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.
Night Reigns Page 8
