No, no, no! Horror broke over her in waves of terror and despair. She was a vampire. She could live for many lifetimes. Like this.
She couldn’t even twitch, but her senses were so sharp they almost hurt. Cassie could hear sounds from outside the coffin—whispers, laughter, and a discussion about when the best time to bury her would be. Her heartbeat raced, and she would’ve screamed if she could make a sound. Her mind spun images of looking up from the bottom of her grave as clods of earth landed on top of her coffin over and over until she was imprisoned in darkness. Since she couldn’t pray for death, she’d pray for insanity.
Objects within her range of vision looked vibrant, almost unreal. Every detail, no matter how tiny, was distinct. Right now she could see her binder working on another victim’s headstone. His name was Jon. Cassie never knew that hate could devour. She didn’t need a Second One urging her to kill the binder bitch. She’d put her shiny new fangs to good use if she ever got free.
No smells seeped into the sealed coffin, but if fear had an odor, she was suffocating in it.
At least they weren’t starving her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a stand with a bag of blood hanging from it. The blood was draining down a narrow tube that had been inserted through a small opening in the coffin. Since her arms were at her sides, she couldn’t see it flowing into her body.
Cassie closed her eyes, the only physical power she still controlled. She would survive on blood until . . . Would some merciful person eventually remove the tube? Did she want to die from starvation? Would she die? A question she hadn’t asked. Maybe even starvation wouldn’t kill her, just torture her forever.
What about her family? She’d never see them again. They’d grow old wondering what had happened to her, imagining her lying dead somewhere, never knowing that her fate was much worse than that.
And when she thought she couldn’t bear the parade of horrendous possibilities one more second, she thought of Ethan.
Ethan who had dragged her from that nightmare basement in Eternal Rest. Ethan who loved his brother, cared about the death of his neighbors, and who rescued a bad-tempered cat that no one else would have wanted.
Ethan. The man she wanted to sleep beside for the rest of her lifetimes and now never would. The realization that she loved him came too late, much too late. A tear slipped down her face and she couldn’t even freaking wipe it away. How pathetic was that?
The sounds of raised voices yanked her from her pity party. Damn, she wished she could turn her head. Everyone was yelling at once. She could just see Garrity.
“What do you mean they killed all the guards? There were two dozen of you up there. How did they get past the fucking beasts?” Garrity was shouting into his cell phone.
The binder crouched, whimpering beside Jon’s headstone.
Cassie pictured herself bringing the stone down on top of her murderous head. And then she forgot about the woman. Was the place under attack? Finally, she dared to think the impossible.
Had Ethan found her?
Garrity cursed as he shoved the phone into his pocket. He ran toward the other side of the room, but Cassie couldn’t see what he was doing. Then she heard the sound of a door opening.
“Cut the crying crap and get over here. I always have an escape route. This tunnel will bring us out one street over. Once I close this door behind me it’ll lock. I won’t wait for you even for the Collector.” Fear lived in Garrity’s voice.
“Then maybe you’ll wait for us.”
Cassie would’ve laughed if she could. She recognized the voice of Ethan’s friend. Stark.
“We figured you’d have a secret hole to crawl into, so we looked for it.”
Garrity came back into view as he scuttled away from the door. He grabbed the screaming binder and yanked her in front of him. Then he dragged her back toward his desk. Cassie could hear him pulling a drawer open.
Frustrated, Cassie lost sight of him again.
“I won’t need a sword. This gun will splatter your skulls all over the room. No regenerating a new head.” Garrity’s voice shook. “And I have her in front of me. I’m walking out of here and you’re not going to stop me.”
Stark’s laughter rang with wicked anticipation. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. Someone else wants that pleasure. But forget about walking out of here because . . .”
Cassie rolled her eyes to the left in time to see the hall door implode.
“My buddy’s here to send you to hell.” Stark’s voice ended in a snarl.
Whatever Garrity saw in the hallway, it sent him stumbling over to put her coffin between himself and the door.
Cassie was still thinking about that snarl. That sound couldn’t have come from Stark’s throat. Cassie mentally cursed as she made a desperate attempt to see. She needn’t have bothered. Suddenly, a tiger leaped into view. It faced Garrity across the width of her coffin. It rose onto its hind legs and put its freaking front paws on the coffin and growled at him.
“Look at me.”
The new voice came from the doorway. Cassie knew that voice. Ethan.
“Don’t look.” Garrity sounded as though he were in full panic mode as he warned the binder.
Too late. The binder had looked. Cassie watched her die. And as much as Cassie wanted to feel sorrow at another death, she could only remember what they’d planned for her.
The binder’s death freed her. Cassie pounded on the coffin and shouted for someone to let her out. She watched in horror, unable to help, as Garrity’s finger tightened on the gun’s trigger.
Then he was yanked from her view. She twisted her head in an attempt to see what was happening at the same time she heard one blood-chilling scream. Then silence.
Zareb loomed over the coffin and lifted the lid. “Ethan really should have made it last a little longer. But the Second One was impatient. It doesn’t understand the beauty and satisfaction that come from a lengthy vengeance.”
Ethan shoved Zareb aside and lifted her from the coffin. He’d remembered to put his glasses back on and he’d pulled his hood as far forward as he could.
“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” He grabbed a sheet from the nearest gurney and wrapped it around her.
Then he gathered her close to his body and she could hear the rapid beat of his heart against her cheek.
How to tell him—what she was, and how she felt about him. But she didn’t have to bother with one of those disclosures. He lifted her chin and stared at her.
“You’re vampire.”
She nodded. Would that make a difference?
“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft with his regret.
What should she say? It’s no big deal? Hey, I was ready for a lifestyle change anyway? There was no good response, so she simply nodded.
Cassie felt dazed as she looked around her. A bunch of vampires and four tigers were crowded into the room. Some of the vampires were smashing coffins and equipment while others searched through file cabinets and Garrity’s desk for information. The tigers just lay there looking bored.
“Tigers?” The word came out as a squeak.
Ethan laughed. “Those are our four guards. They’re shifters. They wanted in on the takedown.”
She swallowed hard. Vampires and shape-shifters were real. What other myths and legends were real? “Can we find somewhere to talk alone?”
“Let’s go home. They don’t need us here. I came in Zareb’s car. I’ll borrow it and he can get a ride with one of the others.”
She waited while he retrieved the key and then followed him back to the car. As if by mutual agreement, neither of them spoke during the drive. Once back in Zareb’s home, he heated some bagged blood for her and drank some himself. Then, still silently, he led her to their bedroom.
Cassie really wanted to just jump into bed with him and make love forever. But that would be impulsive. This was one of the most important decisions of her life, and she had to take her time. She took a shower first and then waited wh
ile he took one.
He came to the bed naked except for his dark glasses. It wasn’t hard to keep her gaze from his face. She had other interesting places to look, scenic views to enjoy.
Ethan slid into bed and drew her to him. She hadn’t bothered with a nightgown so it was skin against skin. She couldn’t help it, she rubbed her hands over his back, his buttocks, and then she closed her eyes as she tangled her fingers in his hair and he covered her mouth with his in a long drugging kiss. The sensory overload almost blew her vampire circuits.
When she finally drew back, she knew she’d stalled long enough. “I had lots of time to think while I was in that coffin.” She couldn’t do this with her eyes closed, so she drew in a deep breath of courage, and stared at his face. And discovered something amazing. Yes, she could still feel the pull, the compulsion, but she could resist, she didn’t have to look away.
“Uh-huh.”
He smoothed her hair from her face and then kissed her forehead, her cheek, her throat.
Just say it. This had all seemed a lot easier in theory. She took a deep breath. “I . . .”
“You love me?” His breath was warm on her neck.
“Yes.” She absorbed the wonder of him.
“I know.”
“How?”
He smiled and she had to rethink her earlier confidence that she could resist him.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t know. But I had hope. Lots of hope. Besides, I’ve just spent three nights practicing how to say ‘I love you’ in a way that would convince you that I could make you happy for life.” His tone suggested he hadn’t quite believed he could do any convincing at all.
Fine, so she was crying. She swiped at her tears with her fingers. She glanced at them. “Oh, yuck. I’m really crying bloody tears. Gross.”
His soft laughter sent chills wherever chills could go.
“Then I’ll have to make sure you don’t cry anymore.”
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “I love you. And you don’t have to worry about making me happy for just one lifetime. Now we have a thousand lifetimes to work on it.”
He used his thumb to dry any remaining tears. “And once we reach a thousand lifetimes, we can start all over again.”
IN STILL DARKNESS
DIANNE DUVALL
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 a
s 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.
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