Sherrilyn Kenyon - Dance With The Devil

"So, did you do it?"

Zarek arched a brow at the anxious, unfamiliar male voice.

Ah, the beauty of his powers. He had hearing that would make Superman jealous. And he knew the topic of their discussion…

Him.

Or rather his demise.

Mike had been offered a fortune to kill him, and since the moment they had left New Orleans about twelve hours ago, Zarek had been waiting for the middle-aged Squire to either open the sealed windows and expose him to the deadly sunlight or to jettison his compartment and drop him over something that was guaranteed to take the immortality right out of him.

Instead, Mike was dicking around with him and had yet to pull the switch. Not that Zarek cared. He had a few more tricks to teach the Squire if Mike tried anything.

"Nah," Mike said as the chopper dipped without warning sharply to the left again and slammed Zarek into the wall of his compartment. He was beginning to suspect the pilot kept doing that just for shits and giggles.

The helicopter tilted again while Zarek braced himself for it.

"I thought about it, real hard, but you know I figure frying this bastard is way too good for him. I'd rather leave him to the Blood Rite Squires and let them take him out slow and painfully. Personally, I'd like to hear the psycho-dick scream for mercy, especially after what he did to those poor, innocent cops."

The muscle in Zarek's jaw started to tic in time to his rapid, angry heartbeat as he listened. Yeah, those cops had been real innocent, all right. If Zarek had been mortal, the beating they gave him would have either killed him or he'd be lying in a coma right now.

The voice spoke over the radio again. "I heard from the Oracles that Artemis will pay double to the Squire who kills him. You put that on top of what Dionysus was going to pay you for killing him and I personally think you're a fool to pass on it."

"No doubt, but I have enough money to pacify me. Besides, I'm the one who's had to tolerate the dick's attitude and sneers. He thinks he's such a badass. I want to see them take him down a notch before they cut his head off."

Zarek rolled his eyes at Mike's words. He didn't give a rat's ass what the man thought of him.

He'd learned a long time ago that there was no use in trying to reach out to people.

All it did was get him slapped.

He tucked his MP3 player back into his black duffel bag and grimaced as his knee connected roughly against the wall. Gods, get him out of this tight, cramped place. It felt like being in a sarcophagus.

"I'm surprised the Council didn't activate Nick's Blood Rite status for this hunt," the other voice said. "Since he spent the last week with Zarek, I would think he would be a natural for it."

Mike snorted. "They tried, but Gautier refused."

"Why?"

"I have no idea. You know how Gautier is. He doesn't take orders very well. Makes me wonder why they ever initiated him into Squirehood to begin with. I can't imagine any Dark-Hunter other than Acheron or Kyrian who could put up with his mouth."

"Yeah, he is a smart-ass. And speaking of, my Dark-Hunter is paging me so I better go to work. You be careful with Zarek and stay out of his way."

"Don't worry. I'm going to dump him out and leave him for the others to track down, then get my butt out of Alaska faster than you can say 'Rumpelstiltskin.' "

The radio clicked off.

Zarek sat perfectly still in the darkness and listened to Mike breathing in the cockpit.

So, the prick had changed his mind about killing him.

Well, bully that. The Squire had finally grown a ball, and half a brain. At some point during the last few hours Mike must have decided that suicide wasn't the answer.

For that, Zarek would let him live.

But he would make him suffer for the privilege.

And may the gods help the rest who were coming for him. On the frozen ground that made up Alaska's interior, Zarek was invincible. Unlike the other Dark-Hunters and Squires, he'd had nine hundred years of arctic survival training. Nine hundred years of just him and the uncharted wilderness.

Sure, Acheron had visited every decade or so just to make certain he was still alive, but no one else had ever come calling.

And people wondered why he was insane.

Up until about ten years ago, he'd had no contact whatsoever with the outside world during the long summer months that forced him to live inside his remote cabin.

No phone, no computer, no television.

Nothing but the quiet solitude of rereading the same stack of books over and over again until he had them memorized. Waiting in eager anticipation for the nights to grow long enough for him to be able to travel from his rural cabin into Fairbanks while the businesses were still open and he could interact with people.

For that matter, it had only been about a century and a half since the area had been sufficiently populated for him to have any human contact at all.

Before that, for untold centuries he had lived up here alone without another human being anywhere near him. He'd only occasionally caught sight of natives who were terrified to find a strange, tall Caucasian man with fangs living in a remote forest. They would take one look at his six-foot-six height and musk-ox parka and then run as fast as they could in the other direction, screaming out that the Iglaaq was going to get them. Superstitious to the extreme, they had built up an entire legend based on him.

That left the rare visits of the winter Daimons, who would venture into his woods so that they could say they'd faced down the lunatic Dark-Hunter. Unfortunately, they had been more interested in fighting than conversation and so his association with them had always been brief. A few minutes of combat to alleviate the monotony and then he was alone again with the snow and bears.

And they weren't even were-bears.

The magnetic and electrical charges of the aurora borealis made it almost impossible for any of the Were-Hunters to venture so far north. It also played havoc with his electronics and satellite linkups, blacking out his communications periodically year round so that even in this modern world, he was still painfully alone.

Maybe he should have let them kill him after all.

And yet somehow he always found himself carrying on. One more year, one more summer.

One more communications blackout.

Basic survival was all Zarek had ever known.

He swallowed as he remembered New Orleans.

How he'd loved that city. The vibrancy. The warmth. The mixture of exotic smells, sights, and sounds. He wondered if the people who lived there realized just how good they had it. Just how privileged they were to be blessed with such a great town.

But that was behind him now. He'd screwed up so badly that there was no chance whatsoever of either Artemis or Acheron allowing him back into a populated area where he could interact with large crowds of people.

It was him and Alaska for eternity. All he could really hope for was a massive population explosion, but given the severity of the weather, that was about as likely as his getting stationed in Hawaii.

With that thought in mind, he started pulling his snow gear out of the duffel bag and putting it on. It would be early morning when they arrived and still dark, but the dawn wouldn't be far behind. He'd have to hurry to make it to his cabin before sunup.

By the time he'd rubbed Vaseline on his skin and had changed into his long johns, black turtleneck sweater, and long musk-ox coat and insulated winter boots, he could feel the helicopter descending toward land.

On impulse, Zarek sifted through the weapons in his duffel bag. He'd learned a long time ago to carry a wide assortment of tools. Alaska was a harsh place to be on your own and you never knew when you'd meet something deadly.