Beyond the door, as Sahara edged closer, her steps unbelievably silent, Harold could hear laughter leaking through the intermittent crack, could smell the sterility of the air.
The palms of his hands slimed up. The gun nearly slipped out. But he caught it, fumbling the weapon like a hot potato. What a mess that would’ve been. Drop it and it clatters off the tile floor, loud enough to wake the dead. Catch it and accidentally squeeze the trigger.
But he survived, just didn’t know if he was going to survive the death stare Sahara gave him.
“What’s the plan?” he whispered.
Her mouth turned into a sharp line as she shook her head, raising her hand up, palm out, telling Harold to be still. No way was he going to wait. He wanted this bad — no, he needed this. Sitting on the bench was not an option in the championship game.
He pushed forward, raising the gun, not caring how much of a racket he made. First room on the left — empty, save for equally empty chairs. One of the rooms where people came to get the blood drained from them, to save a life.
He still heard the laughter. Then Sahara tugged on the back of his coat, slowing him down. The muscles of her jaw flexed hard.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Didn’t I tell you to wait?”
The lights in the corridor flickered to life. Motion sensors. Harold looked up like a man looking to the rainclouds on his wedding day. Why weren’t they on already? Hadn’t the Vampires came this way no less than a few minutes ago?
The laughter continued, and then faded.
Sahara ducked into one of the rooms, pulling Harold, but he wouldn’t budge. A shadow stood at the end of the hallway, scrawny, shoulders slumped like a scarecrow. It turned around slowly. And before Harold could blink, the shadow disappeared. Next thing he knew he was on his back, staring up at the lights, a hand closed around his throat.
The sound of Sahara drawing her blade paused the creature’s tightening grip. Still, Harold wheezed, gasped for breath. His vision began to go fuzzy, like dead TV static.
“Sahara?” said a calm voice, yet as Harold stared up at the thing’s face, it didn’t read calm.
“Damn it, Roman. You shouldn’t be here.”
Her blade withdrew, sliding into the soft flesh of her wrists in a fraction of a second.
“No, my dear, you shouldn’t be here,” the Vampire said.
Harold took in the sweet, sterile air as Roman let go of his windpipe. Oxygen never tasted so good.
“Why are you hanging around monsters such as these?” he asked, a hand motioning to Harold.
“Hey, watch it,” Harold said. “Really, a monster? Says the guy raiding a blood bank for a midnight snack.”
“Do you wish for me to feast upon you?” Roman’s eyes were focused, like he looked into the very fabric of Harold’s soul. Harold said nothing, only bent down to pick up the gun as nonchalantly as possible.
“I thought not,” Roman said. “Besides, you are too crispy for my liking.” He turned back to Sahara, gripping her hand. “My love, my love, it has been too long. Too many moons have passed since I last caressed this soft skin.”
Her cheeks flared up and she looked down at the floor, doing her best to hide the smile that crept across her face.
“Yuck. Get a room,” Harold mumbled.
“What was that, Mr. Crispy?” Sahara said, eyebrows arched.
Harold shook his head, “Nothing, nothing.”
The same radiant smile painted itself back on Sahara’s face. Somehow she appeared taller than before. More confident. The only thing Harold could equate it to was dumb love. And Sahara didn’t strike him as a gal who’d fall head over heels for the very same thing she was trying to protect the city from. Or Realm, whatever the Hell she called it. It was still all too crazy for Harold to comprehend. Things kept getting weirder and weirder since he woke up on the beach, so why couldn’t he fathom Sahara and a Vampire having dinner and movie every once and awhile? He didn’t want to admit it, but the thought somehow…somehow struck a nerve.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, Sahara, don’t forget about the guard.”
She squinted, brought a hand up to her face. Then her eyes lit up. “Oh, yeah! Right, right, right. Listen, Roman, I know I haven’t seen you in awhile, and things have been awkward ever since Felix tried to reinforce the Treaty with your Coven, but you know me. I’m a girl of honor. And I have to honor the treaty, much like your kind didn’t.”
The Vampire’s lips parted, revealing a set of pointy teeth. Kind of like the movies, but not quite as long. Still, Harold found himself taking a step back, unable to bring his stare off of the fangs.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“There’s a dead security guard at the gate. Drained. I don’t think he did that to himself.”
The Vampire placed a hand on his chest. “Why, Sahara, I am shocked you would think I could do such a thing.”
“Roman,” she said, crossing her arms.
“My beautiful,” he said, eyes softening.
“Oh, can it with the lovey-dovey bullshit, please,” Harold said. “It’s making me sick. Literally sick to my stomach.”
“Who is this?” Roman demanded. “How dare he talk to me like this.” He turned away from Sahara, lunged forward. The same cold hand wrapped around his neck, threw him into the wall. The plaster buckled under the force of the Vampire’s arm.
Then came the howls again.
The words. He needed the words.
They were on the tip of his tongue.
“Lup-p-p-porum,” he wheezed.
Nothing.
“Why does he not die?” Roman said in a voice that was all too calm. He jerked forward, planting his feet firmer on the ground, squeezing harder. A piece of his slicked back black hair came loose, fell down on to his forehead.
That was the last thing Harold saw. Then he quit fighting it. Went slack.
Gave up.
CHAPTER 13
He heard the Vampire’s grunting. Then something else, like bones colliding, as the hold on his neck left him, and he slid down the broken wall, landing in a pile of ashes on the floor.
Sahara had hit Roman. He was on his ass about ten feet from the corridor. Her blade wasn’t fully extended, just the hilt poked out of her sleeve, gripped tight. A stream of blackish-red blood rolled down her flesh then died, absorbed when it reached the fabric of her coat.
Harold rubbed his throat, his vision dotted with black stars. “What the Hell took you so long?” he asked.
“Just wanted to make a point,” she said, smiling, and offered him a hand. He took it, but found himself hardly able to stand on his own.
He didn’t hear Roman get up or walk over, but somehow, there he was, right in Harold’s face, wiping away blood. The color matched the drop on Sahara’s sleeve. “What are you?” he said. A bony finger jabbed into his chest. Sahara forced herself between them before World War III happened.
“Cool it,” she said.
“Is he…is he a Protector, too?” the Vampire asked, swallowing hard. Roman stared at Harold, eyes almost as deadly as his chokehold.
Sahara nodded.
Then the Vampire smiled, bent his head, buried it into Harold’s chest. “Why didn’t you kill me? Why did you spare me? Oh thank you, thank you.” He wrapped his arms around Harold’s torso, squeezed hard.
Harold coughed, expected for Sahara to intervene, but she just looked on with a grin.
The Vampire took a step back. “There are three of you now, no?”
“No. Still just two. Harold’s a stand in for Felix. Still learning the ropes.”
“Ah,” Roman said, “That is why you did not kill me. Because you don’t know how.”
Harold stood up straighter, happy to see he beat the Vampire in height by a couple inches. “According to the dead Mexican in the security room, I don’t have much of a choice.” He feigned a strike with his left hand, and Roman shot back, stumbling, tripping over his own feet. Then he laughed. “But seriously,” he said, letting
the moment ride out, “Sahara, kill him.”
Roman sat down, drew his knees up, shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I am here looking for a group of young ones. The Coven’s…slower learners. You know them, Sahara. I tracked their scent here.”
Harold rolled his eyes. He wasn’t a cop, but he’d auditioned for one more than a few times and he could smell the bullshit reeking off of the creature from a mile away.
“Roman, tell us the truth,” Sahara said. She came closer to him, arms still crossed.
“I am, I am. Listen. They are here.”
All Harold could hear was the buzz of the light overhead, probably on its last leg of juice, about to fizzle out. Oddly, Harold could relate. A willing nap would have done him wonders. No more of that getting abducted and drugged garbage. He needed a soft mattress and an even softer pillow.
“Lead us,” Sahara said.
The vampire nodded fast, eyes wide. “Come, come,” he said. He got up, started easing himself down the corridor, Sahara behind him. Neither of them made any noise. They might as well have been walking on memory foam.
It took awhile, about a minute’s walk at a snail’s pace, before Harold heard the voices of the other Vampires.
“Drink, drink, drink,” a male said. “You got it, Nik!”
“Shush!” a girl said.
Then someone belched loudly. Harold assumed it was Nik. Hearing the exchange had brought back fond memories of his stint in college. A ratty kitchen, unwashed dishes piled up in a sink full of grimy water. Red cups lined the countertops. Scantily clad college babes danced to some kind of music where the lyrics were hidden under a deep bass. Harold downed a two liter of Dr. Pepper spiked with enough alcohol to get an elephant tipsy. But they shouted at him. “Drink it! Harold! Harold! Harold!”
How could he not listen?
For a moment, he was in the spotlight. People knew who he was. They cheered him on, but where were they two hours later when he vomited in the driveway? All that lost Subway — black olives, banana peppers coming out whole. And where were they the next morning when he couldn’t move without a mouth flooded with sour saliva, dry heaving on the kitchen tile? Still, they had shouted his name. He fit in. And that’s where it all started.
He felt for Nik. Felt the pressure, the will to be accepted.
But when Sahara and Roman parted and he saw the three Vampires standing around in a circle, all young looking, smooth skin, sharp jawlines, indented cheekbones — the kind of kids you see in blockbuster movies. But they weren’t chugging a two liter of Dr. Pepper spiked with vodka. And the red rimmed around their mouths wasn’t smeared lipstick like the drunken college girls were apt to wear when the party got too wild.
A guy held a bag of blood over Nik’s mouth and it was on its last drop. Several empty bags lay crumpled at their feet.
Sahara cleared her throat.
Nik turned his head. The guy holding the blood bag neglected to close it off and Type AB spilled all over the Vampire’s face.
“Shit,” the female Vampire said.
“Shit is right, Cinder,” Roman said in a very stern, fatherly tone. “I’m very disappointed.”
“Dad,” she said. “I told them not to, I swear. They forced me.” Tears filled her eyes. “I followed them to try to stop them.”
“Lies,” the Vampire holding the bag said, then chuckled.
“Alright, alright,” Sahara said.
Cinder strode over to her father, and as she did Harold caught a whiff of her scent: sickening sweet, like someone wearing too much fruity perfume.
Sahara looked back at Roman. “You guys might want to get out of here.”
Roman caught her glance and nodded, thankful for her understanding. The two shuffled out of the room, his arm around the girl’s shoulders, then closed the door behind them, offering one last look of pity to the two Vampires as if he knew what was to come. And Harold didn’t want it to come to that. They were just kids for God’s sake. Partying was the thing to do, they had an odd way of doing that, but what did he expect? They’re Vampires. But the guard. They had killed a human. Normal teenagers didn’t do that, Vampire or not.
“I have a few questions, if you guys don’t mind,” Sahara said, drawing her blade, pupils bouncing from Vampire to Vampire. “Questions about a dead Mortal back at the security gate. You two wouldn’t happen to know what that’s all about, would you?”
Harold tried to draw his own Deathblade, really concentrating. He closed his eyes for a second, thinking that might help. But the howls, the Wolves were gone. Nonexistent. Nothing.
“You said they’d protect us,” the other Vampire said. And Harold heard Nik scoff.
And when he opened his eyes, he saw it happen before Sahara, before she had a chance to react. He glided in front of her, blocking the blow from Nik before the Vampire could rip her head off. A mist of blood sprayed his face as the Vampire barreled into him.
Whose blood? His, the Vampire’s, or the donor’s?
The two tangled up, arms locked, rolling across the floor. Harold’s head thudded against the metal legs of a chair, sending it thundering into the wall, bouncing off of a cart of medical instruments. A glass jar full of cotton pads exploded in an array of glass, sticking into Harold’s skin before the sink cabinets stopped his momentum.
Great.
It didn’t hurt as much as it slowed him down, but the Vampire wasn’t so lucky. A large piece of glass stuck out of his neck. He ripped it from the flesh and that black-red blood bubbled from the wound, rolled down his throat, smattering the white tile in drops.
Sahara swung her blade at the other Vampire, missed. He ran up the wall, backflipping onto one of the patient’s chairs, landing with incredible grace for as chubby as he looked. Not a squeak came from the screws.
Sahara’s blade came down at the Vampire’s feet, missing, and slicing the chair in half.
Harold didn’t see what happened next, having to deal with his own pissed off creature. Nik pounced, but Harold, halfway on his back, halfway on his ass, kicked his legs up as a last line of defense. The force of the Vamp thundered deep into his skeletal frame, vibrated his knees, but it worked. The thing went stumbling back, giving Harold enough time to draw the gun he had tucked away in the back of his jeans.
He pulled the pistol up, aimed it at the Vampire.
Steady. Steady.
He pulled the trigger.
Missed.
The Vampire weaved towards him. Jumped him faster than even Roman had in the hallway. Young blood.
The clap of the next shot brought him back to his failed suicide attempt — the buzz of steel in his brain, the dizziness. He blinked hard, shaking the feeling, seeing the Vamp go whirling in a shower of blood.
Direct hit. Battleship sunk.
“Watch where you’re aiming that thing!” Sahara yelled.
Nik crumbled to the floor, on his hands and knees, coughing up thick blood that looked an awful lot like NyQuil. He looked passed him, saw he had a direct line of sight with Sahara’s Vamp. Could blow its brains out from here. But she held him off pretty well, backing him into a corner, his arms flexed and twitching.
But that sight was gone as soon as Nik emerged again, white fangs bared like a rabid dog. Blood dripped from the tips.
He struck back with more rage and fury than Harold had ever seen in anything before. The Vampire’s breathing sped up as he jumped on top of him, knocking the gun away, sending it skidding across the tile into the shadows. Nik’s mouth opened wide, wider than any creature’s mouth had a right to. The only thing Harold could think of was an alligator getting ready to devour a hippo.
The smell of rusty copper blew over Harold’s face. What a way to go out — devoured by a supernatural creature he didn’t know existed until it was too late.
“Hope you taste better than you look,” Nik said. “Wasn’t too big a fan of the Mexican.”
“Should’ve used hot sauce.”
“Hilarious,” Nik said. “I don’t like w
hen my food talks, so spare me the jokes. And count yourself lucky that I found you before they did.”
“Who?” Harold demanded.
A smile leaked on to the Vampire’s face, revealing more sharp teeth, making the alligator comparison seem almost one hundred percent right.
“The Shadow Eaters? Them? Do they know who I am?”
Nik’s smile grew larger, practically taking up the bottom half of his face.
“Harold Storm is becoming a household name in the Underworld. And after tonight Nikola Anisimov will be an even bigger one.”
Sahara screamed and grunted. Metal clashed against metal with a ting. Glass broke. Then the other Vampire’s body flew across the tile to Harold’s left with a wet squeak like he was going down a water slide.
Nik’s head snapped in that direction, which gave Harold enough time to sit up and slam his head into the Vampire’s left cheekbone. A hand shot up to the wound, hid a thin cut. Fresh blood dripped off of him, now clumping in a tuft of unburnt hair atop of Harold’s head.
The Vampire hissed, baring those fangs again. He pinned his head down against the floor with enough force to make Harold screech and think his head might pop.
“You piece of Mortal scum,” he said, and those razor sharp fangs beelined to the flesh of Harold’s neck.
CHAPTER 14
The tip of Nik’s fangs brushed against Harold, not breaking skin. Not yet. But it burned. Like he was being branded by a piping hot iron. Just the touch sent his head reeling.
“Hey, Bloodbag,” Sahara said.
Nik turned with teeth still on Harold’s flesh. They scraped his skin, sounding like a match being struck against the hardened flesh of his burns. Sahara stood tall above him, a fresh spray of blood dotting her face. She raised her Deathblade.
Harold gripped the wound, feeling it pulse underneath his palm.
The Vampire’s arms raised in a feeble attempt at blocking the blow. An explosion of light rocked the dimmed room. A yellowish-green and a mist of red emanated from the Vampire’s arm. Then it burst. The very fibers of his bones glittered as they expanded, tore apart, then reattached with the force of a mini display of fireworks. From the elbow up, the arm vanished in a puff of burning ashes, blood poured from the wound.
Hellbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 1) Page 8
