Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
WHEN THE CHEESE GETS ROASTED
Sitting up as I clock movement, I check the time on my watch.
Six o’clock on the dot.
A greasy-haired leech approaches the pizza shop flanked by two broad-shouldered bruisers. The kind of vampires that make every instinct scream at you to run the other way.
Greasy’s red eyes dart around the alley before landing on my hiding spot atop the roof.
I hold my breath.
Not because he can see me. The glamour takes care of that.
But leeches survive by being paranoid, and hunters survive by assuming the bastards know something they shouldn't.
When his gaze finally moves on, I breathe a little easier.
Under the flickering streetlights, his skin looks pallid and sickly.
Nothing like Stark.
Which is irritating all on its own.
Most vampires look dead.
Stark looks alive.
A dealer in blood.
The worst kind of leech.
Good thing he’s cocky enough to operate out of a building with an entire wall of glass. Humans can’t see the place, which gives the leeches a false sense of security.
Hunters can.
And we’re always watching.
When the back door swings open, Greasy shuffles inside and I shift position, angling for a better view through the glass.
Stark greets him with the formal head tilt vampires seem so fond of.
As the leeches settle in, I unwrap a granola bar and take a bite.
Stakeouts are ninety percent waiting and ten percent wishing you’d packed better snacks.
Blood dealers aren’t exactly known for quick meetings.
I watch Greasy gesture animatedly while Stark listens with that infuriating calm he always seems to have. Eventually, Stark rises from his chair and leads Greasy and his two meatheads toward the back of the shop.
I edge closer and brush a finger behind my left ear, activating what I call my zoom rune.
The familiar magic spreads across my skin.
The world snaps into focus.
Every crack in the mortar.
Every speck of dust on the tiled floor.
Which, annoyingly, isn’t many. The place is ridiculously clean for a vampire den.
To my disappointment, the leeches choose a table buried in shadow. I can make out movements. Gestures. The occasional flash of Greasy’s face turning progressively redder.
Then movement farther down the street catches my attention.
The dark-haired woman.
The one who shouldn’t have been able to see the shop.
The one Stark made a pizza for despite the fact that every supernatural knows Fangerella’s is little more than a front for blood-bond deals.
With my enhanced eyesight, I can make out the unusual lavender of her eyes. The freckles scattered across her nose. The way she smiles without a care in the world.
She’s either incredibly brave or catastrophically stupid.
I’m leaning toward stupid.
Her messy-haired friend throws an arm around her shoulders.
Something twists unpleasantly in my gut.
I ignore it.
The guy’’s painfully obvious, anyway.
Every glance.
Every smile.
Every ounce of attention aimed in her direction.
The idiot’s in love.
Ugh.
What a fucking sap.
I turn my attention back to the pizza shop, hoping she’ll stay away tonight.
Of course she doesn’t.
The messy-haired guy opens the door for her, his attention glued firmly to her as they step inside.
Interesting.
I’m ninety-eight percent certain he’s human.
Her, though?
She’s still a mystery.
And yet they walk into the shop like they belong there.
That’s the part that bothers me.
The entire time I’ve been watching this place, no one has used the front door.
No one.
Until her.
I see Stark’s eyes flick toward the entrance.
Then widen.
Now that is interesting.
Several things happen at once.
In less than a blink, Stark has the human by the throat.
Greasy and his hired muscle, however, are focused entirely on the woman.
The way predators focus on wounded prey.
Fuck.
You should’ve stayed away.
I shift into a crouch, weighing my options.
If Stark kills the human, I finally have justification to move against the blood dealer.
If Greasy reaches her first...
I clamp down on the thought before it can finish forming.
Doesn’t matter.
Head in the game, Z.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Stark releases the human and immediately turns his attention to Greasy’s hired muscle, launching one through a table and the other into a wall hard enough to crack the drywall.
Greasy takes one look at the fight and bolts for the back door.
Coward.
Then again, if he knows anything about who he’s doing business with, he knows his hired muscle doesn’t stand a chance against an ancient vamp boss.
I track Greasy for half a second before movement near the entrance snags my attention.
One of the meatheads.
The same leech who’d been eyeing the woman like his next meal.
He’s standing directly in front of her now, red eyes glowing and fangs on full display.
Shit.
I won’t make it down there in time.
I grab my crossbow, already loaded with an iron bolt, and prop myself against the edge of the roof.
The woman is struggling with the front door, pressed flat against the glass as she tries to force it open.
Unfortunately for me, she’s also blocking most of my shot.
Come on.
Move.
I track the leech through my sights, waiting for an opening.
Another crash erupts inside the shop.
This time, it works in my favor.
The sound catches his attention.
His head turns.
His body shifts just enough to give me my angle.
I squeeze the trigger.
The bolt launches with magically enhanced speed, nearly invisible as it tears through the air.
Glass shatters and a heartbeat later, the iron bolt punches through the leech’s chest, burying itself to the fletching.
Dead center.
The bastard doesn’t even have time to scream.
His body collapses inward, flesh shriveling into ash before scattering across the floor.
The woman stumbles through the shattered doorway and lands hard on the sidewalk.
The human is right behind her.
For all his obvious feelings, I’ll give him this—the idiot doesn’t hesitate.
He grabs her arm and hauls her back to her feet.
“Run, Kallie!” the human shouts, half dragging her down the street.
When I look back at the restaurant, Stark is already looking my way.
My grip tightens around the crossbow.
For a second, I tell myself he’s tracking the shot.
Then I shift my weight.
Stark's gaze follows me.
Straight through the glamour.
The bastard smiles.
Shit.
His smile widens.
The bastard actually takes a step toward me.
Well.
That's unsettling.
I tighten my grip on the crossbow and bare my teeth in something that definitely isn’t a smile.
Bring it on, fanger.
Movement flashes behind Stark.
I react before he does.
The bolt is already airborne by the time I pull the trigger.
Glass shatters.
The remaining meathead jerks as iron punches through his throat and launches him backward.
Stark’s mine, asshole.
Stark catches the collapsing leech, rips the bolt free, and drives it straight through the bastard’s heart.
The body withers into a shriveled husk of ash almost instantly.
Show-off.
That’s my cue.
I sling the crossbow across my back, grab my bag, and leap from the roof.
The landing jars through my knees, but I keep moving.
What a fucking shitshow.
I got no answers.
My cover is blown.
And somehow Stark saw straight through a glamour that should’ve hidden me.
Months of surveillance work gone in a matter of minutes.
All because a woman who shouldn’t have even been able to see the restaurant walked through the front door.
Fucking hell.