Avenging Angel (The Fallen #4)(15)

Vampires are mistakes. How many times had she heard that line, coming from the powers-that-be upstairs?

Now the vamp was clawing at Tanner’s hand, but the shifter wasn’t letting him go.

“She’s not on the menu, *,” Tanner growled. “Remember that.” Then he tossed the vamp back against the bar.

There was no missing the fury that tightened the vampire’s face. “Shifter. You think you can tell me—”

In a flash, Tanner had his claws at the guy’s throat. “I was playing nice before, but if you want me to cut your head off—right here, right now—I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

Blood trickled down the vamp’s throat. Tanner’s claws had already sliced through the skin. The vampire wasn’t moving now. The whole bar was watching, waiting.

“Off . . . ” the vampire said slowly, “the menu.” His Adam’s apple scraped against Tanner’s claws as he managed to whisper the words.

“Good f*cking vamp.” Tanner stepped back and dropped his claws.

Everyone stopped watching. They went back to blood drinking and making out in their dark corners. She guessed that this crowd liked to see death. If there wasn’t a show, they weren’t interested in watching.

Marna rubbed her arms. While those in the bar might like the danger, she didn’t. She’d seen death for centuries. Wouldn’t it be a nice change to finally see something else?

But maybe happiness was something only humans got to experience. Not the cursed. Not the paranormals.

Not me.

The vamp crept away. He tossed a few fast glances over his shoulder.

A shiver shook Marna’s body. She could have sworn that she’d seen him before. “You think he’s going to stay away?”

“I think if he doesn’t, he’ll be minus a head.” Then Tanner put his arm back around her. She tried not to flinch, but his claws were still out, and she couldn’t see a shifter’s claws without remembering agony and terror.

Tanner pulled her flush against him. His head lowered and his lips brushed against her ear. “Don’t act afraid of me. Don’t pull away.” The words were barely breathed against her.

Did she feel the lick of his tongue on the shell of her ear?

She shivered again, but Marna wasn’t feeling fear right then. Well, she wasn’t afraid of him. All the others in the room, yes, they scared her.

“Let them think you’re mine,” Tanner said, still in that same low whisper. One that she could suddenly imagine in the dark. Would he talk that way if they were alone? His voice low and growling?

Would he sound the same if they were tangled in sheets? Naked?

Stop.

“’Cause if they think you’re mine, they’ll know to stay the hell away from you.”

She turned her head a few inches. Looked up into his blazing eyes. “I can . . . take care of myself.”

She was an angel of death. She didn’t need him.

Except . . . why won’t my touch work? Why couldn’t she still kill? Sammael killed at will. Why couldn’t she?

“I can smell your fear. Smell it with a shifter’s nose that’s ten times stronger than a vamp’s.” He inhaled, like he was sampling her scent. “Fear smells too good to supernaturals. To many of us, that scent is pure temptation.”

To the monsters who liked fear and pain. But Tanner wasn’t like that, right? Wasn’t he the cop? The good guy?

His brother Brandt had been evil, twisted, but Tanner was supposed to be different. That was what he’d told her, when she first woke after her attack. Over and over, he’d promised he was different.

Lie? Or truth?

Right then, it didn’t matter. She needed him. Marna forced her body to soften and slide against his. His arm tightened even more around her.

“Better.” His voice was more growl than anything else.

His body seemed so warm and hard against hers. Shifters were usually big, muscled, and they’d been known to be some of the deadliest of the paranormals.

So why was she feeling safe with him?

Tanner led her the last few steps to the bar. “Human clubs . . . paranormal dives. They’re all the same.” He slapped his right hand down on the counter but kept his left arm firmly around her. “You want information, then you always go to the one source in the place who knows every single thing that happens.”

The bartender, a woman with long, curly, red hair and demon-black eyes, strolled toward them. Her eyes widened a little as she looked at Marna and a soundless whistle slipped from her lips. “Don’t see too many of your kind.”

Her nails—blood-red and wicked sharp—tapped on the bar. Then her gaze slid from Marna to Tanner. The bartender stiffened, but did a good job of keeping any emotion from slipping across her face.

“I’m sure you see all sorts here,” Tanner said, voice thickening a bit with a drawl that seemed to come and go as he pleased.

Tricky shifter. Was that slow drawl supposed to make him seem harmless? Nothing could pull off that lie. Maybe it was just supposed to make him seem a little less lethal? More good old boy?

“Right now,” Tanner continued quietly, “I’m wanting to know if you can give me some information on those . . . sorts . . . that you might see.” He kept his hold on Marna, but he leaned toward the bartender.