CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO || COLE
Ishouldn’t have come. For one thing, getting shot twice in the chest at point-blank range really hurts.
A lot.
Morgan Peterson, an unassuming, middle-aged white man, hadn’t displayed any fear when I descended the stairs.
Instead, he had been waiting for me with a gun in his hands.
He must have heard me break the lock on the front door and, instead of reaching for his phone to call the police, he’d grabbed his handgun instead.
Mr. Peterson’s face split into a wide, leering grin as I reached the bottom of the stairs. “You picked the wrong house to rob.”
His voice sounded all wrong. It was… empty. Devoid of fear—or any emotion at all. And despite the grin, his eyes were cold and flat.
Before I could reply, he pulled the trigger.
The shot felt like being punched in the chest. Then, an instant later, came the pain.
I winced and zipped forward in a blur of speed. When vampires accelerate, our perception slows to a crawl. I placed myself behind Mr. Peterson.
Given that he was human, his reflexes were incredible. He didn’t have that bewildered moment of oh no, where did he go? Instead, he dropped to the floor without missing a beat and kicked out viciously. His foot connected with my knee, and I felt something tear.
My breath escaped my lips in a startled gasp. If the gunshot was painful, this was excruciating.
I sagged, a wave of surprise crashing over me. Unlike most of the serial killers I dispatched, this guy was no slouch. Had he studied martial arts at some point? That didn’t seem especially sporting.
Then he rolled onto his back, raised the gun, and fired again. This time, the impact struck the center of my chest.
In addition to being into kung fu, he was apparently an excellent shot.
I was still the better predator, though.
Deciding to let myself heal for a moment—no one likes committing murder with a busted knee—I fell onto my back, sucked in a gasping breath, and let it out in a rasp before I stopped breathing. I let my eyes go vacant and staring.
I was mildly impressed, actually. It had been a long while since a victim got the drop on me. I was annoyed, as well. That didn’t bode well for Mr. Peterson.
He stood over me, looking down. There was something close to disappointment on his face. “Well,” he muttered, heaving a sigh. “You certainly didn’t last long, did you?”
It wasn’t hard to piece together why he was so crestfallen.
I had surprised him, but my presence had been a gift.
Another chance to scratch that itch. He had wanted to watch the light go out of my eyes.
He had wanted to see my last, desperate struggles.
And here I was, lying motionless. Too easy a death to gain any real pleasure from.
I needed to kill him, of course.
The footage from the automotive shop I’d reviewed at the police station was conclusive: Mr. Peterson was the man I was after. Why on earth was it always middle-aged white men? Regardless, he couldn’t be allowed to take any more lives.
So why did this all feel so perfunctory?
Even lying on my back, quite literally playing dead, didn’t feel right. In the past, I’d done exactly this in the rare instances when a killer got in a decent blow. I had enjoyed the element of surprise—that moment of sheer disbelief that their violence had failed them.
But it had never been to allow myself to heal—and really, it wasn’t now, either.
In truth, I was stalling, wasn’t I?
Even when I tried, I no longer cared who the biggest predator was. Nor did I feel especially thirsty for his blood. In fact, the thought of any part of him coming near me filled me with revulsion. Strange, given that I’d never been especially opposed to feasting on serial killers before.
The ritual felt different now. The only thing that remained the same was the conviction that Mr. Peterson couldn’t be allowed to live.
Deciding it was best to just get it over with, I was about to climb to my feet in a burst of supernatural speed when footsteps ran down the stairs.
I froze.
Was he working with someone else? Was the house less empty than I’d assumed?
Mr. Peterson went very still. “Ah,” he said, smiling as he watched the stairs. “You weren’t alone.”
Creepy—that he thought I was dead but was still talking to me. But who was I to judge?
The footsteps grew closer—an adult man, by the sound of it—bounding down the stairs.
Then Eli burst into view. Tears burned tracks down his cheeks, and he gripped a butcher knife so hard his knuckles were turning white.
Mr. Peterson cocked the gun, his smile widening.
“No!” Eli yelled, freezing as he took in the scene. His eyes landed on my motionless body, and something crumpled in his expression. He wavered on his feet, like he might collapse under the weight of what he was feeling. “Nicolas!”
“You know, you’re older than my usual, but you’ll do,” Mr. Peterson said, stepping over me. He leveled the gun at Eli’s midsection. “Drop the knife.”
Eli sucked in a ragged, frightened breath. “And if I don’t?”
Mr. Peterson laughed. “Trust me, I’d prefer not to shoot you. It’s not how I usually operate. But I will, if you force me to.”
At those words, I sprang to my feet soundlessly, moving in a blur of motion.
Scarcely aware of what I was doing, I grabbed Mr. Peterson by the shoulders and threw him sideways with every ounce of strength I possessed.
I didn’t do it because I wanted to kill him.
Oddly, that wasn’t even a consideration.
I did it because the idea of him hurting Eli the way he’d hurt Joseph filled me with an icy, unthinking rage.
Mr. Peterson, too surprised to resist, went sailing into the concrete wall. He hit it hard enough to shatter bone. His body collapsed into a heap.
“Nicolas?” Eli asked, stunned. His gaze dropped to my chest, where I’d been shot twice. Unfortunately, I’d chosen to wear a white shirt today, so I probably looked like a mess. “How are you not dead?”
“One moment,” I said, holding up a finger.
I crossed the room, grimacing at the lingering tenderness in my knee, and stood over Mr. Peterson’s corpse. His eyes were sightless and staring, a trickle of blood on his lips. His chest didn’t rise or fall.
I knelt and picked up his wrist. No pulse. I didn’t look too closely at the damage I’d done. Somehow, I didn’t really want to see it.
I expected… something.
Perhaps an immediate sense of dissatisfaction.
Or maybe even genuine disappointment, the same way Mr. Peterson had looked earlier, thinking he’d killed me too soon.
After all, I’d been deprived of my ritual.
He hadn’t confessed. I hadn’t controlled the exact moment his heart stopped.
I hadn’t experienced the familiar rush of being the apex predator.
None of that seemed to matter. What mattered was that Eli was unharmed.
“Is he dead?” Eli asked, crossing the room and crouching beside me.
Even though there was no pulse and no breath, I still removed the gun from Mr. Peterson’s hand and slid it across the floor, away from us. Just in case.
Without waiting for my reply, Eli took his wrist and checked. “Yeah,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “He’s gone.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “This was dangerous! You could have gotten yourself killed!”
Eli met my gaze with defiance, but the tears on his cheeks hadn’t yet dried.
“I thought you were dead.”
I softened immediately, feeling something in my chest go molten at his words.
“I’m okay. I was never in any real danger.”
His gaze dropped to my lips, and I realized my fangs were out. It must’ve happened when I’d thrown Mr. Peterson.
I expected him to recoil, but he didn’t. Instead, he pointed to the other side of the room with a shaking hand. There was a flat wooden bench there, against the wall. “Sit.”
Frowning at him, I crossed the room and did as he asked without protest.
Eli followed close behind. He dropped into a low crouch beside me and started unbuttoning my shirt.
“Eli, what do you think you’re doing?” I asked, my tone deceptively neutral. The warmth of his touch burned against my skin, and with a pang, I realized that I wanted his hands on me.
“You were shot,” Eli said. “You need medical attention.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, reaching out to take his hand. He pulled back and reached for another button. I felt a flicker of genuine fear. My gunshot wounds were already gone. If he opened my shirt, it would just be smooth skin.
“Don’t look at my wounds, Eli.”
He paused. “Why not?”
I hesitated, then grimaced, realizing I was going to let myself be vulnerable with him.
“Because I don’t want to frighten you.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You know, when a person lies, their heartbeat becomes erratic.”
“Mine was steady,” he said firmly, meeting my gaze. “Nicolas, do you promise me you’ll live through this?”
I pursed my lips, studying him for a long moment. “I probably ought to milk the wounded hero thing. It would be the smart thing to do.” I paused. “But I suppose I’m not smart. So yes, I’ll live.”
A small, startled laugh escaped his lips, and he shook his head. And then, without warning, his tears spilled over, hot and sudden down his cheeks. He collapsed into a sitting position. A moment later, he choked out, “You were on the ground. You weren’t moving.”
The last time I had been confronted by a distressed human, I hadn’t known what the right thing to do was. Now, I understood instinctively. I slid off the bench, dropped beside him, and pulled him close to me, slipping my arms around him.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He wrapped me tightly. “You were staring,” he whispered against my chest. “You looked dead!”
“I was never in danger,” I said softly. “You were, though. Eli, what were you thinking?”
Eli laughed, and more tears spilled over. “I was going to kill him. When I thought he had killed you, it was all I wanted to do.”
“He would have shot you.”
“I know.”
“I’m okay,” I murmured. “We’re both okay. Everything is going to be fine.”
* * *