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Or, God forbid, Desmond.

The darkness wasn’t total. Light from the night sky filtered through grates overhead, making the blade of my katana glimmer faintly.

“This way.” Desmond stepped ahead of me, the shotgun propped on his shoulder. Damn did he look good with a gun in hand. It was nice to see my mild-mannered, sweet-as-hell boyfriend acting like an alpha. He was so often overshadowed by Lucas, it was easy to forget he was a born leader.

I wondered briefly how the relationship between Desmond and Lucas was now. Lucas was king, and Desmond his second-in-command in the pack. They had once been best friends, but I was responsible for screwing their friendship up completely.

It didn’t mean the pack dynamic had changed though, and I wished I was thoughtful enough to ask how Desmond was handling working under Lucas these days.

Now didn’t seem like the best time to bring it up.

Peyton had once been part of a plan to help one of Lucas’s rivals usurp the throne. Though the plan had been a failure on many levels, it meant Desmond had a personal stake in wanting Peyton dead too. The vampire had no interest in a werewolf throne, but he was a smart man and made alliances wherever he thought they might benefit his ultimate goal.

I wondered what kind of shit-show we might be walking into. If only Mouse had been able to give us more insight into what Peyton was plotting here. Was he merely lying low, or was he up to something? Knowing Peyton, the latter was the most likely case.

But what was he planning? Knowing that would give me a better idea of how many people would be guarding his subterranean lair. I had no doubt whatsoever he would have—to borrow Desmond’s term—minions. He was too smart to go without protection, especially knowing how many people wanted him dead.

I never understood how he was able to recruit aid with such ease. Did he promise them wealth or eternal life? Or did he build his own army by turning a dozen new baby vamps? That would be a risky move, given how unpredictable newborn vampires could be.

And Peyton knew all about that.

We followed the tunnels, each of us quietly waiting for the inev

itable attack. After about fifteen minutes, we found the place Mouse had told us about. A cardboard box and a few empty blood donor bags littered the ground, but I highly doubted that was where Peyton was getting most of his supply from. A vampire starved of blood as long as he’d been was going to want it fresh.

The candy wrappers in the box suggested I was right, because if he had a human blood harem, they would need to eat something too.

I poked at the box and the wrappers with my toe. A waft from the donor bags caught me, and I sniffed the air.

“These are new,” I observed. “They probably picked the stuff up not too long ago.”

Desmond took a breath, raising his nose to get a good whiff. When his face wrinkled in an unpleasant way, he looked back at me. He’d smelled vampire. “That way.” He indicated to our right, away from the light peeking through the grates overhead. We’d be going into the real dark. Right where Peyton would have the upper hand.

“Can you tell how many?” Sometimes it was possible to get distinct scents from those we were tracking and estimate a rough number. It wasn’t a perfect science, but it gave more insight than blind guessing.

“A half dozen? Maybe more?” He shrugged. “It’s hard to say, sorry. They just stink.”

I pretended to be insulted by his comment, sticking my tongue out. Desmond reached out his free hand as if he might grab it, grinning wickedly at me. In spite of the seriousness of our mission, it felt good to be stupid and playful with him. I hadn’t felt this free and easy in months.

Apparently all it took to bring me back to life was a death wish for someone else.

I cuffed Desmond in the ribs, my hand bouncing harmlessly off his tight, muscled side. Part of me wished we could just stand here all night, pretending this was a normal date, and forget why we’d come. But a rat scuttled over my foot, reminding me that this wasn’t a romantic outing and we were in genuine danger every moment we had our guard down.

I took a deep breath and attempted to differentiate between the vampire scents, hoping I might pick up something Desmond couldn’t. But his sense of smell was better than mine, and even though I could detect the vampires, I didn’t do any better at picking up on their number.

We were going in blind.

And given how dark it was, that was both figurative and literal.

I choked up on the hilt of my sword and swallowed hard. You asked for this, I reminded myself coldly. Now suck it up and get your ass in gear.

Bitchy Secret was right. It was time to find Peyton.

We moved in the direction Desmond had pointed to, all the light from the street vanishing, leaving us in a bleak, murky chaos. In a matter of feet, the dry stone gave way to puddles, and soon the water was deep enough to slosh around my calves. My boots kept most of the mess out, but zippers weren’t the best defense against liquid, and some of the sewer grime started seeping in.

The boots would be ruined, but I could celebrate Peyton’s death by buying a new pair.

“How is it that it stinks less in the sewer than it does in the metro stations?” Desmond mused, his voice barely over a whisper.


Tags: Sierra Dean Secret McQueen Paranormal