She was terrified. Weak.
Logan was killing her and he hadn’t even realized what he’d been doing.
Immediately, he sealed the wound on her arm, licking away the remnant of blood left behind. He scoured her mind, searching through it swiftly, before it was too late.
He saw flickers of her life—brief flashes of people and places she’d seen. He felt moments of triumph and panic, sorrow and joy. Her life was like many others, full of a bright mix of feelings and memories and hopes.
Logan found the ones he wanted and rifled through them. She was fading fast, sinking into unconsciousness.
He took some of the soaring power she’d given him and let it seep back into her through his hold on her arm. If she collapsed, he was sure Zach would cut him down.
A faint memory nagged him. He’d tasted blood like hers before; he just couldn’t remember where or when.
Focus. He needed to concentrate on the part of her holding her plans to destroy his home.
Logan honed in on those thoughts, saw a collage of male faces he didn’t recognize, then singled out what he needed.
Lexi was telling the truth. She had no intention of killing them. Not since learning they were not the monsters she’d believed.
Logan struggled to find his voice, and when he did, it came out rough and scratchy. “It is as she says,” he told Joseph.
Both men deflated visibly in relief, and Zach rushed forward to take Lexi’s limp body from Logan’s arms. He settled her on the bed with exquisite care, as if her body were made of blown glass.
“She needs fluids,” said Logan.
Zach gave Logan a feral stare. “You took too much.”
“Her defenses are formidable. It was necessary.” It was a lie, but one he sensed Zach would accept. The last thing he needed was to anger Zach enough that he cut Logan down and wasted all the precious power flowing in his veins.
That power was needed elsewhere. Project Lullaby was reaching a critical stage, and all his kin sleeping below the earth needed to be fed.
“Give her a couple of hours and she’ll be fine,” said Logan.
“You’d better pray that’s the case, leech.”
Joseph gave Logan a small formal bow. “Thank you for your services.” It was a dismissal and Logan knew it.
Fine. He had better things to do, anyway, and the rich blood filling him up was going to make them all possible.
Alexander was one of the few people who truly loved hospitals. He saw hope where others saw only sickness and despair. It was within the walls of hospitals like this that he found the opportunity to save his race from extinction.
The sterile smell, combined with that of weak human bodies, filled his nose as he glided along the tiled hallways. It was late, well past visiting hours, but no one questioned his presence. In fact, few even noticed him passing by. He was no more than a blur of movement, a whoosh of cool air sliding over their skin.
His senses on high alert, Alexander moved with unerring accuracy toward his target. He pushed the wooden door open and slipped inside, unnoticed by the nursing staff at the desk nearby.
The room was dark. Quiet. No TV filled the silence, only the faint sigh of breath moving in and out of a woman’s body, the dry rattle of a man’s labored breathing much faster than her own. She reeked of grief and despair, but Alexander would shortly fix that. He’d long ago learned that the hope for his race—the Sanguinar—was tied closely to the fragile hopes of certain, special humans—those with strong blood surging in their veins, the blood of the Solarc himself.
Alexander drew in a long breath through his nose, detecting the spicy richness of that blood. Hunger rolled in his belly, but he’d lived with it long enough to set the urge to feed aside for as long as he needed. His task was more important than his hunger, for if it went well, one day his people would no longer feel the gnawing emptiness of starvation again.
He moved slowly so he wouldn’t startle her, clearing the fabric curtain that blocked the sight of the bed from the doorway. A man lay there, still and gaunt. He looked to be in his sixties, though Alexander guessed him a decade younger. His skin was tinted yellow with sickness and hung loose on his frame. A thin clear tube at his nose fed him oxygen and a thick drainage tube snaking from his side gave away a recent surgery.
Alexander checked the chart. Cancer. It was almost always cancer.
That suited him fine. He’d honed his skills well, and battling those voracious cells was almost second nature to him now.
The woman was seated in a rigid chair, slumped over the bed in sleep. Her short blond hair was a mess, as if she hadn’t combed it in days, and a bright flush reddened her cheeks.
Alexander pressed his hand against her forehead, feeling the heat of her fever streak up his arm. She’d spent enough time at the man’s side to catch some illness, likely because she hadn’t been taking care of herself.
Briefly, Alexander questioned whether she was a good candidate, but dismissed the notion in moments. Anyone who dedicated herself to one she loved to the point of self- sacrifice was going to be a valuable asset to their plans.
The woman stirred at his touch, jerking awake. She looked up at him with wide brown eyes and eased away from his hand.
“You’re sick,” he said in a low voice.
She blinked a couple of times and ran her hands through her hair as if to straighten it.
Alexander suppressed a knowing smile. His kind were beautiful and always seemed to have that effect on humans. Too bad it had been decades since Alexander had felt the urge to have sex. He was too hungry to think of much else, and too weak to act on it even if the thought had crossed his mind.
“I’m fine,” she said. “How’s Dad?”
Ah, so this was her father. And she thought he was a doctor.
Alexander supported that false assumption and looked at her father’s chart. He knew enough about human medicine to see the pattern of death hanging all over this man. “He’s weak. Dying.”
The scent of grief rose up stronger, nearly choking Alexander. It had a cloying smell, like old flower petals on the verge of decay.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?”