The Last True Vampire (28 page)

The blade sank to the hilt. Blood gushed over Mikhail’s fist, the scent setting his throat ablaze with thirst. Pulling away, the slayer took a lilting step to the right, laughter gurgling in his chest as he yanked the blade free and tossed it to the sidewalk with a clatter.

Smug bastard couldn’t even die with quiet dignity. He clapped a hand over the wound, blood pulsing from between his fingers with every beat of his heart. Onyx swallowed his gaze, the inky black tendrils spreading out through his eyelids and the high bones of his cheeks. In the grip of battle lust it would take severing his head from his shoulders to kill the berserker. Eerie laughter grated on Mikhail’s ears and he reached for the dagger so he could finish the slayer off once and for all.

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of several bodies racing down the sidewalk toward him. Where there was one slayer more were sure to follow. A wounded slayer in front of him, more up ahead, and probably several at his back. He’d faced worse odds. Mikhail braced himself for the attack, the black, soulless eyes of the creatures advancing on him as dark as the tomb he’d been forced to live a century in.

“You think you can kill me?” he screamed over the din of city sounds that buffeted his ears. “I am
neubivayemyy
!”

In thirty minutes’ time, he’d either vanquish his enemies, die at their hands, or burn in the accursed sunrise. Either way, he’d fight as though this was his last battle. A shout from an alleyway at his left drew Mikhail’s attention and he turned.
Gods
. What more could possibly try to kill him this morning?

A female emerged from the shadows like a vengeful wraith. Clad from head to toe in black leather, only the pale skin of her cheeks shone from under the cover of her raven hair. Green eyes flashed silver in the gray dawn, and behind her a small escort of dhampirs followed, every last one of them decked out for full-out war.
Siobhan
. The female had impeccable timing. No swords or daggers for this gruesome assembly. They carried an arsenal of modern-day weaponry at their disposal.

“To your right!” Siobhan barked the order to the males behind her and shots rang out. Apparently, the female was intent on killing their shared enemies first, so perhaps she could kill him herself later.

In this case, the enemy of his enemy was his friend. He could fight Siobhan later. All that mattered right now was decimating the slayers before they could get their hands on Claire. He took several steps back, as though in retreat, drawing the fight as far from her as he could.

Slayers converged on the street, seeming to appear from thin air, a swarm of dark shapes in the gray dawn. Mikhail choked up on his daggers, loosening his fingers from around the grips as he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, readying himself for the oncoming attack. The berserker warlord was wounded but no less enraged for the injury done to him. A sneer stretched his upper lip, accompanied by a smug look of satisfaction. Mikhail let the battle behind him fade to the back of his mind, instead focusing on the threat in front of him. Another slayer joined the big bastard trying to put a stake in Mikhail’s heart, armed with some of the same modern-day tactical gear Siobhan’s dhampirs were armed with.

Mikhail sheathed one of his daggers, opting instead for a throwing knife. Almost as fast as a shot he drew the blade from his belt and let it fly, burying the blade to the short hilt in the second slayer’s neck. He plucked the blade from the slayer’s skin like it was nothing more than a sliver, but Mikhail’s aim had been true and blood spurted from the nicked vein. Gods, how his throat burned with thirst.

His attention was drawn to the crimson stream flowing from the slayer’s neck, but Mikhail shook off the command of bloodlust, rushing at the bigger slayer with a snarl. Dagger play called for close quarters, but Mikhail’s fangs were just as deadly as the dagger in his hand. He stabbed, cut, his arm moving in a blur as he snapped down with his powerful jaws, tearing flesh as he went.

Mikhail fought like a male possessed, slashing, cutting, kicking out, and throwing punches with a lifetime’s worth of anger and vengeance behind every blow. Mikhail beat the slayer bloody, pummeling him until he swayed on his feet, nothing more than a mass of broken bones.

In his blind rage Mikhail took a step too close, and the berserker swept his feet out from under him. He hit the pavement hard and propelled himself up just before the second slayer could ram the silver-tipped stake through his chest.

Enough of this bullshit.

He rushed the weaker of the two, taking the slayer down in a full-body tackle. With both daggers gripped firmly in his fists, he slashed the berserker’s throat through to the spine. With Mikhail’s attention diverted, a solid kick connected with his jaw and he flew backward, skidding several feet over rough pavement before coming to a stop. The berserker warlord pulled a pistol from his holster and leveled it with Mikhail’s face.

“We are Fate.”

Before he could pull the trigger, the slayer collapsed to his knees. A long blade protruded from his throat and his breath gurgled in his chest as he was shoved forward. Siobhan towered over him, her booted foot planted firmly on the slayer’s back as she cut down again, severing his spine at the back of his neck. She wiped her blade clean on her thigh and sauntered over to Mikhail, her spiked heels clicking on the sidewalk.

“Well, Mikhail,” Siobhan purred. She cut a glance toward the first yellow rays of sunlight and turned back to him with a triumphant smile. “It looks as though I’ve saved your life. I think for such a favor you owe me a debt, no?”

*   *   *

After half a day with Vanessa, a full shift, and a few hours’ sleep yesterday, Claire wasn’t ready to start all over again with a long morning shift. Who in the hell wanted breakfast at 5:00 a.m. anyway? The past twenty-four hours blurred together as she set several cheese Danishes onto a platter and put the plastic lid back in place. The scent of brewing coffee did wonders for her nausea. Maybe dhampir babies liked Colombian roast.

Warmth bloomed in the center of her chest and Claire froze in her tracks. It spread outward to her limbs, a radiant heat that infused her with strength and vitality. Banished all traces of the nausea and crippling exhaustion. Made her feel more alive than she had since leaving Mikhail alone in his bed.

Mikhail.

Her vampire was close. She sensed him in the core of her soul. The need to go to him overwhelmed her, sent one foot in front of the other as though she had no control over her own limbs. A heavy weight lifted from Claire as she opened the connection between them, allowing his strength to flood her, replenish everything she’d given to the tiny life growing inside of her.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Gunfire echoed in her ears and she forced her body away from the glass door. She took refuge behind the tall counter, crouching down and cradling her abdomen to shield her unborn child from impending danger.
Oh, god. Mikhail is out there!

He was strong. Infallible. An immortal vampire who tore his enemies’ throats out with his bare hands. Surely he could hold his own in any situation, but as the sound of angry shouts melded with the clash of metal the first traitorous signs of doubt shredded her confidence.

She had to help him.

All she could hope to do, weaponless, defenseless, was distract any attackers long enough for Mikhail to gain the upper hand. She threw open the door with enough force to take it off the hinges and sprinted out onto the street just as the first morning rays of sunlight crested the cityscape beyond.
Holy shit!
The street looked like a war zone. Bodies littered the ground and Claire raced toward the carnage in search of him, praying that he wasn’t among the fallen. A blur of motion caught her attention from her periphery and Claire turned in time to see a tall, thin woman dressed from head to toe in black, her dark hair flying out behind her like curls of satin ribbon as she ran. To her left, a company of rough-looking brawlers hauled a body in their wake, forcing him toward a side alley as he fought to free himself.

“Mikhail!”

Claire’s strangled shout echoed in her ears, drowning out the sound of approaching sirens. Sunlight filtered through the tall buildings, cutting a swath down the darkened sidewalk, but still Mikhail fought against his captors. The golden rays caressed his skin, and his back arched as his face contorted with pain. Claire doubled over; his pain was hers and the scorching heat seared her flesh and brought the blood in her veins to the boiling point.

The men dragging him away used Mikhail’s weakness to their advantage as they hauled him into the shadows of the alley. Claire’s own pain subsided and she sprinted down the sidewalk, desperate to get to him. Muscles aching, lungs burning, she pushed herself as fast as she could go, rounding the corner at a full sprint only to find the alleyway empty.

He was
gone
.

No!
Her soul called out for him, a soundless yet keening cry that resounded in her mind and left her weak and shaking. Someone might as well have ripped Claire’s beating heart from her chest, the separation was so acute. She collapsed to her knees, her chest heaving with each labored breath as white lights danced in her vision. The whine of sirens grew closer, a cacophony to drown out her own screaming thoughts as L.A.P.D. and emergency services personnel arrived on the scene.

God, please let him be okay
. She sent a silent plea out into the universe as a horde of police converged on her. “Turn around slowly! Hands above your head!”

It would figure that the one time she got pinched would be the one time she was actually innocent. Claire did as she was told, pivoting on one foot toward the authoritative tone. The breath stalled in her chest as she took in the empty sidewalk, all but two of the bodies that had littered the side of the street gone.

What in the hell
 …

*   *   *

“Okay, Miss Thompson. Tell me one more time what you saw.”

Claire sat in one of the booths of the diner, recounting the morning for the detective for what felt like the millionth time. There wasn’t any way the L.A.P.D. could consider her a suspect thanks to Lance vouching for the fact that she’d been inside the diner when the shots were fired. The detective’s tactics were admirable, though. Obviously trying to shake her down in the hopes that she knew something more than she was telling them. She’d run out into the thick of it, after all. No one with even a scrap of self-preservation instinct did anything that stupid.

“Lance was in the back doing prep work for the breakfast rush and I was getting ready to open. I heard a fight outside, followed by gunshots.” The detective—Rourke, according to his badge—eyed her with an intensity that made Claire’s insides quiver. It was the cold stare of an animal, emotionless and calculating, as though he was sizing up a potential threat. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat and bolstered the confidence she needed to sell her story. “There were two men lying facedown on the sidewalk and three more dragging another man toward the alley. I ran out and shouted for them to stop because it was obvious the other guy was being kidnapped or something, but by the time I caught up to them they were gone.”

Detective Rourke rapped his pencil on the tabletop, the
tap, tap, tap
drilling straight into Claire’s skull. “And you didn’t know the man who was being apprehended?” Rourke fixed her with a stare that sent an icy chill through her soul. “You have no idea who he was?”

She shook her head. “Do you think this was gang related?” Not that it mattered. Claire just wanted him to answer one of her questions to create a baseline for his responses. She didn’t trust him, or the shadow that passed over his gaze. It was time to put her internal lie detector to work.

“Not necessarily.”

Truth. Or at least a vague enough response to make her think he was being truthful.

“What we’re concerned about is an act of violence perpetrated by a very unstable man who might be tempted to lash out again. Next time, it could be in the middle of a mall or at an elementary school. Anything you can remember would be helpful, Claire. We want to find the person responsible before any more lives are lost.”

Again Rourke spoke with just enough truth to the lie that it was hard for Claire to get a clear read on him. Too soon to call bullshit. His familiarity with her sent a tremor through her. First “Miss Thompson” and now “Claire.” As though he was trying to foster some sort of intimacy and trust between them. It was going to take a hell of a lot more than the use of her first name to put her at ease. “I told you, the man I saw was being taken against his will. I don’t think he was the one who killed those men.”

Rourke’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “How can you be sure if you didn’t see anything that happened prior to leaving the diner?”

Worry ate away at her and Claire swallowed down the fear that congealed in her stomach like a stone. “What precinct did you say you were with, Detective?”

His indulgent smile didn’t reach his cold eyes. “Metropolitan Division.”

Lie.

“Oh.” Claire pinned him with her gaze. “My friend Leah works as a dispatcher there. Do you know her?”

“Sure, I know Leah. She’s a great girl.”

Lie. Claire didn’t know anyone who worked for the L.A.P.D. and neither did Detective Rourke. “Well, you’ll have to tell her I say hello the next time you see her.” Claire rose from the booth and he followed suit, the way he mirrored her action with fluid precision sending up another red flag. It was an intimidation tactic she’d used a few times herself. “I wish I could be of more help, but that’s all I know. I hope you find the guy. This neighborhood doesn’t see much excitement and I’m sure a lot of people would like to keep it that way.”

Rourke stared at her for just a beat too long, his lips a thin, hard line. She recalled what Mikhail had told her about the Sortiari infiltrating every facet of society and a shiver raced from the base of her neck all the way to her toes. Her only consolation was that if this guy was in fact with the Sortiari, then it meant that the guys who’d dragged Mikhail away weren’t members. She hoped in this case Mikhail would be safer with the devils he didn’t know.