“He wouldn’t expect that,” he said.
“He thought he vamped me, but you were already there in my heart, and he couldn’t—”
“You’re mine, chére. No one else’s.”
“But he didn’t know—”
Their reunion was cut off by the thundering arrival of Anthony’s security force. They swarmed down from the second floor, filling the landing between two flights. Christian shoved Natalie behind him, pushing her against the wall. “Stay there,” he ordered, then turned to face the arriving vamps. There were ten or more, the best of Anthony’s guards, his inner wall of security. They belonged to Anthony, body and soul, and would fight to the death to protect him.
Christian was still burning with the power boost he’d gotten from Hubert’s death. He waded into the crowd, using his fists as much as his power, disabling one after the other, knocking them unconscious and reinforcing it with his power to keep them down. He was aware of Natalie, holding her position against the wall behind him, aware of Marc, fighting by his side. He heard the distant slam of the front doors, and then a new contingent of vampires arrived, launching an attack from below. With a mental warning to Marc, Christian spun to confront this new threat. He raced past Natalie, and leapt down to the floor before the new arrivals could set foot on the stairs. He fought without thinking, moving on instinct, his vampire senses warning him of each new danger as he whirled from side to side, crushing skulls and stopping hearts, sparing lives where he could.
He’d just dropped the last opponent when he heard Natalie’s furious scream. He turned as if in slow motion to see his worst nightmare coming true. Marc was down one knee, muscles straining as he struggled to rise. Above him stood Anthony, his face a determined grimace as he poured all of his power as a vampire lord—the power of all the Southern vampires he still ruled—into destroying Marc. He lifted his gaze to Christian, and his expression turned gleeful as he pulled a stake from behind him, and raised it over Marc’s bowed back.
Terror seized Christian as he raced up the stairs, knowing he couldn’t get there in time, knowing Marc was about to die. He threw everything he had into a blast of power, but Anthony’s shields were flush with power, and Christian had no time to craft a better weapon. He saw the stake coming down, caught the strain on Marc’s face as he fought to break free.
Christian howled as the stake flashed downward . . . and then a gun boomed, and the stake fell from nerveless fingers. Anthony clutched at the bloody hole in his stomach, then looked up to stare at Natalie in disbelief, betrayal written clearly across his face. The wound wasn’t enough to kill him, but it disabled him for just long enough.
Christian was on him a second later, gripping his neck, taking away his breath and draining the once Lord of the South of every ounce of power remaining to him. He held on until the asshole was little more than a shriveled husk. And then he ripped his head off, and tossed it down the stairs where it dusted in mid-bounce.
Christian dropped immediately to his knees next to Marc, placing a hand on the back of his neck and gripping tightly. He held his position until finally Marc looked up and met his eyes.
“He was too strong. I couldn’t—”
“Stop,” Christian said. “You fought three battles while that fucker was packing his bags for New Orleans. And then he had the balls to suck power away from the very people he was getting ready to abandon. You’re strong, mon ami, but not even you can hold out against the power of an entire territory.”
Marc nodded, his exhaustion visible, even after the power infusion he’d gotten from Christian. He needed blood and sleep. Christian squeezed the back of his neck in reassurance, then leaned forward to kiss the top of his head. It wasn’t until then that he looked up to see Natalie watching.
He rose to his feet, worried about what her reaction would be to the way he’d killed Anthony, despite the soft look in her eyes for Marc. “I’m sorry you had to see—”
“What?” she interrupted. “That pervert Anthony turned into a shriveled mummy? Or the other jerk who called me a bitch turned to dust? Fuck that. They deserved it. Although, I wouldn’t mind a shower. The dust thing was a little icky.”
Christian started to laugh, but then the weight of the territory crashed into his brain, and he fell to his knees. Natalie cried his name, but it sounded distant, as if she was miles away. And the deep rumble of Marc’s voice was sound without words. All he could hear were the thousands of vampires who comprised the Southern territory, a jumble of voices arguing, begging, shouting, and none of them understanding what was happening. Anthony had been loosening his hold on the territory for weeks in anticipation of Hubert’s takeover, and it showed in the confusion of his people. Christian forced himself to concentrate through the pain, to stretch out his awareness into the cacophony of voices and emotions. He embraced the whole and the individual, wrapping them in compassion, confidence, and above all, control. He was their lord and they would, by God, stop fucking whining!
Silence. Followed by a low murmur of agreement and relief that slowly faded away into more of a feeling than a noise. Christian sucked in a deep breath. He sat back on his heels, hands limp on his thighs, head hanging.
This had been one hell of a night. All he could think about was blood, sex, and sleep. Hopefully in that order, and all with the same person.
A soft touch to his cheek had him raising his head to find Natalie kneeling next to him, with a worried look on her face.
“Time to go home, chére,” he said wearily.
“What do we do about all of this?” she asked, gesturing to the piles of dust and the occasional disintegrating body part.
Christian looked around. “It’ll all be gone by morning. Let’s go.”
Natalie helped him to his feet, which wasn’t necessary, but it felt good, so he let her do it. He reached down, and gave Marc a hand up, and together the three of them walked slowly down the hall. Just before they reached the front door, Natalie asked a question she seemed afraid to have answered. “What about Jaclyn?”
Christian’s arm was around her shoulders. He squeezed briefly and said, “She’s fine. Cibor’s with her.”
Natalie blew out a relieved breath, as tears filled her eyes. “I thought maybe—”
“I know,” he said, kissing away the tears. “But Jaclyn’s tougher than she looks. By tomorrow night, she’ll be pissed as hell, and good as new.”
They walked out into the last hours of the night, and over to the BMW, which was parked right where they’d left it. Natalie looked at the car, and the two dark furrows of dirt left by Marc’s emergency route over the grass, then held out her hand for the keys. “I’m driving,” she announced.
Marc didn’t argue, and neither did Christian. All he wanted was to get home, and get Natalie in bed before sunrise. If she thought driving them home herself would get them there faster, he was all for it.
“Keys are in the car.” He walked around to the passenger door, while Marc climbed into the back and stretched out.