clean kills. Vampires were not cats, to maul their prey. They had other ways of satisfying those urges, sexual and seductive ways that needn’t lead to this kind of mess.
This group had left a message, writ clear on the woman’s body.
He could have put an end to her suffering right then, but stayed himself. She might be just the proof he needed to convince Jude of the gravity and reality of the warning he carried.
Just as he was bending toward her, he caught an unmistakable smell on the breeze. He straightened and whirled just in time to see another vampire seeping out of the shadows toward him.
He considered, then said, “Is she yours?”
“I came back to finish her.” The other vampire, short and wiry, paused. “You can finish her if you want.”
Luc wanted but refused to, however easy it would have been. “You were a trifle rough on her. She isn’t very appealing just now.”
The other shrugged and moved closer. “Four of us, and she fought. She was quite a handful. In any event, I thought by now she’d be weak enough to finish. Apparently so.”
“She’ll be dead soon enough.”
“So finish her.”
He heard the challenge, realized this was one of the rogues and he was being asked to choose a side. If he didn’t finish the woman, he would be considered an enemy.
How odd, thought a detached part of his mind. A very odd conversation for two vampires to have, especially when they had never met before.
There were four of them altogether, useful information. He lifted his head, tasting the air, but could detect no others anywhere near.
“All right,” he said.
It was enough to make the other relax just a bit. Enough to give him the opportunity to spring. While he had little advantage in strength, he had another advantage: years of training with the épée had made him fast, springy and, oh, so deadly when it came to one on one.
The knife was out of his pocket in an instant and buried in the other swiftly. He pulled it upward, until it reached the heart. He stared into eyes gone black as night, heard the gurgle of the other’s breath. Then, with no compunction whatever, he pulled the knife free, dropped it and reached for the other’s head. A second later he heard the satisfying crack and the other fell dead. Dawn would take care of his remains.
Too easy, he thought. Entirely too easy. Either the other was a total fool, or he had honestly believed that any unknown vampire would not hesitate to take his leftovers. That said more about the rogues than anything he’d heard so far.
He picked up his knife, wiping it on the other’s clothes, tucking it away. He froze, taking in the night air and listening. No others were about. Not yet. But he had to move fast.
Picking up the blood-soaked woman was hard. Not because she was heavy—his preternatural strength made her feel little heavier than air—nor because she was covered in blood. The difficulty came from the way the blood called to him, begging him to drink. It would have been easy, so easy, to drain this woman and walk away. In fact, nothing would have satisfied him more.
But he might need her.
Still, he hesitated. If he took her with him, she’d leave a trail as clear as neon on the night air, clear to noses that could smell it. If it crossed the path of the rogue vampires, he might have more trouble than he could handle.
With a sigh he lifted the woman higher into his arms. It wasn’t as if he was attached to his existence. If this turned out to be the end, he wouldn’t exactly be disappointed.
Nor would he be able to blame himself for failing to warn Jude.
Shrugging slightly, he took off through the woods effortlessly, the woman seeming light as eiderdown.
He changed one thing, though. He chose a more circuitous route to Jude’s place, so that if others caught the scent on the breeze they should assume he was merely carrying away prey to a safer location.
With his arms full, he couldn’t scale any buildings, so he was forced to stick with ground streets. The limitation made him edgy. He hated to feel edgy. Normally he felt so secure in his power and strength that he seldom spared his own safety a thought.
All of that was changing. The world was changing, right now, tonight. The only question was how far he wanted to involve himself in that change.
Oddly enough, he didn’t know. He had been sure when he set out for Jude, but something about the savaged body in his arms filled him with doubts. As if her silent testimony to the very thing Jude was fighting made him part of the fight.
Not now, he told himself. Just get the woman to Jude as proof of what is coming. Think about the rest later.
He paused several times, checking the air, but there was no sign he was being followed. Then he noticed that the woman’s heart had slowed dangerously and that she no longer leaked blood. Minutes from death probably, but still evidence.
He quickened his pace, now making a straight beeline for Jude. He didn’t want to sort through his tangled feelings just then, told himself he wanted to get the woman to Jude so Jude could decide what to do with her. Save her, let her die, kill her. He didn’t care.
But somewhere inside his aching, sorrowful, almost deadened heart, a voice whispered otherwise. He tried to quash it, knowing it could only cause trouble. It rose again, however, a little louder.
And the pressure of it made him run even faster.
Jude lived in his office, a place slightly below street level with the kind of security a spy agency might have envied. Because of it, he had to press the button and look into a camera.
Then he heard a familiar voice: Chloe, Jude’s assistant. A human who had cause to loathe him.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” her voice drawled over the speaker. Then a note of horror canceled her sarcasm. “My God, St. Just, what did you do?”
Evidently she could see his burden. “Nothing but try to save this mortal. I need to see Jude now. Let me in.”
He heard the sound of a buzzer. Adjusting his hold on the woman, he reached for the door and opened it.
The hallway was dark as always, out of deference to Jude’s vampire eyes. Spilling from a doorway, however, was warm lamplight: the entry to the inner offices where Chloe ruled the roost when Jude wasn’t there to keep her in line.
He crossed the threshold, narrowing his eyes against the sudden light, and laid the woman on the couch. He ignored Chloe’s gasp.
He turned to look at her. “Jude,” he repeated.
Chloe was a piece of work, and she had plenty of reason to despise him. Just last year he had kidnapped her briefly and she’d taken it in her usual manner: with sarcastic anger.
She stood now glaring at him, her hands on her hips. Her hair was still dyed the deepest of blacks, heavy black makeup outlined her eyes, and her costume managed to bridge the territory between stripper and punk: lots of black leather and lace
