Possessed by a Warrior Read online

  “So?”

  Chloe cursed the lawyer for staying tactfully silent. She turned back to the safe and away from Ralston.

  “Whatever is in the safe is going to be the interesting part.” He sounded amused, the first sign of warmth she’d seen in him. “He liked his secrets.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know—knew—Jack.” Now he sounded sad. She liked him better for it.

  “How did you come to know him?”

  He gave the same nonanswer he’d given her once before. “We hung out in a few of the same places.”

  Chloe began spinning the dial on the safe, her mouth gluey with unease. What was in there? Gold bars? The deed to a private island in the Caribbean? A stack of bearer-bonds with tons of zeroes? Jack had possessed a Midas touch, turning every business venture into a wild success.

  Poor Jack. People would remember his GQ style and his tragic death, but Chloe would remember him starting a game of hide-and-seek with her when she was six. He’d sent the care package of flowers and chocolate when her engagement had fallen apart. He’d always been there, a steady friend and the best of listeners in a world where people were too busy to slow down and truly care. Sure, he’d had money, but he’d always offered his heart, too. People—especially their family—had never stopped grabbing long enough to notice.

  Chloe swallowed hard, her fingers fumbling with the dial. The safe lock clicked. She swallowed again, feeling as though she was gulping down the entire situation and it was stuck painfully in her throat. Blinking to keep her vision clear, she took the key to the second lock out of the pocket of her sleeveless, indigo sheath dress.

  The key slid into the lock. Chloe turned it and then pushed down on the long handle. The safe opened on a silent glide of hinges. It was wide enough that she had to step back to accommodate the swing of the door.

  The men were suddenly behind her, Ralston so close that she could feel his lapel brush her shoulder. The lawyer was a bit better about personal space, but she could sense him hovering. If curiosity had a frequency, theirs was vibrating high enough to shatter glass.

  All three of them made a noise when they saw what was in the safe. There was nothing but a white box about eight inches tall and maybe four feet by three feet, with a note taped to the lid. Chloe reached in, pulling the note off. The clear tape made a ripping sound as it pulled a tiny patch of the box’s white lid away with it. She unfolded the note and felt the men lean in as she read.

  Chloe,

  If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Keep this secret and safe. When the story comes out, you’ll know what to do with it, and I know you’ll do the right thing. Trust Sam. Be careful.

  Love you, kid,

  Jack

  Chloe reread the note. Trust Sam. Why? With what?

  “What could it possibly be?” asked Littleton, a little breathlessly.

  “Let’s find out,” said Ralston, lifting the large white box out of the otherwise empty safe.

  Chloe took it out of his hands before he had taken one step away from the safe. “Uncle Jack left this for me, remember?”

  His eyes flared with surprise, as if people rarely snatched loot out of his grasp. “I was just going to put it on the bed.”

  Chloe looked up into his steel-gray glare and smiled sweetly. “Thanks. I can manage.”

  Her heart kicked a little at Ralston’s frown—part fear, part perverse enjoyment. He was a bit too pushy for his own good. Trust Sam.

  She walked the few steps to Jack’s orgy-sized bed. The whole room was in a black-and-white color scheme, making the scene look like a homage to liquorice allsorts. When she set the large white box on the ebony silk counterpane, the mystery of the package seemed even more emphatic.

  The room was utterly silent, the rasp of Littleton’s rapid breathing the loudest sound in it. Chloe felt for the box’s opening. There was no tape. The lid lifted off, revealing a nest of blue-white tissue paper, the type meant to keep cloth from turning dingy with age. Ralston was at her elbow, close enough that her skin tingled with the breeze of his movements. Even now, her body felt magnetized to his nearness.

  He pulled back one piece of tissue at the same moment that Chloe picked up the other. Despite the fact that they were strangers, they shared a look. It was utter astonishment.

  “A wedding dress?” Chloe asked aloud. She touched the beaded bodice with one finger. The glittering stones were cold. Definitely not plastic. She’s seen a lot of dresses in her career, and she could tell the work was exquisite.

  “What the hell?” Ralston looked utterly stunned. “Jack would never have married.”

  “When the story comes out,” Chloe said, repeating the note Jack had left. “What story? What was Uncle Jack doing with a dress?”

  Ralston’s eyebrows shot up with sudden dark amusement. “Well, it’s tiny. At least we know it wasn’t for him.”

  Chloe smiled, but her mind was already racing ahead. There were only so many reasons Jack would lock something away for safekeeping, whether it was treasure or weapons or even a gorgeous dress: because it was valuable, because it was meant for someone important to Jack or because dangerous people wanted it for the wrong reasons.

  She was willing to bet the confection of lace and satin was all three.

  Chapter 3

  Death. That had been Jack’s code name.

  So who killed Death? It was almost a joke.

  Irony sucks. Sam finally left the bedroom, taking a last look at Chloe Anderson bent over the white froth of the wedding dress. The image of her, sad and beautiful, stroking the symbol of so many feminine hopes and wishes—it brought a rush of something that was neither lust nor hunger, but held a hint of both. Strangely unnerved, he had elected to retreat. He could tell she wanted to be alone with her memories of Jack, and Sam appreciated that. The soft-spoken beauty was the only one in the family who seemed to care the man was dead.

  And someone had to do the weepy thing. Sam was better at revenge.

  The thought made his fangs descend, prepared to rip and tear in savage retribution.

  His mind went back to Jack’s last phone call, wringing each word dry of meaning. Jack had been running from his killer. Ambushed. Not much made Death run.

  Sam banged out of the side door of the house, grateful to be in the clear air. The sun had just dipped behind the trees, making the outdoors safe for the undead. He took a huge breath, smelling green trees and the sweet pungency of the sun-warmed dirt. This was what he liked: solitude and no walls to hem him in. The past few days at Oakwood had been pure torture.

  The people were the worst, and not just because they were a banquet of veins he couldn’t touch. They were nasty. He didn’t mind good, honest greed, but he couldn’t stand all the whispered speculation about who would score big-time in Jack’s will. And Sam called himself a mercenary. He was a rank amateur compared to Jack’s aunt Mavis and that litter of useless, grasping cousins.

  No wonder Jack was so good at covert operations. He’d needed them to survive his relatives.

  Jack had been good. There went that verb tense thing again. It was hard to think of Jack in the past.

  Sam swore under his breath. What were the Horsemen going to do now? There were only three of them left: Sam, the werewolf Kenyon, and Dr. Mark Winspear, the vampire they called Plague. Jack was—had been—their team leader.

  He started toward the gate, his shoes crunching on the white gravel drive. It was so clean, Sam could imagine the hired help dusting each tiny pebble every morning, working inch by inch across the broad sweep that led back to the road.

  Sam walked through the gates, approaching the oak tree where the Porsche had crashed. The tree had survived better than the car, but not by much. It would have to be felled before there were any serious windstorms. One heavy branch dangled
from the trunk, hanging on by a thin layer of bark.

  Plague was frowning at the ground around the roots of the oak. He was tall, olive-skinned, and dressed in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. The doctor looked enviably casual.

  In contrast, Sam felt hot and irritable in the black suit he’d put on for the paperwork-signing and safe-opening portion of the entertainment. “Find anything?”

  Winspear looked up, his dark eyes serious. “About half a mile down the road. Shell casings. The local cops missed them. Kenyon is going over the woods again, sniffing for more. Maybe he’ll find a bullet in a tree.”

  His voice still held a faint trace of an indefinable accent. Despite the English-sounding name, he’d once mentioned growing up in Italy. The last of the Horsemen to join, he was by far the most private. No one could actually say they knew Mark Winspear. Still, he was the best at what he did. He was not only an accomplished doctor, but was what the vampires called an “eraser”—someone who possessed a rare ability to manipulate human memory.

  “Kenyon looked at the casings and believes the bullets were silver,” the doctor added. “We’ll know more once we’ve gone over the car.”

  “So it was assassination,” Sam said, stating what was rapidly becoming the obvious.

  The doctor was peering awkwardly under the dangling branch, examining the marks in the soil, and made a sound that held a world of resignation. “The car had to be going eighty, by the amount of damage. That raises questions. Jack loved his Porsche too much to risk it at that speed on these roads. And you know how slim the odds are of a vampire actually getting drunk, despite the headlines.”

  Playboy Dies Living Fast and Hard. Sam swore. “He might have been drugged. Can you do a tox screen?”

  Winspear’s mouth was a grim line. “The body was badly burned, but if it’s possible, I’ll get the information we need.”

  He looked stricken, and for a moment Sam felt sorry for him. It didn’t seem right that he had to do an autopsy on a friend, but who else had the expertise to examine dead vampires? Not the city morgue.

  Sam shifted impatiently. “You have any theories about all this yet?”

  Winspear stood, folding his arms. “I don’t like to speculate before I have all the facts.”

  “Jack had a lot of enemies. We all do. We need some way to narrow down the list.”

  Winspear shrugged. “What stands out? What was Jack up to during the last month?”

  “I don’t know.” The Horsemen had been taking a short break from the job and from each other—a necessary thing when so much of their work was all about death and carnage.

  “I can’t answer that, either—I was out at my cabin. It was just by chance that I’d arrived back in town when you called.”

  Sam grunted in irritation. Patient deduction wasn’t his forte. He liked the part where he got to hit things. “Jack seems to have been close to his niece. He might have mentioned something. Small details can provide clues.”

  “Maybe.” Winspear looked away.

  Sam understood his doubts. The Horsemen were the only ones who knew who and what Jack really was. The rest was all playacting, learning to fit in with the latest slang and electronic gadgets. Remembering to hide every second of every day.

  An unexpected jolt of melancholy hit Sam. He swatted it away with an answering annoyance. “I’ll ask some questions. A few odd things have come up in the estate.”

  Winspear raised a dark brow. “Such as?”

  “He left his niece a wedding dress.” The image of Chloe and the dress came back, along with that strange, restless feeling.

  “A dress hardly seems alarming. Unless it was, as I have heard human girls exclaim, a dress to die for?”

  Sam closed his eyes, fighting down a sarcastic retort. “Never mind. It’s a puzzle piece I can’t make fit.”

  “Then I would talk to the niece. Maybe there’s a dressmaker or a delivery company that can provide a clue.”

  Sam gave a small, ironic salute. “Shall do.”

  Winspear looked dubious. “Can you talk to—what’s her name? Chloe? Or do you want me to do that?”

  “I think I can handle her.” In fact, handling her sounded like a solid plan—he could spend hours executing that particular mission, if he left his scruples at the door.

  A faint trace of a smile lurked in Winspear’s face. “I’d be careful if I were you. She looks like the smart, quiet type. They’re dangerous.”

  “I’m a vampire. She’s just a wedding planner.”

  Winspear gave a rare, low laugh. “So was Cinderella’s fairy godmother. Don’t underestimate her.”

  Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’ll steer clear of mice and pumpkins.”

  * * *

  It took little time for Sam to track Chloe down. She had taken the dress from Jack’s suite to the room where she was staying. The door was ajar, allowing Sam to pause a moment before he had to knock. He used the time to study the location, as he always did before mounting an assault. It was a large chamber, one window, sparse furniture. Definitely a feminine space, with flowery prints on the walls and bedspread.

  Chloe was standing in the middle of the room with her back to the door, looking sleek and polished from her high-heeled shoes to the twist in her dark blond hair. She was staring at the dress. It was hooked to the front of a huge, mahogany wardrobe, the dark wood showing off the white foam of lace.

  Sam knew nothing about gowns, but he was pretty sure this one was exceptional. There was something in the proportions and detailing that said this wasn’t some off-the-rack number.

  The same could be said for Chloe. The curve of her spine drew his eyes, his gaze lingering on her exposed neck. Ever since he’d arrived at Oakwood, she’d drawn him. Sam desired women and had them, well and often, but few provided more than a moment’s interest. War was not prone to the softer emotions—they were anathema to everything he was.

  This woman, though, brushed his senses like the scent of a delicate perfume. She was pretty, but it was a sense of poised energy that made her remarkable—like an arrow about to fly. He couldn’t help watching, expectant for the moment, wondering what would happen if she finally sprang loose.

  Sam imagined that release of energy, feeling it with his whole body. It would be exquisite. The thought made his fangs descend, and he quickly began thinking of dull paperwork instead. She’s not for you. Women like her die around creatures like you.

  She turned, her brows drawing together when she saw him there. “Something I can help you with?” Her words were quiet and low, but her voice resonated right through him.

  You have no idea. A sudden stab of hunger pushed to the fore, reminding him again of what he was: a weapon meant for blood sports. She looked soft and delicious, as if she would taste of summer. Once again, his body tightened in anticipation.

  Sam swallowed hard, wrestling himself as he had Kenyon’s wolf, holding back the snapping jaws of the beast. Small talk. Make small talk.

  “I can’t help wondering what Jack was doing with that.” He nodded toward the dress.

  She relaxed a bit. “Me, too.”

  “It’s good quality, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She folded her arms and walked toward it. Sam trailed after her, using the moment as an excuse to get closer. The room was redolent with her perfume—something that reminded him of sunshine and lemonade.

  He realized he was stalking her, and forced himself to stand still. “Should it be out of the safe?” he asked.

  “Maybe not, but I can’t learn anything about it when it’s locked away.”

  Sam nodded. She had a point. “That’s right. You’re the wedding expert. Any insights?”

  With a professional air, Chloe eyed the dress. “There’s no label, but I’m sure it’s made to order. The beading is hand-don
e. It’s probably unique.”

  “Expensive?”

  “It’s worth a fortune. That’s Italian silk or I’m a duck.”

  Sam slanted a glance at her. She was definitely not a duck. “None of your relatives tried to make off with it yet?”

  She gave a rueful smile. “They don’t know about it. Fortunately, the last of the happy horde is leaving in the morning.”

  “How long will you be here?” He wouldn’t be leaving a moment sooner.

  She looked up. Her eyes were dark blue. “Until the end of the week or so. After that the house will be going on the market.”

  “You don’t waste time.”

  She gave a soft sigh that made his skin tingle. “It’s not me. Everyone wants their piece of the estate.”

  Sam watched her eyes sparkle with tears. Forgetting himself, he brushed her wrist with his fingertips, the lightest gesture of sympathy. One he would never normally make. She blinked, folding her arms across her stomach. Sam dropped his hand, the feel of her skin clinging to the pads of his fingers. Silky.

  He forced his mind to the task of asking questions, doing his best to shut off his senses. The woman was like a drug, scrambling his thoughts. “Was Jack close to any family but you?”

  “Not really. My father, but he died when I was fourteen. Along with my mother.” She looked away. “Long story.”

  Something told Sam now was not the moment to ask for details. “No one was close, but the rest still think they should get a piece of all this?” He made a gesture indicating the house.

  “Of course.” Chloe made a slight movement, almost a shudder, as if she was trying to shake off a distasteful memory. “Jack had a talent for making money.”

  He also had centuries of financial experience, but Chloe didn’t know that.

  “Who were Jack’s friends?” he asked abruptly.

  “I thought that was you.”

  Winspear was right. He sucked at interrogation. Frustration made him resort to his usual bluntness. “You’re in the wedding business. You said the dress was unique. Is there any way to figure out who owned it?”