by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor
If he could get over this one.
He wasn’t exactly happy about leaving these particular vampires intact, but if Dr. Grasu could cure them…
Nah. He still wouldn’t be satisfied. He’d just have to visit the lab himself, make sure the vamps were under control, maybe see how Howard was doing. Maybe.
The Huey was catching air now, speeding away from Castle Bethlen. As the vampire nest became a speck on the ground, Sarge asked the copilot for two headsets. He tossed one to Camille, gestured for her to wear it.
With a put-upon expression, she did.
“I was serious. Did you check loverboy for fangs?”
The captive fixed a lowered glare on him.
“Why would he have fangs, Sarge?” she asked. “If he’d been turned, he would’ve attacked already, right? And he wouldn’t be walking around in the sun. Besides, I sort of wanted a more tender hello.”
“You clearly got it.”
“Eat me, you jerk.”
“That’s something you wouldn’t regret.”
Apparently at her wit’s end, she doffed the headset and stared straight ahead, out the open door at the passing morning-lit countryside.
So this was what he got for trying to be helpful. Cut off from communicating with her. The cold shoulder.
He supposed it was better than a dart in the neck.
Next to him, Ashe was shaking his head, the gesture louder than the scolding he might’ve deserved.
Don’t do it again, Ashe was probably thinking. Don’t let the adrenaline and danger of a mission fool you into thinking you’ve got the hots for a woman.
It wasn’t serious. Not even close. There was definite lust, though. Camille Howard might not be the Victoria’s Secret definition of beauty, but she had something that attracted Sarge with its burning light.
Passion? Dedication?
Imagine having someone feel about him the way she obviously felt about this Griff guy.
The thought scarred Sarge a little because no one had ever cherished him in that way.
Images scored him: The intensity in her eyes as she’d restrained him from going after Ana and the revenants. The sharp glint of moon on Hana’s fangs as she dived for his neck, ripping his flesh.
As with Hana, Sarge had blinded his instincts with Camille. He’d trusted her, if only briefly. He’d honored her beliefs, her need to keep those vamps alive, because he knew it meant so much to her.
Hell. Around Camille, he even thought he could go back to being the type of guy who thought a little more about sending a creature to the great hereafter.
Damned idiot.
Across the chopper, Pretty Boy stirred. Sarge tensed, ready to pin him against the wall with a stake if he made a wrong move.
His hand crept to his side, seeking reassurance from the aspen wood.
As if provoking Sarge, the captive grabbed for Camille’s hand, engulfed it in the clasp of his. While the two lovebirds locked gazes, shutting everyone else out of their world, Sarge sensed apologies, promises.
Sighing and smiling, Camille nestled against her boyfriend, closing her eyes.
Interesting. Even though Griffie was holding her close, he kept a distance. It was in the way he angled his mouth away from her, the way he stared into space.
Ashe, the empath, the one who could read feelings, didn’t even try to remove Sarge’s hand from his stake.
And that was all Sarge needed to know.
She’d collapsed into sleep. Not a very soothing one, but enough to shut down her systems and erase all worry.
The dark numbness of a snooze. The calming spin of patterns on the backs of her eyelids. The ecstatic contentment of using Griff as a human pillow again. His embrace seemed stronger in her dreams, and she wished it was because her love had made him that way.
But then he was ripped away from her, making the nightmares come back.
Startled, she jerked awake, discombobulated. Alone.
Swaying to her knees, she instinctively felt her hips for the utility belt, her devices. Nothing there.
Instead, she found herself in a helicopter with Sarge using one arm to drive Griff to the wall.
“Sarge!” Her voice crackled with rage as she stumbled to her feet.
“Stay back,” he said, snarling at Griff, who was gazing down at him with a stony expression.
His eyes…
No. There wasn’t anything wrong. They didn’t have a tinge of heat or of…wildness.
“Let him go,” she yelled, forcing herself awake and pulling at Sarge’s straining arm.
Ashe had gotten to his feet also. He leaned over to speak in her ear. “Sit down, Camille.”
“What’s with you two?”
Sarge tossed his words over a shoulder. “He’s a vamp.”
Something—her nightmares—plunged into her heart, and she stumbled backward.
Ashe was talking again. “While you were asleep, he grew more and more restless. Then he flashed fangs. He wants your blood.”
“What, did you feel this, Ashe?” Her voice mocked him. “Did one of your Dragons tell you? Well, maybe it could tell Ana, too, or…Oh, no. Too late for that. Ana’s already been bitten.”
The Wiccan’s peaceful facade crumbled. Dammit, she’d crushed him with her words, with her own pain.
But just as she reached out a hand to touch his arm, Griff struck.
He pushed off the wall, mouth aimed at Sarge’s neck.
In turn, Sarge whipped him around, throwing him to the floor of the chopper near the open door. The tops of forest trees wheeled by in the background.
Ashe dived toward the front of the Huey.
At the same time, Camille tried to pry the men apart. “Sarge, get the hell off him!”
“Look!” He slid a thumb into Griff’s mouth, lifting the upper lip.
The sight of two tiny canine fangs sent a blast of shock through her, rocked her back onto her heels.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it. Goddammit. She hadn’t even looked for fear of what she’d find. He’d hidden them so well.
And she’d been so sure. He’d walked in the dawn light, hadn’t he? So how…?
This couldn’t be happening. Not after all the hope, the training, the rescue…
As she cradled her arms over her head, shutting out her legacy of death, Griff turned his face toward her.
But it wasn’t really Griff. Those weren’t his reddened night eyes. That wasn’t his mouth fixed in a razor-sharp grimace.
“He drank from one of the strigoiaca,” Sarge said.
She needed an excuse. Any excuse to make this go away or seem less cataclysmic. “He can’t be that far along.”
“He will be.”
Ashe returned, obviously having shuffled through his rucksack. He returned to them with a silver crucifix. The sight of it took Camille aback.
“For real serious situations,” Sarge said, noting her surprise. “Wiccans don’t believe in the devil, but they believe in good.”
She knew that symbols, crosses, garlic wouldn’t literally affect the strigoiaca or…whatever her boyfriend was now. She needed the wands, the mouth sealers, the—
Griff was staring at the cross in wonder.
“Got him,” Sarge said, still levering him to the floor.
Scientific fascination mixed with relief that Sarge wasn’t killing him, and Camille knelt next to Griff, noting his responses to the cross, wondering if this was anything like charming a snake. Maybe he was attracted to the silver shine, the shape…
“I think you set him off, Howard,” Sarge said. “He got a little excited from the scent of you.”
“Are you talking about something like psychic vampirism?”
“They don’t always live off blood. Sometimes they don’t have to touch you to draw out your strength. When you were nookying all close to Griffie, he was probably sucking out your energy. That’s what I meant by vampires feeding off souls.”
“Even though the strigoiaca got him, he’s not
their kind.”
Something like guilt flashed in his eyes, and Sarge abruptly jerked his chin toward the back of the Huey.
As Camille wondered why Sarge would feel any remorse, the chopper took a dip downward, skimming lower over the forest.
The movement caused Ashe to lose his balance, taking the cross out of Griff’s line of vision. In that split second, the Wiccan lost control of his vampire.
Griff bared his fangs, went for Sarge’s bad arm, tore through the bandages.
“Griff!” she yelled.
“Just get away from him!” Sarge’s voice was steeped in pain.
Helpless, Camille jumped back as far as she could.
But Griff took advantage of the distraction to heave Sarge to his back. However, the soldier didn’t allow the younger man to get the upper hand. He rolled Griff over, too, positioning her boyfriend’s head over the ledge of the open door.
“Don’t hurt him,” she said, knowing Sarge was beyond hearing.
Ashe joined them there, crucifix at the ready.
Had her scent really been the reason for bringing this out in Griff? If so, the smartest thing would be to stay away, not to ride to his rescue again.
But she needed to protect him.
Determined to do so, she glanced around the chopper’s belly for her rucksack. The UV wand was dead, but maybe she could use a mouth sealer?
She thought of how the vampires had torn at the vacuum device, maiming themselves. She couldn’t do that to Griff.
How about a knockout dart? Were there any left?
She scrambled to her rucksack, took out the gun and one final tranquilizer while looking over her shoulder.
Ashe was pressing the cross against Griff’s neck, where it steamed into his skin.
As her boyfriend roared in agony, Camille felt it, too. It tore at her, making her want to cry for him. She clutched a dart in her fist.
In his frenzy to get away from the crucifix, Griff pushed backward, over the chopper’s door ledge.
Oh, God…
Sarge braced himself, holding on to the door sides, but Griff wasn’t letting go. He twisted, tore at Sarge.
And they both plunged out of the chopper.
Heart in her throat, Camille scuttled to the door, a scream in her throat, dart still in hand.
The Wiccan pointed to the nearby treetops, and she calmed herself, understanding his gesture. Had their fall been broken?
Ashe rushed over to the pilots, and they circled back.
It didn’t take them long to land, and as soon as they hit ground, Camille and Ashe were out the door, her dart gun armed with one projectile. He had the crucifix ready.
Follow the empath then overtake him, she thought, dogging his heels as they wove through the trees. She needed to get to Griff before Ashe did, dammit.
The witch’s skills were sharp this morning, because he led her right to them.
As they approached, Griff was holding on to Sarge’s bad arm and beating his full body against a tree. One of the mercenary’s legs snapped backward and, as Sarge disengaged from Griff, his body collapsed to the ground.
She skidded to a stop on pine needles and dried leaves, cringing for Sarge, horrified. Had her blood scent made Griff so brutal? Damn her, why hadn’t she just stayed away from him?
Because she couldn’t.
And getting close again would give Griff even more strength.
As Ashe forged ahead, Griff picked Sarge up by the scruff of his T-shirt, wrenching his head with the other hand, seeking access to the neck. His mouth opened, preparing to strike.
“Stop, Griffin!”
Her voice rang through the forest as Ashe hovered nearby, waiting with the crucifix.
Griffin froze, cocked his head, glanced over his shoulder with that familiar voided look of the vampire.
Seeing her, he dropped Sarge. At first, the mercenary stayed on his knees, catching his breath. Either Griff had been throwing him around quite a bit or he’d taken a nasty spill from the tree that had slowed his fall from the chopper. Blood gushed from a head wound, coating half his stony face with red.
With that broken leg, Sarge couldn’t stand.
This slow, excruciating death match crushed Camille, cutting her in half. She didn’t want either of these men hurt.
Arm quaking, Sarge pointed to Ashe, calling him off. Then he groped for the stake that was sheathed by his side.
She could barely look at him reaching for the last threads of life, of dignity.
By now, Griff had turned all the way around. He sniffed the air, took a step toward her.
Sarge withdrew the stake. “Get out of here, Camille.”
As sorry as she felt for the mercenary, he was going to kill Griff. The man she’d fought so damned hard to get back.
Taking a risk, she walked nearer to her boyfriend, raising her dart gun. She’d take him down and put him in the UV coffin, keeping all of them safe until they got to Bucharest. They could cure him there.
She could make this work.
“Come here, Griff,” she said softly. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Her gaze caught Sarge’s, and the connection felt like a kick to the stomach.
Her betrayal. His hurt.
Obviously, he couldn’t understand why she needed to keep Griff alive. Why she’d allow Sarge to suffer while doing it.
Damn this decision she had to make.
When he opened his mouth to say something, she shook her head, telling him that she’d choose Griff every time.
His gaze went hollow.
Please don’t continue, Sarge. Because if you try to kill Griff, you know I’ll stop you.
He hesitated, just as if he’d understood her desperation. Camille exhaled, relieved beyond measure.
Finally, the clod had gotten it.
Beaten, Sarge smiled weakly. But then, with a warrior’s cry, he gave a savage leap, using his good leg to spring forward, cocking the stake backward, thrusting it toward Griff’s back, where he’d pierce the heart straight through.
Camille’s hopes dropped. As Sarge speared toward Griff, she thought about hitting him with the last dart. But what about Griff? How would she contain that danger?
Left with no other choice, she lowered her gun, permitting Griff to stay alive.
To take Sarge out.
It was the only way to keep Griff.
As her boyfriend ducked, Sarge’s body arched over Griff while trying to spike him. Right away, the fledgling vampire flew upward. Fangs flashing, he reached out, screwing Sarge’s good arm as if it were a jar lid, flipping the soldier overhead and to the forest floor.
The stake tumbled away as Griff tore into Sarge’s belly.
Ensnared by an empathic moment, Ashe watched her, read her, possibly too stunned by her sacrificial thoughts to move.
With panicked speed, she pointed her tranquilizer at Griff. “Don’t kill him. Stop, Griff.”
He didn’t.
Why can’t you do this for me? she thought.
Now Ashe plunged forward with the crucifix. But, in a flash, Griff took off, escaping through the trees.
With a last glance at Sarge—one that would haunt her—she gave chase, tracking Griff. He hadn’t gotten much of a head start, so when he was in range, she shot him, bringing him crashing to the ground.
As she walked over to him, dazed, she couldn’t forget Sarge. Couldn’t forget the lacerations in his stomach, in his throat. His broken bones. His fading gaze, so much like the alpha wolf.
Why? it asked.
She hadn’t meant for this to happen.
Numb, she took care of the prone Griff, bringing him back to the chopper, resting him in his coffin, turning on the UV bulbs and tenderly brushing the hair back from his face.
Then she went back to see to Sarge, finding Ashe kneeling over his friend’s still body.
“What can I do to help?” she asked, stomach churning at what she had done to him.
“You can get out of here, Camille,”
the Wiccan said, not even deigning to glance at her. “Call for some transportation in Bucharest. But just leave.”
“Is he…?”
“Go!” He roared the word at her, still avoiding her gaze.
Guilt-ridden, she left, feeling like the murderer who’d shown up at a victim’s funeral because she’d wanted to get caught.
Chapter 13
One month ago, Camille had chosen Griff over Sarge.
Now she stood on the other side of Griff’s security-glass cell in the lab near the university, watching a male assistant garbed in an Outbreak-type hot-zone suit while he prepped Griff’s arm for an injection.
Her boyfriend’s hair and beard had been trimmed long ago, and he was bare chested, revealing the slight amount of weight he’d added with a change in diet. Revealing the cross burn on his neck and a hint of the once emerging vampire wings that had already devolved into faint gray ruffles along his spine.
Seeing Griff’s progress, she felt validated in having kept him alive—no matter what it’d cost.
Overcome by guilt once again, Camille’s stomach roiled at the blood-soaked image of Sarge lying on the forest floor. Then she popped an antacid tablet, listened to Bea’s voice as she explained Griff’s condition to a touring group. Today was dog-and-pony-show time for visiting doctors who were also studying vampirism worldwide.
Dressed in her own spaceman garb, Bea was speaking to them with grandiose flourishes of motion. She wasn’t wearing headgear—it was needed only when she visited the vampires, since the suit kept her scent contained.
As Sarge had said, scent had been a trigger for Griff’s attack and Bea had confirmed this in the lab. But right now, Camille had forgone the required suit and was wearing regular clothing: red cowboy boots, jeans, a pink T-shirt with the baby ring necklace.
Today would be the big test for Griff.
Camille would finally get to stand—suitless—next to him for the first time since Griff had returned.
Inside her boyfriend’s sterile cage—for lack of a better word—a team of suited-up males waited with their defensive devices: mouth sealers, restraints, stun darts.