Mickey blinked. “Good. Good.” He realized he was sweating. It was the teeth. His nostrils quivered. No, no shifter scent.
But the guy couldn’t be a vamp because—
“Just like I’m going to rip you open, Mickey.”
“What?” Shit! Mickey scrambled, trying to jerk open the car door.
But it wouldn’t budge. Stupid lock. If he tried hard enough, he’d be able to force it—
Claws came at him. He saw the attack coming from the corner of his eye and he twisted, trying to fight.
Too late.
The claws slashed right across his throat and the scream building in him never broke from his lips.
Blood splashed onto the front windshield.
The claws came at him again.
I’m going to rip him apart.
When he was done, he shoved the body—what was left of it—out of the car. Blood was everywhere. The scent surrounded him. Soaked his clothes.
Perfect.
He brought his fingers to his lips and licked away the sticky liquid. He loved that rich taste.
But the hyena had been too easy. No fight at all. Like killing a human. Really, he’d expected more.
The tiger wouldn’t be such easy prey. He knew that and had prepared appropriately for Donovan.
After all, he liked to hunt. He liked to kill.
But he didn’t believe in taking foolish chances with his own life.
The tiger would die. No question.
He’d be there for the end.
He yanked the car door closed and frowned at the windshield. That wouldn’t do. The last thing he needed was for someone to see that wonderful blood.
Leaning over, he unlocked the glove box and pulled out the cloths he kept for just such an occasion.
Moments later, the glass was clean. He shoved the cloths back in the glove box and turned on the car. Then he took a deep breath, because he did love that sweet smell.
But he couldn’t linger any longer. Not with the body just outside. The area was deserted, for now, but someone would be coming along soon. They always did.
With a flick of his fingers, he punched the button for the radio and the soft strains of Brahms floated to his ears.
A smile curved his lips. Now it was time to go.
Time for the next kill.
As he backed out of the alley, he couldn’t help but wonder, how long will the tiger fight?
And when he died, would Donovan have time to scream? Or would he die like the hyena, choking on his own blood?
“Down there.” The demon, eyes completely black, raised his hand and pointed down the twisting steps.
The first floor of the den had been completely deserted. No big surprise there. Jude knew the demons liked to be prepared, just in case there were any unexpected and unwanted— usually human—visitors.
So the real action was never up front in a den. No, it was always in the back, or in this case, below.
The faint drum of pounding music teased his ears. Jude deliberately relaxed his shoulders, ready for whatever hell he’d find waiting down there. He brushed by the demon, his nostrils flaring as he caught the stale odor of sweat and cigarettes.
Carefully, he eased down the creaking steps. What was this? A basement? Lower level?
The door behind him swung shut.
Jude stiffened.
Then he heard the sound of a bolt sliding into place. Locking me in.
No, locking them in—because he could hear voices from below. Laughter.
He shook his head. Like a lock was going to hold him in this den. When he was ready to leave, he’d just kick the door down. Easy.
His claws broke free, the brief pain making his heart surge. His canines burned as they lengthened, readying him for the fight to come. He’d go in as a man, but if the shit got too bad, he would go out as a tiger.
His claws scraped over the stair railing as he climbed down the rest of the steps. No rush. The bastards weren’t going to get by him.
The room below was bigger than he’d thought. Not a room, more like three rooms. Thick with smoke, from the flickering flames of candles that were the only light and from hell knew what else. The scents in the air had his nose twitching and burning.
How the demons could handle that crap…
“Hello, shifter.” The voice was loud, mocking.
The rock music kept pounding in the background.
Jude jumped off the last step.
His gaze swept the area. Demons were lounging against the walls. Some were curled up on the floor. Maybe fifteen of them total. He eyed the dark shadows. More bodies could be in there.
Maybe twenty.
Demons and their addictions.
But the guy who’d called to him, he didn’t have that blank, slack look on his face. No, that guy, the big bastard with his black demon eyes, was planted about fifteen feet away. His legs were braced a shoulder’s length apart. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and the guy was smiling. A come-and-get-me grin.
Never a good sign.
The demon lifted his hand. The minions on the ground didn’t move. Jude figured those guys weren’t gonna be moving anytime soon. But the others, those against the walls and those hiding in the shadows, jerked forward, suddenly appearing way too alert and aware.
Jude rolled his neck, getting loose and ready, and the tiger snarled.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” the demon said, that cocky-ass smile still on his face. “Haven’t we, guys?”
A murmur swept through the group. Laughter.
Mickey. Payback would be a bitch. He raised his claws and caught the glint of a knife in the darkness.
Ready for him and armed.
Demons in a den were supposed to be so screwed up on the drugs they couldn’t tell reality from—
“Always hated shifters,” the bastard who had to be the leader muttered. “Fucking animals.”
The demon was trying to piss him off now.
They started to close in, a sea of black eyes.
Stairs behind him. Demons to the front, left, and right. Running wasn’t an option for him. Never had been.
“You’re messing with the wrong guy,” he warned, feeling the burn of the shift pulse through him. It would take a few moments to turn. Vulnerable moments. They’d attack when the shift started. The demons would catch him with their knives and do as much damage as they could.
But once he was in tiger form…
“Oh, no, you’re the right guy, Jude Donovan.” A snap of the demon’s teeth. “You’re the guy we’re gonna carve apart.”
Jude fell to the floor as his bones began to snap and crack.
The demons attacked, knives ready, blades flying. Slashing, stabbing, cutting too deep.
He opened his mouth to scream and the tiger roared.