IN STILL DARKNESS
DIANNE DUVALL
Chapter One
Like the last survivor in a postapocalyptic world, Richart d’Alençon strode down the deserted North Carolinian street. Buildings long since abandoned for the night stared out at him with vacant eyes. Quiet enfolded him, both comforting and disconcerting.
A new enemy had risen among the vampire ranks. A self-proclaimed vampire king, who had ordered his followers to transform their victims instead of just feeding from them. Most nights Richart fought and defeated two or three vamps at a time. A couple of the older immortals had been encountering groups of six, seven, and eight. But tonight . . .
Richart had not encountered a single vampire, and soon dawn would break.
A woman cried out in the distance, snagging his attention.
“H-how did you do that?” she asked shakily.
“He’s a vampire, bitch,” a young man taunted.
Darting between businesses, Richart plunged into the trees beyond, traveling so swiftly most humans wouldn’t see him. Those who did would see but a blur.
“Look into my eyes,” a second man said, artificially deepening his voice and speaking with a laughable B-movie version of a Transylvanian accent. “Look into my eyes and know me for who I am.”
Richart burst from the trees and raced through the oil-stained parking lot in front of a big-ass 24-hour superstore, letting the ridiculous conversation be his guide.
“I am Dracula,” the second vamp continued dramatically.
“Look,” the female captive countered, “just take the money. Here’s my purse. Take it.”
Richart almost laughed. She may not know what the hell was going on, but she wasn’t buying that the kid in front of her was the legendary horror figure Dracula.
“I don’t want your money,” Dracula said petulantly, losing the accent.
“Dude, just bite her,” a third vamp urged. “I’ve got shit to do.”
Richart zipped past two employees taking a smoking break. Busy chatting and texting, they would assume the breeze that ruffled their hair was caused by a gust of wind, not an immortal warrior seeking prey.
Circling around to the back of the sprawling concrete structure, he found three vampires. All appeared to be in their early twenties and huddled in the shadows between two Dumpsters, out of range of the cameras mounted on the corners of the building. Between their lanky forms, Richart glimpsed a small, slender figure shoved up against the wall and held there by a fourth vamp, the one who called himself Dracula.
“Shut up!” Dracula snarled at the others, then went B-movie Transylvanian again. “I am Dracula. I am . . . vampire.” He peeled his lips back and revealed gleaming fangs.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”
Richart could do nothing to free her until the vampire released her. If he struck now, the vamp could break her neck.
So he simply cleared his throat.
The vampires all looked in his direction.
“Where the hell did you come from?” one spouted and shifted, giving Richart a clearer view of the captive.
The woman turned her head to meet Richart’s gaze.
And the oddest little tingle danced through his chest.
She was pretty, with fiery red hair that fell just beneath her shoulders, pale freckled skin, and wide hazel eyes that met and held his, full of both hope and fear.
Dracula drew his lips farther back from his fangs and hissed like a cat.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Richart leaned against the building. “Yes—yes. I have a very nice pair of those myself.” He smiled, revealing the tips of his own fangs.
Hope fled her features as the woman turned back to Dracula.
“This one’s ours,” Dracula said, “so f*ck off. You know the king doesn’t want us to fight.”
These guys must be new. They didn’t even realize he was an immortal, not a vampire.
The woman surreptitiously stuck her hand in her purse, then yanked it out and sprayed Dracula in the eyes and mouth with pepper spray. With his heightened sense of smell and taste, it would’ve felt like she had just held a blowtorch to his face.
Dracula stumbled back, howling and scrubbing at his eyes.
Richart drew two daggers and shot forward, burying one to the hilt in Dracula’s chest and driving him away from the woman.
“Immortal Guardian!” the first vampire blurted.
Quick as lightning, Richart sliced Dracula’s carotid and brachial arteries, then turned to fight the remaining three.
The woman took off running. Two vamps converged on Richart with bowies as long as his forearm. Faster and stronger than the vampires, Richart fended off almost every blow and scored plenty of his own, stabbing and slicing until the vamps began to bleed out faster than the virus that infected them could repair the damage.
As the two sank to their knees, clasping their throats, Richart approached the last vampire.
He had caught the woman a few Dumpsters down, shoved her up against the wall, and sunk his teeth into her neck.
Richart swept over to the vampire’s side. The tip of his dagger pricked the skin above the vamp’s carotid artery.
The vampire froze, eyes darting toward Richart.
“Release her and back away,” Richart advised quietly.
The vampire tightened his arm around her torso and slid one hand up to grasp her chin. Fangs receding, he murmured, “Draw another drop of my blood and I’ll break her neck.”
As Richart watched, the boy backed away with the woman. One step. Two.
Richart remained still, biding his time.
Three more steps. The vampire shoved the woman at Richart with a touch of preternatural strength and took off, his form blurring as he fled into the night.
Richart stumbled backward and wrapped his arms around the woman to keep her from falling.
Clinging to the front of his shirt, she buried her face in his chest. “Is he gone?”
“Yes,” he responded, surprised she was so coherent. When vampires and immortals turned, glands formed above the retractable fangs they grew that released a chemical much like GHB under the pressure of a bite. So she should be slurring her words.
Hell, he was surprised she still stood.
“What about the others?”
“They’re gone,” he assured her. Or they would be soon. A quick glance confirmed that they were shriveling up like mummies as the virus, unable to heal their wounds fast enough to keep them from dying, devoured them from the inside out in a desperate bid to live. By the time it finished, nothing would remain of them save the clothing and jewelry they wore.
Weaving on her feet, the woman straightened and looked up at him. She couldn’t be much more than five feet tall and he was six foot one. “Y-your eyes are glowing.”
Her pupils were dilated, blocking out almost all of the pale green, leaving only a few flakes of brown.
Richart retracted his fangs. “Yes. I know it looks bad, but—”
She shook her head. “I think they’re beautiful.”
Was that the drug talking? Or did she really think so?
“You saved me,” she said, awe and gratitude in her melodic voice. Loosening her death grip on his shirt, she cupped his face in both hands.
His heart skipped.
When was the last time a woman had touched his face so tenderly?
When was the last time a woman had touched him at all? Other than his sister punching him in the shoulder, doing her damnedest to kick his ass when they sparred, or doling out a hug here or there, he honestly couldn’t remember.
“Thank you,” the woman whispered. Rising onto her toes, she drew his head down and brushed her lips against his.
The contact hit him like an electrical shock. His heart began to pound as she tilted her head and increased the pressure, brushing, stroking. She combed her fingers through his short, black hair, sending shivers through him.
He parted his lips, met her tongue with his when she boldly thrust hers forward.
Pure heat.
She leaned into him, clutched him tighter.
His body hardened. His breath shortened. His arms tightened around her.
Her knees went limp. Her lips tore away from his as her head fell back. Her eyes closed. Her mouth hung open, lips pink from kissing him.
Richart stared down at her as his pulse pounded in his ears.
Yeah. She was out.
Damn it. That had been the best kiss he’d had in at least a century.
And damn him for enjoying it. She was drugged, out of her senses. She wouldn’t even remember any of this when she woke up.
Sighing, he examined her neck to make sure she wasn’t bleeding from the vampire’s bite, which would soon heal and fade. He checked her pulse to ensure she hadn’t lost too much blood, then gently folded her over his shoulder.
Since he was finished hunting for the night, he would see if he couldn’t clean up this mess himself instead of calling in the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.
Opening the purse she had dropped, he drew out her keys and wallet. Her driver’s license yielded a name and address. He smiled. Jenna McBride. With her red hair and freckles, it suited her.
Thirty-seven years old.
Really? He would’ve guessed mid-to-late twenties.
Tucking the wallet away, he studied the keys. There weren’t many. Just a generic car key with no alarm to guide him to the right car in the parking lot, two door keys, and a worn Shrinky Dinks keychain that looked as if it had been fashioned by a child.
Was she married?
No. There had been no ring on her finger when she had clasped his face. And the vampires hadn’t stolen it. The only things they had desired were her blood and fear.
It doesn’t matter if she’s single. She’s human. You’re immortal.
No shopping bags littered the ground. The two employees taking a smoking break outside the superstore had worn the same color shirt and pants the woman did, so she must work there.
“Let’s get you home,” he murmured and raced around to the front of the building. So swift the surveillance cameras would only catch hazy movement that would likely be mistaken for a dust devil, Richart sped up and down the rows of vehicles until he came to an ’80s economy car that bore Jenna’s scent on the door handle.
Getting an unconscious woman into the passenger seat of such a small vehicle at preternatural speeds was awkward as hell, but he managed to do it. He slid behind the wheel, his knees practically impaling his chest. A quick seat adjustment and he started the car.
Minutes later, Richart pulled into the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex and brought the car to a halt beneath a second-floor door that bore the number on her license. Exiting, he readjusted the seat in hopes Jenna would think she had driven herself home and just been so tired she couldn’t remember it. He experienced a moment of unease when he opened the apartment door and immediately scented a male. Pausing just inside, he listened carefully.
Down the hall, someone slept. A lover, perhaps?
Richart carried Jenna, cradled peacefully in his arms, down the hallway and paused outside the first door.
Not a lover. Most likely a son. Though the bedroom door was closed, a male’s scent dominated the room. Jenna’s delightful scent, on the other hand, led him past a small bathroom to a bedroom at the end of the hallway.
He placed her on the unmade bed and gently removed her shoes. Drawing the covers up to her shoulders, he stared down at her.
He had done this so many times over the years, seeing vampire victims safely to their homes. But, for once, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave.
Listening to the soothing thump of her heartbeat, he glanced around the room. A full-sized bed. A less-than-stable-looking desk supporting an outdated computer. A closet with not many clothes. And a battered dresser upon which rested a small TV and a handful of photos.
Four of the pictures depicted a boy ranging in age from infancy to high school graduation. A fifth showed a very young Jenna holding a baby while a grinning teenaged boy stood with his arms around them both.
Richart’s gaze returned to Jenna.
And still his feet refused to move.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Removing it, he glanced down at the text sent by Sheldon, his Second or human guard:
Sunrise in 15. Where the hell R U?
Richart tucked away the phone. Leaning down, he brushed the hair back from Jenna’s face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Have a nice life,” he whispered.
He straightened. The world around him went black as a familiar feeling of weightlessness claimed him. A split second later he stood in the living room of his home.
Richart let out a piercing whistle.
A thud sounded in the study. “Ow!” a male voice complained. “Damn it! Don’t do that! You scared the crap out of me!”
Though such usually sparked a smile, this morning Richart felt only . . .
He frowned. What was it he felt? Regret? Sadness?
Yes, as though he had just lost something.
Sheldon entered the room. “You cut it kinda close tonight. What happened?”
Richart shook his head, baffled by the uncharacteristic emotions buffeting him. “Nothing out of the norm.” Determined to shake it off, he strode toward his young Second. “What’s the news on the vampire king?”
“You should try to eat something.”
Jenna’s stomach turned over at just the thought of putting food in it. “No way.”
“Come on. You said you didn’t eat before you came in tonight.”
“That’s because everything I ate this afternoon came right back up.”
Debbie grimaced. “Food poisoning sucks.”
“Yes, it does.” Jenna smiled at a customer who walked past, then followed as Debbie wheeled her cart to the end of the aisle and continued to restock the makeup shelves.
The store was fairly quiet, though somewhere in the distance a child threw what sounded like a doozy of a temper tantrum.
Leaning into the basket, Jenna opened a box, drew out a handful of lipsticks, and started arranging them on the display.
“You’re the manager. You don’t have to do that anymore,” Debbie pointed out. “Why don’t you take it easy tonight? No one will fault you for it.”
She shook her head. “I get antsy when I’m idle.”
Debbie’s eyes suddenly widened. Her face lit up with a wide smile. “Don’t look now, but . . . guess who just entered!”
Jenna felt a sinking sensation in her stomach that had nothing to do with the chicken sandwich that had made her so sick. “Who?”
“Prince Charming!” Debbie blurted, looking over Jenna’s shoulder toward the store’s only entrance open at four o’clock in the morning. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yyyyyyyyyyyummy!” The last was said in a growl that reminded Jenna of the Cookie Monster. “And he’s headed this way!”
She groaned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
The Prince Charming currently making Debbie drool was an incredibly handsome Frenchman who had been frequenting the store for the past month or so. Every time he came in, he made a point of seeking out Jenna wherever she might be and speaking to her. First it had been to ask where he might find Krazy Glue. Then it had been to ask if she knew what houseplants fared well in low light. Then it had become friendly chatting with a hint of flirtation.
And this man didn’t need to flirt to get a woman’s attention. He was gorgeous. At least six feet tall. Broad shouldered and leanly muscled like an NBA player with short black hair and expressive light brown eyes. Always dressed in black with a dark coat that Debbie referred to as his Blade outfit, hold the leather.
Debbie frowned. “That’s weird. He was all smiles a second ago and now he’s frowning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he heard you.”
“He’s sixty yards away. He can’t hear us. Trust me.”
“True. So what’s the deal? Why don’t you want to see him? I thought you liked him.”
“I do like him,” Jenna said as she grabbed some nail polish and slipped into the next aisle, out of Richart’s sight. She really did. They had had coffee together a few times on her breaks, and she couldn’t remember the last time a man had captivated her so much or made her laugh so often. “It’s just . . .” She set the containers down in a pile on the bottom shelf and motioned to herself. “Look at me.”
“Yeah. You do sorta look like death warmed over.”
“Exactly. I don’t want him to see me like this.”
Debbie’s eyes darted to Richart. “He’s smiling again. Are you sure he can’t hear us?”
“Debbie! Focus!”
“All right—all right. Here.” Leaning in, she pinched Jenna’s cheeks.
“Ouch!”
“Oh quit complaining, you need a little color. And smooth your hair back. It’s all straggly.”
Jenna hastily smoothed back the hair that had escaped her ponytail and made sure her shirt was neatly tucked in. “How do I look?”
“About as good as you feel.”
“Great.”
“The circles under your eyes have a lovely purplish hue.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Shh-shh. Here he comes.” Debbie leaned over the cart and pretended to search the various boxes.
Jenna grabbed the discarded nail polish and started distributing them to their proper places on the shelves.
“I don’t see it,” Debbie said. “Nancy may have forgotten to order it. You want me to go check?” Convinced that Richart had a thing for Jenna, Debbie always found an excuse to leave the two alone.
Or as alone as they could be in a massive superstore.
“Good evening, ladies,” Richart greeted them, stopping beside Debbie’s cart and giving them both a smile. His eyes met and held Jenna’s.
Her heart, as usual, began to slam against her ribs with all of the enthusiasm of a crushing teenager’s. And her stomach filled with butterflies that really didn’t mingle well with the nausea plaguing her.
“Hi,” she said. The moment she had first seen Richart, a sense of familiarity had overwhelmed her. But she was certain she had never met him before. She would have remembered his good looks, his warm, friendly demeanor, and that smooth French accent. It was a puzzle.
“Hi,” Debbie chirped. “How’s it goin’?”
Still smiling, he drew the sides of his coat back a bit and tucked his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s been a quiet night.”
“For us, too,” Debbie replied, then looked at Jenna. “I’m gonna go see if it’s in the other basket. If it isn’t there, I’ll check the back.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Debbie gave Richart a little wave.
He bowed slightly, watched her leave, then turned a discerning gaze on Jenna.
“So.” She mentally told the butterflies to simmer the hell down so she wouldn’t start dry heaving in front of the first man to interest her in years. “I assume in the private security business a quiet night is a good night?”
He nodded. “Very much so.”
Though young (a good seven or eight years younger than she was by her guess), he was a partner in what sounded like a very successful and very elite private security company.
“Never a dull moment?” she asked with a smile.
“Rarely,” he admitted. His brow furrowed. “Are you feeling all right tonight?”
She winced. “I look that bad, huh?”
“You’re as beautiful as ever, just a bit peaked.”
Seriously, who wouldn’t like this man?
“I ate some bad fast food earlier and am paying for it big-time.”
“Why aren’t you home in bed?”
Because I have a son on his way to medical school and need every penny of every paycheck to supplement his scholarship and keep the student loan debt he racks up to a minimum.
She shrugged. “For food poisoning? Nah. I’ll be fine.”
Richart wasn’t so sure about that, but didn’t press it. Her pale, freckled skin, which usually held a faint hint of pink, had acquired a yellowish cast. Her pretty eyes, more brown than green tonight, were shadowed.
If she had looked this pallid after being bitten by the vampire from whom he had rescued her, Richart would have been worried that she might be transforming, but that had taken place weeks ago. And he had kept an eye on her ever since, watching to ensure the vampire who had fled would not return to harm her.
Of course, keeping an eye on her had only enhanced his interest. He couldn’t forget that kiss. Or the feel of her slender body pressed against his. He liked her smile. He liked her laugh. The camaraderie she shared with Debbie.
His Second had caught on—Richart still didn’t know how, because Sheldon wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer—and had told him to stop stalking her.
Dude, just talk to her already. It’s getting kinda creepy.
Richart had only been looking for an excuse, so . . . he had followed Sheldon’s advice and asked her where to find the Krazy Glue. Soon they had worked up to chatting like old friends and having coffee together whenever he managed to time his visits with her breaks.
“How’s John?” he asked.
As expected, her face lit with pride at the mention of her son. “He just aced another exam.”
“Excellent.”
She clearly adored John, whom she had borne when she was a mere seventeen years old.
An employee walked past and waved. “I’m out, Jenna.”
“’Night, Tracy.”
“Enjoy your night off tomorrow,” Tracy called over her shoulder.
Richart turned back to Jenna and arched a brow. “You have tomorrow night off?”
She nodded. “I’m glad it wasn’t tonight. Being sick on my night off would have really sucked.”
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Just tell her to have fun and get some rest. Keep it casual. “Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask if I might cook dinner for you tomorrow night? Something mild that won’t upset your stomach further?” Imbécile.
She blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. I could pick up the ingredients and cook them at your place so, if you still aren’t feeling well, you won’t have to go out or dress up and can lounge around in . . .” Hell. What did women wear when they were just hanging around the house? His sister always sported combat gear and weapons.
“Yoga pants and a tank top?” she suggested.
He had no idea what yoga pants were, but had to struggle to keep his body from responding to the mental image of Jenna in a tank top. “Perfect.”
She bit her lip.
“Not perfect?”
“There’s just one thing,” she broached with reluctance. “John works until nine tomorrow night and I don’t think he’s planning to meet with his study group, so he’ll probably be home by ten. I’m not sure what you have in mind, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable . . . pursuing anything”—her cheeks filled with a pretty pink—“amorous with him home or expected home any minute.”
He smiled. “I assure you such was not my intention.”
“Oh.” The pink deepened. “Embarrassing. I’m sorry. I was the one being presumptuous. I didn’t—”
He touched her shoulder. “I meant such was not my intention while you feel unwell.”
“Oh,” she repeated, then sent him a shy smile.
“I have a confession to make, Jenna,” he said, defying caution. “Normally, I rarely patronize this store.”
“You’ve been in here at least every other night for the past month.”
He nodded. “Yes. Because, once I met you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
She smiled, all awkwardness falling away. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too,” she admitted. “It’s funny. The first night you came in, I had the strangest feeling that I knew you.”
Chier. Somewhere in her subconscious she must remember the night he had rescued her. But that time should be nothing but a black void. She should have no memory of it at all, not even enough to make her think she had seen him before.
“You did?” he asked as casually as he could.
She nodded. “I wanted to ask you if we’d met, but was afraid you might think it was a pickup line or something.”
“Ah.” Smooth.
“Have we met?” she persisted, face curious. “The feeling was so strong.”
“I’m sure I would remember if we had.” Not a lie, but misleading.
She nodded, brow faintly furrowed. “Yeah, me too.”
Richart’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Drawing it out, he glanced down to note the caller: Chris Reordon, the mortal in charge of the East Coast division of the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.
Richart gave Jenna’s shoulder another light touch. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
She nodded.
“Yes?” Richart answered.
“I just received a call from a woman in distress,” Chris said without preamble. “All she had time to do is say, ‘Oh, crap’ and drop the phone before vampires attacked and gunshots sounded.”
“Could you tell how many there were?”
“No. But, judging by the sounds of it, a hell of a lot. Étienne is at UNC Chapel Hill near Kenan Stadium. I need you to teleport to him and be ready to go as soon as I track down where she is.”
Richart walked a couple of paces away. “Could it be Tracy?” Tracy was his sister Lisette’s Second, and 9mms were her weapons of choice.
“It isn’t Tracy. I would have recognized her voice.”
Relief rushed through him.
“We’re tracing the call now,” Chris continued, “and should have a location by the time you rendezvous with Étienne. If it’s a place you know, teleport directly to the location and join the fight. If it isn’t, Étienne has his car with him and will get the two of you there as fast as he can.”
“I’m on my way.” Tucking his phone away, Richart turned back to Jenna. “Looks like I spoke too soon. It won’t be a quiet night after all. A problem has arisen that requires my immediate attention.”
“Okay.”
“May I have your phone number so I may call you tomorrow to obtain your address?” He didn’t wish to frighten her by admitting he already knew it.
She recited it quickly. “Be careful,” she added as he bowed and backed away.
Warmth filled him. “Feel better,” he replied, earning another smile.
It took Chris longer than anticipated to trace the call, which came from way out in the boonies. Étienne violated just about every traffic law to get the two of them there as quickly as possible. When the car flew over a hill and Richart spied the battlefield ahead, he teleported himself the remaining distance and drew his swords.
Gaping, he took in what must be three dozen shriveling-up vampire corpses scattered across a blood-soaked field. “Merde!”
The threat, it would seem, had been annihilated. All the vampires had been taken out by . . .
His gaze strayed to a battered-all-to-hell black Prius upon which sat a small female figure, nearly hidden behind the irate, eight-hundred-plus-year-old British immortal who stood protectively in front of her, eyes blazing amber fire.
“Really?” Marcus bellowed. “You show up now?”
“The call didn’t come from your phone,” Richart explained. “So Chris didn’t know you were the one who needed help or where to send us until the GPS identified your location.”
“I dialed the number,” the woman murmured, voice pained, “but the vampires attacked before I could say anything.”
Marcus nodded, the eyes he trained on Richart still furious. “It took this long for him to track our location? I thought that shit worked faster than that.”
“No, it took this long for us to get here. You are way out in the sticks, you know.” Richart eyed the two of them curiously.
Marcus continued to stand protectively in front of the woman, one hand tucked behind him, resting on her legs.
Interesting.
Marcus’s scowl deepened. “Why didn’t you just—”
“I’m not as powerful as Seth. I can only teleport to places I’m familiar with, and I’m new to the area.”
The hem of Richart’s long coat fluttered as his brother’s car skidded to a halt inches away.
The driver’s door flew open and Étienne leaped out, weapons at the ready. “Merde! How many were there?” he asked with astonishment.
Richart turned in a circle, taking in the rapidly decomposing remains of the vampires the duo had defeated. “Thirty-four by my count.”
Étienne gaped at Marcus. “And you took them all out by yourself?”
Marcus shook his head. “We took them all out.”
As one, Richart and his brother shifted so they could better see the injured woman, who seemed to want to lose herself behind Marcus.
“Two defeated thirty-four?” Richart said with a shake of his head. It was an unheard of feat. Richart would have thought only Seth—the eldest and most powerful immortal and leader of the Immortal Guardians—would have been capable of such. “Incredible.”
Étienne nodded, his gaze pinned to the woman.
Small, attractive, and blood-splattered, she boasted red hair that must have been dyed. All immortals had black hair.
Well, all but a couple who had brown hair.
“I didn’t know Seth had called in another immortal,” Étienne said, drawing the same conclusion Richart had. “Pleasure to meet you. I am Étienne d’Alençon, and this is my brother Richart.”
Was that jealousy Richart saw flare in Marcus’s eyes?
“Ami isn’t an immortal. She’s my Second.”
Richart felt his jaw drop. “She’s human?” he asked incredulously.
How had one immortal and one human stood against so many vampires?
Once again, he took in the multitude of corpses littering the field.
Vampires had not even attacked in these numbers when Bastien, an immortal who had thought himself a vampire for two centuries, had raised an army and waged war with the Immortal Guardians a couple of years ago.
What the hell was going on?