Sherrilyn Kenyon: Kiss Of The Night

"You're not funny, rugrat. And I am not a Swede."

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, make the Swedish Chef noises."

Wulf growled. "I should never have allowed you to watch The Muppets ." More to the point, he shouldn't have pretended to be the Swedish Chef when Chris was a child. All it did was give the boy one more thing to aggravate him with.

But still, they were family, and at least Chris was attempting to make him feel better. Not that it was working.

Chris let out a rude noise. "Fine, you decrepit old Viking grump. By the way, my mother wants to meet you. Again."

Wulf groaned. "Can you put her off another couple of days?"

"I can try, but you know how she is."

Yes, he did. He'd known Chris's mother for more than thirty years.

Unfortunately, she didn't know him at all. Just like everyone else not born of his blood, she forgot him five minutes after he left her presence.

"All right," Wulf relented. "Bring her over tomorrow evening."

Wulf headed to the stairs that led to his rooms underneath the house. Like most Dark-Hunters, he preferred to sleep where there was no possibility of accidental sun exposure. It was one of the very few things that could destroy their immortal bodies.

He opened the door, but didn't bother with the overhead light since Chris had lit the small candle by his desk. The eyes of a Dark-Hunter were designed to need almost no light. He could see better in the darkness than humans could see in broad daylight.

Taking his sweater off, he gently prodded the four bullet wounds in his side. The bullets had passed cleanly through his flesh and the skin had already started to heal.

The injury stung, but it wouldn't kill him, and in a couple of days, there would be nothing left except four tiny scars.

He used his black T-shirt to wipe the blood from his side, and went to the bathroom to wash and bandage it.

As soon as he was clean and dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, Wulf switched on his stereo. The preprogrammed songs started off with Slade's My Oh My while he grabbed his cordless phone and brought up his computer screen to log on to the Dark-Hunter.com Web site to update the others on his latest kills.

Callabrax liked to keep up with how many Daimons were slain each month. The Spartan warrior had some weird notion that Daimon crossovers and attacks were related to moon cycles.

Personally, Wulf thought the Spartan had way too much time on his hands. But then, being immortals, they all did.

Sitting in the darkness, Wulf listened to the words of the song as it played.

I believe in woman, my oh my. We all need someone to talk to, my oh my …

Against his will, the lyrics conjured up images of his ancient home, and of a woman with hair as white as the snowfall, and eyes as blue as the sea.

Arnhild.

He didn't know why he still thought of her after all these centuries, but he did.

He took a deep breath as he wondered what would have happened had he stayed on at his father's farm and married her. Everyone had expected it.

Arnhild had expected it.

But Wulf had refused. At seventeen, he'd wanted a different life than that of a simple farmer paying taxes to his jarl. He'd wanted adventure, and battles.

Glory.

Danger.

Maybe if he'd loved Arnhild, it might have been enough to keep him home.

And if he'd done that…

He'd have been bored out of his friggin' mind.

Which was his problem tonight. He needed something exciting. Something to stir his blood.

Something like the hot, tempting strawberry-blonde he'd left behind on the street…

Unlike Chris, getting naked with a strange woman wasn't something he shirked from.

Or at least something he used to not shirk from. Of course his willingness to be naked with unknown women was what had led him to his current fate, so maybe Chris had some sense after all.

Seeking a distraction from that irritating thought, Wulf dialed Talon's number and clicked the remote to change his song over to Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song."

Talon answered his cell phone at the same time Wulf logged on to the Dark-Hunters' private message boards.

"Hey, little girl," Wulf said tauntingly, switching to his headset so that he couid type and talk at the same time. "I got your 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap' T-shirt today. You're not funny and I don't work cheap. I expect a lot of money for what I do."

Talon scoffed. "Little girl? You better lay off or I'll come up there and kick your Viking ass."

"That threat might carry some weight if I didn't know how much you hate the cold."

Talon laughed deep in his throat.

"So what are you up to tonight?" Wulf asked.

"About six feet five."

Wulf groaned. "You know, that crappy joke doesn't get funnier every time I hear it."

"Yeah, I know. But I live only to harass you."

"And you succeed so well. You been taking lessons from Chris?"

He heard Talon cover the phone with his hand and order black coffee and beignets.

"So you're already out and about tonight?" he asked Talon after the waitress had walked away.

"You know it. It's Mardi Gras time and Daimons abound."

"Bullshit. I heard you order coffee. You ran out again, didn't you?"

"Shut up, Viking."

Wulf shook his head. "You really need to get yourself a Squire."

"Yeah, right. I'll remind you of that the next time you're bitching about Chris and his mouth."

Wulf leaned back in his chair as he read through the postings of his fellow Dark-Hunters. It was comforting to know he wasn't the only one who was bored out of his mind in between assignments.

Since Dark-Hunters couldn't gather together physically without draining each others' powers, the Internet and phones were the only way they could share information and stay in touch.

Technology was a godsend to them.

"Man," Wulf said, "is it just me or do the nights seem to be getting longer?"

"Some are longer than others." Talon's chair squeaked over the phone. No doubt the Celt was leaning back in it to scope out some woman walking past his table. "So, what has you down?"

"I'm restless."

"Go get laid."

He snorted at Talon's stock answer for everything. Worse, he knew the Celt really believed sex was a cure-all for any ailment.

But then as his thoughts turned back to the woman at the club, Wulf wasn't so sure it wouldn't work.

At least for tonight.

However, in the end, a night with another woman who wouldn't remember him didn't appeal to him.

It hadn't in a long time.

"That's not the problem," Wulf said as he scanned the messages. "I'm aching for a good fight. I mean, damn, when was the last time you really had a Daimon fight back? The ones I took out tonight just laid down on me. One of them even whimpered when I hit him."

"Hey, you should be glad you got them before they got you."

Perhaps…

But then Wulf was a Viking and they didn't look at things the same way the Celts did.

"You know, Talon, killing a soul-sucking Daimon without a good fight is like sex without foreplay. A total waste of time and completely un… satisfying."

"Spoken like a true Norseman. What you need, my brother, is a mead hall filled with serving wenches and Vikings ready to fight their way into Valhalla."

It was true. Wulf missed the Spathi Daimons. Now, they were a warrior class that put the fun in war.

Well, from his way of thinking anyway.

"The ones I found tonight knew nothing about fighting," Wulf said, curling his lip. "And I'm sick of the whole 'my gun will solve all' mentality."

"You get shot again?" Talon asked.

"Four times. I swear… I wish I could get a Daimon up here like Desiderius. I'd love a good down-and-dirty fight for once."

"Careful what you wish for, you just might get it."