Sherrilyn Kenyon: Kiss Of The Night

His gaze drifted over to where Kat lay surrounded by humans who didn't appear aware of how she'd gotten hurt. No doubt the Daimons were using their powers to fog the minds of the humans around them to keep them from interfering.

"Well," he continued ominously, "a little snack never hurt anyone."

He grabbed her arm at the same time the Daimon holding her let go.

Unwilling to go quietly to her slaughter, Cassandra reverted to her strict and intensive training. She stepped back into the arms of the Daimon behind her and brought her heel down on his instep.

He cursed.

She buried her fist into the stomach of the Daimon before her, then darted between the other two and headed for the door.

With his inhuman speed, the tallest Daimon cut her off halfway there. A cruel smile curved his lips as he pulled her viciously to a stop.

She kicked out, but he prevented her from hurting him.

"Don't." His deep voice was mesmerizing and filled with the promise of lethal harm should she disobey him.

Several people in the bar turned to look at them, but one vicious glare from the Daimon and they headed off.

No one would help her.

None dared.

But it wasn't over yet… She would never surrender to them.

Before she could attack again, the front door of the club swung open with an arctic blast.

As if he sensed something even more evil than himself, the Daimon turned his head toward the door.

His eyes widened in panic.

Cassandra turned to see what held him transfixed and then she, too, couldn't tear her gaze away.

The wind and snow swirled into the entranceway around a man who stood at least six feet six.

Unlike most people who walked around in ten-degree weather, the newcomer wore only a long, thin black leather coat that rippled with the wind. He had on a solid black sweater, biker boots, and a pair of tight black leather pants that hugged a lean, hard body that beckoned with wild, sexual promise.

He had the confident, deadly swagger of a man who knew he had no equal. Of a man who dared the world to try and take him on.

It was the gait of a predator.

And it made her blood run cold.

Had his hair been blond, she would have presumed him another Daimon. But this man was something else entirely.

His shoulder-length jet-black hair was blown back from a perfectly sculpted face that caused her heart to pound. His black eyes were cold. Steely. His face was set and impassive.

Neither pretty, nor feminine, the man was such a Powdered Donut, he wouldn't even have to share it in her bed!

Drawn like a homing beacon, and oblivious to the crowd in the bar, the newcomer swept his dark, deadly gaze from one Daimon to the next, until it settled on the one by her side.

A slow, evil smile spread over his handsome face, displaying the tiniest hint of fangs.

He headed straight for them.

The Daimon cursed, then pulled her in front of him.

Cassandra fought his hold, until he took a gun out of his pocket and held it to her temple.

Screams and shouts erupted in the bar as people ran for cover.

The other Daimons moved to stand by his side into what appeared to be a battle formation.

The newcomer gave a low, sinister laugh as he sized them up. The light in his jet eyes told her how much he looked forward to the fight.

His gaze actually goaded them.

"Bad form to take a hostage," he said in a deep, smoothly accented voice that rumbled like thunder. "Especially when you know I'm going to kill you anyway."

In that instant, Cassandra knew who and what the newcomer was.

He was a Dark-Hunter—an immortal warrior who spent eternity hunting down and executing the Daimons who fed off human souls. They were the defenders of mankind and the personification of Satan for her people.

She'd heard of them all her life, but much like the bogeyman, she'd attributed them to urban legends.

But the man before her wasn't a figment of her imagination. He was real, and he looked every bit as deadly as the stories she'd heard.

"Out of my way, Dark-Hunter," the Daimon holding her said, "or I'll kill her."

Appearing amused by the threat, the Dark-Hunter shook his head like a parent scolding an angry child. "You know, you should have stayed in your bolt-hole one more day. Tonight's Buffy night, and it's a whole new episode, too."

The Dark-Hunter paused to sigh irritably. "Have you any idea how angry it makes me that I have to come out here in the freezing cold to slay you when I could be at home all toasty warm, watching Sarah Michelle Gellar kick ass in a halter top?"

The Daimon's arms shook as he tightened his grip on Cassandra. "Get him!"

The Daimons attacked at once. The Dark-Hunter caught the first one by the throat. In one fluid motion, he picked the Daimon up and slammed him against the wall where he held him in a tight fist.

The Daimon whimpered.

"What are you, a baby?" the Dark-Hunter asked. "Jeez, if you're going to kill humans, the least you could do is learn to die with some dignity."

A second Daimon dove for his back. As the Dark-Hunter twisted his lower body, a long, evil-looking knife shot out of the toe of his boot. He buried the blade in the center of the Daimon's chest.

Instantly, the Daimon exploded into powder.

The Daimon in the Dark-Hunter's grip flashed his long canine teeth as he tried to bite and kick him. The Dark-Hunter tossed him into the arms of the third Daimon.

They stumbled back and landed in a heap on the floor.

The Dark-Hunter shook his head at the two Daimons as they stumbled over each other, trying to regain their feet.

More attacked and he cut through them with an ease that was as scary as it was morbidly beautiful.

"Come on, where did you learn to fight?" he asked as he killed two more. "Miss Manners' School for Girls?" He sneered contemptuously at the Daimons. "My baby sister could hit harder than you when she was three years old. Damn, if you're going to turn Daimon, the least you could do is take a few fighting lessons so you can make my boring job more interesting." He sighed wearily and looked up at the ceiling. "Where are the Spathi Daimons when you need them?"

While the Dark-Hunter was distracted, the Daimon holding her moved the gun from her temple and fired four shots into him.

The Dark-Hunter turned very slowly toward them.

Fury descending over his face, he glared at the Daimon who had shot him. "Have you no honor? No decency? No damn brains? You don't kill me with bullets. You just piss me off."

He looked down at the bleeding wounds in his side, then pulled his coat out so that light shone through the holes in the leather. He cursed again. "And you just ruined my friggin' favorite coat."

The Dark-Hunter growled at the Daimon. "For that, you die."

Before Cassandra could move, the Dark-Hunter whipped his hand toward them. A thin black cord shot out and wrapped itself around the Daimon's wrist.

Faster than she could blink, the Dark-Hunter closed the distance between them, jerked the Daimon's wrist, and wrung his forearm.

She stumbled away from the Daimon and pressed herself against the broken jukebox, out of their way.

With one hand still on the Daimon's arm, the Dark-Hunter grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. In a graceful arc, he slung the Daimon onto a table. Glasses shattered under the weight of the Daimon's back. The gun hit the wooden floor with a cold, metallic thud.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you the only way to kill us is to cut us into pieces?" the Dark-Hunter asked. "You should have brought a wood chipper instead of a gun."

He glared at the Daimon, who fought desperately against his hold. "Now, let's see about freeing the human souls you've stolen." The Dark-Hunter pulled a butterfly knife from his boot, twirled it open, and plunged it into the Daimon's chest.