Page 44 of Thirst
Quebec City wasn’t far. I could be there by daybreak, find somewhere to hide. Be with her by tomorrow evening.
The bitch of it was, on paper Nyx Nazaire was my ideal woman.
Talon and I had made a pact after we were turned—vampires only. Then he went and mated Eden, a human. It made me dig in harder. I’d be the one who held the line. The man who didn’t bend.
The road narrowed as I entered a pine forest, the trees crowding close under the dark clouds.
If things were different, I’d make an all-out play for Nyx. Yeah, she was a dhampir, not a vampire. But her father was a powerful enforcer, and his sire was the Paris primus. With a lineage like that, she was practically vampire royalty.
Too bad Nazaire would rather rip out his own throat than let one of Brien’s men claim his daughter.
Not that it mattered—because when push came to shove, she hadn’t chosen me. She chose him.
My mouth filled with something harsh, regret tangled up with want.
Nyx was so much more than her bloodlines. She was smart, talented, magnetic. A beautiful, just-wicked-enough firefly, all glitter-dusted wings and starshine.
And I wanted her. I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t let it go.
Even though wanting her might be the thing that finally broke me.
The GPS informed me my destination was coming up on my right. Exiting the forest, I passed a row of clapboard houses, a grocery-slash-gas station, two weatherbeaten churches, and a school. Finally, there was the bar, a slow-slung building on the opposite end of a parking lot from a brightly lit Tim Horton’s.
Glamours eat energy. I’d made the drive as myself, knit cap tugged low to hide the blond. I parked the truck in a dark corner of the lot, killed the engine, and peeled off the hat.
Wayne Baker.
I summoned his image like a curse, let it settle in my bones. Then I drew deeply on my vampire magic. It surged up, cold and greedy.
Glamours didn’t just change your face—they somehow picked up the details and transformed you into a near perfect facsimile. In under a minute, I was Baker. Gray hair, sagging jowls, caved-in body.
His voice, low and gravel-thick, I could do in my sleep.
I put a switchblade in my pants pocket and slid a pair of silver cuffs, tucked into a leather pouch, into the bomber’s pocket. Not that I was expecting trouble. Why mess with Baker when they were fishing for something bigger—me?
Still. Preparedness was survival.
I climbed out, pointedly avoiding the rearview mirror so I wouldn’t see that SOB staring back at me, and lumbered toward the entrance, Wayne-Baker-style. Head down and forward like a bull readying itself to charge, fists swinging at my side. Dragging his ghost behind me like second shadow.
The interior was done in smalltown bar—grimy wood paneling, black vinyl stools and a wall full of neon beer signs. A trio of TVs behind the bar were tuned to a hockey game out west, and an electric fire danced beneath a pair of crossed hockey sticks.
I ordered a Moosehead from the bartender and nodded at the two guys in flannel hunched over a platter of nachos and a half-drained pitcher of beer. When my Moosehead arrived, I took it and claimed an empty booth with a good view of the front door. I kept my gaze on the game, making a show of sipping my beer. As a vampire, I could ingest a small amount of alcohol, but I preferred mine with a splash of blood. Without it the beer tasted like stale bread.
The door swung open and a couple stepped inside along with a blast of wintery air. They greeted the bartender like old friends and took seats at the bar.
Then a skinny dude in jeans and a navy windbreaker arrived. Trying to blend in, but a little too polished, a little too French for small-town Nova Scotia.
My nape prickled.
His gaze flicked to my Moosehead, the agreed-upon signal. It was Nazaire’s man, all right.
I gave the smallest nod in return.
He stopped at the bar for his own bottle before taking the bench across from me. “Colder than a witch’s tit tonight,” he muttered in Québecois-accented English.
I gave the correct response, mentally rolling my eyes. My uncle had watched too many B-grade spy movies. “Then come on in,” I rumbled in my best Baker-tones, “before you freeze your ass off.”
The man’s angular shoulders eased. He unbuttoned his windbreaker, leaving it open over a sleek gray T-shirt. “I believe you have a package for us.”
