Darkness Dawns (9 page)

She glanced over her shoulder, then turned to face them. “Wow. You look …” Her gaze made a slow excursion down Roland’s body and back up again, speeding his pulse. “You look great.”

The admiration in those hazel depths made his body harden.

“Are you feeling better?” she continued. “Was Marcus able to help?”

“Yes to both questions.”

Brow furrowed with concern, she closed the distance between them. “You
are
going to see a doctor now, right?”

“No, I need to get you to safety first.”

“Surely the CIA has emergency medical facilities available for their operatives. Wouldn’t I be safe there?”

Marcus passed them on his way to the front door. “You told her you’re CIA?”

“Yes.”

Sarah turned to Marcus. “It wasn’t his fault. I know it’s supposed to be kept secret, but if he hadn’t told me I would have called 911 and blown his cover.”

As soon as she looked away, Marcus rolled his eyes and mouthed,
Lame.

Ignoring him, Roland asked Sarah if her bag was packed.

“Almost. I need a few things from the bathroom, then I’m good to go.”

Roland moved aside so she could slip past him, then crossed over to Marcus.

“You aren’t supposed to
tell
them you’re CIA,” he said, his voice muted, as he set the duffle bag down and picked up the briefcase. “You’re supposed to let them infer it.”

Roland sent him a warning scowl. “I haven’t had to explain myself to a mortal in centuries. Cut me some slack.”

Balancing the briefcase on the back of the futon, Marcus flipped the latches up and opened it.

Roland smiled when he saw its contents. “You thought of everything, I see.”

“I figured if you had lost your clothes, you’d probably lost your weapons, too.”

“You were right. I did.” He was distributing sais, daggers, and throwing stars to various pockets, boots, and belt loops when Sarah returned and dumped a toothbrush, hairbrush, comb, hair ties, and several small bottles and jars into her tote.

Eyeing his weapons, she crossed her arms beneath full breasts. “Okay, would someone please explain to me why a man posing as an illegal arms dealer doesn’t carry a gun?”

“Amateur,” Marcus mumbled beneath his breath before continuing more clearly. “The knives are part of the persona
we created to reinforce the belief of the criminals he deals with that he is a member of a particularly violent eastern European crime family. He also usually carries a couple of .45 semiautomatics but lost them in the fight.”

“Why didn’t you bring him replacements?”

“A miscommunication.”

Since they rarely fought more than one vampire at a time and wanted to avoid drawing attention to their battles, immortals tended to avoid using guns. Vampires did as well, knowing even in their madness that more than one careless vamp had experienced an excruciating death in a sunlit cell after being taken into custody by law enforcement officials.

Pursing her lips in a way Roland found adorable, Sarah left them, disappeared into the bedroom, and returned carrying a Glock 9mm and a spare clip.

“Here,” she said, holding them out to him. “You can use mine.”

Roland raised his eyebrows.

She shrugged. “I used to live in Houston. Crime is pretty bad there and, when a woman in my apartment complex was raped by a burglar, I decided that any man who broke into my place was going to have to be carried out.”

Damn
. He really liked her.

Sarah watched him palm the weapon and give it a quick inspection. She kept it in good condition. Clean. Well-oiled. No rust or dust in any of the grooves or crevices. He seemed satisfied.

“There’s a bullet in the chamber and fifteen in the clip,” she told him.

“You any good with it?” Marcus asked.

“Very good,” Sarah answered matter-of-factly. “There’s no point in owning a gun if you aren’t prepared to use it.”

Roland handed it back to her.

“Don’t you need it?” she asked, taking it.

“I want you to hold on to it. If my assailants catch up with us before we reach my home, aim for the major arteries.” Using his index and middle fingers, he pointed out the key arteries on his own body in his neck, arms, abdomen, and inner thighs. “Here, here, here, and here. Got it?”

“Yes.” Every man she had ever chatted with at the shooting range, including cops, had told her to aim for the chest. Then, after seeing what a good shot she was, amended that to the head and chest. Yet, Roland was telling her to aim for major arteries?

That was odd.

“Don’t hesitate,” he stressed earnestly. “If you even
think
one of them is moving toward you, start shooting.”

“Will do,” she promised.

Marcus cleared his throat. “And don’t shoot
us.
”

She frowned up at him. “I just told you I’m good. I never miss my target.”

“And I’m asking you not to target us,” he countered, eyebrows raised. “Please?”

She looked at Roland and caught him exchanging a somber glance with Marcus.

Feeling as if she were missing something, she addressed Marcus. “Fine. If it will make you feel better, I promise I won’t shoot you.”

He nodded. “Good. I’m going to hold you to that.”

If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he truly believed she might turn her gun on them later.

Roland grabbed her tote bag. “Let’s get going.”

Marcus collected the duffle bag and briefcase and headed outside.

Sarah stuffed the spare clip into her back pocket and gripped the 9mm tightly with her right hand, nervous all of a sudden.

His expression softening, Roland touched her left arm. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone harm you.”

She forced a smile.

Sliding his hand down until their palms met, he linked his long fingers through hers and gave her hand a light squeeze.

Butterflies erupted in her stomach as she followed him onto the porch.

How could something as innocent as holding hands sometimes feel so intimate, she wondered as he locked and closed the door behind them.

Darkness enfolded them, so complete Sarah couldn’t see an inch in front of her face.

When Roland started down the front steps, she remained where she was.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, tugged to a halt.

“I can’t see.”

The porch light flickered, then came on.

Blinking at the sudden brightness, she looked up at the glowing bulb, back at the closed door, then at Roland, who waited on the steps.

He shrugged. “Must be faulty wiring. I turned it on as we were leaving. Come on. We need to hurry.”

Descending the steps, Sarah followed him across the uneven front lawn, then glanced back at the light.

The house
was
old. The wiring, too. Perhaps she shouldn’t have exchanged the dim yellow bulb that had originally been in the archaic fixture with a hundred-watt one. There had just been too many nights when she had tripped on the uneven ground between the gravel driveway and the front steps because the lower wattage bulb only lit the porch.

The brilliant white light of
this
bulb spilled down the stairs onto the grass and extended all the way to Marcus’s shiny black Prius, which was parked close behind her sixteen-year-old grungy white piece of crap Geo Prism.

Marcus handed Roland the briefcase, unlocked the passenger door, and started around the front of the car.

Roland released Sarah’s hand and reached for the passenger door handle, then paused.

Marcus stopped short.

Both men tilted their heads to one side, like an animal that hears a noise pitched too high for human ears. As one, they dropped the bags they carried and spun around to face the trees on the opposite side of the house.

Ice skittered down Sarah’s spine as they raised their faces to the sky, drew in deep breaths, and held them.

Man, these guys could be creepy.

Roland’s chin dipped. “They’re here.”

Such menace glittered in Roland’s dark gaze that Sarah found herself taking an involuntary step backward.

As if the movement drew his notice, he took her arm and urged her to stand behind him. Marcus moved to Roland’s side, the two forming a solid barrier that protected her front while the car protected her back.

“I count eight,” Marcus murmured, his stance alert.

“As do I.”

Eight men? How could they count eight men, she thought wildly, when she couldn’t hear anything but frogs and that weird bug she had never encountered before moving to North Carolina that sounded sort of like a cicada, but not really?

Ch-ch-ch … ch-ch-ch … ch-ch-ch.

“I thought you said you took out four of them,” Marcus said as Sarah strained to hear whatever it was they heard.

“I did.” “Took out” as in killed? “And severely wounded two others.”

“Then who the hell are we facing?”

Roland shook his head. “I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but he appears to have raised quite an army.”

“The one who staked you to the ground?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

Sarah concurred. This was
all
unbelievable. Shouldn’t these guys be nervous or tense or sweating or something? Maybe jumping in the car so they could get the hell out of there? Especially when one considered how the previous night’s confrontation had ended.

Instead, they seemed relaxed, their bodies loose, their deep voices casually ominous.

Unlike them, she was a bit of a wreck. Her palms were sweating. Every muscle was tense. And her fingers were clutching the Glock in a death grip.

The foliage on the opposite side of the large front yard parted in several places. Dark figures emerged from the shadows, growing more distinct as they stepped into the dim outer reaches of the porch light. Men. Six, no seven. All young, in their late teens and early twenties.

Marcus and Roland stood with their arms at their sides, feet shoulder’s width apart.

Peering between her two massive protectors, Sarah anxiously took stock of those they were up against.

There were three, around twenty years old, who were decked out in goth gear. Black T-shirts with skull faces emblazoned on them in dramatic patterns. Ragged black jeans. Big black boots. Lots of chains and spikes and studs and body piercings. They were all around five-ten and sported the same hairstyle: two-inch shocks that stood up like porcupine quills. The only difference was the coloring. One had cherry-red hair. One had royal blue hair. And one was bleach blond.

The next in line looked to be a boy no older than sixteen or seventeen. Standing five foot eight, he had brassy orange hair, was liberally covered with freckles, and had a feral look about him that screamed
serial killer in the making.

On the other side of him stood a pair of identical twins who nearly matched Roland and Marcus in height. Unlike their comrades, who were all thin and lanky, these two had broad shoulders and thick muscles clearly defined by tight gray T-shirts and faded jeans. With long, straight, flaxen
hair, they would’ve looked perfectly at home dressed as medieval Vikings.

The guy on the other side of them had shoulder-length greasy brown hair and looked like he had just stepped off the pages of an ad for an ′80s grunge band, plaid shirt and all. He, too, stood around five foot ten or eleven.

As Sarah completed her visual inventory, an eighth figure materialized from the darkness and moved to stand in front of the others, who fanned out in a loose horseshoe around him.

She swallowed.

This man was almost as scary as Roland when Roland was at his most intimidating.

He was tall, an inch or two above six feet, with shoulder-length black hair. His taut, muscled body was clad in black jeans and a black T-shirt, his broad shoulders encased in a long black coat. His face was clean-shaven, his jaw strong.

He would be quite handsome if he didn’t give her a major case of the creepin’ willies.

“So,” he spoke, his attention focused on Roland, “it’s true then. You can’t imagine my disappointment when I arose, expecting to be handed your remains in a coffee can and was instead informed that you had been rescued.”

Sarah recognized his voice as that of the Brit who had told the kid stabbing Roland to let the sun finish him off.

Beside Roland, Marcus snorted. “This is the prick you mentioned earlier?”

“He’s the one.”

The feral ginger turned to the leader. “You still want him dead?”

“Yes.”

“And the other one?”

“Take him alive.”

“Look,” Marcus said, amiably apologetic, “I know I’m prettier than he is. And I’m flattered. Really. But I feel like I should tell you … I’m really not into guys.”

Clearly they were all homophobes.

An explosion of violence erupted in the front yard.

As Sarah looked on, immobilized by shock, the grunge kid, Vikings, and ginger attacked Marcus while the leader and the three goths went for Roland. Fear, more intense than any she had ever experienced, cemented her feet to the ground and made her heart slam against her ribs.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t normal.

Roland whipped out a couple of sais—long steel daggers with sharpened prongs that extended on either side of the main blade—while Marcus drew short swords. Together they expertly engaged their opponents, who were armed with everything from big bowie knives to machetes to short swords of their own. Fending off three and four at a time, Roland and Marcus forced them back and kept them distanced from Sarah. It was like watching Neo and his friends in
The Matrix
fight, only these men all wielded deadly blades and moved so swiftly they became a blur.

This isn’t possible,
her panicked brain whispered.

No one moved that fast. World record–breaking Olympic athletes didn’t move that fast!

And, of them all, Roland and Marcus were the fastest.

Blood sprayed in an arc, light from the porch sparkling off the crimson droplets as the blue-haired goth stumbled back, his throat sliced open. He didn’t even have time to raise a hand to it before Roland buried one of his sais in the kid’s chest, spun, and parried a blow the leader aimed at his back with a short sword.