Lover's Absolution (PAPERBACK)

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“OH, YOU HAVE GOT TO be kidding me,” Xander said, as a dozen werewolves appeared in the mouth of the dead-end London alley.

“Sorry,” said the dark-haired woman who’d lured him here on the pretext of helping her—apparently fictional—sister who had supposedly been attacked by a young boy with glowing eyes and fangs. She sounded genuinely sheepish as she jerked her chin at the man next to her, who was decked out in chains and ripped camo like some sort of cut-rate Mad Max reject. “He didn’t think you’d come if you knew what we really were, vampire.”

“Smarter than he looks, then,” Xander observed, thinking privately that it wasn’t a very high bar to reach. “Good to know.”

The alpha werewolf’s answering smile was thin and cruel. “You’d be amazed.” He cocked his head. “No doubt you’re getting ready to fly away home, little vamp, but you should hear what I have to tell you first. I’ve got something you want.”

“You think so?” Xander asked, affecting boredom to cover his irritation at having fallen for a pretty woman’s damsel-in-distress act. “What is it? Fleas? Kibbles? A squeaky toy? Maybe a nice, meaty bone?”

That cruel smile never wavered. “I’ve got that little baby vamp Manisha described to you, all chained up in iron shackles, so he can’t get away. Interested, now?”

Yes. Of course he was interested now. Because if what the alpha was saying about holding a child vampire prisoner was true...

“God, I fucking hate werewolves,” Xander told him, tone still conversational. “Have I mentioned that yet?”

“Oh, well. Off you flap, then,” the leader said, making a shooing motion with one hand. “Nothing stopping you, is there? Not unless you want us to take you to see Junior first…”

Xander gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more at that moment than the human ability to crawl into a bottle, get blind, falling-down drunk, and never crawl back out.

“Fine, Fluffy,” he grated. “You win. Take me to see this alleged vampire, and I won’t brandish the rolled-up newspaper.”

Fluffy’s flat, hard eyes were starting to make Xander’s skin crawl, quite honestly. But he held back any further insults as Fluffy shrugged a brawny shoulder.

“That’s real magnanimous of you, mate,” said the werewolf. “Best follow us, in that case. Dawn’s coming soon. You wouldn’t want to get a terminal case of sunburn, now would you?”

Actually, mate, Xander thought sourly, you might be surprised. Lately, that prospect has been growing more appealing by the day.

* * *

Manisha Sadhu was living a nightmare. With the green-eyed vampire and her other pack members in tow, she followed meekly behind Crank, the alpha werewolf. She and Sangye—the young boy she’d been meant to protect—had been handed to Crank like chattel a couple of weeks ago. Since then, he’d pretty much owned them both, body and soul. Before all this started, Manisha used to think she understood what reality was. She’d known evil existed in the world, of course—these days, you’d have to be blind, deaf, and stupid not to realize that evil existed in the world.

But… werewolves? Vampires?

Two weeks ago, she’d been a glorified nanny. No, even that was too generous. She was barely more than a housekeeper, included as part of the small retinue of people helping to hide Sangye in London. She’d been chosen for the position mostly because of her stint in British schools as a teenager and her distant family connections in the UK. After a roadside bomb in Tezpur killed Sangye’s Regent and his teachers, he and his remaining retinue fled India for the West in hopes of finding less chaos there.

They should have known better. At first, it seemed that things might work out for them. They had a strong case to offer the Office of Tibet in London when they appealed for asylum, and they’d been awaiting official word while staying in a private house where they would not draw unwanted attention. Then came the terrible evening that would live in Manisha’s dreams forever.

The sound of fists pounding on the door. A harsh shout to open up for the police. Bhuti, the most senior of Sangye’s surviving teachers, had opened the door, saying that there must have been some mistake. Half a dozen black-clad men immediately swarmed in, breaking Bhuti’s neck as Manisha watched in horror from the second story balcony.

She still remembered the smell that rose around the intruders like a cloud—in fact, some days she thought she would never be completely free of it. It was the smell of the grave. The smell of death. They moved quickly through the house, choked-off screams marking the senseless murders of the others who had been staying on the first floor.

Manisha ran into Sangye’s bedroom and started yanking frantically at the window, trying without success to open it while his mother clasped the boy in her arms and attempted to keep him quiet. She’d hoped that if his mother Jampa held Manisha’s legs while she lowered Sangye out by his hands, maybe the two of them could get the six-year-old down safely from the second story. But then it was too late.

One of the men kicked the flimsy bedroom door off its hinges even as Manisha searched around for something heavy enough to break the window’s glass. Huge forms rushed in and overpowered them. She struggled, certain that she was about to be killed like the others. A cold laugh came from the open doorway.

“Oh, how utterly delectable,” said a voice with an oily Eastern European accent. “You have truly outdone yourself, my Master.”

The speaker was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in sunglasses and a dark, tailored suit that contrasted sharply with the black military gear the other men were wearing. He also didn’t appear to be conversing with anyone presently inside the room. A chill skittered its way up Manisha’s spine.

Jampa was weeping now, straining toward her son. “Please,” she begged in broken English. “Please, no! He is boy… just small boy!”

“Who are you?” Manisha snapped, trying not to gag at the stench now choking the bedroom. “I demand to know what agency or organization you represent!”

The man in the suit came closer, his sunglasses reflecting her frightened face in stereo.

“You demand?” he asked, clearly amused. “Well, if you demand it of me, then I will tell you that as far as you’re concerned, I am here on behalf of the Ministry of Death.”