Bastien caught the woman’s blouse in a fist before she could hit the ground, then plunged his other fist into the vampire’s face.
Blood spurted and bone shattered as the vampire flew backward and hit the building with enough force to crack the brick and produce a cloud of sandy mortar.
Bastien gently lowered the woman to the ground and zipped over to the vampire’s gaping friend. That one tried to lock an arm around his victim and use her as a shield . . . until Bastien broke said arm and sent the screaming vamp flying through the air to form more cracks in the building’s exterior.
Bastien placed the woman beside her friend and charged the vampires, guiding the battle away from the humans.
Both vampires drew weapons: hunting knives with serrated edges and bowies as long as his forearm.
Bastien drew his katanas and faced them without a qualm. He had been born two centuries ago and, at the insistence of his noble British father, had trained with a master swordsman. If that weren’t enough to lend him confidence, the fact that he had trained with Seth and David, the eldest and most powerful immortals in existence, for roughly two years did.
The blond vampire swore, fear filling his glowing blue eyes. “He’s an Immortal Guardian!”
Bastien thought for a moment the other one would cut and run. Then the brunet roared and dove into the fight.
Blades clashed. Wounds opened. Blood flowed.
On the vampires, that is.
Bastien remained relatively unscathed. Disarming the blond, he sheathed a sword and grabbed the blond vampire by the neck. As Bastien continued to battle the brunet, the emotions of the blond flowed into him at the behest of Bastien’s gift. Malice. Chaos. Madness. He couldn’t be saved. The virus that infected both vampires and immortals had been with this one too long.
Shoving the vampire back, Bastien slashed the brunet’s chest, then swiftly decapitated the blond.
The brunet stilled and stared at his fallen comrade.
Bastien used his preternatural speed to disarm the second vamp and took him by the throat as well.
Richart appeared in the distance, perhaps forty yards away, turned in a circle, spotted them, then teleported to Bastien’s side. “The women?” he asked.
Bastien nodded to them. “Alive, but bitten and disoriented.”
Richart motioned to the vampire Bastien held. “And this one?” Richart’s clothing—black pants, black shirt, long black coat (standard garb for immortals)—bore numerous wet patches that would have been obvious bloodstains on material of any other color. “Are you planning to keep him as a souvenir or what?”
Bastien scowled. “I wanted to see if he was salvageable.”
If the vamp were newly turned, the madness that afflicted humans after they transformed may not have infected him yet.
“And?”
Bastien eyed the vamp with disgust. “He isn’t.”
“Then what are you . . . ?” Richart trailed off.
Muffled noises carried to Bastien’s sensitive ears. Boots traversing grass and pavement. Several pair, each bearing a man’s weight. The faint rattle of equipment.
The immortals shared a look.
Facing the corner of the building from around which the sounds approached, they both drew in deep breaths.
No cologne. No scented soap. No deodorant. No lingering hint of clothing detergent or scented fabric softener or dryer sheets. Nothing an immortal would ordinarily detect on an approaching group of humans.
The sole human-oriented scent that reached them was . . . gun oil.
Bastien frowned at Richart. Whoever approached bore the MO of a hunter. What the hell would they be hunting on a college campus? Unless . . .
“Take the women to safety,” Bastien ordered too softly for humans to hear.
Richart reached the women in an instant and tossed one over each shoulder. “I shall return shortly,” he promised, then vanished.
The vampire in Bastien’s grasp began to struggle.
Bastien tightened his hold and waited to see who or what would come around the corner.
Had his vision not been preternaturally sharp, he would have missed the tiny mirror—barely bigger than a thumbnail—that appeared first and gave the man who held it a glimpse of Bastien and his captive.
Breath sucked in. The mirror slipped out of sight.
Something round and metal, the size of a tennis ball, bounced and jounced across the pavement toward Bastien. Light as bright as the damned sun engulfed him in a brief flash, blinding Bastien and making the vampire howl in pain.
Bastien yanked the vamp in front of him half a second before gunfire erupted, muffled by silencers. The vamp jerked and grunted. The scent of blood filled the air.
Footsteps pounded around the corner.
Because his advanced DNA made him more powerful than the vampire, Bastien’s vision swiftly cleared. While the vamp continued to scrub at his eyes with one hand and clutch his chest with the other, Bastien studied the men who approached.
All were garbed like Special Ops soldiers and carried much of the related weaponry with one notable addition.
The vampire jerked when a tranquilizer dart hit him in the shoulder. His body instantly went limp and heavy.
Still using him as a shield, Bastien zeroed in on the soldier holding the tranquilizer pistol. The next time the soldier fired, Bastien moved—as swift as lightning—and caught the dart. He hurled it back at the soldier, hitting him in the throat. The man collapsed without a sound.
Another soldier fired a second tranquilizer pistol. Bastien ducked the first dart, then caught the second and sent it back to its launcher.
All but one of the remaining soldiers opened fire with their silencer-equipped assault rifles. Bullets tore through the vampire and hit Bastien. Fire burned through his stomach and chest. Breathing became difficult as one lung collapsed.
Shit!
Dropping the vampire, Bastien sped forward, grabbed the rifle one of the downed human soldiers had dropped and fired. The remaining soldiers began to fall as bullets penetrated Kevlar or hit flesh not protected by armor.
Despite his attempts to evade the darts, Bastien felt a sharp sting in his neck. His knees weakened.
Alarm surpassing pissed off, Bastien put on a burst of speed, circled the building, and came up behind the soldiers. He grabbed the first one he met, dragged him back against his chest, and sank his fangs into the man’s throat, siphoning as much blood as he could into his veins to dilute the drug he could feel steadily sapping his strength and to aid the virus in repairing his wounds.
Yanking the tranquilizer pistol from the soldier’s hand, Bastien fired at the others as they turned to fight anew.
Every human fell . . . eventually. And every one of them died, either as a result of bullet wounds or being tranqed with a drug too strong for their systems to handle.
Bastien dropped the soldier he had drained.
The campus around him tilted and rolled. Staggering, he struggled to remain upright.
A loud clatter disturbed the quiet.
Bastien glanced down at the tranquilizer pistol that had fallen from his hand.
Had he meant to do that?
Noticing a dart protruding from one thigh, he yanked it out, then removed another he found in his arm.
A steady pat pat pat drew his gaze to the blood dripping onto the ground at his feet. How many bullet wounds had he incurred?
Several seconds spent thinking about it yielded no numbers. He was too tired to count.
He looked at the bodies on the ground. The blood. The weapons.
Maybe somebody should clean this mess up before . . .
He frowned. Wouldn’t something bad happen if this shit wasn’t cleaned up?
It took a minute for him to fish his cell phone out of his pocket. His hand didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Squinting down at the display, which seemed both too bright and weirdly out of focus, he tried to decide whom he should call.