze narrowed on him. “Who knows . . . maybe I could fill in the gaps as a temporary but regular lover?”

  “Excuse me,” she said calmly, beginning to leave. “But thanks for the support.”

  “Wait . . . I’m sorry,” he said, staying her leave with a tentative caress against her forearm. “That w
as out of order. Blame it on the moon.”

  She let her breath out hard but kept her tone easy. Although she didn’t understand why, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Look . . . I know there’s been chemistry since that first time we bumped into each other in North Korea, but . . .”

  “I’m just satisfied that you’ve finally admitted that,” he said quietly, staring at her with an unblinking gaze. “There was chemistry when I saw you fight in the mountains . . . I just wish it would have been with me, rather than him. We fought well together in that Vamp house to free your pack brother. It was like a dance, Sasha. I haven’t forgotten it, or you.”

  She looked away for a moment, but was drawn back to his magnetic stare. “To even comment on any of that is way too volatile given the issues at hand,” she said in a very private reply. “Now it’s gone beyond just a matter of right and wrong—there’s détente between huge clans that haven’t had peace in eons. Right now this new alliance and new peace is very fragile . . . the last thing I want to do is tip the balance. There’s a lot to consider, like mega Federations on your side and mine, all right?”

  He swallowed hard and nodded. “The fact that you’ve processed all that . . . have turned each component around and around in your mind like the colored squares on a Rubik’s Cube, trying to see if there was any way for the colors to line up . . .”

  “No. That’s not what I was doing,” she said, scanning the crowd, now not so much looking for her team as she was monitoring the crowd for signs of Hunter.

  “Then why is the hair standing up on your arms and the nape of your neck like you’re on guard just from talking about it, much less thinking it? You never even mentioned his name or the fact that the way you felt about him was the primary reason you wouldn’t consider—”