Only Lycans Need Apply: A Broken Heart Novel (Broken Heart Vampires, Band 9) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Michele Bardsley is the New York Times bestselling author of the Broken Heart series.

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Chapter One

Moira

“Fuck, it’s hot,” I complained as I slipped through the tent flap. I took off my broad-brimmed straw hat and slapped it against my hip. Dust puffed into the thick air. Whew. It was probably two degrees cooler inside, and only then because of the single wobbly electric fan running at full power.

I looked at my assistant, Dove. She sat cross-legged on her cot, making notes and sketching some of our recent finds. She was a slight young thing with a severe haircut that highlighted the kind of face that belonged on either a heroin addict or a supermodel. She was cranky as hell, unrepentant about her bad attitude, and probably the most saturnine person alive. I found her two years ago. Well, I found her scholarship application in a mountainous discard pile. She’d been slated for a rejection letter, but after I read her app and her essay, I told the scholarship committee to reconsider her application. And by “reconsider,” I really meant “accept that magnificent bitch as a student or die at my hands.”

I tended to get what I wanted.

I stared at Dove, who was ignoring the hell out of me. “Did I not give an inspiring lecture last night about saving our solar-powered fuel cells?”

“Absolutely riveting, Moira,” she agreed in her patented monotone. Her sarcasm was so well honed you were bleeding before you knew you’d been cut. “When the sun burns out in a billion years, I’m sure we will all thank you for inspiring us to save every drop of sunshine possible.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ax said you needed something. Otherwise, I need to get back to sweltering while I dust sand off three-thousand-year-old pottery.”

She peeked at me through the hair angled across her face. “There’s something weird about one of the ushabtis you found.” She picked up the little clay statue lying next to her and handed it to me. “It has fangs.”

I stared at the figure. She was right. The ushabti’s face was delicately carved, an ornate, beautiful piece, and yep, those were definitely fangs jutting from the dude’s mouth. “Okay. It’s weird, but . . . well, you know, those crazy ancient Egyptians.” I did a frenetic version of “jazz hands” to indicate super-crazy.

Dove arched one brow. “Read the glyphs,” she said. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said that Dove sounded freaked out. Um, what? She never got freaked out.

I peered at the symbols carved around the base of the statue. “‘Whom he finds in his way, him he devours bit by bit.’”

“That’s from ‘The Cannibal Hymn,’” said Dove.

I shrugged. “It’s not exactly uncommon to see it echoed in royal burials after Pharaoh Unis.”

“And the fangs were put there to reinforce the point?”

“Maybe this is a tribute to Sekhmet. She was the known blood drinker in the ancient Egyptian pantheon.”

“Then why doesn’t it have a lioness head? Or the sun disk?” Dove put a finger on each side of her mouth to emulate fangs. “If it was Kali, it would make sense.”

“Sure. Because finding the effigy of an Indian goddess here would be oh so logical.” I handed her the ushabti. “It’s interesting and rare, so lock it up.”

“Okay, fine.” Dove sucked in a breath. “I’m just gonna say it. ’Cause it has to be said.”

Her serious tone gave me pause. “All right, then. Sing it, sister.”

“Vampires.”

I stared at her. She stared back. Dove wasn’t a chickenshit, I’d give her that. Do you how many grad students quaked at the mere sight of me? Or how many members of the college administration mapped out their routes so they wouldn’t chance running into me on campus? Mwuhahahaha. Dove could care less if I terrified lesser mortals. She had never cowered before me. Not even when I was the only person standing between her and a full ride to one of the most prestigious private colleges in the United States. Dove was Dove no matter what. She didn’t allow people or rules or stupidity to dictate her behavior. She was a noble, cantankerous soul, and a rare human being—nearly as rare as a vampireushabti found in a desert wasteland.

I sighed in mock disappointment. “Dove, Dove, Dove. Oh, sweet little Dove. I liked you better when you were a cynical realist.”

“Don’t make me kill you,” she responded. “You’re the only human I can actually stand to be around for more than five minutes.”

“Aw. I’m all twitterpated now.”

“Bambi references are a death sentence,” she intoned.

I knew that. I also know that the only time Dove had ever been known to cry was when Bambi’s mother bit it in the forest.

“An ancient Egyptian vampire cult,” she went on stoically, as though she hadn’t threatened to end my existence twice in the last sixty seconds. “Maybe they worshiped Sekhmet, but they also thought they’d come to back to this world.Maybe when they died, they all had little fanged ushabtis put in their burial chambers so that their ka would be undead.”

Because I respected Dove, I studied the ushabti and thought about her theory.Undead ka? Hmm. Well, that was certainly an out-of-the-box hypothesis. I glanced at her. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Either I think up outrageous, but possibly true theories or I stare at the sand while my sanity slips away.”

“I love it when you alliterate.” I handed the statue to Dove. For once, she looked like the young grad student she was, the way they all looked before mundane work, hostile environments, and hard-to-please, egomaniacal archaeologists (that would be me) stomped all over their hopes and dreams. Honestly, this version of Dove was far more disturbing than the mouthy brat who tried my patience forty-two times before breakfast. I forgot sometimes that she was vulnerable. She was broken, much like I was, and broken people viewed the world differently. Our perspective was jagged, like trying to watch a sunset in the shards of a mirror. Reflected beauty had sharp edges. “Tell you what. Go back over the ushabtis we’ve found so far. If you find any more fanged ones, or anything else that supports a Sekhmet blood-drinking cult, we’ll talk about your theory again.”

“Fair,” she said. Then she stood up, clutching the ushabti like it might try to leap out of her hands. She eyed me with the hostility I’d come to know and love. “Don’t you have pottery to dust?”

“Shut up.”

Ax was the best campfire cook, and he was punished for it nightly by having to make delicious meals for all of us (his cooking tasted good even with the sand that got in it—sand got into everything). I enjoyed tormenting my grad students, so I made them clean up. Again. Hey, at least I didn’t laugh maniacally while wielding a cat-o’-nine-tails.

I only did that on Tuesdays.

I was sitting on a canvas chair staring at the fire. Already the heat of the day was giving way to the chill of night. Ax eased down to sit next to my chair. He was a big man, well aware of his height and girth, and generally a gentle soul. But I’d seen him riled a time or two, and he definitely had the kind of mean a female archaeologist needed in the South Sudan. He looked like the leader of a biker gang, but my...