Richart stared down at Étienne. Odd that there were so many bullet holes. Vampires usually stuck to blades like the immortals, knowing—even in their madness—that attracting too much mortal attention would likely lead to their demise.
Étienne’s wounds slowly began to close and heal. Neither human expressed the amazement Richart would have expected upon seeing such.
Hmm.
Étienne looked much better, but it took longer for his wounds to close than it should have. And he wasn’t rousing.
Richart nudged him. “Étienne.”
Nothing.
The healing sleep could be deep.
Richart shoved him hard. Hard enough to wake him even from a healing sleep. “Étienne! Réveiller!”
Still nothing.
“Something is wrong,” he muttered, his concern mounting.
“I think it’s the drug,” the woman said.
Richart’s head snapped up. “What?”
“The drug.”
“You drugged him?” Fury rushed through him. Only one drug existed that could knock out an immortal like this. And, if these two possessed it, it meant they were the enemy.
An enemy who should have been destroyed months ago.
Both mortals took a cautious step back as his eyes began to glow.
The male raised his weapons.
“No,” the woman blurted. “We didn’t drug him. That’s what I was trying to tell you. The vampires weren’t the biggest threat tonight. It was the soldiers who arrived after we defeated the vampires.”
He swore. “Soldiers?”
“Yes.”
“Describe them.”
She did, and told him everything that had happened from the time the vampires had been defeated to Étienne being felled.
“C’est impossible,” he whispered. They had eradicated the mercenary threat. Completely. Darnell had erased all of the computer files and cyber files. Seth and David had wiped the memories of those they had allowed to live. The rest of the mercenaries had been killed.
It just wasn’t possible. They had left no dangling threads.
Immortals didn’t even carry the tranquilizer antidote with them anymore because no one was supposed to have that drug. No one but the researchers at the network, and none of them would use it against one of the immortals they aided.
The woman shifted, easing her weight off one leg. “Who were they?” She had limped when she had followed him into the room. She must have been injured, too.
“I didn’t ask your name,” he said, still reeling.
“Krysta Linz. This is my brother Sean.”
Richart performed an abbreviated bow. “Richart d’Alençon.” There was only one way to confirm that this drug was the same one the mercenaries had used against them. “Please excuse me for a moment. I will return shortly.”
Too shaken to worry about their reaction, he teleported to his home. “Sheldon!”
“Yeah?” His young Second entered Richart’s bedroom, holding a sandwich in one hand. As soon as he caught Richart’s expression, he sobered. “Oh shit. What happened?”
“Do we have any of the tranquilizer antidote left?” Richart asked as he gathered a change of clothes for Étienne.
Nodding, Sheldon set the sandwich down and left the room. Richart followed him to the bathroom in which Sheldon kept much of their first-aid paraphernalia.
A solitary autoinjector was stashed in one of the drawers.
Jenna appeared in the doorway as Sheldon grabbed it and handed it over without a word.
Richart didn’t think he had ever seen the young man look so worried. “Thank you.” He met Jenna’s gaze.
“Is it Étienne?” she asked.
He nodded. Knowing she would understand if he explained later, he teleported. Returning to his brother’s side, Richart dropped the clothing on the bed.
Krysta and Sean jumped at his reappearance.
Removing the cap, Richart pressed the autoinjector to Étienne’s neck.
“Is that an EpiPen?” Sean asked.
Richart shook his head. An EpiPen wouldn’t do squat to an immortal. They were unaffected by all but two drugs: The mercenaries’ tranquilizer and the antidote Dr. Lipton had developed to counter it.
Turning the used autoinjector over and over in his hand, he waited.
Étienne opened his eyes.
The first thing he noticed was his brother looming over the lumpy bed that supported him. The second was Krysta and her brother.
As the lethargy induced by the tranquilizer rapidly faded, Étienne sat up and took stock of the situation. They were in the mortals’ home, in Krysta’s bedroom. Étienne wore only his boxer shorts, a bedspread covering him from the waist down. Instead of being riddled with wounds and stained red with blood, his body was clean, healed, and carried the pleasant citrus scent he associated with Krysta.