Darkness Rises

Chapter 1

Étienne stared down at the house across the street and watched shadows writhe and dance on the closed curtains. The music and drunken laughter that swelled every time the front door opened didn’t surprise him. But those curtains did.

Hard to imagine a bunch of frat boys out shopping for them. Choosing the right decorative curtain rods. Finding fabric of a pleasing look and texture. Damned if it didn’t look like it was floral. He would’ve thought bent, dusty blinds would be more their style.

A faint breeze ruffled his hair.

If he concentrated, he could read the thoughts of everyone partying within. Not much there really. Just sex and a determination to get blitzed. And one poor guy who thought he had flunked his biology final. A quick scan of his memories confirmed that he had.

Étienne sighed. Things had been slow of late. Dare he say boring?

For a while there, vampires had roamed in such large packs that he and his sister, Lisette, had had to hunt together just to ensure they would survive the battles. But now . . .

The frat house door burst open as a woman stumbled out.

Booming bass swelled and pulsed through the night as a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the doorway behind her and held the door open. “Come on. Are you sure I can’t talk you into staying?” the man—twenty-one or twenty-two years of age—asked.

The woman staggered to the edge of the porch and tripped down the steps. Low, sultry, feminine laughter wafted up to Étienne.

Nice. If the woman weren’t sloppy drunk he might find her appealing.

“You know me,” she slurred. “Places to see and people to go.”

Her friend laughed.

Odd. It was late May. Nighttime temperatures in North Carolina had been mild, in the sixties perhaps. Yet the woman wore a long, black coat not unlike the one he sported himself.

His own concealed a small arsenal of weapons: katanas, daggers, throwing stars, and autoinjectors Dr. Lipton had prepared that bore the only sedative that worked on vampires and immortals.

Hers was pretty formfitting. And fit a lovely form. She was slender, perhaps five foot five, with long, black hair that concealed her face as she fought to keep her balance.

The college boy grinned. “Hey, maybe I should walk you home.”

Again she laughed. “Who says I’m going home?”

She wasn’t a Goth. The style of the coat was wrong and her hair was naturally black. Or perhaps a dark brown. While he could see as clearly as a cat in dim or even no light, he sometimes had difficulty discerning color in those conditions.

The woman finally succeeded in planting both boots firmly on the pavement and straightened. Combing a hand through her hair, she drew the tangled locks back and gazed up at the moon.

Étienne’s breath caught. She was beautiful, with porcelain skin, her features pert perfection.

And she seemed to be looking right at him.

She even froze for a moment.

Impossible. There were no lights up here and he stood in the shadow of a chimney where the moon’s beams wouldn’t touch him.

“Hey, Krysta!” someone called.

She looked to her left.

Three more college boys, who clearly had already been celebrating the end of the spring semester, approached the frat house, trampling grass strewn with the occasional empty beer can.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” a jovial blond asked.

She smiled. “Yep.”

“But we’re just getting here!”

She shrugged, swayed a bit, then pointed at them. “Your loss, knuckleheads.”

All laughed.

“Couldn’t you just stay for one game of beer pong?” the blond asked hopefully. “Or maybe to shoot some pool? I need to win my twenty bucks back.”

“Already spent it,” she called merrily. “See ya!” She waved, nearly losing her balance again. Stumbling to one side, she threw her arms out as though she were on the deck of a rocking ship, listing one way then the other. When she didn’t fall, she grinned big and threw her hands up in the air like an Olympic gymnast finishing a routine.

The men all clapped, whistled, and cheered.

Laughing in delight, she staggered down the sidewalk, turned, and headed up the street.

“You think we should walk her home?” the blond asked softly.

The brunet beside him leered after Krysta. “I’ll walk her home. I’ll walk her alllllll the way home.”

The blond shoved him. “Cut the shit. She isn’t like that.”

Étienne decided he liked the blond.

The brunet scowled. “Whatever.” Loping up the steps, he entered the house.

The blond frowned after Krysta, then—urged on by his other buddy—joined the party.

Étienne watched Krysta pause under a streetlight, part her coat, and reach into an inner pocket.

Beneath, she wore tight, black pants that showed every shapely curve of her long legs and a black T-shirt that hugged small, firm breasts.

Étienne had always been a sucker for women with athletic builds.

Out came an iPod touch. She conquered her inebriation long enough to tuck earbuds into her ears, but the battery must have run down because she swore and tucked everything back into her pocket.

Étienne rose.

That pause had cost her.

Dark figures slithered from the shadows on either side of the frat house and followed her as she resumed her trek uphill.

Étienne leapt nimbly to the next roof, careful not to make any sound that would alert the vampires to his presence.

He counted four and monitored their progress as they slunk from shadow to shadow, dogging the woman’s wobbly footsteps.

Krysta began to sing, utterly oblivious to the creatures who stalked her.

Unfamiliar with the song, Étienne assumed it was one of the latest pop hits. His lips twitched as he leapt to the next roof. She was having a hell of a time remembering the lyrics. Or the right notes. Krysta couldn’t carry a tune. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t the alcohol.

She came to a corner and halted. A look of confusion flitted across her pretty features as she squinted up at the street sign.

Étienne froze, careful to ensure no light touched him.

Had her gaze flitted from the sign up to him?

No. She was looking all around like she either didn’t know where she was or couldn’t remember where she intended to go.

The vampires slunk farther into the shadows mere moments before she glanced in their direction.

“Hmm,” she mumbled. “I think . . .” She spun in a circle. “Right.”

She crossed the deserted street, passed Bastien’s building, and . . . entered a dark alley. Really? Had she no sense of self-preservation?

Étienne drew his katanas as the vampires flowed into the alley behind her like a black tide. Their thoughts—a writhing mass of madness, violence, and anticipation—struck him like poisoned arrows.

Being telepathic could really suck sometimes.

He frowned, only then realizing he hadn’t heard any of Krysta’s thoughts. As he watched her stumble toward the end of the alley, not yet noticing that her path would soon be blocked by a tall chain-link fence, he focused on her tipsy head and . . . heard nothing.

Very unusual. He could count on one hand the number of humans he had encountered in his two centuries of existence who could block, intentionally or not, his entrance into their minds.

She halted.

The vamps spread out across the alley, facing her. Light from the street distended and distorted the shadows at their feet, making it seem almost as though they reached for her ankles.

Étienne stepped to the edge of the roof, preparing to drop down and save Krysta’s attractive, but flighty ass, then . . .

She ceased swaying. Her shoulders straightened.

Spinning around, she offered the menacing foursome a cool, measuring stare.

Étienne frowned.

The vampires boasted no weapons. Yet. But their eyes glowed and their lips parted to expose long, glinting fangs. She should be screaming her head off. Instead . . .

“Finally,” she pronounced with a healthy dose of exasperation. “It took you guys long enough. I mean, did you really have to make me walk up that damned hill?”

What. The. Hell?

Krysta shifted, balancing her weight lightly on the balls of her feet as the vampires exchanged puzzled looks. There were four of them. Four would be a challenge. Okay, more than a challenge. Way more. She had had her ass handed to her more than once in the past couple of years when trying to combat such numbers on her own. But, until they actually closed in, she was often unable to tell just how many had taken the bait and followed her.

Sneakers shuffled on dirty asphalt.

These seemed to be typical examples of the vampires’ ilk. Young. Twenties or thereabouts. Could blend in easily on a college campus if you disregarded the brilliantly glowing eyes and fangs. Hopefully they hadn’t been vampires for very long. The older they were, the more insane they were. At least that was how she thought it worked. And the deeper they descended into madness, the harder they were to defeat. Krysta didn’t have their speed. Or strength. Or size and weight. But she did have two things they didn’t.

The first was skill. She had spent years training in tae kwon do, karate, and jiujitsu, and had trained with weapons long enough to kick ass. Most vampires had spent a majority of the time, prior to their transformation, sitting on their asses and either texting, yakking on the phone, surfing the Internet, or playing video games. That didn’t lend them much skill with knives and swords, so she didn’t really understand why they carried them. They were vampires. They could disarm a human easily and, if they didn’t, could survive a bullet wound, so what was the deal with that? As far as Krysta knew, she was the only vampire hunter in existence. She seriously doubted her reputation preceded her.

The orange glow around the vampires moved and shifted as the not-very-bright predators tried to figure out why she wasn’t fleeing in terror.

And that was her second advantage. She could see auras. Until she had begun to hunt vampires, she had never thought much of the ability. It warned her of people’s moods, so she could turn and walk the other way if someone was pissed about something and she didn’t want to hear it. Big whoop.

Then her life had changed dramatically, and she had actually found a use for her talent.

Vampires were incredibly fast. Like as fast as The Flash. Their movements became blurry and indistinct when they moved at top speeds. But their auras behaved very differently than those of humans. Vampires’ auras moved and shifted before they did, telling her exactly where they intended to go before they even took a step.

Krysta eyed the vamps before her, waiting for the telltale shift in auras that would precede their attack.

“Aren’t you afraid of us?” one asked.

“No. Should I be?”

Looks were exchanged.

“Yeah, ya dumb bitch,” another proclaimed. “We’re vampires!”

So polite. She slid a hand into her coat and grasped the handle of one of the shoto swords she carried, ready to teach him some manners. “Yeah, and?”

“What, are you a second?”

She fought a frown. He wasn’t the first vampire who had asked her that. What the hell was a second? A second what?

“Fuck this. Let’s kick her ass!” a third cried.

The aura of the one closest to her shifted. Krysta drew her sword and swung it, the blade sinking into flesh as the vampire blurred and caught up with the orange glow.

Krysta drew her other sword.

The three remaining vampires gaped as the severed head of their companion hit the ground and rolled several feet away from the body that tumbled after it.

The first kill was always the easiest.

The vampires’ faces contorted with fury. Growls and snarls erupted. Eyes glowed brighter.

Crap. Here we go.

Orange auras deepened in color and shot forward just before the vampires’ forms all blurred.

Krysta swung both swords with as much speed and strength as she possessed. Her heart raced. Adrenaline surged through her veins. Her blades sank into her opponents.

When warm blood slapped her in the face, she clamped her lips shut. No way did she want any of that getting into her mouth. She didn’t know exactly how one became a vampire, but figured it probably had something to do with the blood.

One of the vamps landed a blow to her back that sent pain careening through her as she flew forward and hit the ground.

Rolling, she came up swinging as the vamps converged on her. The momentum of one came to her aid and made a hit that normally would have just cut him instead sever his arm. Vamps tended to not recover from such severe wounds, bleeding out faster than they could heal. As this one did, stumbling backward and falling to the ground while he fought to staunch the crimson river flowing onto the pavement around him.

The vampires divided, attacking from opposite sides.

Krysta continued to wield her deadly shotos, creating a barrier as formidable as a rotary fan’s blades. Cuts opened on the vampires, who became manic in their fury, slavering like rabid dogs.

Fear a constant companion, she delivered a round-house kick to the vamp behind her. Agony shot up her leg. It was like kicking a damned boulder. But at least it had kept him from diving low and biting her leg as his aura had warned her he intended.

She landed several more slashes before silver glinted in their hands.

Hell.

Needlelike pain erupted in her arms, sides, and back as they cut her.

Time to take a huge risk.

Ignoring the vampire behind her, she focused all of her attention on the one in front of her. The next time his aura shifted, she swung with all of her might.

The vampire’s eyes widened. Stumbling back, he raised both hands to the throat her sword had laid open. The gray shirt he wore turned red as blood spilled down his chest and saturated it.

Spinning around, she raised her weapons. The last vamp, who should have been all over her after the opening she’d given him, stared at her stupidly and stumbled back a step.

She frowned.

He grunted. And grunted again. Blood spilled from his lips.

What the hell?

Groaning, he sank to his knees and clumsily tried to reach behind him with both hands.

Was this a trick?

Swords at the ready, she limped forward and began to edge around him to see what the hell he was reaching for.

Krysta stopped and stared. Half a dozen daggers protruded from his back. And, judging by their positions, they had pierced his heart and probably sliced through at least one major artery.

A whole new fear invaded her as she backed away, her gaze darting all around her and seeking the source of those weapons.

A sound drew her attention to the entrance of the alley.

Ice skittered through her.

Seven vampires. Eyes glowing various shades of blue, green, silver, and amber.

I’m dead. The panicked thought barreled through her brain at light speed. There’s no way I’ll survive this.

“She’s a second!” one snarled.

What the hell is a second?

Their glowing orange auras zipped toward her.

Kysta swung and thrust as she backed away toward the chain-link fence. But, even as she scored hits, the vampires flew past to circle around and cut her off.

A thud sounded behind her. The vamps in front of her paused to look over her shoulder. Something bumped her back.

Krysta spun around and swung.

A large hand clamped around her wrist, stopping her with infuriating ease.

Her gaze rose, taking in the tall figure garbed all in black who towered over her. His luminescent amber eyes, as bright as the moon, met hers. His lips parted, exposing deadly fangs.

But his aura . . .

It wasn’t orange like the other vampires’. It was bright white and purple, the two colors swirling together without ever mixing. She had never seen anything like it.

Or had she?

Hadn’t she seen it up on the roof earlier and dismissed it as a trick of the eye?

“You,” she breathed, and waited for him to strike a death blow.

Étienne frowned.

She knew him?

He released her arm, ready to catch it again if she should try to skewer him.

The vamps behind her decided to take advantage of her inattention and zipped forward.

Quick as lightning, Étienne drew four throwing stars and threw them. Two struck carotid arteries.

Krysta’s eyes widened as blood splattered her back.

“You started this,” he said. As soon as this was over, he intended to reprimand the hell out of her for stepping outside the bounds of her duties. She must be a new Second. Reordon usually made it clear that the human guards who aided immortals were not to strike out and hunt vampires on their own unless they suspected their immortal had been captured and, for some reason, couldn’t reach anyone at the network for help. “Now let’s finish it together. I’ll watch your back.”

Turning his own back, he drew his katanas and tore into the four vamps who had circled around to attack her from the rear.

Bloody bastards had no honor. Attacking a woman—a human woman at that—from behind.

Battle sounds erupted over his shoulder. Étienne listened closely for any sound that might indicate Krysta wasn’t holding her own, still astonished by the skill she had displayed thus far.

The last of the four vampires he fought fell.

Étienne swung around. Three still remained. Krysta had managed to keep them at bay, but had struck no more killing blows. She was tiring. Fending off blows backed by supernatural strength tended to do that to a human.

Étienne stepped up beside her, careful to avoid her swords, and dove into the fight.

The vamps immediately turned away from her to defend themselves, but didn’t succeed. Étienne opened the arteries of two, who fell to the ground. The last vampire opted to abandon his dying comrades, some of whom had already begun to shrivel up like mummies as the virus that infected them devoured them from the inside out in a desperate bid to live. The vamp’s crimson-stained form blurred as he darted toward the street.

Étienne caught him easily at the mouth of the alley, yanked him back into the shadows, and swiftly dispatched him.

When he turned around, Krysta had sheathed one of her swords and was texting away on a cell phone.

He strolled toward her.

Head jerking up, she pocketed the phone and drew her other sword.

He frowned. She watched him as though she expected him to attack her.

“How badly are you hurt?” he asked. Surely she could tell friend from foe. Even Sheldon, his brother Richart’s notoriously green Second, could do that much.

“I’m fine,” she lied, chin rising. Her clothing sported a dozen or more cuts and tears. She also rested most of her weight on one leg and limped when she moved. Like now, as she inched backward at his approach.

Étienne stopped several feet away from her.

She feared him. He could both smell it and see it in the dilation of her warm, brown eyes.

“You are a Second, aren’t you?” he asked.

“What is a Second?” she practically shouted.

Ah, hell. This was a problem. She was a civilian?

He should call Chris Reordon, the head of the East Coast division of the human network that aided immortals. But Étienne couldn’t bring himself to do so. This mortal woman had just hunted and defeated four vampires on her own. And she hadn’t broken down when facing almost certain death. He found that damned appealing and worried over what Chris might do to her to ensure her silence and cooperation. He hadn’t had much hands-on contact with the human network until recently, but had heard Chris could be ruthless when it came to protecting the identities and ensuring the safety of the Immortal Guardians.

“What are you?” she demanded and began to edge around him, giving him a wide berth.

“You don’t know?”

“Would I ask if I did?” she countered. “You’re different from them.” She motioned to the deceased vampires, a couple of whom were only piles of empty clothing now.

Étienne studied her closely. “Because I didn’t kill you?”

She shook her head, her eyes roving him as if she could see a difference.

“You seemed to know me, when I joined the battle. Do you?”

She inched toward the entrance of the alley.

Étienne didn’t follow. He could catch her easily if she should decide to run and he didn’t want to frighten her any more than he already had.

“I saw you,” she said. “On the roof of the building across from the frat house. Were you following me?”

“Actually I was hunting the vampires you lured away and had no knowledge of your existence until that time.”

“I’m supposed to believe you hunt vampires?” She snorted. “You are a vampire.”

“You yourself said I’m different.”

“Different but the same.” Her gaze went to his fangs.

Étienne breathed deeply and forced his fangs to retract.

Her eyes widened.

The rumble of an approaching engine reached Étienne’s ears. Fortunately most drivers were so busy chatting or texting that they wouldn’t notice anything peculiar taking place in the alleyways they passed.

“Put your swords away and let us discuss this,” he suggested reasonably. He needed to keep her talking while he decided what to do about this, whether to call Reordon or . . .

Well, he didn’t know what else.

“No,” she responded. “I don’t think so.”

“You’ve nothing to fear from me. I just saved your life.”

“So you could take it yourself?”

“No,” he said with the same exasperation he had heard in her voice earlier.

“So you could turn me?”

“Hell, no.”

Her frown deepened. Perhaps she had finally identified the sincerity in his voice.

A somewhat battered economy car screeched to a halt behind her. The driver leaned over and thrust open the passenger door.

Krysta backed into it, never taking her eyes from him. Sitting down with swords still at the ready, she swung her feet into the car. “Don’t follow me.”

As soon as she lowered her blades, the car shot forward out of sight, her door slamming shut from the momentum.

Merde. He hadn’t expected that.

Gritting her teeth, Krysta turned around and stared through the back window.

“Who the hell was that?” her brother demanded, barely tapping the breaks as he turned the corner and began a roundabout, wild-ass ride in the general direction of their home.

“I don’t know.”

“His eyes glowed. He was a vampire?”

“I don’t know what he was. Is. He looks like a vampire, but . . .”

“But what?”

She grabbed the door handle and hung on as Sean skidded around another corner. He had all of the talents of a freaking stunt driver. And that had come in handy. Not once had a vampire managed to follow them all the way home.

“His aura is different,” she told him. “Way different. And . . .”

“And what?”

“He saved me.”

“Oh, shit. He didn’t bite you, did he?”

“No.” She faced forward and slumped back in her seat, wounds throbbing. “There were four vampires this time.”

“Damn it! I told you to stick to one or two!”

“I didn’t know there were going to be that many!” she defended herself. “It’s not like I can stop, look back, and take a head count. That would kinda spoil the whole Victim Here deception.”

He shook his head. “Four? How did you even—?”

“I took out three.” She began to shake as reaction set in. “But I had to leave myself wide open for the fourth in order to take out the third and, when I turned around, there were half a dozen daggers sticking out of his back.”

Sean shot her a disbelieving look. “Are you saying the vampire in the alley who was dressed like Johnny Cash killed him?”

“Him and the seven vampires who showed up next.”

Epithets filled the little car, full of force and fear and determination. “That’s it. No more. This is over. You’re done.”

“It—”

“When it was one or two, that was one thing. You could handle it. But for the past couple of years it’s been insane. You’ve nearly died too many times to count and I’m not ready to lose you.”

“I’ll just have to be more careful—”

“You’ve been singing that bullshit song for months now. No more.”

“If I don’t do it, who will?”

“Let that crazy-ass vamp from the alley do it if that’s his madness.”

“He didn’t seem mad,” she murmured, still puzzling over it. She had never met a vampire who was nice, for lack of a better word.

“All the more reason to let him hunt his fellow bloodsuckers. If they slice him up, he’ll heal.”

“You always manage to patch me up.”

Not without cost on his part. That had always filled her with guilt and regret, but she didn’t see any way around it. She couldn’t do this without him.

“There are some things I can’t do, Krysta. I have limits. When I reach those and you have to bury me, will it have been worth it?”

She couldn’t bear the thought of it. “We’ll just have to find another way.”

He shook his head, alerting her to the huge argument ahead of them, and glanced in the rearview mirror. “Is it clear?”

She turned around and peered through the back window once more. The rest of the car may be coated in dirt and look like crap, but the windows were always sparklingly clean. Their lives depended upon it.

No bright orange glows streaked toward them in the street, so no vampires tailed them. Or no regular vampires tailed them. She didn’t see any purple either. She thought she saw a glint of white, but it was so fleeting she decided it was the moonlight shining on a storefront window.

Turning around, she studied the scenery that whipped past through the passenger window. “It’s clear.”

“Good.” His meandering path ended as he headed straight for the small frame house they rented on the outskirts of Carrboro, North Carolina. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I don’t think my leg is broken, but it hurts like hell. And I’m bleeding from a lot of cuts.”

“No major arteries hit?”

“No.”

“No ribs broken?”

“Not this time. That vamp really saved my ass.”

He shook his head again and took his foot off the gas.

Krysta checked behind them as the car slowed, just to be doubly sure, then nodded.

Sean guided the car onto a drive that was supposed to be gravel, but was about eighty percent dirt and weeds instead.

Krysta’s sore, aching body wobbled from side to side as he navigated the pothole-riddled path about fifty yards to the little, brown frame house hidden among the trees.

They had tried to find a place in Chapel Hill, so they would be closer to the colleges (prime hunting grounds for vampires), but hadn’t been able to afford it. This had ended up being ideal in terms of isolation anyway. No neighbors. No one to see her blood-painted face and clothing when they returned home. No one to call the police if they glimpsed her weapons.

Sean parked and, unfolding his large form, circled around to help Krysta.

He was a lot taller than she was, taking after their father, who towered over their tiny mother. Krysta stood at only five foot five and boasted a slender build with enough muscle to lend her strength without bulking her up like a man. Sean was six foot two or thereabouts and packed about two hundred pounds of muscle that made many a woman drool. He also possessed the same fighting skills Krysta did. Had he been able to anticipate the vampires’ moves the way she could, they would have made a formidable team.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t. And the few times he had joined her on the hunt, he had ended up so battered and bloody she had almost had to take him to the hospital.

Krysta kept her swords in hand as he opened the car door, reached in, and practically lifted her out. “I can walk,” she insisted, though her leg was really hurting. Maybe the bastard had fractured it. Could one walk on a fractured leg?

Sean mumbled something about stubbornness bordering on stupidity and wrapped a supportive arm around her to help her to the door.

Krysta let the slur slide. She knew he was just worried about her and terrified of losing her. His mood always turned sour when she was wounded, which happened pretty much every time she hunted. She’d avoid it if she could. She sure as hell didn’t enjoy it. But, how?

There was no need to flip through keys to open the front door. They always left it unlocked. The house was hidden from the road by trees and drew no notice of passersby. Even the mailman didn’t deliver. All of their correspondence went to a post office box.

And if someone did choose to wander down their drive and found the frame house, nothing about its appearance would entice a burglar. It was over a century old and built on uneven ground that left it slanting to one side. (She and Sean had had a hell of a time leveling the furniture when they had moved in.) The roof sagged, as did the porch and back deck. The paint was old and worn and peeling.

Who would even bother to look inside?

“You need to mow the lawn,” she huffed, gritting her teeth against the pain as they trudged over uneven ground, up the steps, and through the door.

They also left it unlocked for expediency’s sake. There had been nights when time had been of the essence.

“Ground’s still too wet.” He flicked a switch, and bright light flooded the small living room.

Krysta limped over to the futon and slumped down on the waterproof tarp they always placed over it on nights she hunted. That bright idea had come to them too late to save their first from bloodstains.

“Do you need help getting your coat off?” he asked, sitting in front of her on their dented and scarred coffee table.

She nodded. Pulling cloth away from the wounds it stuck to always made the pain worse.

Sean, tight-lipped and silent, removed her coat as gently as possible.

Krysta tugged her shirt over her head. Underneath, she wore a heavy-duty sports bra that covered everything. Not one hint of cleavage could be found, not that she had much. And, beneath the pants she removed, she wore bike shorts.

Sean scowled as he examined her wounds. “The leg isn’t broken. It’s sprained. I don’t like how these two cuts”—he motioned to one on her shoulder and one on her thigh—“are bleeding, so I’ll heal them first.”

“Thank you.”

He closed his eyes and rested his hands on his splayed knees. Krysta remained quiet while he breathed in through his nose, held it, then released it several times. Opening his eyes, he covered the wound on her thigh with his hands.

Warmth flooded her skin. The cut began to tingle as if a numbing agent had been applied. Blood ceased oozing from beneath his fingers. The pain eased.

When Sean withdrew his hands, the cut had been replaced by a faint scar. “Turn to the side a bit.”

She did so, giving him greater access to the wound scoring her shoulder.

He cupped a hand over it. Again a soothing warmth suffused her wound as it healed beneath his touch. Sean had borne this gift all of his life. Just as she had borne hers. And he had been healing her for as long as she could remember. Though she was two years older than Sean, she couldn’t count the number of times he had stopped her crying in their youth by covering a scraped knee or cut elbow with his little hands and making the wounds disappear.

Of course, they didn’t actually disappear. Neither of them were sure how exactly it worked, but he seemed to transfer the wound to his own body, which healed at an accelerated rate. Even now, a red stain appeared on the shoulder of his shirt.

“I’ll heal the leg now before I heal the others.”

“The others aren’t bad,” she insisted. “I can just use some butterfly closures on them.”

He shook his head. With careful hands, he lifted her foot and propped it next to him on the coffee table. “Do we really have to do this every time?” He settled his hands on her shin where it hurt the most. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth.

She hated causing him pain. That was the worst part of all of this. Not the vampires trying to kill her. Or having to hide what she did from everyone so they wouldn’t think she was crazy and commit her. But the pain Sean experienced when he healed her time and time again, saving her ass so she could go out and do the same thing again tomorrow.

The pain in her leg vanished. And she knew Sean would limp if he were to stand and try to walk now. But he didn’t. He stubbornly healed every cut and bruise on her arms and legs and back.

She hugged him gingerly when he finished, knowing he now ached in all of the places she had. “Thank you.”

He patted her back, then shifted over to slump down on the futon.

Healing her didn’t just open wounds on him. It also exhausted him.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “How long are we going to do this, Krys?”

She slumped back beside him. “I don’t know. As long as it takes, I guess.”

“Takes to do what? For a while there, it seemed like we were making a difference. The vampires’ numbers decreased. You’d go weeks sometimes without running into one. But eleven in one night?”

“Twelve, if you count the . . .”

“What? The good one?”

She sighed. “I don’t know.”

“It’s turning into a never-ending battle. We can’t win this.”

“How can we stop?”

Another deep sigh soughed from him. Raising a hand, he rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

She understood his weariness. Some may have counted tonight a victory. But she and Sean could see it only as defeat, as proof that they would never succeed in ridding the world of every bloodsucker on the planet.

It was a war they couldn’t win.

And sooner or later it would kill them.

Étienne stood in the small frame home, staring down at Krysta. Darkness surrounded them, broken only by the glowing red digits on her alarm clock.

She slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted, curled on her side with a faded, striped sheet tucked beneath her chin. Sean slumbered in the only other bedroom in the house. Both were blissfully unaware that he had invaded the safety of their home. Étienne had gone to great lengths to avoid detection while he had followed them from UNC.

Taking his time, he inspected the interior of the house. It reminded him a bit of the one Sarah had been renting when Roland had met her. Small. Old. Tidy. He guessed, by the pictures displayed on the wall, that the two were siblings. Why that was a relief puzzled him. Though he didn’t know them, he hadn’t wanted the two of them to be lovers. It made no sense.

He returned silently to Krysta’s bedroom, a task made more difficult by the many squeaky floorboards.

The conversation he had overheard earlier led him to believe that hunting vampires was not a new endeavor for her. How the hell had she gone undetected? There were over a dozen immortals in the area. Seth, their leader and the most powerful among them, had been dropping in regularly. Seconds and cleaners abounded. And the network headquarters was stationed in Greensboro. Yet none of them had ever encountered Krysta? It seemed rather remarkable.

Rustling sounded in the next room. Étienne melted back into the darkest corner as Sean shuffled past the doorway in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Moments later the door to the bathroom closed and Étienne returned his attention to the warrior woman slumbering so peacefully a few feet away.

She would have to be dealt with.

Both of them would.

When Sean next passed by his sister’s bedroom, Étienne was gone.