Dark and Stormy Knights (P.N. Elrod) (Kitty Norville 0.80)

Christ. Bruised all over; and hubby wasn’t too happy last night, either. He tore his eyes away, carefully watched her nose instead, her eyes, the sharp, pearly teeth. Her canines had retracted. A good sign. Her irises were still brown, too—no threading of reflective crimson. And her smell was only tainted, not dipped in the ash and buried. He let out a shaky half-breath.

The widow was proving to be full of surprises.

“There was . . . he was . . . he was angry. Furious. He came in and . . .” The shakes hit her, and Rookwood let up a little on her shoulders. His thumbs wanted to move, little soothing motions, but he pushed the urge down. “God. God.”

God doesn’t help, babe. If He did, we’d be in a better position down here. “I owe you a partial refund.” The words scorched his throat. “I didn’t think he’d’ve prepared a place here. Most of the young ones don’t think that far ahead.” Still, they’re organized here. Other towns, they can’t even cooperate enough to wipe their asses.

Here, they were in a nice, neat little hierarchy. It was an evolution he was hoping wouldn’t spread.

Her hand flew up. For a split second he thought she was going to slap him, but instead her fingers clapped over her mouth and she began to scrub at her lips, weakly, as if something there burned her.

A lump in the middle of Rookwood’s chest was doing funny things. Like aching. It wasn’t the Thirst, it was something else entirely. Amelia King looked up at him, and she peeled her fingers away from her mouth long enough to surprise him again.

“He’s in the basement,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t be here. If he finds out I’ve hired you, he’ll . . .”

She was probably about to say “kill me” but must have realized how that would sound. Ridiculous on the one hand, terrifying on the other. Or maybe she was about to say “kill you” and stopped.

Stopped dead. A grim smile touched Rookwood’s lips. His face felt wooden.

“It’s day, and he’s a newbie. He can’t do a damn thing. We can, because we’re only halfway to where he is.” Reciting the rules to a woman was a new experience, and one he discovered he hated. But duty called. “The basement. Is there bare dirt down there, or concrete?” Bare dirt would be problematic, but this was the burbs. He was betting on concrete.

Her eyelids fluttered. She swallowed audibly, and her lips were slowly losing the blue tinge. “C-concrete. But—”

I didn’t have time for a transfusion, dammit. She’s only halfway instead of all the way because I did the best thing possible. He wished his conscience would believe it and leave him alone. “I didn’t think he’d come back here. I thought he’d be caught out in the dawn.” He was repeating himself, didn’t care. “Go upstairs. Take a shower. By the time you’re done, I’ll have everything fixed down here. Okay?”

Amazingly, she laughed. It was a thin, hysterical sound. “Go upstairs? Are you out of your mind?” She grabbed at the front of his faded green jacket with surprising strength, and Rookwood instinctively shifted his weight back. “Listen to me. Listen. He wasn’t alone.”

He lost his balance and thumped down hard, his teeth clicking together as his ass hit the floor. His pulse leapt like a fish going after a juicy water bug. “How many?”

“J-just one. The two of them. You have to leave—it’s his boss.” Then, the crowning absurdity: “He’s a partner.”

All the better. He couldn’t believe his luck. “Which one? Briggs or Chisholm?”

She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. He sup

posed it wasn’t too far from the truth. “You . . .”

“Fann doesn’t leave the offices, I know that much. Which one is in the basement with him, Briggs or Chisholm?”

“How did you—” Then she shut her mouth over the question, knowledge leaping behind those dark eyes. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It was looking as if Amelia King were too smart by half. “Who the hell are you, really?” Flatly, calmly, and her mouth turned into a tight line.

How do I even begin explaining? “Just call me a knight in busted armor, lady. I’m here to do some cleaning up.”

She didn’t want to take a shower, but the ruin of her T-shirt convinced her to get changed. He should have started while she was upstairs and had it halfway done by the time she came back down.

Instead, he had her stove going and eggs sizzling in a pan. The morning had turned out fine, sun up and patchy fog burning off. The kitchen was bright, open, airy, and indefensible thanks to all that glass—French doors were a security nightmare. He’d already barred the door down to the basement with a long, half-dried vine of wild rose and three silver dollars as well as a splash of holy water. Nothing undead was going to come through there, especially up into a sun-drenched kitchen.

His shades were back on, and he didn’t like how glad he was that they hid his eyes. “You need some protein,” he said when he heard her breathing in the doorway to the hall. “Eggs go down easy. So does toast. Other stuff, not so much.”

Mrs. King apparently didn’t want to talk about breakfast. “I want to know exactly what’s going on here.”

Isn’t it obvious? I’m fixing your problem for reasons of my own, not just because you paid me. “I brought you a latte. It’s on the counter. I figure if you don’t want it, I’ll add some chocolate and drink it myself.”

“I don’t want fucking coffee. I want some answers.”

“Okay.” He slid the eggs out of the pan and onto a blue china plate. The toaster obediently popped up the last two slices of bread he’d found in the kitchen. Her fridge was almost empty. She probably had other things on her mind than grocery shopping. “They’re a small club. They have to be, because if they spread, they would suck a city dry in a short time. Nature’s got her own way of making sure the predator doesn’t overpower the prey completely. And you told me what law firm he worked for. He must’ve been a bright one, and ruthless, too.”

The fight didn’t go out of her, but she deflated a bit. “Robert was very good at his job. I don’t see how that—”