Pretty When She Kills (Pretty When She Dies #2)(14)

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. I’ll call you tomorrow to negotiate the terms of your visit,” Cian finally said.

“Excellent.” Rachon’s voice was cautious. “Until tomorrow.”

Terminating the call, Cian stared through the windows toward the state capitol building.

“Are we f*cked?” Amaliya asked, her hands on her hips.

“Not yet.” Cian tapped the cellphone against his chin. “But Rachon is up to something.”

“Of course she is. She f*cking hates our guts! We killed The Summoner!”

“It’s something more than that. If she wanted revenge, she would have moved against us by now.” Cian frowned, sorting through the knowledge he had of Rachon and his past dealings with her. “I wish I could figure out what she wants.”

Clutching her hair in tight fists, Amaliya growled. “Fuck! We should just run!”

“We’ll be fine.”

“There are only two of us, Cian!”

“We will be fine, Liya,” Cian said firmly.

“But she’s dangerous, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“How dangerous is she?”

“As dangerous as I am,” Cian answered.

“Which means?”

“We’re very close to being f*cked,” Cian admitted.

“Well, shit,” Amaliya sighed.

“Come here,” Cian said, holding out his hand.

With a frustration sound, Amaliya slid into his arms. Tucking her head against his neck, she curled up, her feet resting on the armrest.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we, Cian?”

“Maybe. But not without a fight. We’re both powerful. We have the hunters on our side, too.”

“They’ve never killed anything before, Cian.”

“No, but I do think they can rise to the occasion.”

“Rachon is coming to kill us. We both know it.”

Amaliya’s lips were soft against his neck and he slowly stroked her long hair. Cian wasn’t sure of Rachon’s motives and he was sure that attempting to kill both of them was not out of the realm of possibility, but she tended to maneuver in ways that were mystifying.

“You’re a badass necromancer that can call zombie hordes to your side in an instant,” Cian reminded her.

“Yeah, if I spilled blood in the cemetery the same night.”

“We’ll deal with Rachon, then deal with Santos and Etzli.”

“And live happily ever after?”

“Of course.” Cian grinned at her. “What else will we do?”

“Die horrible deaths.”

“Pessimist.” Cian kissed her soft lips lovingly.

“Realist,” she answered.

“Badass,” he whispered against her lips. Sliding his hand up under her shirt to rest against the small of her back, he said, “Now, to finish this night properly...”

The fear in her voice faded, replaced by desire. “Yes, please.”

Cian pressed her lips to hers and set aside his worries for another night.





Chapter 5


Rachon set her cellphone down on the battered kitchen table. A soft breeze ruffled the curtains over the kitchen sink and brushed against her cheek. The checkered dish towels, cracked black and white vinyl floor, and decor heralded back to another era. Rachon’s mother had rather liked the Forties and Fifties and kept the house suspended in time. Her mother, known to everyone as Mother Delia, was in the living room watching the late night talk shows with Prosper.

Outside, children played in the moonlight, their squeals and laughter mingling with the boisterous voices of her neighbors. The Sullivans were having a family reunion that was running late into the night. The smell of the crawfish boil turned her stomach, but she rather enjoyed the sounds of the party. The music made her sway a little as she stood contemplating her conversation with Cian.

When Etzli had told her that Santos planned to test Amaliya’s power, Rachon thought it was a foolhardy move, but not unexpected. Santos wanted Amaliya for himself, but he’d have to find a way to capture her. Testing her powers was the best way to determine the woman’s weaknesses and determine the best plan to acquire her from Cian. Of course, this meant killing Cian, but Rachon knew from experience the Irishman would not die easily. He was stronger, older, and more resourceful than most of the vampires in North America.

As Rachon walked through the kitchen, the floorboards creaked under her feet. She would have to replace the floors soon and have the foundation checked. The old house was a money pit, but her mother loved it. Prosper hated that she and her mother lived among the poor. Prosper lived in the elegance and wealth of the French Quarter along with his brothers. Rachon couldn’t bear to leave the old neighborhood behind until she had to. She loved the sense of community, the beauty of the people, and the strength of will of those who had to work even harder for the simple pleasures of life. She kept her corner of the neighborhood free of crime as payment for the joy she received from watching the people who inhabited the homes around her around her living their daily existence. Besides, her mother hated being uprooted, so it was easier to alter to memories of her neighbors than actually upset the older woman.

The small house was tucked along the northern edge of the Ninth Ward in New Orleans. It was a simple white clapboard bungalow with a nice big porch surrounded by her mother’s lush landscaping. Her mother loved to putter around outside at all hours of the day. The house had survived the terrible wrath of Hurricane Katarina only because of the massive magical wards Rachon had placed on the property over the course of the previous century. The neighborhood had suffered massive losses though. She’d secretly funded the reconstruction of many of the homes through a dummy foundation. Sadly, there were still destroyed homes slowly rotting away on abandoned lots.