Predatory (Immortal Guardians #3.5)(63)

Fine, so she was crying. She swiped at her tears with her fingers. She glanced at them. “Oh, yuck. I’m really crying bloody tears. Gross.”

His soft laughter sent chills wherever chills could go.

“Then I’ll have to make sure you don’t cry anymore.”

She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “I love you. And you don’t have to worry about making me happy for just one lifetime. Now we have a thousand lifetimes to work on it.”

He used his thumb to dry any remaining tears. “And once we reach a thousand lifetimes, we can start all over again.”

IN STILL DARKNESS

DIANNE DUVALL

Chapter One

Like the last survivor in a postapocalyptic world, Richart d’Alençon strode down the deserted North Carolinian street. Buildings long since abandoned for the night stared out at him with vacant eyes. Quiet enfolded him, both comforting and disconcerting.

A new enemy had risen among the vampire ranks. A self-proclaimed vampire king, who had ordered his followers to transform their victims instead of just feeding from them. Most nights Richart fought and defeated two or three vamps at a time. A couple of the older immortals had been encountering groups of six, seven, and eight. But tonight . . .

Richart had not encountered a single vampire, and soon dawn would break.

A woman cried out in the distance, snagging his attention.

“H-how did you do that?” she asked shakily.

“He’s a vampire, bitch,” a young man taunted.

Darting between businesses, Richart plunged into the trees beyond, traveling so swiftly most humans wouldn’t see him. Those who did would see but a blur.

“Look into my eyes,” a second man said, artificially deepening his voice and speaking with a laughable B-movie version of a Transylvanian accent. “Look into my eyes and know me for who I am.”

Richart burst from the trees and raced through the oil-stained parking lot in front of a big-ass 24-hour superstore, letting the ridiculous conversation be his guide.

“I am Dracula,” the second vamp continued dramatically.

“Look,” the female captive countered, “just take the money. Here’s my purse. Take it.”

Richart almost laughed. She may not know what the hell was going on, but she wasn’t buying that the kid in front of her was the legendary horror figure Dracula.

“I don’t want your money,” Dracula said petulantly, losing the accent.

“Dude, just bite her,” a third vamp urged. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Richart zipped past two employees taking a smoking break. Busy chatting and texting, they would assume the breeze that ruffled their hair was caused by a gust of wind, not an immortal warrior seeking prey.

Circling around to the back of the sprawling concrete structure, he found three vampires. All appeared to be in their early twenties and huddled in the shadows between two Dumpsters, out of range of the cameras mounted on the corners of the building. Between their lanky forms, Richart glimpsed a small, slender figure shoved up against the wall and held there by a fourth vamp, the one who called himself Dracula.

“Shut up!” Dracula snarled at the others, then went B-movie Transylvanian again. “I am Dracula. I am . . . vampire.” He peeled his lips back and revealed gleaming fangs.

The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”

Richart could do nothing to free her until the vampire released her. If he struck now, the vamp could break her neck.

So he simply cleared his throat.

The vampires all looked in his direction.

“Where the hell did you come from?” one spouted and shifted, giving Richart a clearer view of the captive.

The woman turned her head to meet Richart’s gaze.

And the oddest little tingle danced through his chest.

She was pretty, with fiery red hair that fell just beneath her shoulders, pale freckled skin, and wide hazel eyes that met and held his, full of both hope and fear.

Dracula drew his lips farther back from his fangs and hissed like a cat.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Richart leaned against the building. “Yes—yes. I have a very nice pair of those myself.” He smiled, revealing the tips of his own fangs.

Hope fled her features as the woman turned back to Dracula.

“This one’s ours,” Dracula said, “so f**k off. You know the king doesn’t want us to fight.”

These guys must be new. They didn’t even realize he was an immortal, not a vampire.

The woman surreptitiously stuck her hand in her purse, then yanked it out and sprayed Dracula in the eyes and mouth with pepper spray. With his heightened sense of smell and taste, it would’ve felt like she had just held a blowtorch to his face.

Dracula stumbled back, howling and scrubbing at his eyes.

Richart drew two daggers and shot forward, burying one to the hilt in Dracula’s chest and driving him away from the woman.

“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.