Ethan nodded and tried to ease away from Heather.
Heather clung to him like a vine.
“You’ll have to release him,” Seth informed her.
She hesitated, face stricken, then took Ethan’s face in her hands and leaned up to kiss him. A long, hungry kiss full of desperation that he eagerly returned.
No one voiced an objection as the kiss lingered.
When Heather finally broke the contact, she pressed her forehead to his. “You owe me coffee.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
Her brown eyes full of fear, she eased away from him and curled up on the opposite end of the sofa, arms wrapped around herself as though she fought the urge to reach for him again.
Ethan looked to Seth. “Do it.”
Across the room, Lisette mouthed, I love you.
Ethan forced a smile.
Seth eased out of his chair and down onto his knees. Shoving the coffee table aside, he moved forward until he knelt in front of Ethan and took Ethan’s jaw in one large hand. “Are you sure?” he asked one last time.
“I’m sure.”
Agonizing pain struck, as though someone had fired a damned Taser at Ethan and the barbs had embedded themselves in his head. Jolt after jolt of fiery pain pummeled him as that imaginary finger held down the button and sent what felt like a powerful electrical current burning its way through his brain. Ethan’s teeth clamped together as every muscle in his body jerked and tightened. Beneath the torturous assault, he could feel warm tendrils of . . . something seeping through him. Zach, trying to alleviate the pain. But it was about as effective as a mother pressing a kiss to a child’s arm after it had been broken.
Warm liquid tickled Ethan’s upper lip. Then his chin. His jaw beneath his ears.
Ethan tried to hold his shit together for Heather’s sake, but soon bellowed from the pain until darkness opened its gaping maw and swallowed him whole.
In a windowless room, men with dour faces sat around a large, beautifully polished oak table. Some wore military uniforms decorated with multiple medals and insignia. Others wore business suits that identified them as either leaders of the intelligence community or political advisors.
On one wall, large monitors flashed with color, images, and text.
Outside the door, heavily armed guards ensured none breached the inner sanctum.
Thick files full of information on the destroyed army base and one Private First Class Nick Altomari rested on the table before each man.
“Could he be in collusion with the perpetrators of the attack?”
General Lane addressed the man videoconferenced in via the laptop at the head of the table. “It’s a possibility, sir.”
“Not according to our psychiatrists,” a second man objected.
“Well, what do they say?” the first man asked.
“That whatever he saw traumatized him so much that it drove him insane. That his mind couldn’t take it and has fabricated this . . . I don’t know . . . fantasy-world explanation to help him deal with what happened that night.”
“Or to deal with the guilt,” yet another offered. “For all we know he could have orchestrated the whole damned thing.”
“I say we have our interrogators lean on him harder until he cuts the shit,” a gravelly voice farther down the table barked.
General Lane shook his head. “There’s an alternative to that.”
“What?” the man with the gravelly voice snorted. “Your daughter?”
General Lane ignored him and looked to the head of the table. “Mr. Chairman, my daughter has helped us countless times in the past with interrogations. She is the best in her field.”
“What exactly is her field?” the chairman asked.
“She’s a FACS specialist. She reads facial expressions and can tell by even the most minute changes whether or not someone is telling the truth.”
Grumbles and snide comments erupted.
“She’s been more effective at telling truth from bullshit,” General Lane said over the noise, “than a lie detector at every turn.”
“Hell, I can beat a lie detector,” the gravelly voice declared.
“But you can’t beat her. She’d know it in an instant if you tried.” General Lane returned his attention to the chairman. “My daughter is the reason we knew the Brooklyn cell intended to blow up Grand Central Station. She’s the reason we stopped them.”
Some of the mutters ceased, but a few assholes continued to voice their disbelief.
“Has she ever been wrong?” General Lane challenged them.
Silence.
“We can’t risk knowledge of this leaking to the public,” the chairman intoned.
“It won’t,” General Lane vowed. “She signed a confidentiality agreement when we first started calling her in. She won’t violate it. She’s completely trustworthy. That’s why the DHS, NSA, FBI, and CIA all use her. They know she won’t talk and she’s always accurate.”
More silence.
“You aren’t actually considering this?” the gravelly voiced bastard asked.
“Bring her in,” the chairman ordered. “At the very least, she should be able to tell us enough for us to decide whether or not we need to loosen the reins on our interrogators.”
Heather watched in horror as Seth . . . did whatever the hell he was doing to Ethan’s mind.
Ethan clenched his teeth together until she feared they would crack. His face reddened. The cords in his neck stood out as blood streamed from his nose and ears in steady rivulets. His hands gripped the sofa cushions so tightly the fabric tore.
Then he bellowed in agony.
“Stop!” Heather begged, rising onto her knees. “Please!”
Hands grasped her shoulders. Small, but powerful enough to restrain her.
Heather looked over her shoulder.
Lisette stood there, as grim-faced as the others, her eyes glistening with tears.
“They’re killing him,” Heather choked out.
Lisette’s throat moved in a swallow as she shook her head. But she didn’t deny it.
Heather looked back at Ethan.
Seth’s hand on Ethan’s face began to glow with a golden light.
Convulsions abruptly shook Ethan’s big body, cutting off his roar. His mouth clamped shut. Blood seeped from between his lips.
Had he bitten his tongue? Or was he . . . ?
Ethan’s eyes closed. A long breath left him as his body went limp.
Seth’s hand lost its glow.
When Seth released his hold, Ethan’s head lolled forward to hang low. Had Zach not held Ethan’s shoulders, Ethan would have folded over and fallen off the sofa.
A sob caught in Heather’s throat.
Was he dead?
She waited, watching in horror for the first signs that would indicate he was shriveling up like vampires did when they died.
Seth sank back on his heels. “He needs blood.”
Relief, almost painful in its intensity, overwhelmed Heather.
Seth looked up at Zach. “Get David. His will nourish Ethan the most.”
Nodding, Zach stepped back from the sofa and vanished.
Heather lunged forward as Ethan began to slump over and guided him down until his head rested in her lap. The backs of her eyes stung with salty tears that spilled over her lashes as she combed her fingers through his hair.
“Is he okay?” Lisette asked in a choked voice.
Seth sighed. “We won’t know for sure until he awakens.”
“Did you at least find the answers you sought?” Heather asked, not quite able to suppress the fury she felt over Seth’s having caused Ethan so much pain.
“I believe so, but—again—won’t know for certain until he awakens.”
Zach reappeared with a tall, strikingly handsome man with skin as dark as midnight and pencil-thin dreadlocks that fell to his hips. This was David, the immortal Cliff had mentioned?
He must be. Cliff had said David was even older and more powerful than Aidan. And this man exuded power.
“Zach said Ethan needs my blood,” David said, his voice deep. When his gaze found Ethan, David swore. Striding forward, he knelt beside Seth in front of the sofa and started rolling up one sleeve.
Heather waited for someone to offer him an explanation.
No one did.
David gently opened Ethan’s mouth and nudged his upper lip back.
No fangs.
When he touched his fingers to Ethan’s jaw, Ethan’s fangs descended.
David pressed his arm to Ethan’s mouth, shifting it slightly until it was positioned just so, then applied enough pressure to make the fangs sink deep.
Heather continued to stroke Ethan’s hair.
Minutes passed, during which she concluded that Seth and David were communicating telepathically. She would have tried to listen in, but her own thoughts were too chaotic for her to focus.
David glanced at her. “You must be Heather.”
She nodded.
“I’m David.” He offered her his free hand.
Heather shook it, her small hand swallowed by his.
When she would’ve withdrawn it, David tightened his hold on her fingers and gave them a squeeze. “Thank you for saving our boy’s life last night.”
She nodded, but said nothing as bitterness flooded her. Yes, she had saved Ethan’s life. But for what? So Seth could nearly take it or give him brain damage?
David gave her hand another squeeze, then let it go. “Our world can be a dangerous one,” he confided, his voice kind. “Sometimes it compels us to make difficult decisions, not unlike the one you made last night when you threw yourself between Ethan and the vampire’s blade. I know you’re angry. But please keep in mind that Ethan made this decision. Not Seth. Seth didn’t even suggest it. He takes no pleasure in harming those he loves.”