Must Love Hellhounds

Raphael made a note to find out her name. Unlike normal members of the Guild, the hunter-born came out of the womb with the ability to scent vampires. They were the best trackers in the world, the most relentless-bloodhounds tuned to one particular scent. “And Sara?” he asked. “Will she accept?”

Simon took a moment to think. “I have not a single doubt that Sara will make the right decision.”

Chapter One

Sara wasn’t used to feeling sorry for vampires. Her job, after all, was to bag, tag, and transport them back to their masters, the angels. She was no fan of indentured servitude but it wasn’t as if the angels hid the price of immortality. Anyone who wanted to get Made had to serve the angels for a hundred years. Non-negotiable.

You didn’t want to bow and scrape for a century, you didn’t sign the Contract. Simple. Running out on the Contract after the angels delivered their part of the bargain? That just made you a welsher. And nobody liked a welsher.

However, this guy had worse problems than being returned home to a pissed-off angel. “Can you talk?”

The vampire clamped a hand over his almost-decapitated neck and looked at her as if she were insane.

“Yeah, sorry.” She wondered how the hell he was still alive. Vampires weren’t true immortals-they could be killed by both humans and others of their kind. Cutting off the head was the most foolproof method, but the majority of people didn’t go that way-it wasn’t as if the vamps were going to stand still for it. Shooting out the heart worked, so long as you then cut off the head while they were down. Or fire. That did the job.

But Sara was a tracker. Her job was to retrieve, not kill. “You need blood?”

The vampire looked hopeful.

“Suck it in,” she said. “You’re not dead. Means you’re a strong one. You’ll last till I can get you home.”

“Dhooooo.”

Ignoring the gurgled rejection, she crouched down to slide an arm around his back so she could drag him to his feet. She was only five feet three, and he was considerably taller. But she wasn’t bleeding out from her neck, and she worked out seven days a week. Grunting as she got him up, she began to walk him to the car. He resisted.

“Need a hand?” A deep, quiet voice, aged whiskey and smoldering embers.

She didn’t know that voice. Neither did she know the body that moved out of the shadows. Six feet plus of solid, muscled male. Heavy across the shoulders, thick in the thighs, but with the liquid grace of a trained fighter. One she wouldn’t want to be up against in a fight. And she’d taken down vampires twice her size. “Yeah,” she said. “Just help me get him to the car. It’s parked at the curb.”

The stranger all but picked up the vampire-who was starting to make vaguely understandable sounds-and dumped him in the backseat. “Control chip?”

She pulled her crossbow off her back and aimed it at the vamp. The poor guy scrambled back, pulling his feet completely into the vehicle. Rolling her eyes, she returned the crossbow to its previous position and withdrew a necklet from its spot hooked into the waistband of her black jeans, under her T-shirt. Reaching in, she paused. “Don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot you for real.”

Slumping, the vampire let her clamp the circle of metal around his rapidly healing neck. The science behind the device’s effect on vampiric biology was complex, but the results clear-the vampire was now constrained from acting without a direct order from Sara. Helpful didn’t begin to describe the control chip because even this injured, the vamp could probably rip off her head in two seconds flat.

Sara liked her head, thank you very much.

Crawling back out, she shut the door and looked up at the other hunter-and there was no doubt in her mind as to his vocation. “Sara.” She thrust out a hand.

He took it, but didn’t speak for a long time. She couldn’t bring herself to protest-something in those dark, dark green eyes held her in place. Power, she thought, there was an incredible sense of power in him. Then he spoke, and the decadent whiskey of his voice almost blinded her to his actual words.

“I’m Deacon. You’re much smaller than your reputation suggests.”

She wrenched back her hand. “Thanks. And don’t offer to help next time.”

Most men would’ve walked off, egos dented. Deacon simply stood there, watching her with those intense eyes. “It wasn’t a criticism.”

Why the hell was she still here? “I have to deliver Rodney to his master.”

“You have a rep.” He stepped closer, his eyes drifting to the strap that bisected her body. “You and your crossbow.”

Was that amusement she saw in that oh-so-serious face? “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. My bolts are made to carry the same properties as the necklets-it keeps me out of harm’s way until the target’s safely chipped, and given their ability to heal, it hardly hurts.”

“Yet you had a necklet.”