Shadow keepers 02 when.., p.1
Shadow Keepers 02 - When Pleasure Rules, page 1
This was lust, plain and simple, and that wasn't acceptable. So what if he looked
at her with heat in his eyes? What man didn't? Of course he wanted her--her nature, her
raison d'etre, was to be an object of desire for males. But that didn't mean she had to
fulfill those desires; not when another one of her girls would serve that purpose just fine.
"I am doing what I want, Mr. Rand," she said firmly. "Let's go find you another
woman."
Surprise crossed his features, and she felt the thrill of a minor victory. Apparently
he was a man used to getting what he asked for.
"I want you," he said, and she fought an unexpected rush of pleasure.
"And if I don't want you?"
He pressed a hand to his chest. "I think that would break my heart."
With her most seductive smile playing on her lips, she leaned forward and
caressed his cheek. "I guess you'll have to learn to live with disappointment."
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BOOKS BY J. K. BECK
When Blood Calls
When Pleasure Rules
When Wicked Craves
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When Pleasure Rules is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books Mass Market Original
Copyright (c) 2010 by Julie Kenner
Excerpt from When Wicked Craves by J. K. Beck copyright (c) 2010 by Julie Kenner
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random
House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM B OOKS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the
colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90796-4
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming novel When Wicked Craves
by J. K. Beck. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final
content of the forthcoming novel.
www.bantamdell.com
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Thanks to Aaron for the late-night IMs, Jess for the insane speed of her reads,
Kathleen for the long, chatty phone calls, Catherine and Isabella for (mostly) respecting
that Mommy's closed door means Mommy is working, and Don for a thousand and one
games of Trouble to entertain the kids when Mommy needed to finish "just one more
page."
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Contents
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
E xcerpt From W
hen Wicked Craves
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Chapter 1
The shadowed moon hung low in the Parisian sky, thin fingers of dark clouds
obscuring its feeble glow.
Only 72 percent waxing gibbous. Not enough to wrench the wolf within free, but
more than sufficient to wake it.
A dozen years ago, Rand wouldn't have known a lunar phase from a lunatic
fringe. Now those phases burned in his blood, his power and strength growing with the
moon.
Within, the animal writhed, ready to hunt. Ready to end this thing.
He made no noise as he followed the Avenue des Peupliers toward the Avenue
Neigre in the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise. On either side of him, the houses of the dead
rose in the moonlight, their smooth stone surfaces gleaming.
He slid into the shadows and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the night
surround him, the scents find him. He'd been a soldier before the change, first on the
streets of Los Angeles, later in Saudi, in Bosnia, in the Middle East. A kid who'd
protected his turf. A soldier who'd targeted enemies of the state.
He remained a hunter now. A wolf stalking its prey.
The change had intensified his senses and augmented his strength. He could see
now regardless of the level of illum, with his own eyes instead of the night optics he'd
trained with so many years ago. But this enemy could do the same, so the darkness gave
him no advantage. But the moon remained his ally, and even at only 72 percent, he could
hear the softest whisper, could catch the faintest scent. The brush of wind over wood. The
scurrying of insects. The scent of rotting corpses.
There.
He opened his eyes, twisting his head as he caught the para-daemon's earthen
scent, like decaying leaves mixed with shit. He followed it, the excitement of the hunt
burning in his gut as he stole down the cobbled street and then onto the narrow gravel
lane that was the Champs Bertolie.
His muscles were tight and ready to pound the bastard, but he'd brought weapons
with him, too. The Ka-Bar sheathed at his thigh. The switchblade in his hand. The length
of wire he'd habitually kept in his pocket since the week before his ninth birthday. They
were as much a part of him as the wolf that writhed within.
He'd dressed in black, his dark skin smeared with camo paint and his shaved scalp
covered by black knit, rendering him nothing more than a shadow in the darkness. He
heard the sharp snap of a grate creaking open and realized his target had entered one of
the tombs. Rand sniffed the air--he'd lost Zor's scent. In its place, he smelled only fear.
Fear?
A hint of foreboding twisted in his gut. Even if the para-daemon knew he was
being tracked, he was too arrogant to fear Rand. Yet the scent was unmistakable. He
tensed, realizing with sickening surety the source of the fear.
A female.
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The fucker had abducted another female.
He hadn't heard that any more Parisian therians had gone missing, but that was the
only explanation. Zor had taken another, and now the female werewolf was trapped and
terrified and possibly dying.
A cold rage sliced through him, so intense it threatened to overcome reason. He
pushed it back, calling up his training to use the fury rather than be used by it. The scent
led him north, and he moved silently, curving around the monument until he stood, back
pressed to the stone, near a wrought-iron gate that acted as a door to where the dead
rested within.
Another step, along with a slight tilt of his head as he peered around the corner,
and he could see inside, his hyped-up vision making it easy to see the kenneled woman.
Her eyes were rimmed in red, her lips pressed tight together as if she refused to give Zor
the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Alicia.
He shook his head, pushing away the memories and concentrating only on the
moment. On Zor. And on the woman cowering in a cage.
The female was naked, and even from a distance, Rand could see the red welts on
her back from where the daemon had removed long strips of skin. Zor would pull off
every inch, feeding on her pain until the flesh was gone and it was time to kill the woman
and find a new one.
Five females. Six counting this one.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. There would be no more.
He checked his perimeter, finding no sign of Zor, then approached the cage.
"Non." The woman scrambled backward, eyes as wide as quarters.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Rand said in the woman's language. He studied her
face, but didn't recognize her. "Je suis un ami."
She remained in the corner, as far away as possible.
He crouched down and inspected the cage. Straw littered the floor, along with a
tattered blanket and a dish filled with kibble next to a bowl of stale water. One lone water
bug moved across the surf
After a moment of searching, he found the hidden hinges as well as the lock that
kept the cage sealed. He tugged at the door, but it didn't give.
Apparently he should have brought C-4 and a det cord, and left the Ka-Bar
behind. He peered at the woman. "La clef?"
A hint of hope fluttered across her shell-shocked features. "Je ne sais pas."
Fuck. Most likely Zor kept the key on his person. Still, he scanned the small
room, just in case.
Nothing.
Two ancient swords hung on the wall, forming a cross above a stone coffin. As
Rand considered the blades' usefulness for freeing the woman, a new sound caught his
attention. The rough scrape of stone against stone.
The woman's cry of "Monsieur!" filled the chamber as Rand spun toward his
attacker, the switchblade extended and tight in his hand, as comfortable as an extension
of his own body.
He sliced through the para-daemon's shirt and knocked the bastard backward, but
not before the para-daemon grabbed the hilt of the Ka-Bar sheathed at Rand's thigh,
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taking the knife with him as he tumbled away. Zor's reflexes were sharp, honed from his
recent feeding, and the monster sprang back to action almost immediately. Greasy strands
of pure white hair hid his face as he crouched near the opening to the tunnel he'd come
through.
"Running, Zor? Go ahead. You won't last long."
"Against you? I'll barely have to strain myself."
"I wouldn't bet the bank." He was being arrogant, and he knew it. Unlike most
weren, Rand couldn't intentionally summon the change that merged wolf and man,
elongating his features, stretching his muscles, and turning him into a wolf-man that
resembled the creatures from childhood horror flicks.
He changed only with the full moon, and when he did, he lost himself entirely, his
body shifting into the form of a preternaturally strong gray wolf, his human mind lost
inside the mind of the animal.
But even though he couldn't change at will, the wolf lived within him always,
drawing power from the pull of the moon, and tonight 72 percent would do just fine.
Arrogant or not, Rand knew he wouldn't lose. The beast within wouldn't allow it.
Zor would die tonight, and Rand would savor the killing blow.
The para-daemon seemed to hesitate, and for a second, Rand thought that Zor
would bolt. He didn't. Instead, he attacked, leading with Rand's own knife.
Rand cut to the side as the beast lunged, the blade slicing through the back of
Rand's shirt and the flesh of his shoulder blade. The wound was hot and deep and stung
like a mother, but Rand ignored it. Not the time; not the problem. Instead, he rolled over,
taking his weight on the wound as he kicked up and out, his heel intersecting Zor's wrist,
forcing the son of a bitch to drop the knife, which skidded across the stone floor until it
was lost in the shadows.
His own blood stained the blade now, and Rand could smell it--covering the steel,
seeping into the floor, soaking his shirt.
He breathed in deeply, the scent and the pain rousing him, thrusting him into the
warm, familiar black where nothing mattered but the kill.
He sprang up, determined to kill the para-daemon right then. The daemon might
be older and stronger, but Rand was certain Zor underestimated him. In the ancient
daemon's mind, a werewolf barely twelve years into the change hardly posed a threat.
Sure enough, the creature leaped forward, wiry muscles propelling him high into
the air. He lashed out on descent, his kick soundly intersecting Rand's chin. The blow
sent Rand's neck snapping back, but he didn't falter, managing to snag the beast around
the ankle and sending him to the ground.
Rand pressed the advantage. He lunged forward and slammed his knife through
the para-daemon's gut, releasing a gush of snot-yellow liquid through which ran thin
strands of crimson blood, together but separated, like oil and water.
The scent of blood rose, and the wolf within Rand snapped and growled. But it
wasn't the wolf who would take Zor. It was the man--and the animal inside him.
He leaned in close, hot breath on Zor's ear. "If I could destroy you six times over,
I would, you twisted motherfucker." He gripped Zor tightly around the neck as he
straddled him, his knees crushing into the beast's sides as he kept him pinned to the
ground. "Six long, slow deaths for each of the females you tortured. Six trips to hell and
back. Six times you would look into my eyes and know that I'm the one who brought you
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down."
"Destroying the mortal shell will not destroy me, you foolish animal." Zor's eyes
filled with loathing. "You, however, will stay dead."
His body seemed to explode from within, the force of the assault tossing Rand
backward and knocking the blade from his hand. Zor leaped to his feet, larger now, all
sinew and muscles and taut, tight skin, his body as good as new. His eyes glowed a
savage orange, and when he spat at Rand, the spittle ate a hole in his shirt. Acid.
Well, shit.
"Playtime is over, wolf cub. Time to die."
He charged, and Rand didn't even have time to wonder how he'd so quickly lost
the advantage. He could only react. Could only trust his training and his strength and the
cunning of the wolf inside. He spun out of the way, slamming his chest against the side of
the tomb under the crossed swords. He reached up and grabbed them.
Rand couldn't see the daemon behind him, but he could smell him, could feel the
shift in the air, and without thinking, he extended the sabers at his sides, then whipped
around, scissoring his arms as he did so. It worked. The steel sank into Zor's gut, too dull
to cut all the way through, but it didn't matter. Rand had him now, and he used the force
of the blow to knock the bastard backward.
Zor fell, his eyes wide with surprise, and he had time only to haul back and spit
before Rand pressed his foot on the creature's forehead, held him still, and used the sword
as an ax to chop off the creature's head.
"Told you not to bet against me, you worthless piece of shit."
Only after the head rolled to the side, eyes staring blankly, did he realize that a bit
of the spittle's spray had landed on his face. Rand reached up and wiped it away, ignoring
the acrid scent of burning flesh as he bent to pick up his switchblade. Then he turned to
the woman, whose wide eyes contemplated Rand with an expression usually reserved for
quarterbacks and MVPs.
"I'll get you out," Rand said. When a search of the daemon failed to turn up a key,
he lifted the head, jammed the blade of his knife into the back of the beast's throat, and
then used the acid that spilled from the ripped salivary gland to eat through the lock.
The door swung open, and he took off his shirt and tossed it gently at her feet. She
bent slowly, then put it on, the hem hanging down almost to her knees. She stood in the
doorway of the cage, looking at him as if waiting for a signal.
Rand rolled the head across the tomb, out of sight. Then he retracted the blade. "Il
est fini." He turned toward the door, then back to her when he realized she hadn't moved.
"Allons-y. Vous etes sure."
Slowly, very slowly, she walked toward him, pausing a few feet away. "Mon
mari?"
"We'll find your husband," Rand promised. "We'll go right now."
Her eyes flickered, as if trying to smile, and she reached for him, wanting
comfort, but he wasn't the one to give it. He'd given her life; that would have to be
enough.
Slowly, she lowered the hand.
"Let's go," he said, then saw her eyes widen with fear. In one motion he turned,
shielding her petite frame as he flipped open his blade. He let it fly toward the tomb's
doorway, only to have it knocked aside by the strong arm of the man standing there.
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"Have I been so poor a leader that you would seek to take me out with a blade to
the heart?" Gunnolf asked. He reached down to pick up the knife, then slid his fingers
along the blade's edge, drawing a thin line of blood. "A steel blade will render no
