Chapter 1
Scythe had been in the dance club for nearly an hour and he still hadn’t decided which of the herd of intoxicated, gyrating humans would be the one to slake his thirst tonight. Music blared all around him, the beat throbbing and pulsing, compounding the headache that had been building in his temples for days.
His stomach ached, too, sharp with the reminder that it had been almost a week since he’d fed. Too long for most of his kind. For him—a Breed male whose Gen One blood put him at the very top of the food chain—a week without nourishment was not only dangerous for his own wellbeing, but for that of everyone near him as well.
From within the cloak of shadows that clung around the end of the bar, he watched the throng of young men and women illuminated by colored strobe lights that flashed and spun over the dance floor as the DJ rolled seamlessly from the track of one sugary pop hit to another.
This tourist dive in Bari, a seaside resort town located at the top of Italy’s boot heel, wasn’t his usual hunting ground. He preferred the larger cities where blood Hosts could be hired for their services and dismissed immediately afterward, but his need to feed was too urgent for a long trek to Naples. And besides, that journey would take him past the vineyard region of Potenza—an area he made a habit of avoiding for the past few weeks for reasons he refused to consider, even now.
Hell, especially now, when blood thirst wrenched his gut and his fangs pulsed with the urge to sink into warm, tender flesh.
A snarl slid off his tongue as he let his gaze drift over the crowd again. Against his will, he locked on to a petite brunette swaying to the music on the far side of the packed club. She had her back to him, silky dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders, her small body poured into skinny jeans and cropped top that bared a wedge of pale skin at her midsection. She laughed at something her companions said, and the shrill giggle scraped over Scythe’s heightened sense of hearing.
He glanced away, instantly disinterested, but the sight of her had called to mind another waifish female—one he’d been trying his damnedest to forget.
He knew he’d never find Chiara Genova in a place like this, yet there was a twisted part of him that ran with the idea, teasing him with a fantasy he had no right to entertain. Sweet, lovely Chiara, naked in his arms. Her mouth fevered on his, hungered. Her slender throat bared for his bite—
“Fuck.”
The growl erupted out of him, harsh with fury. It drew the attention of a tall blonde who had parked her skinny ass on the barstool next to him fifteen minutes ago and had been trying, unsuccessfully, to make him notice her.
Now she leaned toward him, reeking of too much wine and perfume as she licked her lips and offered him a friendly grin. “You don’t look like you’re having much fun tonight.”
He grunted and glanced her way, taking stock of her in an instant.
Human. Probably closer to forty than the short leather skirt and lacy bustier she wore seemed to suggest. And definitely not a local. Her accent was pure American. Midwest, if he had to guess.
“Wanna hear a confession?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, not that he planned to. “I’m not having much fun tonight, either.” She heaved a sigh and traced one red-lacquered fingernail around the rim of her empty glass. “You thirsty, big guy? Why don’t you let me buy you a drink—”
“I don’t drink.”
Her smile widened and she shrugged, undeterred. “Okay, then let’s dance.”
She slid off her stool and grabbed for his hand.
When she didn’t find it—when her fingers brushed against the blunt stump where his right hand used to be, a long time ago—she recoiled.
“Oh, my God. I, um... Shit.” Then her intoxicated gaze softened with pity. “You poor thing! What happened to you? Are you a combat vet or something?”
“Or something.” Irritation made his deep voice crackle with menace, but she was too drunk to notice.
She stepped in close and his predator’s senses lit up, his nostrils tingling at the trace coppery scent of human red cells rushing beneath her skin. The rawness in his stomach spread to his veins, which now began to throb with the rising intensity of his blood thirst. His body felt heavy and slow. The stump at the end of his wrist ached with phantom pain. His normally razor-sharp vision was blurred and unfocused.
Usually, in some dark, bizarre way, he relished the sensation of physical discomfort. It reminded him that as dead inside as he might feel—as disconnected as he had been ruthlessly trained to be as a Hunter in the hell of Dragos’s laboratory—there were some things that could still penetrate the numbness. Make him feel like he was among the living.