Dark Lover. Brenda Joyce
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Kit was. Sam suspected she was celibate, but they never discussed it. She nodded now as Kit slipped back into the lobby. Then she glanced at Central Park West.
Tons of cabs were heading uptown and every one was full. Nothing was heading downtown. Considering how late it was, that was odd—most should be empty.
As the two girls with Maclean whispered and giggled, both high and drunk, Sam felt a chill slither down her spine. She tensed, instantly searching the area for a sign of impending violence. Maclean must have felt it, too, because he had dropped his arm and was looking past the traffic.
And Sam saw the couple on the park side of the street, running, five cloaked figures in pursuit.
Burnings were creeping up on the proportion of murders committed both in the city and globally. A recent study released by Interpol showed that almost 20% of all the murders committed last year had been burnings. Burning the Innocent alive had become a huge “gang” sport. The perpetrators weren’t entirely human—they were possessed by evil, and commonly referred to as subs. The press had dubbed the crimes witch burnings, because the subs wore cloaks and the burnings were so medieval in nature.
Five cloaked teens chasing a couple meant one thing. Sam was already running across the street, holding the short stiletto that had been hidden in her right high heel.
Running in high heels sucked, but she wasn’t about to be deterred. Sam caught one boy from behind, who screamed as he was seized. He tried to stab her with his knife and she cut his throat just as two of his friends leapt at her.
Sam dropped her messenger bag and used the side of her hand to deliver a fatal blow to boy number two’s throat. He dropped like a rock. At the same time, his buddy stabbed her, the blade of his knife grazing her arm and then cutting across her rib cage.
It hurt. And she didn’t like being hurt. Pissed, she gave him a flying front kick, which sent him backward across the street. She knelt, taking her .38 from the bag. As she did, the boy got up, his face a mask of possessed fury. She glimpsed Ian standing on the street corner. He was calmly watching her take on a pack of evil kids.
Her fury knew no bounds. Couldn’t he get rid of one of the subs for her, at least?
She felt someone behind her. Sam whirled, firing as the girl landed on her, her face hairy. Wolflike claws dug into her body. Sam fired again and again. It took a while to kill the shape-shifting girl. The half woman finally fell dead to the ground at her feet.
“Arrgh!”
Sam turned but before she could shoot the fourth possessed teen, he had kicked the gun from her hand. His rage, combined with the evil, made him terribly powerful. Off balance, she landed hard on her ass as he tackled her, his hands going around her throat. He started choking her, intent on strangling her to death.
This would be a great time for Maclean to butt in, she somehow thought. But he didn’t. Sam jammed her knuckle into the boy’s carotid artery; as he choked, she took the dagger from the garter on her thigh and imbedded it in his chest. Instantly he collapsed on her. She shoved him off, and then knelt over him to see if he was alive.
He was. She dug her cell phone out of her tiny purse and dialed not 911, but CDA. Their medical center was as clandestine as the rest of the agency. Known as Five, it was in constant use. Bringing subs into a regular E.R. was a bad idea. The non-ordinary—and many at CDA were NO—could not seek treatment in a public hospital, either. The press would start to figure things out. Full-blooded demons disintegrated if left untouched within moments of their destruction, so they were rarely an issue. Five was for the very special.
That done, she closed her phone and looked at the bodies on the street. Four dead kids, all of whom had once been normal. It was routine by now. These possessed kids were mostly runaways, and they were easy prey for evil.
She looked at the boy who was still alive. “Try not to die. With a little help from the gods, we might get you back to your family.” She spoke without emotion. Compassion was a bad idea, she’d learned that long ago. If she started caring about who lived and who died, she’d be the one winding up dead, really soon.
He spat at her, mostly blood.
“Are you all right?” It was the woman who had been fleeing the subs.
The man with her knelt beside Sam. “Jesus, are you a cop? I’ve never seen anything like what you did! You saved me and my wife!”
Sam smiled grimly. She looked past the couple at Maclean.
He stood on the corner, hands in his tuxedo pockets, regarding her thoughtfully. Their gazes locked. He hadn’t lifted a single finger to help her. The anger burned.
“Should we call 911?” the woman asked worriedly.
“I’m fine,” Sam said. As she started to stand, the woman’s husband grasped her arm to steady her.
“You’re hurt,” he said with concern.
Sam looked at her bloody arm and the slashes in the bodice of her red dress. She’d been nicked on her bicep and her rib cage. It burned a lot, but she was almost certain the cuts were superficial. “Par for the course. Why don’t you two go home? Have a brandy on me. I’m a Fed.” The Bureau was her cover. “I’ll take care of this.”
“We can’t possibly leave you,” the man said firmly.
His wife nodded in agreement, beginning to cry. “She’s so brave,” she said to her husband. “I was so scared.”
He put his arm around her and turned away, whispering to her. They were in their forties, Sam thought, and it crossed her mind that they really loved each other. Sweet. She looked at Maclean again. What a frigging selfish jerk.
The sirens from CDA’s mismarked ambulance could be heard. Maclean sauntered toward her. Sam glanced at Hemmer’s house and saw that his two dates had vanished. Of course they had. Bimbos were usually chickens.
“Impressive,” he said, his glance going to the tattered bodice of her dress.
“Gee, I’m so glad you enjoyed the show.” She turned her back on him and knelt, gathering up her weapons and piling them into her messenger bag. She was bloody, bruised, stabbed and dirty, and he didn’t have one hair out of place! He had watched the entire attack. What kind of superpowered hero was he? It was unbelievable. Even an antihero would have cut in.
She stood up. “Thanks for all the help.”
He shrugged. “Yer a tough girl. Ye hardly needed my help.”
“Like you’d have bothered.”
“I want ye in my bed, not dead.”
“You have a great way of romancin’ a gal,” Sam snarled.
He smiled. “Every man likes to watch a good fight. Maybe I should help ye next time. Or maybe I’ll be your next target.” His eyes gleamed.
Sam had the instant notion that he’d love for her to fight him with everything she had. “Don’t worry. The day is rapidly approaching.”
His answer was to touch her.
Sam tensed as the back of his hand skimmed the bottom of her breast. He lifted the shreds of her red dress where it had been cut. She inhaled. In spite of the pain, desire was instantaneous and acute. She knew he kept his hand pressed against her breast on purpose.
His gaze was almost silver before he lowered his lashes and dropped the tatters of silk. “Ye need to take care of the cuts.”
“This isn’t the Middle Ages. No one dies from a few scrapes here,” she snapped, but she was trembling and rigid with tension. Damn his sex appeal.
His mouth curled, this time unpleasantly. “An’ I know it very well, Samantha. I live here, remember? Not in that barbaric time.”
She bristled. “It’s Sam. And don’t worry, no one would ever peg you as a medieval barbarian, Maclean. Just a selfish jerk.”