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  After all, hostilities between the two races still existed, even if it was behind closed doors, and the assassination of the King would be a clear message that their kind weren’t the ones in control. Naturally, the King’s death would only be symbolic. The Breed Council would continue to rule if the King fell, but Coulter knew the council suffered from enough political turmoil and backstabbing between the full-blooded families to ensure chaos would engulf them as they scrambled to find a successor.

  He settled into the passenger seat of the Jeep, backpack at his feet and only half-listening to the Hunter make easy small talk. If his source here was correct, then this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one Coulter didn’t want to squander trying to babysit a deranged Hunter. After all, though he was entering into his early sixties, he still had a desire to top his brother’s achievement of discovering the Camden coven in the eighties. This fact alone had earned his brother substantial fame and fortune within the Association and Coulter wanted nothing more than to step out of the long shadow his brother cast, even after his death.

  He stared out the window as the first blush of morning cast a soft light over the rolling scenery. If the Breed King did surface in Camden, then it was an opportunity he couldn’t waste, no matter the cost.

  Chapter 3

  Karla Malthus sat facing the desk in Jericho’s office. She had news she knew he wouldn’t like, but he had a right to know about the shit storm that was about to land on his doorstep.

  Jericho entered and prowled over to his desk, leaning against it, arms folded, face guarded. Her gaze traced the familiar lines on his face, and she felt desire warm her. Three scars sliced the left of his face, marking him as a beaten alpha. But they didn’t bother her. There were many tales of how the last Breed King had fallen and how his Enforcer, Ben Jericho, had been banished here. She’d heard firsthand how Jericho had been beaten in an ambush, his King killed. It had hardly sounded like a fair fight. Not that she expected anything less of Drake, her sulky, stubborn brother who had now managed to keep the Breed King crown for the last eight years.

  She licked her lips deliberately, a seductive move she knew was wasted. Their relationship only revolved around him requiring access to the medical centre at her commune and a constant supply of medication for his men, a charitable arrangement that she tolerated. The Dog House relied on donations, just as she did for Crystal Waters, but her advantage was her powerful family connections and social status as a full-blooded Breed. Replacing broken equipment, or requiring new work done, was as easy as a few phone calls on her behalf.

  It was in her interest to make Jericho dependent on her, and she still hoped one day he would forget her personal connection to his past shame. In the years Jericho had been in Camden he’d made quite a name for himself, and despite his being a mutt, more than one full-blooded clan now regarded him with a religious zeal reserved for high-ranking Breed priests of the old faith. She’d heard he was seen as a healer, gifted to mend the most broken of Breed, and if only she could make him fall for her, Karla knew she would gain a powerful ally. One that might follow her when she left her position at Crystal Waters and re-entered society. After all, strength might be the domain of male Breed, but it was the females that made them dance.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ She crossed her legs and gave her long hair a casual toss. Jericho’s eyes didn’t flicker. She suppressed a small sigh. It made no sense that he wasn’t attracted to her. She was full-blood and well positioned in the Breed community, despite her banishment here, which she considered a mere hiccup in her long-term plans. Hell, she knew she was beautiful, she had a long list of lovers to prove that. But Jericho had never made any advances, despite her best efforts. One day she might just have to take the upper hand, alpha or not.

  ‘What do you want, Karla?’ he asked, rubbing healing scratch lines on his forearms.

  Karla hesitated. She’d heard he’d been forced to put down a reverted mutt and knew how raw Jericho would be feeling now. While she had little personal attachment to the women under her charge, any death was seen as a professional failure.

  ‘Two matters that concern you.’ She skipped asking how he was, knowing any further attempts at pleasantries would only serve to annoy him. She felt tense enough about the news she had. ‘First, I’ve had a resident missing for the last two days and this morning a body was found near the Pembly Forest. It hasn’t been identified yet, but I know you’ve got an arrangement with the local police and one of them has left a message, wanting me to come down to the station. I was hoping you could make some calls, let me know exactly what I’m walking into.’

  ‘You’ve had someone missing for two days.’ Jericho’s eyebrows knitted. ‘And you’re only telling me this now?’

  Karla dismissed this fact with a shrug. ‘She’s run away twice before, but they were just cries for attention,’ she explained. Running the female rehabilitation centre while still maintaining useful business connections within her father’s successful media conglomerate wasn’t easy work. Not to mention trying to keep up with her daughter, Alice. Even with help from the women at the centre, caring for a boisterous six-year-old was a hard task.

  ‘We thought she’d come home after a few days, just like the other times,’ she told him. ‘I need to know if the body is hers.’

  Jericho’s eyes were accusing, but she met his gaze coolly. She was expected to protect the women at her centre with her life, and she did that to the best of her ability. Jericho was in no position to dictate to her how she should run her centre, though he’d tried in the past. But she was Karla Malthus, born into a full-blooded clan whose lines stretched back to medieval times. She bowed her spine to no one.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do to help you,’ he said finally.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I want something in return.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her eyebrows rose.

  ‘I want to have another talk with Renee about the next batch of Lycaease coming here. I want to know about the issues I might face if I triple-dose some of the harder cases.’

  ‘Haven’t you already discussed this with her?’ She folded her arms. She’d long suspected Renee, the talented geneticist at Crystal Waters, had a crush on Jericho and would do anything he asked, even something like allowing triple doses. Apparently, double-dosing was risky enough. But Karla hadn’t discouraged Renee’s little crush. After all, any advantage helped, and Karla knew her vanity could stand the warm smiles Jericho gave Renee when they talked.

  Just.

  ‘I’m sure I can arrange that,’ she replied. ‘Are you thinking something’s wrong with the dose? We’ve never had trouble before.’

  ‘Not sure. I’ll let you know if I need more help with it.’ He ran a hand over his short dark beard. ‘What’s the second issue?’

  ‘The King is unwell.’ She pushed the words past a sudden dry throat.

  ‘Breed don’t get sick,’ Jericho said with a frown.

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything serious,’ she said cautiously. When she had talked to her brother, Victor had refused to tell her any details. She was sure it was worse than he was telling her. After all, it was dangerous for him to come here. He was King, and if it got out into the wider community that he was ill, it would be the same as eating a silver bullet. Challenges would be mounted, assassinations organised. But it was pointless not to tell Jericho he was coming. Camden was a small town and the Breed community smaller still.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Jericho’s frown deepened, as if he sensed more bad news coming. Karla knew she had to tread carefully and that Jericho had little love for her brother and even less for his Enforcer, Tony Vaughn, the one who’d marked his face.

  ‘He’ll be coming to Crystal Waters to rest until he is well again,’ Karla said.

  Jericho’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You cannot be serious.’

  ‘I’m afraid I am.’

  He leaned towards her. ‘Do you realise that makes you a target? Make us all targets
?’

  ‘I don’t dictate what the King does and neither do you. I’m just telling you because you have a right to know.’ Karla stood, not wanting to get into an argument. After all, there was no point. It was happening, regardless of what Jericho thought about it. ‘I’m also telling you because Vaughn is arriving soon to assess security. He mentioned he had business with you.’ She watched the Enforcer’s name break over Jericho like a wave. Watched his body still and the humanity drain from his eyes, leaving a beast staring back at her, one that did not forget the past, and one that craved revenge. The raw undercurrent of violence prickled her skin. She licked her lips again, but this time it wasn’t a calculated move. She was nervous. Male Breed were notorious for their overinflated sense of pride; a ridiculous waste of energy, she often thought. Let people think what they want. It was results that mattered. Results that bought wealth and status. She drew her courage around her tight.

  ‘I just don’t want any issues between either of you … please.’ She stumbled to a stop and silently cursed her worry.

  Jericho pushed himself off the desk, coming in close. She didn’t cringe, but she didn’t exactly meet his eyes either. She wasn’t here to fight. His body blasted heat, his scent like a wave of wood smoke curled around motor oil. She tilted her chin up, thinking she could give it a shot, could maybe stare him down. She would not be intimidated by a growly ex-Enforcer. Even if he had soulful eyes the colour of burned honey and the kind of hard body that made her stomach flutter with anticipation. Her gaze got as far as his shoulder before instinct kicked in and stayed put. Growing up in a powerful Breed clan, she’d been around enough alphas to know her limits.

  ‘What kind of issues are you worried about?’ His voice was deceptively soft.

  She wanted to leave, but knew it would either provoke him or lower her standing in his eyes. Neither was acceptable. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, but anger poured off him, lapping hot over her, flushing her cheeks. She desired his attention, but not this kind.

  Gritting her teeth, she managed to inch her chin up and give him a quick defiant glare. ‘I want your word that you will respect the rules of my centre. I don’t need some sort of internal war between you two.’

  A sneer lifted Jericho’s top lip. ‘You think I’d waste my time worrying about Vaughn?’

  She tilted her chin up a little further, though her eyes dropped quickly to his shoulder. ‘I want your word you’ll respect the rules I have in place. I have responsibilities, just as you do.’

  Jericho’s chest stilled, and she risked a quick glance up, seeing the beast had retreated from his eyes. He gave a bitter laugh. ‘The King is going to bring unwanted attention to us. You know Breed Hunters track his every move. They will come here.’

  ‘No Hunter would dare enter Camden and risk breaking the treaty.’ Karla hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. ‘We are protected here.’

  ‘Yeah? By what? A creaky old treaty written two decades ago?’

  ‘And the witch curse.’ Karla touched her forehead, an old Breed gesture to ward off evil spirits. Though she had been raised Lutheran, her grandmother held fast to old Breed pagan beliefs and had secretly taught Karla about the ways of old.

  ‘Grow up, Karla,’ Jericho sighed. ‘Aren’t you a little old to believe in fairy tales?’

  She straightened her spine, suddenly feeling very foolish. She’d paid attention to her history lessons, knew that when the Hunters had realised the role the witches played in the treaty they had wreaked a terrible revenge. It was discovered too late how vulnerable the witches had been. But the curse had stayed in place and those in Camden had been held safe by the lingering magic that struck down any Hunter entering the town. Of course, the Association kept up the pretence of upholding the treaty, but there were still a dozen or so shadowy assassination attempts on her brother’s life each year, a sign the war was far from over.

  ‘There might not be any witches in Camden now,’ she snapped. ‘But there were once, and their memory is what keeps us safe. You’d do well to remember that.’

  Jericho gave a snort of disbelief and she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all herself.

  ‘You have to promise.’ She stood and closed the distance between them. Reaching out, she touched his arm, relishing the contact of his warm, firm skin. ‘I’ll talk to Vaughn, make sure he leaves you alone. I know you and him have your differences, but—’

  Jericho growled and the beast rushed back into his eyes, blowing his pupils wide. Karla’s skin prickled and she dropped her hand quickly. ‘You have to promise.’

  ‘Get out.’

  She hurried for the door, then paused with her hand on the handle, considering one last plea for peace. But a quick glance back at Jericho’s thunderous face told her she’d be wasting her breath.

  * * *

  Jericho glared at the empty doorframe, arms crossed tight as he slowly digested Karla’s news. He had a good idea what ‘business’ Vaughn wanted to go over. It was no secret there had been concerns about the increase of reverting men under his care. He knew he was only as good as the numbers of those he saved. Karla kept him in supply of the various medications he needed, including Lycaease, a drug that partly blocked the Breed hormone, LTH. But now it just wasn’t enough.

  Thoughts shifting from the threat of Vaughn’s impending visit, he started calculating once again the risks of getting the dosages of Lycaease tweaked to a stronger level. It was something he’d been warned against: that the drug was unstable after a certain point. But the risk of doing nothing for those showing danger of reversion was far greater.

  Shouting erupted from the bar and he hurried out of the office to see Reaper’s impressive attempt at self-control had finally ended. His fists flew as Slayers swarmed over him, knocking tables aside and cursing. At a safe distance, Frost leaned against his pool cue, watching as Reaper half-disappeared behind a swarm of leather and dirty denim.

  Blades and Winger came alongside Jericho. Blades’ shoulders were jacked high, pink lipstick smudged on his neck and his belt buckle undone. The marks Lance had given him had almost healed, thanks to the accelerated healing all Breed were blessed with.

  ‘Reaper has the worst fucking timing,’ he grumbled, doing his belt up. ‘You won’t believe what I just missed out on.’

  ‘A new STD?’ Winger asked, and ducked to avoid a blow.

  Jericho kept his attention on the fight, seeing Reaper throw two Slayers off him with ease. A disapproving rumble started in his chest when he spied bar patrons starting to press up against the wall, their expressions sliding from entertained to alarmed. At least some were still cheering.

  Reaper moved with the fluid grace of a born fighter, broad shoulders flexing as he grabbed another Slayer and threw him aside. The Slayer fell back, arms pinwheeling and legs sprawling, as he crashed into the jukebox, jumping a Bob Dylan song to Meat Loaf crooning about hell.

  The door to Turk’s tattooing room snapped open and the old man appeared in the doorway with a scowl. Black ink smeared his weathered forehead, and his teeth were clamped around an unlit Camel Turkish cigar. An eye patch covered his right eye and his arms were covered in faded bare-chested women and sailor motifs. Taking in the scene, he signalled to Winger and Blades, making a sequence of hand gestures.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Winger murmured.

  ‘Man’s having flashbacks to Vietnam.’ Blades mimicked one of Turk’s hand movements, ending with a wanking motion. Turk flipped Blades off, then hurried over to help Reaper with the remaining bikers.

  ‘You better hustle before the old dog shows you up.’ Jericho didn’t need to say it twice and both men surged forward, shoving Slayers away with heavy hands.

  Jericho stayed back, watching Frost, who still hadn’t moved. All of the Diablo Dogs were Breed who had appeared at the compound, broken in body and spirit. After they’d healed, each man had decided they were better off staying and working for Jericho. None were angels. Every one of them was dodgin
g a past sin or two, but none more than Luke ’Frost’ Ruger. He’d told Jericho his memory took him until five years ago, when he’d suffered a head injury. Before that black hole, he’d confessed to Jericho about Black Ops work in his early years, before he’d shifted to a counter-terrorism unit. But those missing five years? Nothing but static. Before becoming an Enforcer, Jericho himself had served in the army, even commanding a specialised Commando Regiment for two years, and he had recognised the pain of a fellow soldier. He’d worked extra hard to help Frost maintain his humanity and the two had fought more than once as Jericho had tried to pull Frost out of the tail dive he found himself in, his killing instinct wrestling for control. Out of the crew, Frost was the only one still taking meds to help him keep himself level. Now, with ice-white hair pulled back in a thick plait and high Scandinavian cheekbones, Frost was a calm stream of water—until you flipped his buttons. Then, even Jericho had trouble controlling him.

  Jericho’s back stiffened when he spied Corbin Winslow, one of the younger Breeds, join the fight. As a rule, men from the Dog House did not socialise outside of the compound, unless they had been given a general pass rating, called a G1, allowing unsupervised visits to town and a job in the bar if they wanted it.

  Corbin wasn’t a G1 yet, but his work in the Dog House canteen had been nothing short of extraordinary and he’d quickly been promoted to working the kitchen at Dusty Roads. A short-order cook from Texas in his former life, the kid made burgers that were a top seller at lunch and Jericho had high hopes for the freckle-faced kid of sixteen who’d been bitten when he was eight, and had struggled since with the threat of reverting. He’d been fortunate to be bitten before puberty, since only the very young survived the virus, transmittable only through the bite of a fully reverted Breed. For a child, the process was manageable with drugs and heavy sedation, then being taught pack laws about containing the beast inside. But for an adult, a bite was a death sentence, the sudden chemical changes too much for the body to survive.