Darkness Dawns (4 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait!” she practically shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah blinked back tears as she wrapped his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

A sniffle escaped her as she finished wrapping his hand.

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

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

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

Him.
A total stranger.

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

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

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

She groaned. “That’s just not right.”

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

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

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

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

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

Centuries surely. It felt … foreign to him.

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

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

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

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

Gradually, her tremors subsided, as did her tears.

Sighing, she released him and eased a step away.

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

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

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

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

She nodded, her expression filled with anxiety.

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

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

What is
wrong
with me?

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

His head dipped. Her breath stopped. Anticipation rose.

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

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

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

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

He staggered. She staggered with him.

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

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

Success! They were both still on their feet.

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

“Yes?”

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

Oh crap.

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

“Shouldn’t we call him now?”

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

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

He blinked sluggishly when she shook him.

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

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

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

Whew!

That had been pure dumb luck.

“Roland?”

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

Nothing.

He was definitely out for the count.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This
referred to the situation Seth had mentioned to Roland.

“No, this is something different.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It isn’t you. I heard it, too.”

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

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

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