Flame's Dawn (17 page)

“Well, once I ...”

His stale cigarette breath offended as he put his lips to her ear and whispered the sin. Or sins.

The hot air crawled over her neck as he spoke. “... and she might have been fifteen years old, but she acted eighteen. I mean, how was I supposed to know? But her mother, now that lady was tasty ...”

The knife throbbed, hungry, as her intense need to consume criminal blood escalated. Repugnant didn't even begin to describe this monster. What a delicious feast for the knife.

It might even qualify for the Meaningful Kill, the one act that could release her from the eternal, hated contract. A girl could hope.

As an Indebted, her boss was Satan in human form, Jerahmeel. Such a nasty, horrifying creature. Her life had boiled down to killing felons to feed Jerahmeel's appetite for the evil amassed in these sinners.

How she would love to be done with this hellish quasi-existence, to be done with disguises and hiding. And was it asking too much to ask to be left alone?

To do what? Rot? Beyond her ever-present duty to kill criminals and her mundane job as personal attendant for Barnaby, an ex-Indebted, she had nothing. No purpose.

She shoved the thought out of her mind and focused on the creep in front of her.

The minute his tongue touched her earlobe, she shoved him away, spun him around, and slammed him into the wall.

“Let me verify what you've told me,” she said.

“What the hell?” He struggled against her supernaturally strong grip.

She dug her fingers into his arm, not caring how badly it hurt. Glancing around, she prayed Jerahmeel wouldn't take this opportunity to pop in. Jerahmeel fixated on people with extra powers, and he already had too keen of an interest in her—a bad combination. If he found out about her additional mind-reading skill, her life would be a living hell. Actually, her life already was a living hell. It would simply become worse than now. Hard to imagine.

Pay attention. Get this job done and get out.

With one more quick glance to ensure no one approached, she steadied the biker's goateed chin, entered his consciousness, and did something no creature alive today—human or otherwise —knew she could do. She
pulled
the thoughts from his mind.

Digging past the mental curtains where he thought about sex and beer, she pushed deeper into the glowing ember of his crime. His horror at the inner invasion coated her own thoughts like cold, wet cobwebs. She mentally gripped the image of his crime and dragged it into her own consciousness, while adjusting his perception to reduce his sweaty panic. Good. Now he believed that her exploration of his mind was all part of fabulous foreplay.

“That's nice, babe,” he murmured, trapped in her thrall.

Forcing a smile, she held him in place as she teased out the details. A few years ago, he had done horrible, unspeakable things. Brutal, drawn-out, bloody torture. His glistening, red hand on the ankle of—oh God, a child. A tiny figure hung from ropes that bit into thin, bruised arms. The grisly images flooding her mind wrenched at her stomach.

This man would suit the knife's need for a corrupt and tasty soul, to say nothing of her kick-ass alter ego's desire to deliver vengeance against everything evil. She hated confirming the crimes because of the after-images that remained imprinted on her memories, but her hidden talent was another way she could assert some control over her despised existence as an Indebted killer.

Of course, the knife signaled which criminal to kill, so why bother using her power?

An overabundance of caution, even after all these years. If she accidentally murdered an innocent, she might lose what sanity she had left. So she double-checked her kill. Every single time.

Also, if she picked only the worst sinners, maybe she'd increase her chances of obtaining the Meaningful Kill. Besides, she needed to flog her conscience with the horrible images of the criminals' deeds, to serve small penance for deserting her own children so many years ago when she became this Indebted killer.

Truth be told, she also enjoyed each small burst of vigilante retribution, bringing the crimes to light. Right before committing a crime herself. Because warped logic was better than no logic.

She shoved him harder into the wall. The idiot thought they were headed for wild sex.

“Oh yeah, baby. You like it rough?” He fumbled with his belt buckle.

You've got to be kidding.
“You have no idea,” she whispered. “Let me get some protection.”

She bent down and reached for the knife, which rested in the sheath on her lower leg. Her night had gone from routine quota kill to an all-consuming need to kill in the space of mere seconds. Damned Indebted hunger drove her into a frenzy, despite her typical control.

“Yeah, do it, baby.”

Another movement from the rooftop, like a moth passing in front of a light, stole her attention for a split second.

The movement distracted her. At the moment her fingers grasped the handle, Decker kicked her square in the chest. Despite fast reflexes, she didn't react in time and bent over, coughing. The knife clattered a few feet away, next to Decker. The blade glowed lurid green, hungry. Damn, it physically hurt not to touch her knife.

Thankfully, the damaged muscles and cracked ribs had already begun to knit back together.

“You gonna pull that shit on me?”

She edged toward the blade. Had to reconnect with it. Needed it. Now.

He followed her gaze. “You want this?” He kicked the knife into the depths of the courtyard. Then he pulled a gun from a side holster.

She crouched, ready to bolt over and retrieve her weapon. Longing for the blade threatened to drive her mad.

Before she could act, a dark figure landed in front of her with a heavy thud of boots on cobblestones and a long trench coat flapping around him, making him appear too large for life.

What in the blazes?

“Step away from the lady,
mon ami
.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Decker sneered, pointing the gun at the man in black.

“Someone you don't want to cross.” The man's voice, a rich tenor with a Cajun lilt, cut through the evening air. Although his voice held lightness, almost humor, he commanded attention, not by his giant frame looming out of the shadows but by a tantalizing charisma when he spoke.

No time to ponder how his voice slid over her like a satin sheet. She needed to get rid of this extra Musketeer, fast. Bless this hapless hero, but she was most certainly
not
a damsel in distress. Quite the opposite, and she was managing fine before he arrived. Now, if only he would leave her alone to complete her assignment. Then she could wrap this job up and go back to being inconspicuous.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Decker screamed as the gun shook.

When the man in the trench coat didn't move, the biker pulled the trigger.

The mystery guy moved faster than her eye could follow. The gunshot crack echoed through the courtyard. The sound was sure to draw attention. Not good.

Even though he rocked back a step, the unfortunate gallant remained standing.

No.

Still standing.

He brushed a hand over his chest, like a gnat had bit him.

She ducked into the shadows of the courtyard, found her knife, shoved it in the holster, and raced back. She had to get rid of hero-boy so her biker buddy could feed the blade.

With a gurgled grunt and wheeze, Decker crumpled to the ground.

What in the hell?

The large man stood over Decker's body as a pool of dark liquid stained the cobblestones beneath his feet. Soul's blood, wasted.

God, she had needed to let her knife drink that criminal's blood. Now her compulsion to kill had doubled, threatening to blind her. Ignoring the man, she knelt next to the dead biker. She took a deep breath, fought searing pain in her gut due to her missed kill, and wrestled her base desires back under control. Damn, citizens would be here soon. She had to move.

Was that green glint in the interloper's hand a trick of the light? With her knife lust, she couldn't trust her perception of reality. His weapon looked suspiciously like ... hers. That meant he was ... oh, hell.

If he didn't yet realize that they were both Indebted, it might give her a brief advantage.

Oh God, what if this was Barnaby's friend they'd come to visit? Surely not. How many Indebted could inhabit New Orleans without drawing attention? Several, right? New Orleans was a big city.

The would-be rescuer held out a hand, and despite her best judgment, she took it, noting his broad fingers and a hint of dark hair on the back of his wrist. She needed to get out of here, but something about him fascinated her. Another Indebted. How old was he?

With a wince, he drew her up in front of him. The small hole in his coat spoke to the gunshot wound beneath. The injury probably hurt like hell but would be well on its way to healing.

Standing in front of him now, her gaze rested right on his shadowed mouth, where she could make out a smirk of sensual lips. For a split second, she wondered what those lips would feel like on hers. Would they be warm and sensual or demanding and hard? Would they stay turned up at the corners?

Was he actually smiling like this ridiculous situation was some joke? She withdrew her hand from his heated grip and clamped down on her girlish thoughts. One hundred and fifty years old, and all of a sudden she felt flirty? Incredible ... and incredibly inappropriate.

“Why the hell did you do that?” She gestured toward the hemorrhaging biker.

Although the Indebted's face was mostly hidden in shadow, his one visible eye widened and he reared back. Dark hair curled beneath his fedora—were those strands as soft as they appeared? He rubbed the hair on his chin, less than a full beard but more than stubble. The scratchy sound sent a quiver of desire into her belly. While the knife pulsed with sick hunger on her leg, she itched with longing to touch the rough hair on the man's jaw.

“I don't understand. That man would have killed you,” he said.

“I can take care of myself, thanks.” She needed to feed the blade. Soon.

Voices drifted down the street, getting louder by the second. Damn it.

“
Pardonnez
?” His jaw dropped open, and the dark gaze bored into her. No,
through
her. She shivered.

“You ruined my evening.” Probably not the most typical human response. After all, she'd just witnessed him murder a man. Sadly, though, she had become pretty blasé about the job requirements. Dead was dead.

Shaking with the effort to restrain the drive to kill, she clenched her hands into fists. The knife wanted her to wrap her fingers around the hilt and plunge the blade into a chest. Her hunger had risen to such a level, it would feed on anyone, including innocents and even her own kind. But this errant knight in proverbial shining armor shouldn't suffer because of her inability to focus.

She curbed her killing desires, just like she regulated other aspects of her life. Well, the areas she
could
control, that is.

With her efforts, the knife lust slowly ebbed. Sad emptiness took its place.

“You're ... unhappy that I saved you?” He grimaced, revealing square, even teeth.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

His mellow voice soothed her raw nerves like aloe on a wound. When he stepped forward, she jerked backward. Time to get away from this guy and from this scene, fast.

Shouts drifted into the courtyard. Citizens would be here in a matter of seconds.

“Sir, thank you for your help, however misguided. I need to be on my way.”

“Thank you? That's it?” He gestured at Decker's body, motionless and silent in the cool night.

At the wry undertone, she pressed her lips together. Was he making fun of her?

Anger bubbled up. What did it say about her own humanity that the corpse at her feet disappointed her? Pissed her off. Not because he was dead, but because she hadn't been the one to kill him.

Here she stood in her ridiculous wig and urban fantasy getup, using sex to draw in her prey, like a warped black widow. For what?

Somewhere deep down, she wasn't this seductress, despite her fabulous disguise. All the air and energy left her in a rush. All bravado, no substance. She was a fraud, living in a shell of an existence.

Damn, how she wanted Decker's criminal blood inside of her knife. What if she just swirled the knife in the pool of cold blood? Maybe that would work.

No, it wouldn't. Had to be blood from the heart; the knife had to be in the chest. Damn it.

“Thank you. Goodnight, sir,” she said in her firmest tone.

He stepped close enough that she saw his closely trimmed facial hair framing upturned lips, a mouth full enough to give a provocative smirk. A combination of cologne and Cajun spice blended perfectly around him. For a moment, she wanted to indulge, to taste, to experience a different life, to be someone else.

What the hell was wrong with her? With a dead body cooling at her feet, a handsome but still-clueless Indebted before her, and citizens on their way, she fixated on his mouth?

The damn blade pulsed again, again eager for someone's—anyone's—blood. It insisted on her complete attention, pulling her focus away from the man in front of her.

When she tried to evade him, he snagged her arm. He was strong, but of course, she was his equal. He couldn't budge her. At the display of her Indebted strength, shock crossed the visible part of his features. Yes, they shared the exact same secret.

“
Chèri
? What the—?”

Using his surprise to her advantage, she acted on pure instinct, stomping his instep with her spiked heel. He bit off a curse as his grip loosened. Dropping to a crouch, she rotated and swept an outstretched foot under the one leg he hopped on, and he fell hard onto the cobblestones. Unfortunately, when she rotated, her stupid wig caught on his hand, knocking it askew and covering an eye.