seen and done many irrational, senseless things over the past forty years of her life. And this was probably another—but still she reached for the manhole cover, after setting her flashlight down on the asphalt, its beam directed toward the opening to the sewer.
But when she reached for the cover, the light moved off it. The beam rose, shining into her eyes—blinding her. She squinted against the light. “Who’s there?”
She hadn’t heard anyone enter the alley. Had felt no other presence. But, like last night in her bedroom, she was suddenly not alone.
“Is it you?” She reached for her holster—and the gun—even though it had done nothing that night. If she believed her late-night visitor, he had survived the bullets she’d fired into him. If she believed him, she couldn’t kill him. “What do you want with me?”
But she received no verbal reply. Her only answer was physical, as the beam swung down, and the heavy metal flashlight struck her head. For a moment she glimpsed a shadow behind the beam—tall, broad-shouldered. Dark.
It could have been him.
But then everything else went dark as Kate fell and her body struck the asphalt.
* * *
She was going to die. She was actually surprised that she wasn’t already dead—especially given what she had done to the pack—the dissension she had caused. But there was a reason they hadn’t killed her yet. They intended to use her as bait to draw Warrick and Reagan back to St. James—the village their father had founded in a remote area of the upper peninsula of Michigan.
But to draw them back, one of them would actually have to care about her. She glanced around the log and fieldstone cabin—empty but for her and the memories she had made there. Good and bad.
No. Reagan and Warrick weren’t coming back. And she couldn’t stay—because once the others realized that she served no purpose, they would kill her.
Sylvia’s fingers trembled as she struggled with the zipper on her suitcase. She had to hurry because time was running out. Warrick and Reagan had already been gone too long.
Maybe they had already killed each other, or maybe they had been killed. Grief and guilt struck her like a blow, and her eyes stung from the pain, tearing up. But she had already shed too many tears—of guilt and pain and loss and, if she was to be honest, self-pity. She blinked away the moisture and ignored the sting.
And wouldn’t she know if he was dead? They’d had such a strong—almost otherworldly—connection. Their souls had called to each other. But if that connection was real, he wouldn’t have left her.
That relationship hadn’t been real; it had been only a fantasy. But something real had come of that fantasy.
And so she had to be strong now—because her life wasn’t the only life she needed to save. She pressed her shaking hand over her swelling belly. She had to leave before the others figured out that Warrick and Reagan weren’t coming back. Dragging the suitcase off the bed, she turned toward the door and finally she realized that she wasn’t alone.
And that it was already too late...
* * *
Warrick was too late. He could already smell her blood, the scent—so thick and sweet—burned his flaring nostrils. He rushed into the alley. Blind in the darkness until his eyes adjusted to the deep shadows, he could have been jumped—had whoever attacked her still been present.
But he cared less about his own safety than he cared about hers. And with good reason. She was alone in the alley, lying on the asphalt. Her hair tangled across her face, the ends of it falling into the blood pooled beneath her head.
His heart kicked his ribs as fear and concern jolted him. He had once wanted to see her like this—in those moments after she’d shot him and he had writhed in pain on the asphalt. He had wanted to see her lying in her own blood, like he had been. But that killer vengeance had lasted only for those pain-filled moments. As he’d told her vampire friend, he knew she’d only been doing her job that night.
He dropped to his knees beside her and skimmed his fingers across her face, brushing her hair from her eyes. They were closed. Because she was unconscious or dead? Blood oozed from a deep gash on her forehead, staining her skin red on the path it had taken across her face to the asphalt.
“What were you doing here tonight?” he wondered. “Doing your job?” Or looking for him again? But she considered that her job, finding and arresting him for assault. If she only knew the circumstances...
She probably still wouldn’t condone his vigilante justice. She wouldn’t understand that he had to reclaim his honor to reclaim his position in the pack.
His fingers trembled as they trailed down her cheek to her throat where he felt for her pulse. It stirred beneath his fingertips, faint but steady.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Hang in there.” He glanced around the alley, but unlike the night Sebastian had come to his aid, no one stepped from the shadows—or the sewer—to help. Dare he move her to that secret clinic? Or would moving her hurt her more? It couldn’t hurt her any more than leaving her alone and vulnerable in the alley.
If any of the other creatures of the underground caught the scent of her blood...
She wouldn’t survive the feeding frenzy.
He slid his arms beneath her and gently lifted her limp body. Her head lolled back, blood dripping from her wound. He grasped her closer and cradled her neck in one hand.
“How the hell did I get to that clinic?” he muttered. He’d blacked out for a while and had just briefly regained consciousness in the passageway beneath the alley.
His attention zeroed in on the manhole cover near where she’d been lying. Was that what she had been investigating when she got attacked?
“Oh, God, you have to let this drop,” he implored her—even though she couldn’t hear him. But learning about the Secret Vampire Society would get her killed for certain. So if he took her down that manhole, he was risking her life. But if he didn’t get her help...
She was human. She would really die. And that was something that he couldn’t just watch happen. Hopefully, she would not regain consciousness in the sewer. He kicked the cover aside and stepped into the hole, feeling for the rungs with his feet. Careful of her head, he maneuvered her through the opening and descended into the passageway that led from the alley to the basement clinic.
Holding her close, he knocked—using his foot—on the riveted steel door. “Someone’s gotta be here...”
She hadn’t stirred, hadn’t even murmured, and her body was so limp, so lifeless. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe she had already lost too much blood...
He kicked harder at the steel, so that the door vibrated in the jamb. “Come on! I need help!”
The knob rattled as a lock turned and finally the door opened. He breathed a sigh of relief while Dr. Davison cursed. Shoving past the surgeon, Warrick carried Kate to the table.
“What the hell did you do to her?” Dr. Davison asked, his dark eyes hard with suspicion and anger. The doctor wasn’t old—at least not by vampire standards—but gray liberally sprinkled his dark hair.
“I didn’t do this,” Warrick hotly denied. Maybe he’d once considered hurting her, but he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to actually do her harm. Now the person or creature that had hurt her...
Even the special surgeon wouldn’t be able to save that animal after Warrick got done with him.
“Then what the hell happened to Kate?” The doctor grabbed up some instruments.
“You know her?”
“She’s my wife’s best friend,” Dr. Davison shared as he leaned over her and examined the gash on her head. Then he checked her neck, too, probably for puncture wounds.