Night Series Collection: Books 1 and 2 (32 page)

To say that I’m pleased at the way Pandora and her merry band have been received would be a serious understatement. I’m so thankful to each and every one of you readers that helped make Crimson Night the success that it’s been. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

“Y
ou’ve changed,” Luc murmured. His back was toward me as he sat on the edge of my bed, his nude body flexing, the sheen of sweat making his skin gleam as he shifted around.

I sat up and clutched the sheet to my chest. I looked at my hands and I didn’t see long fingers or red, painted nails. I saw the hands that had ended the life of a friend. Probably my only friend.

I shuddered, balling them up and turning my face to the side, because if I let myself think too long on it, I’d drown in the memory.

I doubt Luc had meant for me to hear him. He didn’t even seem to be aware he’d said it; he just kept staring out of my bedroom window with a haunted look in his glacial blue eyes.

Beams of sunlight caressed his shoulder-length blond hair. He looked like a golden Adonis sitting that way, awash in a liquid yellow wreath of midday sun. I wanted to touch him, run my fingers through his hair once more, and lose the hated memories in the heated press of his body.

But I couldn’t.

I threw the sheets off the bed and walked toward the pile of clothes on my floor and snatched up my jeans. I yanked them on, not even bothering to do up the button before I was yanking my shirt over my head.

He flicked a glance at my legs as I finally buttoned up my pants. “Where are you going?” he asked almost accusingly.

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re in Mexico. I’m going exploring.”

He made as if to stand. “Let me go with—”

I held up my hand. In the week since—my heart stuttered—the incident, Luc and I had gone through a role reversal of sorts. I wasn’t trying to be nasty to him. Honestly. But I could hardly stand to look at him. Aside from sex, I wanted nothing to do with him.

None of what I’d done was his fault, and deep in my soul I knew that, but that didn’t make the pain easier, the anger and hatred any less sharp or severe, nor did it change the fact that, right or wrong, I blamed him for what’d happened.

At least parts of it anyway. He hadn’t told me the whole truth when I’d woken up. He’d said most of the children had survived—at least in that I thought I’d done one redeemable thing, that I’d gotten there in time to avert the slaying of innocents. The pain of losing Kemen had been buffered by the knowledge that he’d have been proud his death hadn’t been in vain.

But it’d all been a lie. The wholesale slaughter that’d gone down that night was being called legendary within monster circles.

The Order had sent their emissaries to spin whatever story they were going to spin to the humans. So far it seemed to be working; authorities were barking up the wrong tree, looking for a very ordinary, very human teenage cult of five or six boys who might or might not believe themselves to be vampires. It all sounded ridiculous to me. How could a small band of boys, mortal boys at that, bag and tag that many children and not get caught at some point, somewhere? The logic didn’t pan out. But if there was one thing I understood about human nature, it was that there always had to be a scapegoat. Something or someone for them to direct their hate at. And those kids the Order had dreamed up were now wearing the scarlet letter.

Humans were dumb creatures if they were willing to buy that shit, but then again, I’d fallen prey to pretty lies too, so who was I to cast stones, right?

Because Luc hadn’t just lied to me about what really went down that night, he’d helped put down most of those children. I’ve not been able to ask him why, mostly because I’m afraid he might give me a legitimate reason to make me hate him less. And right now, hating him is the only thing keeping me semi-sane.

“No, you stay.”

His brows dipped and his jaw clenched.

“I’m gonna study the town, hear what the locals have to say about the killings, and then go see Grace.” With each sentence I spoke, the room grew more and more tense. “Alone.”

He narrowed his eyes. I could feel his anger; it was almost like a shock of electrical current traveling my flesh, raising the fine hairs on my arms.

“Do you honestly think it’s wise for you to see Grace alone? Have you forgotten that you nearly killed her the last time you saw her?”

I curled my fingers into fists and turned my face aside, wishing like hell I hadn’t told him about that little incident.

“Damn you, Pandora,” he snarled. “Why are you shutting me out? Do you blame me? Do you think it’s my fault?” He poked his chest. “Don’t forget who fucking pulled the wool over
our
eyes.” He stressed the word. “I won’t take the blame and I won’t”—he stood up, shoving his face into mine—“take your shit either. If you don’t want me around, fine.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he killed those kids. I wished to God that Vyxen had never told me, but that bitch loved making me squirm. It was what got her off; for whatever reason, she hated my guts. I couldn’t say the feeling wasn’t intensely mutual, but whatever… The damage was done. She’d told me and now I couldn’t forget it or pretend it away.

He stalked to the bathroom, pulled on his boxer briefs, then traced out of my room, leaving a faint scent of sulfur behind.

I couldn’t be upset at him for his flash of temper. Demon or no, Luc was partly right.

I closed my eyes and clutched my head.

But he was wrong too. I didn’t just blame him. I blamed myself as well. If I’d been smart enough, if I’d read the clues… everything would have been different.

A slithering, like the sensuous coiling of a snake’s body, moved down my spine. I knew what it was. The foreign intruder inside me, it was my third soul. Pestilence, demon bastard that he was, fed off my misery. I wasn’t used to him. Wasn’t sure I ever would be.

He was yet another memento I carried with me from that fateful night. As if the guilt and pain weren’t enough, I now had to walk around with a tangible presence inside me constantly reminding me of what I’d done wrong.

You see, I was born with two souls. One demonic, one human. I am Nephilim, the creation of a mating between a fallen angel and the daughter of man.

You could never call my life easy. But I’d grown used to my demonic soul, Lust. We’d created a kind of sick, symbiotic relationship. Lust was as vital to me as breathing. But this new thing, this new soul… it was a twisted perversion that haunted my dreams, my waking hours, with visions of death and violence, sickness and pain. I hated it but didn’t know how to rid myself of it.

Once, it was a problem I would have gone to my human liaison, Grace, for. But Grace had proven herself to be a coldhearted bitch who cared nothing for bonds of friendship or love. She’d deceived me, deceived my family. All along, we’d trusted her, felt she was working alongside us Nephilim to better humanity, when in truth she was more a devil than I’d ever be.

I opened my eyes and stalked to the door. I needed to get away. I wanted to leave, disappear, and never come back. A hard lump wedged tight in my throat. Grabbing my worn, black felt Stetson from the hook on the wall, I smashed it on my head.

I could never leave. And I couldn’t pretend that night hadn’t happened.

Luc was right, I had changed.

I
’d meant to ask around town, see if any of the locals knew of or had heard about any recent or strange deaths, but I was a stranger to them. A
gringa
(white face), they wouldn’t trust me enough to answer me.

Part of Lust’s glamour was that I could turn myself into the walking embodiment of anybody’s deepest desire, but doing so also required that I had sex recently. A sort of
tit for tat
kind of arrangement
.

But since that night and the possession of my third soul, Lust wasn’t working so well for me anymore. My desire for sex was practically nil. Luc was the first person I’d slept with since waking from my semi-coma, and even that had left me empty and cold.

I knew I should be a lot more worried than I actually was—I dunno, maybe Lust was still in shock after our stint in Hell. Meeting Wrath had done things to Lust, screwed with her head. She was like a whimpering, terrified dog tucking tail and hiding in a corner, and there wasn’t much I could do to bring her out.

So I had to do this sleuthing thing the good old-fashioned way. Being as old as I am, you get a feeling for people. The outer shell might be different, but the inside was always the same. If I wanted to find what I was looking for, I had to go someplace designed to loosen tongues and get men talking. Get a man drunk enough and he’ll tell you anything you want to know.

Opening the door to the first dive I found in town, I entered and stood just inside as my eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting.

Taking off my Stetson, I wiped my brow and then headed for the bar where I leaned against the chipped and pitted wood. I lifted my finger and ordered a beer. A second later, the paunchy bartender with moles all over his face slid a cold bottle at me. I lazily sipped on my Corona, eyeing what few customers there were at this hour.

This place was your typical townie dive. Floors tacky with food and drink, a battered billiard table sat to the back. It was dark save for the few red jalapeno Christmas lights strung along the corners of the ceiling. The walls were covered in posters of half-nude women draped around the necks of grinning
luchadores
.

There were no windows in this building. Everything was designed in such a way as to get a man deep into his cups without realizing how much time had passed. But I knew it was nearly dusk.

I had an hour before I needed to meet with Grace. I took another long pull on the bottle, swallowing the bitter drink with a grimace. If only I had the power to slow time down, meeting Grace was something I’d put off as long as I possibly could.

“
De verdad, lo ve con mis ojos, Juan
.”

The excited whisper of the gangly man sitting with his back toward me at the table nearest the door snagged my attention. He leaned closer to his ruddy-complected friend and bobbed his head up and down, shaggy black hair dancing around his face with his furious gesture.

“
Tu si eres loco, Antonio. Él no está muerto. Hable con Eduardo ayer
.” The one called Juan snorted as if he’d heard a funny story and started chugging his brew.

I grabbed my hat and nonchalantly sidled closer. I pretended to study my nails as I sat down at one of the empty tables. The hard, torn plastic of the chair cut into the backs of my thighs, but I ignored it as I continued to listen.

My Spanish is exceptional. There’d been a period in my life—about three hundred years ago, give or take—when I’d seriously considered planting roots and settling down. I’d bought hundreds of acres of land in the interior of Mexico. I could speak with barely the trace of an accent and I could understand it even better.

Skinny had apparently stumbled across the dead body of an acquaintance. Tubby didn’t believe him.

Antonio slammed his palm down on the table. “
No soy mentiroso
,” he snarled between clenched teeth as he vehemently denied that he was lying.

“
Como puede estar cierto? Tú me acabas decir que la cara estaba desfigurada
.” Juan snorted again and chuckled.

Tubby was drilling him about being certain, especially because Skinny apparently mentioned the face being disfigured, so the possibility of facial recognition would be slim. I shifted around on my seat and took another sip of my drink, barely even tasting it.

A disfigured corpse was one of the hallmarks of a zombie-style killing. But I’d never overlook the possibility of it being a human killer either. Sometimes you can’t always blame a monster for what goes wrong in this world.

Though my family and I run a carnival, which is why we’re
supposedly
here in Mexico in the first place, the truth is Nephilim hunt down
Others
. Creatures of the dark. Vampires, shifters, zombies, and some you’ve probably never heard of. Before leaving our last assignment, Grace had told me of a possible zombie uprising (pun intended).

But she’s lied to me before. My last assignment had been nothing but a red herring meant to distract me from the truth. What that truth actually was, I’m still not even sure. But I will find out. Even if finding out means I have to plead ignorance to her deception.

Antonio smirked, wearing the pleased look of a man who knew his next statement would make a believer of his skeptical friend. “
Un cicatriz, aquí
”—he pointed to the tip of his index finger and traced a jagged line to the crook of his elbow—“
hasta aquí
.” He lifted a brow, waiting in the expectant silence.

Except for the telltale curling of Juan’s fingers around the neck of his beer bottle, it almost seemed as if he hadn’t heard Antonio.

But I could tell the mention of the dead man’s childhood scar had unnerved him. The rich hue of his copper skin turned almost white around his mouth, and the muscle in his right cheek started twitching.

“
Dios mío
!” Juan gasped, hurtling the chair he sat on to the floor as he shoved to his feet and ran out the door.

Antonio’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile, then he laid down some cash, tipped his hat toward the barkeep, and followed his friend.

I licked my lips and waited a moment for the room to quiet down. The men’s sudden departure had turned the tiny bar into a buzz of disjointed conversations.

The whispered voices wondered about the men and what they’d been talking about, but none of them seemed clued in to the body. I likely wasn’t gonna learn much more.

I stood, rolled my shoulders until the bones popped, and gave a satisfied sigh as if I hadn’t a care in the world. I winked at the barkeep, a surly old man with pockmarked cheeks, and smiled.

For a second I could have sworn I’d felt the swirl of Lust coming to attention.

I could tell he wanted me, could see the flush of sweat on his skin and the throbbing pulse at the side of his neck.