Hunter's Prey Read online

  As she lost the contents of her stomach, Torres dealt with the necro she had left blinded from the garlic water, removing its head with a clean slice. “Buck up.” Although insensitive, the words weren’t delivered harshly. He even patted her shoulder as he walked by. “There are more where those came from.”

  With a nod, pretending a certainty in the mission of exterminating necros she hadn’t felt for some time, Shaun helped him examine the rest of the room, determine it was clear, mark the door, and move on down the hall. As she followed him, she tried to push aside the doubts crowding her mind, doubts that had crept in more with each passing day that brought her closer to exterminating them. Telling herself her second thoughts came from experiencing the necros’ deaths firsthand didn’t explain the doubts she’d had before entering the mansion. The necros’ fear had shaken her, but she should have expected that. Like any beast, they were driven by the survival instinct. It didn’t mean anything. Not really. She wasn’t still questioning having devoted six years of her life training to wipe out the necros, who posed a threat to humans’ way of life. Was she? Not because of that incident. It must just be aftermath or reaction fueling her doubts, she decided, trying to push the thoughts from her mind. She had to continue with the mission, to prove to herself she had made the right decision in becoming an agent.

  At the next door, a chill touched her spine, and she hesitated, wanting to tell Torres not to open the door. Something was on the other side, and she didn’t want to face it, but knew not to express her fears to her partner. He would rightfully dismiss them as nerves.

  He checked the knob and opened the door upon finding it unlocked. Her sense of danger increasing with each step, she couldn’t help feeling they were making a mistake as she followed him into the room.

  The darkness was absolute. Their lights didn’t cut through any of it. It was so thick it settled on her skin like a cloying caress. The coldness in the air made the hairs on her neck stand up. The quality of gloom indicated it wasn’t natural. “Torres?”

  “Relax, O’Grady.” He sounded as unflappable as always.

  “I don’t like this. I think we should ...” Get the hell out of here right now. “Call for backup.”

  “Just calm down and switch to your night scope.”

  Maintaining a tight grip on the rifle, Shaun used one hand to flip down the eyepiece on her helmet. The scope was supposed to magnify any ambient light by 80,000, but the room remained as purely black as it had been before. She flipped the useless scope back up, removing it from her line of sight. “Now what?”

  “We just need to --” He broke off suddenly, with only a tiny gasp of air.

  She reached out in front of her. Her hand brushed flesh. Cold, cold flesh. Arms came around her, locking her into an embrace as solid as steel. Shaun screamed. “Torres?!”

  “He will not answer.”

  The whispery voice of the necro caused shivers to course down her spine -- shivers not solely inspired by fear. The husky male pitch made heat pool in her stomach, and her limbs went numb.

  He was mesmerizing her. There wasn’t another explanation. She tried to school her body to resist, but melted against her captor when he lifted her into his arms. Shaun realized there was another necro in the room as he stepped up beside her captor. Although she wouldn’t have thought her fear could reach any greater heights, it swelled into a ball filling her throat. Short gasps were all she could manage.

  They strode into the hallway, and the thick gloom dissipated for just an instant, allowing her to see her captors’ handsome countenances. Black hair framed the face of one, and caramel-brown curls distinguished the other. The darkness of their hair served to emphasize the paleness of their skin, although it was flushed with a hint of pink. Torres’s blood had given them that glow, no doubt.

  Caught up in a mind-haze, she struggled for a rational thought. They moved up flights of stairs, one after another. Finally, they exited through the attic and stepped onto the roof. Sunlight seared her eyes, and the jolt brought a return of reasoning. Shaun held her breath, waiting for the necros to burst into flames. After a moment, she moaned her fear. The intelligence had been wrong. There were two masters in attendance. How could they have missed it?

  “Come, Armand, let us depart. We have what we came for, and there is nothing we can do for the younglings.” Was it the brown-haired one who spoke? She couldn’t be sure.

  “I know, Foster.” The necro holding her tightened his grip. “Damn your Agency for your persecution.”

  Her mind grew hazy again, and it took several minutes to realize they were flying. A scream rose in her throat, but emerged as little more than a mewl of terror when she looked down. Terrified he would drop her, she gripped the arms of the necro holding her in his arms.

  Ignoring her reaction, he flew on, his companion nearby. As they traveled via levitation, not true flight, Shaun wondered if it wouldn’t be better to have the necro drop her. It might be a more appealing end than whatever they would do to her once they reached a safe lair.

  Chapter Two

  At some point in their journey, rain fell in torrents, drenching them, and bringing a tiny measure of awareness to Shaun, enough so she could see where they were going. Not that it helped much to see the gray sky of the late afternoon or the ground whizzing by far below. All it did was make her dizzy to look down, and she closed her eyes, her heart hammering with fear.

  “I won’t drop you.”

  She gasped at the reassuring words issued from her subjugator. Surprised he would bother to try to soothe her fear, surprised even more that his words did calm her somewhat, Shaun closed her eyes tighter.

  It wasn’t until her feet touched ground that Shaun’s eyes opened again, her head still fuzzy, but her eyes were able to focus. The feel of solid earth underneath her boots restored lucidity enough to allow her to blearily examine the modest Mediterranean-style two-story house where they had touched down. The terra cotta tiles on the roof were barely visible against the hazy skyline, and the beige façade had a gray tinge. Despite being perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific, the house seemed depressing and gloomy.

  While the one she tentatively identified as Foster walked up the porch, digging a key from his pocket, she writhed against the man holding her, finding mental clarity brought a return of defiance. Shaun grunted with the effort, but his iron hold remained unbreakable. She sensed his amusement with her struggles and stopped resisting, determined not to provide the necro with entertainment. Also, she wanted to conserve her strength so she could be ready to escape when the opportunity presented itself. She clung to the thought of escape, the possibility like a lifeline that kept her from falling into a sobbing heap.

  Armand herded her up the steps and through the door Foster had opened. Inside, black shutters covered the windows, making what would have already been a dim interior because of the rainy weather too dark for her eyes to make out details. She could see large shapes she guessed were furniture, but didn’t have time to dwell on them when Armand moved her up the stairs, nudging her when she dug in her heels.

  “Shall I carry you, ma belle?”

  The underlying threat in his smooth voice, spiced with a French accent, propelled her forward, up the staircase. He pressed against her from behind, and each flex and bunch of his muscles heightened her awareness of his physical power. Warmth pooled in her stomach as the constant contact made her nipples harden. Shocked at her reaction, she stumbled to a halt near the top of the stairs, and Armand caught her, bringing her close to his body.

  For a long second, she was tempted to melt into his embrace, but the reality of how different he was kept her from doing so. His skin was much cooler than hers, much cooler than it should have been, even accounting for the time they had spent in the cold rain. She shivered from being pressed so close to a necro. That shiver ignited more, reminding her how cold she was.

  “The room is ready?” Foster asked, having preceded them up the stairs.

  “Yes
. It has been for a long while.”

  On the landing, Shaun put an inch or two of space between herself and Armand, just enough to allow her mind to clear. He must be mesmerizing her to cause these reactions. Necro sapiens had powerful mental abilities and could project sexual magnetism their prey would find irresistible. But why would he bother? He didn’t need to lure her; he’d already caught her. All three of them knew she would not be a match for two master vampires when they were ready to feed on her.

  Foster unlocked a door with a key he took from his pocket. He pushed it open, and Armand propelled her forward. Shaun’s mouth turned as dry as the desert as they passed through the doorway. Heavy shutters on the interior of the windows filtered out most of the daylight, but she realized it was a bedroom. Panic filled her as photos of feedings she had seen during her training days paraded through her mind. Visions of herself sprawled across the sheets, soaking them red with her blood, renewed her determination to escape.

  Armand approached the bed, and her heart raced in her ears. He seemed oblivious to her kicking and writhing, continuing to move forward purposefully. In a last-ditch effort to avoid having him pin her to the bed, she latched onto his wrist with her teeth.

  With a casual motion, he broke free of her mouth and dropped her onto the bed, where she landed with a harsh exhalation. The softness of the mattress broke her fall, and she bounced slightly, looking up at him. Her vision blurred, as if she were dazed. He loomed over her, and a different vision filled her mind -- of him coming down onto the bed beside her, to explore every inch of her body. Not with the intention of feeding, but of bringing them both pleasure.

  She swallowed audibly, trying to erase the image from her mind, not wanting the necro to sense her emotions.

  Armand turned away from her to stride back to the door, and Foster stepped into the hallway seconds before he did. Somehow, she broke her paralysis upon realizing they were going to lock her in. The thought panicked her anew. She couldn’t stand to be confined in this dark space, with only thoughts of what they planned to do to her for company. She raced to the door, reaching it just as the lock clicked. In her mind, she could picture Armand removing the key and placing it in his pocket.

  Loneliness and fear coupled to make her legs weak, and she sank into a crouch on the floor, squinting at the knob in the gloom, hoping it would turn.

  After some time, the coldness penetrated, and she blinked, wondering why she was sitting on the floor like a faithful dog awaiting its master. She should be trying to escape this room and get away before the sun went down, when the necros attained full strength.

  With that thought in mind, she got to her feet, still feeling shaky, and took stock of her weapons. They hadn’t taken her belt or vest, so she still had possession of her sword, garlic water sprayer, and crucifix, which might or might not be effective, depending on whether or not they believed in -- and feared -- a religious origin for vampirism instead of a purely biological explanation. She’d lost the Beretta, and the rifle was no doubt in the room where the necros had ambushed her and Torres.

  Her determination renewed by thoughts of what might have happened to her partner, Shaun examined the door first, checking the strength of the hinges, thickness of the wood, and durability of the lock. All were quality products, making the door an impenetrable barrier without either the key to the lock or an ax to break through the thick oak. She could try hacking at it with the sharp blade of the katana, but it would be futile, and the necros would come running before she could make any progress.

  Shaun moved on to the windows filling one wall. The metal shutters groaned with resistance when she tried to open them, but she persisted, straining to roll them up. One side moved a couple of inches, but refused to go higher, and the other shutter wouldn’t budge at all. Either they were rusted solid from disuse, or the necros had done something to prevent her from opening the blinds.

  The only other door in the room led to a modest bathroom with no windows. She closed the door and returned to the main bedroom, frustrated by her lack of progress. The room might as well have been a fortress.

  Needing time to think, Shaun went to the bed, stripping back the heavy comforter and sitting down cross-legged. Scooping off the helmet, she tossed it aside. The sound of tinkling glass indicated the miners’ light had broken. What did it matter? The helmet was useless to protect her. Feeling a hint of self-pity, she brought the quilt up to her chin and huddled under it while her mind raced, trying to find a plausible means of escape from two master vampires.

  * * * * *

  Shaun jerked awake suddenly, roused by a noise that shattered the silence. She straightened to look around the room, wincing at the crick that had developed in her neck when she dozed off with her chin on her chest under the warmth of the comforter.

  The sound came again, and she sat up. The scrape of the key in the lock. With speed motivated from fear, she sprang from the bed, hand on the hilt of her sword, waiting to draw until the sound of the door opening would muffle he weapon coming from its sheath. When the lock clicked, she drew the sword, moving silently to the doorway. A brown head appeared, prompting her to swing with all her strength. Rage washed through her, giving strength to the arc of her sword. She wanted to see the necro fall under her sword.

  The blade lodged into his neck, sending blood spewing from the gaping wound. Instead of delight, horror filled her, killing her rush of bloodlust in an instant.

  Dishes clattered to the floor as Foster intercepted the sword, keeping her from going deeper. Shaun could have told him he didn’t need to bother. The sight of his blood and pain-contorted face made her freeze, unable complete the kill. The blade was sharp enough, but she was too weak. Maybe not physically, but definitely emotionally.

  Sweat made her hands slick, and she released the sword, taking a wary step back. She blotted her palms on her tight black pants, her gaze pinned on Foster. He appeared calm, despite the blood pouring from his wound. His movements were economical when he withdrew the sword, casting it over his shoulder into the hallway.

  Training urged her to move, and she struck before he had fully recovered, launching herself at him. Shaun punched him in the solar plexus, pleased by the whoosh of air leaving him. Then she frowned, wondering why a necro would have air in his diaphragm.

  He slumped forward, his face chalk-white. Shaun seized the advantage by striking him with the full force of her body, planning to knock him to the floor so she could slip by and hopefully from the house before Armand could stop her.

  As she had planned, Foster sprawled across the floor, but she had underestimated his strength. He latched onto her, and she struggled futilely in his grasp. Losing her balance, she stumbled and fell on top of him, straddling him in an indecent fashion, frozen with shock.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Her head jerked up, her eyes taking in the dark presence of Armand gliding into the room. Even in a red cashmere sweater and khakis, he looked old-world. He carried himself with the air of an ancient one. Shaun renewed her struggles to escape, but Foster held her easily. One could hardly tell his strength was recently depleted. Already, the wound had mostly healed, save for a trickle of blood, barely visible in the crimson smears adorning his neck.

  “Apparently, our guest isn’t hungry.”

  At his words, she jerked her gaze from Foster’s hazel eyes to the contents of the tray he had dropped when she attacked him. Her eyes widened when she saw a plate and normal food scattered over the hardwood floor.

  With graceful movements, Armand joined them, standing just behind Shaun. His fingertips hovered on her shoulders, and they might as well have been lead weights holding her down, because she couldn’t move.

  He crouched lower, bringing his mouth close to her ear. His gaze was focused on Foster, but his words seemed aimed toward her. “You must be now, Foster, since she nicked you.”

  A wicked grin slowly curved across Foster’s mouth, and his hazel eyes sparkled with enough sexual heat to make Shau
n swear the temperature had just risen a few degrees. “Yeah, I’m starving.”

  “You were to have a reprieve before we made use of your resources, but you have changed our intent.” Armand didn’t sound at all regretful as he pressed against her upper back, pushing her forward.

  Foster’s mouth neared her neck, making Shaun whimper. Until that moment, it had been abstract that her chosen profession could mean her life. What had she been thinking? If she could do it all again, she would go back to culinary school and work weekends in her parents’ chain of successful restaurants.

  Her eyes widened when Armand stopped nudging her forward. She was at an awkward angle, and a gasp escaped her when Foster’s erection swelled against her pussy, her tight-fitting black pants providing little barrier from his denim-clad cock.

  Armand repositioned her, tilting her hips back so her pussy cradled Foster’s shaft. His fingers nimbly disposed of her vest, and he tossed it aside with an air of disdain.

  A moan escaped her when he crouched behind her, cupping her breasts. Confusion swirled through her, along with guilt prompted by the physical reaction of her body. Her nipples hardened under his caresses, becoming sensitive to the lightest touch.

  While Armand fondled her breasts, Foster reached for her hips, and he pulled her tightly against him so he could rub his cock against her clit. How he found it so unerringly through the fabric was a mystery she contemplated for all of a second, before pleasure washed away her ability to reason.

  When Armand tugged at the hem of her shirt, Shaun made a feeble attempt to stop him. Foster captured her hands, and he refused to relinquish his hold when she tried to pull away. The material inched up, followed by Armand’s palm against her flesh, his skin surprisingly warm where it pressed into her belly, before sliding higher.