Part 12 (1/2)

Holgar froze. Lucifer was Antonio's grandsire.

”Vampire Kingdom,” the man said. His voice was barely above a whisper. ”Spare the werewolves.”

”For helvede!” Holgar cried as he dropped the man and raced back into the forest separating the river from the safe house where Antonio and Jenn were. In his mind's eye he saw a pack of werewolves and human collaborators breaking down the door, murdering Jenn and staking Antonio. He whined; then he felt himself begin to change. Hair covered his hands; his fingers began to extend.

He threw back his head and howled.

Then everything reversed and he was human again. Just human, running as fast as he could, bursting out of the copse of trees, across a narrow road, into the warren of structures, to their front door.

”Hey!” he shouted, because he shouldn't call out their names. ”Hey!”

There was no answer. He tried the latch. It was locked. He pounded once, then threw himself against the door as hard as he could. No good; he tried again. This time it gave.

He burst across the threshold to find Antonio with his fangs sunk into Jenn's neck. She was struggling against him, but he had both her hands in one of his, stretched above her head.

So much blood. Dear G.o.d, Jenn- With a roar he tackled Antonio, and they rolled together away from Jenn. Holgar hit Antonio in the face as hard as he could, then whirled around, scooped up Jenn in his arms, and bolted for the doorway into the sunlight. The blessed sunlight.

His clothes were streaked with blood. It terrified him how much blood there was.

Then he saw two men in dark robes rus.h.i.+ng toward him. Each had a cross extended.

”Saint Andrew,” one said, in heavily accented English. ”What's happened?”

”Antonio is in there; he's gone bad,” Holgar said frantically, struggling to convey his meaning in English. ”Where can I take her?”

”We have a vehicle.”

The man turned and pointed to the opposite end of the alley, where a dark gray van sat idling. A man behind the wheel gestured to Holgar.

Behind Holgar, Antonio's voice rose in anguish.

”Jenn! What have I done? What have I done?”

”We'll deal with him,” the man said to Holgar. ”Take care of her.”

”It's light out,” Holgar reminded him. ”If you take him out in the sun-”

The man looked at him with a deadly serious expression. ”We know.”

BOOK TWO.

ANKOU.

I remained, lost in oblivion.

My face I reclined on the Beloved.

-St. John of the Cross.

sixteenth-century mystic of Salamanca.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

It's true; you can't trust anyone when you're a hunter. It's the hardest, most terrible truth that can ever be learned. How do you fight when those who are supposed to be on your side can turn on you in a moment? Even those who love you?

I wish I had never gone to Salamanca. I wish I had lived my life in ignorance. But then I could have ended up just like Brooke. Or Heather. I don't know which is worse. Death or conversion?

I'm not sure how much more I can take.

-from the diary of Jenn Leitner,

retrieved from the ruins

LAKE COMO, ITALY.

HEATHER.

She was hungry. Or thirsty. She didn't know what to call it. All she knew was that it burned, hotter than anything she had ever known.

Which was ironic, because her skin was cold as ice.

Which was terrible, because there was nothing she could do to warm it. Not that she felt cold or warmth, not in any real way.

Heather walked across the marble floor, then her toes curled as they sank into a thick circular carpet.

She didn't remember where she'd lost her shoes. It didn't really matter. Her skin was practically impervious to everything now. Even when she'd stepped on some broken gla.s.s, her cut had healed the moment she plucked the shard from between her toes. The pain had been nothing, more like the whisper of a touch to let her know that something was different. Wrong.

Everything about her was wrong. And tired. And cold.

And so very hungry.

She thought she might have eaten someone a while back. She wasn't sure. It sort of all blurred together.