CHAPTER 3
POSITIONING MYSELF IN FRONT of Max, I swiftly scan our surroundings for escape routes and calculate our odds. Eight against one, with a human to protect. Not good.
“They say marriage is the epitome of romantic love—a connection so deep that it’s intoxicating,” one of them drawls, stepping forward.
Her accent is thick with the rolling cadence of Mythcrest’s hinterlands after dusk.
“What they don’t tell you, however, is that love is poison.
A sweet one, yes, but it will incapacitate you nonetheless. ”
Her bone-white hair is swept up and secured at the back of her head, with loose-hanging strands framing her lightly freckled alabaster face. It has an almost ethereal glow to it, as if crafted from the very essence of winter, reminding me of him.
Revenant, the leader of the Ravens—the one responsible for memories I beg to forget: bodies strewn across multiple floors, the complete silence that followed the screams, and my father’s final words lost beneath the gurgle of blood in his mouth.
The one who corrupted my brother, and the one I’ve spent years trying to find.
A Whiteshade, as we came to call him, named for the striking white shade of his hair. It seems he’s not the only one of his kind.
My pulse quickens, dread swirling through my veins, the ground suddenly feeling unsteady beneath me. The world just became much larger, and much more dangerous than I ever realized.
From the shadow cast in front of me, I notice Max’s hand slide into his pocket, his fingers fumbling for his phone. He’s desperate to call for help—for emergency services—and I’m not the only one who noticed.
The Whiteshade’s eyes flash with amusement as she lifts two elegant fingers before pushing them down with purpose.
Before I can shout a warning, two vampires have already blurred forward. Max’s phone hits the pavement as his body folds, a sickening thud following his collapse.
Fury surges through me as I drop to a crouch, fingers enclosing the hilt of my lumen dagger. I slide it free from my boot sheath in one deft motion, the flash of teal bright in the dark, then lunge forward with the deadly precision I’ve spent years perfecting.
The weapon finds itself inside the chest of the first attacker.
He lets out a strangled gasp, vitae bubbling violently from his lips as I yank the blade free.
The second attacker comes at me with bared fangs.
I duck under his outstretched arms, slashing upward in a vicious arc that severs his wrist. He stumbles backward with a howl, allowing me to spin around and use the momentum to drive my blade deep into his throat.
With a twist, cartilage and bone give way beneath the crystal edge.
I let this one off, not killing him like I did the first, but not without a fair warning of excruciating pain.
The man I just mutilated collapses, his eyes rolling upward.
“There is no need to make this difficult, dhampir.”
My body tenses as she speaks, sensing rather than seeing her move toward me.
One moment she’s ten feet away. The next, she’s lifting me until my toes barely scrape the ground, her hand tightened around my throat.
My dagger flings out of my hand as I claw at her wrist, my lungs burning for air.
Her grip is like iron, unyielding and ancient.
This is no ordinary vampire, no freshly turned predator stumbling through immortality. This is power refined through centuries, strength honed to perfection.
“What,” I manage to croak out, “do you want?”
Her glowering glare grows into a sinister smirk, her forbidding aura warning me that any attempt to fight back will only serve to provoke her further.
It’s not just her hair either, it’s something deeper—it’s in the way she moves, the way she seems to loom even when standing perfectly still.
Whiteshades don’t need to bare their fangs to make you feel like you’ve already lost.
“It’s time for you to dispose of your mortal fantasies and fulfill your duty,” she says, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Come with me, my dear. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Her hand opens and I fall to the ground, gasping for air. Pins and needles shoot through my body as oxygen floods back into my bloodstream. She extends her arm to me, an invitation straight to hell. Only a fool would fall for that.
I cough, choking on my own desperation. “Thanks,” I wheeze out, “but I’m good.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows wider, sharper.
“So unaccommodating,” she remarks, giving her nails a cursory inspection. “Just like your brother.”
The mere mention of him releases a flood of anger and betrayal within me that I can’t contain. Of course she knows my brother. For Blod’s sake, Saul.
“I’m nothing like my brother,” I say, struggling to my feet, willing my limbs to cooperate.
Her eyes glint with wicked intent. “Well, why don’t we find out?”
A tautness snaps through her posture, telegraphing the blow before it comes. I brace myself for the colossal impact of her fist in my face, knowing it will connect with enough force to shatter a human skull. There’s no dodging this. Not with her speed and my current position.
My arm comes up to block my face as I take a step back, preparing myself for the worst, expecting a blank mind until I wake in some dark cell, forced to bend to her every will.
A blur of motion drops from above, a shadow detaching from the night itself. The figure slams into the woman with devastating impact, sending her flying into the wall across from us. Mortar cracks and dust billows as her body creates a crater in the rock-hard bricks.
My heart stutters as I recognize the silhouette standing protectively before me, his charcoal hair identical to mine.
No, it can’t be.
It’s been years.
“Saul?” I whisper, the name tasting like ash on my tongue.
He doesn’t respond or turn around, his attention fixed on the woman who’s already extracting herself from the rubble as her wicked laughter echoes through the empty street.
“I was wondering when you’d show.” She brushes debris from her shoulder with one refined flick, the gesture so composed it borders on insulting. “I must admit, your timing is impeccable.”
“Apologies. I was busy preparing your coffin,” Saul taunts, his voice deeper than I remember. While the Whiteshade with a problem and my criminal twin are having some sort of villain stare-down, I try to take this opportunity to sneak my way out.
I scramble to Max’s side, frantically checking his pulse—strong, but erratic. Blood trickles from a gash on his temple where he hit the pavement.
I hear Saul scream. “Seraph, watch out!”
A sharp crack splits the air, followed by a wet thud as one of the vampires’ bodies crumples to the ground near me, a clean hole through her forehead. Aimed to incapacitate, not kill.
Keepers.
The remaining vampires scatter under the hail of gunfire. I trace the shots to their source and spot them—General Lee’s special forces, clad in tactical gear, their faces obscured by helmets with built-in targeting systems, weapons trained on the vampires.
“Not the girl,” says the general, swiping his digital interface closed as he looks toward me and my brother. “She’s a Pennian.”
“What about the guy?”
The general gives a curt nod of approval, signaling green light.
I know what that means. Redmoore will lock him up for betrayal, endlessly torture him for information, and use any means at their disposal to bend him to force his compliance. He may have done me wrong, but he’s still family.
If he’s to suffer, it’ll be under my watch.
My heart pounds out of my chest as a deadly bullet leaves its barrel.
Leaping toward my brother on instinct, I push him away with force, bracing myself to catch the lumen shot instead. It shimmers teal in the air as if to mock me and my foolhardy attempt at heroism.
Saul’s face—at least what little of it I can see beneath the black veil of cloth that’s drawn up to his nose—is filled with devastation as his back meets terrain. The footsteps of keepers echo like hammers on stone as they close in on us.
Halfway through my suspension, a strong arm hooks around my chest from behind, yanking me away from the grueling path with magnificent force.
Our bodies twist mid-air as we tumble to the ground.
The bullet whizzes past where I stood a millisecond before, embedding itself into the building behind us with a dull wham.
My head whips back, trying to catch a glimpse of the face belonging to the person that saved me, but he’s masked just like my brother.
His hood is slipped over his head before I get the chance to take in any other features.
From the fact he wasn’t already wearing it, I assume the rescue wasn’t a part of the plan.
That, and from the way he scoffs at me in annoyance.
A number of vampires come for us. No, for me.
With my dagger too far removed from where I’m lying, and no time to look for another weapon, I spring to my feet and ball my hands into fists.
Propelling my arm forward, I expect to connect with a vampire’s face but find myself punching air instead, plummeting onto my knees. My gaze meets the ground again, panting and disoriented. I’m certain that my aim struck its intended target.
When I refocus and glance back up, I suddenly understand why my attack met no resistance.
The masked man moves like a wildfire racing over dry grass, his body flowing between the vampires with devastating speed.
He slams his fist into one vampire’s sternum with enough force to splinter bone, then pivots seamlessly to catch another’s throat in a vise-like grip.
The vampire’s eyes bulge as the man drives him down to the pavement, concrete cracking beneath the impact.
His movements carry a controlled finesse that only years of experience could cultivate.
Not like Redmoore’s methodical techniques, but something more intuitive, more raw.