shut, brow crinkling with concentration. Again his form began to fade, becoming phantomlike.
“Mom . . .” John said. “Are you seeing this?”
Jenna didn’t have to look up at him to know he was as freaked out as she was. “Yes.”
Once more, Richart’s form solidified. He opened his eyes, spoke vehemently in French, then lurched forward. His knees buckled. Losing his battle with gravity, he crashed through her coffee table, reducing it to large splinters as he hit the floor hard.
Her heart now lodged in her throat, Jenna jerked away from John and knelt at Richart’s side. “Richart?”
Rolling onto his back, he stared up at her with unfocused eyes. “I left . . . her there,” he whispered, those eyes—dilated she could see now—filling with moisture.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, combing his damp hair back from his face.
He shook his head. “I left her. They’ll . . . kill her.” A tear slid down his temple. His weapons thunked to the floor as his hands went limp. “They’ll”—his eyes closed—“tear her . . . apart.”
As Jenna watched in horror, he sighed. Then his chest rose no more. “Richart?”
Nothing.
Burying her hands in his bloody shirt, she shook him. “Richart?”
No response.
“Richart!”
John knelt by her side. “Mom . . .”
Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, she shoved her fingers against Richart’s throat above his carotid artery. Seconds ticked by, passing as slowly as hours. Her vision wavered as tears filled her eyes and spilled over her lashes. “I can’t feel a pulse.” Her breath hitched. “I can’t feel a pulse!”
John shoved her hand away and pressed two fingers against Richart’s neck.
She gripped Richart’s arm. “There’s nothing.”
“Shh.” He lowered his ear to Richart’s chest.
“He’s—”
“Shh!”
This wasn’t happening.
Whatever the hell this was, it wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be!
“John—”
“Quiet!” her son ordered harshly.
Jenna stared at Richart’s face. How could he have come to mean so much to her in such a short time? The thought of losing him . . .
More tears welled.
“I’ve got a pulse,” John blurted, face pinched as he sat up.
“What?”
“He’s alive.”
Jenna rose onto her knees, hope a frightening force that lent her strength despite her trembling. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It’s slow as hell, but it’s there.”
Elation filled her, rendering her weak again. “We have to call nine-one-one.”
He caught her wrist and stopped her before she could rise and lunge for the phone. “And tell them what? That your vampire boyfriend needs medical attention?”
And there it was. The V-word she had been trying her damnedest to avoid.
“There are no such things as vampires.”
“Proof of their existence is currently passed out on our living room floor.”
“He isn’t a vampire,” she denied.
“His eyes glowed and he had fangs.”
“But he doesn’t now!”
“Exactly. Fake fangs don’t retract into your gums. Glowing contact lenses don’t have an on/off switch.”
She stared at her son, wanting to cling to denial a little longer.
“And humans don’t have pulses so slow as to be virtually undetectable,” he pronounced.
“But he ate food.”
“Maybe vampires can eat food in real life.”
“Do you realize—”
“Yes! I realize how ludicrous that sounds, Mom, but . . . !” He drew in a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know what the hell he is, but I do know what he isn’t: human. And since the news hasn’t been filled with vampire reports, I’m guessing he’s been keeping it a secret.”
He had certainly been keeping it a secret from her.
“Well, we can’t just leave him here,” she said. He was wounded, badly, judging by all of the blood. He needed help.
“If you’re asking me what we should do . . .” He shook his head. “As your son, my first instinct is to protect you by waiting for the sun to rise and shoving his ass out the door.”
“John!”
“Don’t worry. My second inclination—again because you’re my mom and I know you care about him—is to do what I can to help him. Let’s put him to bed and see if we can do anything about his wounds.”
Jenna gave John a quick hug. “I love you.”
He hugged her back. “I love you, too. I just hope we aren’t making a huge mistake.”
They stood. John kicked the daggers away from Richart’s hands.
“Put him in my room,” Jenna instructed.
Offering no protest, John bent down, hoisted Richart over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and straightened. “Holy crap he’s heavy.” He staggered toward the hallway.
Jenna ducked past them and hurried into her bedroom.
Grabbing the old, timeworn blanket at the foot of the bed, she threw it over the covers to protect them a bit