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  “Slayers are chosen from the loners.” Raising his hands, he undid the first few buttons of his shirt. “Do you want the shower first?”

  She wanted to lick her lips, that’s what she wanted to do. The man’s skin stretched golden and strong over that muscular physique, and she could see dark curls of hair in the open triangle of his shirt. Her body tightened . . . expectant, ready.

  Cold shower time.

  “Thanks,” she said, getting up. “I’ll make it quick.”

  Deacon just nodded as she grabbed her gear and hauled ass. The Slayer was delicious, no question about it, but she wasn’t in the market for a lover. Not when she was about to make the biggest decision of her life. A decision that might make her existence even lonelier than Deacon’s.

  Male hunters were macho idiots—and she meant that in the best way—as a rule. Playing second fiddle didn’t come easily. And it didn’t get much more second fiddle than being the Guild Director’s man.

  Deacon finally unclenched the hand he’d fisted the instant he sat down in the chair. Sara Haziz was not the woman he’d been led to expect. Simon had some explaining to do.

  “Brown skin, brown eyes, black hair, my ass,” he muttered under his breath. The woman was an erotic fantasy come to life. Small, curvy, perfect. Gleaming coffee-and-cream skin, hair that probably fell to her waist when released from that tight braid, and brown eyes so big they saw right through him.

  This was not the woman Simon had described as his “sensible successor.” That made her sound about as interesting as shoe leather. It didn’t even hint at the power beneath the surface, the strength in that backbone. He’d met her only a couple of hours ago, and already he knew she could bust balls with the best of them.

  The woman would make a perfect Guild Director.

  Which meant he should keep his hands, and his thoughts, to himself. No sucking on sexy Sara’s neck. Or other parts of her body. The office of Guild Director was a necessarily public one. Deacon didn’t do public.

  “But she’s not director yet.” He tapped a finger on one jean-covered thigh, his eye on the bed.

  He wanted Sara. And he didn’t want lightly. But seducing her wasn’t on the agenda.

  “Keep her safe. She won’t accept a bodyguard, but you can accomplish the same thing by keeping her with you on the hunt.”

  “I work alone.”

  Simon’s face was granite. “Tough. She’s one of my best hunters—she won’t slow you down.”

  “If she’s one of the best, why does she need babysitting?”

  “Because the Cadre knows she’s my chosen successor. I wouldn’t put it past certain archangels to ‘test’ her.”

  Deacon raised an eyebrow. “Were you tested?”

  “They almost killed me.” Blunt words. “It’s tough to win against five old vamps on your own. I survived only because I happened to be with my wife at the time. Two pissed-off hunters against five vamps is much better odds.”

  So here he sat, listening to water cascade in the bathroom as he fantasized about kissing a slow path down Sara’s body. It wasn’t doing anything to lessen his arousal. And if she walked out to find him hard as fucking stone, he knew damn well he’d be spending the night in the corridor outside.

  That, he couldn’t chance—he had to keep her in sight. Simon had been very clear about that. If the archangels planned to test her, they’d do it when they thought her vulnerable. So he’d make sure she never was. Shoving a hand through his hair, he got up and checked the room. It was fairly secure. No outside windows—claustrophobic but safe, no entrances or exits aside from the door—which he jammed shut with a special tool of his own making, and no vents large enough for anything to get through.

  By the time Sara exited the shower wrapped in a fluffy hotel robe, rubbing at her hair with a matching towel, he was confident enough of her safety to go have his own shower. A freezing one. “Christ.” He gritted his teeth and bore the onslaught. Pleasing his cock wasn’t as important as ensuring that the Guild went on.

  He’d asked Simon about that. Why would the archangels potentially sabotage an organization that made their lives a hell of a lot easier?

  “It’s a game,” Simon had said. “They need us, but they’ll never allow us to forget that they’re the more powerful. Attacking me, attacking Sara, isn’t about stopping the Guild—it’s about reminding us the Cadre is watching.”

  Sara heard the water come on and quickly finished drying her hair before picking up her cell. She had no idea what time zone Ellie was in, but her best friend answered after a single ring.

  “Sara,” she said, “do you know what a skill it is to wrap three-feet-tall porcelain vases so they don’t break in transit? And I did it! These gorgeous babies don’t have a scratch on them. Genius, thy name is Elena.”

  “Do I even ask?”

  “They were a gift.” Ellie sounded delighted. “They’ll look perfect in my living room. Or maybe one in the bedroom, one in the living room.”

  Ellie’s preoccupation with her décor struck a familiar chord in Sara. Hunters made nests. It was a response to the fact that they spent so much time on the road, and in the gutter. Sara was worse than most—she loved her parents but they were feckless hippies at best. She’d gone to ten different schools by the time she was seven. A solid, stable home was as necessary to her as breathing. “Can’t wait to see them.”

  “You sound funny.”

  “I met the Slayer.”

  A pause. “No shit.” The whistle was a long one. “Scary?”

  “Oh yeah. Built like a tank.” If Deacon ever came after her, she’d have to make sure he never got within punching distance. A single hit with one of those big fists and her neck would snap. “Ellie, there’s a hunter going around killing vampires.”

  “Fuck.” Elena’s voice changed, became darker. “You’re hunting him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m in New York, landed a few hours ago. I can be on the next flight.”

  Sara was already shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s going on yet.”

  “You can’t go after him alone.”

  “I’m not. Deacon’s with me.”

  “The Slayer?” Her relief was open. “Good. Look, Sara, I’m hearing things.”

  “What?”

  “All of us know you’ve got Simon’s position anytime you want. But I had a conversation with a high-level vamp on the plane home and he knew your name.”

  Simon had warned her of this. “The Cadre takes an interest in the next Guild Director.”

  Elena’s silence was long. “I know you can’t run and hide from this, so I’ll just say—be damn careful. The archangels aren’t anything close to human. I wouldn’t want to be within ten feet of one.”

  “I don’t think any of them will bother to personally check me out—probably send some of their vampires to have a look.” And she knew how to handle vampires.

  “Lucky you have the Slayer with you. Serious manpower when you need it.” A faint pinging sound came over the line. “Gotta go. I think the takeout’s arrived.”

  Hanging up, Sara stared at the phone. Yes, it was lucky, wasn’t it, that Deacon had shown himself to her when he spent most of his time in the shadows. And how very convenient that she’d been posted on a hunt to the very city where the serial killings were taking place. Eyes narrowed, she waited.

  Chapter Three

  Deacon walked out a couple of minutes later, dressed in nothing but a pair of jeans. Her hormones danced. Damn near did the foxtrot. She refused to join in. “Simon sent you.”

  To his credit, he didn’t bother to deny it. “Two birds. One stone.” Grabbing a fresh T-shirt from his duffel, he pulled it over his head. “You know it’s the right decision.”

  The fact that he sounded so coolly logical made her want to shoot him with the crossbow just to make a point. “The Guild Director can’t be seen as weak.”

  “She also can’t be seen as stupid.” Intractable will in those midnig
ht-forest eyes.

  Putting down the cell she’d been squeezing half to death, she dug out a brush and began to pull it through her hair. “Tell me about the killer. Is there any chance it could be an impostor?”

  He didn’t say anything for several seconds, as if not trusting her sudden capitulation. “Yes. But as of right now, I have three possibles—all hunters. We’ll visit them one by one.”

  “Tonight?”

  A small nod. “I figure we give it four hours, enough time for the killer to relax his guard.”

  “Why didn’t you follow him after he hit Rodney?”

  “There was no visible trail.”

  She snorted. “And your job is to babysit me.”

  “Babysitting you isn’t what I want to do.” Quiet, intense words, stroking over her skin like living velvet. “But since taking you to bed is out of bounds, I’m stuck with babysitting.”

  Heat exploded across her skin, a raw, dark fire. “What makes you think I’d let you within a foot of me?” Her voice held the rough edge of desire, but it could as easily have been anger.

  “What makes you think I’d ask nice?”

  “Try anything and I’ll cheerfully gut you with your own knife.”

  Deacon smiled. And it turned him from sexy to devastating. “This’ll be fun.”

  But four hours of fitful sleep later, she was in no mood to play. Pulling on her gear before joining Deacon in the corridor, she adjusted her crossbow and set her jaw. “I don’t like the fact that we’re hunting one of our own.”

  Silence.

  She glanced at him as they walked down to the garage, and saw nothing. No expression. No emotion. No mercy. In that moment, he was the Slayer. “How many have you had to kill?”

  “Five.”

  She blew out a breath at the single precise word, and opened the door to the stairs. No point in making hotel security crazy by being caught on the elevator cameras armed to the teeth. “Why you?”

  “It has to be someone.”

  She understood all about that. “I never wanted to be Guild Director.”

  “That’s why you were chosen—you’ll do what the director is meant to do.”

  “As opposed to?”

  He exited first, and she knew it was a gesture of protection. Annoying, but on the scale of annoyances, minor.

  “You know about Paris. They had that director a few years ago who politicked himself into the position. Almost got all his hunters killed, he was so busy grandstanding.”

  Sara nodded and headed to the bike, their chosen method of transport tonight. “I always wondered how that could’ve happened.” Hunters were a tough, forthright lot as a whole. Slick made them suspicious.

  “Some people say he struck a deal with a powerful cabal of vampires, that they influenced the vote.”

  Very old vampires were rumored to have mind-control abilities, and one of Sara’s more important qualifications for the position of Guild Director was that she had a natural immunity to all vampiric abilities. Like Ellie and the other hunter-born, she’d always been meant for the Guild. “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

  “Don’t be so sure—he hasn’t been seen since he was deposed.” Handing her a spare helmet, he watched as she put it on, then settled his own. “Can you hear me?”

  She nodded, realizing the helmets were miked. “Where’re we going first?”

  “Timothy Lee. He’s shorter than Rodney described, but Rod was traumatized. We can’t trust his recollection.”

  She was about to reply when she suddenly knew they were no longer alone in the garage. Already straddling the bike behind Deacon, she looked across to the door they’d used to exit the stairs and saw a vampire. She had no need to ask if Deacon had made him, too—the Slayer had gone motionless the same instant she had.

  Meeting the vampire’s gaze, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. He was an old one, his power so potent it thickened the air until she could barely breathe. When he didn’t say anything, she decided to remain silent, too. Deacon started the bike and backed out of the space. “Watch him,” he said into the mike.

  As he turned the motorcycle, she twisted her head to keep the vamp in sight.

  The tall, dark-haired male didn’t so much as blink as they drove out of the garage.

  “Games,” she muttered. “They’re letting me know I’m being watched.”

  “Testing your strength.”

  “You know, I can see their point—can you imagine what would happen to the world if any of the major chapters had a weak director?”

  “Paris,” Deacon said again.

  She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “What was his name—Jarvis?”

  “Jervois.”

  “Right.” Jervois’s weakness had led to a disorganized European Guild. Vampires had taken immediate advantage. Most had simply escaped, planning to lose themselves into the world. But a few . . . “Several vamps gave in to bloodlust. The news reports said the streets ran with blood.”

  “They weren’t far wrong. Paris lost ten percent of its population within a month.”

  Put in such finite terms, the horror of it was chilling. “Why didn’t the angels step in?” In her native New York, Raphael ran the show, and as far as Sara knew, no bloodlust-ridden vampire had ever set foot in the city. Since that was statistically impossible, obviously Raphael had taken care of any problems with such flawless efficiency no one had heard so much as a murmur.

  “Word is”—Deacon’s voice turned cold—“Michaela decided the humans needed a lesson in humility.”

  Michaela was one of the more visible archangels, a stunning beauty who enjoyed attention enough to pose for the human media on occasion. “I think that one,” Sara said, “would be happy to push us all back to a time where she’d be looked upon as a goddess.”

  “There are a lot of people even now who see the angels as God’s messengers.”

  “What about you?”

  “Another species,” he said. “Maybe they’re what we’ll become sometime in the next million years.”

  It was an interesting hypothesis. Sara didn’t know what she thought. Angels had been around since the earliest cave paintings. There were as many explanations for their existence as there were stars in the sky. And if the angels knew the truth, they weren’t telling. “So, why Timothy Lee?”

  “He’s been in the city during every one of the murders, he’s capable of doing the job—”

  “We’re all capable.”

  “Yes. So that wouldn’t matter as much, but Timothy’s a very dedicated hunter. He sees it not as a job, but as a calling.”

  “Is he hunter-born?” Having been best friends with Ellie for so many years, she knew that for those born with the ability to scent-track vampires, entering the Guild was less a choice than a compulsion.

  “No. But he worships the hunter-born.”

  “Not healthy, but not psychopathic either.”

  Deacon nodded. “That’s why he’s one of three. The other two have their own little idiosyncrasies but all hunters are strange to some degree.”

  “You’ve met Ashwini, haven’t you?”

  She heard him choke. “Met isn’t quite the right word. She shot me the first time we came into contact.”

  “Sounds about right.” She grinned, but it didn’t last long. “If it is one of these three, you’ll execute him?”

  “Yes.”

  “No police?”

  “I’m authorized to do this. The law will never become involved.” A pause. “They’re glad we police ourselves. Hunters who turn bad have a way of upping the body count.”

  “Like vampires.”

  He didn’t say anything, but she felt his agreement in the tense stillness of his body. Eerily quiet, the night seemed to discourage further conversation, and they rode in silence until Deacon pulled over to the side of a still, dark street. “We’ll go on foot from here.”

  Stowing her helmet alongside his, she followed him as he led her down the str
eet and to a chain-link fence. She frowned. “This looks like a junkyard.”

  “It is.”

  Okay, that was truly odd. Hunters almost never lived in crappy places. They were paid very well for sticking their necks out chasing vampires who might just tear those necks off. “To each his own.”

  “He has a hellhound.”

  She thought she’d heard wrong. “Did you say hellhound?” Visions of red eyes pulsing in a miasma of sulfur danced through her head. Then the pitchforks started circling.

  “Big, black thing, probably bite your hand off if you look at it wrong. Timothy calls it Lucifer’s Girl.” He took something from his pocket. “Tranquilizer dart.” Then he was gone, and if she hadn’t seen it, she’d never have guessed he could move that fast.

  She stayed with him, both of them scrambling over the chain link to land with hunter silence on the other side. There was no bark, nothing to alert them they’d become prey—Lucifer’s Girl came out of the darkness like a raging whirlwind. Sara ducked instinctively, and the dog’s body jumped over hers . . . to meet the clearly rapid-acting tranquilizer in Deacon’s hand. Instead of allowing the dog to fall, Deacon caught its muscled weight and lowered it gently to the ground.

  “You like her,” Sara said, incredulous.

  Deacon stroked the dog’s heaving sides. “What’s not to like? She’s loyal, and she’s strong. If I have to execute Timothy, she’ll miss her master.”

  “You’d adopt her, wouldn’t you?” She shook her head. “There go your chances of ever again getting a girl.”

  He raised his head, looking at her in that intent way of his. “Not a fan?”

  “She’s got nine-inch fangs.” Only a slight exaggeration. “A woman would have to love you an incredible amount to put up with that kind of competition.” She jerked her head toward the building on the other side of the mountain of scrap metal and God knew what else. “Yes?”

  “Let’s go. Tranq will keep Lucy out for a while.”

  Lucy?

  They took their time finding a path through the junk, checking for booby traps in the process. When they finally reached the tumbledown shack that Timothy called home, it was to discover the place empty. A little breaking and entering later, they were inside, but saw nothing even close to a smoking gun. The fact that Tim wasn’t home meant nothing—hunters kept irregular hours as a rule.