Predatory

“Immortal Guardian!” the first vampire blurted.



Quick as lightning, Richart sliced Dracula’s carotid and brachial arteries, then turned to fight the remaining three.



The woman took off running. Two vamps converged on Richart with bowies as long as his forearm. Faster and stronger than the vampires, Richart fended off almost every blow and scored plenty of his own, stabbing and slicing until the vamps began to bleed out faster than the virus that infected them could repair the damage.



As the two sank to their knees, clasping their throats, Richart approached the last vampire.



He had caught the woman a few Dumpsters down, shoved her up against the wall, and sunk his teeth into her neck.



Richart swept over to the vampire’s side. The tip of his dagger pricked the skin above the vamp’s carotid artery.



The vampire froze, eyes darting toward Richart.



“Release her and back away,” Richart advised quietly.



The vampire tightened his arm around her torso and slid one hand up to grasp her chin. Fangs receding, he murmured, “Draw another drop of my blood and I’ll break her neck.”



As Richart watched, the boy backed away with the woman. One step. Two.



Richart remained still, biding his time.



Three more steps. The vampire shoved the woman at Richart with a touch of preternatural strength and took off, his form blurring as he fled into the night.



Richart stumbled backward and wrapped his arms around the woman to keep her from falling.



Clinging to the front of his shirt, she buried her face in his chest. “Is he gone?”



“Yes,” he responded, surprised she was so coherent. When vampires and immortals turned, glands formed above the retractable fangs they grew that released a chemical much like GHB under the pressure of a bite. So she should be slurring her words.



Hell, he was surprised she still stood.



“What about the others?”



“They’re gone,” he assured her. Or they would be soon. A quick glance confirmed that they were shriveling up like mummies as the virus, unable to heal their wounds fast enough to keep them from dying, devoured them from the inside out in a desperate bid to live. By the time it finished, nothing would remain of them save the clothing and jewelry they wore.



Weaving on her feet, the woman straightened and looked up at him. She couldn’t be much more than five feet tall and he was six foot one. “Y-your eyes are glowing.”



Her pupils were dilated, blocking out almost all of the pale green, leaving only a few flakes of brown.



Richart retracted his fangs. “Yes. I know it looks bad, but—”



She shook her head. “I think they’re beautiful.”



Was that the drug talking? Or did she really think so?



“You saved me,” she said, awe and gratitude in her melodic voice. Loosening her death grip on his shirt, she cupped his face in both hands.



His heart skipped.



When was the last time a woman had touched his face so tenderly?



When was the last time a woman had touched him at all? Other than his sister punching him in the shoulder, doing her damnedest to kick his ass when they sparred, or doling out a hug here or there, he honestly couldn’t remember.



“Thank you,” the woman whispered. Rising onto her toes, she drew his head down and brushed her lips against his.



The contact hit him like an electrical shock. His heart began to pound as she tilted her head and increased the pressure, brushing, stroking. She combed her fingers through his short, black hair, sending shivers through him.



He parted his lips, met her tongue with his when she boldly thrust hers forward.



Pure heat.



She leaned into him, clutched him tighter.



His body hardened. His breath shortened. His arms tightened around her.



Her knees went limp. Her lips tore away from his as her head fell back. Her eyes closed. Her mouth hung open, lips pink from kissing him.



Richart stared down at her as his pulse pounded in his ears.



Yeah. She was out.



Damn it. That had been the best kiss he’d had in at least a century.



And damn him for enjoying it. She was drugged, out of her senses. She wouldn’t even remember any of this when she woke up.



Sighing, he examined her neck to make sure she wasn’t bleeding from the vampire’s bite, which would soon heal and fade. He checked her pulse to ensure she hadn’t lost too much blood, then gently folded her over his shoulder.



Since he was finished hunting for the night, he would see if he couldn’t clean up this mess himself instead of calling in the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.



Opening the purse she had dropped, he drew out her keys and wallet. Her driver’s license yielded a name and address. He smiled. Jenna McBride. With her red hair and freckles, it suited her.



Thirty-seven years old.



Really? He would’ve guessed mid-to-late twenties.



Tucking the wallet away, he studied the keys. There weren’t many. Just a generic car key with no alarm to guide him to the right car in the parking lot, two door keys, and a worn Shrinky Dinks keychain that looked as if it had been fashioned by a child.



Was she married?



No. There had been no ring on her finger when she had clasped his face. And the vampires hadn’t stolen it. The only things they had desired were her blood and fear.



It doesn’t matter if she’s single. She’s human. You’re immortal.



No shopping bags littered the ground. The two employees taking a smoking break outside the superstore had worn the same color shirt and pants the woman did, so she must work there.



“Let’s get you home,” he murmured and raced around to the front of the building. So swift the surveillance cameras would only catch hazy movement that would likely be mistaken for a dust devil, Richart sped up and down the rows of vehicles until he came to an ’80s economy car that bore Jenna’s scent on the door handle.



Getting an unconscious woman into the passenger seat of such a small vehicle at preternatural speeds was awkward as hell, but he managed to do it. He slid behind the wheel, his knees practically impaling his chest. A quick seat adjustment and he started the car.



Minutes later, Richart pulled into the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex and brought the car to a halt beneath a second-floor door that bore the number on her license. Exiting, he readjusted the seat in hopes Jenna would think she had driven herself home and just been so tired she couldn’t remember it. He experienced a moment of unease when he opened the apartment door and immediately scented a male. Pausing just inside, he listened carefully.



Down the hall, someone slept. A lover, perhaps?



Richart carried Jenna, cradled peacefully in his arms, down the hallway and paused outside the first door.



Not a lover. Most likely a son. Though the bedroom door was closed, a male’s scent dominated the room. Jenna’s delightful scent, on the other hand, led him past a small bathroom to a bedroom at the end of the hallway.



He placed her on the unmade bed and gently removed her shoes. Drawing the covers up to her shoulders, he stared down at her.



He had done this so many times over the years, seeing vampire victims safely to their homes. But, for once, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave.



Listening to the soothing thump of her heartbeat, he glanced around the room. A full-sized bed. A less-than-stable-looking desk supporting an outdated computer. A closet with not many clothes. And a battered dresser upon which rested a small TV and a handful of photos.



Four of the pictures depicted a boy ranging in age from infancy to high school graduation. A fifth showed a very young Jenna holding a baby while a grinning teenaged boy stood with his arms around them both.



Richart’s gaze returned to Jenna.



And still his feet refused to move.



His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Removing it, he glanced down at the text sent by Sheldon, his Second or human guard:



Sunrise in 15. Where the hell R U?



Richart tucked away the phone. Leaning down, he brushed the hair back from Jenna’s face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Have a nice life,” he whispered.



He straightened. The world around him went black as a familiar feeling of weightlessness claimed him. A split second later he stood in the living room of his home.



Richart let out a piercing whistle.



A thud sounded in the study. “Ow!” a male voice complained. “Damn it! Don’t do that! You scared the crap out of me!”



Though such usually sparked a smile, this morning Richart felt only . . .



He frowned. What was it he felt? Regret? Sadness?



Yes, as though he had just lost something.



Sheldon entered the room. “You cut it kinda close tonight. What happened?”



Richart shook his head, baffled by the uncharacteristic emotions buffeting him. “Nothing out of the norm.” Determined to shake it off, he strode toward his young Second. “What’s the news on the vampire king?”



“You should try to eat something.”



Jenna’s stomach turned over at just the thought of putting food in it. “No way.”



“Come on. You said you didn’t eat before you came in tonight.”



“That’s because everything I ate this afternoon came right back up.”