Phantom Shadows ig-3

by Dianne Duvall

  “You did well,” he praised. “You remind me of Ami. You seem to anticipate the vampires’ movements very well.”

  Being compared to Ami was a huge compliment, and one she didn’t deserve. Ami fought nearly on the same level as the immortals. With guns and blades. No other Second could best her. Some immortals couldn’t even best her, though none would admit it. “That’s because—”

  Something hit Melanie in the chest. She frowned. Neither Bastien nor Richart had moved as far as she could tell. And, even if they had, why would either of them strike her in the chest?

  She glanced down and saw a small tear in her shirt in the vicinity of her heart. Around and beneath it, a wet stain began to spread.

  Melanie raised a heavy hand to touch the stain and stared at the blood that painted her fingers. Looking up, she fought for breath as pain crashed through her. “Bastien?”

  Horror froze Bastien as he met Melanie’s gaze.

  The scent of her blood surrounded him as the stain on her shirt spread with alarming speed.

  Another hole appeared in her chest a few inches from the first.

  She blinked and staggered back a step.

  “Sniper!” Bastien wrapped his arms around her and turned his back to the shooter.

  Her knees buckled.

  A bullet hit him in the back, passed through his body, and entered Melanie.

  Swearing, Bastien lifted her into his arms and raced for the shadows, ducking around the corner of the nearest building. “Melanie?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He looked down. Her eyes were closed, her face devoid of color. Panicked, he listened for a heartbeat. Weak. Thready. Her breath came in faint wheezes.

  “Richart.” He didn’t shout the name. He whispered it, fear rendering him nearly mute. A fear he hadn’t experienced in two centuries. Fear Seth had not inspired the night Bastien had thought Seth was going to destroy him.

  Richart arrived in a blur. “How is she?”

  Bastien carefully deposited Melanie in the Frenchman’s arms. “Take her to David. If he isn’t home, find Seth or Roland.”

  Richart nodded. “The shooters—”

  “I’ll handle the shooters. Now hurry. And when you return, don’t let them see you teleport. We don’t know if they saw you do it earlier and they may not be aware of our individual gifts yet.”

  Richart cradled Melanie close and issued a short nod. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Darkness bled into Bastien’s heart, robbing him of any emotion save rage. “I’ll do what I have to.”

  Uttering a final epithet, Richart vanished.

  The faint squawk of a walkie-talkie met Bastien’s ears. The men who whispered confirmation of a hit, of a target taken out, thought he couldn’t hear them. But he could. And every word hardened his resolve to make the bastards pay for hurting Melanie.

  There were a lot of them. They must have been in position for hours. Snipers on the roofs. Foot soldiers on the ground, hidden in alcoves, behind shrubs, in fucking Dumpsters, ready to pounce. Trained not to move, not to make a sound until their quarry arrived.

  Sheer dumb luck was all that had kept Bastien, Melanie, and Richart from teleporting to one of the many buildings that boasted snipers on the roofs. The same luck that had landed the snipers behind structures that impeded the immortals’ view of them.

  While the soldiers consulted each other, seeking any sighting of the paranormal beings they hunted, Bastien scaled the side of the building behind him with all of the speed and dexterity of Spiderman.

  With the stealthy tread of a cat, he found the first soldiers.

  Two. Fatigues. Hair covered in skull caps. Faces blackened. They knelt with weapons poised on the raised cement edging. Dark duffel bags full of ammo, more weapons, and heavy restraints rested—zippers open—on either side of them, ready to be pillaged. The soldier on the left bore an assault rifle. The soldier on the right bore a tranquilizer rifle. Both men remained tense, eyes pressed to the scopes as they slowly searched the shadows for their victim . . . and their executioner.

  Bastien’s gaze went to the assault rifle bearer. Was this the one? Was this the fuck who had shot Melanie? Who had hurt her? Who could’ve . . . might have killed her?

  He struck without warning. Grabbing the protruding butts of their weapons, Bastien yanked hard, slamming the scopes into their eyes and knocking them onto their backs. His hands closed on their throats before a sound of pain could escape them, crushing their tracheae and shutting off their air.

  The humans writhed in pain, kicking the heels of their boots against the roof and clawing at their throats. Their eyes widened as they slowly began to suffocate. One determined bastard reached toward his bag of toys. Bastien stepped on his wrist and crushed the bones. Snatching the walkie-talkie from the dead man’s shoulder, he depressed the button and whistled sharply.

  Echoes of his whistle sounded throughout the campus, some close, some distant, alerting him to the location of every mercenary intent on capturing him.

  “What the hell was that?” a voice hissed over the walkie-talkie.

  Adopting an American accent, Bastien whispered with false urgency, “I see ’em. I see ’em. They’re moving toward Kenan Stadium. Holy shit they’re fast!”

  A flurry of movement sounded as soldiers readjusted their positions in an attempt to glimpse the supposedly fleeing beings.

  “Maintain position! Maintain position!” came the order in a rough whisper yell. “Who the hell was that? Was that Charlie?”

  Bastien dropped the walkie-talkie.

  “No, sir. It wasn’t me.”

  “Well, whoever it was, shut the fuck up! And for fuck’s sake everyone stop moving! They’ll hear us!”

  Too late.

  Bastien backed toward the center of the roof, then raced for the edge. Over he went, flying through the air he didn’t know how many yards to land on the next.

  He couldn’t land silently when traveling at such velocities, but it didn’t matter. He was on the soldiers crouched there before they could finish spinning around. Snapping their necks, he leapt to the roof of the next building. Two more swore and swung around. One fired a tranquilizer dart at him. Bastien caught it and flung it back at the bastard, who dropped like a stone. The other released a shout cut short when Bastien snapped his neck. Still moving, Bastien increased his speed and leapt to the next roof. Two more down. Then the next. Three on that one.

  On the next, he skidded to a halt. The barrel of one of the men’s rifles was still warm. The acrid scent of gunshot residue lingered on the man’s hands.

  In that instant, Bastien understood more fully than he ever had the psychotic episodes that gripped vampires, the fury that engulfed them and took control of their bodies in a millisecond.

  This was the one who had shot Melanie.

  Bastien snapped the other soldier’s neck without any conscious thought. All of his attention focused on Melanie’s shooter.

  This man had caused her pain. So he would feel pain.

  Bastien knocked the man’s weapon aside with one hand and clamped the other around his throat, lifting him until his feet dangled two feet off the ground.

  Within the soldier’s wide, fear-filled eyes, Bastien could see the reflection of his own, burning bright amber. He bared his fangs in a snarl.

  The soldier whimpered and wet his pants.

  Ripping the walkie-talkie from the man’s shoulder, Bastien threw it halfway to the damned football stadium.

  “You shot my woman,” he growled.

  If the man’s eyes could get any wider, they did. His fingers clawed at Bastien’s hand as he struggled for breath.

  “You’re going to die slowly.”

  One of the man’s hands dropped.

  Something sharp pierced Bastien’s chest. He looked down. The dumb fuck had stabbed him with a tactical knife.

  He met the soldier’s gaze and noted the gleam of triumph in them. “You don’t actually think that hurts me, do
you?” he drawled.

  The soldier’s fear returned, so strong Bastien could smell it.

  Curling the fingers of his free hand around the soldier’s, Bastien slowly withdrew the knife without so much as a wince, confiscated it, and held it up. “You’re going to regret that.”

  Chapter 7

  Ami was parked at her computer in David’s study when a commotion arose in the living room.

  Other than her, the ground floor should have been empty. Darnell was downstairs training half a dozen Seconds. Étienne was down in one of the basement’s guest rooms, showering off the blood that had coated him when he had come up against five vampires, none of whom had apparently been interested in making friends.

  The immortal had not been pleased.

  Ami feared such confrontations, drawn out and made more dangerous by Bastien’s plan to seek an alliance, would not endear him to the immortals. His brethren already pretty much hated him. Some outright resented the fact that he still drew breath when Ewen didn’t.

  But Ami knew him better than they did. Yes, he had made some mistakes. Some pretty big mistakes, but his intentions had been good.

  The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

  Marcus had spouted that the other night when she had tried to defend Bastien.

  She knew it rankled her husband that she cared for Bastien. But Bastien had been kind to her. He had been a kindred spirit in the early days of their acquaintance, housed not entirely of his own free will at Seth’s castle, facing a new life, surrounded by new people, with nothing but an unknown future and a messed up past for company.

  During those first few weeks, while she had recovered from the torture she had endured at Emrys’s hands, she had formed a bond with Bastien that was as unbreakable as those she had formed with Seth, David, and Darnell.

  Heavy boots tromped down the hallway.

  She rose from the lovely desk David had purchased for her.

  “Where’s David?”

  Richart stepped into the doorway, Dr. Lipton’s unconscious form cradled in his arms. Melanie’s head drooped over his arm, her hair falling in a mahogany curtain to his waist. The front of her shirt bore three holes and was completely saturated with blood, some of which trailed over his hand and dripped onto the floor. One slender arm swung limply as he ceased moving.

  “He isn’t here.” Ami hurried forward. “Chechenko nearly lost his leg tonight, so David had to go to Virginia to heal him.”

  “What about Seth?”

  She took out her cell phone and dialed.

  The sounds of battle came over the line. Metal clashing. Men howling in pain.

  “What’s up, sweetheart?” Seth asked.

  “Dr. Lipton has been injured.”

  “I’m afraid I have my hands full here. You’ll have to—” He grunted, swore, then continued. “You’ll have to call Roland or take her to the network.”

  “Okay.”

  “Keep me posted though.”

  “I will.”

  She ended the call. “You’ll have to take her to Roland.”

  Richart swore. “I don’t know where the paranoid bastard lives!”

  Ami leaned out into the hallway. “Darnell!”

  Boots pounded up the stairs from the basement.

  Darnell burst into the hallway, the six trainees fast on his heels. “What’s wrong?” His eyes widened when he caught sight of Dr. Lipton. “Oh, shit. How bad?”

  “Fatal,” Richart said.

  The Seconds all stared somberly.

  “David and Seth have their hands full,” Ami told him. “Do you know where Roland lives?”

  “No.” He reached into a back pocket and drew out his cell phone. “He’ll have to come here.”

  Richart shook his head. “Have him meet us at the network. She won’t live long enough for him to get here. Hopefully, the doctors there will be able to keep her alive until he arrives.”

  He vanished in the next instant.

  Ami heard some of the trainees gasp. “You call Roland. I’ll call Chris.”

  Bastien pitched the last soldier off the roof. The man’s vocal chords had been crushed, so he couldn’t alert any campus stragglers with screams as he plunged to his death.

  The snipers were all dead. Now it was time to tackle the soldiers on the ground.

  Withdrawing his cell, he dialed Chris.

  “Reordon!” the human barked impatiently.

  “I need a cleanup crew,” he said and leapt to the dense green lawn below.

  “Bastien? What the fuck is going on? Richart just showed up here with Dr. Lipton.”

  “Why the hell is he there? Why isn’t David healing her?”

  “He can’t. Seth can’t either. They’re both busy elsewhere. The medical team is working on her and Roland is on his way. Now tell me—”

  “Ask Bastien where I should meet him,” Richart said in the background.

  Knowing now that there was a strong chance Melanie would not make it, Bastien felt an icy calm settle over him. “Tell him to teleport to Peabody Hall. I’m at Fetzer Hall now and am about to sweep through the soldiers between us like a fucking tidal wave.”

  “Damn it, we need some of those men left alive to—”

  “All you’re getting are corpses. When you send the cleanup crew, send a fucking bus.”

  Disconnecting the call, Bastien sped through the darkness toward the first cluster of soldiers.

  Chaos infected the remaining soldiers’ ranks as one after another after another ceased communicating over the walkie-talkies. Panicked, unable to spot their attacker even with night vision goggles, they ignored their commander’s orders to maintain radio silence and begged for help, alerting Bastien to all of their positions.

  He took out three of a cluster of six in two seconds. The others tried to fire their weapons and retreat at the same time. Shots muffled by top-of-the-line suppressors filled the night, unheard by anyone but Bastien and Richart if he had appeared as instructed.

  Bastien didn’t flinch as bullets struck him. Drawing his katanas, he cut the throats of two men, then disarmed the last. Dropping a sword, Bastien yanked the last man forward, sank his fangs into the prick’s neck, and drained him.

  Dropping the body, Bastien retrieved his sword and raced for the next cluster. Already his wounds were healing. But he would have continued even if they hadn’t.

  These bastards had killed Melanie. By the time this night was over, not one of them would ever draw breath again.

  Richart delayed returning to UNC. Roland’s home was half an hour away from the network by car. The Frenchman had seen the doubt on the network doctors’ faces when asked if they could sustain Dr. Lipton for that long. Their best hope, therefore, was for Roland to meet Richart at some halfway point with which Richart was familiar.

  Richart paced the agreed upon parking lot impatiently.

  The tires of Roland’s black Fisker Karma squealed as he turned into the lot without slowing and slammed on the brakes.

  Both front doors flew open. Roland and Sarah hopped out.

  “We must hurry,” Richart urged, crossing the brief distance between them and clasping Roland’s shoulder. “I can’t take you both.”

  Sarah nodded. “I know. Go ahead. I’ll meet you at the network. Be safe, sweetie.”

  “Always,” Roland said.

  Then Richart teleported him directly to the network’s OR.

  Judging by the frantic activity taking place there, Dr. Lipton had not yet expired. Richart would take that news with him to UNC and hope it would appease Bastien’s wrath.

  But first, he had a stop to make.

  Étienne d’Alençon knew his brother as well as he knew himself.

  The twins were like those sometimes mentioned on the news with a strange combination of awe and skepticism. If Richart’s arm was broken, Étienne felt an ache in his own. If Étienne’s leg was shattered, Richart felt the agonizing pain in his own.

  Not the most convenient connecti
on to have, considering the two brothers hunted and fought vampires for a living and were injured damned near every night. But they were used to it.

  While Richart didn’t possess the telepathy Étienne and their sister Lisette did, Étienne could often sense when his brother was troubled without reading his thoughts because of the close connection they shared.

  Which is what had happened a few minutes ago when Richart had teleported to David’s home.

  Hands braced on the shower wall, warm water sluicing down over his hair and rinsing the blood from his battered body, Étienne had felt his brother’s presence and raised his head.

  Thanks to his acute hearing, the voices of Richart, Ami, and Darnell had reached him easily. Dr. Lipton had been fatally wounded by the sounds of it.

  What the hell had she been doing hunting vampires with them?

  No matter.

  Something else was agitating his brother.

  What is it? he had asked his brother mentally in French.

  How soon can you be ready to go? had come his response even as he continued speaking with the others.

  A minute. Maybe two. How soon do you need me? He hadn’t asked for what. It didn’t matter.

  Get dressed. I don’t want to alarm the others, but . . . I may need help reining in Bastien when I return to UNC.

  Étienne had frowned. What do you mean, reining him in?

  You’ll see when we get there. I must go.

  Étienne had lost the connection when his brother had teleported away.

  Swearing, Étienne lathered and rinsed his body at preternatural speeds, then shut off the shower.

  David kept a ready supply of new clothing for immortals and their Seconds that rivaled one might find in a department store. So many men and women tromped in and out of the elder immortal’s home (which really did feel like home to many of them), often coming straight from battle, their clothing torn or bloodstained. David liked to be prepared and enjoyed providing his family with anything they might need or that might make them more comfortable, including spare bedrooms and the aforementioned clothing.

  Étienne pillaged the wardrobe in the guest room he had been using more and more often of late, pulling out cargo pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, boxers, and socks. All black.