Nightwalker. Connie Hall
“You do not know what danger you are in when you tempt me like that.”
“Tempt you? I didn’t—”
Her words were cut off by his kiss. His lips devoured hers and his forceful domination roused her. This wasn’t like the tepid kisses from before. She was getting a taste of his unchecked desire.
Striker’s fingers moved up and over her breasts to linger at her throat. He laid a finger on her jugular vein and left it there, feeling her heartbeat.
“You are too much of a temptation,” he whispered against her lips.
When she opened her eyes, she saw his fangs, extended and gleaming. The look in his eyes should have frightened her, sent her running from the hungry vampire who held her in his arms. But the only emotion she felt was all-encompassing passion …
About the Author
Award-winning author CONNIE HALL is a full-time writer. Her writing credits include six historical novels and two novellas written under the pen name Constance Hall. She is thrilled to now be writing for Nocturne.
An avid hiker, conservationist, bird watcher, painter of watercolors and oil portraits, she dreams of one day trying her hand at skydiving.
She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband, two sons and Keeper, a lovable Lab-mix who rules the house with her big brown eyes. For more information, visit her website or e-mail her at [email protected].
Dear Reader,
We all share fantasies of meeting one on a dark night—am I right? But be careful, you may get what you wish for. And the vampire may not be the nice True Blood, Bill Compton type. You may meet up with the Nightwalker.
That’s what happens to Takala Rainwater. And let me tell you, Striker Dark isn’t named Nightwalker because he’s a pleasant sort of undead. He was formed before Christianity. Envision the transformations he must have witnessed, the wars and destruction on which he fed. He could have whispered in Nostradamus’s ear, chatted with Einstein, orchestrated civilisation to suit his whims and his hunger for blood. Now imagine putting your life in the hands of such perpetual evil …
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot to tell you about Takala’s sisters, Fala and Nina. You can read their stories in The Guardian and The Beholder.
Happy reading!
Connie Hall
Nightwalker
Connie Hall
MILLS & BOON
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Chapter 1
Buckingham Palace
The call came at a most inopportune moment. Striker Dark reached for his phone while keeping his gaze on the queen of England. She cut her eyes at him for a split second, and, without missing a beat, she continued to address the dignitaries with stiff royal aplomb.
After a quick look around, he astral projected out the banquet room’s closest exit. He would take the call and get back before the humans present even realized he’d left his seat.
Two of the queen’s MI10 agents, a vampire and a leopard shifter, noticed. They were the only Supes (supernaturals) in the room who could follow his departure. They eyed him with distaste. MI10 was a highly classified counterintelligence agency within Great Britain, the counterpart to Striker’s own United States Bureau of Supernatural Phenomena. They both dealt with anything supernatural and kept it hidden from humans, and duties sometimes included protecting royalty and government officials. Two of Striker’s own agents were safeguarding the President of the United States right now. But MI10 agents thought themselves a cut above their Yank cousins, and for that reason Striker ignored them completely as he paused in the hallway.
His phone wasn’t your typical landline. A crystal, developed especially for him by the tech-support staff at B.O.S.P., drove the gizmo. His clairvoyant powers absorbed the energy it released, and it amplified them. It was like having an omnipresent stalker exploding in his head. Even before he opened the lid he knew something was dreadfully wrong.
His gut flinched, and he couldn’t believe the image appearing before his eyes. Hover demons floated and circled five of his agents.
Hover demons could be easily summoned; they killed for pleasure, unlike doom demons, who tortured their victims and demanded payment for their enjoyment. There were as many types of demons as there were types of angels. Angels and demons had their many uses, but Striker refused to summon hovers for anything. They were unpredictable, and in his line of work unpredictability was a detriment.
Black hooded robes covered the demons’ bodies and faces, but the flamethrowers and scythes in their hands were clearly visible. His agents were near them, on their knees, execution style. Silver chains crisscrossed their vampire bodies and held them immobile. Striker knew every one of the agents by name. He had trained them himself. They were the elite at B.O.S.P. How could this happen?
In the moonlit background, Striker noticed a wharf. Warehouse lights cast eerie shadows over their faded fronts. Boats rocked against the pier, and he saw the Suter’s Marina sign. He knew that place. New Orleans.
A hover paused, the edge of his robe rippling as he lowered the blowtorch and fired. Aquarius, a two-hundred-year-old vamp and one of Striker’s OIC’s, screamed. A rictus of pain and helplessness distorted his face.
Abruptly, the scythe chopped down on his neck.
His head rolled like a ball and settled near his knees. One blink of recognition from his eyes, and then the life left Aquarius’s face forever.
Another demon closed in on the next agent in line. Fizz! Chop! Fizz! Chop! Another shriek. Chop!
Striker wanted to feel sympathy or empathy, but there was nothing left inside to let him feel. He had lived too long on the earth, and it had killed his human sensitivity. It was as if the world had lost all its color and he observed it from an objective, sterile black-and-white environment now. Still, he couldn’t look at his own agents, the ones whom he directed and had sent to their deaths, without feeling the injustice. A tiny snarl lifted one corner of his lip, and he felt his fangs extend.
Suddenly the phone’s camera turned upward, and a female face he recognized spun into view. Real name: Skye Rainwater, aka Simone Poindexter, aka Lilly Smith. Code name: Culler. She stared back him. Her vibrant blue eyes filled up the screen, the dark, sooty lashes caked with mascara. Eyes so deeply entrenched in his mind that he’d see them the rest of his life.
“Hello, Nightwalker,” she said. “Enjoying this little show?”
Striker heard another yell, and it cut the back of his neck like the teeth of a chain saw. “Culler,” Striker said. “What