“Infecteds,” she screamed. “Run!”

But even as Silverlight attached to my arm, some of the infected vampires fell upon the woman and the male human, and the rest turned toward me.

The infecteds. These were the diseased vampires Amias wanted me to end. These were the vampires spreading the virus that caused them to attack humans in clusters.

I didn’t want Silverlight to touch those diseased bodies, but the only other choice was to run. I could have outrun them, I was pretty sure. They were sick and starving and a little slower.

But there were two humans there, and I was a hunter. I was a vampire killer.

And hunters didn’t run away.

“Sorry about this,” I muttered to the sword, and ran her through the disgusting body of an infected as he leaned over the woman. Another infected ran at me, his mouth wide, screaming his rage to the world. Death, hunger, rage. That was all they felt. All they were.

One of his fangs was broken, and the other was long and discolored, jagged and sharp. I felt a little sorry for him for about two seconds.

Silverlight slid through his neck like it was a thick loaf of bread, and before the head listed to the side and began to fall, I turned to beat away the vampires throwing themselves at the humans.

Usually I lost my fear during a battle, but this was not a normal battle. I didn’t want those diseased creatures to touch me, but it wasn’t just that. They were carrying the disease that Amias had carried when he’d attacked me and my family, and those memories had begun resurfacing at an alarming rate.

The viciousness of those memories caught me off guard. They took my breath, sent me back to that house, to that street, to that time.

“No, no, no,” I muttered. I tried to shake them away, but they were stubborn, those memories, and they would do as they pleased.

Since the attack, I’d tried not to think about what had happened. I didn’t see the point in allowing myself to dwell on that horrible night. The loss was too great, the pain too severe. But sometimes, the memories grew tired of being suppressed and they exploded free and began beating me with clubs and bricks and hammers, taking advantage of their momentary freedom to hurt me.

Amias had been in the early stages when he’d attacked my family, and though he’d had the rage, hunger, and confusion running through him, he was able to speak and to think. Somewhat. And he’d been a master. Old. Powerful.

Still, they had the same feel to them. And I think that was what set me off.

Silverlight did what she needed to do, but she did it without me, at least for a few fuzzy minutes. Because for a little while, I wasn’t even there. I was at my sister’s house on Thanksgiving, with Amias.

“Shall I live, or shall I die?”

“Trinity, get in the house. Get in the house!”

“I made a mistake.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Pain ripping through me, Children screaming, death, blood, flesh tearing and bones crunching and horror. Just horror.

But then I was back, surrounded by the infecteds, and I was…

Angry.

Vicious.

I no longer cared that their filth might get on me, that their blood might splash on my skin, that I might somehow contract their disease.

Again.

I was afraid of none of those things.

I was Death, and with Silverlight in my grip, I ripped through the hungry vampires, screaming, my teeth clenched, my heart singing. I lost my mind.

But then I saw something that brought my sanity screaming back to me, and fear chased away the dark rage.

Angus.

He roared into the clearing, his horns wicked, his body huge and black, muscle bunching and rippling, deadly. But maybe even Angus could become infected. And that terrified me.

“No,” I screamed. “Angus, go back.”

He caught a vampire with his horns, speared him through his chest, then shook him off and stomped another with his huge hooves before goring another one.

Blood flew.

Death had come to the woods of Raeven’s Road, and I was not the only one carrying it.

Angus wouldn’t listen to reason as a man, and he for damn sure wasn’t listening to it as his animal. He roared and tossed his head and gored anyone in his path, and he was magnificent.

All I could do was help him.

The human female was dead, and the male lay sprawled across the bloody ground, torn open, his intestines spilling from his body. He twitched, his right hand opening and closing, his eyes staring.

I ran Silverlight through his heart and put him out of his misery.

And with a disorienting abruptness, the ground was littered with the dead and the world was quiet. Angus’s kills lay with torn apart bodies, entrails steaming in the cold air, but with the ability to come back. To rise.

I set about rectifying that.

And when I’d finished giving the diseased their true death, I sheathed the sword, fell to my knees, and sobbed. The night had been too much and I was only human, after all.

Mostly.

Angus shifted to his human form and pulled me to my feet. He wrapped his arms around me, murmuring quietly into my ear.

“You shouldn’t have come,” I wailed. “You could be infected.”

“I’m not infected, honey.”

I wiped my eyes and leaned back in his arms to look up at him. “You don’t know that. There’s no cure, Angus. You have those many, many children to look after. You can’t be doing stupid shit like this!”

“Hush now,” he said, but his eyes twinkled. “Shifters can’t catch a nasty vampire disease.”

I sniffed, and the beginnings of an enormous, hopeful relief began to drift through me. “How do you know?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Trinity. I know.”

And there in the woods, with the dead all around me, with the horror of that night—Shane, humans, infecteds—still heavy on my mind, I began to notice other things.

Like his scent. That irresistible, unforgettable, delicious scent. It forced the decaying smell of death and disease out of my nostrils, out of my brain. I inhaled it eagerly, glad to rid myself of the stench of infecteds.

He stiffened against me, in more ways than one.

“Fuck,” he muttered, when my eyes widened.

Perhaps he thought I’d berate him for his reaction, but I had my own reaction. High on the aftereffects of battle, I pressed my palms against his bare chest and stood on tiptoe to brush my lips against his.

“Trin,” he said, his voice hoarse and raw and strained. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” But whatever it was, I wanted to do it.

He slammed his mouth against mine, then grabbed my ass and pushed his erection against me. His kiss was intrusive and hard and filled with lust and need and desire, and I lost myself in it, unable to do otherwise. I couldn’t have fought his overwhelming sexual power even if I’d wanted to.

No wonder he had so many children. Women would be helpless against him. I was helpless against him. Maybe helpless was the wrong word. I was helpless against the sexual need exploding inside me. I wanted him. I wanted Angus Stark.

My body wanted sex.

His heat spread through me, burning me up, devouring me, and I gasped against his lips. His hard fingers bit into my rear almost painfully as he explored my mouth, and he held me there against him. I was little more than a rag doll in his arms, a shivering, seething mass of sex and emotion, and I was certain I’d never felt so good in my entire life.

And then he thrust me from him and backed away, hastily, desperately, inexplicably.

“No.” I swayed on my feet, unable to keep my balance. “What?”

“You’re not you,” he said. “I don’t take advantage of women.” And with his fists clenched, his naked butt cheeks plump and hard and tempting, he strode away from me.

“Son of a bitch,” I murmured, and unable to avert my stare from his nude body, I tailed him all the way to his truck.