Dianne Duvall: Night Reigns

“What point?”

“Yes,” Marcus seconded, the bag already empty. “What point?”

Ami handed him another one.

“Thank you.”

She smiled.

“He needs a Second,” Seth stated.

Surprised, Ami turned back to Marcus. “You don’t have a Second?”

All immortals had Seconds. Seth insisted upon it.

Well, all except for Roland Warbrook, one of the more irascible immortals.

Marcus glared at Seth. “I do not need a Second.”

“You need a Second,” Seth responded implacably.

“I have a Second.”

“Slim is not a Second.”

Ami frowned. She had met quite a few Seconds since Seth had taken her under his wing, usually via telephone or the Internet, but none had gone by the nickname Slim. “Who is Slim?”

Seth looked pointedly toward the bay window on the opposite side of the room. Ami followed his gaze to the wicker basket on the floor in front of it. A small black cat that probably wouldn’t weigh eight pounds with a full belly returned her stare with one black paw raised high in the air.

“Um ... is that cat bald?”

There seemed to be substantial bare patches above its eyes ... and across the top of its head ... between its shoulder blades ... on one knee ...

“No,” Marcus denied defensively. “He isn’t bald. He’s ... scarred from fighting with animals twice his size.”

“Oh. Poor little guy.” Ami hated bullies, be they human or animal. And, judging by his ragged appearance, this cat must lure them like rancid meat lured flies.

“Don’t feel too sorry for him,” Seth drawled. “Slim is the one who instigates the fights.”

Ami eyed the cat doubtfully. “Really? Has he ever won one?”

Seth’s dark eyes sparkled with amusement while he and Ami awaited Marcus’s response.

When it came, the words emerged as though they had been dragged from him by force. “I think one ended in a draw.”

Ami bit her lip to keep from laughing.

Slim went back to licking himself.

Marcus sighed and silently wished this night would just end already. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he eased himself into a more upright position. The broken bone in his leg was beginning to knit itself back together. All bleeding stopped as the cuts began to seal themselves.

“Would you like some help with your arm?” Ami asked.

Marcus glanced up to see her soft green eyes shift their focus to his dislocated shoulder. “Sure.”

She was beautiful ... in a fresh-faced, girl-next-door kind of way. Pale, flawless skin free of makeup. Long lashes that complemented her coppery hair. A short pert nose. Lips that were nice and full, but not freaky, plastic surgery full. If he had to guess, he would say she was perhaps twenty years old. Clearly a human. As far as he knew, all gifted ones save one had black hair and brown eyes.

Though small, she was surprisingly strong—she had supported quite a bit of his weight when she had helped him to the sofa—and slender, with nicely rounded hips and full breasts he couldn’t help but admire as she leaned forward to aid him and her sweater gaped enticingly, exposing shadowy cleavage and the white lace of her bra.

Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes. She smelled good, too.

One of her small hands carefully grasped his shoulder. The other took his wrist.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

He nodded, thinking her voice—low and warm—as appealing as the rest of her.

She gave a quick twist. Pain shot up his arm and through his shoulder.

“How’s that?”

“Perfect,” he gritted out.

Stepping back, she retrieved another bag of blood from the cooler and handed it to him.

“Thank you.”

She smiled.

She had a pretty smile. The kind it was damned near impossible not to return.

He certainly couldn’t resist it and felt his lips turn up as he bit down into the bag.

He glanced at Seth. Unease again slithered up his spine at the gleam in the elder’s eyes.

“Marcus,” Seth drawled, “meet your new Second.”

Lowering the half-empty bag, Marcus followed Seth’s gaze to Ami.

Her face lighting with curiosity, she looked around as though she expected to see someone enter the room behind her. When no one did, she froze, acquiring a rather deer-in-the-headlights expression of panic. Her gaze flew to Seth’s. As did Marcus’s.

“Ami,” Seth said kindly, “I would like you to serve as Marcus’s Second.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Me?” she breathed incredulously. “Oh no,” Marcus blurted out. “Hell no. I don’t want a Second.”

Seth’s tone turned arctic. “I don’t care what you want. You need one. Tonight demonstrated that very well. And you know the rules. Every Immortal Guardian has a Second.”

“Roland doesn’t.”

“You of all people are aware of Roland’s trust issues, as well as his response to being assigned Seconds in the past.”

Marcus’s gaze slid speculatively to Ami. Hmm. Maybe he could—

“If you’re thinking of taking a page from your mentor’s book and frightening Ami away,” Seth went on, “think again. She’s tougher than she looks.” Harm a hair on her precious head, he warned Marcus telepathically, and I will kill you.

To Ami, Seth said, “I’ll be in touch.” In the next instant, he vanished.

A heavy silence fell in his absence.

Ami bit her lip, brow furrowing. “Do you think he’s coming back?”

Thwump!

Both jumped when three suitcases and several white banker boxes full of what he assumed were Ami’s possessions suddenly appeared around them.

Marcus sighed heavily. “I’m guessing no.”

Breath heaving, body bathed in a cold sweat, Eddie Kapansky glanced over his shoulder as he raced through the forest.

Nothing.

He faced forward again and almost ran into a low-hanging branch. Ducking swiftly, he scarcely managed to avoid it.

“Come on, Eddie. Get your shit together,” he muttered. Traveling at preternatural speeds required hypervigilance. Low branches like the one that had just brushed the top of his dark blond hair could easily remove a vampire’s head.

The bitter taste of fear still flooding his mouth, he glanced behind him once more and sought any signs that the immortal might be following him. When he faced forward, his eyes widened and a yelp escaped him as another branch nearly decapitated him.

Eddie slowed to the speed of a human run, then a jog, then a walk. Finally he stopped.

Fog formed in front of him as his breath whooshed out like air from a bellows. If he hadn’t been too dense to comprehend the irony, he might have appreciated that of humans’ assuming vampires’ hearts didn’t beat when his was doing its damnedest to burst from his chest.

Closing his slack mouth, he quieted his gasps as much as he could, peered into the darkness around him, and listened.

Wind. The gurgling of the stream that had soaked his damned sneakers. Cows in the barn he had passed. Bats. He hated fucking bats. (Another irony that eluded him, since many humans thought vampires could turn into bats.) Animal. Animal. Insect. Animal.

No Immortal Guardian.

He should be relieved, but he was too damned scared. That fucker had taken out everyone but him. By himself!

Well, the woman had helped some. Eddie should have drained her dry. She wasn’t an immortal. She didn’t move like one. She didn’t have fangs. Her eyes didn’t glow. So she must be human. Which meant he might have actually found the elusive, ass-kicking immortal known as Roland Warbrook.

Dennis would be pleased.

Eddie looked ahead. Thick trees and undergrowth prevented him from seeing far, but he thought he was only a mile or two from the lair. He hoped the latter. Any closer and the guys might have heard the girly scream he’d just let out when he almost ran into the branch.