For my husband, Jon. No hero will ever compare. I’ll love you always.
CHAPTER 1
Damon Brock clutched the neck of the guard and twisted. The crack of broken bone pierced the silence in the alleyway as the spine snapped beneath his fingers. The wind whistled in a large gush of freezing air, so cold that Damon’s breath swirled in front of his face. The guard’s pulse beat several feeble times against his hands before fading.
Not a single scream. Damon released the guard, and the body crumpled to the cold winter ground. He nudged the corpse with the steel toe of his boot.
No movement. Only deadweight. A quick kill.
Not even 9:00 p.m. and already he’d taken out one bloodsucker. Rochester seemed promising.
He stepped over the corpse and slipped through the back entrance of Club Fantasy. A silver dagger under the sleeve of his leather trench coat, a Desert Eagle .44 caliber semi-automatic tucked into the back of his jeans, one silver throwing knife in each boot and a smooth, lacquered wooden stake inside his coat—you could never be too prepared when it came to vampires. The leeches were nearly impossible to kill. While bullets and silver would give them pause, only a severed spine, decapitation or a stake through the heart destroyed the undead.
Like a neon sign in a red-light district, the establishment’s name flashed over the door: Club Fantasy.
He shook his head. Club Fantasy? More like club hell. If only the patrons knew the monster vampire who owned it. The man sitting at the top of Damon’s hit list.
He pushed through a second door and into the main level of the club. If the night went well, he would gladly up the body count to at least four.
The thick smell of liquor, cigarettes and sweat from one too many dancing bodies assaulted his nose as he scanned the crowd. Bright red lighting flashed over the floor, and the bass of the heavy dance music pounded in his ears. The most difficult thing about hunting vamps: they were damn near indistinguishable from humans. After nightfall, the pulses of the undead beat with the same intensity as any human civilian, but their craving for blood, their inhuman strength and their drive to drain life from unsuspecting victims lingered. If only humanity knew what they were up against.
Damon strode across the dance floor, navigating between writhing bodies before he slid onto the black leather bench of one of the club’s booths. His hands ran across the smooth, newly lacquered black tabletop. Despite the underlying seediness, the atmosphere of Club Fantasy came out on top compared to most of Rochester’s low-scale raves. With western New York prices and Manhattan quality, Club Fantasy had young twenty-somethings flocking to it like drunken sheep led to a bloodlust-fueled slaughter. High quality aside, Club Fantasy was twice as dangerous as any New York City club. At least, the City offered ample backup.
He’d admitted one disadvantage to himself: navigating the supernatural scene of a city with no hunting division would be damn hard. But he was up to the challenge. He’d tracked his target to Mark’s hometown, Rochester, and he wouldn’t stop until he avenged his friend. He’d requested assignment to Rochester for that purpose—even if it meant a chance of running into
her.
He let out a long sigh. He couldn’t think about that now.
His gaze jumped from face to face, searching for his target: blond hair, blue eyes, medium build, a strong, slightly crooked nose and a small but noticeable scar beneath his left eye. He dreamed of that face every night.
An ancient piece of Roman shit, Caius Argyros Dermokaites ruled over the Rochester vamp nests with an iron fist, more because he was old as dirt, rather than because of some great attribute of his own. The older the vampire, the more deadly he—or she—became, and Caius was the highest on Damon’s hit list.
Damon was going to kill him. He would make sure of it this time.
His eyes locked on to the vampire. Though the swaying limbs of the dancing patrons skewed his view, he could see Caius sitting on the other side of the club. Anger bubbled up inside his chest, and pure rage filled every inch of his body. It took all he had not to pull his Desert Eagle and shoot Caius point-blank before driving a stake straight through his heart.
His hands clenched into fists. It was his fault. His fault that Caius sat there laughing while Mark’s ashes had gone unburied. His fault the only woman he’d ever opened his heart to wished him dead. He’d failed Mark—his closest friend—and he had failed
her,
too.
A grin crossed Caius’s face as he wrapped his arm around the skimpy-leather-and-fake-silver-chain-clad woman next to him. He was surrounded by women. Not surprising. Few things were larger than a male vampire’s ego, and Caius overcompensated like a pair of tricked-out rims on an already overpriced car. Damon observed the vampire’s interactions. If there was one thing he’d learned during his field training, it was how to be a quick judge of character. Vanity was no doubt Caius’s number one weakness, and striking that vein would make him bleed.
A sexed-up raspy voice purred right next to Damon’s ear. “You gonna order a drink, hot stuff, or just stare into the crowd all night?” A cheap pair of too-tight latex pants blocked his view.
The bottle-blonde waitress smacked her lips together as she chewed on a piece of gum. She leaned down and rested her elbows on the table in front of him, treating him to a prime-time view of her fake chest. Her breasts squeezed into a top smaller than some women’s panties. Her breath reeked of over-chewed bubble gum and the sharp smell of cheap gin.
She licked her lips. “You look like a vodka-on-the-rocks kind of man to me—strong, bold, served on ice but easily warmed.”
Damon barely glanced at the woman. He leaned back in his seat, aligning his vision with Caius again. “I don’t drink.”
The waitress sighed and peeled herself off the table. “Well, if you’re not gonna order anything, you can’t take up an entire booth.”
A slender redhead ran her fingers through Caius’s hair and pushed closer to his body. The women surrounding Caius literally threw themselves at him, practically begging to be drained, but Caius’s stare was fixed on something out of Damon’s line of sight. If he could just see where...
The waitress huffed. “Uh, hello? Did you hear me?”
Moving about the club for different views was a better option than staying put, Damon decided, and stood, then brushed past the now pissed-off waitress. Nothing was going to distract him. A drive to fulfill his quest pulsed through him. With six human women missing from Caius’s inner circle and a growing number of gruesome, fatal street attacks, neglect was not an option.
When he’d joined the Execution Underground, he’d sworn an oath to protect innocent humans from the dangerous creatures lurking out of their unsuspecting sight. An international elite group of men, the Execution Underground trained hunters to annihilate everything from vampires to werewolves, demons, shifters and more.
Though trained extensively in combat and packing loads of hard-earned muscle, no plain man could fight the supernatural alone. Upon swearing in, each hunter received a serum injection, and while the resulting longer lifespan, increased strength to battle the supernatural and extra healing capabilities were perks, putting their lives on the line every day was one hell of a sacrifice. Even with the serum, they still couldn’t match the supernaturals’ strength completely. That was where the training came in, to ensure they weren’t easily annihilated. They swore to protect their fellow humans no matter the personal cost, swore to keep the supernatural world hidden from view and away from the vulnerable. They promised to give everything, even their lives, if needed.
Mark had given his life for the safety of others, and Damon wouldn’t dishonor his memory. He’d meant every word of that promise he’d made.
Damon followed the line of Caius’s gaze and strode to the bar. He found a seat in the far corner, right where he could see Caius. He followed the ancient vampire’s eyes and found their target.
A woman. No surprise.
Her back was turned toward Damon, revealing nothing but a thick mane of dark brown waves cascading over her shoulders. The bartender handed her two glasses of red wine. Slowly, she sashayed to Caius’s side, his gaze never leaving her body. Her gender didn’t matter. He intended to hurt Caius and his minions in any way he could, but even to avenge his fellow hunter, Damon refused to endanger the innocent human patrons around him. Mark wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. He would need to lure Caius away from the crowd.
Damon’s outrage simmered at the thought of all the innocent lives lost.
The instinctive fight-or-flight response forced most people away from supernatural predators. But used, beaten, downtrodden and abused humans swarmed the undead like flies on a half-eaten corpse, and they were the most susceptible to supernatural manipulation. Somebody needed to protect them. Somebody needed to give a damn about their lives when no one else ever had.
Damon’s cell phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. Headquarters.
But he couldn’t return the call out in the open. He slipped away from the bar and headed toward one of the private club rooms. He ducked through the curtained door and into the empty space. Scanning the room, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing nothing more than the outlines of assorted couches, throw pillows and other ordinary furniture. He was alone.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and flipped it open, quickly glancing at the message.
The all-capitalized text glared across the screen. New information from his contact at headquarters.
UPDATE. CALL BACK.
Damon’s jaw clenched. Damn. An update meant another dead body. Another death piled on to his conscience. If he hadn’t failed Mark that night three months ago...
He cursed under his breath and quickly hit Redial.
Chris answered on the second ring. “You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”
Damon rested his free hand on his head and ran his fingers through what little hair remained after his buzz cut. “Get on with it.”
Chris let out a long sigh. “You’re not going to like any of this. You want the shitty news or the straight-up awful news first?”
Damon shook his head and paced the room. “Out with it.”
Chris sighed again. “Well, first matter of business—there’s another dead body.”
Damon dug the fingernails of his left hand into his palm. His fist itched to punch through the plaster wall. Someone might as well have stabbed him in the back and twisted the knife. Knowing the news before he called didn’t make it any easier.
“Damon, you still there, man?”
Damon unclenched his fist and tried to focus. He would not let his emotions distract him. Not again. “Yeah, I’m here.” He shook his head. The Rochester P.D. would jump all over this. Already they deemed the murders the work of a serial killer with vampiric delusions. Another victim with fang marks would fuel the fire.
What kind of bloodsucker didn’t seal up the damn fang holes after he sank his teeth in? Even the dumbest vamps knew to keep themselves hidden from the public eye. Was one small lick to close the wound too much to ask?
“Victim is a Caucasian female. Only sixteen. Found four blocks away from Manhattan Square Park. A connection with the police force called it in to us. Body’s in the morgue of the Golisano Children’s Hospital at the University of Rochester Medical Center. As of now, she’s listed as Jane Doe. No ID on her and, well...from the crime scene photos we’ve been sent, it won’t be easy to identify her. You better get over there soon.”
Damon leaned against the nearest wall and rested his head on his forearm. “What’s the other news?”
A moment of silence passed on the other end of the line before Chris cleared his throat. “There’s, uh...there’s been a new development in Mark’s case.”
Damon snapped upright, his whole body rigid. All his senses peaked, and adrenaline raced through his bloodstream. “What do you mean ‘a new development’? He’s dead, Chris. His body burned in the fire. I saw him lying on the ground, bled out and dead, before the building exploded, and we know exactly who killed him. What kind of ‘new development’ can there be?” Desperation and anxiety hit him hard, and he knew his voice wavered. His hands were shaking.
“I’m so sorry, Damon.”
All the wind rushed from Damon’s lungs and bile rose in the back of his throat as he realized what Chris was saying. “No. No. He can’t...no....” He lost the ability to speak. His stomach churned.
“Another hunter spotted him in New York City a few days ago. The information just made it into the system. He’s not dead, Damon. He turned.”
The phone fell from Damon’s hand. His heart pounded in his ears, and red clouded his vision. A sharp pain flamed in his chest as if someone had driven a blade straight through his heart. Mark had turned. He wasn’t dead. No...
A loud angry battle cry ripped from Damon’s throat, and tears ran down his face. He gave in and punched his fist into the wall. A large chunk of plaster crumbled to the floor, but no one heard over the loud thumping of the music.
Mark was worse than dead. He was a bloodsucking leech, and the fault fell on Damon’s shoulders. Images of him and his best friend, his comrade, flashed through his mind.
“There’s nothing worse than becoming a vamp.” Mark sharpened the end of his silver blade as he sat next to Damon.
The training room smelled of male sweat, blood and heavy artillery. After a full day of training, all the muscles in Damon’s body ached. He nodded. “Nothing worse.”
“At the very least, I’m glad my family didn’t turn. In that respect, I’m glad they’re dead.” Mark glanced down at the blade in his hand. “Promise me that if I ever get turned, you’ll stake me straight in the chest.”
Damon shook his head. “That’ll never happen.”
Mark thumped him hard on the back. “I mean it, D. Promise me.”
Damon let out a long huff. He clapped Mark on the back in return. “I promise.”
* * *
Damon threw another punch at the wall, then started pounding the plaster with his fists and praying the images in his head would disappear. Mark’s body lying on the pavement with puncture wounds in his neck. The blood. Oh, God, the blood and the stillness of his body as he lay across the concrete. Dust clouded the air, and Damon’s knuckles bled as he released every ounce of rage coursing through his bones.