There.
Sprinting faster than I ever had, I skidded around a corner, grinning as my prey came into view. He stumbled while looking over his shoulder. The stench of fear hung in the air as I followedhim into a warehouse. My wolf snarled, but I held the sound in my throat.
Inside, it was silent. No distant running footsteps or heaving breaths. He was hiding. My grin widened, gleeful at the prospect of a hunt.
“Come on out and tell me what you gave Sorcha.”
Silence.
I walked over to my left, weaving through the shelves of plumbing parts. His scent faded a little. With a smile, I retraced my steps and moved to the right. It became stronger, the fear in it more pungent, only now I could scent the blood coming from him, too.
“Come on, you’re a dead man anyway, you know that. If I don’t kill you, the Count will. Probably when you least expect it. At least, this way you get to choose the manner of your death.”
I heard a shaky and slow, yet unmistakable, inhalation of breath. I grinned and walked closer to the rack of toilet cisterns.
“Last chance. I can hear you breathing. I know exactly where you are.”
“Fine!” The wire racking rattled and shook as a man wriggled out from under it. Blood dripped down his face and neck, dried, crispy rivulets flaking as he moved. He winced as he fought to straighten his spine. The scent of blood made my mouth water, the urge to drink him dry strong enough to make me sweat.
“Who are you?” My voice was animalistic and altered by the sharp teeth stretching my mouth, but it was understandable enough.
The man tilted his head, his breathing heavy, his skin sweaty and pale. Running had cost him. Pain was etched across his face and in the tightness around his eyes. He even grabbed his ribs. I’d clearly broken a few by throwing him against the fridge. Good. I took a step closer, but he didn’t back away. Either he was brave, stupid, or in too much pain. I guessed the first and last.
“Brian.”
I smiled, though it was more threatening than friendly, and shrank back to my regular size, which was still at least eight inches taller than him. “Well, Brian. You need to tell me what your friend gave Sor. If it kills her, it won’t matter where he hides, I’ll track him down and end him in far worse ways than you can ever imagine.”
“Kill her? No, no, you don’t understand. We saved her. It was an antidote.”
“What? An antidote to what?”
“There was a woman there, a redhead. We followed her into the club…”
“What’s that got to do with Sorcha?” I was getting impatient, and my snappy tone showed it. I didn’t believe this crap at all.
Brian tensed. “Look, I know it looks bad, but it’s true. Her name’s Cynthia. She’s a witch, and she’s trying to stop the prophecy.”
I snorted. “A prophecy? What the fuck are you talking about? Prophecies don’t exist, they're just for religious fanatics and fantasy books…”
“No!” His face took on an almost desperate look. “You have to believe me. I’m telling the truth. You’re a part of it. You both have to stay alive. The Count, too…”
“I have every intention of staying alive, but I don’t believe in prophecies. I make my own luck…”
“Do you? Everything that’s happened to you has brought you to this time and place: You were a rogue alpha, you got caught by a madman who made a deal with the devil, and you met the most powerful shifter in the world. You escaped incarceration together and took on being Alpha to a town that put you in the right place at the right time to be taken by the vampires. That led to the Count saving your life and claiming you as his. Don't you see?”
My eyes narrowed. I was done with this fanciful conversation. “No, I don’t. That was all coincidence, not a damned prophecy.”
He shook his head vehemently. “No. You are the trifecta. The Vampire, the wolf, and the…”
There was a dull thud, and he looked down in surprise. So did I. An arrow protruded from his chest. He coughed, bright blood spluttering down his chin. “Sorcha Sullivan will. Live. Stay with the Count… Save him...” He didn’t finish. Just fell face-first onto the concrete. I spun, my vampiric wolf surfacing, but four consecutive strikes to my torso stole my breath. I staggered a little before I forced myself upright and released a roar that shook the air.
In front of me stood a man in army fatigues. No, not a man, a Made. The red ring around his blue irises glowed. He tilted his head and gave me a smirk as he took in the fact that I was about to launch at him.
“I wouldn’t advise that. I know you are immune to arrows, even silver bullets, which is impressive by the way. But these arrows are tipped with concentrated Hemlock. You have roughly five to seven minutes before you start feeling its effects. You need to listen so you can get back to that fucker, Rossi, and he can keep you alive. So let’s talk quickly.”
I glanced around. I was surrounded by Mades, all training bows on me. I knew I could survive silver bullets and horrific blood loss, but the thought of being flooded by a poison gave me pause. “What do you want?”
He gave me a lazy grin, all white teeth and sinister charm. He was a handsome fucker, I’d give him that. “You.”
