Running Scared

She was terrified. Weak.



Logan was killing her and he hadn’t even realized what he’d been doing.



Immediately, he sealed the wound on her arm, licking away the remnant of blood left behind. He scoured her mind, searching through it swiftly, before it was too late.



He saw flickers of her life—brief flashes of people and places she’d seen. He felt moments of triumph and panic, sorrow and joy. Her life was like many others, full of a bright mix of feelings and memories and hopes.



Logan found the ones he wanted and rifled through them. She was fading fast, sinking into unconsciousness.



He took some of the soaring power she’d given him and let it seep back into her through his hold on her arm. If she collapsed, he was sure Zach would cut him down.



A faint memory nagged him. He’d tasted blood like hers before; he just couldn’t remember where or when.



Focus. He needed to concentrate on the part of her holding her plans to destroy his home.



Logan honed in on those thoughts, saw a collage of male faces he didn’t recognize, then singled out what he needed.



Lexi was telling the truth. She had no intention of killing them. Not since learning they were not the monsters she’d believed.



Logan struggled to find his voice, and when he did, it came out rough and scratchy. “It is as she says,” he told Joseph.



Both men deflated visibly in relief, and Zach rushed forward to take Lexi’s limp body from Logan’s arms. He settled her on the bed with exquisite care, as if her body were made of blown glass.



“She needs fluids,” said Logan.



Zach gave Logan a feral stare. “You took too much.”



“Her defenses are formidable. It was necessary.” It was a lie, but one he sensed Zach would accept. The last thing he needed was to anger Zach enough that he cut Logan down and wasted all the precious power flowing in his veins.



That power was needed elsewhere. Project Lullaby was reaching a critical stage, and all his kin sleeping below the earth needed to be fed.



“Give her a couple of hours and she’ll be fine,” said Logan.



“You’d better pray that’s the case, leech.”



Joseph gave Logan a small formal bow. “Thank you for your services.” It was a dismissal and Logan knew it.



Fine. He had better things to do, anyway, and the rich blood filling him up was going to make them all possible.



Alexander was one of the few people who truly loved hospitals. He saw hope where others saw only sickness and despair. It was within the walls of hospitals like this that he found the opportunity to save his race from extinction.



The sterile smell, combined with that of weak human bodies, filled his nose as he glided along the tiled hallways. It was late, well past visiting hours, but no one questioned his presence. In fact, few even noticed him passing by. He was no more than a blur of movement, a whoosh of cool air sliding over their skin.



His senses on high alert, Alexander moved with unerring accuracy toward his target. He pushed the wooden door open and slipped inside, unnoticed by the nursing staff at the desk nearby.



The room was dark. Quiet. No TV filled the silence, only the faint sigh of breath moving in and out of a woman’s body, the dry rattle of a man’s labored breathing much faster than her own. She reeked of grief and despair, but Alexander would shortly fix that. He’d long ago learned that the hope for his race—the Sanguinar—was tied closely to the fragile hopes of certain, special humans—those with strong blood surging in their veins, the blood of the Solarc himself.



Alexander drew in a long breath through his nose, detecting the spicy richness of that blood. Hunger rolled in his belly, but he’d lived with it long enough to set the urge to feed aside for as long as he needed. His task was more important than his hunger, for if it went well, one day his people would no longer feel the gnawing emptiness of starvation again.



He moved slowly so he wouldn’t startle her, clearing the fabric curtain that blocked the sight of the bed from the doorway. A man lay there, still and gaunt. He looked to be in his sixties, though Alexander guessed him a decade younger. His skin was tinted yellow with sickness and hung loose on his frame. A thin clear tube at his nose fed him oxygen and a thick drainage tube snaking from his side gave away a recent surgery.



Alexander checked the chart. Cancer. It was almost always cancer.



That suited him fine. He’d honed his skills well, and battling those voracious cells was almost second nature to him now.



The woman was seated in a rigid chair, slumped over the bed in sleep. Her short blond hair was a mess, as if she hadn’t combed it in days, and a bright flush reddened her cheeks.



Alexander pressed his hand against her forehead, feeling the heat of her fever streak up his arm. She’d spent enough time at the man’s side to catch some illness, likely because she hadn’t been taking care of herself.



Briefly, Alexander questioned whether she was a good candidate, but dismissed the notion in moments. Anyone who dedicated herself to one she loved to the point of self- sacrifice was going to be a valuable asset to their plans.



The woman stirred at his touch, jerking awake. She looked up at him with wide brown eyes and eased away from his hand.



“You’re sick,” he said in a low voice.



She blinked a couple of times and ran her hands through her hair as if to straighten it.



Alexander suppressed a knowing smile. His kind were beautiful and always seemed to have that effect on humans. Too bad it had been decades since Alexander had felt the urge to have sex. He was too hungry to think of much else, and too weak to act on it even if the thought had crossed his mind.



“I’m fine,” she said. “How’s Dad?”



Ah, so this was her father. And she thought he was a doctor.



Alexander supported that false assumption and looked at her father’s chart. He knew enough about human medicine to see the pattern of death hanging all over this man. “He’s weak. Dying.”



The scent of grief rose up stronger, nearly choking Alexander. It had a cloying smell, like old flower petals on the verge of decay.



“Isn’t there anything you can do?”



This was his opening, given so easily he nearly balked at taking it. “What is your name?” he asked.



“Meghan Clark.” Tears made the words tremble with despair.



“Meghan,” he repeated, using the power of her name to gather her attention to him. “There is one thing I know that might help, but you won’t want to do it.”



They never did. At first.



“Something experimental? If he’s dying, how dangerous could it be for him?”



“It’s not dangerous for him,” said Alexander, lacing his words with a hint of what he was—dark, desperate. Hungry.



Meghan leaned back in her chair, putting more space between them. Her eyes flicked to the nurse’s call button, but it was on the far side of the bed, well out of reach. “Who are you?”



“All you need to know is what I can offer: hope.”



Her throat moved as she swallowed nervously, and Alexander’s eyes clung to the slender column of flesh and bone and blood. He could see her pulse pounding, hear the swoosh of blood pumping through her veins.



His stomach clenched painfully, and he had to grit his teeth to stay his ground and not lunge for her. Feed from her until only a husk of the pretty female remained.



That would get him nowhere in the long run. Down that road lay starvation.



“What kind of hope?”



“I offer you an exchange. I can save your father, and in return, I want something from you.”



“You’re not a doctor, are you?”



“Not as you think, no.”



She stood slowly, straightening her spine and shifting so that he could no longer see her father’s face.



Little Meghan Clark—who stood only to his shoulder, who he could kill with a mere thought—was protecting her father.



The humor of the situation made him smile, though he tried not to uncover his fangs. He didn’t want her raising a ruckus.



“I’m not going to let you touch him,” she said.



“How am I to cure him if I can’t touch him?”



“I don’t believe you can. I don’t know what sick joke you’re playing, but I want you to leave.” She swayed a little on her feet. Maybe the fever and her weariness were taking more of a toll on her than he’d thought.



“Relax,” he said, imbuing the word with the dwindling remnants of his power.



Meghan Clark sagged and Alexander grabbed her before she could fall. The heat of her skin sank into him, making him shiver. He was cold all the time now, even when he fed. He’d gotten so used to it he’d forgotten what it was like to be warm.



“I’m not going to hurt you or your father. I merely seek to offer you a trade.”



“What kind of trade?”



“I will save his life in return for another.”



Her eyes widened and she struggled against his hold. Alexander tightened his grip, being careful not to injure her.



“Stop fighting me,” he ordered.



“I would never kill someone, not even to save my father.” Fury made her words hard, and as she flung them at him, he felt every single one.



He was so tired of being mistrusted. So tired of fighting for every little scrap of strength he needed to survive.



He was tired, period. Maybe it was time to go to sleep in the chambers beneath Dabyr, let another take his place, just for a few years. Not that there were any of his kind left who had the same level of ability he did.



If he went to sleep, he was sure he’d never wake again. The fact that he had to decide whether or not that was his best option frightened him.



“I’m not asking you to kill anyone. All I want is for you to take a trip. Go to Minnesota.”



Her struggles ceased and she looked at him like he was crazy. “Minnesota? I don’t understand.”



“There’s a man there. If I cure your father, then I want you to go there. Meet him.”



Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”



Because he was the man whose blood would best meld with hers. He was the man who Alexander wanted to father her children. Of course, telling her that would only scare her away. He’d learned that the hard way.



Tynan preferred a more direct approach, but Alexander preferred subtlety. He liked letting the humans think they weren’t being manipulated. He believed it made the bonds between them stronger, more pure—the blood of their children richer.



“Does it matter why?” he asked. “All I want from you is this one small boon. Is it too much to request in exchange for your father’s life?”



Meghan shook her head. “I don’t know about all this. It’s probably some kind of fever dream.”



“Then what’s the harm of agreeing? If your father doesn’t recover, you owe me nothing.”



She pulled from his grip and he let her go, keeping a hand at her elbow in case she started to go down again. She turned her head and stared at her father’s gaunt form. “That’s all? I just take a trip if . . . when he gets better?”



“That’s all.”



Meghan looked up at Alexander again and gave him a single nod. “Fine. It’s a deal.”