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Chapter 1
Darkness flowed in, washing over him in relentless waves. Closing his eyes, Ranulf drank in the shadows with his other senses. Evil always felt the same, but the taste and smell and sound of it were different each time. Even here in his remote mountain home, the violence from the cities below tainted the air.
Who had dared to disturb his isolation? Ranulf traced the web of his protection wards, testing each one to locate the intruder. The sticky triggers of his protections were silent but effective, for the more someone struggled against them, the stronger the bond became.
It didn't take long to locate the snarl in his trap. Ranulf released the mental coils that held the man enthralled and let him approach the front door. The intruder was human, with very little of the Kyth in his blood, but then the blood of Ranulf's kind had become diluted over the centuries, lost in the wash of mankind.
He triggered the door to open but left the man cooling his heels on the porch. Bracing himself for the assault on his senses that always accompanied his return to society, Ranulf stepped into the doorway.
"You have something for me?"
The messenger jumped at Ranulf's sudden appearance, but he recovered quickly. With a courtly flourish he produced a heavy velum envelope. "The Dame sends her regards."
"I'm sure she does, Josiah." Ranulf reluctantly accepted the envelope.
The handwriting on the outside was the same spidery scrawl that had been issuing him orders for far too long. A millennium had passed since he'd first sworn fealty to the Grand Dame of their kind. Months ago she'd promised him a respite from killing, but he hadn't really expected it to last. They both knew that if she had need of his special talents, he would go. Duty was the one thing he understood.
As he cracked open the old-fashioned wax seal, he noticed the messenger still hovering in the doorway, neither in nor out.
"What?" Ranulf demanded, already weary of the man's presence.
"I'm to wait for you."
Ranulf bit back a curse; a lackey didn't deserve to lose his head just because Ranulf's instinct was to attack first and answer questions later -- and then, only when he was forced to.
"Tell her to expect me when she sees me."
"But she said it was an emergency," the fool sputtered.
"It always is," Ranulf snapped, his temper boiling close to the surface. It wasn't as if he could simply lock the door and follow the man back to civilization. For him, travel took preparation.
He forced a compromise. "I will be there as soon as I can. I can't be more specific, but after all these years, she knows that. Now get the hell out of here, Josiah. Every minute we spend arguing is a minute I could put to better use."
The man started to say something else. When Ranulf took one step in his direction with his fists clenched, the messenger backed away with a reluctant nod, then fled toward his car. Ranulf slammed the door shut and threw the dead bolt.
Delays were pointless; it was time to start packing. That wouldn't take long, because clothing had never been a priority for him. Not like some other Talions he could name. The Grand Dame had Old World sensibilities about such things, but bloodstains were a bitch to get out of silk and wool.
After packing his duffel, he zipped it closed and set it down by the front door. Then he walked over to a glass case and pondered its contents. After a few seconds, he lifted the lid and picked up his talisman by its leather thong. The bright shine of the gold sparked and flickered with power. The talisman felt to him far heavier than it looked.
He settled the centuries-old image of a god's hammer around his throat and tucked it inside his shirt collar. The cool metal absorbed the heat from his skin, reconnecting him with the Grand Dame. Once again, he was a warrior preparing for battle.
The small cache of energy he kept stored in the talisman soothed his cravings enough to maintain control, but it wouldn't last long. He could've used the Dame's messenger for a quick fix, but she wouldn't appreciate his sending her man back damaged, even just slightly.
Retrieving his duffel, he headed out to the garage, where his dark mood immediately improved. It was early summer and definitely time to take the dustcover off the Packard. The car, a creamy white 1940 convertible, always drew a crowd -- a drawback in his line of work. But as a six-foot-three, blue-eyed Viking with fiery red hair, he wasn't exactly inconspicuous anyway. If he had to drag himself back out in the world on a mission for the Grand Dame, at least he could do it in comfort and style.
He'd owned the car since it had first rolled off the lot back in 1940, and it still looked brand-new. He put the top down, then brushed a hint of dust off the elegant curve of the fender, enjoying the smooth feel of the metal and the comfort of the buttery soft leather seats. On the outside, the Packard hadn't aged any more than he had. Inside, where it counted, he felt every one of his thousand years. He turned the key and the car purred to life, the 160 horses under the hood just begging to be unleashed on the mountain roads.
Ranulf ripped down the familiar curves, wondering why the Dame needed him. Most of the time she used the other Talions at her command, preferring to use diplomacy rather than Ranulf's brute strength to impose her will on their people. If she was worried enough to send for him, she must suspect that one of their kind had crossed the line and needed to die. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, feeling the harsh scrape of raw energy under his skin. It had been a long time since he'd fed on a renegade, and he didn't relish the thought of doing so again.
Killing was rough work, and messy. It always had been, from the very beginning, when blood had flowed for the glory of his people. But he was a Talion, a group named for the eye-for-an-eye principle that ruled their kind. Ranulf served the Kyth as executioner and was the acknowledged best at what he did. He had few regrets, even if every life he'd taken had chipped away at his soul, leaving him cold and grim.
In recent centuries the Kyth had grown more civilized, and now most feared rather than respected the Talion class. Maybe rightly so. The ability to kill without remorse was a rare gift, but one he took no pride in.
On the way, he'd look for a crowd to get lost in long enough to harvest sufficient energy to last him for a day or two. That way he'd be better prepared to face whatever had the Dame worried enough to unleash a Viking warrior on the streets of Seattle. A growing sense of dread urged him on, his foot pressing down hard on the accelerator as he charged down the mountain and prepared to do battle.
The music was alive, pulsing through the dancers. The concussive beat vibrated through the club's walls, the floor, and the very air until it became just another note in the symphony. The melody flowed out in waves, reaching the farthest corners of the club.
Closing her eyes, Kerry Logan lifted her hands high in the air and gave herself up to the fierce beat, her hips swaying, her head gently rolling from side to side. For the first time all day, her skin didn't hurt from the demands and expectations of others. She'd ditched her coworkers and her friends for a night out alone on the town.
Right now the music was all there was, and that was enough. She'd spend the evening lost in the crowd of dancers, letting the music take control. After a few hours she'd head home, her soul replenished.
Lost in the anonymity of the packed dance floor, she moved and slowly spun, enjoying the occasional brush of a stranger's body against hers. She was dimly aware of the weight of voices and the crush of bodies, but finally everything except the music faded into the background. This would heal her weary spirit.
The city lay sprawled under a blanket of bright lights as Ranulf followed Interstate 90 into the heart of Seattle. Just before he reached the turnoff to the Dame's home, the song on the radio was abruptly cut off by a news flash about a fire raging out of control at a nearby dance club. There was nothing unusual in the few sketchy details, but Ranulf's gut instincts had him riveted to the story. Without hesitation, he drove past his exit and into the downtown area.
The blaze might have been caused by any number of things, from bad wiring to a careless fool with a cigarette, but if a Kyth had set the fire, Ranulf wanted a head start in hunting the bastard down. No matter how careful an arsonist was, he'd leave enough of a trace for Ranulf to detect. The unique flavor of his energy would identify him as clearly as a fingerprint would.
Screaming emergency vehicles were converging on the scene, so Ranulf parked a block away to approach on foot. The scent of smoke and the faintest tang of burned flesh hung heavily all around, and he could hear the screams from a block away. Drawing in a deep breath, Ranulf tasted a bitter darkness in the air -- Âthe familiar flavor of evil. He ran toward the burning building, determined to snatch as many away from the grasping fingers of flame and death as possible.
Kerry was dancing, loving the slide of muscle under her skin, her bones no longer solid but fluid and bending with the rhythm of the song. This was what she'd come for.
Then the night was shattered by a woman's terrified scream. "Fire! My God, fire!"
Kerry's eyes flew open. Everyone stood frozen in horror, their faces reflecting the crimson flicker of flames. As terror swiftly turned the crowd into an ocean of panic, Kerry fought to remain calm in a scene straight out of hell. She glanced at the ceiling to the silver glint of a sprinkler system, praying it would kick on to drown the roiling smoke and terrified voices.
How had the room filled up with so much black smoke and flame so quickly? It didn't make sense. Ignoring the chaos, she struggled to get her bearings. Access to the front door was already cut off by a l...
