Predatory

Chapter One

Like the last survivor in a postapocalyptic world, Richart d’Alençon strode down the deserted North Carolinian street. Buildings long since abandoned for the night stared out at him with vacant eyes. Quiet enfolded him, both comforting and disconcerting.

A new enemy had risen among the vampire ranks. A self-proclaimed vampire king, who had ordered his followers to transform their victims instead of just feeding from them. Most nights Richart fought and defeated two or three vamps at a time. A couple of the older immortals had been encountering groups of six, seven, and eight. But tonight . . .

Richart had not encountered a single vampire, and soon dawn would break.

A woman cried out in the distance, snagging his attention.

“H-how did you do that?” she asked shakily.

“He’s a vampire, bitch,” a young man taunted.

Darting between businesses, Richart plunged into the trees beyond, traveling so swiftly most humans wouldn’t see him. Those who did would see but a blur.

“Look into my eyes,” a second man said, artificially deepening his voice and speaking with a laughable B-movie version of a Transylvanian accent. “Look into my eyes and know me for who I am.”

Richart burst from the trees and raced through the oil-stained parking lot in front of a big-ass 24-hour superstore, letting the ridiculous conversation be his guide.

“I am Dracula,” the second vamp continued dramatically.

“Look,” the female captive countered, “just take the money. Here’s my purse. Take it.”

Richart almost laughed. She may not know what the hell was going on, but she wasn’t buying that the kid in front of her was the legendary horror figure Dracula.

“I don’t want your money,” Dracula said petulantly, losing the accent.

“Dude, just bite her,” a third vamp urged. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Richart zipped past two employees taking a smoking break. Busy chatting and texting, they would assume the breeze that ruffled their hair was caused by a gust of wind, not an immortal warrior seeking prey.

Circling around to the back of the sprawling concrete structure, he found three vampires. All appeared to be in their early twenties and huddled in the shadows between two Dumpsters, out of range of the cameras mounted on the corners of the building. Between their lanky forms, Richart glimpsed a small, slender figure shoved up against the wall and held there by a fourth vamp, the one who called himself Dracula.

“Shut up!” Dracula snarled at the others, then went B-movie Transylvanian again. “I am Dracula. I am . . . vampire.” He peeled his lips back and revealed gleaming fangs.

The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”

Richart could do nothing to free her until the vampire released her. If he struck now, the vamp could break her neck.

So he simply cleared his throat.

The vampires all looked in his direction.

“Where the hell did you come from?” one spouted and shifted, giving Richart a clearer view of the captive.

The woman turned her head to meet Richart’s gaze.

And the oddest little tingle danced through his chest.

She was pretty, with fiery red hair that fell just beneath her shoulders, pale freckled skin, and wide hazel eyes that met and held his, full of both hope and fear.

Dracula drew his lips farther back from his fangs and hissed like a cat.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Richart leaned against the building. “Yes—yes. I have a very nice pair of those myself.” He smiled, revealing the tips of his own fangs.

Hope fled her features as the woman turned back to Dracula.

“This one’s ours,” Dracula said, “so fuck off. You know the king doesn’t want us to fight.”

These guys must be new. They didn’t even realize he was an immortal, not a vampire.

The woman surreptitiously stuck her hand in her purse, then yanked it out and sprayed Dracula in the eyes and mouth with pepper spray. With his heightened sense of smell and taste, it would’ve felt like she had just held a blowtorch to his face.

Dracula stumbled back, howling and scrubbing at his eyes.

Richart drew two daggers and shot forward, burying one to the hilt in Dracula’s chest and driving him away from the woman.

“Immortal Guardian!” the first vampire blurted.

Quick as lightning, Richart sliced Dracula’s carotid and brachial arteries, then turned to fight the remaining three.

The woman took off running. Two vamps converged on Richart with bowies as long as his forearm. Faster and stronger than the vampires, Richart fended off almost every blow and scored plenty of his own, stabbing and slicing until the vamps began to bleed out faster than the virus that infected them could repair the damage.

As the two sank to their knees, clasping their throats, Richart approached the last vampire.

He had caught the woman a few Dumpsters down, shoved her up against the wall, and sunk his teeth into her neck.

Richart swept over to the vampire’s side. The tip of his dagger pricked the skin above the vamp’s carotid artery.

The vampire froze, eyes darting toward Richart.

“Release her and back away,” Richart advised quietly.

The vampire tightened his arm around her torso and slid one hand up to grasp her chin. Fangs receding, he murmured, “Draw another drop of my blood and I’ll break her neck.”

As Richart watched, the boy backed away with the woman. One step. Two.

Richart remained still, biding his time.

Three more steps. The vampire shoved the woman at Richart with a touch of preternatural strength and took off, his form blurring as he fled into the night.

Richart stumbled backward and wrapped his arms around the woman to keep her from falling.

Clinging to the front of his shirt, she buried her face in his chest. “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” he responded, surprised she was so coherent. When vampires and immortals turned, glands formed above the retractable fangs they grew that released a chemical much like GHB under the pressure of a bite. So she should be slurring her words.

Hell, he was surprised she still stood.

“What about the others?”

“They’re gone,” he assured her. Or they would be soon. A quick glance confirmed that they were shriveling up like mummies as the virus, unable to heal their wounds fast enough to keep them from dying, devoured them from the inside out in a desperate bid to live. By the time it finished, nothing would remain of them save the clothing and jewelry they wore.

Weaving on her feet, the woman straightened and looked up at him. She couldn’t be much more than five feet tall and he was six foot one. “Y-your eyes are glowing.”

Her pupils were dilated, blocking out almost all of the pale green, leaving only a few flakes of brown.

Richart retracted his fangs. “Yes. I know it looks bad, but—”

She shook her head. “I think they’re beautiful.”

Was that the drug talking? Or did she really think so?

“You saved me,” she said, awe and gratitude in her melodic voice. Loosening her death grip on his shirt, she cupped his face in both hands.

His heart skipped.

When was the last time a woman had touched his face so tenderly?

When was the last time a woman had touched him at all? Other than his sister punching him in the shoulder, doing her damnedest to kick his ass when they sparred, or doling out a hug here or there, he honestly couldn’t remember.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered. Rising onto her toes, she drew his head down and brushed her lips against his.

The contact hit him like an electrical shock. His heart began to pound as she tilted her head and increased the pressure, brushing, stroking. She combed her fingers through his short, black hair, sending shivers through him.

He parted his lips, met her tongue with his when she boldly thrust hers forward.

Pure heat.

She leaned into him, clutched him tighter.

His body hardened. His breath shortened. His arms tightened around her.

Her knees went limp. Her lips tore away from his as her head fell back. Her eyes closed. Her mouth hung open, lips pink from kissing him.

Richart stared down at her as his pulse pounded in his ears.

Yeah. She was out.

Damn it. That had been the best kiss he’d had in at least a century.

And damn him for enjoying it. She was drugged, out of her senses. She wouldn’t even remember any of this when she woke up.

Sighing, he examined her neck to make sure she wasn’t bleeding from the vampire’s bite, which would soon heal and fade. He checked her pulse to ensure she hadn’t lost too much blood, then gently folded her over his shoulder.

Since he was finished hunting for the night, he would see if he couldn’t clean up this mess himself instead of calling in the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.

Opening the purse she had dropped, he drew out her keys and wallet. Her driver’s license yielded a name and address. He smiled. Jenna McBride. With her red hair and freckles, it suited her.

Thirty-seven years old.

Really? He would’ve guessed mid-to-late twenties.

Tucking the wallet away, he studied the keys. There weren’t many. Just a generic car key with no alarm to guide him to the right car in the parking lot, two door keys, and a worn Shrinky Dinks keychain that looked as if it had been fashioned by a child.

Was she married?

No. There had been no ring on her finger when she had clasped his face. And the vampires hadn’t stolen it. The only things they had desired were her blood and fear.

It doesn’t matter if she’s single. She’s human. You’re immortal.

No shopping bags littered the ground. The two employees taking a smoking break outside the superstore had worn the same color shirt and pants the woman did, so she must work there.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured and raced around to the front of the building. So swift the surveillance cameras would only catch hazy movement that would likely be mistaken for a dust devil, Richart sped up and down the rows of vehicles until he came to an ’80s economy car that bore Jenna’s scent on the door handle.

Getting an unconscious woman into the passenger seat of such a small vehicle at preternatural speeds was awkward as hell, but he managed to do it. He slid behind the wheel, his knees practically impaling his chest. A quick seat adjustment and he started the car.

Minutes later, Richart pulled into the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex and brought the car to a halt beneath a second-floor door that bore the number on her license. Exiting, he readjusted the seat in hopes Jenna would think she had driven herself home and just been so tired she couldn’t remember it. He experienced a moment of unease when he opened the apartment door and immediately scented a male. Pausing just inside, he listened carefully.

Down the hall, someone slept. A lover, perhaps?

Richart carried Jenna, cradled peacefully in his arms, down the hallway and paused outside the first door.

Not a lover. Most likely a son. Though the bedroom door was closed, a male’s scent dominated the room. Jenna’s delightful scent, on the other hand, led him past a small bathroom to a bedroom at the end of the hallway.

He placed her on the unmade bed and gently removed her shoes. Drawing the covers up to her shoulders, he stared down at her.

He had done this so many times over the years, seeing vampire victims safely to their homes. But, for once, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave.

Listening to the soothing thump of her heartbeat, he glanced around the room. A full-sized bed. A less-than-stable-looking desk supporting an outdated computer. A closet with not many clothes. And a battered dresser upon which rested a small TV and a handful of photos.

Four of the pictures depicted a boy ranging in age from infancy to high school graduation. A fifth showed a very young Jenna holding a baby while a grinning teenaged boy stood with his arms around them both.

Richart’s gaze returned to Jenna.

And still his feet refused to move.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Removing it, he glanced down at the text sent by Sheldon, his Second or human guard:

Sunrise in 15. Where the hell R U?

Richart tucked away the phone. Leaning down, he brushed the hair back from Jenna’s face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Have a nice life,” he whispered.

He straightened. The world around him went black as a familiar feeling of weightlessness claimed him. A split second later he stood in the living room of his home.

Richart let out a piercing whistle.

A thud sounded in the study. “Ow!” a male voice complained. “Damn it! Don’t do that! You scared the crap out of me!”

Though such usually sparked a smile, this morning Richart felt only . . .

He frowned. What was it he felt? Regret? Sadness?

Yes, as though he had just lost something.

Sheldon entered the room. “You cut it kinda close tonight. What happened?”

Richart shook his head, baffled by the uncharacteristic emotions buffeting him. “Nothing out of the norm.” Determined to shake it off, he strode toward his young Second. “What’s the news on the vampire king?”

“You should try to eat something.”

Jenna’s stomach turned over at just the thought of putting food in it. “No way.”

“Come on. You said you didn’t eat before you came in tonight.”

“That’s because everything I ate this afternoon came right back up.”

Debbie grimaced. “Food poisoning sucks.”

“Yes, it does.” Jenna smiled at a customer who walked past, then followed as Debbie wheeled her cart to the end of the aisle and continued to restock the makeup shelves.

The store was fairly quiet, though somewhere in the distance a child threw what sounded like a doozy of a temper tantrum.

Leaning into the basket, Jenna opened a box, drew out a handful of lipsticks, and started arranging them on the display.

“You’re the manager. You don’t have to do that anymore,” Debbie pointed out. “Why don’t you take it easy tonight? No one will fault you for it.”

She shook her head. “I get antsy when I’m idle.”

Debbie’s eyes suddenly widened. Her face lit up with a wide smile. “Don’t look now, but . . . guess who just entered!”

Jenna felt a sinking sensation in her stomach that had nothing to do with the chicken sandwich that had made her so sick. “Who?”

“Prince Charming!” Debbie blurted, looking over Jenna’s shoulder toward the store’s only entrance open at four o’clock in the morning. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yyyyyyyyyyyummy!” The last was said in a growl that reminded Jenna of the Cookie Monster. “And he’s headed this way!”

She groaned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

The Prince Charming currently making Debbie drool was an incredibly handsome Frenchman who had been frequenting the store for the past month or so. Every time he came in, he made a point of seeking out Jenna wherever she might be and speaking to her. First it had been to ask where he might find Krazy Glue. Then it had been to ask if she knew what houseplants fared well in low light. Then it had become friendly chatting with a hint of flirtation.

And this man didn’t need to flirt to get a woman’s attention. He was gorgeous. At least six feet tall. Broad shouldered and leanly muscled like an NBA player with short black hair and expressive light brown eyes. Always dressed in black with a dark coat that Debbie referred to as his Blade outfit, hold the leather.

Debbie frowned. “That’s weird. He was all smiles a second ago and now he’s frowning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he heard you.”

“He’s sixty yards away. He can’t hear us. Trust me.”

“True. So what’s the deal? Why don’t you want to see him? I thought you liked him.”

“I do like him,” Jenna said as she grabbed some nail polish and slipped into the next aisle, out of Richart’s sight. She really did. They had had coffee together a few times on her breaks, and she couldn’t remember the last time a man had captivated her so much or made her laugh so often. “It’s just . . .” She set the containers down in a pile on the bottom shelf and motioned to herself. “Look at me.”

“Yeah. You do sorta look like death warmed over.”

“Exactly. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

Debbie’s eyes darted to Richart. “He’s smiling again. Are you sure he can’t hear us?”

“Debbie! Focus!”

“All right—all right. Here.” Leaning in, she pinched Jenna’s cheeks.

“Ouch!”

“Oh quit complaining, you need a little color. And smooth your hair back. It’s all straggly.”

Jenna hastily smoothed back the hair that had escaped her ponytail and made sure her shirt was neatly tucked in. “How do I look?”

“About as good as you feel.”

“Great.”

“The circles under your eyes have a lovely purplish hue.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Shh-shh. Here he comes.” Debbie leaned over the cart and pretended to search the various boxes.

Jenna grabbed the discarded nail polish and started distributing them to their proper places on the shelves.

“I don’t see it,” Debbie said. “Nancy may have forgotten to order it. You want me to go check?” Convinced that Richart had a thing for Jenna, Debbie always found an excuse to leave the two alone.

Or as alone as they could be in a massive superstore.

“Good evening, ladies,” Richart greeted them, stopping beside Debbie’s cart and giving them both a smile. His eyes met and held Jenna’s.

Her heart, as usual, began to slam against her ribs with all of the enthusiasm of a crushing teenager’s. And her stomach filled with butterflies that really didn’t mingle well with the nausea plaguing her.

“Hi,” she said. The moment she had first seen Richart, a sense of familiarity had overwhelmed her. But she was certain she had never met him before. She would have remembered his good looks, his warm, friendly demeanor, and that smooth French accent. It was a puzzle.

“Hi,” Debbie chirped. “How’s it goin’?”

Still smiling, he drew the sides of his coat back a bit and tucked his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s been a quiet night.”

“For us, too,” Debbie replied, then looked at Jenna. “I’m gonna go see if it’s in the other basket. If it isn’t there, I’ll check the back.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Debbie gave Richart a little wave.

He bowed slightly, watched her leave, then turned a discerning gaze on Jenna.

“So.” She mentally told the butterflies to simmer the hell down so she wouldn’t start dry heaving in front of the first man to interest her in years. “I assume in the private security business a quiet night is a good night?”

He nodded. “Very much so.”

Though young (a good seven or eight years younger than she was by her guess), he was a partner in what sounded like a very successful and very elite private security company.

“Never a dull moment?” she asked with a smile.

“Rarely,” he admitted. His brow furrowed. “Are you feeling all right tonight?”

She winced. “I look that bad, huh?”

“You’re as beautiful as ever, just a bit peaked.”

Seriously, who wouldn’t like this man?

“I ate some bad fast food earlier and am paying for it big-time.”

“Why aren’t you home in bed?”

Because I have a son on his way to medical school and need every penny of every paycheck to supplement his scholarship and keep the student loan debt he racks up to a minimum.

She shrugged. “For food poisoning? Nah. I’ll be fine.”

Richart wasn’t so sure about that, but didn’t press it. Her pale, freckled skin, which usually held a faint hint of pink, had acquired a yellowish cast. Her pretty eyes, more brown than green tonight, were shadowed.

If she had looked this pallid after being bitten by the vampire from whom he had rescued her, Richart would have been worried that she might be transforming, but that had taken place weeks ago. And he had kept an eye on her ever since, watching to ensure the vampire who had fled would not return to harm her.

Of course, keeping an eye on her had only enhanced his interest. He couldn’t forget that kiss. Or the feel of her slender body pressed against his. He liked her smile. He liked her laugh. The camaraderie she shared with Debbie.

His Second had caught on—Richart still didn’t know how, because Sheldon wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer—and had told him to stop stalking her.

Dude, just talk to her already. It’s getting kinda creepy.

Richart had only been looking for an excuse, so . . . he had followed Sheldon’s advice and asked her where to find the Krazy Glue. Soon they had worked up to chatting like old friends and having coffee together whenever he managed to time his visits with her breaks.

“How’s John?” he asked.

As expected, her face lit with pride at the mention of her son. “He just aced another exam.”

“Excellent.”

She clearly adored John, whom she had borne when she was a mere seventeen years old.

An employee walked past and waved. “I’m out, Jenna.”

“’Night, Tracy.”

“Enjoy your night off tomorrow,” Tracy called over her shoulder.

Richart turned back to Jenna and arched a brow. “You have tomorrow night off?”

She nodded. “I’m glad it wasn’t tonight. Being sick on my night off would have really sucked.”

Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Just tell her to have fun and get some rest. Keep it casual. “Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask if I might cook dinner for you tomorrow night? Something mild that won’t upset your stomach further?” Imbécile.

She blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. I could pick up the ingredients and cook them at your place so, if you still aren’t feeling well, you won’t have to go out or dress up and can lounge around in . . .” Hell. What did women wear when they were just hanging around the house? His sister always sported combat gear and weapons.

“Yoga pants and a tank top?” she suggested.

He had no idea what yoga pants were, but had to struggle to keep his body from responding to the mental image of Jenna in a tank top. “Perfect.”

She bit her lip.

“Not perfect?”

“There’s just one thing,” she broached with reluctance. “John works until nine tomorrow night and I don’t think he’s planning to meet with his study group, so he’ll probably be home by ten. I’m not sure what you have in mind, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable . . . pursuing anything”—her cheeks filled with a pretty pink—“amorous with him home or expected home any minute.”

He smiled. “I assure you such was not my intention.”

“Oh.” The pink deepened. “Embarrassing. I’m sorry. I was the one being presumptuous. I didn’t—”

He touched her shoulder. “I meant such was not my intention while you feel unwell.”

“Oh,” she repeated, then sent him a shy smile.

“I have a confession to make, Jenna,” he said, defying caution. “Normally, I rarely patronize this store.”

“You’ve been in here at least every other night for the past month.”

He nodded. “Yes. Because, once I met you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

She smiled, all awkwardness falling away. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too,” she admitted. “It’s funny. The first night you came in, I had the strangest feeling that I knew you.”

Chier. Somewhere in her subconscious she must remember the night he had rescued her. But that time should be nothing but a black void. She should have no memory of it at all, not even enough to make her think she had seen him before.

“You did?” he asked as casually as he could.

She nodded. “I wanted to ask you if we’d met, but was afraid you might think it was a pickup line or something.”

“Ah.” Smooth.

“Have we met?” she persisted, face curious. “The feeling was so strong.”

“I’m sure I would remember if we had.” Not a lie, but misleading.

She nodded, brow faintly furrowed. “Yeah, me too.”

Richart’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Drawing it out, he glanced down to note the caller: Chris Reordon, the mortal in charge of the East Coast division of the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.

Richart gave Jenna’s shoulder another light touch. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”

She nodded.

“Yes?” Richart answered.

“I just received a call from a woman in distress,” Chris said without preamble. “All she had time to do is say, ‘Oh, crap’ and drop the phone before vampires attacked and gunshots sounded.”

“Could you tell how many there were?”

“No. But, judging by the sounds of it, a hell of a lot. Étienne is at UNC Chapel Hill near Kenan Stadium. I need you to teleport to him and be ready to go as soon as I track down where she is.”

Richart walked a couple of paces away. “Could it be Tracy?” Tracy was his sister Lisette’s Second, and 9mms were her weapons of choice.

“It isn’t Tracy. I would have recognized her voice.”

Relief rushed through him.

“We’re tracing the call now,” Chris continued, “and should have a location by the time you rendezvous with Étienne. If it’s a place you know, teleport directly to the location and join the fight. If it isn’t, Étienne has his car with him and will get the two of you there as fast as he can.”

“I’m on my way.” Tucking his phone away, Richart turned back to Jenna. “Looks like I spoke too soon. It won’t be a quiet night after all. A problem has arisen that requires my immediate attention.”

“Okay.”

“May I have your phone number so I may call you tomorrow to obtain your address?” He didn’t wish to frighten her by admitting he already knew it.

She recited it quickly. “Be careful,” she added as he bowed and backed away.

Warmth filled him. “Feel better,” he replied, earning another smile.

It took Chris longer than anticipated to trace the call, which came from way out in the boonies. Étienne violated just about every traffic law to get the two of them there as quickly as possible. When the car flew over a hill and Richart spied the battlefield ahead, he teleported himself the remaining distance and drew his swords.

Gaping, he took in what must be three dozen shriveling-up vampire corpses scattered across a blood-soaked field. “Merde!”

The threat, it would seem, had been annihilated. All the vampires had been taken out by . . .

His gaze strayed to a battered-all-to-hell black Prius upon which sat a small female figure, nearly hidden behind the irate, eight-hundred-plus-year-old British immortal who stood protectively in front of her, eyes blazing amber fire.

“Really?” Marcus bellowed. “You show up now?”

“The call didn’t come from your phone,” Richart explained. “So Chris didn’t know you were the one who needed help or where to send us until the GPS identified your location.”

“I dialed the number,” the woman murmured, voice pained, “but the vampires attacked before I could say anything.”

Marcus nodded, the eyes he trained on Richart still furious. “It took this long for him to track our location? I thought that shit worked faster than that.”

“No, it took this long for us to get here. You are way out in the sticks, you know.” Richart eyed the two of them curiously.

Marcus continued to stand protectively in front of the woman, one hand tucked behind him, resting on her legs.

Interesting.

Marcus’s scowl deepened. “Why didn’t you just—”

“I’m not as powerful as Seth. I can only teleport to places I’m familiar with, and I’m new to the area.”

The hem of Richart’s long coat fluttered as his brother’s car skidded to a halt inches away.

The driver’s door flew open and Étienne leaped out, weapons at the ready. “Merde! How many were there?” he asked with astonishment.

Richart turned in a circle, taking in the rapidly decomposing remains of the vampires the duo had defeated. “Thirty-four by my count.”

Étienne gaped at Marcus. “And you took them all out by yourself?”

Marcus shook his head. “We took them all out.”

As one, Richart and his brother shifted so they could better see the injured woman, who seemed to want to lose herself behind Marcus.

“Two defeated thirty-four?” Richart said with a shake of his head. It was an unheard of feat. Richart would have thought only Seth—the eldest and most powerful immortal and leader of the Immortal Guardians—would have been capable of such. “Incredible.”

Étienne nodded, his gaze pinned to the woman.

Small, attractive, and blood-splattered, she boasted red hair that must have been dyed. All immortals had black hair.

Well, all but a couple who had brown hair.

“I didn’t know Seth had called in another immortal,” Étienne said, drawing the same conclusion Richart had. “Pleasure to meet you. I am Étienne d’Alençon, and this is my brother Richart.”

Was that jealousy Richart saw flare in Marcus’s eyes?

“Ami isn’t an immortal. She’s my Second.”

Richart felt his jaw drop. “She’s human?” he asked incredulously.

How had one immortal and one human stood against so many vampires?

Once again, he took in the multitude of corpses littering the field.

Vampires had not even attacked in these numbers when Bastien, an immortal who had thought himself a vampire for two centuries, had raised an army and waged war with the Immortal Guardians a couple of years ago.

What the hell was going on?

Chapter Two

Jenna was beset by nerves all day as she anticipated her date with Richart.

It hadn’t taken her long to tidy the apartment. Once done, she rearranged the kitchen cabinets and drawers, placing the nicest of her mismatched dishes and glasses in the front and on top.

She couldn’t remember a time when money hadn’t been tight. Her parents had kicked her out when she had turned up pregnant at sixteen. Her boyfriend’s parents had declared their child-rearing days over and done little more than give Jenna and Bobby, John’s father, first and last month’s rent on their first apartment. The two had married and worked their asses off, but—unable to afford health insurance—had accrued thousands of dollars in debt thanks to the medical bills pregnancy and giving birth had generated. Debt they had still been struggling to pay off when Bobby had been killed in a car accident three years later.

So nice dishes and pretty glasses had been beyond her budget.

Hell, the only furniture she had owned for years—other than baby furniture—had been throwaway pieces other tenants had left out by the Dumpster and an inflatable mattress.

But eventually, she had paid off the debt and managed to put away a little extra here and there until she had acquired enough to furnish the apartment with something that wouldn’t embarrass John when he invited friends over.

Or her. Richart had said he wouldn’t pursue anything amorous tonight, but she was nevertheless glad she had an actual bed in case something developed between them later.

Butterflies flocked to her stomach. She hadn’t had a date in . . .

Hmm. She drew a blank on that one.

Debbie had set her up on a blind date a couple of years ago that had gone rather well, Jenna thought, until she had mentioned having a son who planned to go to medical school. Her date had apparently mentally jumped ahead to marrying her and having to shell out a couple hundred thousand dollars in educational fees for a son who wasn’t his and had run, not walked, in the opposite direction.

Dating wasn’t easy for single moms.

The phone rang.

Jenna jumped. Shaking her head at herself, she answered. “Hello?”

“Hello.”

Her heart began to pound at the sound of Richart’s deep, silky voice. “Hi.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.” Well . . . a little better, anyway. Though her stomach remained unsettled, she felt somewhat confident that she would be able to eat whatever meal he prepared without projectile vomiting it on him afterward.

“I’m glad to hear it. I thought I would run some dinner ideas by you and see what you think would be the most gentle on your stomach.”

So thoughtful. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”

Richart began to list entrées he could prepare for her. Clearly the man could cook.

Jenna didn’t know how half of the dishes he mentioned were prepared or if she even had the pots and pans needed to do it, so she went with the safest option. “How about the light salad and fettuccine Alfredo?”

“As you wish,” he responded cheerfully. “I shall see you tonight.”

When Jenna opened her door shortly after sunset, Richart smiled and decided that he loved yoga pants and tank tops. The soft gray pants hugged full hips and slender thighs before falling in straight lines to a pair of sneakers. A white tank top clung to a narrow ribcage, minuscule waist, and breasts he thought would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, which tightened around the handles of the shopping bags he carried.

“I took you at your word and stayed in my comfy clothes,” she said with a hesitant smile, stepping back and motioning for him to enter.

“I like your comfy clothes,” he professed, inhaling her sweet scent as he strode past into the small living room. Jenna plus a hint of the chocolate-raspberry soap she used. A delectable combination.

She had even worn her hair down. At work she usually pulled it back with clasps or ties or put it up in a ponytail. Tonight it fell freely in shining waves as red as the sky at sunset, tumbling across her shoulders and tempting him to comb his fingers through it.

No touching, he admonished himself. At least, no touching that might lead to more touching. She’s ill and you’re immortal and haven’t told her. Nor do you plan to tell her. So, what the hell are you actually doing here?

Giving in to weakness.

He hadn’t felt this drawn to a woman since before his transformation. She made him forget the dark violence that was such a large part of his existence and made everything somehow less tedious, so he actually looked forward to rising each day, eager to see her again.

“How are you feeling?” Richart asked as she closed the door.

“Both hungry and nauseated at the same time. I haven’t eaten anything all day because my stomach still isn’t right. But I think the Alfredo is mild enough to stay down.” She grimaced.

“What?”

She gave him a self-deprecating smile and led him into the kitchen. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’ve never talked about vomiting on a first date before. Real romantic, right?”

He grinned. “More romantic certainly than not mentioning it was a possibility, then spewing your dinner all over your companion as he leans in for a kiss.”

She laughed. “Thank you for being such a good sport about it.”

“Thank you for letting me cook you dinner.” He set his bags down on the counter and started removing the ingredients he’d purchased on the way there. “I should probably warn you that I haven’t been on a date in quite a while, so I’m a little rusty.”

Her eyebrows flew up as she transferred the cold foods to her refrigerator. “How long has it been?”

“Longer than I care to admit. My job and odd hours tend to make dating difficult.”

She nodded. “Being a single mom and working the night shift does, too. I haven’t dated in a while either.”

“Excellent. Then, if neither of us remembers the rules, we don’t have to follow them.”

“Sounds good to me.” She closed the refrigerator door and leaned her hip against it, crossing her arms just beneath her breasts. “Listen, I’m sort of a get-the-truth-out-there-so-when-it-comes-up-later-it-won’t-be-an-issue kind of gal, so there’s something I wanted to mention.”

This couldn’t be good.

She hesitated. “You know I’m older than you, right?”

Richart stared down at her and forced himself not to laugh at the irony. He may be over two hundred years old, but he looked as if he were in his late twenties, thirty at the most. And Jenna was worried that her being thirty-seven would be a problem?

“Honestly, I could not care less how old you are, Jenna,” he assured her, all the while calling himself a bastard for not taking the opening she had provided and broaching the topic of who and what he was. She valued truth. If he continued to keep it from her . . .

A hint of insecurity entered her features. “I don’t mean to press this, but . . . I dated a guy once—very briefly—who said the same thing until his friends found out and started to razz him about it. I’m thirty-seven. Are you sure that isn’t a problem?”

“I don’t know why his friends would tease him about dating you unless they were envious. You look like you’re in your twenties, Jenna. Not much older than your son, in fact. And, if you looked like you were in your forties, guess what. I would be just as interested.”

She smiled and closed the distance between them. “And if I looked like I were in my fifties?”

“Still interested.”

“Sixties?”

“I happen to think laugh lines are hot.”

She laughed. “Good, because I have a feeling you’re going to give me a few.”

“I should hope so,” he said, telling himself not to think about the fact that he would still look and feel as he did now when she was in her sixties, seventies, and eighties and all of the problems that would generate.

You’re getting ahead of yourself, old man. This is your first damned date. Not your engagement party.

“You don’t mind that I’m older than you. You don’t mind that I’m a single mom, putting a son through college.” She shook her head and smiled up at him, expression soft. “You’re a rare breed, Richart d’Alençon.”

She didn’t know the half of it.

Unable to resist, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers in a gentle caress.

Her breath caught.

Lightning struck.

Both their hearts began to beat faster.

Resting a hand on her waist, Richart tilted his head and explored those smooth pink lips that had drawn his gaze so often, then drew back before his emotions could take over and make his eyes begin to glow.

“Wow,” Jenna breathed, staring up at him.

“I am so smitten with you,” he admitted softly.

“I love the way you talk.”

“My accent?”

“That, too, but . . . I love the way you phrase things. Like the heroes from the historical romance novels I read.”

He cringed. Apparently, he was showing his age.

She smiled. “Don’t look like that. I meant it in a good way.”

“If you say so.”

Her stomach chose that moment to rumble and growl. Both laughed as she covered her flat belly with one hand. “Sorry about that.”

He shook his head. “Let’s get started so we can get some food in you.”

Hands down, it was the best date Jenna ever had. Richart was charming and funny and so sexy he took her breath away. Just as that kiss had. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And the man was an excellent cook. She had never been a big fan of salads, had always found them pretty bland, but he concocted some kind of homemade salad dressing that was absolutely delicious.

“How’s your stomach?” he asked, taking her empty salad plate and replacing it with one heaped high with fettuccine Alfredo.

“Doing good,” she responded with relief. The first taste of his creamy Alfredo sauce elicited a moan. “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook?”

“I taught myself.” He shrugged. “No reason not to really. I don’t know why some men balk at it. I love food and saw no better way to ensure I would always have a tasty meal at my disposal.”

“Smart man. I like that.”

He winked.

Her pulse jumped.

The front doorknob rattled as a key slipped in and unlocked it.

Aaaaaaand the moment’s over, she thought as her son opened the door and entered.

Jenna watched Richart with some trepidation. Saying he had no problem with her being a single mom was one thing. Not minding her son intruding on their romantic dinner was another.

John hesitated before removing his key from the lock and closing the door behind him.

Awkward.

Jenna smiled at him. “Hi, honey. How was school?”

“Same old same old,” he said with a shrug and a tentative smile.

Richart rose and, setting his napkin on the table, took a step forward and offered his hand. “You must be John.”

John set the tall pile of books he carried on the sofa. He often went straight from school to work. “And you must be Richart.” He shook Richart’s hand. “Am I pronouncing that correctly?” he asked, making sure Reeshart was correct.

“Yes. Richart d’Alençon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Jenna couldn’t gauge her son’s thoughts and had no clue how he felt about his mom dating. Such had rarely happened.

Richart motioned to the table. “Won’t you join us?”

“Oh.” Clearly surprised, John eyed the food with longing, glanced at Jenna, then looked at Richart. “Nnnno. No, thanks. I have some studying to do and wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“I made more than enough,” Richart tempted. “Please, sit and join us. Jenna has told me so much about you. It would be nice to get to know you better.”

Jenna stared, knowing with absolute certainty that Richart wasn’t simply mouthing platitudes to score points with her. He actually meant it.

Again, John looked to Jenna.

She nodded and smiled.

“Okay.” He started for the kitchen.

Richart followed. “Jenna tells me you attend UNC Chapel Hill.”

“Yes.” John pulled down a plate and turned toward the stove, where Richart waited.

Richart motioned him closer and began filling his plate.

John met Jenna’s gaze and raised his eyebrows.

She grinned.

John was almost as tall as Richart and still seemed to be growing at age twenty. His shoulders weren’t quite as broad and his physique was leaner, but his brown hair was cropped short like Richart’s.

“A friend of mine used to teach at UNC,” Richart mentioned.

“What department?”

“Music.”

“Oh, yeah? A guy in my study group is minoring in music. What’s his name? Maybe they took some classes with him.”

Richart smiled as the two returned to the table. Richart retook his seat at Jenna’s elbow while John took the chair across from him. “Dr. Sarah Bingham.”

John’s eyebrows flew up again. “You know Dr. Bingham? Carl said she was really something.” Something awesome, his tone declared.

Richart picked up his fork. “She is.”

Jealousy stirred as Jenna watched Richart smile with what could only be affection.

John tucked into the food. “Man, this is good.”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever happened to Dr. Bingham? She only taught there for a year, then disappeared.”

“She married a friend of mine and now works in the same business I do.”

John’s eyes widened. “Dr. Bingham works in private security? Doing what? She’s like five feet tall and weighs less than my mom.”

Richart pointed his fork at John. “But she’s a fierce fighter and could take you down in seconds.”

“No shit?” He darted Jenna a look. “Sorry, Mom. No kidding?” John was usually careful not to curse in front of Jenna. He thought doing so was disrespectful, and he would probably pass out if he ever heard some of the language she used when she was stuck in traffic.

“No kidding,” Richart insisted.

“Wow. You can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?”

Richart gave his plate a wry smile. “No, you can’t.”

Silence fell.

“So,” John began slowly, “is this weird? My being here?” He glanced back and forth between them.

It seemed weird as hell to Jenna.

Richart shook his head. “I don’t want it to be weird. I’m very taken with your mother. If I haven’t bungled tonight too badly”—he sent Jenna a flirtatious smile—“I hope to see her again.”

“I’d like that.” Had she said that too quickly?

Richart reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze, then returned his attention to John. “Which means I’ll be seeing you again, too, so I want us to be comfortable around each other.”

John eyed their clasped hands. “Sounds good. But it still feels weird.”

Jenna laughed and was relieved when Richart did, too.

“We’ll figure it out eventually,” Richart promised. “What courses are you taking?”

While John gave Richart a quick rundown on the classes he was taking, Richart leaned back in his chair. He stroked Jenna’s hand with his thumb, sending little sparks of electricity dancing through her, as he nodded and commented here and there.

John finished his meal and pushed back his chair. “Speaking of which, I need to go ahead and hit the books. Finals are coming up and I don’t want to wait until the last minute to cram.” He offered his hand to Richart, who stood and shook it. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thank you for joining us. I enjoyed meeting you.”

“Me, too.” John put his plate in the sink, then gathered his books. Offering a final wave, he went to his bedroom and closed the door.

Smiling, Richart met Jenna’s gaze as he retook his seat. “I like him. He’s everything you said he is. And I see a lot of you in him.”

“You do?” John looked so much like his father. It warmed her to know there was a little bit of her in there, too.

He leaned in closer. “I meant what I said, you know.”

How could a man who didn’t wear cologne smell so good?

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You have totally captivated me and I would love to see you again.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“Would tomorrow night be too soon?”

She smiled. “No, but I work tomorrow night.”

“How about an early dinner?”

“Sounds good.”

He nodded and glanced at the clock hanging in the kitchen. “I hate to leave, but . . .”

“Work?”

He nodded and rose, collecting their dishes.

“Don’t worry about those. I’ll take care of it.”

He frowned and shook his head. “You still aren’t feeling well.”

“I’m feeling much better.” She didn’t know if it was his company or the fettuccine, but she really did. “I’ll do it.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I’m sure,” she insisted, took the plates, and carried them to the sink. When she turned around, she found Richart donning his long black coat in the living room.

He was so handsome.

She walked him to the door. “This was nice.”

He nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing. I haven’t smiled so much since . . .” He tilted his head to one side. “Actually, I’m not sure. It’s been a long time.”

“Then I’ll endeavor to make you smile more often.”

“An easy task to accomplish. Just keep being you.” Leaning one shoulder against the door, he cupped her face in one large hand and studied her, his smile softening. “You’re so beautiful, Jenna.”

In that moment, staring up at him, she could almost believe it.

Lowering his head, he captured her lips.

This kiss was nothing like the one they had shared in the kitchen. It was no first tentative exploration. This kiss was explosive and intense, his velvety warm mouth sending her up in flames.

He slipped his tongue inside to duel with hers, tempting and teasing. One strong arm locked around her waist and drew her into his tall muscled form, pressing her breasts to his hard chest and washboard abs, her hips to the arousal that sprang to life behind his zipper.

Holy crap. Her pulse turned to molten lava. Her knees weakened even as she rose onto her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, burrowing her fingers through his short silken hair.

He ended the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, his breathing as harsh as hers. “I wish I didn’t have to work,” he murmured.

She nodded. Sliding her hands down to tangle in the soft material of his shirt, Jenna lowered her heels to the floor. “And I wish my son weren’t in the next room.”

He muttered something in French. “I forgot about that.”

Gradually their breathing calmed.

He sighed. “I keep telling myself to go, but I don’t seem to be moving.”

“I can live with that.”

Chuckling, he raised his head. “All right.” He stole another quick kiss and opened the door. “I’m out.”

With great reluctance, Jenna stepped back. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly as he stepped out into the night. “Feel better.”

“I already do.”

For the next week Richart lived a dual life. He began each evening by having dinner with Jenna. Sometimes he took her out. Sometimes he cooked for her at her place. Then they parted ways. She went to work, and he left to hunt and fight bloody battles with vampires.

He thought about her all the time. Her laugh. Her smile. Her wit. Her delectable body pressed to his. He was falling in love with her and thought—hoped—she might be falling in love with him. Her face lit up when she saw him, as did his own, he was sure. They never ran out of things to talk about when they were together. And the passion building between them. . .

Richart was having a hard time concealing his nature from her.

Whenever immortals experienced strong emotion, their eyes glowed. That was damned difficult to hide when the slightest touch of her hand enflamed him. Hell, just looking at her made him want to rip her work clothes off and lick every inch of her body.

But he resisted the urge and, though he knew it frustrated her, was glad either work or her son frequently intruded and kept them from doing more than the most basic of passionate explorations. He just didn’t feel right about making love with her without first revealing who and what he was.

“Earth to Richart.”

Richart blinked and realized his Second stood in front of him, holding out two daggers. “Oh. Thanks.”

Sheldon shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Richart tuck the blades into the sheaths on his thighs. He was young for a Second, only twenty years old. Inexperienced. And not the quickest learner. But Richart liked him and appreciated the boy’s humor and teasing nature.

“When are you going to tell her?” Sheldon asked. He alone knew Richart was seeing someone.

“That I can’t see her tonight?”

“No, genius. That you’re two hundred years old. Don’t you think she should know she’s sleeping with Methuselah?”

“First, thank you for that,” Richart offered dryly as he grabbed a couple more daggers. “Second, we haven’t slept together yet. And third . . .”

“What?”

“It isn’t the easiest topic to broach. And telling her could put her in danger.”

Sheldon frowned. “You mean Reordon? He wouldn’t harm her, would he?”

Chris Reordon took his job protecting Immortal Guardians very seriously. “At the very least, he would interrogate and threaten her to ensure her silence. And if she didn’t react well and told someone else . . .”

Sheldon scowled. “No wonder Roland kept Reordon away from Sarah. But Jenna wouldn’t blab, right? I mean, you know her.”

“And Roland knew his fiancée several centuries ago when he told her. Did she accept him? No. She betrayed his trust, and he awoke the next morning to a mob wielding fire, wooden stakes, and pitchforks.”

“Wow. No wonder he’s such an untrusting bastard.” Sheldon glanced at the clock. “Almost time for the meeting.”

Richart took out his cell phone. “I really hate to do this. It’s her night off, and I didn’t get to see her yesterday.” But when Seth called a meeting, one didn’t balk at attending.

Disappointed, Richart dialed her number.

Chapter Three

A biting winter wind ruffled Richart’s hair. Barren limbs of deciduous trees clacked together overhead while the leaves of evergreens fluttered and swished.

What’s going on with you? a female voice with an accent identical to his own asked in his head.

Richart glanced over at his sister and brother, who examined him much like they would a previously undiscovered insect.

Stay out of my head, he warned them. Both were telepathic. Richart lacked that gift and had often bemoaned the fact as a child until he had learned he could teleport and they couldn’t. They could still read his thoughts or send him their own, though.

We know when you block your thoughts and have respected your desire for privacy, Lisette said and shared a look with Étienne. But we don’t have to read your mind to know something is up.

Richart frowned at the dark forest that surrounded them.

A vampire, claiming he desired the Immortal Guardians’ help, had arranged a rendezvous with Marcus, Ami, and Roland (the last of whom the vampires believed was Bastien) in a clearing that had once been the site of Bastien’s lair. Seth had ordered Richart, his siblings, and Roland’s wife, Sarah, to follow and linger downwind in case it was a trap.

Sarah likely had no notion the French immortals were communicating silently and stood off to the side, staring intently into the trees as if she could see her husband waiting on the other side.

In lieu of answering, Richart decided to change the subject. Did anyone else notice the way Marcus looks at his Second?

Étienne smirked. As if he wishes to devour her? No, I didn’t notice at all.

Richart smiled.

Rustling sounds, a mile or two distant, reached their ears. The vampires’ scents—four instead of only the one who had arranged the meeting—followed.

Étienne drew his katanas.

Richart palmed two daggers as Lisette drew a pair of shoto swords.

“I thought this was supposed to be a private meeting,” they heard Marcus drawl.

“Insurance,” a vampire responded arrogantly. “Can’t blame me for being careful, can you? Besides, if he’s who you say he is, then maybe he can help all three of us.”

Richart caught Lisette’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.

It’s a trap, she confirmed with a frown. Three face our brethren while a fourth lingers in the trees, but . . . She shook her head. Their thoughts are all so loud and jumbled, I can’t discern what the trap entails.

Richart looked to Étienne, keeping an ear tuned to the conversation that continued in the clearing.

Étienne wagged his head back and forth. The madness has taken them. Their thoughts are impossible to separate, as if all are shouting at once. There are only four of them, but . . . So many voices. It’s as though they suffer from multiple personality disorder. I can’t discern their plan.

Richart nodded.

“So be it,” the vampire addressing Marcus said with satisfaction.

Boom!

Pain pierced Richart’s ears as an explosion shook the ground beneath his feet. The scent of multiple vampires abruptly tainted the air as gunshots sounded and the clang of metal striking metal disrupted the night.

A shrill whistle followed as Marcus signaled for them to join the fight.

Sarah darted forward so fast she seemed to vanish.

Richart teleported to the clearing. His eyes widened.

So many!

He swiftly thrust a dagger into the heart of one of the dozens of vampires surging toward Marcus, Ami, and Roland.

Those three stood back to back to back, Ami firing her Glocks, Marcus wielding his short swords, and Roland cutting through the vampires with his sais.

As the vamp Richart impaled sank to the ground, Richart teleported again, appearing several yards away, arms extended, daggers held tightly in his palms. His blades slit the throats of two vampires racing toward Marcus and severed their carotid arteries. As they dropped to the ground, Richart teleported again and again and again, taking out vampires every time, spawning utter chaos as the vampires began to divide their attention between fighting Marcus and the others and looking around wildly for him.

Richart smiled darkly. He loved his gift. Loved the fear it inspired in his opponents.

He teleported over to his brother and took out two of the many vampires clamoring to kill him.

Étienne laughed, never ceasing his swings.

Grinning, Richart teleported over to the mob that continued to assault the trio in the center of the clearing. As soon as he appeared, sinking his blade into yet another vamp, a bullet struck him in the shoulder.

Ami gasped, her guns falling silent.

Richart couldn’t fault her for shooting him. He had teleported between her and her target. He waved it off and teleported again as she resumed fire.

The battle waged on.

For every vampire the immortals and Ami killed, two or three seemed to take their place. Richart couldn’t believe their numbers. Even Bastien had not commanded an army this large.

And where the hell were they all coming from?

The gunshots ended as Ami ran out of ammo and exchanged her firearms for katanas.

Richart kept one eye on her as he continued to fight, knowing her strength could not match that of the insane vampires slathering around her like rabid dogs.

Sure enough, a vamp ducked one of her swings and hit Ami hard in the head.

Richart teleported behind her and caught her as she reeled dizzily. Wrapping one arm around her waist to steady her, he hurled throwing stars with the other until she regained her feet.

“Thanks,” she rasped over her shoulder.

“I’m taking you to safety,” he announced, grabbing one of her katanas and fending off the onslaught.

“No!”

It didn’t matter if she protested. She was injured and vulnerable. The vampires were targeting her as an easy kill.

“No!” she repeated and shoved him away. “I’m fine! Just give me my damned sword back!”

She didn’t wait, just yanked it out of his hand.

Richart felt something prick the skin beneath one ear.

As he reached up to see what it was (it felt like a bee sting), Marcus whipped around and yanked what looked like a tranquilizer dart from Richart’s neck.

A similar dart hit Marcus in the shoulder.

Richart frowned. Drugs didn’t affect immortals. Didn’t the vamps . . . know . . . that?

Weakness engulfed him. Richart stumbled and grunted as a vampire took advantage and stabbed him in the side. Lashing out, Richart searched the blood-painted mass of fighting, snarling bodies around him and saw his sister drop to her knees. “Lisette.”

“Richart!” Ami shouted.

Vision fuzzy, he turned and found her propping up a barely conscious Marcus, who now sported several of the darts.

“Get them out of here!” she shouted, her pretty, crimson-splashed face panicked. “Now!”

Richart teleported to his sister’s side, touched her shoulder, and took her to David’s home.

David was the second eldest and second most powerful immortal in existence and maintained an open door policy for all immortals, Seconds, and members of the human network. With the drug coursing through his system, slowing his movements, and clouding his thoughts, Richart could think of no safer place.

In David’s spacious living room, David’s Second Darnell, Lisette’s Second Tracy, and Sheldon sat side by side on one of the sofas, their gazes glued to Darnell’s laptop.

As soon as Richart and Lisette appeared, they leapt to their feet.

Richart staggered.

“What happened?” Sheldon asked, eyes wide.

Tracy and Darnell hurried over to catch Lisette as she lost consciousness.

“Drugs,” was all Richart could manage.

“Dr. Lipton!” Darnell bellowed over his shoulder moments before Richart teleported away.

As soon as he appeared back at the battle, another dart struck him.

Swearing, he yanked it out, sped over to his brother’s side, and touched his shoulder.

The world around them blurred as he took them to David’s.

Sheldon and Cameron, Étienne’s Second, waited anxiously in the living room. Darnell, Tracy, and Lisette were gone.

Cam lunged forward and caught Étienne as he slumped toward the floor. Sheldon stepped forward and held up an M16. “Take me back with you.”

Richart clasped Sheldon’s shoulder. The room around them dimmed, but they didn’t teleport. He tried again and only managed to teleport them to the front door.

Swearing, he grabbed the M16 and shoved Sheldon away. His surroundings went black. He made it back to the clearing this time. Sarah and Ami were trying to hold off the many remaining vampires while supporting Marcus and Roland.

Everything was . . . out of focus. Confusing. Richart couldn’t think straight. He needed to be able to think straight so he could teleport the others to safety.

Sarah and Ami spoke urgently beside him.

He looked around, past the glowing eyes of the vampires who circled them like jackals.

Where was Lisette? Had he teleported her already? What about. . .

Where was Sheldon? Hadn’t Sheldon been with him just now?

Sarah folded her husband over one shoulder, then leaned forward so Ami could fold Marcus over the other one. If she intended to flee, the heavy men’s weight would significantly slow her retreat.

Richart glanced down and discovered he held an M16. He thrust it into Ami’s small hands. His own seemed uncooperative.

Another dart hit him.

Sarah would never be able to outrun the vampires if Ami slowed her down, too.

Even as the thought flitted through his mind, he heard Ami convince Sarah to leave without her.

Good. At least Sarah, Roland, and Marcus would get away.

Richart and Ami would be left to fight the two dozen or more vampires who remained. Ami was mortal and no match for their speed or strength. And he was so weak he could barely lift his arms. If he couldn’t teleport the two of them out of there, their fates would be sealed. Both would die this night.

Odd that he would think of Jenna in that moment, lamenting that he would never see her again.

He needed to try to teleport Ami away.

As he reached for her shoulder, his vision dimmed and went black.

The apartment was quiet, save the faint clicking sounds the flatware made against their plates as Jenna and John ate a late dinner.

“I’m sorry Richart had to cancel tonight,” John said, his gaze far too discerning.

Jenna had been disappointed as hell when Richart had called and said he couldn’t make it. Apparently some problem had arisen at work that required his attention.

She sighed. Or had it?

Had it just been an excuse? Had he grown tired of either work or her son’s presence constantly impeding their desire to become more intimately involved?

At a loss, she decided to seek John’s advice. Her son was popular with the girls and had dated far more than she had in her lifetime, so . . . why not? “Should I read anything into it that he canceled two nights in a row?”

If he thought it odd that his mother wanted his opinion on her love life, John hid it well. “I don’t think so, considering the line of work he’s in.”

“But? I hear a but in there.”

“But I do think it’s odd that he always comes over here and hasn’t taken you to his place yet. I mean, you have dinner together every night. I would think he would be getting tired of me being a third wheel on the nights he doesn’t take you out.”

“He said his nephew lives with him. So it wouldn’t be any different at his place.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, maybe you should suggest it . . . just to make sure he isn’t one of those guys who cheats on his wife and doesn’t tell his mistress that he’s married.”

Her heart sank.

“Don’t look like that,” John said quickly. “I’m probably just being paranoid. You’re my mom. I’m suspicious of every man you date.”

“Like there have been that many,” she muttered.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “It’s probably what you said. Or maybe he’s a slob and doesn’t want you to see.”

That made her smile. “He isn’t a slob.” Richart was always meticulously groomed and dressed. She couldn’t imagine his home being less so.

“Hey, you never know. A friend of mine—”

A large dark figure suddenly loomed in Jenna’s peripheral vision.

Letting out a surprised shriek, she jumped up, bumping the table and knocking over her glass of tea.

John grabbed his steak knife and leaped up to confront . . . “Oh, shit!”

Jenna’s eyes widened. Her breath stopped. Shock immobilized her.

Richart stood in the middle of their living room, having appeared out of thin air.

She swallowed, mouth dry.

His eyes glowed a brilliant amber. They glowed. His breath was labored, soughing in and out of parted lips that exposed gleaming fangs. His hair was windblown, his face splattered with—

“Is that blood?” John asked shakily, moving over to stand protectively close to Jenna.

She nodded. Nearly all of Richart’s dark clothing glistened with the ruby liquid and sported numerous cuts and tears. There even appeared to be a bullet hole in one shoulder.

Richart said nothing, just swayed where he stood.

“Richart?” she asked, voice and body trembling as tea slithered over the table’s edge and hit the floor with a tap tap tap.

He turned toward her, but didn’t seem to see her.

“Richart?” she repeated and took a step toward him.

John grabbed her arm. “Stay back.”

Jenna shook him off and slowly forced her feet to carry her forward.

Swearing, John stuck close to her side, his steak knife at the ready.

“Richart,” she called again when she stood only a few feet away.

The glow in his eyes began to fade, returning them to the warm brown of which she had become so fond. The fangs receded, disappearing into his gums as if they had never been.

He mumbled something in French.

Jenna consulted her son. “Do you know what he said?”

He shook his head. “I’ve forgotten most of the French I learned in high school.”

Richart blinked and dipped his chin. He seemed to be having a hard time focusing. “Jenna?”

“Yes.”

Panic danced across his face as he lunged forward and grabbed her upper arms.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” John tried to intervene, or at least to break the bruising grip, but couldn’t.

“What are you doing here?” Richart demanded, his accent so thick and his words so slurred she had difficulty understanding him. “It’s too dangerous. You must go.”

Jenna gently clasped his arms. “Richart, we’re in my apartment. Do you understand me? We’re in my apartment.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, heart pounding in her chest.

His brows drew down in a deep V. “Your . . . ?” He glanced around. Releasing one of her arms, he rubbed his eyes and looked around again.

She could feel him trembling. The hand that gripped her shook violently. And he began to slowly press downward as if he had to use her to prop himself up.

Jenna watched him take in the sofa, the stained coffee table, John, and their abandoned dinner.

Relief softened his features as he swayed. “We made it out? I got us out?”

Before she or John could ask out of what, Richart looked around again. “Where is Ami?”

Jenna felt the sharp glance John sent her. “Who is Ami?” she asked.

His frown returned, as did the alarm. “What?”

“I don’t know who Ami is, Richart. You just . . . appeared . . . out of nowhere. Alone.”

“She wasn’t with me? I left her there?”

John stepped forward. “Left her where? Who’s Ami? What the hell is going on?”

Richart began to mumble in French again.

Jenna gave him a little shake. “Richart!”

“I must go back,” he said, face stricken. He released his hold on Jenna and, breaking her own, staggered away two steps.

When he listed to one side, Jenna hurried forward to steady him.

He pushed her away. “Don’t touch me,” he wheezed. “I’ll take you with me.”

“What?”

John grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her back.

Richart reached beneath his coat and drew out two very lethal looking daggers.

John swore.

Richart squeezed his eyes closed, so wobbly on his feet the faintest breath of wind would have knocked him on his ass.

As Jenna stared at him, his form began to fade, becoming translucent. Her breath caught. She could actually see the other side of the room through him.

“What the . . . ?” John whispered.

Then Richart became solid again. He opened his eyes, saw them, and growled with frustration. Stumbling a couple of steps to the left, he thrust out an arm and pressed a bloody fist against the wall until he could regain his balance, then straightened. He squeezed his eyes shut, brow crinkling with concentration. Again his form began to fade, becoming phantomlike.

“Mom . . .” John said. “Are you seeing this?”

Jenna didn’t have to look up at him to know he was as freaked out as she was. “Yes.”

Once more, Richart’s form solidified. He opened his eyes, spoke vehemently in French, then lurched forward. His knees buckled. Losing his battle with gravity, he crashed through her coffee table, reducing it to large splinters as he hit the floor hard.

Her heart now lodged in her throat, Jenna jerked away from John and knelt at Richart’s side. “Richart?”

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at her with unfocused eyes. “I left . . . her there,” he whispered, those eyes—dilated she could see now—filling with moisture.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, combing his damp hair back from his face.

He shook his head. “I left her. They’ll . . . kill her.” A tear slid down his temple. His weapons thunked to the floor as his hands went limp. “They’ll”—his eyes closed—“tear her . . . apart.”

As Jenna watched in horror, he sighed. Then his chest rose no more. “Richart?”

Nothing.

Burying her hands in his bloody shirt, she shook him. “Richart?”

No response.

“Richart!”

John knelt by her side. “Mom . . .”

Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, she shoved her fingers against Richart’s throat above his carotid artery. Seconds ticked by, passing as slowly as hours. Her vision wavered as tears filled her eyes and spilled over her lashes. “I can’t feel a pulse.” Her breath hitched. “I can’t feel a pulse!”

John shoved her hand away and pressed two fingers against Richart’s neck.

She gripped Richart’s arm. “There’s nothing.”

“Shh.” He lowered his ear to Richart’s chest.

“He’s—”

“Shh!”

This wasn’t happening.

Whatever the hell this was, it wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be!

“John—”

“Quiet!” her son ordered harshly.

Jenna stared at Richart’s face. How could he have come to mean so much to her in such a short time? The thought of losing him . . .

More tears welled.

“I’ve got a pulse,” John blurted, face pinched as he sat up.

“What?”

“He’s alive.”

Jenna rose onto her knees, hope a frightening force that lent her strength despite her trembling. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s slow as hell, but it’s there.”

Elation filled her, rendering her weak again. “We have to call nine-one-one.”

He caught her wrist and stopped her before she could rise and lunge for the phone. “And tell them what? That your vampire boyfriend needs medical attention?”

And there it was. The V-word she had been trying her damnedest to avoid.

“There are no such things as vampires.”

“Proof of their existence is currently passed out on our living room floor.”

“He isn’t a vampire,” she denied.

“His eyes glowed and he had fangs.”

“But he doesn’t now!”

“Exactly. Fake fangs don’t retract into your gums. Glowing contact lenses don’t have an on/off switch.”

She stared at her son, wanting to cling to denial a little longer.

“And humans don’t have pulses so slow as to be virtually undetectable,” he pronounced.

“But he ate food.”

“Maybe vampires can eat food in real life.”

“Do you realize—”

“Yes! I realize how ludicrous that sounds, Mom, but . . . !” He drew in a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know what the hell he is, but I do know what he isn’t: human. And since the news hasn’t been filled with vampire reports, I’m guessing he’s been keeping it a secret.”

He had certainly been keeping it a secret from her.

“Well, we can’t just leave him here,” she said. He was wounded, badly, judging by all of the blood. He needed help.

“If you’re asking me what we should do . . .” He shook his head. “As your son, my first instinct is to protect you by waiting for the sun to rise and shoving his ass out the door.”

“John!”

“Don’t worry. My second inclination—again because you’re my mom and I know you care about him—is to do what I can to help him. Let’s put him to bed and see if we can do anything about his wounds.”

Jenna gave John a quick hug. “I love you.”

He hugged her back. “I love you, too. I just hope we aren’t making a huge mistake.”

They stood. John kicked the daggers away from Richart’s hands.

“Put him in my room,” Jenna instructed.

Offering no protest, John bent down, hoisted Richart over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and straightened. “Holy crap he’s heavy.” He staggered toward the hallway.

Jenna ducked past them and hurried into her bedroom.

Grabbing the old, timeworn blanket at the foot of the bed, she threw it over the covers to protect them a bit from the blood. She stared as John deposited Richart’s limp form on the bed.

Had Richart not canceled, she likely would have spent tonight making love with a vampire.

“Mom?”

Get it together. “Right.” Moving forward, she tugged off Richart’s boots.

John removed the long coat, then Jenna started on the buttons that ran down the front of Richart’s black shirt. When she reached the last one and parted the material, both she and John gasped.

Richart’s torso was a sticky red. His shoulder did indeed sport a bullet hole. The rest of him . . .

Puncture wounds, deep cuts, and gashes that must have been carved by blades as sharp as Richart’s daggers marred much of his form.

“We don’t even have what we need to bandage those, let alone close them,” John said.

“Whatever we need, go buy it,” Jenna told him.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone with him.”

Jenna met his gaze. “We’ve been alone together nearly every night this week and he hasn’t harmed me. Do it. I’ll be fine.”

“What if he wakes up, wanting blood? You go. I’ll—”

“John.” Her tone offered no compromise.

He nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and left the room.

A couple of minutes later, he returned, wearing a fresh sweatshirt, jacket, and jeans. He handed her a canister of pepper spray and one of Richart’s daggers. “If he threatens you, hit him with the pepper spray, then carve him up.”

Lovely.

Jenna took the weapons and kissed John on the cheek. “Hurry.”

Nodding, he left the room. A moment later, the front door closed.

And Jenna was left alone with the vampire she loved.

Jenna glanced at the clock for the hundredth time since John had left.

Richart had not roused once. Not when she had finished undressing him. Not when she had sponge-bathed the blood from him. Not when she had attempted to clean his sticky, bloody hair. And not when she had worked a pair of John’s boxers up Richart’s long, muscled legs and over his . . .

Her gaze darted to his lap, covered now with a clean blanket.

She hadn’t seen a naked man up close and personal in years. She had hoped to see Richart naked when the day had begun, but not like this.

She rested her hand on his bare chest.

Warm. Weren’t vampires supposed to be cold to the touch?

His chest rose slightly, then fell still once more.

The front door opened and closed. “I’m home,” John called. Moments later he entered the room, jacket zipped up tight against the cold, a shopping bag dangling from each hand.

“Did you get everything you need?” she asked.

Setting the bags down, he unzipped his jacket and tugged it off.

“Yes, but I didn’t get everything he needs.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he’s a vampire—”

“Please stop calling him that. It’s just too weird.”

“I know. But, if he is one, he probably needs blood more than anything else.”

Jenna eyed Richart with dread. Did he really drink blood?

“Has he moved at all?” John asked.

“No. But he still has that slow, faint pulse.”

He spilled bandages, tubes, and bottles onto the bed. “I’m gonna go wash up, then we can get started.”

Chapter Four

Yawning, Jenna focused gritty eyes on the clock again. It would be noon soon.

John slept in his bedroom. He had a final exam tomorrow and Jenna had insisted he get some rest.

Richart’s chest rose and fell in another barely detectable breath.

He still hadn’t stirred. Nor had his wounds miraculously healed as they often did in movies.

Was John right? Did Richart need blood?

She thought of all the films and TV shows she’d seen in which a human had slashed his or her wrist and held it over a vampire’s mouth until he latched on and began to drink.

She was so not going to do that.

Not yet, an inner voice murmured.

Not ever, she insisted, but wondered if she would feel the same way if Richart still hadn’t awakened by . . .

By when? Tomorrow? How long could they wait without trying something else?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Jenna jumped at the loud pounding on the front door.

Frowning, she rose and headed for the living room.

John shuffled out of his bedroom, sweatpants and T-shirt rumpled, hair sticking up on one side. “Is he awake?”

“Not yet.”

“Was that—?”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She nodded and continued into the living room and over to the door. Rising onto her toes, she peeked through the peephole.

A tall red-haired young man who looked to be her son’s age stood there, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

“Yes?” she called.

He straightened, eyes fastening on the peephole. “Hi. I’m looking for Jenna?”

“And you are?”

“Sheldon Shepherd, ma’am.”

Who the hell was that?

“Do you know him?” John whispered.

“No.”

“What do you want?” John demanded in a deep, hostile voice.

Jenna peeked through the peephole again.

Sheldon went still. “I . . . ah . . . I’d just like to talk with you for a moment, ma’am, if that’s all right. We . . . ah . . . we have a mutual friend who . . . with whom I’ve lost contact and . . .” He glanced around, frustration written all over his face.

Jenna lowered her heels to the floor. “He must be a friend of Richart’s,” she whispered and reached for the lock.

John caught her hand. “Or he could be one of the people who hurt him.”

“If he’s a friend, maybe he can help him.”

“And if he’s not?”

“Hello?” Sheldon called.

“Just a minute,” Jenna called back.

“Hang on,” John said and hurried from the room. When he returned, he carried one of Richart’s daggers. “Just in case. No way am I going to let whoever cut him up cut you up.”

He casually slid his arm a little behind his back so the blade wasn’t visible.

Nerves jangling, Jenna opened the door.

Sheldon looked down at her. “Hi. Jenna?”

“Yes.”

He offered his hand. “I’m Sheldon. Nice to meet you.”

Jenna shook his hand, not getting any kind of danger vibes from him, but still on guard.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but”—he looked to John, then met Jenna’s gaze again—“may I speak with you privately for a moment?”

“No,” John said before she could answer.

Jenna shot John a warning glare. “What is this about, Sheldon?”

He looked from side to side and down to see if anyone was outside who might overhear them. Leaning forward a bit, he murmured, “It’s about Richart. I don’t want you to worry, but . . . something happened last night and I’ve lost contact with him. I—”

“What is your relationship with Richart?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m his nephew.”

Relief rushed through her. Richart had mentioned his nephew several times, but she didn’t remember him ever calling him by name. “Come in.” She stepped back so Sheldon could enter and closed the door behind him. “This is my son, John.”

Sheldon offered his hand to John, who shook it with reserve.

“What’s going on with Richart?” she asked.

“I’m not at liberty to go into detail. It’s highest level clearance only. In fact, I shouldn’t even be here, but . . . Richart was . . . out on assignment last night and some problems arose. The situation deteriorated quickly. There was a lot of confusion and . . . I’ve lost contact with him. I hoped you might have heard from him.” He glanced around the room, his words slowing as he noticed the splintered coffee table, the bloody fistprint on the wall. “I really need to talk to him.”

“He’s here,” she announced, hoping her instincts were correct when they insisted he was friend and not foe.

Relief blanketed his features, though some wariness remained. “Is he okay?”

She shook her head and motioned for him to follow her back to her bedroom. “He collapsed shortly after he . . . appeared.”

“Do you mean arrived?” he asked carefully.

“No, I mean he just appeared. Out of thin air.”

“Oh, shit. Okay. There’s an explanation for that.”

“Of course there is,” John drawled, bringing up the rear. “He’s a vampire.”

“He isn’t a vampire!” Sheldon denied. “Wait. You guys believe in vampires?”

“We sure as hell do now,” John answered.

Jenna nodded as they entered the bedroom. “It’s hard not to after seeing Richart’s glowing eyes and fangs.”

Again he swore. “Yyyyyyeah. There’s an explanation for that, too.”

They surrounded Jenna’s bed.

“Has he regained consciousness?” Sheldon asked as he leaned down and drew the covers back. Bandages and butterfly closures decorated most of Richart’s torso.

“No,” Jenna answered.

“Are his wounds still bleeding?”

“No.” Had she not seen Richart’s fangs and eyes, she would have puzzled over that. She had not even needed to apply pressure to them. The bleeding had just . . . stopped.

Sheldon peeled back one of the bandages. The wound beneath was a few inches long with ragged edges held together by butterfly closures. A dark, ugly bruise surrounded it. “Is this how it looked when you cleaned it?”

She nodded. “Should it have healed by now?”

He replaced the bandage and straightened. A full minute passed while he stared down at Richart. “You know what?” he said finally. “Screw protocol. Screw the rules.” He met Jenna’s gaze. “Yes, it should have healed by now. All of them should have at least partially healed by now, especially if you . . . I mean if he . . .”

She raised her eyebrows. “Drank my blood?”

Heavy pause. “Yes.”

“He didn’t.”

Sheldon spun on his heel and left the room. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he called over his shoulder. A moment later the front door opened and closed.

John brought the dagger out from behind his back and slipped it in the bedside table’s drawer. “This just keeps getting more and more surreal.”

Jenna nodded and sat on the bed. “It was weird hearing him confirm it.”

“Actually he said Richart wasn’t a vampire.”

“Then he asked me if Richart drank my blood and said his wounds should have healed by now.”

“Yeah. I don’t get it either.”

Sheldon returned in short order. Rapping his knuckles on the front door, he let himself in, then strode into the bedroom carrying a cooler and a duffle bag.

Jenna’s stomach sank when he opened the cooler and drew out two bags of blood.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” John muttered. “He’s going to drink that?”

“No.”

While Jenna watched in silence, Sheldon set up an IV and began siphoning blood into Richart’s vein.

“Why don’t you just . . . use his fangs?” she asked.

Sheldon gently peeled back Richart’s upper lip enough to show her that he no longer sported fangs. “Can’t use them if they aren’t there.”

A frown creased John’s face as Sheldon exchanged the already empty bag with a full one. “Shouldn’t it take longer for those bags to empty?”

“Honestly?” Sheldon put the empty bag back in the cooler. “I’ve never done this before, so I don’t know.”

Jenna stared at Richart, willing him to open his eyes and let them know this was helping. “Has this never happened before?”

“The injuries or the not waking up thing?”

“Both.”

Sheldon sat in the chair John had carried in earlier from the breakfast nook. “He’s been injured like this, but . . .”

“He didn’t lose consciousness?”

“No.”

“What’s different this time?”

Sheldon sighed and dragged a hand down over his face. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

“No,” she agreed. “Richart should. But he can’t. So I need you to do it for him.”

“We think he may have been drugged.”

“Who’s we?”

“That one would take too long to explain.”

John’s frown deepened. “Vampires can be drugged?”

“He isn’t—” Sheldon broke off, muttered something under his breath. “Until tonight, no drugs affected him. At all. Period. If he drank five gallons of vodka and swallowed four bottles of sleeping pills, nothing would happen. He wouldn’t get drunk. He wouldn’t get loopy. He wouldn’t get sleepy. And he sure as hell wouldn’t die. He would feel exactly the same afterward as he did before. He would just need a little blood to replace what he lost while his body repaired the damage. But tonight . . .” He shook his head. “He was hit with several darts carrying an unknown substance. The others hit with the same drug—”

“There are others?” Jenna asked, not knowing why that surprised her.

“Yes. They were transfused hours ago, right after it happened, and should have awoken immediately, but . . .”

“What?” she asked.

“They haven’t stirred. This drug is something we’ve never encountered before. We don’t know if it was a tranquilizer, a poison, or what. We don’t know why it affects them when nothing else does. And . . . we don’t know how to help them.”

Jenna swallowed hard. “Are you saying you don’t know if Richart is going to wake up?”

“He will,” Sheldon said, voice filled with determination. “He has to.” He replaced the second empty blood bag with another full one.

“Are you really his nephew?” she asked. Richart had withheld a lot of information from her. Had he lied outright, too?

“No, though I may as well be. He treats me like family because I’m a descendent of his first Second. Damien was my great-great-I-don’t-know-how-many-greats grandfather and was like a brother to him.”

Holy crap. “How old is Richart?”

He grimaced. “Old enough and mellow enough I hope to forgive me for not knowing how to keep my damned mouth shut. I’ll let him tell you his age.”

No wonder Richart hadn’t cared about the age difference. He must have inwardly laughed his ass off when she had asked him if it bothered him that she was older than him.

Sheldon peeled back the bandage he had peered under earlier. The wound it covered shrank as they watched, dwindling to nothing as the bruise around it faded.

John moved closer. “That’s amazing.”

Nodding, Sheldon systematically removed all of the other bandages.

Had Jenna not seen the wounds with her own eyes, she would have never known Richart had been injured.

Sheldon retook his seat and caught Jenna’s eye. “I hope you’ll cut him some slack over keeping this part of his life from you.”

John snorted.

Jenna . . . didn’t know what to think. She felt numbed by the shock of it all. “He knew how much I value honesty and chose to keep this from me.”

“It isn’t an easy secret to share.” When she remained silent, he said, “He didn’t cheat on you. He doesn’t have a wife tucked away somewhere. He’s just . . .”

“What?”

“Different. In a way that, when revealed, usually sparks violent reactions in others.”

“So—what—he thought if he told me I’d come after him with a torch-bearing mob and try to stake him?”

“You wouldn’t be the first to do so.”

That was unsetting. “People who found out what he is have tried to kill him?”

“Richart and others of his kind, yes.” He nodded at his uncle. “Who do you think developed the drug he was hit with tonight?”

Jenna stared down at Richart, her hip pressed to his.

His chest rose and fell more often. Not as often as a human’s, but more than it had before.

“Look,” Sheldon said, drawing her gaze, “I know all this must have been a hell of a shock to you. I know you must be pissed, finding out that Richart isn’t quite who you thought he was. But he’s an honorable man, Jenna. If he weren’t, I wouldn’t have practically begged him to let me serve as his Second.”

“You used that term before,” John said. “What’s a Second? Is that like his Renfield?”

Jenna’s head began to pound. Dracula had always had a human assistant, a Renfield as fans of the fictional figure had come to call him.

But Richart wasn’t like Dracula. He wasn’t.

“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

Crap.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to make a call. A lot of people are worried about Richart. I should let them know he’s safe and tell them his condition.” He rose. “I didn’t ask this earlier . . .” He hesitated, as if he really didn’t want to ask whatever it was.

Could things actually get worse?

“Did Richart speak before he passed out?” he finally queried.

“Yes. A little bit. Most of it was in French—”

“Did he mention someone named Ami?”

“Yes. He said he left her behind.”

Sheldon gripped the back of the chair with a fist. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

Jenna remembered the torment in Richart’s eyes, in his voice. They’ll kill her. They’ll tear her apart. “He tried to go back for her, but couldn’t.”

Sheldon lowered his head, raised a hand to rub his eyes.

“He said they’d kill her,” she continued softly.

Head still down, Sheldon nodded. “Yeah.” Turning away, he headed out of the room. “Excuse me.”

Jenna saw her own concern reflected in her son’s face. She glanced at the clock. “When are you supposed to meet with your study group?”

“I don’t think I should go. I think I should stay here.”

“No.” He’d worked his ass off all semester, balancing work and school. And the exam he’d take tomorrow counted for sixty percent of his final grade. The partial scholarship that covered half his tuition was contingent upon his maintaining a high GPA. “Go. Study. I’ll be fine.”

Sheldon spoke softly in the living room. “Cam? It’s Sheldon. I found him.”

John looked toward the living room. “It isn’t safe.”

“That isn’t for you to decide,” Jenna reminded him.

Again Sheldon spoke. “I need you to keep this from Reordon if you can. Richart didn’t want him to know. He’s been seeing someone. I think the drug got his wires all crossed and he accidentally teleported to her place. . . . No. She cleaned him up and has been watching over him. . . . No . . . I’m sure. She hasn’t told anyone. Nor will she. She cares about him as much as he cares for her.”

“John,” Jenna said firmly, “go. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but I’m not going to let it threaten your future.” He opened his mouth to protest. “Go!” she insisted.

Sighing, he pointed to the drawer in which he’d placed the dagger. “If you need it . . .”

She nodded.

He padded down the hallway to his bedroom, went inside, and closed the door.

“I’ll stay with him,” Sheldon said. “No, he’s safe. No one else can track him here. Besides, you can’t do anything for him there that we haven’t already done for him here. . . . No way . . . I don’t give a damn. Richart doesn’t want Reordon anywhere near her. Why the hell do you think I’m using a prepaid, untraceable cell phone? Richart would kick my ass from here to Antibes if I let any harm come to her.”

Was Reordon Richart’s enemy? Sheldon seemed to think she needed protection from him, whoever he was.

“Have Étienne and Lisette regained consciousness?” He swore. “What about Roland and Marcus?”

Jenna combed her fingers through Richart’s hair. Étienne and Lisette were his brother and sister. He had spoken of them with great affection. She hated to hear that they, too, had been harmed.

“Listen, there’s something else,” Sheldon said, voice somber. “I think Ami may be dead. Apparently Richart tried to teleport her with him, but the drug was fucking with him too much and she didn’t make it here. . . . What? . . . He did? . . . Uh-huh. . . . No, I didn’t bring my cell with me. I didn’t want Reordon to be able to locate me. I’ll just call every hour to check in.”

John returned to Jenna’s bedroom, clothed in jeans and a heavy sweater with a book bag looped over his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I don’t feel right about leaving. I’d rather risk losing my scholarship than risk losing you. You’re more important.”

Jenna crossed to him and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I’m fine. Sheldon will be here with me.”

“Mom, we don’t know Sheldon from Adam. For all we know, he’s—”

“I trust him,” she said. “If you’re worried, just call me in a while to see how things are going.”

He groaned. “Fine. But if you don’t answer, I’m hauling ass back here with reinforcements.”

“That’s fine, honey. Study hard.”

Rolling his eyes, he left the room. “If anything happens to her,” she heard him tell Sheldon as he passed him in the hallway, “I’ll hunt you motherfuckers down and laugh while I feed you your own entrails.”

Jenna leaned into the hallway and stared at her son’s back with wide eyes. She had never heard him sound so menacing.

“Dude,” Sheldon responded, “vampires threaten to feed me my own entrails all the time. You’re going to have to come up with something better than that.”

“Fine. I’ll cut off your balls, shove them down your throat, and watch you choke on them.”

“That’ll do.” Sheldon shuddered. “Okay, I see we’re going to have to have a little talk, John. Here’s the thing. Since Richart is planning to explore the Kama Sutra with your mom, if she forgives him . . .”

“Really?” John said. “You’re going to put that image in my head?”

“. . . you and I are going to be running into each other a lot, so you need to understand something,” he said earnestly. “You can’t threaten a man’s balls, dude. A man’s balls are off limits. Even vampires don’t fuck with a man’s balls. That’s just . . . mean.”

John glanced at Jenna.

She raised an eyebrow. “Still think I’m in danger?”

“Hell, no.”

“Good. Go study.”

Shaking his head, John left.

Sheldon met Jenna in the doorway. “I know you’re probably just as concerned as he is, but I won’t let any harm come to you, Jenna. And I promise I’m not here to harm you myself. If I let you get so much as a paper cut, Richart would hang my ass out to dry.”

“You seem very loyal to him.”

“I’d give my life to protect him. And, since he cares for you, that means I’d give my life to protect you, too.” His voice rang with sincerity.

Jenna nodded. “So what do we do now?”

He sighed. “Now . . . we wait.”

Richart bit back a groan. Some asshole was mowing his lawn or trimming his hedges or juggling fucking chainsaws in rhythmic intervals. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. The noise assaulted his ears in perfect accompaniment to the pounding that made his head feel like someone was hitting him repeatedly in the forehead with a snow shovel.

What the hell?

He tried to open his eyes and found his lids too heavy to lift.

“Wake up, Richart,” Jenna whispered in his ear. Her delicate fingers delivered soothing strokes to one of his hands.

Had he fallen asleep at Jenna’s?

“Wake up, Richart,” she repeated in those same warm tones.

The buzz sawing grew louder. The pain in his head intensified.

“Wake up, Richart,” she said once more, amusement creeping in. “Because, if you don’t, I might have to smother Sheldon to get him to stop snoring.”

Had he the strength, he would have laughed.

Then her words sank in. Sheldon was here? What was Sheldon doing here?

Where was here? His mind was all foggy.

Had he and Jenna spent her night off at his place? All of the things he had planned to do to that lovely body of hers and he had fallen asleep? Sheldon must have laughed his ass off when he had gotten home.

“Wake up, Richart. I need to know you’re okay.”

That didn’t sound like he’d fallen asleep.

He tried again to force his eyelids open.

Her hand tightened on his as she combed her fingers through his hair.

“That’s it. Open your eyes for me.”

At last, he succeeded and tried to bring his surroundings into focus.

What was wrong with his eyes?

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he think straight or hold on to a thought for more than a fleeting second?

As his vision cleared, he realized he lay in Jenna’s bed, a blanket drawn up to his waist, leaving his chest bare. His Second was sprawled in a chair across the room, legs straight, feet splayed, arms dangling over the chair’s arms, head back, mouth gaping as he emitted periodic snores.

At least I’ve located the damned chainsaw.

Daylight framed the closed blinds on the only window the room boasted. A discarded IV stand sporting an empty bag of blood stood sentinel beside the bed.

“Richart?” Jenna sat beside him, her hip a gentle pressure against his. Faint signs of fatigue lined her pretty face.

He curled his fingers around hers, still trying to find his voice.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

It took a couple of attempts to coax sound to emerge. “Like I have the worst hangover ever. What happened?”

She shook her head. “Sheldon wouldn’t tell me what happened before you got here, just that you were out on assignment and something went terribly wrong. John and I were having dinner here last night when you suddenly . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment. “It feels so weird to say this.”

“What?”

“You . . . teleported into the living room.”

Alarm surged through him.

“Sporting fangs.”

He clamped his lips shut.

“Drenched in blood.”

Holy hell.

“With glowing eyes.”

Every curse word he knew in every language he had ever learned paraded through his mind.

She knew. At least part of it anyway. “You called Sheldon?” he asked, avoiding her gaze.

“No. Your cell phone was shattered in whatever fight left you so torn up. He came looking for you around noon.”

She knew.

John knew.

She’d never forgive him.

Fear-induced adrenaline surged through him, finally resurrecting a few memories.

The ambush. The vampire king. The darts.

Grabbing the pillow from behind his head, he threw it at his somnolent Second’s slack face.

Feet flying up, Sheldon snorted and jackknifed into a seated position. “I didn’t do it!” His eyes sought and found Richart. “Oh, shit. You’re awake. Man, you had me worried.” He crossed to the bed.

Richart squeezed Jenna’s hand and pulled himself up into a seated position. The room tilted. Dark clouds invaded his vision and swirled around before clearing as the dizziness ebbed. “Étienne and Lisette?”

Jenna moved to sit at his side and wrapped an arm around him for support.

A tiny spark of hope flared. She wouldn’t do that if she hated or feared him, would she?

“As of half an hour ago, they still haven’t regained consciousness,” Sheldon said, “but their wounds have healed like yours.”

“Roland and Marcus?”

“They’re awake, but not at full strength.”

“Ami?”

The younger man’s gaze darted to Jenna and back. He raised his eyebrows in question, silently asking if he should speak freely.

“Just say it. I’m going to tell her everything as soon as you leave anyway.”

“The vampire king or one of his followers captured her.”

Dread flooded Richart’s stomach like acid.

“Bastien tracked their scents to Carrboro and lost them,” Sheldon continued, “but Marcus went after her as soon as he woke up and found her.”

“She’s alive?”

Sheldon nodded.

“In what condition?”

“I don’t know. Last I heard Darnell was heading over to Marcus’s place to check on her. I’m sure Seth has been called in by now to heal her.”

Richart dropped his legs over the side of the bed and braced his bare feet on the carpet. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sheldon told him.

Richart shook his head. “I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have teleported that last time. I thought I could take her away from there.”

“If you had stayed, you would have died.”

And Ami still would have wound up in the vampires’ hands. The vampire-hunting profession was very good at producing no-win situations. “Go home and get some rest.”

“I don’t think I should leave you. You aren’t at full strength.”

“Go home,” Richart insisted, his tone offering Sheldon no wiggle room. “I’ll be along in a while.”

“What if you can’t teleport?”

“I’ll call you and you can drag your ass back and give me a ride. Or, if the sun has set, I’ll walk.”

Nodding, Sheldon grabbed a piece of paper and pen from the bedside table and scribbled something down. Once finished, he handed the scrap to Jenna. “Here’s a number where you can reach me. If he needs anything, call me.”

“Okay.” Jenna took his Second’s hand. “Thank you, Sheldon.”

Bobbing his head, Sheldon gave her hand a squeeze, scrutinized Richart one last time, then backed out of the room. The front door opened and closed, then they were alone.

Chapter Five

Silence descended upon the room, heavy with things unsaid.

“It belatedly occurs to me,” Richart began rustily, “that I should have asked you if you wished me to leave.”

“No.” She added nothing more. Nor did she move away, sitting close behind him on the bed.

Richart found himself at a loss. He didn’t know how to do this. How to reveal all of his secrets. How to coax a human into accepting him without fear or loathing. A human whose scorn he couldn’t bear to face.

“Why won’t you look at me?” she asked.

Richart rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping it would help clear his head and ease the pain it housed. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Tried to find a way to tell the woman I love that I’m not human.”

She drew in a sharp breath.

“Tried to find the right words to convince her not to fear me or revile me after letting her see me at my worst, covered in blood, with my damned eyes glowing and my fangs bared. What you must think of me . . .” Rising shakily, he braced a hand on the wall.

“Are you okay?”

He winced. “My head is fucking killing me.” He cupped his throbbing forehead in a palm. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to speak so crudely.”

“I’ve said worse, stuck in traffic.”

His lips twitched. Only Jenna could make him smile when things looked so damned grim. It was one of the reasons he loved her despite all of the monumental obstacles littering their path. “You know what the ironic thing is?”

“What?”

“If this battle had not taken place, I would have told you everything last night.”

The bedding rustled as Jenna rose on the other side of the bed.

“I know it sounds like I’m just saying that to cover my ass, but it was your night off. If we couldn’t be alone here, I was going to boot Sheldon out of my place and . . .” He shook his head. “I wanted so badly to make love to you, but didn’t feel right doing so without first telling you the truth.”

Jenna circled the bed and stood no more than a foot away from him. “Is that why you held back whenever we . . . ?”

“Kissed?” He studied her beautiful face, following the lovely line of her neck down to her full breasts. “Touched?” Despite the lethargy that plagued him, Richart felt his pulse leap and his body harden as memories of slipping his hands beneath her shirt, unfastening her bra, and filling his palms with that soft, silky flesh flitted through his mind. Dragging the cloth up and closing his lips over the tights buds. Hearing her moan and feeling her clutch him tightly in response.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he turned his head aside.

“Richart? What’s wrong? Is it your head?”

He shook his head. “It’s my eyes.”

“Are they hurting?”

This was so not the time for his nature to assert itself. “No, it’s . . .” A huff of frustration escaped him. “They glow when I’m in the grips of strong emotion and—trust me when I say I realize now is not the time for this—but just the thought of making love with you . . .”

He jumped when her small, cool fingers touched his jaw and turned his face back toward her.

“Let me see,” she coaxed.

He did as bidden.

Her hazel eyes brightened, illuminated by the amber glow emanating from his own.

She raised her other hand, cupped his face in both, and studied him with such painful intensity that he forgot to breathe. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered.

A lump rose in his throat. “Don’t fear me, Jenna.”

Amusement lit her features. “It’s kind of hard to be afraid of a vampire who apologizes for using harsh language in front of a lady.”

Could he really be so lucky? “I’m not a vampire.”

“And I’m not a lady.” She motioned to the bed. “Stop worrying about how I’ll react, sit down before you fall down, and explain all of this to me.” She started to step back, then paused. “Wait. Scratch that. I need to do something first.” Slipping her arms around his waist, she pressed her face to his chest and hugged him close.

Heart pounding, Richart wrapped his arms around her.

“There was a moment last night,” she murmured, “when I thought you were dead. You lost consciousness and your chest stopped rising. I couldn’t find a pulse.” Her hold tightened. “I’ve only felt that overwhelming despair and helplessness once in my life, when police showed up at my door and told me John’s father had been killed in a car accident.” She burrowed closer, her breath warm on his chest. “I don’t ever want to feel that way again.”

Richart buried his face in her hair. “I’m sorry.”

Many long moments passed while they clung to each other.

Sighing, Jenna loosened her hold and looked up at him. “Feelings that deep aren’t going to dissolve overnight because I found out your eyes are prettier and your teeth are sharper than I thought they were.”

Richart dipped his head and captured her lips with his own, pouring everything he felt into the contact until both were breathless.

When she placed a hand on his chest and applied gentle pressure, he reluctantly withdrew.

“I need you to explain everything to me before we get too distracted.”

Nodding, he sank onto the bed, stretched his legs out, and leaned back against the headboard, then pulled her down beside him, catching and holding her hand.

“Now they’re even brighter,” she said, her eyes locking on his with fascination.

“You do that to me,” he admitted. “I’ve had a hell of a time hiding it from you.”

Swiveling to face him, she sat with her legs crossed and toyed with his fingers. “So . . . how old are you?”

He grimaced. “Two hundred and thirty.”

She shook her head. “I feel so stupid for making such a big deal out of being older than you.”

“Please don’t. I was the one who feared you would reject me if you knew my true age.”

She offered him a small smile. “I won’t lie. If you actually looked your age, I wouldn’t have given you a second glance.”

He laughed. “I don’t blame you.”

“How can you be so . . . ?”

“Old and young at the same time?”

She nodded. “And not be a vampire? I mean, the fangs . . .”

“I’m infected with a virus. A very rare symbiotic virus that behaves like no other on the planet. We don’t know where it originated. We know only that it first conquers, then replaces the immune system, lending those infected with it far greater strength, speed, and regenerative capabilities. It heightens our senses, causes extreme photosensitivity, and . . . we don’t age. Essentially, we are immortal, and call ourselves such.”

Jenna stared at him, her thoughts reeling. “A virus.”

“Yes, one that can only be transmitted through a bite.”

“Do you drink blood?”

“I do require frequent infusions of blood. The virus depletes my body’s supply as it repairs damage. But I don’t drink it. During my transformation, I grew a pair of retractable fangs that function like IV needles. When I bite into a blood bag, my fangs siphon the blood directly into my veins.”

“Do you ever bite people?”

“We all did before we were able to collect and store blood donations in our own blood banks. But we never frightened or killed the donors.” He grimaced. “Well, not unless they were fiends who preyed upon the innocent.”

“So you’re an immortal, not a vampire.”

“Yes.”

“But Sheldon mentioned a vampire king, so vampires do exist.”

“Yes. I was different from other humans even before I was infected, as were my brother and sister and all of our immortal brethren. We called ourselves gifted ones. We didn’t know it then and still don’t know why, but our DNA is more advanced—a great deal more advanced—than that of ordinary humans.” He shrugged. “It’s why I can teleport.”

“That isn’t a result of the virus?”

“No. I could teleport as a child. My brother and sister are both telepathic. Some can heal with their hands. Others can move things with their minds. The eldest of us can do far more.” He toyed with her hand. “As you said, vampires do exist. They are ordinary humans who have been infected with the same virus. They lack our special abilities and, without the protection our advanced DNA affords us, suffer progressive brain damage that causes a rapid descent into madness. They prey upon humans, inflicting upon their victims every monstrous impulse.”

“How have I never heard of this?” she asked in disbelief. “How have none of us ever heard of this?”

“Immortals hunt vampires and destroy them. It’s what we do, every night, to eradicate the threat and to prevent the public from learning of our existence and theirs.”

“But, why don’t the vampires’ victims report it?”

“They have no memory of the attacks.”

“You erase their memories?”

“No. Small glands above our fangs—and the fangs of vampires—release a chemical that behaves much like GHB under the pressure of a bite. If the victim lives, he or she will have no memory of what happened.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time believing that.”

He looked away. “Do you remember the first night we met, Jenna?”

“Yes. You came into the store and asked me where to find Krazy Glue.”

When next he met her gaze, his eyes had returned to their usual brown. “That wasn’t the first night we met.”

“What do you mean?”

“A few weeks before that, I was hunting in the area—”

“Hunting vampires.”

“Yes. And found . . . you. You must have just come off your shift. Four vampires had swept you behind the building and cornered you.”

Her blood went cold. “What?”

“You fought and pepper-sprayed one, but were bitten by another before I could wrest you from him.”

Horror filled her. Somehow this revelation was worse than anything that had come before it. She had been attacked? By vampires? And had no memory of it? “That isn’t possible.”

“There was a night, was there not, a few weeks before we met in which you couldn’t remember leaving work the night before, driving home, or putting yourself to bed?”

Oh, crap. There had been. She had awoken in her bed, still wearing her work clothes, and hadn’t been able to remember how she had gotten there. It had all been a blank. She had ultimately chalked it up to exhaustion.

“I was attacked by vampires?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” How could he keep something like that from her?

“Jenna—”

“I was attacked, Richart! You should have told me!”

“How?” he asked helplessly.

“Easy. You should have said, Jenna, I know this is going to sound strange, but you were attacked by vampires and I rescued—okay, I see your point. I would have thought you were off your rocker.” She rubbed a shaking hand over her face. “I can’t believe this. Did they . . . ? What did they do to me?”

“Other than the bite, you were unharmed. They must have just taken you when I came upon you.”

“Am I infected?” If all Richart had said was true, she would turn into a psychotic vampire if she transformed. She didn’t have the special DNA needed to make her immortal. She couldn’t read minds or teleport or see the future or whatever else they could do.

“No. A single brief bite won’t turn you. You would either have to be bitten fairly often over a stretch of time or have your blood drained until you were on the brink of death, then be infused wholly with infected blood.”

And the vampire had only bitten her the once. Briefly.

Richart covered the hand she had braced on the mattress with one of his. “Are you all right?”

She met his concerned gaze. “I’m freaked out over being attacked and having no memory of it. That’s really scary.”

“I know.”

“So you—what—killed them Blade-style?”

He smiled. “All but one, who got away, yes.”

“One got away?” Panic shrieked through her. “What if he came back? What if he bit me again and I just can’t remember it?”

“He didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Have you experienced missing time again? Have there been any blank spots you couldn’t recall?”

She thought hard, trying to think of any other instances. “I don’t think so. But how can I be sure?”

“I’ve been guarding you,” he admitted, seeming almost ashamed.

“Guarding me?”

“I used speed and stealth to obtain your work schedule and have been at the store every night when you arrived and departed in case he returned and tried to harm you.”

She stared at him. “Every night?”

“Yes.”

“Is he likely to return?”

“No. He would have done so before now.”

“Yet you continued to watch over me.”

He shrugged. “At least you said watched. Sheldon kept accusing me of stalking you.”

She supposed some would see that as stalking. To Jenna, it seemed sweet. He had been protecting her all this time. “So . . . that’s everything then?”

He lowered his eyes.

“Damn it! What else could there be? You’re immortal. I was attacked by vampires. Vampires nearly killed you last night. You can teleport. What are you going to tell me now? That Sheldon is a werewolf?”

“Sheldon isn’t a werewolf, no.”

“Then, what?” She wondered how many times she would feel this gut-churning dread before the day ended. “Did you ask me out because you were trying to lure the vampire out of hiding?”

His head snapped up. “No! Of course not. I asked you out because the night I rescued you you kissed me.”

What? “I kissed you?”

“Yes. You were grateful that I saved you. You were drugged by the vampire’s bite, so your inhibitions were lowered and . . . you kissed me.” His eyes began to glow again.

Why did that make her heart pound? “Please tell me it wasn’t a sloppy, drunken kiss.”

“It was not a sloppy, drunken kiss. It was sweet and erotic all at once and I was captivated. I couldn’t stop thinking about you afterward. Days went by. Then weeks. I watched over you. Watched you come and go. Listened to you chat with your colleagues. And, when I couldn’t keep my distance any longer, I gave in to temptation and . . .”

“Asked me where to find the Krazy Glue?”

“Yes.”

“Your eyes are glowing again.”

“I can’t help it. Even with my ears filled with cotton and a sledgehammer assaulting my head, I want you.”

And she wanted him. Despite everything. Or because of everything. She would decide which later.

Richart watched Jenna, waiting for condemnation, acceptance, a Can we talk about this later? I need time to think. Anything that would give him a clue to her thoughts.

She rose onto her knees and scooted closer. Slinging a leg across his own, she straddled his lap.

Lust slammed through him as she settled upon the erection barely concealed by his boxers. Clarity came with it, finally erasing the fuzz the drug had induced.

Clamping his hands on her tempting ass, deliciously clad in tight yoga pants, he leaned forward and ravaged her lips with his own. She responded with all of the heat and urgency that seized him, parting her lips and inviting him within. Richart thrust his tongue forward, teasing and tasting hers as his heart slammed against his ribs.

“I hated keeping secrets from you,” he whispered.

“I understand why you did.”

He grabbed the hem of her sweatshirt and drew it over her head.

Her hair crackled with static electricity and clung to him as he wrapped his arms around her mostly bare form. So soft and warm and his.

He reached behind her and unfastened her bra. “Have I mentioned I haven’t done this in a while?”

“Me either. It’s been years for me.”

“For me it’s been decades.”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Decades? But . . . you’re so gorgeous.”

He laughed. “As are you.” Drawing the lacy material down, he revealed pale breasts with hard pink tips. “Human males are idiots.”

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he leaned forward and drew a taut bud into his mouth, sucking, nipping, and stroking it with his tongue.

Jenna tunneled her fingers through his hair as fire invaded her. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” she forced herself to ask between gasps. The man had almost died, after all.

“I think you can feel that I am.”

She certainly could and rocked against him, thigh muscles bunching as pleasure darted through her. “I meant . . .” She moaned as he slid one hand up to cup her other breast and knead it before his fingers went to work on the sensitive tip. “I meant . . . your head . . .”

“My head aches,” he muttered, “but I couldn’t care less. I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks.”

He abandoned her breast and reclaimed her lips. Falling backward on the bed, he rolled her beneath him. Jenna gasped as he inserted a knee between her legs and began to apply rhythmic pressure.

She loved the feel of him above her, his weight pressing down on her, his heat surrounding her. She loved him.

He trailed kisses down her neck, her chest, stroking one breast, then the other as he rose onto his knees. His tongue found her belly button the same time his fingers clasped the elastic waistband of her pants. “I love yoga pants,” he murmured.

Jenna laughed and shifted her hips as he drew them down, taking her panties with them, and tossed them on the floor.

“Now you,” she insisted.

His boxers landed on the dresser.

He had the hottest body. All muscle and sinew. Strong and perfect.

She felt a moment of insecurity. While she had managed to keep her weight down over the years, having a baby, then lacking both the time and energy to exercise hadn’t exactly left her with the tightest, most fit physique.

“You’re so beautiful, Jenna,” he murmured, those large warm hands exploring every inch of her as he raised eyes that glowed with desire to meet hers.

“You’re beautiful,” she said.

Growling, he slid farther down the bed, slid his arms beneath her knees and lowered his head to take her with his mouth.

Jenna threw back her head and gripped the sheets as pleasure scalded her, heating her blood. Moaning, she reached down and clutched his hair with desperate hands. His mouth was so warm, his tongue doing things she didn’t even know a tongue could do until ecstasy exploded within her.

Crying out, she rode the wave as Richart continued to play, prolonging her orgasm, then sending her off into another.

Panting, she collapsed against the sheets.

Richart rose above her, his expression fierce and triumphant and full of longing.

Jenna planted a hand on his chest and gave him a little push. He fell back, watching her with those hypnotic amber eyes as she rose and straddled his knees.

“My turn,” she said, then grasped his heavy erection and engaged in a little play of her own, stroking, squeezing, reveling in every groan she elicited.

“Jenna.”

Smiling, she lowered her head and closed her mouth around the warm soft tip. He moaned and muttered something in French.

She hadn’t done this in a very long time, but any concern she felt that she might not be doing it well fled when he tunneled his fingers through her hair and urged her on.

“So good,” he murmured.

His pleasure sparked a return of hers. She loved the way he tasted, the way he reacted to every long draw, every stroke of her tongue. And she loved the ecstasy that swept his handsome features as he came hard, calling her name.

Easing up to lie beside him, she watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

He turned his head, met her gaze. “That was incredible.” Rolling onto his side, he smiled. “My headache is gone.”

Jenna laughed. “Good.”

He leaned in, brushed her lips with his. “Very good. Because I’m not finished with you.”

Her breath caught as he fondled her breast. “You aren’t?”

He shook his head, a mischievous gleam entering his glowing eyes as he slid his hand down her stomach to the heart of her and teased the sensitive nub hidden there.

She wouldn’t have thought she would be able to orgasm again, but the need that rapidly rose told her otherwise.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, rising up to settle between her thighs. “I want to be inside you the next time you come.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “And I want you there.”

Richart stared down at Jenna’s pretty face, flushed with pleasure. Positioning his cock at her entrance, he slid inside.

She was warm and tight and delightfully eager.

She slid her hands down to grip his ass.

Richart lowered his head to take her lips once more, kneaded her breast as he withdrew, then drove home again. And again. And again. The pleasure once more rising. Even better this time with her body clutching his.

He had known it would be like this. All those nights he had imagined being right here, moving inside Jenna, his feet hanging off the too-short bed, he had known it would be better than anything he had ever experienced before. And, when she threw back her head and cried out as another orgasm claimed her, her inner muscles tightening convulsively around him and driving him into his own, he knew he was lost. There would never be another for him.

Jenna was it. She was the one.

Rolling to his side, Richart held her close.

And tried not to think what the future would hold for them.

The weeks that followed were perhaps the most blissful of Jenna’s life. She and Richart were inseparable. When they weren’t working, they were together. When he was working and she was at home, they talked on the phone or texted, pausing only long enough for him to slay vampires, which was bizarre.

She learned something new about him every day. None of it frightened her, though, despite his concern that each revelation would be too much, that this or that would be the thing that was just too weird for her.

One night Richart hefted her effortlessly onto his back and raced through the countryside at preternatural speeds. It was scary and exhilarating and so much fun. Richart could outrun cars. And did so just to impress her, his eyes sparkling with boyish pleasure as she laughed.

He made her feel like a teenager again. Carefree and young, despite the fatigue that pulled at her. Working all night and playing with Richart nearly all day was taking its toll. But it was totally worth it.

They never spoke of the future. Never discussed what might happen to their relationship long-term. What would happen when she began to age and he stayed young.

He had mentioned once that, if she wished, she could have her DNA tested to see if she could be transformed without turning vampire. Jenna suspected he hadn’t mentioned it again because he feared what the test may reveal and wanted to hold on to hope for just a little longer.

The fact that she was actually a brunette seemed to please him. Jenna had been dyeing her hair off and on ever since she had begun to go gray prematurely at the age of twenty. An overwhelming majority of gifted ones apparently had black hair. He did know of two, however, who had brown hair.

He hadn’t asked her if she wanted to be transformed, probably because it wasn’t as easy a decision to make as one might think. If she were transformed, Jenna would outlive her son, the grandchildren he would give her in the future, and their grandchildren, too.

Shaking off the somber thoughts, Jenna finished washing the breakfast dishes and dried her hands on the towel hanging beside the sink.

“What time is Richart coming over?” John asked, still poring over one of his textbooks at the table. He wouldn’t have to leave for his first class for another hour.

“I don’t know. He said it might be a late night and didn’t want to talk because his sister and another immortal were with him and would overhear.”

“Ahh.”

In the next breath, Richart appeared in the living room. He wore his usual vampire hunting togs: black shirt, black pants, long black coat, daggers and throwing stars in every loop and pocket and sheath. Smudges of blood adorned his upper lip and chin, as if someone had punched him hard enough to break his nose. His eyes glowed a vibrant amber. His features, when he caught and held her gaze, bore an intensity that sucked the breath from her lungs.

“What happened?” Jenna asked, closing the distance between them.

Looping an arm around her waist, he yanked her to him and claimed her lips in a long, passionate kiss.

Jenna forgot everything as fire burned through her and every nerve ending sprang to life. Forgot the blood on his chin. Forgot the weapons weighing him down and poking her as he pressed her against him. Forgot her son.

By the time Richart raised his head, she was as breathless as though she had just run the 400-meter relay.

Richart looked over her shoulder and nodded abruptly. “John.”

“Hey,” John said, sounding stunned.

“Excuse us, please.” As soon as Richart finished the husky proclamation, he whisked them to his bedroom in his home.

Jenna had no time to ask him what was wrong. He went to work, removing their clothing at preternatural speeds. His kiss was fierce, his hands aggressive in their exploration of her, turning her body to liquid fire.

Richart said nothing, the need to touch Jenna, to feel her against him, overwhelming. He was so desperate for her. He worried he might be hurting her until she wrapped her legs around him and begged for more.

Tossing her onto the bed, he dove after her. There was little foreplay this time. He needed her too much. As soon as he felt how wet she was for him, he sank inside, taking her fast and hard with strong, powerful strokes.

Jenna clutched Richart closer, panting, pleasure rising. His touch contained a hint of desperation, a roughness that had never been there before and excited her above and beyond. She cried out as ecstasy consumed her, reveled in hearing her name on Richart’s lips as he came soon after.

Her muscles went limp.

Richart sank down on her, forearms braced on the bed to keep the bulk of his weight off of her. “Did I hurt you?” he murmured.

“No. It was fantastic.”

He nodded, face buried in the crook of her neck, and rolled them to their sides, still joined.

Jenna waited for her heartbeat to slow its frantic pace. Richart never loosened his hold on her, cradling her close.

“Did something happen at work today?” she asked tentatively.

A moment passed. “We lost some good people tonight.”

“Oh, no.” She rubbed his back in soothing strokes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was bad. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. We had no warning.” He loosened his hold and relaxed a little, resting his head beside hers on the pillow so their noses almost touched. “You know the immortal I always complain about having to hunt with?”

“Bastien?”

“Yes. He’s in love with a mortal and almost lost her today. I was with him while he sat there, agonizing and blaming himself, waiting to hear if . . .” He shook his head. “I just kept thinking . . . what if it were me? What if it were us? What if you had been harmed?” He stroked her face with gentle fingers. “I love you, Jenna.”

Her throat thickened.

“I know it may seem too soon,” he continued.

It didn’t. Not for her.

“But I love you. I do.”

Jenna pressed a hand to his jaw and smoothed her thumb across his stubbled cheek. “I love you, too.”

He closed his eyes, turned his face into her touch. “The thought of losing you was too much. I needed to hold you. To lose myself in you.” He urged her closer. “I just needed to be with you.”

She could live with that.

Quiet enfolded them.

The corners of his lips twitched.

“What?” she asked.

“I think we may have shocked John.”

She laughed. “Somehow I think this won’t be the last time.”

He smiled. “I think you may be right.”

“So. You spending the day with Jenna?” Sheldon asked as Richart donned his coat.

He nodded.

“What’s wrong? You guys have a fight or something?”

“I feel guilty,” Richart confessed. “She works long hours all night, then I keep her up most of the day. It’s wearing on her.”

“Mentally or physically?”

“Physically. She tries to hide it, but she’s exhausted. There are circles under her eyes. She keeps getting headaches. And she’s so run down she’s caught that flu that’s going around.”

“That sucks. Try to get her to go to sleep earlier.”

Richart smiled wryly. “I always intend to, but . . .”

Sheldon smiled. “I hear ya. Hey, do you want me to make her some chicken soup?”

“No. I’ve tasted your chicken soup. I want her to feel better not worse.”

“Smart ass.”

Richart teleported to Jenna’s living room and found John waiting for him.

John raised a finger to his lips, then motioned for Richart to accompany him outside.

Puzzled, Richart followed him out onto the landing and waited while he closed the door behind them.

“Something’s wrong,” John said without preamble.

Richart frowned. “What?”

“You need to talk Mom into seeing that doctor you mentioned.”

“Dr. Lipton? I already tried once. Jenna said doctors can’t do anything for the flu unless they catch it in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, that it just needs to run its course.”

“This isn’t the flu. It’s been two weeks.”

Richart nodded. “Dr. Lipton mentioned that some of her colleagues who came down with it took a couple of weeks to recover, that it was quite a nasty strain.” Richart hadn’t been sick in over two centuries, so he relied on Dr. Lipton and Jenna to apprise him of how these things usually went.

“I’m telling you,” John insisted, “this isn’t the flu. It’s something else.”

“How can you be so sure?” Jenna seemed sure.

“Because Mom doesn’t get the flu.”

“She’s never had it before?” Wasn’t the flu fairly common among humans?

“I’m saying she doesn’t get sick. Period.”

Alarm bells sounded. “Ever?”

“Ever. She’s never even had a cold. Not that I can remember.”

Jenna sure as hell hadn’t told him that. “She had food poisoning a month ago.”

“I’m not convinced that’s what that was.” John looked away, jaw clenching and unclenching. “Look, I like you, Richart, and I don’t want there to be any tension between us for Mom’s sake, but I have to ask. . . . Have you been biting her?”

“No.” Hell, no. She had already been bitten once by the vampire who had attacked her that first night. Any more bites and she would have become more susceptible to . . .

Merde.

“I’m just asking because I know you said vampirism is caused by a virus and that frequent exposure . . .” He stared at Richart. “What? What is it? Your eyes are glowing.”

Was it possible? Could she have been bitten again without him realizing it?

When? He was always there when she reached and left work. And any shopping she needed to do she did during daylight hours.

“Have any of your mother’s friends or work colleagues dropped by after dark?”

“No.”

“Have you brought any friends home?”

“My study group takes turns meeting at each other’s places. They’ve been over here a few times.”

“At night? After Jenna got home from work, while I was still out hunting?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Cursing, Richart practically tore the door off its hinges in his hurry to get inside.

Clad in a T-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, Jenna looked up, pallid face brightening, when he burst into her bedroom. “Hi.” Her smile faded as he sat beside her on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Just give me a moment.” Leaning in close, Richart buried his face in her neck just above her carotid artery. He drew in a deep breath. Held it. Found her scent. But not the scent he feared most.

“Richart?” Concern crept into her voice.

As John entered the room, Richart leaned back and palmed one of his daggers. “I need you to trust me, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” she answered, winning his heart all over again.

Taking her hand, he pressed the tip of the dagger to her palm and applied just enough pressure to produce a tiny nick. A single bead of blood welled.

Richart raised her hand until it almost touched his nose, again drawing in a deep breath.

And there it was. The virus.

A growl rumbled deep in his throat.

She frowned. “Richart?”

“You’re infected.”

John took a step forward.

Jenna stared up at Richart, fever blazing in her eyes. “Infected with what?”

“The vampiric virus.”

“No. I told you. It’s the flu.”

“I can smell it, Jenna. You’re infected.”

Her face grew paler. “That’s not possible. You’ve never bitten me. I haven’t blacked out. And you’ve been watching over me at the store.”

He would figure it out later, after he took her to the network doctors. If she was this sick already . . .

He swallowed. It may be too late to prevent a transformation.

Rising, he wrapped the blankets around her and scooped her up into his arms.

John stepped forward. “Wherever you’re going, I’m going with you.”

Though teleporting two at a time would sap his energy, Richart didn’t argue. “Grab my shoulder.”

A second later they stood in Dr. Lipton’s office.

Weakness struck. He staggered to the right, bumping into John.

John tightened his grip and helped Richart remain upright. “You okay, man?”

Leaning over her desk, Dr. Melanie Lipton jumped and spun around. “Richart. Hi. What—?”

“Jenna’s infected.”

Melanie paled. “What?”

“He thinks I’m infected,” Jenna corrected. “I think it’s the flu.”

Melanie met Richart’s grim gaze and motioned for them to follow her. “Let’s go to the infirmary.”

Chapter Six

Jenna did everything she could to convince herself that Richart was wrong, that it was just a bad case of the flu. Hadn’t Debbie even come down with it? And Jed in Lawn and Garden? Harry in Automotive?

But it was hard to ignore the looks Richart and Dr. Lipton kept exchanging. Looks that said Jenna was screwed.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Jenna,” Dr. Lipton said as Richart lowered her to an exam table. “Richart talks about you all the time.”

“Nice to meet you, too. This is my son, John.”

“Good to meet you, John.”

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

“Richart,” Dr. Lipton said, “you and John go wait out in the hallway so your hovering won’t distract me.” She winked at Jenna. “Plus, if Richart isn’t in the room, I can share all kinds of embarrassing stories about him with you.”

Richart narrowed his eyes in warning, then kissed Jenna. “We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

Jenna smiled and nodded.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Dr. Lipton shook her head. “That man is so in love with you.”

“I love him, too.”

Dr. Lipton’s gaze sharpened as she donned a pair of latex gloves. “Enough to transform for him?”

“I thought I couldn’t do that safely.”

“If he’s right and you’ve been infected, you may not have a choice. How many times has he bitten you?” There was no mistaking her disapproval.

“That’s just it. He hasn’t.”

Her brow furrowed. “Ever?”

“Ever. A vampire bit me once a couple of months ago. He caught me leaving my job and Richart stopped him. But Richart has been there every night since and made sure the vampire didn’t return. I can’t be transformed by just one bite, right?”

“Not unless he drained you almost to the point of death, then infused you with his own blood.”

“Richart said he didn’t do that; so it must be the flu.”

Dr. Lipton didn’t seem convinced. “Let’s start with your symptoms.”

Jenna rattled them off and answered questions about severity, onset, and the like as Dr. Lipton took her temperature and engaged in various and assorted poking and prodding.

She was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way with brown hair, brown eyes, and a trim figure encased in jeans, a T-shirt, and a lab coat.

“I’m going to level with you, Jenna,” she said finally. “I think Richart’s right. I’ll run a blood test to be sure, but I already know what it’s going to tell me.”

Jenna broke out in a cold sweat as fear rippled through her. “I’m becoming a vampire?”

“Yes.”

She would suffer progressive brain damage and go insane.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Lipton offered with genuine remorse. “There really isn’t any sugarcoating this. I can’t even give you hope that you might be a gifted one. Nearly all gifted ones have black hair and brown eyes. A few, like me, have brown hair. But never red.”

“I’m a brunette. I dye my hair.”

Dr. Lipton studied her. “Have you noticed any special gifts or abilities? Know the phone is going to ring before it does?”

“No.”

“Know what someone else is feeling? Hear their thoughts?”

“No. I don’t have any special abilities, Dr. Lipton.”

“Melanie.”

“I’m screwed, aren’t I, Melanie?”

She sighed. “Yes. As I said, I’ll run some tests to be sure. See how far the infection has progressed. Take a look at your DNA and see if it bears the extra memo groups that would identify you as a gifted one and protect you from the brain damage. But I’m not very hopeful.”

“I can’t believe this.” Her mind raced as nightmare images unfolded before her. John having to watch his mother descend into madness. Jenna having to leave to ensure she wouldn’t harm him. Richart watching and waiting for her to reach the point of no return, then taking her life.

What would it do to him to watch her turn into one of the monsters he hunted? Would she have to leave him, too?

Richart paced back and forth in front of the door to the infirmary.

John stood nearby, looking up and down the hallway, taking in the multitude of guards armed with automatic weapons. Half a dozen stood sentinel near two doors a little farther down.

Dragging his eyes away, John turned to Richart. “What’s in there? What are they protecting?”

“They aren’t protecting what’s in there. They’re protecting everyone out here. Those doors lead to vampires’ apartments.”

John’s eyes widened. “Vampires live here?”

“A couple do, yes. They surrendered instead of following the example of their brethren and fighting to the death. They’ve been working with Dr. Lipton and the other doctors in hopes of finding a cure for the virus or some treatment that might prevent the brain damage it causes in humans.”

“How’s that going?”

Richart shook his head and lied. “I don’t know.” They had been searching for a cure for thousands of years with no success.

John swallowed. “If Mom becomes a vampire, is she going to go crazy and want to hurt people?”

Richart nodded, throat too thick to speak.

Face grim, John resumed his perusal of the hallway. “What is this place?”

“Network headquarters, the hub of the East Coast division of the human network that aids us.”

“Why are there no windows?”

“Because we’re five stories underground.”

Minutes passed.

“I don’t understand how Mom could be infected if you didn’t bite her.”

“I’ve been thinking on that.” Fulminating over it more like. “It has to be a member of your study group.”

John’s head whipped around. “What?”

“It can’t be anyone at her job. When bitten, she would’ve blacked out and not made it home. She would’ve woken up on the floor in the store’s back room or her car or somewhere she shouldn’t be and realized she’d lost time, that she couldn’t remember how she had gotten there.”

“Wouldn’t the same be true if one of my study partners had bitten her?”

“Not if he did it while she was sleeping. If he came over on a night I wasn’t there and she went to bed early or napped until I finished hunting, he could’ve asked to use your bathroom, snuck into her bedroom, and fed from her without her ever knowing she had been bitten.”

“Shit!”

“I’m guessing you had a study session right before she contracted food poisoning? She always bears your study partners’ scents from brushing shoulders with them and the like. The punctures heal swiftly and the effects of the GHB-like chemical she would’ve been exposed to don’t last long, so I wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss.”

“We thought it was the fast food the group ordered in. . . . Shit! This is my fault?”

“It’s the vampire’s fault. Not yours.”

“How do we figure out who it is?”

“We’ll take care of that after your mother is . . . better.”

After she finished turning. After she became a vampire.

There wasn’t going to be a better for her—not long-term—and Richart felt a part of himself die at the knowledge.

The elevator at the end of the hallway pinged. A moment later, the doors slid apart and a blond male about five foot eleven exited. The guards all greeted him with respect as he strolled toward Richart.

Richart didn’t even try to hide the hostility he felt toward him.

“I hear we have a visitor,” Chris Reordon said.

Richart took a menacing step forward. “Stay the hell away from her, Reordon.”

“What is it with you immortals?” he demanded with a scowl. “You keep trying to hide your mortal girlfriends from me even though you know I’m just trying to protect you. It’s my job.”

“And we all know how ruthless you can be in carrying out your job. I won’t have you strong-arming and intimidating her. And don’t ask Dr. Lipton her name because if you issue a single threat I’ll cast aside concerns about Seth’s wrath and—”

“I don’t have to ask her name. I already know it.”

“What?”

“Jenna McBride. Thirty-seven years old. Widowed mother of John.”

“How do you know that?”

“After you outed yourself, teleporting to her living room—and I can’t tell you what a brilliant move that was—I tagged you with a tracking device and followed you to her apartment. After that, the rest was easy.”

“If you give her even one moment of unease—”

“Ask me why it was so easy.”

Richart frowned. “What?”

“Ask me why the rest was easy.”

“I don’t have to. Everyone knows you’re good at what you do. It’s why you’re the highest ranking mortal on the East Coast.”

Chris smiled. “I am good, aren’t I?”

Richart grunted.

“But I didn’t even have to try with this one, because we already had Jenna on file. She’s a gifted one.”

The world went still.

“She came to our attention during her pregnancy,” Chris went on. “Her boyfriend’s parents insisted on a paternity test to prove John’s father really was his father before the two married. DNA samples were taken from both Jenna and Bobby.”

“And hers was different,” Richart murmured. “More advanced.”

“Much more advanced. Call-in-the-media-it’s-a-fucking-miracle advanced. Just like yours. We had to run damage control, alter medical records and quite a few memories. We’ve been keeping tabs on her ever since.”

“But she doesn’t have any special abilities.”

“She doesn’t get sick,” John said.

Chris nodded. “Exactly. You’re a gifted one, too, you know.”

John’s eyebrows flew up. “I am?”

Chris nodded. “You guessed something was wrong with your mother before Richart did, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a gifted one in Virginia who is uniquely accurate at diagnosing patients without running any tests. Considering how well you’re doing in school, I’m guessing you’ll be the same. You and your mother are probably descended from healers.”

“How do you know I’m doing well in school?”

“As I said, we keep tabs on all gifted ones who come to our attention, often orchestrating things to keep them close in case another incident should arise.” He looked at Richart. “Don’t tell the other immortals that. If they knew just how many gifted ones we’ve guided to this area, they’d try to turn the network into a dating service. And I can’t do my job with that kind of drama surrounding me.”

Richart’s heart began to pound. Elation flooded him, along with relief so great it practically lifted his feet off the floor. Spinning around, he burst through the door to the infirmary.

Still seated on the exam table, Jenna jumped.

Dr. Lipton smiled. “I heard. Congratulations.”

“Congratulations on what?” Jenna asked, fear and despair battling for dominance in her eyes. Dr. Lipton hadn’t softened her prognosis, and Jenna was clearly doing her damnedest to hold it together.

“You’re a gifted one.” Richart closed the distance between them and swept her into his arms.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. “No, I’m not. I can’t be. I don’t have any special abilities.”

“John said you never get sick.”

“I got food poisoning last month.”

“That wasn’t food poisoning. That was the virus beginning to go to work on you.”

“But—”

“Sweetheart”—Richart leaned back and grinned down at her—“you’re a gifted one. This is good news.”

“I just don’t see not-getting-sick as an ability. It isn’t something I do. Not willfully.”

“You’re likely descended from healers,” Richart explained. “Healers have remarkable regenerative capabilities. Remember how swiftly my wounds healed after Sheldon transfused me?”

“Yes.”

“Healers can do that even before their transformation. It’s what enables them to heal others. But the more their DNA has been diluted with ordinary human DNA over the millennia, the weaker their abilities. Were you born a hundred or even fifty years ago, you might have been able to heal with your hands. Instead, your body can fight off any illness to which you’re exposed, save the vampiric virus, and probably recovers from injuries abnormally fast.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I did recover from childbirth quickly. But . . . you’re sure about this? How do you know I’m not just really healthy? Dr. Lipton hasn’t done any blood tests yet.”

He told her about the revelations that had arisen from the paternity test years ago.

Her lips began to tilt up. “So I’m not going to go insane?”

“No.”

She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tight, then leaned back. “But I am transforming.”

He glanced at Dr. Lipton.

“You’re transforming,” Dr. Lipton confirmed. “The fact that your body is reacting the way it is tells me that if we try to halt the transformation, you’ll end up with no viable immune system. Your best option at this point is to let us give you a rapid infusion of infected blood to speed and complete the transformation.”

Richart willed her to choose the latter. The only alternative was death.

John, who Richart hadn’t even realized had followed him back into the room, drew in a breath and held it.

“I’ll transform.”

John surged forward and hugged Jenna before Richart could embrace her again.

Richart met Dr. Lipton’s gaze. “Call Roland.”

Raising one eyebrow, she left the infirmary.

Jenna stared up at Richart, who smiled as John’s hug went on and on and on.

“I’m sorry,” John murmured.

“Why?”

“It’s my fault.”

She frowned.

Richart shook his head. “It’s the vampire’s fault.”

“Right,” Jenna said, not sure what her son was thinking. “Besides, I’m going to be immortal. That’s not such a bad thing, right?”

John actually laughed. Straightening, he backed away. “Right.”

Jenna couldn’t seem to wrap her mind around it. She could potentially live forever. Forever young. Forever strong. Perhaps with Richart?

How often had he told her that he loved her? Did forever with her sound good to him?

His smile said it did.

“Does this mean Mom is going to be hunting vampires?” John asked.

Sheesh. She hadn’t even thought of that.

Richart shifted uneasily. “Probably. The way things have been going lately . . . I would be very surprised if Seth didn’t want you to train and fight alongside the rest of us.”

“You don’t look happy about that,” she said, unable to imagine it herself.

“Times are more dangerous than ever. I don’t want you to get hurt. I’ll speak with Seth and obtain permission to train you myself. Perhaps by the time you’re ready we will have eliminated this latest threat.”

“My mom, the vampire hunter,” John said with a grin. “That. Is. Awesome!”

Jenna laughed.

“It pays very well, too,” Dr. Lipton said as she returned. “Roland is on his way.”

“Good.”

“You know you’re going to have a fight on your hands, right?”

“You didn’t tell him why I wanted him to come?”

“No. I just said you needed him. He thinks you’ve been injured.”

Roland, nearly a millennium old, was a powerful healer. And notoriously antisocial when it came to everyone but his wife, Sarah. She alone could coax smiles and laughter from him.

While they waited for Roland to arrive, Richart and Dr. Lipton explained what Jenna could expect from the rest of her transformation. Constant migraines. Intensifying nausea and vomiting. A dangerously high fever. And “the worst freaking toothache of your life,” as Dr. Lipton put it. Richart had forgotten that part. His own transformation had taken place so long ago, he had difficulty remembering the details.

The door slammed open and Roland Warbrook strolled in, Sarah at his side. Both wore the standard hunting garb of immortals and were splattered with blood.

“What happened?” Roland demanded, scowl in place, his usual dour appearance hampered by the fact that he held Sarah’s hand and tenderly stroked the back of it with his thumb.

A foot shorter than Roland, Sarah had no difficulty keeping up with his brisk pace and eyed Richart with concern.

Roland noted Richart’s pristine appearance, took in Jenna, John, and Dr. Lipton, looked again at Jenna, and narrowed his eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, he held it, then glared at Richart. “Oh, hell no. You did not summon me here to transform your girlfriend.”

“First, how did you know she’s my girlfriend?” Richart demanded.

“Almost every time I’ve seen you in recent weeks, you’ve carried her scent.”

Oh. Right. “How did you know I want you to transform her?”

“I can smell the virus on her.”

“Wow,” Jenna said, “you guys really know how to make a girl feel self-conscious.”

Sarah laughed. “It takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?”

Richart shook his head. “Why couldn’t I smell the virus on her?”

Roland shrugged. “Her gift must dampen it. My senses are sharper than yours and I’m a healer, so what may have escaped your notice, wouldn’t escape mine. The point is moot anyway. I’m not going to change her.”

“You already know my arguments. Younger immortals are always weaker than those who are older. Sarah is far stronger than she should be because you transformed her. I don’t know if it’s because you’re older or a healer, but if you transform Jenna—”

“Not in my job description.”

Sarah stepped forward and offered her hand to Jenna. “While they bicker, let me introduce myself. I’m Sarah Bingham.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I meant Sarah Warbrook. I think this is the first time I’ve introduced myself since we married.”

Jenna grinned. “I remember how weird it was. That’s why I eventually went back to my maiden name. I just never got used to it.”

“I guess it’s going to take me a while, too. The big, gorgeous brooding guy is my husband Roland.”

“Nice to meet you both. I’m Jenna McBride.”

Roland turned a speculative gaze on Jenna. “Did you say McBride?”

“Yes.”

“Originally from Virginia?”

“Yes.”

“Are you by any chance related to Brian Tiernan McBride?”

“My paternal grandfather’s name was Brian McBride, but I don’t remember his middle name.”

Roland studied her a long moment. “I’ll do it.”

Richart gaped. “You will?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “She’s my descendent.”

Sarah’s eyes widened as she turned to gaze up at him. “Sweetie! That’s wonderful!”

Richart stared at him. “Jenna is related to you?”

Jenna started to smile, then noticed the no-doubt horrified expression overtaking Richart’s face. “Is that not a good thing?” she asked hesitantly.

All Richart could say was, “Chier.”

“Exactly.” Roland donned an evil smile. “Make her happy or I’ll kick your arse.”

He could do it, too.

“So.” Roland turned to Jenna. “Are we going to do this now or what?”

She swallowed hard. “Now as in right now?”

Shaking off his dismay, Richart cupped Jenna’s face in his hands. “I know you’re probably nervous.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But I’ll be right here with you the whole time. Once Roland has infused you with his blood, I’ll take you and John to David’s home. He’s one of our elders and a very powerful healer. More powerful even than Roland, so he can help you through the transformation. Two, three days from now, you’ll be healthier than you’ve ever been. You’ll be stronger. Faster. And you’ll be able to kick my ass if I ever piss you off.”

“Cool,” John put in.

Jenna smiled bravely. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Richart lifted her onto the exam table and, cupping a hand behind her neck, gently eased her back.

Roland approached the other side of the table and took her hand, raising her arm until the bend of her elbow hovered beneath his chin.

Richart took Jenna’s free hand and held it to his chest.

Her nervous gaze went to Roland. “I’m not going to want to jump your bones or anything when you bite me, am I?”

Damned if the taciturn immortal didn’t laugh. “No. You may want to jump Richart’s though, so, John, beware.”

John shifted uneasily. “Is this going to get weird? Like kinky weird? Because—”

“No,” Richart assured him. “At most, Jenna will say things she ordinarily wouldn’t say unless she were drunk. You might want to step outside, though, so she won’t feel embarrassed later.”

“Okay.” He leaned over and kissed Jenna’s cheek. “Love you, Mom.”

She smiled. “I love you, too. Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be okay.”

As soon as John left, Roland bent his head and sank his fangs into Jenna’s arm.

Jenna panted as she slumped back against the pillows. “Immortal sex is the best sex ever,” she proclaimed breathlessly.

Settling beside her, Richart grinned. “Like it, do you?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? I could do this all day.”

“We have been doing it all day. The sun is setting.”

She glanced at the clock with surprise. “It is?”

A week had passed since her transformation, which had been pretty miserable. Fortunately, she remembered very little of it beyond Richart’s being there for her through it all.

“We’d better get ready.” There was no disguising her reluctance. They had spent one week of pure ecstasy together. No work for her since she quit her job. No hunting for Richart, Seth having given him a few days off to help Jenna adapt to the changes. No stress or strife. Just hours spent in bed or out of bed, making love and talking and learning even more about each other than they had already known.

She hated to see it end, but John had invited his study group over to the apartment tonight and Jenna intended to capture the vampire who had infected her.

Her stomach gave a nervous flutter.

She had never physically fought anyone before . . . aside from the night Richart had rescued her from the vampires, but she didn’t remember that.

Richart seemed confident that, even with no combat training, she could easily subdue the vampire if he did as hoped and snuck into her bedroom to feed from her once more. She wouldn’t have even begun to believe such was possible if she hadn’t grown more bold than she had ever been in bed last night and overpowered Richart, holding him down and . . .

“You’re blushing,” Richart drawled with amusement. “What are you thinking?”

“That I’ve never been so . . . aggressive before,” she admitted.

“Lucky me.” He stole a quick kiss.

“You really don’t mind?”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? Just thinking about it makes me hard again.”

Smiling, she sat up and faced him. “But . . . you don’t mind that I’m stronger than you now?” He had been right. She didn’t know if it was because Roland was several hundred years older than Richart or because he was a healer, but his transforming her had left her stronger and faster than Richart.

He sat up beside her and stroked her hair. “No, I want you to be safe. The stronger and faster you are, the better. Your being able to overpower me would only trouble me if you made me do something I didn’t want to do.” He leaned in close and rubbed noses with her. “And everything you did to me, everything you made me do last night, I thoroughly enjoyed.”

She pressed her lips to his. “I love you.”

“And I adore you. Now let’s go kick some vampire ass.”

The biggest impediment they ran into that night ended up being John.

“I appreciate your anger,” Richart told him for the dozenth time, “but you must behave as though you know nothing of the vampire’s nefarious deeds.”

“I don’t understand why we couldn’t just invite the ones I suspect and kick their asses until one confessed.”

Richart sighed. John had narrowed it down to two men he thought were the likeliest candidates, but really it could be any of them. “John, just do as we’ve asked,” he advised. “Behave as you normally would. No scowls or confrontations. And let your mother and me deal with this.”

When John opened his mouth to object . . . again . . . Richart held up a hand. “I know your every instinct tells you to protect your mother, but she can pick you up and toss you through that wall over there with very little effort now.”

John eyed his mother skeptically.

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “Want a demonstration?”

He cracked a smile. “No, ma’am.”

She winked.

“I guess it’s a good thing you couldn’t do that back when I was in high school and broke curfew.”

“I would have been seriously tempted.”

At last, John laughed and relaxed a bit. “Okay. I get it. I’ll stay out of it and let things play out the way you want them to.”

Richart clapped him on the back. “Excellent.” He motioned to the hallway. “Shall we, my love?”

The study group arrived. Jenna did her mother thing, asking if they liked their new classes, offering snacks and drinks, then said she was heading for bed.

Good nights trailed down the hallway after her as she entered her bedroom and swung the door until it was almost, but not quite, closed, leaving a little strip of light to illuminate her path to the bed.

Across the room, a shadow among shadows, Richart winked at her as she drew back the covers, climbed in fully clothed, then tugged them up to her neck. Quiet enfolded them, broken only by the mumbling of chemistry mumbo jumbo in the living room.

Richart’s heartbeat slowed until even Jenna had difficulty detecting it. But his scent lingered.

Won’t he smell you? she had asked, thinking it a dead giveaway, but Richart had shaken his head.

John has mentioned you’re seeing someone. He’ll just assume we slept together earlier and my scent lingers on you.

Why that had made her flush, she didn’t know.

Minutes passed. An hour. Finally someone mentioned using the bathroom and strode up the hallway. A click sounded as light brightened the hallway. The bathroom door closed, darkening it once more.

Footsteps, light enough to escape mortal detection, approached. The bedroom door swung open and closed so swiftly she almost missed it. A tall form approached the bed.

Jenna concentrated on keeping her heartbeat steady, her breath even. Not an easy task. She was nervous as hell.

The vampire leaned down over the bed. His eyes acquired an emerald glow as he drew closer to her. Through her lashes, she saw his lips part, watched his fangs descend. He reached for the covers and drew them down to bare her throat.

Jenna struck. Grabbing the vampire by the throat, she cut off the yelp of surprise he tried to emit, tossed him onto his back on the floor, and held him down.

Eyes wide, he struggled to peel her fingers away and bucked to try to dislodge her as she shoved her knee in his belly and held him down.

Holy crap. It really was easy. The strength and power she wielded was as exhilarating as a drug, eradicating her fear.

Richart stepped up beside her.

The vamp struggled even harder.

Smiling darkly, Richart touched Jenna’s shoulder and took them to a clearing not far from his home.

Jenna released her captive and rose.

The vampire scuttled backward like a crab until several yards separated them. Rising, he rubbed his neck and looked around with wild eyes.

“You’ve just experienced how powerful she is,” Richart warned. “She’ll catch you if you run.”

The vampire blurred as he lunged toward the trees.

Jenna beat him there.

Skidding to a halt, he darted in another direction.

Jenna blocked his way.

“What do you want?” he blurted, expression hostile.

He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, stood about five foot nine or so, and had a lean build.

“The lady has a question for you,” Richart answered. “I, personally, want to draw and quarter you.” He met Jenna’s gaze. “He’s the one who got away the night you were attacked.”

“Bullshit! I didn’t do anything!”

Richart’s face darkened. His eyes shone like spotlights as his lips peeled back in a snarl of rage, displaying his fangs. “You infected her!” he roared.

Jenna’s eyes widened. Richart was pissed!

“You knew her from John’s study group and led your vampire friends to her, knowing they would kill her. When that didn’t pan out, you fed from her while she slept! You preyed upon her when she was most vulnerable after she welcomed you into her home!”

The vampire backed away. “Fuck you!”

Jenna stepped forward. “Is that all you did?”

“What?”

“Is that all you did to me when you crept into my room and fed from me?”

Richart took a step toward him. “Answer the question. Did you touch her while you fed from her? After you fed from her?”

Jenna had been tormented by the knowledge that he might have.

“Fuck no!” the vamp nearly shouted. “She’s old enough to be my mother!”

Well, damn. He made it sound like he was afraid she’d give him the clap or something.

Richart took another menacing step forward.

The vampire skittered to the side, farther away from him. “Wait. You’re the Immortal Guardian who rescued her!” He drew a knife and settled into a crouch.

Jenna drew the pair of daggers Richart had given her earlier.

Richart drew his own. “Express a little remorse and I’ll consider letting you live.”

“Bullshit.”

“Some of your brethren have already joined us. You can, too, if you regret harming her.”

“Eat shit!” Darting to the side, the vampire swept past Richart and attacked Jenna.

Heart stopping, Jenna raised her daggers and fended off his every blow. The vampire seemed as untrained in battle as she was, swinging wildly with the desperate fury of a child taunted too many times by a bully, but hatred soon stole into his twisted features as a mad glint entered his eyes.

She deflected his blade with her own. His fist she blocked and countered with her own, fingers still curled around the hilts of her weapons, until . . .

A miscalculation.

One of her blades slid across his throat.

Warm blood slapped her in the face as the vampire stumbled backward, his gray shirt turning crimson.

Horrified, Jenna took a step toward him.

He sank to the ground.

Richart appeared at her side and took her arm to prevent her from continuing forward.

Sure enough, the vamp swung his blade again and again until he couldn’t anymore.

Jenna looked up at Richart. “It was an accident.”

“It was inevitable,” he said softly. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he wiped her face with care. “You saw it—the madness that entered his eyes as you fought?”

She nodded.

“The brain damage was progressing more swiftly in him. Had we let him live, simply feeding from his victims would not have satisfied him much longer. He would have tortured them, killed them, and seen nothing wrong with it just as he saw nothing wrong with preying upon you or allowing his friends to kill you, as they would have had I not intervened.”

Jenna’s gaze went to the vampire, who stopped breathing and began to shrivel up like a mummy as the virus he housed devoured him from the inside out. “This is what it’s like? This is what you do?”

“Yes. I know it seems brutal, but we save lives, Jenna. You saved lives. And you kept him from becoming a monster. Even good men become fiends once the madness seizes them. Most, when lucid, would much prefer the end you just delivered to harming others.”

Dropping the daggers, she leaned into him. “I don’t know if I can get used to this.”

“I won’t lie. It’s difficult. But once you see what they do to their victims, it will become a little easier.” He cupped her face in his hands, urging her to look up at him. “And I will be with you all the way.” He smoothed his thumbs across her cheeks. “I’ll be with you always, if you’ll let me.”

She summoned a smile. “Always sounds good.”

He lowered his lips to hers for a slow kiss. “Let’s go show John you’re okay. You can tell the study group the vamp has become ill and is still in the bathroom, then send them home.”

When she nodded, Richart wrapped his arms around her and the world dissolved.