“Witchcraft: Get your potions just right?” He tossed Wesley an incredulous look. “You’d better not have any of the trainers see what crap you’re reading. They’ll think you’re wacko!”
Wesley tore the book from his grip and rose hastily, his chair making a loud noise as it scraped along the kitchen floor. “None of your business, or theirs! And I would suggest that you don’t start snooping around. You might not like what you find.”
Clearly annoyed, he turned and headed for the door.
“Hey, Wesley, don’t be such a hothead. I don’t care what you read. I’m not gonna tell the others.”
But Wesley was already out the door. Moments later he heard the door to the living room being opened, then closing again. Great, it had taken him about two minutes to piss his only ally off. And he’d wanted to talk to him about how his mission as decoy had gone. Even though they had eaten together the night before, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to him in private since Nina had been around. He figured it wasn’t cool milking another trainee for information in front of a trainer.
“Uh, screw it,” he murmured to himself.
He dumped the coffee into the sink, glad he didn’t have to drink it now. Then he went about to open every drawer and cabinet he could find. No inch remained unexplored. No antacids. All he noticed was that for the fact this was such a large house and a large and modern kitchen, it was only sparsely equipped. Considering that at least ten people were currently staying there, he doubted that there were enough knives and forks available for everybody to eat at the same time.
He shrugged. Not his problem.
As the burning in his stomach intensified, he knew he had to take matters into his own hands and go to the nearest drugstore to buy what he needed. One of the rules instantly flashed in his mind: don’t leave the house on your own.
Since he’d just pissed off Wesley, he would rather bite his tongue than ask him to accompany him. It didn’t matter. Nobody was awake yet. They wouldn’t even know that he’d left the house. And if he snuck out through one of the side doors, Wesley wouldn’t hear him either.
Blake looked down at himself. Crap, he needed to get dressed first and fetch his wallet. But before he could even reach the kitchen door, it burst open and Oliver charged in, dressed in his pajamas, his body advancing toward the locked pantry in a blur of movement.
Blake gasped in surprise, his heart stopping simultaneously. If he’d still been holding the coffee mug, he would have dropped it now.
Having heard his gasp, Oliver whirled around and faced him. Blake wished instantly he hadn’t, because the creature that looked at him was more animal than man: eyes glaring red, a wild look about him, his body tense.
Tilting his head, Oliver’s eyes assessed him. His nostrils flared, and it reminded him of a bull or a horse. When he sniffed and approached with the graceful movements of a predator, Blade shrunk back from him, quickly looking behind him, wondering where to escape to.
“Oliver, what’s wrong?” he stammered.
But his trainer didn’t respond. Instead he peeled his lips back and exposed his white teeth, Oliver’s gaze not pinned on his face anymore, but sliding down to somewhere on his neck.
“Shit!” Blake yelled.
Oliver’s teeth weren’t evenly shaped. Two of his canines were longer and pointy. As if he’d put on Halloween props. His teeth looked like fangs.
Setting one foot in front of the other, Oliver appeared as if he was fighting to stay back. But he kept advancing.
“Run,” he pressed out between clenched teeth.
Despite the warning, Blake didn’t move: he was frozen in shock, paralyzed. His limbs didn’t follow his command, his legs were heavy like lead and didn’t move.
Something akin to regret flashed in Oliver’s eyes, before they turned a darker red.
“I can’t . . . tried to resist . . . ”
Whatever else he wanted to say, died on his lips when he pounced. Blake felt Oliver’s hands dig into his shoulders and pull him against his body. He struggled against his grip without success, when he should have easily pushed him off. Oliver was less bulky than himself, less muscular, yet he didn’t even break a sweat, keeping him immobile.
Then he felt Oliver’s fangs dig into his neck.
Shit, he was going to die!
30
The scream came from downstairs, catapulting Quinn out of bed. Rose, whose warm body had been molded against his, woke simultaneously. Exchanging a worried look, they recognized immediately who had screamed.
“Blake!”