When Wicked Craves Read online

  A door in the center of the back wall opened, and as the theater had only two rows of seats, she could easily see the face of the person who stepped in. Or she could have seen him, had he not been covered in head-to-toe black, swathed just as she was. Her, they’d covered so that an accidental brush against her skin could bring no harm. He was covered not for safety, but for anonymity.

  The executioner.

  Dirque, acting as the high examiner, stood, a brooding jinn who ruled the territories he governed with an iron hand. The executioner lifted a bow, then notched an arrow into it. Petra tried to breathe and realized she couldn’t.

  “Petra Lang!” the executioner called in a low, harsh voice that seemed almost familiar. “This Tribunal has determined you to be a dangerous entity and subject to termination pursuant to the Fifth International Covenant and the common law of the shadow world. I ask the high examiner, is this so?”

  Dirque’s eyes glowed yellow in the dimly lit room, and his mouth stretched into a thin, smug smile. “The punishment is just and good.”

  “Petra Lang, do you have any last words?”

  Did she? She wanted to talk and talk. To babble her way back to life. But she didn’t. What was the point? All the talk in the world would change nothing, and in the end, she’d be six feet under.

  “Then let us proceed.”

  In the audience, the high examiner returned to his seat. In the back of the room, the executioner positioned the bow, the tip of an arrow aimed straight for her heart. Slowly, he pulled the string back. In front of her, not one spectator moved. No one in the room even breathed.

  Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t shut your eyes.

  She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing she was scared. But she was … she was so damn scared …

  She closed her eyes.

  The twang of the bow as the arrow flew filled the small theater, and Petra flinched, wishing she could raise her arms over her heart before the arrow hit home.

  It didn’t hit.

  Her mind was working so hard to compute that anomaly that for a moment she didn’t register the cries of agony and howls of disbelief.

  Confused—and still very much alive—she opened her eyes, then added her own screams to the cacophony as her eyes burned from the blue-green smoke that now filled the room, her lungs joining in the agony as soon as she drew in the poisoned air. Once again, she tried to move her hands, and once again she failed.

  She’d shut her eyes tight—the only thing she could do, bound as she was. But the darkness gave little respite from the pain, and she couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. Not understanding why chaos had erupted or, more important, why she was still alive.

  Gingerly, she peered out through slitted lids, her body tightening as the mist burned eyes that she had to fight not to shut again.

  Someone leaped in front of her—the executioner. His eyes were open behind plastic goggles, and he pressed against her, as close as a lover, his body demanding cooperation even though she was in no position to do anything but. The bow still hung from one shoulder, and now he lifted it and reloaded. But he wasn’t aiming at the high examiner, who was rushing blindly toward the stage, his face covered with yellow pustules, his eyes red and swollen, and his hands glowing with the infamous blue fire of the jinn.

  Instead, the executioner shot his arrow to the side. She turned her head, tears streaming, and the last thing she saw before her eyes swelled shut was the arrow striking a metal control panel on the far wall of the small theater.

  Immediately, the concrete square on which she stood began to descend, dragging her and the executioner back down to the bowels of the building. Her heart pounded in her chest and she allowed herself the tiniest flutter of hope. This was a rescue.

  “Kiril?” she whispered, but even as she spoke, she knew it wasn’t her brother. The shapes were too different. Kiril towered over her, his height making him seem like a giant compared to the man who held her now, his firm body fitting perfectly against her during their swift descent.

  And whereas Kiril smelled of incense and charms and mystical smoke, this man’s scent seemed almost European. Nicotine and men’s cologne, the aroma making her think of London or Rome, which was ridiculous since she’d never been to either city. But there was something so very old-world and sophisticated about the way the man smelled. Something familiar, too, and hope fluttered inside her.

  The slab lurched to a stop, and she heard scraping above them that she assumed had to be the execution staff trying to pry open the hatch. Any moment now, guards would rush in from the single door through which they’d walked when the guard had led Petra to her tiny execution cell. She’d seen the room then, and now she tried to peel her eyes open and see it again, but it was no use. They were swollen shut, her lids glued together with a mixture of pus and tears.

  She could hear well enough, though, and almost as fast as the thought had entered her head, she heard the motor of the door begin to whir. At the same time, the man’s arms squeezed tight around her. She flinched automatically, then relaxed as she remembered. They were both fully clothed, every inch of skin covered with black.

  There would be no physical contact.

  Even as she sighed in relief, he pushed away with a sharp curse.

  “What is it?”

  “Goddamned hematite bands.”

  She wanted to gasp, but couldn’t. How could she when her throat was so thick, her mind filled with confusion and wonder?

  Because there was no doubt about the voice now.

  Nicholas Montegue.

  He’d come for her after all.

  Hematite. Why in the name of all that is holy had the goddamned guards bound her with hematite?

  The question was an academic one, and one that Nick didn’t have time to ponder. He’d taken the precaution of ensuring that the lock code for the door to the staging area was changed as soon as Petra’s cell had ascended, but something as basic as a lock would not keep the guards out for long. The staging area for this particular theater of execution was one of the few places in the PEC’s Division 6 complex that did not have a barrier of hematite, the vile mineral that prevented a vampire from transforming into mist.

  That had been his plan, of course. To get Petra back down to the staging area, grab her, and transform them both to mist, a nearly invulnerable state for a vampire.

  His asset had neglected to mention that the guards would bind Petra’s hands with hematite. And Nick, damn him, hadn’t thought to ask. She wasn’t a vampire, so what was the point?

  Had they anticipated him? Believed that he might try to rescue the girl?

  It was a possibility he couldn’t ignore, because it would mean that the escape he had thought would be reasonably simple had transformed into a minefield of trouble.

  “Change of plans,” he said, and despite the pain that had to accompany her rapidly swelling eyes, Petra smirked.

  “I didn’t even know there was a plan.”

  He stifled a smile as he moved around the slab, grateful she wasn’t cowering in fear, fighting him, or doing anything that would slow their escape. Behind her now, he pressed the latch to release the strap that bound her waist to the concrete and pinned her upper arms to her sides. “I can’t do a thing about your hands.” He reached for her arm to lead her, then grimaced when she stiffened at the touch. “Two layers of tight knit between us. I’m safe.”

  “Sorry. I’m not used to—”

  “I know. Come on.” He clutched her arm more firmly, and this time she didn’t resist, though she did stumble.

  “I could run a lot faster if you hadn’t blinded me. What the hell did you do, anyway?”

  He didn’t answer, but instead reached into one of the pouches he’d knotted to his belt. He didn’t want to take the time, but she was right. If she couldn’t move fast, she was a liability.

  He heard loud voices and scraping on the other side of the door. They were trying to break through. They wouldn’t suc
ceed, but someone must have radioed Security Section for the override code. His asset had buried it, but she wasn’t able to completely delete it. They’d be through the door soon. And even if they weren’t, that was the way he and Petra were going, too. His planned exit was useless if they couldn’t transform to mist.

  He’d removed a small jar from the pouch, and now he opened it, revealing a noxious-smelling, bile-colored cream. “Take some,” he said, shoving it under her hand so she had no choice but to scoop some cream onto her cloth-covered fingers. “Slather it all over your eyes. That’s the way.” An inelegant job, but she’d managed even with bound wrists. “It takes a moment, but you’ll recover soon. In the meantime, stick close. And swallow this,” he added, reaching into the same pouch and pulling out a small pill that he pressed into her hand. “We’re about to do this all over again.”

  “What?” Panic laced her voice, but he didn’t have time to explain. Instead, he reached into another pouch, pulled out the second Du Yao Yan Qiu he’d created, and clutched it in one hand.

  He’d launched the first one with the arrow in the theater above, releasing a temporary poison. This one he would hurl toward the guards—the same guards who were clambering through the now-open door. He waited, one hand tight on the girl, the other holding fast to the poison-filled orb, not a weapon of the shadow world, but of ancient China. With a few of his own modifications, of course.

  “Take the damn thing,” he said, noticing that she stood there, holding the pill, her wrists still bound together and her expression dubious. “I’m trying to get you the hell out of here, not kill you.”

  “Good point.” She lifted the pill to her lips as the flood of guards started. Two burst through first, one firing a tranq dart that whizzed only inches from Petra’s ear.

  She screamed, then dropped to the floor, chasing the pill that had rolled away, disappearing down one of the gratings through which the ashen remains of the executed were swept for processing—the very grates through which he’d intended to escape with Petra as mist.

  “Dammit!”

  Mentally, he echoed her cry, but there was nothing he could do now. More guards had come through, seven total before the flood stopped and they were all in the room, a heavily armed contingent of creatures—all covered from head to foot in strike-team clothing, their eyes safe behind goggles, their skin safe behind cloth, and tranq guns held tight in their hands.

  Nick shifted sideways before the guards fired, dropping to the floor next to Petra at the same time he let the orb fly. It burst on the ground, the small chambers within that had been keeping the components of the poison separate rupturing with the impact, and the magic of chemistry stepping in to aid their escape.

  The room filled with noxious gas, but this poison didn’t attack the skin. Instead, it formed a thick fog that made it impossible to see even a hand shoved straight in front of a face. More important, when breathed, the poison sucked the energy from the victim.

  Unfortunately, since the antidote he’d tried to feed her had gone down through the floor vents, Petra succumbed to the poison as well, her low moans indicating just how hard the concoction had hit her human constitution.

  Nick couldn’t see the guards, but he could hear them slowing down, stumbling. All except one—and because he still stood, Nick knew it must be a vampire. Like Nick, the vampire guard could breathe, but didn’t have to, and he’d apparently stopped at the first hint of poison, refusing to inhale the debilitating smoke. That guard alone remained a danger, and odds of one-on-one were perfectly fine with Nick, even with the baggage he was now hauling in the form of the lethargic girl.

  Moving as silently as possible, Nick lifted Petra, then eased toward the door … and slammed right into the hard body of the vampire guard who, being a credit to the vampire community, had wisely moved to that exact location.

  The vampire’s reaction was immediate: a punch to Nick’s throat that had him gasping in reflex—and inhaling the damn poison.

  It didn’t matter.

  Nick had designed the poison himself, as well as the antidote, and he’d taken a dose before entering the facility. He coughed, the noxious fumes burning his lungs, but his strength wasn’t sapped.

  The vampire, however, wouldn’t know that, and in a calculated risk, Nick allowed himself a long, harsh cry of frustration, then sank to his knees as if the muscles in his legs were suddenly incapable of supporting him.

  As he fell, the vampire wrenched Petra from his grasp, and Nick grappled among the pockets and pouches at his waist for a weapon. He didn’t want to kill the vampire—didn’t want the death of a PEC guard added to his list of crimes—but he would do what it took to get out of this mess, and with the girl.

  With a stake in hand, he gathered his strength, then lurched toward the vampire—realizing suddenly that he could see the guard clearly.

  The vents.

  Someone in Security Section had turned on the floor vents, and the poison was being sucked out of the room with amazing swiftness, replaced with clean air that filled the lungs of the lethargic guards, their strength returning.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit all to hell.

  He was surrounded, and the girl—the very reason he’d undertaken this absurd mission—was held fast by the vampire.

  He could escape; he could turn to mist and escape the way he’d planned to all along. As of right then, his identity was still concealed behind the body-covering suit he wore. And considering the miasma of chemical smells in the air, he doubted any of the guards even realized he was a vampire.

  But he couldn’t leave without the girl. Security around her would be tightened, and she would be executed almost immediately. This was it. Now or never.

  The answer had to be now. But now was impossible.

  He hadn’t counted on the security cameras. Hadn’t counted on the vents.

  Just as he hadn’t counted on the goddamned hematite.

  In front of him, the six guards were moving legs and arms. Soon they would rise again for battle.

  “Surrender,” the vampire said. “There is nowhere to go.”

  He stood still, his eyes on Petra.

  He had only one option, and to take it would put his friends at risk.

  He hesitated only a moment, and then he reached into his pocket and pressed a single button on his phone.

  CHAPTER 3

  “The problem is that we don’t have any witnesses who put our guy at the second crime scene,” J’ared said, floating a few inches above the guest chair in Sara’s office. “Our guts say it’s him, but unless the investigators get us some solid dirt, we’re going to have to charge him only with the first murder, and that would really suck dragon eggs.”

  Behind the desk, PEC Division 6 prosecutor Sara Constantine Dragos paced, her eyes on the desktop, but her mind on the execution. She glanced quickly at her computer screen, expecting to see the flash notification that Security Section sent following every successful termination.

  There was no flash, just the brief she was working on regarding the current homicide investigation.

  She leaned toward her keyboard, her fingers hovering there for a moment. There was really no reason to hesitate. As a prosecutor with the PEC, she had a perfect right to watch any execution, either in person or over the monitor.

  Still … for this execution, she thought it was best to keep her distance.

  She didn’t know for certain that Nick was going to try anything. But that was only because her husband, Luke, would have Nick’s hide if the advocate put her job at risk by telling her something that she would be obligated to report to her superiors.

  And a plan to interrupt an Alliance-ordered execution and flee with the condemned definitely fell on the list of things her bosses would want to know.

  She tapped one finger softly on the keyboard, considering. She wasn’t worried that Luke was helping Nick out. He hadn’t given up his old ways, but he would never do anything that might harm her. About that, she was absolutely cer
tain.

  To be honest, some small part of her actually wished he was involved. Between Nick and Luke, they could design a foolproof plan and get the girl out without any risk to Sara at all.

  Hard to believe she was actually fantasizing about a prison break. Her, the woman who’d been weaned on the judicial system. But this wasn’t justice in action, and the Alliance Tribunal had been a show without substance, not a courtroom in which facts were applied to the law. The idea that the Alliance could execute someone merely for being a threat made her think of the dystopian novels she’d devoured in high school. Not reality.

  But months ago her reality had shifted dramatically, and she was still getting used to that.

  “—and when we dance naked around the courtroom, the judge won’t even realize that all our legal arguments are crap.”

  Sara jerked her head up and squinted at the poltergeist. “What?”

  “Oh, so you are listening.”

  She tried to run her fingers through her hair, realized it was pulled back tight into a ponytail, and shoved her hand into her pocket. “Sorry. Distracted.”

  His wispy shoulders shrank, and the spectral light that created his shape shimmered a bit around the edges. “The execution. You wanna put this off until tomorrow?”

  She shook her head briskly and forced her attention back to J’ared. “No. No, I’m fine.” As she spoke, her cell phone rang. She snatched it off her desk, checked the caller ID, and forced her expression to remain bland—because it was Nick’s name flashing on her phone’s tiny screen.

  Panicked, she eased behind her desk, hoping she looked casual, then flipped open the phone.

  Before answering, she covered the mic and mouthed, “Emily,” referring to her best friend from her days as a human in the District Attorney’s Office. She was just about to ask “Emily” what she needed, when she heard the sound coming through the phone’s earpiece—a low, threatening voice telling someone to “get your hands away from that goddamn belt or we will drop you right here.”