Sherrilyn Kenyon - Dance With The Devil

Centuries ago, Zarek had made the decision to be the deadliest thing on the tundra.

As soon as they landed, Mike cut the engine and then waited for the blades to stop spinning before he got out, cursed at the subzero temperature, and opened the door to the back. Mike raked a repugnant sneer over him as he stepped back to give Zarek enough room to vacate the chopper.

"Welcome home," Mike said with a note of gleeful venom in his voice. The prick was enjoying the thought of the Squires tracking him down and dismembering him.

Well, so was Zarek.

Mike blew his breath into his gloved hands. "Hope it's all you remembered it as."

It was. Nothing here ever changed.

Zarek flinched at the brightness of the snow even in the darkness of predawn. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes to protect them and climbed out. He grabbed his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, then waded through the crunching snow toward the climate-controlled shed where he'd left his custom-built Ski-Doo MX Z Rev the week before.

Oh, yeah, now this was the subfreezing temperature he remembered, the arctic air that bit so fiercely, every piece of his exposed skin burned. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering—something that wasn't pleasant when a man had long, sharp fangs in place of teeth.

Welcome home…

Mike was heading back for the cockpit when Zarek turned around to face him.

"Hey, Mike," he called, his voice ringing out through the cold stillness.

Mike paused.

"Rumpelstiltskin," he said before he tossed a live grenade underneath the helicopter.

Mike let out a fetid curse as he loped through the snow as fast as he could, trying to reach shelter.

For the first time in a long while, Zarek smiled at the sight of the irate Squire and the sound of the snow crunching under Mike's harried feet.

The helicopter exploded the same instant Zarek reached his snowmachine. He slung one long, leather-encased leg over the black seat and looked back as pieces of the twenty-three-million-dollar Sikorsky helicopter rained fiery metal over the snow.

Ahh, fireworks. How he loved them. The sight was almost as beautiful as the aurora borealis.

Mike was still cursing and jumping up and down like a small angry child as he watched his custom-built baby go up in flames.

Zarek started his engine and rode over to Mike, but not before he dropped another grenade to detonate the shed, thus preventing the Squire from using it.

As the snowmachine vibrated in idle beneath him, he pulled his scarf down enough so that Mike could understand him when he spoke. "Town is four miles that way," he said, pointing toward the south. He tossed Mike a small tube of Vaseline. "Keep your lips covered so they don't bleed."

"I should have killed you," Mike snarled.

"Yeah, you should have." Zarek covered his face, and revved his engine. "By the way, if you happen upon wolves in the woods, remember, they really are wolves and not Were-Hunters on the prowl. They also travel in packs so if you hear one, there's more behind him. My best advice for that is to climb a tree and hope they get bored before a bear comes along and decides to climb up after you."

Zarek spun his machine around and headed toward the northeast where his cabin waited in the middle of three hundred acres of forest.

He should probably feel guilty over what he'd done to Mike, but he didn't. The Squire had just learned a valuable lesson. Next time Artemis or Dionysus made him an offer, he'd take it.

Zarek rotated his wrist, giving the snowmachine more power as it bucked over the rough, snowy trail. He still had a long way to go to get home and his time was running out.

Daybreak was coming.

Damn. He should have ridden his Mach Z in. It was sleeker and faster than the MX Z Rev that he was on now, but not nearly as much fun.

Zarek was cold, hungry, and tired, and in a weird way all he wanted to do was get back to things that were familiar.

If the other Squires wanted to hunt him down, so be it. At least this way he was forewarned.

And as the helicopter and shed had shown, forearmed.

If they wanted to take him on, then he wished them luck. They were going to need it and a whole lot of reinforcements.

Looking forward to the challenge, he flew his snowmachine over the frozen terrain.

It was just before sunrise when he reached his isolated cabin. More snow had fallen while he was away, blocking his door. He pulled the snowmachine into the small shed that was attached to his cabin and covered it with a tarp. As he started to plug in his warmer for the engine, he realized there was no power in the outlet for either the MX or the Mach that was parked beside it.

He snarled in anger. Damn. No doubt the block for the Mach had been cracked from the subzero temperatures, and if he wasn't careful the MX's engine would crack, too.

Zarek rushed outside to check his generators before the sun rose over the hills, only to find both of them frozen solid and not working.

He snarled again as he struck one with his fist.

Well, so much for comfort. Looked like it was going to be him and the small wood-burning stove today. Not the best source of heat, but it was the best he was going to get.

"Great, just great," he muttered. It wasn't the first time he'd been forced to endure a cold sleep on his cabin floor. No doubt it wouldn't be the last.

It just seemed worse this morning because he'd spent the last week in New Orleans's mild climate. It had been so warm while he was there that he hadn't even needed to use the heat at all.

Man, how he missed that place.

Knowing his time before sunrise was growing critically short, he trudged back to his snowmachine and packed its engine with his parka to help keep as much of the heat around it as he could. Then he retrieved his duffel bag from the seat and went to dig his door out so that he could get inside his cabin.

He ducked as he came through the door and kept his head bent down. The ceiling was low, so low that if he stood up straight the top of his head would brush it, and if he wasn't paying attention, his ceiling fan in the center of the room would decapitate him.

But the low ceiling was necessary. Heat in the heart of winter was a valuable commodity and the last thing anyone wanted was the bulk of it gathered under a ten-foot ceiling. A lower ceiling meant a warmer place.

Not to mention that nine hundred years ago when he'd been banished here, he hadn't had very long to build his shelter. Sleeping in a cave during daylight, he'd worked on the cabin at night until he had finally constructed Home Crappy Home.

Yes, it was good to be back…

Zarek dropped his duffel bag beside the wood-burning stove. Then he turned and placed the old-fashioned wooden bolt into its cradle over the door to bar it from the Alaskan wildlife that sometimes ventured too close to his cabin.

Feeling his way along the carved wall with his hand, he found the lantern that hung there and the small box of lucifer matches that was attached to it. Even though his Dark-Hunter eyesight was designed for nighttime, he couldn't see in complete darkness. With the door closed, his cabin was sealed so tightly that no light whatsoever could permeate its thick wooden walls.

Lighting the lantern, he shivered from the cold as he turned around to face the interior of his home. He knew every inch of the place intimately. Every bookshelf that lined the walls, every hand-carved, ornamental notch that decorated it.

He'd never had much in the way of furniture. Two tall cupboards; one for his handful of clothes and one for his food. There was also a stand for his television and his bookshelves, and that was pretty much it. As a former Roman slave, Zarek wasn't used to much.

It was so cold inside that he could see his breath even through the scarf and as he looked around the small space he grimaced at his computer and television—both of which would have to be defrosted before he could use them again.