This job changes things, though. Cody is the only nonhuman at Atwood Security. As far as he knows, none of his coworkers are aware of the paranormal. If a werewolf needs a guard, Cody’s the only possible choice.
“What does a werewolf need a bodyguard for?” Cody asks. Pack feuds get ugly, and grudges run deep as the moon’s pull. But outcasts like Cody are rare. Wolves protect their own, and hiring outside help feels more like invasion than protection.
“Irrelevant,” Tobias says. “The client isn’t a werewolf either.”
Cody’s confusion melts into dread. Fuck. This isn’t just a bad idea. It’s a disaster.
He hates vampires as much as the next werewolf. The treaty between vampires, werewolves, witches, and hunters has been in place for seventy years, but that can’t erase centuries of conflict. Vampires are always the ones picking at the tattered edges. They survive by doing exactly what Cody is desperate to avoid—feeding on humans. Antisocial predators, incapable of keeping each other in order, even as they argue for harsher restrictions on werewolves.
Plus, they’re old and snobby as fuck. Not great for Cody’s control issues. Either he’ll rip the vampire’s throat out, or the vampire will rip out his.
“I can’t work with a vampire.” If Cody were a wolf right now, his fur would be bristling. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
“Too fucking bad,” Tobias says bluntly. “Your job is to protect Simon Caley. The client is his… sire? That’s what they call it, right?”
“Right.”
“Freaky shit. Anyway, the sire’s sparing no expense. Full security tech install, plus a rush rate for your services.” Tobias leans forward, grim. “I’m going to be honest because we’re friends. Normally, there’s no way I’d take this contract. But I need this money if I’m covering up last night’s… incident.”
Cody exhales. The word ‘if’ carries the threat.
He can’t handle this mess on his own. A pack would help him, no questions asked, but however good their friendship is, Tobias isn’t pack.
“Understood, boss,” Cody says, using the title to wedge some distance between them. Even if it hurts a little, how relieved Tobias looks. “I’m in.”
Two hours later, after he’s showered and eaten, Cody starts reviewing the files. With every detail, his inner wolf snarls like alarm bells. An assassination attempt two nights ago? Unknown culprit and active threat? No communication with law enforcement? Cody should have rejected the assignment, and fuck the consequences.
Because this job is a house of cards, and Cody is a ticking time bomb.
Chapter 3
Simon
Simon wakes safe in his own coffin—a troubling development. Familiar velvet cushioning surrounds him, and the carved underside of the lid is within reach. In the pitch darkness, Simon traces the telltale abstract patterns identifying the space as his.
Someone brought him home. The list of suspects is short.
Simon flips the switch to unlock the coffin, then pushes. The lid is heavier than usual; Simon has to flatten both palms against the wood to gain leverage. He expects whatever weighs the lid down to crash to the ground, but there’s nothing.
The lid isn’t heavy; Simon is weak. The poison hasn’t worn off.
His underground chamber is just as dark as the coffin’s interior. Sitting upright, Simon has to clutch the edge of the coffin for balance. Dizziness spins through him, embers of memory lighting in its wake.
Simon remembers drinking poisoned blood. Killing the human. Calling his sire—how fucking pathetic. Simon briefly woke to Kimiko tucking him into a spare coffin, cursing vividly in three different languages. Unfortunate. That will cancel out one of the favors she owes him.
Darkness. Movement. Fever. Thrashing against coffin walls.
“Stop that,” a voice had said. The words might have been a fragment of his own broken thoughts, but Simon still instinctively obeyed Dima.
Except Simon senses the house above him isn’t empty. The space has been disturbed. A heady blend of hope-want-fear strikes just as dizzyingly as the poison.
Who else could have brought Simon home? Kimiko has never been invited in.
He concentrates on the sconces framing the chamber door, but the wicks remain cold. Simon’s power barely stirs within him. He must not have swallowed enough blood to fuel it.
Climbing from his coffin is manageable, as long as Simon moves carefully. He pauses, hand on the wall for balance. Thankfully, he’s not in his favorite pajamas—that would be embarrassing. He’s wearing the same clothes as he wore to the Broken Cross, and his boots wait near the door. His phone turns up in the coffin, its screen showing an almost-dead battery and a flurry of messages from Kimiko’s assistant. The time is nearly two in the morning.
Three nights after the attack.
