about to be caught with his metaphysical pants down. The last time a firstborn son of the Smok family had been required to pay the price demanded by the witch in Briançon before she burned, the Smoks had only just immigrated to the New World. Every seven generations, so the legend went. The last Smok to pay it had fought against the British in the American Revolution.
Lucien wasn’t going to be the next.
At the same time, he kind of hated himself for turning on his manufactured “Lucien Smok, spoiled brat” persona just as he’d parted ways with Theia. He could see the disappointment in her face. She’d been warming up to him, and he’d yanked the rug out from under her on purpose.
When he got back to his rented suite, he found an envelope had been slipped under his door. It was a little unsettling not knowing who this “helpful citizen” was, but the source had been right on the money every time. It was better intel than he could get at Polly’s—at least not without her expecting something in return. Then again, everything had a price. He just didn’t know what it was yet. It ought to worry him more, but right now he needed to send something to hell.
He opened the manila envelope, expecting another name, maybe an active vamp who preyed on the living—unlike the pasty poseurs at Polly’s—or an animated corpse. Instead, it was a URL. Lucien was surprised to find it took him to a genealogy website. The page was for the Carlisle family. What was the point of this? He already knew their history. They were descendants of the witch, and they’d inherited her gifts. Witches might have the potential to create supernatural havoc, but they weren’t supernatural themselves. It wasn’t like they were demons.
Lucien closed the browser just as a message appeared on his phone from Polly.
Got something juicy for you, hon. Come by tonight.
* * *
He headed to Polly’s after dark, trying for low-key in a tan Versace suit.
Polly laughed when she saw him. “What is this, the Obama surprise?”
“Hey, that was a damn fine suit. So’s this. Just because some people have no appreciation for style...”
“Whatever you say.” She was at her usual booth, surrounded by pretty-boy vegan bloodsuckers and assorted half-shifted weres, and she gave no indication that she intended to dismiss them.
“So what is it you wanted to tell me that you couldn’t just text me?”
Polly pretended to pout. “Now you’re just being mean. Is it so terrible to have to see me in person?”
Lucien sighed. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. It’s just that you look awfully busy, and I wasn’t really planning on hanging out and drinking tonight. I felt like shit the next morning after the last time we chatted.”
“It’s not my fault you can’t handle your liquor. Anyway, I thought you might want to be here tonight, because there’s someone special visiting.”
“Who?”
She nodded toward a table near the stage, partially lit by the spillover of the spotlight on the singer. “Check out the Amazon with the short bald guy.”
Lucien noted the tall, leggy blonde and her considerably less impressive companion. “So? Who are they?”
“Who cares who he is? Probably a snack. She’s Brünnhilde.”
Lucien’s brows drew together. “Who the hell is Brünnhilde?”
Polly gave him a smug grin. “She’s a Valkyrie, baby. I found you a Valkyrie.”
The bloodsucker beside her frowned. “Who’s this asshole? Why does he get a Valkyrie?”
Polly slapped his hand. “I’m not giving her to him, you idiot. She’s a freaking Valkyrie. And have some respect. This is Lucien. He’s the—”
“Thanks, Polly. You can quit there. A little discretion?” He turned toward the table where the Valkyrie sat, but Polly put her foot in his path.
“Hey. No thank-you? Not even a little kiss?” She tilted her head and pointed to her cheek.
Lucien smiled, remembering his manners. He’d be wise to keep Polly on his good side. And she had done him a favor. He leaned in, but instead of kissing her cheek, he lifted her hand from around the vamp’s shoulder and kissed the back of it, to the annoyance of both parties.
Polly flipped her hair, black this evening, over her shoulder. “Come by tomorrow at two. You can thank me properly.”
Lucien approached the Valkyrie’s table, realizing halfway there that he didn’t know what to offer for information from a Valkyrie. What did Valkyries want? Souls? They didn’t need him for that. And he wasn’t likely to be able to give them any valiant, heroic ones. He lucked out, though, as she seemed thoroughly bored with her companion.
He smiled winningly at her as she glanced up. “Pardon the intrusion, but would you care to dance?” No one else was dancing, but Brünnhilde rose and accepted as if eager to escape.
The song that had been playing was more on the swing spectrum, but the band switched to something slow and melodic. Lucien put his arm around her waist and took her hand, feeling like an adolescent next to her. It was like dancing with a tree.
“I’m Lucien,” he offered.
“Brünnhilde.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
Brünnhilde’s brow arched. “Is it? In 2017 in the Southwestern United States?”
Lucien laughed. “Well, Lucien isn’t exactly in fashion, either. Your name stands out. And it suits you.”
“I get the impression you want something from me, Lucien.”
“Can’t a guy ask a beautiful woman to dance?”
She gave him another brow arch, this time without amusement, and he laughed.
“All right. I’ll cut to the chase, since you’ve been gracious enough to indulge me. I understand you’re a Valkyrie. I hope that’s not out of line to say.”
Brünnhilde shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps.”
He wasn’t sure if she was half-heartedly confirming her identity or agreeing that he was out of line, but he forged ahead. “I wondered if you might have heard anything about the Wild Hunt.”
“You speak of Odin’s Hunt.”
“I believe so, yes. But one that’s out of season.”
Brünnhilde’s green eyes flickered with annoyance. “Indeed it is. The Chieftain of the Hunt defies propriety. No surprise, given his protector.”
“His protector?”
“A mortal who wields peculiar magic. She somehow bested one of my sisters to win him.”
“That’s surprising. Why does he need protection? And from a mortal, no less?”
