Chloe Neill - Blood Games

Eyes trained on the arch, I narrowed my gaze, using every muscle in my body to propel my feet along, faster, faster, faster .

But then I heard them, the fans screaming at the finish line. “Ethan! Ethan! Ethan!” They were cheering for him, hoping for him to win. Waiting for him to win. He was their superstar.

I wanted to beat him . . . but not nearly as much as they wanted him to win. My winning would be fun for me. His winning would be fun for all of them.

I gave myself a moment to grumble, to accept that what I wanted—to beat him well and thoroughly and make him eat midwestern casseroles until ranch dressing oozed from his pores—wasn’t anything I had to have.

I could give him this win, a victory for him and his admirers. A boost for his ego and a solidification of their fandom. Human fans weren’t something to take for granted. Although I could live without the fan fiction.

But, I thought with a grin, while I could give him the victory, I was sure as hell going to make him work for it.

And work he did. I pushed faster, increasing the pace, my feet pounding so quickly my toes went nearly numb. I heard his footsteps behind me, his fierce and labored breathing, the scent of his cologne rising from his warm and nimble body.

I waited until we were five feet away . . . then dropped back a step. That was enough.

Ethan snapped through the royal blue ribbon at the finish with me only steps behind him. The crowd erupted, cheering like the Cubs had won the pennant.

Chest heaving, Ethan glanced back at me, eyebrow arched, a grin pulling up one corner of his mouth. His body gleaming with sweat, he was quite a sight.

“I believe I won,” he said, all but beaming as he moved toward me, frantic women screaming his name. They might have been screaming—and offering to give him children and undergarments—but he kept walking toward me. In the bigger scheme of things, I had won.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Well done, Sentinel. It was a good effort.”

“I did my best,” I said, hoping my humility seemed genuine. Because inside I was reveling in the fact that I probably could have beaten him. And that was an accomplishment all its own.

“And now I get to eat fancy French food I can’t pronounce.”

“It’s never as bad as all that,” he said. “I’ll ask Margot for suggestions.”

Margot was the House’s chef. “No snails,” I said. “Or anything with more than four legs. And nothing that resembles a spider.”

“Your list is as curious as your palate,” he said, “but I’m sure she can come up with something interesting.”

“Congratulations!” said the race director, pumping our hands energetically before offering the race medals. The silver medals were shaped like the outline of Cadogan House, the ribbons wide navy blue grosgrain. I dropped my head while he placed the medal around my neck, then watched as he did the same to Ethan.

“Amazing show,” he said, but looked chagrined. “Do vampires keep records? I’d have done an official tabulation if I’d known—that was just so fast.”

“No worries,” Ethan said, glancing at the board that marked our final time. “We were fast. But there are faster vampires.”

“Well, in any event, damned impressive.” He pumped Ethan’s hand with enthusiasm. “If you decide you’d like to train, make a run at them, I’d be happy to work with you.”

“I appreciate that,” Ethan said, and the director disappeared to greet the others who’d crossed the finish line.

That was when I felt it: the telltale tingle of metal—of a gun—moving near us.

My adrenaline began to race, and time seemed to slow to a syrupy crawl—every movement exaggerated, every scent stronger, every sound louder. I scanned the crowd, looking for a flash of metal, a suggestion of danger. For something that explained the cold chill that was now slinking its way up my spine.

Ethan, I silently warned, moving in front of him. I felt his magic lift as he transformed from athlete to Master vampire and scanned the area. I also felt the irritated twinge of it. He was just alpha enough to be bothered that I’d shielded him.

A threat? he asked.

I’m not sure.

I sensed Luc and Lindsey move behind us. The weapon, whatever it was, kept moving, weaving through the crowd like a snake and sending goose bumps up and down my arms.

“Merit?” Luc asked.

The scene was perfectly innocent but for the lust that perfumed the air. For a moment I thought I’d imagined it, that I’d just misinterpreted the excitement for something more sinister.

But the feeling thrummed harder and louder, like the string on a bass had been plucked, sending uncomfortable vibrations through my chest. I caught movement, quick and malicious, in my peripheral vision and, when I looked back, caught eyes trained in Ethan’s direction.

“A weapon,” I said to Luc, gesturing toward the crowd where the magic lurked. “Get him into your car.”

They’d keep him safe, I told myself. That was the plan we’d worked out. But a plan was one thing, and real life was something else. Fear and anticipation mixed with the adrenaline that rose at the thought of a possible battle, and there was little doubt my eyes had silvered, a sign of vampire emotion.

Luc took Ethan’s arm, began to pull him away . . . and that was when the sound of gunfire filled the air.

“Go!” I screamed, shoving Luc and Ethan back and crouching low as a dark and shiny muscle car squealed forward through the darkness, scenting rubber into the air. The car hopped the curb, moved without hesitation toward the arch that marked the finish line.

Shots were fired from the car—two, then three. Humans screamed and dropped out of the way and toward cover; Luc and Lindsey moved Ethan back to Lindsey’s SUV.

I stepped directly between them and the vehicle. If the driver was aiming for Ethan, he’d have to go through me first. Literally and figuratively.

I let my fangs descend, locked my knees to keep them from shaking, and stared back at the car with all the ruthlessness I could muster. That’s not to say I wasn’t afraid—I was staring down a lot of horsepower and a driver with an agenda. But fear, I’d learned long ago, wasn’t an excuse.

Just like my existence wasn’t an excuse for the driver to stop the car. He raced forward, and I forced myself to stay where I was, even as my heart raced, even as I imagined the blow and waited for impact.

But I would be damned if he’d get through me.

He was close enough that I saw the whites of his eyes—then he wrenched the wheel to the side, skidding the car to a grinding halt, sending gravel into the air and waves of magic toward me.

The side of the car stopped inches away, blowing the bangs from my face and giving me a look at the driver through the open window. The eyes, the goatee, the ink.

It was the man who’d watched me in the crowd, the one Lindsey and I had thought was a fan. But his interest, apparently, wasn’t for me.

“If he knows what’s good for him,” the man said, his voice deep and lush, “he’ll stay in Chicago, and out of London.”

I’d expected vitriol about vampires being in Chicago, about our gall in holding an event on a public street, not the opposite threat. Since the GP was in London, the threat was obvious. The source wasn’t.

“Who are you? And why do you care what he does?”

“I’m the messenger, and he should heed the warning. If he doesn’t back off, he’ll regret it.”

He lifted the gun, the barrel trained on me, as if punctuating the threat. Just like his gaze, his hand was utterly steady. We stared at each other for a moment that stretched and lengthened like pulled taffy.