SEX WITH LORE

“WHO AM I?” the blonde kneeling between my legs demands.

I need to come so bad I hurt.

I know the answer she wants. She wants me to call her ‘Mistress.’ Like she’s the Dom. She’s already tried to get me to say it twice, sneaking it in like she thinks I won’t notice because of the mind-blowing stuff she’s been doing with her lips and tongue and that flawlessly executed glide of teeth so few women ever master when giving head.

She’s wasting her time. It’s never going to happen. There isn’t a submissive bone in my body. I’m Alpha to the motherfucking core.

I pull her head from my groin and grin down at her. Hot, horny blondes are a dime a dozen at Chester’s. Riots may have sacked Dublin last Halloween and a killer freeze might have shut the city down for a while, but it’s rebounding fast. People have been flooding in, resettling on both sides of the River Liffey, drawn by the thaw, restored power and supplies, but most of all by the endless parade of sexually insatiable Fae that pack the bars and dance floors of 939 Rêvemal Street every night of the week, hunting human lovers. The hottest, most deadly nightclub in Dublin is bigger, better and badder than ever: Chester’s is Sin Central—if you want it, we got it.

“You’re not that good, honey.” I flash her a grin. My comment is guaranteed to spark one of two things: either she’ll get up and walk out pissed or I’ll get even better head.

I know by her confidence—and the hungry way she’s been watching me all night—she’s not walking.

She laughs and runs her tongue over her lips to make them even wetter, shiny with the spit of a pro and pre-ejac. I lean back against Ry’s desk, looking forward to her amped up performance, watching her, watching the club through the glass floor beneath my boots, loving life. As long as women walk this earth, I’ll be a happy man. If they ever get wiped out, I’m done. I’ll go in search of K’Vruck.

She slaps the head of my dick then closes her mouth over it in one long perfect slide all the way to the base….does some kind of swirly thing, then an intense suck back out.

I nearly stagger.

Son of a bitch, she’s good.

She has her hands on my ass, face grinding into my groin, my dick is down her throat, and I’m a frigging volcano about to blow. Problem is, I been ready for a good twenty minutes but whenever I get close, she mixes it up and shoves it out of reach. What was initially a turn-on has become a pain in the ass. Not to mention the balls. I’m beginning to think they might rupture. I’m dripping sweat and I’m not even the one doing the work, although I’m looking forward to getting down to it. The woman has one damn fine body.

I take her head in my hands and try to move her mouth on me the way I want.

She resists with a muffled laugh.

I pull her mouth off me and she looks up, smiling. Takes my breath away for a second. Her hair is a hot mess around her face, just the way I like it—bed-head always makes me want to fuck. Then again, pretty much everything does.

“Let me come, honey,” I say. “There’s plenty more after, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Do I look worried? I know exactly what to expect from a man like you. Who am I?” She flicks her tongue over the swollen head of my dick.

I start to hit it, that’s how close I am, but then she does this twisting thing with her hands and mouth at the same time, and I got needles on my dick.

Pleasure killed by pain.

Velvet of her mouth.

Needles.

It’s starting to chafe more than I like. And I’ve been known to play rough with the right woman. Or three.

“Mistress,” she purrs. “Is it really so much to ask? For what I make you feel?”

I consider. She is blonde with big, beautiful tits. Whole world knows I got a weakness for the combo. That’s how I’d ended up in the boss’s office, leaning back against his desk, leather pants around my ankles, buck-naked brick shithouse between my legs while the bass of Rob Zombie’s Pussy Liquor—and when the hell is she ever gonna give that up? It’s one of my finest skills and I haven’t even gotten the chance to dazzle her—rumbles in the desk beneath my ass, pounding up from one of the sub-clubs below.

I love this place. Definitely one of our better investments.

“I’m giving you the best head you’ve ever had,” she says. “Admit it.”

Not a problem. I say so to every woman that sucks me. Women enjoy doing things they excel at, praise guarantees repeat performances, every repeat performance is more practice for the woman, which guarantees the next man even better head. Given how long I’ve been at this, and on how many continents, I’m pretty sure I’ve single-handedly improved the quality of head around the world.

“Sure, babe, you’re the best. Head. Ever.” Damn close anyway.

“Who am I?” she purrs.

I groan. “The bitch sucking my dick.” We agreed on no names. She asked me to call her bitch downstairs when we were doing shots at the bar. Said it turned her on. Later, with a laugh, she switched it to princess. Now she wants mistress. High maintenance. Some women are worth it.

She cups my balls and squeezes, then begins sucking them with exquisite precision. All the muscles in my abdomen clench and I exhale explosively. I’m beginning to think this might be the best orgasm I’ve ever had. If I ever get around to the bloody fucking thing.

“You really don’t get this, do you?” she says. Laughter tinkles and the hair on the back of my neck feels weird all the sudden. There’s a darkness to the sound that might worry me if she wasn’t so frigging hot.

Speaking of hot, I look down to see sweat running down my six-pack, dripping down my legs. I’m practically standing in a puddle of my own sweat. What the hell did Ry do? Crank up the heat in Chester’s to a hundred? I’m burning up. Lightheaded, like I have a fever. Which is impossible.

“Don’t care. You’re here. I’m here. Do that thing with your tongue again. The swirly thing.”

“I’ll give you a clue,” she says and somehow she’s smiling while she’s sucking and for a second I think I see rows of tiny needle-sharp shark teeth. Not what a man wants to hallucinate with a woman’s hot wet mouth on his dick. I blink and wipe sweat from my eyes. Trick of the light. She has perfect teeth, movie star white, framed to perfection by smears of crimson lipstick, most of which is all over my dick and stomach. Oh, yeah, I’ll take a blonde with cherry red lipstick every day of the week that ends in a ‘y.’ Life is sweet. I laugh.

She cuts me a look then shoves me back on the desk and I’m cold where her mouth was burning, then she’s on top of me, slamming down onto me and I’m pushing up into her. I’m a grenade, pin out. Feels like my whole body is going to hit it, blow apart, come from head to toe. Bloody hell, sex has never been like this. I’m on fire, so frigging hot I’d swear the desk is burning.

Wait a second, it is.

Orange flames are licking up around us, like my sweat is some kind of gasoline sloshed across the lacquered ebony. We must have spilled some tequila. Must have been a candle on the desk. I’m sprawled on my back in fire and can’t even feel it. She leans into me, joins me in the flames, fists her hands in my hair and we kiss.

It’s unfucking real.

I half-expect celestial trumpets to blare. I feel like my skin is melting and we’re merging into each other. Strange shit. But damn, my dick has never felt better.

“Who am I? Is it so difficult to give me such tiny thing? A little respect. That’s all I’m looking for, honey. I can give you so much in return.”

Christ, she sounds just like me, right down to her inflection on the word ‘honey.’ I always get them to call me whatever I want. I’m always in control. Isn’t much I like more than a beautiful woman tied to my bed while I make her come till she passes out. So what’s my problem? Like she says, it’s a small thing. What can one word hurt? It isn’t like letting a woman have the power for a change can bring about the end of my world as I know it, for fuck’s sake.

I open my mouth and suck her tongue deep, grinding in, sliding out. I feel my dick inside her, and I also feel what she’s feeling: Me filling her, giving her all she wants except for this one tiny little thing that is so important to her for some reason. Maybe some man treated her like shit and now she needs to be called Mistress to get back some of her own. Maybe I’m part of the healing. Maybe it’ll make her come as violently as I know I’m going to. I like women. I want them to feel good. It’s practically been my mission in life.

“Who am I?”

I try to shape the word twice and still fail. I’d honestly like to give her what she wants but submission just isn’t the stuff I’m made of.

She clamps down on me and….aw, shit, she squeezes! She has muscles that could milk a herd of Holsteins dry. I buck and nearly get off but then she’s soft again and I get the feeling she could do this all night if she wants. And this crazy babe might just want to.

“Mistress,” I manage to growl. “Now make me come or get the fuck off me ‘cause I’m jacking off.”

“Tell me you want me more than life itself,” she croons, all soft and sultry.

“Sure, honey.” I’ve gone this far. If Ryodan ever finds out I called some babe Mistress, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“Would you die for me?” she asks breathlessly.

I’m beginning to see no matter how hot this woman is, despite her plentiful talents, she has serious-ass issues. Looking for some big strong man to play hero for her. Who the hell isn’t? Every woman downstairs. I excel at the role. And I need to come. Simple enough exchange.

I grab her ass, grind up and drive deep. “Protect you. Rescue you. Guard your frigging honor if you have any left by the time I’m done with you, woman. Now squeeze.”

“But would you die for me?”

I don’t tell her I might kill her if I don’t come soon. I might turn. She’s kept me on the brink too long. I’m getting edgier than is safe with a woman. “Sure, honey. Whatever.” She doesn’t know I can’t. She doesn’t even know my name.

She pulls back and smiles down at me with rows of needle-sharp shark teeth.

Blonde hair darkens to blood-black.

Red lips fade to white. Then ice-blue.

Flames leap up around us. Takes me a second to process—also blue.

Aw, fuck.

I stare up, a little slow to get it.

I’m too close to coming to think real fast. Hell, her tits are too far in my face for me to think real fast.

Unseelie. The bitch is Unseelie. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it. I’m not easy to fool. Well, sans blonde hair and curves enough to happily smother a man.

She’s dark Fae. Twisted buggers, one and all, some more than others.

And she wanted me to call her princess….

Unseelie. Princess.

I narrow my eyes, staring up at her.

Nah.

The dark king never got around to making them. They’re a myth. They don’t exist. Damn good thing, too. The Unseelie Princes are problem enough.

Oh, honey, she purrs in my mind, we certainly do. Trapped in a library for a small eternity. One of yours let us out. Good thing, too. Men have too much power on this world. We will fix that.

“Get the fuck off me.”

You called me Mistress. You said you would die for me. I own you.

I laugh. “Yeah, right. Try pursuing that thought.” I shove her off me but my hands go the wrong way, fly up over my head and abruptly I’m slammed flat on my back, with both wrists manacled to one end of the desk.

Links snake around my throat.

My waist. My ankles.

Fuck me.

I’m chained.

I lunge up testing the links, snarling. Magic doesn’t work on me. Neither does glamour. Yet both seem to be. What the hell is going on?

We are a singular recipe. His final creation. She smiles and there are those frigging shark teeth again.

I’m immobilized, pants at my ankles, dick sticking straight up, and this bitch has shark teeth. I’m beginning to think this might not turn out to be one of my finer nights.

“Say it again,” she says but now she’s all icy, imperious princess. “Who am I?”

No way I’m saying it again.

Ever.

My mouth opens and it says, “Mistress,” offending every goddamn fiber of my being. I think my balls actually shrivel.

She slaps me. Hard across the face.

“I’m going to kill you, you crazy motherfucking bitch,” I say tenderly. My kind doesn’t get loud when we’re about to annihilate. We go soft and gentle. See us like that: worry. She doesn’t know I’m one of the few in existence that can actually make good on that promise. She doesn’t know who or what I am.

She’ll be calling me Master before she dies.

“Who am I?” she says.

I clamp my mouth shut and strain against the Fae compulsion and still my vocal cords grit, “Mistress.”

Oh, yeah, definitely killing her. Ten different ways and slow.

“That’s a good boy, Lor.”

What the fuck, she knows my name?

“Now we’re really going to play,” she purrs.

The scene in Carter’s bedroom from Carter’s point of view
This scene takes place in Chapter 22 of the UK version of the book.



Carter shut his bedroom window with a thump. He needed to concentrate – with everything that had been happening lately, he was miles behind on his class work. If he didn’t catch up Zelazny would give him detention again. But it was after eleven and he’d only just now finished his essay on the War of the Roses.

There was so much left to do,

As he turned with weary resignation to his science assignment the words swam on the page. Rubbing his eyes, he picked up his pen and frowned at the book in front of him. He was writing the first answer onto a clean sheet of paper when something – a tiny movement, or a subtle change in the light – made him look up.

A face – made unnaturally pale by the darkness – stared back at him where nothing should be but sky.

With a startled cry he hurtled himself out of his chair and stumbled backward so fast his chair crashed to the floor.

Clinging to the window frame, Allie watched all this with obvious amusement.

In one quick glance he took in the smooth lines of her oval face and her dark hair swirling in the breeze as she stood on the ledge outside his second-floor window. Her white cotton blouse hung loose from the skirt of her uniform. Her lips curled up at the corners, the way they always did when she was about to laugh at him.

Trying to look cool, he strode back over and unlatched the window.

“What the hell…?”

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered. “Want to come out and play?”

Her words made his heart trip but he kept his expression cynical. “You’re mad. Get inside before you kill yourself.”

As she ducked down to climb through the arched, shutter-style window, her short pleated skirt fluttered against her thighs. He pretended not to notice.

“Katie is such a bitch,” she complained as she clambered across his desk.

Uh-oh. “No argument.”

As she told him what had happened that day she paced his room like a panther in a cage. Watching her, Carter frowned. She was a bundle of nerves. Her hands flew as she gesticulated and her shoes squeaked against the wood floor when she pivoted. Her voice was rich with righteous indignation and hurt.

When she described how Sylvain had intervened that morning with Katie and her friends, his muscles tensed. His hands curled into fists at his side.

What is it with sodding Sylvain? Why is he always in the right place when she needs someone? How does he always manage to be the one?

Suddenly he was as stressed out as Allie. It felt weird to care so much.

If Carter were perfectly honest, he hadn’t really liked her at first. He thought she knew more than she let on – that she was working some angle – a new girl pretending to be ordinary so she could get attention. A faker. But, over time, he’d started to believe she was who she said she was. Everything at Cimmeria seemed to blindside her. She did everything wrong. And her innocence made her vulnerable. So Katie and her friends bullied her and for a long time he’d thought Sylvain was doing the same. But now he wasn’t certain.

It wasn’t like Sylvain to be so persistent.

But lately his own feelings for her were confused. When she smiled at him his heart jumped. When she laughed at his jokes his whole day improved. He tried not to look at her amazing legs… Well. At least she’d never seen him looking.

The only problem was… They were friends. And if they became something else it would ruin their friendship forever. He wouldn’t let that happen.

But she was looking up at him now, blinking those grey eyes that seemed to miss nothing; waiting for him to comment on all that had transpired on her first day as “School Murderer”.

“Look,” he said, “It seems to me there are only two possibilities. Either Katie didn’t spread the first rumour and she’s just taking advantage of it, or she did spread the first rumour and this is all part of her evil plan to get to you. Make people hate you.”

She flinched a little at that.

“I think it’s the latter,” he concluded.

“What should we do?” she asked.

Without asking permission, she sat down on the edge of his bed looking as comfortable as if she were in her own room. With a sigh, she stretched out her legs.

He wished she wouldn’t do that.

“The rumours are intended to cause the most damage possible. This feels like a campaign to get rid of you.”

Her cheeks flushed an angry red as she leaned forward. “Ok, Carter. Enough with secrecy and all that bollocks. It’s time. Tell me about this place.”

He didn’t even have to think about it – he crossed his arms and set his jaw. “Allie you know I can’t….”

“Uh-uh,” she cut him off. “Not this time. Someone died. For all I know, whoever killed Ruth could go after me next. You know things. You are allegedly my friend. You have to tell me.”

When she got angry she had this way of tilting up her chin that was both adorable and threatening – she was doing it right now.

“I can’t. If I did – and if anybody ever found out…” He shook his head. “I just can’t – trust me.”

“How can I trust you if you won’t tell me the truth?” Under her breath she added, “Maybe I should just go ask Sylvain…”

That was too much.

The rush of anger and frustration left him seething. He stalked over to where she sat and leaned over her. He knew it was intimidating. He wanted to intimidate her. She needed to stop seeing Sylvain as an option – he wasn’t good for her.

“Do you want to know what you mean to Sylvain? Well I’ll tell you. Every year he picks a pretty new first-year girl, shags her and dumps her. It’s his thing.” So he was exaggerating; Sylvain didn’t exactly do that. But he came close to it. And she needed to stay away from him. “Each one thinks she’s so special. That’s who you are to him, Allie. His newest, naive conquest.”

“Stop it!” The colour drained from her cheeks and she shoved him hard, jumping to her feet. “If that’s true, why didn’t you ever tell me before, Carter?”

She stood right in front of him; practically touching him. Searching his face as if she could find all the answers there.

His tongue seemed paralysed in his mouth as he stuttered. “I… I… I tried.”

But she wasn’t letting him off that easily. “People say you’re into one-night stands. So… How are you any different than Sylvain?”

That stung. “Are these the same people who say you killed Ruth?”

“Whatever.” She tilted her head to one side. Judging him. “Is what they say about you a lie?”

What could he say? Yes… and no. His thoughts flickered back to Clare’s tear-stained face after he broke up with her last term. The way her friends had circled her as if to protect her from him.

“Yes, Allie,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “It’s a lie. Or at least an exaggeration. Look. I got this… I guess, reputation … because if I go out with someone and I can tell they’re not the right one for me I break up with them right away. I don’t want to hurt anybody, Allie. I really don’t. It’s just, sometimes…”

His voice trailed off. God, I sound so lame.

A long moment passed as she held his gaze. He waited for her to laugh, or shake her head in disgust. But she didn’t move. She was so close he could see the tiny flecks of dark blue in the grey of her eyes, and the way her dark eyelashes curled up at the very ends.

Then, to his surprise, she held up her hand.

“Ok.” Her voice was soft – her words like feathers against his skin. “I believe you.”

Her light scent danced on the air between them. For a second he closed his eyes – breathed it in. Why was she standing so close?

Walk away, Carter, he told himself. Don’t mess this up.

Instead, as if someone else controlled his body, he pressed his palm against hers. The warmth of her skin startled him like an electric charge.

“Thank you,” he heard himself say.

Shut up, Carter, he thought frantically.

“For what?” Her voice sounded small.

“For believing me.”

Her lips quirked up and his eyes were drawn to them. The muscles in his throat constricted.

His fingers entwined with hers.

This is such a bad idea…

He said something – he wasn’t sure what. Just anything that would keep her here, holding his hand.

She said something back but all he could hear was the roar of blood rushing through his veins as he pulled her towards him – now she was so close he could feel her breath soft and warm against his face. She smelled like peppermint and honeysuckle. It made him dizzy.

From here, kissing her was easy – all he had to do was lean forward.

When his lips touched hers she gave a little gasp of surprise. For a second he was so certain she’d pull away he almost let go of her. But then she reached her hands up to his neck and pulled him closer.

Relief flooded over him like cool water as he tightened his arms around her shoulders.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” he whispered.

In reply, her lips parted and she pressed her fingertips hard into the muscles of his back. He tasted the faint salt of her mouth against his tongue as his hands knotted in the fabric of her uniform. He crushed her in his arms.

She was so warm – his body felt hot wherever it touched her. Carter’s head swam as he clung to her. He wanted to pull her so close she could never escape. He wanted to feel her body pressed against his forever.

Slipping his lips across her jaw to her neck, he moved downy tendrils of hair aside to reach the skin behind her ear. When he pressed his teeth against the tender flesh of her earlobe she made a soft sound and his entire body responded – his breath shortened and his heart thudded as if it were trying to escape from his chest.

She was so soft against his body. Soft but strong and eager – her fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled his mouth back to hers. He could get lost in this so easily. Lost in her. Forget about all the awful things that had happened and just think about this. Nobody knew they were together. Nobody was going to walk in on them. And something told him that for whatever reason – maybe for all the wrong reasons – she wasn’t going to be the one to step back.

But one thing held him back: This was Allie.

He had to be careful. It would be so easy to screw things up now. To go too far and ruin it all. To lose her.

To lose everything.

Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her one last time. Then, regretfully, he extracted himself from her arms and backed up until he leaned against the cool wall by the door, where he tried to calm his rapid breathing and stop himself from running back to scoop her up and carry her to his bed, which was right there.

She stayed frozen where he’d left her, her worried gaze locked on his.

He held out his hands. “I hate to do the grown-up thing, but…”

What had happened between them seemed to have lowered her defences – for a brief moment her every emotion was written clearly on her face. At first she looked confused. Then colour stained her cheeks and he knew she was embarrassed.

Holding her gaze steadily, he waited for her to understand that he wasn’t rejecting her. He knew she would. She could always read him like a book.

And after a long second she did. Then she smiled a knowing smile so beautiful she seemed to glow.

“So,” she said. “There’s that.”

Source : http://www.cjdaugherty.com/extras/

Teaser featuring Mac and Barrons !


“Ms. Lane.”

Barrons’ voice is deep, touched with that strange Old World accent and mildly pissed off. Jericho Barrons is often mildly pissed off. I think he crawled from the swamp that way, chafed either by some condition in it, out of it, or maybe just the general mass incompetence he encountered in both places. He’s the most controlled, capable man I’ve ever known.

After all we’ve been through together, he still calls me Ms. Lane, with one exception: When I’m in his bed. Or on the floor, or some other place where I’ve temporarily lost my mind and become convinced I can’t breathe without him inside me this very instant. Then the things he calls me are varied and nobody’s business but mine.

I reply: “Barrons,” without inflection. I’ve learned a few things in our time together. Distance is frequently the only intimacy he’ll tolerate. Suits me. I’ve got my own demons. Besides I don’t believe good relationships come from living inside each other’s pockets. I believe divorce comes from that.

I admire the animal grace with which he enters the room and moves toward me. He prefers dark colors, the better to slide in and out of the night, or a room, unnoticed except for whatever he’s left behind that you may or may not discover for some time, like, say a tattoo on the back of one’s skull.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading,” I say nonchalantly, rubbing the tattoo on the back of my skull. I angle the volume so he can’t see the cover. If he sees what I’m reading, he’ll know I’m looking for something. If he realizes how bad it’s gotten, and what I’m thinking about doing, he’ll try to stop me.

He circles behind me, looks over my shoulder at the thick vellum of the ancient manuscript. “In the first tongue?”

“Is that what it is?” I feign innocence.

He knows precisely which cells in my body are innocent and which are thoroughly corrupted. He’s responsible for most of the corrupted ones. One corner of his mouth ticks up and I see the glint of beast behind his eyes, a feral crimson backlight, bloodstaining the whites.

It turns me on. Barrons makes me feel violently, electrically sexual and alive. I’d march into hell beside him.

But I will not let him march into hell beside me. And there’s no doubt that’s where I’m going.

I thought I was strong, a heroine. I thought I was the victor. The enemy got inside my head and tried to seduce me with lies.

It’s easy to walk away from lies.

Power is another thing.

Temptation isn’t a sin that you triumph over once, completely and then you’re free. Temptation slips into bed with you each night and helps you say your prayers. It wakes you in the morning with a friendly cup of coffee, and knows exactly how you take it.

He skirts the Chesterfield sofa and stands over me. “Looking for something, Ms. Lane?”

I’m eye level with his belt but that’s not where my gaze gets stuck and suddenly my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow and I know I’m going to want to. I’m Pri-ya for this man. I hate it. I love it. I can’t escape it.

I reach for his belt buckle. The manuscript slides from my lap, forgotten. Along with everything else but this moment, this man. “I just found it,” I tell him.

There were three things Wraith did well: hunt, fight, and fuck. He was going to do all three tonight. In exactly that order.

Crouching on the rooftop of a shop run by immigrants who had probably come from such a shitty country that the violence in the streets of Brownsville, Brooklyn, didn't faze them, Wraith waited.

He'd spied the gang members earlier, had scented their aggression, their need to draw blood, and Wraith's own need to do the same stirred. Like any predator, he'd chosen his target with care. But unlike most predators, he didn't go for the weak or the aged. Screw that. He wanted the strongest, the biggest, the most dangerous.

He liked his pint of blood with an adrenaline chaser.

Unfortunately, Wraith couldn't make a kill tonight. He'd already met his one-human-kill-per-month limit set by the Vampire Council, and no way in Sheoul would he go over.

Strange that he was worried about it, given that ten months ago, Wraith had happily gone through his s'genesis, a change that should have made him a monster who operated only on instinct — an instinct to screw as many demon females as possible, with the goal being to impregnate them. An added bonus of the s'genesis, was that male Seminus demons became so focused on their sex drives that they cared little for anything else. But in Wraith's case, he was also a vampire, so killing things was in his blood. So to speak.

Eager to get started with his new life, Wraith had found a way to bring on The Change early. Unfortunately, it didn't change a damned thing. Oh, he wanted to screw and impregnate females, but that was nothing new. The only difference was that now he could impregnate them. Oh, and he also had to shapeshift into the male of their species to do it, because no female on Earth or in Sheoul, the demon realm in the planet's core, would knowingly bed a post-s'genesis Seminus demon. No one wanted to give birth to offspring that would be born a purebred Seminus despite the mixed mating.

So yeah, a few things had changed, but not enough. Wraith still remembered the horrors of his past. He still cared about his two brothers and the hospital they had all started together. Sometimes, he wasn't sure which was worse.

Wraith scented the air, taking in the recent rain, the rancid odors of stale urine, decaying garbage, and spicy Haitian cuisine from the hovel next door. Darkness swirled around him, cloaking him in the shadows, and a cold January breeze ruffled his shoulder-length hair but did nothing to ease the heat in his veins.

He might be the epitome of patience while waiting for his prey, but that didn't mean that inside he wasn't quivering with anticipation.

Because these weren't your typical gangbangers he was hunting. No, the Bloods, Crips, and Latin Kings had nothing on the mercilessly cruel Upir.

The very name made Wraith's lips curl in a silent snarl. The Upir functioned like any other territorial street gang, except those pulling the strings were vampires. They used their human chumps to commit the crimes, to provide blood — and bloodsport — when needed, and to take the falls when the cops busted them. For their service and sacrifice, the humans believed they would be rewarded with eternal life.

Idiots.

Most vampires adhered to strict rules regarding turning humans, and since a vampire was allowed only a handful of turnings in his entire lifetime, he didn't waste them on lowlife gangbangers.

Of course, the gangbangers didn't know that. They played the streets, their fangs-dripping-blood tats and crimson-and-gold gang colors screaming warnings others heeded. No one messed with the Upir.

No one but Wraith.

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

Showtime.

Wraith unfurled to his nearly six feet, six inch height, and then dropped the fifteen feet to the ground, landing right in front of the gang.

"Hey, assholes. 'Sup?"

The leader, a stocky white guy wearing a bandanna wrapped around his bulbous head, stumbled back a step, but hid his surprise behind a raw curse. "What the fuck?"

One of the punks, a short, fat, crooked-nosed troll — not literally a troll, which was unfortunate, because Wraith could have killed him, penalty-free, — drew a blade from his coat pocket. Wraith laughed, and two other punks produced their own knives. Wraith laughed harder.

"The dregs of human society amuse me," Wraith said. "Rodents with weapons. Except rodents are smart. And they taste terrible."

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

Wraith grinned. "You got that right. Only it's your death I wish for." He smashed his fist into the leader's face.

The leader rocked backward, clutching his broken, bleeding nose. The scent of blood jacked up Wraith's temp a notch…and he wasn't alone. The two gangsters at the rear zeroed in on the scent, heads snapping around.

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

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

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

Angry shouts followed him as they gave chase. He slowed, drawing the gangsters in. Nimbly, he leaped on top of a Dumpster and then swung up to a rooftop and waited until they passed. Their fury left a scent trail he could follow blindfolded, but instead, he dropped to the ground, used his infrared vamp vision to see them in the darkest shadows ahead. He hated using any of his vampire skills, including super speed and strength, but vision was the one he truly despised.

Despised, because he hadn't been born with it. Instead, it had come twenty-two years later, with the eyes Eidolon had transplanted into his head nearly eighty years ago. Every time Wraith looked into the mirror at the baby blues, he was reminded of the torture and pain that had preceded the new peepers.

Kicking himself for letting the past distract him, he silently started the hunt. Normally, he'd take out the vamps first, but the troll was just ahead, huffing and puffing and trailing far behind the others.

He pounced, squeezed the breath out of the squat human and left his unconscious body behind a pile of boxes. Next, he tracked the male vamp, who thought he'd gained the upper hand by swinging around behind Wraith.

Wraith feigned distraction, standing in the open beneath the bright glare of a street light as the vamp crept forward. Closer…closer…yes.

Wraith spun, pummeled the massive male with a flurry of fists and feet. The vamp didn't have a chance to throw a single punch, and once Wraith had hauled him into the darkness beneath an overpass, he took him down. With a knee in the male's gut and one hand curled around his throat, Wraith drew a stake from the weapons harness beneath his leather jacket.

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

"Buddy, sometimes I ask myself that same question." He slammed the stake home. Didn't wait around to watch the show as the vampire disintegrated. There was another one to take out.

Anticipation shimmered through his veins as he stalked the female through side streets and alleys. Like the male, she believed she was the one doing the hunting, and Wraith caught her off guard as she crept in the shadows behind a building. He shoved her into the wall, lifting her by the throat so she dangled off the ground.

"This was too easy," Wraith said. "What is the Vamp Council teaching younglings these days?"

"I'm no youngling." Her voice was a low, seductive purr, and even as she spoke, she lifted her legs to wrap them around Wraith's hips. "I'll show you."

The scent of lust came off her in waves. His incubus body responded, hardening and heating, but he'd rather kill himself than screw a vampire — or a human, though he had different reasons for not bedding human females.

He leaned in so his lips brushed her ear, which was pierced all the way around. "Not interested," he growled, but still, she arched against him, affected by his incubus pheromones.

You shouldn't play with your food. Eidolon's voice rang in his ears, but Wraith ignored it the way he ignored pretty much everything his brothers said to him. He had no intention of making a meal of this female.

"Could've fooled me," she said, rolling her hips into his erection.

"Maybe you need some convincing." Wraith pulled back and gave her an eyeful of wooden stake.

Her eyes went wild. "Please…" She swallowed, her throat convulsing beneath his palm. Her body wilted like a dying flower, and that fast the temptress was gone. "Please. Just…do it quickly."

He blinked. He'd expected her to beg for her life. He met her wide, haunted gaze, and slowly, with a sick sense of dread, he shuffled his fingers on her neck. A raised pattern peeked from beneath the collar of her hoodie. Damn.

He shoved his stake into his pocket and tugged her sweatshirt aside to reveal a welted pattern the size of his fist.

A slave mark. Not just any slave mark. The cross-bones brand of Neethul slavemasters, the cruelest of the demon slave traders. This female had been forced to live in hell for gods knew how long. Somehow she'd gained her freedom, probably by escaping…and now she was doing what she had to in order to survive.

She'd suffered. Was probably suffering even now.

Something clawed at his gut, and it wasn't until he lowered her to the ground without realizing it that he identified the strange feeling. Sympathy.

"Go," he said roughly. "Before I change my mind."

She got the hell out of there, and so did Wraith. Rattled by his uncharacteristic display of mercy, he ruthlessly shoved aside the incident. He needed to get back on track. He needed to feed. He needed to cause some pain.

The punks had split up, and one by one, he tracked them down with almost mechanical efficiency until only the leader was left. Somewhere nearby, a gunshot rang out, a familiar sound in this part of the city, so familiar he doubted the cops would even be called.

The leader was ahead, pacing in front of a boarded-up shop front, his voice crisp with agitation as he barked out orders on his cell phone.

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

Red-faced with fury, the leader bolted into an alley after Wraith. Halfway in, Wraith pivoted around. The gangster pulled his gun, but Wraith disarmed him before he could so much as blink. The weapon skidded across the wet pavement as Wraith put the guy's back into a wall and jammed his forearm across the human's thick neck.

"This is disappointing," Wraith drawled. "I expected more of a fight. I seriously wanted to tenderize you before I ate you. When are you guys going to learn that a gun is no substitute for learning hand-to-hand combat techniques?"

"Fuck you," the guy spat.

"Guy like me?" Wraith smiled, leaned in so his lips grazed the guy's cheek. "You. Wish."

An outraged bellow made him smile even more. He inhaled the man's aroma, anger tainted by a tantalizing thread of fear. Hunger roared through Wraith, and his fangs began to elongate. Playtime was over. He sank his teeth into the gangster's throat. Warm, silky blood filled his mouth, and after a couple of spasms, his prey went limp.

Wraith could have used his Seminus gift to fill the guy's head with happy, pleasant visions, but this dude was scum. The things he'd done slapped at Wraith's brain in rapid-fire succession. Sure, Wraith was no angel — though he'd screwed a false one or ten — but with the exception of Aegis Guardians, he didn't harm human women or children.

This guy…well, Wraith wished he hadn't blown this month's kill quota on the Sumatran poacher. Still, tormenting the gangster could be fun. Swallowing the human's alcohol-laced blood with relish, Wraith used his mind power to feed the guy gruesome images of what Wraith would do to him if he ever found out that he'd committed a violent crime again. For the most part he couldn't care less if a human lived or died, but this guy got off on preying on the weak and the old.

There was no sport in that.

Power surged through Wraith, power and adrenaline and flashes of heat lightning under his skin. His dermoire, a history of his Seminus demon paternity, pulsed from the tips of the fingers on his right hand to his shoulder and neck, and all the way to the right side of his face, where the swirling black glyphs marked him as a post-s'genesis Seminus. Humans thought it was a tattoo — some thought it was cool, the rest were appalled.

Humans were so freaking uptight.

His prey's pulse picked up as his heart tried to compensate for the blood loss. Wraith took two more strong pulls, disengaged his fangs, and hesitated before licking the puncture holes to seal the wound. He'd never minded drinking from his victims, but he hated licking them, tasting sweat, dirt, perfume, and worse, their individual essence. Cursing silently, he swiped the holes with his tongue and tried not to shudder, but the shakes wracked his body anyway.

"You should kill him."

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

He released the gangbanger, letting the guy hit the pavement with a thud. In a fluid, easy movement, he faced the newcomer, but too late he saw a flash and a blur, felt the sting of a dart in his throat.

"Shit!" Wraith ripped the dart from his neck and threw it to the ground, even as he charged the guy who had shot him with it. He was going to gut the bastard.

Wraith grabbed for the male's shirt, some sort of burlap tunic, but his fingers only brushed the collar. The guy was unnaturally fast — unnaturally fast for a human. This male was demonkind, species unknown.

The male didn't make a sound as he whispered through the night, moving toward a sewer grate.

Awkwardly, because his left side had begun to weaken, Wraith drew a throwing star from his weapons harness. He hurled it, catching the newcomer in the back.

The male's ear-shattering, high pitched scream rent the night as he fell. Wraith slowed, a sudden sense of dread weighing him down, turning his limbs sluggish and uncoordinated.

He stumbled, attempted to catch himself on the side of a building, but his muscles had turned to water. His vision grew dim, his mouth went dry, and with every breath it felt as if he was taking flames into his lungs.

He tried to reach his cell phone, but his arm wouldn't work. And then his mind wouldn't work, and all went black.