Familiar Stranger Read online

  she’d never been given a choice in the matter.

  Eyelids falling shut, she concentrated, walking slowly forward. She could scent things humans could not. The ever-changing odor of the Thames drifted up her nostrils, the river but a jog away. Tonight it smelled of cut grass and rotting hardwood.

  A slight movement in the rods diverted her senses. She smiled. Getting closer. Beneath her steel-toe boots she could feel the vibrations rising up from the earth. Must be a ley line close by—an obvious place for a tear in the mortal fabric to transpire.

  Something had to be torn. Four paras of the demonic persuasion had been reported within the last forty-eight hours. That was positively an invasion. Mersey hoped they were daemon incultus; a genus of demon that didn’t use mortal disguise, but rather showed itself in all its natural, creepy glory. They were much easier to capture than a tricky human-form daemon sapiens.

  Her mother had taught her to witch for ley lines when she was six. It hadn’t really been an education, more like unearthing a talent already there. Mersey could witch a ley line, an underground trickle or stream, or wend her path toward an infestation of demons merely by concentrating and allowing the innate energies within her to connect to the otherworldly forces. Those forces were everywhere; most, invisible remnants from an unwarranted visitor, but some were definite trails. Her connection to the otherworld was like breathing. Natural. In fact, it was mortals who gave her the most pause, if not, on occasion, out and out terror.

  Trailing her wake by fifty paces, Mersey knew a white cat padded along. Ever curious about her, felines. If a cat prowled within shouting distance, it would eventually find her and cozy about her ankles to give a discerning sniff. Good thing she liked cats.

  Suddenly the copper rods crossed. Mersey stopped straight away. The vibrations flowing up from the ground and through her body were unmistakable.

  Cocking her head to the right, she assessed the dark warehouse beyond a chain-link fence. Three stories. Windows smashed out. Possibly abandoned.

  “Brilliant.”

  She folded the customized rods and tucked them inside the pocket of her ankle-length suede coat. It was late September; though an early autumn chill warranted a cap and she had gloves stuffed in her pockets.

  “Stay out here, puss,” she directed. “This could get ugly.”

  The cat obediently sat, curling a moon-white tail about its forepaws. Ducking through a tear in the stiff chain mesh, Mersey then crossed the dirt courtyard and quickly located an entrance through a broken ground-floor window.

  The building was cold, but her coat, rimmed about the collar and wrists with sheep’s wool, kept her warm. A snug black leather aviator cap dangled over her ears and static-charged wisps of her shoulder-length hair clung to her neck and cheeks.

  Scents of industrial grease and dust permeated her nostrils. Must have been a factory once outfitted with machinery that had dripped the huge black oil stains on the wood floor. The moon served as a pale white lamp.

  Stretching out her arms, she walked through the empty warehouse. Her right hand, each finger stacked with protective hematite rings, divined for otherworldly vibrations, while her left, unadorned (for her past needed no protection), swept along in parallel. Her paces were steady, same as witching a line. Now was no time to introduce fear. Awareness became paramount.

  She could feel something hum through the veins of her right hand, though the signal was blurred. Whatever it was, it wasn’t on this ground floor.

  Locating stairs at the end of the murky room, she flew up the debrislittered steps two at a time. No worry for making noise. If there was a para in the building, it already knew she was here. Fine with her. She didn’t need to see the thing; she just had to capture it.

  “Heck of a way to spend a Saturday night,” she murmured, topping the third-floor stairs. “On the other hand—” three strides took her into the vast empty room “—no one’s been knocking down my door to go dancing, of late.”

  “You want to dance?”

  Frozen in a beam of red light, Mersey instinctively put up her hands to shield her eyes. This wasn’t quite the sort of luck she’d hoped to find tonight.

  Chapter 2

  “W ho are you?” a male voice demanded.

  Squinting against the beam of red light, Mersey looked down the long steel barrel of a huge gun.

  “Hullo, what is that?” she asked. “Did you raid the Star Wars prop room, then?”

  Dropping her hands, she stepped forward into a slash of moonlight. The man stood in the shadows and the light from his gun prevented her from seeing anything more than the outer edges of him. And those edges were impressive. Broad shoulders always did it for her. That meant the man was strong and capable of carrying things—like a woman—off to the pub or, better yet, his bed.

  From where had that thought come? A girl ought to be cautious around strangers wielding big-arse weapons.

  “Hands where I can see them!” He prodded the weapon toward her. A retractable bayonet engaged with a click.

  Mersey flinched. “Watch it, will you? You could poke an eye out with that thing.”

  “Ma’am! Name, rank and ID number, if you please.”

  She smirked and crossed her arms.

  “I’m on a mission, ma’am. Let’s be having it. I need to verify you are a civilian.”

  A civilian? What else would she be to the average man on the street? Of course, there appeared to be nothing whatsoever average about this muscle-bound bloke with a macho rating that tipped the scales.

  “Mersey Bane,” she offered. “Sounds like the disposition, but spelled like the river. As for rank, I think I’m on about the third floor. And you’re not getting my ID number, mate.”

  “Ma’am!”

  “I am hardly a ma’am.” She thought to stroke a hand through her hair, but the aviator cap kept it out of sight, so instead she shoved her hands to hips. “And no numbers. How do I know you’re not going to steal my identity and spend thousands on eBay to support your convoluted weapon habit?”

  “Convoluted?” The tip of the gun tilted downward, along with the red laser.

  Towering over her by more than a head, Mersey fancied he must be six and a half feet high, at the very least. She had to look up to meet his eyes. Nice.

  “Who do you think you are?” he barked at her.

  She sidled closer, the flaps of her full-length coat winging out beside her. She wanted to get a better look at him, to answer the tempting curiosity that burned hot within her breast.

  “I’ve told you who I think I am. Mersey Bane.”

  She contemplated reaching out to offer a handshake, but the weapon kept her at bay.

  Moonlight stole across the side of his face. The man’s square jaw pulsed. Hair cropped military short hardened his stern features even further. His expression screamed menace.

  Yet those eyes. They were blue, maybe, hard to determine in this subtle light. He held her stare, for a few seconds longer than a stranger should. And in those seconds, his eyes glinted. And that glint sneaked into Mersey’s being and glittered darkly about her wanting heart. Yes, wanting. A girl shouldn’t go so long between dates when she was young, eager, and oh, so—

  She smiled a teasing grin, hoping to soften his sharp edges. “And you are?”

  “None of your concern, Miss Bane.”

  “But how to get to know you better without a name?” she said, pouting. And why she had suddenly pulled on the temptress act startled her.

  “Tongue!” he barked.

  “Tongue?” She delivered him a catty tilt of the head. Yet her casual stance hid a sudden twinge of anxiety.

  So the man knew the situation? She knew exactly what he was asking for. Unfortunately, it did not refer to anything sexual. And if he did have a clue, then she wasn’t dealing with an average civilian. Taking the location and his weapon into consideration, to judge from his attire—combat boots, dark clothing and a flak jacket—he must be a rogue demon hunter stalking prey.
What luck. Tall, dark, handsome and in the know.

  So long as he did no harm with his big bad toy, she decided to like him. But if he should use the weapon, all bets were off. Tongue? What she wouldn’t mind doing with her tongue to his broad shoulders.

  He offered a smile then pulled it smooth. “Please, miss, I know it sounds strange—”

  “I understand what you’re asking for.”

  “Then you’ll oblige me.”

  Obliging him drew the inner temptress farther from her hideout. Eyebrows briefly flashing up and down, she smiled inwardly when he gave her a quick lift of brow to counter.

  Poking out her tongue, Mersey waggled the tip—a non-forked tip. The man lowered the gun to rest at his side. Yet, his finger remained close to the trigger.

  “All right then.” He exhaled and gestured toward the stairs. “Best you get on your way and leave the dirty work for the big boys.”

  Big boys? Before a protest could get past her lips, the sheer size of the man’s moonlit frame forced Mersey to reconsider. Blimey. Difficult not to give him that one.

  “Obviously you’re stalking paranormals to ask me such a thing,” she tried. “At least, I hope you are. I haven’t walked into a police operation, have I?”

  “I…”

  Couldn’t say. Probably had to remain covert. As if that big gun didn’t give him away.

  “Fine, I know the drill. So give it up,” she prompted. “I deserve the same consideration. Tongue.”

  “Miss, I—”

  “How do I know you’re not a demon?” she said, flashing him a wink. He obliged her request by sticking out a flat, pale pink tongue. Perfectly human.

  Demons, though they could mimic the human form completely, could never get the tongue right. Red, blue and forked were the most common indications.

  “Right,” she said. And that dark glitter squeezing her heart overtook all remnants of reluctance. Go for it, Mersey. “But I’ve a better method for the tongue check.”

  Stepping forward, she spread her hands up the man’s arms, gliding across the rough protective vest. Her reach wouldn’t go all the way; she couldn’t touch her fingers together behind his back. Oh, bountiful bit of brawn.

  The man didn’t immediately react as she stepped up onto his boot toes. She pressed her hands against the back of his skull. The short hairs on his scalp shifted stiffly under her palms as she fit her fingers along the muscles tensing his neck.

  He breathed a gasp into her, but didn’t break the kiss. It had been a while since she snogged a handsome lug like this one. And after only knowing him for a moment? What was the lug’s name? Now was no time to question principles. It was as if she were acting outside herself. Sexy, wanting Loose Lucy had stepped up to take what Mersey needed, while the logical, practical Mersey protested—albeit weakly—from too deep inside her psyche to cause more than a nuisance. She believed in love at first sight. A girl had to believe in something. Because that portent her mother had made years ago about there being but one man for her? Not so much belief in that.

  Her lug smelled faintly of spicy aftershave and warm flexing muscles. The scaled vest exuded a slight chemical smell. The shadow of a mustache tickled her upper lip. A deep groan signaled his willingness. Mersey sucked in his lower lip. A bold move, but it felt dangerous and right. She couldn’t get enough of his rugged sensuality. Danger exuded from him. Exhilaration filled her veins. There had to be more, so much more to match her fathomless want.

  “Mph,” he muttered against her mouth. He pushed gently, his wide hands spanning the girth of her rib cage. He might completely enclose her torso with his forceful grip. She liked the vulnerable position. “Miss?”

  “Mersey,” she said on a sigh. Clinging to his shoulders, she had to hold herself up to meet his mouth for another quick kiss. “Didn’t catch your name, stranger.”

  “I—” His body stiffened within her greedy, exploring grasp. “Can’t do this right now.”

  Mersey felt his arm slide along her torso. The hard steel of the huge weapon banged her elbow as he drew it high and stretched out his arm over her head.

  And then, he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 3

  T he trigger gave under Jack’s touch. A burst of brilliant red light momentarily illuminated the entire third floor of the warehouse. The carbine grenade launcher kicked hard, but Jack caught it with an unmoving shoulder that bore more than a few scars from rifle kickback. Meanwhile, he held the woman tight to his left side, his arm wrapped about her narrow frame, while he lowered the gun in his right hand. Her warmth and that she melded into him without protest did not go unnoticed. Clinging to unexpected salvation while he dug himself deeper into a disparaging hell.

  Bad form, Jack.

  An unholy yowl clawed the rafters. The demon had taken the salt grenade in the maw. Heavy, cold wodges splat Jack’s face, shoulders and arms as a rain of demon fallout settled about him. Sometimes they did that—splatter before dissolving to dust.

  The gorgeous bird in his arms squiggled free and stumbled backward. A full rifle barrel shorter than he, she had been literally standing on his toes to kiss him.

  “Dash it all! What did you do?”

  She shook her arms of the globulous demon particles and bobbed her capped head forward to do the same.

  “Target annihilated,” Jack confirmed. He tilted the rifle barrel back against his shoulder.

  Now, to convince her to forget this night ever happened. The last thing P-Cell needed was a civilian in the know. And yet, she’d known about the tongue thing.

  “You were a bit preoccupied with coming on to me to notice the danger. Never been kissed while hunting.”

  “Danger? Target dead!” she shouted. “You—you scruff! You can’t do that.”

  “Take no prisoners. Not wise to leave them kicking.”

  The woman slapped away more demon bits and shook her fingers to fling the offending substance in all directions. A few angry stomps placed her in the line of moonlight beaming through the window.

  “You must preserve the subject for interrogation and deportation back to its own realm. Bloody imbecile!”

  That was two names she’d called him in less than three breaths. This saucy bird was not going to rail on him for doing his job. Jack strode over to Mersey. “You’re going to forget what you’ve witnessed, little girl.”

  “Little? Of all the—Who put you in charge?”

  “That is priority information.”

  “Oh, really? And that big bad toy of yours? A salt grenade? You’re nothing but a freelance demon hunter, blasting indiscriminately. It is absolutely inhumane. You, you…death merchant!”

  She was calling it as she saw it, and she saw quite plainly. Jack couldn’t argue her surprise, or the fact that he should have done his best to keep her from witnessing this incident.

  But if she suspected he was a hunter, then that verified her knowledge of demons. Which made her no less a civilian than he was. She stomped an obstinate beat upon the floor. Her coat cut narrowly down her petite frame, dusting the tops of well-worn combat boots. Jack caught her by the upper arm.

  Moonshine spotlighted their encounter. Underneath the skullfitting aviator cap (with goggles) he noticed bits of dark hair had been tied back behind her head. Huge, green eyes belonged on a puppy dog begging for favors, not this spunky woman with an attitude. A pert, slender nose led to lips that begged to be snogged. Again. She smelled like a niffy demon. But still…

  “I suppose you’re not up for snogging now?” he tried. But his heart wasn’t in the proposition. The hunter needed to resume the hunt.

  “I can’t believe I actually kissed you. You’re a…”

  “Just doing my job, miss.”

  “You—” she stabbed the air between them with a finger “—are a violence-loving, gun-toting cretin!”

  Yet another name! Jack straightened his shoulders and cast a glowering sneer on the frantic bit. “The cretin thanks you for your accurate assessment of his
nature, Miss Bane. And, he’ll have you know that violence just saved our arses.”

  “It’s Mersey,” she said with a sniff, “not Miss Bane. And you are?”

  “Not eager for small talk.” He sighed, but then blurted, “Jack Harris. Now look, the situation is dangerous. I can’t be responsible—”

  “I can take care of myself, Mr. Harris.”

  There was plenty brass about this woman. She cocked out a hip. Skinhugging black leather wrapped her long slender legs. Sexy. Jack could go a round or two with her. If he weren’t concerned for the fate of the world. Which, he was. Or, at the very least, a small portion of London.

  “Are you even aware of the chain of fallout that occurs each time you kill a demon?” she countered.

  He guessed the only possible explanation for Miss Bane’s knowledge—

  beyond her being a conspiracy theory wacko—was that she must be professional. They were out there, demon hunters and witchy sorts; freelancers of the nature she imagined him to be. Which he was not. All orders came directly from P-Cell. Jack avoided the freelancers like the bloody plague, their hocus-pocus rot was generally nonsense. Though, for all purposes, he did call himself a demon hunter. P-Cell boasted werewolf and vampire hunters as well, with the gray seekers covering all OEs—otherworldly entities—not considered a constant and irrevocable threat.

  “The fallout is pretty obvious,” he said and flicked another fragment of demon from his shoulder. “Demon approaches. Demon endangers innocent civilians. Demon dies. Simple as that.”

  “It is not so simple!”

  He wasn’t in the mood to argue. And unless this bird got real serious about snogging, he wasn’t prepared to waste any more time here.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Me?” She shrugged up the lapel of her coat and adjusted her stance to stretch up her petite frame. The commanding look almost worked on her. “You tell me who you work for first.”