Phantom Shadows (Immortal Guardians #3)

Phantom Shadows (Immortal Guardians #3) Page 22

“Hey.” Bastien stepped forward, eyes flashing. “Don’t speak to her like that.”

Richart scowled. “Look, I’m just saying if she’s going to be joining us—”

“She isn’t.”

“Shut up,” Melanie and Richart both said.

Bastien clamped his lips shut.

“As I was saying,” Richart began again, “if you’re going to be joining us we need to set some ground rules.”

Melanie nodded. “I get it. But don’t you think we should do that later? Don’t we have more pressing issues to deal with right now?” She pointed behind them, where eight vampires—eyes glowing blue, green, silver, and amber—had stopped short and stood gaping.

“Immortal Guardians,” one sneered.

One by one, the vampires bared their fangs.

Richart looked at Bastien. “You’re the one who wants to make friends. How do you want to do this?”

Bastien considered the vampires.

A couple of them started to growl.

Melanie choked back a laugh. The sound was intended to intimidate, but . . .

When immortals made that deep rumbling sound in the backs of their throats, it brought to mind large, ferocious animals preparing to attack.

These guys reminded her of Tom from the Tom & Jerry cartoons she grew up watching, when Tom would try to roar like a lion and instead sounded like the little kitty cat he was: Raaor, pfft, pfft.

One of the vamps took a step forward. The others followed suit.

Just as they began to blur, Melanie said, “Hey, do any of you guys know Stuart?”

Their forms solidified. Surprise and confusion colored their features as they looked at each other, then back at her.

“Stuart?” a blond with glowing sea-green eyes repeated.

She nodded. “About this tall.” She held one hand several inches above her own head. “Thin build. Dirty blond hair. Big Tar Heels fan.”

“Dude,” one said. “They know Stuart.”

“They don’t know him,” the first speaker said. “They killed him!”

Melanie gaped. How the hell had they jumped to that conclusion?

The vampires leapt forward.

Bastien and Richart armed themselves with auto-injectors and raced to meet them.

Melanie drew her 9mms, already equipped with silencers. As a human, she would never be able to hold a vampire still for the three seconds it took the auto-injector to deliver the tranquilizer, so she had no choice but to wield the deadlier weapons.

Both immortals grabbed vampires and injected them, using the vamps they held as shields to fend off the attacks of the others.

So many figures were darting about, their forms hazy and indistinct with speed, that Melanie had some difficulty determining friend from foe. Darkness hampered her vision further. Had their eyes not glowed, Melanie would have feared hitting Richart or Bastien if she fired her weapon.

Three seconds seemed an eternity.

The fact that Richart and Bastien protected themselves with vampire shields seemed to concern the vampires not at all. Only one held back. The others fought with what she thought was true madness, doing their damnedest to cut through their friends to reach the immortals.

The hesitant one, with a sudden burst of inspiration, sped around to attack Bastien’s back.

Melanie fired three times, body shots that would slow the vampire down without killing him.

As the vamp dropped to the ground, another ceased trying to carve his way through the vampire Richart was tranqing and turned to Melanie.

His blue eyes flashed. His lips pulled back in a fang-flashing snarl.

Melanie’s pulse raced. Her breath quickened. Fear filled her as the vampire shot toward her.

She stumbled backward, firing repeatedly, following her instincts, and aiming where she thought the vamp would go each time he ducked and swerved to avoid the heavy bullets.

He jerked and slowed as she scored one hit after another.

Bastien dropped the vampire he held, drew his katanas, and blurred.

Melanie didn’t know what he did to the vamp so intent on reaching her. It happened too quickly for her to see. His body landed several yards away and began to rapidly deteriorate as the virus went to work devouring him from the inside.

Richart dropped his vamp and tore into the three besieging him. Bastien planted himself in front of Melanie and took out any vamp who headed her way.

Even so, she emptied the clips of her 9mms. The vampires fought like rabid dogs. No training. No thought. Only a manic desire to kill and rend and bite and tear.

It shook her.

These vampires were not like the ones they had encountered at Bastien’s lair. These had been infected long enough for the madness to take complete control of them. As it did now.

The battle was quick. It was violent. It left her quaking like a leaf caught in hurricane force winds.

All movement ceased.

White puffs formed in front of Melanie’s lips as warm air met cold. Her breath came quickly, as though she had been sprinting.

Bastien turned and met her gaze. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “My hands are shaking.”

Sheathing his swords, he drew closer and examined her thoroughly with his luminescent gaze. “You aren’t injured?”

“Not so much as a scratch. You?”

“The same.”

They looked at Richart.

“Stupid bastards,” Richart said, scowling down at the vamp he had tranqed. That one now deteriorated like the others they’d destroyed. “They cut right through him.”

“Not stupid,” Bastien corrected. “Insane.”

Melanie returned her 9mms to their holsters and struggled to still her quivering limbs. At least she hadn’t killed anyone this time.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Bastien asked again, moving closer. His black coat glistened like satin where vampire blood had sprayed and spattered it.

She nodded, wondering if he would have held her to comfort her if he weren’t so bloody.

“You did well,” he praised. “You remind me of Ami. You seem to anticipate the vampires’ movements very well.”

Being compared to Ami was a huge compliment, and one she didn’t deserve. Ami fought nearly on the same level as the immortals. With guns and blades. No other Second could best her. Some immortals couldn’t even best her, though none would admit it. “That’s because—”

Something hit Melanie in the chest. She frowned. Neither Bastien nor Richart had moved as far as she could tell. And, even if they had, why would either of them strike her in the chest?

She glanced down and saw a small tear in her shirt in the vicinity of her heart. Around and beneath it, a wet stain began to spread.

Melanie raised a heavy hand to touch the stain and stared at the blood that painted her fingers. Looking up, she fought for breath as pain crashed through her. “Bastien?”

Horror froze Bastien as he met Melanie’s gaze.

The scent of her blood surrounded him as the stain on her shirt spread with alarming speed.

Another hole appeared in her chest a few inches from the first.

She blinked and staggered back a step.

“Sniper!” Bastien wrapped his arms around her and turned his back to the shooter.

Her knees buckled.

A bullet hit him in the back, passed through his body, and entered Melanie.

Swearing, Bastien lifted her into his arms and raced for the shadows, ducking around the corner of the nearest building. “Melanie?”

She didn’t answer.

He looked down. Her eyes were closed, her face devoid of color. Panicked, he listened for a heartbeat. Weak. Thready. Her breath came in faint wheezes.

“Richart.” He didn’t shout the name. He whispered it, fear rendering him nearly mute. A fear he hadn’t experienced in two centuries. Fear Seth had not inspired the night Bastien had thought Seth was going to destroy him.

Richart arrived in a blur. “How is she?”

Bastien carefully deposited Melanie in the Frenchman’s arms. “Take her to David. If he isn’t home, find Seth or Roland.”

Richart nodded. “The shooters—”

“I’ll handle the shooters. Now hurry. And when you return, don’t let them see you teleport. We don’t know if they saw you do it earlier and they may not be aware of our individual gifts yet.”

Richart cradled Melanie close and issued a short nod. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Darkness bled into Bastien’s heart, robbing him of any emotion save rage. “I’ll do what I have to.”

Uttering a final epithet, Richart vanished.

The faint squawk of a walkie-talkie met Bastien’s ears. The men who whispered confirmation of a hit, of a target taken out, thought he couldn’t hear them. But he could. And every word hardened his resolve to make the bastards pay for hurting Melanie.

There were a lot of them. They must have been in position for hours. Snipers on the roofs. Foot soldiers on the ground, hidden in alcoves, behind shrubs, in fucking Dumpsters, ready to pounce. Trained not to move, not to make a sound until their quarry arrived.

Sheer dumb luck was all that had kept Bastien, Melanie, and Richart from teleporting to one of the many buildings that boasted snipers on the roofs. The same luck that had landed the snipers behind structures that impeded the immortals’ view of them.

While the soldiers consulted each other, seeking any sighting of the paranormal beings they hunted, Bastien scaled the side of the building behind him with all of the speed and dexterity of Spiderman.

With the stealthy tread of a cat, he found the first soldiers.

Two. Fatigues. Hair covered in skull caps. Faces blackened. They knelt with weapons poised on the raised cement edging. Dark duffel bags full of ammo, more weapons, and heavy restraints rested—zippers open—on either side of them, ready to be pillaged. The soldier on the left bore an assault rifle. The soldier on the right bore a tranquilizer rifle. Both men remained tense, eyes pressed to the scopes as they slowly searched the shadows for their victim . . . and their executioner.

Bastien’s gaze went to the assault rifle bearer. Was this the one? Was this the fuck who had shot Melanie? Who had hurt her? Who could’ve . . . might have killed her?