And there he was. A surprisingly slight man weaving his way cautiously through the forest’s crinoline of fluffy bushes. The expression on the man’s face was nearly religious as he approached the flank of the motel, but that wasn’t the only part of what identified him as the killer. His clothes were covered with dried blood, his shoes, too. He was limping, as if he had a leg injury, and his face had streaks gouged in it—from fingernails.
Gotcha, Veck thought.
And now that he was staring at the killer . . . his hand crept down to his hips and went around to the back. To his knife.
Even as he told himself to leave the weapon where it was and go for his cuffs, he didn’t change course. There had always been two halves of him, two people in one skin, and in moments like this, he felt as though he were watching himself act, sure as if he were a passenger in a cab and whatever destination he was bound for was not going to be a result of his own efforts.
He began to close in on the man, tracking him silently as a shadow, shortening the distance until he was a mere five feet from the bastard. The knife had found its way into Veck’s palm, and he really didn’t want it there, but it was too late to resheathe. Too late to derail. Too late to listen to the voice that told him this was a crime that was going to land him in jail. The other side of him had taken over and he was lost to it, on the verge of killing—
The third man came from out of nowhere.
A mammoth man dressed in leather jumped into the killer’s path, blocking his way. And as David Kroner leaped back in alarm, a hiss seethed through the air.
God, that didn’t even sound human. And . . . were those . . .
The attack was so brutal that with just the first strike at the serial killer’s neck, the guy’s head nearly came off. And it kept going from there, blood flying so far and wide that it speckled Veck’s heavy black pants and turtleneck and hat.
Except there was no knife or dagger involved.
Teeth. The motherfucker was ripping shit apart with his
Veck tried to scramble back, but he slammed into a tree, and the impact sent him careening to the ground waaaay closer than he needed to be. And he should have run for his bike, or just plain run away, but he was transfixed by the violence . . . and the conviction that whatever he was watching was most certainly not human.
When it was over, the monster dropped the massacred remains of the serial killer to the ground . . . and then it looked at Veck.
“Holy . . . fuck . . .” Veck breathed.
The face had a very humanlike bone structure, but the fangs were all wrong and so was the size and that vengeful stare. God, blood was actually dripping from its mouth.
“Look into my eyes,” an accented voice said.
A gurgling sound rose up from what was left of the serial killer. But Veck didn’t glance over. He was transfixed by a stunning set of peepers . . . so very blue . . . glowing....
“Shit . . .” he choked out, a sudden headache cutting out everything he saw or heard. Collapsing sideways, he went fetal from the pain and stayed there.
Blink.
Why was he on the ground?
Blink.
He smelled blood. But why?
Blink. Blink.
With a groan, he lifted his head and—“Shit!”
Leaping to his feet in shock, he stared down at the bloody mess that was in front of him.
“Oh . . . fuck,” he cursed. He’d done it. He’d finally killed someone—
Except then he looked at the knife in his fist. No blood: Not on the blade. Not on his hands. And only specks on his clothes.
Looking around, he had no clue what had just rolled out. He remembered driving here . . . and parking his motorcycle . . . and tracking the man who was now dying on the ground.
If he was brutally honest with himself, he’d had the intent to kill. All along. But going by the physical evidence? It hadn’t been him.
The problem was, all he had was a black hole of no info.
A moan from the serial killer snapped his head to the right. The man was reaching for him. Mutely asking for help as he leaked all over the place. How was he still alive?
With shaking hands, Veck grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. “Yeah, Detective DelVecchio, CPD Homicide. I need an ambulance out at the Monroe Motel & Suites
After the report was logged and the medics were on their way, he yanked off his jacket, wadded it up into a ball, and knelt down by the man. Pressing his coat into the guy’s throat wounds, he prayed the fucker survived. And then had to wonder whether that was a good thing or not.
“I didn’t kill you,” he said. “Did I?”
Oh, God . . . what the hell had happened here?
FIFTY-EIGHT
“Be came to see you.”
From Blaylock’s vantage point on the bed, Saxton son of Tyme was showing him his very best side. Which, no, was not his ass. The male was shaving in the mirror in the bathroom, and his perfect profile was bathed in the soft overhead light.
God, he was a beautiful male.
On so many levels, this lover he had taken on was everything he could want.
“Who,” Blay said softly.
The eyes that shifted over to meet his were all about the oh-puhlease.
“Oh.” To dodge any further conversation, Blay looked down at the duvet that was pulled up to his bare chest. He was naked under the satin weight. As Saxton had been until he’d put his robe on.
“He wanted to know if you were okay,” Sax continued.
Since
“It was out on the terrace. He didn’t want to come in and disturb us.”
Funny, when he’d been on the verge of passing out after his stomach had been stitched up, he’d dimly wondered what Saxton had been doing out there. But he’d been in so much pain at the time, it had been hard to think too much about anything.
Now, though, he felt a terrible thrill go through him.
Praise the Scribe Virgin, it had been a while since he’d had this old familiar tingle—although the time lapse didn’t diminish the sensation. And the rush that followed to ask what had been said was nothing he could act on. It was disrespectful to Saxton, for one thing. And it was pointless, for another.
Good thing he had plenty of ammunition to shut himself up with: All he had to do was think of Qhuinn coming home a week or so ago, his hair a mess, his scent clouded by some man’s cologne, his swagger all about the satisfaction he’d grabbed on the run.
The idea that Blay had thrown himself at the male not once, but twice—and gotten shut down? He just couldn’t bear to think of it.
“You don’t want to know what he said?” Saxton murmured as he drew the sharp blade up his throat, skillfully avoiding the bite mark Blay had given him a half hour ago.
Blay closed his eyes and wondered if he was ever going to get away from the reality that Qhuinn would fuck anyone and anything except him.
“No?” Saxton asked.
