That made her smile. “He isn’t a slob.” Richart was always meticulously groomed and dressed. She couldn’t imagine his home being less so.
“Hey, you never know. A friend of mine—”
A large dark figure suddenly loomed in Jenna’s peripheral vision.
Letting out a surprised shriek, she jumped up, bumping the table and knocking over her glass of tea.
John grabbed his steak knife and leaped up to confront . . . “Oh, shit!”
Jenna’s eyes widened. Her breath stopped. Shock immobilized her.
Richart stood in the middle of their living room, having appeared out of thin air.
She swallowed, mouth dry.
His eyes glowed a brilliant amber. They glowed. His breath was labored, soughing in and out of parted lips that exposed gleaming fangs. His hair was windblown, his face splattered with—
“Is that blood?” John asked shakily, moving over to stand protectively close to Jenna.
She nodded. Nearly all of Richart’s dark clothing glistened with the ruby liquid and sported numerous cuts and tears. There even appeared to be a bullet hole in one shoulder.
Richart said nothing, just swayed where he stood.
“Richart?” she asked, voice and body trembling as tea slithered over the table’s edge and hit the floor with a tap tap tap.
He turned toward her, but didn’t seem to see her.
“Richart?” she repeated and took a step toward him.
John grabbed her arm. “Stay back.”
Jenna shook him off and slowly forced her feet to carry her forward.
Swearing, John stuck close to her side, his steak knife at the ready.
“Richart,” she called again when she stood only a few feet away.
The glow in his eyes began to fade, returning them to the warm brown of which she had become so fond. The fangs receded, disappearing into his gums as if they had never been.
He mumbled something in French.
Jenna consulted her son. “Do you know what he said?”
He shook his head. “I’ve forgotten most of the French I learned in high school.”
Richart blinked and dipped his chin. He seemed to be having a hard time focusing. “Jenna?”
“Yes.”
Panic danced across his face as he lunged forward and grabbed her upper arms.
“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” John tried to intervene, or at least to break the bruising grip, but couldn’t.
“What are you doing here?” Richart demanded, his accent so thick and his words so slurred she had difficulty understanding him. “It’s too dangerous. You must go.”
Jenna gently clasped his arms. “Richart, we’re in my apartment. Do you understand me? We’re in my apartment.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, heart pounding in her chest.
His brows drew down in a deep V. “Your . . . ?” He glanced around. Releasing one of her arms, he rubbed his eyes and looked around again.
She could feel him trembling. The hand that gripped her shook violently. And he began to slowly press downward as if he had to use her to prop himself up.
Jenna watched him take in the sofa, the stained coffee table, John, and their abandoned dinner.
Relief softened his features as he swayed. “We made it out? I got us out?”
Before she or John could ask out of what, Richart looked around again. “Where is Ami?”
Jenna felt the sharp glance John sent her. “Who is Ami?” she asked.
His frown returned, as did the alarm. “What?”
“I don’t know who Ami is, Richart. You just . . . appeared . . . out of nowhere. Alone.”
“She wasn’t with me? I left her there?”
John stepped forward. “Left her where? Who’s Ami? What the hell is going on?”
Richart began to mumble in French again.
Jenna gave him a little shake. “Richart!”
“I must go back,” he said, face stricken. He released his hold on Jenna and, breaking her own, staggered away two steps.
When he listed to one side, Jenna hurried forward to steady him.
He pushed her away. “Don’t touch me,” he wheezed. “I’ll take you with me.”
“What?”
John grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her back.
Richart reached beneath his coat and drew out two very lethal looking daggers.
John swore.
Richart squeezed his eyes closed, so wobbly on his feet the faintest breath of wind would have knocked him on his ass.
As Jenna stared at him, his form began to fade, becoming translucent. Her breath caught. She could actually see the other side of the room through him.
“What the . . . ?” John whispered.
Then Richart became solid again. He opened his eyes, saw them, and growled with frustration. Stumbling a couple of steps to the left, he thrust out an arm and pressed a bloody fist against the wall until he could regain his balance, then straightened. He squeezed his eyes