The Warlord Wants Forever

The fumes of swamp, steamed hot dogs and soured beer wafted up to Myst and her sisters as they perched on a roof above the chaos that was Bourbon Street.

There were rumors of vampires running about in New Orleans.

Vampires in Louisiana? Unheard of.

If there'd been only one account of leeches, then she and Regin and Nïx would still be back at Val Hall, their bayou manor, playing video games. But a demon friend had sworn he'd seen one—and a phantom had whispered that there was not just one faction of vampires, but two.

Myst's eyes darted over the scene, trying to remain focused and not notice the couples frantically grinding against each other in dark alleys. If Daniela was here she would blow them a kiss and cool them off, freezing hands to asses in mid-grope and making her sisters chortle and roll along the roof. Myst supposed that the Valkyrie were easily amused.

But focus was proving futile ever since her heart had sped up at the idea of vampires here. If for some reason they had come to the New World—which the Horde historically found vulgar and beneath them—that still didn't mean him.

Wroth. One of her true regrets in her life.

Every day, she mused that she shouldn't have left that vampire to suffer—she should have killed him.

Regin tossed her blade up, caught the point into her claw, then flicked it up once more. 'You know, not that I believe there are actual vampires here—cause that's just whacky speak—but if there were, they should know that this is our turf.'

'Should we ask them to rumble? Or maybe mash?' Nïx asked as she swiftly braided her waist-length black hair. 'I've heard those can be a graveyard smash.' Even sporting the old-fashioned hairstyle and an occasionally confused glance—she saw the future more clearly than the present—Nïx still looked like a supermodel.

'I'm serious,' Regin said. 'New Orleans may have once been the mystical melting pot of the world, but we control this place now.'

'We can always send Mysty the Vampire Layer to battle them,' Nïx said thoughtfully. 'Oh wait, she'd run off with them.'

Regin added, 'Or use her famed tongue assault to flail the skin from their bodies as they inexplicably line up to sacrifice themselves.'

'Har-de-har-har,' Myst mumbled, half-listening. She'd been razzed about this continually. And she deserved it. She might as well have been caught free-basing with the ghost of Bundy. Of course others had overheard the jokes in the coven and the word spread. Even other factions of the Lore—like the nymphs, those little hookers— whispered about her unsavory predilection toward vampires. But it wasn't vampires plural, it was only one.

Wroth. She shivered. With his slow, hot fingers…

In her bed late at night, when she touched herself, she always fantasized about him, remembering his hard chest and harder shaft, imagining his ferocity, his intensity, if he ever found her again.

Truthfully, she thought he might have found her by now. She'd—accidentally?— given him her blood, possibly giving him her memories, which could lead him straight here. She often pondered that reckless kiss. She'd had no discernible intention of giving him blood, but hadn't she known in the back of her mind that his fangs would be razor sharp with her sisters' arrival? Had she wanted him to find her?

She shook her head, needing to stay sharp. Annika, Daniela and Lucia were down there somewhere.

'Lookit,' Regin said, pointing down. 'Men that big shouldn't get schnockered.'

Myst turned her attention to a tall man who reminded her of Wroth from the back—why couldn't she get that vampire off the brain?—though this one was much rangier in build. The man leaned against another massive male, hanging on to him for balance as they walked. She noticed her claws were curling.

'Myst, can't you control that?' Regin asked with a fleeting glance at her claws. 'It's embarrassing.'

'Listen, I can't help it, I like big males with broad shoulders. And I bet under that trench coat he has an ass that begs to be clutched.'

Nïx offered, 'And it's not like she can put Band-Aids over them—'

'Holy shite,' Regin exclaimed. 'I see a glow. Ghouls, down by Ursilines Avenue.'

'Damn it,' Myst muttered. 'In public again? They are hard-up recruiting then.' Ghouls were maniacal fighters out to increase their numbers by turning humans with their contagious bites and scratches. They had green, gelatinous blood, and the parish of Orleans went gooey every time the coven fought them.

'Again.' Nïx sighed. 'And there's only so many times we can convince drunken tourists they're extras in a sci-fi flick.'

Regin slid her blade into her forearm sheath. 'Stargate part twelve is officially on location.' She rose. 'We'll go canoodle the ghouls. You keep a watch out for vampires.' She made a ghostly wooo-wooo sound. 'And try not to lift tail for any of them, ‘kay?'

As Myst rolled her eyes, her sisters linked arms and leapt down, moving so quickly they were like a blur. As usual, no one could see them, and if they did in this Lore-rich city no one registered it.

Myst surveyed the glow from afar. It wasn't that extensive, so she knew they could handle it. As eldest, Nïx was strong and Regin was wily. Besides, Myst had new boots on and she'd be damned if she'd lose another pair to the epic battle between buttery soft Italian leather and goo. Too many casualties already. It was terribly saddening. Really.

Her attention easily fell once more to the man on the street, and she raised an eyebrow. If his front matched his back, she'd be tempted. It had been ages, literally, since she'd had a little some-some, and she deserved—

She sucked in a breath, springing back against the dormer. The drunk was no drunk at all she saw when he peered down an alley, giving her his profile. The body she'd been ogling was that of her 'estranged husband,' as the coven liked to tease her.

He stumbled not from drink but from weakness, his build different because he'd lost weight. And that was his brother Murdoch helping him—helping Wroth find her.

Shaking, she crept along the roof, pressing herself around the dormers, hoping to get away before he saw her. He stopped, lifting his head above the milling crowd, then swung around to her direction.

His gaze fell directly on her, his eyes black, feral and riveted to her with a look of utter possession. When Murdoch's gaze followed Wroth's, he gave her an almost pitying expression, then he slapped Wroth on the back before tracing away.

The blood left her face. She leapt to the roof of the adjoining building, gaining speed for the next—

She screamed as Wroth's gaunt visage appeared directly in front of her. Traced. She sprinted in the other direction, but he snatched her around her chest, pinning her to him, making her feel his erection thick against her. She elbowed his throat, dropped from his arms, and dove over the edge of the roof. She tumbled into a high-walled courtyard, landing on hands and feet, then scrambled up to leap out of the darkened space. But her speed was no match for his tracing.

He snagged her again, and though she fought, he was somehow stronger even in his condition—maybe because of his condition. One of his hands yanked up her short skirt.

'Wroth! Don't do this!'

'Five years of hell,' he sneered, palming her ass roughly. 'You deserve to be fucked till you can't walk.'

She gasped, trembling. 'So the warlord claims his prize? It figures that you'd take your Bride whether she wants it or not. You'd make me remember being forced?'

After a pause he bit out, 'No. God, no.' She heard him freeing himself. 'Myst,' he groaned, 'just feel me.' He took her hand and made her cup his heavy sack, then grip his shaft. Never had she felt such hardness. 'Rub the head,' he rasped in her ear, making her shiver as she felt the moisture. 'That's as close as I can get without you. I need to fuck you so bad I'm sick with it.'

'Wroth, don't…'

With a bitter curse, he lowered his head, forehead against her neck, but he only thrust against her ass. 'Can't stop,' he grated, and she knew then that he wasn't going to take her body, just touch it, use it. Why would he refrain for her…?