Kresley Cole: Untuchable

Had she truly thought the gray of his eyes was normal? Recognition seemed to flare in them. Recognition? But how? She’d never seen him before—she’d definitely have remembered.

His gaze was focused… predatory . Then his irises turned black. Black in a vampire meant intense emotion. Yet his earlier fury seemed to be fading.

As they stared at each other, all other sounds—the eerie thrum of barges churning the river, the distant screech of streetcars—were drowned out.

“My brother warned me that your kind are vicious.” His voice went even lower as he frowned. “I cannot see you as so.”

“Where is my sister, vampire?”

“I can take you to her, Valkyrie.”

I’ll bet . Yes, the male before her was a Forbearer, which meant that he was clueless among the Lore.

He’d have no idea how dangerous Danii in particular could be.

A living, breathing valkyrie stood before him. And she was so stunningly beautiful…

Murdoch’s view of her front had proved far more rewarding than he’d imagined.

He shook himself. Was she one of those who’d shot Nikolai? Had she been there to laugh at the idea of his brother’s agony?

For some reason, he couldn’t imagine her like that. He knew she was an enemy—one among an army of females who sought the annihilation of all vampires—and Nikolai had just warned him not to underestimate them. But this one looked even more fragile than Myst.

Though her features and lithe body were perfection, her blond locks were tangled around her pointed ears, and dust smudged her cheeks. Her face was feverishly red, and she was subtly swaying on her feet. She looked sad and miserable.

And spooked.

Chasing a female who feared him sat ill. Nikolai had sworn they were taunting, sadistic warriors. Yet this creature had hidden from him—after fleeing as if her life depended on it.

“Listen, Valkyrie, I don’t want to hurt you. I just have some questions for you to answer.”

She raised her hand, but lifted no weapon. Instead, she flattened her palm just below her lips as if to blow a kiss good-bye. The breath that left her mouth looked like a cloud of frost, surging forward, surrounding him.

Ice flash-froze around his boots. He couldn’t move his legs. Couldn’t break free. “ What the hell is this?” Her breath continued to surround him, ice growing up past his knees, climbing to his thighs.

Then she coughed, bending over and rocking on her feet. The buildup stopped, leaving him fettered by this bizarre binding.

He strained against the ice, which seemed stronger than any he’d ever known, but he was unable to break free or trace from it. “Take—this—away.”

She stalked closer. “Who has Myst now? Nikolai or the Forbearer king?”

“How do you know my brother’s name?”

“Nikolai or the king?”

He spied the points of her ears twitching, and her gaze darted past him. Just as she hissed at something behind him, he heard movement and twisted his upper body around.

There stood half a dozen men, large Viking-looking warriors, with swords at their sides and arrows already nocked to the strings of their raised bows.

Their breaths smoked in the warm night air and their ears were pointed.

She hasn’t been fleeing from me—

Arrows darkened the air around him, whizzing past his head. They’d aimed for her.

But somehow she was twisting to dodge the onslaught. Whirling around in the air, she turned to dart into another alley, her speed incomprehensible.

Then she was gone.

His hands shot down to claw his legs free, his fingers swiftly going numb. Just as the males behind him ran after her, Murdoch heard more fighting.

There are two groups. They’re organized, flushing her out. Can’t get this fucking ice off me.

Suddenly, her small body came flying out of the intersecting alley before him.

Thrown. She’d been thrown .

The force of her landing sent her skidding across the pavement. As she stabbed her claws against the bricks to right herself, a cloud of arrows followed her. The momentum took her out of his field of vision.

Then an unfamiliar scent swept him up. Though his instinct told him it was blood, his mind rebelled.

Never had it smelled so exquisite. So irresistible.

At last Murdoch broke free, tracing to intercept her. When he reappeared, his every muscle tensed in an instant.

The scent had been blood— hers . She was kneeling in a pool of it, her chest full of arrows. One of the males was holding her up by her hair, speaking in some foreign tongue. In his other hand, he held a glowing red blade.

She gazed up at Murdoch as crimson streams snaked from her wounds to the dirty street.

They’d done this to her?

What had you been about to do to her? His vampire nature warred with memories of the man he’d been…

— I would never have hurt her.

— She was my prey. They stole her from me. My prize.

Just… mine .

At the thought of those men loosing their arrows at her, the idea of her pain and fear, rage erupted in him. The need to protect her, to destroy those who sought to harm her, burned within him.

Mine.

Two realizations struck him.

This strange female belonged to him alone. And these killers would die before they relinquished her.

Her gaze held Murdoch’s, and she weakly extended her small hand. With tears running from her silvery eyes, she spoke, a whisper directed to him, loud above all sounds.

“ Mercy. ”

Will he help me? Emotions warred on the vampire’s face. Danii saw them with her vision flickering.

The poison was taking hold, leaching away her precious reserves of cold.

So hot… felt like she was cooking from the inside.

When she’d faced him earlier, he’d been filled with anger. Now his brows had drawn together at the sight of her injuries.

He grated, “Mercy?” Then something seemed to… snap. His fists clenched, and he bared his sharpened fangs. His body appeared to get even bigger. “I’m going to give you their heads, female.”

Why would he? And how ?

The vampire didn’t understand how deadly these Icere were. They were expert bowmen, their fey speed unmatched in the Lore. And there were too many of them. At least eight stood between the vampire and her. They were already building ice grenades in their palms.

With an unholy roar, the vampire charged, half tracing, half sprinting. Five of the Icere rushed to intercept him, lobbing grenades with lethal speed. But he dodged each volley, and the ice the warriors had just surrendered exploded all around him in the alley.

Like some living thing, a freezing glaze crawled over the battered brick walls, skittering all the way up to the fire escapes, coating the street.

The vampire clashed with the wall of Icere, battling his way to her, slashing through the warriors with a startling brutality. When he snatched one’s jugular and blood arced out like a fountain in the night, her Iceren captor began to drag her away by her hair.

The poison had weakened her, but she still fought him. Her claws sank into his arm and tore, rending skin and bone, all but severing it.

He yelled in pain and dropped her hair to take his knife in his good hand, shoving it against her neck. The blade’s heat seared her skin, and a scream erupted from her chest.

In answer, a savage bellow sounded; she and her captor looked up just in time to see the vampire flying at him.

One second the knife was at her throat. In the next, the vampire had wrenched the Iceren’s head free.