Darkness Dawns

Chapter 2

Still tucked under his arm, Sarah ushered him into a small, spotless kitchen. “Who were those guys? Why did they do this to you?”

His sore feet soothed by the cold wood floor, Roland opted not to answer and instead took in the adjoining living room.

Of average size, it was divided into two areas. One half housed exercise equipment: an inclined sit-up bench, a treadmill, a spincycle, and a Total Gym. The other boasted a black futon with solid red and white throw pillows, a glass coffee table with a matching entertainment center, and tall black bookshelves full of DVDs, VHS tapes, and books. Black curtains covered the windows and blocked out the morning light. Several modern paintings that immediately appealed to him adorned the white walls. Strategically placed about the room in black wrought-iron stands, a dozen or so large houseplants formed splashes of color and lent the room a warm, cozy feel.

Sarah moved past him and ducked through a doorway into a miniscule bathroom. When she emerged, she carried a stack of towels in her arms.

All but one she tossed on the futon. The last—a large white one—she shook out as she approached him. Her gaze met his, then flickered away as a blush once more climbed her cheeks. Stepping close to him, she wrapped the towel around his lower body and tucked the ends in at his waist, sarong-style.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.” Staring up at him with concern, she gently grasped his elbow. “Come sit down.”

Roland let her lead him to the futon and sank down onto the surprisingly comfortable cushion. His head began to throb unmercifully.

“I’ll call 911,” she said, moving away, “then see what I can do to—”

Roland grabbed her wrist, hissing when his mutilated hand protested.

Her head snapped around. “What is it?”

“You can’t.”

Her forehead crinkled beneath the bill of her cap. “Can’t what?”

“Call 911.”

Her gaze turning wary, she twisted her arm to free her wrist and backed away. “Why? Are you wanted by the police?”

“No.”

Hell. What was he supposed to say? It had been so long since he had spoken to any human who wasn’t a cashier in a grocery store that he didn’t have an explanation readily available.

He couldn’t tell her the truth: that he was an immortal who had been led into an ambush by the vampire he had been hunting. She would think him insane.

Yet he had to tell her something.

What was that bullshit line Marcus fed his human friends?

“I’m with the CIA.” That was it. “If you call 911, you’ll blow four years of undercover work.”

“CIA?” she parroted doubtfully.

He didn’t blame her. It sounded ridiculous. How the hell did Marcus make that crap fly? “Yes.”

“Why would calling 911 blow your cover?”

“The men who tried to kill me think I’m an illegal arms dealer wanted by the FBI. If—”

“How do I know you aren’t an illegal arms dealer wanted by the FBI?”

Roland wanted to moan with frustration. Hunger and the need for blood twisted his insides into knots and the pain of his injuries constantly clawed at him, making it hard to think straight.

“If you’re asking if I have ID that proves I’m CIA, carrying that sort of thing around when I’m undercover isn’t exactly feasible.”

She nibbled her full lower lip. “I suppose that’s true.”

“If it will ease your mind, I’ll call my handler and he can confirm who I am.” Hopefully Seth, the leader of the Immortal Guardians, would catch on fast and play along. Or maybe come up with something better. Roland just wasn’t up to the task himself. “He’s going to have to send someone in to extract me anyway.” And would no doubt use this as an excuse to lecture him again about his refusal to have a Second.

Seconds (a rather outdated term, he supposed) were humans who protected immortals like himself during the day and generally came to their aid whenever they needed it. They and the rest of the human network Seth had fostered also helped hide the existence of immortals, vampires, and gifted ones from the general public by presenting facades of normalcy and providing a number of other services.

Seth required every Immortal Guardian to have a Second. Roland, however, steadfastly refused. It was the only issue over which he had ever butted heads with Seth, whom no one sane would ever want to piss off. The eldest amongst them, the immortal leader was so powerful he could walk in daylight without suffering any adverse effects at all. He possessed abilities the rest of them lacked that could make even Roland’s hair stand on end. And had. On more than one occasion.

When it came to this, however, Roland absolutely would not capitulate. Anything else Seth asked of him he would do. He owed the man a great deal and would not hesitate to die for him if need be. But welcome a Second into his home and give him his trust?

No way.

The dozen or more poor sods who had been sent to him over the years as his Second had all left … eagerly … of their own free will within twenty-four hours and damned near wet their pants in fear if they ran into Roland again later, so Seth had long ago stopped sending them.

The issue remained a contentious one, though.

Roland watched as Sarah crossed to the entertainment center and retrieved a black telephone. The cord trailing after her, she returned and set it beside him on the futon.

“No cell phone?” he asked curiously. It seemed as though everyone and their grandmother had one these days.

She smiled wryly. “No, I like my brain the way it is—tumor free—and plan to keep it that way, thank you.”

“The phone companies claim they’re safe.”

She snorted. “And cigarette companies claimed cigarettes were safe. I think I’ll listen to the neurologists who don’t profit from the product sales and stick to landlines.”

Fortunately, as an immortal, he didn’t have to worry about that sort of thing.

When he would have picked up the phone’s receiver, Sarah stopped him. “Use the speakerphone. I’ve seen too many news reports about criminals who posed as law enforcement officials to gain their victim’s trust and would like to hear for myself that you are who you say you are.”

That would make this a bit trickier.

Roland pressed the speakerphone button and dialed Seth’s cell number.

As he watched, Sarah knelt on the floor beside him, pulled off her baseball cap, and ran a careless hand through her hair. A lovely dark chocolate brown that contrasted vividly with her alabaster skin, it fell in shining, subtle waves down to her waist.

“You have beautiful hair,” he told her as she picked up one of the discarded towels and pressed it to the stab wounds in his abdomen.

A masculine throat cleared. “Roland?”

That could not possibly be a blush he felt climbing his cheeks at the sound of the immortal leader’s deep, accented voice. He hadn’t blushed since his days as a squire. “Yes.”

“What—are you high? You just told me my hair is beautiful.”

From the corner of his eye, Roland saw Sarah unsuccessfully attempt to stifle a smile. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he grumbled.

“Uh-huh. So, what’s wrong?”

Sarah leaned forward to whisper, “How does he know something is wrong?”

Seth answered for him. “Because he only calls me when he’s desperate. Who is that you have with you, Roland?”

“Sarah,” she answered for him.

“That explains the caller ID.”

“Who might you be?” she asked.

“Seth.”

“And what is the nature of your relationship with Roland?”

There was just no way this was going to go well.

“I suppose you might call me his boss,” Seth said slowly. “Why?”

“Something has come up,” Roland interjected before Sarah could ask any more questions.

“Clearly,” came his dry reply. “Are you injured?”

He glanced down at himself. “Yyyeah. A little bit.”

Sarah’s mouth fell open. “A little bit?” she repeated incredulously. “There are two-foot-long spikes sticking out of your hands!”

“Actually, they’re more like a foot and a half.”

“Roland, are you all right?” Seth asked, concern coloring his voice.

“Yes.”

“No, he isn’t,” Sarah insisted. “He needs medical attention but he doesn’t want me to call 911.”

Seth, Roland thought, if you can hear me, I told her I’m a CIA agent working undercover, posing as an illegal arms dealer, and can’t call 911 because it would blow four years of undercover work.

Several seconds of silence ticked by while he waited and hoped for a response.

That is so weak.

Both relieved and astounded that Seth could truly read his thoughts over long distance (the man was just too freakin’ powerful), Roland responded rather belligerently, Well, it works for Marcus.

Marcus doesn’t tell mortals he’s CIA. He leads them toward drawing the conclusion themselves.

“Have you taken this woman into your confidence, Roland?” Seth spoke aloud.

“I have. She saved my life.”

“Then you have the CIA’s gratitude, ma’am. However, I must ask that you comply with his wishes. If you call for an ambulance, the police will get involved and four years of undercover work will go down the drain.”

Disbelief washed across her pretty features. “Did you not hear me mention that they drove metal spikes through both of his hands?”

“Roland, explain.”

He drew in a deep breath, wincing at the pain in his cracked ribs. “I was tracking a potential buyer”—vamp—“and was basically led into an ambush that included six of his colleagues.” There were seven vampires plus two human minions. I took out four of the vamps and seriously injured two others before they staked me to the ground and left the minions to guard me until the sun rose. Had Sarah not come along when she did and freed me, I’d be toast.

“An ambush,” Seth muttered thoughtfully.

“It was a very well-orchestrated attack.” Have you ever heard of vampires doing such?

No. I’ve seen them travel in pairs, occasionally even threes, but—because of the madness that gradually afflicts them all—most prefer solitude.

“Something isn’t right, Seth. I don’t think this was an isolated incident.” The last vamp standing took a sample of my blood. It seemed to be the entire purpose of their attack. They knew who I was, that I was an immortal, before I ever confronted the bait vampire. How is that possible?

Were it another immortal, I might think you had simply been careless. But I know how paranoid you are and how meticulously you guard your privacy. The fact that so many vampires are living together—let alone investigating, plotting, and planning attacks—is unheard of.

“I would join you and get to the bottom of this, but I can’t,” Seth said, his voice grim. “I have a situation here that requires my full attention.”

Roland was not surprised. The leader of the Immortal Guardians frequently had his hands full. “No problem. I’ll look into it myself.”

“Um, hello?” Sarah called. “Are you people insane? You aren’t going to be able to look into anything at all if you bleed to death on my futon.”

How bad are your wounds?

I’ve stopped the bleeding, but they aren’t healing. I could really use some blood.

Too bad you don’t have a Second who could bring you some.

Roland ground his teeth. “What is David’s number? I’ll call him and see if he’ll let me borrow Darnell for a few hours.”

David was a fellow immortal, Darnell his Second. And, as luck would have it, they lived only an hour away.

“David can’t help you. He and Darnell are here in Texas with me.”

That gave him pause. Whereas Roland had lived centuries, David had lived millennia. The second-oldest immortal, David enjoyed powers that only Seth’s exceeded.

Sending for David was tantamount to calling in the big guns.

“David is with you?”

“Yes.”

Forcing his fingers to do his bidding, Roland picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear.

Sarah started to protest but quieted when he touched her shoulder in a silent bid for leniency.

“What kind of situation are we talking, Seth? Do you need my help?”

“No, David and I can handle it.”

“Are you sure? I can put this on hold and be there in a few hours.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I would prefer that you remain there and see what you can uncover.”

“All right.”

Sarah pursed her lips, raised one dark eyebrow, and looked pointedly at the phone.

Returning the receiver to its cradle, Roland switched back to speakerphone.

Sarah couldn’t believe the man had just offered to fly to Texas to aid his boss, who clearly was also a good friend, when he sat before her covered in blood and ravaged by wounds that would make anyone with a weaker stomach than hers vomit.

That was loyalty. That was dedication.

Two qualities that seemed regrettably rare nowadays.

She studied Roland curiously. If he had opened the telephone conversation by saying, Hey, Seth, do me a favor and tell this woman I really am a CIA agent, she would have remained skeptical. But Seth had confirmed his status as an undercover agent—as well as the length of time he had been working this case—with no verbal hints from Roland, so she was inclined to believe him.

Besides, foolish though it may be, she wanted to believe him.

The fingers of one of his hands still rested on her shoulder, the spike carefully angled away from her face.

How could he stand it? How could he bear such horrific wounds so casually? So stoically? And what exactly did he plan to do about them if he didn’t intend to call 911?

“Who else can I call?” Roland asked. His words carried a British accent.

“Marcus.” Seth’s accent wasn’t as easy to identify.

Roland’s forehead, speckled with blood, crinkled in a frown. “How is that going to help me? Marcus is in Houston.”

“Not anymore. I transferred him to North Carolina last month. He’s staying just outside of Greensboro.”

“He is?”

The news seemed to please him.

Sarah peeled back the towel she held to his stomach, relieved to see that the stab wounds no longer bled. On the outside. Was he bleeding internally?

“Who is his Second?”

“What’s a Second?” she whispered.

Roland lowered his voice. “It’s like a partner whose sole duty is to watch your back throughout your investigation.”

“Oh.” Where had Roland’s Second been this morning? It didn’t look as though anyone had been watching his back. Other than her. And she had just stumbled onto the scene.

“Marcus doesn’t have a Second,” Seth said. “And before you say anything, he wasn’t assigned one because Marcus is dangerous to be around right now. You simply refused one because you’re antisocial.”

Roland scowled. “I’m not antisocial. I just want to be left alone.”

Sarah must have made some sound of amusement, because Roland met her gaze, then smiled sheepishly.

Her heart gave a little flutter.

Even with his face smeared with blood and dirt, he was attractive.

Then he frowned. “Wait. What makes you think Marcus is dangerous?”

“His behavior has grown erratic of late. I’m afraid any Second I place with him will quickly end up dead. Lisette is still in the area, though, and has a very competent Second. Would you prefer to call her?”

“No, just give me Marcus’s number.”

Sarah released her hold on the towel and picked up the pen and small tablet she kept on the coffee table. As Seth dictated the number, she wrote it down with Marcus’s name beside it.

Roland thanked Seth. “Don’t forget to call me if you need reinforcements.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just see what you can find out. And keep Sarah safe.”

Sarah’s stomach sank. Keep her safe?

Roland pressed the speakerphone button to hang up.

Her gaze met his.

The truth lay in his troubled, dark brown eyes.

“He thinks they’re going to come after me for helping you, doesn’t he?”

She thought she caught a flash of guilt before he looked away, down at his stomach, then at his hand.

When he spoke, his voice was hushed, weary. “Sarah, would you please clean these spikes up for me so I can remove them?”

Swallowing hard, she nodded and rose.

As Roland stood, the white towel loosened and started to fall. She hastily grabbed it and resecured the ends at his narrow waist.

“Thank you.”

Again Sarah nodded and led him over to the kitchen sink.

He was so polite … in a gruff sort of way. It just made all of this seem that much more surreal.

Turning on the cold tap, she picked up the hand sprayer and began to carefully rinse the dirt, roots, and other crud off the long, pointed length of metal protruding from the back of his right hand.

It just couldn’t be real. Any of it.

The violent struggle that had left this man staked to the ground in the field.

Her knocking two men unconscious with a shovel.

The frantic race for shelter.

His refusal of medical attention.

Finding out the sickos who had done this to him would now be after her.

It was all a bad dream, right? One of those really nasty nightmares in which you knew you were dreaming and needed to wake up, but couldn’t?

Roland sucked in a breath through clenched teeth when the cool water made contact with his wound.

“Should I pour alcohol or witch hazel on it to disinfect it?” she asked, reluctant to hurt him more.

Adam’s apple bobbing, he shook his head. “Soap and water will do.”

Sarah obligingly poured dish liquid onto her hands and lathered up the spike.

Its surface wasn’t smooth as she had thought. Rather, it abraded her skin like coarse-grained sandpaper, making it sting.

As soon as she finished rinsing the spike clean and turned off the water, Roland grabbed the horizontal bar wedged against his palm and tensed.

“Wait!” she practically shouted.

He looked at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Stomach clenching, she stared up at him with pleading eyes. “There’s a clinic just fifteen miles away from here. I can—”

He started to pull. Lips drawing back from his teeth in a grimace, he emitted a long, bestial growl that made the hair on the back of her neck rise.

Sarah clapped her hands over her mouth to suppress a horrified cry.

When the spike slid free, crimson liquid began to pour from the large puncture wound left behind, dripping into the sink.

Unrolling several sections of paper towel, she folded them and wrapped them tightly around and around his hand.

“That’s fine,” he said hoarsely, holding the makeshift bandage in place with his thumb. “Now the other one.”

Turning the cold water on again, she began to rinse the second spike. The first, still wet with Roland’s blood, lay in the sink, where he had dropped it.

Her hands started to quake. The rest of her followed suit until her whole body trembled so violently Sarah thought she might shatter.

After shutting off the tap, she reeled off several more sections of paper towel and watched him remove the last spike.

The tendons on his neck stood out. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Yet Roland made no sound as the metal came free.

Sarah blinked back tears as she wrapped his hand.

He hadn’t wanted to upset her. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. He had seen how removing the first spike had shaken her and hadn’t wanted to make it worse, so he had borne the pain silently.

Agony radiating from seemingly every cell in his body, Roland stared at Sarah’s bent head. He could see her shaking, the rapid movement of her long lashes as she fought back tears.

She had been such a trouper about all of this. Strong. Fearless. Doing anything he asked of her no matter how difficult.

To see her suffering now with that glimmer of moisture on her pale cheeks tore at his fossilized heart.

Staring at her helplessly, he found himself at a loss as to how he might comfort her. He couldn’t remember ever being confronted by a weeping woman. At least not one he knew or gave a damn about. Certainly not one who had helped him at such great risk to herself.

A sniffle escaped her as she finished wrapping his hand.

Unable to bear it, Roland reached out, tore off another paper towel, and, ignoring the sting of it, wiped as much of the blood and dirt from his chest as he could. After tossing the soiled paper towel into the sink, he hesitated briefly, then drew Sarah close, wrapped his arms around her, and awkwardly patted her back.

“Don’t hurt your hands,” she cautioned, her voice warbling slightly as she rested her face against his chest and slid her arms around his waist.

Unbelievable. Even as her tears dampened his skin, she looked out for him.

Him. A total stranger.

“I’m more concerned about you than my hands,” he admitted.

“I’m okay,” she said. “It’s just been a very … nerve-racking morning.”

Roland held her tighter. “And it isn’t even 7 a.m.”

She groaned. “That’s just not right.”

Closing his eyes, he rested his chin atop her hair and let his senses feast upon her. Her scent was a pleasant blend of woman, baby powder, and sunscreen. Her warm body, pressed to his, seemed fragile in comparison to his own bulk and strength.

Though thin, she was by no means built like the emaciated models and actresses other men inexplicably preferred. The breasts brushing his chest and interfering with his ability to moderate his pulse were enticingly full, her waist tiny, her hips nicely rounded, her thighs slender, but not sticklike in the worn sweatpants that hugged them.

Her small, almost childlike hands remained motionless on his back as if she feared moving them might hurt him.

Most likely it would. His back sported as many lacerations and bruises as the rest of him. She simply hadn’t had time to notice them yet, what with the spikes.

Roland was glad she didn’t know. If she did, she wouldn’t be holding him like this, with such tenderness and trust. When was the last time a woman had done so?

Centuries surely. It felt … foreign to him.

Having been betrayed one time too many, Roland had long ago given up on relationships. When the strain of celibacy grew too much, he simply sought out prostitutes or women looking for one-night stands and allowed them to sate his needs.

Those women never held him like this, though. Only two women had embraced him so tenderly. And he didn’t care to think of that right now.

In truth, he found it more and more difficult to think at all. Every inch of his body either ached, stung, throbbed, or burned. His head swam. His vision started to blur. His stomach churned.

Strangely, Sarah’s presence, the comfort of her embrace, helped him distance himself from it all.

Gradually, her tremors subsided, as did her tears.

Sighing, she released him and eased a step away.

As Roland withdrew his large, hastily bandaged hands, he swayed and realized, to his dismay, that she had been anchoring him and helping him remain upright.

Several long strands of her hair clung to the stubble on his jaw. Reaching up, he gently disentangled them.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to fall apart on you.”

He shook his head, alarmed when the small movement made the kitchen around him tilt and roll. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry you were dragged into all of this.”

She nodded, her expression filled with anxiety.

Roland cupped her face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs across her soft, damp cheeks. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Sarah. I vow it.”

Heart pounding, Sarah held his earnest gaze. His touch, his nearness, began to stir her in a wholly unexpected way. He stood before her, his gorgeous body riddled with severe wounds, and suddenly all she could think about was what it would feel like if he kissed her.

What is wrong with me?

Something dark flared in his eyes. One of his thumbs slid down her cheek to caress the corner of her mouth.

His head dipped. Her breath stopped. Anticipation rose.

Her lips a hair away from tasting his, Sarah heard a rustling sound followed by a soft thump. She glanced down, then swiftly up again as she realized the towel wrapped around his waist had fallen to the floor.

Emitting a sigh, Roland lowered his hands. “It’s going to be one of those days,” he said with a look of such pained chagrin that Sarah had to smile.

As he bent over to retrieve the towel, he listed to one side and would have fallen had he not reached for her. The moment his hand made rough contact with her shoulder, he cried out and yanked it back. His balance faltered.

Gasping, Sarah threw her arms around him and tried to steady him.

He staggered. She staggered with him.

Jeeze, he weighed a ton! Six foot one or two, maybe two hundred pounds of muscle. She would never be able to get him up off the floor if he fainted!

Finding it a lot harder to support him when he reeled away from her, she drew his upper body toward her, took two steps back, and leaned all of her weight into him to prop him up.

Success! They were both still on their feet.

This time, when Roland’s arms closed around her, he carefully avoided touching her with his hands. “Sarah,” he rasped.

“Yes?”

He blinked hard and stared over her shoulder, his gaze unfocused. “If I pass out and you can’t wake me up—”

Oh crap.

“—wait until an hour before sunset, then call Marcus.”

“Shouldn’t we call him now?”

“No, he won’t …” Roland’s dark eyes started to roll back in his head.

“No, no, no! Don’t pass out on me! We have to get you to the futon!”

He blinked sluggishly when she shook him.

Hurriedly maneuvering them so her back was to the futon, she began shuffling toward it, dragging him with her.

He took one step, two, three, then his knees buckled and his weight sank down on her, pulling her toward the floor.

Swearing, unable to keep him upright, she twisted and shoved him away from her as hard as she could. The not-very-controlled fall that resulted landed him on his back on the futon with most of his legs hanging over the metal arm closest to her.

Whew!

That had been pure dumb luck.

“Roland?”

Rounding the futon, she leaned over him and patted one stubbled cheek. “Roland?”

Nothing.

He was definitely out for the count.

High above Houston, Texas, two figures stood on the roof of Williams Tower, the toes of their boots inches from the edge. Sixty-four stories high, the building loomed over the normally bustling Galleria area and was lauded as the tallest building in the country located outside of a city’s urban core. Soon the sun would rise and sparkle off the countless windows of the steel and glass structure as though reflected in a gargantuan mirror. At its base, a large horseshoe-shaped multistory wall of water glowed amid the fading darkness.

Had the two imposing men currently positioned near the building’s peak have instead stoodonthe street, they would have attracted unwanted attention despite the decreased activity predawn Sunday mornings generally heralded. One was six foot eight with a golden tan, wavy black hair that fell to his waist, and beautiful patrician features that inspired many a female double take. The other wasaninch shorter with similar patrician features but had skin as dark as midnight and masses of pencil-thin dreadlocks that reached his hips. He, too, drew many admiring feminine gazes and caused hearts to flutter.

Both were clad all in black, wore leather urban dusters, and were fatigued from two long days and nights of searching.

Frowning, the taller of the two returned his cell phone to his pocket and mulled over all that Roland had told him.

“This is an interesting turn of events,” his friend commented in a faint Egyptian accent.

“Yes.” David possessed the preternaturally enhanced senses all immortals boasted and would have heard both sides of the conversation. Not just Seth’s.

“Is this an isolated incident, or have you received other such calls?”

“So far it’s isolated.” But his gut told Seth it was only the beginning. “I don’t like it. Usually when people band together to hunt and destroy us they are human, not vampire. Never vampire.”

David nodded somberly. “Change is in the wind.” He stared toward the west. “Do you think the attack on Roland is in any way related to this?”

This referred to the situation Seth had mentioned to Roland.

“No, this is something different.”

There were roughly five and a half million people living in the Houston metropolitan area. A population that large, pervaded with crime, tended to draw a greater number of vampires. Currently, half a dozen immortals stationed around the city guarded the humans, hunting down the vamps who would make them their prey.

About a month ago, those immortals had begun to call Seth—one by one—and tell him there was a funny feeling in the air, puzzled because they could not pin down its origins.

Seth had been overseas at the time. Vampires were taking advantage of the violence and genocide afflicting Sudan and had dramatically increased their presence there. The immortals stationed in and around Darfur were having a tough time curbing the vamps’ population and he had been lending them a hand.

As there had been no emergency, Seth had been reluctant to leave—even briefly—and had advised the Houston contingent to find out what they could and keep him posted.

They had found nothing. There had been no escalation in vampire activity. No escalation in human-on-human violence. Yet the feeling had remained. When Seth had asked them to describe it, they had all responded the same way: that it was as if the sound of fingernails scouring a chalkboard were being broadcast on a frequency too low or too high for them to hear, but nevertheless affected their bodies, leaving them feeling anxious. Every day the volume increased incrementally, as did their anxiety.

Both curious and concerned, he had ordered another Immortal Guardian to take his place in Sudan, then teleported to Houston to check it out. Seth possessed all of the gifts unique to immortals (who usually only had one or two) combined, as well as some the others lacked. But his were much stronger. As a result, upon his arrival he had heard what they had been unable to: a woman screaming in agony and, presumably, begging for help. She communicated telepathically on a frequency the other immortals could barely sense, none of those in the city being capable of telepathy.

She spoke a language he couldn’t understand, which was odd. He pretty much knew them all, both current and ancient. None enabled him to garner her location, though he thought she could hear him, because her screams would dim down to whimpers whenever he attempted to communicate with her.

Knowing he would find her sooner with someone else who could hear her, he had summoned David.

“Is it me,” David asked in his deep, mellifluous voice, “or did Roland sound rather taken with his rescuer?”

“It isn’t you. I heard it, too.”

“I hope she doesn’t distract him too much.”

Seth shook his head. “Roland is a professional.”

David’s lips quirked. “And antisocial, as you said. The poor woman probably can’t wait to be rid of him.”

If the mystery woman weren’t screaming in his head, Seth would have laughed. He closed his eyes and tried yet again to hone in on her location as the already hot Texas breeze buffeted him.

“You were right,” David murmured beside him. “It’s coming from the west.”

Seth opened his eyes and looked to his friend. “I’ll go southwest. You go northwest and let us see if we cannot narrow it down.”

David nodded. “She is weakening. Can you hear it?”

“Yes. I fear she will die if we do not find her soon.”

“I’ll search as long as I can, then let you know when I seek shelter.” As one of the oldest and strongest immortals, David could withstand several hours of sunlight. Most could withstand only minutes.

“And I will continue searching throughout the day.”

“You should rest.”

“Not until I find her.”

“Very well. I will rise as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Ready to begin their search once more, the two stepped off the edge of the roof.