by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor
Sarge’s pulse gave a naughty leap, and he glanced away.
A nipple. Big deal.
But he found himself looking again.
She covered herself with the blade of her machete, blocking his pleasure. Then, with what could’ve been a welcoming smile, she pulled out that adrenaline gun, gave herself a shot.
Machete. Stake. Where the hell were her licorice gun and other science-can-be-fun devices?
“Don’t dawdle.” She jerked her head toward the dance floor, pushing against the flow of the crowd. “Let’s go.”
So much for the passionate hello he’d envisioned from that hospital bed. But had that smile meant she was glad to see him? Even a little?
As the club’s music abruptly cut off, they entered a pit that was already tinged with the tang of blood. The air was suffused with red light: The throes of purgatory. A cave with bodies flying off ledges, limbs splayed on the ground. Hellfire licking at skin.
A cry from above caught Sarge’s attention, a descending squeal of terror. Sarge whipped his bow around as a man’s writhing body came at him. With minimal effort, he merely stepped out of the guy’s path, blocking out the sickening splash of his death.
Above, a blond vampire hissed down at him, laughing.
Oh, yeah. The hiker chick. He remembered her.
Out of nowhere, an arrow spit through the air, tagging Blondie right between the eyes. Her forehead started steaming, and she cried out in screeching rage while disappearing into a cloud of abandoned blue pajamas.
He barely had time to glance at the shooter before flying into action again. But what he saw froze in his mind like a front-page picture: Howard with her crossbow, eyes haunted, mouth caught in a gape of self-disgust.
Her parents.
Wasting no time, she reloaded while searching the room, then ran into a private alcove where two limp females were stirring awake.
Strigoiaca replacements? Shit, they were back to their old tricks. From his source at the university lab, a cute little assistant who filed reports for Beatrix Grasu, Sarge knew how the female vampires had “humanized” during their forced stay. But old habits died hard, didn’t they?
No time for analysis. Instead, a blur of tan clothing caught his attention. Another vamp—the one that used to look like a Gypsy. She was swinging like a jungle monkey from the iron candle sconces on the far wall, dressed like a sheriff or something. Weird-ass vamps.
Sarge aimed just as she swooped down to capture a fleeing woman. Before the laser could lock on to the creature, though, she plunged fangs into the girl’s neck.
But he wasn’t about to let her make another vamp. He fired, hitting his mark with ease, heart not even skipping a beat. The arrow pierced the beast right in the temple, clean as you please. Felt good to be back in business.
The vamp hadn’t even had time to warn the remaining strigoiaca with a scream.
Up in smoke the creature went, and all the weeping victim had to show for it was a lifetime of traumatic stress disorder and some neck wounds.
Not a bad deal when you considered that Sarge had walked away the last time with so much more…and less.
He checked on Camille, who was busy determining the vital signs of the women in the booth while her heated gaze sought the last original vampire. She extracted a cell phone from her back jeans pocket and yelled into it.
Their gazes locked, and he signaled to her.
Two down.
She nodded, went back to jabbering, scanning the room.
Good God, even after laying waste to the blond pajama monster, Howard was still a bleeding heart. We can still cure these new ones, she was no doubt thinking. She was even probably chattering with Beatrix about how to play Nurse Angel right now.
Though Sarge knew they’d successfully cured Ana, he still wanted to plant some sense into Howard’s brain.
They’re vamps, got it? Vamps. You lucked out once, but look what happened to the four you’re chasing tonight.
He thought she’d finally gotten it when she’d shot that arrow right into Blondie.
But he didn’t have the chance to mull it all over. Next thing he knew, there was a tugging at his good leg.
He aimed the crossbow downward, at the man grabbing a handful of Sarge’s black fatigues.
“Nu!” the guy yelled, his voice bouncing around the now emptied disco. His body convulsed, and he blanched.
Dance lights celebrated over his ripped button-down, but half his body had disappeared into a hole in the wall, just as if a snake were dragging this mouse into its lair.
Ah, little Griffie. Come out, come out, wherever you are.
He crept to the hole, easing out his machete as the victim cried out in agony, then jerked still.
As Camille finished her call to Ike, she knew this was a losing battle.
The two club women had clearly been exposed to the virus, and God knew how many other strigoiaca were still running around. Sure, Sarge had said two vamps were gone, but they could’ve changed patterns, already ushering an endless number of victims into their tribe.
Sarge. She still hadn’t gotten over the shock of seeing him again, the ecstatic rush that had forced a smile, even though there wasn’t much to smile about.
The way he limped around, the perma-scowl he wore…He hated her, and she cringed at the thought of it.
One of the female victims clutched at Camille’s wrist and bolted upward. Camille whipped out her stake.
“Nu inteleg,” she said. I don’t understand.
Neither did Camille. Couldn’t understand any of it: Why she’d shot Claudia in a passionate fit of revenge. Why it’d relieved her to know that she’d rid the world of one more enemy.
With one hand, Camille seized the woman’s arms, then used the other hand to strip off the belt of the victim’s jeans and tightly wrap it around her wrists. To the tune of the captive’s Romanian complaints, Camille did the same to the second strigoiaca candidate, using a leather thong from some curtains for restraints.
Thank God Ike had been standing by back at the lab. He’d be here in a snap with guns from his own collection and sedatives, plus their private ambulance.
Was she doing the right thing by keeping these women alive? Or should she take a clue from all the destruction that’d already happened because of her reluctance to kill?
Camille sucked it up. Maybe she couldn’t put down these innocent victims who still had a chance, but she could sure as hell take out another vampire.
Just to be sure the victims would be secured, Camille braced a hand against the shoulder of the first woman.
“Nothing personal,” she said in Romanian. Then she punched her, knocking her out.
The second lady suffered the same fate.
Now where was Sarge? Things were awful quiet. Had he taken care of all the vampires?
Camille sprinted to the middle of the dance floor. The lights still winked down in muted rainbow colors, blurring her vision.
But that didn’t keep her from finding him.
He was peering into a hole in the wall, positioned over a man who was lying belly down on the floor, mouth gaped in terror, stiff body jarring back and forth.
It was a corpse. And something in that hole was feeding on it.
“Sarge?” She crept nearer to him. Oddly enough, he was making her feel better, not worse.
“I’m taking care of it, Howard.”
Okay. She had a bad feeling about this. Where had Griff been all this time?
“What’s in there, Sarge?” She moved closer, whisking the machete out of its sheath.
“You’ll see,” he answered with the same warning tone. “Just take care of the strigoiaca, and then we’ll chat.”
“They’re still around?”
“Should be one left. Your boyfriend’s other woman.”
He glanced up at her, smirking wickedly, enjoying her pain. She deserved his acidity.
“Say, give me a hand.” He gestured toward the body on the floor. “Pu
ll at him.”
Sheathing the machete, she bent down, took the corpse’s rigid hands in hers, tugged at his weight.
There was a slight hitch, then his body came free from the hole. Since he should’ve been heavier, she’d overcompensated in her pull. That caused her to stumble back and fall.
When she looked up, she saw why he’d been so light.
He was no more than a torso, a body ripped in half.
Nausea filled her.
Slowly, she slid her gaze back to the hole, to Sarge as he prepared to go in.
Tell me Griff’s not in there, she thought.
She and Sarge locked gazes in challenge, the visual contact quickening her pulse.
Crouching, she tensed, ready to dart into the hole and reach Griff before her nemesis did.
But the sound of smacking lips, then a female “Aah,” stopped Camille.
Alert, she swung out her machete.
Attracted by the fresh gore, Mina had wandered onto the dance floor. She was dragging her slumped male conquest, blood trailing from one of the private alcoves. Obviously, Mina had been busy feeding there.
With a careless thump, she dropped her former meal, then used those blazing red orbs to inspect this new one.
Being the most ancient vampire, Mina hadn’t changed as much as the others, though she’d exhibited signs of growing human intelligence like the rest. Her features were much the same, if not faded by the treatments. Ineffective wings, dulled tongue. But the blood-spattered guard uniform and mouth testified that she was still a killer.
With relish, Mina dived to the corpse, buried her face in his torn stomach, feeding.
She’d ignored Camille completely. Had the lab treatments switched her priorities from keeping the tribe alive to making her a loner? Or did the call of blood override all else?
Didn’t matter. Mina would be dust in a second.
“You’re the reason for all this crap,” Camille said, voice shaking as she glided closer to the feeding monster. “You’re a predator who doesn’t give a damn about whose life you ruin. You get off on blood. You get off on the kill.”
She could’ve been talking to her parents’ murderer.
She was talking to him.
From the corner of her eye, she could see Sarge disappear into the hole. Something fisted in her belly.
As if she’d understood everything Camille had said, Mina tilted up her bloodied face from her food, hissed.
Camille chuffed and raised her machete over her head. “Whatever, bitch.”
She swung down, and Mina clawed upward, nailing over Camille’s stomach. Though Camille grunted with the burn, she followed through with the machete’s arc.
But Mina had cleared away. Though her wings and tongue had been made impotent, she still had plenty of weapons: fangs, claws, strength.
Even if her abrasions stung, Camille was able to block out the pain. All she saw was the man who’d killed her parents. The thing that’d changed Griff.
A scapegoat for all that mattered.
She lashed out with the machete, swinging madly. At first, the she-beast merely sidestepped the cuts, smiling in that insane, fangy way.
That only made Camille more determined.
The blade sang through the air—phu-wop, phu-wop—as Mina continued to avoid each attack.
By now, Camille’s adrenaline shot was wearing off. She was getting weaker, slower, out of breath. Out of time. Ill.
As she missed yet again, the vampire cackled, having a grand old time.
“Play with this,” Camille muttered, desperate.
With both hands, she angled the blade upward, and Mina casually stuck her hand out, intending to bat it away.
Phu-whop.
That hand went flying three feet to the right.
As blood sputtered out of the stump, Mina cocked her head, fascinated. Uncomprehending. She’d survived hundreds of years without encountering her own mortality.
And it was time for that to end.
Camille followed with a downward stroke, and the vampire jerked backward just in time. It almost seemed as if she were calling on her wings to take her away, as if she weren’t used to staying light on her feet.
Ruthless, Camille cornered her against a wall.
The monster hissed in earnest, and Camille could see that, in her eyes, she was scared. A crazy laugh bubbled inside Camille’s chest, heated by compressed rage, imminent release.
But the vampire wasn’t finished trying to survive. She struck out again with her remaining claw, lightning quick, stripping the inside of Camille’s wrist to bloody shreds.
Reflexively, she let go of the machete. Steel clattered to the floor, leaving her open to another attack.
And attack she did. Crying out, Camille dodged the blow, the vampire’s nails tangling in her necklace instead of flesh.
The ring.
The chain ripped away from her neck, became tangled in the vampire’s fingers.
Seeing her holding Griff’s gift, just like she’d probably held Griff himself—feeding off him, ruining him—Camille’s mind whirred.
Blood on sheets. Blood on Griff’s mouth. Blood on Bea’s neck.
The vampire struck, fangs extended, aimed at Camille’s throat. But…too late.
With a vengeful yell of release, the huntress jerked the wooden stake out of its holder, thrust it forward, impaling Mina.
The creature gurgled, and Camille roared in fury, spiking the vamp further, the sharp end coming out the other side of Mina’s body and hitting the stone wall.
Panting, Camille backed off, letting go of the stake, heart jackhammering as she watched Mina choke and stare at the gaping wound.
Don’t stop now, Camille thought. The vamps can’t continue.
She grabbed the machete from the floor and positioned herself at the vampire’s side.
Then, quite simply, she chopped off her head.
Afterward, she didn’t dwell on it. Couldn’t dwell. Couldn’t think about the blood spattering her skin.
Efficiently, she cleaned her weapons, replaced them in their proper holders, picked up the baby ring, inspected the broken chain, stuck it in her front jeans pocket.
Then, exhausted, she wandered over to Ike, who’d arrived just in time to cower from the showdown.
Camille pointed to the unconscious women in the alcove. “I think they’re the last of the strigoiaca. Get them back to the lab and start treatment right away. Then call the police and tell them to clean this mess.” She started walking away, then stopped. “And one more thing.”
He nodded.
“Please take out Mina’s heart and burn it.”
Then, as if the request were on par with asking for a cup of coffee or for him to take out the trash, Camille said, “Thanks,” and walked over to the hole in the wall.
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. Not if she wanted to survive.
Once there, she crouched down. Waited until the world stopped spinning. She was hardly aware of Ike, dabbing her cuts with the coagulating gel, bandaging her up.
She couldn’t feel anything.
It seemed like only minutes later when Sarge crawled out, bloodied and battered.
“Don’t even ask,” he said.
She didn’t.
He stood, hurled his stake to the ground, then shook the rafters with a yelled curse. And, all the while, Camille waited, half of her relieved that he hadn’t been successful in killing Griff.
Half of her wanting to do it herself because of what the vampire in him had done to Aunt Bea.
Before the cops showed up at the disco, Ike had seen that the infected women were transported back to the nearby lab and put in isolated cells. He’d also done some cleanup work, shooing Sarge and Camille out the door so they wouldn’t get caught in the trap of police questioning.
They had too much work to do yet, and Ike was willing to stay behind and buy them time. Interviews with the detectives could come later, he’d said, after they’d taken care of the
male vampire.
Sarge and Camille had hoofed it out of the nightclub, but they had nowhere to go. Griff had made a clean escape.
She followed her rival to his parked Jeep, the street lighting low and insufficient, the summer-night heat gathering on their skin and mixing with the drying blood to make it moist again. She wanted to touch him, make sure he was real. Tell him how sorry she’d been to sacrifice him. Tell him…
What, exactly?
“Sarge, talk to me,” she said as he jogged ahead of her. Even with his limp he was in fighting shape.
“No time.”
He hopped inside, and she grabbed his door.
Looking very unamused, he asked, “You think I won’t start this baby up and drag you along the street like tin cans on a wedding car?”
Anger. She’d felt so much of it, too. It had sapped her, and she was sick of it.
“Sarge.” She wouldn’t move until he looked at her. “Listen, my tracker won’t pick him up unless he’s within our proximity, so your instincts might be our only resource right now. I need you.”
“Don’t count on me,” he said, clearly choosing to ignore the tension. All business.
The words were a bolt of emotion, sizzling between them.
God, did she need him? And in what way?
She sucked in a breath as his eyes widened. In their depths, she could see such intensity, such fear, that she actually took a step away.
She wasn’t ready for this. Sarge? Her?
No way.
Never.
Finally, he looked away, staring at the steering wheel.
“After scrapping with me in that passageway and thinking it was pretty entertaining, that skinny British runt got all apologetic, then squeezed through a hole I couldn’t get through and hopped to the streets. While I stupidly tried to follow, getting stuck, by the way, he flagged down a cab, threw out the driver and rode off with a gargoyle flying over the cab’s roof. I just know he’s somewhere that has roads, Howard. So that’s where I’m gonna start.”
“Did you mention a gargoyle?”
“A gargoyle.”
Camille didn’t know what to say for a moment. About anything. She’d definitely seen stranger things lately, felt weirder emotions. “Okay, then. Maybe we should get ahold of a police scanner, listen for carnage. That’d be our best bet to find him.”
