Sullivan Quinn didn’t travel 3,000 miles from his native Ireland and his wolf pack just to chase rabidly after the most delectable quarry he’s ever seen. Quinn is in America on a mission—to warn his Other brethren of a shadowy group willing to use murder and mayhem to bring them down. But one whiff of this Foxwoman’s delicious honeysuckle fragrance and he knows that she is more than a colleague or a conquest…she is his mate.

Christine Warren’s spellbinding new series takes you into the enthralling world of The Others—mystical creatures who have long kept their true natures hidden from human eyes. Now, these werekin, shapeshifters, vampires, and witches must choose between revealing their powers or fighting a sinister sect hell-bent on their destruction…

WHEN DANGER MEETS DESIRE…
Sullivan Quinn didn’t travel 3,000 miles from his native Ireland and his wolf pack just to chase rabidly after the most delectable quarry he’s ever seen. Quinn is in America on a mission—to warn his Other brethren of a shadowy group willing to use murder and mayhem to bring them down. But one whiff of this Foxwoman’s delicious honeysuckle fragrance and he knows that she is more than a colleague or a conquest…she is his mate.

THEY’LL DISCOVER…
Anthropologist Cassidy Poe is a world-renowned authority on social interaction, but the overpowering desire she feels around Quinn defies every ounce of her expertise. Working by his side to uncover The Others’ enemies poses risks she never expected—to her own safety, to those she loves, and to her heart, as every encounter with Quinn proves more blissfully erotic than the last…

THE ANIMAL WITHIN…
Now, with no one to trust but each other, Quinn and Cassidy face a foe that’s edging closer every day, threatening to destroy the life they’ve always known, and the passion they’ve just discovered…

CHRISTINE WARREN lives on the East Coast because landlocked states make her claustrophobic. Her only other fear is that she will one day run out of reading material, an eventuality she sought to prevent by taking up writing herself. She draws on her degree in literature and history, as well as on her vivid imagination, to tell stories she enjoys about people who entertain her. In doing this, she figures someone somewhere will eventually laugh at her jokes. Christine loves to hear from readers and can be reached at www.christinewarren.net.

Chapter One

Honeysuckle.

The idiot attorney in the gray suit continued to natter on about something useless---the most beneficial way to structure a retirement portfolio or some such rot---but Sullivan Quinn had long since tuned it out. The hair on the back of his neck bristled to attention. His muscles tensed and his nostrils flared as he drank in the tormenting fragrance. Somewhere in this snugly elegant club, among these rooms full of werefolk and vampires, witches and magic-users, in the middle of a January cold snap, he could smell the sweet, elusive scent of honeysuckle vines.

And it was driving this particular werewolf out of his bloody mind.

“... lost it when the dot-com bubble burst,” short, bald, and boring continued. “Really knocked me for a loop. I didn’t have a bite for nearly three days.”

Quinn made some sort of not even remotely sympathetic sound and breathed in deeply.

To the left.

His head snapped around, light brown eyes no doubt glowing in reflection of his intensity. He scanned the area thoroughly and tried to suppress a growl when he didn’t see an obvious source of the fragrance. It called to him, a sweet heady beacon of femininity, fertility, and fuckability. His three favorite f-words.

Maybe he’d been too long without a lover, or maybe his family was right and his hormones were telling him he was getting too old not to have a mate. Then again, maybe he’d just been sent round the bend by the corrupting influence of New York City. Whatever it was, all he knew was that he wanted that honeysuckle.

What he wouldn’t give just then to be back among his own pack, where he could order the bright, intoxicating flowers brought to him like tribute.

Okay, so maybe that was a bit much. As guth of his pack, Quinn lacked the ultimate authority of Alpha, but he made up for it with a freedom and respect enjoyed by few others. Whereas Lupines deferred to the Alpha because of his power, they looked up to the guth because of the scope of his responsibilities. After all, in addition to being the pack’s ambassador and negotiator, the guth was the keeper of its traditions, its histories, and its stories. He was the pack’s living link to its past, as well as their insurance of a favorable future. So they might not have brought him the honeysuckle as tribute, but they would at least have let him end his current conversation without giving the impression of terminal rudeness.

“Oh, I got over it, of course. Drank three pints straight from the bags before I was fit company again,” the charismaless wonder said, peppering his delivery with a few smug chuckles. “That’ll teach this old vamp a new trick or two. You’ll never catch me on another starvation diet!”

Quinn ignored the man’s forced joviality---which, coming from a vampire who looked like Oliver Hardy, frankly creeped him out---and continued to search. He had to find that honeysuckle. In the last forty seconds, it had become the most important goal in his universe. Never mind that he’d flown from Ireland not two days ago to represent his country at a critical international meeting of Others, staking the honor of himself and his pack on his abilities as a diplomat. Bollocks to that. He needed those flowers.

“. . . portfolio had been cursed by some old Cuban woman I bumped into at the market. Cost a fortune to have a witch break the spell, but since then things seem to be picking up steam. I’ve been quite pleased.”

The small part of Quinn’s brain that hadn’t been commandeered to join the search team allowed him to respond with an eloquent grunt. Then Quinn inhaled another hint of honeyed blossoms, and that last holdout joined the search.

The Emperor of Ennui paused for breath and swirled his glass of watered-down bourbon. “But that’s enough about me---”

“Yes,” Quinn agreed. The hell with good manners. He had more important things to concentrate on, like giving in to the compulsion to follow his nose and leaving Sir Stultifying to yammer away at thin air.

He wove his way through the crowd of people gathered to welcome him and his fellow European representatives to America, ignoring every single one of them. Right then and for the first time in his life, he didn’t care about his standing in diplomatic circles, about the long history of his family as ambassadors among the Others, about his reputation as a man who helped ease the way of his people into the future while keeping alive the stories of their traditions past.

Bugger all of that. He ignored the men who knew him and the women who wanted to and the important figures he’d come all this way to meet. He kept his attention focused straight ahead and followed the beckoning tendril of scent like a man in the desert followed a mirage. Single-mindedly. And hungrily.

He forgot about being a dignitary, forgot about being a guest, even forgot about being an Irishman. Christ, what had gotten into him? He knew the very thing that made him good at his job was that he always kept his cool, no matter how provoking the circumstances. He’d never have made an effective guth otherwise. Yet here he was, and there his cool went.

He continued to wonder about it even as the lingering scent drew him like a ring through his nose among the crowds that milled in the hall. There seemed to be folk everywhere, walking in and out of rooms, talking, laughing, and interacting with a tranquillity that the uninitiated might have found astonishing. After all, in a room full of predators, someone usually had to be the prey.

At one time that might have been true, and on more than one occasion Quinn had longed to return to the old ways---usually after settling a mind-numbingly unimportant dispute between packs. But just as the humans had evolved from Vikings to crusaders to frantic missile-defense builders, so too had the Others of the world evolved. They’d learned many centuries ago that to fight among themselves merely gave the humans an advantage in fighting them as well. For some, a common enemy made for as solid a truce as a common goal.

For once, though, Quinn’s mind was not on the politics of truces or enemies or common goals. It wasn’t on the advice his father had given him the day he’d taken over as guth: Always keep his wits about him, no matter what the distraction, no matter how strong the temptation. No, every brain cell he had, be it manly or bestial, had fixed on the sunshine yellow of honeysuckle flowers and the sweet taste of their nectar. He needed a sip. Now.

The mysterious scent maddened him, strong one moment, fleeting the next. Bloody hell, less than forty-eight hours in the country and he’d already developed an obsession. No wonder his pack had jokingly told him New York City would drive a good Irishman mad. They could be right.

Up.

Upupup.

His gaze shot toward the ceiling, as if he expected to see leafy green tendrils twining their way down from the chandeliers. Instead, he blinked up at lovely, white plasterwork like a drooling moron.

“Quinn.”

He grunted something unintelligible---well, unintelligible to all but another Lupine---and continued to stare.

“Quinn!”

The growl in that repetition got his attention, and Quinn lowered his gaze from the ceiling of the main hall of the Vircolac Club to the curious face of Tobias Walker, a master of bad timing and representative of his host pack, the Silverback Clan. From the moment of their first meeting thirtysome hours before, they’d fallen into the easy and insulting rapport of good friends or bad brothers.

Tobias raised an eyebrow. “If you’re looking for the security cameras, buddy, you’re not going to find them. Logan Hunter installed them himself before he moved up north. The security here is top-notch.”

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” Quinn said, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. “But I’m really rather busy at the moment, Walker. I’ll buy you a pint later and let you bend my ear as long as you please. Now, if you’ll excuse me---”

He had barely turned toward the stairs before Tobias caught his shoulder and spun him back around. “Not so fast, Quinn. I didn’t come over here to chat about the weather. I’m playing messenger.”

Quinn barely paused. “Then tell your message-giver that I’m unavailable for the next little while, will you, boyo? I’ve more important things to see to at the moment.”

“Afraid I can’t do that, pal. This is business.”

Shite.

Quinn bit back the curse. Of all the bloody times for someone to remind him of his duties. It served as yet more proof that God must hate him.

“What type of business?”

“The type you came here for.”

Just then, Quinn spotted the stairway, half-concealed around a corner, and wanted to howl at the injustice. He knew that was where the honeysuckle was leading him, and he couldn’t get to it. In a minute, someone was going to dangle a raw porterhouse in front of his nose and then tell him it wasn’t time for dinner. He just knew it.