As Shadows Fade (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 5)

But instead of blood, he found only dirt. He leapt to his feet, bracing himself to face the vampire once again.

They squared off against each other, breathing heavily. Max tried to ignore the floor tilting beneath his feet, the trembling in his fingers and knees, the heat burning through his body, the shimmering lights before his eyes.

But the fever sapped his strength even more, and he found it difficult to draw breaths.

He was not going to bloody die.

What the hell was he doing?

Sebastian had seen more than five missed opportunities to slam the stake into that vampire’s chest… but Pesaro hadn’t taken any of them.

Instead, he swiped at him. Swiped. At the face, the arm, the hand.

Was he trying to die?

Sebastian divided his attention between Pesaro-who, for all his obvious weakness, still showed more skill than he would have expected-and Victoria, who sat like stone next to him.

If Sebastian was wondering what had addled Pesaro’s brain, she had to be thinking the same. Or worse.

And Sebastian realized he didn’t know whether he wanted the man to succeed or fail.

Now Max’s stake lay on the floor of the shallow ditch, out of reach, and the vampire was barely wounded, flinging blood with his every movement.

Sebastian felt his own heart racing, energy surging through his own veins as man and undead clashed again. The room was silent but for the slap of flesh against flesh, of grunts and groans, and the occasional dull clang against the iron grate.

Pesaro made a sudden move and shoved the vampire off him, then followed with a well-placed kick. Sebastian watched, waited for him to scoop up the stake and slam it into the open chest, but again, instead of doing so, Max moved forward with his bare hand as though to touch the undead.

He staggered away, his hand red with vampire blood, and the undead surged toward him again. Pesaro blocked him, but the creature came after him again and slammed him to the ground. They fell in a tangle, Max’s head crashing into the iron bars as they tumbled onto the floor with an ugly thud. Sebastian heard the dull clang, and an uncomfortable chill washed over him when Pesaro didn’t move.

The vampire struggled to his feet, and Max shifted slightly. His eyes opened. Sebastian saw those dark eyes look toward them for the first time; he saw the way they moved over Victoria. She tensed next to him; he could feel her gathering herself up and he heard the soft gasp. She read Max’s expression as well as he did.

It all happened so quickly after that. The vampire moved, fangs bared and eyes burning pink; Pesaro lay still, one hand splayed over his chest as though to protect it and the other curled up behind and beneath him. His stake lay out of reach against the wall.

Sebastian knew what was going to happen-he knew it, but couldn’t believe it-and he did the only thing he could do.

As the vampire launched himself for the fatal strike, Sebastian pulled Victoria toward him and smashed a kiss onto her lips.

Fifteen

In Which Our Heroine Finds Herself Between a Rocky Wall and a Hard Place

By the time Victoria extricated herself from Sebastian, it was over.

She shoved him away, stunned and furious, and terrified by what she’d missed. In the back of her mind, she knew what he’d meant to do-to distract her from seeing the final blow, shield her from the last strike.

But how could he?

Brim and Michalas had moved while she was disengaging herself from Sebastian, and now they stood between her and the iron grate. Her knees felt weak, but Victoria rose and made herself move forward. Because of that, because she simply couldn’t believe it was over, it took her a moment to recognize the smell.

Ash. Undead ash.

Then the iron grate clanged, and suddenly there was Max.

Standing on his own, sweaty, bloody, scraped, but standing. On his own. Tall, imposing, blood-streaked… and without a hint of the exhaustion she’d recognized the moment he walked into the room. Thank God.

The vampire had disintegrated, its dust tufting in the air, and Max held a stake in his hand. Not the long black one he’d carried in, but a shorter one.

The one that had obviously done the job.