Hunter's Rise (42 page)

There were a couple of grumbles, a couple of swears. But even as the youth on the floor snarled out, “You’re my fucking pack— stay
here
,” they were heading out the door.

“I’ll kill you,” the kid said again. The words were clearly spoken— he’d reverted back to his human form and he couldn’t think past the pain now to shift, although his eyes shifted from green to yellow and back again as rage swirled inside him. He had to be hurting, but he didn’t show it.

“Matt, you don’t have what it takes to kill me,” Toronto said. With his hand curled around the knife, he peered into the shifter’s eyes. Werewolves and natural-born shapeshifters weren’t always the easiest of friends, but this kid needed to learn control and he had to do it fast.

A roaming pack of ferals had come and attempted to wipe the small band of shifters out, but they’d been hit with more resistance than they’d expected… and this kid had killed three of them. His father, the previous Alpha, had killed nine.

The boy was strong, and there was no denying he’d step into his father’s shoes. But he had to get his rage under control or he’d become the very thing that had all but decimated his pack.

The shifter bared his teeth and despite the silver in his body, he managed enough power to make his face shift— a partial one, his face forming a muzzle, teeth elongating to fangs, fur spreading in a slow crawl over his skin. “I killed three weres… and I had fun with it. You’re only one.”

“Yeah. But I’m not a brainless, mindless murderer. You don’t have the control it would take for a were like me.” He wiggled the knife and watched as pain splintered through Matt’s eyes before he managed to hide it. The partial shift he’d managed faded, melting away into his skin like it had
never existed. “If you can’t control yourself enough to shift even with the pain, then you can’t control yourself enough to handle me. If you can’t handle me, you can’t handle the pack.”

“It’s my fucking pack!” Matt growled, and he swung out.

Toronto reacted by leaning his weight on the knife. “Yeah. And your fucking pack is losing its mind to your rage. Think back, kid. Your dad must have seen the signs in you— he knew what you’d be, knew who was going to take his place. What did he tell you about letting your rage color everything? What would it do to the pack?”

Matt’s lanky, too-skinny body tensed. And then, Toronto watched as the rage drained out of him, replaced by grief.

“I never wanted to do this,” the boy whispered. “It shouldn’t be me. Dad should still be here.”

“Yeah. You’re right. He should. But he’s not. He gave you the tools to handle this, though. It’s up to you whether or not you decide to do it.”

T

HAT
night, they hunted as a pack.

Toronto stayed in his human skin, trailing along behind them and watching.

Matt kept his head, kept his cool, and for the most part, acted like the Alpha Toronto knew he could be.

It wasn’t done. Most of the survivors were still kids— the few adults that had lived weren’t strong enough to lead, but enough of them had lingering guilt or enough resentment to cause the kid grief.

It was going to be months, maybe even a few years before Toronto’s work was done here, he figured.

Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

If he was here, focusing on something else, he wasn’t able to spend time wishing he was somewhere else. With someone else.

S

YLVIA
had moved to Miami, thinking the party city, the higher crime rate and the warm nights would do something to keep her occupied. She could find work— easily.
Even if she wasn’t taking jobs, there was no shortage of people who needed to die.

She could spend the nights out by the pool in the back of the house she’d bought years ago.

And she could join the party crowds and have plenty of young, hot men who could feed any hungers she might have.

They did sate the most basic hunger— Sylvia had just fed off a musician who had already forgotten all about her. But nobody did anything to fill the void inside her.

He shouldn’t have left such a big hole. It didn’t make sense. But maybe that hole had already been there… and he managed to fill it. He’d fit into those empty, aching spots of her life that she hadn’t realized she’d had until she met him.

Was that love?

Did it come that soon?

Sighing, she leaned against a bar, staring out at the mass of bodies and listening to the throb of music, trying to let it wrap around her and make her forget.

An unwelcome brush danced along her skin and she glanced up, met the gaze of a man standing under a streetlight, head tipped so that his face was in shadow.

A faint smile curled his lips and she caught a quick glimpse of his fangs, saw the sheen in the back of his eyes before he hid it. Bored, she looked away. She wasn’t on anybody’s formal territory. She’d made sure of that, and she was in a mean enough mood that she’d be happy to…
discuss
… things if he felt they needed to discuss them.

Turning her back on him, she met the gaze of the bartender. She wanted to get drunk. But there wasn’t enough liquor in the world to do it. Sighing, she shouted for a beer over the crush of the crowd and tried to tell herself she was having a good time.

She was still attempting to convince herself ten minutes later when she heard the cutoff scream.

Nobody else would have heard it, not in this crowd.

Just as nobody would have scented the blood.

Sighing, she studied the bottle she held.

It wasn’t really her concern, was it? She wasn’t one of the
do-gooders, some altruistic Boy Scout— or Girl Scout— out to rid the world of every bad little shifter, were or vamp in the world.

So it’s altruism?

Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the memory of how his face had looked when he’d stared at her, as if he couldn’t completely explain it. As if he couldn’t even understand it.
Somebody has to be willing. If it’s not us, I guess it’s nobody. And that’s just not an option. Do you really want to live
in a world where nobody stops the monsters, Miz James?

Shit.

Slamming the bottle of beer down on the counter, she followed the trail of the scream… and the scent of blood. It was possible to feed without making them scream, damn it. She did it all the time. It was possible to feed without hurting them. She did that, too.

So why did she smell pain and terror in the air?

The woman was unconscious by the time Sylvia made it to the alley where he’d taken her. She’d already palmed one of the few blades she was carrying. As she sauntered into the alley, his eyes rolled up to stare at her over the woman’s body.

He paused and looked up at her, smiling. “You’re new.”

“You shouldn’t be so rough with your… dates,” Sylvia said, skimming a look over the woman, snapping her fury under control as she saw the ripped dress, the bruises that were already forming.

He chuckled. “This? This isn’t a date. This is a meal. When I’m done, if you like, you and I could have a date. You can tell me why you came into my city and why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“Hmmm.” Sylvia studied him, weighing the age. He wasn’t young, but wasn’t old. Her age, she thought. And his power level was higher. She’d handled worse. Eyeing the woman, she listened to the heart, counting the beats. “You like taking so much blood you make them pass out?”

He shrugged, pulling a snowy white handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at the corner of his mouth. An affectation—
he didn’t have a drop of blood on him. “Well, there’s something about taking almost too much, you know?”

“Actually, no.” She flipped her blade up, watched as his eyes dropped to it.

“Oh, now, come on.” He dropped the woman, kicking her out of his way like she wasn’t much more than a used hamburger wrapper or something.

To him, she probably wasn’t, Sylvia realized.

Had he killed before, when he went just a little over that line? Probably. As he crossed the alley to stand in front of her, she found herself remembering that conversation again.

Do you really want to live in a world where nobody stops the monsters, Miz James?

No. She really didn’t.

I

T
was nearly dawn before she let herself back into her house. She was dragging, too, although it was a mental weariness, not anything physical.

After a quick shower, she found herself staring at the mirror, searching for some sign that she’d changed. A month ago, she never would have bothered with what she’d done earlier.

If it didn’t come with a paycheck, she only messed with those who got in her way. Or the rare monster like Pulaski.

So why had she messed with the vampire earlier?

She still looked the same— she looked like the young Japanese bride she’d been when she’d came to America all those years ago… just with a lot more knowledge in her dark eyes. The long black hair was the same, the pale skin, the unsmiling mouth…

Absently, she reached up and touched her lips.

Up until Toronto had come into her life, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled.

“Shit.”

Spinning on her heel, she headed to bed. She was done mooning about this. It was over, right? They’d walked away. They had decided that was what they should do, right?

Halfway there, she stopped and scowled, shoving a hand through her hair. “Okay, we didn’t
decide
. He just said it. I didn’t argue.”

Blowing out a breath, she tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling.
Shit.
She wasn’t going to get him out of her head as easy as that. She just wasn’t. “Okay, fine. I’ll call.”

She even knew the number for the Enclave.

The phone only rang once before a bright, cheerful voice picked up. “Hello!”

Sylvia scowled. Shit, she’d hoped… no. It didn’t matter. “I’d like to speak with Toronto, if he’s available.”

There was a pause. “Ah, is this… Ms. James?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on a second.”

She waited, feeling the exhaustion spread through her body. She stared at the clock by her bed, knowing even without its help that the seconds of night were burning away fast, too fast. Legs leaden, she made her way to the bed and sat down.

She heard footsteps, then the whisper as a hand took the phone— a woman’s voice.
“I have that mercenary on the phone.”

That mercenary—

Her heart, that damn useless bit that reacted more to
him
than it did for anything else, leaped around in her chest. But then it crashed… the voice that came on the phone wasn’t Toronto’s.

“Hello, Ms. James.”

She swallowed. “I imagine this would be Rafe.”

“It would. You want to speak to Tor.”

“That’s why I called.” She closed her eyes. If she was told he didn’t want to talk to her…
shit
. No. She’d just kick his ass. He could be a man and tell her that on his own, right?

“Tor’s not available,” Rafe said softly. “I’m sorry. Can I—”

“Not available?” Her hand gripped the mattress. She heard fabric tear.

“I’m afraid not. He…”

Outside, the sun hit the horizon. She fought it, clinging to
wakefulness with everything she had in her. “He
what
? Doesn’t want to talk me? Get that fucking jerk on the phone,
now
. He can tell me that himself.”

“No, he can’t.” Rafe’s voice changed, became heavier. Harsher. “Tor’s not… he’s not with us anymore, Ms. James.”

“Not…” Her tongue felt thick in her throat. She swallowed as her lids tried to glue themselves shut. “Not with…”

Sleep grabbed her, like a greedy, hungry monster and stole her will away.

The phone fell from a numb hand as she sagged backwards onto the bed.

N

OT
with us anymore…

The words haunted her sleep.

What does that mean?

She dreamed they were in his house. She found him in the kitchen, standing bare-chested over the stove, cooking, of all things, a bologna sandwich. “That’s not enough food for a full-grown wolf,” she said. Her chest ached, even to look at him.

He glanced back at her, face weary, eyes somehow… dim. That wicked light, it was gone. A faint growth of stubble darkened his face. With a half shrug, he looked back at the stove. “I’ll make four or five sandwiches,” he said. “What do you want, Sylvia?”

She frowned, glancing around. “I just… I think about you. I called, looking for you.”

“Did you now?” He stabbed at a piece of the deli meat and flipped it. “Too late. I’m gone. You didn’t want to be around me, anyway.”