Jack took him and the small entourage of soldier wolves, all large and bristling with hostility, to the end of road. Like him, they ignored the snow, the cold temperature not bothering hot-blooded creatures. By design, vampires were immune to most bodily threats, but they tended to run cold. Except for nachzehrers, who always felt warm, like the wolves into which they could change shape.
He subtly glanced around him, seeking the snarling berserker he wanted to get to know better. Unfortunately, he didn’t see her. He did spot several mages, though. Outwardly, most magir looked the same. But those who could shift into some kind of animal typically moved with a grace not found in others. The lycans all walked light on their feet, prepared to defend themselves or pounce. The mages moved as if less in tune with their surroundings, less gracefully too, in Kraft’s opinion.
They entered a wooden warehouse two stories tall and walked past pallets and empty space to a conference room, the double doors open to reveal a long table and many chairs. Jack sat at the head of the table, his son and a female—presumably his mate—on either side with him. Good. A lycan pack that didn’t relegate females to the bottom of the pecking order. Kraft had never seen a healthy pack that structured itself as a patriarchy. Vampires did, but only because there were no female vampires.
Lycan soldiers lined up along the walls, leaving him to sit wherever he liked at the table. He sat next to Max and smiled. “Max, huh? Not sure why you refused to tell us your name.”
The large bastard smiled back, and there was a bite in the expression. “Maybe if you hadn’t grabbed me off the street and tortured me for nearly two weeks, I would have.”
“Oh please. So you got beaten up a few times. I just saw you wrestling your pack for fun.”
“Because they’re my pack, asshole. Not vampires.”
“You held your own, mostly.” Kraft shrugged. “And I never hurt you, except atApex.” A video game Kraft had mastered.
Max flushed. “You got lucky. You lost at checkers, chess, and backgammon though.”
“Those are games for old people.” Kraft snorted.
Max sneered. “True, you’re the one the others called a fledgling.”
Kraft scowled. “You’re lucky I didn’t eat you, puppy.” He would have said more when he realized everyone was watching him and Max with wide eyes. “What? I let him win a few games out of pity.”
“You wish.” Max laughed at him. “What the hell do you want with that statue, Kraft?”
The sudden change in subject had been meant to throw him, though it wouldn’t have if the delectable lycan hadn’t entered the room just then. She wore plain jeans and a sweatshirt, her dark brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail, emphasizing her strong features and a gaze so direct he felt it skewering him. She was considerably smaller than him in her human form, her frame athletic and fully female, her scent like earth and pine. It was all he could do not to lift his head and drink her in.
She sat across from him, no sign or scent of fear. Just more of that delicious rage. “Blood-drinker.”
“Berserker.” He knew berserkers were in short supply in the lycan world. Centuries ago they’d been in abundance, living war machines that powered through rivals and other magir. But for some reason their numbers had dwindled, and now any pack having a berserker had a definite leg up on their rivals. Rumor had it the Crimson Claw had two. No wonder they ruled the lycans in this region.
“We don’t have what you want,” Jack said, drawing Kraft’s attention once more.
“I very much doubt that.”Crap.Kraft didn’t want to have to kill everyone to prove his point. Normally, he wouldn’t mind doing so. But he doubted the berserker would talk to him if he mowed through her pack. Unlike many of his kin, Kraft couldn’t seduce or hypnotize his prey. He had to rely on strength to take what he wanted, that or stealth or trickery. But he’d never been one for mind games.
Jack glared at Max, who slunk in his chair. “Tell him.”
“It really wasn’t my fault.”
The berserker across from him huffed. “Oh please. It was. Start thinking with the right head, you idiot.”
Max turned red.
Kraft started to think maybe they hadn’t been lying after all.
“Riley.” Jack shot her a look.
“Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry.
Her name was Riley. He studied her, startled to feel so attracted to a female. He’d bedded plenty in his ninety-two years, but typically, once the urge for sex faded, so did any lingering affection for the woman. He’d mostly bedded humans, because he didn’t drink from bedpartners, and magir had richer blood than mortals. Fucking what he considered food felt tacky, and he’d been more than confused to learn his kin frequently took blood from their mates.
But sitting so close to Riley, he wondered what it would be like to drink her down. After he fucked her, of course.
“You keep looking at me like that and you’ll lose an eye,” she warned in a low rumble.
Which had him grinning from ear to ear.Oh, foreplay.
“Kraft, I’m telling you, we don’t have the artifact,” Max said.
