Darkness Rises (Immortal Guardians) (13 page)

Sarah nodded, brow furrowed. “What do you mean he has a lot on his plate? Is he worried about Ami, too?”

That was an understatement. And not his story to tell.

“If Marcus wants you to know what’s going on with them, he’ll tell you.”

That didn’t improve Roland’s mood. “You expect me to believe he told
you?”

“No. Because he didn’t.” Zach shrugged. “I hear things.”

Sarah bit her lip. “Has Ami refused to let Marcus transform her?”

All those in the Immortal Guardian community who weren’t in the loop thought Ami was a
gifted one.

He shook his head. “It isn’t my place to say.” Before anyone could speak again, he turned to Lisette. “Don’t pry into their thoughts, seeking answers. I know the temptation is great but—as I said—if Marcus and Ami want you to know, they will tell you.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said, face troubled.

All
three
of them looked troubled. More troubled now than they had when he had escaped his bonds.

Zach folded his wings in and tucked them against his back. His curiosity had been appeased. He’d been entertained. Now it was over. “I believe we’ve said all there is to say.” He headed for the front door.

No one moved to stop him.

He paused, one hand on the knob. “I wouldn’t mention this to Seth, if I were you. He has a lot on his plate, too, and this will just piss him off.”

Opening the door, he stepped outside and leaped into the sky.

 

 

Krysta started to konk out around noon. Étienne watched her yawn, then released a jaw-cracking yawn himself.

She gave him a sleepy grin. “Made you yawn.”

He laughed. “Yes, you did. Why don’t you go ahead and get some rest? You can’t have actually slept in that chair while watching over me.”

“I think I may have dozed off once or twice.”

“That’s not enough. You need rest. You were wounded tonight.” He frowned. His own wounds had healed for the most part. Only a deep sleep or more blood would finish the job at this point. But hers . . . “How
are
your wounds?”

“They hurt like hell, but I’m used to it. What about you?” She glanced at the bright sunlight outlining the faded window curtains. “You’re kind of stranded here, aren’t you, until sunset? Or will Richart be coming back for you?”

“If I haven’t worn out my welcome, I’d like to stay. I trust Richart not to give away your identity or location. But Chris is like a bloodhound. Once he has the scent . . .” He shrugged. “I want to be here to run interference should his men find you.”

She frowned. “Are you sure Sean is safe?”

“Yes. The first thing Chris will do once he learns your name is track down your home address.” And race to her doorstep.
Hmm
. “Perhaps I should have Richart teleport us to . . .” He thought for a moment. “Where would Chris not think to look? Our home in France?”

“You want to teleport me to France?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“So, one minute I would be here and the next I would be across the ocean in France?”

“It’s just a thought.”

A long pause ensued. “You know, I just don’t think I’m up for that right now.”

He smiled and touched her hair. “It
has
been a long night.”

“Do you really think your human friends will burst in here and threaten me?”

“They might burst in, if you don’t answer the door. But, with me here, they won’t have the balls to threaten you.”

“Why don’t you get some rest, too, then?”

He nodded, but didn’t think he would succeed even if he tried. The futon that barely kept their asses from hitting the floor was old and lumpy and badly needed to be replaced. “I’ll stretch out here on the futon, if you really don’t mind.”

“Do you want to take Sean’s bed?”

He shook his head. “Sean doesn’t want me in the house. I doubt he would appreciate my confiscating his bed.”

“You’re probably right on that, but he’ll get over it.”

Étienne smiled. “No, thank you.” He stood when she did.

“Okay.” She started to stretch, then winced and dropped her arms.

If he knew Roland better, Étienne would call him and ask him to heal her. Unfortunately, Roland had kept him—and everyone else, save Sarah and Marcus—at a distance. And
really
didn’t trust humans.

Krysta headed for her bedroom. “You should know I’m a very light sleeper, so . . .”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t try to drink your blood while you sleep?”

Her cheeks flushed guiltily. “Yes.”

“I would never do so, with or without your permission, unless both of our lives depended upon it. I wouldn’t want to risk infecting you.”

She stared at him as if she truly wanted to believe him.

And he hoped she did. Or
would
. In time.

He bowed as she turned and entered her bedroom. He expected her to close and lock her door, not that it could keep him out.

Instead, she drew back the covers and climbed into bed.

Étienne turned off the overhead light and attempted to stretch out on the futon. His feet and most of his calves hung over the arm. One of the metal bars beneath the cushions dug into his back.

He sighed. He could always wait until Krysta drifted off, then sleep on the floor. That would probably be the more comfortable solution.

He heard bedding rustle and closed his eyes, trying not to picture Krysta sprawled across the covers under other, less appropriate circumstances.

She laughed.

Opening his eyes, he glanced at the doorway.

She was leaning over in bed, peeking at him. “Comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She shook her head. “You’re lying.”

“With good intentions.”

Still grinning, she waved him toward her. “Go ahead and come sleep in here with me.”

His body went rock hard at the notion even though he knew damned well she didn’t mean it the way he wanted her to mean it.

“I . . .”
want to rip your clothes off with my teeth, so I don’t think it would be a good idea.
“That’s very kind of you, but . . .”
I really
do
want to rip your clothes off with my teeth and explore every inch of your beautiful body.
“I’m fine.”

“Your legs are hanging off the end by a good foot and a half and I can’t even sleep on that lumpy piece of crap when I’m drunk.”

He smiled. “I’ve slept on worse surfaces.”

“Have you ever slept in a coffin?”

“Yes, but only as a practical joke.”

“What about in a crypt?”

“More than once when it took me longer than expected to track down a nasty vampire and I couldn’t find any other shelter before the sun rose.”

“Was the crypt more comfortable than my futon?”

He grinned. “Hands down.”

Again she laughed. “Then get in here. We’re adults. We can do this.”

He couldn’t find the strength to refuse. “
Merci.
” Rising, he strode into her room and circled the bed. “I’m surprised you trust me enough to sleep beside me.”

“To be honest, I am, too. You really aren’t going to bite me?”

“No.” He settled beside her on top of the covers.

“Any plans to cop a feel?”

Her scent enveloped him as he turned his head to stare at her. “Would you mind if I did?”

“I’m still considering that one.”

Yes. This was definitely a bad idea.

“What is it about you that makes me want to forget what you are,” she asked softly, “that makes me
believe
you are what you are and not one of the vampires I hate so much?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the same thing about you that makes me want to believe you won’t drive a stake through my heart or chop off my head as soon as I doze off.”

Curling onto her side to face him, she raised one hand and drew delicate fingers down his cheek as her gaze roved his face. “Truce?”

“Truce.”

“Good night, Étienne.”

Heart racing, he clasped her fingers and brought them to his lips. “Good night, Krysta.”

She fell asleep holding his hand.

He wanted to stay awake and savor that. The sweetness of it. But the healing sleep swiftly claimed him.

 

 

Étienne dreamed vampires hunted him.

No. The vampires hunted Krysta. And the dream was hers. He could always tell when someone else’s dream became his because he first saw them from that person’s perspective. And he wasn’t a slender, significantly shorter woman.

Usually, he could separate himself from the dreamer and participate as he would in his own dreams. He had never been able to do that when Ami’s dreams had seized him. He had been as much a victim of the atrocities committed against her as
she
had in those dreams and often dreaded sleeping when he stayed the day at David’s.

As Krysta confronted the vampires and began to swing her shoto swords, Étienne left her form and joined in the fight as himself.

She grinned when she saw him. “About time!” she quipped.

Étienne laughed and engaged the vamps, who were much more organized and swung their weapons with greater control and accuracy in the dream.

A dozen vampires fell. Two dozen replaced them.

Then Sean arrived and was somehow thrust into the middle of everything.

Krysta’s brother had skills. But—without whatever edge Krysta’s ability to see auras gave her—he fared badly, accumulating wound after wound as Krysta fought to get to his side.

The more panicked she became, the more wounds she suffered and the weaker she grew.

Étienne couldn’t reach her. Every time he cut down one vampire a second took his place.

One vamp disarmed and captured Sean. Pulling him back against his chest, the vampire sent Krysta a cruel smile.

“Kill him!” the others cried.

“No!” Krysta screamed.

“Remember, the male is the one we’re after,” another voice said softly, strangely calm amidst the slaverings of the vampires. “We want the immortal alive. The human female is expendable.”

“Don’t hurt him!” Krysta begged, her eyes still on her brother. “Please!”

“Rendezvous with target in one mile,” the same calm voice announced.

Étienne stopped fighting. Something was wrong.

The vampires converged upon Krysta, yelling and taunting. None spoke with the voice Étienne had heard.

The vampire holding Sean began to sing in a falsetto voice, “I feel pretty! Oh, so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and gaaaaaay!”

What the hell was with that song?

Krysta vanished.

Frowning, Étienne spun in a circle. “Krysta?”

“Étienne?”

“Where are you?” He resumed fighting, doing his damnedest to reach her brother while the vamp who held him continued to sing in that weird high voice.

“Étienne!”

He looked around, but still couldn’t find her. “Krysta?”

“Étienne! Wake up!”

He jerked awake.

Krysta knelt beside him on the bed, shaking the hell out of him. “Jeeze. It’s a good thing I
didn’t
want to stake you. You would have slept right through it!”

Groaning, he sat up. “I sleep deeper when I’m healing. What’s wrong?”

“Your cell phone has been ringing like crazy and that damned song is making me mental.”

When the singing started up again, he yanked his phone out of his pocket and answered.

“Yes?”

“We have a serious problem,” Chris Reordon said without preamble.

Damn it. “No, we don’t. I—”

“Richart told me you left quite a mess at Duke tonight.”

Étienne frowned. “Yes.”

“So we have a problem. I sent my cleaning crew over there ASAP and they didn’t find dick.”

Étienne stood, alarm striking. “What?”

“There was nothing. No bodies. No blood. No vampire clothing or bling. No dental fillings or caps. No humans freaking out. Nada.”

“That’s not possible. There should have been a couple dozen bodies—”

“There weren’t. There
was
, however, a large area of wet pavement where no sprinklers could reach. And the surveillance tapes for the security cameras in that area of the campus are all gone.”

Étienne swore.

“Exactly. Where are you? Are you still with the woman?”

“Yes, but—”

“Hang up, call Richart, and have him teleport you to safety.”

“That isn’t—”

“You aren’t getting it. The group that attacked you now has the surveillance tapes. They also have connections or they wouldn’t have been able to clean that mess up so quickly. They can use the tapes to trace the license plate on her car. They probably already know where you are. Get the hell out of there. Now.”

Étienne looked to Krysta, who watched him with concern. “We have to go.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Where? Why?”

Someone shouted something in the background on Chris’s end of the conversation as engine noise flowed over the line. “Where are you?” Étienne asked.

“At the network, getting into a Black Hawk with reinforcements. More will follow on the ground in a Humvee.”

A twig snapped outside. Then another.

Étienne looked toward the window. “Too late. They’re here.”

“Call Richart!”

Krysta stared at Étienne with wide eyes. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong.

He grabbed her arm and, practically lifting her off the bed, urged her into the den.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Richart,” he spoke into his phone. “I need you . . . Yes.” He pocketed the phone. “Does this place have a basement?”

“No. I mean, not really. There’s a crawl space under the house that you can access from outside, but—”

Étienne stopped short and looked toward the bedroom, then the kitchen, his head tilted as though he were listening to something.

Krysta remained quiet, but heard nothing save her heart slamming against her ribs.

Kneeling, Étienne dragged her down with him. While she fought for balance, he drew back his arm and punched through the floor as though it were cardboard. Half a dozen times. Knuckles splitting. Bones cracking.

Krysta gaped at the hole he created, an absurd thought rearing its head: No way were she and Sean going to get their security deposit back.

Without warning, Étienne picked her up and dropped her through the jagged hole.

She grunted as she hit the hard-packed dirt floor. It was only a four or five foot drop, but she didn’t have time to twist around and use her hands to break the fall.

Then, as though they were in a Warner Brothers cartoon, Étienne landed on top of her, flattening her and stealing her breath.

Holy crap, he was heavy!

“Sorry,” he murmured in her ear as he rolled off her and sat up.

“What—?”

Bullets tore through the house overhead.
Large
bullets, judging by the debris flying around the den and the narrow rays of sunshine beginning to brighten the room.

Her mouth fell open.

Étienne rose into a crouch, eyes staring intently through the hole.

Richart appeared above them. His body jerked as bullets slammed into him.

Étienne lunged up and yanked his brother down into the crawl space with them.

Richart landed hard, too.

Étienne spoke urgently to him in French.

“No,” Krysta protested shrilly. “No way! You can’t do that! You can’t talk in French while I’m sitting here freaking out because I don’t know what the hell is going on!”

Richart rolled onto his stomach and managed to get to his hands and knees.

She swallowed.

His head hung low. Blood dribbled from between parted lips as ragged breath wheezed in and out through them. The front of his shirt bore several holes, as did the back, and began to glisten as blood saturated it.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded, but didn’t raise his head.

Étienne rested a hand on his brother’s back. “What took you so long?”

“I was . . . making love to my wife . . . not that it’s . . . any of your . . . business. Did you . . . want me to show up here naked?”

Étienne’s gaze went to Krysta. “No.”

She had a feeling he would have said
Hell, yes
if she weren’t there.

“Take my wrist,” Étienne ordered.

Richart grabbed Étienne’s wrist and sank his teeth into it.

A muscle leapt in Étienne’s jaw.

Krysta knew from experience that being bitten didn’t produce the ecstatic pleasure in real life that it did in movies that romanticized vampires. Rather, it hurt like hell, feeling as though someone had just stuck you with a couple of large needles.

Richart retracted his fangs and released his brother’s wrist.

Bullets continued to fly back and forth overhead like psychotic bees, tearing her rented home apart.

She glanced again at Richart. A couple of misshapen lumps of metal fell out of his shirt and hit the ground as his wounds began to heal.

“Can you teleport?” Étienne asked.

Richart nodded and sat back on his heels.

“Get her out of here,” Étienne said.

“What?” Krysta looked to Étienne as Richart reached out and gripped her shoulder.

The world darkened. Dizziness assailed her. She grabbed Richart’s shirt.

Light burst into being, illuminating a lovely living room with modern furniture.

Krysta gasped. “Did you just teleport me?”

“
Oui.
”

A pretty, petite woman with red hair and dark brown roots appeared before them, a white and purple aura swirling around her. Her face clouded with concern when her gaze landed on Richart. “Honey . . .” She took a step toward him.

He raised a hand to hold her at bay and vanished.

She looked up at Krysta. “What happened?”

Krysta shook her head. “I’m not sure. Someone was shooting the place all to hell and—”

“Sheldon!” the woman called over her shoulder. “John!” She wore black cargo pants and a black T-shirt that hugged a narrow waist and full breasts Krysta would kill to have. Her hair was mussed and her face flushed, leading Krysta to believe this was the American wife with whom Richart had been making love.

Two men strode up a nearby hallway, coming from the back of the house. Both looked to be around twenty years old. One was roughly five eleven with bright red hair. The other was at least six feet with short, dark brown hair.

Krysta took a wary step backward, then another. She didn’t know these people. She barely knew Étienne.

“What’s up, Mom?” the brunet asked.

The other man’s eyebrows flew up when he noticed Krysta. “Well, hello,” he said in a deep, flirtatious tone.

She scowled. “You’re
hitting
on me? Really?”

Richart appeared with Étienne, who was pretty much holding his brother upright.

Krysta damned near sank to the floor with relief.

“Sheldon,” Étienne said as the woman hurried forward, “get the protective suits we wear in daylight. John, get Richart some blood. And bring some for me, too.”

The redhead took off toward the back of the house. The brunet raced into a large adjoining kitchen.

“Here, honey,” the woman said, looping Richart’s arm over her shoulder and taking his weight from Étienne, “let me help you to the sofa.”

He smiled and nuzzled her ear. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’m already healing.”

“Good, because you look like shit.”

He chuckled, then winced.

In all the years Krysta had been hunting vampires, she had never thought of one having a wife.

But they weren’t vampires. They were immortals. Their every movement wasn’t dictated by evil and insanity. The two actually seemed . . . loving. Warm. Affectionate.

Étienne stepped in front of her, blocking her view, and gently clasped her arm with his left hand. “Are you all right?”

She looked up at him, touched by the concern in his handsome face. “Yes. Just shaken, I guess.”

He nodded and pulled her into a hug.

Krysta leaned into him, letting her racing heart calm, her body stop trembling.

John returned from the kitchen. “Here you go.”

Étienne released her and took a bag of blood with his left hand.

Krysta frowned. He wasn’t using his right arm. Or, more specifically, his right hand.

He gave her an uneasy look. “I’m sorry. I have to do this.”

“Do what?”

He parted his lips.

She swallowed as fangs descended from his gums. Fangs he sank into the bag of blood.

Oh. Right. Gross.

I’m not drinking it,
he spoke directly into her head.

She jumped. “Are you reading my thoughts again?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

While he continued to syphon the blood into his veins or whatever, she took his right arm and carefully raised it so she could get a look at his hand.

It was a mess of cuts and bruises and who knew how many broken bones. Her little house may be all wood and look like crap on the outside but it had been built to last. Étienne had punched through flooring and heavy support beams alike.

She looked up at him and found him watching her. “Does it hurt?”

He lowered the now-empty blood bag and gave her a wry smile. “Like a bitch.”

She grinned at his use of her words and shook her head. “You saved my life. Again.”

“After endangering it. Those men weren’t after you. They were after me.”

“And I’m expendable.”

“Apparently.”

“Who were they?” she asked.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

Sheldon entered, his arms full of . . .

Krysta frowned. What the hell was that?

Stepping back, Étienne tossed the empty bag to John, then blurred.

Her eyebrows flew up when he stilled a second later, wearing only a T-shirt and boxers. The rest of his clothes formed a pile on the floor at his feet. “Wow.” She unabashedly ogled his powerful biceps and strong, muscled thighs dusted with dark hair.

Richart’s wife laughed.

Grinning, Étienne reached for the suit Sheldon held out to him. It reminded Krysta of a diving suit, except it appeared to have a rough texture, almost like that of a car tire.

Sheldon took another one to Richart, who rose. Both immortals blurred and donned the suits in only a second or two.

Sheldon himself donned a bulletproof vest and tugged on a helmet with a glass shield.

“Where the hell do you think
you’re
going?” Richart demanded.

“With you.”

“The hell you are.”

“I’m your Second. Quit bitching and let me do my job.”

Étienne zipped from the room and returned with a mass of weapons. “Do you have any of the antidote?”

Sheldon shook his head, holstering a couple of Glock 18s with long-ass clips, then picking up an M16. “No. The threat was supposed to be over, so I didn’t reorder any when we started running low.”

The two brothers armed themselves in a blink.

“Where’s
my
suit,” Richart’s wife asked.

“You don’t have one,” Richart responded.

“She could use Lisette’s,” Sheldon suggested.

“No, she can’t,” Richart snapped, glaring at his Second.

“No, she can’t,” Sheldon parroted. “Because Lisette, uh, didn’t bring it back after the last time she—”

“This is still too new to you,” Richart told her. “You haven’t completed your training. I don’t want you to get hurt.” Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her lips. “
Je t’ aime.
”

“I love you, too.”

Crossing to Étienne, he clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ready?”

Étienne nodded.

“Be careful!” Krysta blurted.

Étienne grinned as the two teleported away.

A second later, Richart reappeared, grabbed Sheldon’s shoulder, then they vanished.

Silence fell.

Krysta looked at John, then Richart’s wife. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Richart’s wife smiled, though worry shadowed her eyes. “We don’t know much more than you do.” Rising, she approached Krysta and held out her hand. “I’m Jenna. Richart is my husband. And John, here, is my son.”

Krysta shook her hand. “Krysta.” She looked back and forth between John and Jenna, who looked as though they were about the same age. “I’m sorry. Did you say he was your son?”

Jenna laughed. “Yes. When I transformed, the virus healed all of the damage age had done to my body.” She pointed to the dark roots that stood out against her red hair. “See? No more gray. I look like a kid again.”

John shook his head and sent Krysta a wry smile. “It’s weird, right? I’m still trying to get used to it.”

Jenna motioned for Krysta to sit with her on the sofa. “Something tells me you’re the reason Étienne has been so distracted lately.”

“He’s been distracted?”

Jenna nodded. “
Very
.”

Good to know Krysta wasn’t the only one. Étienne had been a major player in her thoughts since that first night she’d encountered him.
And
her dreams. She hadn’t had many sex dreams in her life, but
wow
. She had had a couple of doozies since meeting Étienne.

“Oh, wait.” Jenna looked over her shoulder at her son. “John, toss me my phone.”

Krysta turned around in time to see John pick a cell phone up off the bar and sling it Jenna’s way.

Jenna caught it easily. “I’m sorry. I need to make a quick call.” She dialed and held the phone to her ear. “Darnell? Hi. It’s Jenna. Richart and Étienne are—” She tilted her head. “Oh, he did? . . . No, they made it here safely.” She looked at Krysta. “She made it safely, too . . . Our place . . . No, they put on protective suits and headed back with Sheldon . . .” She lowered the phone slightly and addressed Krysta. “Are you injured?”

“No.”

“She’s fine,” she said into the phone. “Okay. Bye.” She set the phone on the coffee table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to ask you earlier. I’m still pretty new to this.”

“I’m
totally
new to this. New to the immortal thing, anyway.”

“Well, Darnell said Chris is on his way to your home with a small army. So Richart and Étienne will have help fighting whomever they’re fighting.”

Krysta nodded.

“John,” Jenna said with a smile, “you can go back to studying. They might be gone for a while.”

He nodded. “Nice to meet you, Krysta.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” she murmured, then turned back to Jenna.

Jenna smiled with pride. “He’s pre-med at UNC.”

“Oh. Great. My brother’s in med school there.” Alarm shot through her at the thought of Sean. “Oh, shit. My brother.”

Jenna leaned forward. “What about him?”

“We live together. Those men were looking for Étienne, but they found him at
our
house. Do you think they’ll go after Sean? Is Sean in danger?”