Arcanum 7: Bulletproof

Description

Bulletproof – Mychael Black

Arcanum 7

For twenty years, Daren Page managed to convince himself he was over Corin “Jackson” Lothaire. He was doing well, too, until Corin’s psychotic sire decided Corin needed to be taught a lesson.

Corin “Jackson” Lothaire escaped his sire and returned to the States, leaving France and Xavier Le Doux far behind. Although he kept tabs on his ex Daren, he never actually expected to see the man face to face again.

Now it’s a race against time for Arcanum to catch Le Doux before he can destroy the one person Corin loves above all others.

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EXCERPT:

Daren Page leaned back in the booth and sipped his beer. The television hanging precariously over one corner of the bar had been commandeered by a crowd of football nuts, and their shouts and cheers were nearly enough to wake the dead. Daren just shook his head and finished off his drink.

“Another one?” the server asked as she swung by his table.

“Not tonight.” He handed her a twenty to cover the one he’d had, which was already too much. He rarely ever drank to begin with, but today had been… hell.

“Oh, honey. Thank you.” She tilted her head a little. “You okay?”

“Just had a long day,” Daren said. “I’ll be fine.”

Her smile was sympathetic. “You’re too sweet to see the crap you do every day. Take care of yourself, Detective.”

He summoned a smile without really feeling it. “Thanks, Angie.” He stood and gave her a hug before putting on his coat. He waved goodbye and stepped out into the cold January night.

The snow had started about two hours ago and had only gotten worse. Thankfully, he lived a couple of blocks away. He didn’t relish getting out into the mess tomorrow morning for work. When thoughts of the day began to creep back in, Daren stopped and tipped his head back. Eyes closed, he let the snow fall onto his face in hopes it would chase away the lingering heat from just a few hours before.

The fire hadn’t been a big one, and the firefighters had put it out fairly quickly. When it became clear that the building had been a vampire-run bookstore, however, the regular police sent the casefile to Arcanum. It should’ve been a simple arson case, and it had been.

Until Daren had found the owner’s decapitated body in the smoldering rubble. They never did find the poor woman’s head.

Shivering, Daren resumed walking. He’d intended to go straight home, but before he realized it, he stood before a brightly lit brick building covered in French murals. Techno music emanated from the front doors, and two doormen checked IDs as the line to get inside shortened little by little.

The urge to walk away warred with the morbid desire to go inside. He didn’t do places like this. He had no desire to navigate a crowd teeming with vampires. He had absolutely nothing against his vampiric coworkers, but that was work. If he stepped foot inside The Bastille, there was only one face he knew he’d look for.

He’d told himself years ago that it was done, he was done. Now he wondered who he was trying to fool.

Before he could contemplate the wisdom of it, Daren made it through the line and stood just inside the inner doors.

The crowd swarmed the club, and the DJ kept them all on their feet and dancing. His coworker’s partner, Isreal, made bartending look easy. Daren figured it was a perk of being a shapeshifter. He walked up to the bar and caught Isreal’s attention. The young wolf flashed Daren a wide smile, grabbed a bottled water, and handed it over.

“You remembered.”

“Of course,” Isreal said. “Besides, Ryan said you’d be by at some point.”

Daren wanted to ask for clarification, but he already knew the answer. Since he’d let it slip that he had a past with The Bastille’s owner, it seemed like everybody at the station lowered their voices when talking about the place if Daren was within earshot. Sometimes, he was glad to be mortal so he couldn’t inadvertently eavesdrop and hear the man’s name. Yet… here he stood, water in hand, in a packed nightclub, gaze scanning the crowd for the one face he’d dreamt about for the past twenty fucking years.