Night Reigns

Page 3

Unfazed by Marcus’s surly greeting, his visitor arched a dark brow. “Feeling a tad cranky, are we?”
Marcus muttered something disparaging beneath his breath as he turned away and started the long hobble back to the sofa.
Behind him, Seth entered and closed the door. “Care to tell me what happened tonight?”
“In a minute,” Marcus bit out, gritting his teeth against the pain. Oh yeah. His leg was definitely broken.
“As you will,” Seth replied in an accent Marcus had never been able to place. Russian? Middle Eastern? South African? None of them seemed quite right.
He glanced up as Seth strolled past, his hands clasped behind his back. Though Marcus was six foot one, Seth stood a head taller. His black hair, pulled back into a wavy raven ponytail, damn near reached his ass. His nose was straight, his jaw strong, his eyes so dark a brown they appeared black.
Like Marcus, he was cloaked in midnight. Black slacks. Black mock turtleneck. A long black coat. All of impeccable quality and fit. The skin left exposed was tanned and flawless.
Marcus scowled after him. He could’ve at least offered to help.
“I’m making a point,” Seth said in his deep voice.
Great. “Stop reading my thoughts.”
“As soon as you quiet them.”
Marcus said nothing as he continued to make slow progress toward the living room.
Seth was the self-proclaimed leader of the Immortal Guardians. Their mentor. Their justiciar if any should stray beyond the boundaries he set for them.
One by one, he had sought them all out when they were fledgling immortals, most transformed against their will, and shown them a new way of life. He had explained what vampirism was: the result of a parasitic or—as he put it—symbiotic virus that altered their bodies in miraculous ways, yet left them needing regular infusions of blood. He showed them how to temper that need in a manner that strengthened them.
He taught them. He trained them. He guided them.
He was the first, the oldest (though he didn’t look a day over thirty), the most powerful among them. So powerful that, unlike the others, he could walk in daylight without suffering any ill effects at all.
Marcus grunted as he collapsed back against the sofa cushions, grimacing when he realized how badly he was staining them. “I don’t suppose you have any blood on you.”
Seth smiled placidly as he leaned back against the mantel. “None with which I care to part.”
Of course. Marcus would have to do something soon. He still bled from several wounds and continued to weaken. With no convenient burglar on hand, he would have to go out and feed.
“Why did you say you were here again?”
When Seth’s smile turned calculating, Marcus felt a twinge of unease. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”
Ami nibbled her lower lip as she waited for Seth’s summons. Glancing down at her wrist, she cursed softly when she realized no metal glinted against the material of her navy-blue sweater. She’d forgotten her watch again.
How much time had passed since Seth had entered the attractive two-story home? Ten minutes? Twenty? Fifty?
She walked from the front porch, down the long sidewalk to the driveway and back. The house lay several miles outside of Greensboro, where homes were few and far between and neighbors resided far enough away that they could neither be seen nor heard.
The house before Ami boasted reddish brick with a connected two-car garage. A brass kick plate adorned a shiny black door. The yard … could really use some attention. Leaves and pine needles had piled up. What grass remained visible needed mowing, weeding, and edging. Left to their own devices, grass runners crept across the sidewalk in an attempt to bury the pavement. Ami absently kicked at one as she passed it for the fortieth or fiftieth time.
Her breath frosted on the cool air. Shivering, she wished she hadn’t had to discard her jacket earlier to keep Seth from seeing the blood stains on it.
Seth’s warm voice finally filled her head. Would you please join us, Ami?
Wiping suddenly damp palms on her jeans, she smoothed her sweater, checked her curly, red hair to ensure it had not escaped the neat ponytail that barely reached her shoulders, then picked up the small cooler Seth had left and resolutely approached the front door.
She raised her hand to knock, then froze when she heard the distinctive bing bong of the doorbell. Blinking, she looked down at the small glowing button she hadn’t depressed. The doorbell had rung, hadn’t it?
Bing bong.
She lowered her hand. This time she had actually seen the button move in and out as it rang itself. Surely Seth’s doing.
Bing bong.
If he had wanted her to ring the doorbell, why hadn’t he just said so?
Bing bong. Bing bong.
And why didn’t anyone answer? The persistent ringing rattled nerves already stretched taut. Even after a year and a half in Seth’s care, she felt a touch of panic whenever she met someone new. As she had earlier with the immortal, which actually hadn’t turned out too badly.
The door swung inward.
Ami looked up … and felt a smile lift the edges of her lips as she took in the tall figure who darkened the doorway. For the second time that night, she thought the immortal would be incredibly handsome if his face weren’t tight with pain and his body mangled and saturated with blood.
Ebony hair surrounded his face in tangled waves and fell halfway down his back. His face, arms, and torso bore so many deep gashes that he looked like he had brawled with real wolves rather than vampires with a vicious pack mentality. His right arm had not yet healed. Judging by the way it hung, it had been dislocated. (Having had both of her own arms dislocated in the past, she knew how painful that could be.) And he carefully kept his weight off his left leg. Was it broken?
Broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs, and a narrow waist and hips were all enticingly visible now that his coat had been discarded.
This time, when Ami found herself tongue-tied, it had little to do with fear or anxiety. Especially when his eyes lit up with what might have been pleasure at finding her on his doorstep.
Leaning to one side, she peered past him and saw Seth propping up a fireplace mantel in the next room. “You made him answer the door?” she demanded. Seth was not one to witness the suffering of another without aiding him.
“Yes.”
She dared a quick peek up at the less than pleased expression on the man’s face, then looked again to Seth. “Why?”
“I was making a point.”
“Se-e-eth! I can’t believe you!” Frowning, she stepped inside and dropped the cooler. “Here, let me help you.”
The Immortal Guardian closed the door, but made no move toward her. Ami suspected the doorknob might be the only thing holding him upright.
Moving to his left side, she wrapped her right arm around his waist and drew his left across her shoulders. When she glanced up, she found him studying her with piercing brown eyes.
A little shiver of awareness tickled its way through her.
Even bloody and battered he was sexy as hell. He was the perfect height, too—roughly a foot taller than her—so her head came up to his shoulder instead of falling short of his armpit. (Sometimes hanging with Seth and David, who were—respectively—six foot eight and six foot seven, gave her a crick in her neck.)
“Who are you?” the immortal asked.
“Ami.”
“Ami, this is Marcus,” Seth answered at the same time. “Marcus, Amiriska.”
“Nice to meet you, Marcus,” Ami said, her eyes boring into his in an attempt to convey her desire to keep their earlier encounter a secret. “Would you like to sit down?”
She thought a touch of amusement entered his gaze, nearly smothered by the suffering his wounds inspired. “Very much so.”
“I would, too, if I were in your condition. Let’s see if we can make it to the sofa.”
They took it slowly. The poor guy must be in total agony. She didn’t understand why Seth didn’t do anything to help him.
“I assume you’re an Immortal Guardian?” she asked to support the first meeting pretense.
He nodded, his strong jaw clenching.
“Then why aren’t your wounds healing the way they should?”
He grunted as she eased him down onto sofa cushions splashed with scarlet splotches. “I haven’t fed.”
When his gaze dropped to the base of her neck, Ami reared back.
“Ami is not on the menu,” Seth intoned behind her. “Ever. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
Ami looked at Seth over her shoulder. “Why didn’t you get him some blood?”
“He doesn’t have any.”
“We brought a coolerful with us. Why didn’t you offer him some of that?” Striding from the living room (it really was a lovely room, spacious and tastefully decorated), she retrieved the cooler and set it on the coffee table. A quick lift of the lid, and she handed Marcus a blood bag.
“Thank you.”
As she watched, his fangs descended, and he bit into the bag. Some of the tension in his face eased as the fangs siphoned the blood directly into his veins.
Hands on her hips, she faced Seth. “Well?”
He shrugged. “I was making a point.”
“What point?”
“Yes,” Marcus seconded, the bag already empty. “What point?”
Ami handed him another one.
“Thank you.”
She smiled.
“He needs a Second,” Seth stated.
Surprised, Ami turned back to Marcus. “You don’t have a Second?”
All immortals had Seconds. Seth insisted upon it.
Well, all except for Roland Warbrook, one of the more irascible immortals.
Marcus glared at Seth. “I do not need a Second.”
“You need a Second,” Seth responded implacably.
“I have a Second.”
“Slim is not a Second.”
Ami frowned. She had met quite a few Seconds since Seth had taken her under his wing, usually via telephone or the Internet, but none had gone by the nickname Slim. “Who is Slim?”