Blood and Hexes (After Darkness Falls #4) - May Sage Page 0,2
She liked colors, shiny things, and pretty patterns. But while people stared, they only saw a brunette boho chick who looked like she owned a crystal sphere or two. Which was accurate. They didn’t guess that she also happened to be the second-oldest Helsing alive. One of the few born vampires who had—and could again—rule the world if they felt like it.
Not that Diana had done much ruling during the Age of Blood. She’d stuck to a territory she’d temporarily claimed up in Canada, and protected its inhabitants against any threat that dared show up on her doorstep. Other than that, she’d left the humans and sups under her thumb to their own devices. Which was one of the reasons why British Columbia was still a haven for sups. The humans around those parts were less wary than those who’d truly known the horrors of a war against her kind.
“Look who we have here.”
Diana groaned, recognizing the voice. Surely, the human couldn’t have been dumb enough to follow her? A whiff of his dull, common scent confirmed her bewildering suspicion. He truly was mentally deficient.
He’d come flanked by two other regular humans—his protection detail, she guessed, from their crisp dark suits, posture, and bulk. The idiot’s smug grin implied he believed he had the upper hand here.
To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault. He was too young to have lived through the Age of Blood, back when her kind had shown the regulars just how much stronger they were. Since then, they’d done whatever they could to remain in the shadows, away from humans. Besides, Diana prided herself on appearing sweet and cute. She liked to be underestimated.
“Tell me, boy. How many girls have you stalked after they rejected you? How many have you hurt?” Her voice was deceptively calm.
The human’s eyes twinkled with something akin to pride. Excitement. He loved this. He anticipated hurting her, and he relished it.
“And you.” She tilted her head to his two muscleheads. “You helped him every time, didn’t you? You can’t tell me assault is in your job description. You like this.”
The first musclehead, a pale, bald, tattooed man in his forties, leered at her. The second snorted. “Like you’re better than any of us, bloodsucker.”
She had been better, for years and years. She’d traveled the world, played music, danced in the rain, learned to dye silk and cook pelmeni. She’d socialized with both regular and sups on a superficial level, staying away from trouble. Away from anything that might trigger the predator inside her. Diana liked to live a hedonistic, pacifistic existence…most of the time. She didn’t attack without provocation, and she never did anything against innocents. But when presented with the opportunity to blow off some steam against someone who deserved it, she was something else entirely. She let the child her family had raised out of her inner cage and became a true Helsing for a moment or two.
“I’m going to enjoy this.” She smiled wickedly at them. “You aren’t.”
Diana launched herself at the trio, sliding low to administer a nasty punch to the bald one’s flank, then a high kick to the second guard’s neck. She lifted her other leg to the other side of his head and twisted her ankles—just hard enough to strangle him. She could have broken his neck, but it would have been over too fast, and now that the monster was unleashed, it wanted to play.
Stepping on his face, she stood tall on top of him, then jumped on the skinhead’s back. Her legs closed around his neck and she ducked, to roll on the ground, taking him with her—one of her favorite signature moves. She landed in an elegant feline crouch. The bodyguard fell face-first, breaking his nose on the hard pavement. Chuckling, she returned her attention to the second guard. He drew his fist back to punch her. She moved, swift as a shadow, and tapped his shoulder. “Over here.”
He blinked, confused as to why she wasn’t standing in front of him anymore.
Diana’s mouth closed on his neck and, unsheathing her fangs, she bit deep, hard, cutting into his artery, and then ripping his flesh.
Feeding could be a painless affair, if the vampire wanted it to be. It could even be sensual, under the right circumstances.
Or it could be the thing of nightmares. An excruciating wound, followed by horror as the prey froze, helpless, feeling their blood being sucked, drained.