D. Reynolds - Aden

Aden didn’t have time to consider that, though, as Salvador launched the first salvo, clearly having decided his best bet lay in striking hard and fast. Aden absorbed the initial attack—shields pulled tight around his body, fixed and secure—not even trying to deflect. He wanted to feel the weight of Salvador’s power, feel its heat through his shields. He was still learning his opponent, still gathering intel.

What Salvador saw, however, was the slight give of Aden’s shield under his attack. Misunderstanding its cause, the Mexican vampire grinned viciously.

Aden grinned back, and the Mexican’s pleasure faltered.

While Salvador was still figuring out what had happened, Aden attacked, his power whipping out in a long, flexible curve of energy, wrapping around Salvador and tightening like a noose, but a noose made of edged steel rather than rope. Salvador’s shield slid, trying to slip away from the grasp of Aden’s assault, trying to cut through the whip-thin band of energy. Aden felt the pressure and pulled his power back, once again letting the Mexican vampire grin in victory. But this time, Aden kept his own expression carefully blank. The Mexican’s grin only widened.

Aden now knew at least one of his challenger’s weaknesses— arrogance, which some mistook for confidence. Confidence was good. Arrogance would get you killed.

Salvador struck again, and the fight truly began. Power lanced back and forth without halt, singeing the trees overhead, starting little fires that were quickly doused when the next blast of energy sucked all the oxygen out of the air. Aden unleashed the full weight of his power, slamming it outward in a concussive wave that knocked Salvador back several steps and sent one of the Mexican’s minions crashing into a tree. The vampire minion yelped in pain, and Salvador leapt back into the fray, his fists raised then slammed into each other, creating a vibrating roll of energy that bombarded Aden’s shields with sound and fury, pounding against his eardrums and setting up a cacophony in his head that was badly disorienting. Aden was forced to retreat within his own shields, using his power to push back, interrupting the energy waves and stopping the noise.

Salvador had clearly been waiting for just that reaction. He attacked again, a pinpoint shaft of power this time. It burrowed through Aden’s shield, digging into his arm, burning through flesh and into bone.

It was an agonizing pain. But Aden had learned at a very tender age to set aside the worst pain imaginable, to keep working regardless of blood or torment. He flexed the muscles of his wounded arm, choosing his own pain, using the agony to fuel his rage, channeling that rage into a whirlwind of razor-edge flails, hammering and slashing at Salvador’s shields, slipping through to slash at his face, to batter his body.

Blood ran freely from every inch of Salvador’s exposed skin, from the rips and tears in his clothing. But still he fought, using Aden’s attack against him, taking advantage of his focused distraction to strike at his legs, narrow beams of power cutting through his flesh like tiny lasers.

Aden nearly staggered, but would not grant himself that weakness. With a snarl of pure fury, he doubled his attack, shifting from the pounding force of a flail to the knife-edge slice of the thinnest of whips, the kind of whip that could fillet a man as neatly as a fish, could slice the flesh from his bones so quickly he wouldn’t even know until he’d fallen that he was dead.

Salvador’s answering howl carried more rage than pain, his head thrown back, his clothes almost gone, no longer able to hold form. Bloody strips of flesh hung from every inch of his body, white bone showing through, his face barely more than a skull. His teeth were bared, his eyes wild and gleaming a ruby-tinged gold as he pinned Aden with a furious stare and launched one final salvo.

And Aden saw it. The weakness in the Mexican’s shields. For the space of a long breath, the constantly shifting plates of Salvador’s shield froze completely as he drew upon every ounce of his remaining strength, draining the shield’s power.

Aden pounced. Channeling his own power into a single whippet of energy, he slashed out, wrapping the thin beam around the Mexican’s neck, letting the whip curl around and around like a snake, and then giving a single sharp tug.

Ramiro Salvador’s eyes met Aden’s in an instant of shocked disbelief, and in that moment, something passed between them, an understanding, a recognition of mutual respect. And then his head separated from his body, and he died.

Aden fell to his knees, his head thrown back as that hidden aspect of his power came roaring to the fore. It drank in the energy of Salvador’s death, as if by dying he released his power for Aden to draw upon. Distantly, Aden heard the screams of Salvador’s minions as they followed their Sire into death, too newly made to survive the trauma of his ending, and Aden drank in their deaths, too. He didn’t like this gift of his Vampire nature, but he used it. It was a morbid and dark power, but it was also a tremendous secret weapon. And he was a warrior. A warrior used whatever weapons were available to him. Aden’s ability to draw strength from the death of other vampires made it possible for him to recharge in the middle of a fight. And it meant that when the battle was over, he was not so weakened by blood loss that he was vulnerable.

Aden became aware of Bastien at his side. He turned and saw the worry shadowing his lieutenant’s face. He reached out mentally to Bastien and the others and felt their loyalty tinged with genuine fear for his safety, because they . . . loved him. His breath caught in his throat. Had anyone ever loved him before? Not like this.

He gripped Bastien’s arm in thanks and pushed back, stopping his vampire children from offering their own power to aid his healing. He didn’t need it, and they weren’t home free from this challenge yet. What if Silas had learned of the challenge and was waiting for the victor to emerge, thinking he would be weakened and vulnerable in the aftermath?

“We must leave, my lord,” Bastien told him. “Freddy has gone for the truck.”

Aden nodded and stood, feeling an ache in his right leg, which he was fairly certain had been broken a moment ago, the bone sliced through by Salvador’s last attack.

“The Mexican was a worthy opponent,” he said.

“Not worthy enough,” Bastien replied loyally.

Aden’s lip curled in a half smile, but he privately wondered what the situation was in Mexico, that a powerful vampire like Ramiro Salvador had come this far north in search of territory. But then, wasn’t that precisely the situation Raphael had described as happening in Europe? Powerful younger vampires forced to extreme measures to find territories to rule?

It was something to consider, but Aden set the thought aside. That was the battle for another day, after he was Lord of the Midwest. For tonight, he had to get himself and his vampires home safely. He briefly considered paying a visit to Sidonie. He knew where she lived, of course, and could easily bypass her doorman. And while the energy infusion from his unique ability was useful, there was nothing like blood, warm, fresh, and velvety. Like Sidonie’s.

Unfortunately, he was in no mood to deal with whatever had sent her off in a huff earlier.

“Make sure Hamilton knows I want a daylight tail on Sidonie tomorrow,” Aden said as they returned to their SUVs. “And tell Kage to take over the watch after sunset.”

Tomorrow would be soon enough to find out what bug was up her ass. He’d get his answers first.

And then he’d get his blood.

SID HOVERED NEAR the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, pretending she was having a great time at her dad’s birthday party. Everyone else was. But she was just . . . sad. Not weepy, put-on-a-cowboy-love-song sad, it was more of a stare-out-the- window-at-nothing sad. She knew where the blame belonged for this particular sadness, though. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and he sucked blood. Although if she was being perfectly honest, it wasn’t Aden’s fault, either. The fault rested with her naïve assumption that she could ever be anything to him besides a quick drink and a lay. Dresner had warned her about vampires, about their preference for short-term hookups and no commitment. Blood and sex. Wasn’t that what she’d said? And Sidonie had been certain she was prepared, that her goals were clear, and she didn’t want or need anything else.