He didn’t want to kill them.

The youthlings, that is.

However, he’d gladly drive a silver blade through one or both of the Darkblood bastards who were with them.

Mateo Carrera sprinted through the French Quarter on foot, having ditched his car in an alley a few miles away, and emerged onto Bourbon Street. One glance at the indigo sky told him that dawn wasn’t far off. He didn’t have much time.

At least there weren’t a lot of people still out partying at this hour. Made what he had to do that much easier. Human witnesses just complicated things further.

Following the scent trail, he leapt over a drunk human passed out on the sidewalk and slipped into the shadows again, where he was able to mesh with the darkness and move faster.

The odor of vomit, piss, beer and other fluids wafted up from the pavement, and he grimaced. Like most vampires, Mateo had a highly developed sense of smell, but in this humidity, even a human would choke on it. He should be used to it by now—he’d been in New Orleans for several years and often worked this part of the city—but it got him every time. The soap trucks would soon be starting their early morning rounds. They’d spray suds on the streets and sidewalks to be hosed off by shopkeepers a short time later, washing away the sins of the night. For a few hours, at least.

Mateo rounded a corner and spotted the group of young vampires huddled together behind a wrought iron gate in an alley. None of them could be more than a few months past their Time of Change, when the blood cravings of born vampires began.

Great. They were right in front of Cafe Sur La Rue. His friend Andre was the owner of the trendy restaurant and a picky son of a bitch with an impeccable sense of style. Mateo would have to take extra care to make sure no property was damaged or his friend would have his head.

He counted seven youthlings. Four men and three women. But no Darkbloods.

Fuck.

Retreating back around the corner, he touched his earpiece and was instantly greeted by heavy breathing. Had he not just been with fellow Guardian Zeph Stewart a few minutes ago, he’d have thought the guy was getting busy with a lady friend or two. It wasn’t far out of the realm of possibility. Although a vampire’s need for sex was more powerful than a human’s, his friend’s sexual appetite was legendary even among their kind.

“Got a visual on the youthlings,” Mateo whispered, shielding his mouth with a cupped hand. “DBs aren’t with them.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Zeph said. “Cuz I’m about to waste ’em.”

“Need any backup?”

“Nah, I got this.”

And Mateo didn’t doubt it either. At over six and a half feet of pure muscle and covered in tats, Zeph looked as if he belonged to an outlaw biker gang rather than the elite group of warriors tasked with keeping peace and the vampire race a secret. He was one scary motherfucker. “Asshole. You get all the fun.”

“Enjoy yourself, Señor Carrera,” Zeph said with a laugh, referencing the fact that Mateo would soon be acting the part of a strict disciplinarian to some punkass youthlings.

“I’ll sure as hell try.”

They both knew that if Zeph wasn’t successful, which was highly unlikely, the Darkblood scum would soon crawl back to their dens and be ready to reappear at dusk. Then the whole clusterfuck would start over again when the DBs found some new youthlings to corrupt with the temptation of Sweet. Which, frankly, wasn’t hard to do. The siren’s call of the rare human blood type that was addictive to vampires was a powerful one. Particularly to a young vampire who was unable to control his or her new cravings. Mateo gritted his teeth, knowing all too well what could happen.

Pulling out one of his blades, he separated from the shadows and strode toward the group. The instant the youthlings saw him, they tried to scatter, but he was faster and more skilled at this shit than they were. Backing them into a corner, he blocked their only chance at escape.

He snapped his fingers and held out his hand, palm up. “Give me the Sweet.”

“What are you talking about?” one of the females said, red lips curled into a sneer. “We don’t have any.”

“Yeah,” a male said, echoing the same disdainful tone and taking a bold step forward. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mateo narrowed his eyes. “Cut the crap and just hand it over. Three, two, one…”

“Fuck you. We—”

In an instant, Mateo had him in a headlock, blade pressed against the guy’s throat. God, they were so predictable. You’d think some of them would be a little more imaginative. “You going to try telling me those Darkbloods in the cemetery with you were selling, what, lollipops?” No answer. “Give it to me or it’ll be your blood I’m spilling.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” One of the other males from the back of the pack, a tall, shifty-looking guy, stepped forward. “Do you know who my father is?”

“I don’t give two flying fucks who your father is.” Coming from a family of privilege himself, that excuse always rankled. “You’re using Sweet and the last time I checked, that’s a punishable offense.”

The male gave a haughty laugh. “You guys are all the same, you know that? Busting us for using when you’re just as addicted as we are. I know you’re not dumping this shit or taking it back to your little playhouse as evidence. As soon as we split, you’re going to be popping the little rubber corks and downing it as fast as we were about to.”

Mateo tightened his grip on the guy’s friend. Sure, corruption in the Guardian ranks was prevalent down here, but he played no part in it. He kept his head down and didn’t get involved in any of that shady shit.

Rules were there for a reason. It drove his partner crazy sometimes, but Mateo knew what happened when you pushed things past the breaking point. They broke.

He touched the tip of the blade to the youthling’s neck and drew blood. “I haven’t wasted a vampire in, oh, twelve hours now, so I’m itching for an excuse to charcoal you.”

“Give it to him, Jonas,” one of the females hissed to the rich guy. “It’s not worth it.”

“This is bullshit,” a shorter guy said, glancing warily at the lightening sky. “Just give it to him. I’ve got to get home.”

“No,” Jonas argued with his friends. “He’s just going to—”

The events that followed happened quickly. Someone must’ve reached into Jonas’s pocket, because shouts, cursing and a scuffle ensued. Several glass vials of the addictive blood went flying and shattered on the cobblestones. The youthlings, unable to control themselves, pounced.

With the scent of Sweet thick in the air, Mateo’s grip loosened momentarily. The young man he’d been holding immediately slipped from his grasp and joined his friends lapping at the blood-spattered cobblestones.

It took a moment for Mateo to process the scent—he hadn’t smelled it in a long, long time—but not because he was addicted to Sweet. As a Guardian, part of his training had involved becoming desensitized to it, and now he routinely busted those who were selling it. But that scent—that particular scent—was familiar to him.

When Mateo made the connection, he staggered backward, feeling as if he’d been hit by a train. And then a white-hot rage surged through his veins, clouding all reason and logic.

On some level, he knew these kids had nothing to do with the collection of the blood or its source, they were just consumers, but he didn’t care. Fangs fully extended, he whipped out his silver blades, wielding them like extensions of his hands. Lunging, he intended to kill all of them. Spill their blood on the cobblestones. But before his weapons struck flesh, strong arms gripped him from behind, nearly wrenching him off his feet.

“What the fuck!” he yelled, struggling to free himself.

“Easy there, big guy.” It was Zeph.

“Get your hands off me, man, or I’ll rip your fucking head off.”

His partner ignored him, his grip vise-like around Mateo’s biceps. “Dude, they’re just mixed-up kids. They’re not the enemy.”

But Zeph didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.

The blood he smelled was hers.