Night Reigns

by Dianne Duvall

  A thought dawned.

  His brunch bag in one hand, Marcus reached into the storage compartment again and shifted the small first aid kit aside. (The kit contained very little—butterfly closures and pressure tourniquet bandages—because immortals’ quick healing took care of most wounds.)

  When he saw what lay in the bottom of the storage well, he grinned.

  Ami rocked! As usual, she had foreseen his every need and provided him with a fresh shirt and some environmentally friendly, scentless wipes.

  With great relief, Marcus removed his coat and yanked his shirt over his head. The wipes worked wonderfully, removing the sticky blood that streaked his chest, arms, neck, and face, whisking away the scents of death. A minute later, the soiled cloths were stowed away and, garbed in a fresh T-shirt, he dug into a tasty sandwich.

  As usual, his thoughts returned to Ami, then strayed to the feel of those perfect curves locked against his earlier. Her body beneath him. Breasts to chest. Hips to hips.

  How he had longed to kiss her. A brush of the lips. Just a test. Then firmer contact, coaxing her full lips apart, slipping his tongue within to taste and tempt. Strip away those tight jeans and that crop top one thread at a time, revealing—inch by inch—more pale, perfect skin that begged to be explored. Or better yet, rip the garments off with his teeth, then carry her to his big-ass bed.

  Lost in the fantasy, Marcus grew hard and saw in the reflection of the Busa’s shiny finish his eyes begin to glow.

  Not good. He wouldn’t be able to sneak up on the vampire lurking outside the garage five miles distant with his eyes heralding his approach like flashlights. And he would really rather not fight the vamp while sporting an erection.

  Tucking away his brunch bag, Marcus closed his eyes.

  Immortals were, in many ways, the complete opposite of vampires. While vampires had little or no control over their emotions and bodies, immortals like Marcus could work wonders. Usually. When images of a certain feisty redhead weren’t teasing him.

  He shook his head. “Over eight centuries of living and I haven’t learned a bloody thing,” he muttered. “I still want what I can’t have.”

  When he had finally brought his body back under control, he checked the direction of the chilly breeze and set off toward the next garage on his list.

  Like some of the others, it was a small business on a country lot, the owners’ home only a few yards away. With the stealth of a cat, Marcus advanced from downwind, his nose and ears alerting him to the presence of two vampires, neither of whom showed any awareness of his approach.

  Marcus silently slid his short swords from their sheaths.

  The cell phone in his pocket vibrated.

  The vampires’ conversation ceased.

  Sighing, Marcus straightened, sheathed one of the swords and answered the phone. “Yes?”

  “Marcus, this is Sheldon, Richart d’Alençon’s Second.” Very young and very new to the job, according to the immortal grapevine.

  “What can I do for you?”

  The vampires beyond the trees began to exchange vehement whispers.

  “I thought I should call and give you a heads-up that the vamps at the garages are all carrying cell phones that have a coordinator on speed dial who, if called, sends in reinforcements.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yeah. The last one Richart confronted heard him coming and sent the message before Richart could stop him. The next thing he knew, over half a dozen vamps converged on him.”

  “In other words, stealth is imperative.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Marcus heard the faint sounds of a number being speed-dialed on a cell phone near the garage. “So, once one is within earshot of the vampires, conversing on a cell phone probably wouldn’t be a good idea,” he posed calmly.

  “Exactly. I—” An audible gulp carried over the line. “Oh. Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. Take your mistake and learn from it.”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought ...”

  He hadn’t thought at all. That was the problem. But he would learn quickly through experience. They all did.

  Except for Ami. Ami had kicked ass from the get-go.

  “From now on,” Marcus advised the young man stammering apologies, “unless it’s an emergency and you can’t reach her, contact me through my Second.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you ... Should I call Richart and tell him you need backup?”

  “Hell no,” Marcus said, wondering if it might take this one a little longer than usual to learn the ropes. “If you do, you’re liable to land him in the same muck you have me. Good night.”

  Sheldon sputtered something else as Marcus ended the call, but Marcus doubted it was important.

  The harsh whispers ahead of him halted the moment Marcus put away his cell phone.

  Shaking his head, he readied his weapons once more, then rocketed through the trees toward his prey.

  Ami was monitoring the secure Immortal Guardians Web site for updates and information when that feeling of dread flooded her again, souring her stomach like an instant case of food poisoning.

  Marcus was in trouble. The same feeling had driven her to speed to his side the night he had wrecked his Busa.

  Already decked out in hunting togs with 9mm’s holstered on her thighs (Marcus didn’t know it, but she changed into such every night when he left the house so she would be prepared if he needed her), she grabbed her sheathed katanas and dove into the garage.

  She and her Tesla Roadster flew through the night, veering in whatever direction the feeling guided her. She wasn’t sure why she felt it with Marcus. She had only ever felt it with family in the past. Even Seth, David, and Darnell—all of whom she now considered family—did not set her inner alarm system off when endangered.

  Only Marcus.

  Whipping down the winding, twisting roads, she passed the few other cars out and about as though they stood still. It helped that she had printed out the map of garages and gas stations Marcus would check tonight, all neatly concentrated in the same general area.

  Wheels throwing gravel, she skidded to a halt about a hundred yards past the garage that had spawned the attack. Subdued sounds of battle met her ears as she threw open the door, leapt out, and darted into the trees.

  Ami tucked her arms through the loops in the katanas’ sheath, letting them settle against the center of her back as she ran. Branches slapped her face and body, concealed by darkness until she was upon them. As she drew her 9mm’s, silencers already attached, she heard Marcus swear foully and guessed he had caught her scent.

  “Get the human!” a male voice commanded, its owner screaming in pain a second later.

  A large form sped toward her in a blur, bursting from the trees right in front of her.

  Ami jerked to a halt and fired both weapons.

  The form slowed and solidified into two vampires. Both stumbled as multiple bullets struck them.

  Now that she could see them dimly, she hit their major arteries, then hurried past, giving them a wide berth.

  There was no convenient clearing here. Just trees, trees, and more trees. Marcus appeared to be up against a dozen or so vampires, reduced to ten now that she had taken out two herself. The vamps who came after her next used the trees as shields whenever they could. Chunks of bark flew in every direction as she continued to fire, taking down a third.

  Ami hadn’t had time to retrieve Darnell’s handy reloading tool from the trunk; so, when the clips emptied, she dropped the guns and drew her katanas. She had chosen the swords for their length, which had aided her greatly in the last vampire fray. Now, however, with so many trees limiting her swings, she did not fare as well.

  This must be why Marcus and Roland preferred short swords and sais. Lesson learned.

  Blood spattered her face and chest as her blades found purchase in soft vampire flesh. Without the car headlights that had lit up the last battlefield, she couldn’t tell exactly how
many she faced. The foliage overhead blocked most of the moonlight. Were it not for their glowing eyes, she might not have seen her opponents at all.

  Burning pain ripped through her right hamstring. Her leg buckling, Ami stumbled and lashed out with her sword. A howl of fury split the night as a vampire swam into focus and fell back, hands pressed to his femoral artery.

  Lucky shot.

  Agony erupted in her back, on the left side just above her waist, as a blade sank deep and stayed, lodged in her flesh. Driven to her knees by the pain, Ami lost her hold on her left katana. Still swinging the right, she looked up as two vampires appeared in front of her, fangs bared in triumphant smiles.

  As soon as Ami had burst into view, weapons blazing—had there ever been a hotter vision?—Marcus had tried to circle around to fight at her back. But the vamps proved infuriatingly astute, always remaining between them as if they had videotaped the last battle, studied it like an American football team would the previous year’s Super Bowl footage, and created a new playbook.

  Vampires were not what Marcus would call thinkers. So, who was guiding them?

  He needed to take a vamp into custody so they could interrogate him and bring this uprising to an end, but ... when he heard Ami cry out in pain, he went a little Medieval Maddened Immortal on their asses.

  Stars and shurikens flew and sank deep into targets. His short swords impaled torsos and severed arteries and limbs. Any wounds he incurred he ignored, moving with such fast fury that most of the vampires had to focus their attention on defending themselves rather than attacking.

  As two, three, then four vampires fell, Marcus noticed for the first time a solitary vampire who stood back from the fray near Ami and those she fought. The vamp didn’t participate in the battle or call in reinforcements. He just observed.

  As the last vampire in front of him collapsed, Marcus spun toward Ami.

  His heart lodged in his throat.

  All of her weight was supported by her left leg. The smooth fluid movements that had so impressed him last week had been replaced by awkward hops induced by a wound on the back of her thigh that had already saturated her pant leg with blood. One of her katanas lay on the ground a couple of yards away from her. When she swung the other at the two vampires who circled her, he saw the hilt of a knife protruding from her back.

  Roaring in fury, Marcus crossed the distance that separated them in a blink and swung his sword, decapitating one vamp. The other backed away toward the odd vampire who watched everything with an inscrutable expression.

  Marcus started toward the pair. A heartbeat later, the voyeur vampire grabbed the other from behind, slit his throat, then sank his blade into his victim’s stomach, severing the abdominal aorta.

  Shock halted Marcus’s footsteps.

  The wounded one doubled over, trying to clutch both his neck and his stomach at the same time, then fell to the ground. His executioner bent, cleaned his blade on the back of the dying vamp’s shirt, and tucked it away in a sheath at his waist.

  The night fell quiet, disturbed only by Ami’s ragged breaths.

  Marcus returned one of his swords to its scabbard and backed toward her until he could feel her dwindling body heat just behind him. Reaching out, he took her free hand—wet with blood—and squeezed.

  She squeezed back.

  “Who are you?” Marcus asked the vampire.

  Like many vamps, he looked like a college student: of average height with a thin, rangy build. Short but shaggy hair somewhere between blond and brown brushed thick, brown eyebrows that hovered over pale blue eyes. A couple days’ growth of beard graced his narrow jaw.

  “Roy.”

  Marcus motioned to the vampire currently gargling out his last breath. “Have a falling out with your friend there, Roy?”

  “He would’ve reported me for not fighting.”

  “Reported you to whom?”

  “Our king.”

  Their king? Someone had delusions of grandeur. “Why didn’t you fight us?”

  “Are you Roland?”

  Ami’s fingers tightened around Marcus’s.

  “How do you know that name?” he queried.

  “You’re him, aren’t you? You fight alongside a human woman. She’s Sarah?”

  How the hell did he know about them? Bastien’s name was renowned worldwide amongst vampires. But Roland’s? And Sarah’s?

  “Yes,” he lied, wondering where this would go.

  The boy nodded decisively. “I’m looking for Bastien. Can you help me find him? Arrange a meeting?”

  “Why?”

  “I heard he was helping vampires. I ... I was hoping he could help me.”

  Marcus took a step forward. “I can help you.”

  The boy stumbled backward. “No! No. You’re immortal. I’d rather deal with Bastien.”

  “Bastien is immortal, too,” Marcus informed him. Perhaps all of the vampires hadn’t heard yet.

  “I know, but he lived with vampires for two hundred years. He was one of us.” Roy glanced over his shoulder. “Look, there are more of us coming.”

  Marcus heard nothing, which meant Roy didn’t either.

  “Trust me, they’re coming,” Roy insisted, reading Marcus’s doubt. “I saw Dickie make the call. I don’t know how many, but it could be a dozen or more.”

  Marcus swore silently. Ami wouldn’t live through another round. And he would not risk her life for a shot at getting a little information. “Come with us,” he suggested. “I’ll take you to Bastien myself.” As soon as he got Ami to safety.

  Roy shook his head, began backing away. “They’ll follow. And when they see how weak Sarah is, they’ll attack her first and use her to bring you down. Leave now, and I’ll head them off, convince them you either fled the fight or left us all for dead and are long gone.”

  “You don’t look dead,” Marcus pointed out. Nor did he look as though he had been fighting for his life and doing his damnedest to kill an immortal.

  Roy whipped out his large hunting knife.

  Marcus released Ami’s hand and prepared to throw a dagger or shuriken.

  But Roy didn’t attack. He drew his blade across his own face, sliced his chest open, then sank the knife deep into his own thigh.

  Behind Marcus, Ami gasped, expressing the same astonishment he felt.

  “They won’t question me,” Roy said through clenched teeth. “Tell Bastien I’ll be at what’s left of his lair tomorrow at midnight.”

  As soon as the words left his lips, he turned and sped away in a blink.

  “Aren’t you going after him?” Ami asked behind him, her voice hoarse with pain.

  Marcus swiveled to face her. “No.”

  She was as pale as milk, her soft skin sprinkled with blood. Keeping her weight off her right leg, she stood hunched over slightly, the knife handle sticking obscenely out of her back. Her shirt and pants were saturated around and below the blade. “But—”

  “I know where he’ll be tomorrow night.” Retrieving his phone, Marcus dialed Seth’s number.

  “But you don’t know how many vamps he’ll bring with him,” she gritted out. “It could be a setup. Another ambush.” Taking his arm, she hopped closer, leaned into him, and pressed her face to his chest.

  Heart aching, Marcus wrapped his arm around her and swore when his call went straight to voice mail.

  Was Seth always this difficult to reach? Marcus rarely called him.

  He pocketed his phone. “I’m sorry, honey, but I’m going to have to take the knife out.”

  She nodded. “Give me a three count.”

  She was so small, he could reach around her easily and clasp the hilt without having to turn her away from him. He curled his fingers around it.

  She tensed, dropped her katana, and clutched his shirt with both hands.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “One. Two. Three.” He yanked out the blade.

  Ami jerked, but made no sound, alarming Marcus far more
than screaming would have. It usually took centuries of being subjected to such wounds to cultivate that kind of stoicism.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She shook her head, sniffed.

  Bending, he slipped an arm beneath her knees and lifted her into his arms. Seconds later, he stood beside her shiny Tesla Roadster.

  Déjà vu struck as he lowered her onto the hood. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

  “Backseat,” she whispered, curling her hands into fists and bracing them on the cold metal, head drooping. Silent tears fell from green eyes glazed with pain.

  Marcus damn near wrenched the passenger door off the car in his haste to fetch the kit, which turned out to be pretty substantial. Most Seconds carried the same since they lacked the incredible healing capacity of the immortals beside whom they fought.

  Drawing her shirt up on the left side, he asked her to lean to the right.

  Ami grasped the shirt with her left hand and wadded it up just above the injury.

  The wound was thick and ragged thanks to the serrated edge of the blade. Marcus placed several sterile gauze pads against it, then wrapped bandages tightly around and around her to hold them in place and keep pressure on it.

  Next he addressed the leg wound. Though whatever had sliced into her flesh had missed her femoral artery, the wound continued to bleed profusely. Deep and ugly, the gash stretched across the back of her thigh. Damn vampires and their love of hamstringing their opponents. Bring ’em down like a gazelle, then fall on ’em like lions seemed to be their favorite mode of attack.

  Marcus cut a hole in the back of her pants’ leg to accommodate his work. Ami trembled beneath his hands as he applied butterfly closures, added another thick pad, and wrapped the leg tightly to staunch the flow of blood.

  Once done, he lifted her into his arms again. “Just a little longer.”

  She nodded against his neck.

  Marcus lowered her into the passenger seat, made her as comfortable as possible, and fastened her seat belt. He remembered Roland’s doing the same for Sarah when she had been injured during Bastien’s first large-scale attack and understood now the exaggerated care he had taken.