a black-clad vampire. Crouched in position near the ledge,
the Breed warrior pivoted his dark head, then held out his
hand, and gave a covert signal.
Four Rogues. One human prey. Heading straight for them.
Lucan nodded to Dante and stepped off the fifth-floor
fire escape that had been his lookout perch for the past half
hour. He descended to the street below in one fluid mo-
tion, landing quietly as a cat. Dual combat blades were
sheathed crisscross on his back and thrust out over his
shoulders like the bones of demonic wings. Lucan drew
the titanium-edged weapons with barely a hiss of sound as
he eased into the shadows of the narrow side street to
await the evening’s action.
It was just around 11 P.M., several hours past the time
he should have been stopping by Gabrielle Maxwell’s
apartment to return her cell phone like he’d told her he
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would. The device was still at the tech lab with Gideon,
who was processing the images and running them against
the Breed’s International Identification Database.
As for Lucan, he had no intention of returning the
phone to Gabrielle, personally or otherwise. The images of
the Rogues’ attack had to stay out of human hands, and
after the near fiasco he’d had in her bedroom, the farther
he stayed away from the female, the better.
A goddamned Breedmate.
He should have known. Thinking back on it, there had
been a few things about her that should have clued him in
to the fact right away. Like her ability to see through the
veil of vampire mind control permeating the dance club
that night. She had seen the Rogues—Bloodlusting in the
alley, and in the scrambled images of her cell phone—
when other humans could not. Then, at her apartment,
she had even proven resistant to Lucan’s own efforts to
bend her thoughts with mental suggestion, and he sus-
pected she had succumbed more out of her own uncon-
scious desire for the pleasure he offered than anything else.
It was no secret that human females with the genetic
makeup unique to Breedmates possessed keen intelligence
and flawless health. Many possessed uncanny extrasensory
skills or paranormal talents that would amplify once a
Breedmate was blood-bonded to a vampire male.
As for Gabrielle Maxwell, it appeared that she was
gifted with a special vision that let her see what other hu-
mans could not, though just how far that vision went was
anyone’s guess. Lucan wanted to know. His warrior’s in-
stinct demanded he get to the bottom of it without delay.
But getting involved with the female in any form or
fashion was the very last thing he needed.
So why couldn’t he shake himself loose of her sweet
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scent, her soft skin . . . her sultry sensuality? He hated that
the woman had brought out such weakness in him, and his
current mood was hardly improved by the fact that his
body was aching with the need to feed.
The only bright spot in his night was the steady clip of
Rogues’ boot heels on pavement somewhere near the
mouth of the side street, coming his way.
The human turning the corner a few paces ahead of
them was male. Young, healthy, garbed in black-and-white
houndstooth pants and a stained white tunic that reeked of
a greasy restaurant kitchen and sudden, anxious perspira-
tion. The cook checked over his shoulder where the four
vampires were gaining ground. A hushed, nervous-
sounding expletive hissed in the dark. The human swung
his head back around and walked faster, fists clenched at
his sides, his rounding eyes rooted to the lightless stretch of
asphalt at his feet.
“No need to run, little man,” one of the Rogues
taunted, his voice scraping like gravel.
Another made a shrill, mocking squeal as he loped
ahead of his three companions. “Yeah, don’t run away
now. It ain’t like you’re gonna get far.”
The Rogues’ laughter echoed against the buildings
flanking the narrow street.
“Shit,” the human whispered under his breath. He
didn’t turn around again, just plowed ahead at a swift clip,
two seconds from breaking into a flat-out, but pointless,
run.
As the frightened human neared, Lucan took a slow
step out of the gloom, bracing his feet wide beneath him.
Arms extended out at his sides, he blocked the street with
his menacing body and twin swords. He shot a cold smile
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at the Rogues, his fangs stretched long in anticipation of
the fight to come. “Evening, ladies.”
“Oh, Jesus!” gasped the human. He made an abrupt
stop, staring up into Lucan’s face in horror as one of his
knees buckled beneath him. “Shit!”
“Get up.” Lucan gave him the briefest flick of a glance
as the young man scrambled to find his feet. “Get out of
here.”
He scraped his two blades together before him, filling
the darkened street with the harsh metallic grate of steel
sliding over hard-edged, lethal steel. Behind the four
Rogues, Dante leaped to the asphalt in a crouch, then
drew himself up to his six-and-a-half-foot height. He had
no sword, but circling his waist was a leather belt studded
with a collection of deadly, hand-to-hand weaponry, in-
cluding a pair of razor-sharp, curved blades that per-
formed as hellish extensions of his dazzlingly fast hands.
Malebranche, he called them, and evil claws they were.
Dante had them poised in his grasp in an instant, one
mean-ass vampire who was always ready for a round of
up-close-and-personal combat.
“Oh, my God,” the human cried, his voice wobbling as
he took in the danger that surrounded him. Gaping up at
Lucan, the man went for his wallet, hands trembling as he
pulled the worn billfold out of his back pocket and tossed it
to the ground. “Take it, man! You can have it. Just don’t
kill me, I’m begging you!”
Lucan kept his eyes trained on the four Rogues, who
were checking their positions, going for their own
weapons. “Get the hell out of here. Now.”
“He’s ours,” one of the Rogues hissed. Yellow eyes
fixed on Lucan in pure hatred, the pupils permanently
narrowed to hungered, vertical slits. Long fangs dripped
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with saliva, further evidence of the vampire’s advanced
Bloodlust addiction.
Just like a human could fall dependent on a powerful
narcotic, Bloodlust was as destructive for the Breed. The
tipping point between the necessary assuaging of hunger
and reckless overdose of blood was easily breached. Some
vampires went willingly into that abyss, while others suc-
cumbed to the disease through inexperience or a lack of
personal discipline. Gone too far, and for too long, a vam-
pire would turn Rogue, like these feral beasts snarling be-
fore Lucan now.
Eager to smoke them, Lucan slapped his long blades
together, smelling the spark of heat as one length of steel
crashed against the other.
The human was still standing there, idiotic in his fear,
his head swinging between the advancing Rogues and
Lucan’s unwavering stance. The hesitation was sure to cost
the man, but Lucan shrugged off the knowledge with cold
dispassion. The human wasn’t his concern. Eradicating
these bloodsuckers, and the rest of their diseased kind, was
all that mattered.
One of the Rogues wiped a dirty hand across his slaver-
ing mouth. “Back off, asshole. Let us feed.”
“Not tonight,” Lucan growled, “not in my city.”
“Your city?” The rest of them sniggered as the Rogue
in the lead spat on the ground at Lucan’s feet. “This city
belongs to us. Won’t be long and we’re gonna own it all.”
“That’s right,” added another of the four. “So, looks
like you’re the one trespassin’ here.”
Finally, the human had gathered his wits and started to
make a break. He didn’t get far. Moving with incredible
speed, one of the Rogues lashed out a hand and grabbed
the man by the throat. He jerked him off his feet and held
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him aloft, letting the human’s black hightop sneakers dan-
gle six inches off the ground. The human grunted and
squirmed, struggling wildly as the Rogue squeezed harder,
slowly strangling him with his bare hand. Lucan stared,
unfazed, even as the vampire dropped his twitching prey
and tore a hole in the man’s neck with his teeth.
In his periphery, Lucan saw Dante creep up silently be-
hind the Rogues. Fangs bared, the warrior licked his lips,
eager to get busy. He wouldn’t be disappointed. Lucan
struck first, and then the street erupted with the clash of
metal and the crush of breaking bone.
Where Dante fought like a hell-spawned demon, male-
branche blades flashing, war cries splitting the night, Lucan
maintained a cold control and deadly precision. One by
one, the Rogues fell to the warriors’ punishing blows. The
kiss of titanium-laced steel sped through the Rogues’ cor-
rupted blood systems as poison, accelerating death and
bringing on the swift stages of decomposition characteris-
tic of the Rogues’ demise.
With their enemies dispatched, their corpses reducing
from flesh and bone to fine, drifting ash, Lucan and Dante
surveyed the other carnage in the street.
The human was unmoving, bleeding profusely from
the tattered wound in his throat.
Dante knelt beside the man, sniffing at the savaged
form. “He’s dead. Or will be, in another minute.”
The smell of spilled blood reached Lucan’s nostrils like
a fist slamming into his gut. His fangs, already extended in
rage, now throbbed with the urge to feed. He glared down
at the dying human in disgust. Although the taking of
blood was necessary to him, Lucan despised the idea of ac-
cepting Rogue leavings, in any form. He preferred to draw
his sustenance from willing Hosts of his own choosing
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whenever he could, although those meager tastes only
staved off the deeper hunger.
Sooner or later, every vampire had to kill.
Lucan didn’t try to deny his nature, but on the occa-
sions when he killed, it was by his choice, by his own rules.
When he sought prey, he took primarily criminals, drug
dealers, junkies, and other lowlifes. He was judicious and
efficient, never slaughtering simply for the sake of it. All of
the Breed adhered to a similar code of honor; it was what
separated them from their lawless Rogue brethren.
His gut tightened as another whiff of blood trailed into
his nose. Saliva surged into his parched mouth.
When was the last time he’d fed?
He couldn’t recall. It had been a while. Several days, at
least, and not enough to last him. He’d thought to curb
some of his hunger—both the carnal and the systemic—
with Gabrielle Maxwell last night, but that idea had taken
a quick turn south. Now he was shaking with the urge to
feed, and too far gone to consider anything but the neces-
sity of his body’s basic needs.
“Lucan.” Dante pressed his fingers to the man’s neck,
feeling for a pulse. The vampire’s fangs were extruded,
sharp from the battle and the physiological reaction to the
scent of pooling crimson life. “If we wait much longer, the
blood will be dead, too.”
And no use to them, for it was only fresh blood, pump-
ing through human veins, that could quench the vampires’
hunger. Dante waited, even though it was obvious he
wanted nothing more than to drop his head and take his
fill of the human who had been too stupid to flee when he
had the chance.
But Dante would wait, even to the point of wasting
prey, for it was an unwritten protocol that later generation
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vampires did not feed in the presence of an elder, particu-
larly when that elder was Gen One Breed and starving.
Unlike Dante, Lucan’s sire was one of the Ancients,
one of eight alien warriors who came from a distant, dark
planet only to crash-land thousands of years ago on unfor-
giving, inhospitable Earth. To survive, they had fed on the
blood of humans, decimating entire populations with their
hunger and savagery. In rare instances, these foreign con-
querors had successfully bred with human females—the
first Breedmates—who spawned a new generation of the
vampire race.
Those savage, otherworldly forebears were all gone
now, but their progeny lived on, in Lucan and a few scat-
tered others. They were the closest things to royalty in
vampire society—respected, and not a little feared. The
vast majority of the Breed were younger, born of second,
third, and some countless dozens later generations.
The hunger was strongest in Gen Ones. So was the
propensity to give in to Bloodlust and turn Rogue. The
Breed had learned to live with the danger. Most had
in the smallest quantities required to sustain. They had to,
for once lost to Bloodlust, there was no coming back.
Lucan’s slitted eyes fell to the twitching, shallowly
breathing human on the pavement. The animal snarl he
heard came from his own dry throat. As Lucan strode
toward the scent of spilled, life-giving blood, Dante gave a
slight but deferential bow of his dark head and backed off
to let his elder feed.
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He hadn’t even bothered to call and leave her a message
last night.
Typical.
Probably had a big date with his remote control and
ESPN, or maybe after he left her place the other evening,
he’d met someone else and gotten a more interesting offer
than schlepping Gabrielle’s cell phone back out to Beacon
Hill. Hell, he might even be married, or involved with
someone. Not that she’d asked, and not that asking would
have guaranteed he’d have told her the truth. Lucan
Thorne probably wasn’t any different than any other guy.
Except he was . . . different.
He struck her as being very different from anyone she
had ever met before. A very private man, almost secretive.
Definitely dangerous. She could no more see him sitting in
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a recliner in front of the television than she could envision
him tied down with a serious girlfriend, let alone a wife and
family. Which brought her back to the idea that he must
have gotten a better offer elsewhere and decided to blow
her off, an idea that stung a lot more than it should have.
“Forget about him,” Gabrielle scolded herself under
her breath as she edged her black Cooper Mini to the side
of the quiet rural road and cut the ignition. Her camera
bag and gear sat beside her in the passenger seat. She gath-
ered it up, grabbed a small flashlight from the glove com-
partment, pocketed her keys in her jacket, and got out of
the car.
She closed the door quietly and cast a quick look
around. Not a soul in sight, not surprising given that it was
just nearing 6 A.M. and the building she was about to enter
illegally and photograph had been shut down for about
twenty years. She walked along the empty stretch of
Midnight Breed - Book - 01 Page 7