On the Hunt

With that, she disappeared.



Now there were gasps.



Meet them? How was she going to—



She reappeared, holding the hand of a young man with pale hair. That man gaped when he saw the crowd of people and tried to back away.



"You didn't say you were bringing me here," he growled.



Vasili hopped from the dais.



"Nick. Just stay here. Nothing bad will happen to you," she said. "Vasili," she then called. "He's not armed. Protect him." She disappeared again.



Vasili went to Nick's side. "Don't hold her hand again," he said, patting the man on the shoulder and nearly drilling him into the floor. He'd never thought to find himself the protector of a Walker—Rose excluded—but he did so now without reservation. Just because his woman had asked him.



Dark eyes swung to him. The man remained in place, though he trembled.



Rose reappeared with someone else, introduced him, then left again. Over and over she repeated the experience, until there were sixteen Walkers. They were scared, but didn't move from their spots. Perhaps because they were surrounded.



"How did you get them here when it isn't their birthdays?" he asked her when she settled beside him.



"I think because I'm bound to you, I can move between the two worlds at will. And I figured I could move other Walkers with me whether it was their birthday or not. I was right."



Smart girl.



"Now let's make nice between your people and mine so we can be together. Unless . . . I understand if you can't," she said, unsure. "If it's too painful. Your family was taken. All I ask is that you let me return these men without harming them. I just thought this would be—"



Vasili planted a kiss on her lips for all to see. "You are my family now, and I will do whatever is necessary to protect you. Even this."



Grigori stepped from the army ranks and joined them, placing his hand on Rose's shoulder in a show of support. "You have my protection, as well." His voice was gruff, but he was not a man to make false promises. He always meant what he said. "I have never seen my king so happy—or so upset when he thought he couldn't have you. I will do whatever is necessary to give him the life he deserves."



Tears filled her eyes. "Thank you."



"You have my support, as well." Jasha closed in their little circle and placed his hand on Rose's other shoulder. "Like Grigori, I want my brother happy. Always. No matter what that entails."



God, I love my family. They might not agree with him, but they would support him. Even in this.



"Thank you," Rose said again, chin wobbling. "I won't let you down. I swear."



Vasili's people watched, listened, and issued no more protests. That was a start.



And so, with Jasha and Grigori at his sides, he introduced himself to the Walkers and offered a vow to protect them. Most flinched under Grigori's stern gaze, but they seemed to lose a sliver of their fear.



"You don't have to run from us anymore," he said. "Our goal is no longer to harm you. You are my wife's people, which means you are also mine." He reached back. "I protect what's mine."



Rose knew what he wanted, and once again settled in at his side. She twined their fingers and gave a comforting squeeze. "Let's learn from one another," she said, the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "Let's embrace peace."



She waited until each Walker nodded before at last taking them home. Vasili rushed to his bedroom, and when she next appeared, he jerked her into his arms. "You've given me so much, I'll never be able to repay you," he told her.



"I can think of a few ways you can try."



"It's like my birthday today."



She chuckled, the sound of her amusement warming him. "Then happy birthday, love."



He grinned down at her. "Are you my present?"



"Well, my heart is yours. Now, forever."



"Good, because that's exactly what I wanted."



THE COLLECTOR



SHANNON K. BUTCHER



For Julie Fedynich, the best cheerleader an author could ever have



Chapter One



St. Louis, Missouri, December 12



The woman had something Neal Etan wanted and he wasn't leaving until he got it.



He hurried up the cement steps leading to her front door, his booted feet leaving behind tread marks in the dusting of snow that had just begun to accumulate. With any luck at all, he'd convince Viviana Rowan to give him the gadget Gilda said might cure his friend's paralysis, and be back on the road home to Dabyr before dark.



Synestryn demons got more hours of playtime during the long winter nights, and Neal needed to be done with his errand and back out there fighting, ready to stop them before some unsuspecting human became a meal. Not to mention the fact that he really needed the physical outlet to help control his pain—an outlet only a good dose of hack-'n'-slash fighting or hot-'n'-sweaty sex provided.



He wasn't going to get either in the house of some stuffy old antiques collector, so he needed to get in, get the gadget, and get out. Fast.



The pain was grueling today, grinding against his bones until even his hair ached. The two hours of meditation he'd done earlier had barely eased the pressure of the power growing inside him.



He told himself it was because he'd just lost another leaf from his lifemark—the living image of a tree that covered his chest—but he knew it was more than that.



His time was running out. The leaves were falling faster now, thanks to a jolt of power a stun-gun hit had given him last summer. He'd absorbed a year's worth of energy in one instant, and he still had the nightmares and cold sweats to prove it.



With only twelve leaves left, he knew the remainder of his life could now be measured in months.



Maybe even weeks. And that was assuming that one of the Synestryn demons he fought didn't get a lucky shot in.



Not that he was complaining. He'd been around nearly four hundred years now. It was a good run. He'd slain a lot of evil in his lifetime. He'd served his purpose and done his job. And when it came time to take his own life so he wouldn't become like the evil he was sworn to fight, he'd do that, too. No complaints, no regrets. He was a warrior destined to die for his cause, and no amount of wishing for things he couldn't have was going to change that.



Just because other men like him had found the women who could save them didn't mean Neal had gone all soft in the head, thinking he would, too. He knew better than to let false hope sway him to hang on longer than was safe. This time next year, he'd be dead. No sense in getting all sappy about it.



Neal's knuckles rapped on the frigid door, and a moment later, he could hear aging floorboards creak on the other side of the wood. It slid open two scant inches, revealing one long-lashed, hazel eye.



"Yes?" said the woman, her voice low and soft.



"I'm Neal Etan. I have an appointment with Ms. Rowan."



"Is it four thirty already?" She sounded bewildered.



"It is."



She swung the door open and stepped back for him to enter. "I'm sorry. I was studying a new artifact and must have lost track of time. Please come in."



Neal stared at her in a long moment of surprise.



She was taller than he expected—only a couple of inches shy of six feet—and much, much younger. He'd had an image of some dried-up, bent old woman, someone who fit in with all the younger. He'd had an image of some dried-up, bent old woman, someone who fit in with all the ancient items she was reputed to have collected—one of which Neal wasn't leaving without.



Instead, he guessed her to be in her late twenties, though her prim business suit and spinsterish bun gave her a more mature air. She was pretty in an untouchable kind of way—the kind of woman a rough man like Neal avoided when possible. He'd either shock her or hurt her or both if he was around long enough.



He hoped he could conclude their business and be on his way before that became an issue.



Neal stepped over the threshold as she extended her hand in greeting. "I'm Viviana Rowan."



He didn't want to touch her. Her long, elegant fingers seemed too fragile for his sword-calloused hand. But even more than that, he didn't want to offend her—not when they hadn't even begun to negotiate.



With an inward sigh of resignation, Neal took her offered hand, thinking of blown-glass sculptures and hollow eggs so he'd keep his grip light.



He'd intended to make the contact as brief as possible, but the second his skin touched hers, his world fell silent. Decades of pain evaporated like snowflakes over a fire. A buoyant, weightless bubble swelled inside him, driving away the pressure of the massive power he stored but could not use. The hair along his limbs lifted from his body, and a fine shiver eased down his spine, warming him as it passed. Even his shock at the reaction couldn't seem to penetrate the overwhelming sense of peace that settled over him. He was content to stay here in this quiet, warm peacefulness for the rest of his life.



And then he felt her fingers slide from his grip and reality came crashing down on him once again. Pain thrashed inside him, as if angry that he'd had even that brief respite. It lunged against his bones, pummeling his organs as it punished him.



Neal gritted his teeth against the scream that was crawling up his throat and locked his knees so he wouldn't collapse in a heap at the woman's feet. A cold sweat beaded up along his hairline, and his stomach gave a hard, sickening twist.



". . . you okay?" Her soft voice lapped against his nerves, quieting their rioting dance. "I'll call for an ambulance."



"No," croaked Neal. "I'm fine." He was anything but fine, but the last thing he needed was to be dragged away from here and have human doctors poking at him. Not only would they be freaked-out by his lifemark, but he'd have a hell of a hard time explaining why there was an invisible sword strapped around his hips. "Can I have some water?" he asked, just to get her to leave him alone for a minute. He needed to collect his wits, and he really didn't want this woman to see him weak like this.