Kresley Cole - MacRieve

“T-Rex!”

Chloe jerked her head around. She had missed a pass, missed the entire tide of the game changing. And now Handbagger had the ball, charging across the midfield, about to pass to her own striker. . . .

Eyes narrowed, Chloe ran down the woman, giving her a two-foot slide, tackling the living hell out of her from behind.

“You twat!” Handbagger screeched, just as the ref blew the whistle.

Dirty tackle. Yellow-carded. Shit!

Coach went ballistic on the sidelines; Handbagger got a free kick in scoring range.

As the woman positioned the ball, Chloe told herself she couldn’t fix her dad’s breakdown right now—all she could do was finish the few minutes left of this future-making game.

Dad was the one who’d taught her to focus, to stand her ground and see things through when the going got tough.

The keeper snagged Handbagger’s missile— aww, too bad —then punted it into Breaker territory.

One of her midfielders fed Chloe a hospital ball, a pass that would likely result in injury.

She charged for it anyway with Handbagger breathing down her neck. The bitch slid, knocking Chloe off the ball and onto her ass. Chloe’s ankle twisted. Handbagger couldn’t resist a late hit, a nice elbow to the throat.

No whistle? As Chloe scrambled up, she raised her hands in a WTF gesture. Tied game, two minutes left in regulation—she didn’t have time for this shit. The crowd booed, but the ref gazed on stonily.

Trying to shake it off, Chloe trotted to position, wincing as her ankle began swelling up like a balloon.

She ignored the pain, repeating to herself, Rub some dirt on it.

For all of Chloe’s life, coaches had been telling her that in response to everything from a skinned knee to a concussion. It was coach-speak for Grin and bear it, or I’ll send in second string.

The saying had become her life view. Bad practice? Rub some dirt on it. Fender bender? Rub some dirt on it. It’d turned into an optimistic catchphrase that allowed her to grit her teeth at any obstacle, and muster an I’m just happy to be here, Coach smile. It made her hunt hard for an upside.

Her dad going loco was hovering outside the realm of dirt rubbing. There was no upside. He was all the family she had in the world.

Concentrate, Chlo. Focus.

But just as she finally settled in and got her head back in the game, from the other end of her dad’s phone call came a . . . roar —the most terrifying animal roar she’d ever imagined. Chills breaking out on her sweating skin, she swung her head toward her father.

Then stood there, in the middle of the field with thousands of spectators, gaping in shock.

Because when Dad had heard that sound, he’d smiled —

A toe-kicked ball took her square in the face like a cannon shot. Her body was sent airborne. Pitched onto her back, she lay there dazed, watching the stadium lights swirl above her as the crowd grew quiet.

Rub some dirt on it. Upside? She now had her dad’s full attention, his call disconnected, and the wolf’s haunting roar was no more.

Orleans Parish, Louisiana

ONE HOUR EARLIER

Never let it be said that you doona drive like an ace,” Will told the three-thousand-year-old mad Valkyrie in the driver’s seat beside him, “but if we’re in a hurry, perhaps driving in reverse is no’ the best solution?”

Nïx the Ever-Knowing was doing about twenty miles per hour in the left lane on the Lake Pontchartrain bridge section of I-10. Backward.

She was slinking along with the flow of traffic, somewhat, but the headlights of her abused Bentley were beaming the driver following them.

To navigate, she used the rear-view mirror—and bloody foresight, for all he knew.

Though vehicles were backed up for miles behind her, she seemed oblivious. Cars would pass, their bellowing drivers shooting her the bird—until they got a look-see at the hot mess that was Nucking-Futs Nïx.

She was preternaturally beautiful but vacant-eyed, with a tangled mane of wild raven hair. She wore a neon pink T-shirt with big bold letters: S L U T

In smaller text below that: SEXUALLY LIBERATED UNINHIBITED TART.

Atop her shoulder? A live bat.

The soothsayer was fairly much crazed, losing track of time, of reality. Understandable, since she’d been seeing the future for millennia.

With a wrist slung over the wheel and Jay-Z on the radio, she said, “It’s ridiculous that a car this expensive doesn’t have cruise control for reverse.”

“You want me to drive, then?”

She’d called his private number, divining the digits he supposed, wanting to meet alone. She’d made him vow to tell no one about their “rendezvous,” not even Munro. Will had already asked why she’d wanted to meet him (answer: blank stare) and if he could do anything for her (answer: blanker stare).

“Mayhap I should call one of your sisters? You’re looking a wee bit tired, Valkyrie.”

“I’m fine,” she said absently. “I have Bertil with me.”

Oh. The bat. Will decided that if Nucking-Futs Nïx wanted to drive backward and answer none of his questions, to hell with it.

He had nothing better to do than enjoy the ride, so he relaxed back in the plush seat, proud of his nonchalance. Though he didn’t like surprises and loathed it when females pressured him to keep secrets, he was managing his unease tonight.

Mayhap he’d finally—finally—started to turn the corner.

Just then, Nïx glanced at Will, blinking in surprise, her expression saying, Well, how’d you get in here, fellow?

Her face brightened. “Hot of the Hot and Hotter Twins!” she said in greeting. “Or are you Hotter? I can never tell you apart—both of you with those smoldering golden eyes and dreamy features. Perhaps one of you has slightly longer hair?”

He and Munro hated it when females called them Hot and Hotter, as if they were interchangeable cogs in a joke. “Nïx. It’s good to see you,” he said, for the second time tonight.

At least she was interesting to be around. And most would consider a meeting with her to be priceless. She could help a Lore creature get out of whatever predicament he found himself in.

No present predicaments for Will. Unless Nïx could send him back in time or make him forget the past, he’d keep idling.

For the last few centuries, he and Munro had lived in Bheinnrose, a colony they’d founded in Nova Scotia. Will was the leader of that arm of Clan MacRieve, but for fuck’s sake, who couldn’t do that job? All he did was sign a lot of forms. Customarily after Munro read them.

Without a nice grisly war to occupy them—or missions from their king—the brothers had headed south to Louisiana, looking for a change of pace. During an Accession, something was always happening near a Lore hot spot like New Orleans. Such as a meeting with Nïx.

Plus, Will had burned through all the available nymphs in the North, since he never slept with the same female twice.

Usually by mutual agreement.

A big-rig driver pulled abreast of the Bentley and blasted his horn so loud the car vibrated.

“Mortals,” Nïx sighed. “So what did you want to talk to me about, Oolay-ahhhm?”

He frowned at the slaughtered pronunciation of his first name, but thought he caught a twinkle in her eye. “Just call me MacRieve. As for the meeting, you rang me, remember? I assumed you wanted to talk about Munro.”

“Umm, no.”

Awkward silence. Well, as long as he had a soothsayer here . . . “Mayhap you want to give me the goods on where to find his mate.” One of a Lykae’s most compelling drives was to find his fated one, and Nïx had helped three members of the clan locate and win theirs—against all odds—during this Accession alone.