“No!” she repeated and shoved him away. “I’m fine! Just give me my damned sword back!”

She didn’t wait, just yanked it out of his hand.

Richart felt something prick the skin beneath one ear.

As he reached up to see what it was (it felt like a bee sting), Marcus whipped around and yanked what looked like a tranquilizer dart from Richart’s neck.

A similar dart hit Marcus in the shoulder.

Richart frowned. Drugs didn’t affect immortals. Didn’t the vamps . . . know . . . that?

Weakness engulfed him. Richart stumbled and grunted as a vampire took advantage and stabbed him in the side. Lashing out, Richart searched the blood-painted mass of fighting, snarling bodies around him and saw his sister drop to her knees. “Lisette.”

“Richart!” Ami shouted.

Vision fuzzy, he turned and found her propping up a barely conscious Marcus, who now sported several of the darts.

“Get them out of here!” she shouted, her pretty, crimson-splashed face panicked. “Now!”

Richart teleported to his sister’s side, touched her shoulder, and took her to David’s home.

David was the second eldest and second most powerful immortal in existence and maintained an open door policy for all immortals, Seconds, and members of the human network. With the drug coursing through his system, slowing his movements, and clouding his thoughts, Richart could think of no safer place.

In David’s spacious living room, David’s Second Darnell, Lisette’s Second Tracy, and Sheldon sat side by side on one of the sofas, their gazes glued to Darnell’s laptop.

As soon as Richart and Lisette appeared, they leapt to their feet.

Richart staggered.

“What happened?” Sheldon asked, eyes wide.

Tracy and Darnell hurried over to catch Lisette as she lost consciousness.

“Drugs,” was all Richart could manage.

“Dr. Lipton!” Darnell bellowed over his shoulder moments before Richart teleported away.

As soon as he appeared back at the battle, another dart struck him.

Swearing, he yanked it out, sped over to his brother’s side, and touched his shoulder.

The world around them blurred as he took them to David’s.

Sheldon and Cameron, Étienne’s Second, waited anxiously in the living room. Darnell, Tracy, and Lisette were gone.

Cam lunged forward and caught Étienne as he slumped toward the floor. Sheldon stepped forward and held up an M16. “Take me back with you.”

Richart clasped Sheldon’s shoulder. The room around them dimmed, but they didn’t teleport. He tried again and only managed to teleport them to the front door.

Swearing, he grabbed the M16 and shoved Sheldon away. His surroundings went black. He made it back to the clearing this time. Sarah and Ami were trying to hold off the many remaining vampires while supporting Marcus and Roland.

Everything was . . . out of focus. Confusing. Richart couldn’t think straight. He needed to be able to think straight so he could teleport the others to safety.

Sarah and Ami spoke urgently beside him.

He looked around, past the glowing eyes of the vampires who circled them like jackals.

Where was Lisette? Had he teleported her already? What about. . .

Where was Sheldon? Hadn’t Sheldon been with him just now?

Sarah folded her husband over one shoulder, then leaned forward so Ami could fold Marcus over the other one. If she intended to flee, the heavy men’s weight would significantly slow her retreat.

Richart glanced down and discovered he held an M16. He thrust it into Ami’s small hands. His own seemed uncooperative.

Another dart hit him.

Sarah would never be able to outrun the vampires if Ami slowed her down, too.

Even as the thought flitted through his mind, he heard Ami convince Sarah to leave without her.

Good. At least Sarah, Roland, and Marcus would get away.

Richart and Ami would be left to fight the two dozen or more vampires who remained. Ami was mortal and no match for their speed or strength. And he was so weak he could barely lift his arms. If he couldn’t teleport the two of them out of there, their fates would be sealed. Both would die this night.

Odd that he would think of Jenna in that moment, lamenting that he would never see her again.

He needed to try to teleport Ami away.

As he reached for her shoulder, his vision dimmed and went black.

The apartment was quiet, save the faint clicking sounds the flatware made against their plates as Jenna and John ate a late dinner.

“I’m sorry Richart had to cancel tonight,” John said, his gaze far too discerning.

Jenna had been disappointed as hell when Richart had called and said he couldn’t make it. Apparently some problem had arisen at work that required his attention.

She sighed. Or had it?

Had it just been an excuse? Had he grown tired of either work or her son’s presence constantly impeding their desire to become more intimately involved?

At a loss, she decided to seek John’s advice. Her son was popular with the girls and had dated far more than she had in her lifetime, so . . . why not? “Should I read anything into it that he canceled two nights in a row?”

If he thought it odd that his mother wanted his opinion on her love life, John hid it well. “I don’t think so, considering the line of work he’s in.”

“But? I hear a but in there.”

“But I do think it’s odd that he always comes over here and hasn’t taken you to his place yet. I mean, you have dinner together every night. I would think he would be getting tired of me being a third wheel on the nights he doesn’t take you out.”

“He said his nephew lives with him. So it wouldn’t be any different at his place.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, maybe you should suggest it . . . just to make sure he isn’t one of those guys who cheats on his wife and doesn’t tell his mistress that he’s married.”

Her heart sank.

“Don’t look like that,” John said quickly. “I’m probably just being paranoid. You’re my mom. I’m suspicious of every man you date.”

“Like there have been that many,” she muttered.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “It’s probably what you said. Or maybe he’s a slob and doesn’t want you to see.”

That made her smile. “He isn’t a slob.” Richart was always meticulously groomed and dressed. She couldn’t imagine his home being less so.

“Hey, you never know. A friend of mine—”

A large dark figure suddenly loomed in Jenna’s peripheral vision.

Letting out a surprised shriek, she jumped up, bumping the table and knocking over her glass of tea.

John grabbed his steak knife and leaped up to confront . . . “Oh, shit!”

Jenna’s eyes widened. Her breath stopped. Shock immobilized her.

Richart stood in the middle of their living room, having appeared out of thin air.

She swallowed, mouth dry.

His eyes glowed a brilliant amber. They glowed. His breath was labored, soughing in and out of parted lips that exposed gleaming fangs. His hair was windblown, his face splattered with—

“Is that blood?” John asked shakily, moving over to stand protectively close to Jenna.

She nodded. Nearly all of Richart’s dark clothing glistened with the ruby liquid and sported numerous cuts and tears. There even appeared to be a bullet hole in one shoulder.

Richart said nothing, just swayed where he stood.

“Richart?” she asked, voice and body trembling as tea slithered over the table’s edge and hit the floor with a tap tap tap.

He turned toward her, but didn’t seem to see her.

“Richart?” she repeated and took a step toward him.

John grabbed her arm. “Stay back.”

Jenna shook him off and slowly forced her feet to carry her forward.

Swearing, John stuck close to her side, his steak knife at the ready.

“Richart,” she called again when she stood only a few feet away.

The glow in his eyes began to fade, returning them to the warm brown of which she had become so fond. The fangs receded, disappearing into his gums as if they had never been.

He mumbled something in French.

Jenna consulted her son. “Do you know what he said?”

He shook his head. “I’ve forgotten most of the French I learned in high school.”

Richart blinked and dipped his chin. He seemed to be having a hard time focusing. “Jenna?”

“Yes.”

Panic danced across his face as he lunged forward and grabbed her upper arms.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” John tried to intervene, or at least to break the bruising grip, but couldn’t.

“What are you doing here?” Richart demanded, his accent so thick and his words so slurred she had difficulty understanding him. “It’s too dangerous. You must go.”

Jenna gently clasped his arms. “Richart, we’re in my apartment. Do you understand me? We’re in my apartment.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, heart pounding in her chest.

His brows drew down in a deep V. “Your . . . ?” He glanced around. Releasing one of her arms, he rubbed his eyes and looked around again.