Free MacRieve (Immortals After Dark) by Kresley Cole Page B

shifters were predominantly reptilian, the Vertas were most often mammalian.
    One of these pups called out, “Mr. MacRieve!” and they all turned and gazed at Will as if he were some goddamned hero. He scowled at them and turned away. He might have organized them and saved their lives—as Nïx had predicted—but only to save his own arse.
    He’d fought to live solely for revenge.
    Aside from the alliances, there were the neutral factions like the nymphs, who were likely only present to scope out new bedmates—from both sides. A gaggle of them cooed, “Hot and Hotter!” to Will and Munro, trying to get their attention.
    Will muttered, “I really fuckin’ hate that.” He crossed his arms over his chest, found a new hole in his shirt.
    Munro nodded. “Hate it—beyond the telling of it. But you do know I’m Hotter, right?”
    “No’ even on your best day, bràthair. ”
    They spotted a few more Vertas allies: the fey, Furies, Valkyries, and behorned members from some of the solid demonarchies.
    There were at least as many Pravus members: soldiers from dark demonarchies, Sorceri, nearly two dozen centaurs, and countless Cerunnos—giant snakelike humanoids that were as fast as lightning and just as deadly. Crocodilae and viper shifters abounded.
    Will followed Munro, surveying the sea of Loreans for succubae. What if they were here tonight? Seed-feeders were Pravus as well.
    Then I’ll be jeopardizing this truce directly. Because nothing would stop him from killing any he came across. Just as he’d done for all his life. To date, he’d ended twenty-four.
    When a witch passed close by him, his hackles rose. There were several scurrying around with headsets, as if they were on a trading floor. “Phone bidders?” Will glowered in one’s direction. If his Instinct were intact, it’d warn: — Guard yourself. —
    Their cousin Bowe might have married Mariketa the Awaited, the leader of the grand mercenary House of Witches; didn’t mean the rest of the clan had overcome the Instinct’s constant cautions against Wiccae.
    Will spotted Malkom Slaine, a vemon they knew, walking in the direction of the stage. The vampire/demon had been in the same prison as Will.
    They greeted Malkom, falling in step beside him.
    Munro said, “Demon, you’re no’ often seen without Carrow.” Another local witch, also a former capture.
    Though Malkom had been born a demon in some far-off, archaic demonarchy, he’d been turned part vampire—into a rare vemon, a creature even stronger than a Lykae. But he still identified as a demon, hating leeches.
    Like most of us. Just last year, Will and Munro had been ordered to storm a vampire stronghold to search for King Lachlain’s mate—not to spy, not to monitor, but to bloody engage. Just before they’d reached the perimeter, when Will had been shaking with anticipation, already imagining the havoc he’d wreak, they’d been called off.
    How different things might have been for Will—how much improved—if only a goddamned war had broken out.
    In thickly accented English, Malkom said, “Carrow, Mariketa, and some Valkyries are out collecting Order orphans—the offspring of immortals who died on the island.”
    Will understood why Malkom hadn’t been invited. He was an intimidating male, taller even than Will’s towering height, with lethal-looking horns. He would scare the hell out of the tots. “So if Carrow and Mariketa are no’ here, who’s running this show?”
    “Some teen witches. They think Carrow and Mari don’t know. I’m supposed to watch out for them and make sure they don’t get killed by the Pravus.”
    “The witches are Vertas,” Munro pointed out. “Why no’ keep the prize for our side?”
    Mayhap because they’re all bent for the dollar, each and every one of them? Eerie bluidy witches . . .
    Malkom just shrugged.
    “So what do you know about this prisoner?” Munro asked. “How’d she get caught?”
    “The witches cast some kind of