Smoke formed a dense cloud near the ceiling as the last human fell. Both Roland and Marcus had been shot roughly a dozen times. Though none of the bullets had severed arteries, at least as far as Roland could tell, some had damaged major organs and were taking their toll.
Marcus was having a difficult time breathing, thanks to several chest wounds. Every cough the smoke spawned was agonizing for both men as they staggered down the hallway to the bedroom.
“Sarah,” Roland called so she wouldn’t shoot them as they stepped over two dead men and approached the doorway.
“I’m here.”
He nearly tripped over a third as they entered the otherwise deserted bedroom.
Emerging from the bathroom with a damp towel held over her mouth and nose, Sarah stopped short. Her eyes widened as she beheld the holes in his blood-soaked clothing and the sunburn that painted his skin a mottled maroon.
“We have to go,” he rasped. “Now.”
Her heart in her throat, Sarah watched Roland cross to a window and open it, weaving on his feet. He looked terrible. As did Marcus, who leaned against the wall, wheezing and coughing up blood. Hurrying to Marcus’s side, she handed him one of the damp cloths she held.
Nodding his thanks—she wasn’t sure he was capable of speech—he held it over his mouth and nose.
“Sarah.”
She turned to see Roland punching out the screen. At his urging, she swiftly joined him.
He waved away the cloth she offered and took her hand, helping her through the window. Once she was out, he grabbed his cell phone off the bedside table and thrust it at her. “Get to the trees.”
“What about you?”
“We’ll be right behind you.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
He swore.
The flames had followed the gasoline trail around the house and were creeping closer and closer to the window.
“The fire is spreading,” he choked out and gave her a shove that nearly sent her sprawling. “We’re immortal. You aren’t. Now go.”
Unwilling to abandon him, she backed away a few feet and waited anxiously as he ducked inside and disappeared from view. At least a full minute passed before he returned, helping Marcus through the window.
Sarah glanced up at the smoldering roof. The eaves were narrow, providing not nearly enough shade to protect them as Roland exited the window with a grunt of pain.
Marcus’s skin immediately pinkened. Roland’s, already abused, began to blister.
Hoisting Marcus’s arm over his shoulder, Roland started for the trees, half-dragging half-carrying his friend, every step a struggle.
Sarah ignored his scowl and hurried to his side. Pulling Marcus’s other arm across her shoulders, she lent her own strength and herded them as quickly as possible to the shelter of the forest.
Pebbles and twigs poked and scratched her bare feet, but she ignored them, focusing only on the tree line ahead. Cool shade enveloped them and she was relieved to see the canopy above was dense enough to protect the men from most of the sun’s damaging rays.
A few yards in, Roland and Marcus both sank to their knees, dragging her down with them.
“Sorry,” Marcus gasped out and released her.
Sarah scooted around to kneel in front of Roland. “What can I do?”
He shook his head, breathing heavily through his mouth, and collapsed onto his back.
Marcus fell back beside him.
Panic rising, Sarah stared at them both helplessly.
She moved closer to Roland. “Do you … do you need blood?” Not knowing how else to help him, she held her wrist above his parted lips.
One of Roland’s hands came up. His long, bloody fingers gently clasped hers. But, instead of biting her wrist, he carried her hand to his lips for a kiss. “Not enough.”
She frowned. “I don’t have enough to help you?”
He gave her hand a squeeze and closed his eyes.
A lump in his shirt (which she hadn’t noticed in the rush to get him to safety) moved, making her start. A plaintive meow sounded and tears spilled over her lashes. When he had gone back for Marcus, he must have unearthed Nietzsche and stuffed him down his shirt.
Roland’s breathing slowed.
Marcus’s was scarcely detectable.
Were they dying? Trembling, Sarah bit her lip and looked around. Didn’t she even have enough blood to tide him over until …
Roland’s cell phone lay where she had dropped it.
An idea forming, she lunged for it. There was only one phone number stored in it. Eyes glued to Roland’s chest, Sarah swiftly dialed it and prayed it was the one she needed.
Flames stretched toward the clear Texas sky like golden fingers as the sun peeked over the horizon. Smoke billowed upward, cloaking the fading stars in charcoal clouds as cries shattered the dawn.
Sirens blared. Men in camouflage ran around in panicked disarray, dodging fire trucks and a few civilians who had made it safely outside. Firefighters raced about in their tan and yellow gear, dousing the roaring conflagration that used to be a three-story building with massive streams of water from numerous hoses.
Two figures materialized amid the chaos, their clothing and long black leather coats covered with blood and full of holes carved by bullets that couldn’t kill them. Even as they strode toward the trees, small misshapen bits of metal emerged from their bodies and dropped to the ground, the wounds left behind sealing themselves within seconds.
Looped over David’s shoulder was a duffle bag filled with laptop computers, exterior hard drives, CDs, DVDs, and junk drives packed with information they would comb through later.
Cradled in Seth’s arms was the woman they had come for, her naked, malnourished body wrapped in a bloody lab coat, so light he doubted she weighed more than eighty pounds.
The darkness of the forest embraced them. Seth carefully adjusted his unconscious burden so her head would be pillowed by his shoulder.
A moan escaped her chapped, cracked lips between ragged breaths.
His mouth tightened in fury.
“We should have killed them all,” David growled beside him.
“Those we left alive had no knowledge of this.”
A trebly version of Disturbed’s “Down with the Sickness” split the air.
Seth halted. It was his cell phone. Turning partially away from David, he said, “Back right pocket. See who it is.”
David retrieved the phone. When he saw who the caller was, he frowned and met Seth’s gaze. “It’s Roland.”
Sarah stared at Roland, willing him to keep breathing while she held the cell phone to her ear and counted the rings.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Please answer!
“Hello?” a lightly accented bass baritone voice said finally.
“Seth?” she practically sobbed in relief.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s Sarah. Sarah Bingham. Roland needs your help. I think he’s dying.”
A giant of a man suddenly appeared before her out of thin air.
Sarah shrieked and dropped the phone.
“What happened?” he asked.
Gaping up at him, she couldn’t find her voice … which, in the end, wasn’t necessary. As soon as he turned his head, he saw Marcus and Roland laid out on the ground and swore fluently.
He was quite an imposing figure. Standing over six and a half feet tall, he had broad shoulders and a slender, yet muscular, athletic build. His face was utterly flawless. Not too rugged. Not too pretty. Strong jaw. Patrician nose. No wrinkles or sagging skin or anything else she would think the oldest Immortal Guardian would sport.
Even more astonishing, his dark clothing was wet with blood and riddled with twice as many bullet holes as Roland’s.
What the hell?
As he knelt between Marcus and Roland, who looked frighteningly close to death, his dark coat pooled around him and his long black hair fell forward to brush the ground.
“You are Seth, right?” she asked when she could speak again.
“Yes.” Peering through the trees at the flames swallowing Roland’s house, he said, “As succinctly as possible, tell me what happened.”
“The vampire who staked Roland to the ground led another attack on us last night, then sent roughly a dozen men—humans—to finish the job today. I saw Roland follow one outside. The man set the house on fire. I assume Roland killed him. The others are all dead inside.”
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
He rested one of his large hands on Marcus’s chest, then held the other out to her. “Take my hand, Sarah.”
Roland seemed to trust this man, so Sarah decided she would, too.
Scrambling forward on her knees, she took his hand.
“Now, touch Roland.”
She had no idea if this was a healing ritual or what, but obediently rested her hand on Roland’s chest.
Seth’s dark, enigmatic gaze caught and held hers. “You may find this a little disorienting.”
Find what disorienting?
A feeling of weightlessness similar to that which one experiences in an elevator swept over her. Gripping Roland’s T-shirt tightly, she abruptly found herself in complete darkness.
Lights flickered on and Sarah stared in astonishment at the spacious living room that had inexplicably replaced the trees.
Plush cream carpet provided a kinder bed for Roland and Marcus than the hard ground previously had. The scent of vanilla replaced that of smoke.
Seth released her hand and pulled a cell phone from his back pocket. As he dialed a number and held it to his ear, Sarah stared down at Roland.
His face was so blistered and bloody, he was nearly unrecognizable.
Taking one of his hands in hers, she gently stroked his sweat-dampened hair. The lump in his shirt moved and wriggled its way up to the neckline. A second later, Nietzsche’s tousled head poked out beneath Roland’s chin.
“Hi there,” Sarah whispered, still fighting tears. “You okay, Nietzsche?”
The little cat looked around, wormed the rest of its body out of the T-shirt, then darted away to hide under a nearby chair.
Sarah lowered her gaze to Roland. The rise and fall of his chest was barely detectable, the time between breaths so long she feared each one may have been his last.
