Seducing Two Serial Killers Read online

  He brought honor upon my family, that's the truth. He sacrificed an easy life of wealth to fight for something he believed in, but it sucked out his health, his sanity, and then possibly his life.

  His honor put mine to shame.

  He may be lost now, but I intend to find him again. Dead or alive.

  The guards mutter into their ear pieces, confirming my identity. A moment later, they stand a little straighter.

  “Show your arm, please, Mr. Forge.”

  I shift up my right sleeve, fingers gripping around the gold button. The guards examine the tattoo there. A black and green serpent with furled wings, with a tail clutched in its mouth.

  One of the guards pales. “Mr. Forge. Our apologies. You may enter. Take the second left. Top floor. End door.” Both bear shifters incline their heads, before admitting me entrance into Club Phoenix. The door closing behind feels like the final nail of my coffin being hammered in. The confidence seems to have left itself behind, too, along with the last glimmers of heat. I shiver in the brightly lit hallway, and see the bar at the end, where all the patrons go. I also see the faint silver glimmer of a metal pole, and someone polishing it, looking far too enthusiastic to do so.

  Not my destination. Second left, the first baldy said. I'm vaulting up the stairs, my steps cushioned by the coarse red carpet coating them. There's a certain, seedy aroma about this place. If debauchery and sex had a smell, laced with cigarette smoke, and the tainted breath of alcoholics, this would be it. I've been in British pubs like this, and a couple of times, American college bars with the horny teens and their fake I.Ds. Always more fun with those experimenting with sexualities, who don't have the rigid, conservative attitudes that help no one.

  Plus, who doesn't want a bed full of squirming men and women with the bark of a command?

  Three flights of stairs later, I'm at the top, and the red carpet continues to roll out, right to the end. There's other locked doors, too. Probably where clients are serviced in other, personal needs. I admittedly do frequent places such as this, and I've seen good quality and bad. This one doesn't seem to be bad, but I can't help the images that crawl through my mind. As if I can see sexual diseases splashed upon each door, the sins of stolen passions greasing the handles. Makes me walk in the center of the hallway, resolutely staring ahead to my final destination.

  To the one I might work with or kill. If he doesn't get his hands around my throat first. Can't shake this lump out of my throat, or keep my heart beating any slower. It wants to tap dance right out of my mouth.

  Almost before I reach the end, the door opens, revealing a glimpse of light, the hint dazzling architecture. Taking a deep breath, I walk through, into a room transformed into a five-star suite. It aims for extravagance with reds, purples and whites, and achieves it. The kitchen's a glossy black work surface. The sofa by the side is a creamy purple. But taking the rest of my attention is the figure reclined upon the sofa.

  Tarren Vale.

  He looks at me as if he already owns me, and it causes the dragon inside me to stir and growl. He's got the same bright amber eyes, but a different tattoo on his exposed forearm. One with a red eyed, black dragon, encased in orange flame. It's not the only tattoo he has, either. He's got tribal tattoos snaking up his arms. Clearly, a fan of being stuck with needles.

  “I was wondering if you'd show up,” Tarren says. He's got a deep, guttural voice. Maybe destroyed by smoke or eating too much Indian food. “Frankly, I'm surprised you even agreed to the meeting in the first place.”

  “Times change.” I examine this criminal underlord. One of the people who has the audacity to clog up the city with their grubby little schemes. However, out of all the research I've done, this grubby lordling is the least of my worries. “You know what they say. Keep your friends close... and your enemies closer.”

  Tarren lets out a laugh at this, displaying one canine. “Can't disagree with that. A drink?”

  I remain standing, as he reached over to his black coffee table, grabbing an expensive smelling scotch whisky. Dragons sure love anything that burns their throats. My father's partial to absinthe. My mother – she was human. Before she went for her long sleep, she didn't understand how my father could gulp down such distilled alcohol without needing his stomach pumped out. He says it helps enrich the way he projects his voice. And no one wants to fuck with someone who can gargle a whole liter of absinthe and remain standing.

  Always about appearances for my father.

  The underlord nods when I accept the glass from him. “Let's not dance around each other for this. You're clean. You come from a respectable business, you have no need to approach the wilder side of life, nor need to risk your reputation. Something's obviously bothering you.”

  “Right you are.” I give him a rather cold smile. Feels like we're stalking each other, prowling the arena of his living room. Both of us perfect targets for one another. It takes a great deal of control not to give into that primal urge to dominate our enemies. To shred the competition. Tarren's still squinting at me, as if he thinks he can drill through my brain and pull out the glistening thoughts. I won't even attempt to do the same. His face is a mask. It might as well be tattooed. “I have, ah... possible need of your services.”

  “Need?” He twitches forward slightly. “You?”

  “Unfortunately. You see – I have contacts all over the city. All except with people within the underworld.”

  “Uh huh.” He gulps down some of the whisky, not missing a beat. His muscles ripple slightly. “Go on.” Something about his rakish, oval features seize my attention. Where I'm soft haired, he's got thick, dark hair that looks as if it'll sprout into a bush at any moment. To me, he looks like he's growing out of a grunge phase.

  “I want to stamp out corruption. The worst of it.”

  Tarren raises an eyebrow, as if he can't believe what he's hearing.

  “Let me explain, before you decide whether or not to try and eliminate me,” I add, sensing danger. I'm strong, but I don't know how I compare to a brawler like Tarren Vale. People like him aim for maximum damage and tend not to fight fair. “I care not for your dealings. You make a business of barely legal, not so dangerous activities. Class C drugs that are essentially prescriptions, selling drinks to minors with dubious I.Ds, fencing goods. Willing prostitutes, tax evasion and extortions from those who would extort for themselves if they could. As far as I'm aware, you're a saint.”

  The dragon shifter lets out a soft snort at this. “Right. You've certainly done your research.”

  “There's some good P.I's around if you've got the money.” Some of the danger's left his tone. He's listening. His hand is gripping his glass tightly. I can see it exploding in my mind's eye, sending liquid and shards everywhere. “My aim is to start stamping on the sick fucks. The child sex traffickers. The human abusers. The dangerous drugs that leave people listless and dead.” I'm touching my cufflink as I say this, working it in a nervous circle. “I can't do it by remaining clean. I need an ally who may or may not share similar goals.”

  Realizing he's gripping his glass too hard, Tarren sets it down upon the table. The interest burning in his eyes once away drops into suspicion. “What makes you think that I'll be your ally in this?”

  I move forward. Slowly. Sinuously. Careful never to break eye contact. “Interesting things happen to some of the criminals in your district, Tarren.” I allow a smile to spread over my lips, even though my heart's hammering at a ferocious pace. “A child rapist got off free from court. Used to live not one block from this building. They found a charred body in a dumpster, and it took them two weeks to identify who it was. No one was particularly sorry to see him go. No evidence, of course. Because you're very good at leaving no evidence.”

  Tarren's thin face splits into an evil grin. “Maybe. But what makes you think I'll work for you? Since you seem to have me mistaken for a philanthropist. I don't do things for free.”

  “No, I expect you don't,” I murmur, relaxing
slightly. Feels like he's almost in my grasp. “Obviously, I'll have to offer you some of my profits. My best lawyers, as well. Certain diplomatic immunities and legal tax exemptions.”

  Hook, line, and sinker. “And you want me to do, what? Kill all the competition? Become your attack dog?”

  “If you like. No. I want your information. I want the shitstains of society off my walls.”

  He licks his lips, nostrils flaring. Calculating. “Nothing to do with your brother, right?”

  I freeze, but don't say a word. Can't lie if I speak, so best not to say anything at all. My little brother. Always trying to do the right thing. Always failing.

  “There is honor in that,” Tarren whispers. “I respect you in your choice.”

  “What do you know of honor, Tarren?”

  The crimelord gives a twisted smile. “Plenty. Why – compared to you, perhaps I really am the saint, after all.”

  We both share a smile. There's venom behind each one.

  But for now, it seems – we're going down this path.

  We'll be united in cleaning the scum out of the city depths.

  That's if we don't clean each other out first.

  Emma

  I end the call with my mother, disturbed. I thought she'd help comfort me after the reaming I received from my boss. Apparently, I should have bedded Richard straight away. Something about shifters being suckers for immunity. Making it sound like I have a magical vagina or something.

  Unbelievable. No matter how much I told the boss – I didn't think Richard worked like that, trying to put my Profiling background as evidence – he didn't want to hear it. He also tells me that if I don't sleep with the target within a week, I'm being pulled out, so I'm not compromised by other shifters. So I'm not yanked into one of their vans and turned into a screwtoy.

  That was something else he failed to mention.

  That people with immunity like me are essentially hard and heavy shifter drugs. To be fair, a part of my resistance comes because I'm not really comfortable with the idea of fucking on a first meeting.

  Dealing with the deception makes it feel like there's a pile of stones wedged in my gut. But calling my mother – that leaves sour apple in my mouth. Because she has no idea. She just thinks I'm having a whale of a time in my last year at uni. Can't even tell her I never made it to the last one.

  Not after the contract I signed. Willingly, I may add.

  I hate keeping secrets from my mother and father. Neither of them deserves this.

  They brought me up better than to be dressing up like some femme fatale, ready to spread her legs and sleep with the enemy, just to get insight into their information.

  But right now, I don't have time to be fussy.

  A senator's daughter is missing.

  And people think Richard's clan has something to do with it.

  I don't know the full details. Senator Arrow has always shown himself to dislike shifters. He especially hates that there's a flourishing shifter nation next to his beloved state of Utah. Especially a shifter state that legally endorses a lot of things that humans find shady.

  Human sacrifices. Human trafficking. That sort of thing. Legal human sacrifice. I've seen the papers, and the stories are so fantastical, that I'm not actually sure if I believe them for myself. Only way to find out is to experience the truth.

  On top of those stories, we heard that the senator's daughter was seen getting on with Richard Forge during diplomatic meetings. People claimed that he'd used his special powers of persuasion to just get her to hop the border and willingly turn up for human sacrifice.

  Needless to say, the human media is hysterical about it, doing everything they can to smear Animusa.

  Meanwhile... Animusa just acts like it really doesn't care. It's odd.

  I walk outside of my crappy hotel, and there's shifters just going to work like, well, humans. There's humans walking on the streets, and they don't appear to be in the slightest bit terrified that they're surrounded by human-sacrificing shifters. My father would call them groupies with a disparaging tone. People who find it hot to go bang shifters. Sexy to be taken by beasts.

  I suppose I can see the appeal.

  But right now, I have a mission to fulfil. An awkward one. I have a boss that's angry because I didn't sleep with the target. Needless to say, I'm a little pissed off, a little confused, and feeling hung out to dry.

  Just get in close, he'd told me, before dropping me into the unknown. Glean any information you can. At no point did he say: You need to start fucking him the moment you lay eye on him.

  But apparently, that was exactly what he meant by getting in close. Shifters love an immune. Hump like crazy for it.

  I know my scent does something. And it probably explains why some of the shifters I pass turn their heads to look at me, following my movements. I can almost sense their gazes raking my back. Stripping off my clothes one by one. Leaving me with nothing but imaginary dignity as they take every inch of my body.

  I can't help but think, as I walk to the place where I'm supposed to be going for my first date, that something's not quite right with the way I've been sent here. Agents are supposed to have a support network. Times to call, the opportunity to pull out at any point. The only times I'm in contact with my boss is in the mornings, and it's a one-way call.

  My phone buzzes. A message.

  Am here. Think I can see u thru the window.

  The message barely gives me any time to prepare myself. One moment, I'm paranoid of the stares, of the hiss of my boss and going into knots from the sweet, oblivious kindness of my mother – the next, I'm on edge.

  Maybe I'm not ready for this. Even though I'm again wearing these ridiculous fuck-me clothes. Things you wouldn't normally see me alive in. Never been one to draw attention to myself, to wear things that are designed to enhance body aesthetics, rather than to increase comfort. Even these kitten heels are an inch higher than my favored shoes. My toes throb with the contact. My thin, black coat ruffles in a slight breeze. The hair's losing the straight, permed look as well. A hairdresser's job. Not fit to last past the day it was done.

  But there. I see him. A corner restaurant, with glitz and color making it stand out from the other buildings. He's almost smudged against the window of what looks like a waiting room. A waiting room while servers sort out the seating arrangements. Nothing like the diners and low-class restaurants I've been to. There's a knowing smile on his lips. A hardness to his gaze.

  My stomach clenches again. This time from something else. Pleasant, electric tingles carry across my skin. The kind that preludes when I sit down to watch a particularly steamy erotica movie. When I see the characters touching one another, building up the tension in a way that makes everything ache, and want to experience that touch for myself.

  Richard greets me as I walk in, and he gives me a slow, casual look. An inspection of the goods. My friend, Claudia's words, hit me.

  Guys can't think of anything but tits, ass, and pussy. If one or more of these things are on display, you're winning.

  Crude, but given how Richard's gaze sticks just a little too long to the chest area, like it's glued there, I'm inclined to remember that maybe if I wanted to start up a relationship, I probably could have just peeled myself like a banana.

  But that's not the type of person I want to be with. And it's not the type of person I want them to see me as.

  “We have our seats arranged,” he says, now holding up two little number discs. “I just wanted to make sure you arrived okay. Shall we?”

  He sticks out an elbow. Tentatively, I wrap mine in his, feeling more awkward than enamored.

  My boss's words attack my head the whole while, as we ascend the hard steps, sending thumps through the hallway and reception. Get that fucker into your bed. Stop pussyfooting around. Shifters go crazy for your type. Spread them legs, and he's as good as yours.

  It won't work. I'm sure of it. He's wrong. But I'm too inexperienced, too fresh to risk my care
er defying the boss. Even if he is some petty jerk who likely had his dream promotion overridden plenty of times.

  “Okay, I may as well say this out loud,” I tell him, as we go around the corner of the stairs, and enter a vast, glittering room. It exudes wealth, from golden chandeliers, expensive French tables, and what appears to be Renaissance era style furniture in general. There's a few guests, some single, some in pairs, and one empty table's there, with a soft, glowing candle in the middle, and two roses on either side.

  Our seats. Amazing.

  “You were saying?”

  I blink. “Sorry, distracted. Why don't you actually have a partner? Most people your age have settled for something by now.”

  A dangerous subject, perhaps. But he seems to appreciate the brevity. As we reach the table, he instantly hands me his rose, stripped of thorns. I thank him, though it's a fruitless gesture.

  “Truthfully,” he tells me, “I don't really know. It's not like I have a shortage of women to choose from.”

  I bet. Something prickles, and I look askance to see at least three single men eyeing me. One with a clan tattoo on his cheek.

  “Work, maybe?” I understand that motivation. Having a high-power career. Taking over family business, keeping the empire running. Has to suck years out of someone. “I doubt your business runs itself.”

  “It can be a little demanding,” he admits. “But not so demanding that I never have free time.” He hesitates. “I suppose when you can get one so easily, it lessens your desire to, well... have one.”

  Ugh. Something twinges in my gut, along with the sticky, uneasy sensation trickling down my spine. If I fuck this guy like my boss wants me to, within the blink of an eye, I'll likely lose him.