One Immortal - Tia Louise Page 0,31
and one on his lower jaw. He’s preparing to rip my partner’s head apart. Without a moment to lose, I snatch the wooden stake from my back pocket. A quick prayer my aim is true, and I throw the sharp wooden rod with all my strength.
A loud yelp, and I’m afraid I’m too late. Everything goes still, and I don’t know if I hit or I missed. It’s not until Stuart shakes his jaws out of the vampire’s limp hands that I realize I hit him. The old one staggers and falls against the concrete platform with a grunt.
At the loss of their leader, the other monsters fall back and begin to disappear into the shadows. The ones who have never made a kill will be released from his spell and return to human life. The others, depending on their strength, will either retreat to the crypts and go dormant or emerge to start their own legacy of horror.
Either way, we don’t have to worry about further attack tonight. A quick check tells me Patrick will be okay. His shifter blood is already healing his stab wounds, just like the shifter blood in me is already healing my bites.
I pull the ancient knife used in our ritual from the holster at my waist and quickly slice off the head of the vampire I shot. Then I stride to the old one, dying on the stones.
He isn’t dead yet, and I can only pray we get our answers.
“Alison Spencer Alexander,” I demand. “You killed her six years ago in the woods of New Jersey. Confess, bloodsucker!”
A grinding sound like the scraping of a boulder over bricks fills the air. It shudders and stops then starts again. I realize the fucker is laughing at me, and it takes all my willpower not to pull my leg back and kick his head off his shoulders like a football.
Still, I have to be sure. “Answer me, demon. Did you kill my wife?”
Stuart is on his feet now, fully recovered. He walks slowly over to the dying fiend, opens his large muzzle, and clamps it on the vampire’s neck. The monster’s eyes widen in horror as my partner slowly applies more and more pressure with his teeth.
It’s a hideous sight in the black and white shadows, but Stuart isn’t breaking the undead skin. Yet.
Ask him about Sloan, Stuart says in my mind.
“Sloan Reynolds recorded your involvement in the murder,” I say, and at the mention of my former mentor’s name, the thing’s eyes flare with anger.
He coughs, a sick sound signaling his approaching death. The stake is deep in his heart. It’s a slow, painful way to die, and I’m not sorry.
“Get your dog off me.” His voice is a contemptuous snarl.
Stuart’s eyes meet mine and he pauses only a moment before releasing his hold on the monster and stepping back—not too far.
“Say that name again,” the thing says.
“Sloan Reynolds. He was a vampire hunter like me.”
It starts to laugh, but the eerie noise is broken by another sick cough of death. His glowing white eyes focus on mine, and his next words send ice through my veins.
“Sloan Reynolds is a one of us,” it croaks out. “Sloan Reynolds killed your wife.”
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. My wind is gone, and I actually drop to one knee not wanting to believe it. At the same time…
Ask him how he knows, Stuart says.
We’re behind a concrete wall topped with urns. The entire scene is growing darker, more shadowy by the minute. Memories of what happened to Sloan, his involvement with the vampire, his withdrawal. I never saw him in the daylight again.
“Can you prove this?” I manage to stand, stepping closer to the dying thing.
“No,” it says. “I don’t care to prove it. Believe me or don’t.”
My mind is spinning, but the truth is unavoidable. “Why did he do it?”
The old one doesn’t answer me. He’s fading into the concrete, taking my answers with him. I race across the stones and grab his moldering coat, jerking him up with all my strength. A foul hiss of air floods my face, and I almost drop him at the stench.
“Answer me!” I shout in a ragged voice. “Why did he do it?”
The thing’s eyes only roll in his head, and his head lolls forward. I give him a harder, more violent shake that almost snaps his head off. “God dammit! TELL ME!”
It’s too late, brother. Patrick’s gentle voice is at my shoulder. He’s back