Chapter 2
Wulf was still thinking of the unknown woman when he pulled his dark green Expedition into his five-car garage. He frowned at the sight of the red Hummer parked against the far wall, and turned his car off.
What the hell was Chris doing home? He was supposed to be spending the night at his girlfriend's house.
Wulf went inside to find out.
He found Chris in the living room, putting together a huge... something. It had metallic arms and things that reminded him of a poorly designed robot.
Chris's wavy black hair was sticking out in front as if he'd been tugging at it in frustration. There were parts and papers strewn all over the room, along with various tools.
Wulf watched in wry amusement as Chris battled the long, metallic post he was trying to fit into the base.
As Chris worked, one of the arms fell and smacked him on the head.
Cursing, he dropped the post.
Wulf laughed. "Been watching QVC again?"
Chris rubbed the back of his head as he kicked at the base. "Don't start with me, Wulf."
"Boy," Wulf said sternly, "you better check that tone."
"Yeah, yeah, ya scare me," Chris said irritably. "I'm even wetting my pants while in your terrifying, gut-wrenching presence. See me shiver and quiver? Ooo, ahhh, ooo."
Wulf shook his head at his Squire. The boy had no sense whatsoever to taunt him. "I knew I should have taken you out in the woods as an infant and left you there to die."
Chris snorted. "Ooo, nasty Viking humor. I'm actually surprised my father didn't have to present me to you for inspection at birth. Good thing you couldn't afford the barnautbur∂dr, huh?"
Wulf glared at him-not that he thought for one second it would do any good. It was only force of habit. "Just because you're the last of my bloodline doesn't mean I have to put up with you."
"Yeah, I love you, too, Big Guy." Chris went back to his project.
Wulf shrugged his coat off, then draped it over the back of his couch. "I swear, I'm going to cancel our cable subscription if you keep this up. Last week it was the weight bench and rowing machine. Yesterday that facial thing, and now this. Have you seen the crap in the attic? It looks like a rummage sale."
"This is different."
Wulf rolled his eyes. He'd heard that one before. "What the hell is it, anyway?"
Chris didn't pause as he set the arm back up. "It's a sun lamp. I thought you might be tired of your pasty-pale complexion."
He looked at him drolly. Thanks to his mother's dark Gaulish genes, Wulf wasn't really pale, especially given the fact that he hadn't been in daylight in over a thousand years. "Christopher, I happen to be a Viking in the middle of winter in Minnesota. Lack of a deep tan goes with the whole Nordic territory. Why do you think we raided Europe anyway?"
"Because it was there?"
"No, we wanted to thaw out."
Chris flipped him off. "Just wait, you'll thank me for this once I get it hooked up."
Wulf stepped over the pieces. "Why are you here, screwing with this? I thought you had a date tonight."
"I did, but twenty minutes after I got to her place, Pam broke up with me."
"Why?"
Chris paused to give him a hateful, sullen stare. "She thinks I'm a drug dealer."
Wulf was completely stunned by that unexpected declaration. Chris was barely six feet tall, with a gangly frame, and an honest, open face.
The most "illegal" thing the boy had ever done was to walk past a Salvation Army Santa Claus, once, without dropping money into the kettle.
"What made her think that?" Wulf asked.
"Well, let's see. I'm twenty-one, and I drive a custom-built, armor-plated Hummer worth about a quarter million dollars, with bulletproof tires and windows. I live on a remote, massive estate outside of Minnetonka all alone as far as anyone knows, except for the two bodyguards who trail me whenever I leave the property. I keep weird hours. You usually page me three or four times while I'm on a date to tell me to get down to business and give you an heir. And she accidentally saw some of your oh-so-wonderful toys I picked up from your weapons dealer in the cargo storage."
"Those weren't sharpened, were they?" Wulf interrupted. Chris was never allowed to handle sharpened weapons. The fool might cut off a vital body part or something.
Chris sighed and ignored the question as he continued his tirade. "I tried to tell her I was independently wealthy, and liked to collect swords and knives, but she didn't go for it." He pinned Wulf with another glacial stare. "You know, there are times when this job really bites. And the pun was intended."
Wulf took his bad temper in stride. Chris was perpetually irritated at him, but since Wulf had raised the boy from the instant he was born and Chris was the last surviving member of his bloodline, Wulf was extremely tolerant of him. "So sell the Hummer, buy a Dodge, and move into a trailer."
"Oh, yeah, right. Remember when I traded the Hummer for an Alpha Romeo last year? You burned the car and bought me a new Hummer and threatened to lock me in my room with a hooker if I ever did it again. And as for the perks... Have you bothered to look around this place? We have a heated indoor pool, a theater with surround sound, two cooks, three maids, and a pool guy I get to boss around, not to mention all kinds of other fun toys. I'm not about to leave Disneyland. It's the only good part in this arrangement. I mean, hell, if my life has to suck there's no way I'm going to live in the Mini-Winni. Which knowing you, you'd make me park out front anyway with armed guards standing watch in case I get a hangnail."
"Then you're fired."
"Bite me."
"You're not my type."
Chris tossed a wrench at his head.
Wulf caught it, and dropped it to the floor. "I'm never going to get you married off, am I?"
"Damn, Wulf. I'm barely legal. I have plenty of time left to have kids who can remember you, okay? Sheez, you're worse than my father was. Duty, duty, duty."
"You know, your father was only-"
"Eighteen when he married my mother. Yes, Wulf, I know. You only tell me that three or four times an hour."
Wulf ignored him as he continued thinking out loud. "I swear, you are the only man I've ever known who missed the whole teenage hormonal surge. Something's not right with you, boy."
"I am not taking another friggin' physical," Chris snapped. "There's nothing wrong with me or my abilities other than the fact that I'm not a horn-dog. I would rather get to know a woman first before I take my clothes off in front of her."
Wulf shook his head. "There is something seriously wrong with you."
Chris cursed him in Old Norse.
Wulf ignored his profanity. "Maybe we should look into hiring a surrogate. Maybe buy a sperm bank."
Chris growled low in his throat, then changed the subject. "What happened tonight? You look even more pissed now than when you left. Did one of the panthers say something nasty to you at their club?"
Wulf grunted as he thought about the Katagaria panther pack who owned the club he'd gone to tonight. They had called him first thing this evening to let him know one of their scouts had spotted a group of unknown Daimons in the city, out on the prowl. It was the same group who had caused some problems for the panthers a few months back.
The Inferno was one of many sanctuaries set up throughout the world where Dark-Hunters, Were-Hunters, and Apollites could gather without fear of an enemy coming at them while they were inside the building. Hell, the were-beasts even tolerated Daimons so long as they didn't feed on the premises or bring unwanted attention to them.
Even though the Were-Hunters were more than capable of killing the Daimons themselves, as a rule they usually abstained from doing so. After all, they were cousins to the Apollites and Daimons, and as such took a very hands-off approach to dealing with them. Likewise, the Weres weren't overly tolerant of the Dark-Hunters who killed their cousins. They worked with them when they had to or when it benefitted them, but otherwise kept their distance.
As soon as Dante had been notified the Daimons were heading for his club, he had paged Wulf with an alert.
But as Chris had insinuated, the panthers had a way of being less than friendly to any Dark-Hunter who stayed too long at their place.
Flipping his weapons out of his clothes, Wulf returned them to the armoire against the far wall. "No," he said, answering Chris's question. "The panthers were fine. I just thought the Daimons would put up more of a fight."
"Sorry," Chris said sympathetically.
"Yeah, me too."
Chris paused, and by his expression, Wulf could tell the boy had laid aside his ribbing and was trying to cheer him up. "You feel up to training?"
Wulf locked up his weapons. "Why bother? I haven't had a decent fight in almost a hundred years." Disgusted with the thought, he rubbed a hand over his eyes, which were sensitive to the bright lights Chris had on. "I think I'll go insult Talon for a while."
"Oh, hey!"
Wulf paused to look back at Chris.
"Before you go, say 'barbecue.'"
Wulf groaned at Chris's usual last resort to attempt to cheer him up. That was a standing joke that Chris had used to irritate him with since Chris was a small child. It stemmed from the fact that Wulf still held on to his ancient Norse accent which made him lilt when he spoke, especially when he said certain words, such as "barbecue."
"You're not funny, rugrat. And I am not a Swede."
"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, make the Swedish Chef noises."
Wulf growled. "I should never have allowed you to watch The Muppets." More to the point, he shouldn't have pretended to be the Swedish Chef when Chris was a child. All it did was give the boy one more thing to aggravate him with.
But still, they were family, and at least Chris was attempting to make him feel better. Not that it was working.
Chris let out a rude noise. "Fine, you decrepit old Viking grump. By the way, my mother wants to meet you. Again."
Wulf groaned. "Can you put her off another couple of days?"
"I can try, but you know how she is."
Yes, he did. He'd known Chris's mother for more than thirty years.
Unfortunately, she didn't know him at all. Just like everyone else not born of his blood, she forgot him five minutes after he left her presence.
"All right," Wulf relented. "Bring her over tomorrow evening."
Wulf headed to the stairs that led to his rooms underneath the house. Like most Dark-Hunters, he preferred to sleep where there was no possibility of accidental sun exposure. It was one of the very few things that could destroy their immortal bodies.
He opened the door, but didn't bother with the overhead light since Chris had lit the small candle by his desk. The eyes of a Dark-Hunter were designed to need almost no light. He could see better in the darkness than humans could see in broad daylight.
Taking his sweater off, he gently prodded the four bullet wounds in his side. The bullets had passed cleanly through his flesh and the skin had already started to heal.
The injury stung, but it wouldn't kill him, and in a couple of days, there would be nothing left except four tiny scars.
He used his black T-shirt to wipe the blood from his side, and went to the bathroom to wash and bandage it.
As soon as he was clean and dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, Wulf switched on his stereo. The preprogrammed songs started off with Slade's My Oh My while he grabbed his cordless phone and brought up his computer screen to log on to the Dark-Hunter.com Web site to update the others on his latest kills.
Callabrax liked to keep up with how many Daimons were slain each month. The Spartan warrior had some weird notion that Daimon crossovers and attacks were related to moon cycles.
Personally, Wulf thought the Spartan had way too much time on his hands. But then, being immortals, they all did.
Sitting in the darkness, Wulf listened to the words of the song as it played.
I believe in woman, my oh my. We all need someone to talk to, my oh my...
Against his will, the lyrics conjured up images of his ancient home, and of a woman with hair as white as the snowfall, and eyes as blue as the sea.
Arnhild.
He didn't know why he still thought of her after all these centuries, but he did.
He took a deep breath as he wondered what would have happened had he stayed on at his father's farm and married her. Everyone had expected it.
Arnhild had expected it.
But Wulf had refused. At seventeen, he'd wanted a different life than that of a simple farmer paying taxes to his jarl. He'd wanted adventure, and battles.