by T. A. Grey
Nodding fast, she headed out of the bathroom with him hot on her trail. “Fine, then you’ll do it without me. Besides, you don’t have to worry. I’ll be on Zeke’s land. Even Vincent’s not getting past the alpha and president of the council.” She grabbed her duffle and hefted it over her shoulder. It weighed like a sack of bricks.
“Don’t leave me,” he said harshly.
The three brutal words stopped her in her tracks. She spun around. “Grayson, I would do almost anything for you. But I can’t stay here waiting to see if you come out of this dead or alive. You want to find him?”
“You know I have to.”
She reached into her back pocket to the thick piece of paper taking up space there. She pulled it out, hesitating for a lone while, before tossing it on the bed. “It’s either him or me. In the meantime, I’ll be going home to Sissy.”
At the bedroom door she paused, and found herself turning around one more time to look at him. He was staring at her severely as if unsure what to say or do. Much how she felt. She smiled at him. She didn’t want to say goodbye; it sounded too final. So, instead she told him, “Come back for me.”
And then she left him.
Arabella managed to finagle a car from the Blackmoore residence. She let the guard, who called himself Graham and said he worked with Grayson, drop her off at the front of the pack before the gates. She passed by her own Were guards with a tired wave and felt her shoulders sag. Whether they sagged from relief or despair she didn’t know. Her senses went on alert. The scent of nature, of her people, and the distant howling of Weres was like beautiful music to her ears bringing a smile to her face. It all made her warm and fuzzy inside.
Without a vehicle, she trekked her way through the pack. She passed people who’d never spoken to her before who now called out to her like they spotted a celebrity. How strange to be recognized, stared at. This must be similar to how it felt being Grayson, or any of the Blackmoores really. When your name becomes famous that everyone recognized you, everyone knew of you, and everyone gossiped. She supposed the case must be rather known to people by now, especially with two dead Donato sons.
Her house, much like the healer’s, stood some distance away from the rest of the pack. She had her own small, secluded home with a dirt path to it. Rocks were kicked up and dust scattered as she walked up the moonlit lane. Her shoes were covered in a heavy layer dust by time she reached the house.
“Dammit.”
The lights weren’t on which meant Sissy wasn’t home. The one time she really wished she was. Now she’d have to call her friend and see if she could talk her into stopping whatever she was in the middle of to come over. Because Arabella needed to talk to someone about all this chaos, and it couldn’t be with Grayson. He was the cause of half of her problems right now.
She unlocked the white, heavy front door and stepped inside the house. A soft sigh escaped her. It smelled like vanilla spice—one of the candles Sissy always lit when she came home.
Filing through the house, she dropped the duffle and called out just in case she was here. “Sissy? Are you home?”
No answer. In the kitchen, she opened the fridge, spied the milk and, feeling parched, poured herself a glass. Chugging the milk, she stepped into the living room thinking to lounge on the couch and watch mindless television, anything, to keep her mind off the death and destruction of late. She switched the light on and the glass of milk slipped from her hand as she jumped back. A terrified scream tore from her throat, though she had no conscious memory of actually screaming.
“Sissy!”
Her friend lay on the ground, clothes ripped into shreds, blood pooled from a hole in her chest. It spilled onto the floor, seeping and soaking the rug around her in a morbid bath. Arabella rushed to her friend on a hoarse cry.
“Sissy!”
Sissy’s head looked in her direction toward the kitchen. Her eyelids were open, no color to her face. Arabella felt her throat for a pulse. As she waited with her two fingers pressed to Sissy’s soft throat, she started crying. They were horrible sobs that made her whole body shake.
So much death.
Her best friend. She loved her so much and she was dead. Because of Arabella. Because she should have been kept safe.
She peered at the wound—a gaping hole in her friend’s torso—and gagged as her stomach lurched violently like she’d been punched in the gut by a giant. She jerked away, dry heaving next to a pool of dark red blood.
They’d ripped her heart out.
Arabella’s skin prickled and she spun around, backpedalling from the man in the doorway. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, no, no, no, no.”
He was still here. He’ll use me to hurt Grayson. I can’t let that happen.
She didn’t have to ask who the man was. The resemblance he held to Jericho and Domico was staggering. They both had the same androgynous features, his father was perhaps more masculine having a slightly broader forehead. Vincent Donato had wide, low-lidded, sad eyes deep-set in his slender face. Black, almost feminine eyebrows formed crescents over his eyes, while his narrow chin led up to a thin nose and a pouty mouth.
With a short haircut and a suit he could look like a model for a catalogue; yet that same face with long hair and put in a dress could pass for a beautiful woman any day. He would turns heads. He looked like neither of those people though, but a mixture of both.
His hair was shorn in a straight line an inch above his shoulders. He had thick, black hair that curled inward naturally. His eyes were a chocolate brown that looked deceptively normal. He wore a brown knit sweater, already covered in blood and slacks with shoes that shined.
“She died quickly.” His voice was gentle as if he was sorry to tell her bad news. Odd, considering he’d ripped her heart out.
“W-where’s her heart?”
That somber gaze slid to Sissy before he said, “You don’t really want to know that, Ms. Donahue.”
She looked around the room for a weapon while trying to appear innocent. There wasn’t much that she could see, nothing silver that could hurt him. He was a vampire which made him faster than her, and since she couldn’t shift and run or fight, then she was at a severe disadvantage. The lamp next to her didn’t look like it could take down Vincent Donato.
She should have sensed him, but remembering what Jericho said, she knew the Donato’s family seal helped to disguise their presence from others. Without warning, Arabella grabbed the lamp and threw it at Vincent, then shot like a bullet across the living room for the kitchen. Her breathing was erratic, panic at maximum levels. She felt like she was spiraling out of control with nowhere to go but down. And who waited for her at the bottom of hell but Vincent Donato, a murdering vampire psychopath.
She flew through the doorway into the kitchen, and felt his presence following her like a stalker, as she rounded the island and made for the garage where the side door was. But she never made it that far.
Thin, strong wire forcefully caught her around the throat, jerking her back into an impenetrable body. She choked as he pulled the silver tether tighter. It burned and singed into her skin. Her feet kicked, body jerking to throw him off, hands desperately clawing at his wrists, drawing blood and skin beneath her fingernails.
Oxygen grew scarce. She gasped like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing. Each breath grew more and more labored. Her vision grew fuzzy and black fogged the edges.
The fight was almost out of her. How easy it was for him, she thought.
“Tell my sons when you see them that I love them,” Vincent said softly.
“Keck! Hhnng!” she choked. If she could speak, she would have been saying fuck you.
The wire burned its way deeper, penetrating past the skin as he pulled it tighter, cutting into blood vessels and arteries. He could have ended her life already but she could feel his adrenaline rushing and the pleasure he took from this; it thrummed in the energy around him. This gruesome act fueled him in a terrible way.
/> Warm blood dripped down her neck. Funny how it felt like sweat even though it wasn’t.
What happened next must have started Vincent too, for he stilled. Someone knocked on the front door—three solid, loud knocks.
Vincent gingerly positioned her so she faced the front door in the hallway from the kitchen. He squeezed tighter and she held his wrists with her nails trying to make him ease up the pressure.
Knock, knock, knock.
The front door shot open and Arabella couldn’t hide her surprise. He’d come here after her.
Grayson stood in the front door. If he was surprised to see Vincent there with a garrote around her neck, he didn’t let on. Smart man. He stepped inside, keeping his movements casual and slow. He shut the door, enclosing them all. His eyes met hers, noted the garrote embedded in her neck—which hurt more than she cared to admit—then darted left to spot Sissy on the living room floor, before returning to Vincent.
Grayson showed no hint of moving and yet, in the next instant, he had his gun aimed level at Vincent. He fired without warning and she screamed feeling her body jerk. She had no idea what happened, if she got shot or if Vincent did, but then she felt him still at her back. Peeling her eyes open, she saw that he’d moved them a foot to the left. Both vampires were so fast, she couldn’t keep up.
“Grayson Blackmoore, I was beginning to think I might never meet you.”
Grayson didn’t respond, simply held the gun level with Vincent’s head.
“My two sons are dead because of you.”
“And many more are dead because of you and your family.”
“Is that so?”
“You know it’s true.”
“True, what’s true, I say. Let me tell you a truth, Mr. Blackmoore. I am a killer because the world needs killers. I kill not for sport or thrill but for premise and reason. There are those who see life and understand that death is a part of it, and they aren’t afraid to take that life. Then there are those who are afraid of life, afraid of death, afraid of killers. Fear drives them. Not me, Mr. Blackmoore. I am the killer, I take the life. I’ve created life, I’ve taken life, and I’ve sustained life.”
“You’ve murdered countless people, as have your sons, all in the name of financial or resourceful gain. Not to mention those who’ve disagreed with you over the years. You may paint yourself some sort of moral truthsayer but you’re wrong. Life isn’t meant to be ripped from us. You steal people’s lives and no matter how much you rationalize it, that doesn’t make you right.”
The wire pulled tighter into her neck making her gurgle deep in her throat. Then, he shoved her down to her knees before him. He dropped the garrote and retrieved a clear bottle from his pocket. Grayson fired four consecutive rounds but Vincent ducked behind Arabella, wrapping his arm around her bleeding throat. Then he poured the cold liquid atop her head.
The smell hit her first—alcohol. Rubbing alcohol. Her eyes flew wide just as she heard the snap of a lighter behind her.
Grayson took a step toward her, frustration and worry written across his face.
“Don’t come any farther, Mr. Blackmoore, or I will have to light her on fire.” Vincent spoke so calmly. As if he was afraid he had to impart on you bad news and wanted to tell you gently.
“This is about you and me, not her. Let’s do this right now,” Grayson said.
Vincent smiled without bearing any teeth. “I disagree. I think this has a lot to do with Arabella Donahue; your new woman, is that correct? You may be able to move on quickly from the loss of your mate, but I’m afraid I cannot move on so quickly from the loss of both my sons, you see.”
“It isn’t like that,” Grayson said.
“Of course not, because you’re the perfect statue for moral truth.”
Several silent moments passed as Grayson and Vincent faced each other like two cowboys in a tense western.
The lighter’s flame went out. Vincent snapped it alight once more, and then pressed the flame to her hair.
CHAPTER 35
Gunshots fired.
Arabella’s haunting scream must have woken up the entire pack. Good. Grayson wouldn’t mind a little help from Zeke about now. She crashed around on the floor as Grayson fired his clip at Vincent.
The vampire was fast, old and very good at staying alive. Or else he’d have been dead a long time ago with the enemies he had.
Grayson couldn’t remember ever being so scared and shaken by anything in his life. He ran to her, tearing off his jacket and smothering the flames until they were out. Vincent tore through the house and Grayson set after him. He followed a dribbling path of blood through the kitchen, past the living room where he saw Sissy—his gut clenched uneasily at the sight. She deserved far better. The staircase creaked as Vincent barreled up them with quick-footed steps, nearly a blur, but his quick vision easily kept track of him.
Grayson dropped the gun having emptied his ammunition. He hadn’t come here to fight. He’d come here to tell Arabella he chose her. If he’d come to fight, he’d have brought more than his gun. He didn’t have anything. No knifes, nothing. He ran up the stairs, turned the corner, then stumbled forward on something. He didn’t see what tripped him, but as soon as he pitched forward a garrote cranked around his neck, jerking him violently back. Vincent grunted and sweated behind him as Grayson fought the hold, growling and clenching his teeth through the burning pain as the silver cut into him.
Vincent tried to shove him to his knees but Grayson pushed back, then reaching behind him, grabbed Vincent by the hair and pulled. A big chunk of hair came off in his hand to Vincent’s shout. The garrote loosened and Grayson slammed his elbow back catching Vincent in the gut. The hold on him loosened and he half-spun slamming his elbow back and catching Vincent’s jaw with a crack. He lost balance, the bloody garrote dropping to the floor.
The man of his nightmares was here. The man who’d killed his bruid, attacked his family, and set Arabella on fire trying to kill her—was here and he was going to die.
Grayson stalked to Vincent with purposeful strides. He clocked him across the face with a hard right, then up the chin with a vicious left uppercut. Thoroughly disoriented, he slammed his boot into Vincent’s gut making him double forward, gasping. Grayson grabbed him by the hair and snapped his head to the left, then he bared his fangs and bit down—hard.
He wasn’t gentle. As Vincent pounded him with battering strikes—even piercing him with something, a knife, he thought—he drank. He sucked and sucked in huge mouthfuls, sucking this evil man’s life away. Draining him moment by moment. He heard his heart slowing. He had to suck harder to draw the last of his blood. And when the bitter taste ran dry and the body he held trapped in his jaws like an animal stopped twitching, only then did he release him.
Breathing heavily, Grayson looked deep into the face of his enemy. A man he’d never even seen before.
“Grayson?” a soft voice queried.
He stood and jumped down to the bottom floor, rushing to Arabella’s side. His nose tingled and his chest felt like it was about to burst apart. She was burnt, ashy, and blackened from the smoke. “Are you hurt?”
She pushed his jacket away and they embraced. His heart beat rapidly. Smelling her again, feeling her again, and knowing she was all right—he felt like he could master anything.
“No, well, not really. I’ll be fine. You came for me.” She held him tighter making tears of all things spring to his eyes. “I love you so much.”
He burdened his face in her throat. “I love you too.”
And then the world shifted. He could feel it though he suspected only he did. It was done. It was over.
“Where is he?” she asked, pulling away. “He killed Sissy.” She started crying silently again. He pulled her close but didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. It was an incredibly painful moment for her that couldn’t be disguised.
“He’s upstairs. Stay here. I’m going to get his body.”
She jerked in surprise. “Why
?”
“I’m going to burn his body to ash.”
She nodded, understanding as much as she could. Because of the Donatos, he’d been forced to touch the torch to his mate’s funeral pyre. Now, he’d do the same to Vincent Donato and end this once and for all. He climbed the stairs and froze.
Before he could shout her name, before he could even turn to look back down the staircase—he heard her yelp. Not a scream, but an abrupt cry quickly cut off.
Something happened to his brain. He went on autopilot. Jumping down from the landing, he raced into the kitchen. She was nowhere in sight. The garage door hung open. He flew through it finding another door open that led outside. He traced through it, his vision trying to take in everything at once.
There it was again. “Ack!” A smothered cry from the back of the house. Grayson raced back there in time to see Arabella standing with an axe raised high in the air above a sickly, pale, barely living Vincent Donato. The cry this time had come from Vincent. She’d apparently grabbed the axe from its post at the back of the house and had landed a solid hit to his chest knocking the vampire down.
Grayson traced to her side and gently took the axe from her. “Let me do it, baby. Let me have it.” Her tight grip slowly opened. Her eyes were wide. She probably didn’t quite know what was going on. Too much shock, too much death—it’d been a hell of a day.
Vincent Donato gazed up at him with his low-lidded gaze. Blood spilled from his mouth, his skin looked sunken like a skeleton. “This is for Anita of Redenver house and all those who mourn her.”
Grayson hefted the axe high over his shoulder, saw the cold acceptance in Vincent’s eyes, then let it fall.
The head split from the neck, severing the life from Vincent Donato once and for all.
Searching Vincent’s pockets, Grayson found the clear bottle of alcohol. He dripped what remained of it over Vincent’s body, then lit it with his own lighter. The body lit up like campfire. Before the scent grew pungent with decay, he wrapped his arm around Arabella and led her away.
