Night Reigns

by Dianne Duvall

Immortals and vampires, however, differed in one very significant way: immortals had been something more than human even before the virus had transformed them.

  Born with far more advanced and complex DNA than ordinary humans, they called themselves gifted ones ... at least before their transformation. They didn’t know why they differed genetically from humans. They knew only that the thousands of extra DNA memo groups they possessed bestowed upon them wondrous gifts and talents others lacked and enabled their bodies to mutate the virus that infected them, eliminating the more corrosive aspects.

  Immortals, for instance, did not suffer the madness that swiftly descended upon vampires, whose brains were damaged by the virus’s assault. They also didn’t fall into the deep, coma-like sleep vampires did when the sun rose.

  Wrinkling her nose, Ami picked up a bloody shirt using only her thumb and forefinger. Immortals were not destroyed by extreme blood loss either. Instead, they slipped into a sort of stasis or hibernation not unlike that of a water bear until a source of blood came along.

  “Well, there’s no avoiding it,” she muttered. Since she lacked gloves, she was going to have to get her hands dirty. The clothing she would bury in one or more of the strip mall’s Dumpsters. The sticky, crimson-coated weapons she would collect and store in her Roadster’s trunk. She couldn’t do anything about the bloody ground. Hopefully another autumn shower would come along and wash it clean.

  Kneeling down, she began to gather the clothing into a rancid pile.

  Thank goodness she had some hand wipes in the car.

  Marcus staggered through the front door of his two-story home, closed it, and leaned back against the cool wood.

  Eight. Eight vampires had worked together and attacked him in a surprisingly well-choreographed battle. There had been none of the usual clumsy, swinging-wild bullshit. These vamps had actually seemed to have undergone some sort of instruction.

  He snorted. Not that their measly talent could ever equal his own. He had trained with a master swordsman. No fanged slacker with a machete could match his skill.

  Weary, he let his head drop back against the door.

  The vampire he had chased after leaving the redheaded pixie had led him to two others. The two new guys had brashly stood against him. The third had taken off running again while his latest cronies fell.

  Marcus could have gone after him ... again ... but, wounds stinging, had decided to call it a night. He’d get the bastard tomorrow. Or the next night.

  A steady pat pat pat drew his attention. Looking down to seek its source, he noticed several crimson puddles forming around his feet.

  He started toward the kitchen with a groan, peeling off his long coat and letting it fall in a heap on the bamboo floor of the foyer. The dark T-shirt and jeans he wore beneath bore numerous tears and holes. Like most other immortals, he always wore black when he hunted so any insomniac or nosy neighbor who might witness his return wouldn’t see the blood.

  And there was quite a lot of it tonight.

  Lacerations that should have already healed but couldn’t because he had lost too much blood covered his entire body. A vamp had dislocated one of Marcus’s shoulders. And every migraine-inducing throb of his left leg increased his certainty that his fibula was broken.

  It seemed to take him half an hour just to limp his way around the island in the center of his roomy kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, Marcus leaned down with a groan, pulled open the specially designed meat compartment drawer, and swore foully.

  Empty.

  Shoving it closed, he slammed the refrigerator door with a grunt and contemplated his options.

  He could either go out again and feed the old-fashioned way or suck it up and admit he needed help.

  Marcus stumbled out of the kitchen, across the foyer, and into his living room.

  He’d go back out again. Just as soon as he got his second wind.

  Gingerly, he lowered himself onto his comfy six-foot cream-colored sofa, closed his eyes, and exhaled a long sigh.

  Bing bong.

  His eyes flew open. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell at—he glanced at the clock on the mantel—4:31 in the morning? And how had he not heard the person’s approach? Was he that weak?

  Bing bong.

  Well, he wasn’t expecting anyone, so whoever it was must be up to no good.

  Bing bong.

  And when he stopped leaning on the freakin’ doorbell and decided to break and enter, he would be in for a rude awakening.

  Marcus perked up a bit at that. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to go out after all. He could just feed on the burglar.

  Bing bong.

  If the burglar would get off his ass and get to the bloody burglarizing already!

  Bing bong bing bong bing bong.

  Growling, Marcus flung himself from the sofa and stalked over to the front door.

  Okay, he didn’t stalk. It was more of an agonized, yet determined half-lurch half-skip he would no doubt regret; but pain and the doorbell prodded his temper.

  Ready to scare the holy hell out of whoever his new tormentor was, he yanked the door open, then drew up short. “Oh,” he grumbled. “It’s you.”

  Unfazed by Marcus’s surly greeting, his visitor arched a dark brow. “Feeling a tad cranky, are we?”

  Marcus muttered something disparaging beneath his breath as he turned away and started the long hobble back to the sofa.

  Behind him, Seth entered and closed the door. “Care to tell me what happened tonight?”

  “In a minute,” Marcus bit out, gritting his teeth against the pain. Oh yeah. His leg was definitely broken.

  “As you will,” Seth replied in an accent Marcus had never been able to place. Russian? Middle Eastern? South African? None of them seemed quite right.

  He glanced up as Seth strolled past, his hands clasped behind his back. Though Marcus was six foot one, Seth stood a head taller. His black hair, pulled back into a wavy raven ponytail, damn near reached his ass. His nose was straight, his jaw strong, his eyes so dark a brown they appeared black.

  Like Marcus, he was cloaked in midnight. Black slacks. Black mock turtleneck. A long black coat. All of impeccable quality and fit. The skin left exposed was tanned and flawless.

  Marcus scowled after him. He could’ve at least offered to help.

  “I’m making a point,” Seth said in his deep voice.

  Great. “Stop reading my thoughts.”

  “As soon as you quiet them.”

  Marcus said nothing as he continued to make slow progress toward the living room.

  Seth was the self-proclaimed leader of the Immortal Guardians. Their mentor. Their justiciar if any should stray beyond the boundaries he set for them.

  One by one, he had sought them all out when they were fledgling immortals, most transformed against their will, and shown them a new way of life. He had explained what vampirism was: the result of a parasitic or—as he put it—symbiotic virus that altered their bodies in miraculous ways, yet left them needing regular infusions of blood. He showed them how to temper that need in a manner that strengthened them.

  He taught them. He trained them. He guided them.

  He was the first, the oldest (though he didn’t look a day over thirty), the most powerful among them. So powerful that, unlike the others, he could walk in daylight without suffering any ill effects at all.

  Marcus grunted as he collapsed back against the sofa cushions, grimacing when he realized how badly he was staining them. “I don’t suppose you have any blood on you.”

  Seth smiled placidly as he leaned back against the mantel. “None with which I care to part.”

  Of course. Marcus would have to do something soon. He still bled from several wounds and continued to weaken. With no convenient burglar on hand, he would have to go out and feed.

  “Why did you say you were here again?”

  When Seth’s smile turned calculating, Marcus felt a twinge of unease. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.�
��

  Ami nibbled her lower lip as she waited for Seth’s summons. Glancing down at her wrist, she cursed softly when she realized no metal glinted against the material of her navy-blue sweater. She’d forgotten her watch again.

  How much time had passed since Seth had entered the attractive two-story home? Ten minutes? Twenty? Fifty?

  She walked from the front porch, down the long sidewalk to the driveway and back. The house lay several miles outside of Greensboro, where homes were few and far between and neighbors resided far enough away that they could neither be seen nor heard.

  The house before Ami boasted reddish brick with a connected two-car garage. A brass kick plate adorned a shiny black door. The yard ... could really use some attention. Leaves and pine needles had piled up. What grass remained visible needed mowing, weeding, and edging. Left to their own devices, grass runners crept across the sidewalk in an attempt to bury the pavement. Ami absently kicked at one as she passed it for the fortieth or fiftieth time.

  Her breath frosted on the cool air. Shivering, she wished she hadn’t had to discard her jacket earlier to keep Seth from seeing the blood stains on it.

  Seth’s warm voice finally filled her head. Would you please join us, Ami?

  Wiping suddenly damp palms on her jeans, she smoothed her sweater, checked her curly, red hair to ensure it had not escaped the neat ponytail that barely reached her shoulders, then picked up the small cooler Seth had left and resolutely approached the front door.

  She raised her hand to knock, then froze when she heard the distinctive bing bong of the doorbell. Blinking, she looked down at the small glowing button she hadn’t depressed. The doorbell had rung, hadn’t it?

  Bing bong.

  She lowered her hand. This time she had actually seen the button move in and out as it rang itself. Surely Seth’s doing.

  Bing bong.

  If he had wanted her to ring the doorbell, why hadn’t he just said so?

  Bing bong. Bing bong.

  And why didn’t anyone answer? The persistent ringing rattled nerves already stretched taut. Even after a year and a half in Seth’s care, she felt a touch of panic whenever she met someone new. As she had earlier with the immortal, which actually hadn’t turned out too badly.

  The door swung inward.

  Ami looked up ... and felt a smile lift the edges of her lips as she took in the tall figure who darkened the doorway. For the second time that night, she thought the immortal would be incredibly handsome if his face weren’t tight with pain and his body mangled and saturated with blood.

  Ebony hair surrounded his face in tangled waves and fell halfway down his back. His face, arms, and torso bore so many deep gashes that he looked like he had brawled with real wolves rather than vampires with a vicious pack mentality. His right arm had not yet healed. Judging by the way it hung, it had been dislocated. (Having had both of her own arms dislocated in the past, she knew how painful that could be.) And he carefully kept his weight off his left leg. Was it broken?

  Broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs, and a narrow waist and hips were all enticingly visible now that his coat had been discarded.

  This time, when Ami found herself tongue-tied, it had little to do with fear or anxiety. Especially when his eyes lit up with what might have been pleasure at finding her on his doorstep.

  Leaning to one side, she peered past him and saw Seth propping up a fireplace mantel in the next room. “You made him answer the door?” she demanded. Seth was not one to witness the suffering of another without aiding him.

  “Yes.”

  She dared a quick peek up at the less than pleased expression on the man’s face, then looked again to Seth. “Why?”

  “I was making a point.”

  “Se-e-eth! I can’t believe you!” Frowning, she stepped inside and dropped the cooler. “Here, let me help you.”

  The Immortal Guardian closed the door, but made no move toward her. Ami suspected the doorknob might be the only thing holding him upright.

  Moving to his left side, she wrapped her right arm around his waist and drew his left across her shoulders. When she glanced up, she found him studying her with piercing brown eyes.

  A little shiver of awareness tickled its way through her.

  Even bloody and battered he was sexy as hell. He was the perfect height, too—roughly a foot taller than her—so her head came up to his shoulder instead of falling short of his armpit. (Sometimes hanging with Seth and David, who were—respectively—six foot eight and six foot seven, gave her a crick in her neck.)

  “Who are you?” the immortal asked.

  “Ami.”

  “Ami, this is Marcus,” Seth answered at the same time. “Marcus, Amiriska.”

  “Nice to meet you, Marcus,” Ami said, her eyes boring into his in an attempt to convey her desire to keep their earlier encounter a secret. “Would you like to sit down?”

  She thought a touch of amusement entered his gaze, nearly smothered by the suffering his wounds inspired. “Very much so.”

  “I would, too, if I were in your condition. Let’s see if we can make it to the sofa.”

  They took it slowly. The poor guy must be in total agony. She didn’t understand why Seth didn’t do anything to help him.

  “I assume you’re an Immortal Guardian?” she asked to support the first meeting pretense.

  He nodded, his strong jaw clenching.

  “Then why aren’t your wounds healing the way they should?”

  He grunted as she eased him down onto sofa cushions splashed with scarlet splotches. “I haven’t fed.”

  When his gaze dropped to the base of her neck, Ami reared back.

  “Ami is not on the menu,” Seth intoned behind her. “Ever. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  Ami looked at Seth over her shoulder. “Why didn’t you get him some blood?”

  “He doesn’t have any.”

  “We brought a coolerful with us. Why didn’t you offer him some of that?” Striding from the living room (it really was a lovely room, spacious and tastefully decorated), she retrieved the cooler and set it on the coffee table. A quick lift of the lid, and she handed Marcus a blood bag.

  “Thank you.”

  As she watched, his fangs descended, and he bit into the bag. Some of the tension in his face eased as the fangs siphoned the blood directly into his veins.

  Hands on her hips, she faced Seth. “Well?”

  He shrugged. “I was making a point.”

  “What point?”

  “Yes,” Marcus seconded, the bag already empty. “What point?”

  Ami handed him another one.

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled.

  “He needs a Second,” Seth stated.

  Surprised, Ami turned back to Marcus. “You don’t have a Second?”

  All immortals had Seconds. Seth insisted upon it.

  Well, all except for Roland Warbrook, one of the more irascible immortals.

  Marcus glared at Seth. “I do not need a Second.”

  “You need a Second,” Seth responded implacably.

  “I have a Second.”

  “Slim is not a Second.”

  Ami frowned. She had met quite a few Seconds since Seth had taken her under his wing, usually via telephone or the Internet, but none had gone by the nickname Slim. “Who is Slim?”

  Seth looked pointedly toward the bay window on the opposite side of the room. Ami followed his gaze to the wicker basket on the floor in front of it. A small black cat that probably wouldn’t weigh eight pounds with a full belly returned her stare with one black paw raised high in the air.

  “Um ... is that cat bald?”

  There seemed to be substantial bare patches above its eyes ... and across the top of its head ... between its shoulder blades ... on one knee ...

  “No,” Marcus denied defensively. “He isn’t bald. He’s ... scarred from fighting with animals twice his size.”

  “Oh. Poor lit
tle guy.” Ami hated bullies, be they human or animal. And, judging by his ragged appearance, this cat must lure them like rancid meat lured flies.

  “Don’t feel too sorry for him,” Seth drawled. “Slim is the one who instigates the fights.”

  Ami eyed the cat doubtfully. “Really? Has he ever won one?”

  Seth’s dark eyes sparkled with amusement while he and Ami awaited Marcus’s response.

  When it came, the words emerged as though they had been dragged from him by force. “I think one ended in a draw.”

  Ami bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  Slim went back to licking himself.

  Marcus sighed and silently wished this night would just end already. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he eased himself into a more upright position. The broken bone in his leg was beginning to knit itself back together. All bleeding stopped as the cuts began to seal themselves.

  “Would you like some help with your arm?” Ami asked.

  Marcus glanced up to see her soft green eyes shift their focus to his dislocated shoulder. “Sure.”

  She was beautiful ... in a fresh-faced, girl-next-door kind of way. Pale, flawless skin free of makeup. Long lashes that complemented her coppery hair. A short pert nose. Lips that were nice and full, but not freaky, plastic surgery full. If he had to guess, he would say she was perhaps twenty years old. Clearly a human. As far as he knew, all gifted ones save one had black hair and brown eyes.

  Though small, she was surprisingly strong—she had supported quite a bit of his weight when she had helped him to the sofa—and slender, with nicely rounded hips and full breasts he couldn’t help but admire as she leaned forward to aid him and her sweater gaped enticingly, exposing shadowy cleavage and the white lace of her bra.

  Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes. She smelled good, too.

  One of her small hands carefully grasped his shoulder. The other took his wrist.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  He nodded, thinking her voice—low and warm—as appealing as the rest of her.

  She gave a quick twist. Pain shot up his arm and through his shoulder.

  “How’s that?”

  “Perfect,” he gritted out.