ONE
T he elevator started its smooth glide toward the lowest level of VDA headquarters. As director of the agency, Jodari Os had to deal with the kind of shit show he was about to kick off.
But, hey, who didn’t enjoy telling five highly trained, highly aggressive vampire males they were about to undergo psych evals?
Not that he was gonna put it like that.
Not that it would matter how he put it.
Jodari smoothed his silk tie and secured the top button of his tailored suitcoat. He wasn’t cut like during his fighting days, but even a retired vampire warrior was built like a brick shithouse compared to human males. Tailoring was required.
Jodari liked his suits, from the smooth wool of his pinstriped lapels to his Tom Ford loafers gleaming under the elevator lights. He even had a goddamn pocket square. How was that for civilized?
The floor indicator counted its way from Admin to the Surveillance and Investigation floor, then Forensics, past the lobby, and down to the underground levels. It skated by Medical and Interrogation before its cheery ding announced Jodari’s arrival at what everyone referred to as the Bunker.
The doors slid open to reveal the low-lit training space. Jodari possessed the sharp vision of his species, but after the overhead lights of the office levels, it took his eyes a second to adjust as he stepped out.
Track lighting gave the broad, open space some definition and the recessed lights of the vaulted ceiling cast a diffused glow, but it was still dim as shit.
To Jodari’s left sprawled the workout area with its weights and treadmills, a salmon ladder, and other such equipment. The barbells on the rack were bowed from the weight these guys stacked on. Yeah, yeah. He’d get them some new ones. Again.
Ahead lay the sparring ring. No spring-softened floor for this crew, just a circle of hard rubber mats that at least kept the blood off the concrete.
Luca and Ronan, shirtless and sparring with bladed staffs, moved with that particular blend of beauty and terror that was the vampire warrior. Ronan’s ink made him dark to Luca’s light. The polearms cracked and whirled, the blades flashing, as the two males showed just how breathtaking violence could be.
Jodari let himself enjoy it for moment. Always fun to watch an assassin and a high-functioning sociopath swinging lethal weapons at each other’s heads.
The backlit weapons rack on the far wall made for a lovely backdrop. Most of the blades were for conditioning like Luca and Ronan were doing. Even with a weapon shaded to obscure it from human view, carrying a polearm through Portage, New Hampshire, posed certain problems.
Like fitting it in a car, for example.
Or taking it on the subway.
In some ways, the war with demons had been easier in the more rustic past. Or back before the vampire home world of Atar had been destroyed, forcing the species to migrate to earth and hide among humans.
Not that Jodari knew from personal experience. No vampire alive today knew that. All of them had been born on earth. It was the only home they knew.
Warriors like the five members of the Hush had dedicated their lives to defending that home. And why the hell couldn’t it just be that simple? Jodari liked simple.
He didn’t like what was going on with this team.
At the edge of the ring, Kyr watched the sparring match with the focus and intensity required of a leader—especially one holding together a team of alpha males like these.
It took a special kind of jackass for that.
Jodari knew because he used to be one. He was mellow now. He had an electric kettle in his office and an actual fucking basket of assorted teas. Yes, there was a whiskey bottle behind it. He wasn’t dead yet.
Kyr had his arms crossed under his pecs, the heavy muscles of his chest, shoulders, and arms all accentuated by the posture. His black muscle shirt skimmed over his cut torso, and the black fatigues were all business. So was the fourteen-inch recurved shiva strapped outside his right thigh. And the .45 strapped to the other.
He was 6’4” and 240 pounds of fuck-you-up. Even at his peak, Jodari hadn’t looked like that.
But then, Jodari couldn’t claim bloodlines like Kyr’s.
Kyr might be a bastard, but he was still the son of the queen’s now-deceased consort, Marokordas, a noble of old blood, physical power, and a face that had attracted a queen. So Kyr had all the genetic gifts a vampire male could ask for. Just maybe not the family history. Growing up as the by-blow of the queen’s mate could not have been fun.
But that’s what made a tough bastard like Kyr.
He wasn’t a male to get on the wrong side of.
He was, however, an asset to the Vampire Defense Agency—he and the team that had come with him.
Jodari had recruited the Hush into the VDA six years ago, but the five males had been hunting demons together far longer.
Kyr hadn’t been keen on working for an organization like the VDA. In fact, when Jodari had approached him, he’d spent the first five minutes of the conversation with Kyr’s shiva at his throat and four .45s aimed at his head.
It hadn’t been easy to work a pre-formed team like this into the organization. Jodari had questioned himself more than once. Their loyalty was to each other. Decades of fighting the demon threat together had built trust among them.
Jodari knew they didn’t fully trust him or the VDA, but things had been getting better over the last few years. He’d started to let himself hope.
Until two months ago.
The team had gone quiet. No longer communicating with the other departments. Filing reports barely worth wiping his ass with.
Jodari had talked to Kyr, several times. Nothing but a whole lot of stay-out-of-our-shit.
Hence the new approach.
Yeah. Kyr was gonna love it.
As Jodari made his way to the edge of the sparring ring, Kyr’s light blue eyes flicked to him then back to the match.
Behind Kyr, the weights area bled into the workshop and gear storage. The other two members of the team, Rhys and Nox, were cleaning firearms at one of the tables, a towel spread out with a dozen weapons disassembled on it.
Scratch that—Nox was cleaning, working on the barrel of a .45 with a wire brush. Rhys appeared to be eating nachos.
Beyond the other side of the sparring ring, a half wall and doorway offered a glimpse of the living area. None of the Hush actually lived in the Bunker, but they slept here occasionally.
Cold, hard, and tough, the space reminded Jodari why he liked being retired from this shit.
“Evening, Minister,” Rhys greeted him, always the friendly one. With that pretty boy face of his, the golden hair, and that heartbreaker smile, it was easy to forget just how dangerous he was. Rhys’s proficiency in, well, everything was off the fucking charts. “Wanna spar when they’re done? Show me what that old man muscle can do?”
Rhys always called him the Minister. Some kind of religious joke, Jodari supposed; he’d never asked. “Just watching you guys hit that hard rubber is enough to make my spine ache.”
“Compared to asphalt, it’s like landing on a cloud.”
“You really know how to sell it, Rhys.”
The male grinned and crunched a chip that appeared, on second glance, to be topped with pickles, not salsa.
Weirdo.
Jodari eyed Kyr. “I need a minute.”
“I’m listening.” The male’s gaze didn’t budge from the sparring match.