Aching with remorse and grief, Jess pulled his watch out of his pocket to check the time. The moment he opened it, he paused to stare at Matilda's face in the worn-out sepia photograph that had been kept inside his watch since the day he was reborn. No matter how many years passed, he still ached over the loss of her.
That had been the only thing he truly hated about his rebirth. Knowing she was alive and not being able to see her. Dark-Hunters were forbidden from having families, and they were never to let anyone from their past know that they'd come back. It was part of what they swore to when Artemis created them.
Still he'd kept tabs on her while she lived and made sure that she never once wanted for anything. She'd gone on to marry and have six kids.
Without him.
To the day she died, she'd never known who her benefactor was. The Squires told her it was a trust fund set up by a distant uncle who'd died and left it to her. She never knew that money came from a pact he'd made with a goddess to even a score that no amount of violence could tally.
Sometimes dead wasn't dead enough.
His throat tightening, he closed his watch. There was no use thinking about what should have been. He'd done what he'd had to. Matilda had probably been better off without him, anyways. Sooner or later, his past would have caught up to them, and the result would have been the same.
At least that was the lie he told himself to make it all bearable. But inside, he knew the truth. No one could have loved her more than he had.
More than he did to this day.
"I miss you, Tilly." He always would. No one would ever again make him feel like she had.
Worthy.
Cursing, he curled his lip at his melancholy thoughts. "I'm turning into an old woman. Might as well start knitting and bitching about soap operas, gas prices, and rude drivers."
That wasn't what Sundown Brady did.
Nope. It was killing time, and he was in the mood to bathe in blood tonight.
Ren Waya coasted on the breeze as he heard the heartbeat of the earth thrumming in his ears. It sounded like a tribal drum, summoning the ancient spirits out of their slumber to make ready for war. And as he flew, Sister Wind carried a new scent to him. One he'd never smelled before, and given his extreme old age, that said a lot.
Something was here, and it didn't belong.
Unable to pinpoint it, he dipped down, then recognized a rider on the road far below. The motorcycle slowed from its feral speed as the rider came upon the Vegas traffic and lights. Ren let out a cry while he followed the sleek black motorcycle into town.
Swathed in a black duster, the rider was oblivious of being watched. Of course, the loud, thumping music inside the rider's helmet that was turned to a level that should be deafening might have something to do with that. Styx's "Renegade." The irony of that wasn't lost on Ren. If he could smile in his current form, he would.
The rider skimmed past traffic and turned into the brightly lit Ishtar Casino, which was styled after an ancient Sumerian temple. Ren lost sight of the rider as he drove under the parking pavilion. He banked to the right to miss the wall and circled back.
* * *
Jess pulled his helmet off before he gave his name to the valet.
The attendant snapped to attention. "Mr. Brady, sir, we were told to give you white-glove treatment. You may park your bike anywhere you want, and we'll make sure no one bothers it. If you have any problems or needs, have the concierge contact Damien Metaxas, and he'll take care of it for you."
A man could get used to this level of service-it was like being at Disney World. "Thanks," he said, then handed the valet a twenty.
Jess slid into a tight space at the front of the line of cars and limos, where his motorcycle should be out of the way, then parked his 2006 MV Agusta F4CC on the curb. At $120,000 a pop, his ride was a gold mine for any thief who had knowledge of motorcycles. Not that the money was that big a deal to him. Replacing it, however, was another matter, since they were as rare as a loyal friend, and he'd long grown attached to it.
Hate to gut a human for being greedy. But back in the day, he'd done worse for less.
He locked it down, put his helmet on the seat, then dropped the keys in his pocket. It was a little warm for his duster, but he preferred it, since it helped hide the weapons he needed for his trade. No need in scaring the civilians any more than was necessary.
Bad thing about Vegas, you couldn't spit without dropping germs on a Daimon. They practically owned this place. In fact, three of the valet drivers here were Apollites, including the one who'd spoken to him. And the casino manager, Damien Metaxas was, in fact, a full-blown Daimon that no Dark-Hunter was allowed to kill. They claimed Metaxas fed only on humans who deserved to die-rapists, murderers, pedophiles. But why would you take their word on it? Was anyone really checking?
Even when the casino owner, Sin, was a Dark-Hunter, he'd had them working for him.
"You're a sick SOB, Sin," Jess muttered as he pulled his sunglasses out and put them on.
Keep your enemies close, I guess. Still ...