Rhyannon Byrd - Primal Instinct 05 (2 page)

Now the Watchmen were acting on their own orders and
fighting to stop the return of the Casus, their efforts organized by Kierland’s
unit. They were being aided by three newly awakened Merricks from the Buchanan
family—Ian, Saige and Riley—who each possessed a mysterious power that had
helped them in the search for a collection of ornate crosses called the Dark
Markers. In fact, it was Saige Buchanan who had discovered the set of encrypted
maps that led to the Markers’ hidden locations, her unique “power” enabling her
to decipher the code in which the maps were written. As the only known weapons
capable of killing a Casus and sending its soul to hell, the Dark Markers were
invaluable in the fight against the Casus—and time was of the essence, because
the Casus wanted them, too. They’d even managed to steal the maps for a short
time, no doubt making copies while they had them in their possession. Copies
everyone had hoped would prove impossible for them to decipher.

The war, to that point, had been bloody, and the Casus
hadn’t taken kindly to their defeat in England the month before, when the
monsters had attacked Kierland’s unit in an attempt to get their hands on
three-year-old Jamie Harcourt. Since then, they’d assaulted several members of
the unit who had left to search for the Dark Markers, and there’d been some
close calls, a few of the injuries serious enough that they could have turned
fatal.

And then there were the Death-Walkers. The Watchmen
had wondered what effect their war with the Casus would have on the world, and
now they knew. The gypsy legends that had foretold the return of the Casus and
the awakening of the Merrick clan had been based on the fundamental belief that
everything in the world was interconnected—and they were only now realizing
just how true that belief was with the arrival of this newest enemy.

Each time a Dark Marker was used against one of the
vile monsters hunting the Merrick, a portal would open into hell.
Unfortunately, as the Casus’s soul was forced through, something else was able
to crawl out. Thanks to one of Kierland’s sources, the Watchmen now knew that
these strange, corpselike creatures were called Death-Walkers, and they were
bad news. Once the condemned souls of clansmen and -women who’d been sentenced
to hell for their crimes, they were now maddened creatures driven insane by
their time in the pit. Their only goal seemed to be the creation of chaos among
the clans, for no other reason than they wanted to watch the world slip into
madness along with them. And their first order of business was to destroy the
Watchmen, since the highly trained shifters acted as the eyes and ears of the
Consortium.

Kierland might not like Morgan, but he wouldn’t be
keen to lose another soldier, especially when so many Watchmen had already
fallen victim to the Death-Walkers, another streak of deaths taking place in
the past few weeks, which brought the toll to nine. The Lycan and his friends
had been arguing for a month now about what was considered an acceptable risk
when it came to leaving the safety of Harrow House—which was protected from
Death-Walker attack because of the surrounding moat that had its waters salted
and blessed by the village priest, making it impossible for the creatures to
cross—and Kierland was constantly stressing the need for safety in numbers.

Which meant that he was going to be pissed as hell at
her for coming alone.

“I’m not a child, Kier. I don’t need a chaperone,” she
told him, surprised by the huskiness of her voice as she finally got around to
answering at least one of his questions.

“So you’re here by yourself?” Kierland asked, the
steely note of frustration in the graveled words testament to just how pissed
he really was. Known as a master of self-control, it wasn’t often that the
Lycan lost his temper—but when he did, it was always a dangerous, yet
fascinating sight, like watching a natural disaster erupt right before your
eyes.

“I came alone for the same reason you did. The fewer
of us who leave the safety of Harrow House at this point, the better,” she
replied, the sickly sweet scent of the swan-shifters burning her nose as she
stepped closer. Morgan might not have been able to completely shift, but her
senses were even more highly developed than a predator’s, which meant that her
sense of smell was exceptionally acute. It was a great asset in the field, but
sucked when forced to breathe down the cheap stench of Kierland’s dates.

He opened his mouth, looking as if he was about to say
something ugly, but the blonde on his left beat him to it. “You actually know
this woman, Kierland?”

“Yeah.” He turned as he muttered the word, and reached
for a thick glass that sat on the bar just to his right, its glistening amber
contents smelling like Scotch. As he gripped the glass in his large,
battle-scarred hand, Morgan had to admit that she liked the way his cuffs were
casually rolled up a few inches, since it revealed the thick lines of sinew
that roped his powerful forearms, his skin darkened to a warm gold from the
countless hours he spent training beneath the sun.

“How…unfortunate,” the other blonde said with an
exaggerated pout, her free hand playing with the gilded tips of her high
ponytail, while she inspected Morgan with a cold, calculating gaze.

“Funny,” Kierland offered in a tight voice, staring
into the contents of his glass. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Then let’s just ignore her,” suggested the one on his
left again.

“If only it were that easy,” he rasped, throwing back
his head as he took a long swallow of the whiskey. His hair was damp at his
temples, making the red seem almost black, his body throwing off a scorching
wave of heat that made Morgan feel burned. Her own body temperature was on the
rise, but she honestly couldn’t say if it was from the temperature in the
club…or the searing intensity of Kierland’s gaze as he stared at her. Eyes that
were such a light shade of green should have looked washed out and cold, but
they didn’t—and within the dark fringe of his lashes, the outer rim of his
irises were already beginning to glow with a bright, unearthly light, signaling
the rise of his beast.

Oh, he’s pissed all right.

“So what exactly are you doing here?” Clipped,
hard-edged words, but she still enjoyed the way they rolled off his tongue, the
barest trace of a British accent molding the individual syllables. There was
something inherently male about the way his mouth shaped words when he spoke, the
almost cruel curve of his lips adding a wicked, sinful element to his rugged
masculinity. What made it even sexier was the fact that it wasn’t an act or
something he worked for. It was just Kierland.

“We need to talk,” Morgan said, wishing her voice didn’t
sound quite so breathy.

The blonde with the ponytail slid her a haughty,
condescending smile. “Actually, he’s here with us tonight, so you’ll have to
run off and find your own. I should think something like a poodle might be more
your style.”

“Or maybe a guinea pig,” the other one snickered. “She
might have a chance of keeping it interested.”

Ignoring the women, Morgan kept her gaze focused on
Kierland. “We have a problem.”

“Wrong,” he bit out, the deep shades of his auburn
hair gleaming beneath the club’s pulsing lights as he tossed back the rest of
his drink, his strong, corded throat working as he swallowed. For a split
second, she had a fantasy flash, imagining how good it would feel to press her
mouth against that hot, male skin and scrape him with her fangs, but then she
quickly shook herself back to sanity as he said, “You and I have nothing,
Morgan. Never have. Never will.”

The caustic words would have stung, if she’d been
stupid enough to let them. But she’d prepared herself to hear that and worse
tonight, knowing he was going to get nasty. He always did…with her. It was just
the rest of the world who thought he was one of the most righteous, charming
badasses around.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she took a deep
breath and tried talking some sense into the jerk. “Look, I get that I’m not
your favorite person, Kier, but do you really think I would have come here if
it wasn’t important?”

“If there was a problem,” he argued, setting his glass
down, “the others would have contacted me.”

“We decided this was something best explained in
person.” So that he couldn’t go running off before she had a chance to find
him. “And you’re acting like a real bastard.”

“What could possibly be so damn important that they
would send you?” he suddenly growled, pushing away from the bar so quickly that
his two companions toppled on their spiked heels, forcing them to clutch onto
his powerful arms for support. Despite his attempt to appear casual, he was
obviously seething with fury, all of it directed at Morgan. “What the hell do
you want with me?”

“It’s not what I want that brought me here.” She
craned her head back so that she could still see his face as he came closer,
looming over her. “It’s what you’re going to need. From me.” His expression
darkened with rage, but she held up a hand, speaking rapidly, before he could
cut her off. “It’s about Kellan.”

He made a thick sound in his throat, and scrubbed one
hand over the bottom half of his face. “What? You finally break his heart? Did
guilt send you scurrying after me so that I can put him back together again?”

Frustration drew her brows together. “No matter how
many times we tell you, you refuse to listen. But I’ll say it again anyway.
Kellan and I are just friends.” It was the truth, not that Morgan expected him
to believe her. He accused her of sinking her claws into every man she came
into contact with. His brother was no exception.

“It’s time you ran along now,” the blonde on Kierland’s
left snapped, pulling ineffectually on his arm.

Tired of their bitchy interference, Morgan slanted
each woman a hard look of warning. “And why don’t you try minding your own
business?”

Arrogant blue eyes narrowed with outrage. “You’d
better watch how you speak to me,” one woman hissed. “My family owns this club.
I’ll have you tossed out on your ass before you know what hit you.”

Morgan arched her brows and smiled, a warm jolt of
satisfaction flaring through her system when she saw Kierland’s eyes widen a
little, as if he knew what was coming. “Is that meant to impress me?” she asked
in a soft voice. “Because you should really let them know that the place could
do with a bit of class. I could smell the sleaze the instant I stepped inside.”

“You bitch,” the woman sneered. She almost surprised
Morgan with a swift, openhanded slap, but instinct kicked in and Morgan’s hand
whipped up, her fingers wrapping around the woman’s wrist.

Rule number one. Never underestimate your enemy.

She smiled grimly as the words played through her mind
in Kierland’s deep baritone, a memory from the days when she’d been a young,
idealistic Watchman trainee and he’d been her instructor. But she wasn’t that
awkward, gangly teenager anymore—and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let
Blondie here get the better of her.

“What are you?” the blonde snarled, yanking her hand
from Morgan’s grip and giving her wrist a shake.

She smiled wide enough to bare her fangs. “A little
bit of everything.”

Silicone-injected lips curled with disgust. “Mongrel.”

Morgan lifted her brows. “Make that a mongrel who can
kick your ass,” she offered in a dry tone, almost hoping the blonde would try
to hit her again.

“Enough!” Kierland growled, grabbing hold of Morgan’s
arm and yanking her back around. She crashed into his chest so hard that her
breath rushed out, her senses suddenly overwhelmed with hard, hot, aggravated
male. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Me?” she gasped, blinking up at him. “The swan
started it!”

Though the music continued to blare through the room,
the dancing had stopped, everyone moving closer as word of the “almost”
catfight spread like a flame lapping at trails of spilled gasoline. From the
corner of her eye, Morgan could see the blondes talking with their heads close
together, and listened as one of them told the bartender to summon their
bodyguards from downstairs. Judging from their prima donna attitudes, she
thought it figured that the Barbie twins would have their own professional set
of bullies. She also figured it was time they got out of there.

Locking her gaze with Kierland’s, she stated the
obvious. “We should go.”

“You mean before you cause any more trouble?” he
snapped, glaring down at her, six and a half feet of pure, enraged male.

“Don’t sound so bent out of shape,” she muttered. “You
were just worried that I might break one of your new playthings.”

“Save your ridiculous jeal—” Morgan heard him say, but
she lost track of the words when a beefy hulk of a guy broke through the crowd
and launched himself at her, slamming her to the ground. She could hear
Kierland’s indignant shout, followed by an eruption of sound as more guards
showed up, attacking the Lycan, and chaos broke out all around them. The brute
lying on top of her, who smelled like a sweaty cross between a grizzly and a
badger, was obviously one of the blondes’ bodyguards. The swan-shifters were
goading him on, shouting things like “She’s the one!” and “Show her a lesson,
Frankie!”