When Darkness Hungers: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 5) (13 page)

He ripped the crossbow out of her hands and tossed it aside, at the same time slamming her onto the ground. His palms pinned her shoulders, his large body straddled her, and his strength was unmatchable. She’d had a chance earlier when she’d had the element of surprise and the benefit of leverage. But now—now she had nothing.

I’m sorry
. She wanted to scream the words. To Tori. To the girl on the beach. To every single victim who’d died as she was about to die. But she couldn’t. He had a hand on her throat now and was squeezing tight, making the world grow even darker.

A roar filled her ears, and Alexis realized it was the pounding drum of her own pulse, growing faster and faster along with her terror. The vampire curled his upper lip, revealing long, white fangs. “Bitch,” he whispered. “I’m gonna suck you dry.”

His scent enveloped her. Blood mixed obscenely with men’s cologne. She struggled, but it was no use, and she knew it. This was how Tori had died.

And Alexis was about to follow right behind.

She tried to resign herself to that horrible reality, but it wouldn’t compute. She couldn’t die yet. Not like this. Not without having taken down the monster that murdered her sister.

She tried to fight back. Tried to dig for that miraculous burst of adrenaline that would shoot through her and let her save herself and kill the vampire. The big Hollywood finish—except it wasn’t happening. And instead of the thrill of victory, she felt the horror of fangs piercing her throat.

And then
—smash!
—reality shifted again, and suddenly the weight was lifted, the monster gone. She raised her hand to her neck, felt the gash at her throat, the blood seeping through her fingers. She tried to roll over to see what was going on, but her body wasn’t responding.
Shock
, she thought.

Through sheer force of will, she managed to twist her head until she saw her attacker rolling over and over with a dark figure. A man, but he moved remarkably fast and when he slammed the vampire back against a utility pole rising beside the drainage ditch, the reverberating sound was testament to his incredible strength.

The vampire she’d come to kill howled and fought back, but the man showed no fear. He grabbed the vampire
by his arms, lifted him, and tossed him like so much garbage. He landed with a
thud
above her line of sight, and even as the sound of the impact echoed, the man was rushing in that direction.

He paused for just a moment as he passed. Their eyes met, and she gasped.

It was the man from the crime scene. The one she’d noticed. The one who’d given her shivers. The mysterious man with the slate-gray eyes.

Who the hell was he?

Her again
. The woman. The one who’d captivated him as he stood on the roof. Who’d confused him as he’d watched the crime scene.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Clearly, they were both chasing the same rogue.

For the briefest of moments, the thought that they were on the same path gave him pleasure, but he had no time to reflect on it. Instead, his thoughts were on Mitre. He’d pulled the bastard off her. He’d saved her. But inside himself, his own beast writhed with a fury fueled by hunger. Time to hunt, time to feed.
Time to kill
.

And, yes, time to save.

He launched himself at the vampire again, but this time the vamp was ready for him. He kicked up and out, catching Serge in the gut and sending him flying backward. Serge regrouped and rushed the vamp, who somersaulted away and landed on his feet, his face a mask of confusion and surprise as he caught sight of his attacker.

“Oh, shit, I know you,” the vamp said, his voice filled with awe. “You’re Sergius.”

“And you’re a fucking genius.”

“You want her?” the vamp offered deferentially. “She’s all yours, man.”

Serge allowed a slow smile to creep across his face. “It’s not her I want.”

For a moment, Mitre looked confused. Then his eyes lit with understanding. He inched backward.

“Afraid?” Serge asked, knowing the answer was yes. “You should be.”

He could see the rogue’s eyes narrow in concentration as he started the process of transforming into mist so he could get the hell out of there.

“Not happening,” Serge said, and leaped again. As expected, the rogue broke his concentration to shift to the side rather than transforming and taking Serge with him. Serge followed, then reached out and grabbed the back of Mitre’s shirt. Within him, the daemon rumbled. Wanting to taunt and torture. Wanting to drag out the pain and revel in his victim’s misfortune.

Serge hated that raw, dark part of himself. Hated the daemon that had to be appeased lest it become too powerful for him to fight. Most of all, he hated that deep, buried part of himself that enjoyed it, too. That got satisfaction out of knowing he had the power to make a killer suffer. That took delight in symbolically destroying what he himself used to be.

Now, though, he didn’t have time for that perverse pleasure. “I’d like to play this out,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “A little cat and mouse. A little rough-housing. But I need to clean up your mess, so let’s just get on with this thing.”

“No. Please. I don’t—”

But Serge didn’t learn what the rogue didn’t do. Time
was running out. He could smell the woman’s pain, could sense the last vestiges of life draining from the teen. An infusion of vampire blood would heal the woman, but Serge was too low, too drained. If he didn’t feed soon, the beast would burst free, and he would be no help at all to the females.

Do it. Do it now
.

He reached out, intending only to hold the vamp steady. The only thing that could be considered good about his new self was that he could feed without leaving a mark, but he had to be able to latch on—a good grip, a moment to concentrate, and—

Wham
, the guy lashed out and smacked him hard in the jaw. Serge stumbled back, and in that instant the vampire took a step to the side. Serge acted quickly, instinctively. He thrust out, and his fist plowed right through the vampire’s sternum. “Now hold still,” he snarled as he spread his fingers wide. He focused, his head tossed back by the power of the life force gushing into him.

At the end of his arm, the vampire howled in protest, but the strength had seeped out of him too fast to allow him to run, to flee, to do anything but shrivel down to a lifeless hull. A desiccated shell of a creature.

Serge yanked his arm back, his chest rising and falling as he gulped in air. Not because he needed to breathe, but because the rhythm of it was calming. It soothed the horror of what he had to do now to survive and calmed the daemon that was still itching for a fight.

The hole in the vampire’s chest, though—dammit, that was going to raise some questions.

He knew that the PEC was baffled by the desiccated bodies that had turned up. The popular theory was that
the mummified vampires had been infected. As far as Serge knew, there’d been no official inquiry into the possibility that they had been attacked instead.

But a hole in the gut suggested an attack. And that could raise unpleasant questions and turn a few too many eyes his way.

He shoved the worries from his head. No time for them now. He was pure vampire again, thanks to his victim’s life force, and the females needed him. He hurried to the teenage girl’s side. She’d lost almost all of her blood, and the scent of death clung to her, warm and sticky. Vampire blood could heal, but only if the human was not already on the verge of death. There was no saving this girl. No bringing her back from the brink, letting her grow up human and happy.

Goddammit all
. First Penny Martinez and now this girl. And all because he’d fucked up and hadn’t moved fast enough.

He pressed his hand against the teen’s forehead, saw her eyelids flicker. “Don’t … leave,” she whispered, her voice so low and wretched that no human could have heard her.

“No,” he promised. “I won’t go. But I need to check on the woman. She tried to help you?”

“My fault,” the girl said.

“No,” Serge repeated. “His fault. And he’s dead now.” He cupped her cheek. “Hang on for me,” he whispered, then slipped through the night toward the woman.

“You,” she said, her voice low and full of pain but still strong. “I saw you.”

“And I saw you. Here.” He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit deep, setting his blood to flow. “Drink.”

She recoiled, her eyes going wide, her voice thick with revulsion. “You’re a vampire?”

“Drink,” he repeated. “My blood can heal you.”

She shook her head, and Serge wasn’t sure if it was in confusion or refusal. Was she really so repulsed by the idea that he was a vampire that she would let herself lie there in the dark, bleeding out? She wasn’t on the verge of death, but without help it wouldn’t be far off. And he’d be damned if he’d let her die. Not if he could help it.

“What’s your name?”

She eyed him warily. “Alexis. Why?”

“I’m sorry, Alexis,” he said, as he pressed his wrist against her mouth and held her tight. “But I’m damn well saving you. Whether you want me to or not.”

Alexis wanted to fight. Wanted to turn away and scream and do anything other than swallow his blood. But she had no choice. His wrist was right there, his wound at her mouth, his blood pouring into her.

More than that, she knew that this man—this vampire—was her best chance. As she was, no one would hear her scream for help. She couldn’t die now—not like this.

And so she drank. Deep and long. And as she did, she realized she didn’t want to stop. She could feel his strength flowing through her. His strength, and
him
.

He was inside her, filling her, warming her. She moaned as life poured back into her, as her mind conjured images of his hands upon her, touching and healing her.

She kept her mouth closed around his wrist and drank greedily, lost in a sensual haze.

“That’s right,” he said, his voice as smooth as melted chocolate. “You’re going to be fine.”

She realized he was about to pull away, and she clung tighter. She wanted more. Wanted
him
.

And then the reality of her thoughts crashed through her mind, and she called upon her restored strength to push away, suddenly itchy and uncomfortable and even a little bit afraid.

He leaned back on his heels, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, his brow furrowed as if he—a friggin’ vampire—was looking for some sort of reassurance from her.

“The girl,” she said, rolling over and intending to crawl toward the teen, but despite the strength she’d felt while drinking from him, her body was still sluggish. Apparently healing wasn’t instantaneous. “Please. Don’t—don’t let her die.” She clutched at him, desperate, her mind swirling wildly, images of Tori mixing with images of that poor girl on the beach. “I can’t let—she has to be okay. Please. Please tell me she’s okay.”

She watched his eyes, but she saw nothing there. No compassion, no regret, no emotion at all. A horrible sob wrenched out of her, and she brought her fist to her mouth, all the horror and fear of the night bursting out with that one terrible sound.

She fought it back, because she had to know, and she couldn’t ask if she couldn’t find her voice. “She’s dead,” Alexis said. The words came out flat. Emotionless. “She’s dead already.”

If she hadn’t been watching him, she might not have noticed the change. But she was, and so she saw it. One simple movement. A tightening of his jaw perhaps, but it made the muscle in his cheek twitch, giving him a determined
expression. “She’s not dead,” he said, then tilted his head back and sniffed the air, as if confirming that statement. “Not yet.” He stood up, and Alexis realized that she’d stopped breathing. “I’ll take care of her.”

She exhaled, her relief as sweet as wine. She managed a small smile. “A nice, helpful vampire?”

He gave her a hard look. “The moment you start believing that, you’re dead.”

A chill chased up her spine, and she watched as he hurried across the sand toward the girl. He bent to her, then picked her up, cradling her against his chest.

With the girl held tight in his arms, he looked like a protector. Like a savior.