If that bitch had drank from Devyn ... Dallas's hands fisted. But guilt joined ranks with his anger, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to tamp down both emotions. If I'd allowed the vision inside earlier, would I have been able to stop this? Was Devyn now hurt? Dead? They'd known there was a chance Bride would erupt when she learned that Devyn had "captured" Macy, aka Aleaha, but neither of them had taken it seriously. Devyn could lock the woman in place. Besides that, females simply didn't attack Devyn. Not with malicious intentions, anyway.
Maybe Bride had learned how to defend herself against Devyn's ability, as Nolan had done. In fact, Nolan could have told her what to do. Snarling, Dallas punched the wall, leaving a hole.
Devyn's alive. He's on his way here. You know that. The panic gradually receded, and Dallas watched inside his mind as Devyn reached out and tucked a lock of Bride's dark hair behind her ear. An action of affection. Bride nibbled on her bottom lip, her fangs sharp, and peered down at the ground, shy but intrigued. Dallas relaxed a little more. Whatever had happened between the pair had been consensual and perhaps nonviolent, despite the blood. But damn, he was going to have to talk to his friend about his bed partners.
Bride turned on her heel and marched away, disappearing into the shadows. Devyn was smiling that wicked, satisfied smile of his.
Not such a bad vision, after all, Dallas thought, shoulders slouching in relief. That image faded, making way for the second. Once again colors began to take shape. Moments later, the pier came into view. A metal bridge that stretched over what little water remained, inching its way to shore.
There was Devyn, a knife in his heart, his body prone, motionless, his eyes closed, blood all around him. Bride stood off to the side, a group of men flanking her. They were holding her in place as she cried and screamed and fought for freedom.
Every muscle in Dallas's body tightened. Devyn planned to tell Bride to meet him at the pier, but he didn't plan to actually go. Had his friend changed his mind?
Dallas shifted his attention, scanning the entire area. There was no sign of himself, Breean, or Macy. He then focused on the men holding Bride, memorizing their features, their clothing.
"—on, my man." A warm hand patted his cheek. "Wake up for me. Your visions have never taken this long before. What's going on? You know I hate mysteries."
Everything winked out of focus, and Dallas almost roared. He clawed at his mind, at the dark box, desperate to learn everything he could, but nothing reappeared in the first and the second was now empty.
Okay. Fine. Dallas would write down everything he remembered about the vision, and he would reason it out, share the details with the players involved, and then do whatever was necessary to stop it from happening. He wouldn't make the same mistake as last time. He wouldn't assume he knew what had brought about the events or who had caused Devyn's... death.
No. No! Devyn would not die. There was no longer any question about whether to embrace or suppress. Dallas would embrace and ensure his friend lived.
"Wake up for your sweet Devyn." Another pat, this one harder. "That's a good boy."
Slowly Dallas blinked open his eyes. He was still panting, still sweating, but was no longer in pain. Devyn loomed over him, concern darkening his usually bright eyes. Just as Dallas had seen him in his first vision, Devyn was covered in blood. It stained his skin, his clothes.
"Okay?" he managed to work past his spasming throat.
"Me?" The otherworlder looked surprised by the question. "Why—oh. The blood. No worries. It's not mine."
Thank God. "Vampire decide ... to eat... in front... of you?"
"Nothing like that. I'll explain in a bit. You want to tell me what's going on with you?" Not yet. "How'd you ... get in?"
"I peeked over your shoulder last time you disabled your alarm. Memorized your code." Smiling despite the pain, Dallas rubbed his temples. "You are such a good friend."
"I know." Devyn helped him to a sitting position and remained crouched in front of him. "I hope you don't mind, but I sent your woman on her way. She was shaking you, screaming for you to wake up, and pissing off your neighbors."
Dallas propped his elbows on his knees, hating the way he trembled. "Not safe for her to walk the streets alone."
"That's why I called her a cab. And be prepared. If you see her again, you're going to get an earful. First she passed out when she saw me, then she woke up and threatened to call the police. I told her if she was going to hang around you, she'd have to get used to seeing me because fainting at the sight of my beauty was going to piss you off, and I'd rather cut out her eyes than piss you off."
"And that didn't go over well? Women. I'm sure the coat of blood you're wearing had nothing to do with her reaction to you."
Devyn searched his face. "Your color is returning. Good. You're going to be fine.”
“I'm the psychic, but yeah, you're right."
"I'm going to shower. Make us a pot of coffee—real, not artificial, if you've got any of the stuff I bought you left over—and we'll talk when I'm done." He didn't wait for Dallas's response but stood and strode toward the back of the apartment.
Dallas, too, stood but he stumbled his way into the kitchen. He had just enough beans for a full pot. As he prepared it, he anchored his phone to his ear and dialed Mia.
She answered on the second ring. "Dal, you shit, this better be good. It's my night off.”
“Yeah, it is. Good, I mean. I need a sketch artist as soon as possible.”
“Why?"
"I'll share the details the moment I understand them."
"Uh, you tell me or you don't get a damn thing." Jack, their former boss, would have agreed with Dallas right away. Female bosses sucked. "Think of this as an early birthday present, then. It's all I want."
A sigh crackled over the line. "Bastard. Your place or the station?"
Okay. Maybe female bosses weren't so bad. Jack would have told him to fuck himself for his present. "My place."
"Two hours?”
“Perfect."
"Fuck you, I'm going back to sleep. Call me when you're ready to talk, and that better be no later than forty-eight hours, or I swear to God I'll kick your ass into next week just like Jack always threatened." Click.
Dallas was grinning as he slid his cell over the counter, the scent of caffeine thickening the air, frivolous and decadent. He gathered two cups, the last remaining scoop of real sugar, and a can of dried milk. Devyn liked his caffeine sweet, but refused to drink anything with synthetics. Dallas would have called him a girl, but Devyn would have viewed that as a compliment.The smell of dry enzyme soap drifted to him, alerting him to Devyn's arrival. He turned. And sure enough, there was his friend, bent over and resting his elbows on the counter. The blood was gone, his hair perfectly combed. He wore Dallas's favorite "Size Dental Appliances Here" with an arrow pointing down T-shirt and a pair of his jeans.
"You gave me that shirt as a gift. Taking it back?"
"I'll return it. It's just the only thing you own that's made from real cotton. My skin deserves the best."
"You're such a snob."
"I'd say I'm smart for treating myself with luxuries, but whatever. Now, tell me what the hell was going on with you when I walked in."
The coffee machine beeped, and Dallas filled the two mugs. He dropped a spoon in Devyn's so that the otherworlder could stir his own shit and handed it to him. "I had a vision and was trying to sort through it. Must have gone a little too deep into my brain."
"I guessed that. What I want to know is what you saw. And why have Mia send a sketch artist over?"
"You have ears like Mishka, man." The girl could hear a feather land on a mattress from two miles away.
Devyn shrugged. "Start talking."
Dallas leaned back against the counter and sipped at the hot java for strength. First, he told his friend about the blood.
"That's nothing," Devyn said. "I killed a human."
Dallas blinked at him, at the casual way he admitted to murder. "Wait. I couldn't possibly have heard you right. Did you just say you killed a human?"
"Yeah. He was a slaver. Tried to abduct Bride to sell her on the black market.”
“And you killed him? Dude, you've bought women on the black market."
Again Devyn shrugged, but there was something in his eyes. Something Dallas had never seen before and couldn't place. "There are others out there who know about her, but no matter how much I tortured him, he wouldn't give me their names. Probably because he knew he was going to die either way. Either that, or there weren't actually any others. Only time will tell."
There wasn't an ounce of remorse in his friend's tone. No one could kill as ruthlessly or as uncaringly as Devyn. The man saw each of his actions as a necessary duty and never looked back, never regretted. Maybe that was why they got along so well. Dallas had enough regrets for both of them.
"Mia know?"
"Not yet, but she will. I left the guy's head on Main."
Dallas's eyes widened. Devyn had made the announcement while lifting and studying one of Dallas's small black computer maps. "Tell me. Do you polish your titanium balls every night before bed, or do you just hang them in your trophy case?"
"Polish," Devyn said deadpan, tossing the map aside. "Damn. Mia's gonna go ballistic. You know that, don't you? Still the otherworlder remained unconcerned. "I'll handle her."
"Not without me." No way was Dallas going to let Devyn go down for this. Because Devyn was an otherworlder, he didn't have the same rights as Dallas. If necessary, he'd take total blame. Most they'd do to him was slap his wrists. They could send Devyn away, kick him out of AIR, or even execute him. "Anyone see you?"
"Probably."
What would it take to actually ruffle Devyn's feathers? Something catastrophic, surely. "So why the hell'd you leave his head outside for anyone to find?"
"It was a message."
He arched a brow. "And that would be that Devyn of the Targons is a psycho?" Devyn laughed. "No. Mess with Bride and suffer."
Now Dallas's brow furrowed in question. "You into her or something? I mean, really into her?" Devyn loved and left his women like they were no more important than a fast-food meal. To him, they weren't.
Devyn's gaze sharpened, a play of emotions flashing through those amber depths. Readable emotions. Lust, tenderness, anger, disbelief. "For now. She'll lose her appeal soon enough."
Oh, oh, oh. What was this? Finally, a reaction. And over a woman. Inconceivable. Odd as it was, though, it wouldn't last; it couldn't. Still. This just wasn't Devyn's style.
A frightening thought suddenly occurred to Dallas. When Bride lost her appeal and Devyn dropped her— Devyn always dropped the women, they never dropped him—would she wallow in fury?
Entertain thoughts of revenge? Would she pay someone to hurt him? Stab him at the pier?
He drained the rest of his coffee. "Well, like I was saying about the visions ... I had two. And the second one involved you, the female, and a knife through your heart."
CHAPTER 10
As the first rays of sunlight glowed from the sky, Bride entered her apartment, quietly closed the door, and pressed the lock pad, engaging the ID scan on the outside. She rested her forehead against the cool metal, her eyes closed, breathing deeply, in and out, in and out. Her stomach was twisted with renewed hunger, her mouth dry. She was shaky, tired.
In the background, the TV hummed softly. The air was as clean and sterile as always, the purifiers she used running at top speed. The only scent she detected was ... apples?
Her brow wrinkled, and she drew in another breath, holding it while she studied the aroma. Sure enough. Apples. She hadn't smelled them in more than sixty or so years, but she'd never forgotten their sweetness.
Once, she'd been casing a neighborhood, trying to decide which house to rob. The war had not yet erupted, and the world had been a different place. Trees had been lush, real fruit available for purchase on every street corner. And cheap, God, had they been cheap. The pennies she'd stolen from her foster parents had been enough to buy all the apples she'd wanted. Not to eat but to smell. She'd even dabbed the juice on herself, her own version of perfume.
Would have been a perfect memory if not for the taint of the foster parents. Ugh. Demons in human skin, that's what they'd been. The authorities had plucked her off the streets, placed her in the system. She'd looked about thirteen years old—no telling how old she'd really been, though—with a "sun allergy," so no one had wanted to adopt her. She'd bounced from home to home, her refusal to eat earning her doctor visits and sometimes force-feedings that caused her to puke her guts out.
Only once had she been caught drinking blood, and it had earned her the beating of a lifetime. If she'd been human, she would have died from it. The couple responsible had called her "unholy,” “evil," and "perverted."
She was taken away from them and moved to her final foster home. Sadly, the one before had not been the worst. The husband, her "caregiver," had snuck into her room one night, holding her down, intending to rape her.
Before he'd even removed her PJs, out had come her fangs, and she'd drained him dry. It was the first killing she'd ever enjoyed. No telling how many other innocent children he'd hurt. But much as she'd been proud, happy with her actions, she'd also been scared. She would be deemed a murderer, probably sent to jail. So she'd run, and once again the streets had become her home.