“Ah yes, Johnny Santiago and his girl are tying the knot. Good couple. Vampires.”
“Yes, indeed.” And this guy worked for a secret order that hunted vampires. “You, uh...ever try to stake them?”
“Me?” Tor grinned, exposing a boyish charm. “I don’t do the stake. I’m spin. Someone has to make sure the mortals didn’t see a vampire bite a person’s neck, but instead, just happened upon a couple actors rehearsing for a show at the Moulin Rouge. You know? The Order of the Stake only pursues those vampires who are a danger to humans. Like me. I’m human.” He turned and offered his hand to shake. “Sorry, didn’t do this properly. Torsten Rindle. Human.”
Stryke shook the man’s firm grasp. “Stryke Saint-Pierre. Werewolf.”
“I like werewolves,” Tor offered, folding back the flap on the box. “But you guys can be a challenge when pissed off.”
Stryke tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Nothing wrong with being a challenge.”
“So.” Tor gestured Stryke approach the back of the van to peer into the box. “This is what I’ve got.”
“Rhys said your knights sometimes pick this stuff up from a slain vampire’s lair?”
“This artifact came from a vamp who was trafficking in magical accoutrements. Most of the stuff—herbs, nostrums and small ritual objects—we toss. But there were some decidedly demonic artifacts mixed in with the more innocuous stuff. Didn’t want to keep our hands on this, nor did we want it sitting around for any Tom, Dick or Edward to get his hands on.”
“May I?”
Tor nodded. “You’ll be taking it with you anyway.”
Stryke peered into the box and spied what looked like a staff of sorts. About two feet long, it was sleek, resembled steel and the top portion jutted up into prongs, which looked as though they should be clasping some wizardly sort of crystal.
His fingers neared the staff and then he flinched. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
“Demonic scepter.” Tor reached in and pulled out the item as if a child’s toy and waved it before Stryke. “Demons can do very bad things with it.”
Stryke took a step back and put up his hands. “That’s silver, man.”
Tor studied the length of the scepter, then nodded. “Yep, probably is. A good conductor of magic. I suspect a stone or some such fits in the prongs. Most likely the stone is required to activate the thing. Be thankful it’s missing. Here you go.”
“Dude, I am not touching that thing. Silver is—”
“Ah, right. Sorry. But the silver has to actually enter your bloodstream to do you werewolves harm, right?”
“In theory. But I had a bad experience with a silver-tipped arrow last winter.” He clutched his left biceps. “Almost died. I’m not taking any chances.”
“Yikes.” Tor carefully set the scepter back in the box. “Take it in the box, then.”
“So it’s cool sitting in this plain old brown box?”
“Should be.” Tor tugged out the box and handed it to Stryke. “But I’d get it back to Hawkes Associates and secure it with wards as quickly as possible. Just to be safe.”
Stryke thought he felt a wave of heat emanate from within the box and glow in his biceps. He winced. His brow began to sweat. His mouth dried. Flashes of last winter when the silver had fought to take his life disoriented him. But a healthy dose of wolfsbane had defeated the poison.
“Stryke? You okay?”
“Huh? Uh, yes.” Best to get the hell out of here fast. “Thanks, man. Do I need to pay you?”
“We’ve an account with Hawkes. It’s all been taken care of. Nice to meet you, Saint-Pierre. Stay wary.”
“Really?” Stryke asked, but Tor had already slipped around the side of the van and he heard the driver’s door slam shut.
“Wary,” he muttered as the van pulled away.
Again he felt the heat emanate from within the box. “You don’t have to tell me that. Me and silver do not have a good history.”
If he was going to run into more silver working for Rhys, he’d have to start carrying some wolfsbane with him.
* * *
Blyss touched up her eyeliner in the mirror, drawing it out in a cat’s-eye tease. Her brows were tweezed and shaded to perfection. A hint of blush. And bright red lips. Her usual daytime look. She liked to look sexy, and yes, she knew she was pretty. Men told her as much all the time. But sometimes it was hard to justify the beauty when she knew a beast lurked within.
She shook her head at the mirror’s reflection. Do not fall into those dark thoughts. She’d moved beyond such thinking and was managing her beast. Had been for years.
Only, now her life had started to unravel in incredible ways. Her supplier, Edamite Thrash, had always been kind and just with her, but even he could not put up with her missed payments. She was behind a year, and she needed to refill her supply soon. Only a few pills remained in the glass jar she kept on her vanity.
She must not allow the beast reign.
There was no questioning Edamite’s generosity by letting her go a year without paying. She’d had no choice but to divert her funds. Her father, well... She hoped he had learned a lesson and would never gamble again. But Blyss knew better.
Her bank account was in the red, and her social life was faltering. While usually she relied upon extravagant gifts from her lovers to seed her finances, she had not received a gift in months.
And she’d been given a week to procure an item for Edamite. An item so valuable he would forgive her debt and cover her for the next year’s supply. An item that she had obtained and then placed in another person’s care to divert suspicion. An item she must claim today so she could clear up matters with Ed.
She exhaled heavily, watching her shoulders slump in the mirror. Quickly, she corrected, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin.
Never let them see you suffer.
She’d worked too hard to establish her position among the humans. Blyss Sauveterre, Parisian socialite and gallery owner. She’d even been photographed with celebrities and had once made the gossip page after a weekend fling with a Russian duke.
She adjusted the combs, brushes and makeup on the vanity table before her so they lay straight and evenly spaced. She liked neatness. She was so close to avoiding a complete life catastrophe and smoothing over that annoying bump in her road. Control was her only means to relax.
Yet now Stryke Saint-Pierre had strolled into her life.
Her reflection frowned. She had been attracted the moment she’d laid eyes on him walking the gallery floor. And the attraction had been like nothing she had ever felt for a man before. She’d wanted to feel his hands roaming her skin, his mouth tasting hers. And she’d gotten that.
She wanted it again.
No. He is just the diversion.
Right. Stick to the plan. She had to see him again today. In order to retrieve what she’d planted on him, she needed access to his personal things. She must get close to him without raising suspicion.
Seduction would be necessary. And while seduction should prove a simple task—a job, nothing more—Blyss knew once she again stood in Stryke’s arms, all bets would be off. She’d fall into his beautiful brown eyes and sexy smile and wish only for his masterful kiss. A kiss that had left her breathless in the gallery office.
A kiss she wanted to