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  Beautiful Danger

  ( In the Company of Vampires - 1 )

  Michele Hauf

  Could Her Sworn Enemy Lead Her Out of Darkness?

  As a member of an ancient order of vampire hunters, Lark has found that eliminating dangerous vampires is about more than duty. It's personal—a kill for every day her husband was held captive before his death. Staking her prey isn't a challenge until she confronts Domingos LaRoque. Mad with vengeance and the blood of a powerful phoenix, Domingos tests her skills...and seduces her soul.

  Once a talented musician, Domingos can't escape the constant music in his head...or his need to destroy the werewolf pack that tortured him. Though trusting the hunter ordered to kill him can be his gravest mistake, the dark desires between them can't be refused. Yet as he and Lark become allies to defeat a mutual threat, loving the enemy may be the ultimate sacrifice.

  Could Her Sworn Enemy Lead Her Out of Darkness?

  As a member of an ancient order of hunters, Lark has found that eliminating dangerous vampires is about more than duty. It’s personal—a kill for every day her husband was held captive before his death. Staking her prey isn’t a challenge until she confronts Domingos LaRoque. Mad with vengeance and the blood of a powerful phoenix, Domingos tests her skills…and seduces her soul.

  Once a talented musician, Domingos can’t escape the constant music in his head…or his need to destroy the werewolf pack that tortured him. Though trusting the hunter ordered to kill him could be his gravest mistake, the dark desires between them can’t be refused. Yet as he and Lark become allies to defeat a mutual threat, loving the enemy may be the ultimate sacrifice.

  “You win tonight,” she said. There was always tomorrow night.

  “So what’s my prize?” he asked.

  His prize? If he expected what she had just denied the wolves, she would slay him right here and now, and be damned if she fell to her death.

  “I can’t bite you,” he said, dashing his tongue along one fang, “because you’ve got that damned collar. Too sharp. Though pain—gives me a thrill. But I can do this.”

  And he kissed her. Hard and urgent, forcing his sweet breath into her mouth. The vampire persisted, pressing his body against her knee, challenging her to hurt him, to deny him this stolen prize.

  Training had not covered this sort of attack. She could feel his fangs pressing into her lip, but not cutting. Insanity! Never would she—

  Suddenly the hard crush of their mouths softened. Lark dropped her knee. And like a moth with tattered wings surrendering to the flame, she granted the vampire his prize.

  MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and of creatures she has never seen.

  Michele can be found on Facebook and Twitter and at michelehauf.com. You can also write to Michele at P.O. Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303.

  Beautiful Danger

  Michele Hauf

  Dear Reader,

  This is one of those stories. I don’t know how else to put it. It combines many things that have meaning to me: music, Paris, trust, loss. Some tend to think that paranormal stories are all about the creatures, the cool powers and the weird lifestyles. But really, all my stories, no matter that they feature fangs, fur or wings, are about the people. What makes their hearts beat for one another? What is it that means the most to them? And if that important thing was taken away, how would they get it back? Domingos and Lark are two people who touched me to the core, and it was an amazing journey as I learned more about them in my attempt to bring their story to the page. I hope you enjoy Beautiful Danger as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Michele Hauf

  The music from the cello-rock band Apocalyptica inspired this story so I want to thank them for filling my brain with fantastical images of beauty, danger and love.

  And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  Prologue

  Smoke billowed and clouded the halls and rooms in the Levallois pack complex. Werewolves, in both animal form and human form, retreated from what had once been their sanctuary.

  The alarm sounded a droning cry but didn’t coerce the pack leader to work more swiftly. Remy Caufield, pack principal, stuffed a valise with valuable financial records taken from the safe, along with other documents he was unwilling to leave behind. Sure, the safe was fireproof. But he could not guarantee he would be first on the scene following the fire’s devastation to claim what was inside the safe.

  The door to his office slammed open, and thinking the flames had raged this far, he held up the leather valise in a protective manner to block his face.

  What stood in the doorway was not flame or a fellow werewolf.

  The haggard creature who bounded into the office, right leg dragging limply, and wild black hair tangled about his head so only his eyes showed, was the pack’s pet vampire.

  Well, pet defined the man ironically. They’d had the longtooth for countless months, and had used him well. The thing just would not die. It had become a sort of experiment to see how long the creature would cling to life. He had defeated every opponent put to him in the circular steel cage kept in the compound basement. And remarkably, the UV sickness, while it maddened the creature, only seemed to make him stronger in the ring.

  The werewolves had made a mistake last night. Remy hadn’t known the vampire they’d matched against this creature was a phoenix. The phoenix was a powerful vampire who decades ago had survived a witch’s blood attack, which had once been poisonous to vampires. Drinking his opponent to death must have infused their pet’s blood with the nearly indestructible phoenix’s blood.

  Domingos was his name. Maybe. Remy didn’t care.

  “You’ve gotten loose?” he asked stupidly.

  The vampire slapped his filthy hands on the desk before him and growled, showing his bloody fangs—blood that could only have come from Remy’s men.

  “You will pay for this!” the creature raged. “I will return!”

  Remy scoffed, but his heart cringed. The vampire’s eyes were black as hell and yet bright, so frighteningly bright. He looked into a strangely lucid madness.

  “Serve me your worst,” Remy said bravely. “You won’t make it beyond the flames.”

  The vampire grinned maniacally. For a second Remy thought he would leap the desk and attack. But instead the longtooth grabbed the office chair and tossed it toward the window. Glass shattered.

  Leaping to the windowsill—they were three stories up from the concrete courtyard—Domingos turned and saluted. “I will kill every wolf in the Levallois pack.”

  And then he jumped.

  Remy slapped the valise to his chest, knowing he would see the vampire again.

  Chapter 1

  One month later

  The pack complex had not been rebuilt after the fire. The pack principal, Remy Caufield, had created a sort of family home in an eighteenth-century town house at the edge of the sixteenth arrondissement, close to the forested Bois de Boulogne.

  Or so Lark had been briefed an hour earlier by her supervisor.

  The Order of the Stake tendered a fragile relationship with werewolves. Knights in the Order exclusively slayed vampires, but there was nothing to keep them from tracking and killing a werewolf should it prove a threat to mortals. The Order, populated exclusively by mortals, allied with none from the paranormal nation
s.

  “Ah?” The principal of the Levallois pack looked up from his desk as she approached to stand quietly before him. His dark eyebrows furrowed curiously. “I hadn’t expected a woman. I thought the Order was strictly men.”

  “You thought wrong,” she answered curtly. “You have a job for me?”

  “No introductions? I’m Principal Caufield.” He offered his hand to shake across the desk.

  Lark did not accept the offer but instead returned an acknowledging nod. Best to keep him appeased. She didn’t like paranormals of any kind, but her training had taught her diplomacy.

  “You can call me Lark.”

  “Lark. Pretty, in a...” His pale eyes took in the sleek black cleric’s coat she wore, tight black leather leggings reinforced with Kevlar on the thighs and high leather jackboots. At the collar of her coat gleamed the bladed edging designed to keep away vamps looking for a thick, juicy vein. “Well, you seem to fit the bill, Miss, er...Lark. You’ve been knighted?”

  “As are all who serve the Order. If you need reassurance that I can do the job, Principal Caufield, you’ve only to check with Rook, as I’m sure you have. But I am here now, and I assume you wish little time wasted. A third of your pack has been slain?”

  He nodded and exhaled as he settled back in the office chair. “Yes, a third. Utter insanity. Eight of my pack slain in a month’s time. The culprit is the vampire Domingos LaRoque. He is mad.”

  “Truly?” Lark hated to think of madness overtaking any man, yet while her tone professed lacking belief, her heart believed. Too deeply. “Or is he merely angry over crimes the Levallois pack perpetrated against him?”

  The principal leaned forward, eyeing her with some concern. “You show pity toward a vampire?”

  “Not at all. I simply want to deal with the facts. Lies complicate things. So tell me the truth.”

  “Very well. To cut through the bullshit, it is no secret the pack engages in the blood sport.”

  Illegal fights that pitted captured vampires against one another to the death, but those fights only occurred after months of starvation and forcibly induced UV sickness. Such callous disregard for the sanity and welfare of those not their breed was a good reason for Lark to not let down her guard around werewolves.

  “Domingos was an odd one,” the principal continued, thumbing his chin in thought. “Normally the vampires we engage in the sport last a round or two before expiring. But LaRoque lasted six months. That vampire possessed a twisted will to live. Even the UV sickness could not defeat him. Although I believe it made him mad—literally. He’s a dangerous opponent. Can you take him out before he murders the remainder of my family?”

  “Of course.” Lark nodded once and then, before turning to leave, said, “The first time I lay eyes on Domingos LaRoque will be the last time he takes a breath.”

  * * *

  The pack had spread out as he’d thinned the herd. Heh. He’d stood good to his word upon breaking out of that hellacious complex. But no time to celebrate. He had a werewolf to track—if he could just keep the music in his head from distracting him. It wasn’t even a song. More like a gathering of distorted violin chords, like a cat in heat yowling for attention. That, and the slithery whispers that never left him alone. He never understood any of the words, if they were words; it was just an eerie constant murmuring. It was enough to drive a man mad.

  “Been there, done that. Still doing it,” Domingos muttered.

  He banged the side of his head against the brick wall where he hid in a dark alley. That helped. Joggled his brain. Focused him. Until the cacophony resumed.

  Clenching his teeth, he smacked a fist to the side of his skull. Ah, silence.

  “Finally,” he muttered, and snuck forward through the night.

  Cool shadows calmed him and relaxed his muscles. Always tense lately. Ever on guard. A man couldn’t find peace with so much to tend, both mentally and externally.

  Didn’t matter. So he was mad. He dealt with it as best he could. Besides, the madness proved an advantage when he leaped for his prey and ripped out its heart. Yet that wasn’t Domingos LaRoque who stood holding the pulsing heart. That was the phoenix inside him.

  That other vampire. The one you drank dry in order to survive.

  Heh.

  A clatter focused him on a mangy scent on the dark Paris streets. The werewolf was not using stealth. The dogs were not known for grace or silence.

  Feeling his veins tighten in anticipation of the deed, Domingos crept forward. He would have his revenge. Again.

  The wolf spoke with someone. Female, and...mortal. He scented her blood, sweet and tainted with floral perfume. Good thing he’d fed an hour earlier. But damn, the last thing he needed was a mortal witness.

  Domingos turned and looked down the alleyway he’d come from. He clasped his fingers over the brass-framed goggles that hung from around his neck. He wore them always; be it day or night, he never ventured outside without them. If he so much as looked toward UV light, his vision went completely white.

  What was that? A shadow moved not half a block away. Had he passed someone without realizing? Did another wolf follow him?

  Never let down your guard. Stay alert. They are everywhere. Snap out from nowhere to grab you and take you back. Don’t go back!

  Disregarding the werewolf putting the moves on the mortal, for he hadn’t yet verified if it was from pack Levallois, Domingos slunk back the way he had come. Inner whispers forced him to snap his head back and forth, as if he were a headbanger with Tourette’s. The move was not successful. Yet in between the clamor of distorted musical notes and hideous whispers taunting his brain, he managed to pick up a heartbeat. Calm, yet aware.

  Casting his gaze across the rooftops—two stories up—he ran a short distance and made a leap, landing on the slate tiles with ease, for his bare feet gripped the smooth tiles and held him there. Squatting, he clasped an arm about his tattered leather pants and leaned over, much like a gargoyle, seeking the mysterious shadows below. Yet unlike the gargoyle, he was not positioned—and had no intention—to protect.

  Down the alley, the werewolf laughed counter tempo to the click of the mortal woman’s heels. His prey had hooked up. Lucky bastard.

  You don’t need a woman. You seek only the blood from those who tortured you.

  He wasn’t sure the wolf had been Levallois, and he wasn’t about to take out the wrong wolf.

  The violin scratched at the inside of his skull. Domingos made to slap his head but paused. A curious shadow moved below. And he wanted a closer look.

  He could do this to a sound track—even one that screamed like a burning cat.

  Leaping, Domingos descended with a grace that loosened up a chuckle. He sometimes forgot that his inner madness manifested in voice. The shadow, alerted by his laughter, dashed between buildings as he landed on the cobbled street crouched, fists to the ground.

  Another chuckle echoed into the night. Domingos laughed at himself from the grandstand. His other self—that sane self—could never quite manage belief in the antics perpetrated by the phoenix, the true darkness within him.

  But he’d given himself away.

  Quickly, he slipped into the shadows, becoming but a heartbeat. He listened, straining to hear the mysterious other over the insistent skull clatter. Cars rolled by, exhaust fumes billowing into the night. The werewolf’s scent lingered, yet he knew that ship had sailed. Pity the mortal woman should she not expect an animal in her bed tonight. The moon was half crescent, so the wolf needn’t shift, unless that was his thing.

  Forget the wolf, Domingos thought. I want to play with the mystery shadow. He scented her now. Yes, female. And close by. As if it was her intent to remain. Could she have been tracking him?

  Interesting.

  He hadn’t gone to Club Noir tonight. The erratic thrash-metal bands they featured provided an escape from the noise in his brain. When he was there, females hung on him, attempting to get his attention, to entice him into learni
ng their salacious secrets. He hadn’t the interest.

  They all need to die.

  So what was he doing now?

  Playing with the shadows.

  Right.

  Slipping past the open doorway of an abandoned building, Domingos moved swiftly. He made out the shape of her now. Her back to an old iron street pole, she stood tall and slender. Alert.

  He moved like the wind, and just at the moment he sensed she knew he was behind her, he grasped her around the neck and pulled her spine against the pole. One hand pressed across her throat, choking her, while the other moved to the hand she slashed back toward him.

  His fingers grazed cold metal. He clamped his hand about hers, sliding his fingers up along the metal cylinder. He recognized the shape of the weapon only from a close encounter years earlier. Fuck. She held a— She couldn’t be!

  Her free hand gripped the pole and while her body moved slightly forward as she kicked back with one foot. Something sharp on the back of her heel tore through his pants and thigh. Domingos cried out at the pain of it, but he didn’t release her.

  No, he wanted to play with this prize.

  Blood scent blossomed as he squeezed his fingers about her trachea. Blades? He wasn’t about to let go, despite the icy sharpness cutting into his palm.

  He felt her grip on the cylinder loosen and snatched it from her. Slamming the blunt end of it against the back of her shoulder, he growled, “You want to die, hunter?”

  “You first!”

  This time he avoided her kick but released her as he backed away. Chuckling, and wielding what he knew was a deadly titanium stake, he lunged and wrapped himself about her back. The force of their collision knocked her to the ground, facedown with her palms to the tarmac.

  Straddling her, Domingos shoved the stake against the base of her skull, execution style. He’d never slain a mortal, but he’d make an exception this night.