He sank to the ground.
Richart appeared at her side and took her arm to prevent her from continuing forward.
Sure enough, the vamp swung his blade again and again until he couldn’t anymore.
Jenna looked up at Richart. “It was an accident.”
“It was inevitable,” he said softly. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he wiped her face with care. “You saw it—the madness that entered his eyes as you fought?”
She nodded.
“The brain damage was progressing more swiftly in him. Had we let him live, simply feeding from his victims would not have satisfied him much longer. He would have tortured them, killed them, and seen nothing wrong with it just as he saw nothing wrong with preying upon you or allowing his friends to kill you, as they would have had I not intervened.”
Jenna’s gaze went to the vampire, who stopped breathing and began to shrivel up like a mummy as the virus he housed devoured him from the inside out. “This is what it’s like? This is what you do?”
“Yes. I know it seems brutal, but we save lives, Jenna. You saved lives. And you kept him from becoming a monster. Even good men become fiends once the madness seizes them. Most, when lucid, would much prefer the end you just delivered to harming others.”
Dropping the daggers, she leaned into him. “I don’t know if I can get used to this.”
“I won’t lie. It’s difficult. But once you see what they do to their victims, it will become a little easier.” He cupped her face in his hands, urging her to look up at him. “And I will be with you all the way.” He smoothed his thumbs across her cheeks. “I’ll be with you always, if you’ll let me.”
She summoned a smile. “Always sounds good.”
He lowered his lips to hers for a slow kiss. “Let’s go show John you’re okay. You can tell the study group the vamp has become ill and is still in the bathroom, then send them home.”
When she nodded, Richart wrapped his arms around her and the world dissolved.
HIGH STAKES
HANNAH JAYNE
Some people were meant for big cities.
And fabulousness.
I’m one of those people.
I’m Nina LaShay and one day, my brand will be everywhere.
I stand in front of the mirror every day and say that to my reflection. Well, not so much to my reflection as to the mirrored image of my brand-new, temporary Manhattan digs as I don’t have much of a reflection—or any reflection at all.
Being undead will do that to you.
Call me what you want—vampire. Bloodless one. Nightwalker; lost one; soulless, Godless aboveground hell dweller. Personally, I’m partial to Life-Backward, Fashion-Forward Temple of Awesome. How else do you explain a twenty-one-year-old (give or take 141 years) woman being one of the last three standing in the greatest fashion competition the couture world has ever seen?
I was steaming my latest Drop Dead creation—that’s the name of my fashion line—Drop Dead Clothing (I know, totes adorbs, right?), when the faint scent of two-day-old patchouli oil and sweat snaked into my apartment. The whole super-vamp sense of smell? Makes pastries smell a thousand times more amazing. It also makes the modern street hippie “at one with the Earth” smell like a three-day bus ride through Calcutta in June. I wrinkled my nose and did my best to breathe through my mouth before I snatched open the multi-bolted door and grimaced—then snarled—when I saw where the pungent scent was coming from.
It was her.
Emerson Hawk.
With her beady brown eyes, gaunt cheeks, and head of Supercuts-styled straw-colored locks, she looked far more drowned pigeon than hawk, but what can you do?
She gasped when she saw me, her anemic lips dropping open.
“You’re my competition?”
I wanted to say something scathing and smart but decided to err on the side of breather-approved sportsmanlike conduct. “And I suppose that means that you’re mine.”
Emerson cocked her head and swooshed her ugly hair over one shoulder. “I was being facetious, sweetie. You and your welcome-to-the-dark-side designs are no kind of competition at all.”
I felt myself bristle and although Emerson is shamefully, one-hundred-percent flesh-and-blood human being (“breathers” as they’re known on the undead end), I desperately wanted to stake her through her patchouli-scented heart.
“Please,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Drop Dead has spanked—what is it? Tweet by Emerson Hawk?”
“Soar,” she corrected with a snarl. “Soar by Emerson Hawk.”
“Oh, right. Either way, Drop Dead has spanked your line often and repeatedly.” I smiled sweetly, my lips pressed together—not so much in an effort to hide my always-there pointed petite incisors, but more in an effort to keep my fangs from digging into her obnoxious sallow flesh.
But I bet she’d taste like stale bread.
Emerson waved at the air like I was some gnat at her ear. “Small-town shit.”
“San Francisco Fashion Week is not small-town shit.”
“Emerson?” A head popped out from the door behind Emerson, and Emerson bristled.
“What do you need, Nicolette?” she asked from between gritted teeth.
Nicolette blushed a fierce red and glanced quickly at me and then directly to the stained carpet at her feet. But in that fleeting glance, I noticed that Nicolette shared Emerson’s unfortunately beady eyes and sharp, defined cheekbones, though she had clearly gotten the luxe end of the stick when it came to hair. Hers was cut in a cheeky bob and glistened a pretty blond. “I have all the garments steamed if you want to take a look.”
“Hi,” I said casually, “who are you?”
“She’s my sister,” Emerson snapped. “And Nicolette, even you can’t mess up steam. There are a few more things in the bathroom, though.”
“Sisters?” I said. “How very Little House on the Prairie.”
Even with her face turned toward the floor, I could see Nicolette’s cheeks push up into a smile. “I’m Nina, by the way.” I pushed out a hand and Nicolette shook; the female equivalent of crossing enemy lines. I could practically see the steam shooting from Emerson’s ears and it gave me a happy.
“Your sister was telling me all about her cute little fashion line.”
“Cute? Apparently you forgot who spanked who in Seattle?”
“It’s whom. Who spanked whom. And of course I didn’t forget. I generally find it hard to forget when someone steals my designs,” I said.