"A prosecutor's promotion instead of being a dream job, leads her into a nightmarish world."
Reviewed by Lenore Howard
Posted August 18, 2010
Romance Paranormal
Sara Constantine, a rising star in the district attorney's
office, has a one-night stand with a sexy stranger while
celebrating an important win. When she's drafted to work in
the super-secretive Division 6 shortly afterward, she runs
into Luke -- Lucius Dragos -- again. Not only is he accused
of murder, but he's also a vampire. Division 6, it seems,
is the justice system for the supernatural world that
exists side-by-side with the human world, with its own
particular rules. And Luke is a major player in that world. Shocked and disturbed by what she's learning in her new
job, Sara wants to hate Luke, yet finds she is inexplicably
drawn to the man who co-exists with the demon inside,
craving his touch as much as she fears it. But can she ever
truly trust someone whose darkness is so close to the
surface that it could enfold her, too, as quickly as a kiss? Dark and gritty, but still with a strong romantic element,
this story sets up a parallel society that is fascinating
in its structure, its view of right and wrong, and its
variety of characters. Luke is sexy, strong and self-
assured, even as he continually struggles with his
(literal) inner demon. My main problem was with Sara. One
of my pet peeves is the heroine falling into bed with a
stranger, but I can forgive that. Her inability to resist
Luke later, after she discovers he's a murderer AND a
vampire, especially given her backstory, made her seem
weak. (I get the whole "vampire charisma" thing but
still ...A little fight would have made me respect her
more.) This book should appeal to paranormal romance fans
who like their stories dark -- there's some rough language
and violence here. And despite my quibbles, I think this is
a strong start to what should be an intriguing series.
SUMMARY
Attorney Sara Constantine is thrilled with her promotion—
until she finds out that she must now prosecute vampires
and werewolves. The first defendant she’ll be trying to put
away? Lucius Dragos, the sexy stranger with whom she
recently shared an explosive night of ecstasy. When Lucius kisses a beautiful woman sitting next to him at
the bar, he’s hoping only to avoid the perceptive gaze of
the man he’s planning to kill. But what starts as a simple
kiss ignites into an all-consuming passion. Charged with
murder, Luke knows that Sara is determined to see him
locked away—unless he can convince her that he’s not a
monster. And that might mean making the ultimate sacrifice.
ExcerptChapter One
"Rain," Tucker said. "You wanna tell me why we’re always
getting called out in the goddamn rain?" "Clean living," Ryan Doyle answered, eyeing his partner
with amusement as he slid his ’63 Pontiac Catalina in
beside an LAPD black-and-white. The flashing lights cast
eerie shadows over the thickly wooded park, illuminating an
ambulance and two unmarked piece-o’-shit vehicles that had
homicide written all over them. "And that," Tucker said, pointing to the nearest patrol car
as he continued his diatribe of bad fortune. "We got cops
coming out our a-holes. Now we gotta deal with the whole f-
ing system." Doyle slammed the gearshift into park. "I’m gonna assume
you didn’t get laid last night, and temporary celibacy has
soured your mood. ’Cause if this is going to be your
attitude for this entire investigation, I’m putting in for
a new partner." Beside him, Tucker spread his arms wide, then flashed the
smile that had made him a celebrity among all the Division
6 females. "I’m good, man. Don’t get your panties in a wad." Doyle grabbed his umbrella off the floorboards and shoved
open the Pontiac’s door. "Let’s do this thing." Tucker fell in step beside him, and they slogged toward an
officer in a rain-soaked slicker who was currently roping
off the area with crime scene tape. The officer stiffened
as they approached, his eyes widening like a deer caught in
the headlights. Rookie, Doyle thought, as the officer held
up a hand. As if that could keep them out. "You might want to step aside, junior," Doyle said,
flashing his badge out of politeness, but not bothering to
slow as he lifted the tape and started to slide under. "I’m sorry," the officer said. "No one passes." "We got authority here," Tucker said, staring hard at the
guy. "So come on, rookie. Get off our backs and let us
through." The officer’s face went through the usual jumble of
confusion before smoothing out. He smiled, all polite
cooperation. "Absolutely, sir. Detective Sanchez is right
over there." He pointed to a woman with a heart-shaped
ass. "She’s in charge." "Not anymore," Tucker said. Doyle followed his partner inside the crime scene tape,
unable to stifle his grin. "One of these days, you gotta
teach me how you do that." "It’s a gift," Tucker said. "Comes in handy with the
ladies, too." "I bet it does. Doubt you could get the ladies any other
way." "You wound me, man," Tucker said, pressing his palms over
his heart. "I’m seriously wounded." Doyle shook his head at his partner’s antics, but didn’t
bother to respond. Sanchez had already spotted them and was
on her way over, her Noxzema-fresh face pinched. "Hold up, hold up," she said. "You want to tell me who you
boys are and what you’re doing at my crime scene?" "That’s just it," Doyle said, pulling his shield from the
pocket of his raincoat. "I’m not so sure it’s still your
crime scene. I’m Agent Ryan Doyle." He nodded at
Tucker. "My partner, Agent Severin Tucker." She peered at his shield and ID, then met his eyes, her own
filled with confusion. "Homeland Security?" Doyle nodded. Technically, it was true. With the passage of
the Patriot Act, his employer—the American arm of the
Preternatural Enforcement Coalition—had been formally set
up as a division of Homeland Security. A secret division,
but there nonetheless. And considering the type of terror
the PEC chased, there was a certain circular beauty to the
ancient organization’s new cover story. She stared him down. "Are you shitting me?" "No, ma’am," Tucker said. "We at Homeland Security do not
have a sense of humor of which we’re aware." She tilted her head and sent Tucker a scathing glance,
because despite the soft shape, she was clearly a hard-
ass. "Since when did killers mimicking some creature out of
a bad B-movie cross the line into a federal crime?" "Sorry, Detective," Doyle said. "That’s classified." "Suffice it to say there’s been chatter," Tucker added. She looked from one to the other, obviously not buying
their bullshit. Doyle watched Tucker’s face, saw that he
was getting the look, and stepped in front of his partner.
Tucker’s trick came in handy, but he couldn’t pull his sort
of heeby-jeeby on the whole crew. And while Sanchez might
be the only one making noise, there were at least seven
officers hanging back, circling the body with intent to
claim grazing rights. "We got jurisdiction here, Sanchez. You need confirmation,
you call this number and ask for Nikko Leviathin." Doyle
handed her a card. "Otherwise, we’re gonna go check out our
crime scene." The gal stepped up, getting right in his face. He clenched
his hands into fists, fighting a temper that rose like
molten lava, ready to explode at any moment. He sucked in
air, stifling the urge to lash out and show her right then
exactly who was in charge there. "You wanna play who’s got the bigger dick?" she said,
unaware of the increasing danger. "You go right ahead. But
this is my crime scene until my lieutenant or the district
attorney tells me otherwise." "Those’ll work, too," Tucker said, his hand firm on Doyle’s
shoulder, the pressure just enough to keep Doyle grounded,
to bring him back from the rising red danger. "In the
meantime—" He cut himself off, then shot Doyle a warning
look before turning and heading toward the body. Doyle drew in a breath, then another, forcing the final
remnants of the dark back down before he followed in
Tucker’s wake. Sanchez looked ready to spit nails, but she
hung back, her cell phone now plastered to her ear. "So what’ve we got?" he asked, peering down at the ghostly
pale form of retired judge Marcus Braddock. By all
accounts, the man had been a shape-shifting son of a bitch,
but that didn’t mean Doyle would wish murder on him. And
this particular cause of death was the worst kind of
murder. The draining of a human or a para-human was a Class
Five homicide in violation of the Fifth International
Covenant, and punishable by public execution. Bad shit all
the way around. Tucker was already squatting near the body, his hand
reaching for Braddock’s collar. "Do you mind?" a rat-faced little man said, firmly shoving
Tucker’s hand out of the way. "Careful," Tucker said mildly. "Do that again, and you’ll
lose a few brain cells." The rat hesitated, confused. Then Sanchez stepped up, her
expression pure business. "Let him see," she said. "They’ve
inherited this mess. Guess that means they’ve got access to
whatever they want." She faced Doyle head-on. "Including my
resources, I’m told. At least until your own team arrives." "And we appreciate the cooperation." Sanchez’s smile was like ice. "I’m sure you do." She nodded
toward the uniformed officer. "You’re relieved," she said,
then smiled at Doyle. "Limited resources." She signaled to
the rat with a jerk of her chin. "Go ahead. Show the Feds
what they want to see." Ratboy slid his hand into a latex glove, then tugged the
collar down, revealing the ripped flesh and brutalized
muscle. Bloody vampires. Despite the Covenant and the strict laws
against contact feeding, it seemed like every time Doyle
turned around one of the fuckmongers had sucked somebody
dry. He clenched his fists at his sides, hating their weakness.
Disgusted by their lack of restraint. And, yeah, he’d seen
all the damn statistics that showed that the vast majority
of vampires could control the daemon within. That they
didn’t feed on humans. That they didn’t kill. That they
obeyed the law. That they weren’t the walking, talking incarnation of pure,
fucking evil that Doyle knew they were. Statistics be damned. As far as Doyle was concerned, the
only good vamp was a dead one. Marcus Braddock may have been a prick—on and off the bench—
but Doyle was going to make sure that the rogue vampire who
sucked the life from him went down—with either a stake
through the heart or an ax to the head. "I would have said serial killer until you boys showed up,"
Sanchez said, her comments pulling Doyle back to the moment. "No, ma’am," he said. "This is much worse." The rat and Sanchez exchanged a glance, and when she
nodded, Ratboy cleared his throat. "We found this under the
body," he said, holding up a clear evidence bag. Doyle took it, his eyes not needing the illumination from
the flashlight that Sanchez politely held up. A silver
signet ring, caked in mud. Even half hidden by the earth,
the intricate craftsmanship stood out. A delicately carved
dragon with a ruby eye, the body forming a circle as the
beast consumed its own tail. Tucker leaned in for a closer look. "Isn’t that—" "The Dragos crest," Doyle said, his smile cold and hard.
Lucius Dragos, the last Dragos standing. Finally, after all
these years, he had his old friend’s balls in a vise. "Holy fuck," Tucker said. "Talk about a gold-star evening.
All this time without one piece of solid evidence, and now
Dragos goes and makes a mistake like this? It’s too fucking
good to be true." "That’s what worries me." Doyle squatted beside the body,
then tilted his head to look at his partner. "I need to see
if there’s more." Tucker shook his head, then looked meaningfully at Sanchez
and Ratboy. "You really want to deal with the paperwork?" Doyle thought of the stack of reprimands and warnings that
already peppered his file. Any more, and he was deep in
some serious shit. "I’ll only get dinged if Division finds
out." "Is there a problem?" Sanchez asked. "Not yet," Doyle said. To Tucker, he added, "You know I
have to do it." "Aw, hell," Tucker said, then rolled his shoulders in
defeat. "Fine. Go for it. What’s a little official
reprimand between friends, right?" As Tucker looked deep into the eyes of Detective Sanchez,
Doyle pressed his palm over Braddock’s forehead. Ratboy’s
feathers ruffled almost immediately. "Are you insane?
You’re not even wearing gloves. How can you—" "I can explain," Tucker said, crouching down next to the
man as Detective Sanchez wandered away, suddenly
remembering that she had an elsewhere to be. While Doyle
concentrated on finding Braddock’s last thoughts, Tucker
put some mumbo in Ratboy’s jumbo and sent the little worm
on his way as well. "I couldn’t go deep," Tucker said. "Too risky. So you
better find it fast." Doyle nodded, but didn’t speak. He was getting close. Darkness. Surprise. Pleasure, even. At least until it
turned. Shifted. Then the fear came. A mishmash. Horror. Pleasure. Pain. None of it coming together, none of it coalescing into an
image. Just confusion. A jumble of confused emotions and
reactions. Nothing to grab. Nothing to hold on to. "Come on, come on," Tucker said, as Doyle closed his other
hand over the body’s heart, trying to get purchase on the
fading aura. Dizzy. Gone. Remorse. And death, so cold and familiar. And then, finally, a face. The last image of death. The last conscious thought. Doyle looked. And in his mind saw Lucius Dragos, fangs
bared, as he bent close to suck the last vestiges of life
from Judge Marcus Braddock. Doyle’s teeth chattered and his body shook as he pulled
free of Braddock’s mind. But he had Dragos now, had him
dead to rights. Exhausted, he tilted his head up to face Tucker. "We
finally got him, partner. And we are going to nail his ass
to the wall."
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy