The Last Vampire: Book Two

by R. A. Steffan

  I’d been hoping for some kind of casual dismissal of my concerns; some scoffing reassurance that this ‘Tithe’ wasn’t what I thought it was. Instead, Rans seemed to have disappeared into that dark place I’d glimpsed on only a couple of occasions, when he was swallowed up by the holes in his own past.

  The elfin figure in the chair frowned at us, as though unsure what our problem was. “Your sire’s mind was broken when he was returned to Dhuinne, demonkin. Since he is of no more use to the Fae in his current condition, the Unseelie Commander who brought you to the Court has been arguing that he should be thrown in with the next Tithe shipment. Isn’t this a good thing? The demons are your allies, after all. Your people. Would you not rather have him in their custody than the Fae’s?”

  I was seriously running close to mental capacity here, but I made a valiant effort to consider the Fae’s words objectively.

  “Rans?” I asked, my tone wavering. “Is there some way we can get him back from the demons if that happens?”

  He seemed to shake himself free of whatever black hole of memory had swallowed him. “It’s… it’s possible. I don’t know. We can speak to Nigellus—”

  I swallowed hard. Nigellus. The other person whose friendship with Rans I might’ve destroyed when I ran off to Dhuinne.

  But our uninvited guest clearly hadn’t picked up on the uncomfortable subtext.

  “That would please me, I think,” the shape-shifter said, as though genuinely concerned for my father’s wellbeing. “However, you must take care. Many factions will be after the only living being who embodies humanity, demonkind, and Fae at the same time.”

  “What did you just say?” Rans asked sharply.

  But the Fae’s attention stayed focused on me. “Demonkin, the only reason your sire could possibly have survived marriage to a cambion—much less impregnated one—is because of the Fae magic he absorbed as an infant during his stay in Dhuinne, before he was returned to Earth.”

  “Bloody hell.” The hoarse whisper made me turn back to find that Rans had gone pale as a sheet.

  “What?” I demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” Rans echoed in disbelief.

  “Yes!” I shot back, my temper flaring. “I mean, who cares if Dad picked up Fae magic via osmosis when he was a baby, or whatever the hell happened? The Fae already want to kill me just for being part demon!”

  He was still looking at me like I was nuts.

  “Zorah, don’t you see?” he said. “If this is true, you’ve just become the single most important person in the entirety of the three realms. This is far bigger than any of us realized before.” He rolled out of bed, apparently unbothered by his nakedness, and started rummaging for clothes. “Get dressed—you and I need to get back to the States and talk to Nigellus. There are forces at play here that could start a war big enough to put the last one to shame.”

  I caught the bundle of clothing he tossed at me and looked from him to the Fae, then back again.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m still not getting it,” I told him. “Why does this make me any more important than before?”

  He paused in the middle of dressing and came over to take my hands in both of his. I blinked up at him.

  “The Fae are sending human children to Hell,” he said slowly, his eyes burning into mine. “Human children who’ve been living in Dhuinne, and may have absorbed Fae magic during their stay… just like your father.”

  I frowned. “And if Fae magic meant that he was able to get my mom pregnant…”

  “Then the Fae may well be unknowingly providing their sworn enemies with the means to grow in number and strength until the balance of power is shifted in their favor, throwing everything into chaos again,” Rans finished.

  “Oh, my god,” I breathed.

  “Quite,” he agreed.

  It was too much to take in, on top of everything I was already worrying about.

  Stop, I tried to tell myself. Think about Dad. Stay focused on that. If the Fae intend to send him to Hell, you’ll need to talk to Nigellus anyway. Worry about the rest of it afterward.

  “Okay. Give me fifteen minutes for a shower,” I said. “Then I’ll be ready to go. I’ve got my own list of questions for Uncle Demon, and this time I’m not letting things go until I get some better answers from him.”

  * * *

  Zorah’s story continues in The Last Vampire: Book Three.

  If you enjoyed this book, you might also like R. A. Steffan and Jaelynn Woolf’s other vampire series, Circle of Blood. Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt from Book One: Lover’s Rebirth.

  Circle of Blood Excerpt

  From Chapter Two

  DELLA HELD HER BREATH and gripped the meaty forearm that was wrapped around her chest with clawed hands, trying desperately to pull the gunman’s arm away. Even if she had managed to rip herself free, though, she knew that the minute she made a move to get away, the man would blow her head off. She simply held on, fingernails digging into the heavy black material of his shirt, feeling the seconds tick by one at a time, like dripping molasses.

  With the gunman behind her, she could see the chaos on the street again. At least ten bodies lay in pools of blood. The dark red puddles seemed to shimmer under the streetlights. It was as though a heat haze had descended on the block, making everything waver in her vision. Her eyes flickered around, going in and out of focus, searching for any sign of the police or a SWAT team. Praying for help.

  There was no one. She was alone with the dead, and the deadly. The other gunmen were chasing stragglers down the block and shooting bullets into fallen bodies. They blasted out windows of shops, including the one she and her captor were standing in front of, which caused him to yell in anger at his comrade.

  “What are you doing, you stupid fuck! Trying to get me killed? Point that damn thing somewhere else!”

  Della gasped aloud, despite trying valiantly to remain silent. She could hear a dull whine developing in her mind, an all-pervasive buzzing noise that drowned out any thought of defending herself. Panic was flooding her, followed by shock, preventing her from formulating any sort of coherent thought.

  “Now, time to deal with you, pretty kitty,” the man said, jerking Della from behind so that her feet slipped out from underneath her. He dragged her backwards towards the building as she scrambled to find her footing.

  “Let me go,” she pleaded.

  “Not until you’ve fucking paid for that little trick you pulled earlier, whore,” he said, spinning her around to face him. His breath was hot and smelly on her face. She gagged and fought to get away from him, desperate for fresh air.

  He slammed her down on the ground, and her head hit the pavement with a sharp crack. She sprawled there for a moment, stunned by the blow. Lights popped in front of her eyes and Della lay completely still, forgetting where she was or what was going on around her.

  The sound of gunfire above her jerked her back to reality. The man standing over her had shot at a car that had driven by, blowing out the windshield and passenger-side window.

  Della clapped her hands around her head and curled into a ball, her ears ringing from the repeated blasts so close to her.

  Suddenly the man was back, kneeling over her and yanking her arms away from her body. She fought back furiously, swinging and clawing at every square inch of him she could reach. He used his body weight to pin her legs down and pressed the gun against her cheek.

  “Lie still,” he commanded.

  Della struggled for a moment more, but went limp when he pressed the barrel harder against her face.

  She looked up into the face of pure evil, seeing his cold, blank eyes gazing back at her. There was only dark mirth and chilly indifference to be found there. She knew with complete certainty that she was going to die any moment now.

  Out of nowhere, a mist descended around the site of carnage, swirling as if caught in a high breeze, even though everything in the night had gone completely still. It wrapped itself ar
ound the man crouched over her, flowing across his face. He jerked his head to the side, completely bewildered, and tried to swipe at the fog. His fingers passed straight through it, but the mist blew on towards the middle of the street, drawing his gaze. By the way the other gunmen were staggering around and waving their arms, Della guessed that something similar had happened to them.

  The mist seemed to solidify in a dense patch in the middle of the blocked street, coalescing to reveal five dark figures. A strange aura of power radiated from them. Several of the gunmen backed away, raising their weapons.

  “What the fuck, Benson?” one yelled in confusion in the direction of Della’s attacker.

  The man called Benson grabbed Della by the hair and dragged her to her feet. She shrieked in pain, clamping her hands around his and scrambling desperately for purchase, trying to find her feet and support her weight.

  “Don’t just stand there! Kill them!” Benson roared.

  All at once, the shadowy figures burst into motion. Their speed was inhuman, Della realized with a jolt. No one could run that fast, not even if they were being pushed by a huge dump of adrenaline. They were moving unnaturally fast, almost as if they were flying towards the cluster of gunmen.

  Della watched in open-mouthed awe as two women in the group launched themselves at the man carrying the assault rifle. He stumbled back in shock and fired off several rounds, all of which missed the newcomers and buried themselves in a building across the street with an explosion of brick dust. One of the women used a powerful blow to turn the barrel of the rifle towards the ground and slammed her fist into the man’s face. His nose erupted in a gush of blood. He fell back onto the ground and both women landed on top of him.

  The man who appeared to be in charge of the group of newcomers surveyed the scene with startling light gray eyes that seemed to glow silver in the low light. He effortlessly swept the legs out from underneath the gunman standing closest to him before his pale gaze fell on Della and her captor. Benson growled and raised his gun, pointing it at the man with a shaking hand.

  “Help the woman,” the silver-eyed newcomer said, apparently unconcerned by the threat. His tone was deep and rich. Crushed velvet over tempered steel.

  Somewhere in the back of Della’s overwrought brain, she realized that he had the most amazing voice she had ever heard. She would have probably gone weak at the knees if she weren’t already shaking like a leaf in a high wind.

  Della heard a rushing sound and blinked. When she opened her eyes, a large man was standing in front of her, looking at her attacker with the intense green eyes of a hunting tiger. He took a calculated step forward, fists clenched as if he were about to strike. Benson stepped backwards, pulling her with him, and Della could feel him trembling against her. He fired off another deafening round from his handgun, and her would-be rescuer jerked to the side as it hit him in the chest, under the clavicle.

  To Della’s utter surprise, the man did not crumple to the ground. Instead, the wound only seemed to make him angrier. He surged forward, grabbing Benson by the head with both hands. Benson dropped Della, who fell to the ground as her tormenter began to scream and struggle wildly, waving the gun around. She rolled quickly out from between the two and watched, horrified, as the newcomer lifted Benson from the ground by his head and threw him into the nearest wall, face first. He crumpled to the ground—a discarded rag doll, lying in a heap on the dirty pavement, obviously unconscious. The man with the gunshot wound in his chest walked over and stomped his heel down on Benson’s face, assuring that he would not be getting up again.

  Ever.

  The crunch of his skull smashing made Della’s stomach churn. She felt bile rising in her mouth and coughed, trying not to vomit. She crawled backwards on her elbows, using her feet to propel her, trying to get away from the grisly tableau.

  The movement seemed to catch her rescuer’s attention. He walked forward slowly, his hands raised in a peace gesture, and dropped to one knee next to her.

  “Hey, now. Easy, there. Are you all right?” His tone was soothing, and very, very British. Della could still feel the aura of raw power radiating from him, which terrified her just as much as the armed man who had taken her hostage. Yet, she could not help but be captivated by his eyes, which seemed almost to glow in the low light. They were mesmerizing, and she realized that she was staring at him like a fool, silent and slack-jawed.

  She shook her head, trying to clear it, and raised a hand to her pounding temple.

  “Y-yeah, I think so,” she answered in a shaking voice.

  He knelt next to her.

  “It’s okay. Take a moment. You’ve had quite a scare,” he said, his voice calm and collected. Della’s eyes strayed to the gaping hole under his collarbone, oozing blood that looked almost black in the low light.

  “Ah. Yes. Sorry about the gore,” he said, noticing her gaze. “It’s really unfortunate, that. Smarts like hell, actually, now that I think about it.” He winced, lifting a hand to prod at the wound and craning his neck to try to look at it. “Son of a bitch, that’s gonna leave a mark. I do not get paid enough to deal with this shit while I’m sober…”

  Della’s mouth was still hanging open, but she couldn’t speak. She looked around wildly, wanting nothing more than to just go home and pretend that none of this had ever happened. She felt a bone-deep weariness underneath her pounding heart, and she was still fighting down nausea that threatened to overcome her willpower.

  She could see the other figures walking towards her through the darkening evening, all converging on them.

  The gray-eyed leader walked over to her rescuer and looked down at the wound on his chest, a crease of worry forming on his forehead. His hair was dark, falling tousled above a serious brow, sharp cheekbones, and full, sensuous lips.

  “Xander, you obviously neglected to duck again,” he said in that deep velvet voice. “We’ve talked about this before, have we not?”

  Della felt her heart skip a beat despite her terror.

  The man called Xander had a hand clamped over the wound now, trying to stem the bleeding. “That we have. And I believe I made it perfectly clear that we need to keep a flask or two of the good stuff on us when dealing with this kind of crap. If I’m going to get shot through the lung by some redneck shithead with crooked teeth and halitosis, I’d prefer to be considerably more intoxicated than this, beforehand.”

  Ignoring the litany of complaints, the leader knelt and reached out a hand to steady Xander, who had started to sway.

  “Well, fuck,” Xander said matter-of-factly, and half-collapsed into his friend’s supporting grip. Trying to keep both of them upright, the leader set his hand down hard on the ground for balance. His fingers grazed the skin on Della’s wrist—the barest of brushes.

  It was like touching a live wire. An electric jolt shot through Della’s entire body. She felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. Air was forced through her mouth in a sound of shock that was echoed by the leader’s surprised grunt. He jerked his hand away and leapt gracefully to his feet with his injured friend held securely in his grip, staring down at Della on the ground as if he had never seen anything like her.

  Their eyes met, and she saw something like dismay flicker behind his silver-gray eyes. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something to her, but no sound escaped his mouth. They stared at each other for several moments, the wounded man next to him flicking his eyes back and forth between the two. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

  “Tré?” he asked.

  The gray-eyed man did not respond, just continued to stare into Della’s face. She thought she saw recognition flash behind his eyes.

  But that was impossible. How could he recognize her? They had never met before. She would have remembered if they had, she was sure.

  “Tré,” The wounded man said, more insistent this time. “Police approaching. Time to leave. Unless you’d like to try answering their questions while I bleed out in the back of a human ambulance
?”

  This seemed to startle the leader out of his reverie, and he broke eye contact with Della.

  “Oksana,” he commanded in a hoarse tone. “Wipe her memory.”

  “Wait. Wipe my what?” Della demanded, jerking into a sitting position. She tried valiantly to scramble away from the female figure descending upon her. “No. No! Stay away from me.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” the woman said in a soothing voice. “Hey, look at me. Relax. That’s it.”

  Della felt all the tightness in her muscles start to drain away. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but a dreamy veil seemed to fall in front of her eyes, making everything foggy.

  “No… wait,” she said in a weak voice, feeling everything around her grow dim. Grayness seemed to swirl around the edges of her vision and she tried to shake her head again, feeling it flop back and forth in slow motion.

  The glare of the streetlights and the chill of the rough pavement beneath her slipped away, sending her into warm, soft darkness.

  * * *

  Want to read more? The complete Circle of Blood series is available now!