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Authors: Astrid Cooper
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ebony hair to her arse, her cream skin and large red lips, Sula was a natural for the place.
“Yes, you’re right,” Sula said. “You’re too petite and pale to be welcome there. Where are you going to hunt? If you don’t feed tonight I’ll know and I’ll bring a man to you. You decide, now, while you still can.”
“Thanks for nothing.” Mirra pushed herself back from the table.
So, in Adelaide, the city of churches, Mirra hunted that night, and for several weeks of nights, indiscriminate, taking the first man who crossed her path. A blur of shadowed faces and tastes, bodies straining, screaming with ecstasy.
* * * *
In the dark alley, something was dead. Mirra rarely hunted in alleyways, but some of the others did. Especially the vampires—no accounting for taste there, Mirra thought. Vamps enjoyed the twisting shadows, the concealment, the certainty of cornering one’s prey.
She halted, scenting the alley. This dead thing had nothing to do with her, but instinct, a compulsion—something—drew her down the narrow lane. She cursed as she saw the spreadeagled body. This was a complication she did not need.
Mirra bent over the prostrate figure and gently turned it. The woman was dead, beaten and shot. And raped. But none of these had killed her. The woman’s throat had been torn apart and she had been drained of blood. A messy killing, no finesse, just flesh ripped open, peeled back like a tin can and the contents devoured.
If one had to kill, then it should be done cleanly. This was a butcher’s work. If it wasn’t for the after-scent, and the psychic vibration in the alley, Mirra would have said that the woman had been human-killed. But that tendrils of aura wafting around her wasn’t human. A Blood had been there. But not just any Blood. A rogue vampire.
“Just what I need!” Mirra whispered.
The victim was cold, but her killer’s taint was starkly fresh. As Mirra probed the energy currents she sensed that somewhere nearby, the rogue vampire fed, ignoring all restraint.
But worse, the vamp had ignored the one rule that bound the Blood Hunters—never leave a victim to be found. By so doing, humans, with their increasingly sophisticated forensic science might begin to suspect the truth and that truth was dangerous. Deadly to all Blood-kin.
The vampire who had fed was shockingly vicious. Mirra had seen frenzied killers’ handiwork before, but this was by far the worst she had encountered. His taint was impaled through the battered flesh. He’d fucked her properly, his blood and seed saturating his victim. All these in combination meant that the woman would resurrect in the worst possible way. Mirra retreated. She had to get away. Fast. A creature that did this to his prey would have no compunction about chewing on a succubus. Succubus sex-magic was coveted by the vamps, when they could get it. She wasn’t about to go on any damn menu. She looked down at the twisted body and shuddered, swallowing against the gorge rising in her throat.
“Don’t move!” a male voice shouted behind her. “That’s right. Now real slow, you stand up, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Mirra obeyed, curiosity overcoming caution because she liked his voice. A deep voice, harshness hiding the gentleness. A voice of contrasts, like the man—this she knew in a moment. So, she obeyed.
She heard his footsteps on the pavement and looked over her shoulder. A man, dressed in black leather, dark hair, a gun…a Colt Python levelled at her. She hated guns. They were clumsy, killing tools for cowards who didn’t want to get their hands bloodied. The moonlight highlighted him, and the gun—large and lethal, like its owner.
As he glanced down at the body, she saw his jaw tighten. His gaze lifted to Mirrazan.
“Up against the wall, face first. Don’t make me use this.” The gun waved her forward.
His hand pressed her hard against the bricks, her cheek scraping the rough masonry. She gagged at
“Yes, you’re right,” Sula said. “You’re too petite and pale to be welcome there. Where are you going to hunt? If you don’t feed tonight I’ll know and I’ll bring a man to you. You decide, now, while you still can.”
“Thanks for nothing.” Mirra pushed herself back from the table.
So, in Adelaide, the city of churches, Mirra hunted that night, and for several weeks of nights, indiscriminate, taking the first man who crossed her path. A blur of shadowed faces and tastes, bodies straining, screaming with ecstasy.
* * * *
In the dark alley, something was dead. Mirra rarely hunted in alleyways, but some of the others did. Especially the vampires—no accounting for taste there, Mirra thought. Vamps enjoyed the twisting shadows, the concealment, the certainty of cornering one’s prey.
She halted, scenting the alley. This dead thing had nothing to do with her, but instinct, a compulsion—something—drew her down the narrow lane. She cursed as she saw the spreadeagled body. This was a complication she did not need.
Mirra bent over the prostrate figure and gently turned it. The woman was dead, beaten and shot. And raped. But none of these had killed her. The woman’s throat had been torn apart and she had been drained of blood. A messy killing, no finesse, just flesh ripped open, peeled back like a tin can and the contents devoured.
If one had to kill, then it should be done cleanly. This was a butcher’s work. If it wasn’t for the after-scent, and the psychic vibration in the alley, Mirra would have said that the woman had been human-killed. But that tendrils of aura wafting around her wasn’t human. A Blood had been there. But not just any Blood. A rogue vampire.
“Just what I need!” Mirra whispered.
The victim was cold, but her killer’s taint was starkly fresh. As Mirra probed the energy currents she sensed that somewhere nearby, the rogue vampire fed, ignoring all restraint.
But worse, the vamp had ignored the one rule that bound the Blood Hunters—never leave a victim to be found. By so doing, humans, with their increasingly sophisticated forensic science might begin to suspect the truth and that truth was dangerous. Deadly to all Blood-kin.
The vampire who had fed was shockingly vicious. Mirra had seen frenzied killers’ handiwork before, but this was by far the worst she had encountered. His taint was impaled through the battered flesh. He’d fucked her properly, his blood and seed saturating his victim. All these in combination meant that the woman would resurrect in the worst possible way. Mirra retreated. She had to get away. Fast. A creature that did this to his prey would have no compunction about chewing on a succubus. Succubus sex-magic was coveted by the vamps, when they could get it. She wasn’t about to go on any damn menu. She looked down at the twisted body and shuddered, swallowing against the gorge rising in her throat.
“Don’t move!” a male voice shouted behind her. “That’s right. Now real slow, you stand up, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Mirra obeyed, curiosity overcoming caution because she liked his voice. A deep voice, harshness hiding the gentleness. A voice of contrasts, like the man—this she knew in a moment. So, she obeyed.
She heard his footsteps on the pavement and looked over her shoulder. A man, dressed in black leather, dark hair, a gun…a Colt Python levelled at her. She hated guns. They were clumsy, killing tools for cowards who didn’t want to get their hands bloodied. The moonlight highlighted him, and the gun—large and lethal, like its owner.
As he glanced down at the body, she saw his jaw tighten. His gaze lifted to Mirrazan.
“Up against the wall, face first. Don’t make me use this.” The gun waved her forward.
His hand pressed her hard against the bricks, her cheek scraping the rough masonry. She gagged at
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