Hunted By the Others. Jess Haines

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      Either way, he scared the bejeezus out of me, and—worse—shamed me by effectively hiding any sign of his true nature for months. The Others had grown adept at hiding themselves from mankind out of necessity, and I certainly wasn’t the first girl in the last decade to find out her boyfriend wasn’t a fullblood human. That had ceased to be a novelty on daytime soaps and talk shows five or six years ago. It didn’t make it right, but it stung when I realized I was just another statistic, and hadn’t been observant enough to spot any warning signs.

      His motives for hiding his nature from me were even somewhat understandable. Besides being worried about my personal feelings on the matter, there were an awful lot of people out there that would happily hunt him down or ruin his business reputation if they found out what he was. I wasn’t one of them, but I knew they were out there.

      The group who thinks every last supernatural should be exterminated call themselves the White Hats. There are others, but they’re the most vocal and active of the lot. Last I heard, they were lobbying to reinstate segregation laws for separate dining and public transportation facilities for Others. That was since their attempts to lobby for mass extermination (read: genocide) was shot down in flames before it even reached the floor in Congress. Their new idea has about a snowball’s chance in Hell of passing, too.

      Not that they always use the legal route to get their way. Every few weeks there was something else in the papers about a building being burned down, some poor wretch being beaten or even killed just for being Other-blooded. The cops in this part of the state didn’t take kindly to that sort of thing, and if a White Hat was caught in the act of vandalism, slander, or assault, his butt was toast.

      So. Why was I terrified of Royce, what with all of our progressive achievements where his kind were concerned? I like my bodily fluids just the way they are. Inside me. The fact that vampires are stronger, faster, and very often smarter and craftier than your average human gives me the willies. It wasn’t unheard of for them to use guile or even black enchants to get those contractual papers signed so that your blood, your life, and quite possibly your eternity rested in their hands. Yes, they are people, and not all of them are bastards, but their bodies are mostly dead. They have to feed on other people in order to survive. Cannibalism and black magic, no matter how you couch it, is still wrong and downright scary in my book. Sure, the man looks pretty, but knowing what he has to do in order to stay that way, and knowing also that he has his own brand of dark magic, is more than deterrent enough.

      Frankly, I was lucky to get out of there without being spelled. Veronica the mage wasn’t the only one who could cast a black enchant with eye contact alone. It was well and truly unwise of me to stare into his eyes like I did, but of course the thought of what could have happened only occurred to me after the fact.

      It didn’t help that I had read in the papers about that one vamp who went off the deep end about three months ago and went on a rampage. She started—literally—tearing the limbs off the White Hats who were (granted, illegally) accosting her and her flock of followers (read: food) at a downtown restaurant. The papers really spiced it up with unnecessary details, but most didn’t mention the fact that one of the White Hats had been holding a knife to the throat of her latest boy toy.

      I heard the whole story when I dropped off some evidence down at the police station the night it happened. When I walked in, the blood-spattered White Hats who hadn’t been torn up by the vamp and shipped to the hospital or morgue were all in cuffs waiting to be processed. So were the vamp’s followers. The vamp herself had been staked in the line of duty by some of New York’s finest.

      The vamp’s followers were either weeping their eyes out or screaming and shaking their cuffed wrists, basically pitching a fit over the loss of their leader. The running mascara and caked white makeup, black clothes, and multicolored dyed hair contrasted sharply with the clean-cut White Hats, all pressed shirts and crisp jeans or slacks. So did the heartwrenching cries for their lost “master.”

      That was the thing. It wasn’t the sensationalism of the newspapers, or even the fact that the vamp had been throwing body parts around like a child’s discarded toys. Hearing more than one of my fellow humans cry for “master” was probably what got under my skin the most. Slavery, like cannibalism and black enchants, is not only illegal but wrong on every moral and ethical level, no matter which way you look at it. Whatever she did to them, even after taking their blood and seeing her tear apart other living people, instead of being overjoyed when she died for having their freedom back, they were utterly despondent. Whatever hold she had on them was still hooked deep, urging them to protect and love a leech even after her death. The memory still gives me nightmares.

      I’d never let that happen to me. Never.

      With all these cheerful thoughts in mind, I undressed, pulled on an oversized T-shirt, and got into bed. I left the lights burning in all the rooms, the cross still around my neck for comfort, and lay staring up at the ceiling as I drew the blankets up to my chin and shivered with more than cold. I’d effectively tied myself to Royce now, and willingly, too. Even if it was only for a short while, I would really have to watch my step. The minute I started feeling any kind of draw to him, that’s when I’d know it’s time to hit the brakes and back out. Now if only I could manage to fulfill the contract before that happens, and get the money in the process.

      That gave me a moment’s pause.

      What if backing out pissed off The Circle? If Royce and The Circle both got ticked at me, I would be royally screwed. I had no trouble admitting that I was small fry and so was my business. I wasn’t so egotistical as to think one short clip and my picture in the news was enough to make H&W Investigations a Fortune 500 firm. Hell, we’d be lucky to make the Fortune 50,000 at the rate we were going.

      A. D. Royce Industries and The Circle were both incredibly affluent and politically powerful factions, not groups I wanted to come between. The only wealthy contact I had to speak of was my business partner, and she didn’t come with the contacts or political muscle to flex that Royce or Veronica had at their fingertips. This meant I’d also be bringing down the house on Sara if I did decide to cancel the contract. Being my partner, even though it wasn’t her run, meant that she was tied into this mess almost as much as I was. Crap.

      I had no choice. I couldn’t back out of the contract now. For the time being, I had the dubious safety of The Circle to run to if Royce got pissed. Right now, he thought I was an ally or at least a business associate of some kind. If what I was doing for Veronica was a betrayal of some sort (and I had no doubt in my mind the vamp would view it that way if he found me out), then I had no choice but to carry things through or I’d lose that protection, however minimal it might be. If I broke the contract I’d have not one, but two, incredibly pissed-off powers-that-be after my hide.

      Which brought up another great point. Royce knew me, and acted almost like he was expecting me when I showed up at the club. It would be foolish to believe that he’d simply recognized me from the papers and that his “helpful nice guy” show was little more than coincidence. Sure, the Were thing was on the front page, but that was over a month ago. I’m not that memorable, and neither was the take.

      Was he taking that old saying “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer” to heart? Did he know I was actually working for The Circle? Was he going to try to play me somehow?

      What the hell had I gotten myself into?

      Chapter 7

      Something woke me in the middle of the night. I cracked my eyes open, not sure whether a feeling or a sound had disturbed me. Squinting out from under my cocoon of blankets, I saw that my digital alarm clock read 3:17 in very large red numbers. I grimaced. Oh well, at СКАЧАТЬ