“I don’t want your money,” Dracula said petulantly, losing the accent.
“Dude, just bite her,” a third vamp urged. “I’ve got shit to do.”
Richart zipped past two employees taking a smoking break. Busy chatting and texting, they would assume the breeze that ruffled their hair was caused by a gust of wind, not an immortal warrior seeking prey.
Circling around to the back of the sprawling concrete structure, he found three vampires. All appeared to be in their early twenties and huddled in the shadows between two Dumpsters, out of range of the cameras mounted on the corners of the building. Between their lanky forms, Richart glimpsed a small, slender figure shoved up against the wall and held there by a fourth vamp, the one who called himself Dracula.
“Shut up!” Dracula snarled at the others, then went B-movie Transylvanian again. “I am Dracula. I am . . . vampire.” He peeled his lips back and revealed gleaming fangs.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”
Richart could do nothing to free her until the vampire released her. If he struck now, the vamp could break her neck.
So he simply cleared his throat.
The vampires all looked in his direction.
“Where the hell did you come from?” one spouted and shifted, giving Richart a clearer view of the captive.
The woman turned her head to meet Richart’s gaze.
And the oddest little tingle danced through his chest.
She was pretty, with fiery red hair that fell just beneath her shoulders, pale freckled skin, and wide hazel eyes that met and held his, full of both hope and fear.
Dracula drew his lips farther back from his fangs and hissed like a cat.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Richart leaned against the building. “Yes—yes. I have a very nice pair of those myself.” He smiled, revealing the tips of his own fangs.
Hope fled her features as the woman turned back to Dracula.
“This one’s ours,” Dracula said, “so f**k off. You know the king doesn’t want us to fight.”
These guys must be new. They didn’t even realize he was an immortal, not a vampire.
The woman surreptitiously stuck her hand in her purse, then yanked it out and sprayed Dracula in the eyes and mouth with pepper spray. With his heightened sense of smell and taste, it would’ve felt like she had just held a blowtorch to his face.
Dracula stumbled back, howling and scrubbing at his eyes.
Richart drew two daggers and shot forward, burying one to the hilt in Dracula’s chest and driving him away from the woman.
“Immortal Guardian!” the first vampire blurted.
Quick as lightning, Richart sliced Dracula’s carotid and brachial arteries, then turned to fight the remaining three.
The woman took off running. Two vamps converged on Richart with bowies as long as his forearm. Faster and stronger than the vampires, Richart fended off almost every blow and scored plenty of his own, stabbing and slicing until the vamps began to bleed out faster than the virus that infected them could repair the damage.
As the two sank to their knees, clasping their throats, Richart approached the last vampire.
He had caught the woman a few Dumpsters down, shoved her up against the wall, and sunk his teeth into her neck.
Richart swept over to the vampire’s side. The tip of his dagger pricked the skin above the vamp’s carotid artery.
The vampire froze, eyes darting toward Richart.
“Release her and back away,” Richart advised quietly.
The vampire tightened his arm around her torso and slid one hand up to grasp her chin. Fangs receding, he murmured, “Draw another drop of my blood and I’ll break her neck.”
As Richart watched, the boy backed away with the woman. One step. Two.
Richart remained still, biding his time.
Three more steps. The vampire shoved the woman at Richart with a touch of preternatural strength and took off, his form blurring as he fled into the night.
Richart stumbled backward and wrapped his arms around the woman to keep her from falling.
Clinging to the front of his shirt, she buried her face in his chest. “Is he gone?”
“Yes,” he responded, surprised she was so coherent. When vampires and immortals turned, glands formed above the retractable fangs they grew that released a chemical much like GHB under the pressure of a bite. So she should be slurring her words.
Hell, he was surprised she still stood.
“What about the others?”
“They’re gone,” he assured her. Or they would be soon. A quick glance confirmed that they were shriveling up like mummies as the virus, unable to heal their wounds fast enough to keep them from dying, devoured them from the inside out in a desperate bid to live. By the time it finished, nothing would remain of them save the clothing and jewelry they wore.
Weaving on her feet, the woman straightened and looked up at him. She couldn’t be much more than five feet tall and he was six foot one. “Y-your eyes are glowing.”
Her pupils were dilated, blocking out almost all of the pale green, leaving only a few flakes of brown.
Richart retracted his fangs. “Yes. I know it looks bad, but—”
She shook her head. “I think they’re beautiful.”
Was that the drug talking? Or did she really think so?
“You saved me,” she said, awe and gratitude in her melodic voice. Loosening her death grip on his shirt, she cupped his face in both hands.
His heart skipped.
When was the last time a woman had touched his face so tenderly?
When was the last time a woman had touched him at all? Other than his sister punching him in the shoulder, doing her damnedest to kick his ass when they sparred, or doling out a hug here or there, he honestly couldn’t remember.
“Thank you,” the woman whispered. Rising onto her toes, she drew his head down and brushed her lips against his.
The contact hit him like an electrical shock. His heart began to pound as she tilted her head and increased the pressure, brushing, stroking. She combed her fingers through his short, black hair, sending shivers through him.
He parted his lips, met her tongue with his when she boldly thrust hers forward.
Pure heat.
She leaned into him, clutched him tighter.
His body hardened. His breath shortened. His arms tightened around her.
Her knees went limp. Her lips tore away from his as her head fell back. Her eyes closed. Her mouth hung open, lips pink from kissing him.
Richart stared down at her as his pulse pounded in his ears.
Yeah. She was out.
Damn it. That had been the best kiss he’d had in at least a century.