Before I could reply, he pulled the trigger.
The shot felt like being punched in the chest. Then, an instant later, came the pain.
I winced and zipped forward in a blur of speed. When vampires accelerate, our perception slows to a crawl. I placed myself behind Mr. Peterson.
Given that he was human, his reflexes were incredible. He didn’t have that bewildered moment ofoh no, where did he go?Instead, he dropped to the floor without missing a beat and kicked out viciously. His foot connected with my knee, and I felt something tear.
My breath escaped my lips in a startled gasp. If the gunshot was painful, this was excruciating.
I sagged, a wave of surprise crashing over me. Unlike most of the serial killers I dispatched, this guy was no slouch. Had he studied martial arts at some point? That didn’t seem especially sporting.
Then he rolled onto his back, raised the gun, and fired again. This time, the impact struck the center of my chest.
In addition to being into kung fu, he was apparently an excellent shot.
I was still the better predator, though.
Deciding to let myself heal for a moment—no one likes committing murder with a busted knee—I fell onto my back, sucked in a gasping breath, and let it out in a rasp before I stopped breathing. I let my eyes go vacant and staring.
I was mildly impressed, actually. It had been a long while since a victim got the drop on me. I was annoyed, as well. That didn’t bode well for Mr. Peterson.
He stood over me, looking down. There was something close to disappointment on his face. “Well,” he muttered, heaving a sigh. “You certainly didn’t last long, did you?”
It wasn’t hard to piece together why he was so crestfallen. I had surprised him, but my presence had been a gift. Another chance to scratch that itch. He had wanted to watch the light go out of my eyes. He had wanted to see my last, desperate struggles. And here I was, lying motionless. Too easy a death to gain any real pleasure from.
I needed to kill him, of course.
The footage from the automotive shop I’d reviewed at the police station was conclusive: Mr. Peterson was the man I wasafter. Why on earth was it always middle-aged white men? Regardless, he couldn’t be allowed to take any more lives.
So why did this all feel so perfunctory?
Even lying on my back, quite literally playing dead, didn’t feel right. In the past, I’d done exactly this in the rare instances when a killer got in a decent blow. I had enjoyed the element of surprise—that moment of sheer disbelief that their violence had failed them.
But it had never been to allow myself to heal—and really, it wasn’t now, either.
In truth, I was stalling, wasn’t I?
Even when I tried, I no longer cared who the biggest predator was. Nor did I feel especially thirsty for his blood. In fact, the thought of any part of him coming near me filled me with revulsion. Strange, given that I’d never been especially opposed to feasting on serial killers before.
The ritual felt different now. The only thing that remained the same was the conviction that Mr. Peterson couldn’t be allowed to live.
Deciding it was best to just get it over with, I was about to climb to my feet in a burst of supernatural speed when footsteps ran down the stairs.
I froze.
Was he working with someone else? Was the house less empty than I’d assumed?
Mr. Peterson went very still. “Ah,” he said, smiling as he watched the stairs. “You weren’t alone.”
Creepy—that he thought I was dead but was still talking to me. But who was I to judge?
The footsteps grew closer—an adult man, by the sound of it—bounding down the stairs.
Then Eli burst into view. Tears burned tracks down his cheeks, and he gripped a butcher knife so hard his knuckles were turning white.
Mr. Peterson cocked the gun, his smile widening.
“No!” Eli yelled, freezing as he took in the scene. His eyes landed on my motionless body, and something crumpled in his expression. He wavered on his feet, like he might collapse under the weight of what he was feeling. “Nicolas!”
