Darkness Rises (Immortal Guardians) (3 page)

“I don’t think my leg is broken, but it hurts like hell. And I’m bleeding from a lot of cuts.”

“No major arteries hit?”

“No.”

“No ribs broken?”

“Not this time. That vamp really saved my ass.”

He shook his head again and took his foot off the gas.

Krysta checked behind them as the car slowed, just to be doubly sure, then nodded.

Sean guided the car onto a drive that was supposed to be gravel, but was about eighty percent dirt and weeds instead.

Krysta’s sore, aching body wobbled from side to side as he navigated the pothole-riddled path about fifty yards to the little, brown frame house hidden among the trees.

They had tried to find a place in Chapel Hill, so they would be closer to the colleges (prime hunting grounds for vampires), but hadn’t been able to afford it. This had ended up being ideal in terms of isolation anyway. No neighbors. No one to see her blood-painted face and clothing when they returned home. No one to call the police if they glimpsed her weapons.

Sean parked and, unfolding his large form, circled around to help Krysta.

He was a lot taller than she was, taking after their father, who towered over their tiny mother. Krysta stood at only five foot five and boasted a slender build with enough muscle to lend her strength without bulking her up like a man. Sean was six foot two or thereabouts and packed about two hundred pounds of muscle that made many a woman drool. He also possessed the same fighting skills Krysta did. Had he been able to anticipate the vampires’ moves the way she could, they would have made a formidable team.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t. And the few times he had joined her on the hunt, he had ended up so battered and bloody she had almost had to take him to the hospital.

Krysta kept her swords in hand as he opened the car door, reached in, and practically lifted her out. “I can walk,” she insisted, though her leg was
really
hurting. Maybe the bastard
had
fractured it. Could one walk on a fractured leg?

Sean mumbled something about stubbornness bordering on stupidity and wrapped a supportive arm around her to help her to the door.

Krysta let the slur slide. She knew he was just worried about her and terrified of losing her. His mood always turned sour when she was wounded, which happened pretty much every time she hunted. She’d avoid it if she could. She sure as hell didn’t enjoy it. But, how?

There was no need to flip through keys to open the front door. They always left it unlocked. The house was hidden from the road by trees and drew no notice of passersby. Even the mailman didn’t deliver. All of their correspondence went to a post office box.

And if someone
did
choose to wander down their drive and found the frame house, nothing about its appearance would entice a burglar. It was over a century old and built on uneven ground that left it slanting to one side. (She and Sean had had a hell of a time leveling the furniture when they had moved in.) The roof sagged, as did the porch and back deck. The paint was old and worn and peeling.

Who would even bother to look inside?

“You need to mow the lawn,” she huffed, gritting her teeth against the pain as they trudged over uneven ground, up the steps, and through the door.

They also left it unlocked for expediency’s sake. There had been nights when time had been of the essence.

“Ground’s still too wet.” He flicked a switch, and bright light flooded the small living room.

Krysta limped over to the futon and slumped down on the waterproof tarp they always placed over it on nights she hunted. That bright idea had come to them too late to save their first from bloodstains.

“Do you need help getting your coat off?” he asked, sitting in front of her on their dented and scarred coffee table.

She nodded. Pulling cloth away from the wounds it stuck to always made the pain worse.

Sean, tight-lipped and silent, removed her coat as gently as possible.

Krysta tugged her shirt over her head. Underneath, she wore a heavy-duty sports bra that covered
everything
. Not one hint of cleavage could be found, not that she had much. And, beneath the pants she removed, she wore bike shorts.

Sean scowled as he examined her wounds. “The leg isn’t broken. It’s sprained. I don’t like how these two cuts”—he motioned to one on her shoulder and one on her thigh—“are bleeding, so I’ll heal them first.”

“Thank you.”

He closed his eyes and rested his hands on his splayed knees. Krysta remained quiet while he breathed in through his nose, held it, then released it several times. Opening his eyes, he covered the wound on her thigh with his hands.

Warmth flooded her skin. The cut began to tingle as if a numbing agent had been applied. Blood ceased oozing from beneath his fingers. The pain eased.

When Sean withdrew his hands, the cut had been replaced by a faint scar. “Turn to the side a bit.”

She did so, giving him greater access to the wound scoring her shoulder.

He cupped a hand over it. Again a soothing warmth suffused her wound as it healed beneath his touch. Sean had borne this gift all of his life. Just as she had borne hers. And he had been healing her for as long as she could remember. Though she was two years older than Sean, she couldn’t count the number of times he had stopped her crying in their youth by covering a scraped knee or cut elbow with his little hands and making the wounds disappear.

Of course, they didn’t actually disappear. Neither of them were sure how exactly it worked, but he seemed to transfer the wound to his own body, which healed at an accelerated rate. Even now, a red stain appeared on the shoulder of his shirt.

“I’ll heal the leg now before I heal the others.”

“The others aren’t bad,” she insisted. “I can just use some butterfly closures on them.”

He shook his head. With careful hands, he lifted her foot and propped it next to him on the coffee table. “Do we really have to do this every time?” He settled his hands on her shin where it hurt the most. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth.

She hated causing him pain. That was the worst part of all of this. Not the vampires trying to kill her. Or having to hide what she did from everyone so they wouldn’t think she was crazy and commit her. But the pain Sean experienced when he healed her time and time again, saving her ass so she could go out and do the same thing again tomorrow.

The pain in her leg vanished. And she knew Sean would limp if he were to stand and try to walk now. But he didn’t. He stubbornly healed every cut and bruise on her arms and legs and back.

She hugged him gingerly when he finished, knowing he now ached in all of the places she had. “Thank you.”

He patted her back, then shifted over to slump down on the futon.

Healing her didn’t just open wounds on him. It also exhausted him.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “How long are we going to do this, Krys?”

She slumped back beside him. “I don’t know. As long as it takes, I guess.”

“Takes to do what? For a while there, it seemed like we were making a difference. The vampires’ numbers decreased. You’d go weeks sometimes without running into one. But eleven in one night?”

“Twelve, if you count the . . .”

“What? The good one?”

She sighed. “I don’t know.”

“It’s turning into a never-ending battle. We can’t win this.”

“How can we stop?”

Another deep sigh soughed from him. Raising a hand, he rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

She understood his weariness. Some may have counted tonight a victory. But she and Sean could see it only as defeat, as proof that they would never succeed in ridding the world of every bloodsucker on the planet.

It was a war they couldn’t win.

And sooner or later it would kill them.

 

 

Étienne stood in the small frame home, staring down at Krysta. Darkness surrounded them, broken only by the glowing red digits on her alarm clock.

She slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted, curled on her side with a faded, striped sheet tucked beneath her chin. Sean slumbered in the only other bedroom in the house. Both were blissfully unaware that he had invaded the safety of their home. Étienne had gone to great lengths to avoid detection while he had followed them from UNC.

Taking his time, he inspected the interior of the house. It reminded him a bit of the one Sarah had been renting when Roland had met her. Small. Old. Tidy. He guessed, by the pictures displayed on the wall, that the two were siblings. Why that was a relief puzzled him. Though he didn’t know them, he hadn’t wanted the two of them to be lovers. It made no sense.

He returned silently to Krysta’s bedroom, a task made more difficult by the many squeaky floorboards.

The conversation he had overheard earlier led him to believe that hunting vampires was not a new endeavor for her. How the hell had she gone undetected? There were over a dozen immortals in the area. Seth, their leader and the most powerful among them, had been dropping in regularly. Seconds and cleaners abounded. And the network headquarters was stationed in Greensboro. Yet
none
of them had ever encountered Krysta? It seemed rather remarkable.

Rustling sounded in the next room. Étienne melted back into the darkest corner as Sean shuffled past the doorway in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Moments later the door to the bathroom closed and Étienne returned his attention to the warrior woman slumbering so peacefully a few feet away.

She would have to be dealt with.

Both of them would.

When Sean next passed by his sister’s bedroom, Étienne was gone.

Sebastien slipped through the front door of David’s home. The amount of time he spent here was ironic, considering how eager he had been to leave this place a couple of months earlier.

Of course, he hadn’t left under the circumstances he had assumed he would. He had thought he would tell the Immortal Guardians to kiss his ass and either leave and never see them again or fight them to the death. Most likely the latter.

Instead he had fallen in love with a mortal doctor (who was now immortal), gotten her into all kinds of trouble, then married her and moved into a quaint home in the country.

Life could be strange as hell sometimes. Who could’ve foreseen
that
fate for him?

Well, maybe Seth. That bastard seemed to know almost everything. Very annoying.

No one called a welcome when Bastien closed the door behind himself. The French immortals—Étienne, Richart, and Lisette—lounged on a couple of sofas along with Richart’s wife, Jenna, watching some movie with a lot of explosions while they snacked on pita chips.

Lisette barely spared him a glance. Richart nodded. Jenna sent him a tentative smile. Étienne didn’t even seem to notice his presence. Tracy, Lisette’s Second, was on the other side of the living room flirting with a human Bastien thought might be Ethan’s Second. Bastien knew neither the American immortal nor his Second well. Sheldon, Richart’s Second, entered from the kitchen, carrying a pizza the size of a fucking big rig wheel.

When he caught sight of Bastien, he reverse-nodded. “’Sup?” He stopped short. “Dude. What’s the deal with your coat? It’s moving.”

“Is David here?” Bastien asked, offering no explanation.

His eyes fastened on Bastien’s coat pockets, Sheldon said, “Yeah, he’s in his study.”

Bastien strode toward the darkened hallway. “Thank you.”

As he reached the entrance to David’s study, he heard Sheldon murmur to Richart, “I think something’s wrong with Bastien. He just thanked me.”

A sigh escaped him. That was Melanie’s influence.

Seated at his massive desk, David perused what Bastien assumed was another medical text. As usual, his long dreadlocks were pulled back with a leather tie.

“Got a minute?” Bastien asked.

The elder immortal raised his head—and his eyebrows—at the polite query and motioned for him to enter.

Bastien stepped inside and closed the door behind him, not that it did much good. Unless they were closeted in one of the quiet rooms, any immortal in the house could hear their conversation.

David was the second eldest immortal in the world and wielded incredible strength and power. Unlike younger immortals, who had only one or two gifts, David possessed several. He was such a powerful healer that he could reattach severed limbs. He could shape-shift, something most of them hadn’t realized until the last big battle they had engaged in with Emrys’s mercenaries. He could also hurl Bastien across the room with a thought. So, though he was perhaps the most even-tempered immortal, it was nevertheless wise not to cross or anger him.

Bastien had never felt comfortable around David. Melanie didn’t understand why, but it was the same reason she puzzled him herself. David had always been kind to Bastien, welcoming him into his home and defending him when the other immortals had all called for his execution. He had behaved casually and almost like a brother toward Bastien since the moment the two had met.

Bastien didn’t understand it.

“Those had better not be for me,” David warned as Bastien approached his desk.

“Actually, they are.”

“Are you off your nut?”

Bastien laughed. “No. Read my mind so we can talk without the others listening.”

“All right.”

Can you hear me?
Bastien asked mentally. He wasn’t telepathic himself and could only hear the elder’s thoughts if David spoke them in Bastien’s head.

There was a pause.
Yes?

Bastien hadn’t thought of that. He still wasn’t used to being around the telepaths.

Done,
she responded grudgingly.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Because David is speaking to you,
Lisette said.
And I only knew that, David, because you were projecting it. I’m out.

Who did what now?
Étienne asked.

Never mind,
David told him, then met Bastien’s gaze.
He’s distracted and won’t hear us. Go ahead.

Reaching into his pockets, Bastien began to withdraw the motherless kittens he had found earlier. They were tiny, eyes barely open, and clumsily scrambled toward each other on David’s desk, forming a squirming, furry pile.
I thought these would buy us some time.

David frowned, but couldn’t resist picking up one of the kittens and stroking it. The white and orange fur stood out starkly next to the elder immortal’s black as midnight skin.

Buy
us time or
consume
our time?
he queried.
These need frequent feeding. Where is their mother?

The kittens began to mew as they vied for position in the pile. Beneath those sounds . . .

Heartbeats,
David said as understanding dawned.

True.
David set the kitten down next to its brothers and sisters, then picked up a black and white one.
Smart thinking.
He smiled when the kitten clumsily walked up his arm and sank its claws into one of his long dreadlocks. He caught it before it became too entangled and held it up before his face.
He’s cute, isn’t he?

Bastien smiled.
Yeah. I dropped by the pet store and bought cat milk, bottles, and everything else we’ll need. It’s in my car.

Bastien went to the car and retrieved a large bag of essentials, some of which he was pretty sure weren’t essentials, but the saleslady had been nice and hadn’t shied away from him the way so many humans did. When he returned to the house, David was just entering the living room with all six kittens cradled in his large hands.

The television shut off.

“Hey!” several protested and turned toward him.

“What the hell is that?” Sheldon asked, staring at the kittens.

“Your new assignments.”

 

 

Krysta’s nerves jangled as she strolled through the quiet college campus, adding a stagger here and there for show.

She had hunted every night for the past two weeks with nothing to show for it. No vampire attacks. No vampire deaths. No glimpses of the mysterious . . . other. The vampire who had saved her ass.

Why was his aura so different? He clearly was a vampire. Same fangs. Same glowing eyes. Same incredible speed and strength. Just no orange aura.

An owl hooted.

Why had he helped her?

What was his agenda?

And why hadn’t she seen him again?

A nice breeze blew her hair back from her face.

She was beginning to suspect he had been following her each night as she hunted.

Not just following her. Protecting her.

The notion was insane. As insane as the vampires she loathed so much. And yet, there had been moments when she would have sworn she had drawn out some vampires, just as she had the night she had met Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hot.

Some nights, she had heard faint footsteps behind her and caught glimpses of shadows stalking her. Shadows with flowing orange auras. She had continued her helpless, drunken student act until she was sure, then had turned down this street, into that alley, and . . .

Found herself alone. Safe. Unassailed.

It made no sense.

Last night, she had heard a muffled thump, followed by a metallic clatter as she drew her weapons and spun around to face the vampires she had thought were pursuing her. Once more faced with an empty alleyway, she had hurried forward, rounded the corner, and found a flashy bowie knife—typical vamp weaponry—lying on the sidewalk.

She hadn’t mentioned it to her brother. If Sean thought the new vampire was stalking her or playing some weird game with her, he would argue like hell to get her to stop hunting.

And it did seem like a game. She just couldn’t figure out the rules or the why’s of it.

Her favorite frat house again boomed music. Shadows danced on the curtains.

Sighing, Krysta headed down the hill toward it.

She really didn’t feel like being around people right now. Especially drunk, gropey people. But she had a job to do.

As she approached the sidewalk that led to the porch steps, the shadows on this side of the house shifted minutely. A dark figure with an orange aura slipped around the corner. Another joined it.

Perfect. She had no interest in making small talk. And being around drunk people was a lot more fun when she was drunk, too.

Krysta continued past, faking a stumble, and dropped her purse. Mumbling to herself, she scooped it up and staggered to one side. A shake of her head at herself and she headed farther down the hill, where she paused at an intersection.

Pretending to look both ways allowed her to catch a glimpse of wisps of bright orange behind her.

Finally. A fight. She needed one to clear the cobwebs. To get rid of this frustrated, pent-up energy. To feed her need for vengeance.

Adrenaline flooded her veins as she crossed the street and turned down a dark, narrow side street. She couldn’t see well in the dark like vampires could, but the vamps’ glowing auras tended to light the field of battle for her.

A scuffing sound behind her halted her footsteps. Swinging around, she drew her swords with a triumphant smile, and...

“Damn it!”

No vampires faced her with leering, evil intent. No vampires faced her at all.

She was alone. Again.

More rustling sounded.

Racing back to the street, she flew around the corner and skidded to a halt.

Nothing. Just an empty road glowing green from the streetlight at the corner.

The unmistakable
shick
,
ting
, and
clang
of metal striking metal split the air several blocks away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she growled and took off running. She didn’t care that she raced down a sharply sloped hill that would make it damned near impossible to stop once she got going. She didn’t care that she ran with an unsheathed sword in each hand. (Her mother and father’s frequent admonitions not to run with scissors chose that moment to dance through her head.) She didn’t even care that anyone who saw her would likely call the police and report a madwoman fleeing through Chapel Hill, waving deadly weapons, and get her arrested.

She had only one goal in mind: Get to those damned vampires before Mystery Man did whatever the hell he’d been doing for the past two weeks and disappeared.

Her heart pounding in her chest, she honed in on the battle’s location and managed to put on the brakes enough to zip around the corner at a speed that would keep her from rolling ass over elbows downhill.

She jerked to a halt and stared.

The darkened alley was deserted except for a Dumpster about twenty-five yards away and—she released a growl of fury—a pair of jeans, a bloody blue sweatshirt, and a pair of bright red Chucks spread out on the pavement as if they had been laid out by some kid’s mother.

Krysta sheathed one of her swords, stomped over the place a vampire had clearly fallen, and grabbed the sweatshirt. “Oh, come on!” she shouted, her voice echoing on the somnolent night. She shook the sticky clothing at the sky. “Where are you?” she demanded. Turning in a circle, she examined every nook and cranny at street level, then peered up at the rooftops.

She could see no sign of Mystery Man’s unique purple and white aura. Had he already left?

Krysta tossed the shirt down in disgust. “This is bullshit.”

A low chuckle wafted on the night.

Eyes widening, she drew her second sword and turned in a slow circle. “Damn it! Show yourself!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” a deep voice laced with a French accent purred behind her.

Gasping, she spun around and swung a shoto.

Once more, he caught her wrist. “Careful.” The warning was gentle, carrying neither malice nor anger.

Krysta stared.

His touch sent electricity tickling its way up her arm. His flesh was warm, his long fingers free of calluses.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as butterflies erupted in her stomach.

She should be furious. Frightened. Instead, she felt as excited as she would on a first date.

Stepping back, she withdrew her arm from his grasp.

Dropping his hand, he tilted his head and studied her with those entrancing amber eyes.

Yeah, he was hot all right.

Short, midnight hair glinted in the moonlight. Faint stubble shadowed a strong jaw. Straight nose. Broad shoulders. What was clearly a well-developed, muscular build beneath a black T-shirt that clung to him courtesy of the vampire blood that saturated its front. Slim waist. Slim hips. All revealed by the gap in the long, black coat he wore.