Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
RACHEL VINCENT
âI liked the character and loved the action. I look
forward to reading the next book in the series.â Charlaine Harris
âVincent is a welcome addition to this genre!â
Kelley Armstrong
âCompelling and edgy, dark and evocative, Stray is a must read! I loved it from beginning to end.â Gena Showalter
âI had trouble putting this book down. Every time
I said I was going to read just one more chapter, Iâd find myself three chapters later.â âBitten by Books on Stray
âVincent continues to impress with the freshness of her
approach and voice. Action and intrigue abound.â âRT Book Reviews
Find out more about Rachel Vincent by visiting
mirabooks.co.uk/rachelvincent and read Rachelâs blog at urbanfantasy.blogspot.com
Also available fromRachel Vincent
The Shifters series
STRAY
ROGUE PRIDE PREY SHIFT ALPHA
Soul Screamers series
MY SOUL TO TAKE
MY SOUL TO SAVE MY SOUL TO KEEP MY SOUL TO STEAL
And look for the thrilling second instalment in
Rachelâs new Unbound series
SHADOW BOUND
Available in 2012
Thanks first and foremost to my husband, my #1 fan, for listening to all the crazy brainstorming that went into this book without betraying any hint that the author may be as crazy as the ideas. Youâre the most wonderful sounding board ever.
Thanks as always to Rinda Elliott, my longtime critique partner and the first to see every book I write. Youâre my second pair of eyes, and I always appreciate the fresh viewpoint.
Thanks to my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, for guidance and patience. And for pronouncing this manuscript âtwisted,â then liking it anyway.
And thanks to everyone at MIRA Books, who made it all happen. There are so many more of you behind me than I would ever have guessed when I was first starting out, and I sometimes think books should get credit reels, like movies.
Only two-thirty in the morning, and I already had blood on my hands. The most messed-up part of that? It was the hour that bothered me.
âYou sure itâs him, Liv?â Booker swiped one hand over his sweaty, stubbly face as we stared at the lit window on the third floor. The apartment building was long and plain, like a cracker box on its side, and the moonless night only smeared the sides of the featureless building into the ambient darkness.
I nodded, shoving both cold, chapped hands into my jacket pockets. It was warm for early March, but still cold for me.
âHow sure?â
My eyes closed, and again I clutched the blood-stiffened swatch of cloth in my right pocket, inhaling deeply through my nose, and the world exploded into a bouquet of scents. Relying on years of training, I sorted through them rapidly, mentally tossing aside those I couldnât use. The metal tang of several huge trash bins. The chemical bite of Bookerâs cologne. And the pervasive, ambient smells of life east of the riverâmotor oil, fried food and sweat.
What was left, with those more obvious smells out of the way, was the trail Iâd followed all over town, as much a feel as a true scent, and a virtual match to the blood sample in my pocket.
I am a Tracker. More specificallyâand colloquiallyâIâm a bloodhound. Given a decent, recent sample of your blood, I can find you no matter where you hide. Officially, my range is about eighty milesâon the high end of average. Unofficially ⦠well, letâs just say Iâm good at what I do. But not too good. Too much Skill will get you noticed. And I know better than to get noticed.
Booker cleared his throat and I opened my eyes to find myself staring up at the lit window againâthe only occupant still awake. âNinety-five percent. Itâs either him or a close male relative, and thatâs the best youâre gonna get with a dry blood sample,â I said, as water dripped from a gutter somewhere to my left. âTell Rawlinson Iâll send him a bill.â
Booker pulled his black ski cap over his ears. âHeâs not gonna like that.â
âI donât give a shit what he likes.â I turned and walked back the way Iâd come, listening as my steel-toed work boots echoed in the alley. I was exhausted and pissed off from being woken at two on a Friday morning, yet still pleased for the excuse to charge nearly double my usual rate. Office space in the south fork doesnât come cheap.
âWarren!â a deep voice barked from behind me, and I groaned beneath my breath. I turned slowly to see Adam Rawlinson step out from behind a rusty Dumpster, his dark hair, skin and expensive wool coat blending into the thick shadows. No telling how long heâd been there. Watching. Listening.
Travelersâshadow-walkersâwere notorious for shit like that. They can step into a shadow in their own homes and step out of another shadow across town a split second later. You never know theyâre coming until theyâre already there. Itâs a convenient Skillâexcept when itâs annoying as hell.