by Tina Folsom
Knowing how Brandt’s son had acted irrationally when his emotions had gotten the better of him, he decided to provoke Müller into making the same mistake.
After a blow against his shoulder, Zane whirled around his axis, never losing his sure footing.
“Your daughter wants me. She can’t get enough of me, a dirty Jew!” he provoked Müller.
Müller snarled, baring his fangs in aggression.
Zane laughed into his face. “Yes, I’ve had her. And I’ll keep her.”
His words seemed to have the right effect.
“Never!” promised Müller. “She’s better than you!”
His claw swung so fast, Zane barely saw it coming. Trying to avoid it was futile. It slashed one side of his neck open, blood instantly dripping from the wound. It wasn’t deep enough to cause him any immediate harm, but the longer the blood loss continued, the weaker it would render him.
Knowing he had to act fast, Zane delivered his own deluge of blows, kicks, and slashes. Müller successfully blocked some of them, but others hit their target. Zane panted heavily, pumping his body full with much needed oxygen. His brain told him to end it, to pull his silver blade and slice him open as Müller had done with his victims, but his heart protested. It wasn’t satisfied yet. He needed to pound into Müller longer, to hurt him, to connect his claws with his flesh, to injure him with his bare hands.
Only like this, Zane felt his need for revenge slowly but steadily trickling away. Only as he felt his claws connect with Müller’s skin and the blood from his wounds run over his hands, was the beast in him happy. He was finally paying him back. Zane soaked up that knowledge, just as he inhaled the stench of Müller’s blood and the smell of his sweat. The more he pounded into him, the more adrenaline he felt shooting through him.
A high spread in his body despite the injuries Müller inflicted on him. And he wanted to make it last until he was truly ready to send his enemy to hell where he belonged.
Zane cornered his opponent, trapping him against the wall, the bookcase to his left preventing him from sliding past him. From his right, Müller grabbed a wall lamp with its frilly lampshade and yanked it from its connection, ripping the electrical cord from the wall. He raised his arm to hit Zane with it, but Zane sidestepped him, and the lamp crashed through the open door, landing in the bedroom next door instead. From the corner of his eye, he saw it crashing against the grill in front of the fireplace.
A startled scream from Portia made him take his eyes off his opponent. It was his mistake. Müller’s hand had reached for a heavy iron bookend and now slammed it in the direction of Zane’s head. By snapping to the side, he avoided a direct blow to the head, but the bookend hit his collarbone instead. He heard the sound of bones breaking, and felt the corresponding pain radiate through his body.
Shit! It was time to stop fooling around and end this.
Zane reached his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and jerked out the first thing his fingers gripped. The wooden stake felt smooth in his palm. It would have to do. He would have rather used his silver knife to provide a more painful death for Müller, but there was no time to change his weapon now with Müller attacking him even more ferociously than before.
He wasn’t the only one who wanted to take the fight to the next level. Müller had obviously also decided to kick things up a notch. As Müller jumped toward the desk, he snatched the chair in the next instant, smashing it against the wall with such force that it splintered.
Zane went after him but couldn’t prevent Müller from taking one of the chair’s broken feet and gripping it like a stake. As he clashed with his opponent, Zane’s free hand snapped around Müller’s neck and squeezed. Müller’s hand holding the stake shot forward, but Zane blocked it with his elbow and continued squeezing.
“This is for all those you tortured,” Zane hissed and raised his arm holding the stake. He swung.
“Help me! Zane! Fire!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Portia’s scream rocketed through Zane’s bones. In the same instant he smelled it, the smoke his brain had blocked out to deal with Müller. He blinked.
Without completing his swing, Zane dropped his arm and released Müller in the same breath. His eyes snapped to the door of the bedroom were Portia was captured. Flames engulfed the area in front of the fireplace. The armchair in front of it was already in flames that now shot up to the ceiling, the smoke they created billowing below.
Thinking only one thought, Zane charged into the room, the flames licking at him as he rushed passed the fireplace.
Portia jerked on her restraints, her eyes filled with panic. Her face was bathed in sweat, her feet scrambling to move closer to the head of the bed and farther away from the fire.
“Portia!” he screamed. “Oh, God!”
He reached her and jerked on the silver handcuffs, ignoring the searing pain on his flesh. But the steel beam behind the bed to which the cuffs were fastened didn’t budge.
Touching the button on his earpiece he tried to connect with his colleague. “Thomas, where are those wire cutters?”
Only static came through the line. Shit!
“Help me,” Portia pleaded.
They both knew she would die if the fire engulfed her. It wasn’t the smoke inhalation that would kill her, not like it would kill a human, but the fire itself that would burn her flesh from her bones while she was still alive.
Pushing the ugly thoughts from his mind, he tried to calm her. “I’ll get you free. I promise.”
“Oh, God, Portia!” came Müller’s voice from the door.
Zane glanced back at him for a second and saw him standing there, hesitating. Pulling his silver blade from his jacket, Zane took one of Portia’s wrists.
“Keep still.”
She pressed her lips together and watched him with fear-filled eyes that now brimmed with unshed tears.
He stuck his knife into the lock of the cuff and twisted. Back and forth he tried, first pushing in the tip of the knife only a fraction, then pressing deeper and trying again. But he found no traction. No clicking sound indicated that the cuffs would spring open. Pain seared through his injured shoulder, making his hand shake and the knife slip from the lock. He tried again.
The heat at his back made pearls of sweat drip from his forehead. He had to try harder. Without taking his eyes off the handcuffs, he wedged the knife’s blade in between a ridge and twisted it. The blade bent.
“I love you, Zane,” Portia whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek. He realized she was saying goodbye.
Her eyes strayed past him, where he knew the fire was encroaching on the bed.
But he couldn’t turn to see how close it was already. And he couldn’t let her believe that he would let her die.
“No, Portia, I won’t leave you here.”
He turned his face back to the door, where Müller still stood in horror, but the flames were about to cut off that route. “The keys!” Zane pleaded. “You must have the keys!”
Casting a cautious look at the flames, Müller answered, “Your life in exchange for hers.”
Zane stared at him in disbelief. There was no time to lose, and her father was bargaining when any second the room would be entirely engulfed in flames?
“What’s your answer?” Müller taunted and pulled the keys from his pants pockets, dangling them in the air.
Zane stood. “Free her first, then kill me.”
“No!” Portia screamed with more force than her weakened state should allow her. “Never! I’d rather die!”
Her gaze collided with Zane’s. “If you’re dead, he’ll use me just like he planned.” Her eyes pleaded with him.
For a moment, time froze, and the wheels in his mind worked. She was right of course, but he couldn’t let her die. Nor could he allow her father to use her for his nefarious plans.
There was one other way of freeing her though, but it was the most desperate one. And the most barbaric. He shuddered at what he ha
d to do.
“Do you trust me?”
Portia nodded.
“If I cut one of your hands with the silver knife, you’re free from the cuffs.” The other handcuff would remain on her other wrist, but he could slip the silver chain connecting them from around the steel beam, freeing her.
A gasp issued from her lips, and her eyes squeezed shut.
“Your body will heal itself and grow you a new hand.”
Her throat worked hard as she parted her lips. “It’s the only way, isn’t it?”
He nodded solemnly. He wished there were another.
“Do it.”
“No!” Müller screamed from the door, suddenly advancing on the flames as if he wanted to burst through them. “You can’t do that!”
Zane paid him no heed. Instead, he pulled another stake from his pocket. “Bite on this.”
He put the wooden piece between her teeth. His brave Portia held onto it and nodded.
“I will make it quick,” he promised, his heart clenching in pain. He couldn’t wait for Thomas and the wire cutters. In a minute, it would be too late.
He set the knife’s blade at her wrist.
“Noooooo!” Müller’s scream broke through his thoughts.
He instinctively jerked his head and saw how Müller rushed through the flames that had now taken over two thirds of the room. Despite his speed, his clothes caught on fire.
“The key! Take it!” he yelled and raised his hand. Flames reflected on the metal as he threw the key.
Purely reacting on instinct, Zane caught the tiny key in his hands. As he rushed to stick it into the lock, Portia’s eyes reflected back at him what was happening behind his back.
The bottom of the bed had caught fire and was now rapidly licking its path toward Portia. Müller, himself engulfed in flames, frantically pulled on the bedclothes to drag them away from his daughter.
As the lock clicked open, Zane ripped the open handcuff from her and released the chain from the steel beam. He lifted her into his arms and glanced over his shoulder.
Müller was a fireball, still moving, but no more sounds came from him. His hands still moved in all directions as if trying to put out the fire, but Zane knew it was too late for him.
He pushed the curtain aside and kicked the window with his boot, shattering the glass. The fresh air that rushed in fuelled the flames, creating a back draft that hit him instantly. Not losing a second, he jumped out of the window, Portia pressed tightly to him.
Zane landed amidst a few bushes that cushioned his fall. However, his injured shoulder gave out on impact, making him release his hold on Portia. Thankfully, she had her arms slung around him so firmly, she remained glued to him despite his slip.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his breath deserting him.
He felt her nod.
An explosion rocked through the night. Instinct made him scramble to his feet, reassert his hold on Portia, and jump several yards away from the house before he turned.
Flames shot from several windows on the second floor, and the roof was catching fire too. Zane could only assume that a gas line or something else highly flammable had exploded as a result of the fire in the bedroom.
The old Victorian, built entirely from wood, burned like kindling.
Portia buried her head in the crook of his neck, and he suddenly felt tears trickle onto his skin.
“I’m sorry, baby girl.” Then he swallowed, because the next words he said were the hardest of his long life. “Your father loved you after all.” In his own way, even if it had come almost too late.
A floodgate opened, and Portia sobbed against his chest.
“I love you, baby girl. Always.”
***
By the time Portia’s tears stopped flowing minutes later, she sensed the approach of other vampires. Her spine stiffened.
“We have to run,” she urged Zane, looking up at him.
He gave her a faint smile, and only now as she pulled away from him did she notice blood gushing from one side of his neck. There were slashes on his shoulder, which he held in an awkward way.
Panicked, she grabbed his arm, but he stood firm. “Friends.”
With a sigh of relief, she turned toward the approaching vampires and instantly recognized one of them: Quinn. More came running from the burning house behind them. She focused her eyes. Eddie dragged an injured Thomas from the house, trying to keep him upright but when Thomas’ knees suddenly buckled and his head fell forward, Eddie swiftly picked him up and carried him.
One authoritative vampire with raven-black hair bellowed orders into the night that the others followed without question. He could only be the leader of Scanguards, Samson.
“Get the injured into the vans! Amaury! Gabriel! Damage control.”
She watched as two vampires approached Samson, both with long dark hair.
“Keep any humans away. Wipe their memories. We can’t risk exposure.”
“All because of me,” she whispered to herself.
Portia felt Zane’s hand on her chin, tilting it up and making her look at him.
“It’s not your fault.” He motioned to the burning house. “They needed to be taken down, either way. We couldn’t allow what they were planning.”
Before she could answer, Samson ran to them.
“You’re injured,” he stated matter of factly, running his eyes over Zane.
“I’m fine. But Portia needs blood. Her father was starving her.”
“I’m all right,” she protested. “Zane needs blood.”
She sensed Zane wanting to protest again, but Samson cut him off. “You both need blood. Bottled blood will be sufficient for Portia, but Zane needs fresh blood.” He looked over his shoulder and scanned the garden, before he waved. “Oliver! Over here.”
Portia suddenly remembered the conversation she’d had with Oliver only a few days earlier, how he’d told her that he let the vampires feed off him in emergencies.
Oliver ran toward them, giving her a smile as he approached. Immediately, Zane pulled her closer. She felt his possessiveness physically, and it sent a wave of heat through her body.
“Zane needs you,” Samson explained. Then he reached into the bag that hung from Oliver’s shoulder and pulled out a bottle with red liquid. He handed it to Portia. “Here, drink.”
The moment she put the bottle to her lips and let the blood run down her throat, she realized how starved she’d truly been. Zane had been right. His blood had given her a short boost, but it hadn’t lasted long. When she removed the empty bottle from her lips and looked in Zane’s direction, she saw that he’d dug his fangs into Oliver’s arm.
But his eyes were open, watching her, telling her with that longing gaze that what he truly wanted was to lodge his fangs in her. Not wanting to dissolve into a puddle of need, she turned toward Samson.
“Is anybody dead?” she asked quietly, worried that she was responsible for someone’s death.
“None of our guys. A few are injured. But there were casualties on the other side, and we took some prisoners.” He cleared his throat. “We didn’t see your father …”
Portia squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, pushing back the threatening tears. “He burned to death.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her throat constricted. Was she sorry? Truly, she didn’t know. She felt numb. He had saved her after all. Maybe one day she would find it in her heart to forgive him. But right now, the pain was too fresh.
An approaching siren pulled her from her trance.
“Fire engines. We’ve got to leave.” Samson raised his voice. “Into the vans, everybody, now!”
Vampires rushed to the waiting blackout vans that were parked at the curb. With a last look at the burning house that contained her father’s ashes, Portia turned and ran out to the sidewalk, flanked by Samson and Zane.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
They spent the entire day at the safe house in Seattle, tending to their wounds, guarding the pr
isoners, and making arrangements for transferring them to the council, the high court of vampires that punished infractions within their society.
The house Müller had used as his headquarters had burned to the ground, despite the swift arrival of the fire engines. Any knowledge of the vampires’ existence had been successfully contained, and according to Samson’s local sources, the fire department suspected arson but had no leads. No bodies had been found in the debris, confirming that only vampires had perished, their bodies dissolving into ash without leaving any DNA.
Zane hadn’t had any private time with Portia, the house being too crowded and people like Samson making sure that both he and Portia recovered from the ordeal, at least physically.
Thomas’ injuries were healing under Eddie’s and Oliver’s care.
When Samson finally gave the all-okay for everybody to return to San Francisco, Zane was relieved. He needed to be alone with Portia to talk about their future and didn’t want an audience for that conversation.
He squeezed Portia’s hand as they walked down the gangway from the plane.
“Zane,” Samson called after him.
He turned, not at all eager for a drawn-out goodbye when all he wanted was to get Portia home, into his arms and his bed.
“Yes?”
“Forgot to mention Isabella’s naming ceremony is next Saturday. As her godfather, we expect you there after sunset.”
He nodded. During that event, he would officially be recognized as her godfather, her mentor for life, and he would choose a middle name for her. “It’ll be an honor.”
“Oh, and another thing: I arranged for your dog to stay at Yvette’s tonight. I figured you wanted to be alone.”
Zane was stunned by his boss’ foresight and almost choked up. Shit, he was turning into such an emotional freak!
He glanced at Portia by his side and saw that she too was eager to be alone with him. There were still things they hadn’t talked about. “Yes, we have much to discuss.”
