Munro (Immortals After Dark #18) by Kresley Cole

            “Can we not stop?” Kereny shifted in his arms. “You’ve outrun my hunters.”

            But he had only so much time to make it back to the gateway. “Hold on to my neck. ’Twill be more comfortable.”

            “As you said, ‘No’ a chance.’”

            “Suit yourself.” When Munro adjusted her position, Kereny’s generous curves pressed against him. His lust simmered, all thoughts of husbands and gateway countdowns fading.

            He bounded them over a stream, and she gasped, drawing his focus to her sensual mouth. Her full lips were the hue of a new cherry, a shade that was a siren’s call to a Lykae male. Munro wanted to place things between those red lips.

            The choicest bite of venison. A dew-moistened berry. The sensitive tip of his manhood.

            The thought of her closing those lips around his straining, slickened cockhead, tonguing it at the same time . . .

            Munro had to bite back a growl. He hadn’t come in weeks, the longest span since he’d first spilled seed. His shaft could crush granite.

            A gust of wind tore through the forest, and he caught yet another ominous scent. In the distance, he barely made out maddened howls. What sounded like a newling army was crashing toward them.

            Munro’s erection deflated as if dipped into a bucket of ice water.

            His clan had always wondered why mortal books tagged Transylvania as the home of werewolves, had laughed about it from up in the Highlands. They’d had no idea this many Lykae were running about crazed in the Carpathians.

            Munro narrowed his gaze at Kereny. Earlier, when he’d first arrived at the circus, he’d been too preoccupied to register details. Now he cast his mind back.

            The grounds had been immaculate, the animals well-tended, the living quarters orderly. But he’d also seen signs of battle prep, such as scaffolding on the Ferris wheel and that trench lined with pikes.

            No wonder she kept asking about newlings. Those carniefolk had been readying for war against them. Newlings needed to investigate their surroundings, exploring every new scent and sound; the circus’s fairgrounds would be irresistible to them.

            Other pieces fell into place in his disordered mind. Ormlo had directed the gateway to her wedding night twice—indeed, that fact did have significance.

            Kereny dies against those newlings.

            His heart lurched, and he stumbled. He had to get her away from them! One problem: the pack roamed between Munro and the gateway. He couldn’t fight that many while keeping her safe. Would he have enough time to wait them out? Cutting it close.

            “Did you scent something?” she demanded.

            “Mayhap I did. What are you expecting?”

            As if the words were dragged from her, she said, “We’ve been tracking eleven Lykae newlings in these woods. Based on their speed over the last week, we project they’ll arrive at the fairgrounds tomorrow night.”

            Based on the pack’s current speed, they would arrive tonight, and there were far more than eleven of them. “Why is your circus no’ fleeing in the other direction?”

            “And leave behind all the innocent people in the nearby valley? We’re the only thing standing between the villagers and disaster.”

            “You could’ve evacuated them.”

            “Whenever we try to warn them about a threat—or show them a dead immortal—they accuse us of carnie trickery and boycott the circus, which limits how much ammunition we can buy to protect them. So we’ve learned to stay quiet. Besides, that pack is contagious, will keep growing like a snowball. If we fail to stop them at this village, they’ll continue on to the next. Where does the carnage end?”

            He had no idea what recourse humans might have. Normally immortals policed their own species, or order-keeping guardians like Vrekeners or Furies stepped in.

            If Kereny learned the pack would strike tonight, she’d be even more desperate to return and fight her Night War. But the newlings were still too far away for her mortal hearing to detect. He picked up his pace again. “I scented them. They’re at least a day”—a few hours—“away.” The lie sat ill with him, especially when she relaxed slightly against him.