Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel) (14 page)

But real. Yeah...he was really looking forward to getting together with Cicatrice. Maybe they'd exchange a few laughs over some bourbon, do the male bonding thing, and then try to crush each other. A thousand-year-old vampire against one that was less than a year old. Brawn versus brain. Or...something like that.

Grimly, Tristan eyed the largest stake on the wall, a long, wooden one covered with ancient engravings. It bled power, the kind of old-world power that hummed when he neared it. The other wooden stakes were just pieces of wood. Useless against him. He'd jabbed a few through his hand just to test them, and the hole had closed up within moments.

But the center stake was different. He'd tried to touch it twice, but he hadn't even been able to get close enough to grip it. The power emanating from it was intense, and incredibly dangerous.

Would it be enough to take down Cicatrice?

Slowly, he stood up and walked over to it. He studied it for a moment, inspecting the carvings on it. He picked up one of the small sacks placed around the corners of the room and dumped the powdered contents out onto the floor. He wrapped the burlap around his hand as protection, then grasped the stake. Sparks leapt into his hand, and he steeled himself against the pain as he took it down. This stake was special, he knew. This stake would do the job.

He turned it over in his hand, his body tensing as the ancient weapon hummed louder. The vibration was just the right pitch to set his teeth on edge, and he knew that was intentional. It was a vampire stake. One designed to kill monsters like him.

Testing it, he turned it so the end of the stake hovered above his chest, over his heart. He angled it so the tip pointed directly at his heart. Pain exploded through him instantly, and he gasped. The stake fell from his hand, landing with a clatter on the floor. He went down on his knees, his hand pressed over his chest as he fought to stay conscious.

It took several minutes before he recovered enough to drag himself away from the stake. With each yard he put between himself and the weapon, the humming became less agitated and urgent, and the pain diminished.

When he finally reached the far side of the temple, he sat down, using the wooden wall to prop himself up. He realized his hand was still over his chest. Curious, he pulled it away to inspect the damage. A black burn mark in the shape of the vampire ward was seared into his chest.

Oh, hell, that couldn't be good. He leaned over, grabbing a fistful of dirt from the pile he'd brought inside. He packed it over the wound, and then closed his eyes. The mark began to tingle, and a healing warmth formed under the dirt.

Yeah, the things he'd figured out about himself over the last year: drink blood, heal with dirt, and stay away from enchanted wooden stakes. Not exactly what he'd been hoping to learn when he'd embarked on his quest to find out what he was and where he came from.

As the dirt worked its magic, Tristan opened his eyes and studied the stake, which was still on the floor. It had marked him without even touching his flesh? What would it do if it were plunged into the heart of a vampire?

He had a good idea of the result. A part of him was tempted to shove the thing into his chest and not become the creature that was inexorably taking him over.

But that would be the easy out, the one that didn't take responsibility for the vampire making this town its hunting ground. And there was his brother to consider. If he used it on himself, Eric would die. But if he didn't use it, and he became like Cicatrice...how many would die because of him?

None.
None.
He was stronger than that.
He was stronger.
He had to find a way to stop Cicatrice, and himself. He knew it was time to confront Cicatrice. The longer he delayed, the tighter the grip his dark side would have on him.

It was time to become the hunter.

He dusted the dirt off his chest. The mark had faded only slightly. Shit. He didn't want to go beneath the earth to heal. If he were asleep underground, he would have no defense against Cicatrice.

It would have to wait.

He grabbed another of the gris-gris bags and dumped more powder out. Then he walked over to the stake and crouched next to it. It was humming again, and a faint, blood-red glow was emanating from it. He double-wrapped his hand in the first bag, and then picked up the stake. He dropped it into the second bag, and then tied it shut. The stake was still humming, and the bag was now glowing a faint red.

Shit. He was supposed to carry that around? It would burn his damned hip in a second.

He quickly inserted the bagged stake into the other bag, and tied that as well. The humming was much less, and the bag was barely red. It took two more bags before it was finally quiet. The floor of the shed was covered in the gray powder that he'd dumped out, and his jaw hurt from tensing against the humming, but it was secure.

He was ready for Cicatrice.

His heart thudding slowly in his chest, he stood up. His muscles were taut, his adrenaline jacked. It was time to face his maker—

A scent caught his attention.

He spun toward the door, moving with lightning quickness. He went utterly still, breathing deeply of the scent that drifted through the wood. Blood. Rich, tantalizing, and tempting. A woman. No, two of them. Outside.

A ravaging hunger and a burning lust tore through him, a need so instinctual and deep that it obliterated all thought from his mind. His incisors lengthened, and a savage need burned through him so intensely that it hurt. Their voices drifted through the closed door, faint, but easily discernible with his newly enhanced hearing. Their laughter drifted through the night, the giddy delight of youth.

Hell. They were practically children. No more than twenty at the most.

He closed his eyes, his muscles so taut that they were like rocks. He commanded his body to stay still. He would not prey on the innocent. Never.
Leave here now.
He instinctively pushed the thought toward them, reaching for their minds the way Cicatrice had done with him.

More laughter, and he heard their footsteps on the front porch as they dared each other to approach the haunted shack.

Hunger ate away at his self-control, and his stomach contracted with the need to feed. The scent of their blood filled his nostrils. The tangy, sweet smell of life. The void within him roared even louder, a howling wind of emptiness trying to drag what was left of his soul into it.

He stumbled backward, the bagged stake sliding from his fingers as he fought the primal instinct building inside him.

The doorknob rattled, and hunger roared through him.

No!
He bellowed the command, thrusting all his mental energy at them.
Get away! Go home! Run!

His words connected with their minds, and he felt their sudden fear. Their screams pulsated through him, an icy cold stab of terror that ignited an even greater need in him. A need to
hunt
the fleeing pre
y.
To chase them.

No. He would not go. His body shaking with the effort of controlling his instinct to attack them, he held himself still as their feet pounded the earth and their screams faded into the distance. Their car roared to life, and then it was gone.

Dinner was gone.

But the need for them wasn't.

Their scent, their fear, and their flight had awakened a need in him that he could no longer control. Tristan knew he couldn't wait any longer, or he wouldn't be at liberty to choose. His need would make the choice for him. The next female he scented would be his. He had to make sure it was the right one.

With a low growl, he tore open the door of the tomb and stepped out into the night, leaving the stake behind.

It was time to feed. The hunt would have to come later.

Something was tracking them.

Eric kept the truck speeding forward as he watched the road behind them in the rearview mirror. "What is it?" he asked. The tires hummed on the asphalt, but his preternatural senses were on high alert. The air had become heavy with threat, with the same taint of evil that he'd felt in the graveyard where he'd found Tristan's altar.

Another shadow flashed across the road behind them. It was too fast to discern, but it was definitely the size of a tall person, and walking upright.

Jordyn sucked in her breath as she twisted around in her seat, staring at the road. "I can't tell," she said. "It was too quick."

Eric flexed his hands on the steering wheel and reached out with his mind. The sudden noise was almost deafening. There were so many spirits in the air, swirling and raging. Screaming and howling. He tried to filter through them, but the cacophony was a violent mass of confused noise. "We must be near a burial ground."

"A burial ground?" She twisted around in her seat, scanning the woods. "No, not a burial ground. We're near the site of the great harvest."

"Harvest?" Something flashed across the road again, closer this time. It was gaining on them. "What kind of harvest?"

"Humans. It was back in the days when the vampires were active. Before they were destroyed."

"Well, hell." Had the bodies been left to rot and decay in that very space? Their spirits trapped forever? Swearing, he tried to sift through them, searching for something that could help.

A shadow flashed past his window, and Jordyn gripped the seat. "It's there."

"I know—"

Suddenly, a man appeared in front of the truck. He slammed his hands down on the hood. Eric swore and hit the brakes. The truck skidded violently across the road as he fought to maintain control. He'd barely gotten it stopped when the man leapt up onto the hood of the truck and crouched there, like a panther about to attack.

Jordyn went still beside him. "Oh, God," she whispered. "This is really bad."

"You think?" The man's face was shockingly handsome, chiseled as if it were carved from stone. His hair was long and flowing around his shoulders, and his clothes were ancient, from many centuries ago. He was wearing black, fitted pants, a white ruffled shirt, and leather gloves, as if he'd been out driving his team of horses only moments ago. "I think Tristan's been at work. Is this Cicatrice?"

"No. Cicatrice has a scarred face."

"So, then, a lesser vampire. No problem. We got this." Energy swirled around Eric, the spirits disturbed by the vampire's presence. Eric thrust his mind outward into the night, searching for energy that would help him. Death. Destruction. Suffering. He brought the spirits together, holding them tightly in a metaphysical ball within him. It coiled through him, vibrating dangerously, seeking a foothold in his soul. "Don't get between me and him," he said softly to Jordyn. "No matter what."

She was already digging in her bag. "I have this stake that will kill him—"

The vampire's gaze went straight to Jordyn at her words, and his eyes glowed a bright red. She froze, her hand buried in her bag. "There's no stake in this bag," she whispered. "Someone stole it."

The vampire's attention was riveted on Jordyn, and the muscles in his neck were flexing. His eyes were glowing with an evil that crawled over Eric's skin like poison. The creature wasn't moving. He was poised on the hood of the truck as if he were waiting for them to run, so the game could begin.

Shit. He didn't like this. They were trapped in the truck, and he had no room to protect Jordyn. "How fast can they run?" he asked, as he moved his hand to his side and set his palm over his knife.

"Faster than we can drive," she said. "Faster than we can see."

"Then I guess we face him now." Pulling all the energy of the spirits closer, Eric suddenly flung open his truck door and vaulted out onto the road. "Hey!" he shouted. "Over here—"

The vampire moved fast. Too fast. He spun toward Eric and sprang off the truck, moving so quickly he was nothing more than a blurred shadow. He hit Eric in the chest before Eric even saw him, slamming him back into the ground so hard that the asphalt cracked beneath Eric's head. The vampire grabbed him and tore into Eric's neck with his teeth. Pain shot through Eric, and he slammed his hands onto the vampire's chest, exploding his magic into the vampire.

Green mist filled the night, and the vampire flew backward, careening through the air and skidding a hundred yards across the road. The moment it came to a halt, it bounded to its feet as quickly as Eric jumped up.

Neither male moved. They stood immobile, facing each other down with a hundred yards of cracked pavement between them, and dark, foggy woods on either side. Eric could feel the blood oozing down his neck, and he knew the bite was bad. He was bleeding too much. He had to end this battle, now, before the blood loss became too great.

He could sense the vampire's hunger, a craving so deep and so dark that he could feel it in his own gut. It was as if his entire body was screaming for salvation, and that Eric's blood would save him.

Eric had known that kind of hunger before, and he knew that the survival instinct would compel the vampire to do
anything
to save itself, including rip his throat out and gut Jordyn.
Shit.
He opened his mind to the vampire, traveling over the same pathways that he used to connect with the spirits. All he got from the creature was evil. Hunger. Survival. Base emotions that left no room for anything else, like a sense of basic human values. Son of a bitch.

They were in trouble.

Eric began to amass his powers again, calling them to him from everywhere. He took the magic from the night. He harvested the unknown. He controlled the ethereal. He summoned it all into his body, sifting through it with rapid speed to assess what he'd harnessed—

He heard the door of his truck open, and he swore, not daring to take his attention off the vampire as Jordyn eased out of the truck on the far side. "Jordyn, get back in the truck."

"No." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move to the front of the truck, her body illuminated by the headlights. She was pressed against the grill, keeping the vehicle between her and the vampire. "He's not going to stop until we're both dead."