Dark Need (Darkyn #3)

She also thought that might be why she could read his blood: He had died, and he had been buried.

With a cop's methodical patience, she sifted through and examined each memory she had been able to retain. Lucan was definitely a killer; he had killed more people than she could count. The problem was, he had never wanted to—he had been sent to kill them.

She could understand that, too. From the memories she'd taken from Lucan's blood, the Kyn he had killed had been insanely dangerous, like the countess who had been deliberately trying to infect the crown heads of Europe with Kyn blood so she could become queen, or changelings like Faryl Paviere who had lost their humanity and went on rampages, killing humans until they were stopped by Lucan. A few others had been traitors, preserving their own lives by passing information or handing over Kyn to the Brethren.

No law, cop, or prison in the world could hold the Darkyn. The only thing to stop them had been Lucan.

The Brethren were the hardest thing for Sam to wrap her head around. According to Lucan's memories, they had begun, as the Kyn had, as Catholic priests. The Brethren had instigated the Crusades, but they had never fought the holy wars themselves. They had sent Lucan and the Templars instead. They knew about the sickness that caused the Kyn to rise from their graves, but instead of helping them, they demonized them and began hunting them.

Throughout his human and inhuman lives, Lucan had never let anyone get close to him. Frances had been the only one to get past his walls, and she had been in love with another man. It made Sam angry to see how callously Frances had used Lucan to pay for her lover's debts and care for him as he died. All he had wanted in return was a little kindness from her, and she'd thrown him out like garbage.

As for the killing, Lucan had never used it for his own profit. He served as the only final authority among the Kyn. He was, in essence, their only cop.

The hair dryer clicked off. "You better not cry," Chris told her. "You'll ruin your mascara."

Sam blinked and glanced at the window. The sky outside was a rich dark purple; the regal color of twilight. She stood up. "Are we done yet?"

"Clothes." Chris shoved her toward the bedroom.

The outfit the kid had picked for her had more straps and rigging than a circus act, but Sam dutifully pulled and buckled and strapped everything until Chris stepped back and nodded.

"You're done." She gestured toward the full-length mirror behind Sam. "Behold, Officer Goth."

Sam turned and yelped. In the mirror stood a raven-haired witch in gleaming black leather and red spandex. "That's me?" She peered at her face, which might have been a beautiful mask. "Why did you glue sequins on my face?"

"They're crystal bindi, from India, and they're very hot right now. Don't mess with them. Lean down." When she did, Chris lowered a tangle of silver and black necklaces over her head. "Don't smile, and try to look a little more haunted."

"Haunted."

"Goth is about the dark side of life. Death, sorrow, pain, unrequited love, passions of the heart and blood. Watch this." Chris put the back of her hand against her forehead and dropped into the nearest chair, sighing, her eyes half-closed. "Goths are all about accepting and celebrating the dark things that scare people like you. We drink absinthe, write beautiful poetry about loss and pain and angst, and make ourselves living, breathing art."

"I don't scare that easy." Sam studied her. "And I'm not drinking absinthe."

Chris flipped her hand over to cover her eyes. "Don't talk, okay? It destroys the façade. Just look mildly pissed off—yeah, like that. Perfect." She got up and grabbed her purse, a square of beaded ebony satin hanging from a braided leather strap spiked with pointed studs, and handed Sam a college student's ID that stated her name was Shane Meredith and she was twenty-one years old. "I made you up to look like her. Remember to answer to Shane." She picked up a black dress and headed for the bathroom. "Give me a second and I'll be ready to go."

"You're not going. It's too dangerous."

Chris turned. "Excuse me? I believe I have saved your ass twice now, Officer. Plus if you leave me behind I'll just follow you. You know. Like Lassie to the rescue." She barked a few times.

Sam didn't have time to argue. "When this thing goes down, I want you out of there. I'm counting on you to be safe."

"As long as you stay away from handcuffs, blondes, and anything made of glass," Chris replied. "You don't have too much luck with them."

When they walked out into the night, Sam looked around the nearly full parking lot before going to her car. No one stopped them, and as she got in behind the wheel, she focused on what she was going to say when she saw Lucan at the club.

The blue sedan didn't pull out immediately after Sam's car. The driver was in no hurry. He already knew where she was going.

Byrne came out of the shadows, the hem of his greatcoat swirling in the faint mist. He pulled back the scarf covering his head, revealing bloodred hair that fell over his shoulders in waves, some of which had been woven into thin, tight braids.

Byrne's garnet mane contrasted sharply with the enigmatic swirls and lines of the dark blue tattoos on his face. He moved with the quick, easy power of a man accustomed to climbing mountains on foot.

"Seigneur." He sketched a quick bow and gestured to the slim girl beside him. "My seneschal, Jayr."

As Jayr duplicated her master's bow, Michael took a moment to study her. He had never met the only female seneschal among the Darkyn, but he had known of her lethal reputation for centuries. Like Thierry Durand's son Jamys, she had been young when she had risen to walk the night, and retained her youthful appearance. She kept her hair cut very short and dressed as a modern adolescent boy, and carried more daggers than he could count.

Michael inclined his head. "I thank you for answering my call."

"My men are in position, and Locksley waits with his lot to the south." The soft brogue of his homeland still colored Byrne's voice, but he spoke in the same archaic French Michael and Phillipe had been using. "You have but to give word."

Michael sheathed his battle sword and covered it, as Byrne had, with a coat. He went to the map spread out on the table in the kitchen. "Phillipe and I will go in with our men through the crowd at the front. We have to separate Lucan from the humans if possible, so we will attempt to force him outside, here." He pointed to the alley behind the building. "When I signal you, block off all sides and keep the alley clear."

Byrne gave the map a skeptical look. "Close quarters for such a battle, my lord. Jayr?"

The girl took a look. "Too many windows." Her voice was clear as a bell, with no accent whatsoever. "Suzerain Lucan's talent can cause them to shatter and fall down."

"I don't intend to let him live that long," Michael told her. He offered his hand to Byrne. "Your loyalty is appreciated."

Byrne's mouth twisted. "May it not be piss in the wind."

Phillipe drove Michael to within a block of the nightclub, but from there they walked. With every step, Michael felt the coiling fury inside him tighten. Was she alive? Had Lucan tortured her, the way he had the servants after Michael left France? When this was over, he would never again permit Alex to leave Louisiana. He would capture and bring her as many changelings as she wished.

As they came closer, Michael noted Lucan's guards in position. "He is expecting us."

"Of course he is."

Michael turned to see a figure in a black cloak approaching them. "My lord." He was too astonished to bow. "How do you come to be here?"

"My princes are about to test their swords against each other without my permission," Richard said, his beautiful voice as compelling as the waves rolling up to the sands. "How was I to stay away?"

Michael stiffened. "There was not time to contact you. Lucan attacked my men. He took Alexandra."

"I know, my dear boy." Richard rested a gloved hand on his shoulder, tilting his head back to better look at Michael through the slits in his mask. "Come. I draw too much attention out here, and I wish to find a good seat for the festivities."

"The guards," Phillipe said, glancing at them.

"They will not molest you," Richard said. "Not when they see that I am your escort."

Michael was not above using the high lord to get to Alexandra. "Let us go inside."

Only one of the guards stepped forward to challenge them, but Richard uttered a few low, melodic-sounding words and sent him shuffling back to his place.

"Special charge for the concert." The bouncer didn't even glance at Richard's mask. "Forty bucks each."

Phillipe paid him in cash, and the human stamped the back of his glove with the number 714. He did the same to Cyprien, but the dimensions of Richard's inhuman hand in its custom-fitted glove gave him pause. He handed Phillipe ten dollars back.

"What is this for?" Michael's seneschal asked.

"Discount for the handicapped dude. Move along." He waved them toward the door to the club.

"I am a 'handicapped dude,'" Richard murmured as they went into the crowded club. "Imagine that."

The decor had been altered slightly from what it had been during Michael's meeting with Lucan. Gold had been added to the red-and-black theme, in the form of medieval crosses, chalices, and banners bearing Richard's standard, the lion rampant.

Michael stared at the banners. "He knew that you would be here." He turned to Richard, but the high lord had vanished. "Phillipe."

His seneschal scanned the crowd. "It appears Lucan's entire jardin is here as well. They are not armed."

So it was to be single combat under the banners of the high lord. All they needed were horses and lances. "Signal Locksley and Byrne. Tell them to cut off all access to this place, but to keep their men outside." His eyes narrowed as he saw a face he thought he recognized and worked his way through the crowd toward him.