The Midnight Breed Series Companion (14 page)

He
was gone.

Banished back to the past, where he belonged.

And yet, a single, nagging question pulsed through her mind, through her veins. It demanded an answer, one she had little hope of resolving.

Who was he?

CHAPTER 2

Broken glass and debris from the rotting rafters rained down in the dark as three members of the Order patrol team dropped through a filth-clouded skylight of the abandoned clothing factory in Chinatown. The surprise attack from above sent the group of feral-eyed, blood-addicted squatters in the old ruin of the building scrambling for cover.

For all the good it would do them to run.

Gideon and his two comrades had been tailing one member of this Rogue nest most of the night, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Waiting for the suckhead to lead them to his lair, where the Order could take out not just one Bloodlust-crazed predator, but several. Half a dozen, by Gideon’s quick count, as he, Dante and Conlan dropped in unannounced just after midnight.

Gideon was on one of the Rogues as soon as his boots hit the rubbish-strewn floor. He leapt after the suckhead, grabbing a fistful of the vampire’s dirty trench coat as it flew out behind him like a sail. He took the Rogue down in a hard tackle, pinning it with his forearm braced against the back of the rabid male’s neck. With his free hand, Gideon reached for the shorter of the two blades he wore in combat. The twelve-inch length of razor-sharp, titanium-edged steel gleamed in the scant moonlight shining in from the open roof overhead.

The Rogue began to fight and flail, snarling through its fangs as it struggled to get loose. Gideon didn’t give the suckhead a chance to so much as hope it might escape him.

Shifting his hold, Gideon clutched a hank of the Rogue’s unkempt brown hair and wrenched its head back. The vampire’s amber eyes glowed wild and unfocused, its open maw dripping sticky saliva as it growled and hissed in the mindless fury of its Bloodlust.

Gideon plunged his dagger into the hollow at the base of the Rogue’s exposed throat.

Death from the blade might have been certain enough, but the titanium--fast-acting poison to the diseased blood system of a Rogue--sealed the deal. The vampire’s body convulsed as the titanium entered its bloodstream, began devouring its cells from the inside out. It wouldn’t take long--mere seconds before there was nothing left but bubbling ooze, then dried-up ash. Then nothing left at all.

As the titanium did its worst on Gideon’s kill, he wheeled around to gauge the situation with his comrades. Conlan was in pursuit of a suckhead who’d fled for a steel catwalk above the factory floor. The big Scot warrior dropped the Rogue with a titanium dagger shot from his hand like a bullet.

A few yards away, Dante was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a Rogue who’d had the bad sense to think he could fight the dark-haired warrior up close and personal. Dante calmly, but swiftly, eluded every careless strike before drawing a pair of savage, curved blades from their sheaths on his hips and slicing them across the attacking Rogue’s chest. The suckhead howled in sudden agony, collapsing in a boneless heap at the warrior’s feet.

“Three down,” Con called out in his thick brogue. “Another three to go.”

Gideon nodded to his teammates. “Two heading for the back loading dock now. Don’t let the bastards get away.”

Conlan and Dante took off on his direction without question or hesitation. They’d run Rogue-hunting missions under Gideon’s command for years, long enough to know that they could rely on his direction even in the thickest of urban combat.

Gideon sheathed his short blade in favor of his sword, the weapon he’d mastered back in London, before his travels--and his vow--brought him to Boston to seek out Lucan Thorne and pledge his arm to the Order.

Gideon swiveled his head, making a swift, sweeping search of the shadows and gloom of the old building. He saw the fourth Rogue in no time. It was fleeing toward the west side of the place, pausing here and there, ostensibly seeking a place to hide.

Gideon focused on his quarry, seeing it with something more than just his eyes. He’d been born with a much stronger gift of sight: The preternatural ability to see living energy sources through solid mass.

For most of his long existence--three-and-a-half centuries and counting--his gift had been little more than a clever trick. A useless parlor game, something he’d valued far less than his skill with a sword. Since joining the Order, he’d honed his extrasensory talent into a weapon. One that had given him new purpose in life.

His sole purpose.

He used that ability now to guide him toward his current target. The Rogue he chased must have decided better of its notion to look for cover. No longer wasting precious seconds out of motion, the feral vampire veered sharply south in the building.

Through the brick and wood and steel of the sheltering walls, Gideon watched the fiery orb of the Rogue’s energy shift direction, pushing deeper into the bowels of the run-down factory. Gideon trailed its flight on silent, stealthy feet. Past a chaos of tumbled sewing stations and toppled bolts of faded, rodent-infested fabric. Around a corner into a long, debris-scattered hallway.

Empty storage rooms and dank, dark offices lined the corridor. Gideon’s target had fled into the passageway before making a hasty, fatal mistake. The Rogue’s energy orb hovered behind a closed door at the end of the hallway--just a few scant feet from a window that would have dumped him onto the street outside. If Bloodlust hadn’t robbed the vampire of his wits, he might have eluded death tonight.

But death had found him.

Gideon approached without making a sound. He paused just outside the door, turned to face it. Then kicked the panel off its hinges with one brutal stamp of his booted foot.

The impact knocked the Rogue backward, onto its back on the littered office floor. Gideon pounced, one foot planted in the center of the feral vampire’s chest, the blade of his sword resting under its chin.

“M-mercy,” the beast growled, less voice than animalistic grunt. Mercy was a word that had no meaning to one of the Breed lost to Bloodlust as deeply as this creature was. Gideon had seen that firsthand. The Rogue’s breath was sour, reeking of disease and the over-consumption of human blood that was its addiction. Thick spittle bubbled in its throat as the vampire’s lips peeled back from enormous, yellowed fangs. “Let me...go. Have...mercy...”

Gideon stared unflinching into the feral amber eyes. He saw only savagery there. He saw blood and smoke and smoldering ruin. He saw death so horrific, it haunted him even now.

“Mercy,” the Rogue hissed, even while fury crackled in its wild gaze.

Gideon didn’t acknowledge the plea. With a flex of his shoulder, he thrust the sword deep, severing throat and spinal column in one thorough strike.

A quick, painless execution.

That was the limit of his mercy tonight.

CHAPTER 3

Savannah arrived early at the Art History department that next afternoon. She couldn’t wait for her day’s final class to let out, and made a beeline across campus as soon as English Lit 101 ended. She dashed up the three flights of stairs to the archive room outside Professor Keaton’s office, excited to see she was the first student to report in for the after-class project. Dumping her book bag next to her work table, she slipped into the storage room containing the items yet to be catalogued for the university’s collection.

The sword was right where she’d left it the day before, carefully returned to its wooden case in the corner of the room.

Savannah’s pulse kicked as she entered and softly closed the door behind her. The beautiful old blade--and the mysterious, golden-haired warrior who’d once used it with lethal skill--had been haunting her thoughts all this time. She wanted to know more. Needed to know more, with a compulsion too strong to resist.

She tried to ignore the little pang of guilt that stabbed her as she bypassed the bin of clean curator’s gloves and sank down, bare-handed, in front of the container that held the sword.

She lifted the lid of the long box, gently laying it open. The length of polished steel gleamed. Savannah hadn’t had the chance to really look at its craftsmanship yesterday, after it had fallen so unexpectedly into her hands.

She hadn’t noticed then how the tooled steel grip was engraved with the image of a bird of prey swooping in for a brutal attack, its cruel beak open in a scream. Nor had she paid attention to the blade’s gemstone pommel, a blood-red ruby caged by grotesque metal talons. A cold shiver ran up her arms as she studied the weapon now.

This was no hero’s sword.

And still, she couldn’t resist the need to know more about the man she’d watched wield it in her glimpse from before.

Savannah flexed her fingers, then gently rested them on the blade.

The vision leapt into her mind even faster than the first time.

Except this was a different peek at the weapon’s past. Something unexpected, but equally intriguing in a different way.

A pair of young boys--tow-headed, identical twins--played with the sword in a torchlit stable. They could be no more than ten years old, both dressed like little seventeenth-century lords in white linen shirts, riding boots and dark blue breeches that gathered at the knee. They were laughing, taking turns with the sword, stabbing and lunging at a bale of straw, pretending to slay imaginary beasts.

Until something outside the stable startled them.

Fear filled their young faces. Their eyes went to each other, dread-filled, panicked. One of them opened his mouth in a silent scream--just as the torch on the wall of the stable went out.

Savannah recoiled from the blade. She let go of it, shaking, gripped with a marrow-deep terror for these two children. What happened to them?

She couldn’t walk away. Not now.

Not until she knew.

Her fingers trembled as she brought them back over the blade again. She set her hands down on the cold steel, and waited. Though not for long.

The window to the past opened up to her like a dragon’s maw, dark and jagged, an abyss licked with fire.

The stable was ablaze. Flames climbed the stalls and rafters, devouring everything in their path. Blood bathed the rough timber posts and the bale of yellow straw. So much blood. It was everywhere.

And the boys...

The pair of them lay unmoving on the floor of the stable. Their bodies were savaged, broken. Barely recognizable as the beautiful children who’d seemed so joyous and carefree. So alive.

Savannah’s heart felt trapped in a vise, cold and constricted, as this awful glimpse played out before her. She wanted to look away. She didn’t want to see the terrible remains of the once-beautiful, innocent twin boys.

Ah, God.
The horror of it choked her.

Someone had killed those precious boys, slaughtered them.

No, not someone, she realized in that next instant.

Some
thing.

The cloaked figure that held the sword now was built like a man--an immense, broad-shouldered wall of a man. But from within the gloom of a heavy wool hood, glowing amber eyes burned like coals set into a monstrous, inhuman face. He wasn’t alone. Two others like him, dressed similarly in hooded, heavy cloaks, stood with him, parties to the carnage. She couldn’t make out their features for all the shadows and the flickering, low light of the flames twisting up the walls and support beams of the stable.

Not human,
her mind insisted. But if not human, then what?

Savannah tried to get a better look as the image of the boys’ attackers began to waver and dissolve.

No. Look at me, damn you.