Page 11 of Tin God

Carwyn looked down at the T-shirt that peeked out from his heavy leather jacket. “It’s vintage.”

The guard lifted one shoulder. “Probably not a good idea to mess it up.”

“Good point.” Carwyn looked at the brick foundation sunk into the earth. “I suppose I’ll spare the building for now.”

“Much appreciated, sir.”

Despite his foul mood, Carwyn couldn’t stop from smiling. “Keep up the good work, Jerome.”

“Thank you, sir.” He opened the door and held it for Carwyn. “Have a good night, Mr. Bryn.”

That’s my father’s name.He didn’t say it. Humans in twenty-first century North America expected surnames, so he let it pass.

Carwyn’s full name was Carwyn son of Bryn, patriarch of his clan, sired to the earth, immortal son of Maelona of Gwynedd, daughter of Brennus the Celt.

His sire was dead. His grandsire slept in a hidden mound somewhere in Scotland, and ever since the night over a decade ago when he left the service of the Catholic Church, Carwyn owed his allegiance to no man, woman, or immortal.

Except one fucking woman who was determined to drive him mad.

Someone had recently described Brigid Connor as “a badger trapped in a barn” and it wasn’t an inaccurate comparison. She was stubborn, destructive, and single-minded. It made her a fierce protector, an absolute firecracker in bed, and one of the best vampires he’d known in a thousand years.

Of course he’d married her.

He emerged from the basement entrance to the modern lobby of Grigor Limited, one of Katya’s many companies that she used to rule the Pacific Northwest. Carwyn lived in her territory through Katya’s goodwill. If he was any other vampire, he’d have to swear some kind of allegiance to her because that was how vampire aegis worked.

Immortal predators weren’t to be trusted with self-determination. If their kind had any kind of government, it was closer to ancient city-state fiefdoms than modern human states.

The guards in the lobby had clearly been told to expect him, and since he was well over six feet, built like a brick wall, and sporting a shock of unruly red hair, Carwyn was hard to miss.

He took the escalators built next to the elevators since vampires avoided elevators on principle. Carwyn was more grounded than most, but he didn’t brag about that fact and tried to keep his profile the same as others of his kind.

Katya’s office was on the third floor, and he spotted her secretary as soon as he reached the top of the escalator.

“Carwyn.” The friendly woman stepped forward. She didn’t extend her hand—most vampires avoided skin-to-skin contact with humans if they were polite—but she gave him a respectful nod. “She’s ready for you.”

“Thank you.”

The door to Katya’s office was open, and when he walked in, he saw the immortal leader of Northern California, Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, and Alaska sitting by a fireplace, her stocking-clad feet tucked under her as she read a file.

“Hi.” She glanced up. “I’m reading this incredibly boring business prospectus, so just have a seat.” She motioned to the sofa across from her overstuffed chair. “Almost done.”

“No problem.”

Katya Grigorieva had been turned when she was barely an adult, but like Carwyn, she came from an age when humans matured faster. She looked like she was in her early twenties. She was blond, had large brown eyes, pale skin, and ruby-red lips. That night she was dressed in a pink fisherman’s sweater and a pair of light blue jeans.

Carwyn stared at the fire, thinking about Brigid.

His mate was a fire vampire, sired during a heroin overdose. He tried not to think about the manner of his mate’s turning because everything about it had been traumatic. She’d been a grieving human who made a massive lapse in her recovery and a horrid mistake that led to her mortal death and her immortal birth.

“Does the fire remind you of her?”

Carwyn looked over to Katya, who had set the file to the side. “Always.”

“Fair enough.” She sat up and crossed her legs in the wide chair where she sat. “Let’s talk about Brigid and why I need her to kill Zasha Sokholov. And maybe Oleg too.”

The secretary broughta French press filled with coffee into the corner office and set it on the table where Katya proceeded to push the plunger down and began to serve. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Cream, no sugar.”

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