The walls of Vincent’s room had become all too familiar. However, now taped to the ceiling above his bed, a spark of hope had momentarily produced color in his cold, lightless world.
He had stared at the drawing long into the night, and a rogue tear slipped down his cheek and splashed the crayon. Now a faint watermark melted the bear’s skull and trickled down the page.
Vincent had pinned the drawing to where his eyes would roam each night, and he envisioned his family, what was left of the group, enjoying their lives. As their leader, he hadn’t much to give them after…he’d lost everything…but he prayed to the Gods they were now safe. And Emory with them.
What would the boy study at college? He’d enjoyed crafting since early infancy, so he wouldn’t be surprised if he chose architecture. Hell, the birdhouse he’d carved his father on his fortieth birthday had stood proudly at the shelter. It probably would remain there, too, among the rubble and family remains.
Since birds were seldom sighted in the sky after the Collapse, Xavier had called the gift the Wingless Hut. And each night, when Emory and Claire said their prayers before bed, they had knelt down before it: a wooden shrine to honor their dead parents.
The fact that Claire had been given welfare to attend kindergarten blew him away. He hadn’t anticipated that. She’d been born after the Collapse and hadn’t experienced what it was like to be a real kid. He could just imagine her now finger painting, secretly eating balls of play dough, and frolicking with her friends in the sandpits. He even pictured Juna Waters laughing over them; Bill’s spirit smoking his pipe next to her; Violet bickering with Abraham over a game of cards.
If only Vincent had decided to sacrifice himself sooner: who knew what life Bella, Noah, and his unborn child would have lived. They would’ve been without him but they’d be alive. And perhaps Joe might have, too, if Vincent had surrendered earlier.
His eyes strayed to the ceiling again, and he tilted his head. Would his imprisonment in Sanctuary Hope be so unthinkable if his group were safe? So what if he had to endure Maddox’s advances, or if his body fucking answered to them.
His group were safe here.
Was that not why he’d agreed to do this?
He had spent his life training, hunting, killing vampires, barely scraping by when the flood destroyed his ranch. He had fought his enemies and the violent winds of Mother Nature. He had given up everything to pursue his life as a Dusk Hunter and obey his uncle’s commands. At what cost? His family were taken from him anyway, by a masked vampire he had no indication of locating. The bloodsucker could be living ten yards from Vincent and he would never know.
But the most sickening realization? He wasn’t even sure he’d seek vengeance if and when he found him. He’d only jeopardize his family furthermore, and sometimes the best vengeance of all was simply letting go. No matter what Vincent did, he could not bring back the dead.
A knock on the door dragged Vincent from his reverie. Nobody ever knocked. They entered his room without permission.
He threw his legs over the bed. He suspected it was the new chef going over his diet plan. Apparently, Maddox wanted Vincent to beef up a little and restore the weight he’d recently lost.
Vincent waited until the door cracked open, expecting to see the chef, or maybe even Yuri.
He saw neither.
An unfamiliar vampire entered, with crimson eyes that cut right through Vincent. He was undeniably of a noble, military rank, well-armored and imperious, with a sweeping fringe of jet-black hair and neatly shorn sides. His white riding cloak was almost identical to what the she-vamp’s had been, except the lining and fur around the hood were a distinctive blood-red. He also wore a gold breastplate and greaves that had silver engravings, knee-length riding boots with similar markings, and a gold medallion around his neck. The armor on his shoulders were shaped like sharpened wings.
For a predator, he sure wore a lot of armor.
He closed the door without a sound…and locked it. He’d somehow gotten the key to his room. Why?
Vincent stood from the bed and crossed his arms. “What do you want?”
The vampire pressed his hands and back to the door, his blood-red eyes scanning Vincent slowly. “Rumor had it there’s a Dusk Hunter in here. I came to see for myself.”
Vincent clenched his hands under his arms. “Well now you’ve seen me, you can go.”
What the hell was he? A monkey at the petting zoo? He hated how he already knew the answer to that. He was the animal held in captivity.
“Oh, and he’s feisty, too.” He pushed away from the door and took a step forward.
Vincent braced himself, unmoving. If he had his sword with him, he would’ve unsheathed it.
“You a senior hunter or a novice?”
As soon as the vampire shifted to his side, Vincent pinned him against the wall and pressed his forearm to his throat. There was something familiar about the vampire, though hell if he could pinpoint what. Vincent glared into the red depths, begging him to make a single move.
“Well, now.” The vampire’s smug features reversed into a smile. “I’ll take that as my answer.”
“I said what the fuck do you want?”
He regarded Vincent lazily, as if the question was rhetorical.
“The name’s Titus,” he replied, grinning, “but you, sweet meat, can call me Captain.”
Before Vincent could react, Titus wrapped a leather belt around his neck and squeezed. The air clamped in Vincent’s lungs, causing him to choke and claw frantically at the pressure. But Titus had clearly rehearsed the maneuver to a sadistic degree, and in rapid, concise movements, he buckled the belt to Vincent’s carotid and pinned him facedown on the bed.
Panic rose into Vincent, and stars danced across his line of sight. When he felt a knife slice into his pajama pants, he realized what the hell was happening to him, and he fought Titus with every ounce of his being. He arched his back, thrust out his elbows, and for a fleeting second he knocked Titus off balance and tried to rise. But the vamp latched on to him, forced a thigh to Vincent’s back, and cut off his pants in one fluid movement.
“There’s something about your kind.” His boozy breath wafted over Vincent, strong and intoxicating. “They say you taste sweeter because you bask in the blood of my brethren. Is that true?”
Vincent’s hands and feet tingled, losing sensation. A gust of air brushed over his exposed ass. He swam into a pool of darkness.
“How I have longed for this moment. You slaughtered my brothers-in-arms. My own mother and sister. For that, I hope you fucking choke on what you’re about to receive.”
His insides felt like they were being ripped open when the first invasion struck. White-hot, searing agony pierced him, then another and another, the thrusts impaling him without a scrap of humanity. If Vincent could speak, he would have screamed for Titus to show mercy. To stop. Instead, he captured Vincent’s hair and yanked back his neck.
Fangs sliced into him. Sharp fingernails clawed at his skin.
Amongst the many stars painting his vision, Claire’s artwork gazed down at him from the ceiling, and the bear looked upon him with perpetual sorrow.
Where had his voice gone? His ability to defend himself? He was on the verge of death and he had no way of calling out or begging for help.
Would anyone even come?
Another jab—the friction so deep he thought the cock hit the back of his throat. Was this how he would die? Being raped by a fucking vampire? Was this Maddox’s true intentions all along—gain his trust only to go back on his word and destroy him?
The fire searing through Vincent told him yes. This was his future. Not a life of consequences and decadence, skills and purposes. This.
His neck ballooned against the leather belt. He clawed his hands into the bedsheets and his body felt as though he were floating outside of himself. A wet substance trickled between his legs. Hazily, he realized it was his blood.
“I know what nasty gay shit you and Maddox get up to within these walls, and you know something, hunter? It fucking repulses me.” Thrust. “You disgust me.” Thrust. “You’re a goddamn fag, and I’m gonna destroy you till there’s nothing left.”
Vincent’s retort was trapped, paralyzed in his lungs.
He dropped in and out of consciousness, and every time he came to, he resisted the attack. And every time Titus won, grabbed on to the belt and pounded him harder. The vampire fucked him with a vigor that was beyond human comprehension. The belt fastened with each thrust, and his heart pounded, desperate for air. But darkness continued to seize him, long, scaly claws snatching his ability to fight.
Titus forced a hand against Vincent’s head and compressed his face into the mattress. “Tell me something, Dusk Hunter. If revenge is a dish best served cold, how does it taste?”
Fangs plunged into Vincent’s neck again and sucked. Drained. Killed.
It was then when Vincent realized that he did not want to die.
“Please—no!”
His plea was like the cry of a sick dog, moments before its owner dragged it behind the shed and shot a bullet into its skull.
Little of what occurred the next day made any sense. Vincent recalled fragments, broken shapes, and Titus leering over him like a swinging shadow from his childhood nightmares; when Maisie, his foster mother, had warned of the boogeyman taking him away if he ever misbehaved.
“What in the name of Lilith happened?”
“Titus. Avenging his kin destroyed by previous Dusk Hunters. Will he make it?”
“Vincent will. I am not sure about the captain.”
“It was suicide.”
“More like another of Svana’s little games, I think. We will soon see.”
When he joined the land of the living, Vincent resisted the hands clinging to him. Shapeless images hovered over his vision, and hands carried him from the pile of blood smeared on his bedroom floor. His blood. He fought their advancements, spat and cursed and damned all to eternal Hell. But they strapped him to a strange bed, thrust a needle into his neck, and darkness once more devoured him.
Once he woke the third time, he was in the infirmary. He realized Ezra and Asher had been tending to him with apparently fastidious care. He had no idea of how long he’d been unconscious, but his throat was still badly swollen and dried up.
He didn’t speak when Asher entered the private room. He was positively certain he would scream unending accusations at him. Both he and his family were supposed to be protected by the program. Where the fuck had his aid been when the slimy sucker had slithered into his room and nearly killed him?
His eyes followed the doctor all the way from the door, around his bed, then he halted at the window. Over Asher’s shoulders, he could see into the garden where the honeybees were hard at work. Daylight shone through the gaps in the flowers. Vincent had previously yearned to feel sunlight on his skin. In those dark moments, he no longer yearned or bothered about it.
He wanted vengeance on the bastard, Captain Titus. He was definitely part of the Sanctuary City army.
“I’m relieved to see you are awake, Mr. Hudson,” Asher said, reaching for the jug of water on the nightstand. He poured a small amount into a plastic cup and brought the straw to Vincent’s cracked lips. “This will help you. Careful now.”
Try as he might, Vincent scarcely managed a sip before his throat contracted and he spat the water down his chin. He felt like a decrepit invalid. Asher retracted his hand slowly and placed the cup down, his white cloak shuffling.
What the fuck is with this place and the color white?
Something in Asher’s honey-brown eyes shone differently than usual. Presuming Vincent had been in the right frame of mind, he’d have thought the doctor pitied him.
He didn’t want his damn pity. He wanted answers.
“Titus…” Surely that raspy, pathetic voice did not belong to Vincent?
Asher’s face slackened, his eyes like golden wheat bathed in sunlight. “Gone. And rest assured, Mr. Hudson, he will be severely punished for his treason. You have no idea of what an act like his will receive.”
The fuckface deserved everything that would come to him.
Vincent wetted his lips and tried again, struggled, coughed and relaxed his throat. “Why…did he…?”
“There are some on this earth who crave destruction, Mr. Hudson. Humans. Vampires. Beasts. It doesn’t matter which species, just that monsters lurk within them and will do anything to see darkness prevail. I’m afraid Titus was one of them. He should never have been allowed—”
“Get…out.”
Titus shouldn’t have been allowed what? Inside the city? Or to break into Vincent’s room so he could rape him? Both offered no credence, and he couldn’t bear to hear another word from the doctor.
“Of course. I’ll leave you to rest.” Asher headed toward the door, hands thrust into his pockets. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be outside for however long you need.”
Vincent waited until he was gone before he squeezed his hands into the mattress. His knuckles were swollen and bruised. Had he managed to thwart Titus during his delirium? He hoped he’d managed to land a couple of punched prior to him passing out.
As soon as he pushed up on the bed, a gripping pain stabbed at his lower half. He fell back onto the pillows, breathless. A mirror glistened opposite the hospital bed, hung over a vase of freshly cut flowers on a wooden cabinet. He needed to see how bad his injuries were. With any luck, the bruises would fade, his throat deflates, and his lust for vengeance would deepen. If Maddox was the noble ruler he claimed to be he’d also see that justice was served. That was if he wasn’t the one behind it.
Tiptoeing across the room took much of his strength. His ass felt like it had been ripped in two, tender, bruised tissues rubbing together. He winced at the friction. That shit would fade, too. One thing he hadn’t lost was his mind, contrary to what the vampire had probably intended.
Eventually, he managed to tiptoe over to the mirror. In place of the faint puncture wounds from the days prior, distinctive, wide, gruesome abrasions covered his neck. The flesh had turned purple, almost black in parts, and the welts from the belt were at least two centimeters thick. When he touched the skin below his jaw, he winced and his fingertip became wet. Some kind of silky balm must have been rubbed on the injuries. It smelled like the ointment Bill Waters used to lather on Juna’s feet each night at the shelter.
Vincent turned away, unable to look anymore.
The bite marks. Fingerprints. Bruises. They would soon heal.
Until then, he’d rest while still possessing the luxury of being alone.
Then he would raise hell.