Twilight Hunger (29 page)

“He'd be an idiot to leave her there.”

They moved in closer to the house, leaving the car for now. If Sarafina were in the trunk, she could probably get out, Max thought, and there was no sense wasting time or tipping off the enemy by rattling around trying to open a locked trunk. She assumed Lou agreed when he passed by the car without stopping.

They were approaching the rotten-looking front steps when Max felt a gun barrel in her spine. “Move and she dies,” a man said.

She jerked her gaze sideways and saw Lou looking at her, a horrified expression on his face. “Okay, okay, easy,” he said. “We're friends.”

“Drop the shotgun.”

Lou bent at the knees, laying the gun on the ground, and straightening again.

“You, too, hon,” the man said.

“I don't have a gun to drop,” she said. “You wanna loan me yours?”

“Fine, I'll get it myself,” the man said, and he started pat ting her down, apparently certain she carried her gun taped to her crotch, judging by the amount of time he spent groping the area. He finally located the gun Lou
had given her, took it and then nudged her forward. “Get inside. Both of you.”

Lou and Max walked forward into the dilapidated house. Its door hung crookedly from one hinge. Max blinked in the white light of a gas lantern as she was prodded into a room where Stiles and two other men sat at a table.

“Well, what have we here?” Stiles asked, rising.

Through a doorway to the left, Max could see Dante strapped to a table and Sarafina strapped to another. She pre tended not to notice them. “Impressive,” she said, addressing Stiles instead. “So this is the new DPI headquarters? Talk about high tech.”

“This is a temporary holding area,” Stiles said. “So, do you want to die now, or would you prefer to tell me what the hell you're doing here first?”

Lou interrupted her before she could zing Stiles with a sarcastic reply. “I followed you.”

“I knew it.”

“Hey, if you knew it, why did you leave?”

“What are you talking about?”

Lou licked his lips. “After you left, I picked up that syringe and saw that there was still some of that drug left in it. I was worried she might not be out after all and jumped in the car to come and warn you.”

Stiles lifted his brows, nodding as Lou spun his lies. He whistled long and low when Lou had finished. “And here I thought this was all a setup so you could get Dante out of here. So tell me, Lou, where did you leave your car? I didn't hear it pull into the driveway.”

“Ran out of gas,” Lou said. “Just a little ways back.”

“Right.” Stiles looked at the man behind Max. “Take them out back and shoot them.”

Max shot her eyes to Lou. He stared back at her, and she saw that he was afraid—for her, not himself. Then the other man grabbed him and shoved him out of the house. She was being shoved right along behind him. They marched the two of them around to the back of the house, shoving her forward until she and Lou stood side by side, their backs to the men.

“Get on your knees.”

“I'll die standing, thanks,” Max said.

“Have it your way.” The gun barrel moved from the small of her back to the base of her skull.

Lou moved suddenly, ducked low, and jammed the man be hind him with an elbow. Then he turned and threw himself at the one with the gun to Max's head. The gun went off, deafening her, but she didn't feel pain, and reasoned that the shot had missed. She found herself on the ground, probably the shock of that gunshot next to her ear, but she got up as she saw one of the goons scrambling for his dropped gun. She went for it, too. He got it first and leveled it on her. Lou was grappling with the other man, both of them rolling around in the weeds.

Max held up a hand instinctively, and the gun, aimed right at her chest, went off. As it did, a dark form lunged between her and the shooter, like a black streak. Another shot, from be hind her. Lou had won the fight for the other gun and shot her would-be assailant in the chest. The man went down in a heap. Behind Lou, his partner lay bleeding and unconscious.

She heard a car, tires squealing. Stiles and the one remaining thug getting away, no doubt. But she was too
horrified to go after them. Dante, her sister's only hope, the man who had just taken a bullet for her, lay on the ground, bleeding, gasping, clutching his chest.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“Just…stanch it.” He ground out the words through clenched teeth. “Just get it stopped before I lose too much.”

Nodding, she tore a strip from her blouse, balled it up, pressed it to the wound. Held it there.

Dante caught his breath. “Now…get me to Morgan.”

“Lou, get the car,” she said.

Lou ran into the darkness to comply. Sarafina came out of the house, looking at Max, at Dante in her arms. The hand cuffs were still on her wrists, dangling like bracelets, their chain snapped in two.

“If you try to transform her tonight, it won't take,” Sarafina said coldly.

“You don't know that.”

“She's too far gone. And now you're wounded. Not at full power.”

“I'll make it work.”

“It could kill you.”

“Then I'll die.”

Sarafina lowered her head, closed her eyes. The car came screeching back. Sarafina went around the house to meet it, and Max wondered why. When she returned, Lou was at her side, and she held the roll of duct tape he'd used to bind her ankles. She tossed it to Max.

“Cram more padding into the wound. All you can fit. Then wrap him tight in this tape, all the way round his chest. Tight as you can make it.”

Max didn't question her. She nodded her compliance,
tore more fabric from her blouse and did exactly as Sarafina had instructed her.

When he was bound up tight, Sarafina said, “Now step away.”

Max eased Dante's head to the ground, and Sarafina knelt beside him. “You have made your choice, Dante. Between me and this mortal woman you crave. You've chosen her.”

“Why must I choose at all?”

“Will you come with me now? Leave her behind?”

He grimaced in pain. “I can't do that.”

“Then you've chosen her.” She brought her arm to her lips, bit a gash in her wrist, and pressed it to his mouth. Dante clutched her hand and drank as Sarafina went on. “This is the last time I will ever help you, Dante. You'll never have the chance to betray me again.”

She jerked her wrist away, grabbed a strip of cloth Max had left on the ground and twisted it around the wound, using her teeth and one hand to knot it tight.

“I haven't betrayed you. Sarafina, wait….”

Without another word or a backward glance, she walked away, into the night, skirts dancing in the wind, bracelets and bangles jingling like bells. Dante closed his eyes. Aching, Max thought.

“Come on, Lou. Let's get him into the car. We have to get him back to Morgan.”

Lou glanced at the sky as they hoisted Dante between them. “It'll be dawn soon.”

“She won't last another day. It has to be now. If we're not already too late.” She searched Dante's face. “Was she telling the truth about that? That it might not even work.”

“If she's too near death, if I'm too weak…” Dante
sighed and shook off their supporting arms, walking the rest of the way to the car unsteadily, but under his own power. He got into the back seat. Lou and Max got in the front. “It'll work,” Dante said as Lou started the car, backed out the driveway. “It has to.”

Lou put the car in drive, and stomped the accelerator to the floor.

D
ante got out of the car, faced the house. The deepest sense of dread he had ever known swelled in his chest, overwhelming even the pain of the bullet hole. He could feel her inside. Her essence was weak, tenuous, and fading more with every breath.

His own body swayed with weakness, reminding him yet again just how closely they were linked to one another. Max grabbed his upper arm, steadied him. “Are you all right?”

“It's her. God, she's so weak.”

“I know. Come on.”

He let her lead him, and he noticed that Lou stayed below as they started up the stairs. He couldn't stop thinking that if Morgan died, it would be his fault. He should have listened to her from the start. He should have changed her right away, when she was strong. Now, even if he managed to save her, she would never know the preternatural strength she would have had if he had acted sooner.

He hated his selfishness. His fear. Yes, he'd been afraid of her. Afraid of the power she had over him. She could hurt him, destroy him. She would—if she died.

They reached the upper floor, and Max walked him along the hallway to the bedroom door. She tapped once, then opened it.

Lydia and David were beside the bed, but Dante's gaze barely swept over them on the way to Morgan. Oh, God, Morgan. He closed his eyes, lowering his head. She looked like a ghost already.

Max went to Lydia, to David. Spoke to them softly. Dante watched them as they each bent to kiss Morgan's forehead, then walked past him on their way out of the room.

Then Max leaned over her. “I've brought him, just as I promised I would.”

Dante steeled himself, schooled his face into an expression of calm, and finally moved into Morgan's range of vision. When she saw him, her weak smile of welcome tore at his heart.

Then she shifted her gaze to her sister again. “Thank you.”

Max nodded. “I won't see you again, will I?”

Morgan didn't answer, and Max leaned down to hug her gently. Then she straightened and backed away. “Be happy.”

Dante glanced at the window. It was nearly dawn. He knew they would both be weak after the transformation, if it even worked. They would be vulnerable. He couldn't do it here. He needed her in a haven, safe from the sun. Gently, he bent over her, sliding his arms beneath her and lifting her from the bed. She was light as a dried stalk as she gazed up into his eyes. God, how he loved her.

He looked once more at Max. “Thank you for helping us.”

“I only wish it hadn't taken me so long to figure out who the real monsters were.”

Turning, Dante carried Morgan to the balcony, her white nightgown trailing down his side. He braced himself and leapt over the rail. The landing was jarring. It rattled his teeth, but he managed to remain upright. Then he carried her away from the house, toward the cliffs. He could feel Max's eyes on them as he walked into the night. He could feel her tears, as well.

He took Morgan into the hidden place beneath the house. As far as he was aware, she had never told anyone, not even her sister, about this place. It should be safe. He wouldn't put her in the coffin, not now. Not considering how near death she was, how frightened she must be. Instead, he tore the lining, and satin pad from it, and made them a cozy nest on the floor. Then he reclined there, his back against the wall, with her resting across his body. He bent to press his lips to hers.

She kissed him back. He felt it, sensed her responses, even though, physically, she could barely move. He touched her chin. “You'll be with me now. Always with me, Morgan. I'll never doubt you again.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Lifting her chin, he pressed his face to her throat, bit down and pierced her jugular. Inside him, fires licked to life. Her pulse, fluttering against his tongue, the warm flow of her blood, the arousal he felt waking in her body, even in its weakened state, combined to create an answering need in him. And the hunger raged, as the hunger always raged in his kind.

He mustn't take too much, he reminded himself. Only a little. He felt her slipping away and drank deeply, until he pushed her into the shadowy realm between life and
death. Her heart stuttered, skipped. He lifted his head away and stared down at her half-lidded eyes. A breath escaped her. A rattling, bro ken breath.

Quickly he tore the flesh of his wrist, and when the deep red blood welled, he pressed it to her lips. The touch of that fluid sparked her. She swallowed, and as her mouth filled, swallowed again. And then she began to suck, to draw the liquid from him. She needed a lot, and he knew what she felt. Not only because he had felt it himself, but because he felt every sensation that went through her. They were one while she fed at his wrist. Everything she experienced registered in his brain. Everything from how deeply she loved him to how badly she wanted him.

He weakened, and she sucked harder. Dizziness came, and still she drank. His head fell sideways, and his vision grew dark around the edges. He tugged his wrist slightly, but she held on and kept drinking.

Finally he gave a firm yank. He bound the wrist in a strip of fabric.

She fell backward, her back arching over his arm, her eyes falling closed.

Dante gathered her upper body, cradled her in his arms. “Please, don't die. Not now. God, let this work. Let it be enough. Let it work!”

Her lips moved, just slightly, right against his ear. Her breath, a whisper, weak but insistent. “Make love…to me…one…last…time.”

He closed his eyes in misery. “It can't be the last time, my love. It can't.” Pulling her over him, he dragged the white gown up her body, bunching the fabric around her waist. She was naked underneath. Her body lay against his chest now, her legs parted around his hips, linked
behind him. He reached down to free himself from his jeans and immediately pressed him self into her. She was wet and yearning, ready for him. The blood lust did that. Even in this state, her hunger was for his body as much as for his blood, and it always would be. He clasped her hips, pushed himself deep inside her. She would have moved if she could have. He knew she couldn't, so he did it for her. Gently, slowly, as tenderly as he knew how. He kissed her and held her and moved very gently inside her. He had never made love this way—not in either of his lifetimes.

They were still locked together when the sun rose. And as she sank into slumber, he couldn't tell if she were dead…or undead.

And then he slept.