heels but still forcing him back. She used the motion of the kick to fall into a crouch, sweeping the blade in a whispering arc, claiming the space around her body.
Force the enemy to keep his distance. One useful thing her father had taught her. One of the few.
But as she came out of the turn, he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck—how long was his reach, anyway?—and heaved her to the ground like a bag of laundry. Before Talia could move, she felt a heavy knee in the small of her back. She tried to arch up, but he was at least twice her weight. Rage shot through her, riding on a cold slick of terror. She hissed, baring fang.
His hand was pinning her wrist to the carpet, immobilizing the knife. Gripping it hard, she twisted her hand, snaking the point toward his flesh. His other hand clamped down, peeling her fingers off the hilt one by one.
She did her best to scratch. A female vampire’s nails were sharp as talons.
“Give it up,” he growled.
She made a sound like a cat poked with a fork, half hiss, half yowl. The knife came loose. He sent it spinning across the floor, out of reach. Then she felt something cold and metal click shut around her wrist. The chill sensation made her flail, the motion jerking her elbow up to connect with solid flesh. His jaw? For a glorious moment, she felt him flinch.
Only to shove her back down and snap the handcuffs around her other wrist.
“There’s silver in the alloy.” His voice was hard and low. “You can’t break them.”
Talia rolled over, baring her fangs. The slide of metal against leather told her a gun had left its holster. The next thing she saw was a freaking .44 Magnum Ruger Blackhawk aimed between her eyes—loaded, no doubt, with silver-coated hollow-point bullets.
Their fight had brought them closer to the living room. The glow of the table lamps cast a wash of light over the attacker’s face, at last giving her a good look at the man. Or, what she could see of him around the muzzle of the mini-cannon in his hand.
Shaggy dark hair, thick and straight and a bit too long. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Killer cheekbones. Young, maybe late twenties. Not classically handsome, but there was something heart-stopping in that face. Something wild. And he was big.
She’d seen him before. What was his name? Lorne? No, Lore. He lived somewhere on the sixth floor.
“Great,” Talia ground out through clenched teeth. Everything was catching up to her, emotions fighting their way through shock. She was starting to cry, tears sliding from beneath her lashes and trickling down her temples. Oh, Michelle, what happened? “Just great. I’m about to be blown to smithereens by the boy next door.”
He leaned forward, pressing the muzzle of the gun into her flesh. “Be silent.”
Talia hissed.
The corner of his mouth pulled down. “Did the smell of her get to be too much? You needed a taste?”
“Oh, God, no.” Talia caught her breath, feeling beads of cold, clammy sweat trickle between her breasts. Fear. Guilt. She’d been so afraid of hurting Michelle, been so careful. Accusing her now wasn’t fair. “How can you say that? She’s right there. Right over there.”
“Then tell the truth.”
Talia gulped, tasting death on her tongue. “I didn’t do this.”
“All the vampires say that.”
“Wasn’t this your doing?”
“I don’t hunt humans. I go for bigger game.”
The statement made her shiver. His hand was bloody where she’d cut him, but he didn’t smell like food. Not human, but nothing she recognized. The realization came like an extra jolt of electricity. What the hell is he?
“Then why are you here? Who are you?” She struggled to sit up, awkward because her arms were pinned behind her back. He pressed the Ruger hard against her skin, but she barely noticed.
“Who is your sire?” he demanded.
Talia clamped her mouth shut. His dark, angry gaze locked with hers. It wasn’t the cold stare of so many killers she’d known. His eyes were hot with emotion, a righteous, remorseless fury.
“Who made you?” His voice grated with anger.
Talia blinked hard, her heart giving another jerking thump of fright. “No, please, if you send me back to my sire, I’ll be lucky if he only kills me.”
“That’s what happens when a vampire goes rogue.”
Now she was starting to sob, ugly little gasps that caught in her throat. “You can’t send me back. I didn’t kill her. I loved Michelle.” She was begging, and put every ounce of her soul into it, holding his dark, burning stare.
A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Damn you.”
The wail of a police siren ripped the night. Were they coming for Michelle’s murder, or was there another tragedy tonight?
Lore pressed the muzzle of the gun like a cold kiss against her forehead. “I don’t trust you. I can’t tell if you’re the killer or not. But I believe you’re afraid of your sire.”
Her mouth had gone paper dry. “What are you going to do?”
His mouth thinned as if he didn’t like the question. He looked her up and down, all that anger turning to a smoldering frustration. Talia could almost feel it heating her skin.
“The human police will assume you’re guilty and look no further. I’ll give you a choice. Take your chances with them, or . . . ” He trailed off, clearly mulling over his next words.
“Or?” The single syllable came out in a croak.
“Or you’re my prisoner. Take your pick.”
Chapter 6
Tuesday, December 28, 11:00 p.m.
101.5 FM
“Hello, and welcome back to CSUP in the nighttime hours, with your host Errata Jones. Tonight we’re talking love amongst the monsters—especially between the monsters and everyone else.
“One of the best-known stories of unrequited love was found in that good old classic, Dracula. I have it on good authority what happened was nothing like the book, but then where’s the surprise in that? History is usually written by the winner. If Mina and Drac found true love—well, that’s not the story her wimpy human husband wanted to spread far and wide.
“But the truth isn’t hard to find. Think about it: Who was the crazy one in the story? The wealthy vampire making real estate investments, or the wacky Dutch doctor with his black bag of fetish objects and torture devices?
“In other words, context is everything. Before you judge a villain or a hero and especially your lover, it’s a good idea to understand his or her motives.”
Tuesday, December 28, 11:00 p.m.
Talia’s condo
I can always get away.
Talia’s mind was still reeling with shock, with grief, but her father’s lessons came back to her with the cold, hard pragmatism of long training. Drill long enough, and anything could become reflex. Even the art of escape.
It was a desperate gamble, but she’d take her chances with a lone gunman—even this bruiser—over the human police. Humans weren’t strong, but there were too damned many of them. Besides, so far she’d kept out of their data banks. Once you were in their computers, Unlife got infinitely more complicated.
On the other hand, a single attacker couldn’t watch her every second. Until Lore got her to his den of
