Blood Hunt

Fame is no longer the name of the game…it's survival.

Latter-Day Olympians
, Book 5

Tori Karacis is back in L.A., relieved to once again match her passport photo thanks to a tattoo that controls her gargoyle-esque wings. Her newest case doesn't involve gods or an impending apocalypse. It does, however, involve murder.

Jessica Roland's suspicions began when her brothers returned from Egypt eerily different. The terror kicked in with the ritualistic murder of her parents. Her
real
brothers would never have done such a thing, yet their guilt seems indisputable. What could it be? Curse of the Pharaohs? Some kind of brain-eating bacteria?

At the scene of a second attack, there's evidence it's the work of Set, the god of chaos, who should have been locked away a long time ago. And
hello
, there's a new arrival. Neith, a warrior goddess who's got the hots for Tori's ex, Nick Armani.

Tori should be cool with that. After all, she's involved with Apollo—
that
Apollo. Still, it's a bit much for Neith to ask for seduction advice! Meanwhile, Set is gaining strength, chaos is leaking all over the place, and L.A. is a powder keg set to blow.

Warning: Relationships heat up and danger mounts. Prepare for chills, thrills and kills when Chaos makes its Hollywood debut.

Blood Hunt

Lucienne Diver

Dedication

To my absolutely amazing grandmother, Vincie, who first made me believe in magic in the form of two imaginary crows named Jack and Jill.

Prologue

“Shhh!” Ian scolded him, index finger mashed up against his lips and pushing his nose out of joint.

Richie rolled his eyes at his twin and then waited for the room to come back into focus.
Shhh…
as if the museum guard they'd locked in the closet wasn't already making enough noise to wake the dead.

And as if Ian was any more sober himself. Still, Ian wasn't the one who was going to be bruised tomorrow from accidentally hip-checking that cabinet.

“If the cabinet's a'rockin' then don't come a'knockin',” he sing-song-sang to himself. He didn't think that was quite right, but he couldn't remember the actual words to the song.
House,
that was it. House, not cabinet. No matter.

Ian glared him silent.
All right, already!
He got it. Heists required secrecy. And silence. And copious amounts of liquid courage.

Really, he had no idea how things had gone this far. Sure, Ian had fantasized about bringing home a
real
souvenir and had pointed out casually the closed areas and the lack of guards at the small museum—possibly because of funding issues. But he never dreamed Ian would really go for it…or that his brother would convince him to come along.

Probably that sixth…or was it seventh?…drink had been a mistake.

“Hold this,” Ian ordered, handing over the flashlight he'd brought with him, as if maybe there'd been a bit of premedication. No, that wasn't right. Premedi
ta
tion. Sheesh. He needed to lie down, not to be skulking around dusty museum vaults.

He held the flashlight as still as he could on the cabinet Ian was poking through, opening drawers, rifling contents, sometimes bringing them closer to the light to inspect them…like the thing he held now, which was about the size of a half dollar and gleaming gold.

“What do you make of this?” Ian asked him.

Richie did his best to focus on the disk…or was it a medallion? Yes, definitely a medallion, chain and all. It seemed to flash in the light. Almost definitely gold, Richie thought. But, if so, why wouldn't it be on display? Seemed like the sort of thing that would be a major find for a small museum.

“Cool,” Richie commented. “Grab it and let's go.”

He hadn't actually seen any other guards, but someone was bound to miss the one they'd locked up sooner or later. Plus, the place gave him the creeps. Those two sarcophagi they'd passed… Well, he'd seen
The Mummy
, the old black and white version
and
the newer version with Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz.
Ah, Rachel Weisz.

“But
look
at it,” Ian insisted.

Richie sighed. He liked the vision in his mind's eye better, but obediently he gave it another glance. “What's that thing on the front? Looks a dog, but for those funny knobby things on top of its head. Maybe a giraffe? I didn't think the Egyptians had a giraffe-headed god.”

“It's Set, you dummy.”

“Who?”

“Bad boy of ancient Egypt. You know, god of chaos? Cut his brother Osiris into itty bitty bits.”

“Oh,
that
guy.”

Ian dropped the chain of the medallion over his head and went back to rifling through the cabinet. He came back with several more gold disks, smaller than the last, but each one bearing the image of the same strange animal.

“Such a waste to lock these away in dusty old vaults,” Ian said, pocketing the coins. “They should be appreciated.”

“Ian, I don't think this is such a good idea.”

“Relax, we're not going to get caught.”

Richie wasn't so sure. This wasn't like shoplifting for laughs back in California. Or “borrowing” that Batmobile replica for a joy ride the one time. This was art theft, wasn't it? They could create some kind of international incident.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Ian had already moved along.

“Come on,” he said, “bring the light. I want to check out those sarcophagi.”

It was the last thing in the world Richie wanted to do, but he knew he'd get out of here sooner if he just went along. Arguing would only waste time and in the end they'd do what Ian wanted anyway. They always did.

He dragged his feet in approaching the sarcophagi. He wasn't quite the expert Ian was on Egyptian stuff, but he knew there was something very wrong with these two coffins.

“Check them out!” Ian said, awe in his voice. “I'm thinking First Intermediate period, maybe.” On the other hand,
Ian
wasn't quite the expert he thought he was either.
First Intermediate period
. Who was he trying to impress? All Richie really knew about it was that it was a period of unrest. All the intermediate periods were. “But…look, no prayers for the dead. No names. No spells to unite their
ba
and
ka
in the afterlife…”

A chill swept in out of nowhere, raising gooseflesh all over Richie's body.

“There's Osiris,” Ian continued, “but…”

Richie could see it now for himself. The images on the sarcophagi, still weirdly crisp after all these years, showed Osiris, the weigher of hearts…only these had clearly been found wanting. Severely wanting. A demon crouched beside the scales waiting to devour the atrophied organs. It was as though the priests had carved a sentencing recommendation into the sarcophagi. Those inside were never meant to pull enough of themselves together to reach the afterlife.

Richie shivered, as though to shake off the thought. The flashlight beam went wild and then Richie lost it all together. It rolled on the ground and under the cart on which one of the sarcophagi rested.

Ian cursed and reached for it, bumping into the sarcophagus and then…something happened.

Richie watched in terror as his brother's body went suddenly rigid and he sparked, as though zapped by electricity. Against his chest, something glowed gold and then red, strobing. The medallion…

Crazy stupid terror flashed through Richie, and for a split second, he couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but watch, all those horror movies flitting through his head. And then he steeled himself. This was his brother. His
twin
.

He grabbed Ian and yanked, trying to separate him from the sarcophagus, to get him outside and away from this insanity, but Ian lashed out, landing a palm forcefully against Richie's chest. Richie's whole body convulsed as some kind of energy flashed between them, a bolt of pure power that blasted his heart and exploded outward until he lost control of his limbs, fell against the other sarcophagus…where something waited to grab hold…

More electricity zapped through him as he hit the coffin full force, branching out like lightning. Everything flashed through him. His past, his present…

His future, red-washed and full of pain.

He bit back on the pain, tasted blood. It flooded his mouth like memory.

But that flood was quickly blown away by the sandstorm that raged behind it—a dry, hot wind flecked with thousands, millions of stinging shards, scouring everything in its path, leaving him a husk, a shell. Dry, desiccated.

And then something filled him like a bellows. Pumping him full of so much—hunger, rage, lust… Pure animal need, startling in its intensity.

A sudden noise blew away the haze, breaking him from the sea of pain…

At a second sound, he and the one beside him looked up simultaneously, sighting in on the source of the sound.

Somewhere a door opened. Footsteps. Then a woman appeared, calling “Hello? Bakari, was that you?”

She spoke in Egyptian, but he no longer struggled so hard to understand. At the sight and sound of her, something inside went mad. Clawing at him, tearing and scraping, howling for release. Filling him with rage and hunger and a thirst for blood.

He saw red. Saw it and liked it and wanted more.

He and the other circled silently, closing in on her from either side. She saw them, but too late. Her screams fed his strange new hunger, but they were not enough. Would never be enough.

Chapter One

Apollo was waiting for me as I stepped out of the shower. He was naked as the day he was born, striking a pose as the sun streamed in through his beach-facing windows. He looked just like a statue from the National Gallery…except that he was perfectly proportional. And erect. And…

“Yes?” I asked, amused, one brow quirked in a way I'd finally managed.

“That's it? That's all I get? Two weeks together and already you fail to swoon at the sight of me in all my glory?”

“When have I ever swooned?”

“Well, you could try it just once,” he said, striking a new pose and looking at me hopefully. It did emphasize certain muscles he knew how to put to good use. I felt my resolve wavering.

“I have an appointment,” I said. It didn't come out as strongly as I'd meant it to, but then…naked sun god absolutely in his element. I was lucky I could form a complete sentence.

“You can be late,” he said, his eyes making promises he was clearly ready to keep.

When I didn't respond, he dropped his pose and stalked me instead, prowling like a mountain cat, gaze pinning me in place. I was suddenly hyperaware of the rough towel wrapped around my body and how much better the smooth warmth of his hands would feel. Or his lips…

I put out a hand to stop him, and it met the smooth, hard planes of his chest. He felt like sun-warmed silk. I swallowed hard and he leaned in to kiss my neck, tilting my head to the side. I moaned as his teeth scraped lightly along my pulse point. Next thing I knew, my towel was on the floor and I was pressed up against him.

It was all I could do to push him away.

“Rain check,” I said, my voice sounding breathless. “I can't believe you're even ready to go again. We just…” I took another step back so that I could look into his eyes, study his face. “Wait, why the sudden interest? You could have joined me in the shower…”

His gaze flitted away for just a second.

“Ah ha! Something's come up. Spill,” I said.

Apollo closed his eyes and then rubbed them, along with the bridge of his nose. Not that I was looking at the bridge of his nose. Not when there was so much else to see.

“Fine,” he said after a second, taking his hand away so that he could look into my eyes. “I was hoping we could skip right to the make-up sex.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, which, unfortunately, still left the rest of me exposed. From his reaction, he was fully aware of that fact.

“What did you do?” I asked, bending at the knees to reach for the fallen towel.

“You know that movie premiere I'm committed to on Saturday?”

“Yes,” I said dangerously, beginning to twist the towel again and again in my hands as if I might wring his neck with it rather than use it to cover up.

“I've just confirmed you as my plus one.”

It might not be the towel he had to worry about. My gorgon glare was stronger than ever, and I was seriously considering hitting him full blast.

“You did what?” I couldn't have heard him right.

“Hear me out,” he said, reaching for the towel before I could lash out with it…or anything else. We couldn't actually read each other's thoughts, but back when he'd touched me with the gift of foreseeing, we'd become linked in some intimate way, and feelings came through loud and clear. “My publicist called while you were in the shower, which is why I didn't join you. She says the only way to counteract all those tabloid photos with you and your wings is to take you out in public and let you be seen. It'll put all the crazy rumors to rest. Maybe even save your life.”

“Or give the zealots a perfect opportunity to get at me.”

Curse the damned wings. Ever since I'd gotten wrapped up with the Latter-Day Olympians—the old gods in their Greek or other guises who were still with us and still as fractious as ever—my life had gone kablooey. The gorgon blood that ran through my veins, dating back to the god Pan beer-goggling one of the gorgons, seemed to get stronger all the time. What had started with the ability to stop men in their tracks through eye contact and sheer force of will had evolved to the point where a drop of my blood could turn them to stone. The wings had been the most recent and, I hoped, final surprise. Not pretty little fairy wings, all gossamer and shimmery. Or feathered phenomenons that might fool friends and enemies alike into seeing me as something angelic. No, mine were big ole bat wings—long and leathery.

They'd been out in full-force when we'd fought the lord of all plague-demons for New York and, ultimately, the world. And like everything these days, they'd been caught on camera. My old Homeland Security pals Rosen and Holloway had done what they could to keep the footage from getting out and to spin all the devastation we'd left in our wake—or rather that Hecate and her cadre, who'd tried to take advantage of the chaos, had left in
their
wake, but there was just too much. The conspiracy theorists, the religious zealots who liked ranting about end times, the average citizen with trust issues…they weren't buying it.

I didn't blame them.

“It's a
red carpet event
,” Apollo said. “Do you have any idea how much security there is at those things? No one is getting to you. Besides, I want to show you off.”

Now
that
called for a look. Not the gorgon glare, maybe, but a dubious look nearly as effective. “You've been linked to some of the hottest starlets of our time…of various times…and you want to show
me
off?” I snorted. “Try again.”

He risked life and limb by approaching despite the stranglehold I now held on the towel.

“I do,” he said. “Because you're the real deal. Beautiful—” I started to protest and was instantly hushed by the emotions that roiled out of him, overwhelming me, “—strong, powerful, incredible. Mine.”

Even he couldn't fake that kind of sincerity. Not with me.

I let him kiss me when he stepped in.
Let
, hell, I grabbed him around the neck, pressed myself up against him and gave as good as I got…until he began to back me into the wall. I gasped as my butt hit and he leaned himself against me. I knew what came next, and I didn't have time for it, though I wanted more. I wanted it all.

I was breathless when I broke off the kiss. Aching and desperate for him, but…

“You're changing the subject,” I said, practically gasping in the necessary air.

“Am I?”

“And I'm late.”

“Are you?” His hand was stroking down my side, over my thighs. He shifted just enough so that he could stroke somewhere more central. The shift also allowed me to escape. Reluctantly.

“Yes, I am,” I said. “And we're not finished with this discussion. I never agreed to go.”

“I can convince you.”

I looked him up and down, gaze catching on certain spots. I was sure he could convince me. Absolutely sure. He could do things that would make me forget my own name, the day, year…anything but the pleasure.

Gah, I was hopeless. This was what I'd been trying to avoid, why I'd resisted him all those months. I didn't want to be subsumed. I wanted to stay the same special freakin' flower I'd always been.

I turned away, headed for the walk-in closet where I kept some of my clothes. Thanks to the Gray Sisters and a runic tattoo, I could now fold my wings right into my body, magically absorbing them into their permanently inked likenesses on my back. My clothes would fit again. Which was a good thing, because clients tended to be put off when you showed up au naturel…with gargoyle wings besides.

Apollo followed me to the closet, but didn't loom in the entrance. Didn't block my path.

“Tori?” he said, his voice low and intense. “You went away from me just now.”

“No,” I said, knowing he'd sense the lie. “I just have to get to the office. We'll pick this up later.”

“Want company? I'm free until lunch.”

“No,” I lied again. I did want it, and that was exactly why I had to do without. Unless…unless I was overthinking things. Wasn't it always this way at the start of a relationship? All hot and heavy, painful to be apart. Maybe.

I had to stay strong.

“O…kay,” Apollo said. He didn't understand. Hell,
I
didn't understand. Maybe I was just too ornery to be in a relationship. Any relationship. Maybe I should just… Stop thinking.

I grabbed an amber silk-blend cami, black pants and a blazer that wouldn't last through the client interview—not in the L.A. heat. Then I pulled on my black low-heeled boots from yesterday and was off before I could change my mind. Leaving Apollo felt like leaving behind a part of myself.

I squashed the feeling mercilessly. I couldn't think about any of that now. I had a client, one I hoped came with a big, juicy case rife with distraction. No cheating spouse or missing money, but something I could sink my teeth into. Like a chocolate croissant.

Speaking of which…my favorite coffee shop was on the way, and after my earlier aerobics with Apollo, some sustenance was definitely in order. I'd probably earned myself a cheesy omelet, an entire side of bacon and whatever else I could carry back from an all-you-can-eat buffet, but I didn't have time. Carbohydrates and caffeine would have to do the trick.

I was already late. It wouldn't do to arrive faint with hunger as well. Better to take the five-minute detour and show up with pastry-shaped peace offerings.

I pushed through the door of the coffee-shop/art house I frequented to find, mercifully, only one man ahead of me, already paying for his cuppa.

Barry-the-barista greeted me by name and asked, “The usual?”

“Yeah, but make it three. Wait, four. Make one soy just in case and hold the sugar on two. Three chocolate croissants and three regular.”

“Oh, so it's a party,” he said, drinks already in progress.

I smiled. “Don't know what everyone else is going to eat.”

“Isn't that why you ordered the plain?”

“You know me so well.”

And all I knew was his name. Well, and the fact that he'd proposed to his girlfriend last month and been accepted. And that the wedding was next spring. And…okay, so I knew quite a bit. Probably, I'd even financed a good part of the big day.

While I waited, I looked up at the ever-present TV screen tucked away in a corner of the cafe, practically a necessity out here between weird weather, riots, and all-important air quality updates. The sound was down or off, but the subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen—all about a murder in the upscale Hollywood Hills. As I watched the external footage of a body being loaded into the back of an ambulance, I caught the flash of a familiar figure—Detective Nick Armani. My ex. He looked…well, as amazing as always, all dark hair and midnight blue eyes. I knew those eyes in all of their moods; right then they were troubled, his usual poker face nowhere in evidence.

A
zing
went through me and I froze. It could
not
be about Nick's eyes. It couldn't, but… It happened again and I laser-focused on the foot disappearing into the ambulance, the door slamming on it with the finality of death. Something was not right at the scene, even beyond the taking of a life. Something…

Barry called my name. For the second time, I thought, and I shook myself out of my fugue to grab the coffee carrier and pastry bag he offered me. Only to set them back down on the counter so that I could root around in my pocket for payment. I left the change in his tip jar. Maybe I could help toward a down payment on the hall. It was my feeble attempt to counteract the bad in the world with just a little bit of good.

The office was only another minute away, located in old Hollywood, home of iconic theaters like the Orpheum and Rialto, sadly long since past their prime, most no longer operating as theatres. My office was in an old art deco building with a lift so ancient there was always a chance the doors wouldn't open again once they closed. But there were rules against messing with historic buildings by doing things like updating unsafe equipment. I decided to live dangerously and take the elevator anyway. I lived to tell the tale.

The door to the office opened while I was still trying to juggle coffee, pastries and keys. A haughty Jesus (pronounced Hey-Zeus) stood in its place, glaring his disapproval.

“You're late,” he said.

“No kidding,” I answered.

“The client is waiting.”

“She wouldn't be waiting anymore if you'd let me in.”

He relieved me of the coffees and graciously allowed me pass.

“Would you carry those in for me?” I asked.

“It depends. Is one of them mine?”

“Yes.”

“Well then,
chica
, by all means.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.
Chica
meant all was forgiven. Boss lady would have meant I was still in the doghouse, which could mean anything with Jesus from him changing the password on our computer network to selling my story to the tabloids…not that he knew the half of it. One did
not
thwart Jesus's iron will.

I expected to see the client almost immediately, sitting in the small waiting area in front of Jesus's desk. Instead, he led the way to my office, and as we approached the door, I understood why he'd tucked this one away, despite my prohibition on seating anyone in my office when I wasn't there to watch over them. The sound of her sobbing carried all the way through the door. Big, sloppy tears from the sound of them. Jesus abhorred a scene…unless he was creating it. And messes were right out. He'd probably handed her the tissue box, toed my garbage can closer to her and run for the hills.

“Good luck,” he stage-whispered as I reached past him to open my door. As soon as I had that hand free again, he passed the coffee tray into it, ushered me forward with a hand to my back and closed my office door firmly behind me.