Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

They still looked almost identical, except Michelle’s head was a yard away from the rest of her body.

Talia’s eyes drifted shut as the room closed in, darkness spiraling down to a pinpoint.

Beheaded.

Talia’s grip on the wall failed, and she started to sink to the floor. The wet, red floor. Sudden nausea wrenched her. She scrambled to the kitchen, retching into the sink. She’d fed earlier, but not much. Nothing came up but a thin trickle of fluid.

Beheaded.

She heaved again, the strength of her vampire body making it painful. Talia leaned over the stainless-steel sink, shaking. The image of her cousin’s body burned in her mind’s eye. Whoever had done it had meant to kill her. Taking the head was the usual way to execute vampires—a lot more certain than a wooden stake.

She died because of me. They thought she was me. Talia’s breath caught, and caught again, air dragging through her lungs in tiny gasps that finally dissolved into sobs. She pushed away from the sink, grabbing a paper towel to mop her eyes. There was no time to fall apart.

But she did. She pressed the wadded towel to her mouth, stifling her moans. The tears were turning to a burning ache that ran down her throat, through her body, and out the soles of her feet.

This was no good. She had to get out of there.

Before whoever murdered Michelle came back.

Before someone called the cops and they blamed her, because she was the monster found next to the body.

Talia braced herself against the counter and stared into the sink until her eyes blurred and she squeezed them shut. This was the moment when the movie hero swore revenge, made a plan, and went after the bad guy.

All she felt was gut-wrenching grief.

A rustling sound came from the hallway, as if something had brushed against the shopping bag she’d abandoned by the door.

Talia spun around, terror rippling over her skin. So much for her earlier quip of bad guys, oh, well. Macabre images flashed one after another through her mind. Sheer willpower pinned her to the floor, making her think before she bolted straight into danger.

Normally, she would worry about hiding her scent from another predator, but the place stank so badly, that wasn’t an issue. Plus, whoever had killed Michelle had to be human. Nothing else would have confused one of its own with a vampire.

Slowly, she peered around the edge of the kitchen doorway. A figure hulked in the threshold to the condo, backlit by the lights from the hall.

Oh, God! It’s—he’s—coming this way.

Talia shrank back into the galley kitchen, squeezing into the corner between the refrigerator and the wall. She shrank down, making herself small, bending her head forward to hide her pale skin with the dark fall of her hair. There was no need for her to breathe, as the absolute stillness of the dead would in this case work to her advantage.

Except terror made her want to run so badly her muscles cramped.

The fridge hummed, the hard surface vibrating against her arm. Trapped! Through the curtain of her hair, she could see the stranger’s wide shoulders blocking the hallway between her and the door. Her heart gave a single painful beat, jolted back to life by the adrenaline rushing into her blood.

Tears of outrage stung Talia’s eyes. She was frightened, absolutely, but she was also furious. Someone had killed Michelle, and now they’d come back. Realize you screwed up? she thought bitterly. Figure out this is human blood all over your hands?

It galled her to be so helpless. Talia had weapons, but they were stuffed in the top of the hallway closet, gathering dust. She’d thought she’d never have to use them again. Prayed for it.

Apparently no one listened to a vampire’s prayers.

You’re hiding in a kitchen filled with knives. Maybe she wasn’t so helpless after all.

She could see the figure’s shadow slide along the wall, stark against the bright patch of hallway light. His silhouette showed he was tall and big boned, moving with surprising grace for such a large man. She caught a sharp tang of smoke and chemicals, as if he’d been near an industrial fire. The smell drowned her vampire senses, choking out anything else his scent might have told her. He was coming closer, pausing after each step, his feet all but silent on the carpet.

Just a few yards more and he would be past the kitchen door. Then she could make a break for it. Even a fledgling such as her could move faster than a mortal.

Closer, closer. The hiding place where she crouched was just inside the kitchen entrance. If she reached out, she could brush the toes of his heavy work boots with her fingers. Her fingertips itched, as if they had already grazed the dirty leather. He was so close that she dared not lift her head to look at him. All she got was a good view of jean-clad shins.

And then he was past. She rose in a single, smooth motion, balancing on her toes. One careful step forward, and she reached the counter opposite the fridge. Silently she slid a kitchen knife out of the block. Just in case. It was smarter to run than to fight, but he might corner her yet.

She heard his intake of breath as he reached the living room. She froze, the cool handle of the knife heavy and hard against her palm.

The urge to vomit washed over her again, but she didn’t dare make a noise. Not even to swallow. She could hear him, just a few yards to the right, the brush of cloth on cloth as he moved around the gory, glistening carnage in the next room.

Three, two, one.

Talia darted toward the hall, inhumanly fast.

He was faster.

Huge hands grabbed her upper arms, hauling her into the air. She kicked, hearing a snarl of pain as the sharp heel of her ankle boot dug into his thigh. She tried to turn and slash, but the angle was wrong. Wriggling like a ferret, Talia twisted, using Undead strength to turn within that big-knuckled grasp.

She flipped over, dropping through the air as her attacker lost his hold. With an upward slash, she scored the knife along the flesh of his hand.

Ha!

His other hand came down like a hammer, aiming for the weapon. Talia spun and kicked, wobbling in the heels but still forcing him back. She used the motion of the kick to fall into a crouch, sweeping the blade in a whispering arc, claiming the space around her body.

Force the enemy to keep his distance. One useful thing her father had taught her. One of the few.

But as she came out of the turn, he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck—how long was his reach, anyway?—and heaved her to the ground like a bag of laundry. Before Talia could move, she felt a heavy knee in the small of her back. She tried to arch up, but he was at least twice her weight. Rage shot through her, riding on a cold slick of terror. She hissed, baring fang.

His hand was pinning her wrist to the carpet, immobilizing the knife. Gripping it hard, she twisted her hand, snaking the point toward his flesh. His other hand clamped down, peeling her fingers one by one off the hilt.

She did her best to scratch. A female vampire’s nails were as sharp as talons.

“Give it up,” he growled.

She made a sound like a cat poked with a fork, half hiss, half yowl. The knife came loose. He sent it spinning across the floor, out of reach. Then she felt something cold and metal click shut around her wrist. The chill sensation made her flail, the motion jerking her elbow up to connect with solid flesh. His jaw? For a glorious moment, she felt him flinch.

Only to shove her back down and snap the handcuffs around her other wrist.

“There’s silver in the alloy.” His voice was hard and low. “You can’t break them.”

Talia rolled over, baring her fangs. The slide of metal against leather told her a gun had left its holster. She next thing she saw was a freaking .44 Magnum Ruger Blackhawk aimed between her eyes—loaded, no doubt, with silver-coated hollow-point bullets.