1
JERICHO
Snow crunches beneath my boots as I exit the movie theater, and I yank the collar of my jacket up. It’s unbearably cold, even for November in Northern Idaho. I climb into my van and crank the heat, rubbing my hands together for warmth.
As I wait for the windows to clear of fog and frost, something gnaws at my insides. Not hunger, but a need just the same. The need toknow. To be sure Evan O'Connor is all right. It has been ten months since I last heard his voice or saw his gorgeous blue eyes up close. Ten months since I felt the warmth of his touch on my skin. Even if his touches hadn't meant what I wanted them to mean, I still crave them.
Without thinking, I drive down Whitehawk Lane to the familiar single-story red brick home. Evan rented it back in college, and I wasn’t surprised to discover he was still living there when I returned to Comstead. Evan is nothing if not a man of routine.
Seeing it though, the plain house with a single detached garage, had made me ache with longing the first time I drove by. I nearly cried. How can such a small building hold so many memories? All those late-night study sessions, or the times I’d slept over to wean off a hangover. The long conversations we’d shared, pretending to haveour lives figured out. The movie marathons on his lumpy thrift store couch. Evan used to tease me about my obsession with foreign films, yet through the course of our friendship he’d memorized a few of them right along with me. For four years, I spent hot summer nights on his front porch, bonding over cheap beer and microwavable popcorn.
Those days feel like a lifetime ago now. An eternity.
When I reach his house, an unfamiliar blue SUV is parked in the driveway, the windows slightly steamed as though the engine had been turned off only a few minutes ago. My senses go on high alert when I see two figures silhouetted behind a sheer curtain, their stiff postures and jagged movements laced with tension.
I slow the van to a crawl, trying to stay out of sight. I can’t afford to be seen. Or rather,hecan’t.
Keep moving, Jericho. You can’t be here.
But I can’t abandon him either. If he’s in trouble…
I wait, taking in every sound, every flash of movement. When one of the men takes a swing at the other, I throw the van into park and run to the front door, opening it with enough force that one of the hinges pops free. Two men whirl around, and my heart sinks at the blood on Evan’s beautiful face. He’d been on the receiving end of that punch.
Instantly, my lips pull back, and I bare my teeth. A guttural roar lodges in my throat as I stalk over to the stranger. Slamming him to the ground, I close a hand around his throat, stopping just shy of crushing his windpipe. He smells of stale beer and peanuts.
I turn to Evan. “Do you want him to live?”
My friend gapes. “Wh-what?”
“He hurt you.” As if that excuses my behavior. “Do you want him to live, or can I rip his throat out?”
Evan doesn’t reply. Just stares at me with those stunning blue eyes of his.God. I’ve missed that unique shade of blue.
When his gaze drops to my mouth, I don’t bother retracting my fangs. It’s too late anyway. He would’ve seen them. And if he hadn’t, my speed and force would’ve been a dead giveaway that something is different about me now.
He blinks wildly, taking it in. I can practically see the pieces clicking together in his head as the truth hits him.
Thisis why I'd ghosted him.
Thisis why I'd cut him out of my life all those months ago, why I’d avoided all of his calls.
Because I’d been turned into a vampire.
The crack of a gunshot rings through the room, startling us both. Evan cries out in pain a split second before the sharp, sweet scent of blood hits my nose. I snarl and tighten my hold around the guy’s throat. How did I miss that the asshole had a gun?
Evan stumbles to the floor, landing on his back as a crimson stain appears on his shirt, dangerously close to his heart.
Instinct kicks in and allows only one thought:Protect.
In one quick move, I knock the gun away and sink my teeth into the stranger’s throat. He writhes under me as I drink his blood, swinging at me with both arms, but his efforts are futile. My strength is no match for a human. After several swallows, he goes limp in my arms.
Without sparing him a second glance, I spring across to the other side of the room and kneel beside Evan, cradling his head in my lap. Blood stains his chest and stomach, but there is still, somehow, relief in his eyes.
Relief that I killed the guy, or that I finally came back?
Evan cries out when I roll him on his side and lift his shirt, and I immediately let out a breath.
“Oh, thank God. The bullet went through you.” I bite into my forearm and hold it above Evan’s mouth. “Drink,” I demand. “It will only take a few swallows to heal you. Please, Evan. I'll explain later.”
