There'll be Hell to Pay (Hellcat Series Book 6) Read online

  There’ll be Hell to Pay

  (Hellcat Series Book 6)

  By

  Sharon Hannaford

  COPYRIGHT

  There’ll be Hell to Pay (Hellcat Series Book 6)

  Sharon Hannaford

  Copyright © 2016 by Sharon Hannaford

  Cover Artwork by Erin Kuhle

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and occurrences are fictitious and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the copyright holder.

  DEDICATION

  For everyone who climbed on board the rollercoaster with me.

  Hope you enjoyed the ride.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s been a while since I named my band of miscreants so here goes:

  Thanks to Pauline, Erin, Jacqui, Karin and Tim – you’ve all been with me from the very first book and the ride wouldn’t have been the same without you!

  Big thanks also go to everyone; family, friend and reader, who takes the time to contact me, join me on social media or promote my work direct to friends and family; your words and acts of support do truly keep me going.

  G, Rob and Ash; keep on driving me crazy - I love you.

  PROLOGUE

  Caspian ran the bone-handled straight razor over his top lip, taking care not to miss a single hair. He leaned towards the mirror in the cramped bathroom, a single bare lightbulb barely making a difference to the gloom of early evening. Caspian had never attempted to disguise himself this completely before. It took more effort than he’d expected, and he disliked the results. He’d never considered himself vain about his looks, but seeing his close-cropped hair dyed to a bland, medium blond and his face bare of the carefully crafted moustache that he’d worn for centuries drew a growl of displeasure. The ridiculous baseball cap he used whenever he left the apartment rested on the vanity beside the basin.

  Rinsing the razor and drying it on a small once-white towel, he took a small glass jar off the dusty bathroom shelf and used the razor to nick one of the veins running down his arm. His blood was thicker than a human’s and it dripped sluggishly into the jar. The wound closed before the jar was half full. Licking the cut clean, he folded the blade away and slid it into the back pocket of his denim jeans. It was the first pair of jeans he’d ever worn, and he prayed sincerely that it was his last. He shook his head, unable to understand what made so many humans choose to wear them. He longed for the familiar comfort of a well-cut suit and waistcoat, genuine, handcrafted leather loafers and his wolf’s head cane. The cane he still used walking around the apartment, it soothed him somehow, it always had, but he couldn’t risk using it out in public.

  As unlikely as it was that anyone from the City would ever find him, he also knew that the Werewolf bitch computer hacker was good at her job. She could probably hack into the surveillance cameras of any town or city in the world, but the world was a big place. He’d been careful about leaving anything behind that could be used by the Magi to track him. Living in the Princep Court for decades had taught him a few things, including how the resident Magus was able to track people and objects. He’d known to pack up every single personal item he could from his cramped apartment in the City, and he’d thrown salt water over everything else. And then he’d done the same to Mariska’s room at the Magi respite he’d freed her from. It was a calculated risk coming here, the town of his birth. He didn’t think any of them could possibly know the town he’d come from, the last person he’d told he’d killed, but many knew the country of his birth, so he could not allow his guard to slip for even one second.

  Despite the way his town had burgeoned into a bustling city, he still felt comfortable here, and he still knew his way around the old town. The extreme modern nature of the newer parts of the city had yet to reach his old haunts. Payphones still abounded here, anonymous Internet cafe’s dotted almost every retail street, and, being the height of the tourist season, it was easy for outsiders to blend in and unremarkable for a small group of people to book a holiday apartment for several months. He’d chosen one of the cheaper apartments just on the edge of the old quarter; few of the neighbours were permanent residents and those that weren’t didn’t bother trying to befriend out-of-towners.

  And, in the old town, you could still employ a médico to make after-hours house-calls and keep their mouths shut.

  And it didn’t hurt that one of his largest investment portfolios was managed here. His fund manager knew him as Carlos Torres: forty-eight, an eccentric and semi-retired property developer. Eccentric enough to dislike modern technology and require cash payouts instead of bank transfers. He’d told no one that he was independently wealthy, instead living on the charity of the Princeps while he stayed at Court. He was secretive by nature, and it was paying handsome dividends. Not a single one of the idiots at Court knew he had amassed a small fortune, ready for the day he took charge of his own city.

  He was proud of being a self-made man; he’d built his own fortune. He’d walked away from his poor, unambitious, farming family just after puberty and never looked back. He’d lied and murdered his way into a position of trust with a merchant in a nearby port city. And then he’d taken the business over from the merchant as the elderly man slowly succumbed to ill health. A few had suspected death by unnatural causes, and those few had either been bribed into silence or had simply disappeared. Under Caspian’s management, the company had flourished, helped in no small way by the not-quite-legal cargo he was prepared to export or import without question. He was an entrepreneur, a man of vision and foresight, and he always got what he wanted. And what he wanted now most of all was to be a Master Vampire.

  A grumble from the living room snapped him out of his reverie and he quickly shrugged into a loose-fitting T-shirt and picked up the baseball cap and the jar.

  “Molok, is it time for her medication yet?” he asked, walking out of the bathroom. A man-sized figure hunched at the small dining table near the kitchenette. In the semi dark it was hard to make out that the figure was human. In the clear light of day, the figure would seem even less human. A spindly arm, so thin that the bones showed starkly through the pale, blue-veined skin, reached out of the cloak of moth-eaten animal fur to pick up a small digital timer from the table.

  “Twenty minutes,” the figure muttered, the words running together in a heavily accented rumble. It had been months before Caspian was able to decipher Molok’s speech; few at Princep Court had taken the time to even try. Most assumed he was deaf, dumb and mute, a freak to be pitied but generally avoided. Caspian wasn’t sure why he’d initially bothered with the horribly disfigured man, certainly not out of kindness, perhaps from boredom, but once he’d discovered the cretin’s secret, he’d known his time had not been wasted. He’d had no idea that the time he’d spent taking the man small treats and trying to understand him would pay off quite so monumentally, but then again, he’d always believed he was a man of forethought.

  “You’ll see to it?” Caspian asked him, placing the jar of blood on the table and reaching for a leather jacket folded over the back of a chair. He didn’t like the smell of the leather or the way it creaked as he moved, but it was more comfortable than the denim pants. “I must feed, and then I will bring food for you and her.”

  Molok grunted his agreement and rose from the chair. It was his habit to see Caspian to the door and then close and bolt the door behind him. T
he fetid stench that arose from Molok’s cloak of crudely stitched animal skins assaulted Caspian’s nostrils. He breathed as infrequently as possible, but even a Vampire required breath for speaking, and somehow the stink never became less pungent even through constant exposure to it. But the skins meant something to the cretin, and he refused to be parted from the cloak. His awkward gait, the result of a club foot and one leg being shorter than the other, set the cloak swinging, swirling the odour throughout the room. Caspian was grateful to leave.

  Out on the street he paused for a moment, making himself one with the shadows as he carefully searched for anyone, or anything, out of place. Nothing untoward presented itself: a couple cuddled, giggling together on a bench under a street light two blocks down; in a nearby cottage a mother chastised a child for spilling a drink; TVs blared several different programmes from several different directions; and on the block behind this one, a chef shouted orders to his kitchen hands. Dry summer dust mingled with the distinctive smell of fried peppers and chorizo.

  As he emerged from the shadows to begin his hunt, a trio of young women erupted from a doorway and onto the street, laughing and chattering as they linked arms, dressed for a night of partying. They had a twenty-minute walk to the newer, more upmarket part of town where the nightlife catered to summer tourists. It would be nice to feed on something young and pretty and sweet smelling, but three was too tricky to take on at once, and he doubted he’d be able to get them to split up.

  One of the three had long, mousey brown hair worn in loose disarray, exactly like the woman in the upstairs bedroom of his apartment. Aside from the bright youthful clothing and bubbly personality, she could be Mariska’s younger sister. Thoughts of the Dark Magus brought conflicting emotions to the boil inside him. He’d so hoped they would become a team, that they could work together towards a common goal. She hated the snooty, do-goody Castius Magi as much as he did, and, even better, she hated Julius and Gabrielle. She had sworn vengeance on them and had tried repeatedly to kill them or bring them down.

  Caspian knew the facts; he’d been drawn into some of her machinations while he was forced to pretend acquiescence to Julius’s Mastership. He’d counted on using her anger to his advantage, but there was no sign of it now. She was a woman broken. A sad and sorry excuse for a living being, her belly swollen with pregnancy, her body thin almost to the point of emaciation, her eyes vacant and staring, lifeless except for the occasional surge of furious activity when even his blood couldn’t subdue her—those times when she tried to take her own life, tried to scratch her eyes from their sockets, begged anyone in hearing distance to kill her.

  He hissed out a frustrated breath and turned a corner between two apartment blocks and away from the woman with long, brown hair. Using his blood to control the Magus’s mind wasn’t the way he’d wanted to do this, but he’d been left with no choice. He was sure that her Magi powers would return once she gave birth to the twins she carried, but he knew better than to tell her that. She would try harder to harm the bebès, to make herself abort them. There was nothing she wanted more than the return of her Magi powers. And that was not an option for Caspian.

  To Caspian the bebès were everything he’d wished and prayed for these last few long, tiresome centuries. The reason he hadn’t kissed the sun when Simone, his sire and trusted mentor, had dumped him like a broken toy to move onto her next conquest. Because he knew his greatest vengeance would be achieving the level of Master and rising in the ranks of the Centuria and ultimately the Decuria. How unexpected that one of the few good deeds he’d done in his life would produce the first glimmer of hope for his chances at reaching Master level.

  He’d been so terribly, terribly excited when first he’d heard of Gabrielle, a Dhampir, the one and only known living Dhampir in the world. A creature so rare the world hadn’t seen one for centuries, that Vampires had forgotten how to create one. But somehow he had. In saving her mother from a Rogue Vampire while she was pregnant with Gabi, a miracle had occurred. Between them they had done the impossible.

  And then Julius had stolen her right out from under him. First Simone and then Gabrielle. Entrancing them, luring them to his bed with his wiles and charm and, in Gabrielle’s case, his power. Oh, the bastard had been a Master, but he hadn’t been anything worth noticing until he’d gained Gabrielle. The Decuria hadn’t even known he was alive before he took up with the Dhampir bitch, and now they were actively trying to recruit him. Not that the idiot even realised what an honour that was.

  A low growl cut the warm night air and Caspian realised it had come from his own throat. He drew a deep breath, forcibly calming himself. The médico had informed him that in only five or six weeks the bebès would be old enough to survive an early arrival. He was months, if not weeks, away from potentially having his own pair of Dhampirs. No, not potentially, he refused to entertain that thought; the twins were Dhampirs. He’d heard what Gabrielle had told the others that night: Mariska had been drinking Vampire blood for weeks, right at the time when she would’ve been impregnated by the Gemini Twins, at the same stage of pregnancy Gabi’s mother had been at. She had been performing Sex and Blood Magic rituals to bring down the Castius Magi and Julius’s Clan.

  Her failure would be his victory.

  Bebès or not, they were the key to his next power level. He would do anything and everything to ensure they were born safe and healthy. Even if that meant keeping their Magus mother sedated, force-fed and under guard until their arrival. They were his.

  CHAPTER 1

  Gabi climbed from the air-conditioned comfort of the McLaren 12C onto the central City street. The car drew attention everywhere it went, and today was no different. She ignored the craned necks, open mouths and nudging of companions as the door slid closed with a quiet thunk. It was the car they were interested in, not her.

  She grimaced as sweat immediately beaded on her forehead. Today was a day for Daisy Dukes, flip-flops and sunglasses. The sturdy, dark pants suit she wore was far too hot for comfort, and the insides of her boots had become warm enough to roast her toes, but there was no other way to conceal the two pairs of finely crafted butterfly swords nestled in discreet sheaths on each of her calves.

  It was the perfect day for a barely there, midriff-baring tank top or a chiffon vest with spaghetti straps, but Gabi needed the loose-fitting, button-down shirt and lightweight jacket to conceal the sheath and short sword secured snugly down her spine. And while it would’ve been utter bliss to pin her unruly, auburn curls up on top of her head, that would’ve exposed the top inch of Nex’s hilt to the unsuspecting public.

  Yes, the unsuspecting public, Gabi thought with a sigh as she crossed the busy street. Though it might appear to everyone around her that she was haughtily unaware of them, she had, in fact, catalogued and assessed every single one of them. The group of forty-something men having a beer and telling crude jokes at the table outside the upmarket bar and pizzeria; the harassed mother struggling to get two young children to sit quietly and eat their tomato-sauce-drenched lunch while discreetly trying to breastfeed a baby at the small coffee shop next door; the young street sweeper leaning on his broom, looking her car over with wide eyes and an open mouth. She knew his next movement would be his hand to his rear, right pocket. He didn’t disappoint her as he pulled a phone out and held it aimed towards the McLaren, turning it sideways to get a better angle for a photo. Several others were pointing, taking pictures or simply staring. If she’d known the underground carpark would be full, she would’ve brought the BMW. She threw a discreet glance in the direction of her bodyguards, who cruised by in a dark SUV, searching for a parking bay.

  Dismissing everyone in the vicinity as human, and therefore non-threats, she glanced up at the signboard of the trendy restaurant she was about to enter. She paused for a brief second and pretended to look over the menu pinned to a lectern outside while she adjusted her clothing, double-checked her weapons and took a deep inward breath to calm herself. Ross and Rory, her Werewo
lf bodyguards, had found a parking spot just a few bays up from the restaurant’s front door; she wondered which of them had drawn the short straw and would have to take up position at the rear exit in the relentless summer heat. She blew out the breath through clenched teeth, accepting that nothing was going to ease her stress levels; what lay before her was a battle she was utterly ill-equipped to fight. And no one else could fight it for her; this one was hers alone.

  Berating herself for being a coward, she reached for the door handle only to have it swing inward before her fingers could make contact.

  “Good afternoon, please come in,” said a pleasant male voice. “We won’t bite and we do have air-conditioning.” The owner of the voice was tall and slightly gangly and so freshly out of puberty that he still sported a few pimples, but his grin was infectious and his eyes sparkled with suppressed mischief. Gabi found herself smiling in return as she stepped into the cool, bright foyer of the restaurant. She’d bet Nex that this young man pulled in more tips than any other staff member there. “Do you have a reservation, or can I get you a table?” the young man asked, polite with an edge of flirtation. He could consider himself lucky that Julius was safely tucked up in bed, as dead to the world as a corpse, but far sexier. Her Master Vampire Consort wasn’t the openly jealous sort, but the sheer power of his presence was enough to cow even the most confident, outgoing human. His simple dislike of the guy’s audacity would have sent the youngster running for cover.

  “I have a reservation for two under the name Gabi,” she told him. He turned with a flourish to retrieve a booking register from the standing desk behind him. He ran his finger over the smattering of bookings and paused at the name Gabi Bradford. His body instantly stiffened and his heartbeat doubled in pace. His eyes flicked nervously back to hers, widening in obvious recognition.