As Shadows Fade (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 5)

Christ . Max looked back, knowing he couldn’t return, knowing he had to get Wayren to safety. Every bit of his being needed to return, begged to go back and help… to save Brim… and Victoria. Victoria.

She would be next.

Yet he knew what had to be done; he’d lectured Victoria about it often enough.

You can no longer think only of yourself, of your needs and desires. You must recognize the far-reaching consequences of your actions.

And that was why he had to wheel the horse around and slam his heels into its flanks and ride pell-mell back to town, back to the house where Kritanu waited… back to where Wayren would be safe.

And it was also why he must leave London.

He shoved Wayren forward so she sagged, propped against the horse’s neck, then leapt off. He couldn’t do it, by God.

Twenty jarring, running steps took him back toward the cemetery gate, where the black shadows pitched, and dove against Brim. Sword in his hand, Max noticed how his arm screamed in pain and realized he was streaming blood. Ears ringing, he reached the damaged gate in time to see Brim’s arm rise from beneath the writhing black. The gleam of his sword sliced through the air as Max joined the fray, sending one of the attackers into swirls of dark fog.

Raising his own weapon at one of the swooping birdlike creatures, he lunged at the amorphous neck area. The blade arced through the evil black shadow as though through a fog, and a streak of cold paralyzed him.

Max staggered, his arms trembling with the sudden overwhelming chill, and he fought the dip of his belly as he staggered against the stone wall. But he raised that sword again, feeling the scream of pain along his arm as another demonic shadow dove into him. Claws dug into the back of his shoulders, gouging in the same wound, drawing forth a deep, guttural cry of pain as he turned again. The sword was heavy, but Max aimed well… He whirled around and whipped the blade through the being. Stumbling back, he saw it burst into dark, fizzing curls.

Breathless with exertion, nearly blind with pain, Max lunged forward again. Unable to rise from the ground, Brim nevertheless fought to beat back the never-ending crowd of shadows, slashing up and out with his sword. Despite the blood streaming from him, winging through the air with every movement, Max fought hard… but not as quickly and powerfully as Vioget, whose blade suddenly appeared, slashing and gleaming like stars winking in the night.

The blond man had arrived like the cavalry, leaping into the fray, moving with speed and assurance despite the continuing attack of the shadows. Max’s movements, though lethal and strong, came slower and with less power, and when he and Vioget came face-to-face, the other man said, “Go! Take her and go. ”

Blood streaked his handsome face, but determination-and a bit of satisfaction-twisted his lips. After so many years away from it, he’d come to love the battle again.

Max made one last vicious slash, marking a shadowy target, and said, “Bring her back. This time. ”

Vioget’s eyes met his, and a flash of anger dissolved the satisfaction there. He knew Max was referring to when Vioget’s grandfather, the vampire Beauregard, had nearly turned Victoria-and Max had been the one to bring her back. Sebastian alone couldn’t have done it.

Then Max whirled away, ducking under another darting shadow. He slashed above him with the sword, missed his mark again, dammit. He was growing weary… and he felt that blast of nauseating, paralyzing cold stagger him. He nearly fell, saw the red eyes and bared teeth of the demon as he tried to regain control of his sword-but Sebastian was there, with his gleaming silver blade, saving his bloody life yet again.

As the creature disintegrated into a foul-smelling tangle of coils, Max ran unsteadily toward the horse, where Wayren still slumped. A foglike tendril teased after him, cold and musty.

Dammit. Dammit. Had his delay, his coming back, given the demons a chance to find Wayren?

Max used the qinggong he had mastered to fly forward and leap onto the horse. Gathering up the reins, he slipped an arm around Wayren, huddling her back against him, and slammed his heels into the flanks below. His mount surged forward with a great leap, and Max bent low, closing his eyes for a moment to banish the agony that coursed through his body.

After no more than a pace or two, he looked behind him.

He saw the roiling black cloud that was still somehow contained by the walls of the cemetery, except for a few slender tendrils. He pulled back on the reins, ignoring the agonizing pain in his back and arms. The frantic horse fought the bit, needing to charge ahead… but Max forced him around, turning on the road to look back again.

The black cloud pitched and rolled, clear below the night sky lightened by moon and stars. It crept beyond the boundaries of the cemetery, slowly, as if searching. Max could hear the rising of the wind as it crooned eerily… It sought something. It knew Wayren was gone.

Bloody hell. He’d never seen anything like this. Ice settled over him as he stared back.

Something unaccountably evil burned here. Something that, he feared, would change everything.

At that moment, Wayren moved. She shifted, groaned, and Max’s attention came back to her.

“Wayren,” he said as she lifted her head as though trying to waken from a dream.

Her eyes fluttered, but they didn’t open, and she seemed to sag further in his arms. Bone white in the silvery light, her face stretched taut and still like porcelain. She was ill, gravely weakened by this permeating malevolence. If she was to survive, he had to get her away.

Max looked back toward the cemetery one last time, then kicked the horse again. And they were off.

Dawn reached up from behind the line of London rooftops by the time Max returned to the town house. Wayren had moved, awakening enough to sag back against him and grasp the horse’s mane with weak fingers. His body, shaky from loss of blood, ached with every movement. Black dots and long, slender shadows danced before his eyes. The memory of every sword slash, every swipe of the blade replayed in his mind. Every stumble, every missed arc, every time he’d been too slow… too weak.

He tired more easily, hurt too strongly, bled too damn much.