“What the-?” He sat up, and his head swam. He pressed his hand to his forehead and screwed his eyes shut again, waiting for the dizziness to subside. Disturbing images flashed across his mind in rapid succession, and that was when he remembered—he’d been working the graveyard shift when he was called out to investigate a tripped alarm at a little bookshop in the Courtyard at Vintage Meadow Lake.
Upon rolling up to the store, he’d found the window smashed, and had climbed in through the hole for a closer look. At first, it’d seemed whoever was responsible had already fled the premises. After shutting off the alarm, Frankie had checked every room for intruders and found no one. He’d called the desk at Atkinson’s Dependable Security Company and told them the police would need to be alerted, but that it wasn’t an emergency; he would do another quick sweep of the store and then call the cops himself. No sooner had he hung up, though, then someone had attacked him. A tiny blonde woman, he remembered with chagrin. How had such a bitty thing gotten the better of him? She must’ve been hopped up on bath salts or something, he decided, trying to make himself feel better. Regardless, Frankie recalled being grabbed by the back of the neck and having his face slammed against the checkout counter. He vaguely remembered people talking to him later in a gentle way, too, saying his name over and over. And he remembered tasting blood.
Swiping his hand across his lips, Frankie stared at his fingertips. There was definitely blood there, but he knew it wasn’t all his own. He’d felt the power flow through his body when that special blood had gone down his throat. He’d felt his injuries knitting together inside him, and the awful pain fading as if by magic.
Magic.
Frankie didn’t believe in magic.
But he remembered someone saying I will heal this man, and then he had done it.
It was a miracle. Had to be. That, Frankie did believe in.
His skin tingling with fear and awe, Frankie levered himself off the sofa. He stopped and listened to the argument still going on somewhere on the other side of the nearest bookcase. He crept over and peeked around it. The blonde chick who had walloped him was standing there, but she couldn’t see him. Her back was turned. She had a taller brunette woman bent over in a headlock and was facing off against a towering male model who looked thoroughly miserable.
Hostage situation, Frankie thought, and instinctively felt for his gun. It was missing. And who knew where it might be in all this mess? He remembered drawing it right before he’d been clobbered, so most likely he’d lost it near the entrance. Whatever. It would probably be easier to just sneak out to his car and grab another weapon, while also calling the police.
He started making his way toward the front door but then paused, gasping in discomfort. As of last week, he was twenty-one years old, but now Frankie felt stiff and creaky as an octogenarian. He forced himself to keep going, to move as swiftly and stealthily as possible, ducking behind walls and furniture to keep himself hidden. Someone had moved bookcases in front of the broken window, but he managed to ease one back, creating a gap just wide enough for him to slip through and scramble outside.
A war was going on in the parking lot. Two women were holding books and shouting into the air, while a group of people duked it out all over the courtyard, many of them moving so fast, Frankie couldn’t even make out what they looked like. There was so much noise and pandemonium swirling around him, no one noticed Frankie climbing out the broken window and staggering out onto the sidewalk. No one but a dark-haired man who sat propped up against the building, only a few feet away from him.
“Hey,” the guy said to Frankie, and his teeth were gritted like it was hurting him to talk. “Hey, you…can…can you come over here and let me go?” The man angled his body so Frankie could see his hands had been tied behind his back. Another hostage? Who were all these people? What the heck were they doing out here?
Without giving it much thought, Frankie dropped to one knee beside the captive and started picking at his ropes. The knots were way too tight for him to unravel. He felt in his pockets for his keychain, pulled it out, and unfolded the knife dangling from it. He sawed through the restraints and let them fall away. “There you go,” he said. The hostage, pale and sweaty, just sat there, staring at him without budging. Probably in shock, Frankie decided, and then realized he wasn’t the only one. Frankie still wasn’t feeling too clear himself. A haze seemed to shroud his brain, and the impossible things happening around him…well, they weren’t exactly helping to dispel the fog.
The freed hostage made a frustrated noise. He tried standing and promptly tumbled back onto his backside. “Can you…” He stared at Frankie with pleading eyes. “Can you please check my pockets for me?”
◆◆◆
Kiefer felt it when his token was discarded from Theo’s pocket and the charm binding the guy to his will was broken. He muttered a curse to himself and spun away from the fight to see what’d happened. He saw the security guard Nathan had rescued helping Theo to his feet. Then the two of them just stood there on the sidewalk, chatting with one another as casual as you please—as if there wasn’t a vampire war going on only a few yards away from them.
“Hey!” Kiefer used his super-speed to rush over to them. “What do you think you’re doing?” He knocked the security guard away from the thug.
The guard—his name was Frankie, Kiefer was reminded by his nametag—stared at him with wide, almond-shaped eyes. “What in
