Warrior Untamed. Shannon Curtis

mix laced with lavender, chamomile and a heavy dose of verbena. No vampire would want to get near her if she slathered that toxic herb all over her.

      Her watch beeped, and her smile fell. Great. Time to feed the pyro jerk. She beckoned Jenna, her assistant, over.

      “Can you man the cash for me? I’m going to take a quick lunch break.”

      Jenna nodded, stepping behind the counter.

      Melissa grabbed the brown paper bag and a plastic bottle of water from the bottom shelf of the counter, and strode toward the door behind a stack of books at the back of her store. When she reached that last stack, she pulled her heavy keyring from the front pocket of her jeans, and sifted through them until she found the two keys for the double-lock system she’d asked her brother, Dave, to install on the door, and then pulled on the cord that lit the stairwell. She could use her magic to open the doors, but loved to hear the click and snick of the locks. She skipped lightly down the stairs and stopped to key in the code to unlock the next intricate lock system she’d installed on the second door.

      The heavy steel door swung inward and muted lighting automatically switched on, illuminating the work areas, but leaving the rest of the area in soft shadows. She stepped inside the large room. Now it bore little resemblance to the scarred and ashen remains of five months before. They’d installed fire-retardant hardwood and plastic composite to limit the possibility of a fire occurring again. Like anything below surface, this place was off the plans, off-the-record—and not insured. She’d have her apothecary back soon, and then she’d be able to do more than just bespell jewelry and mix herbs into lotions and drinking drafts. She’d be able to do some considerable damage to the damned shadow breeds. Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped farther into her secret space.

      It was the door she’d cleverly painted as an intricately carved tree trunk that she now made her way over to. This one had a series of locks, but was also warded, so she waved her hand to lift the spelled lock, then opened the door. She grabbed the large torch that she hung off a hook just behind the door, flicked it on and stepped carefully down into the dark void, her sneakers squeaking softly on the steep narrow metal steps that led down into the darkness. The light emitted was blue—something she knew her prisoner couldn’t draw on.

      The air down here was dank and musty. She took a deep breath. Metal. Rust. Concrete. Stone. It wasn’t exactly a forgiving place, all hard surfaces and cold darkness. She thought of her prisoner, and her mouth firmed. A fitting place for the pyro jerk. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she located the trapdoor. That trapdoor was about three stories below street level, and she’d never ventured beyond it. She’d opened it once, hauled it up with the help of a crowbar. She’d been curious...but when she’d crouched at the lip of the hole, she’d paused. Listened.

      Something had slithered in the darkness, something that breathed, and...waited. She’d leaned forward, and the shuffling noise sped up, grew louder, and she just managed to replace the lid—but not before she caught the glimpse of that pale hand with the elongated gray fingernails.

      Even now, she shuddered at the memory. Creepy. She’d heard tales of Old Irondell—hell, every parent seemed to enjoy bouncing their child on their knee and freaking the crap out of them with the old stories—hers included.

      But that’s what they were to most people—stories. Wicked, cautionary tales to make kids toe the line and not wander off.

      Only, she knew they weren’t just stories. Old Irondell may be just a pale memory that was passed down, less and less, from one generation to the next. But there were some folks who still knew of the origins of the Reformation, of the time of The Troubles, when humanity discovered the existence of the shadow breeds: the vampires, werewolves, shifters and other creatures that were just plain weird, but who seemed to be on a mission to eat, or kill, or eat and kill any human they encountered. It had started a war that had lasted generations, until the time of Resolution, when all breeds gathered to negotiate a truce, which led to the Reformation, the redefining of territories and laws, and society itself. The homeless, the outcasts, those who didn’t “fit” into the normal, new Reform society had migrated to dwell below Irondell, away from the light. Away from Reform law. Nobody went into Old Irondell and came out unchanged.

      If they ever returned. Most didn’t.

      She didn’t need to go into Old Irondell. She had enough problems dealing with the shadow breeds above surface.

      She turned back to the door, slid the peephole open and peered through the slot. There he was. Pyro jerk. That mean, homicidal son of a—oh. Wow. She swallowed.

      He was doing a handstand. Correction, he was doing push-ups in a handstand position. He was shirtless and the jeans he wore were smeared with dirt, rust and grime. His chest glistened, his muscles rippling with each dip and raise, from the corded strength of his broad shoulders down to the ridged abdomen that showed the control and power of each move. His hair was long, touching the floor when he moved, and the beard that covered his jaw gave him a wild, untamed look. She’d made a point of providing her prisoner with a bucket of water every other day so he could wash, but she’d never seen him actually bathe, or sweat—or glisten. She swallowed again.

      He pushed himself up, exhaling in a gust, then slowly lowered his feet to the ground with the grace of a gymnast. He rose from his position, his back to her, and he rolled his shoulders. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Sure, he’d been on a prison diet for the last five months, but still, he didn’t look like he was wasting away. No. He looked....healthy. Very...healthy. The chains that connected his wrists to the bolt in the wall clanked with his movements. She stared at that glorious wall of muscle, his figure an enticing V that narrowed into lean hips and a tight, tantalizing butt. He turned his head from side to side, as though stretching out some kinks, shook out those massive arms and then paused.

      His head turned slowly to his right. He didn’t face her, but she could see the corner of his mouth lift up in a sexy little curl.

      “Why, hello, Red.”

      A sneaky, traitorous warmth flared inside her at his familiarity, quickly squashed by a wave of annoyance. No warmth for him, damn it.

       Chapter 2

      Hunter turned to face the door, refusing to let her presence bother him. She was right on time. He wasn’t sure if his captor’s punctuality was something he appreciated, or whether it irritated the hell out of him. It depended on his mood. He stood there for a moment, assessing his mood, and his stomach growled. Okay, so today it was appreciation. He was hungry, and she’d brought him food.

      He raised his hands to his hips and tilted his head back to meet the green-eyed gaze of the witch behind the door. She stared at him for a moment, her gaze full of suspicion and wariness. He wasn’t going to try anything. He’d learned that lesson. Four times. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t try again, he just wasn’t feeling it today.

      “Back up against the wall.” Her voice was low, husky and, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, the sound curled inside him, and he hated it as much as he enjoyed it. Five months he’d been trapped in this hole in the wall. Five lonely months. He’d never really been a social kind of guy, but after too many months of his own company, he was beginning to look forward to these too-brief moments of company with the bitchy witch. Crave it, even. Resented it, but craved it.

      Yeah, he was a sick bastard. He backed up against the wall as instructed and folded his arms. If he didn’t threaten her, his cold little captor might stay longer.

      The key clanked in the lock, and then the heavy steel door swung inward. She stepped into the room, and straightaway, he could smell her, feel her. Cinnamon and smoke. Lazy heat. He didn’t think the smoke could be blamed on him, though. He’d heard the sounds from above, the drilling, banging and clanging. They’d cleaned up that little mess he’d made. No, that scent of smoke was entirely of her own making. He was pretty sure his captor dabbled with fires of her own. As usual, she carried a torch. He hid a smile. She’d done her research. No candles, no flames,