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his palm. Attached to the end of the twisted metal was a huge manacle that
cuffed three baying hound heads connected to the same dog's body.
The vicious creature's jowls were filled with mangled, acid-dripping fangs,
and it scrabbled against the smoldering floor, trying to pull toward the
breach in the realms. Thick cords of muscle striated the animal's back legs
and barrel chest, its barking now near deafening. It was on the scent of
angels. Frustrated at being held back by its master, the creature finally gave
in to a mournful howl, red eyes glowing with pure outrage at the assault
against the nether region.
Lilith studied her husband's renewed composure as his gaze scanned the vaulted
ceiling, deciding where to strike. She watched him slowly wind the chain in
his fist, holding the guardian of his primary gate to Hell back, a strategy
developing in his mind. That he'd called his favorite pet, Cerberus, to his
side meant that he'd refocused himself for war.
"I will not fail you," Lilith repeated.
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Her husband simply nodded and looked up again, and then was gone.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the first book in L. A. Banks's brandnew
Crimson Moon series.
BAD BLOOD
A Crimson Moon Novel
COMING IN APRIL 2008 FROM ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS
Copyright © 2008 by Leslie Esdaile Banks.
Familiar scents, hard-driving music, and a blast of heat washed over Sasha as
she opened the door to Ronnie's Road Hog Tavern, which everyone also
affectionately called the Hawg. It was hard to stay in a bad mood in a joint
like this. There was just too much revelry all around.
Ronnie was a local legend in his own right, claiming to have seen Sasquatch up
close and personal, and he maintained a neutral position about all things
supernatural. In a way, his bar was the preternatural's equivalent of
Switzerland, and a comfortable place for her and the guys to hang out. It was
haunted, too, they said. Something about a shoot-out and gold miners, but that
was ancient history. However, not everything supernatural passed through
Ronnie's doors. Vampires seemed to shun the lowbrow life of beef and beer,
snobs that they were and her pack would have to do them, anyway, if they
witnessed a civvy being bitten. Regardless, it meant Ronnie's joint was always
the place to be, sawdust on the floors notwithstanding.
Werewolves . . . other than the few attempts at black-market experiments, they
didn't see much of them anywhere lately, and definitely not here. Besides, the
Hawg served the best steak and fries in portions that were ridiculous. The
burgers were awesome, too.
As she waded through the crowd toward the bar, an ice-cold beer on her mind,
Sasha nodded at the regulars and unzipped her bomber jacket, prepared to stay
awhile. The bartender spotted her and held up a Corona, and she smiled, giving
him the thumbs-up.
He slid the beer across the wood with deft accuracy and she caught the frosty
bottle with a lime wedged in the top with a quick hand and blew him a kiss as
a joke. In their ongoing ritual he jerked his head back as though the air-kiss
had knocked him out, and then laughed.
"I'll run you a tab, babe."
"Cool, Bruno," she shouted over the din. "Thanks."
Now to find someplace to sit down and eat alone. Everything in the primary bar
area was already taken. In the billiards area, tables were temporarily
abandoned by players but were already claimed with pitchers of beer and
buffalo wings marking territory. Fine. Takeout could work.
She let out a defeated breath but took one last survey of the joint. A couple
of guys gave her a bold once-over, but she ignored their silent offers. Bikers
and truckers. She wasn't in the mood. If she was going home with anyone
tonight, for once she just wished it could be with a guy whom she didn't have
to explain things to things like medications, having to be sure not to get too
rough and break his skin, or to worry about a virus ruining his life.
She would admit, though, that the more crowded the establishment was, the
lonelier it felt. And who the hell was watching her so hard that it was
raising the hair on her arms?
Sasha pushed the lime into her beer with her index finger, lifted the slim
bottle to her lips, took a few swallows, and then glanced around.
Moving through the crowd as if she had a specific destination in mind, Sasha
enjoyed flowing through the tangle of bodies to the beat of the music. Warmth,
sweat, scents, the thrum of pulsing melodies . . . blood, heartbeats all
merged as her spine became fluid, her footfalls beyond graceful. Her stomach
rumbled as her nose picked up the scent of charbroiled beef wafting from the
kitchen. She made a game out of separating scents, sounds, and voices, keying
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in on bits of conversation as she loped through the large dance floor, headed
for the second bar where take-out orders could be placed.
Midstep she stopped, tilted her head, and gazed into the darkened corridor
beyond the bar. A cool breeze had brought in a scent from somewhere, a scent
she'd never picked up in her life.
Sasha turned her beer up and polished it off, then continued to head toward
the second bar, her eyes fastened on the dark corridor. She could smell
multiple male scents. The men's room? A back room? An exit? A closed section
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