Hound (Guardian)

Chapter 1

LORENZO DEVON

D eath was to be avoided at all costs. It was the first lesson offensive and defensive guardians learned at the Company of Essential Guardianship since the client’s safety and well-being was priority. Socially, it was looked down upon. Legally, it was a huge pain in the ass.

It was rare, but in the case a client’s safety depended on the other party’s elimination, so be it. Outside of those parameters, though, CEG lawyers wouldn’t be much help. If there was no client involved and a guardian acted on their own volition, the CEG stepped away and allowed the Human Intergovernmental Bureau and the Vampire Ministry to handle it.

No one—nothing—would save the guardian from their laws.

“ You have reached ? —”

Regardless, my boss would kill me if I killed unauthorized.

“ We are unable to reach the phone at this moment.”

Five years under my belt, I knew this as much as the other. With years on the field, searching for a different route was easy, a skill so refined it was second nature—except for now.

“Leave your name and number and we’ll ? — ”

A crack pierced the still night as red filtered my vision and fury raced through my bloodstream, my mom’s headstone, degraded and buried by grime, blurring in front of me.

The thick October air caressed my nose, an exhale easing the tension in my muscles. The anger thinned into prickly annoyance, its thorns stabbing my chest as I took in the tombstone. Thankfully, there was no sign of decay, but the weathered and stained surface had worsened since my last visit.

With back-to-back contracts, it left little leeway between posts, the transitional periods barely lasting a few days. But whenever I could sneak in a visit to my mom’s resting place in Ottawa, I came. That meant months between visits if fortunate. But for once, I had a stroke of luck.

For the last month, I’d been stationed in my hometown, allowing me to check up on her tombstone weekly. And on those visits, day or night, I could count on one hand how many times her stone was actually cleaned.

“Fucking scammers.”

My fingers tightened against the smartphone as I lowered it from my ear. Another crack sliced through the silence. Glass trickled from my hands, slight shards meeting my skin. Darkness sharpened my eyesight, but tonight, anger permanently stained my vision.

Moonlight coated the fog-covered graveyard, pearl white light bordering the tombstone next to me. During the day, I explored the near-deserted town a few kilometers over before visiting Mom. Curiosity got the best of me one day when I tried tracing my cousin’s and I’s old house. Instead of meeting the shabby, wooden house, I stumbled on an abandoned hospital north from here. The years were apparent in its withering walls, but the building still stood.

Vibrations pulled my gaze away and onto the incoming call. My stomach tightened as a gust of brisk wind passed through. Never did the cold penetrate through my scalding skin, but the hovering sensation was soothing.

Except now.

Fuck. I was expecting his call, but not this soon.

I cleared my throat before picking up. “Devon speaking.”

Lace Fernandez’s low chuckle filled the line, the sound sending a wave of warmth through me. “I know that tone. Who pissed you off this time?”

“No one,” I said a little too quickly.

“Cleaners are still doing a shit job?”

I snickered. “How’d you know?”

“It’s all you complain about,” he stated. “Well, you complain about most things, really.”

“I don’t complain.” My tone edged with defense and I cleared my throat in an effort to conceal it. There was a clear distinction between moaning about an annoyance and rightfully stating someone’s incompetence. Even if it was angrily.

“For time’s sake, we’ll go with that,” he responded. “I have a job for you.”

My shoulders straightened at the shift in his voice, the teasing from seconds ago gone. In the small chance I had a drastic transitional period before posts, Lace sent me on missions. They were side jobs that he entrusted me with, a secret only kept within us. It helped the CEG, the very organization that gave me and my cousin an opportunity after Mom’s passing, and subdued the hunger that once threatened my life.

“Shoot.”

“A Regal Vampire Family has gone missing.”

“Huh. Definitely wasn’t expecting that,” I blurted. “Does the public know?”

“No. Besides the Vampire Ministry, Nina, you, and I know. The media hasn’t discovered it yet, but due to the tense Two-Species Treaty feud, it’s grown difficult for the Vampire Ministry to conceal it. The few vampire presses who have a crumb of information have been forced to scrap it, but word could still spread?—”

“Lace.” I didn’t like interrupting him, but when it came to politics, I could give less than a fuck. While it made the world go around, it made my brain pound. “I got the gist, no need to expand. I can hear the terror laced in your voice. Pun-intended.”

That earned me a chuckle. “Is it that bad you had to crack a joke?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged my shoulders. “What do you want me to take care of?”

“Sylvester Reynard-Mallory, a renowned artist turned newsmonger, is showcasing resistance toward the Vampire Ministry. While they’re keeping a close eye on him, he has a history of failing to comply with the Ministry’s orders.”

“When would you like me to report?”

“Tonight,” he affirmed.

“What about my post?”

“Follow as scheduled. You’ll need an alibi if things go south.”

“They never do, you know that.”

“I know, Enzo,” his voice softened, “but tonight could either break it or make it for the CEG, Vampire Ministry, and Bureau alike. We can’t risk that.”

I nodded as I rested a hand along Mom’s tombstone, dusting off the debris that covered it. “It’s local, I’m guessing?”

“He so happens to be visiting a feeding bar near your area as we speak.” Lace mentioned the coordinates in a hushed tone.

I rolled my shoulders. “You want me to follow the usual procedure?”

“Yes. And Lorenzo?”

“Yeah?”

“If his silence can’t be guaranteed, he takes his last breath tonight,” he emphasized.

Whenever Lace green lit it, electricity instantly sparked my veins and tugged at the lurking hunger.

Like now.

My jaw hardened as a growl itched against my throat.

“Understood.”

At the edge of Ottawa, where the brisk river ribboned through the Quebec border, stood a four-story gothic mansion. With a black and red exterior, pointed arches, and wood trim, the vampire parlor was the only one in this area. The rounded driveway remained empty, but after showcasing the invitation Lace was able to pull at the last minute, the space confirmed what the shifted air hummed.

Low, dark music droned inside the velvet burgundy walls, deadpan lyrics and high-pitched baselines heightening the bodies inside. Vampires plagued every inch of the feeding bar. Few roamed across the dimly lit lobby, red liquid sloshing in their goblets. I was expecting—hoping for—at least a human or two. The more outsiders there were, the less unwanted attention I got. While no one bothered glancing my way as I followed exploding laughter through the den of darkness, hypervigilance came with the job. As a lycan, it was second nature, just as concealing my scent.

Like breathing, I didn’t have to think about it. Instead, in this line of work, my movements needed to be calculated into a choreography that led my prey from point A to B without any obstacles. Tonight’s prey was simple.

Silence him. If he didn’t want to be, then a permanent solution would be enacted.

Hallways branched all around, leading to various rooms and hidden staircases, an oval-shaped bar rooted at the center of the floor. Glass liquor bottles trimmed the column and mirrored the bodies that occupied the dens.

Perfect.

Primary colors flared across the rooms, reds, yellows, and blues obscuring faces, but emphasized the glistening red-stained fangs. Intensified the strumming music that vibrated against the walls. Swelled the bland, metallic scents that bled into the rancid air.

A half-human’s scent was manageable. Their humanity overrode their vampirism, thinning their smell to the point of nothingness. But a vampire’s was the opposite. They were damp, bitter, and permeated like rot.

Like now.

My stomach twisted as the smell burrowed onto my tongue, solidifying my poker face. I’d rather be surrounded by carcasses than vampires.

The hairs on my arms stood when I settled on a velvet stool in front of the bar.

A broad build cased in sepia skin and formal wear rounded behind the sleek bar top, amber eyes meeting mine. A glint shined within them before the bartender glanced away and pulled a distinct octagonal, ruby red bottle from a concealed corner. The small thing disappeared in his large hand as he poured a measured amount into a silver goblet. His nostrils slightly flared as a powdery scent spiked the air.

There was only one liquor vampires drank. Unlike the human liquor they displayed as decoration, this one was a shared secret for those who knew what it was made of: snake venom. If humans got a taste of it, death would be immediate.

“Humans have died from it thinking they’re the outlier. But a vampire's creation isn’t a test of will for humans, it’s a testament to what humans aren’t: vampires,” Lace had warned me before my first mission. The precaution was appreciated, but unnecessary.

I wasn’t human, after all.

The bartender slid the cup across the counter and my left hand met the cool stem. His short hair swayed when his chin tilted to me, a hoarse voice scratching the air as he said, “On the house.”

And the confirmation was in the burn that trailed down my throat as I sipped, the acidic aftertaste that smoothed my tongue. Bane had no effect on my system, but it did smolder the vampire smell by a hair.

“Thanks,” I muttered as he walked toward other customers.

Midnight struck against the clock above me. Based on Lace’s phone call, Mallory should have been here already. While I knew what he looked like, his scent would be easier to notice between the four floors.

But there was no rush. I had all night.

I slowly sipped as I took everything in. Besides the very illegal consumption of human blood, nothing stood out. And while this place was one call away from shutting down, I couldn’t risk reporting it. Not only would Lace not like it, it would?—

A slender, tall man exited one of the dens, wavy, platinum blonde hair cascading over narrow shoulders and swaying against a cinched waist. Ruffles ran along his white shirt’s neckline to the bottom hem, collar bones peeking through.

He was a Victorian doll misplaced in a world infiltrated by modernism.

He possessed my vision, called to me like a magnet. It could have been the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips, the curve of his shoulders. But then our eyes collided and something snapped within the hunger.

My focus dissipated. And my nostrils flared.

His scent was different. No muddled rot lingered. Instead, a faint, refined powdery-like smell brushed my nose.

What the fuck .

Sage, green eyes widened as he took me in. It was too late to look away. So, I did what every man would do.

I waited.

His subtle gulp was somehow audible against my ears, even though we had about four meters between us. Before he could tug his gaze away from my hardened restraint, high-pitched laughter snatched my attention.

There.

A thick, fox fur jacket drowned a familiar puny man, highlighting the five o’clock shadow that did nothing to his sickly skin. He walked toward the spiral staircase at the far end, each step stumbling on each other, his murmurs slurring into an incoherent mess. Bleached strands with charcoal roots framed pointed features. A smoky, starched scent defined his profile like a shadow.

Sylvester Reynard-Mallory was in direct line. No time was wasted when it came to pouncing on my prey.

The remaining liquor went down in one swift gulp, the trace of the familiar burn subduing underneath the weight of sage green eyes, remnants leaking into my line of focus as I made my way toward the reporter’s demise.

The hunt has begun. Time to let out the beast.