He could appreciate why Roland now tended to become rather pissy before a confrontation with vampires. Considering his irascible nature, most wouldn’t have noticed a difference. But Marcus knew him well. Even so, he couldn’t have been more surprised by Roland’s answer when he’d questioned him about it.
It’s fucking nerves. Can you believe it? Nine hundred years on the planet, almost as many years spent dispatching vampires on a nightly basis, and now I feel a nervousness that borders on fear.
Why? You’ve never stressed over fighting vampires before.
I’ve never had anything to lose before. What I have with Sarah … I don’t ever want anything to jeopardize that, Marcus. I don’t ever want to lose her. Yet, each night we go out and hunt an ever-increasing number of vampires together, and any one of them could get in a lucky strike.
Footsteps approached.
Marcus fought the urge to move closer to Ami, to reach out and shove her behind him. He couldn’t bear the thought of her getting hurt again and was comforted only by the knowledge that Roland was a powerful healer who could mend all but the most severe wounds if this all went to shit.
It also eased his anxiety a bit to know that Richart was only moments away, ready to teleport in and whisk her to safety if Marcus should order it.
The trees across the clearing parted. Three figures stepped into the moonlight: Roy, flanked on either side by vampires who looked as if their image should grace a frat house’s Facebook page. Golden hair cut short. Pretty boy faces. Fucking lettermen jackets of all things.
Roy himself looked like any number of twenty-year-olds dressed in a hoodie with the hood down, except his jeans weren’t four sizes too large. (It was a little hard to fight when the waist of your pants hung beneath your ass and the crotch was down by your knees.) The uncertainty he had displayed last night was gone, replaced by a smug confidence that—as far as Marcus was concerned—confirmed their suspicions that this was a setup.
Bold as brass, the three vamps strode to the center of the clearing and stopped, legs planted shoulder’s width apart.
Three vampires. Four heartbeats.
His hand still resting on Ami’s back, Marcus tapped her four times with his index finger to warn her a fourth was in hiding, then withdrew and rested his palms on the hilts of his short swords. “I thought this was supposed to be a private meeting,” he drawled, strolling forward.
Roland and Ami followed at his elbows.
Roy shrugged. “Insurance. Can’t blame me for being careful, can you? Besides, if he’s who you say he is,” he nodded at Roland, “then maybe he can help all three of us.”
Marcus stopped a few yards away from them.
The vamps focused their attention on Roland.
“Are you Bastien?” Roy asked.
“Yes,” Roland lied.
Roy slid his gaze to Marcus and Ami. “I thought you wanted Roland and Sarah dead.”
Roland offered Roy a grim smile. “Who says that desire has changed?”
“You’re here with them, aren’t you? Why are you siding with the immortals now?”
“Because I’m immortal, not vampire, a slight misunderstanding the one who transformed me failed to clarify.”
Roy slipped his hand into one of the front pockets of his hoodie and clutched something small secreted away there.
Marcus tensed.
“So now you hunt vampires like me?” Roy’s eyes began to glow.
“Only those who kill indiscriminately, turn humans against their will, and do not desire my help. If you fall into that category, so be it.”
That probably could have been phrased better.
Roy smiled, expectation seeping into his countenance. “So be it.” The hand in his hoodie jerked.
The ground beneath their feet shook with a sudden explosion.
Dirt, rock, and clods of dormant grasses and weeds spewed into the air like geysers as vampires burst from the earth all around them.
What the hell?
Marcus whipped his swords from their sheaths as Roy and his companions drew blades and leapt forward, eyes flashing, lips pulling back in snarls that revealed descending fangs.
Roland and Ami spun in tandem, putting their backs to his. Marcus swung, deflecting the frat boys’ long, bulky machetes. Roland began hurling throwing stars with the speed and power of a crossbow launching an arrow. Gunshots split the night, drowning out shouts and cries of pain as Ami drew her Glocks and fired.
All around them, vampires poured from dirt craters like cockroaches from the sewers. They must have breached the buried tunnels of Bastien’s lair. Breached them, cleared them out, then rigged the soil above them with explosives to blow holes that would allow the ground to vomit them forth like lava.
The scents of men Roland and Marcus had smelled had been faint because they had been crammed into the tunnels underground, waiting to catch the trio off guard. Dozens and dozens and dozens …
One of the frat boys fell back when Marcus drew first blood. Roy’s broadsword—a weapon rarely found amongst the vampire ranks—sliced through Marcus’s shirt and bisected the flesh of his shoulder.
Growling, Marcus put all of his strength behind his next swing, deflecting the blow meant to sever his head and snapping Roy’s blade in two.
Roy’s mouth fell open as he stumbled back.
Dumb ass. That’s what happened when you purchased weapons off of cable shopping networks. Marcus’s weapons were centuries old and had been handcrafted by master bladesmiths. The weapons created today for amateur collectors were flimsy by comparison.
Marcus delivered a death blow before Roy could recoup, then puckered his lips and emitted a sharp, ear-piercing whistle.
One of Ami’s Glocks fell silent. He heard a clip hit the ground, followed by a new one being slammed home and ripped from its Velcro anchor. The other Glock fell silent even as she advanced the first bullet into the chamber and recommenced firing the first.
Marcus’s heart pounded as he listened intently, taking out first one frat boy, then the other with relative ease. Half a dozen more vampires took their place.
Roland’s sais, already coated in blood, flashed in Marcus’s peripheral vision.
Ami’s second Glock resumed fire. Blood spattered the back of Marcus’s neck, alerting him to how close she had come to being overridden while reloading.
Damn it! Where were—
Richart appeared behind Marcus’s current opponent and drove a dagger into his heart. As the vampire dropped, Richart vanished.
A blade sank into Marcus’s thigh.
Grunting, he impaled the vampire who dared wield it.
Richart reappeared three yards away, his back to Marcus, daggers still in hand. Two of the vampires racing toward Marcus jerked to a halt as Richart’s blades sank into their throats. Richart disappeared again as they fell to the ground.
Marcus grinned. He had never fought beside Richart before and had to admire his style.
Chaos rippled through the vampire army. No longer so confident, the vamps began to divide their attention between fighting Marcus, Roland, and Ami and looking around wildly for the figure that kept appearing and disappearing in their midst like the Grim Reaper culling souls.
Marcus seized the advantage, remaining in perpetual motion as vampires continued to scramble forth from the earth.
Chapter 13
Kneeling, Ami ejected an empty clip and slammed the Glock down on the last full clip on her reloading blocks. She never ceased firing the Glock in her right hand as she used her shoe to rack the slide of the Glock in her left, then rose. Every time a vampire went down, another one or two took his place. Even with Étienne, Lisette, Richart, and Sarah now tossed into the mix, they seemed to be making little headway.
Richart appeared several yards away and hissed in pain as the bullet meant for the vampire he slew instead sank into his shoulder.
Horrified, Ami gasped, then jerked back when a vamp took advantage of her hesitation and tried to gut her. The long bowie knife he wielded sliced across her middle, carving a shallow cut from one side of her waist to the other.
Richart disappeared again as Ami’s back hit Marcus’s. Gritting her teeth against the fiery sting radiating outward from the wound, she squeezed the trigger, targeted the major arteries of the vamps closest to her, and struggled to remain on her feet.
“Ami?” Marcus bellowed.
“I’m okay,” she called back, shaken.
The 9mm in her right hand fell empty. Out of clips, Ami holstered it, stepped forward, reached over her shoulder, and drew a katana. The other Glock emptied. Ami holstered it, too, and drew the second katana as she brought the first one down. The vampire in front of her jumped back, tripped over a decaying vamp at his feet, and impaled himself on one of his compatriot’s blades.
Her back safely guarded, Ami concentrated on keeping her breath deep and even as she swung the katanas without pause in the pattern Seth and David had taught her.
These vampires, like the others, thought to easily defeat her. It was all that worked in her favor, because she could match neither their strength nor speed.
Despite her best efforts, Ami began to weaken as the battle continued, worn down by their powerful strikes. Another body fell at her feet. Then another. But blades steadily marked her. A shallow cut here. A deep gash there. Puncture wounds. Bruises.
A blow to the head sent her reeling toward Roland.
A large body appeared behind her. As a strong arm wrapped around her waist, another launched throwing stars with deadly efficiency.
Glancing over her shoulder, Ami offered Richart a breathless thanks.
“I’m taking you to safety,” he said, grabbing one of her katanas and wielding it against a new onslaught.
“No!” She pushed out of his hold. She would not leave without Marcus.
Marcus felt a sting—like that of a bee—in his neck at the same moment Ami cried out behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Richart was righting Ami as he swung one of her katanas.
When the other immortal told Ami he was taking her to safety, relief rushed through Marcus.
Pay attention! Étienne snapped in Marcus’s head.
Pain cut through his thigh as a sword (another one?) he failed to deflect sank deep. Marcus gritted his teeth and dispatched his opponent.
