The Last True Vampire (27 page)

No longer.

“You’ve killed them all, Gregor. What more do you want? There is a change on the horizon. A change we hadn’t foreseen until now. It’s time to let the scales balance. This has to end.”

“It’s not over until I say it is.” Gregor pushed himself up from the chair and stalked toward the door. Not all of them were dead. There was still one more vampire walking the earth, and once Gregor wiped Mikhail Aristov from existence he’d begin the task of wiping out Mikhail’s kin. And perhaps as Gregor strangled the life from every last dhampir he’d finally find the one he was looking for.

“There is a girl.” Tristan’s urgent tone gave Gregor pause and he stopped halfway out the door. “Blond, still a child. She’s under the protection of the vampire’s mate. Not a hair on her head is to be harmed, Gregor. Do you understand me?”

He turned a caustic eye to Tristan. “She’s important, is she?”

Tristan’s somber words struck a chord. “You have no idea how important.”

Looked like the director had his priorities in order. Gregor decided to read between the lines on this one:
Kill the vampire and his mate if you must, but spare the girl
. Of course, Gregor made no guarantees.

“You should think about redecorating,” he said upon leaving. “Try Crate and Barrel. I’m sure you can order online without even having to leave the safety of your office.” And with that, he closed the door behind him, having likely exchanged the last words he would ever speak with any member of the Sortiari.

*   *   *

“Well? What did the bastard say?”

The Sortiari’s leashed pet no longer, Gregor fell into step beside his second, Alec. “Nothing that matters,” Gregor answered as he gathered his weapons from the security desk. McAlister was so gods-damned paranoid he wouldn’t even let his own people into his office armed. “Did you find her?”

“Aye,” Alec replied. “Right where we left her. Mikhail must have cut her loose. That or she’s decided keeping company with a vampire isn’t in her best interest.”

Gregor let out a derisive snort. Was that the reason McAlister had shut him down? Had Aristov’s little pet experienced a change of heart? “He’ll come after her.” They stopped in front of a bank of elevators and stepped inside the first available car. Gregor pushed the button for the ground floor. “And we can ambush him.”

“It’ll have to be soon. If we wait long enough, the son of a bitch will have amassed an army of his own. No use giving him the upper hand.”

“No, there isn’t. That’s why you’re going to take a detachment of men and wait for him at that diner.” If the bitch was stupid enough to carry on with her life as though it had never changed, you could damn well bet that Gregor would capitalize on it. “And I want her followed. Find out where she lives.” If they failed to capture Mikhail at the diner, odds were good he’d scent her out at her home. Maybe then Gregor could set his eyes on the human girl as well. The one who was so gods-damned important to the Sortiari. If he played his cards right, the girl could be a useful bargaining chip in the future.

“How many men do you want me to bring along?”

Gregor stepped out of the elevator into the parking garage and headed toward his car. The number of berserkers employed by the Sortiari totaled a little over four hundred. Two hundred of those were in Los Angeles right now to deal with Mikhail’s ascension to power.
Gods. Two hundred berserkers to take down one vampire. Shameful.

Though hadn’t Gregor been the one who’d failed to kill Mikhail in the first place? They wouldn’t be here now had it not been for his mistake. “Take thirty. I don’t want the odds tipped in his favor.”

“You’d think if Fate wanted the vampire dead it wouldn’t be so hard to accomplish,” Alec remarked. “If it’s Fate’s will, then the fucker should die whether we take three or thirty men along.”

Gregor bristled. Sound logic from his cousin. Wonders never ceased. “That’s why you’re taking thirty.” He hit the key fob and disengaged the alarm on his BMW. “To make sure that Fate gets it right this time.” It had been a long gods-damned time since he’d bought into the Sortiari’s views on Fate. He didn’t give a single fuck about their grand mission—or their seers. He cared about one thing and one thing only: that every last vampire and dhampir on the planet was dead.

He stared over the hood of the car at Alec. “You won’t be answering to Tristan or the council anymore. To me and me alone.”

Alec smirked. “It’s about fucking time.”

Aye. It was.

CHAPTER

21

When the war had escalated and the vampires could no longer keep the upper hand against Sortiari attacks, Mikhail had prowled outlying villages, farms tucked away from prying eyes under the cover of darkness, in search of slayers and Sortiari sympathizers. Then the church’s hold had been absolute. The slayers used the cloister in order to manipulate hapless humans into sheltering them and, in some cases, giving aid to their cause. Superstition ran rampant and they feared the
vampyres
of legend: unholy, soulless demons that ravaged villages, killing indiscriminately in their quest for blood. Well, at least the legends had gotten something right. Their soulless states made them no more evil than any creature that roamed the earth, but perhaps it was that state of emptiness that had prompted the Sortiari to eradicate them. Ignorance bred nothing but mindless violence. The Fate they’d claimed to serve was nothing more than a reflection of their own misguided fears.

Tonight he’d hunted back alleys and neighborhoods across L.A., but not for the influencers of Fate or their berserker lapdogs. The resurgence of his enemies was the least of Mikhail’s worries right now. He’d sworn that he’d let Claire be. That he would not be mastered by the tether that secured his soul to hers. He’d been lying to himself of course. He could no more keep himself from her than he could stop the sun from rising every morning.

If he didn’t find Claire soon, he’d go out of his fucking mind.

Dressed for battle, Mikhail had never felt more like himself. Like the male he used to be. Abandoning the high-priced suits and designer business attire, he’d outfitted himself in the combat gear of a modern-day warrior. A thick nylon belt held throwing knives, daggers, and a .40-caliber Ruger. And his black long-sleeved shirt and fatigues were woven with a lightweight body armor that would deflect a blade with ease. He might not have had the advantage of the magic that the Sortiari used to infuse their weapons, but he had his speed, strength, and stealth. He could break an enemy’s neck with a simple turn of his hand. His thick-soled boots pounded the pavement as he walked, a rhythm that helped to center his thoughts. A centuries-long war was about to be fought in Los Angeles, and he couldn’t help but wonder how many slayers would swarm the city as the Sortiari unleashed the berserkers, fully consumed with battle lust.

How many more dhampirs would die before he regained the strength to turn them?

Turning Ronan had weakened Mikhail considerably. The Collective wore on his mind, his ability to bury the memories in his subconscious diminished without the strength Claire’s blood and life force gave him. He was lost without her.

Arrogant decisions never produced favorable outcomes. He’d pushed Claire too hard, too soon. Interactions with humans were rare. In the Collective, only a few memories of vampire/human relationships stood out, one of which being the torturous vision of the male who’d inadvertently killed his lover in the hopes of turning her. Mikhail had taken Claire like she was some paltry bauble he’d found on the street. Given her no choice in her present or future, only demanded obedience under the guise of protection. Despite his treatment of her, she’d surrendered her body to him. A gift he hadn’t deserved. He’d repaid her by proclaiming that her life as she knew it was over. That she belonged to him and would give up her humanity without a second thought.

None of his regrets or plans for amends would matter if he couldn’t find her, though.

In the eastern sky, the first streaks of gray washed across the horizon. Another night wasted. He revisited the street where the slayer had attacked her. Claire’s scent lingered, barely noticeable under the layers of filth and pollution and myriad creatures who’d traversed the same path in the past two weeks. Gods, the city was so vast. She could be
anywhere
.

For all he knew, she’d taken a plane and flown as far away from him as possible. Though her blood no longer coursed through his veins, Mikhail should have been able to track her through their tether. He’d joined their bodies, taken her blood again and again. The only thing that would have solidified an unbreakable connection between them would have been if she’d taken his vein as well. Once that was done, he would have been able to track her location no matter the distance. But until then, he was lost. Swimming in a sea so deep and endless, he despaired of ever reaching the shore.

Claire’s presence fluttered across his senses, almost too faint to be real. Mikhail turned, his pace brisk as he rushed down the sidewalk toward a run-down diner tucked between an abandoned building and a pawnshop. A breeze kicked up dust and debris and her scent slammed into him, nearly bringing him to his knees.

Through the large picture window of the storefront he spied her and a wave of intense need seized him. A sign on the entrance indicated that the diner wasn’t yet open for the day as she busied herself with brewing coffee and setting pastries out on a large serving platter that she covered with a clear plastic dome. Dark shadows formed half-moons beneath her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks sank slightly into her face. The bright spark was absent from her golden eyes, and in its place was a bone-deep exhaustion that permeated Mikhail’s pores and drew on his already-weakened stores of energy.

Was she ill? Hurt?
Dying?

Panic surged in his chest as he recalled the memory of the human woman as she died from her lover’s bite. Though Mikhail hadn’t fed Claire from his vein, he hadn’t considered the possibility that by taking so much of her blood he could have done irreparable damage to her.

He rushed toward the door, determined to get her to safety. He’d pore over the pages of the blood codex, send Ronan to the far ends of the earth in search of a cure for whatever ailed her. Anything to ensure that she could remain by his side, healthy and thriving—

The scent of blood reached his nostrils and Mikhail stopped dead in his tracks. A creature dressed from head to toe in black approached slowly, a steady ribbon of crimson trickling from his outstretched fist.

“We assumed you’d crawl out of your hole again.”

Icy rage slid down Mikhail’s spine. The slayer’s voice was as dark and cold as a tomb. Mikhail cast a furtive glance toward the diner, desperate to pull the slayer’s focus from where Claire stood, completely defenseless.

The assassin followed Mikhail’s gaze, a sinister smirk pulling at his lips. “Don’t worry; we’ll deal with her soon enough.”

Mikhail flew into action. He rounded on the slayer, fangs bared. The Sortiari must have learned their lesson from their last attempt to kill him because the assassin standing before him now was a mountain of a creature, bulging with muscle and armed for battle.

He flashed a wide grin that showcased his elongated incisors. Inky black swallowed the whites of his eyes and he moved with the fluidity of a seasoned warrior. From a sheath at his back he produced a long dagger. Blue steel winked under the streetlight and he struck out with the speed of a cobra, catching Mikhail’s right biceps with the blade. The physical pain was nothing compared to the sharp jab to his ego. Without Claire’s blood to sustain him, he was weaker, slower, his mind less sharp than it should have been.

Alone on the streets without additional defense, he’d left Jenner to watch over Ronan. Mikhail was one weakened vampire against a Goliath of a slayer—a berserker warlord who undoubtedly had reinforcements close. A few weeks ago Mikhail might have allowed the slayer to run a stake through his heart, just to be done with this existence once and for all. But no longer. He had something to live for. A mate to seek out and a race to replenish. And he’d be damned if he let this—or any other of the Sortiari’s hellish creatures—end him.

A battle shout erupted from Mikhail’s lips as he charged his opponent. The slayer braced for the attack and met him head-on, his razor-sharp teeth bared and ready to shred. A loud crack echoed off of the building facades as Mikhail took the slayer to the ground, slamming his considerable frame on the sidewalk that broke from the impact.

“I was told you were formidable.” Blood spewed from the slayer’s mouth with his laughter. “But that was barely a love tap.” He rolled before Mikhail could stomp down on his head and sprang back to his feet. “The great Mikhail Aristov,
neubivayemyy
. You’re not even worth my time.”

The slayer spat at Mikhail’s feet as he slowly circled him. The assassin called him
the unkillable
. He could only hope that the title held true and instilled his opponent with a healthy dose of fear. “Then be on your way, and I’ll spare you,” he suggested with a slow smile. His fangs elongated at the onset of battle lust, his need to tear his enemy to shreds only second to his need for blood.

“The sun is about to rise, vampire. If you’re going to kill me, better make it quick. Otherwise, I might just let the sunlight do the job for me. I’ll watch you burn and give your ashes to your mate before I break her neck.”

Already Mikhail’s skin prickled with the coming morning light, but he’d be damned if he burned this or any other morning. He pulled twin daggers from their sheaths and spun them in his fists, prepared for an attack. The slayer lashed out and Mikhail dodged a wild swing and missed the cut of the slayer’s dagger by inches. Mikhail used the misstep to his advantage and caught the bastard in the jaw with the pommel of his weapon in a solid right hook. When his opponent stumbled, Mikhail lurched forward and brought his arm around in a downward sweep, stabbing lightning quick at the juncture of the slayer’s neck and shoulder.