Touch If You Dare Page 2

  Trinity nodded grimly. “It’s not easy to bring a friend from a place of love and empathy into a pit of utter despair and misery, but I do my best.”

  “Well, you did it. I feel like my soul is being crushed.” Reina put her hand over the searing pain trying to rip through her intestines, and black death powder spewed from Reina’s fingertips. “Look at that,” she said, unable to keep the hope out of her voice. “I’ve got my mojo back.”

  “Go get him, sweetie. I know you can.”

  Reina faced Max and flexed her hand. More powder spewed out, caking the ground by her feet. Dust that would knock him out long enough for her to harvest his soul.

  Max paused mid-lick of his testicles, then he leapt to his feet, hackles up, saliva dripping from his jaw, yellow eyes narrowed with lethal hostility.

  Reina braced her feet. “Bring it on, big guy.”

  Max charged, and suddenly the fifty yards between them didn’t seem like all that much room.

  Ignoring her urge to run away screaming from a werewolf in full attack mode, Reina let her vision go black and gold, and a mucky, filthy aura was visible around Max. Fantastic! He might have cute ears, but he was one of the bad guys.

  One with really big teeth who was closing fast.

  “This is for all the girls who didn’t get their dreams granted because you ate their fairy godmothers.” Reina wiggled her fingers, and the lethal black powder shot out and hit the wolfman square in the muzzle when he was less than a yard away.

  But Max didn’t fall to the ground into happy naptime, dreaming of sugarplums and candy canes, like he was supposed to after getting hit with death dust. Instead, he body slammed her in the chest. She yelped as the sickle flew out of her hand and she skidded across the rocky dirt. Max pounced on her and plunged his teeth toward her throat. “Yikes!” She misted out of his grasp and reformed several yards away.

  Max spun around, searching for her.

  “You’re sure you’re doing the powder thing right?” Trinity asked.

  “Of course I am! I’ve dusted millions of people. I can knock out a giant from two miles away.” Well, slight exaggeration, but still. “I know what I’m doing—”

  Max located her and then launched himself at her, baring teeth bigger than, oh, her head?

  She tried to mist away… but this time nothing happened. “Oh, crap!”

  He knocked her down, snarled, and then slammed his teeth down on her jugular. She gasped as his teeth broke the skin. Good lord! Women found men with fangs a turn-on? Painful, not sexy, in case anyone was wondering.

  “Reina! Mist out of his grasp!” Trinity hauled on his tail, but he didn’t release his grip.

  “Trying.” Reina summoned enough death powder to Agent Orange an entire continent and then unleashed it right into Max’s face from point-blank range.

  There was so much spillage in the air, her own eyes began to burn, and Trinity started coughing. But good old Max just tightened his grip on her throat, and Reina began to get dizzy. The night sky began to shift out of focus. It was almost impossible for her to die, but it sure felt like Max had figured out how to do it—

  There was a sudden burst of pink light, and Max collapsed on top of her. He twitched once and then began to snore.

  Okay, she knew she hadn’t done that.

  “Are you all right?” Trinity crouched beside her.

  Reina pressed her hand to her neck and winced. Her skin was raw and frayed. If he’d actually ripped her throat out… she wasn’t sure she could heal that. “That was close. Thanks for taking him out.” She looked around for her sickle. He was down. Had to take his soul.

  “Me? I didn’t do it.” Trinity pulled off her sweatshirt and pressed it to the geyser springing from Reina’s neck. “I thought it was you.”

  “No.” Reina stared at her friend in dismay. “If neither of us did it, then it must have been—” She bolted upright just as the wooden wall of the chicken shack began to glitter like a disco ball. “Oh, no.”

  Trinity followed her gaze, and she bit her lip. “That’s not the fantastic timing we were hoping for.”

  “You think?” Reina scrambled to her feet as a tall, dark-haired man in a black tuxedo stepped out of the shimmering slats of the henhouse. Yep, it was Death, the power monger who had privatized death and turned it into the most profitable business in existence.

  He was shaking his head in disgust. Perfect. Fail the big promotional test and have her boss there to witness it. Always a good plan.

  Death squared his arms over his chest as he watched her frantically brush the dirt off her pants. He always responded much better to her when she was sexy. Having dirt, blood, and dog hair all over herself wasn’t going to gain her wiggle room.

  “Not laudable, Fleming.” His deep voice rolled over her, and he sounded immensely unimpressed.

  “The granules must have been past their expiration date.” She pressed Trinity’s sweater to her throat, trying to stem the bleeding. Come on, throat. Do your healing thing already. “I used enough to—”

  “It’s not the quantity of the weapon.” Death tapped his forehead. “It’s about the intent. You have to become simpatico with the powder.”

  Reina blinked. “Simpatico? What do you mean?”

  “You have to want it to work.”

  “But I did—” She suddenly remembered the only other time her dust hadn’t knocked out a target: when she’d tried to take down Jarvis Swain.

  She still remembered the way he’d loomed over her, threatening her, crowding her with his bulk and his ominous presence. She had tossed dust at his imposing form and expected him to drop. He hadn’t. She could still feel the tug in her soul when she’d realized he wasn’t going down, that she couldn’t hurt him. That his wall of muscle, domination, and strength was stronger than she was.

  For a split second, she’d felt intense pleasure and excitement that there was a male who she didn’t have to be careful around. And then that rush of decadent sensation had been chased away by the fear of what it meant: that she could not stop him. Ever.

  She thought of Jarvis’s dark eyes, of the turbulent danger that lurked in their depths, or the anguish that edged his voice, and awareness rippled through her. Awareness of the man, of his soul, of his inner strength that had enabled him to survive… and then she remembered the way everyone moved away from him, the sense of darkness that seemed to dim the light in the room whenever he walked in.

  Yes, Jarvis was incredibly sexy, with broad shoulders that dominated his space, and he looked at her with such potent sexuality that she had to peel off layers at the mere thought of that sensual stare; however, he was also dangerous, deadly, cold, stubborn, and terrifying. There was no chance she would have failed to drop him because of some inner desire to have him erect and in her personal space, despite Death’s claim.

  No, definitely not. She’d wanted the death dust to work on him, and he’d had some sort of immunity, most likely the result of one of Angelica’s brutal experiments. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t.

  “If you want the target to be taken down, the dust works. Every time.” Death folded his arms over his chest, and he really didn’t look like he was kidding.

  Hmm… that was disconcerting. “I must disagree. I wanted to take out both Max and Ja—”

  “You have it, or you don’t, and you clearly don’t.” Death shot her an impatient look. “You’re fired.”

  “What?” She gaped at him. “You can’t fire me—”

  “Of course I can. I’m Death. I can do anything I want.” Then he turned and disappeared through a nearby tree trunk.

  “Wait!” Reina ran after him, smacked right into the tree, and bounced off it. No misting ability? No wonder she hadn’t been able to mist away from Max. Death had taken her power away! Which meant… “Holy crap. He really fired me.”

  How in God’s name was she going to save Natalie now?

  Chapter 2

  “Dude!” A young vamp with red hair and freckles shov
ed his way to the front of the pack of pointy-tooths who had apparently ditched all sense of self-preservation and decided that blocking Jarvis’s exit was the smart thing to do. The Berkeley wannabe had been boxed out by the other vamps so Jarvis hadn’t noticed him before, but he was noticing him now. Hard not to. He was wearing a hot pink tie-dyed T-shirt, Birkenstocks, and a herd of macrame bracelets halfway up his forearm. “You gotta help us! Rocco’s like going down big-time, and you’re the only one who can save him.”

  Jarvis swore at the look of raw terror on the kid’s face. The fledgling couldn’t be more than twenty years old, still with enough humanity to retain the carrot top and think it was just fine for the Holy Undead to use words like “dude,” or admit to caring about something other than being stoic and dull. A face with the unabashed guile of someone who’d put his heart out there for his buddy and was in the process of having it crushed.

  Son of a bitch. “Shit, kid. I wish I could help you, but now’s not the time. Come find me in a year—”

  “A year? He’ll be dead!” Sylvan grabbed Jarvis’s wrist before Jarvis realized he was going to make a move.

  He’d forgotten how fast vampires were. Hadn’t run into one since he’d been kidnapped. Maybe he should find a couple as sparring partners. Might be nice to actually get a challenge.

  “Seriously! Look at him!” Sylvan pointed frantically toward the door. The pack of vamps split, revealing a rent-a-wreck bloodsucker being dragged along by his wrist. The poor bastard was dirty, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and torn jeans no sane vampire would allow within a mile of his refined palette. The decrepit creature was so pale he made the others look like they’d just spent a month in the tropics with baby oil. He was bleeding from an impressive wound in his chest.

  Jarvis didn’t like to see anyone like that, even a vampire. “Your buddy get staked?”

  “Dude, yeah, by his girlfriend.”

  Anger stirred inside Jarvis at that hellish fate of an innocent. Why in the hell would any man turn his back on a woman?

  Maybe his teammate Blaine had found a woman who didn’t torture him, but Blaine was too caught up in salvation and poetry to think straight. What was the point of learning not to trust women if a man threw his lot in with the first non-Den woman he met? No chance Jarvis would do that. He had a brain, and he liked to use it.

  Then the image of a certain auburn-haired gal flashed in his mind. There was one woman he’d met who was different. Reina Fleming had courage. Her blue eyes were the same color as the delphiniums Christian kept in their common room, and her sensual lips would make even the most cynical warrior believe there was a God.

  Yeah, she was female all right, but she’d also impressed him with her loyalty. She’d stood by Blaine’s new woman, no matter what cost, and he liked that. But just because that kind of loyalty was noteworthy, it didn’t mean he was going to be dropping trou and letting her line up her sights on his jewels.

  Unlike the poor bastard in front of him who’d let a chick near him with a wooden instrument o’ torture.

  Pascal groaned and shifted suddenly, nearly wrenching himself out of Jarvis’s grip. Chat time over. Getting Pascal out of the Den was critical. “Sorry, Sylvan, but there’s nothing I can do.” He jerked his head toward Nigel, who was finishing off the last of the lady vipers. “Artist boy over there is the healer, but you’re gonna have to get in line—”

  “No!” Sylvan slammed his palm into Jarvis’s chest and sent him crashing against the wall.

  “Shit!” Jarvis used his body to protect Pascal as they hit the stainless steel wallpaper. He swore as the metal burned his skin, eating away at his strength and defenses. Mother of hell. He never thought he’d have to feel that stainless attacking him again. He fucking hated that metal.

  “You will be at ease.” Damien laid his hand on top of Sylvan’s head. The kid blanched (impressive feat for a vampire), then Damien chanted something in an ancient language. The youth’s face went blank. Utterly expressionless.

  The fangbanger had mindrolled his own kind? Disgust surged through Jarvis. If a man couldn’t count on his peeps, he had nothing.

  He shoved himself off the wall, gritting his teeth at the burning in his cells as the stainless began to invade his body. Mother of hell. He wasn’t going down that road again. “You have one chance to get out of my way, and then you’re toast.” His hand twitched around the handle of his sword. “I hope you choose not to move.”

  Damien immediately dropped to one knee and bowed his head. At the flick of his wrist, all the vampires behind him followed suit. All except Rocco-the-staked, who had slumped to the floor and was reciting random and awkward poetry about broken hearts and true love. The only other one not genuflecting was Sylvan, who was still standing there like a zombie.

  Well, hell, it was against his ethics to behead someone who was bowing before him. That was too much like taking out a bunny rabbit who’d rolled over for a belly scratch. Jarvis lowered his sword in disgust. “Get up.”

  Damien kept his eyes on the mold growing between the cracks in the cement. “My Lord, we humbly request your assistance with Rocco. He is the son of our leader, Abraham. If he returns from his sabbatical and finds his son died while in our care, we will all suffer greatly.”

  Pascal groaned and twitched again. Jesus. What was wrong with the warrior? “You guys can heal yourself, so get on it.”

  “Rocco does not desire recovery, so his body must obey.” Damien still didn’t lift his head, wouldn’t even look him in the eye. “We’ve had three interventions, but Rocco keeps returning to his woman. After she staked him two days ago, it broke his soul, and he is trying to die.”

  Jarvis snorted. “Tell him to toughen up.” Was this what regular males were like? Wanting to die because some chick had blown him off? Try a hundred and fifty years in the Den. No tears in torture-land. Almost made him appreciate Angelica for forcing him to man-up. No chick would ever reduce him to blubbering tears and a willingness to give it all up. Not even Reina.

  Shit. Why did he keep thinking of her? Ever since he’d had her pinned to the floor for a little private discussion, she’d been shoving her way into his thoughts. He barely knew her, had spoken to her maybe a handful of times, but he’d had her breasts wedged up against his chest, and her body had been warm and soft when he’d been on top of her. He’d been reliving that feeling ever since it had happened. When he’d finally convinced her he wasn’t the enemy, and he’d felt her whole body relax beneath him, he’d felt like a king for getting her to trust him.

  And for that moment, that brief instant when she was under him, he’d had a chance to experience physical intimacy with a woman who wasn’t trying to kill him. That moment, feeling the warmth of her body against his, those deliciously feminine curves molded to his body… shit. He’d never forget that sensation.

  Reina had baggage, and she trusted no one except her friend Trinity, and then she’d let go and stopped fighting him. When he’d realized that he’d given her relief and diffused some of her tension, given her a moment of peace… Hell. He’d felt satisfaction unlike anything he’d ever felt in his life.

  He’d felt like a man, and no woman had ever made him feel like a man before. Women made him hurt, they invoked his antipathy, they haunted his nightmares. But never, ever had a woman brought words of comfort and soothing to his lips. And he’d liked it. For that split second, for that instant, a part of him had come to life that he’d never met before.

  Had the connection been real? Had he imagined it? Half the time, he was sure it had been some devious female trick, and he was ready to take out Reina the next time he saw her. But sometimes… sometimes…

  “Toughen up? You insult us with that suggestion.” Anger flashed in Damien’s eyes, jerking Jarvis back to the present. “You think we have not tried every method known to us to help the boy find the will to live? Words mean nothing when the soul is broken.”

  “Yeah, broken souls are a bitch,” he acknowledged. He’d helpe
d bury too many warriors whose souls had been broken by Angelica. There was no hope for someone who wanted to die. “Sorry to hear that.” And he was.

  Because there was no sense in wasting time on those who’d packed it in. He focused on the ones who fought to survive. Like Pascal, who was now groaning constantly, interspersed with occasional shrieks of pain. There was something stirring inside him that was not good. “Nigel. What’s your status?”

  “Almost ready to blow this place.” Nigel came up beside him. Slung over his shoulder was a heavily tattooed warrior Jarvis recognized as Isaiah Hawthorne, the toughest son of a bitch Jarvis had ever met. Nigel was carrying a second inert form in his arms. Jarvis swore when he saw them. No man should be reduced to that. Ever.

  He grabbed the victims from Nigel. “No one gets left behind.”

  Nigel met his gaze, and Jarvis saw the same hardness in his teammate’s face. The scars from revisiting their old hell, and the relentless determination to end it. Now. “Never,” Nigel agreed, before turning and sprinting back into the room to retrieve the last three men.

  Jarvis balanced one warrior on his free shoulder and the second on his left hip, keeping his sword hand free. “We’re taking them out together. Now.”

  “My lord.” Damien had retreated back to his subordinate serf imitation. “We humbly request the assistance of the Guardian of Hate to imbue our dear and beloved friend with the blackest of emotions so that he is consumed with bitter bile that will drive him to hunt down and attack Sarah Dutton, drain her blood, rip out her heart, and destroy her so she no longer walks this earth.”

  Dutton? Where had he heard that name before? Ah, now he remembered. It was a gathering of women who did shit like what had been done to Sylvan. Women who’d be a perfect fit in the Den.

  “I like your dedication, Damien.” Nigel hoisted a seven foot male who was little more than blood and skin onto his left shoulder. “Not every brokenhearted teenager has friends thoughtful enough to turn him into a homicidal maniac.”