Lucky Break (2 page)

“Come inside,” Ethan said. He took her arm, pulled her gently into the foyer, and closed the door again.

“Nessa this is Merit, my Sentinel.”
Taran is—was—her husband,
he silently added, using our telepathic connection.

Ethan put a supportive hand on her back, the familiar line of worry between his eyes. And although he didn't speak the words—silently or otherwise—I could read his thoughts well enough:
What have we stepped into now?

“Come,” he said, walking her to the sofa and helping her sit. “Tell us what's happened.”

She gripped the couch's arm, shook her head. “I came home, and Taran was lying on the floor.” She looked down, eyes tracing back and forth, as if she was seeing him there again. “I thought he'd fallen. Tripped. I teased him about it—something about how he'd better get up, the clumsy man—but that's when I realized . . . He was dead.”

She sobbed, covered her face with her hands, while Ethan stroked a hand over her back.

Her grief was obvious, palpable, and a haunting reminder. I'd lost Ethan once upon a very dark time, and even though I'd gotten him back by a miracle of broken magic, I still remembered the all-consuming grief. The pain of it, the frustration, the sense the world would never be right again.

Ethan met my eyes, acknowledging the pain he must have guessed I'd remembered.

I'll get her something to drink,
I told him. I went into the kitchen, poured water into a glass from a sealed bottle in the refrigerator, carried it back.

Ethan reached for it, our fingers brushing as I passed it over. He fitted it between Nessa's hands, now kneading fists in her lap.

“Drink,” he said, and she nodded, tipped up the glass with shaky hands.

Ethan waited until she'd lowered it again. “Have you called the authorities?”

“The sheriff,” Nessa said with a teary nod. “Tom McKenzie. There are a lot of McKenzies in the valley. He came with a deputy and they started looking around. I went outside to get air, and then I started walking . . .” She looked around the living room as if utterly surprised to have found herself there. “I came here.”

“Will they be looking for you?” Ethan's question was quiet, his tone cautious.

“I don't know. Probably.” Her eyes filled again, and this time there was fear in them.

Ethan and I exchanged a glance. “Nessa,” he gently said. “What else?”

“Taran was a shifter,” she said, the words coming out in an outpouring of sound. I realized too late the faint pepper of magic she carried, shed along with her husband's blood. “The McKenzies didn't approve of our marriage.”

“Because you're a vampire?” I asked.

Nessa put the glass on the floor, wiped at her eyes, nodded. “And a member of the Clan.”

Ethan's brows lifted, his own magic piercing the air. “There's a Clan here?”

Clans were, as far as I remembered from the official vampire
Canon
, groups of Rogue vampires—those who didn't reside in a House—living together just as a human family might. Where Rogues generally preferred to live alone, vampires in Clans lived together, like unofficial Houses. Unregulated Houses, so they acted like human families to keep their profile low and rarely revealed their existence.

“The Marchands,” she said, brushing hair from her face with the back of her hand, the move streaking blood across her pale skin. She didn't seem to notice it. “We've been in the valley nearly as long as the McKenzies. The conflict began not long after we arrived.”

“Over the land?” Ethan asked.

“The land, its use and control. The population. Possessions. Love.”

“There's a feud,” Ethan concluded.

“There
was
a feud,” Nessa said, her despair obvious. “It had been so long—I thought we'd moved past it.” She looked up at Ethan. “I'm so sorry. So sorry that you're here, now, and this is going on. I thought—”

“Do not trouble yourself with us,” he said, shaking his head. “Let's focus on what's happened.”

She looked down at her hands, streaked with dark and drying blood, her nails stained with it, her fingers shaking. “They've killed him. Punished him for our transgression, for marrying me. They'll come for me next.”

Ethan's body tensed at the hint of trouble to come, of war, before relaxing again with resigned acceptance. “We won't let that happen.”

It wasn't clear she heard him, with her gaze still on her stained hands. “His blood. This is his blood.”

“Why don't you wash up?” Ethan suggested. “Call your Clan, let them know where you are. They can send a message to the sheriff that you're here. He'll want to question you.”

He'll want to know she didn't run away in guilt,
I thought.

Nessa nodded, rose, and walked to the end of the room, disappeared through a doorway. A moment later came the closing of a door and the sound of running water.

I kept my voice quiet. “Do you trust her?”

Ethan frowned. “I have no reason not to trust her.”

He'd told me before we left Chicago that Nessa had been a friend of two Cadogan vampires, Katherine and Thomas, siblings originally from Kansas City. They'd stayed in touch with her, and she'd visited them in Chicago. That's how Ethan had met her several decades ago.

“I've known her for many years, Sentinel. And while I'd say we were more acquaintances than close friends, I certainly don't know anything that suggests she'd have killed her husband.” He brushed fingertips across my cheek. “I wouldn't have knowingly brought you into danger.”

I had no doubt of that. And yet, here we were. I looked through the windows to the valley beyond, the moon arcing across the sky. Ethan's sense of honor and loyalty made it exceedingly unlikely he'd abandon this woman to what might be a very ugly fate at the hands of a mob.

“I know,” I said, and took his hand. “This isn't going to be a vacation, is it?”

“Ah, my Sentinel,” he said, and pressed his lips to my forehead. “It was a nice thought, wasn't it? That'd we'd find peace in this beautiful country?”

It was a wonderful thought. But at the second knock at the door—this one an ominous pounding of meaty fist against heavy wood—I realized how far away it was.

“Villagers with torches?” Ethan said, only partly joking.

Not villagers,
I guessed, given the hot animal magic that began to seep into the house.

Shifters.

***

Half a dozen shifters to be exact, standing in the front yard like a gang of regulators come to mete out justice in the Wild West.

Ethan and I stood alone on the porch, katanas at the ready. And since we were outnumbered and probably outmagicked, with bluffing skills at the ready. My expression was fierce and determined, even if my heart beat like the wings of a small bird inside my chest.

A shifter stepped forward, and he cut an imposing figure. Broad-shouldered enough to be a defensive lineman, with a square jaw and deep-set eyes, his hair long, thick, and multi-shaded, threads of brown and blond mixed together. His brows and stubble were darker, his eyes ice blue and swirling with knowledge, with power. I'd have put his age at twenty-eight.

The rest of the shifters—men in a variety of ages—bore a passing resemblance to him and shared his ferocity. Their magic, animal and raw, vibrated just enough to hint they were fully armed.

Guns,
I silently reported.

But Ethan wasn't intimidated by weapons, shifters, or most anyone else. His expression was utterly bland. “And you are?”

“Rowan McKenzie. We're here for the bloodsucker.”

“McKenzie,” Ethan repeated, ignoring the demand and the epithet. “You're related to Taran?”

“Rowan is Taran's cousin,” Nessa said. Ethan kept his gaze on Taran, but I looked back, found her in the doorway behind us. She stepped forward, walked across the porch to stand beside us.

The contrast between us and them—between cold and pale vampires and sun-kissed and golden-skinned shifters—was undeniable.

“The rest of them are McKenzies, as well,” she added. “Apparently Rowan believed he needed to bring his crew.”

“My cousin is dead,” Rowan said, and at that the rest of the shifters slapped their hands against their hearts and screamed to the sky. The sound—full of grief and anger and jagged magic—raised the hair on the back of my neck. And not in a good way.

“My
husband
is dead!” Nessa called back. “My lover. My mate. Someone
murdered
him in our home.”

“Someone did,” Rowan agreed, his eyes on her. “Tom told us Taran was killed. We know you did it, and we're here to bring you to justice.”

“I didn't kill my husband,” she said, now an edge in her voice as grief transmuted to anger.

It was the first time she'd said the words outright, but I believed her, as far as that went.

“I loved him,” she continued, her voice shaking. “You're the ones who hated him. You hated him for marrying me. For deserting your family. For ignoring the feud. For moving past it. How do I know you aren't the ones who killed him? That I shouldn't kill you where you stand to avenge his death?”

“And now who's making threats?” Rowan took a step forward, then another, his magic bouncing toward us in waves, vibrating with hatred. “Your husband's lying dead in his home, and you're here with strangers, bloodsuckers. There were already far too many vampires in the valley.”

Ethan arched an imperious eyebrow. “We have no fight with you, McKenzie, or any other shifters. We're allies of the North American Central Pack.” Colorado was part of the Pack's territory. We hadn't anticipated running into any shifters, but we'd given the Apex, Gabriel Keene, a heads-up about our trip as a courtesy.

Rowan spat on the ground, an obvious insult. “The Packs have no authority here.”

Ethan's smile was easy. “I doubt Gabriel Keene would agree. Regardless, he's aware we're here, and I'd be happy to let him know you've got doubts about his authority. I'm sure he'd have an answer. As for now, since you've intruded on Nessa's grief and are trespassing on her property, what, precisely, do you want?”

Rowan leered at Nessa and shifted his body weight threateningly. “We want her to answer for her sins.”

“You have evidence she murdered her husband?”

“She's a vampire and a member of the Marchand Clan,” said one of the shifters behind him, who had Rowan's coloring but less weight, less height, like a leaner and meaner version. “Probably did it for revenge.”

“Revenge for what?” Ethan flatly asked, putting a hand on Nessa's arm when she opened her mouth to speak.

“She's a
Marchand
,” Rowan spat, as if that characteristic, that insult, was obviously enough to answer the question.

Since logic wasn't going to get him anywhere, Ethan switched tacks. “The sheriff is at the house investigating Taran's death. If you have a problem with the investigation, take it up with him. In the meantime, I strongly recommend you leave Nessa to her grief and get on with your mourning in a more productive way.”

Rowan's lip curled, and the shifters behind him moved incrementally closer. “She'll come with us, whether we have to go through you or not.”

Ethan regarded Rowan as if he was a spoiled child. “Are you threatening me now?”

“Stating a fact. This is our business, our valley, and our fight. You'd be better stepping aside and letting us get on with it.”

“So you can unilaterally execute her? You're crazy if you think we'll even let you near her.”

Rowan's lips curved in what might have been a smile, had there been a little less hostility in it. He glanced at his men, shared a laugh, before he turned back to us, challenge in his eyes. “And you'll stop us? Outnumbered as you are?”

That was my cue,
I thought, and pulled out every bit of vampire bravado in my arsenal.

“No,” I said, stepping in front of Ethan, even as his magic pulsed with irritation behind me. He—and his alpha sensibilities—hated it when I stepped in front of him. But that was my job, and as his lover, my absolute and undiminished right.

“But I will.” I unsheathed my katana, handed my scabbard back to Ethan.

Slowly, Rowan's gaze dropped to me, lip still curled in disgust. He had me on weight and height, and probably in sheer shifter strength, and it was hard not to ignore my logical and deep-seated urge to turn tail and find a corner to hide in. But these guys were practically vibrating with ego, and they weren't going to leave without a fight. They'd need incentive, and I was happy to give it to them.

“Vampires don't scare me.”

“Good,” I said, letting my own eyes silver and fangs descend, and twirling the katana in my hand. “That means you're stupid. It's been a week since I've had a good fight, and stupid's usually a quick one.”

Take care, Sentinel,
Ethan warned, as he pulled Nessa back.

It wasn't often that I blatantly picked a fight. On the other hand . . .

We set boundaries now on our own turf,
I told him,
or we wait for them to attack. I like my option better.

And I wasn't about to risk Ethan to a surprise attack. Or the crap I'd get from Luc, the captain of his guards, if Ethan was hurt by a shifter while traveling with me.

Rowan, either loath to fight his own battles, or thinking I was worthy of only a minion, gestured to the lean and ornery-looking shifter. “Niall,” he called.

Niall grinned, loped forward.

“Your weapon of choice?” I asked him.

The shifter snorted. “Use whatever toy you want.”

Yes, he was a shifter, with more magic than I could accumulate in an eternity. And yes, even though he was skinny, he had at least forty pounds on me. But he was also arrogant. I was well trained, and I was supposed to be relaxing with a bison burger and a book; that I was out here instead just pissed me off.