Darkness Dawns

Chapter 6

Sarah had been flirting with consciousness ever since Roland had settled her on what felt like a very comfortable sofa.

Roland was a vampire. Marcus was, too. And she was now alone with them and terrified of what they meant to do to her. She needed to escape but had no hope of outrunning them. So she had enacted the only plan she could think of with her head pounding and sharp pains darting through her chest every time she drew in a breath: feign sleep, eavesdrop, gather information, then sneak away at the first opportunity.

The hardest part so far had been keeping her heartbeat steady and slow despite her fear and not flinching when Roland had touched her sore ribs.

Well, no. The absolute hardest part had been not freaking out when Marcus had told Roland to feed, assuming she would be the main course.

The more she listened, though, the more uncertainty crowded her. Roland didn’t sound like the soulless predator she had seen suck the blood of that goth kid in her front yard. He sounded like the nice guy she had spent the day with. The one who had let her sleep on him without copping a feel, disinclined to complain about her weight resting on his many wounds.

He sounded protective of her.

“And Seth thinks I’m unreasonable,” Marcus muttered. “She knows what we are.”

“And she’s already seen me feed once, Marcus. I don’t want her to see me do it again. She’ll be scared enough when she wakes.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Clearly you didn’t see her face when she dove for the car and screeched away.”

Inwardly, she winced. Jeeze, that sounded cowardly.

“I was preoccupied, if you’ll recall,” Marcus responded dryly. “Besides, she was only afraid because she thought you were a vampire like the others. Once you explain that you’re not, that you’re an immortal, she’ll come around.”

He wasn’t a vampire? What was an immortal?

“The way Mary did?” Roland asked dryly.

Who was Mary?

Marcus snorted. “Mary was a twit, infected by the superstitions of her time and easily influenced by others.”

“She was not a twit. She was well-educated.”

“She was a bluestocking, a student of the classics with her head in the clouds. Despite her love of books, she knew little more of the world than her female peers and, as I said, was easily influenced by others. Perhaps if she had been capable of thinking for herself, she wouldn’t have betrayed you the way she did.”

Roland grunted.

“None of that matters, anyway, because Mary and Sarah are two different people. Mary would never have hit a man in the head with a shovel to save you. Sarah did.”

Well, that made her feel better.

“Plus, I happened to see a number of paranormal romance novels on her bookshelves when we were at her place, so she may not freak out at all.”

“What do you know about romance novels?” Roland asked skeptically.

“Bethany liked them. I recognized several she had read.”

“Well, liking the fiction doesn’t mean Sarah will like the reality.”

The pain in her head increased minutely when Roland carefully prodded the left side of her forehead, then brushed her hair back.

“I don’t really care whether she likes it or not as long as she accepts it and doesn’t rat us out.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“Really? You, the king of paranoia, aren’t worried she’ll blab our secret?”

“If she did, who would believe her? She’d be locked away in a looney bin faster than she could say Nosferatu.”

“Not if she led the police here.”

“I’d make sure she couldn’t. She didn’t see the way here. A blindfold or a sedative will prevent her from seeing the way back. Or, better yet, I could have Seth pop in and transport her.”

Sarah sensed movement above her face before Roland’s hand withdrew.

“What are you doing?” He sounded surprised.

“Stopping you from doing something stupid.”

“Let go of my arm, Marcus.”

Fear surged to the surface again at that ominous warning.

“Feed first, then heal her.”

What did that mean—heal her? Heal her as in render first aid? Why was it so imperative that he feed first?

She recalled the soothing heat that had suffused her chest when he had touched her ribs moments ago. The sharp pains had vanished, as had the ache. She was once more able to take deep breaths.

What had Roland done to her?

“When she wakes, I don’t want the first thing she sees to be me holding a bag of blood to my lips,” Roland bit out.

Oh crap. He is a vampire.

“Then hurry up and feed before she wakes.”

“She’s already close. Her breathing is changing.”

She swore silently.

“Then leave the room and feed.”

“And have her wake up alone? No.”

A charged silence followed.

“Oh, man,” Marcus breathed. “You like her.”

Against her will, Sarah’s eyes flew open and sought Roland’s reaction.

He was kneeling beside her, his hair mussed and damp with perspiration around his face. The terrible wound in his neck was sealed and no longer bled. A long cut followed his jawline from his right earlobe to his chin where one of his opponents must have tried to slit his throat again and miscalculated, laying open the flesh so deeply that she feared she would see bone if she rinsed away the blood.

His shirt was saturated with the red liquid, his clothing torn in numerous places. He was also holding his left arm close to his body in a way that made her wonder if it weren’t broken.

Battered and looking no better, Marcus stood behind the sofa. In one hand, he held a bag of blood similar to those used in hospitals.

Neither man paid her any attention as they stared at each other.

Marcus looked concerned. Roland looked bitter.

“You do, don’t you?” Marcus pressed. “You like her.”

A muscle in Roland’s cheek jumped. “Don’t you think that would be rather foolish, considering?”

“Considering what—that she’s smart, pretty, and good with a gun?”

“No,” Roland said, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Considering she would have used her gun on us if you hadn’t made her promise not to. As soon as she wakes up, she’s going to run screaming for the door.”

Okay, she knew he was a vampire or whatever, but felt guilty anyway because running and screaming had been her first impulse and he looked as if he knew that and his feelings were hurt.

Marcus stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think you’re wrong.”

“Why, because you know her so well?”

“No, because you’re so distraught over her injuries and her potential fear of you that you’ve missed something pertinent I have not.”

His gaze still on Marcus, Roland brushed his fingers through her hair in what seemed an unconscious gesture of affection. “And what might that be?”

Marcus smiled smugly. “She’s been awake ever since you laid her on the sofa and has not run for the door.”

Roland’s head snapped down. His brown eyes widening when they met hers, he snatched his hand back as though afraid he would be reprimanded for daring to touch her.

Minutes passed.

The silence stretched.

Sarah cleared her throat. “Um, hi?”

He frowned. “Why aren’t you screaming?”

Why indeed? “Because my head is killing me?”

It wasn’t a lie exactly. Her head was killing her. Yet the truth was that the longer he went without baring his fangs and diving for her throat, the more calm usurped fear’s place.

Maybe she had a concussion.

“May I take a look at it?” he asked hesitantly.

She nodded, then groaned at the agony the small movement spawned.

His fingers went to her forehead.

“I don’t think it’s that one,” she whispered, afraid talking louder might make her skull explode. “I think it’s the one in back.”

His frown deepened. “Forgive me. I didn’t know there was another.” Very carefully, he eased his hand between her head and the pillow it rested upon, tunneling through her hair.

She flinched and, for a moment, thought she was going to vomit, the throbbing got so bad.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It’ll get better in just a second.”

“Roland,” Marcus warned.

“You’re going to feel a momentary warmth,” Roland continued, ignoring his friend.

What was he …?

Sarah blinked. His hand was getting hotter. And, as it did, the pain lessened. It almost felt as though he were holding a heating pad to the wound.

She looked at Marcus, who was scowling his displeasure, then at Roland again.

Was he paler than he had been a moment ago?

He slipped his hand around and covered the cut on her forehead where it had slammed into the driver’s side window.

Again that odd warmth heated her head where he touched her.

He closed his eyes. His jaw clenched.

The pain receded.

Sarah opened her mouth to thank him and ask him what he had done but ended up sucking in a startled breath instead. As she watched, an abrasion formed on the left side of his forehead high up near his hairline. It darkened, widened, swelled. A deep cut opened his flesh. Blood spilled down his cheek.

Swearing, Marcus reached down and yanked Roland’s hand away from Sarah’s face.

Roland opened his eyes. “What?” His voice was hoarse. “What happened?”

“You know what happened,” Marcus snapped, releasing him.

Roland raised a hand and gingerly probed his new wound. His fingers were wet with blood when he lowered them. “Oh.” He glanced at Sarah, then hastily wiped his hand on his shirt as though he hoped to conceal what had just taken place.

Sarah touched her own forehead and confirmed it.

No cut. No swelling. Her wound was gone.

Now Roland sported one just like it.

The large knot on the back of her head was gone, too. If she were gutsy enough to stroke the back of Roland’s head, would she find a large lump there as well?

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, voice tight with suppressed pain.

“Much better.” Her head was fine. Her ribs were fine. What had he done?

“Please, don’t be afraid, Sarah.”

“I’m not.” Her answer had been automatic and took even her by surprise.

It was true. She wasn’t afraid anymore.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Rising, Roland staggered and would have fallen into the glass coffee table had Marcus not leapt over the sofa in the blink of an eye and caught him.

Sarah sat up, heart pounding. “Roland?”

Careful not to touch his friend’s broken arm, Marcus drew the other across his shoulders and began dragging Roland toward the dining room. “I told you to feed first,” he groused in furious undertones.

Now she thought she understood why. At least in part.

Sarah stood. “Is he going to be okay?”

Marcus nodded and waved her back. “Yes, just … stay there, Sarah. We’ll be back in a moment.”

He wouldn’t feed in front of her.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked uncertainly.

“Don’t leave,” Roland whispered as they entered the small dining room and passed through it into what she assumed was the kitchen, out of her line of sight.

“Sit here,” she heard Marcus command.

The refrigerator door opened and shut.

Sarah looked around the living room, comfortably if sparsely decorated with very attractive modern furniture.

This was her chance to sneak away. Roland and Marcus had both been weakened by their wounds. Roland was even worse off after healing her, which apparently entailed transferring her wounds to his own body. Marcus was distracted, tending him. They probably wouldn’t notice she was gone for several minutes.

Sarah raised a hand to her forehead, drawing her fingers across the healthy flesh that now lay beneath the drying blood.

Don’t leave. Roland’s words had been not a warning, but a request, almost pleading.

She looked toward the kitchen.

Drawing a deep breath, hoping she would not come to regret her decision, Sarah sat down on the sofa to wait.

Roland couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t left.

He had emptied several bags of blood as quickly as possible, ears straining to hear the creak of a floorboard or the sound of the front door opening and closing or a window shattering. Anything that would indicate either a stealthy or frantic attempt at escape. He had taken a moment to rinse the blood from his face, strode through the dining area into the entrance of the living room, and …

She hadn’t left. Sarah was still there, sitting on the sofa, studying her hands.

He watched her for a moment, both relieved and puzzled.

Why wasn’t she freaking out? Did she merely feign calm in order to gain his trust so she could leave, then return later with a band of humans to kill him?

Sarah glanced over and noticed him standing there. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You look a lot better.” Unease flickered across her expressive face. “Is it because you … because you fed?”

“Yes.” No point in denying it. He felt awkward as hell admitting it, though.

“Oh.”

Oh? That’s it? “You still aren’t screaming.”

“Is that the usual reaction you get when people realize you’re, um …”

“Different? Yes, generally.”

Marcus stepped up beside him. “We also get shrieks, curses, pants wetting, bowels releasing”—Sarah grimaced—“religious recitations….”

Her eyebrows rose. “Religious recitations?”

“You know—Get thee back, you, ah …” He nudged Roland. “What was it that priest called us?”

Roland rolled his eyes. “Which one?” They had had run-ins with quite a few.

“The one in London.”

“What century?”

“Eighteenth.”

Sarah’s mouth fell open.

“The one with hair like Albert Einstein?”

“Yes.”

“Spawns of Satan.”

“Right.” Adopting a raspy, elderly man’s voice, Marcus shook his fist at Sarah and intoned dramatically, “Get thee back, ye spawns of Satan. Return thee to the bowels of hell where ye belong!” Lowering his fist, he proceeded in a normal voice. “Then he hurled numerous biblical verses at our heads as we walked away. And this after we saved his arse from a fairly nasty vampire he had mistaken for a poor parishioner.” He shrugged. “But screaming is by far the most common reaction, from both men and women.”

She looked a bit flabbergasted. “Uh-huh.”

Marcus clapped his hands together. “Well, Sarah is conscious and calm.” He turned to Roland. “You no longer appear to be at death’s door. I could really use a shower. So, if the two of you are good, I’m going to go have a wash and lie down so my leg can heal more swiftly.”

Roland nodded, glad he would have some time alone with Sarah, though he didn’t know what to say to her. “Use the guest room. Down the hallway, second door on the right. It has a private bath.”

“You have a guest room?”

“Seth stays here occasionally.”

Marcus scowled.

“What? It’s not like I invite him. He just does it to annoy me because he knows I don’t like having other people in my home.”

Marcus looked pointedly at Sarah.

“I don’t mean you,” Roland hastily assured her. “I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you here.”

“What, did my invitation get lost in the mail?” his friend demanded acerbically.

Roland’s reluctance to trust had always rankled Marcus. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, because you needed a ride.”

Roland wondered briefly how much it would frighten Sarah if he were to throttle Marcus in front of her. “Weren’t you going to take a shower or something?” He gave him a shove in the right direction.

“All right. I’m going.”

“Call Lisette before you do and let her know what’s going on. Killing me seems to be the vamps’ primary goal, but they also appear to be interested in capturing an immortal, since he told them to take you alive.”

Marcus smiled wickedly. “The fact that they had to avoid striking a killing blow made my job much easier.”

“Lucky you.”

Chuckling, Marcus strode down the hallway, entered the guest bedroom, said, “Hey, this is nice,” and closed the door.

Roland turned back to Sarah and found her staring at him somberly. Futilely, he searched his brain for something to say that might put her at ease and—what—make her like him?

Dream on.

“I’m still not screaming,” she pointed out softly.

He felt a smile tug at his lips. “I noticed.”

She looked down at the hands resting upon her knees, palms up. “I might scream once I start picking the glass out of these cuts, though. Do you by any chance have a pair of tweezers I can borrow?”

He ducked back into the kitchen and snagged the tweezers from his first aid drawer. Adding a bowl of water and a clean towel, he rejoined Sarah in the living room.

The coffee table was glass set in a heavy wood frame with a sturdy base more than capable of supporting his weight. Roland seated himself on it directly in front of her and parked his big feet on either side of hers, knees comfortably splayed. Setting the water and towel down beside him, he leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and, arming himself with the tweezers, held his left hand out to her.

Sarah eyed the tweezers with dread but trustingly placed her right hand in his.

Damned if that didn’t make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Roland studied her palm and the underside of her fingers. There were numerous small pieces of glass embedded in her tender skin. The base of her thumb and the bend of every finger closest to their tips boasted deep cuts that looked as if they had been carved by a knife. While the other punctures, scrapes, and cuts had ceased bleeding, these five were still oozing.

He cast her a questioning look.

“When that guy landed on the car and wrecked it, I lost track of the Glock. The only other weapon I could come up with was a chunk of glass.”

“Quick thinking,” he praised. She was a fighter, kept a clear head, and didn’t give up easily. He liked that.

Positioning the tweezers over one of the bloody shards, he warned, “This is going to hurt.”

“I know. Let’s just get it over with.”

Roland plucked out the first piece of glass.

She winced as he removed another and another and another.

He hated to hurt her, but it had to be done.

“I feel like such a wuss,” she admitted as he worked, “squirming over a little thing like this when you had metal spikes driven through your hands.”

He shrugged. “I’m accustomed to such. You aren’t.”

“Are you serious? That sort of thing happens to you often?”

“Actually, no. I usually only come up against one or two opponents at a time. But even then, broken bones, deep lacerations, and gunshot wounds can result.” He double-checked her palm, made sure he had removed every sliver, then moved on to her fingers.

She jumped. “Ow! Sorry. That just slipped out.”

He shook his head. “I know how much glass can hurt.”

He had been chucked through many a window, glass door, and mirror over the centuries.

When Roland heard her heartbeat accelerate a little later, he wondered at its cause.

“So,” she broached hesitantly, “are you a vampire?”

Ah. “No, the men who attacked us were vampires.”

A moment of silence passed.

“But you have teeth like them. And their eyes glowed like yours. And I saw you drink that kid’s blood.”

She also knew he had been imbibing in the kitchen, thanks to Marcus’s lack of subtlety.

“It’s a little complicated.”

“I’m an intelligent woman.”

He smiled. “I know you are. I’m just trying to think of the best way to explain it.”

She cocked her head curiously. “Surely you’ve done it before.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, “but it’s been a long time.”

“How long?”

He thought of Mary. “Almost four centuries.”

A quick glimpse showed him wide hazel eyes.

“How old are you? Ow.”

“Sorry. Nine hundred and thirty-seven.”

“You’re 937 years old?”

“Yes.”

“You have fangs, drink blood, and have lived almost a thousand years, but you’re not a vampire.”

“Correct.”

“Explain, please.”

“Give me a moment first. I think I’ve got all the glass out of this one.”

Setting the tweezers aside, Roland sandwiched her hand between both of his and closed his eyes.

Heat built in his hands, then entered hers, seeking and healing her wounds. Pain, like needles, pricked his right palm and fingers before swiftly receding.

Opening his eyes, he relaxed his hold and bent his head to examine her hand.

Sarah did, too, leaning forward until her forehead nearly touched his, her curious expression morphing into one of fascination when she saw her cuts were wholly healed. “That’s amazing.”

Shifting so that he held her hand over the bowl of water, Roland rinsed it with the cool, clean liquid. Dirt and blood were washed away, revealing healthy flesh bereft of either wounds or scars. He dabbed her skin dry with the towel and set it aside, then trailed his fingers over her palm in languid strokes. Soft circles that widened gradually. Down the length of one finger. Up the next. Dipping in between.

He told himself he was just checking to be certain all was healed, but he really just wanted to touch her.

Her heart began to race, the sound easily detected by his immortal ears.

He raised his eyes and met hers. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” she answered, her voice a little breathless.

Not pain. “Am I scaring you?” he asked, still stroking.

“No.”

Not fear. “Your pulse is racing.”

“It is?” She licked her lips.

His eyes followed the motion, the sight of that small pink tongue moistening her full lower lip speeding his own pulse until it nearly matched hers. “My senses are heightened. I can hear it.”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t read my thoughts, can you?”

“No.”

“Thank goodness,” she whispered and his interest spiked.

“Why? What would they tell me if I could?” Something naughty, he hoped.

“Nothing.” Yet she blushed as she said it.

Gently extracting her hand from his, she pressed it to his muscled chest above his heart.

Roland sucked in a sharp breath.

“You have a heartbeat.”

He nodded, caught off-guard by her tender touch. “I’m not dead. Or undead, as I believe much of the vampire lore claims.”

She slid her hand up his chest, over his collarbone, and splayed her fingers on his neck.

The strength of the desire that small caress inspired shocked him.

“Your pulse is racing, too,” she said softly.

And it certainly wasn’t because he was afraid of her.

Although there was a hidden part of him that did fear her.

The feelings she raised in him were too intense. Too alarming. He wanted to watch over her, protect her, keep her safe. He wanted her to accept him for who and what he was.

He wanted her to like him.

It was insane. He had known her for too brief a time to be this drawn to her. This vulnerable.

He couldn’t afford such weakness.

She cupped his jaw in her tiny hand, flooding him with more of that foreign tenderness. Her thumb slid across his chin to the other side.

It was all he could do not to turn his head and bury his lips in her palm.

“Your wounds have healed.” Her gaze flickered from his neck, where Bastien had cut his throat the first time, to his jawline, where Bastien had tried again and missed, to his forehead, where her wound had opened on his body when he healed her. All three were either gone or had been reduced to scars that would fade while he slept.

“Many of them have, yes.” A few, like his broken arm and a couple of deep stab wounds, were better but would require more blood and rest to mend completely.

“But you’re not a vampire.”

“No, Marcus and I and others of our ilk prefer to be called immortals. Our human assistants call us Immortal Guardians.”

She lowered her hand and leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Whom do you guard?”

“Humanity.”

“From vampires?”

“Yes.”

Roland picked up her left hand and readied the tweezers, reluctant to begin anew and cause her more pain.

“I’m not really understanding how you differ from the vampires other than that they’re assholes and you’re not.”

He laughed. “Some of my colleagues might disagree with you on that one.”

“Then they must not know you well,” she protested, and warmth engulfed him once more.

Forcing himself to focus on the glass that sparkled like diamonds amid the blood and torn flesh of her palm, he removed a long sliver. There was a lot more of it lodged in this hand. Unlike the right, the glass was also embedded in her forearm all the way up to her elbow.

“Vampirism,” he explained, “and the characteristics associated with it are the result of a very rare parasitic virus.”

* * *

“A virus,” Sarah repeated, flinching as Roland withdrew a particularly deep shard.

“Yes.”

“What precisely are those characteristics?”A lust for blood? A penchant for biting?

He tilted her hand a little to catch the light. “Neither vampires nor immortals are dead. You’ve felt my heartbeat. You know I breathe.”

And his heartbeat had quickened beneath her touch.

“We all have heightened senses.”

Sarah remembered the way Roland and Marcus had seemed to hear the vampires’ approach long before she had. “Is that how you knew they were coming?”

He nodded, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on her wounds. “We heard them coming when they were still a couple of miles away and knew how many there were by their individual scents.”

It boggled the mind.

“Wow,” she joked weakly. “Life must have really sucked for you before deodorant was invented.”

He chuckled. “Advances in personal hygiene have indeed made things more pleasant for us, though this latest generation seems to be regressing.”

“Tell me about it. I have students who roll out of bed and come to class without even brushing their teeth. Ow!”

“Sorry.”

Sarah pondered his keen sense of smell and cringed at the aromas she must be emitting. “Maybe I should be the one apologizing.”

He glanced up at her. “Why?”

“I’m all sweaty and covered with blood and dirt and who knows what else I picked up rolling down that hill. I wouldn’t imagine I’m generating the most pleasant of fragrances.”

“The scent of blood is as enticing to me as chocolate is to you.”

Her face scrunched up involuntarily. “It is?” That was kind of gross.

He smiled wryly. “Yes. Beyond that, you smell like the forest, your citrus shampoo, baby powder deodorant, and your own unique scent.” She saw him inhale subtly. “And even sweaty, your scent is very appealing.”

Her heart skipped. He said it as if it turned him on. “Really?”

His eyes darkened, then gained a hint of that unearthly glow. “Your pulse is racing again.”

Boldly, she reached out and touched his neck. “So is yours.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw his fingers tighten around the tweezers.

“What are some of the other characteristics?” she asked, withdrawing.

“Our vision is far sharper than yours.”

“Can you see in the dark?”

“As clearly as a cat.”

No wonder Marcus hadn’t needed a flashlight to inspect the field. “So what makes your eyes glow?”

“We still don’t understand some of the physiological changes that take place in our bodies, and why our eyes glow is one of them. All we know is that it occasionally happens when we feel pain and almost always happens when we experience extreme emotions, such as anger.”

Or arousal? she wanted to ask but couldn’t bring herself to do so. When she had touched him, stroked the pulse in his strong, tanned neck, his eyes had begun to glow.

Had he felt desire for her? Been as affected by the light caress as she had?

“We’re stronger than humans,” he went on, cataloging his differences, “a great deal stronger, and can move very fast.”

So fast he had blurred. It was cool and creepy at the same time. “What else?”

“We heal swiftly, as you’ve seen. And we’re sensitive to sunlight.”

“Is that everything?”

“No, those are only the traits we have in common with the vampires. The virus affects those of us who call ourselves immortals differently. We all start out mortal like you, then become infected through the bite of a vampire.”

“Only a vampire? Not an immortal?”

“Immortals very rarely transform humans.”

“Oh. So you were turned by a vampire.”

His lips tightened. “Yes.”

“I assume by your expression that it was against your will.”

“Yes. I was fortunate. My body is one of the few capable of mutating the virus, reshaping it, and altering its effects.” He paused while he chased down a piece of glass that seemed intent on making a home for itself in her thumb.

Sarah gritted her teeth and clenched her right hand into a fist. Jeeze, it hurt.

If plucking tiny pieces of broken glass out of her hands hurt this much, what kind of hell must Roland have suffered yanking those spikes out of his palms?

Her tense muscles relaxed slightly when he succeeded in capturing the rogue sliver.

He met her gaze. “Do you need to take a break?”

“No.” In a way, knowing how stoically he had endured his wounds made getting through this easier for her.

“The virus has negative consequences in vampires that it does not have in us. Vampires subsist entirely on blood. They become addicted to it like some do to cocaine or crystal meth. Immortals, on the other hand, lack this flaw and don’t ingest blood nightly.”

“Hence the pizza.”

He smiled. “Except when injured, those of us who are older need only feed once or twice a week and, otherwise, have a diet similar to your own. Lots of vegetables and fruits. Very little meat. Organic chicken, turkey, or other fowl. None of the heavier meats, processed, or artificial foods that contain known carcinogens or other harmful chemicals. The same things that cause cancer, heart disease, and genetic mutations in humans increase our need for blood because of the damage they spawn in our bodies that the virus must heal, so we simply avoid them.”

“Makes sense. So your diet is different from theirs. What else?”

“Vampires don’t live as long as we do. The virus causes a slow descent into madness in them. It’s why we hunt them. Their madness and addiction lead them to kill their victims by draining them completely.”

“Human victims?”

“Yes. When the vampires are young, the deaths are swift because the vampire’s only desire is to satisfy his or her hunger. But after a few years, as portions of the brain deteriorate, madness infects them and they begin to toy with their prey as a cat would with a mouse, terrifying and torturing them. Either way, we cannot allow such slaying of innocents.”

“Do you drink from humans?” The idea of him sucking on some other woman’s neck was disturbing.

Which was not to say she wanted him to suck on her neck. Although …

Wait. What was she saying?

“Until the last century and the advent of blood banks, we had little choice. But we never killed those we fed upon and were always careful not to weaken them too much.” He paused and seemed to think a moment. “Actually that’s not true. As much as I wish to avoid frightening you, I want to be honest. We were always careful not to kill or weaken the innocents we fed upon. Pedophiles, rapists, and murders, however, were often not treated as kindly.”

In other words, they were killed.

Well, she didn’t have a problem with that. Sarah had always had a rather biblical sense of justice. “But … how does that work? I mean, don’t they … didn’t they tell people about you?”

“No. When our fangs descend, the glands that formed above them during our transformation release a chemical much like GHB under the pressure of a bite, so those we feed upon are left with no memory of it.”

That was pretty slick. “And you don’t drink from humans anymore?”

“Only when we’re desperate. We own a chain of blood banks, to which our Seconds and their families routinely donate, and receive our sustenance in the form of bagged blood now.”

“Is there no cure for the virus?”

“No cure.”

Something in his voice suggested he would’ve taken it if there were.

“What about antivirals? They’ve been making strides with antivirals lately.”

He shook his head. “We’ve tried them. They have no effect on us at all, in part because this virus behaves like no other on the planet. And testing antivirals is dangerous. Some of our scientists believe that if one did prove successful and kill the virus, we would die along with it because the virus essentially replaces our immune system.”

“That’s a hell of a catch-22,” Sarah said. “Remove the virus and you’ll be left with no immune system.”

“Yes.”

“How long do vampires live, then?”

“They rarely live a century. Either we kill them, they grow careless in their madness and accidentally destroy themselves, or they kill each other in blind rages and territorial battles.”

A century of madness and killing. That was messed up.

“And immortals? How long do immortals live?”

“We don’t age, so … indefinitely as long as no one decapitates us, burns us until we’re reduced to ash, or stakes us out for the sun.”

The image of him staked to the ground in the meadow flashed through her mind and shook her anew. “You really could have died this morning.”

“Yes.” He met her gaze intently. “And I must thank you again for saving my life, Sarah.”

She nodded. “I’m just glad I was there to help.”