Bite Deep (3 page)

Jericho sighed. He'd hoped the brawl last time would be the end of the matter, but it seemed the Slayers wanted to poke the hornet's nest one more time and that was a shitstorm he didn't need. He watched the Slayers make eyes at Reaper and Frost playing pool at the back of the bar and knew from the way they carried themselves that a fight was inevitable.

Jericho tapped a couple of fingers against his empty glass, thick platinum rings clinking, blisters stinging. The Dusty Roads Saloon had a reputation for being a rough bar, but he had strict rules about fighting. The rehab centre was mostly funded by charity donated by wealthy Breed families, those with pure lines who saw themselves as a class higher than the unfortunate souls who got infected with the virus through a bite.
Mutts
was the term the full-blooded families used. Jericho knew this because he'd been called it often enough in the royal court when he'd served as an Enforcer. But the King he'd served had not allowed this bigotry to cloud his judgement, and he'd seen something special in Jericho when he'd applied for the role of Enforcer. He'd gotten the job and the King's kindness, along with his indifference to Jericho's position as a mutt, was something he'd never forget.

Of course, the money donated was never enough and the shortfall was made up by what the bar brought in, with pocket change from Turk's tattooing business attached to the side of the bar, and Reaper's appearances in cage-fight gigs that popped up around the region. With nearly twenty-five mouths to feed back at the compound, every dollar was accounted for, so it was important people felt they could walk out alive from the bar. More important still, they came back with friends.

Two women with hair teased high and skirts too short stumbled up to the bar, looking like they were reluctant to call it a night. Their hips swayed to Jimi Hendrix wailing out of the jukebox, and one of the women gave Jericho a pointed look with hungry eyes. She stepped over and draped a hand on his shoulder, smiling with lipstick-smeared teeth, breath a wash of sour wine.

‘Buy you a drink?'

‘Not tonight.' Jericho shifted away and her hand dropped. Disappointment pulled the corners of her mouth and her bottom lip stuck out, as if she thought pouting would change his mind.

He put his empty glass down on the bar and stepped away. He had other things on his mind, and a random fuck out the back of the bar wasn't one of them. Though some release of the tension might have been welcome, violence permeated the air, drawn from the burning looks the Slayers were throwing Reaper and Frost. He needed to stay sharp. His gaze narrowed when one of the Slayers made a show of standing, hitching jeans up under a hanging beer belly. With a smirk, he sauntered over to Reaper and tapped the big man on the shoulder. Reaper turned slowly, brow furrowed, as the Slayer spoke to him in a low voice. Soon the two men were arguing.

Jericho felt a trickle of surprise that Reaper was talking at all. A born brawler with a body covered in some serious ink after a prison stint, he was a natural as the club's sergeant-at-arms, physical violence as instinctive to him as breathing. Jericho supposed his warnings about fighting with civilians had finally sunk through Reaper's stubborn skull. He watched as thick cords popped out on Reaper's neck, shifting the sinister tattoos of skulls and flames as he made a valiant effort to restrain himself.

‘Bulldog.'

Jericho turned, seeing Winger point to where a tall woman had just entered. She wore a cowboy shirt and tight Levis with a thick leather belt. Her raven hair was long and her broad, tanned face was free from makeup. She crooked a finger at Jericho, then crossed the bar and disappeared down the corridor towards his office.

He frowned. Karla Malthus rarely ventured out from the female-populated rehab centre she presided over a few miles outside of Camden. Like the Dog House, the female centre was far enough from town to discourage curiosity. Called Crystal Waters, it masqueraded as a hippie commune for abused women, and while it didn't have the elaborate and marginally paranoid security that the Dog House compound did, the sprawling ranch house was surrounded by lookouts and top-grade security.

‘You want me to get Turk?' Winger asked. Jericho was impressed the prospect had the wits to recognise that he rarely met with Karla alone. He knew from experience a witness always came in handy when dealing with full-blooded Breed, especially a spoiled princess who rarely liked to dirty her hands by assisting the Dog House.

‘He's with a customer,' Jericho rumbled, recalling a nervous redheaded kid being ushered into the cramped room Turk used as his tattoo shop. ‘I'll deal with it.'

Confident his crew would follow his no-fighting policy as best they could, he moved to follow Karla to the back office when Lipstick Teeth got in his way, wobbling on her heels. ‘Sure I can't change your mind about that drink, handsome?' she breathed, cocking one hip to the side so far Jericho thought he heard something pop.

‘Sorry honey, I've business elsewhere.' He manoeuvred smoothly around her, feeling her eyes pinned to his back. Females were drawn to his kind, and even though he bore a mark of shame on his face, he found it easy to attract women. There was something about a male Breed scent and bearing: the heady promise of unrelenting, bone-shaking, window-shattering sex in its rawest form, unfettered by polite necessities. Though Jericho wasn't averse to seeking his release every now and then, now wasn't the time. Not with the King's sister waiting for him.

* * *

Thomas Coulter stepped wearily off the private airplane and dropped his heavy backpack on the ground. Stretching out his back and yawning, he admired the white-topped mountains in the distance that bordered three sides of Camden. The scenery touched old memories, reminding him of the last time he was here, a time when he had the ideals and fire of youth at his fingertips. Back then, his fellow Hunters had nicknamed the small Tasmanian town the Witches Cauldron, due to the rather surprising discovery of a thriving coven. The Hunters had at first thought the witches were neutral, until they'd assisted the werewolves here to broker peace and sealed it with magic. After that, any Hunters within the region died within months from heart failure and it had been enough for them to beat a hasty retreat and agree to uphold the treaty. The agreement had extended around the world in a shaky peace between the two races.

But that had been twenty-two years ago, and after the key players of the coven had been neutralised there had been little more evidence of any active magic within the town. Coulter had certainly felt no overt signs of being cursed for being a Hunter and entering Camden's borders. Until now, of course.

He yawned again, thoughts of the past making him feel old and exhausted. The trip had been long, and despite sleeping a little on the private plane, he wanted nothing more than to lay down for another eight hours to recover. At the very least, he needed a bracing cup of tea before he could sit through a debrief with Camden's resident Hunter.

A man in a thick coat and a baseball hat marched briskly towards him. Coulter picked up his bag and moved forward to greet the Hunter, caution colouring his thoughts. For the last few years, the reports from Camden had been nothing out of the ordinary. But in the last six months they had turned erratic and disjointed. Coulter had noticed and hastily began to intercept them before his Hunter could be red flagged. After all, this was his little project and it had taken him many years to convince the Association of Hunters that one of their own was needed in Camden to keep an eye on the Breed population. But there were many who feared that if his Hunter was discovered, their defiance of the treaty would reignite the war with the Breed, and they had shied away from his proposal. Some had even feared the wrath of any remaining witches within the town. Coulter knew there were a few scattered about, but certainly not enough to create another coven. And a witch on her own was just a vulnerable, weak old woman.

Fortunately, he'd managed to sway their vote in his favour, with promises of a secure and covert operation, along with assurances that with the old coven gone, the magic was too. He'd even handpicked a fresh recruit and inserted him into the town, his own eyes and ears. But now something had gone wrong and a female Breed was dead. Wondering if the witches' curse had taken hold somehow, manifesting itself in a different fashion, Coulter fixed a smile on his face and shook the Hunter's hand.

‘Welcome to Camden,' the Hunter said. ‘Hope your flight was a good one.'

‘It was just fine,' Coulter said. It would take more than a long flight from Heathrow to shake him.

The Hunter gestured to his Jeep. ‘I'll take you to your accommodation, I've also arranged your own transportation.'

‘Very good,' Coulter said as they headed towards a mud-splattered Jeep parked by the hangar. ‘I also need you to locate someone for me. A woman by the name of Lydia Gault. I understand she's just received a constable posting here.'

‘Yes, I've met her.' The Hunter's voice was curious. ‘She's new in town.'

‘I want a residential address and number.'

‘Is she a problem?'

Coulter heard interest in the Hunter's voice. ‘No,' he said firmly. ‘Just some personal business.'

‘Is she family?' the Hunter asked, surprising Coulter with the accuracy of his guess.

‘Yes,' Coulter replied stiffly. ‘She's my niece.'

‘Didn't know you had family ties here,' the Hunter said.

Coulter didn't reply. The less this man knew about Lydia, the better, especially since he was entertaining the idea of recruiting her to take over surveillance duties here.

The fact that his own brother and a fellow Hunter, had fathered a child with one of the witches in Camden had been a scandal quickly swept under the rug by the Association. As far as Coulter knew, Lydia had no knowledge of her Wiccan and Hunter heritage, and after his brother had been killed in a car accident Coulter had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on her, following her academic path, then her career in the police force. And now she'd returned to her hometown, and he was curious as to why.

He drew in a long breath, the brisk air rejuvenating his foggy mind, and beneath his exhaustion, excitement stirred. Beyond the plan to rid himself of the clearly unbalanced Hunter here and hopefully recruiting Lydia to take his place, there was another reason he'd taken the long, exhausting flight from the Association's headquarters in London: rumours the current ruling Breed King was planning a visit to Camden. His objective, therefore, was to not only evaluate his Hunter and ascertain what action was required, but also obtain more information on when the King was coming here and why.

After all, hostilities between the two races still existed, even if it was behind closed doors, and the assassination of the King would be a clear message that their kind weren't the ones in control. Naturally, the King's death would only be symbolic. The Breed Council would continue to rule if the King fell, but Coulter knew the council suffered from enough political turmoil and backstabbing between the full-blooded families to ensure chaos would engulf them as they scrambled to find a successor.

He settled into the passenger seat of the Jeep, backpack at his feet and only half-listening to the Hunter make easy small talk. If his source here was correct, then this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one Coulter didn't want to squander trying to babysit a deranged Hunter. After all, though he was entering into his early sixties, he still had a desire to top his brother's achievement of discovering the Camden coven in the eighties. This fact alone had earned his brother substantial fame and fortune within the Association and Coulter wanted nothing more than to step out of the long shadow his brother cast, even after his death.

He stared out the window as the first blush of morning cast a soft light over the rolling scenery. If the Breed King did surface in Camden, then it was an opportunity he couldn't waste, no matter the cost.

Chapter 3

Karla Malthus sat facing the desk in Jericho's office. She had news she knew he wouldn't like, but he had a right to know about the shit storm that was about to land on his doorstep.

Jericho entered and prowled over to his desk, leaning against it, arms folded, face guarded. Her gaze traced the familiar lines on his face, and she felt desire warm her. Three scars sliced the left of his face, marking him as a beaten alpha. But they didn't bother her. There were many tales of how the last Breed King had fallen and how his Enforcer, Ben Jericho, had been banished here. She'd heard firsthand how Jericho had been beaten in an ambush, his King killed. It had hardly sounded like a fair fight. Not that she expected anything less of Drake, her sulky, stubborn brother who had now managed to keep the Breed King crown for the last eight years.

She licked her lips deliberately, a seductive move she knew was wasted. Their relationship only revolved around him requiring access to the medical centre at her commune and a constant supply of medication for his men, a charitable arrangement that she tolerated. The Dog House relied on donations, just as she did for Crystal Waters, but her advantage was her powerful family connections and social status as a full-blooded Breed. Replacing broken equipment, or requiring new work done, was as easy as a few phone calls on her behalf.

It was in her interest to make Jericho dependent on her, and she still hoped one day he would forget her personal connection to his past shame. In the years Jericho had been in Camden he'd made quite a name for himself, and despite his being a mutt, more than one full-blooded clan now regarded him with a religious zeal reserved for high-ranking Breed priests of the old faith. She'd heard he was seen as a healer, gifted to mend the most broken of Breed, and if only she could make him fall for her, Karla knew she would gain a powerful ally. One that might follow her when she left her position at Crystal Waters and re-entered society. After all, strength might be the domain of male Breed, but it was the females that made them dance.