The Dark Vampire: Last True Vampire 3 (26 page)

He should have listened to Mikhail. To Ronan and everyone else who’d tried to get their points through his thick head. If he were simply a creature who craved endless amounts of blood, any body, any vein would have sufficed. If he truly had no control, was the monster he’d been branded as, he would have killed dozens of dhampirs in the months since his turning. He’d been careful, though. He’d bound himself in invisible bands of restraint. Bria tested his control, his lusts, as no other had. And still he’d never hurt her. Never taken more blood than she could safely offer. Could it be that Ronan and Mikhail had been right? Bria was meant for him.
His
. Whatever obstacles he thought stood in their way were weak and inconsequential. And he was gods-damned tired of trying to fight his own instincts.

Jenner choked on an intake of breath as the heat of Bria’s presence burned at the center of his soul. His head snapped up, the female he still held in his grasp all but forgotten as he searched the club for his mate.
She’s here? How? Why?
He’d told her not to leave Mikhail’s
house without him time and again. His anger with her warred with the worry that clawed at his chest with razor-sharp talons. The necromancer could be anywhere. Standing in the midst of the dancers on the floor for all he knew. Panic welled hot and thick in Jenner’s throat as his frantic gaze scanned the breadth of the club over and again—

There!

She spun a full circle, the expression on her face so blinding beautiful and full of elation that it caused Jenner’s chest to ache. Her happiness melted away, however, to reveal a deep furrow in her brow and a sadness that seemed to suck every ounce of oxygen from his lungs. Her gaze roamed over the club, searching until it locked with his. Her jaw hung slack, her luscious mouth parted, and that sadness quickly transformed to a resounding pain that sliced through him like the sharpest of blades.

He’d kept her cooped up for weeks and Bria had sprung her prison only to find him in a club, apparently enjoying his freedom while another female pressed her body fully against his, her wrists held tight in what Bria might have seen as a possessive grip.

“Bria!”

She turned on a heel and fled, her speed a smudge of color against the other bodies that appeared to stand still in comparison. Jenner released his hold on Marissa and took off after Bria, shoving his way past the bodies that formed a barrier between him and the only thing he wanted. The only thing he
needed
. And because of his own stubborn stupidity, he stood on the precipice of losing her forever.

Jenner
burst through the doors and out onto the sidewalk in time to see Bria duck into one of Mikhail’s black Lincoln Town Cars. The taillights flashed momentarily before the car pulled out onto the street and merged with traffic. At least Jenner could be assured that Bria was safe and in good hands. And that she was returning to the house. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to race after her, though. He got his ass in gear and had backtracked a block down the street to where he’d parked his bike when a deep, musky scent invaded his nostrils.

Fucking hell. Of all the shitty gods-damned timing
.

Jenner stepped into the shadows, careful to remain unseen. He needed to get to Bria, to explain himself, but Mikhail would have his head if he found out that Jenner had the one male they’d been searching for in his sights and did nothing about it.

Fucking Gregor.
Jenner wanted to rip the male’s head from his shoulders simply for the interruption. The pressure that had been building inside of Jenner for weeks reached its bursting point and he took a lunging step for
ward, ready to take every ounce of frustration he felt out on the male’s body. His step faltered as a host of voices joined Gregor’s, and Jenner stepped back into the protection of the alleyway.

Son of a bitch. The male had a small army at his back.

“McAlister’s got his eyes on us.” One of Gregor’s men stepped up to him, his hands tucked casually in the pockets of his jeans.

“Aye,” Gregor agreed. “I’ve got the werewolf by the balls now, though. He’ll be one less complication as we move forward.”

“And just how did you manage that?”

Gregor scoffed, “He was easy enough to manipulate. The bastard’s got a mountain of gambling debts. He’s a whore who’ll do anything for a little money in his pocket.”

“You paid him to turn on McAlister?”

Gregor turned to face his comrade. “I paid him to find Réamonn’s daughter.”

The berserker scoffed, “Foolish, if you ask me. Why throw away good money? If we continue attacking the covens, we’ll flush her out eventually.”

Gregor grabbed the other male by the throat and took him down to the sidewalk. The concrete cracked under the force and a growl echoed over the sound of passing traffic. Jenner strained to pick through the sounds for that of Gregor’s voice. A snarl ripped from his lips as he went nose to nose with the male who’d dared to doubt him. “Question my methods again and I’ll put you in the ground. Whalen might play fast and loose with his money, but he’s a damned good tracker and his loyalty is easily bought. He’ll find her while we shift our focus to overthrowing McAlister once and for all.”

“We’re three hundred bodies and the Sortiari are legion,” the other male rasped. “How do you suggest we overthrow Fate?”

A sick smile twisted Gregor’s lips. He straightened and dragged the other male up with him. “By using the bastard’s fears against him. Have you forgotten that his own death was prophesized by the very seers he employs?”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’d say you have your work cut out for you, Cousin, if you intend to find a single witch amongst all of the supernaturals that inhabit the earth.”

Gregor cocked a brow as he regarded the male. “What makes you think I haven’t already found her?”

“Where?”

Gregor paused. His eyes narrowed and he canted his head to one side, listening. A burst of adrenaline dumped into Jenner’s system and his fangs throbbed in his gums. He didn’t move. Didn’t make a fucking sound. He was one vampire, unarmed, in the presence of a dozen berserker warlords, each trained to kill with frighteningly quick precision. Confronting them would be suicide, and Jenner had too gods-damned much to live for to walk into a fight he had no chance of winning.

“Check the alleys!” Gregor barked. “There’s something out there, and whatever it is, I want it dead. Don’t come back without a body.”

Fuck
. Jenner would have to ditch his bike, which riled him enough to cause a low growl to vibrate in his throat. He swallowed down the sound, but not before one of the berserkers heard it.

“There! In the alley.” He drew a GLOCK from a holster under his arm and squeezed off five quick shots.

Jenner turned and took off at a run. He hadn’t left quickly enough, though. White-hot pain seared across his biceps, the unmistakable burn of silver. Fucking slayers had modified their ammo to include a silver compound that would effectively put him down if one of them managed to strike his heart. Jenner’s strength flagged; the bullet must have grazed the meaty part of his arm. He
pushed himself, his feet pounding on the pavement as he put as much distance between him and the slayers as possible. Another succession of shots fired and another burst of heat burned through him. The bullet struck his left shoulder blade. He pressed his palm to his chest, only to find that the bullet hadn’t gone through. Damned thing was lodged between his back and his chest and the silver burned him from the inside out. Jenner’s step faltered as he ran, but he managed to dig his cell out of his pocket and dialed Ronan.

“You know,” Ronan answered, “I can only give you so much love advice in one—”

“I’m running down Sunset headed toward North Fairfax,” Jenner grunted. “Had to ditch my bike. At least twelve slayers are tracking me and I’ve got a silver bullet lodged in my back.”

“On my way.”

Jenner stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Gunfire echoed behind him and he ran in a crisscross pattern to avoid being hit again. He veered onto Fairfax so as to make it easier for Ronan to find him. There wasn’t a single advantage Jenner had that the berserkers didn’t share. Speed, strength, the ability to see even in the absence of light . . . the playing field had been leveled and then tipped as soon as that damned bullet buried itself in his chest. He snagged the edge of his foot on a crack in the pavement and stumbled, catching himself on a parking meter before he smeared his face on the concrete. Another bevy of shots cleaved the air and another scorch of pain came as a silver bullet grazed his ear.

The squeal of tires echoed from several blocks away and Jenner regained his footing as another bullet struck the sidewalk right where he’d almost fallen. He continued to run, dodged, and switched his course so that he ran down the middle of the street. Ronan’s Aston-Martin
came screaming into view and Jenner pushed himself into a sprint toward the car. It came to a skidding stop in the median and the passenger side door flew open. Jenner dove into the interior and Ronan took off at a tear before he could even get the door closed. The
pop! pop! pop!
of gunfire became muted in the interior of the car, and Jenner allowed himself to let out a shaking breath.
Fucking hell
. He could have bit it tonight. Died in a pool of his own blood on the street and left Bria to think that his last act before he’d died was to betray her.

“Hang on, okay?” Ronan placed a tentative hand on Jenner’s arm. Ronan’s eyes were wide with concern, his fangs bared. “Hit anywhere else? You’re shaking pretty damned hard.”

He really was shaking like a sonofabitch. His limbs quaked to the point that Jenner couldn’t grasp the seat belt to buckle it. Not that it would do a gods-damned thing for him. “Grazes to my arm and ear,” he said on a rush of breath. “The bullet’s lodged somewhere between my back and chest.”

“Gotcha.” Ronan shifted and punched the accelerator. “Let’s get the fuck out of here and get you squared away.”

“To Mikhail’s,” Jenner rasped. The silver had begun to take its toll and Jenner’s stomach twisted in a knot of nausea. Ronan would kill Jenner himself if he emptied his guts in the fancy fucking sports car that he loved almost as much as his mate. Jenner bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and willed the heaving of his gut to still. “Bria,” he murmured. His vision darkened at the periphery and Jenner slumped in his seat. “Have to get to Bria. To explain.”

“Okay,” Ronan said as he skidded into a sharp turn. “Okay. Just hang on.”

The silver wouldn’t kill Jenner; at least he hoped it
wouldn’t. But if he didn’t make things right with Bria,
now,
her hatred of him would get the job done.

Bria let herself out of the car when it pulled into the circular driveway. She wasn’t going to run or throw a fit of rage and jealousy. She refused to burst through the doors and stomp up the stairs like a spoiled child. Jenner might have broken her heart, but she’d be damned if she let him steal her dignity. She thought about the vow she’d made to him. That if another female ever touched him with familiarity again she’d unleash the force of her rage. She let out a soft snort. So much for claiming what was
hers
. Bria was tired. Tired of trying to win Jenner’s affection. Tired of trying to prove to him that she was worthy of their tether. Of
him
. She wasn’t going to force him to care for her. To want her. For one thing she could thank him: He’d given her the skills she needed to protect herself. She didn’t need him—didn’t need anyone—and it was time to go out and live her life.

She slipped through the door and crossed the foyer. Voices carried from the back of the house, Claire and Mikhail chatting in conversational tones. How was their tether so different from Bria and Jenner’s? Why did they seem to fall into their relationship with ease, while she bumbled through hers, never fully connecting with the male whose soul had tethered hers? Claire had suggested that what stood between them was Jenner’s own belief that Bria was something to be put upon a pedestal. Too pure for him to soil. Too far above his station for him to be deserving of her affection.

Whatever Jenner’s reasons, Bria was done trying to convince him otherwise.

She stepped into the guest room and her heart sank as she realized that when she left this place she’d essentially
be leaving with the clothes on her back. Aside from her backpack, which contained her GPS and a couple of baubles she’d intended to leave at geocaches, most of her possessions had been left at the coven’s compound. Her uncle had brought a few clothes and books, but he’d held on to the bulk of what she owned in the hopes that she’d soon return home. There was no way in hell she was going back there. No, Bria had lived under someone’s thumb long enough. Jenner had taught her how to defend herself and to hone her senses. She could be vigilant. If the necromancer found her then so be it. She’d rather die on her feet, fighting for her freedom, than wither and die a prisoner, unloved and unwanted.

She gathered up her clothes and books and searched through the closet for something to pack her things in when voices shouted from downstairs. The sound of the front door as it bounced off the wall cracked loudly and Bria rushed from the room to the top of the stairs as she tried to get a glimpse of who’d burst into the king’s home.

“Mikhail!” Ronan’s voice boomed as he dragged Jenner through the doorway. Bria’s heart lodged in her throat at the sight of Jenner, his big body slumped against Ronan’s, his head bowed. Blood trickled from his arm and down the side of his face. Bria slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. In the blink of an eye the king was in the foyer, Claire right behind him. A deep furrow cut into Ronan’s brow as he said, “Attacked by slayers. There’s a silver bullet lodged in his chest. He lost consciousness right before we pulled through the gate.”

Claire took off at a clip, as though she knew exactly what had to be done. “Get him into the kitchen!” she called out. “Scratch that! The dining room. On the table. We’ve got to get that bullet out.”