Firebird Read online

  Dedication

  This is for my girlfriends who know their minds and aren’t afraid to tell you, me or anyone else exactly what they’re thinking.

  Prologue

  Laru Mountains

  The forest was silent. The quiet too oppressive to be normal. Silently humming, she settled into the carriage next to her mother. Her brother sat across from them talking softly to their father who smiled at her then frowned.

  “It’s too quiet,” Cyzarine said, her soft voice carrying on the cold air between them. She reached up to shove the gold velvet curtain aside, but her mother grabbed her hand and smiled. Yet her mother’s smile didn’t reach her blue eyes as it normally did.

  No one in the carriage spoke. They were traveling for her to visit with her betrothed, whom she’d only met once before. Thinking of the arrogant Rourik made her frown. Cyzarine was a princess, her parents the last of mated fabled firebirds. Their kingdom in Western Russia had been in the throes of civil war.

  A shrill cry rent the air followed by the long howl of a wolf. She knew the sound…lycans.

  The howl was joined by another and then another. This was the sound of their enemy, a warning, a promise…

  Their father looked out the carriage, then thumped on the roof. “Derik, do not stop the coach, keep going.”

  But even as her father gave that command, the carriage pulled to a stop, the horses stomping the ground. The night swirled between sleeping and awaking around them.

  She glanced out the window, but her mother pushed her back. “No, stay still.”

  They heard it again, the lone cry of a wolf, followed by others—from one side, then the other.

  “They’re around us, Papa,” her older brother, Gavril, said.

  She checked quickly out the window.

  Her father shared a narrow gaze and slight frown with their mother before he smiled at them both and climbed out. Her mother remained in with them for just a moment, then told them to stay and climbed out as well.

  Cyzarine looked at her brother, only a year older than she. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “Shh.” He peeked out the window of the other side. His eyes went dark, as they did when he wanted to see, to look beyond what was seen by mere mortals. He startled and his face went white. “We need to get out. We must get out now,” he whispered. Grabbing her hand, he opened the carriage door on the side opposite their parents and pulled her out.

  “Gavril? What’s going on?” She tried to tug her hand free, but her legs sank into the snow up to her knees. She wasn’t wearing her boots.

  The wind picked up and Gavril jerked her along behind him. “Run, Cyzarine. No matter what happens, you must run!” He picked up speed and she stumbled along behind him.

  “What’s…” She glanced behind them, surprised to see they’d gone so far from the carriage.

  But from here she heard the howl again, the snarl.

  A low cry rent the air and she saw a burst of flames, a fire of blue, green and bright red.

  Her mother…

  She tried to stop, but Gavril urged her on. She could hear him whispering.

  They were running to the west, the tall trees spearing up and blocking their path.

  For the first time since they’d started their journey, she wished they’d reached her betrothed’s home. He was strong. She knew that. Had seen it.

  Again she glanced back over her shoulder, not realizing they had climbed up an embankment. “Gavril,” she panted.

  “Come on, Cyzarine.” He jerked her harder and she almost fell, but still she looked over her shoulder.

  Below, she saw them.

  The wolves, white and grey, some black, closing in a half circle around her parents, who weren’t flying away. They’d shifted into firebirds, their feathers brilliant, luminous, but they didn’t rise.

  “Why won’t they fly?” she whispered.

  Gavril turned and saw them. “Oh no. They think we’re in the carriage,” he whispered.

  She opened her mouth to yell. Gavril slammed his hand over her mouth. “No. Hush. Come, Cyzarine. Hurry.”

  But she stood rooted to the spot. Their parents’ wings flapped, snow rising from the motion, the red of their feathers like blood against the snow.

  “We need the falcons,” he whispered. Then he jerked her around. “Call him, Cyzarine. Call your falcons.”

  She frowned. “I don’t have any.”

  One wolf leapt and snapped at their mother.

  Cyzarine shook her head. No. No! Mama!

  “Call them!” He grabbed her shoulders. “Now! Rourik, your betrothed. He’s a falcon, their leader. Call him. You must!”

  She glanced back over her shoulder and thought of the young man she hadn’t liked very much. “Rourik, I need you. Help us.”

  “Come on, Reen! We can’t just stand here.” Gavril pulled her behind him, both of them running and falling in the snow.

  “We should shift,” she panted.

  He shook his head. “I can shift faster than you. You haven’t mastered it yet. I’m not leaving you.” He pulled her up again when she stumbled in the snow. “Hurry, Reen. Hurry.”

  She could hear the wolves baying closer.

  Rourik! Rourik! Please, we need the falcons!

  Something slammed into them from the side. Flames burst all around them as the cold snow covered her face. She felt Gavril beside her one moment, then he was thrown away.

  Growls and snarls filled the air.

  “Run, Cyzarine. Run!” She glanced down the hill and saw feathers littered the pristine snow, saw the wolves jerking apart the body of a bird. “No!” She screamed.

  Cyzarine stumbled to her feet, the dagger her mother had given her pressed against her side. It was a gift from her betrothed. She hadn’t wanted it. Hadn’t wanted…

  Please come! Help!

  Something bit ice cold into her shoulder and she screamed, whirling and falling into the snow.

  “Wait for our leader, he likes them young,” a voice said.

  She wrenched her dagger free. Blood ran down her arm to drip from her fingers, making her grip slip on the dagger handle.

  “I’ll be careful.” From the shadow of the trees a force knocked her again to the ground. She could smell the wet wolf and yelled, stabbing at it with the dagger in her hand.

  Cyzarine whimpered. Where are you! Help! Please!

  The wolf whined, whimpered and lashed out at her. Claws raked across her chest and she could only hiss a breath out.

  Cries, high pitched and warning, screamed through the air.

  Cyzarine’s vision wavered and she turned her head. The snow was so cold. A rock pressed against her back and she could see down the hill. The carriage was now on its side. The wolves circling it, looking up the hill.

  Need to fly…to shift… But she couldn’t. The wound on her shoulder blazed through her to merge with the pain in her chest. Her breath puffed out into the cold air.

  Scuffles and growls then a scream to her right made her look. A wolf ripped into her brother’s throat.

  Cyzarine could only blink.

  Then shadows arrowed down, swooping, screaming. She knew that sound.

  Falcons…

  Something grabbed her, wind rushed against her skin as she felt herself lifted.

  So cold…

  The world disappeared around her.

  Chapter One

  Present day, 20 years later

  He studied his prey through the glass wall into the room beyond. A white cheetah paced one way, then the other, in front of the glass.

  From here he couldn’t hear the growl, but he knew she was growling at him. Knew she had learned the Collector liked to watch her.

  After all, he’d told her he loved to watch her, had shown her, t
aught her what he liked and what he didn’t.

  She was beauty.

  She was precious.

  She was his.

  From her side, the large wall window looked like a wall of mirrors. He’d had it specially made. The previous occupant, an albino panther, had lasted almost a year before she died. Well, she wouldn’t have died if it hadn’t been her time.

  He sat in the velvet chair against the brick wall and pressed the intercom button. He inhaled and wished he could rid the converted warehouse of its lingering factory scent of oil and machinery. Even after he’d completely remodeled the old building, updating, taking special care for all the things he needed, it still often smelled of peasant workers.

  A low growl filled the air. He smiled even as he reached over to the cherry-wood side table and poured himself a snifter of vodka. He sniffed at the warm slide of it down the back of his throat. So many loved the flavored vodkas, as old as Russia itself, but he was a purist. He hated additives.

  Which was why he only went for the perfect, for the rare.

  Nribo, his current find, was perfect. She was fast, so damn fast. He’d seen her in a nightclub in Nairobi. And he’d known, known how rare she was, how special.

  How she would be his.

  “Are you hungry, lovely?” he asked, as he sipped his drink and watched her.

  In human form, she was tall, lithe, her muscles tight and ready for battle. Fucking her had been a wondrous thing. She’d fought him like the cat she was.

  But, in the end, she was no match for him. He was, after all, the demon that guarded treasures. His own personal gift was to find said treasures.

  All part of the job, in his book. Or maybe it was more he was enjoying the fringe benefits. He smiled. “Lovely, pacing like that will wear you out,” he told her.

  As he knew it would, the comment didn’t please her. She hissed, growled and leapt at the glass, her claws scarring the surface.

  He chuckled. “Still so feisty. There’s no way out.” He stood and straightened his silk shirt. “You’ve scratched my mirror, that wasn’t very nice. I guess you’ll just have to wait for your food. But don’t worry, when you get weak,” he said, dropping his voice right against the intercom, “I’ll come revive you.”

  The white cheetah roared.

  He smiled and clicked the intercom off, then killed the lights in her room. Let her sit hungry in the dark. He’d know when to go to her, when to use her, when to appreciate her.

  He petted the golden jaguar beside him, the metal precious beneath his touch. He glanced around his chamber, at all his special statues. Jaguars, tigers, lions, birds of prey, wolves, even a few vamps and gifted, rare humans…

  His pretties, his treasures… Just to show her what happened to those who didn’t appreciate his attentions, he pressed another button and one of her walls faded from dark to be lit behind—revealing one of his favorite rooms.

  The room was lined with furs, tusks, claws, feathers, headdresses—whatever his fancy. Before he’d discovered his golden touch, he had liked to keep something from those which he had to dispose of. He loved to show his prize catches off to the new finds, who often needed a bit of incentive to do as they were told. Barbaric, yes—

  The loud roar, turned to a mewl.

  —but effective nonetheless.

  She might be easier to break than he first thought. Wait until she saw what he planned to do to her. Now, he no longer skinned his pretties. That process had been messy and, though fun at first, quickly lost its appeal. The treasure he found, the golden athame, was ancient, cursed and blessed. It held great power, which was why he guarded it. It also took life and gave riches. Or in his case—a quick and rather simple way of keeping his rare beauties.

  He’d decided to turn them. Now they were perfect for him, large as life, jeweled eyes, and…treasures of wealth. Again he ran his hand down his last pretty. What had her name been? Oh yes, Trish. He patted the golden head and turned down the hallway.

  For now, he needed to check on his other pretties. He rubbed his hands. He had a new one to play with.

  Chapter Two

  Russia

  Reen wiped the blood out of her eye and limped up the stone steps. She really hated this job sometimes. Her black boots rarely felt this heavy. The doors at the top of the steps opened into the grand foyer. The mansion looked like any other in Europe, except it was still a functioning castle. Not merely a museum for retirees and backpackers to tour through, this castle had a purpose. It wasn’t just any castle, this one was special—a defense like castles of old.

  It was headquarters for the Hunters.

  The Hunters tracked supernaturals that had become problematic. In this day and age of decadence, where the supernaturals were both worshipped and ignored by mortals, they often became bored. No longer was the world their playground. Now sciences wanted them for research, men and women alike wanted them for the simple fact of novelty and other supernaturals felt merely displaced. Displaced. She snorted. Supernaturals with identity crises led rise to the new super shrinks—a new breed of psychiatrists. Whether or not she agreed with therapy for the confused supers, was irrelevant.

  Cyzarine knew some people needed such help. Her? She’d rather eat her leather boots. Vamps, weres, the fae, all were trying to figure out how they fit into the new order of the world quickly outstripping itself of humanity.

  Powers shifting and vying for attention left vacuums for greed, corruption and crime.

  That’s where the Hunters came into play. The supernaturals still needed balances, checks and in most cases, retribution.

  She was a Hunter. Though more specifically, she didn’t just hunt the criminals, as many Hunters did, she eliminated the problems.

  She was an assassin.

  She was no different than many of her kind before her—a firebird could destroy. She merely cashed in on her genetic legend.

  Petrov, the guard, nodded to her as she passed him, her trench coat hiding the weapons she used.

  She shoved through the waiting area, completely ignoring Valerie at the outer desk in front of Erik’s office.

  The doors were shut, but she also ignored the unspoken rule to wait until invited into the inner sanctum of her boss. Opening it, she saw someone stood in the shadows in the corner, smelled the spice of his cologne, gave him a quick glance, and then ignored him as well. She had only one man in her sights.

  “Erik.”

  “Reen.” He looked at her from behind his desk with a raised brow. “I’m busy.”

  “You call me in off a job, have your boys pick me up and expect me to wait prettily?” She shook her head and walked to the desk, tossing down the amulet she was supposed to have retrieved, which of course, she had. “Target is taken care of.”

  Erik was a vampire, ancient, as the office rumors went. She knew for a fact the whispers weren’t just rumors. Though she’d never actually come out and asked the man how old he was. Some things were better left alone.

  He looked at it for a moment, then turned completely from the window behind his desk to pick up the dull necklace. The stone glimmered faintly as if whispering secrets, and the gold beckoned to be polished.

  Cyzarine merely waited. Erik brushed the stone and then the chain with his thumb. He was dressed as he always was. Black. Black shirt, black pants, black shoes. She often gave him a hard time. Every chance she got, she gifted him some bright tie, scarf or pair of gloves. He’d yet to wear any of them. Not that she cared either way, right now she was pissed.

  “I should shove that up your ass,” she said, again wiping the blood from her eye. She pressed her fingers to the wound in her scalp still trickling blood over her forehead and down her ear.

  His gaze narrowed on her. “I should lock you in the infirmary.”

  She blew out a breath and strode to the windows, looking out on the cold winter landscape. She hated the winter. Hated the snow, and here in Grubsretep there was plenty.

  “I’ll be fine.”


  Someone cleared their throat and she was reminded of the other person in the room. Without looking at him, she turned from the window and strode towards the door, saying over her shoulder, “I get one day off, then you can give me my next assignment.”

  “Actually, I can’t do that.”

  She stopped halfway to the door.

  “Reen, sit down.”

  Her eyes narrowed on his and for the first time, since storming in, she took a deep breath and tried to read the situation.

  Erik was calm, but then he generally always was. He was however, frowning, the lines around his mouth and across his forehead deeper than normal.

  Something warned her she might not like what was coming.

  “I want to introduce you to someone.” He motioned to the other occupant of the room.

  Reen waited as the man stepped from the shadows. He was tall, taller than she, but then many were as she was average in height. Where her hair was black, his was blond, almost white. Her eyes had a golden hue to them that many had often commented on. Including Erik.

  This man, with his pale hair, had dark, almost black eyes. She had no idea if the color was dark brown or dark blue, they were just extremely dark. His body was long, not lean, but not overly muscular, reminding her of a runner. He had muscles, she could see them through the tight pale blue shirt he wore.

  His face was altogether different. One might expect with his coloring and build that he’d have a refined face, one of beauty, of the classical statues she’d seen in Greece and Rome on her journeys there. But his jaw was too square, his brow too deep, making his eyes appear even darker. His nose was ridged, giving him a birdlike appearance almost. Bird, she almost snorted. He sure as hell wasn’t a sparrow.

  He merely raised a brow. Or she assumed he did, as his brows were as pale as his hair.

  He offered a hand. “Saker.”

  Saker. It meant falcon. Falcon. A cold, hard twist rolled inside her. She took a deep breath and merely looked at the long-fingered hand, the sinews of the wrist, noted the scars on the back, across the knuckles.

  Without taking it, she looked back up to his face and said, “Reen.”

  The man arched a brow and lowered his hand. “We worked a case together a few months back.”