She believed his reaction was for her and cast him a smug smile.

Unacceptable. A male should never lose control of his body during sex. He pulled out abruptly, making her gasp, then set her down. While he dressed, she stumbled over to join her friends. They would likely carry on without him.

And there they go. What male could leave a tangle of wanton nymphs?

He could. This was a nightly occurrence for him.

Besides, the faceless meadowberry female awaited investigation. He could tell she’d been in the courtyard—a voyeur?—but she’d put distance between them.

If she looked half as good as she smelled . . .

He fastened his heavy belt. Without glancing back, he told the nymphs, “I’m off, doves. Contact me as soon as Nïx goes to ground. And keep an eye out for a lock of hair.”

Between moans, one nymph asked, “Why are you wanting past the wraiths?”

Those ghastly beings defended Val Hall, the Valkyries’ lair, with a guard that was impenetrable, even for a Møriør like him. But tonight he’d learned—through swiving—that there was a key of sorts; if one tendered Valkyrie hair to the wraiths, those creatures would allow entry.

The nymphs would be on the lookout for a lock. In the meantime, they would conceal themselves in Val Hall’s oaks to spy, alerting Rune when Nïx returned.

Until then, he would search the streets for the soothsayer. After he tracked this scent.

Another nymph asked him, “You wouldn’t hurt Nïxie, right?”

She’ll never feel a thing. He turned to smile at his bevy. His grin, he well knew, was as crooked as his morals, and held a hint of snide; females creamed when they saw it.

Another question for the ages.

“Hurt Nïx?” he scoffed. “I merely want to make a conquest. What male doesn’t want to lay a Valkyrie?”

He already had, of course. Huge disappointment. She’d clung afterward, and the pointed ears—such a feylike feature—had been a turnoff. He despised the fey, hating that his own ears were pointed as well. The nymphs had them too, but at least they were up for a good time with no strings attached.

Conquest was something the nymphs understood. The first one he’d pleasured tonight said, “Nïx might be out in the Quarter even now. At least until sunrise. Good luck!”

He left them sighing at his grin as he stormed from the courtyard. He needed to be scouring this city for his target. So why was he hurrying after the voyeur?

Out on the street, drunken pedestrians milled around him. Bleary-eyed females regarded him with desire.

Though half fey/half demon, he could pass for a—very large—human. His hair concealed his ears, and he’d etched runes into the bow and quiver he wore to camouflage them from mortal eyes.

Among the humans were other immortals. Most mistook him for a rough-around-the-edges fey—as long as he didn’t bare the fangs he’d inherited from his demon mother.

Though his sense of smell wasn’t nearly as keen as Darach’s, Rune was able to lock on the voyeur some distance ahead. His gaze zoomed in on a short black miniskirt and an impossibly hot ass.

Her thighs were shapely but taut. Made to close around a male’s waist. Or his pointed ears.

Not that a poisonous male like Rune could pleasure her in such a manner.

A long mane of dark brown curls swayed down her back, looking as silky as mink. Her cropped black tank top revealed a tiny waist. She wore combat boots, and she knew how to walk in them.

If her tits were as gravity-defying as that pert ass . . . As though on command, she turned back in his direction, giving him a view of the front.

First thought: I wish I could eat her up.

Her skin was the palest alabaster, her wide eyes hazel and heavily shaded with kohl. She had high cheekbones and a haunting airiness about her face. But her red lips were full and carnal.

She wore a strange necklace made of uneven hunks of metal. Appearing lost in thought, she rubbed one chunk across her chin.

His gaze dipped, and he nearly groaned. Those tits. They were generous; she was braless. Good girl. He watched those mounds rise and fall with her confident steps—a glorious sight.

Even better, her nipples were straining against her shirt. He’d bet his performance had caused that response.

He inhaled more deeply. Oh yes, he’d affected her. When he scented her arousal, his muscles tensed, his body strung tight as his bow.

Her navel was pierced, with a dainty chain dangling from a ring. He would nuzzle that. Without going farther south. If he tongued her, she’d know pleasure for an instant, then convulse with agony.

His bodily fluids were as toxic as his black blood. His fangs and claws as well.

The only thing he hated worse than the fey was his poison. If he killed another, it should be by his choice—not because of some anomaly of nature. . . .

He leaned against a lamppost, studying the female. Ghostly makeup, black clothes, combat boots. What did mortals term this style? Ah, she was a Goth. Why anyone would harken to that human age perplexed him.

But with ethereal looks like hers, she had to be an immortal. Perhaps another nymph? No, too edgy.

Maybe a succubus? If so, she would crave semen, which he couldn’t give, even if he weren’t poisonous. Still, not a deal killer. Rune had seduced his share of seed feeders, promising them a teeth-clattering ride. He’d always delivered.

Even those tarts had wanted more of him. After just one bedding, non-nymph females uniformly grew attached to him, becoming jealous and possessive.