Dianne Duvall - Darkness Rises

“Étienne!”

He looked around, but still couldn’t find her. “Krysta?”

“Étienne! Wake up!”

He jerked awake.

Krysta knelt beside him on the bed, shaking the hell out of him. “Jeeze. It’s a good thing I didn’t want to stake you. You would have slept right through it!”

Groaning, he sat up. “I sleep deeper when I’m healing. What’s wrong?”

“Your cell phone has been ringing like crazy and that damned song is making me mental.”

When the singing started up again, he yanked his phone out of his pocket and answered.

“Yes?”

“We have a serious problem,” Chris Reordon said without preamble.

Damn it. “No, we don’t. I—”

“Richart told me you left quite a mess at Duke tonight.”

Étienne frowned. “Yes.”

“So we have a problem. I sent my cleaning crew over there ASAP and they didn’t find dick.”

Étienne stood, alarm striking. “What?”

“There was nothing. No bodies. No blood. No vampire clothing or bling. No dental fillings or caps. No humans freaking out. Nada.”

“That’s not possible. There should have been a couple dozen bodies—”

“There weren’t. There was , however, a large area of wet pavement where no sprinklers could reach. And the surveillance tapes for the security cameras in that area of the campus are all gone.”

Étienne swore.

“Exactly. Where are you? Are you still with the woman?”

“Yes, but—”

“Hang up, call Richart, and have him teleport you to safety.”

“That isn’t—”

“You aren’t getting it. The group that attacked you now has the surveillance tapes. They also have connections or they wouldn’t have been able to clean that mess up so quickly. They can use the tapes to trace the license plate on her car. They probably already know where you are. Get the hell out of there. Now.”

Étienne looked to Krysta, who watched him with concern. “We have to go.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Where? Why?”

Someone shouted something in the background on Chris’s end of the conversation as engine noise flowed over the line. “Where are you?” Étienne asked.

“At the network, getting into a Black Hawk with reinforcements. More will follow on the ground in a Humvee.”

A twig snapped outside. Then another.

Étienne looked toward the window. “Too late. They’re here.”

“Call Richart!”

Krysta stared at Étienne with wide eyes. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong.

He grabbed her arm and, practically lifting her off the bed, urged her into the den.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Richart,” he spoke into his phone. “I need you . . . Yes.” He pocketed the phone. “Does this place have a basement?”

“No. I mean, not really. There’s a crawl space under the house that you can access from outside, but—”

Étienne stopped short and looked toward the bedroom, then the kitchen, his head tilted as though he were listening to something.

Krysta remained quiet, but heard nothing save her heart slamming against her ribs.

Kneeling, Étienne dragged her down with him. While she fought for balance, he drew back his arm and punched through the floor as though it were cardboard. Half a dozen times. Knuckles splitting. Bones cracking.

Krysta gaped at the hole he created, an absurd thought rearing its head: No way were she and Sean going to get their security deposit back.

Without warning, Étienne picked her up and dropped her through the jagged hole.

She grunted as she hit the hard-packed dirt floor. It was only a four or five foot drop, but she didn’t have time to twist around and use her hands to break the fall.

Then, as though they were in a Warner Brothers cartoon, Étienne landed on top of her, flattening her and stealing her breath.

Holy crap, he was heavy!

“Sorry,” he murmured in her ear as he rolled off her and sat up.

“What—?”

Bullets tore through the house overhead. Large bullets, judging by the debris flying around the den and the narrow rays of sunshine beginning to brighten the room.

Her mouth fell open.

Étienne rose into a crouch, eyes staring intently through the hole.

Richart appeared above them. His body jerked as bullets slammed into him.

Étienne lunged up and yanked his brother down into the crawl space with them.

Richart landed hard, too.

Étienne spoke urgently to him in French.

“No,” Krysta protested shrilly. “No way! You can’t do that! You can’t talk in French while I’m sitting here freaking out because I don’t know what the hell is going on!”

Richart rolled onto his stomach and managed to get to his hands and knees.

She swallowed.

His head hung low. Blood dribbled from between parted lips as ragged breath wheezed in and out through them. The front of his shirt bore several holes, as did the back, and began to glisten as blood saturated it.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded, but didn’t raise his head.

Étienne rested a hand on his brother’s back. “What took you so long?”

“I was . . . making love to my wife . . . not that it’s . . . any of your . . . business. Did you . . . want me to show up here naked?”

Étienne’s gaze went to Krysta. “No.”

She had a feeling he would have said Hell, yes if she weren’t there.

“Take my wrist,” Étienne ordered.

Richart grabbed Étienne’s wrist and sank his teeth into it.

A muscle leapt in Étienne’s jaw.

Krysta knew from experience that being bitten didn’t produce the ecstatic pleasure in real life that it did in movies that romanticized vampires. Rather, it hurt like hell, feeling as though someone had just stuck you with a couple of large needles.

Richart retracted his fangs and released his brother’s wrist.

Bullets continued to fly back and forth overhead like psychotic bees, tearing her rented home apart.

She glanced again at Richart. A couple of misshapen lumps of metal fell out of his shirt and hit the ground as his wounds began to heal.

“Can you teleport?” Étienne asked.

Richart nodded and sat back on his heels.

“Get her out of here,” Étienne said.

“What?” Krysta looked to Étienne as Richart reached out and gripped her shoulder.

The world darkened. Dizziness assailed her. She grabbed Richart’s shirt.

Light burst into being, illuminating a lovely living room with modern furniture.

Krysta gasped. “Did you just teleport me?”

“ Oui. ”

A pretty, petite woman with red hair and dark brown roots appeared before them, a white and purple aura swirling around her. Her face clouded with concern when her gaze landed on Richart. “Honey . . .” She took a step toward him.

He raised a hand to hold her at bay and vanished.

She looked up at Krysta. “What happened?”

Krysta shook her head. “I’m not sure. Someone was shooting the place all to hell and—”

“Sheldon!” the woman called over her shoulder. “John!” She wore black cargo pants and a black T-shirt that hugged a narrow waist and full breasts Krysta would kill to have. Her hair was mussed and her face flushed, leading Krysta to believe this was the American wife with whom Richart had been making love.

Two men strode up a nearby hallway, coming from the back of the house. Both looked to be around twenty years old. One was roughly five eleven with bright red hair. The other was at least six feet with short, dark brown hair.

Krysta took a wary step backward, then another. She didn’t know these people. She barely knew Étienne.

“What’s up, Mom?” the brunet asked.