Rane materialized on the sidewalk. Because he didn’t want to leave Savanah alone any longer than necessary, he hypnotized the first mortal who crossed his path, took what he needed, and made his way back to Savanah’s.
As soon as he reached the front door, he knew leaving her had been a mistake, perhaps a fatal one. The smell of blood and death hung heavy in the air, and with it, the familiar scent of Vampire.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Savanah!”
Rane burst into the kitchen prepared for battle, only to find that it was already over. A female Vampire lay in a lifeless sprawl on the floor, a hawthorn stake driven deep into her heart. Savanah stood with her back against the kitchen table, her eyes wide and unfocused.
“Savanah?” Rane stepped over the body. “Are you all right?”
“Is she dead?”
“Pretty much.”
“I need to…”—the blood drained from Savanah’s face—“…to take her head to make sure.”
“What happened?”
Savanah looked up at him, her eyes wide, her face pale. “I was rinsing my dishes in the sink when she came up behind me. She grabbed me and tried to…to tie my hands together. She said someone, I can’t remember his name, was coming to…” She swayed unsteadily. “How could she come into the house? I didn’t invite her.”
“Your father did.” Taking Savanah by the hand, Rane led her to a chair and urged her to sit down. “Go on. What else did she say?”
“She said he’d kill me if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. I pushed her away, I don’t know how. I had a stake in the waistband of my jeans and I…I grabbed it, and when she reached for me again, I…”
Savanah swallowed the bitter taste of bile in her throat. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget how easily the stake had penetrated the Vampire’s flesh, like a knife through butter, nor would she soon forget the horrified look in the Vampire’s eyes when she realized what had happened.
“It’s all right,” Rane said gently. “I think I get the picture.” He squeezed her hand. “Savanah, get hold of yourself. Try to remember the name. Who’s coming?”
“Cliff? Clayton? No, Clive.” She nodded. “Yes, that was it. Clive.”
Rane swore softly. Clive. The undisputed leader of the North American Werewolves was as powerful in his own way as Mara was in hers. Rane frowned. It had been Clive and Mara who had ended the old war. What was the Werewolf’s interest in Savanah? Rane had never met the man, but he couldn’t help wondering if it was Clive’s footprint he had seen outside the Gentry home, and if so, why the Werewolf had teamed up with a Vampire.
Rane glanced at the body on the kitchen floor. She had been a pretty woman. Perhaps that was reason enough, but he didn’t think so.
“Savanah?”
“I’m all right.”
He regarded her through narrowed eyes. Her heartbeat was slower, more regular, the color had returned to her cheeks. “Do you want me to dispose of the body?”
“No. I should do it. I killed her.”
He saw the indecision in her eyes, her need to be strong warring with her revulsion at what she had already done, at what still needed to be done.
“I thought she’d disappear or turn to dust.”
“Only the very old do that.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Will it make it easier if I tell you she’s the Vampire who killed your father?”
“What? Are you sure?” Savanah looked at the dead woman, the horror at what she had done quickly turning to a sense of victory.
“Yes.” He glanced at the body, then back at Savanah. “It’s a messy business, taking a head.”
“Have you done it before?”
“No.”
“I should do it,” she said again. “I need to…”
“Dammit!” Rane said, pivoting toward the door. “He’s here.”
He had no sooner spoken the words than the back door slammed open with a bang.
Fear coiled in Savanah’s belly as a man stepped into the kitchen. He was as tall as Rane, his body compact and well-muscled. His hooded gaze swept the room in a single glance, his expression hardening when he saw the woman’s body.
“Ah, Tasha,” Clive muttered, and then his gaze settled on Rane. “I don’t want to fight with you over this,” he said curtly. “I want the books, that’s all.”
“Do you always get what you want?”
Clive nodded. “Always.”
Rane stepped between Savanah and the Werewolf. “Not this time.”
“Want the books for yourself, do you, Vampire?”
“No, I just don’t want you to have them.”
“It seems there’s only one way to settle it, then,” Clive said. “Survivor gets the books.” He glanced at Savanah. “And the woman.”
“Let’s take it outside,” Rane said.
Clive jerked his head toward the back door. “After you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Clive winked at Savanah. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He glanced at the dead Vampire, and then back at Savanah. “Be ready to take her place.” And so saying, he turned and walked out of the house.
“Rane…”
“Get your gun and get the hell out of here.” Rane didn’t wait for her reply, but turned and followed the Werewolf out the back door.
Savanah stood there a moment, her heart pounding wildly. And then she went upstairs to get her gun.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Clive stood in the middle of the backyard, his hands fisted at his sides, his eyes narrow slits. “To the death?”
“Suits me.”
Exhilaration flowed through Rane’s body as he summoned his preternatural power. He knew Clive was doing the same. The Werewolf’s Supernatural energy danced across Rane’s skin like static electricity, alien yet familiar.
They circled each other slowly, their bodies tense and slightly hunched over, their arms loose at their sides.
Rane took a deep calming breath. If he lived, Savanah would live. If he died, she would die. Knowing that, everything else ceased to exist as he focused all his attention on the Werewolf.
Clive darted forward, his hands changing, the nails becoming a wolf’s sharp claws as he endeavored to sweep Rane’s legs out from under him. Sidestepping to the left, Rane brought his fist down across the Werewolf’s back. Clive grunted, then spun away. Wheeling around, he charged again, a yellow-eyed nightmare on two legs. Sharp fangs protruded from his mouth.
Rane blocked the Werewolf’s charge again and again, hardly aware of the bites and scratches he received. His breath came in harsh gasps, his nostrils flaring as the scent of the Werewolf’s blood rose in the air. They came together again and yet again, each seeming oblivious to the injuries they sustained, neither inflicting any serious damage to the other.
With a howl of frustration, Clive shifted to wolf form.
An instant later, Rane did likewise.
Again, they were evenly matched in size and strength. Clive’s teeth raked the length of Rane’s left foreleg, shredding flesh and muscle. With a savage snarl, Rane lowered his head and charged. Clive scrambled backward, his hind legs tangling in his cast-off clothing. With a feral growl, Rane sprang forward, intending to bury his fangs in the Werewolf’s throat. He let out a growl as his left leg gave way beneath him and his fangs closed on Clive’s shoulder instead of his throat. Blood filled his mouth and he reveled in it. Clive lay still beneath him, his for the taking.
Exhilarated by the thought of destroying his enemy, caught up in the lust for blood, Rane realized a moment too late that Clive was changing again.
Uttering an inhuman cry of triumph, the Werewolf wrenched his shoulder from Rane’s jaws. With blood pouring down his arm, Clive pulled a syringe from the pocket of his shredded jacket and jabbed the needle between Rane’s shoulder blades.
Rane howled as pain exploded through his back, as hot as the fires of hell. His vision blurred. Shaking his head, he focused on the Werewolf. If he was going to die, he was taking Clive with him. Gathering his rapidly-waning strength, he lunged at the other man, his body shifting in midair. The force of his momentum drove Clive backward to the ground. The Werewolf landed hard, and Rane landed on top of him, his hands circling the Werewolf’s neck. Clive bucked and kicked, shrieking and howling in fury as his nails raked Rane’s back. It took every ounce of Rane’s remaining strength for him to hang on. He didn’t know what kind of poison had been in the needle, but it burned through his whole body, leeching his strength, blurring his vision, as he slowly squeezed the life and breath out of the Werewolf.
And then, unable to fight it any longer, Rane tumbled into the blackness that beckoned him.
Savanah ran out of the house crying his name. She spared hardly a glance for the dead Werewolf as she sank to her knees beside Rane.
For a moment, she could only stare at him. He couldn’t be dead, she thought. He was already dead, or Undead. He was just unconscious or something. His body was covered with bites and scratches, but none of them looked fatal.
“Rane.” She shook his shoulder gently. “Rane, wake up.” She shook his shoulder again, harder this time. “Rane, wake up! Dammit, this isn’t funny! Wake up! Please!”
He didn’t stir, didn’t seem to be breathing.
She glanced at the sky, a silent prayer rising in her heart. Please, please, please, don’t let him be dead. Please.
The night settled around her, deep and dark and quiet. She needed help, but there was no one here, no one for miles. No one who could help her. She rested her forehead on his chest as that painful reality hit home. There was no one who could help her.
She glanced back at the house. Somehow, she had to get him inside before morning. But how? She couldn’t lift him, not now, when he was deadweight…deadweight. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat, only to emerge in a flood of tears.