On the Hunt (Sentinel Wars #3.5)(29)
Author: Gena Showalter

He’d heard the rumors about Drake and Helen and how they’d met. She’d taken away his pain when they touched. Was it possible he’d found another one of their women? A female Theronai?

A bubble of hope swelled inside him, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t seem to make it stop. He knew that when it burst, he’d suffer, but he couldn’t seem to stop that fragile feeling from gaining momentum.

Neal slid behind the wheel of his truck and dialed Drake. If anyone could help Neal figure all this out, it would be his buddy and fellow Theronai.

"Hey, Neal," answered Drake. He was out of breath, but the sun had been down for only a few minutes. It hadn’t been dark long enough for the couple to be out fighting yet. Which left one other reason for all the panting.

"I interrupted you and Helen, didn’t I?"

There was a smug smile in Drake’s tone. "A couple of minutes earlier and you would have.

What do you need?"

"I met this woman tonight. When I touched her, the pain . . ." He didn’t know how to describe it. "It faded. But then it came back so fast and hard I thought I’d lose my mind."

Drake’s tone was sharp and clear, all business. "When you stopped touching her?"

"Yeah. Sound familiar?"

"Absolutely. Who is she?"

"Her name is Viviana Rowan. She collects antiques."

Hope rang pure and clear in Drake’s voice. "Tell me about what you felt."

Neal didn’t much like talking about his feelings, but for Viviana, he’d make an exception. "It’s like I said. I shook her hand and the pain just . . . fell away. When she pulled her hand back, I thought I was going to be crushed under the pressure. It happened twice. I wasn’t sure I’d survive a third round."

"Did your luceria react?"

Neal glanced at his ring. There might have been more movement of color in the iridescent band, but it was hard to tell in the dim confines of his truck. "I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking about it at the time. I was too busy trying not to puke up my guts on her floor."

"Does she bear the mark of a female Theronai?" asked Drake.

The ring-shaped birthmark. Neal had nearly forgotten about that. No women of their kind had been born for so long, their men had all but stopped looking for the signs. "I don’t know. She was clothed from her neck down, all prim and proper. I didn’t ask about any birthmarks, and if I had, she probably would have kicked me out sooner."

"You’re not with her?"

"I’m in front of her home. Outside on the street."

"Where are you? Has the sun set there yet?"

"About five minutes ago."

"Get the hell back in there and don’t you dare leave her side," ordered Drake. The note of fear in his voice was contagious.

Neal was already out of his truck when he asked, "Why?"

"Because if she is one of ours and you touched her, you might have destroyed any natural defenses she had. The Synestryn might be able to find her now, especially if she bleeds."

The broken glass.

Stark, ragged fear sliced through him as he slammed out of his truck. He ran across the street, cursing at the passing cars in his way. "Thanks, Drake. I won’t leave her again until I know for sure if she’s ours."

"I’ll send Logan to you. He might be able to verify her bloodlines."

Neal didn’t like the idea of one of those bloodsuckers anywhere near her. Her neck was far too pretty, her blood far too precious. "No. I’ll find out myself, even if I have to strip-search her."

"Helen and I can come. Where are you?"

Neal didn’t answer. If Drake came, he might bring some of the other men—men who might be compatible with Viviana. Neal didn’t want to take that risk. He’d already gotten off on the wrong foot with her. If she was one of their own, the last thing he needed was competition. He’d found her, and as barbaric as it might be, that meant she was his. At least for now.

"I’ve got it covered," he told Drake. "I’ll check in later."

Neal hung up, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow dart down the alley beside Viviana’s home. It could have been a large dog looking for scraps in the garbage, but the hair standing up on the back of his neck told him that was wishful thinking.

He didn’t bother knocking on the door, doubting she’d answer. Instead he ran through the alley to the back of her house and dialed the number he’d called to set up the appointment. He hoped it was her cell phone and not some office line.

It rang once before he heard her frightened voice. "Mr. Etan? Please tell me that’s your dog in my house."

Relief at the sound of her voice was quickly washed away by the implications of what she’d said. "Dog? What did it look like?"

"Big. Furry. Black claws. Glowing green eyes."

That was no dog. It was a sgath. A Synestryn demon.

Neal’s limbs iced over. If that thing so much as scratched her, she’d be poisoned, and that was the best-case scenario of what could happen if he didn’t get in there and stop it.

"I’m coming. Where are you?" he demanded.

"Upstairs. Third floor. It’s in the hall. I closed the door, but I don’t know how long that will keep it out."

Not long.

Neal reached the back door of her home. It was hanging wide-open. The doorknob lay on the back step, crumpled and torn from its mooring. Paw prints were easily visible in the snow. More than one set.

One sgath had already found her. He didn’t stop to study the tracks to find out how many more were inside. He’d find a way to deal with as many as it took to get her out safe.

He drew his sword. It became visible as it left the sheath mounted to his belt.

He heard a heavy thud from upstairs, followed by a frightened shriek coming through the phone.

Neal sprinted for the stairs. "Hang on, sweetheart. I’m coming."

The heavy wooden door shuddered against another attack by the giant dog.

Viviana yelped and clutched her cell phone in one hand, her candlestick in the other. There were no weapons in here—only a store of books and trinkets so old they’d crumble if she held them too hard.

Mr. Etan had said he was coming, but she had no way of knowing how long that might take. By the way the door was rattling, she guessed it wasn’t going to be fast enough.

She wriggled between the side of a low bookshelf and the corner of the room and shoved hard, hoping to use the shelf as a barricade to keep the door shut. The shelf was laden with books and seriously heavy, but it scooted a couple of inches.

The dog slammed into the door again, only this time one of its claws punctured the wood, shooting shards of splinters into the room.