Entr’acte
Glynn Rhys-Jenkins glided through the night shadows, silently, like the dangerous beast he was. His hands were relaxed, ready. Though three of the vampires had been shipped back to Chicago by Elena Strongwell and her vampire husband, one had escaped. That one, the one who’d captured Dumas, was arguably the most dangerous.
Glynn hunted the bastard now.
Good thing Mishela was safe at Emerson’s, because the hunt wasn’t easy. The rogue had disguised his scent by wearing pungent human clothes. He’d strewn the trail with distractions and red herrings. He’d even waded across the Meiers River at its highest point.
Glynn sloshed through the river now, gritting his teeth. Running water, a body-sized gag buzzer for vampires. As jags sang through his system, he blocked them by dint of long training. The buzz, annoying as it was, would only get worse with age. By the time he was ancient, he’d be so sensitive he’d have to train half the day to cope with his raw animal self. He wondered how Elias managed.
In Glynn’s pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He splashed onto the far bank, blew into mist and let the water fall through. Relaxing his concentration, his body snapped together, clothes now dry. For some reason it reminded him of the first time he’d misted, when he’d snapped back naked with his clothes in an embarrassing heap at his feet.
The phone was still buzzing. He dug it from his pocket and thumbed it live. Speak of the devil. “Limited progress, sir. The trail’s…obscured.”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling.” Elias’s cave-deep voice was disturbingly potent, even over the phone’s tiny speaker. “Your quarry is aware that you’re a tracker.”
Which explained the human clothes and water trick. Glynn snarled. “How? Is there a traitor?”
“Not exactly. Mishela has been boasting of your prowess.”
Glynn rumbled his disapproval.
Elias made a clicking sound, an aural shrug. “She is young. She will learn. It does tell us the vampire is closely involved with the show.”
Which narrowed it down—to several dozen people. Including one who smelled like heaven and made his fangs ache to taste her. That mind-blowing kiss… He shook himself, annoyed. He avoided humans in general and snippy little immune humans in particular. “Perhaps the vampire has a human minion in the show, sir. One of the cast or crew…or pit orchestra.”
“You have someone specific in mind, Rhys-Jenkins?”
“I don’t. Well, maybe.” He cleared his throat. “Junior Stieg was with us both times we were attacked.”
“Unrelated. You told me she’s immune to mind-control. Ergo, not a minion.” A beat. “It does make her a potential mate.”
“Not for me.” Glynn throttled back a growl. “She has no appreciation for home. I find her attitude irritating.”
“I see.”
Only Elias could imbue two simple words with such heavy sarcasm. Glynn blew air in frustration. “Sir, if I could get back to the point. Two attacks by rogues. Intel from the Watch indicates they’re related to the show, but not how. Did tonight’s trio talk before Strongwell shipped them back to their masters?”
“They talked. Strongwell can be quite…motivational. But they didn’t know anything.”
“Cock.” Glynn fought not to grind his teeth. “They may be after anything from kidnapping Mishela to simply disrupting the show.”
“Perhaps the escaped rogue will know more.”
The call ended.
As Glynn clapped the phone shut, the tips of his fangs extruded, pricking his lower lip. The rogue who attacked tonight could have taken Dumas by mistake, could have really been after Mishela…or even Junior.
The last thought pushed him to prowl the riverbank, seeking the rogue’s scent. Elias was right—Junior’s immunity made her a potential mate, attractive to many of his kind. Not him, of course. He could never live with someone so unappreciative of home and family. True, she was immune. True again, as both businesswoman and artist, she had depths to fascinate a male for many centuries.
But she was not for him. No matter how…heavenly, sublime, incredible…good she smelled. No matter that he ached to taste her. He would never drink from her. Though the thought of anyone drinking from her other than him…
He spun away from the bank, stalked toward the nearest bridge. The trail had gone cold.
Bollocks. What did he do now? He couldn’t think. His two problems—who was stalking the show and for what purpose, versus what to do about his attraction…need, lust…for Junior—were jamming his brain.
He knew he had to set the attraction aside and focus on the job. It was hard. No attraction had ever been this bad. He glided along at the deceptively fast pace of his kind and reminded himself that protecting Mishela was his first priority. He should concentrate on that.
Right. Decision made.
If only Junior weren’t so wrong for him. He’d grown up without a real home, had spent the rest of his eight hundred years trying to recreate one. And here she was, just a score and handful of years on this earth with the very things he craved. Home. Family. Love…
Enough. Job at hand. Mishela. The attacks.
It was just that Junior smelled so incredible. The softness of her lips, her sweet skin, her plush labia becoming slick with arousal…
His brain wasn’t worth a sheep’s fart. Fine. He wasn’t going to resolve anything tonight, not about the attacks and especially not about Junior. He headed for Emersons.
With the uncomfortable feeling that not deciding about Junior might be a decision in its own right.
