didn’t care enough to get up and shut the door, and he lacked the motivation to knock the kid around. Because if he did that, he’d have to deal with Kel’s wife, Angel.
He’d rather avoid that.
The girl was spooky.
Very spooky, and worse… she knew it.
Kel wasn’t worth dealing with Angel, and the aggravation wasn’t worth throwing off the brood he had going.
L
ESS than two minutes later, Toronto felt the cold edge of a Master vampire’s anger chill the air, and he rolled his eyes. When Rafe appeared in the doorway of his room, Toronto just flung an arm over his face.
Going one-on-one with Kel wouldn’t do more than irritate him.
Going one-on-one with Rafe would irritate him, but it would also require a bit more concentration and would probably entail some pain. Actually… Toronto lowered his arm, popping one eye open to study Rafe. A good, dirty fight didn’t seem like a bad idea.
“I’m tired of this fucking shit,” Rafe said, his voice terse and abrupt. “I told you— just
hours
ago. If you want to be here, then you’ll damn well
be
here. If not, you’ll damn well get the hell
out
.” He paused, and then added icily, “I suspect it’s not a matter of want with you. You don’t give a flying fuck.”
The slash of the vampire’s rage cut through the air, a cold, heavy punch, but even as Toronto readied himself for that down and dirty fight he really, really wanted, Rafe turned on his heel and stalked away.
That was it.
“What the…”
Over his shoulder, Rafe said, “Make up your fucking mind. Either you’re here to be a Hunter or you’re not. If you’re
not
, get out and get out
now
—I’ll make it simple. Decide.
Now.
Or the next time you and I have this conversation, it’s going to involve serious bloodshed. You won’t keep challenging me this way.”
Feeling a little deflated, and maybe, okay, yeah, alittle guilty, Toronto climbed out of bed. Snagging a pair of pants from the foot of the bed, he tugged them on and lingered by the bathroom long enough to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth.
The face in the mirror hadn’t changed much over the past century. He’d been attacked when he was in his teenage years. By the time he hit his late twenties, his body had hit full maturation and the aging process had stopped. Back then, it had still been called a curse. Now they knew it to be a virus, one that warped and mutated the genes until they no longer resembled anything human.
Werewolves and shapeshifters aged, but it was a slow process and the stronger the creature, the slower the aging process.
Toronto was pretty damn strong.
His hair was pale blond, almost white blond and he wore it long, kept it tied in a queue at his nape. His eyes were a pale, silvery blue, rimmed with a deeper blue. More often than once, that pretty face had thrown people off balance, unless somebody looked deeper.
Although werewolves healed with amazing speed, he wasn’t without scars. Some remained from the attack that had made him a were— bite marks on his arms, chest, thighs. Others were from his life since the attack, a nasty slice down his left pectoral from a silver blade, another low on his belly. There was only one that was likely from his forgotten mortal years— a messy affair on the back of his right forearm, a jagged line that somebody had ineptly tried to stitch closed.
Scars aside, he had a handsome face, and he knew it. Handsome, bordering on pretty… but there was something that lurked just behind the eyes. A wildness that even more than a century couldn’t curb, and the body belonged to a warrior, a fighter.
Right now, he was a fighter looking to rumble, and the one chance he’d had of a decent fight had been denied. But he couldn’t really be pissed about it, either— he had screwed up. Again. And there was the icy anger he’d heard in Rafe’s voice that wasn’t about him.
He’d rather avoid that.
The girl was spooky.
Very spooky, and worse… she knew it.
Kel wasn’t worth dealing with Angel, and the aggravation wasn’t worth throwing off the brood he had going.
L
ESS than two minutes later, Toronto felt the cold edge of a Master vampire’s anger chill the air, and he rolled his eyes. When Rafe appeared in the doorway of his room, Toronto just flung an arm over his face.
Going one-on-one with Kel wouldn’t do more than irritate him.
Going one-on-one with Rafe would irritate him, but it would also require a bit more concentration and would probably entail some pain. Actually… Toronto lowered his arm, popping one eye open to study Rafe. A good, dirty fight didn’t seem like a bad idea.
“I’m tired of this fucking shit,” Rafe said, his voice terse and abrupt. “I told you— just
hours
ago. If you want to be here, then you’ll damn well
be
here. If not, you’ll damn well get the hell
out
.” He paused, and then added icily, “I suspect it’s not a matter of want with you. You don’t give a flying fuck.”
The slash of the vampire’s rage cut through the air, a cold, heavy punch, but even as Toronto readied himself for that down and dirty fight he really, really wanted, Rafe turned on his heel and stalked away.
That was it.
“What the…”
Over his shoulder, Rafe said, “Make up your fucking mind. Either you’re here to be a Hunter or you’re not. If you’re
not
, get out and get out
now
—I’ll make it simple. Decide.
Now.
Or the next time you and I have this conversation, it’s going to involve serious bloodshed. You won’t keep challenging me this way.”
Feeling a little deflated, and maybe, okay, yeah, alittle guilty, Toronto climbed out of bed. Snagging a pair of pants from the foot of the bed, he tugged them on and lingered by the bathroom long enough to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth.
The face in the mirror hadn’t changed much over the past century. He’d been attacked when he was in his teenage years. By the time he hit his late twenties, his body had hit full maturation and the aging process had stopped. Back then, it had still been called a curse. Now they knew it to be a virus, one that warped and mutated the genes until they no longer resembled anything human.
Werewolves and shapeshifters aged, but it was a slow process and the stronger the creature, the slower the aging process.
Toronto was pretty damn strong.
His hair was pale blond, almost white blond and he wore it long, kept it tied in a queue at his nape. His eyes were a pale, silvery blue, rimmed with a deeper blue. More often than once, that pretty face had thrown people off balance, unless somebody looked deeper.
Although werewolves healed with amazing speed, he wasn’t without scars. Some remained from the attack that had made him a were— bite marks on his arms, chest, thighs. Others were from his life since the attack, a nasty slice down his left pectoral from a silver blade, another low on his belly. There was only one that was likely from his forgotten mortal years— a messy affair on the back of his right forearm, a jagged line that somebody had ineptly tried to stitch closed.
Scars aside, he had a handsome face, and he knew it. Handsome, bordering on pretty… but there was something that lurked just behind the eyes. A wildness that even more than a century couldn’t curb, and the body belonged to a warrior, a fighter.
Right now, he was a fighter looking to rumble, and the one chance he’d had of a decent fight had been denied. But he couldn’t really be pissed about it, either— he had screwed up. Again. And there was the icy anger he’d heard in Rafe’s voice that wasn’t about him.
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