Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10)(16)

He paused from pulling out the stopper, his hand tight on the bottle. “What is it?”

She blinked, still staring at the liqueur. Then she lifted her eyes to him. “What?”

“You tell me.” He kept a good grip on the bottle. Maybe this was why Sebastian had kept it locked away in the lead-lined safe—for clearly, something about the bottle or its contents was of interest to Flora.

“I was saying…it has happened before. Undead have changed back, haven’t they?” She was no longer looking at the bottle, but beseechingly up at him.

“Not those like you, of Judas Iscariot’s breed,” replied Chas, still watching her carefully. Tension was rolling off her, practically lighting up the air. “I’ve never known it to happen to one of them.”

“So…are you going to pour me a drink or what?” she snapped.

“No, I don’t think—”

He was ready when she lunged, throwing herself across the counter toward him with her fangs bared and eyes blazing red, and he dodged out of the way.

But the stake he’d set on the counter—carelessly, foolishly—she kicked off as she somersaulted herself over and onto her feet. The weapon rolled to the floor on the opposite side, utterly out of his reach, as he grabbed her by the front of the dress and yanked her the rest of the way over the counter.

Her lithe, strong body was wild and furious, kicking, scratching, grappling. The force of their battle sent them tumbling to the floor in the narrow space behind the counter.

Chas was handicapped, for he still gripped the bottle, protecting it from smashing as he avoided her thrusting fangs while trying to roll out from beneath her in the restricted space. Plus, he’d had more than his share of whiskey, and that made him a little sluggish.

Glasses and bottles crashed down on them, heavy and unyielding, and Flora helped them by grabbing them off the shelves and throwing them down onto him. One round edge smashed into his temple, sending black spots into his eyes and slicing his skin. Chas roared in pain and fury, twisting and bucking up with a powerful movement. He heaved her off, still holding the precious bottle in one hand, and sent her slamming into the underside of the counter.

But it wasn’t the bottle she was after, he realized too late, but the stopper.

For when he lifted her by the front of the dress with one strong hand, she grabbed for the onyx stopper, popping it from the inside of the bottle just as he flung her over the counter and out into the room.

She landed on the ground, somersaulting quickly to her feet, and bolted toward the door. But Chas had realized his mistake, and he vaulted over the counter just in time to leap onto her. They crashed to the floor again, this time rolling into and beneath a table and its upended chairs.

“What…is…it,” he demanded, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard, trying to get her to drop the stopper.

She bared her fangs and hissed at him, dragging her sharp nails down over his neck and throat, all the while kicking and writhing like a wild person. His blood flew about like sweat, and her eyes blazed hotter with fury and bloodlust.

He had no stake within reach, and he couldn’t release her arm with the stopper, so he concentrated on smashing her head to the floor and rolling around, slamming into the wall and table legs, trying to knock her out of breath.

Then all at once, she went limp and lay beneath him, heaving, her face turned away as if waiting for…something. Some blow, some…something…

“What is it?” he demanded again, holding her wrist so tightly he felt her bones move beneath his fingers.

“How did you get it?” she replied, still turned away, still panting beneath him. “It’s supposed to be in the enchanted pool—”

“Tell me what it—Arghh!” His words were cut off as she lunged up, grabbing one arm and pulling him down as she slammed her fangs into his throat.

Chas arched, tight as a bowstring, unable to fight the flood of pain and pleasure his body craved. He didn’t release her wrist, but by now he felt the warm, pulsing release of blood flowing from his wounds, the soft, angular body of a female beneath him, the strong hand that had him by the arm, holding him in place, the two powerful thighs that wrapped around his waist and locked at the ankles behind him.

It was the same effect as if an opium eater or laudanum addict had given up the habit, the pleasure…and then suddenly, it was thrust upon him or her once again—unexpectedly, and unwillingly.

The red haze of lust washed over him in wave after wave even as he fought it back—fought it with every ounce of his strength and mental capacity. But she was touching him in places she had no business touching him, writhing and rolling beneath him, sucking and dragging the hot lifeblood from his veins, grinding and arching up against his crotch as she fed.

Chas focused on one thing: the wrist he gripped in his hand. He couldn’t let it go, no matter what. He struggled to train every bit of his consciousness, every particle of his mind on not releasing her hand, on blocking away the hot lick of pleasure, the smell of his blood mingling with the scent of musk and sex, the press of her body against him, the sound of her feeding: the utilitarian kuh-hn…kuh-hn…

She pulled away from his pounding veins, and he felt his blood pumping free as she tried a new assault: swooping up to cover his mouth with hers. The taste and scent of his own blood on her lips, a mouth that raped his, a tongue that plunged and stroked, was enough to set him free.

With a roar, he gave a great twist, then smashed her hand sharply to the ground and saw the brief glint of the pyramid as it tumbled out of her fingers into the shadows—free for the taking, but lost in the darkness.

As she cried out in pain, pulling away from his mouth, Chas slammed his forehead down into Flora’s face and yanked her hand from where she’d been groping him.

Now her cry was that of fury, and she was scratching and kicking in a frenzy. They rolled around, smashing into chairs and tables—none of which conveniently shattered so he’d have a weapon.

Suddenly, as he twisted away while lifting her over him to throw her to the floor, he felt a sharp, hard pain beneath him. The pyramid.

Chas grappled it into his hand as she snatched him by the hair and whipped his head into the floor.

“Fighting like…a…girl,” he managed to taunt, even as his head exploded with pain and flashing lights. Then, with a great heave, he flung her off to the side.

He bolted to his feet just as she rolled to hers, and they faced each other, panting. And then he held up the pyramid so it glinted evilly in the dim light.

“What is it?” he asked one more time.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes went lasciviously to the object in his hand, and then she grabbed a large table and threw it at him. He ducked successfully, but it was followed by chair after chair careening through the air as she made her way to the door, keeping him stumbling back and putting more space between them.

She whipped two final chairs at him in quick succession so they spun through the air like wild tops, then ducked through the door.

All at once, it was silent and still but for his panting breaths and the sounds of his blood dripping onto the floor. Plop…plop…plop.

He had the black onyx stopper…but he didn’t know what the hell it was or why Flora had nearly gotten herself killed over it.

And then he looked around the pub, at the tumbled tables and chairs, the broken glasses and upended stools. The pool of blood on the floor.

Christ. Temple was going to kill him.





EIGHT

~ Of Thunderstorms and Dripping Frocks ~



A mere second after Chas had that thought, he bolted for the pub door, dashing in Flora’s tracks…then immediately thought better of it. Still panting, and with blood streaming from his wounds, he spun around and vaulted one-handed over the top of the bar.

He took the precious time to shove the pyramid inside the safe, then dashed out of the pub. The onyx triangle was secure—for the time being.

But he had to find Flora and stop her before she brought the information to Iscariot.

Water splattered wide with every footstep as he emerged from the subterranean stairs and dashed down the street first one way, then the other. He paused, trying to sense the direction Flora had gone, but the vampiress had made her escape.

He felt nothing at the back of his neck, nothing to indicate her presence.

Damn.

He jogged around a block or two, up and down, cursing himself all the way. Bad enough that the information Sebastian Vioget had protected for who knew how long was now revealed, but just as infuriating and demoralizing was the reality that Chas had fought a single vampire and she’d escaped from him.

Christ Jesus, what was he coming to?

Chas walked the streets, combing them for any sign of Flora or any undead, for more than an hour, searching for something that would lead him in the right direction. But the vampire had enough of a start ahead of him, and he wasn’t certain which direction she’d gone.

At last, sick at heart and lightheaded, he leaned against a damp brick wall, heedless of the incessant drip from the building’s cornice that landed on his shoulder. It actually felt good, the cool dampness drooling over skin that was hot and sore from lust and vampire bites. He looked around one more time, hoping he’d find some way to redeem himself from such a blunder.

If it hadn’t been for his weakness when it came to lust and fangs, if Flora hadn’t mentioned Narcise in that way, bringing up his heartbreak and seducing him at the same time…if he hadn’t been more than half drunk and already tired and bone-weary…taken by surprise…