Rob Thurman - Chimera

“It’s always prettier when you’re watching it from someplace warm, eh?”

His lips moved in a sheepish curve. “Strange how that happens.” Shifting to get a better look, he said, “There’s your uncle Lev. He’s talking to some people.”

Puzzled, I walked over to join him. It was Lev. I only caught a glimpse of him before he disappeared back into the house. The four people he had been talking with began to walk to their cars. All of them were obviously servants. One was the cook; I recognized her from previous visits. The man was Larson, and I didn’t know the other two—housekeeper and maid probably. But why would they all be leaving so early in the day?

It was a stupid question—colossally, monstrously stupid.

“Hide.”

The air was so clear and sharp, I was vaguely surprised it didn’t cut Michael’s face when he turned to look at me. “What?”

I gave him a hard push toward one of the couches resting against the side wall. “Hide!” Without further question he ran and pushed behind the piece of furniture, slithering out of sight. My gun had found its way into my hand, I couldn’t recall how. It was remarkably similar to a magic trick. Abracadabra. There it was, clenched in a grip carved from bone. My fingers should’ve ached. Maybe they did ache, but I didn’t feel it.

The crystal knob of one of the double doors began to slowly turn, and I stepped smoothly to the wall beside it. Lev had closed the door behind him as he’d left. He could not have possibly carried his weight up the stairs in the seconds that had passed from the sighting of him via the window, but I called his name nonetheless.

“Uncle Lev,” I said with laughter that passed through my throat like chunks of regurgitated ice. “Give me a hand, would you? This kid has me pinned to the floor. Thinks he’s some sort of wrestler.”

Wasn’t that a disarming picture? Michael and I rolling around in horseplay, laughing and joking.

A perfect target.

The door was kicked open in a shower of splinters and a gun fired, chewing up the antique rug in the center of the room. It was Sevastian, my old adversary from back in Miami. The bastard. It didn’t surprise me. Only he would be overconfident enough to fire at what he couldn’t see. As cocky as he may have been, he wasn’t entirely mindless. He saw his mistake instantly and was already turning his weapon toward me when I shot him.

I took the chest shot. It was the easiest. With broad bands of muscle that rippled even through the covering of a thick black sweater, he was built like a bull, and when he fell, he shook the floor as heavily as one. Swiveling, I jammed my shoulder against the door to slam it shut. There was a resounding crash as someone hit the other side face-first. Yanking it back open, I straddled the fallen body and swung my foot into the shaking chin in a hard kick. And that was it for number two. Pavel had always been Sevastian’s shadow. Sevastian went first and Pavel mopped up what was left, which usually wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.

An arm came across my throat like an iron bar and my thoughts of Pavel vanished instantly. The crushing pain managed to cut through the layer of numbness that sheathed me. “I knew you’d fuck up one day, Korsak,” came the gravelly voice in my ear. The accent was still thick after fifteen years out of Moscow and he slipped into the Russian that came more easily to him. “Segodnya etot den . ” Today’s that day.

I could feel his blood, hot and plentiful, soaking the back of my shirt. I should’ve known one bullet wouldn’t take the son of a bitch down. I started to bring my gun up to try for an awkward shot, but his other massive hand fastened around mine. The bones in my wrist creaked to the point of breaking as it was bent backward in an unforgiving grip. Before I could shift weight to try and throw him off, a knee hit the back of my thighbone and buckled my leg instantly. Sevastian had once been in the Russian army, and what he’d learned there trumped anything I’d picked up in my few working years. The fall was over before I knew I was going down. Sandwiched between the floor and a hulking mountain of flesh, my lungs expelled every molecule of air, leaving me wheezing desperately.

Ripping the gun from my hand, he flung it across the room. With his arm still around my neck he tightened the pressure until yellow and black spots washed across my vision. With all that air forced out and now with no way in, if I didn’t do something within the next few seconds, Michael would be on his own. He might be the fastest healer around, but I didn’t think that would save him from a bullet in the heart or brain. He was a boy, not a vampire. He wasn’t going to rise from the dead, and Sevastian wasn’t one to leave witnesses any other way.

Feebly I raised my hand up and behind me to scrape uselessly against his face. He chuffed a laugh stinking with the copper of blood against the back of my neck. The bastard’s lungs were filling up. Without medical help he’d be dead in fifteen minutes. It didn’t matter; I’d be dead in five . . . and that was a blue-sky estimate, a best-case scenario. If he let me asphyxiate, it would be minutes. If he snapped my neck, it would be seconds.

My hand continued its path up his jawline, the motions as fragile as those of a newborn child. “You’re barely struggling,” he said in a clotted whisper, switching back to English for my benefit. He knew my Russian wasn’t as fluent as his, and he wanted me to understand every word. “It’s so much more satisfying when you struggle. I want to feel you flop under me like a fish out of water. I want to feel every twitch as brain cell by brain cell you die, traitor.” A hard prodding at my hip told me what I’d always suspected. Death was the ultimate hard-on for Sevastian. Twisted and sickly perverse as he was, neither women nor men held much attraction for him. Killing was all. He lived it, breathed it, and if he could somehow make death itself tangible, he would probably fuck it.

The choking hold on my neck eased slightly as he cajoled, “Stay awake, Stefan. Stay and try just a little harder. Perhaps then I won’t rip that boy limb from limb when I find him.”

I barely heard the words. The roaring in my head had followed the curtain of spreading black before my eyes. My only concern was my traveling hand. Sevastian ignored its progress even as it touched his ear. He’d always had well-shaped ears, I thought dimly as my capacity for coherence began to unravel. It was peculiar to see: his bullet-shaped head, Neanderthal brows, soulless and cloudy eyes combined with a delicate seashell curve of ear that any woman would’ve been proud of. Whether Sevastian was proud of them, I didn’t know. It was, as they say, moot.

I ripped the left one from his head.

There was a scream that managed to rip through the haze surrounding me and the weight rolled off my back. Weakly pushing up to my knees, I sucked in air that seemed as thick as syrup. It rebelled in my throat, refusing to push past and inflate my lungs. I could feel the sensation of woven wool under my hands, but I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything. With a last-ditch monumental effort I struggled to expand my chest and pull in air. It worked; a teaspoon of oxygen managed to trickle down into my lungs. That short, choppy breath was followed by two more and then by a brutal kick in my ribs. I was thrown what felt like several feet and landed hard on my hip and shoulder. Fragments of light and color were returning to my sight and I spotted the glittering chrome of my gun barely out of reach. Lunging, I snatched it from the floor, rolled to my side, and fired.

And missed.

If this had been the movies, I would’ve hit him right between the eyes, and that would’ve been that. Conquering hero prevails. Popcorn and a cold one for everybody. But this wasn’t a movie. This was crappy real life, and I missed the son of a bitch. He was moving faster than any lung-shot man had a right to move, and I still had the vision of a ninety-year-old glaucoma victim. Ideal circumstances it did not make.