When Temptation Burns: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 6) (2 page)

“Goddammit, I missed the fucker! Catch him! Run! Shit, we have to catch him. If he gets away, we’re dead. We’re totally fucking dead.”

He was dead
.

No other possible outcome. No other way for this to end.

He’d been stupid. Lazy and reckless, and somehow they’d found him out.

And now he was dead, or he would be soon enough.

Except he couldn’t die—not like this. Not without letting someone know how bad it was. How close
they
were. And how dangerous.

His legs pumped as he moved down the alley, the weakness unfamiliar after so many years of pure, glorious strength. He’d known about the dangers of silver, of course. What werewolf didn’t? But he’d been arrogant and foolish enough to believe they’d never get him with it. To believe they’d never find out about him. That he’d be smart. That he’d be safe.

He’d been an idiot, and soon he’d be a dead one.

Not once in his wildest dreams had he imagined that they would lace his drink with colloidal silver. But they had, and he’d drunk it down, and it had ripped his advantage away from him right then and there, weakening his muscles and making his mind fuzzy and confused.

Once he figured out what they had done to him, he
managed to get away, pushing through the thick Friday night crowd to the kitchen, then out the back door through the alley. He’d run aimlessly in the dark, just wanting to put distance between him and his tormentors. He’d thought he’d lost them, had even leaned against a Dumpster to take a deep, self-satisfied breath.

And then they’d arrived with their taunts and their jeers and, most dangerous of all, their knives forged of silver.

He’d fought, but he’d been weak. Extraordinarily weak. That he’d managed to get away at all was a miracle. That they were following was a curse.

Right now he had only one thing to be thankful for—that Wes’s silver bullet had only nicked his heart. If it had pierced it, he’d already be dead, and all his warnings would be lost.

They still might be if he didn’t hurry. But he was weak. So damn weak.

He heard the footsteps pounding behind him and realized that he’d slowed his pace.
Go
. He had to get somewhere safe. Had to find a shadower.

For three months, he’d been deep undercover, trying to find out what the humans were up to. About four weeks ago, he’d managed to wrangle an introduction to Wes, and that had gotten him closer, because the frat boy human was poised to go far within the organization.

Jordan had spent this last month watching and learning and trying to get closer. Close enough to gain trust, to learn what
they
were up to. The humans who wanted him—and all the shadowers—dead and gone. If he couldn’t tell someone, then all that time would be for nothing, and he
couldn’t
let it be for nothing. Because then … because then …

His head was fuzzy, his thoughts crashing into each other.
The silver
.

Had to hurry. Had to move.

With concentration like he’d never known before, Jordan forced his heart to beat harder, his blood to surge stronger. Forced his legs to
go
.

Something fast whipped by him, brushing his sleeve, and when he realized that one of his tormentors had thrown a knife, a new burst of fear fueled his speed. He didn’t know why they hadn’t used the gun—wait, yes he did.
There were people, and a gunshot would draw attention
.

He peered around him and realized that although he was still racing down the alley that ran parallel to the Northridge street, there were people up ahead. They were mingling at the intersection of the alley and the sidewalk of a perpendicular street. The sound of laughter coupled with the scent of alcohol wafted toward him, and Jordan almost cried out in joy. Without even trying, he’d stumbled upon another bar, upon people.
Dear God, he needed people
.

To his left, a door burst open, a yawing metal mouth against a pockmarked face of brick. The stench of fried food and flowing alcohol wafted out. He’d found the back door to the bar where all the people were gathered.

His forehead creased in concentration as he tried to figure out what to do. Thinking was so hard, and his thoughts were all jumbled.
Go in. Go in and get lost in the crowd
. Yes. Yes, that was what he should do.

He shifted, then stumbled toward the door, pushing inside past a couple who were emerging, a tangle of arms and legs and lips. He sniffed
—human
. He pushed off the wave of disappointment. The odds that he’d randomly
find a shadower bar had been thin. But this would do. He just needed bodies. Just needed to hide.

Hallway
. Dark. Flooded with the scent of sweat and lust. To his left and right were restrooms. Ahead, flashing lights and pounding music. He headed into the light, his hand steadying him against the wall. Other humans passed him, coming from the direction he was heading. Their eyes cut to him, then cut away, their faces twisted with fear and repulsion.

He was changing
.

His own pain, his own fear—it was pushing the change even as the silver kept the wolf from fully bursting free. His bones were bulging, his face deforming. The humans would be no help to him—he could tell that much from the terror on their faces.

He needed to
think
, dammit, but his head was too full of cotton. Had to find a shadower. Had to do it soon.

They were coming. Of that he was certain. They’d find him, and they’d kill him.

He’d always thought that despair would be a cold, frenetic thing, but now he knew that it was warm and languid. A quiet acceptance. A slow descent into the thick sludge of acquiescence.

Just before the hallway opened onto the main dance floor, another hall intersected, veering off to the left. He turned, ignoring the sign that said the area was for employees only. It was quieter here, and he realized he could think better now that he wasn’t walking straight into those damned pulsing lights. Ahead, he heard voices. If he could get to them, just get to them, then maybe—

His knees buckled, and he grabbed at the wall for balance. But the walls were spinning, the silver in his blood working its way into his brain. He closed his eyes and
sagged to the ground, hoping to stop the horrible, gut-wrenching rocking.

Bile rose in his throat, and he sucked in air through his nose, but the nausea kept building.

“Hey—hey, mister? You okay?”

Slowly, he peeled open his eyes and looked up at the three women staring down at him. No, not three. Just one, but she was blurry around the edges, coming in and out of focus. He sniffed. Another human.

“I’m—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. For that matter, he wasn’t sure the words had even left his lips. But the girl had knelt down, her face full of concern. And when she did, he saw the mark on the wall behind her. An elaborate
S
painted in gold and bisected by a silver arrow.

They were here!

“I’m going to call nine-one-one,” the girl said, pulling out a cell phone.

“No.”
He croaked out the word, then thrust out his hand to grab hers. “Don’t.”

Her eyes went wide, and he followed her gaze. The bones of his hand were elongating, pushing against his skin. And thick tufts of fur were sprouting.

“What are—?”

“Go,” he snarled. “Get the hell out of here.”

She didn’t argue, just took a step back, then turned and ran down the hall, back toward the noise and the lights.

He threw himself against the wall, fingers scraping for the notch that had to be there.
Please, please let it be there
. He had to get in—had to get safe—before his human tormentors found him. Surely they were in the club now. Surely they were tracking him. Surely they’d meet the woman and she’d point, horrified, down the
hallway. And then they’d come with their guns and their knives and they’d—

There
.

His fingernails found the crevice between the wall panels. A subtle click, and then one of the panels swung open. He fell into the dark space, kicking the hidden doorway shut behind him.

But he could go no farther. He’d reached safety, and in doing so had sapped his meager supply of strength.

In front of him, a beautiful pale face loomed.
Vampire
. He could smell the blood along with the revulsion. There was no love between the weren and the vamps, but they would unite against their enemies. They had to, Jordan thought. Because if they didn’t they would all surely die.

With effort, he opened his mouth, lips parting just enough to make a sound. He saw the vampire’s eyes narrow, long lashes dark against ivory cheekbones.

Help
.

He tried to force the word out, but it wouldn’t come. How could it when there could be no help now?

“You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a place for you.”

He tried again to form words, but he was too far gone, his life slipping away.
No. No, no, no
.

Conjuring strength he didn’t know he possessed, he struggled to force out three little words. Three words that he hoped would save them all.

“Get,” he said, then sucked in a breath and tried again. “Get the percipient.”

And then, with a gasp, Jordan Lowe laid back his head, and died.

A thin sheen of sweat covered him, and Ryan Doyle kicked the cotton sheet off. The ancient, window-mounted air conditioner belched out cool air, and he closed his eyes, letting the chill soothe his heated skin as much as his feverish thoughts. He’d come here—with this woman—with the intention of clearing his head. Of letting the case—and the images of the kidnapped human girls—disappear under the surface for an hour with the hope that the distance would bring clarity. Because right now he was at a goddamned dead end, and if he didn’t figure something out—

No—back it down. Back it the fuck down
.

That wretched, violent anger was rising inside him. The compulsion to lash out, to explode, to rail against the filthy vampire that had flaunted the darkness inside him by taking those girls.

That anger’s pure. Just let go. Let it out. They’re probably dead, so the fury is totally justified. Hell, it’s human. Feel it—just fucking feel it
.

He clenched his fists, fighting the temptation to give in. He wasn’t going there. Justified or not, he couldn’t let it explode. For centuries now, he’d managed to keep it under control. He had a temper—hell yes, he did. But snapping at a uniform who wasn’t doing his job was a far cry from the bloodred fury that boiled inside of him, ready to explode the moment he relaxed. Each day
Doyle battled it down, and each day’s battle was a little bit easier than the last. That was progress, and he wasn’t going to toss it away. If he did, he might never find his way back to the man he’d worked so damn hard to become.

Beside him, the woman shifted and rolled over. A moment later, her naked breasts pressed against his back, her lips on his shoulder. “Stay the night,” she said. “You might as well. It’s almost sunrise anyway.” Her hand slid over his waist, fingers dancing down bare skin until she found his cock and stroked it slow and easy. “And I can think of a lot of ways to welcome the morning.”

He closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment to enjoy the sensation. Then he sat up, the movement of his body forcing her hand away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. He stood, started looking around for his pants. He wouldn’t stay. He never stayed.

“Nothing?” Her voice grated with annoyance. He heard the brush of skin against cloth as she shifted back on the bed. “Shit.” The word was little more than a breath.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just long enough to gather himself. Then he turned to her, saw her body, warm and fresh on the sheets, and knew that no matter what else he might be, right then—as far as this woman was concerned—he was being an asshole.

“You knew what I was when you invited me home with you.”

She laughed, and the sound was not attractive. “Goddamn cop,” she said.

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you smiling?”

“Am I? I guess it’s because you know me so well.” He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, then drew the sheet up to cover her. He rested his palm on the flat of her stomach and looked into her guileless eyes. She didn’t know what he truly was, and even after all these years, it still amazed him that he could pull off the illusion.