Another shot. Reyes leapt to the side. He would enjoy the pain, but didn’t want to lose any more blood. The next five minutes were too important.
This blast sailed past him, and he raised his own gun. Aimed.
“Whatever you do to me, staying here, watching the woman, was worth it,” the man said as Reyes squeezed the trigger. Another head shot. The Hunter collapsed onto the carpeted floor and didn’t rise.
Reyes was at Danika’s side in the next instant, snapping the bands apart and liberating her wrists and ankles. He gathered her sleeping form in his arms, his blood dripping onto her stained white shirt and too-pale face. Her dark hair was matted to her scalp and temples, her cheeks hollow— how much weight had she lost?—and her eyelashes cast ghostly shadows that blended with the bruises under her eyes before branching into menacing spikes. There was another bruise on her jaw.
“Danika.” Her name was both a prayer and a curse.
She didn’t stir.
Her arms hung limply at her sides, her head lolled. Awake, she would have shoved him away. He would rather that happen than this…inactivity. This nothingness.
Behind him, the sounds of battle ceased, replaced by the wail of sirens. He could hear his friends filling the doorway, shuffling inside the room. He didn’t care. He tightened his hold on Danika—too long, it had been too long since he’d last seen and held her—resting her cheek against his neck.
Her skin was cold, so cold. Like ice. Her heartbeat was slow against his chest.
“Lucien?” The name croaked from his throat. Hot tears blurred his vision.
“I am here, my friend.” A hand settled on his shoulder. “Somehow they knew we were coming and were prepared, but they have now been dispatched.”
“Never mind that. Take us home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DANIKA HAD BEEN COLD for so long that the blazing-hot blanket draped over her shocked her out of the death-sleep. Her eyelids popped open, and a gasp shoved past her lips. Remnants of her nightmare refused to fade, however, preventing her from seeing what surrounded her. She saw only a darkness slashed with crimson, the night bleeding from lethal wounds. She heard swords clanking, demons laughing evilly and the whoosh of heads as they rolled.
Death, death, her every breath proclaimed.
Calm down, just calm down. This isn’t real. You know better.
Her grandmother had once suffered from dreams like these. Dreams where demons ruled and evil reigned. Dreams that had driven the frail woman to try and kill herself at the age of sixty-five.
The dreams were not premonitions of the future, for they never came true. Until Reyes and his friends had entered her life, that is. But the dreams were real enough to terrify, so Danika understood her grandmother’s pain.
Most of them were turbulent, screams and fatality infusing every macabre scene. All her life, that’s how it had been. Bloody death. Used to be, she would awaken from those painful nights and paint what she’d seen in an attempt to draw the madness from her subconscious—and keep it out.
Once, before she’d known any better, she had shown her parents one of the paintings. They’d been so frightened and upset, looking at her as if she were one of the monsters she’d painted, that she had never let another person see them. Besides, she didn’t even like to look at them.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, though, her dreams were sometimes utter serenity. Angels, their wings spread in white-feathered glory, would float through the bright azure skies. Their beauty always amazed her, and she would awaken smiling and full of verve rather than sweating and trembling as she was now.
“I’m here, angel, I’m here.”
That deep, rich voice belonged in her nightmares and those angelic glimpses, both heaven and hell rolled into one mesmerizing seduction. As she lay there, the bad dream quieted and the darkness faded, light pushing its way into her mind.
A bedroom came into view, but it wasn’t the one she remembered falling asleep in. Weapons adorned the walls, from throwing stars to swords to daggers. Even axes. There was a polished vanity, but no chair. The owner didn’t sit there? Didn’t study his reflection or brush his hair?
His? How do you know this room belongs to a man?
In and out she breathed, the familiar scent of sandalwood and pine filling her nose. Oh, she knew. A man, definitely, and one in particular. The knowledge rocked her to the core. Maybe you’re wrong. Please be wrong.
The bed was swathed in black cotton; turning her head, Danika saw that she was draped by a half-clothed man. He possessed skin of chocolate and honey, taut muscle and ripped sinew. No hair marred his chest, but there was a menacing butterfly tattoo that stretched from one shoulder to the other and up his neck. Menacing butterfly—two words that could be used together to describe only one man.
Reyes.
“Oh, God.” She bolted upright, dislodging him. Panting, she scrambled to the edge of the mattress, never turning her back to him. A snippet of her conversation with Stefano played through her mind.
“What if they try and kill me?” she’d demanded.
“They won’t,” he’d answered confidently.
“How do you know? You can’t be sure.”
“They are men. You are a woman. Think about it. Besides, they could have hurt you before, but didn’t.”
“They warned me to stay away from them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out. Find out everything you can. Their weapons, their weaknesses, their plans, their likes and dislikes. You’ll take a cell phone. It’s small, easy to hide. I’ll give you a day to settle in. After that, we’ll talk every night if possible.”
“What about you?” she’d asked, not wanting to consider the dangers of spying just yet. “You’re not a woman. By your rationale, they’ll kill you if they find you here.”
“By the time they arrive, I’ll be gone, watching from another location if I can. Others will be here to guard you, to make sure the Lords don’t intend to harm you, so don’t fret. These men are willing to give their lives to ensure the downfall of those demons. Don’t let their sacrifice be for naught.”
“What? Oh, hell no. I don’t want anyone sacrificing anything.”
“Would you feel better if I told you they’ll run as soon as the Lords arrive?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’ll run.”
Had they, though?
Slowly
