The Dark-Hunters (170 page)

As soon as he was clean and dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, Wulf switched on his stereo. The preprogrammed songs started off with Slade’s
My Oh My
while he grabbed his cordless phone and brought up his computer screen to log on to the Dark-Hunter.com Web site to update the others on his latest kills.

Callabrax liked to keep up with how many Daimons were slain each month. The Spartan warrior had some weird notion that Daimon crossovers and attacks were related to moon cycles.

Personally, Wulf thought the Spartan had way too much time on his hands. But then, being immortals, they all did.

Sitting in the darkness, Wulf listened to the words of the song as it played.

I believe in woman, my oh my. We all need someone to talk to, my oh my
 …

Against his will, the lyrics conjured up images of his ancient home, and of a woman with hair as white as the snowfall, and eyes as blue as the sea.

Arnhild.

He didn’t know why he still thought of her after all these centuries, but he did.

He took a deep breath as he wondered what would have happened had he stayed on at his father’s farm and married her. Everyone had expected it.

Arnhild had expected it.

But Wulf had refused. At seventeen, he’d wanted a different life than that of a simple farmer paying taxes to his jarl. He’d wanted adventure, and battles.

Glory.

Danger.

Maybe if he’d loved Arnhild, it might have been enough to keep him home.

And if he’d done that …

He’d have been bored out of his friggin’ mind.

Which was his problem tonight. He needed something exciting. Something to stir his blood.

Something like the hot, tempting strawberry-blonde he’d left behind on the street …

Unlike Chris, getting naked with a strange woman wasn’t something he shirked from.

Or at least something he used to not shirk from. Of course his willingness to be naked with unknown women was what had led him to his current fate, so maybe Chris had some sense after all.

Seeking a distraction from that irritating thought, Wulf dialed Talon’s number and clicked the remote to change his song over to Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.”

Talon answered his cell phone at the same time Wulf logged on to the Dark-Hunters’ private message boards.

“Hey, little girl,” Wulf said tauntingly, switching to his headset so that he could type and talk at the same time. “I got your ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’ T-shirt today. You’re not funny and I don’t work cheap. I expect a lot of money for what I do.”

Talon scoffed. “Little girl? You better lay off or I’ll come up there and kick your Viking ass.”

“That threat might carry some weight if I didn’t know how much you hate the cold.”

Talon laughed deep in his throat.

“So what are you up to tonight?” Wulf asked.

“About six feet five.”

Wulf groaned. “You know, that crappy joke doesn’t get funnier every time I hear it.”

“Yeah, I know. But I live only to harass you.”

“And you succeed so well. You been taking lessons from Chris?”

He heard Talon cover the phone with his hand and order black coffee and beignets.

“So you’re already out and about tonight?” he asked Talon after the waitress had walked away.

“You know it. It’s Mardi Gras time and Daimons abound.”

“Bullshit. I heard you order coffee. You ran out again, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, Viking.”

Wulf shook his head. “You really need to get yourself a Squire.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re bitching about Chris and his mouth.”

Wulf leaned back in his chair as he read through the postings of his fellow Dark-Hunters. It was comforting to know he wasn’t the only one who was bored out of his mind in between assignments.

Since Dark-Hunters couldn’t gather together physically without draining each others’ powers, the Internet and phones were the only way they could share information and stay in touch.

Technology was a godsend to them.

“Man,” Wulf said, “is it just me or do the nights seem to be getting longer?”

“Some are longer than others.” Talon’s chair squeaked over the phone. No doubt the Celt was leaning back in it to scope out some woman walking past his table. “So, what has you down?”

“I’m restless.”

“Go get laid.”

He snorted at Talon’s stock answer for everything. Worse, he knew the Celt really believed sex was a cure-all for any ailment.

But then as his thoughts turned back to the woman at the club, Wulf wasn’t so sure it wouldn’t work.

At least for tonight.

However, in the end, a night with another woman who wouldn’t remember him didn’t appeal to him.

It hadn’t in a long time.

“That’s not the problem,” Wulf said as he scanned the messages. “I’m aching for a good fight. I mean, damn, when was the last time you really had a Daimon fight back? The ones I took out tonight just laid down on me. One of them even whimpered when I hit him.”

“Hey, you should be glad you got them before they got you.”

Perhaps …

But then Wulf was a Viking and they didn’t look at things the same way the Celts did.

“You know, Talon, killing a soul-sucking Daimon without a good fight is like sex without foreplay. A total waste of time and completely un … satisfying.”

“Spoken like a true Norseman. What you need, my brother, is a mead hall filled with serving wenches and Vikings ready to fight their way into Valhalla.”

It was true. Wulf missed the Spathi Daimons. Now, they were a warrior class that put the fun in war.

Well, from his way of thinking anyway.

“The ones I found tonight knew nothing about fighting,” Wulf said, curling his lip. “And I’m sick of the whole ‘my gun will solve all’ mentality.”

“You get shot again?” Talon asked.

“Four times. I swear … I wish I could get a Daimon up here like Desiderius. I’d love a good down-and-dirty fight for once.”

“Careful what you wish for, you just might get it.”

“Yeah, I know.” In a way Talon couldn’t even begin to imagine. “But damn. Just once can’t they stop running from us and learn to fight like their ancestors did? I miss the way things used to be.”

There was a pause on the other end as Talon let out a slow appreciative breath.

Wulf shook his head. There was definitely a woman nearby.

“I tell you what I miss most are the Talpinas.”

Wulf frowned. That was a term he’d never heard before. “What are those?”

“That’s right, they were before your time. Back in the better part of the Dark Ages, we used to have a clan of Squires whose sole purpose was to take care of our carnal needs.”

It was nice to know his best friend had a one-track mind, and Wulf would pay money to meet the one woman who could derail the Celt from his earthy ways.

“Man, they were great,” Talon continued. “They knew what we were and they were more than happy to bed us. Hell, the Squires even trained them on how to pleasure you.”

“What happened to them?”

“About a hundred or so years before you were born, a Dark-Hunter made the mistake of falling in love with his Talpina. Unfortunately for the rest of us, she didn’t pass Artemis’s test. Artemis was so angry over it, she stepped in and banished the Talpinas from us, and implemented the oh-so-wonderful “you’re only supposed to sleep with them once” rule. As further backlash over it, Acheron came up with the “never touch your Squire” law. I tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried to find a decent one-night stand in seventh-century Britain.”

Wulf snorted. “That’s
never
been my problem.”

“Yeah, I know. I envy you that. While the rest of us have to pull ourselves back from our lovers lest we betray our existence, you get to cut loose without fear.”

“Believe me, Talon, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You live alone by choice. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to have no one remember you five minutes after you leave them?”

It was the only thing that bothered Wulf about his existence. He had immortality. Wealth.

You name it.

Except that if Christopher died without having children, there would be no human left alive who could remember him.

It was a sobering thought.

Wulf sighed. “Christopher’s mother has come over here three times in the last week alone just so she can meet the person he works for. I’ve known her for what? Thirty years? And let’s not forget that time sixteen years ago when I came home and she called the cops on me because she thought I had broken into my own house.”

“I’m sorry, little brother,” Talon said sincerely. “At least you have us and your Squire who can remember you.”

“Yeah, I know. Thank the gods for modern technology. Otherwise I’d go insane.” He fell silent for a bit.

“Not to change the subject, but did you see who Artemis relocated to New Orleans to take Kyrian’s place?”

“I heard it was Valerius,” Wulf said in disbelief. “What was Artemis thinking?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does Kyrian know?” Wulf asked.

“For an obvious reason, Acheron and I decided not to tell him that the grandson and spitting image of the man who crucified him and destroyed his family was being moved into the city just down the street from his house. Unfortunately, though, I’m sure he’ll find out sooner or later.”

Wulf shook his head. He supposed things could be worse for him. At least he didn’t have Kyrian’s or Valerius’s problems.

“Man, human or not, Kyrian will kill him if they ever cross paths—not something you need to cope with this time of year.”

“Tell me about it,” Talon concurred.

“So, who got Mardi Gras duty this year?” Wulf asked.

“They’re importing Zarek.”

Wulf cursed at the mention of the Dark-Hunter from Fairbanks, Alaska. Rumors abounded about the ex-slave who had once destroyed the very village and humans he’d been charged with protecting. “I didn’t think Acheron would ever let him leave Alaska.”

“Yeah, I know, but word came from Artemis herself that she wanted him here. Looks like we’re having a psycho reunion this week … Oh wait, it’s Mardi Gras. Duh.”

Wulf laughed again.

He heard Talon let out a happy sigh.

“Coffee arrived?” Wulf asked.

“Oh yeah.”

Wulf smiled, wishing he could find pleasure in something as simple as a cup of coffee.

But no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he heard Talon snarl, “Ah, man.”

“What?”

“Friggin’ Fabio alert.” Talon spat the words out contemptuously.

Wulf arched a brow as he thought about Talon’s own blond hair. “Hey, you’re not too far from the mark either,
blondie.
”

“Bite me, Viking. You know if I were a negative person, I would be seriously annoyed right now.”

“You sound annoyed to me.”

“No, this isn’t annoyed. This is mild perturbance. Besides, you should see these guys.” Talon dropped his Celtic accent as he invented a conversation for the Daimons. He raised his voice to an unnaturally high level. “Hey, Gorgeous George, I think I smell a Dark-Hunter.”

“Oh no, Dick,” he said, dropping his voice two octaves, “don’t be a dick. There’s no Dark-Hunter here.”

Talon returned to his falsetto. “I dunno…”

“Wait,” Talon said, again in the deep voice, “I smell tourist. Tourist with big … strong soul.”

“Would you stop?” Wulf said, laughing.

“Talk about inkblots,” Talon said, using the derogatory term Dark-Hunters had for Daimons. It stemmed from the strange black mark that all Daimons developed on their chests when they crossed over from being simple Apollites to human slayers. “Damn, all I wanted was a drink of coffee and one little beignet.”

He heard Talon tsk-tsking. Then his friend started debating out loud. “Coffee … Daimons … Coffee … Daimons…”

“I think in this case the Daimons better win.”

“Yeah, but it’s
chicory
coffee.”

Wulf clicked his tongue. “Talon wanting to be toasted by Acheron for failure to protect humans.”

“I know,” he said with a disgusted sigh. “Let me go expire them. Talk to you later.”

“Later.” Wulf hung up the phone and switched off the computer. He looked at the clock. It wasn’t even midnight yet.

Damn.

*   *   *

It was just after midnight when Cassandra, Kat, and Brenda returned to their college apartment complex. They let Brenda out in front of her unit, then drove around back to where they shared an apartment. They got out of the car and made their way inside their two-bedroom flat.

Ever since she’d left the Inferno, Cassandra had had a terrible niggling in the back of her mind, like something wasn’t right.

She went through the entire evening again in her mind as she got ready for bed. She’d driven down to the club with her friends after Michelle’s class, and they had spent the night listening to Twisted Hearts and then the Barleys play.

Nothing unusual had happened other than Michelle meeting Tom.

So, why did she feel so … so … strange.

Uneasy.

It didn’t make sense.

Rubbing her brow, she picked up her Medieval Lit book and did her best to struggle through the Old English version of
Beowulf.

Dr. Mitchell loved embarrassing graduate students who hadn’t prepared for his class, so Cassandra wasn’t about to show up tomorrow without having read the assignment.

No matter how boring it might prove.

Grendrel, chomp, chomp,

Grendrel, chomp, chomp,

See the Vikings in their boats,

Someone hand me the Cliff’s Notes
 …

Not even her little singsong ditty could revive her interest.

Yet as she read the Old English words, she kept imagining a tall, dark-haired warrior with black eyes and full, warm lips.

A man of incredible speed and agility.

Closing her eyes, she saw him standing out in the cold, wearing a long black leather coat and a look on his face that said …