After Dark Page 12
“Did not,” the bride in question said from behind them.
They turned in unison. Bianka’s breath caught as it had every time she’d seen her youngest sister in her gown. It was a princess cut, which was fitting, the straps thin, the beautiful white lace cinching just under her breasts before flowing to her ankles. The material covering her legs was sheer, allowing glimpses of thigh and those gorgeous red heels.
Her strawberry curls were half up, half down, diamonds glittering through the strands. There was so much love and excitement in her gold-gray eyes it was almost blinding.
“I almost pushed you out a window,” Gwen added.
They laughed. Even stoic Taliyah, their oldest sister, who had her arm wrapped through Gwen’s. Since it turned out Gwen’s father was the Lords’ greatest enemy, and Gwen’s mom had disowned her years ago, Taliyah was escorting Gwen down the aisle.
“Hence the reason I’m now wearing this.” Kaia motioned to her own gown, an exact match to Bianka’s. A buttercup-yellow creation with more ribbons, bows and sequined rose appliqués than anyone should wear in an entire lifetime. They even wore hats with orange streamers.
Gwen shrugged, unrepentant. “I didn’t want you looking prettier than me, so sue me.”
“Weddings suck,” Bianka said. “You should have just had Sabin tattoo your name on his butt and called it good.” That’s what she would have done. Not that Lysander ever would have agreed to such a thing. Whether they were together or not.
Which they never would be. Jerk.
“I did. Have him tattoo my name on his butt,” Gwen said. “And his arm. And his chest. And his back. But then I casually mentioned how much I’d always wanted a big wedding, and well, he told me I had four weeks to plan it or he’d take over and do it himself. And everyone knows men can’t plan anything worth attending. So...” She shrugged again, though the excitement and love on her face had intensified. “Are they ready for us yet?”
Bianka and Kaia turned back to the chapel, peeking through the crack in the closed doors.
“Not yet,” Bianka said. “Paris is missing.”
Paris, who had gotten ordained over the internet, would be presiding over the nuptials.
“He better hurry,” she added grumpily. “Or I’ll find a way to make him oil-wrestle again.”
“You’ve been so depressed lately. Missing your Sent One?” Kaia asked her, pinkie-waving to Amun, who stood in the line of groomsmen beside Sabin at the altar.
Amun shouldn’t have been able to see her, but somehow he did. He nodded, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.
“Of course not. I hate him.” A lie. She hadn’t told her sisters why she and Lysander had parted, only that they had. Forever. If they knew the truth, they’d want to kill him. And as all but Gwen were paid killers, immensely good at their job, she’d find herself the proud owner of Lysander’s head.
Which she didn’t want.
She just wanted him. Stupid girl.
“I only would have teased you for a few years, you know,” Kaia said. “You should have kept him around. It might have been fun to corrupt him.”
He didn’t want to be corrupted any more than she wanted to be purified—fine, she did. Still. They were too different. Could never make anything work. Their separation was for the best. So why couldn’t she get over it? Why did she feel his gaze on her, every minute of every day? Even now, when she looked like a Southern belle on crack?
“So Sabin doesn’t have a last name,” she said to Gwen, drawing attention away from herself. “Are you going to call yourself Gwen Sabin?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m going to call myself Gwen Lord.”
“What’s Anya plan to call herself? Anya Underworld?” Kaia asked with a laugh.
“Knowing our goddess, she’ll demand Lucien take her last name. Trouble. Or is that her middle name?”
“I here, I here,” a voice suddenly screeched. Legion pushed her way in front of Bianka and Kaia. She was wearing a yellow dress, as well. Only hers had more ribbons, bows and sequins. A basket of flowers was clutched in her hands, her too-long nails curling around the handle. Best of all, she wore a tiara. Because she didn’t have hair, it had had to be glued to her scaled head. “We begin now.”
She didn’t wait for permission but shouldered her way through the door. The crowd—which consisted of the Lords of the Underworld, their companions and some gods and goddesses Anya knew—turned and gasped when they saw her. Well, except for Gideon. He’d recently been captured and tortured by Hunters, the Lords’ nemeses, and was currently missing his hands. (His feet weren’t in the best of shape, either.) Because of his injuries, he was beyond weak, so he lay in his gurney, barely conscious. He’d insisted on coming, though.
From his pew, Aeron smiled indulgently as Legion tossed pink petals in every direction. Just as she reached the front, Paris raced to the podium. He looked harried, pale, and Sabin punched him in the shoulder.
Sabin looked amazing. He wore a black tux, his hair slicked back, and when he turned to face the door, watching for Gwen, his entire face lit. With love. With pride. Bianka’s jealousy increased. She wanted that. Wanted her man to find her perfect in every way.
Was that too much to ask?
Apparently so. Stupid Lysander.
“Go, go, go,” Gwen ordered, giving them a little push.
Bianka kicked into motion, heading toward Strider, her appointed groomsman. He smiled at her when she reached him. He would be proud to call her his woman, she thought. She tried to make herself return the gesture, but her eyes were too busy filling with tears. She looked around, trying to distract herself.
The chapel really was beautiful. The glittery white flowers she’d hung from the ceiling were thick and lush and offered a canopy, a haven. They were the best part of the decor, if you asked her. Candles flickered with golden light, twining with shadows.
Kaia approached her side, and everyone except for Gideon stood. The music changed, slowing down to the bridal march. Gwen and Taliyah appeared. Sabin’s breath caught. Yes, that was the way a man should react to the sight of his woman.
What makes you think you were ever Lysander’s woman?
Because she was his one temptation. Because of the reverent way he had touched her. Because she liked how he made her feel. Because they balanced each other. Because he completed her in a way she hadn’t known she needed. He was the light to her darkness.
He was willing to show you that light. Over and over again.
Perhaps she should have fought for him. That’s what she was, after all. A fighter. Yet she’d given in as if he meant nothing to her when he had somehow become the most important thing in her life.
Bianka didn’t mean to, but she tuned out as Paris gave his speech and the happy couple recited their vows, her thoughts remaining focused on Lysander. Should she try and fight for him now? If so, how would she go about it?
Only when the crowd cheered did she snap out of her haze, watching as Sabin and Gwen kissed. Then they were marching down the aisle and out the doors together. The rest of the bridal party made their way out, as well.
“Shall we?” Strider asked, holding out his arm for her.
“She can’t.” Paris grabbed her arm. “You’re needed in that room.” With his free hand, he pointed.
“Why?” Was he planning revenge against her for forcing him to oil-wrestle Lysander? He hadn’t mentioned it in the days since her return to Buda, but he couldn’t be happy with her. He should be thanking her, for freaks’ sake. He’d gotten to touch all of Lysander’s hawtness.
Paris rolled his eyes. “Just go before your boyfriend decides he’s tired of waiting and comes out here.”
Her boyfriend. Lysander? Couldn’t be. Could it? But why would he have come? Heart drumming in her chest, she walked forward. She
didn’t allow herself to run, though she wanted to soooo badly. She reached the door. Her hand shook as she turned the knob.
Hinges creaked. Then she was staring into—an empty room. Her teeth ground together. Paris’s revenge, just as she’d figured. Of course. That rat jerk turd was going to pay. She wasn’t just going to make him oil-wrestle. She was going to—
“Hello, Bianka.”
Lysander.
Gasping, she whipped around. Her eyes widened. In an instant, the chapel had been transformed. No longer were her sisters and friends inside. Lysander and his kind occupied every spare inch. Sent Ones were everywhere, light surrounding them and putting Gwen’s candles to shame.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, not daring to hope.
“I came to beg your forgiveness.” His arms spread. “I came to tell you that I am proud to be your man. I brought my friends and brethren to bear witness to my proclamation.”
She swallowed, still not letting hope take over. “But you think I’m evil, and what if I am? What if I can never change? I’m your temptation. You could, I don’t know, lose everything by being with me.” The thought hit her, and she wanted to wilt. He could lose everything. No wonder he had wanted to destroy her. No wonder he had wanted to hide her.
“I do not think you are evil, and I was wrong to judge you. I was meant to be no one’s judge. And we are both changing. Everything does. But we are changing for the better, helping each other.”
She gulped. “What if I get you into trouble?”
“We will deal with it together. That’s the way I want things to be from now on. You and me. Together.”
Okay. A small kernel of hope managed to seep inside her. But no way would she would let him get into trouble. He meant more to her than, well, her pride. And she had to face facts. Pride was the only reason she’d lasted against his appeal—and what they could have—this long. “What brought this on?”
“I finally pulled my head out of my posterior,” he said dryly.
He’d said posterior. How cute was that. More hope beat its way inside and she had to press her lips together to keep from smiling. And crying! Tears were springing in her eyes, burning.
Could they actually make their relationship work? Just a little bit ago, she’d been grateful—or pretending to be grateful—that they were apart, since so many obstacles existed.
“I only hope you can love so foolish a man. I am willing to live wherever you desire. I am willing to do anything you need to win you back.” He dropped to his knees. “I love you, Bianka Skyhawk. I would be proud to be yours.”
He was proud of her. He wanted her. He loved her. It was everything she’d secretly dreamed about this past week. Yes, they could make this work. They would be together, and that was the most important thing. But she told him none of that.
“Now?” she screeched instead. “You decided to introduce me to your friends now? When I look like this?” Scowling, she peeked over his shoulder at them and saw their stunned expressions. “I usually look better than this, you know. You should have seen me the other day. When I was naked.”
Lysander stood. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
She focused back on him. His eyes were as wide as hers had been, his arms crossed over his middle. “No. There’s more,” she grumbled. “But I will never live this yellow gown thing down, you know.”
“Bianka.”
“Yes, I love you, too. But if you ever decide I’m unworthy again, I’ll finally show you my mean side.”
“Deal. But you don’t have to worry, love,” he said, a slow smile lifting those delectable lips. “It is I who am unworthy. I only pray you never learn of this.”
“Oh, I know it already,” she said, and his grin spread. “Now c’mere, you.” She cupped the back of his neck and jerked him down for a kiss.
His arms banded around her, holding her close. She’d never thought to be paired with an angelic type, but she couldn’t regret it now. Not when Lysander was the angelic type in question.
“Are you sure you’re ready for me?” she asked him when they came up for air.
He nipped at her chin. “I’ve been ready for you my entire life. I just didn’t know it until now.”
“Good.” With a whoop, she jumped up and wound her legs around his waist. A wave of gasps circled the room. They were still here? “Ditch your friends, I’ll blow off my sister’s reception and we’ll go oil-wrestle.”
“Funny,” he said, wings enveloping her as he flew her up, up and into his cloud. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
* * * * *
SHADOW HUNTER
Kate Ballenger
Dear Reader,
In the upcoming pages you’ll find a prequel to my paranormal romance series, The Execution Underground, about an international organization of elite men, hunters of the supernatural who fight to protect humanity from the evil lurking after dark. This prequel, Shadow Hunter, is the story of Damon Brock, vampire hunter and founder of the Rochester, New York, division of the clandestine organization. When the hunters of the Rochester division first came to me, the attitude I received from Damon’s character simply said, “Piss off, lady,” so it’s not surprising that he became the last member on my roster to get his own book.
In September 2013 Twilight Hunter debuts. It’s the first full-length novel in the series and features werewolf hunter Jace McCannon. I intended it to be the beginning of the series, but when the Harlequin HQN line approached me with the offer to fill the remaining section of this two-in-one with a prequel I jumped at the chance, and the story of Damon, the elusive badass we briefly glimpse in Jace’s novel, came immediately to mind. Though I never intended to showcase Damon’s soft side, the more I told of his origin story, the more his character opened up. Now I can’t wait to tell the rest of his story, and I hope once you finish reading his prequel, you’ll be equally excited.
Though his full novel will still be the last in the series, Damon’s metamorphosis is intertwined with the stories of his fellow hunters, and it all starts here, in Shadow Hunter. I hope his story brings you all the smiles, laughs, gasps and tears it brought me.
Thanks so much for reading. I’m blessed to be able to share this with you.
Sincerely,
Kait Ballenger
For my husband, Jon. No hero will ever compare. I’ll love you always.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Excerpt
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
Damon Brock clutched the neck of the guard and twisted. The crack of broken bone pierced the silence in the alleyway as the spine snapped beneath his fingers. The wind whistled in a large gush of freezing air, so cold that Damon’s breath swirled in front of his face. The guard’s pulse beat several feeble times against his hands before fading.
Not a single scream. Damon released the guard, and the body crumpled to the cold winter ground. He nudged the corpse with the steel toe of his boot.
No movement. Only deadweight. A quick kill.
Not even 9:00 p.m. and already he’d taken out one bloodsucker. Rochester seemed promising.
He stepped over the corpse and slipped through the back entrance of Club Fantasy. A silver dagger under the sleeve of his leather trench coat, a Desert Eagle .44 caliber semi-automatic tucked into the back of his jeans, one silver throwing knife in each boot and a smooth, lacq
uered wooden stake inside his coat—you could never be too prepared when it came to vampires. The leeches were nearly impossible to kill. While bullets and silver would give them pause, only a severed spine, decapitation or a stake through the heart destroyed the undead.
Like a neon sign in a red-light district, the establishment’s name flashed over the door: Club Fantasy.
He shook his head. Club Fantasy? More like club hell. If only the patrons knew the monster vampire who owned it. The man sitting at the top of Damon’s hit list.
He pushed through a second door and into the main level of the club. If the night went well, he would gladly up the body count to at least four.
The thick smell of liquor, cigarettes and sweat from one too many dancing bodies assaulted his nose as he scanned the crowd. Bright red lighting flashed over the floor, and the bass of the heavy dance music pounded in his ears. The most difficult thing about hunting vamps: they were damn near indistinguishable from humans. After nightfall, the pulses of the undead beat with the same intensity as any human civilian, but their craving for blood, their inhuman strength and their drive to drain life from unsuspecting victims lingered. If only humanity knew what they were up against.
Damon strode across the dance floor, navigating between writhing bodies before he slid onto the black leather bench of one of the club’s booths. His hands ran across the smooth, newly lacquered black tabletop. Despite the underlying seediness, the atmosphere of Club Fantasy came out on top compared to most of Rochester’s low-scale raves. With western New York prices and Manhattan quality, Club Fantasy had young twenty-somethings flocking to it like drunken sheep led to a bloodlust-fueled slaughter. High quality aside, Club Fantasy was twice as dangerous as any New York City club. At least, the City offered ample backup.
He’d admitted one disadvantage to himself: navigating the supernatural scene of a city with no hunting division would be damn hard. But he was up to the challenge. He’d tracked his target to Mark’s hometown, Rochester, and he wouldn’t stop until he avenged his friend. He’d requested assignment to Rochester for that purpose—even if it meant a chance of running into her. He let out a long sigh. He couldn’t think about that now.