She swallowed.
His head hung low. Blood dribbled from between parted lips as ragged breath wheezed in and out through them. The front of his shirt bore several holes, as did the back, and began to glisten as blood saturated it.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded, but didn’t raise his head.
Étienne rested a hand on his brother’s back. “What took you so long?”
“I was . . . making love to my wife . . . not that it’s . . . any of your . . . business. Did you . . . want me to show up here naked?”
Étienne’s gaze went to Krysta. “No.”
She had a feeling he would have said Hell, yes if she weren’t there.
“Take my wrist,” Étienne ordered.
Richart grabbed Étienne’s wrist and sank his teeth into it.
A muscle leapt in Étienne’s jaw.
Krysta knew from experience that being bitten didn’t produce the ecstatic pleasure in real life that it did in movies that romanticized vampires. Rather, it hurt like hell, feeling as though someone had just stuck you with a couple of large needles.
Richart retracted his fangs and released his brother’s wrist.
Bullets continued to fly back and forth overhead like psychotic bees, tearing her rented home apart.
She glanced again at Richart. A couple of misshapen lumps of metal fell out of his shirt and hit the ground as his wounds began to heal.
“Can you teleport?” Étienne asked.
Richart nodded and sat back on his heels.
“Get her out of here,” Étienne said.
“What?” Krysta looked to Étienne as Richart reached out and gripped her shoulder.
The world darkened. Dizziness assailed her. She grabbed Richart’s shirt.
Light burst into being, illuminating a lovely living room with modern furniture.
Krysta gasped. “Did you just teleport me?”
“Oui.”
A pretty, petite woman with red hair and dark brown roots appeared before them, a white and purple aura swirling around her. Her face clouded with concern when her gaze landed on Richart. “Honey . . .” She took a step toward him.
He raised a hand to hold her at bay and vanished.
She looked up at Krysta. “What happened?”
Krysta shook her head. “I’m not sure. Someone was shooting the place all to hell and—”
“Sheldon!” the woman called over her shoulder. “John!” She wore black cargo pants and a black T-shirt that hugged a narrow waist and full breasts Krysta would kill to have. Her hair was mussed and her face flushed, leading Krysta to believe this was the American wife with whom Richart had been making love.
Two men strode up a nearby hallway, coming from the back of the house. Both looked to be around twenty years old. One was roughly five eleven with bright red hair. The other was at least six feet with short, dark brown hair.
Krysta took a wary step backward, then another. She didn’t know these people. She barely knew Étienne.
“What’s up, Mom?” the brunet asked.
The other man’s eyebrows flew up when he noticed Krysta. “Well, hello,” he said in a deep, flirtatious tone.
She scowled. “You’re hitting on me? Really?”
Richart appeared with Étienne, who was pretty much holding his brother upright.
Krysta damned near sank to the floor with relief.
“Sheldon,” Étienne said as the woman hurried forward, “get the protective suits we wear in daylight. John, get Richart some blood. And bring some for me, too.”
The redhead took off toward the back of the house. The brunet raced into a large adjoining kitchen.
“Here, honey,” the woman said, looping Richart’s arm over her shoulder and taking his weight from Étienne, “let me help you to the sofa.”
He smiled and nuzzled her ear. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’m already healing.”
“Good, because you look like shit.”
He chuckled, then winced.
In all the years Krysta had been hunting vampires, she had never thought of one having a wife.
But they weren’t vampires. They were immortals. Their every movement wasn’t dictated by evil and insanity. The two actually seemed . . . loving. Warm. Affectionate.
Étienne stepped in front of her, blocking her view, and gently clasped her arm with his left hand. “Are you all right?”
She looked up at him, touched by the concern in his handsome face. “Yes. Just shaken, I guess.”
He nodded and pulled her into a hug.
Krysta leaned into him, letting her racing heart calm, her body stop trembling.
John returned from the kitchen. “Here you go.”
Étienne released her and took a bag of blood with his left hand.
Krysta frowned. He wasn’t using his right arm. Or, more specifically, his right hand.