Bound Guardian Angel (3 page)

From what she’d picked up from the thoughts
of the pair of drecks making out in one of the bar’s back booths,
Grudge Match was a secret fight club where vampires and drecks
alike beat the shit out of each other for fun. Not only did this
pose a possible peace treaty violation, but it also gave any drecks
working for Bishop a prime opportunity to scout and kidnap vampires
he could use in his fucked-up experiments.

If only she had more time. This lead looked
promising, but duty called. She was due to meet Micah in twenty
minutes to sign Trace over to him upon his release, which meant if
she didn’t leave right now, she would be late. Hell, even if she
left this very second, she’d probably be late. She still had to
hoof it back to her Range Rover.

Trace, otherwise known as the thorn in her
side, was supposed to be released into her custody, but he and
Micah apparently needed to flog each other’s logs or some shit to
get Trace’s beast under control before she could put him to work at
the ranch, so she’d agreed to sign him over to Micah for
twenty-four hours upon his release. Putting a lit fuse like Trace
around her kids wasn’t going to happen, so she had no problem
letting Micah do whatever the hell it was Micah did to tame Trace’s
itchy hand first, and then she would take him to the ranch when he
was nice and docile. Or as docile as a raging, irritatingly virile
male like Trace could be.

She took a shaky breath at the thought of
being near him. There was just something about Trace that flicked
her Bic. All the more reason to make Trace’s life as miserable as
she could for the next three months so he stayed away from her. She
didn’t need him touching her and setting off any more waves of
physical sensation inside her body. She enjoyed her lack of feeling
very much, thank you. As long as Trace and his wicked hand gave her
a wide berth for the next three months, nobody would get hurt. He’d
already awakened too many of her memories as it was. She didn’t
want to remember any more.

The wind picked up on her way back to the
Range Rover, and a low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
Looked like the storms were arriving a few hours earlier than
expected. Good thing she hadn’t listened to the weather
forecasters, otherwise she would have ridden her Ducati into the
city. And wouldn’t that have just put the shit-flavored icing on
her roadkill cake if she’d been caught in the storm on her way
back?

For the love of God, how hard was it for
meteorologists to use all that science at their fingertips to come
up with an accurate—

Movement caught her eye out of her
peripheral vision, cutting her thoughts off cold.

She stopped abruptly and frowned as her gaze
trained upward, toward the Sentinel apartment building and the
shadowy figure rappelling down the building’s east face. What the
hell?

She cocked her head in disbelief as the
hooded, black-clad figure lowered halfway down the building then
stopped. A moment later, a hand pressed against the glass. She
heard a brief, high-pitched sound—kind of like a dog whistle—and a
moment later the pane of glass shattered and Mr. Mysterious
vanished inside.

At least she assumed the burglar was a Mr.
and not a Mrs. The way the figure moved was much too masculine to
be female.

But my, my, my, what fun toys he had.

The first drops of rain splattered the
sidewalk. One splashed on her nose.

She really needed to go, but her curiosity
was piqued. She couldn’t just leave like she’d never seen the guy.
She had to know what he was up to.

Cursing under her breath, she glanced around
to make sure no one was watching then projected herself up to the
broken window and into the dark apartment.

She rematerialized inside the living room. A
quick inhale confirmed her earlier assumption. The thief was a
male. A vampire male, but obviously not a full-blood. A full-blood
wouldn’t have used rappelling gear to gain access to the apartment.
He would have just poofed there the way she just did, which told
Cordray she was dealing with a mixed-blood who couldn’t
dematerialize. Good to know. It meant his exit options were
limited.

She glanced around and frowned as she homed
in on his trail, which led down a hall to the left.

Wait a minute. There was something familiar
about this place. She’d seen it before. Inside Trace’s mind.

She sucked in her breath. Holy shit on a
plate. This was Micah’s apartment. Not that she gave two shits
about what happened to that ball sac’s digs, but anyone who knew
Micah knew not to mess with him. He was AKM’s deadliest enforcer
with a nasty reputation to match, and he had powerful friends.

Trace came to mind. He could turn a
perfectly good body into ground meat with a snap of his
fingers.

Which begged the question, why would this
guy be fucking around with Micah’s shit? Micah’s reputation
preceded him even in civilian circles, so the burglar had to know
how hot the fire would get once Micah learned his apartment had
been broken into.

From the high-end rappelling equipment, as
well as the fancy toy that shattered the window, the thief was
sophisticated. He wasn’t the type of cat burglar who didn’t do his
research. He knew who he was hitting, and he knew him well. And as
a vampire himself, he knew the consequences of his actions, both
according to Bain’s law, as well as Micah’s, because Micah tended
to operate in the grey area between what was legal and what wasn’t.
And sure as bears shit in the woods, Micah would go after this guy
with everything he had once he found out what had happened.

Then again, maybe that was the allure. Maybe
this guy was an adrenaline junkie, and what greater rush than to
rob a live wire like Micah and evade him all while breaking royal
law?

Cordray knew a thing or two about adrenaline
rushes. Without the ability to feel physical sensation, such states
of excitement were just about the only pleasurable experiences she
enjoyed, which was probably why she got off on the thrill of the
chase as much as she did. There was nothing like a shot of
biological get-up-and-go to tingle her insides when, on the
outside, she felt nothing.

Except with Trace.

For the first time in eight centuries, she
had been able to feel again, and it was because of Trace. He’d
awakened something she thought she’d lost forever. Physical
sensation. And every time he was near her, he awakened it even
more.

Quiet rustling from the room down the hall
drew Cordray’s attention. Dismissing thoughts of Trace and what he
could do to her sense of touch, she slinked silently toward what
she assumed was the bedroom, hand on her sidearm, eyes sharp in the
darkness.

She peered around the doorframe. Yep.
Bedroom. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious was in the closet,
rummaging through God knew what. But he was being quiet about it,
as if he knew at any moment someone could show up and catch
him.

Slipping into the dark room, she watched the
beam from his flashlight bob back and forth then go still as if
he’d set it on the floor. Tiptoeing closer, she peeked into the
closet. He was kneeling in the back corner, facing away from her,
slowly spinning the dial on a small, black safe nestled against the
wall. He’d pressed an elaborate stethoscope to the metal beside the
lock. The scope was hooked up to what looked like a portable
computer the size of a small tablet. Numbers flashed on the screen,
filling in as he spun the dial left and right.

When the final number filled the third
space, he entered the combination, releasing the lock a moment
later. After quickly pocketing his equipment, he pulled the door
open to extract an intricately carved wooden box. His hood was
still up, so she couldn’t get a look at his face as he set the box
on the floor, pulled out a slim tool with a prong on one end, and
inserted the prong into the keyhole. She heard a click. A second
later, he flipped open the lid.

Rifling efficiently through the contents, he
removed a purple, velvet pouch, loosened the drawstring, reached
his black-gloved hand inside, and pulled out a gold artifact that
looked like an Egyptian ankh. A ruby filled the space at the top
where a loop normally would have been.

Cordray unholstered her gun and raised it,
the business end aimed toward his head.

“Whatcha got there?” she said, stepping into
the open.

The thief spun around. Under his hood, he
wore a skeleton mask that appeared custom made to deliver fear into
the hearts of the beholder. The skull face was menacing and marked
with scars, and instead of human canines, the mask had fangs. Nice
touch for a vampire.

Cordray admired this guy’s style. The mask
was like the Grim Reaper combined with Charon from Medusa’s
underworld. Scary as shit and more badass than her watch.

As enviable as his mask was, though, it was
his almond-shaped, come-hither eyes that made the most striking
impression. They were surrounded by greasepaint, which made his
slate irises pop. Not quite gray, not quite blue. Dusky and
vivid.

She took a step toward him. “Who are y—”

He thrust his open hand toward her, and the
high-pitched shrill of his glass breaker pierced her eardrums. She
smacked her free hand over her ear a second before a blast of
energy pulsed from the tiny contraption, flinging her back against
the solid bedframe hard enough to knock her gun from her hand. She
tumbled over herself and slammed onto the floor beside the bed.

Before she could recover, he dashed past
her, fleeing down the hall toward the living room.

Motherfucker! Cordray bounced up, retrieved
her gun, and gave chase, her ears ringing, her arm heavy as if
she’d pulled something. Good thing she couldn’t feel pain or this
might have been a short chase.

There was nowhere to go in the living room
but out the window, and surely this guy wouldn’t take that
route.

Think again.

He launched himself out the window like he
was swan diving off the high platform at the Summer Olympics.

Seriously?

Cordray rushed to the gaping, rectangular
hole in the glass in time to see him pull a rip cord at his left
shoulder as if he were opening a parachute. But instead of a chute,
gossamer wings unfolded like a miniature hang glider from a slim
pack on his back, and his outfit turned into a wingsuit.

Damn, this guy was good.

Not to be outdone, Cordray darted back into
the living room then sprinted toward the window and leaped into the
frenzied wind a split second before dematerializing.

This fucker wasn’t getting away that easily.
She still had a few tricks up her sleeve.

She rematerialized on his back, landing
ingloriously, pitching them into gravity’s grip as the burglar
fought to regain control of his descent.

“Get off me, bitch!” He tried to reach
around and dislodge her, but she ducked and pulled away. “You’ll
kill us both!”

“Doubtful, mixed-blood!” From the strong,
vibrant scent gushing out of him, her earlier assessment that this
guy was a major adrenaline junkie was right on target. “Who are
you? Why were you in Micah Black’s apartment? What’s with the
ankh?” She had to shout to be heard over the wind rushing past them
as they shot between buildings on a steady, haphazard descent
toward the ground.

Raindrops pelted her face like tiny bullets,
stinging her eyes, making it hard for her to see, but she didn’t
miss the way he looked over his shoulder at her, or the way the
outer corners of his eyes lifted as if he were grinning behind that
evil-looking skull mask. And not just grinning, but smiling as if
he were having the time of his life.

Then he winked at her. Actually winked.

And disappeared.

Motherfucker!

She pitched into a freefall and barely
managed to dematerialize before slamming headfirst into the
concrete.

Okay, so maybe the bastard could
dematerialize. Maybe he was a full-blood, after all. So much for
making assumptions.

Either way, this cocksucker was seriously
starting to piss her off.

Skimming just above the sidewalk, she
gathered her bearings then rose upward until she detected his vapor
trail.

Whoever this guy was, he had his shit
together. He’d known who he was hitting, and he’d had a plan for
both entry and egress. What else could she expect before this
cat-and-mouse game was over?

She didn’t have to wait long for an answer
as she zipped after him into a dead-end alley and
rematerialized . . . only to have a titanium-tipped
arrow rip past her, slicing through her jacket. She didn’t feel the
metal cut into her arm, but she heard the fabric rip and smelled
the scent of her blood. Shit. Another article of clothing to mend
and another wound to add to her dossier.

Who did this guy think he was? A superhero?
The Green Arrow? Were the next words out of his mouth going to be
something along the lines of how she’d failed this city?

Well, fuck that shit. If he wanted to play
DC Comics’ next superhero, she would gladly play his
kryptonite.

Another arrow whizzed toward her. She
dodged, slapping it away as she beat feet toward him. This asshole
was going down.

He nocked another arrow, but she was already
on him. Before he could fire, she launched her shoulder into his
chest, sending them both to the wet pavement as the rain pounded
down harder.

They grappled, fabric tore—hers or his she
couldn’t tell—and a gloved fist smashed into her lip. She tasted
blood, but at least she didn’t feel the pain, which allowed her to
return the favor, plowing her fist into the side of his face,
cracking the cheek of his form-fitted mask.

They rolled, and Cordray briefly gained the
upper hand, shoving Skeletor to his back and popping him twice more
in the jaw before he fisted her jacket and tossed her over his
head.