Night Reigns

by Dianne Duvall

  A faint noise came from that direction. Ami must be in the kitchen.

  Tensing, he prepared to make a mad dash for the front door.

  “I think the coast is clear,” a voice whispered loudly in his ear.

  Marcus’s head snapped around so quickly his neck popped. And he was pretty sure his feet left the floor when he jumped with surprise.

  His gaze swung down.

  Ami stood mere inches away, her emerald eyes twinkling with mischief as she stared up at him with an impish grin.

  “How did you do that?” he demanded, too shocked to feel anger. Because of his preternaturally acute hearing, even immortals would be hard put to catch him unawares.

  Exaggerated innocence washed across her pretty features. “Do what?”

  “Sneak up on me like that.”

  Brow furrowing, she gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “Well, rumor has it you’re over eight hundred years old, Marcus. Perhaps your hearing is starting to go.”

  There was such an overabundance of false concern in her voice that he actually found himself fighting the urge to smile.

  Before he could do so, he spun on his heel and started for the door.

  “It isn’t going to work, you know,” she called after him.

  He stopped, turned back to face her.

  All levity had fled. Now she studied him gravely. “What isn’t?”

  “Ignoring me won’t make me go away.”

  “Are you so certain of that?” he countered sardonically.

  She responded with a slow nod. “Yes. I don’t duck responsibility.”

  He stiffened, the anger that had eluded him earlier now rising. “Are you saying I do?”

  She tucked her thumbs in the front pockets of her jeans. “I’m saying Seth assigned me to serve as your Second, and nothing you do or say will keep me from doing my job.”

  This tiny mortal woman thought she could hold her own against him? “Your confidence is misplaced,” he warned her.

  “My confidence is exceeded only by my stubbornness.”

  He could vouch for that. “I don’t need a Second!” he practically shouted in frustration.

  Her delicate shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Clearly Seth thinks you do.”

  “I don’t give a damn what Seth thinks!”

  A spark of temper ignited in her eyes. “Well, you should. He’s worried about you, Marcus. It’s been eight years—”

  He swore violently, cutting her off. Seth had told her about Bethany?

  Swiveling once more, he strode toward the door. “I’m not discussing this with you. It’s none of your fucking business.”

  “You aren’t alone,” she insisted.

  He emitted a derisive snort. Next she would remind him that he had friends who cared about him and who were there for him and wanted to help him, blah blah blah.

  Except ... she didn’t. She said, “I know what it is to grieve.”

  And there was something in her voice, as she continued, that made his steps slow, then halt altogether. Something that seemed to resonate in the dark, hollow void that now resided deep inside him.

  “I know what it is to lose your compass. To suddenly find yourself floundering without direction, far from the path you were treading. How ... exhausting it can be, knowing you’ll never find that path again, to just trudge forward anyway, forcing one foot in front of the other again and again in what feels like an utterly useless endeavor. I know what it is to live without hope.”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  Her gaze avoided his. “What I’m trying to say is ...”

  A long moment of silence followed, during which he noticed for the first time the shadows beneath her eyes. Evidently staying up late to pester him and match his sleep schedule had left her as fatigued as it had him.

  A huff of annoyance escaped her. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Wait here for a moment, please.”

  As he stood, motionless, she headed into the kitchen.

  “Hi there, Slim,” she murmured as she left his sight. “What are you up to, you crazy kitty?”

  He liked the way she walked. Though small, she didn’t take mincing little steps. Nor did she engage in a lot of contrived hip swaying. No, with Ami there were only long, strong, purposeful strides that triggered some long dormant predatory desire in him to follow after her and pounce.

  Marcus frowned. Where the hell had that thought come from?

  She returned carrying a cloth cooler about the size of a child’s lunch box and held it out to him. “Here.”

  He took it. “What’s this?”

  “As far as I can tell, you haven’t been eating regularly, so I made you brunch.” Most immortals only ate two meals a night: the equivalent of brunch and dinner. “There’s a bag of blood, some green tea with ginseng, and a sandwich. Whole-grain bread. Meatless smoked turkey. Lettuce. Tomato. Red onion. Bell pepper and a few slices of jalapeño pepper. All organic. I didn’t know if that was to your taste, but Seth, David, and Darnell love it.”

  Marcus’s stomach rumbled hungrily in anticipation, earning him a faint smile.

  David was the second oldest immortal in existence. Darnell was his Second. How much time had Ami spent with them?

  The phone rang.

  Ami shrugged. “I hope the hunt goes well tonight.” Striding down the hallway to the study, she flicked on the lights and disappeared inside.

  Marcus heard her lift the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, sweetheart,” a familiar, deep, accented voice spoke on the other end.

  “Seth!” she cried joyfully. “Where are you? Are you in North Carolina?”

  “No, I’m in Montreal, but thought I’d call and see how things are going.”

  Scowling, Marcus slipped outside and headed for his motorcycle.

  What exactly was Ami’s relationship with Seth? He hadn’t really thought about it before but ... there seemed to be a great deal of affection between them. More than he could recall seeing or hearing Seth express for any other woman. Not that he knew much—or anything—about Seth’s love life.

  Stashing his brunch in the underseat storage compartment, Marcus donned his helmet and straddled the bike, flipping the tail of his coat loose. He had had both the Suzuki Hayabusa and his helmet (originally dual colored) custom painted a sleek solid black to help him blend in better with the night.

  A cool breeze carried with it the typical sounds of North Carolina. The buzzing, trilling, and shushing of insects. The call of an owl. Bat wings fluttering overhead. The slow lumbering progress of an opossum and the sprightly steps of a raccoon deep within the forest. Deer grazing. Frogs growling or peeping or twanging like plucked guitar strings.

  Though the air here wasn’t as crisp and clean and sweet as that which had bathed him as a boy, it was better than the air found in larger cities that, too often, were blanketed in a haze of pollution.

  Slowly, he cruised down the long, winding gravel driveway, keeping a careful eye out for the little brown rabbits that had lately made a habit of chewing the grasses and weeds that sprang up between the pebbles. Sure enough, four eyes—low to the ground—glinted in the headlight as two furry bodies hastened into the heavy undergrowth on his left.

  Smiling, feeling the tension begin to melt away, Marcus swung onto a narrow two-laned highway, then shot forward. Pure pleasure engulfed him as he went from zero to seventy in three seconds. Wind yanked back the long raven hair that fell several inches below his helmet. His long coat fluttered behind him like wings as he steadily accelerated.

  Traveling this road at these speeds would be insane for a human. But, damn, what a rush for an immortal with preternaturally sharp reflexes. Up and down, swinging one way then the next, leaning into the curves until his knees nearly scraped the pavement. Streetlights were few and far between here, but his enhanced night vision eliminated any need for them. Marcus could see the deer grazing by the road long before the headlight struck them and had no proble
m evading those that ventured too close or darted across in front of him.

  The bike left the pavement and went airborne momentarily at the top of a short, steep hill. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he tore into another curve. He felt so alive and free at times like these. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands on David’s Tomahawk, a true work of art with two closely spaced front wheels, the same in back, and a top speed of roughly four hundred miles per hour.

  That precious baby wasn’t even street legal. Not that that had stopped David.

  As he entered a rare straight stretch, Marcus glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye and glanced to his right, expecting to see a deer bounding along or perhaps one of those huge raven-winged vultures swooping past.

  His blood turned to ice as his gaze instead fell upon a man. He was perhaps in his late thirties with skin the color of milk chocolate and a haggard face. His shirt was untucked, ragged, the neckline frayed and bloodstained.

  He couldn’t have been more than five feet away. And, though Marcus by far exceeded the fifty-five mile per hour speed limit, the man’s weary stroll somehow managed to keep pace.

  As if sensing Marcus’s stare, the man turned his head and met his gaze with dark, unfathomable eyes.

  Marcus swallowed hard, unable to repress a shiver.

  One would think he might be accustomed to this by now: seeing ghosts or spirits or whatever one chose to call them. He had been seeing them ever since he was too young to understand that no one else around him could. Yet it never failed to catch him off guard.

  As Étienne often said, the shit was creepy.

  Tearing his gaze away, Marcus looked back at the road, then swore when another figure materialized directly in his path. The front of the heavy Hayabusa squirmed as he broke hard and swerved to avoid the second man, who threw out his arm as Marcus drew even with him, plucked him from the back of the bike, spun around, and slammed him back first to the pavement.

  Pain crashed through Marcus, beginning in his chest, then radiating outward, so severe it temporarily deafened him ... which some might view as a good thing because right about now his Busa was probably smashing into a tree.

  Marcus struggled to breathe, each short, choppy gasp like a knife jamming into his flesh. The momentum with which he had slammed into his attacker’s outstretched arm had broken most of his ribs.

  His opponent, on the other hand, showed no sign of pain as he ripped the helmet from Marcus’s head and, eyes glowing gold, snarled, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now.”

  Chapter 3

  It took several long seconds for Marcus to draw in enough breath to choke out a response. At last, he managed to gasp, “Something on your mind, Seth?”

  Seth growled obscenities, grabbed him by the throat, and yanked him up.

  Feet dangling a foot or so above the ground, Marcus clutched the wrist of the arm that effortlessly held him suspended like a marionette. His eyes widened as a low rumbling sound swelled around them. Birds fled to the sky. The branches of nearby trees began to jerk and sway, their leaves rustling like maracas as the ground shook with earthquake-like tremors.

  Okay. I ... might have underestimated the seriousness of this situation.

  Marcus had never personally seen the tight hold Seth maintained on his temper slip—as it appeared to be doing now—but had heard enough rumors that he decided to dial it back at superhero speeds and see if he couldn’t find a way to avert catastrophe.

  “Did I or did I not tell you what would happen if Ami came to harm?” Seth posed in a soft, deadly voice.

  Was that what this was about? Ami?

  Since he was choking, Marcus could only think a response and hope Seth heard him. I can’t talk to you about this if you crush my trachea.

  Seth hesitated, as though tempted to do just that, then released him.

  Marcus’s boots hit the ground hard. Careening to one side, he caught himself before he could fall to his knees and stood hunched over as he endeavored to breathe.

  The virus raced to repair the damage to his lungs. His ribs would take longer and require a substantial amount of blood. His hands, he was surprised to see, shook quite badly. For a moment there, he had thought Seth really intended to destroy him.

  His gaze slid to the irate leader of the Immortal Guardians, who turned and paced away with long, livid strides.

  The trees stilled, as did the ground beneath them. The rumbling ceased, leaving in its wake a silence that was almost painful, as dislodged leaves fluttered timidly to the ground.

  No insects hummed.

  No frogs sang.

  Nothing made a sound except the soles of Seth’s boots as they struck the concrete with resounding thuds.

  Biting back a groan, Marcus straightened ... as much as his battered body would allow. “What—?” His throat spasmed, and a fit of coughing seized him.

  Emitting a sound of impatience, Seth ceased his pacing and barreled toward him.

  Marcus took a wary step backward.

  “Stand still!” Seth snapped. His large hand again closed around Marcus’s neck, gentler this time. Heat radiated from his palm, increasing as the swelling in Marcus’s throat eased and the pain receded.

  As he withdrew his healing touch, Seth glared a warning. “If you say ‘thank you,’ I will kick your ass.”

  A shamelessly easy task, it would appear.

  Seth once more paced away and stopped with his back to Marcus. Brushing the sides of his long coat back, he propped his hands on his hips and lowered his head. Marcus could almost hear him counting to ten in a bid for patience.

  Had Ami accused Marcus of hurting her in some way?

  “What exactly did she tell you?” he asked cautiously.

  Seth shook his head. “That you have been nothing but civil toward her.”

  Really? That was a bit of a stretch, but Marcus thought it wise not to admit as much. “And that made you fly into a murderous rage because ... ?”

  Seth swung around. “Because I expected more from you!” The glow in his eyes faded, returning them to their customary brown-black.

  Marcus stiffened, biting back a moan at the agony it spawned in his ribs. (Seth had only healed his throat.) This was the first time he had ever landed on the receiving end of Seth’s wrath, and he felt a bit like a teenager being upbraided by a parent for staying out past curfew.

  A parent who, if the rumors were true, could kill him with only a thought.

  “You knew I didn’t want a Second,” he reminded Seth, his own anger rising. “What did you think I would do? Ask her if I could braid her hair after we gave each other facials and painted our toenails?”

  “Get your head out of your ass, Marcus!” Seth roared.

  “Did it ever occur to you that I may have had a reason for assigning Ami to be your Second? That, perhaps, my sole motivation for doing so was not simply to piss you off or enforce a rule I have allowed you to break—without complaint—for the past three decades?”

  “No,” he answered frankly. “What other reason could there be?”

  Again came the feeling that Seth counted to ten, except this time he also muttered something in a language Marcus couldn’t identify.

  When next he spoke, Seth softened his words. “It has been eight years, my friend.”

  Marcus gritted his teeth against a rising tide of resentment, because he could guess where this was going.

  “I know that, for centuries, Bethany was a sort of beacon for you, a candle that held back the darkness, giving you a reason to keep going and to soldier on despite the loneliness so many of us feel. But she is gone. And, this time, she will not be coming back.” Seth really knew how to twist the blade in deeper. “I have given you eight years, have waited for some sign that you are recovering, that you have found some new purpose and are ready to move on. Instead ... you are faltering.”

  “I’m fine,” Marcus bit out.

  “No, you’re not. You’re faltering. So much
so that even Roland is concerned about you.”

  That actually gave Marcus pause. Roland was worried about him?

  A century older, Roland Warbrook had been the immortal chosen to train and guide Marcus during those first few years after he had been transformed. He was like a brother to Marcus. A grumpy, antisocial, paranoid older brother few liked. One who, until he had met and married Sarah Bingham a year and a half ago, had insisted on living the past nine centuries in complete solitude.

  Marcus had never known Roland to take an interest in another immortal’s affairs, including his own. “What makes you think he’s worried about me?” he asked doubtfully.

  Seth rolled his eyes. “Gee, I don’t know. Because he told me? We’re all worried about you, Marcus! Roland, Sarah, David, Darnell, Lisette, Étienne, Richart, Reordon ... We’ve all noticed the changes in you, the risks you take now that you didn’t before.”

  “What risks?”

  Seth motioned to the totaled Hayabusa.

  Marcus snorted. “David goes way faster than I do.”

  “And David can reattach his own arm if it is severed.”

  Shock tripped through him. “Really? I thought he needed you to do that.” David was more powerful than Marcus had thought.

  “Don’t change the subject. You know the unique situation we’re facing here. Ever since word leaked that Sebastien was raising a vampire army to bring down the Immortal Guardians, North Carolina has been inundated with them. Instead of facing one or two vamps per night, you’re encountering three or four or more—sometimes in groups—and, instead of phoning for backup, you take them all on yourself.”

  “So I like a challenge.”

  Seth shook his head. “One should never only feel alive when one is faced with the possibility of death.”

  Damn. How did Seth read him so well? “I’m fine,” he insisted once more, not knowing why he still pushed the lie. He hadn’t felt fine in a long time.

  “You are not fine. But you will be. Even if I have to kick your ass every night to get you there.”

  “How is kicking my ass going to help?” Marcus grouched.

  Seth shrugged. “Makes me feel better.”

  Marcus responded with an obscene gesture. “So, you thought assigning me a Second would miraculously make everything okay?”