Chapter 13
Cain
I showed up to the meeting with Nazaire’s representative wearing my dead uncle’s clothes—his battered leather bomber, his best blue shirt. The fabric still stank of him, a sour bite that dragged up old memories I’d rather leave rotting. But it lent weight to my glamour, so I put up with it.
And Baker? He was feeding the sharks. Literally.
I hadn’t drained him—my stomach turned at the thought—but the great whites weren’t so picky. They showed up seconds after I dropped his unconscious body off a cliff and took over where I’d left off, nature’s perfect executioners: indifferent, efficient.
Before that, I’d taken his phone so I could set up the meet at a dive bar on the mainland, chosen at random. Anonymous and forgettable.
The flight to a helipad just outside of Halifax took less than fifteen minutes. I left the pilot with the chopper and switched to a rented truck that smelled of fish. Overhead, the sky pressed low, clouds heavy and swollen, the air thick with the hush that comes before a storm.
As the last coastal town faded from my rearview mirror, I flicked on the radio and pressed harder on the gas. A cover of “Heartbreak Hotel” came on, John Cale’s version, all grit and shadows.
Nyx flashed into my mind, gliding through the speakeasy to Elvis’s accompaniment, all long legs and attitude. And later, on her knees on the balcony, giving me the best head of my life.
My dick pressed against the front of my fly. I shifted in my seat, jaw tight, that prowling frustration riding me. If only I could rewind, say something different. The right words. The ones that would’ve made her come back to Lilith Island. Made her choose me.
But I’d disappointed her somehow. Even then I knew it. She wanted something from me—needed something—and I didn’t know how to give it. Or maybe I knew and just couldn’t.
So she went back to Quebec and her bastard of a sire.
A hum started in my chest, a restless thrum. It climbed into my throat, vibrated through my bones.
Keep driving. Cancel the meet. Go to her.
Quebec City wasn’t far. I could be there by daybreak, find somewhere to hide. Be with her by tomorrow evening.
The bitch of it was, on paper Nyx Nazaire was my ideal woman.
Talon and I had made a pact after we were turned—vampires only. Then he went and mated Eden, a human. It made me dig in harder. I’d be the one who held the line. The man who didn’t bend.
The road narrowed as I entered a pine forest, the trees crowding close under the dark clouds.
If things were different, I’d make an all-out play for Nyx. Yeah, she was a dhampir, not a vampire. But her father was a powerful enforcer, and his sire was the Paris primus. With a lineage like that, she was practically vampire royalty.
Too bad Nazaire would rather rip out his own throat than let one of Brien’s men claim his daughter.
Not that it mattered—because when push came to shove, she hadn’t chosen me. She chose him.
My mouth filled with something harsh, regret tangled up with want.
Nyx was so much more than her bloodlines. She was smart, talented, magnetic. A beautiful, just-wicked-enough firefly, all glitter-dusted wings and starshine.
And I wanted her. I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t let it go.
Even though wanting her might be the thing that finally broke me.
The GPS informed me my destination was coming up on my right.
Exiting the forest, I passed a row of clapboard houses, a grocery-slash-gas station, two weatherbeaten churches, and a school.
Finally, there was the bar, a slow-slung building on the opposite end of a parking lot from a brightly lit Tim Horton’s.
Glamours eat energy. I’d made the drive as myself, knit cap tugged low to hide the blond. I parked the truck in a dark corner of the lot, killed the engine, and peeled off the hat.
Wayne Baker.
I summoned his image like a curse, let it settle in my bones. Then I drew deeply on my vampire magic. It surged up, cold and greedy.
Glamours didn’t just change your face—they somehow picked up the details and transformed you into a near perfect facsimile. In under a minute, I was Baker. Gray hair, sagging jowls, caved-in body.
His voice, low and gravel-thick, I could do in my sleep.
I put a switchblade in my pants pocket and slid a pair of silver cuffs, tucked into a leather pouch, into the bomber’s pocket. Not that I was expecting trouble. Why mess with Baker when they were fishing for something bigger—me?
Still. Preparedness was survival.
I climbed out, pointedly avoiding the rearview mirror so I wouldn’t see that SOB staring back at me, and lumbered toward the entrance, Wayne-Baker-style. Head down and forward like a bull readying itself to charge, fists swinging at my side. Dragging his ghost behind me like second shadow.
The interior was done in smalltown bar—grimy wood paneling, black vinyl stools and a wall full of neon beer signs. A trio of TVs behind the bar were tuned to a hockey game out west, and an electric fire danced beneath a pair of crossed hockey sticks.
I ordered a Moosehead from the bartender and nodded at the two guys in flannel hunched over a platter of nachos and a half-drained pitcher of beer.
When my Moosehead arrived, I took it and claimed an empty booth with a good view of the front door.
I kept my gaze on the game, making a show of sipping my beer.
As a vampire, I could ingest a small amount of alcohol, but I preferred mine with a splash of blood.
Without it the beer tasted like stale bread.
The door swung open and a couple stepped inside along with a blast of wintery air. They greeted the bartender like old friends and took seats at the bar.
Then a skinny dude in jeans and a navy windbreaker arrived. Trying to blend in, but a little too polished, a little too French for small-town Nova Scotia.
My nape prickled.
His gaze flicked to my Moosehead, the agreed-upon signal. It was Nazaire’s man, all right.
I gave the smallest nod in return.
He stopped at the bar for his own bottle before taking the bench across from me. “Colder than a witch’s tit tonight,” he muttered in Québecois-accented English.
I gave the correct response, mentally rolling my eyes. My uncle had watched too many B-grade spy movies. “Then come on in,” I rumbled in my best Baker-tones, “before you freeze your ass off.”
The man’s angular shoulders eased. He unbuttoned his windbreaker, leaving it open over a sleek gray T-shirt. “I believe you have a package for us.”
“For the right money, yeah.”
“And that would be—?”
“A million. Like I told you.”
He pursed his lips. “You understand you must deliver the…package to the mainland. We can’t come to you. The island security is too good.”
“Understood.”
“Then perhaps we can make a deal.” He lifted the bottle to his lips.
I eyed his lean throat as he swallowed. Something about the movement made me flash to Nyx, how her skin had felt beneath my lips, soft and warm. And its flavor—her flavor…
My cock stirred. I tore my gaze from the guy’s throat and sat back. What the hell?
For one thing, this was a dude—and I was solidly Team Vagina, except for the occasional three- or foursome. But on top of that, it wasn’t like me to get distracted like that, especially with so much at stake.
His eyes met mine, and I just knew he was rocking a glamour, too. It made sense. Why take a chance Baker might be able to identify him?
Come to think of it, the guy smelled familiar. I inhaled, trying to place him, but couldn’t quite put a name to the scent. The other man’s eyes narrowed, and I took a sip of beer, trying not to make a face at the yeasty, blood-less liquid.
“So, Baker.” He placed his bottle on the battered slab of oak between us. “What makes you think you can get Ca—the package—to leave the island with you? From what I hear, he doesn’t like you much.”
How the fuck did he know that? I didn’t talk about Baker—ever—to anyone but Talon or Brien. I eyed the other man, both irritated and impressed. Someone had done their research.
But I knew how Baker would’ve responded. I pulled my eyebrows into a scowl that could curdle milk. “You let me worry about that.”
“That’s not good enough. I need details. This won’t be easy to pull off even with your help.” The guy started to stand. “So if that’s the best you can do…”
I growled. “Slow your horses. I can deliver, okay?”
He leaned back against the vinyl. “How?”
“Not here.” I dropped my voice. “Too many ears. Around back—five minutes.”
A brief nod. “Alright.”
The bar erupted into cheers. The Canucks had scored a goal.
By the time the frenzy had died down, Nazaire’s rep had slipped out the door.
I rose to follow, muscles coiled, mind already shifting to the next move—when my phone buzzed.
Brien, asking me to call ASAP.
I locked myself in the men’s washroom and hit the call button. “It’s me—what’s up?”
“Donald contacted us with some new intel. About my mother.”
Donald was the vampire “overseeing” our stake in the Quebec City casino—a polite way of saying he played poker, drank blood cocktails and doublechecked the take at the end of the evening.
He leaked just enough to the QCS hierarchy to convince them he had a grudge against Brien, while reporting everything he learned back to us.
“Your mother?” I furrowed my brow. “But isn’t Donald in Quebec City?”
“He is, which is what makes this interesting. He overheard a couple of QCS men talking. Turns out they believe Nazaire was behind her assassination. Actually, they think he staked her himself.”
“Nazaire?” My jaw dropped. “But what about the slayers?”
“He could’ve made it look like they were responsible. It’s been done before.”
“But why your mother? Did these guys give a reason?”
“No. But Donald said they’re convinced it was all Nazaire—Dussault’s name never even came up.”
A dark excitement slithered through my blood. Finally, a legitimate excuse to bury the sonuvabitch. “You think that’s true?”