Roger’s vision settled, and he took in his surroundings. How odd that the hotel suite that had been the home for the five of them for weeks was in nearly the order they’d left it in. The couches were pushed out from the center of the living room because they’d practiced their ballroom dances one last time before the party. Where the lights had dimmed during the fight, they were back to their usual brightness. The bar and large television remained untouched from the fight.
But the glass doors leading to the balcony were broken. A gaping hole and the scent of blood on the air were evidence that part of the fight had gone that way.
Zack had been fighting Seamus, and Roger had been too busy with Anton to help him.
Takashi had fought at Roger’s side until Anton had snapped his neck to knock him out. Where was he? He had been close.
Kit and Carver had to be somewhere nearby. They were vulnerable mortals, made more so by Roger’s decision to exclude them from his true mission.
Where were his friends? His lovers? Were any of them still alive? Who was calling to him?
Moving was a mistake. Roger had fought with every ounce of his spirit with the belief that he might not live another moment. Doing so had torn through his stored energy, and without that power in his veins, his hunger became a thirst so fierce that his throat was rougher than the barnacles caked onto the underside of a hull that hadn’t been cleaned in three decades. He ground his teeth. The pain of his fangs pricking his gums was minor compared to the rest of his aches.
There was blood. He smelled a pool of it behind him, and he turned toward it.
Carver was lying in the doorway, his body keeping the exit open. Another flash of memory sparked for Roger. Seamus had torn Carver’s throat open.
The blood would be no good for Roger.
That the realization came before the first pang of grief drove a dagger deep into Roger’s heart. Carver had been a friend and someone who had shared his blood with Roger. He had been a mortal boy with a broad smile and an easygoing love for life.
And he was dead because of Roger. Because Roger couldn’t see that he hadn’t been acting the part of a fool but been one.
He staggered to his feet.Migrainewas a mundane word for the agony threatening to shred his mind. A whine filled his ears, some indiscernible pitch that had to be a concoction of his inner senses rather than something real. Every thought was sluggish, especially when memories danced in front of his vision. Nearby was a source of fresh, wondrous blood. He wanted to lap it up.
No, that’s the life draining from someone I care about. I don’t want to kill them.Roger struggled out of the remnantsof his tuxedo jacket and dropped the ruined silver fabric to the floor. “Where are you?”
“Over here!”
Fuck, there was a lot of “here” in the suite. The pitched note in his ears moved to a higher frequency and stopped blocking the deeper sounds. He could pick out heartbeats. Two pulses pounded away, one fast while the other was weaker but steady.
Two? There should have beenfour. Wait, no. Carver was already gone. Three. He should have heard three.
Roger stumbled toward the source of the heartbeats. On the floor, he discovered a white-gold dagger pendant on a beautiful, broken chain. It had a pink tourmaline gem—Zack’s birthstone—set in the tiny pommel and little diamonds on either side of the hilt and in a line down the center of the two-inch pendant. Takashi had given it to Zack for his birthday. Though it took far too much energy, Roger scooped it up from the floor and slid it into his pocket.He’ll want this back.
A muffled cry drew his attention. Whoever was alive was hiding behind the bar. He was moving closer to the fresh blood, but he throttled his hunger and choked it into submission. He was over three hundred years old and would not fall into a blood frenzy.
A smear of blood across the floor led him through the furniture and to his destination.
Kit lay on the floor. Deep red soaked their beautiful silver dress, the light failing to illuminate any of the sparkles. Their eyes were closed, and they lacked tension in their body, dangerously close to having the sort of stillness that only came to the dead. Against the pallor of their skin, their dyed red hair was a brilliant shock of color. They had shifted into their hybrid form, and they had long foxlike ears, a tail, and claws on the tips of their fingers.
Holding a blanket to the largest of Kit’s wounds, Vincent trembled as he continued to press down. His right eye was puffy, and the red marks on his arms were more bruises than welts. His lip was split anew from his shouts. Every mortal Roger met anymore felt young, but Vincent couldn’t be older than Zack. Besides the hallmarks of youth clinging to Vincent, Roger knew what sort of mortal Seamus claimed. The young and helpless.
As Vincent choked on tears while trying to staunch Kit’s bleeding, Roger’s mental winds shifted, and his sails snapped into place. He had to step up for Kit’s and Vincent’s sakes. He had to take action before Kit was lost.
Roger went to his knees beside Kit. “They’re a shifter. We need to reposition the blanket before it heals into the wound.”
Immediately, Vincent lifted the cloth. Rather than sticking, blood welled too quickly.
I could lap it up. Suck it down.
NO.
Darting forward, Roger snatched the blanket from Vincent and pressed it back onto Kit. “They should have been healing.”
“Zack.” Vincent coughed on the name and started again, wiping tears from his eyes. “They were helping Zack fight Seamus, and … and Seamus blurred out of the way and made Zack cut them.”
“They were cut with the enchanted silver.” Roger fought the urge to clench his hands. He had to keep the pressure steady. But was there a point?
