Blood Debt - By Tanya Huff Page 0,48

4:16.''

"What the ... ?"

"What the what, Bynowski?"

"I don't know." Brow furrowed, Frank Bynowski leaned closer to the monitor that showed a long shot of the front approach. "Something flickered... "

The front door alarm went off.

Two pairs of eyes locked on the screen linked to the camera over the front door. Instead of a solid barrier between the house and the world, the steel reinforced door swung lazily back and forth on its hinges.

Gary Haiden turned a flat, accusing stare on his companion. "The boss told you to lock up!"

"I did!"

He jerked his head at the image. "That says differ?ent." His tone suggested the lapse would be reported, that Bynowski would suffer for it, and that he, Haiden, wouldn't much mind.

"Yeah? Take a closer look, shit-for-brains."

Both halves of the lock had been twisted into im?possible angles.

The monitor showing the front hall-the only view of the inside of the house-flickered, but neither man noticed. They'd kicked in too many doors to miss the significance of the broken lock.

"Shit, shit, shit, fuck!" Bynowski reached for the intercom button. A leather-covered hand closed over his finger before it had quite covered the distance. He grunted as the bone snapped, too astounded to scream. When he looked up and fell into silvered eyes, he wished he'd taken the time because screaming might've helped. A backhanded blow he never saw coming flung him out of his chair to crash against the far wall and slide down a trickle of his own blood to the floor.

Haiden whirled around to watch the arc of the other man's flight and used the motion to propel himself to his feet. Instinct took over while reason protested, and his gun had cleared the holster by the time he was standing. His eyes saw a tall woman, dressed all in black. His brain did its best to convince him that this was the last thing he was going to see if he didn't leave immediately. Haiden ignored it. He hadn't gotten off the streets by giving in to fear, and he wasn't going to start now.

Her pale gaze flicked down to his gun, then back to his face. "No," she said softly.

A lot of people had said no to him throughout the years. Some had begged. Some had shrieked. Some had repeated it, over and over, in stunned disbelief. In all its varying forms, the word had held fear, but it had never been a warning. So although it was defi-nitely a warning this time, he didn't recognize it.

He'd been a predator all his life; this was his first time as prey. He still had a lot to learn.

A heartbeat later, he gibbered in terror while fin?gertips pressed white half-moons into his throat.

Bones had been broken in both his hands, but the pain got lost behind the gleaming white smile he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of.

"Is the boss at home?" the smile said.

Up until this point, Gary Haiden had been positive he'd give his life to protect Sebastien Carl, that he'd look death in the face and say, "Fuck you." Instead, he found himself saying, "Him and his wife are up?stairs, in the big bedroom at the back, dressing for dinner." He hoped it was enough.

Mr. Carl was alone in the bedroom pulling on a pair of black silk socks. A blow-dryer running in the en suite suggested the location of his wife.

Although Vicki knew she'd never seen him before, there was something familiar about Sebastien Carl. She was across the room with one hand clamped around his throat before she realized what it was. He had an awareness of his own power that was almost vampiric in intensity. All this is mine, it declared. You are nothing unless I choose to make use of you.

She almost killed him before she brought the sud?den surge of rage under control. "I am nothing like you," she snarled, ignoring the hands that clawed at her wrist. "I only want to ask you a few questions." A silk-covered heel caught her just below the knee. "Stop it."

Smarter than Haiden, he stopped. He glared at her through narrowed eyes, fingers wrapped around her wrist, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, all the remains of his windpipe would allow. Death is my weapon, his expression said. Not yours.

She let more of the Hunger rise, barely stopping it from breaking free. "Organ-legging. Are you doing it?"

"No." His answer was little more than a breath rasped out in denial. For all he might deny