Base Instincts (2 page)

Which was smart, especially now that the recent near-apocalypse had revealed the demon world to humans, causing tension, fear, and chaos. They were in all-out extermination mode, while demons were dealing with some sort of political shakeup in Sheoul, the realm many people called Hell. Slake had no idea what was going on in Sheoul, and frankly, he didn’t care. He had a job to do, and he always completed his missions.

His latest prey had been cunning, maybe his most clever adversary yet, but he’d finally tracked her here. The wily succubus had covered her tracks well, but Slake had a knack for ferreting out secrets, and as good as Fayle was at hiding, Slake was better at finding.

Lightning flashed like some sort of horror-movie foreshadowing as he entered the dimly lit club through a doorway only supernatural creatures could see. Instantly, the blare of rock music, the stench of sweating, dancing people, and the electric, sensual energy of sin assailed him. If he hadn’t been on the job, he’d revel in the club scene and be scoping out potential partners to take home for the night.

Partners like that sexy-as-hell medic propped against the wall near the first aid station, his gaze sweeping the crowd with the hard-core intensity of a battle-wise soldier in enemy territory. Even from across the room, Slake could see the readiness for anything in the subtle tautness of his body.

And what a body it was. His black uniform was stretched tight across his shoulders and abs, the rolled sleeves revealing thickly muscled arms made to pin his partner to a mattress.

Slake had no idea if the dude was into males, females, or both, but the guy practically oozed confidence and sex. The medic folded his arms over his broad chest, giving Slake a prime view of a sleeve of tattoos winding from his fingers to his biceps, where they disappeared beneath his uniform and then reappeared at the top of his collar. The pattern ended just below his jaw, and Slake decided he’d need to get a closer look, because damn, he loved tats.

And maybe getting in closer would help him figure out what species—or breed—of demon the guy was. He was definitely a demon; Slake’s ability to distinguish a blue human aura from an orangey-red demon one made that clear. Not that Slake was picky when it came to bed mates, but he drew the line at fucking any species of demon that rated a five on the Ufelskala scale of evil. Fours were bad enough, but with a five, you never knew whether or not your partner was going to kill you after you came.

Or
before
you came, for that matter.

A scuffle erupted out near the bathrooms, drawing his attention away from the medic, but bouncers broke it up before too much blood spilled. No doubt the fight would be just one of many tonight, but that wasn’t Slake’s concern. He strode through the club, his eyes peeled for his target. There were approximately a million and a half females milling about, but none resembled the petite, black-haired Asian in the picture he’d been given two months ago by his boss at Dire & Dyre, the law firm that employed him as an Acquirer. Yup, if a client wanted something or someone, Slake was the one sent to acquire it.

Except this job was different. This job would determine the course of the rest of Slake’s life.

And the rest of his
after
life.

But hey, as his boss pointed out, it was
only
his
soul
on the line.

The jackass.

He spied an empty booth near an exit to the sewers and made a beeline to it, growling at a burly green-skinned demon who tried to slip into the seat ahead of him. The demon cursed, but one look at Slake’s arsenal of weapons peeking out from beneath his leather jacket gave the guy second thoughts. Probably third thoughts too.

A waiter brought Slake a double whiskey, neat, and he settled in, hoping his prey would show her pretty face. In the meantime, though, he didn’t see any harm in checking out the medic at the rear of the club a little more.

That male was something special. Even his coloring was perfect. Not too tan, but not pale. And given the guy’s reddish hair, shorter in the back than in the front, Slake would bet that close up, he’d have some freckles waiting for the caress of a tongue.

Slake’s mouth watered at the thought, and he had to shift to make a little more room in his leathers. But he didn’t let his lust distract him from his mission. Not when success meant freedom . . . and failure meant kissing his soul good-bye forever.

He downed half his drink and reached for his cell phone just as the thing vibrated in his coat pocket. The name that flashed on the text screen with a curt,
You there?
was exactly who he’d been wanting to hear from for days. Hoping for good news from his favorite underworld spy, he tapped out a message.

Hey, Atrox, it’s about time. Tell me you have an update on our prize.

He waited an unbearably long time for the reply. Atrox’s fat fingers and long claws weren’t exactly compatible with touchscreen keyboards. The reptilian demon had to use his knuckles to type, which Slake had found funny . . . until lizard boy had used those knuckles to knock Slake on his ass.

Finally, the phone beeped with Atrox’s incoming text.
Got a lead. One of the dudes I grilled last night is a regular at Thirst. Said he’s seen the succubus several times in the company of a male with red hair and a sleeve of tats on his right arm.

Red hair and a sleeve of tats. Slake looked up at the hot medic and grinned.

This assignment had just gotten interesting.

The blood was flowing freely tonight.

Sure, the same could be said of any night at Thirst, but between the vampires feeding from the humans and the fights breaking out between all species as the moon hovered on the verge of becoming full, Raze had been one busy, exhausted medic. He’d been on duty for nine hours with only one slow period, and as he watched a heated argument break out at the bar, he knew it was time to gear up for another patch job.

Too bad, too, because that dark-haired male sitting alone in the far corner intrigued him. Intrigued him enough that for the first time in years, Raze was tempted to give in to a desire he rarely indulged in.

The argument escalated into physical violence, swelling from the original three instigators to eight, no, ten guys. One of the bartenders, a lion shifter named Lexi, shouted for the bouncers, who were already on the way. They started pulling people apart, but it took the club owner, Nate, and the manager, Marsden, both vampires, wading into the fray and tossing the fighters aside like rag dolls to break it up.

As Raze gloved up in preparation for treating injuries, most of the participants slunk away like beaten dogs to lick their wounds, but one hairy, horned dude got the boot out the side door. Another, his hand pressed against a gushing wound in this thigh, was dragged, cursing and growling, into the clinic and plopped onto the exam table.

Marsden and Lexi both gave Raze a look of sympathy and got the hell out of there before Raze could recruit them to help.

“Thanks, guys,” Raze shouted after them. “Next time you cut yourself while you’re slicing up limes, don’t come crying to me.”

Lexi cast him a saucy grin from over her shoulder while flipping him the bird with a freshly bandaged middle finger. Mars did the same, minus the saucy grin and bandage.

Laughing, he turned to his patient, who, if his sneer was any indication, didn’t have the same sense of humor as Mars and Lexi.

Damn it, Raze shouldn’t have answered the phone when Thirst’s number popped up on his caller ID this morning. This was supposed to have been his day off from both the club and Underworld General, not that he’d had any exciting plans. There weren’t even any good new movies out.

The patient bared his teeth at Raze, his slightly elongated fangs indicating that the dude wasn’t human. From the musky stench of him, Raze was going to guess he was some sort of animal shifter or were-creature, but given the approach of the full moon and its effects on weres, Raze was going to go with the latter.

“What’s your name?” Raze asked as he pulled the tray of first aid equipment toward him.

“Bite me.”

Oh yeah, this was going to be a good time. “Okay, Bite Me, what species are you?”

Bite Me narrowed his eyes. “Why the fuck does it matter? You gonna treat me different if I’m something you don’t like?”

Apparently, Bite Me was not only a mean drunk, he was one of those fun people who made everything about themselves and their personal views. “It’s important because every species and breed is unique, and each one has different medical needs and reactions to treatment.” Bite Me didn’t seem to be convinced, so Raze elaborated. “Dogs can take aspirin, but it’s toxic to cats. Oni demons will burst into flame if exposed to hydrogen peroxide, but it affects Sora demons the way alcohol affects humans.” He gestured to a suture kit on the equipment tray. “Some species can’t tolerate my healing power and need more traditional methods to close wounds. So stop being a prick and tell me what you are.”

Hatred rolled off Bite Me’s body as he locked gazes with Raze in a bold challenge. “Guess.”

“Well,” Raze drawled, “given your overdeveloped canines, foul stench, and sparkling personality, I’d say you’re a werewolf.”

“It’s
warg
, you Seminus scum,” the guy growled.

Raze’s hand jerked in surprise, not at the word—“warg” was what werewolves preferred to be called—but at the fact that the guy knew what a Seminus demon was. He kept his expression neutral, unwilling to let this unibrowed meathead know he’d struck a nerve.

“Congratulations,” he said flatly. “You have correctly identified an extremely rare breed of sex demon.”

The guy’s upper lip curled. “That’s because I’ve killed two of you bastards.”

Raze inhaled deeply, willing himself to stay calm. People killing Seminus demons happened too often, and unfortunately, much of it was deserved. Raze didn’t even want to think about how, if he didn’t bond with a female by the time he turned a hundred, he’d go through the second of two maturation processes: gaining fertility, a facial marking, and an unholy, uncontrollable need for sex. In fifty short years, he’d become a beast whose primary instinct was to reproduce, and any female within dick’s reach would be a target . . . willing or not.

Males of all species killed mature Sems on sight, which Raze figured was pretty understandable. Especially given that all offspring from a Seminus mating were born male Seminus demons—no matter what species the mother was. Raze’s own mother had been some sort of cave-dweller demon, but DNA tests performed at Underworld General hadn’t been able to identify the exact species, let alone the breed.

“Well, good for you,” Raze said, as he not-so-gently slapped his hand over the werewolf’s wound and activated his healing power. Stinging energy flowed through the markings on his arm, lighting them up like molten iron. In his mind, he saw the torn vessels, veins, and tissue in the wound begin to knit together. “Not everyone can go up against a Sem and survive. So . . . you gonna tell me your name? Or would you rather I keep calling you Bite Me? Because I’m fine with that.”

“I’m Heath, you demon parasite.”

“Parasite? That’s a little harsh. And unoriginal.” Raze sent another wave of power into Heath’s leg—but not to heal. This one was made of pain. Heath yelped, and Raze smiled. “Don’t fuck with the guy who is patching you up, asshole. I can just as easily kill you as heal you, and my boss is good at disposing of bodies. Keep that in mind.”

Heath leaned forward, teeth bared, canines elongating. “I’d rather die than let a filthy
demon
heal me.”

“Fine with m—”

In a sudden burst of fury, the bastard snared Raze by the throat and hauled him off his feet. Dude was strong, but then, werewolves were known for their strength. And their bad breath.

The werewolf stood, lifting Raze with him, his fingers squeezing Raze’s windpipe in a bruising hold. “One of you fucks stole my woman.”

There was nothing more cliché than a thick-skulled werewolf vowing revenge against an entire species because he’d been humiliated.

Raze would have said as much, but merely breathing took effort—talking was out of the question. He glanced over Heath’s shoulder and saw Marsden moving in to help, his broad, tall form shoving through the crowd like a bulldozer. Raze met his gaze, gave him the
Back off, I’ve got this
blink, and in a quick surge, he powered up his healing gift and jammed his fingers against Heath’s temple. Instantly, the power Raze normally used to heal ripped skin and flesh apart at a cellular level.