Phantom Shadows

Chapter 6

Bastien really should be more upset about being stuck with Melanie than he was—which was not at all—but, damn it, he liked her. And with her face flushed with fury, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths beneath her long-sleeved shirt, and every word emerging a shout . . .

“She’s hot when she’s pissed, isn’t she?” Cliff asked in a voice too soft for her to hear.

Bastien flung daggers at him with his eyes. “Watch it.”

“Oh, please. As if you weren’t already thinking it yourself.”

“That doesn’t mean I want you thinking it,” he grumbled.

“And that,” Melanie said, pointing at the two of them, “stops right now. No more whispering. No more secrets.”

“Sorry,” Cliff said sheepishly. “Bastien was just saying he thinks you’re hot when you’re pissed.”

Bastien swore.

“I don’t care what he—” Melanie began, then cut her own rant short. Her face went blank with surprise. “What?”

“Cliff—” Bastien warned too late.

Cliff was already saying with a broad I’m-lovin’-this grin, “He thinks you’re hot when you’re angry.”

She squinted her eyes at Bastien as though trying to peer into his thoughts.

“What?” he bluffed. “You can’t take this guy’s word for anything. He’s insane.”

Cliff laughed. “You can’t use that excuse yet, dude.”

Melanie frowned. “Don’t joke about that.”

Cliff shrugged. “If I don’t joke about it, I’ll . . .”

“What?” Bastien posed. “Go crazy?”

Both men grinned.

Melanie rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. Both of you.”

The door buzzed, then opened. Several of the guards out in the hallway peered inside.

“Everything okay, Doc?” one with short blond hair asked, face full of suspicion as he took in the damage.

“Everything’s fine, Mark. Just . . . a little experiment.”

Bastien scowled at the man. “It took you this long to check on her?”

Granted, he wouldn’t have wanted an interruption earlier. Such would have no doubt resulted in both Bastien and Cliff being riddled with bullet holes and Melanie could have been caught in the crossfire. But if Joe or Cliff had had a psychotic break and attacked Melanie, a response this slow would not have saved her. She could have been drained before they even punched in the security code.

Mark stiffened. “Look, we hear all kinds of weird shit coming from these rooms. It’s hard to determine what’s harmless and what might be a problem.”

“Then don’t waste time guessing. As soon as you hear something that might signify violence, open the damned door and see what’s going on. Cliff and Joe may be annoyed by the intrusion, but both understand the necessity of it.”

Cliff nodded.

Bastien knew from his visits that Cliff ’s biggest fear now was that he might lose it and hurt Melanie. He hadn’t had any violent outbursts thus far, but none knew when those might begin.

And Bastien was finding it harder and harder to read Joe. As his madness had progressed, he had withdrawn into himself, rarely interacting anymore with Cliff, keeping his distance from Bastien and Melanie.

Bastien would never have asked Joe’s aid in tonight’s experiment for just that reason.

Mark looked at Cliff. Bastien was surprised there didn’t seem to be any animosity in his expression. The security staff here at the network apparently liked the vampires in residence a hell of a lot more than they did Bastien.

“The invasion of privacy is annoying,” Cliff said, “but I would rather deal with that than risk your not being here if I . . . if something happens and Dr. Lipton needs you.”

Mark nodded, his gaze full of both respect and compassion.

Good guy. Bastien almost regretted having broken both of the man’s arms and giving him a concussion a few weeks ago.

The security team withdrew and closed the door.

“I’m surprised Chris didn’t tell them to barge in at every little sound,” Bastien told Melanie.

“He did,” she admitted. “I asked them to back off. I thought the constant interruptions were increasing the stress Vince, Joe, and Cliff were feeling too much.” Looking around at the debris that surrounded them, she sighed. “I’m not cleaning this up.”

Cliff laughed. “I’ll do it. I’ve been bored as hell lately. It’ll give me something to do.”

Stepping over what was left of the coffee table, a shredded sofa cushion, and—Ah, hell. Was that the flat-screen TV?—Melanie crossed to Cliff and drew him into a hug.

Cliff wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. The two seemed close.

Melanie drew back and reached up to tweak one of Cliff ’s dreadlocks. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He smiled. “I’m fine.”

“The fighting didn’t . . .”

“Spark a flare of insanity? No. It actually felt good. Like a release.”

“Hmm.” Stepping back, she nearly tripped over more crap on the floor.

Bastien darted forward and grabbed her arm to steady her.

“Thanks,” she said. And he felt the spark of attraction that whipped through her and sped her pulse at his touch despite her fading irritation. “I wonder if sparring might help Joe?”

Bastien and Cliff both turned toward the wall bordering Joe’s apartment when his voice floated through it.

“He’s willing to give it a try,” Bastien told her. “But only if he spars with me. He doesn’t want to risk sparring with Cliff.”

He didn’t have to state the obvious: Bastien was the only one of the two who would be able to stop him if the fight triggered an episode and Joe attacked in earnest.

“Seth and David might be willing to spar with him, too,” she said.

Joe nixed that one in short order. Hell, no. I don’t like those guys.

Bastien shook his head. “Joe doesn’t feel comfortable around them.”

The other vampire didn’t trust them. The violent outbursts may not be too bad yet, but the paranoia had kicked in fully. Joe told Bastien through the wall that he was afraid the two powerful healers were making his madness worse instead of trying to heal him when they visited. They’re trying to steal my thoughts. Taking my memories. Planting new ones. Fake ones.

Bastien eyed Cliff. “Is that what you think?”

Regret colored his youthful features. “No. But I am uncomfortable around them.”

Melanie bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Cliff. I’d ask them not to come anymore, but their healing sessions are helping you.”

No they’re not! Joe practically screeched in the next room. They’re just fucking with us!

A sick feeling sank into Sebastien’s gut. Joe was farther gone than he had realized.

He met Cliff ’s somber gaze. “How long has Joe . . . felt this way?” he asked, trying to word it in a way Joe might not fully grasp.

“A while.”

Melanie looked back and forth between them. “What way? What’s he saying?”

He felt her concern spike.

“Perhaps Seth and David should only treat Cliff from now on,” he suggested.

She stared up at him for a long moment.

He mouthed, Later.

She nodded. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

A dark pall blanketed them.

“Well . . .” she said, and Bastien felt her need to lighten the atmosphere and raise Cliff ’s spirits once more. “Cliff, why don’t I go get my laptop and you and I can order you some cool new furniture and a new flat-screen TV while Bastien cleans up this mess?”

As Bastien started to protest, Cliff laughed and said, “Sounds good to me.”

Closing his mouth, Bastien bent and picked up half a sofa arm.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Richart commented.

Melanie glanced at the French immortal sitting on her left.

He was fiddling with his cell phone, perhaps checking for messages from his lady love.

She looked to her right.

Bastien said nothing, just stared down at the mostly deserted college campus below.

The three of them sat on Davis Library’s roof, feet dangling over the edge. Not the front. The front was too well lit. They sat instead on one side, facing away from UNC’s campus-lighting corridor, in the shadows cast by trees that blocked the campus lights.

Melanie had been serious when she had told Bastien he was stuck with her. For millennia, immortals had believed no drug would affect them and had acted accordingly. In other words, with no concern for anything someone might try to dose them with. They thought themselves utterly impervious.

Emrys had demonstrated they were not with the tranquilizer he had manufactured to immobilize Ami during his torture and experimentation. But instead of viewing this as something of a wake-up call and thinking there might be other drugs out there now that could affect them, they seemed to assume Emrys’s sedative was the only one.

Melanie had proven them wrong again when the stimulant she had concocted had worked earlier tonight. Yet Bastien had still objected to her joining him and Richart on tonight’s hunt. He thought that, since he hadn’t keeled over from the stimulant when he had injected himself with it, he was fine. That there could be no lasting damage. No delayed side effects.

Melanie, however, wanted to be sure and had insisted.

When even Richart had expressed some doubt concerning the wisdom of her hunting with them, Melanie had dared to call Seth, who had backed her without hesitation.

Perhaps Bastien’s continued silence was a demonstration of his anger at her having gone over his head.

Hmm. Maybe Seth was one of the reasons Bastien was having such a hard time integrating himself into the Immortal Guardians’ ranks. The other immortals had always deferred to Seth and obeyed his will. He was the oldest among them and, thus, had more experience dealing with the challenges immortals and gifted ones had to face. He was also the most powerful immortal among them, able to kick anyone’s ass. Two, three, a dozen at a time. Though Melanie had heard that there was a pool going—had been for centuries—over who would win in a fight between Seth and David.

Melanie doubted anyone would ever know the answer to that one because the two men reputedly never argued.

“What’s wrong?” Richart continued. “Someone hurt your dainty feelings earlier?”

Again Bastien said nothing.

“Pouting because Seth now thinks you need two babysitters?” the handsome Frenchman taunted.

Nothing.

“Maybe your tussle with your vampire friend damaged your vocal chords.”

“Perhaps I’m just weary from my tussle with your girlfriend,” Bastien drawled.

Richart’s head snapped around. His eyes flashed a bright amber as his body tensed.

“Who do you think would win in a fight between Seth and David?” Melanie blurted. The two sat so close on either side of her that their arms brushed hers. She really didn’t want to be wedged between them when they broke into a brawl.

Richart frowned. “What?”

“Who do you think would win? Seth or David? I was thinking about tossing some money into the pool.” Not really, but who cared? The diversion seemed to be distracting Richart from whatever violence he had been contemplating.

“Seth,” Bastien said.

“Why?” Melanie pressed.

“Because I’ve seen him lose his temper.”

Richart’s eyes lost their glow and returned to a light brown. “You have?”

Bastien nodded, his gaze still searching the slumbering campus.

“What happened? What set him off?” Melanie asked. She had never heard of the Immortal Guardians’ leader losing control.

“I attacked Ami.”

“Merde!”

“What?”

Bastien glanced at her briefly from the corner of his eye. “It was an accident.”

Richart snorted. “You don’t accidentally attack someone.”

“I thought she was an immortal coming up behind me and just . . . reacted.”

Melanie was a little surprised he offered an explanation. Was it for her benefit? “So, what happened?” she asked.

“Seth lost it and . . .”

“What?” Richart pressed.

Bastien shook his head. “His castle nearly came crashing down around us. I’ve never seen such an exhibition of power. And the thing is . . . I think he was holding back. I think that was just a tiny hint of what he can really do.”

Richart muttered something in French.

“I really thought he was going to destroy me that night,” Bastien went on. “I still don’t know why he didn’t.”

Melanie looked at Richart. He seemed pretty impressed.

“You’ve never seen Seth lose his temper?” she asked.

“No. Never.”

Bastien made a sound of amusement. “Trust me. You don’t want to.”

Silence enfolded them once more.

Melanie swung her legs like Popper Knockers, bumping her combat boots together. Before leaving the network, she had donned the hunting gear Seconds normally sported: black cargo pants, black shirt, black sweater over the shirt to accommodate the weather, 9mms in shoulder holsters, knives in sheaths on her thighs.

A long, dark coat covered all and staved off some of the winter chill. Her fingers stiffened, however, as the cold breeze buffeted her, stronger up here on the roof than down at street level. If she didn’t think it would freak the men out or send the wrong message (wrong to Richart), she would stick her hands in each man’s pocket to warm them.

One of the coolest things she’d learned about immortals was that they could regulate their body temperature. Even in icy, below zero temperatures, they could remain toasty warm. If both men threw off their coats and stripped down to their underwear in these frigid temperatures, steam would rise off their skin.

“So this is what vampire hunting entails?” she asked. “This is what you guys do? You just sit around and pick at each other while you wait for vampires to come along?” It was kind of dull. She couldn’t seem to keep herself from fidgeting like a small child forced to sit through an unusually long church service in an itchy wool suit. She just wasn’t accustomed to being idle. It was beginning to get on her nerves.

And her nerves were already stretched taut from sitting so close to Bastien. Though her nose was numb from the cold, she could smell his unique scent and wanted nothing more than to pounce on him and rip his clothes off.

Bastien swore softly and moved a few inches away from her so they no longer touched.

Richart gave him a knowing look and returned his phone to his pocket. “We possess extraordinary hearing. If we sit quietly, we can hear for miles. Our sense of smell is the same. Should a vampire attack and attempt to feed anywhere on campus, we will hear it and smell it, so we don’t have to patrol, as it were.”

“So I was right? You really do just sit here and irritate each other until something happens?”

“He’s being kind,” Bastien said. “We usually walk the campus, searching it visually and widening the area we hear or smell, but want to play it safe tonight.”

“Because I’m here.”

“Yes. If or when vampires make an appearance tonight, we can leave you up here where it’s safe and take them out below.”

The arrogance! “I told you I can kick ass. Didn’t our little encounter with Stuart and company demonstrate that?”

Richart eyed her speculatively. “You helped Bastien defeat them?”

“Yes.” They hadn’t told him much about the battle itself. They had simply told him they’d found a potential recruit in Stuart. Richart had then teleported the unconscious vamps to the holding room, but they had ended up being too far gone. “I thought I held my own very well.”

Richart questioned Bastien silently with his eyes.

“She did,” Bastien confirmed, frowning at Melanie. “You never did tell me how you came to be trained. You’re a doctor, not a Second.”

“Oh, please. I work with vampires every day. Do you really think Mr. Reordon would’ve given me access to Vince, Cliff, and Joe if I hadn’t undergone the same training a Second does? Mr. Reordon wanted to make damned sure I could protect myself if the vampires ever attacked me.”

“Cliff had no difficulty capturing you tonight,” Bastien pointed out with a frown. “You were completely at his mercy.”

Melanie frowned. “That’s because I wasn’t on guard. You were there, giving me a false sense of security.”

“That really was bad form, Bastien,” Richart criticized.

“And don’t think I’ll fall for that crap again,” Melanie warned. “I managed to stop your scuffle, didn’t I? Without the tranquilizer.”

Richart chuckled. “I really wish I could’ve seen that one. You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to knock him in the head myself since Seth foisted him on me.”

Melanie laughed. “I completely understand.”

Bastien’s scowl deepened. “What is it you Americans say—that’s so funny I forgot to laugh?”

“Wow,” she commented. “I haven’t heard that one in years.”

“Showing your age there, old man,” Richart goaded.

“We’re damned near the same age, dimwit.”

“In years. Not in spirit.”

Melanie grinned. This was much better.

Both men abruptly turned their heads to the north.

Melanie instinctively followed their gaze, but saw nothing.

Richart and Bastien stood.

When Melanie did the same, Bastien took her arm and carefully steered her away from the edge. Both men had been rather astonished by her total lack of acrophobia. Since her father had worked as a high-rise window washer, she assumed the absence of a fear of heights ran in the family.

The immortals seemed to keep an ear tuned to whatever had caught their attention.

“What is it? Is it . . . rats?” She caught herself before saying vamps, unsure if the vampires would be able to hear them.

Bastien’s lips quirked. “Yes.”

“How many?”

He held up a hand and touched his middle finger to his thumb.

Melanie thought back to the hand signals she had had to memorize during her training. Eight. That was a large number to find trolling for victims together. There was no telling how many humans the vampire king and his followers had transformed, but . . . with so many turning up so frequently, the numbers had to be off the charts.

Bastien and Richart both did a quick weapons check.

“We shall return shortly,” Bastien told her.

Richart reached out to touch Bastien’s shoulder.

Oh, hell no. Melanie leapt forward. Her fingers closed around Bastien’s arm just as Richart teleported him.

The world darkened. That bizarre feeling of weightlessness suffused her. Then her feet were touching pavement on the sidewalk near the Physical Sciences building.

Melanie wasn’t sure what Richart said next, but suspected it was a string of French swear words.

“Don’t do that!” he snapped in English.

She offered him a hasty apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to leave me behind.”

“We were leaving you behind for a reason!”

“Hey.” Bastien stepped forward, eyes flashing. “Don’t speak to her like that.”

Richart scowled. “Look, I’m just saying if she’s going to be joining us—”

“She isn’t.”

“Shut up,” Melanie and Richart both said.

Bastien clamped his lips shut.

“As I was saying,” Richart began again, “if you’re going to be joining us we need to set some ground rules.”

Melanie nodded. “I get it. But don’t you think we should do that later? Don’t we have more pressing issues to deal with right now?” She pointed behind them, where eight vampires—eyes glowing blue, green, silver, and amber—had stopped short and stood gaping.

“Immortal Guardians,” one sneered.

One by one, the vampires bared their fangs.

Richart looked at Bastien. “You’re the one who wants to make friends. How do you want to do this?”

Bastien considered the vampires.

A couple of them started to growl.

Melanie choked back a laugh. The sound was intended to intimidate, but . . .

When immortals made that deep rumbling sound in the backs of their throats, it brought to mind large, ferocious animals preparing to attack.

These guys reminded her of Tom from the Tom & Jerry cartoons she grew up watching, when Tom would try to roar like a lion and instead sounded like the little kitty cat he was: Raaor, pfft, pfft.

One of the vamps took a step forward. The others followed suit.

Just as they began to blur, Melanie said, “Hey, do any of you guys know Stuart?”

Their forms solidified. Surprise and confusion colored their features as they looked at each other, then back at her.

“Stuart?” a blond with glowing sea-green eyes repeated.

She nodded. “About this tall.” She held one hand several inches above her own head. “Thin build. Dirty blond hair. Big Tar Heels fan.”

“Dude,” one said. “They know Stuart.”

“They don’t know him,” the first speaker said. “They killed him!”

Melanie gaped. How the hell had they jumped to that conclusion?

The vampires leapt forward.

Bastien and Richart armed themselves with auto-injectors and raced to meet them.

Melanie drew her 9mms, already equipped with silencers. As a human, she would never be able to hold a vampire still for the three seconds it took the auto-injector to deliver the tranquilizer, so she had no choice but to wield the deadlier weapons.

Both immortals grabbed vampires and injected them, using the vamps they held as shields to fend off the attacks of the others.

So many figures were darting about, their forms hazy and indistinct with speed, that Melanie had some difficulty determining friend from foe. Darkness hampered her vision further. Had their eyes not glowed, Melanie would have feared hitting Richart or Bastien if she fired her weapon.

Three seconds seemed an eternity.

The fact that Richart and Bastien protected themselves with vampire shields seemed to concern the vampires not at all. Only one held back. The others fought with what she thought was true madness, doing their damnedest to cut through their friends to reach the immortals.

The hesitant one, with a sudden burst of inspiration, sped around to attack Bastien’s back.

Melanie fired three times, body shots that would slow the vampire down without killing him.

As the vamp dropped to the ground, another ceased trying to carve his way through the vampire Richart was tranqing and turned to Melanie.

His blue eyes flashed. His lips pulled back in a fang-flashing snarl.

Melanie’s pulse raced. Her breath quickened. Fear filled her as the vampire shot toward her.

She stumbled backward, firing repeatedly, following her instincts, and aiming where she thought the vamp would go each time he ducked and swerved to avoid the heavy bullets.

He jerked and slowed as she scored one hit after another.

Bastien dropped the vampire he held, drew his katanas, and blurred.

Melanie didn’t know what he did to the vamp so intent on reaching her. It happened too quickly for her to see. His body landed several yards away and began to rapidly deteriorate as the virus went to work devouring him from the inside.

Richart dropped his vamp and tore into the three besieging him. Bastien planted himself in front of Melanie and took out any vamp who headed her way.

Even so, she emptied the clips of her 9mms. The vampires fought like rabid dogs. No training. No thought. Only a manic desire to kill and rend and bite and tear.

It shook her.

These vampires were not like the ones they had encountered at Bastien’s lair. These had been infected long enough for the madness to take complete control of them. As it did now.

The battle was quick. It was violent. It left her quaking like a leaf caught in hurricane force winds.

All movement ceased.

White puffs formed in front of Melanie’s lips as warm air met cold. Her breath came quickly, as though she had been sprinting.

Bastien turned and met her gaze. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “My hands are shaking.”

Sheathing his swords, he drew closer and examined her thoroughly with his luminescent gaze. “You aren’t injured?”

“Not so much as a scratch. You?”

“The same.”

They looked at Richart.

“Stupid bastards,” Richart said, scowling down at the vamp he had tranqed. That one now deteriorated like the others they’d destroyed. “They cut right through him.”

“Not stupid,” Bastien corrected. “Insane.”

Melanie returned her 9mms to their holsters and struggled to still her quivering limbs. At least she hadn’t killed anyone this time.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Bastien asked again, moving closer. His black coat glistened like satin where vampire blood had sprayed and spattered it.

She nodded, wondering if he would have held her to comfort her if he weren’t so bloody.

“You did well,” he praised. “You remind me of Ami. You seem to anticipate the vampires’ movements very well.”

Being compared to Ami was a huge compliment, and one she didn’t deserve. Ami fought nearly on the same level as the immortals. With guns and blades. No other Second could best her. Some immortals couldn’t even best her, though none would admit it. “That’s because—”

Something hit Melanie in the chest. She frowned. Neither Bastien nor Richart had moved as far as she could tell. And, even if they had, why would either of them strike her in the chest?

She glanced down and saw a small tear in her shirt in the vicinity of her heart. Around and beneath it, a wet stain began to spread.

Melanie raised a heavy hand to touch the stain and stared at the blood that painted her fingers. Looking up, she fought for breath as pain crashed through her. “Bastien?”

Horror froze Bastien as he met Melanie’s gaze.

The scent of her blood surrounded him as the stain on her shirt spread with alarming speed.

Another hole appeared in her chest a few inches from the first.

She blinked and staggered back a step.

“Sniper!” Bastien wrapped his arms around her and turned his back to the shooter.

Her knees buckled.

A bullet hit him in the back, passed through his body, and entered Melanie.

Swearing, Bastien lifted her into his arms and raced for the shadows, ducking around the corner of the nearest building. “Melanie?”

She didn’t answer.

He looked down. Her eyes were closed, her face devoid of color. Panicked, he listened for a heartbeat. Weak. Thready. Her breath came in faint wheezes.

“Richart.” He didn’t shout the name. He whispered it, fear rendering him nearly mute. A fear he hadn’t experienced in two centuries. Fear Seth had not inspired the night Bastien had thought Seth was going to destroy him.

Richart arrived in a blur. “How is she?”

Bastien carefully deposited Melanie in the Frenchman’s arms. “Take her to David. If he isn’t home, find Seth or Roland.”

Richart nodded. “The shooters—”

“I’ll handle the shooters. Now hurry. And when you return, don’t let them see you teleport. We don’t know if they saw you do it earlier and they may not be aware of our individual gifts yet.”

Richart cradled Melanie close and issued a short nod. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Darkness bled into Bastien’s heart, robbing him of any emotion save rage. “I’ll do what I have to.”

Uttering a final epithet, Richart vanished.

The faint squawk of a walkie-talkie met Bastien’s ears. The men who whispered confirmation of a hit, of a target taken out, thought he couldn’t hear them. But he could. And every word hardened his resolve to make the bastards pay for hurting Melanie.

There were a lot of them. They must have been in position for hours. Snipers on the roofs. Foot soldiers on the ground, hidden in alcoves, behind shrubs, in fucking Dumpsters, ready to pounce. Trained not to move, not to make a sound until their quarry arrived.

Sheer dumb luck was all that had kept Bastien, Melanie, and Richart from teleporting to one of the many buildings that boasted snipers on the roofs. The same luck that had landed the snipers behind structures that impeded the immortals’ view of them.

While the soldiers consulted each other, seeking any sighting of the paranormal beings they hunted, Bastien scaled the side of the building behind him with all of the speed and dexterity of Spiderman.

With the stealthy tread of a cat, he found the first soldiers.

Two. Fatigues. Hair covered in skull caps. Faces blackened. They knelt with weapons poised on the raised cement edging. Dark duffel bags full of ammo, more weapons, and heavy restraints rested—zippers open—on either side of them, ready to be pillaged. The soldier on the left bore an assault rifle. The soldier on the right bore a tranquilizer rifle. Both men remained tense, eyes pressed to the scopes as they slowly searched the shadows for their victim . . . and their executioner.

Bastien’s gaze went to the assault rifle bearer. Was this the one? Was this the fuck who had shot Melanie? Who had hurt her? Who could’ve . . . might have killed her?

He struck without warning. Grabbing the protruding butts of their weapons, Bastien yanked hard, slamming the scopes into their eyes and knocking them onto their backs. His hands closed on their throats before a sound of pain could escape them, crushing their tracheae and shutting off their air.

The humans writhed in pain, kicking the heels of their boots against the roof and clawing at their throats. Their eyes widened as they slowly began to suffocate. One determined bastard reached toward his bag of toys. Bastien stepped on his wrist and crushed the bones. Snatching the walkie-talkie from the dead man’s shoulder, he depressed the button and whistled sharply.

Echoes of his whistle sounded throughout the campus, some close, some distant, alerting him to the location of every mercenary intent on capturing him.

“What the hell was that?” a voice hissed over the walkie-talkie.

Adopting an American accent, Bastien whispered with false urgency, “I see ’em. I see ’em. They’re moving toward Kenan Stadium. Holy shit they’re fast!”

A flurry of movement sounded as soldiers readjusted their positions in an attempt to glimpse the supposedly fleeing beings.

“Maintain position! Maintain position!” came the order in a rough whisper yell. “Who the hell was that? Was that Charlie?”

Bastien dropped the walkie-talkie.

“No, sir. It wasn’t me.”

“Well, whoever it was, shut the fuck up! And for fuck’s sake everyone stop moving! They’ll hear us!”

Too late.

Bastien backed toward the center of the roof, then raced for the edge. Over he went, flying through the air he didn’t know how many yards to land on the next.

He couldn’t land silently when traveling at such velocities, but it didn’t matter. He was on the soldiers crouched there before they could finish spinning around. Snapping their necks, he leapt to the roof of the next building. Two more swore and swung around. One fired a tranquilizer dart at him. Bastien caught it and flung it back at the bastard, who dropped like a stone. The other released a shout cut short when Bastien snapped his neck. Still moving, Bastien increased his speed and leapt to the next roof. Two more down. Then the next. Three on that one.

On the next, he skidded to a halt. The barrel of one of the men’s rifles was still warm. The acrid scent of gunshot residue lingered on the man’s hands.

In that instant, Bastien understood more fully than he ever had the psychotic episodes that gripped vampires, the fury that engulfed them and took control of their bodies in a millisecond.

This was the one who had shot Melanie.

Bastien snapped the other soldier’s neck without any conscious thought. All of his attention focused on Melanie’s shooter.

This man had caused her pain. So he would feel pain.

Bastien knocked the man’s weapon aside with one hand and clamped the other around his throat, lifting him until his feet dangled two feet off the ground.

Within the soldier’s wide, fear-filled eyes, Bastien could see the reflection of his own, burning bright amber. He bared his fangs in a snarl.

The soldier whimpered and wet his pants.

Ripping the walkie-talkie from the man’s shoulder, Bastien threw it halfway to the damned football stadium.

“You shot my woman,” he growled.

If the man’s eyes could get any wider, they did. His fingers clawed at Bastien’s hand as he struggled for breath.

“You’re going to die slowly.”

One of the man’s hands dropped.

Something sharp pierced Bastien’s chest. He looked down. The dumb fuck had stabbed him with a tactical knife.

He met the soldier’s gaze and noted the gleam of triumph in them. “You don’t actually think that hurts me, do you?” he drawled.

The soldier’s fear returned, so strong Bastien could smell it.

Curling the fingers of his free hand around the soldier’s, Bastien slowly withdrew the knife without so much as a wince, confiscated it, and held it up. “You’re going to regret that.”