Night Reigns

Chapter 4

Marcus grunted as a machete sliced into his side, narrowly missing his kidney. It wasn’t the first wound he had received. Over a dozen others marred his body, painting his form red along with the blood of his enemies. Every breath tortured his damaged ribs. His energy diminished with each new injury as the blood loss curtailed the healing of his wounds.

As an immortal, he was stronger and faster than the vampires he fought, but only as long as he remained in top or near-top condition.

Crimson liquid spurted in his face as he rid one of the vampires of his head and another of his left arm, all in one stroke.

For the first time, fear tempered the elation and life-stirring adrenaline that had flooded him each time death had stalked him since he’d lost Bethany. Instead of glorying in the challenge his attackers presented, he found himself listening for every gunshot that split the night.

As long as the loud reports bombarded his ears, he knew Ami still lived.

Why hadn’t she gone? How many clips did she have left? And when the hell did she reload? The firing never ceased. Which meant she was damned good at what she did.

He smiled. Maybe Seth hadn’t been kidding. Maybe she could kick an immortal’s ass. She was doing a hell of a job kicking vampire asses.

That familiar elation swelled within him. With renewed vigor, he hacked away at the wave of vampires crashing over him, compartmentalizing the pain as his wounds increased in number.

Seconds or minutes later, an odd hush settled upon the fray. Not complete. Just different.

Breaths continued to huff in and out. Grunts, groans, and growls composed a chilling chorus as weapons cut through air, lacerated flesh, and clashed with metal.

What had changed?

No gunfire.

Marcus’s gaze flew to the north, as he tried to spy Ami through the masses swarming between them.

Had she been hurt? Taken down? Killed?

A blade pierced his right thigh. Another skimmed the back of his neck.

Marcus swore.

This wasn’t working.

The Prius skidded away several yards, shoved with preternatural strength seconds after Ami fired her last bullet. Left with no cover, she rose, reached over her head, and grasped the handles of her katanas.

Pain ripped through her hip when a vampire’s blade sank deep.

Crying out, she drew the swords and swung them in the same movement.

Vampires, no longer held at bay by the Glock 18’s, surged toward her, moving so swiftly they blurred.

Ami was fast. Faster than any other Second in the world, according to David. But she wasn’t that fast.

Wielding her blades in moves she had spent hours perfecting, she swept up, down, left, right, diagonally ... struggling to keep a blade always between her and the vicious forms with glowing eyes and dripping fangs that circled her.

The vampires toyed with her. Taunted her. Inflicted numerous superficial wounds to inflate her fear. Cuts here. Slashes there. Puncture wounds. Bruises.

When Ami realized she was holding her breath, she released it in a long whoosh. The most difficult task assigned her during her training had been resisting the urge to hold her breath when hurtled into a physical confrontation. Clearly, she hadn’t yet mastered it.

Behind her, an agonized scream rent the air. A fountain of blood sprayed over her shoulder as something heavy hit her back, nearly sending her to her knees.

She stumbled forward, her katanas lowering. The tip of a blade skimmed her left shoulder. A gleaming bowie knife longer and wider than her forearm dove for her throat. Too off balance to do anything but watch it, she sucked in a shocked breath when a short sword appeared in front of her, deflected the bowie, then impaled the vampire who wielded it.

An arm, holding a duplicate sword, wrapped around her waist and steadied her as a muscled chest came up against her back.

“Sorry about that,” Marcus said in her ear. He grunted and jerked, then spouted something foul. As soon as she straightened and raised her weapons, he released her.

The vampires who had been playing cat and mouse with her suddenly didn’t look so smug when their movements slowed enough for her to glimpse their features. Some even dropped back and glanced at their companions uncertainly, goggling at whatever took place behind her and flinching when another body part flew through the air, hitting one in the chest.

Excitement zinged through Ami when she felt Marcus’s back press against hers.

“I’ve got your back!” he shouted with a little too much spirit considering the odds of one or both of them losing their heads. She didn’t have to see him to know he was grinning widely and enjoying this far more than he should. It was all there in his voice. “Have at ’em!”

What followed was nothing short of astonishing. As though they had fought together for decades, Ami and Marcus worked in tandem to protect each other’s back and cut down vampires. Ami faltered only twice when vampires scored a couple of deeper wounds.

“Ami?” Marcus shouted each time his sensitive ears caught her gasp or yelp.

“I’m fine,” she called back, gritting her teeth. But exhaustion began to seep in. Pain distracted her. And she lost her breath, dragging in air with ragged pants.

Ami staggered as a bout of light-headedness shook her.

Was it the breathing? Fatigue? Blood loss? The blow to the head she had taken before Marcus had joined her?

Her arms like lead, she paused and leaned forward, striving to reduce her choppy gasps to long, even breaths, unable to find the strength to even raise her weapons high enough to serve as a shield.

When nothing happened—no blades took advantage of the lull and carved her up, no fists struck her, no fangs closed on her vulnerable throat—she frowned. Straightening, Ami peered at her surroundings. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

Bodies in various stages of decay littered the field, the road, the dirt shoulder.

Feet shuffling, she turned around just as Marcus yanked one of his swords from the chest of the last vampire standing and spun toward her.

Like Ami, he gave the land around them a disbelieving once-over. He closed his vibrant amber eyes, tilted his head to one side, and listened, drew in a deep breath. Lids lifting, he met her gaze. A wide, triumphant smile stretched across his handsome face. Throwing his head back, he released an exultant whoop. Then, dropping his swords, he swept forward, wrapped his arms around her, and hoisted her into the air, hugging her tightly and spinning her around. “We did it!” he shouted.

Letting her own weapons fall, Ami wearily rested her head on his shoulder and twined limp arms around his neck, her feet dangling somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.

“I can’t fucking believe we did it!” Laughing, he set her down. “There must have been three dozen of them! Are you all right?”

She nodded, incapable of doing any more at the moment.

As he paced away, stepping over bodies, wagging his head with that unshakable grin, Ami recalled some of the other immortals’ concerns that Marcus’s grief had turned him into an adrenaline junky who only felt alive when faced with death.

The fact that they couldn’t see him now was probably a good thing.

“Three dozen and we kicked ... their ... asses!” He swooped back toward her and, stopping mere inches away, cupped her face in his bloody hands. “You were amazing, Ami! Bloody amazing! I’ve never seen a Second move so fast! So fluidly!” His thumbs smoothed across her cheeks as his glowing amber gaze held hers and the expression on his blood-spattered face softened. “Amazing,” he murmured. Her already laboring heart stuttered when his head lowered and his warm, soft lips met hers.

Electric.

Her lids fluttered closed. Ami rested her hands on his chest and clutched his wet shirt, leaning into him when her knees threatened to buckle.

His tongue slipped out and stroked her lips. She’d never felt anything so incredible in her life.

Just as she opened her mouth, wanting to touch her tongue to his, he drew back a few inches.

A slow smile accompanied the heat in his gaze. “Your heart sounds like it’s going to burst from your chest,” he whispered in a deep, silky voice.

Of course it did. Her knees were also about to crumple. But was that any reason for him to stop kissing her?

His brow furrowed. His smile faltered. Drawing one big hand over her hair, he brushed it back from her face. “Your heart sounds like it’s going to burst from your chest,” he repeated, the silk replaced by concern. “Ami?” Backing away a step, he gave her a more detailed visual exam.

Ami kept her hands twisted in his shirt, afraid she would sink to the ground if she let go.

With every second, his expression grew more alarmed. “Oh, shit. You’re not all right. You’re hurt.”

Bending forward, he slipped an arm beneath her knees and hoisted her into his arms.

He was so warm.

And she trembled with cold.

“Stay with me, Ami,” he murmured in her ear as he carried her over to the dented Prius. “Stay with me.”

She intended to.

If he let her.

Cursing himself, Marcus gently settled Ami on the hood of the car. He could feel her trembling and kept his hands on her shoulders until he was sure she could sit up without assistance.

Because she had remained on her feet and fought nonstop, he had assumed that whatever wounds she had suffered were superficial, the blood on her clothing that of the vampires she had destroyed.

And she had destroyed many of them, holding her own better than even the most seasoned Seconds with whom he had fought. Better even than fledgling immortals.

Yet she was human. Wasn’t she?

He raked her torn, crimson-stained clothing with a frantic glance. “Which is the worst?”

She shook her head weakly. “I-I don’t know. My hip? Maybe my thigh?”

Her thigh?

Dread filled him. Please, not her femoral artery.

He ran suddenly clumsy hands over her slender, black fatigue-clad thighs. Rage, directed at both the vampires and himself, grew with every blood-soaked tear he found. She jerked when his fingers found the deepest cut.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Located on her outer thigh, it bled sluggishly and was deep enough that he was surprised it hadn’t hampered her fighting. “This is going to hurt,” he warned and, pinching the edges together, he applied pressure with his right hand.

Hissing in a breath, she bit her lip. Tears sparkled in her eyes, then spilled over her lashes, every one making his gut cramp.

Selfish bastard. As stubborn as she had proven to be, he should have known she would refuse to leave. Instead of staying and forcing her to fight, he should have whisked her out of harm’s way.

And risk leading thirty plus vampires to a more populated area or leaving them to freely troll for victims here in the country.

Marcus really hated lose-lose situations.

Dragging his attention away from Ami’s blood-streaked face, he studied her hips. With one hand pressed to her thigh, he used the other to peel back the ragged cloth hanging from her hip on the opposite side and grimaced at the ragged rip in her pale flesh.

The low rumble of an approaching vehicle rose in the night. Marcus looked in the direction from which Ami had come when she had arrived.

“What is it?” Ami asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“A car is coming.” His acute hearing had allowed him to listen for it before she could.

Her eyes swept the carnage around them, widened, and met his. “What will we say? We can’t hide this. Whoever it is will take one look and call the police.”

And if the police arrived before Chris Reordon’s cleanup crew did ...

Reordon might have connections in cool places, but the risk of discovery was greater if they didn’t gain control of the situation before the authorities arrived.

Marcus perused the makeshift battlefield. Half of the deceased vampires had completely disintegrated, leaving behind scarlet-splashed clothing, empty shoes, watches, nose rings, and assorted weapons. The other half were decaying quickly, most boasting a mummified appearance that could never be mistaken for a fresh kill.

“Filmmakers,” he blurted out.

“What?”

“We’re independent filmmakers.”

She motioned to their surroundings. “Where are the cameras? The lights? The cast and crew?”

Trying to fabricate at least a mildly plausible scenario, Marcus applied pressure to the wound in her hip. “We’ll just tell them that ... filming has wrapped for the night. Most of the crew has packed up the equipment and gone home. The rest ... went on a beer and pizza run before we finish cleaning up. You and I are actors who volunteered to stay behind and wait because ... my brother is the director.”

Her forehead crinkled with doubt.

“I know—I know. It’s lame. But it’s all I can think of right now.”

“Maybe we’ll luck out and they’ll be supremely gullible?” she suggested hopefully.

He smiled. “Maybe.”

A car sailed over the nearest hill.

“Merde!” a voice abruptly exclaimed behind him. Ami jumped and gasped.

Spinning around, Marcus positioned himself in front of her, reached for the daggers strapped to his chest ... and realized he had used them all. His short swords lay several yards away, out of reach and—

He relaxed as his gaze fell on the French immortal standing just three or four yards away.

Clad all in black with short, wavy raven hair and a sword in each hand, Richart gaped at the bodies and empty clothing scattered around them.

“Really?” Marcus demanded irritably. “You show up now?”

“The call didn’t come from your phone,” he responded with a shrug, his voice tinged with a light accent. “So Chris didn’t know you were the one who needed help or where to send us until the GPS identified your location.”

“I dialed the number,” Ami murmured in Marcus’s ear, sending a warm shiver through him, “but the vampires attacked before I could say anything.”

He nodded, his unforgiving eyes still trained on the other immortal. “It took this long for him to track our location? I thought that shit worked faster than that.” If backup had arrived sooner, perhaps Ami wouldn’t have been hurt. She felt so small and fragile beneath his hands. The more he thought about the vampires converging on her in the numbers they had, the more impossible it seemed that she had survived.

And the more admiration he felt for her.

“No, it took this long for us to get here. You are way out in the sticks, you know.”

“Why didn’t you just—”

“I’m not as powerful as Seth. I can only teleport to places I’m familiar with, and I’m new to this area.”

The car skidded to a halt with far less flourish than his Prius had, the bumper nearly brushing the hem of Richart’s long black coat.

The driver’s door flew open, and Richart’s twin, Étienne, emerged.

Marcus felt one of Ami’s hands clutch the back of his shirt and recalled Seth’s mentioning that meeting new people was difficult for her. Leaning into her hold, he reached back and rested a hand on her shin, then winked at her over his shoulder. “You’re a better driver.”

The uncertainty on her face eased somewhat as her lips twitched.

“Merde!” Étienne exclaimed. Had Richart not teleported, Marcus would have been unable to tell the two apart. “How many were there?”

Richart turned in a complete circle. “Thirty-four by my count.”

His brother turned disbelieving eyes on Marcus. “And you took them all out by yourself?”

Marcus shook his head and gave Ami’s shin a squeeze. “We took them all out.”

Both men shifted so they could better see the injured figure trying to make herself invisible behind him. In unison, their eyebrows rose.

“Two defeated thirty-four,” Richart said with a shake of his head. “Incredible.”

Marcus and Ami’s success was unprecedented.

“I didn’t know Seth had called in another immortal,” Étienne commented, studying Ami. “Pleasure to meet you. I am Étienne d’Alençon, and this is my brother Richart.”

Marcus did not like the appreciation in the younger immortal’s gaze. “Ami isn’t an immortal. She’s my Second.”

Their jaws dropped.

“She’s human?” Richart asked incredulously.

Done with the subject, Marcus turned back to Ami, who shrugged as if to say, Yeah, so?

Frowning, he checked her wounds and applied more pressure. “Richart, would you take us to David so he can see to her wounds?”

“David is spelling Asajyfo in Sudan. You know how vampires love to take advantage of war and violence. Genocide lures them like candy does children. Asajyfo has worked nonstop for too long, keeping their numbers in check, and very much needed a break.”

“What about Seth?”

“Seth isn’t answering his phone.”

Which left the only other healer Marcus knew personally. “Fine. Take us to Roland.”

“What?” Ami blurted out, apprehension sweeping her blood-streaked features, the same instant Richart said, “Hell no.”

Marcus glared daggers at the immortal. “Do it.”

Richart shook his head as he and his brother approached. “I can’t. I’ve never been to his home before.”

Étienne nodded. “And Roland would slay him. Not just for showing up unannounced, but for bringing a total stranger to his home and, at least in his view, endangering Sarah.”

Ready to explode in fury—Damn it, Ami needed help!—Marcus felt a touch on his arm.

“It’s okay, Marcus,” Ami said. “My wounds are minor—”

“The hell they are!”

“—and I’ll be fine after a good night’s rest.”

Which sent guilt crashing through him. She hadn’t had a good night’s rest—or any rest—since she had moved in with him because she didn’t feel safe with him.

How the hell had she fought as fiercely as she had when she was so bloody exhausted?

Marcus stepped closer to the side of the car, intending to lift her into his arms. “Fine. Then take us to the network. I’m sure one of the doctors in their labs can patch her up.”

Labs.

It was a simple word. One syllable. Four letters.

Yet it struck thrice as much fear in Ami’s heart as the horde of vampires she had just combatted.

When Marcus leaned down and slid his arms around her to pick her up, she planted a hand in the center of his chest to hold him at bay. “No.”

He hesitated. “What?”

“You’re not taking me to the network.”

“Ami, you’re injured. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. She knew the network was trustworthy. But scientists were scientists. And doctors were doctors. All possessed the same inherent curiosity, the same desire to expand their knowledge.

A shudder shook her.

Were the network doctors and scientists not constantly trying to pressure Roland into bringing Sarah in to be studied, all because she was a mild anomaly? The first gifted one who had ever voluntarily asked to be transformed, she was far more powerful than a newly turned immortal should have been. Faster and stronger than immortals transformed centuries before her.

If the network doctors couldn’t wait to get their hands on Sarah to study her, what would they do to Ami?

Labs.

She hated labs.

“Ami ...”

Nightmarish memories assailed her.

Scooting down the hood of the car, she winced at the pull of the many cuts that pained her. The sharp stings of her hip and thigh and her throbbing headache worsened with every second. Her legs seemed disinclined to support her when she lowered her feet to the ground and stood.

Marcus stepped around to stand in front of her, arms slightly extended as though to catch her if she fell.

“I’m going home,” she announced firmly.

Marcus looked to the other immortals. “Any ideas?”

Étienne pursed his lips. “You could give her some of your blood.”

Richart nodded. “One transfusion won’t transform her.”

Before Ami could refuse (even Seth didn’t know what exposure to the virus would do to her), Marcus shook his head. “The vampires are congregating again, working together as they did under Bastien’s rule. Tonight confirms that their numbers are growing exponentially. If I give Ami my blood, it will make her more susceptible to the virus if one of the vampires should sink his teeth into her later.”

A human or gifted one could be transformed in two ways. A vampire (or immortal) could drain the human almost to the point of death, then infuse him or her with the vamp’s blood, infecting the human on a massive level. Or the human could be exposed to the virus in small amounts over and over again through repeated feedings until the virus weakened the human’s immune system enough to conquer it entirely and usurp its place.

“I don’t need your blood,” Ami announced, tired of their discussing what to do with her as if she couldn’t decide for herself. “So, while you three stand here chatting, I’m going to go home, take a shower, apply a few bandages, and go to bed.”

She turned toward the driver’s side of the car, staggered forward a step, and bumped into Marcus’s chest. Damn their speed. Sputtering, she wiped at the blood his saturated shirt had just deposited on her face. “I’m going home, Marcus.”

He smiled. “I know. I was just going to suggest I drive.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but held her tongue when he placed a gentle finger against her lips.

“I have no qualms about admitting you’re a better driver than I am. But the vampires knocked out a headlight, and I see better in low light than you do.”

He thought she was a better driver than he was and wasn’t too chauvinistic or arrogant to admit it? How cool was that?

And perhaps her focusing on his first comment instead of the second indicated that she was no more in peak condition mentally than she was physically.

“Deal.”

Taking her elbow, he escorted her around to the passenger’s side as if he had just picked her up to take her out on a date. This side of the car was badly dented. But he managed to pry the door open and seat her inside. He even buckled her seat belt for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, wondering how her heart could react so strongly to his nearness when she was riddled with so much pain.

And there was pain. Immense amounts of it. She hurt everywhere, had lost a lot of blood, was cold, and possibly close to going into shock. Yet she had to pretend she was fine so Marcus wouldn’t want to see to her wounds himself, something that would raise too many questions.

Her thoughts scattered when the driver’s side door opened and Marcus slid behind the wheel.

She found a smile when his knees nearly touched his chest.

Grimacing comically, he readjusted the seat, scooting it all the way back to accommodate his much longer legs. “Better.” When he closed the door ...

The space seemed so much smaller with him in it.

Starting the engine, he offered her another smile. “I would’ve just had Richart teleport us home, but he’s never been there either.”

“That’s okay. I’d rather ride.”

He nodded. “Most of us would.”

Teleporting, while awesome, could be a dizzying and disquieting experience.

“Don’t worry,” he went on. “We’ll be home in a trice.”

It wasn’t until Marcus said those words that Ami realized she truly was beginning to think of his house as home.

Dr. Montrose Keegan studied the vampire who stood before him. “Anything?”

The vampire shrugged. “Not really.”

Keegan glowered first at the papers clutched in his hands, then at the machines, beakers, test tubes, burners, etcetera that filled his basement lab. “Damn it!” He looked to his assistant. “What are we missing?”

John frowned at the vampire and shook his head. “I don’t know. I really thought we had it this time.”

John Florek had been a graduate student of Keegan’s before Keegan had been forced to quit and go into hiding so the damned Immortal Guardians and their network wouldn’t hunt him down. The usual rage engulfed him when he thought of having had to tender his resignation just one year short of obtaining tenure. Six years of grueling hours and ass-kissing down the drain. Even worse, the Immortal Guardians and that backstabbing bastard Bastien had killed Casey, the last member of Keegan’s family.

Scott, the vampire in front of him, reminded Montrose of Casey. The same youth. The same foolish innocence.

“Maybe it just needs to be stronger,” Scott suggested hopefully. “I do have a little bit of a buzz.” He was a nice guy. Eager to please and only turned three months earlier.

Montrose refused to work with any volunteers who had been vampires for more than six months. They were too unpredictable. Too unstable. Too scary, though he wouldn’t admit that to Dennis. The virus damaged the brain faster in some than in others, effectively severing their impulse control. With the exception of Dennis, Montrose avoided contact with all but the most recently turned vampires.

“Maybe,” he said, and motioned to one of the stools the lab boasted. “Go ahead and have a seat, Scott. Let John and I do some quick computations and—”

What sounded like an explosion shattered the silence upstairs. A heartbeat later, the door to the basement slammed open so violently it flew off its hinges, careened off the cabinet next to it and—splinters splicing the air like mini-missiles—knocked John to the floor.

Scott swore, leapt to his feet, and backed into a far corner so quickly he blurred.

Montrose nearly crapped his pants when Dennis materialized only a foot away. His eyes glowed a vibrant blue, a sign of intense emotion. And, judging by the clenched jaw, rapid breathing, and visibly pulsing veins, that emotion was absolute fury.

Dennis’s hair, dark blond and down to his shoulders, looked as if he had ridden from one end of the state to the other in a convertible with the top down. His clothing, black and reminiscent of Bastien’s with a long coat and sheathed weapons, was disheveled, his shirt glistening with a large wet spot. Ruby drops and streaks stained his neck and chin.

Montrose began to tremble.

Was that blood? That was blood.

“Is it done?” Dennis growled.

The fallen door behind Montrose shifted.

Stalling, Montrose looked around.

John climbed to his feet, nose bleeding, a red lump forming on his forehead.

“Don’t look at him,” Dennis snarled, wrapping a fist in Montrose’s lab coat and giving him a rough shake. “Look at me.”

Montrose did as he was told.

“Is it done?” Dennis repeated. “Does it work?”

Montrose swallowed. Hard. “N-no, it’s too weak.” He heard John come up behind him and glanced at him over his shoulder. “We, uh, we were just going to recalculate—”

Dennis released Montrose’s coat and stepped to the side.

Before Montrose could breathe a sigh of relief, Dennis reached past him, grabbed John by the shirt and yanked him forward.

Knocked to the side, Montrose stumbled, grabbed the edge of a table to steady himself, then turned around in time to see Dennis dip his head and rip John’s throat out with his fangs.

Blood sprayed in an arc as John reeled backward and groped at his neck.

Montrose closed his eyes and cringed as the warm liquid splashed him.

Harsh, gurgling sounds suffused the air.

Shock rendering him speechless, Montrose cracked open his lids and watched as John—eyes wide with terror—staggered around, bumping into tables and desks and knocking paraphernalia over, then dropped to his knees. A few more choking gargles, then he fell forward. His body twitched. Twitched again. Then stilled.

Hot saliva welled in Montrose’s mouth. Bile swiftly followed. Bending over, he spewed what hadn’t been digested of his triple beef burger and fries all over the floor and John’s shoes.

“Oh, man up for fuck’s sake,” Dennis snarled.

Hands on his knees, Montrose shook his head. “Why did you do that?” he wheezed, gagging as the scents of vomit, blood, and excrement filled his airways. “Why the hell did you do that?” He straightened as much as he could, placing a hand on his churning stomach.

Dennis shrugged as though Montrose had just asked him why he had rented a particular movie. His face, chin, neck, and chest were covered in crimson. “He was distracting you. It annoyed me.”

Montrose’s mouth fell open, and some of the fear racing through his veins converted to anger. “He annoyed you?”

“Perhaps now that he’s gone you’ll have less trouble focusing.” Dennis seemed so calm now, his eyes no longer luminescent.

“He was helping me!” Montrose blurted out incredulously. “Helping us! I couldn’t have gotten this far in our little experiment if he hadn’t been here! What the hell am I supposed to do now?” He was yelling by the time he finished and later would wonder where he had found the balls to do so. Dennis’s brain was clearly surrendering to the virus, his impulse control deteriorating to near nonexistence. And his mood swings ...

Well, they were off the chart.

Again, Dennis shrugged. “Find some other geek to help you.”

Montrose started to remind him just how long it had taken him to find someone he could trust not to call the men in white coats when asked for aid in capturing an immortal creature for a vampire king. But Dennis drew close, his fetid breath deepening Montrose’s nausea.

“Get it done, Montrose. You’re out of time.”

“W-W-What do you mean?”

“We found Roland.”

Excitement skittered through him. “You did? You found him?” Roland Warbrook. One of the Immortal Guardians who had killed Casey. And someone who could tell them where to find Bastien the Deceiver. “Where is he? When can I see him?” Interrogate him? Torture him? Destroy him?

“When you finish what you started,” Dennis gritted out,

“and help us catch him. He killed thirty-four of my men tonight. He and his human bitch.”

Montrose eyed him in disbelief. “Thirty-four? That’s impossible. He must have transformed her.”

“He didn’t.”

“How do you know? Were you there?”

Dennis’s eyes flashed dangerously. “No. Toby texted me, told me they were getting their asses kicked by an Immortal Guardian and some woman and asked me what they should do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That if he tucked his tail between his legs and ran I would make an example of him as I did Eddie.”

Inwardly, Montrose grimaced. He had heard about that. The vamps had gained three new soldiers that night.

“None of my men survived.”

Two triumphing over thirty-four. And Toby claimed one of them had been mortal.

Montrose’s mind raced. He had to get his hands on one of those Immortal Guardians.

Dennis backed away, no longer bent on intimidating him. “Scott,” he said calmly and motioned to the silent vampire,

“come forward.”

Leaving the shadows, the young vampire crossed to Dennis’s side with obvious reluctance.

Dennis wrapped an arm around his shoulders, his eyes still on Montrose. “Have you enjoyed helping Dr. Keegan?”

“Yes, sir.” Scott had once confessed to Montrose that he far preferred being a lab rat to preying on humans or tricking drunken frat boys into joining their army. Montrose had always considered him a rare, top-quality vampire. He wasn’t high on power. He didn’t get off on terrifying and bullying powerless humans. He was a good guy.

Montrose hoped Dennis didn’t intend to return him to the hunt now.

Dennis ruffled Scott’s hair the way Montrose used to ruffle Casey’s, then smiled at Montrose, yanked the kid’s head to the side, and sank his fangs into his throat.

Scott gritted his teeth, the cords in his neck standing out as his arms flailed. One caught and clenched in Dennis’s coat. The other swept papers from the table nearest them.

Montrose met Dennis’s eyes. Those taunting eyes. “W-What are you ... ?”

The younger vamp’s struggles continued, punctuated with grunts and gasps. Had Scott been human, the chemical produced by the glands that had formed over Dennis’s fangs when he had transformed would have almost instantly acted upon his system like GHB. His desire to struggle would have melted away. His fear, too. He might even have begun to enjoy it. And would have retained no memory of it.

But the parasitic virus that had replaced his immune system rendered him unresponsive to drugs—opiates, muscle relaxants, sedatives, paralytics, stimulants, antivirals—so Scott felt every bit of the pain the needle-sharp fangs inflicted, the cold that crept in as his blood was siphoned into Dennis’s veins, the fear that rose as he and Montrose waited to see if Dennis would allow him to live.

Scott’s limbs began to tremble. His arms fell to his sides. His knees buckled. All color fled his face. The sure knowledge of his impending demise lingered in the hopeless eyes that met and held Montrose’s.

“Th-thank you,” he whispered with his last breath.

Dennis dropped Scott’s bloodless corpse to the floor like a bag of garbage.

The virus began to devour the kid from the inside out as it fought to live as long as possible.

Numb, Montrose stared at Dennis.

Dennis wiped his mouth. “We’ll have to spend the next several weeks rebuilding and multiplying our numbers,” he said, bland as an accountant at a board meeting. “You do whatever you have to do to pull your own weight.” He strolled to the vacant doorway that led to a laundry room with stairs leading up to the ground floor, then looked back over his shoulder. “Right now you’re looking too damn dispensable.”

He was up the stairs, out of the house, and probably halfway down the street before Montrose found the strength to breathe again.

Stretching out a shaking hand, he braced himself against the table behind him.

The stink of vomit was thick in the air, not quite overshadowed by the odor of decaying flesh as Scott withered away to nothing.

John lay where he had fallen, eyes blankly appealing to the ceiling, his blood a dark, shiny pool around him.

When Montrose’s legs would no longer support him, he slid down to the floor and scooted back into the same shadowed corner Scott had temporarily occupied.

Away from the sick.

Away from the death.

Away from the knowledge that he could very well be next.