Lover Revealed

When she nodded, he leaned forward and ran his fingertip down her cheek. Then he glanced at her lips and the scent he was throwing off abruptly got stronger.

Their eyes locked.

It took less than a second before a craving lit off in her veins, a kind of burning, clenching need. Of their own accord, her eyes shifted from his face to his throat and her fangs began to throb as her reality shrunk to nothing but instinct: She wanted to pierce his thick vein. She wanted to feed from him. And she wanted him to have sex with her body while she did.

Bloodlust.

Oh, God. That's was why she was so tired. She hadn't been able to feed from Rehvenge the other night, and then there had been all the stress of Butch being so ill, followed by his taking off. Plus the thing with Havers.

Not that the whys mattered at the moment. All she knew was the hunger.

Her lips parted and she started to reach for him—

Except what would happen if she drank from him?

Well, that was easy. She'd drain him dry trying to satisfy herself because his human blood was so weak. She would kill him.

But God, he would taste good.

She cut off the voice of the bloodlust, and in an act of iron will, put her arms under the sheets. 'I'll see you tonight.'

As Butch straightened, his eyes dulled and he put his hands over the front of his hips, like he was hiding an erection. Which naturally made the urge to grab him get even stronger.

'You take care of yourself, Marissa,' he said in a low, sad tone.

He was at the door when she said, 'Butch?'

'Yeah?'

'I don't think of you as weak.'

He frowned as if wondering where that came from. 'Neither do I. Sleep well, beautiful. I'll see you soon.'

When she was alone, she waited for the hunger to pass and it did. Which gave her some hope. With everything that was going on right now, she would love to put feeding off for a little while. Getting so close to Rehvenge just seemed wrong.

Chapter Eighteen

Van drove downtown as night came rolling over Caldwell. After getting off the highway, he took a half-assed access road to the river, easing his truck along a pothole-riddled strip that ran beneath the city's big bridge. Stopping under a pylon marked f-8 in orange spray paint, he got out and looked around.

Traffic overhead rushed by, semis bumping along with echoing thunder, cars letting off the occasional horn blast. Down here, at river level, the Hudson was almost as loud as the din from above. The day had been the first to carry a shot of spring warmth, and the water was flowing fast from the runoff of melting snow.

The dark gray rush looked like liquid asphalt. Smelled like dirt.

He scanned the area, instincts hackling up. Man, alone under the bridge was never a good place to be. Especially as daylight faded.

Fuck this, he shouldn't have come. He turned back to his truck.

Xavier stepped from the shadows. 'Glad you made it, son.'

Van sucked back his surprise. Shit, the guy was like some kind of ghost. 'Why couldn't we do this over the phone?' Well, didn't that sound weak. 'I got things I have to fucking do.'

'I need you to help me with something.'

'I told you I wasn't interested.'

Xavier smiled a little. 'Yes, you did, didn't you.'

The sound of wheels on loose gravel percolated into Van's ears and he looked to the left. The Chrysler Town & Country, that gold-toned, utterly forgettable minivan, was pulling up right next to him.

Keeping his eyes on Xavier, Van put his hand in his pocket and slipped his finger into the trigger of his nine. If they were going to try and whack him, they were going to get a lead fight.

'There's something in the back for you, son. Go ahead. Open her up.' There was a pause. 'Afraid, Van?'

'Fuck that.' He walked over, ready to pull out his heat. But when he slid back the door, all he could do was recoil. His brother, Richard, was tied up with nylon rope, strips of duct tape over his mouth and his eyes.

'Jesus, Rich…' When he reached forward, he heard a gun get cocked and he looked up at the minivan's driver. The pale-haired bastard behind the wheel was pointing what looked like a Smith & Wesson forty right in Van's face.

'I'd like you to rethink my invitation,' Xavier said.

Behind the wheel of Sally Forrester's Honda, Butch cursed as he took a left at a stoplight and saw a Caldwell PD patrol car parked at the Stewart's on the corner of. Framingham and Hollis. Holy hell. Driving around in a stolen car with two grand in cash did not make a guy feel relaxed.

Good thing he had backup. V was right on his ass in the Escalade as they headed to the Barnstable Road address.

Nine and a half minutes later, Butch found Sally's little Cape Cod. After he killed the headlights and let the Accord roll to a stop, he broke the wire connection to cut off the engine. The house was dark, so he walked right up to the front door, shoved the envelope with the cash through the mail slot, and then beat feet across the street for the Escalade. He wasn't worried about getting caught on this quiet street. If anyone asked questions, V would just do a mental Windex on them.

He was getting into the SUV when he froze, an odd feeling rushing through him.

For no apparent reason, his body started to ring—that was the only way he could describe it. Like there was a cell phone smack dead in the center of his chest.

Down the street… down the street. He had to go down the street.

Oh, God—lessers were there.

'What is it, cop?'

'I feel them. They're close.'

'Game on, then.' Vishous slipped out from behind the wheel and they both shut their doors. As V hit the alarm, the Escalade's lights flashed once. 'Go with it, cop. Let's see where this takes us.'

Butch started walking. Then fell into a jog.

Together they ran through the shadows of the peaceful subdivision, staying out of the pools of light thrown by porches and streetlamps. They cut through someone's backyard. Dodged around an aboveground pool. Sidled past a garage.

The neighborhood got shittier. Dogs barked in warning. A car passed by with no headlights on and rap thumping. And then an abandoned house. Followed by an empty lot. Until finally they came up to a decrepit two- story from the seventies that was surrounded by a nine-foot-high wooden fence.

'In here,' Butch said, looking around for a gate.

'Give me your leg, cop.'

As Butch grabbed the top of the fence and cocked his knee, V tossed him over the thing like he was the morning newspaper. He landed in a crouch.

There they were. Three lessers. Two of whom were dragging a male out of the house by his arms.

Butch went into an instant overboil. He was radioactive angry about what had been done to him, frustrated by his fears for Marissa, trapped by his human nature—and those slayers became the focal point of his aggression.

Except V materialized next to him and grabbed his shoulder. As Butch wheeled around to tell the brother to