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  Clay tried to breathe through his mouth, but the iciness clung to his tongue. Vampires were like a plague, worse than the weres who’d come after him. At least they were honest in their brutality; they didn’t hide behind pretty smiles and pretty clothes. No, they were blunt and humans knew to be wary. If a were wanted a human it was for one of three things: sex, food or life. And the latter was more a curse than a blessing.

  Not like here, in this city coated with coal dust, the stench of human waste—despite the sewer system he knew was there—and the cold bite of vampires. Here, the leeches kept humans as slaves, and the humans didn’t seem to care. Here, humans liked being Chosen.

  It was nauseating.

  From the other side of the twilight-darkened street, he noticed a vampire staring at him, its nose crinkled with distaste at his scent. He raised an eyebrow and deliberately swept his gaze over the long, tied-back brown hair, the cravat that seemed to obscure any sign of a chin, and the ridiculous pink waistcoat. Clay smirked. Clay wasn’t the oddity here—there were few if any places that were entirely free of weres or vampires—but he stood out. In cowhide buckskins, a leather vest and white shirt, he looked like someone from another world—the real world—when compared to the primped and preened leeches of Pinton.

  Shaking his head in disgust, he turned off Pittbrough Street and onto Bridge Road. Half a day in the city and he’d already had enough. Walking quickly, he decided to go and find a pub near the docks. Earlier, he had wanted to go straight into the heart of the city and find his apartment, but now he needed a drink first. Maybe more than one. He had to wash the taste of vampire from his mouth.

  *

  Elle’s fist tightened on the baton strapped to her side. She didn’t really like this part of her job as a city guard. Pub brawls were always dangerous for the humans who had to break them up, and her partner, Kyle, didn’t seem in the best of moods. That never boded well for those on the receiving end of his temper, or her, because she usually had to step in and prevent him from beating some poor drunken sod even more senseless.

  The pub in question was the Tipsy Lantern, near the docks. The metal sign that swung over the door had a buxom wench holding out two flagons of foaming ale painted across it. What the sign had to do with lanterns—and a drunk one at that—was beyond her. The stench of stagnant water intermingled with that of old vomit and stale piss, and it was slightly off-putting, to put it mildly.

  Shouts and yells could be heard from within, and the unmistakeable sound of breaking glass echoed through the night.

  “Great. A bar fight is never complete without shattered glass,” Elle muttered.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Kyle said.

  “Let’s wait for backup.” Elle raised the whistle that hung around her neck on a leather cord.

  “We can take care of this.” Kyle strode toward the door, baton loose.

  “We haven’t even seen the situation in there,” Elle called at his back. “Don’t just charge in there, baton waving. What if it’s aristos?” She’d learned her lesson about taking on aristos in fights. It came with suspensions, interviews and a shitload of paperwork.

  Kyle turned back to her, hand on the pub’s door. He rolled his eyes. “In a place like this? Then we won’t hit them quite so hard. Let’s go.”

  He pushed the door open and Elle muttered some rather unflattering phrases about men, but she followed. The inside was almost as dim as outside, but the stench of tobacco, old body odor and fresh vomit wafted on the air. The scent of sex was probably mixed in too, but Elle didn’t really want to consider that. Whoring in a “service oriented” establishment was legal, so she didn’t have to add that to her list of issues with this pub.

  Near one of the smoke-laden corners, a group of men were screaming and yelling, their movements chaotic and jerky. Narrowing her eyes on them, she could see the fists flying and hear the slapping sound of flesh against flesh. One man picked up a chair and brought it down on another’s head. The clobbered drunkard then grabbed a broken leg from the dismembered chair and jabbed it at his attacker.

  It only took her a few seconds to work out that all the drunk idiots were humans.

  A barmaid was cleaning up a broken glass near Kyle. She seemed unconcerned with the fight taking place mere steps away. Elle hoped there was no more glass near the group of thugs.

  “We can handle this,” Kyle said. “Let’s go bash some heads.”

  Sighing, Elle followed.

  “City Guard!” Kyle yelled. His towering height and sheer size made those on the edge of the group pause. The men in the middle kept pounding away.

  “Whass the prob’m?” one of the drunks at the group’s edge slurred.

  “You’re making a public nuisance of yourselves. Get out.” Kyle thwacked his metal baton against his other hand.

  Great, she thought. Just taunt them next time.

  “We’re just having a chat,” another said, then threw himself back into the fray.

  “With your fists?” Elle snapped. Dang, she thought, should’ve kept my mouth shut.

  “Just settlin’ sumthink. No need to get involved.”

  Kyle met each non-fighting man’s wild-eyed look. “Get. Out.”

  One man moved, as if he was going to leave, but swung around and threw a blind punch at Kyle’s head. It never made it, but Kyle’s baton certainly made contact with the idiot’s face.

  Before she could blink, the other drunks were throwing themselves on Kyle, and the big man was batting them away as if they were flies. He was grinning, white teeth a bright slash against dark skin.

  The fool.

  “Need a hand?” a voice murmured near her ear.

  Turning her head, but keeping her body facing the action in case Kyle needed her—for once, he seemed to be keeping his temper in check—her eyes met a muscled chest, partly covered by a white shirt. Raising her eyes from that interesting sight, she met an amused yellow gaze.

  Yellow.

  Were. Most probably wolf, since she’d never met any other kind of were before, and the lands around Pinton were their “territory.”

  Elle quirked an eyebrow. “Do I look like I need help?”

  The wolf grinned, showing a set of even white teeth. “Well, not yet. But you might.”

  “Really.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Well, pretty thing like you, waltzing around a pub. A man could get ideas.” His accent was strange; a mixture to the point where there wasn’t one.

  Both her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. “Waltzing? Do you see me dancing, wolf?” She ignored the other, stupider comment. He didn’t refute her claim regarding his animal type, so she guessed she was right.

  “Well, you are tapping your foot. That’s musical.”

  “To a drunk.”

  Kyle let out a roar. Elle swung her head back to the fight and saw that one of the drunks had landed a hit on the guard’s kidney.

  “Oh, that’s not good.” Shaking her head, she walked into the melee, snapping her baton out and connecting with elbows and knees. Grunts of pain followed her. She ducked a badly aimed fist at her head, and then reached Kyle, who was now pounding the life out of the moron who’d tried to stop the guard from ever urinating again.

  “Kyle, quit it. The guy was dumb to begin with. He’s brainless now.” Kyle didn’t look at her. She reached out to grab his arm, but felt herself being picked up.

  Squealing in surprise, she kicked her foot back and slammed it into her captor’s knee. He grunted.

  Her cry must have caught Kyle’s interest, because he paused in his meting of justice. He looked over at her and charged. She held up her hand and he stopped mid-step, blinking. “Why are you being held by a were? Was he even involved in the fight?” Now Kyle was thinking again, he knew better than to try and “save” her.

  “No, he wasn’t part of the fight and he should be putting me down any second,” Elle said, teeth grinding.

  The wolf spoke, breath teasing the hair at the nape of
her neck. “You shouldn’t approach hulking guards who are beating the life out of someone. You could have been hit. One of his fists could have killed you, human.”

  Elle tried to turn around to look at the wolf holding her. “I’m a guard, in case you didn’t notice. The hulking guy over there is my partner.”

  Slowly, the wolf set her down, sliding her down his front. Did he have an—? “You pervert!”

  “Did he just touch you?” Kyle growled.

  Oh, shit.

  The hulking guard began approaching the wolf standing behind her. “Did you just touch her?”

  “I was holding her, so the answer to that is yes.”

  “By the blood,” Elle muttered. She turned to Kyle. “Charge these idiots for disturbing the peace, okay?”

  Her partner looked from the wolf to her and back, then nodded slowly. “You touch her again, I’ll rip your arm off.” He turned to the drunks. “Get your asses off the floor you pieces of drunken slime! Time to pay up!”

  Elle turned to the wolf, tapping her baton against her leg. “Next time, keep your hands and head out of a bar fight that has nothing to do with you.”

  “Or what, you’ll spank me?” He wiggled his eyebrows. In the dim light, he looked like a frontiersman who’d just wandered in off the plains.

  “Or I’ll throw you in the cells. Now get out.”

  He grinned, chucked her under the chin and left, whistling. She was too slow to stop him.

  Elle gritted her teeth. Dogs, who’d ever understand them?

  *

  The next day, Clay was wandering down Pittbrough Street, nursing a sore head. It took a lot to get a werewolf drunk, but he’d managed it. He also had a vague memory of accosting a female guard. Well, picking her up when he’d thought she’d been about to be flattened by her “partner.” That man had been psychotic.

  He grinned. She’d been a feisty one. Normally he kept his hands and thoughts to himself, but from the minute she’d stepped inside the Lantern, he’d wanted to make sure she was okay. She hadn’t been like the other women in the bar; she hadn’t seemed hard enough to survive in a place like that. The booze must have made him sentimental; she was a bloody city guard—they didn’t come much tougher than that.

  Coming to a stop, he realized he’d forgotten where he was going. Stupid hangover.

  “Are you lost, sir?”

  Clay looked down and blinked.

  A little girl stood at his elbow, her hand raised as if to touch his arm. She had the most glorious pair of blue-green eyes he’d ever seen, set in a dark, serious face. He should have heard her approaching, but his bloody pounding head was distracting him. Clay’s eyes took in her dress, noting that it was speckled with dust.

  “Why do you ask that, little human?”

  Over the years, Clay had met more than his fair share of humans. Around ninety-five percent of them, he reasoned, had Brown eyes. It’d been much the same when he was young, a long, long time ago. Despite his years, and seeing enough Blue, Green and Gray eyes, he’d never seen that shade of Teal before on a human. The little mite was unique with her strange irises, and that was something that could attract a vampire’s notice. They liked unusual “prizes.” The fact that she appeared to be free from vampire attention caught his interest. Which was too bad for her.

  “Emmie!”

  Clay looked up and saw a woman wearing breeches and a City Guard shirt running toward the girl. Her red hair was cut severely around her face and she didn’t glance up at him as she grabbed hold of the little girl’s still-raised arm. She wasn’t panting, but he could see that her pupils were dilated; shock, he decided.

  The little girl blinked up at the redhead. “I was just help—”

  “What did I say? No talking to strangers!” The young woman’s knuckles were white around the girl’s arm.

  Clay stared at the woman’s legs. Those trousers really should be illegal, he thought, eyes locked on the curve of her hips. Was she trying to attract attention? Mission accomplished. Attention certainly attracted.

  Ah. That was how he’d noticed the female guard last night.

  “But—” the little girl started.

  Carriages passed alongside them, throwing up muck he’d rather not think about—but could smell all too clearly—over the curb. He took a step backward. Humans moved by him, mostly ignoring him, but giving him a wide berth without realizing it.

  “But we’re not strangers,” Clay said and crossed his arms over his chest. He even cracked a smile, a lazy, cocky expression that had earned him a reputation over the years.

  The guard flicked a glance at him then narrowed her eyes. Hazel. “What do you mean?”

  He wondered what her name was. She didn’t seem to have a single freckle, which was unusual for a redhead. He speculated whether the rest of her was as pale and smooth-looking. Then Clay thought about how long it would take him to achieve such a survey. Seeing the narrowed Hazel eyes, probably too long. Plus, she was violent. His knee didn’t hurt anymore, thanks to his regenerative abilities, but she’d kicked it well and good. And, he thought, somewhat disappointed, she probably wouldn’t be worth it; they almost never were.

  “Oh, the little human and I have known each other for practically forever.” He winked one bright yellow eye.

  The woman was a half-blood. One human (or Brown-eyed) parent, one Graced parent. Not that he was meant to know that, but he knew a whole lot he wasn’t meant to know. Kept his life interesting. He hadn’t realized she was a half-blood last night, if he had, he might have kept his hands to himself. But then, maybe he wouldn’t have. Those legs would have probably been his downfall, no matter what.

  The redhead pulled the girl behind her. She didn’t move her eyes away from him, or his shiny white teeth on display. “Emmie?”

  “He looked lost.” The little girl’s—Emmie’s—voice cracked.

  “She just wanted to help,” Clay said slowly, taking pity on the child.

  “You don’t look like you need help to me.” She tilted her head to the side. “How’s your head?”

  “Sore.” Clay laid a hand over his heart. “Can’t you see how helpless I am?” He saw Emmie’s eyes widen before she covered a smile with one small hand. She was smart enough not to giggle. The redhead continued to glare. Hers was a sour nature, from the appearance of things. Definitely not worth the effort it would take to get her out of those trousers.

  Unfortunately.

  He leaned closer, and found his senses overwhelmed by the scent of her and the girl. Fresh, clean. Soap, with a hint of violets from the redhead, and strawberries from the mite. They were a little unsoiled-smelling oasis in the stench of Pinton.

  “I can see what big white teeth you have,” the woman snapped. “Time to go.” She started dragging the child after her.

  Folding his arms over his chest, Clay watched them leave. He thought about following them, but decided against it. He had an appointment, and anyway, if he decided it would be worth the effort of charming the redhead out of her pants, he’d be able to pick out their scent easily enough, even in this stinkhole of a city.

  Chapter 5

  “How could you do that?” Elle hissed to her sister. Her fingers were bruising Emmie’s arm, but she didn’t care.

  “Do what?”

  “Approach him.” She was so angry she barely managed to get the words out through her gritted teeth. What was wrong with her sister? What was she thinking, approaching a muscle-bound wolf who may have been the handsomest man Elle’d ever seen—not that that meant anything—in broad daylight?

  “He looked lost.”

  Elle groaned. Today was just not a good day. And they still had to visit the dragon lady that was their grandmother. They visited her almost every day, unfortunately. For Emmie’s “lessons.” It was Elle’s penance. Although, Elle had never worked out what it was penance for.

  “Just hurry up,” Elle said gruffly and eased her grip.

  *

  “Eleanor,” Gran Brow
n said.

  Elle stopped walking and stood facing the door at the end of the room, its handle gleaming a brassy promise in the dim light of her gran’s “meeting room.” Ten steps, she thought, that’s all it would take to escape. There was even a track of muddy footprints that led the way. Her feet were rooted to the ground though, and the yellow glow from the oil lamp cast her shadow forward, stretching it toward freedom.

  “Yes, Gran?” Elle didn’t turn around, just kept staring hopefully at the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The voice was crackly with age; rusty like it didn’t talk much, which was a blatant lie.

  “Training?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like a question. But when Gran used that voice…

  “And since when is training to use your non-existent abilities more important than spending time with your only grandmother? And why are you staring at the bloody door? Turn around, girl!”

  Elle turned. Her grandmother sat in a wing chair that was overstuffed and upholstered in an olive green color that matched her irises. Everything in this room was a shade of green, and it wasn’t just because it was her gran’s favorite color.

  It was the color of Gran’s eyes.

  It was the color of Gran’s magic.

  Not that it was magic; magic didn’t exist according to Gran. It was about bloodlines and genes and inherited traits and eye color, and blood knows what else. Most of the words didn’t even have meaning anymore, they were so old. But whatever it was, it always came back to eye color. And Elle’s lack of it.

  “There you go, stand tall, girl!”

  Elle straightened her shoulders and looked her gran in the eye. Well, down at her gran, anyway. Gran was short; she barely made it to Elle’s shoulder, and Elle could clearly see the thinning thatch of gray hair that topped her pale, crinkly scalp in the dim light. Gran also smelled faintly of copper-scented lavender, which had always bothered Elle, as it reminded her of blood-stained petals.