Twilight's Possession - Burning Hunger Part 1

Burning Hunger.

by Tawny Taylor.

The Cytherean Guard

We are the protectors of our king, a secret brotherhood of warriors.

We are strong, loyal and dedicated, the sworn keepers of the Secrets.

We are defenders of justice, guardians of the Sons of the Twilight.

We show no mercy to the enemy.

Chapter One.

Oh yes, she'll be perfect.

Marek Setara stood in the shadows and watched as the woman unfolded her lush form, stepped out of her vehicle and sashayed up the front walk. The way she moved. Smelled. Looked. He was ready to take her then and there. But he couldn't. All he could do was watch and wait.

Soon. Very soon she would be his.

Pet.i.te yet strong, her body was the picture of feminine perfection. Curvy and compact. Full b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Wide hips. Shapely legs. He couldn't wait to feel her satin skin, sweat-slicked and sweet-scented, glide against his. To hear her moan in ecstasy. To taste her.

Raw, burning hunger seared his insides when her scent, carried on a gust, teased his nostrils. As she stepped onto her front porch, she lifted a hand and pulled the clip out of her hair, letting the golden-brown tresses fall in a moonlit cascade of lilac and woman-scented glory. Did she have any idea how seductive she was? How her every movement stirred his l.u.s.t? She would. Soon. Very soon. He forced himself to leave, to search out a willing female for one more night. Tonight, he hunted for mere sustenance.

Tomorrow, he would have rapture.

After nearly five hundred years of taking certain things for granted, Dayne Garrott knew time had run out.

So much to do. So little time to do it.

Skydiving. Sun-wors.h.i.+pping on the beaches of Maui. Climbing to the peak of Mt. Everest...serving up a cold but well-deserved dish of revenge to his enemies.

Granted, he'd never be able to do most of those things since, being a vampire, he had a slight issue with being in direct sunlight for more than a half-hour. But he still wasn't ready to call it quits and take a permanent dirt nap, if only for the vengeance thing.

But d.a.m.n if the fates hadn't just thrown a friggin' mountain in his way. Or rather Marek Setara's older brother, who happened to be King of Sons of the Twilight.

He crossed his arms over his chest and glanced at Marek, the former target of his quest for revenge. His mortal enemy. They'd met at an underground-literally-vampire hangout called Carpe Nocturne over a year ago. He'd spent the last twelve months preparing to kill Marek. He was ready. His plan had been put into action.

And just like that, he'd been thrown back to square one. By royal effing decree he would join with his enemy in a blood-bond before the new moon. A vampire couldn't kill another vampire if they shared a blood-bond.

Although he hadn't yet completed the binding, he had no choice. At least not if he didn't want to die.

"I have a few ideas where to go." Still in bed, Marek stretched, his thickly muscled arms flexing, and gave Dayne a lazy smile. "I'm so tired. Wish we could wait one more day."

"Yeah. Me too." Dayne was so lethargic he felt like his body weighed at least a hundred times more than it did. The signs were all there. Second death was imminent if they didn't start the binding within the next few hours. "But if we put it off another day, we'll both be too weak."

"Yeah." Visibly weary, Marek rolled off the bed and dragged his heavy body to the closet. He pulled out the pre-selected garments, identical to the ones Dayne was wearing. "We only need one human woman. I did some thinking last night and made up a list where to find one fast. Places where there are hundreds of human females." He dressed as Dayne stood in the doorway, waiting.

"Good." Dayne nodded. "But what if we pick one and she won't come with us?"

Marek reached into the closet, gripped a duffle full of supplies and smiled. He lifted a roll of duct tape. "We'll make her." He dropped the tape in the canvas bag emblazoned with a huge white Nike "swoosh" on one side and went back to dressing.

"And what if she refuses to stay?"

"We'll convince her?" Marek shrugged, tying a shoe. "Can't be too hard." Now fully dressed in head-to-toe black, he strode toward Dayne, the black bag in one fist. "If not..."

They both knew the consequences. Neither could say it aloud.

Dayne followed Marek out of the house they were now forced to share, his gaze fixed on his enemy's back, wis.h.i.+ng he could simply plunge a stake through the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's heart.

It was what he deserved.

This was a major setback but Dayne was determined. His family would have justice. His mother, father, and sister, who'd only been a child when the motherf.u.c.kers had slaughtered her. Dayne knew it was him-Marek's brother, then a high-ranking officer in the military and now king-who'd ordered the a.s.sa.s.sination. He'd been hidden inside a kitchen cabinet, watching the whole thing, too horrified to move. To scream. To forget.

To forgive.

The reigning king at the time had denied Dayne's family the justice they deserved. After all, that would require His Majesty to order the death of his son, and at the time the sole successor to crown. To have his only son put to death, His Majesty risked the crown falling into the hands of a longtime rival. Politics always took precedence over justice.

So it was up to Dayne. His family's death would be avenged.

He would not fail.

Brea Maguire died on Friday the thirteenth.

That was, she died Friday, September thirteenth, 1996, in a white-water rafting accident. Obviously, by some miracle, she'd found her way back from the "other side". Regardless, that day changed her life forever.

The minute she woke up from her three-month-long snooze, she vowed to avoid doing, eating or even thinking about anything dangerous, especially on a Friday the thirteenth.

The day was bad, bad, bad luck.

Take today, for instance. The neighbor's backfiring Buick rudely interrupted the best dream of her life. Unfortunately, she was supposed to wake up two hours earlier to attend a vitally important meeting with her new boss. Not the best way to begin a new job, especially a new job that had taken her six months to find.

That was just the start of things. She discovered her "fat days" pair of black all-purpose pants had mysteriously acquired a hole in the a.s.s while at the drycleaners. Her Mr. Coffee was spitting gnarly, foul-smelling gook instead of Good-to-the-Last-Drop Maxwell House Vanilla. And her cat Princess had kindly deposited a slimy hairball on her last run-free pair of nylons.

If Brea had been given any choice in the matter, she'd have opted to stay home and ride this one out in the relative safety of her Queen Serta. It wasn't like she hadn't done it before. She'd have Princess, an a.s.sortment of safe comfort foods and the Discovery Channel for company. Twenty-four hours would go by in no time.

But thanks to a threatening message from her angry employer, Uncle Andy-who wasn't really a blood relative but rather a lifelong friend of her deceased father's-she had no choice. She'd have to risk life and limb to brave the big, bad, dangerous world...or rather, dangerous metropolitan Detroit.

He had no idea what he was asking.

Uncle Andy didn't believe in superst.i.tions. He regularly tempted fate by not just walking but dancing under ladders...while holding black cats. He also broke mirrors just for kicks. Spilled salt. The list went on. Yet the man had the most sickening good luck of any human being on the planet.

Life was so unfair.

After a hair-raising drive down I-275 in her black Shelby Cobra, and a bl.u.s.tery lecture from her Uncle Andy, which thankfully quickly segued into a brief discussion of her first case, Brea was free to go about her business. Since the past couple of hours had gone relatively okay, she opted to make a pit stop at the mall to pick up a few essentials.

Tomorrow, she'd depart for her first trip as a private investigator, a quick trip to Nebraska to follow up a lead. She had to be prepared. Uncle Andy had told her a good PI knew how to become invisible, to blend into her surroundings. With her vintage mink-trimmed suit, he'd pointed out, that wasn't going to happen. In New York, maybe. But probably not in a place like Broken Bow.

She had to agree. Didn't hurt that he'd given her a company credit card and carte blanche to buy whatever she needed.

A girl simply could not launch a new career as one of Charlie's-lost-Angels without the proper accoutrements. There was the always-fas.h.i.+onable black trench coat. The cla.s.sic fedora. Oh and the Audrey Hepburn sungla.s.ses. Besides, a to-die-for pair of Kate Spades was on sale at Bloomies. She simply had to have them. She hadn't spent a penny on shoes since she'd been fired from her last job.

Uncle Andy's Visa card burning a hole in her pocket, she pulled up to the mall's valet station, s.h.i.+fted her car into park and stepped out, glaring at the pimply teenager eyeballing her '66 Cobra with gape-mouthed awe.

"If there's a scratch on my daddy's baby when I get back, I'll have your a.s.s. He's the City of Detroit's prosecuting attorney," she lied with a cheery smile as she stepped around the front of the car. She leaned closer and added, "If you happen to have any...unfortunate secrets...you'll want to be extra careful."

The kid visibly gulped then gently lowered himself into the driver's seat, reluctantly wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and pulled the door shut.

She gave him an approving nod then headed inside.

At least she'd be relatively safe at this mall. In the heart of the 'burbs, and at the center of one of Michigan's highest-rent districts, its high-end designer stores didn't attract the troublemaking kind of clientele some of the other malls did. It was a fair gamble for a Friday the thirteenth.

Or so she thought. About twenty seconds later, she knew she'd made a terrible mistake.

This enormous man dressed head-to-toe in black jumped out from a narrow corridor between the Cracker Barrel and The Body Shop, wrapped an iron fist around her wrist and yanked her off her feet. Before she was able to belt out a scream for help, he had a palm pressed tightly over her mouth and an arm snaked around her waist.

It took one, two, three heartbeats before she fully realized what was happening. And by then it was too late to do anything to stop it. She tried to fight herself free but the guy was so incredibly strong his grip didn't shake loose. Not even a smidge. Nor did he let go when she kicked his s.h.i.+ns hard enough to make the average guy howl like a wounded hound.

Powerless to stop him, and worn out from the struggling that had gotten her nowhere, she concentrated on catching her breath as he hauled her through an emergency exit. Hopefully, she'd have one last chance to get away when he put her in his car/truck/whatever.

One of those plain white delivery vans pulled up to the curb, the kind you see in the movies carting around bad guys or hauling stolen automobile parts or illegal Uzis. The tires skidded on wet pavement when the driver punched the breaks, bringing it to an abrupt stop. Another guy, dressed identically to the one holding her hostage, jumped out of the driver's seat and ran to the vehicle's rear doors. He gave her a quick up-and-down look as Kidnapper Number One dragged her to the van.

"She's strong. Secure her extra tight."

She sent Kidnapper Number Two, who was now wrapping duct tape around her wrists, a dose of mean eyes that should've made him question whether trussing her up like a Thanksgiving turkey was such a good idea.

Her hands secured, he worked at her feet while she tried to shout, kick or otherwise cause some kind of scene. This wasn't supposed to happen! Not here in the middle of Birmingham! In broad daylight!

Where the heck was mall security when a girl needed them? Not that an unarmed security guard could've stopped these guys. It looked like they'd planned this carefully, which made her wonder what the heck they were kidnapping her for.

Was it somehow related to her case? Or were they hoping for a ransom? If so, they were in for a surprise.

Once they had her legs bound at the ankles and knees, and her mouth taped shut, they tossed her into the van's lumpy, cold cargo area-they couldn't at least throw a mattress or something on the sheet metal floor?-slammed the doors and headed for the driver's compartment.

The van sped off.

Her heart sank.

A steel grid gate separated the cargo section from the driver's. Not soundproof, so she was able to overhear bits and pieces of their conversation as she bounced around the back of the van.

"...she should do..."

"...I told you she was...a good choice..."

"...hope she doesn't have any..."

Hardly any decent clues in those little snippets. She tried to heave a weary sigh but the duct tape over her mouth made it impossible. A sigh through the nose was simply not as satisfying.

They drove and drove and drove...and drove some more. She bounced and slid and bounced. And bounced some more.

Didn't they have shocks on this heap? And where were they taking her, Timbuktu?

After at least a couple hours-or so she guessed-the vehicle's lulling motion stopped. The doors opened, revealing inky blackness outside.

It was nighttime? Wow. She'd headed to the mall at about two. It got dark around six at this time of year. That meant she'd been riding in the back of that delivery van for as many as...four hours? Four hours!

That was so not right! These guys were animals, making a girl ride on that cold, hard metal for that long. Not stopping to get her something to eat. Or letting her use the bathroom. Neanderthals!

Outside, they bent forward, grabbed her by the feet and dragged her toward the gaping set of rear doors. She tried to fight but it was no use. The tape was doing its job.

As she slid forward, she realized the darkness was not because of a lack of sunlight but because they were parked inside an unlit garage. A garage attached to a home. And a garage that was empty, save the white van.

So maybe it wasn't six o'clock? And maybe they hadn't made her lie in the back of that van for four hours. Maybe they hadn't starved her. Or made her risk a bladder infection.

That didn't raise her opinion of them much. They were still kidnappers, though perhaps not quite as inhumane.

They cradled her body between their bulky frames as they carried her through the doorway that bridged the house and the attached garage. She was surprised by how gentle they were as they worked their way through the narrow kitchen, wove around the dining room table, shuffled between a couch and coffee table in the living room and clomped up a set of narrow steps. They even lowered her onto the ma.s.sive king-sized, four-poster bed with unexpected care.

Obviously, they didn't want to hurt her. At least not yet.

What did they want from her?

Her stomach growled loudly and two sets of dark-as-night eyes settled on her body in the general vicinity of the sound. One of them scrunched up his face in disgust.

Well, what did he expect? Starve a girl, and he's going to hear some unpleasant noises. She was tempted to let him hear a couple more-from a different part of her anatomy.

"What's that?" the one with the scrunched-up face murmured.

"She needs to feed."

Disgust gave way to wide-eyed shock. "Oh no."