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?
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