Chapter 13 #2
A shocked gasp cut the air and from the corner of her eye, Regan saw Yolanda take a step back, looking more uncomfortable than before.
Epoc however, only chuckled, slowly lifting his hand to wipe the spittle from his face.
“Now, now, Ms. Thomas,” he smirked, straightening at the hip.
“I thought you were an intelligent, articulate woman?” He stared at her for a moment, before—abruptly—cold anger twisted his expression and he grabbed a fistful of the sheet covering her body and yanked it away.
“You stink of O’Connell, Ms. Thomas,” he snarled, drying his hand on the bunched strip of material.
“His mark lingers on your flesh like a stain.” Dropping the sheet, he razed her naked limbs with a golden-yellow stare, teeth glinting in the light as he sneered his appreciation.
“I must admit though, now I see you stripped, I understand the Irish conriocht’s attraction.
For a human you are quite—” He placed a pointed finger on Regan’s chest and ran it slowly down to her navel in a lazy line, “—delectable.”
Regan jerked away from his touch, the table refusing to let her move far.
Shivers of traitorous response trickled through her body, radiating from the still-felt contact of Epoc finger, and she choked back a sob of disgust. “The Lord help you, Epoc,” she growled.
“If you’re ever stupid enough to let me off this table… ”
Epoc laughed, removing his hand and looking to his right. “Remember how O’Connell reacted when he smelt you on his precious sister, McCoy? How he lost control?”
“Yes, Epoc.”
McCoy’s voice reverberated above Regan’s head and she forced it back as far as she could. Nothing. Her mouth went dry. Wherever he was, he was still too far away for her to see.
Epoc returned his hand to Regan’s stomach, his fingertips brushing over the soft edge of her pubic hairline. “I wonder how he will react when he smells me on this bitch?”
Regan’s stomach lurched. “Get your fucking hand off me!” She bucked her hips, panic biting into her anger, desperate to be free of the restraints and Epoc’s vile touch.
Savage amber eyes fixed on her. “No.” He rammed his hand down hard, flattening her ass to the table, plunging his fingers between her spread thighs.
“Do you know what my mating with you will do to O’Connell, Ms. Thomas?
It will destroy him. After he’s finished tearing your brother limb from limb he will come to save you, the noble bastard he is.
When he comes for you—and he will come for you—he will smell my mark on your flesh. ”
Epoc’s eyes flickered and he laughed lowly.
“He will smell my seed as it dribbles from your cunt and he will lose control. He will become more than a wolf. He will become a creature of myth. A creature of incomparable strength. A creature more powerful than any in existence.” He dropped his head to hers, his eyes slitted.
“And when that happens, when that last little link to his humanity is destroyed, I will immobilize him and cage him and drain every last drop of his croí from his body and make it my own.” He pressed his lips to her ear, his breath hot and wet on her skin.
“The last of the Onchú devoured. Rendered an empty shell. By me.”
The mansion loomed before them, huge and imposing.
Rubbing at his wrist where the manacle from the hobby farm had been, Declan stared up at it, counting the number of windows blazing with light and the number shrouded in darkness.
He studied the immediate area. Night claimed most of it, the low mottled glow of expensive garden lighting the only relief from its concealing blackness.
The breeze cooling his skin only moments earlier now pushed against him, aggressive and insistent.
A bad omen. Declan scowled. If he were a superstitious man, he’d be worried.
“Best entry point?” Peter whispered beside him, drawing his mind from the changing weather.
Declan frowned. “South. Under those low branches of the fig tree growing on the fence line.”
Peter nodded, and even in the darkness Declan saw his face tense and his grip tighten on his gun.
“Remember.” He gave Regan’s brother a hard look. “Wait until you hear my howl before going in. You won’t stand a chance if…”
“If I go in before you distract the guards,” Peter finished, voice sharp. “I’m not stupid.” He quickly checked the chamber of the ornate double-action revolver in his hand. “Fuck, I wish we had more of these,” he muttered, the wind almost snatching the words away.
Declan didn’t know if he meant the weapon or the ammunition nestled within.
Either way, he agreed with him. Loaded in the archaic gun was a single hollow-tipped silver bullet, both items appropriated by Peter with a quick flash of his badge from a very unconventional antiquities dealer on the way.
Declan didn’t ask how Peter knew the dealer had such an unusual weapon.
It didn’t matter. But one look at the guy behind the counter told him it was the real deal.
Ancient tattoos covered the man’s sunken cheeks and skinny arms, tattoos designed to ward off evil spirits and demons.
Declan had seen his type too often in Europe, although he’d never expected to come across it in Australia.
Losers dreaming of being heroes. Submerging themselves in the paranormal and occult—enough to believe, not enough to know better.
Hunting werewolves and demons and vampires.
Pissing themselves when they finally came upon one.
Just as this man had done, although it had been Peter’s police badge, not Declan’s lycanthrope genes rupturing his bladder.
Face white, hands trembling, eyes scared and wistful, he’d handed the bullet and the gun over to Peter immediately, begging not to be arrested. One less hero in the world.
Declan felt his bile rise. One less hero? Maybe after this, the count would be three. What he and Regan’s brother were attempting was the closest thing to a suicide run Declan had ever been on. Jesus alone knew if either of them would return.
He ground his jaw. For Regan’s sake, he hoped at least one of them did.
A dull ache throbbed in his chest and he pressed his hand to the hot but healing wound there.
Peter’s earlier shot back at Rick’s had, thankfully, missed his heart.
Just. Even though that bullet wasn’t silver, a direct puncture to the heart was not something quick to recover from.
If Peter had fired his police-issued Glock a fraction to the right, he—Declan—would be in enough pain now to adversely affect his raid on Epoc’s territory.
More pain than he already was in, that was.
When all this was over, he’d get Regan’s vet to work his magic again.
After he demanded an apology from the guy.
A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. After he’d made long, passionate and tender love to Regan. A few times, actually.
Sucking in a slow breath, he studied the blackness before him.
Four lycanthropes still stood guard to the east, five to the west. He’d detected their scent as he and Peter did their first perimeter sweep.
All nine were currently in human form. All nine armed.
He’d smelt the silver of their bullets before he’d tasted their cringing nervousness.
As always, Epoc had surrounded himself with those easily controlled and dominated.
It seemed being in a different country made no difference.
Declan prayed to God it would bring about his downfall tonight.
He clenched his fists, letting his wolf come closer to the surface. Ready. Eager. He’d make a ruckus on the mansion’s northern perimeter, drawing the guards and leaving Peter a—hopefully—free run to the building from the south.
After that, the cop was on his own. Declan would be dealing with his own entry.
For Peter, the plan was simple. Get in. Get Regan. Get out.
Declan’s plan included an extra element. Kill Nathan Epoc.
He closed his eyes for a second, picturing the smug man. Hate roared through him and his wolf stirred again, its strength flooding his limbs. He opened his eyes. It was time.
“Remember,” he said to Peter without looking at him. “In. Out. No heroics. Just get your sister and get her safe.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Peter shift slightly. “Remind me to buy you a beer after this.”
Declan chuckled softly. “Deal. But it’s gotta be a Guinness. I’m not drinking any of that Fosters.”
Peter laughed, muscles bunching as he readied to spring forward. “Me either. Real Aussies don’t drink Fosters.” And then he was gone. Into the blackness, devoured by the night.
Declan’s eyebrows shot up—Jesus, he’s a fast bugger—before he too, took off, leaping over the sixteen-foot, spear-topped iron fence in a single bound. Heading north across Epoc’s manicured lawn. Vengeance boiling in his veins.
A loud howl cut through the air, rising above the wind, long, savage and angry, followed by the sharp report of a fired handgun.
Another, and another. Epoc lifted his head, turning from the appealing sight of the female’s lips, a smug smile stretching his own wide.
Running his tongue over them, he tasted her fear and spirit. Delicious.
He bared his teeth at the hovering Yolanda and McCoy in a gleeful grin.
“He’s here.” He dropped his gaze back to the human bitch, chuckling at her hate-filled glare.
Tracing a claw along the line of her full bottom lip, eager to taste it again, to feel warm blood beading on its soft surface with his teeth and tongue, he raised an eyebrow.
“I told you he would come. As predictable as ever.” He let his finger score a line over her chin, down her neck to the little dip at the base of her throat, pushing the tip of his claw at its sensitive, delicate surface. “Are you ready?”
Another howl rose over the wind. Closer. Louder. Angrier.