His fingers curled around her arm, yanking her up and off the floor. Macey's bare feet scrabbled helplessly, brushing against his trousers and the cool tiled area.
But she had the broomstick in her hand. The old, round-tipped broom.
Not a stake. Not yet.
Her heart surged into her throat, filling it, along with a scream, as he pushed her back against the wall. One clawing hand grasped the hair at her temple while the other pressed against her chest, holding her there immobile.
She smelled heat and sweat from the creature, and the pink-red eyes burned bright and hypnotic as he bent closer to her. A little hum of pleasure came from deep in his throat. Her pulse was rampant, surging through her veins, making her head light and her body hot.
"Venator. " He smoothed one hand over her throat, holding her by a clump of hair with the other. "I have so longed for a taste of the Gardella blood. " He smiled, running a tongue over the tips of his fangs, his lips full and glistening.
Macey still clutched the broom and used every bit of strength to keep her gaze from being captured by his. Instead, she focused-not on how close he was, not on the strong, sharp fingers digging into her skull, not on the slender hand sweeping over the flesh exposed by her nightgown.
She felt around it with her foot, finding the broom's bristly bottom, closing her eyes so she could picture it. . . shutting herself off from the hands, the fingers, the hot breath that spread over her sensitive skin. He yanked her head to the side, pulling it toward one shoulder so far she couldn't hold back a moan. Her neck was exposed and she felt his hot breath on her skin. Closing her eyes, she moved one foot up along the length of the broom.
"Now," he said, and she felt something warm and slick on her neck. Her body lurched with revulsion, and evil things began to crawl over her flesh as he used his tongue to trace the tendon on the side of her throat.
Macey squeezed her eyes shut tighter, closed her fingers on the slender wooden handle, and pictured the position of her foot. It took all her effort not to buck and twist, trying to fight him off. Instead, she battled away the sensation of her attacker's lips, the suffocating grip on her head, her chest. . . and under the guise of trying to kick him, she slammed her heel down against the broomstick.
It was old. Thank God it was old. And it broke.
She had a stake.
He was forcing her tighter against the wall, pushing his body against hers, pinning her like the butterfly specimens in the museum. His fingers firm, his breathing heavy and hard, filling her ears. Her world swam. Her knees weakened. Heat licked at her neck.
Then all at once. . . pain.
Warmth, and pain, and. . . a burst of release. Something hot and ugly flowed from her, surged free, and Macey felt her lifeblood draining, drawn into the hot, slick mouth that covered her neck and pierced her flesh. It was a dark insidious pleasure that made her insides roil and her pulse trammel, and yet it was lush and dark, beckoning to her to slip back. . . to enjoy, to allow. . .
Enjoy. Relax. Submit.
The stake.
The voice was back in her head, strong, urgent, insistent. Be strong. Macey's knees trembled and her head was swimming, but the words were clear. Urgency swarmed her and she dragged herself from the dark, deep well. She focused on the slender, jagged wood in her hand.
Help me.
Help me.
Something surged through her, some strength and energy she didn't know she possessed, and all at once she could move. Macey raised her arm, pulling it free from behind her, and with a cry, she slammed it over and down. The point penetrated the vampire's back with sickening ease.
He jolted into paralysis, gave a little hiss, and then all at once. . . he exploded.
Poofed. Into foul-smelling ash.
He was gone. Just like that. the slightest bit of encouragement. Macey let the stake fall from a trembling hand and looked around. There was nothing. No one.
Nothing but a scattering of dust.
Her knees gave way and she sank to the floor, trembling and nauseated, gasping for air. Her nose and mouth were filled with the scent of old, moldering ash, and she felt the grit under her fingers. The rapid sound of her breathing and the slamming of her heart filled her ears, chasing away the internal roaring that had blocked all sound from the moment she saw the glowing red eyes.
Reaching for the stake, Macey closed her fingers around it and staggered to her feet. Cold, gray moonlight filtered over the room, and a gentle breeze fluttered the curtains at the broken window. In the distance, beyond the jagged cityscape, she saw the faint gray of dawn lightening the lower portion of sky.
The night was so still. So silent.
Had no one heard her struggles? Had no one heard her scream? Surely Mrs. Gutchinson, who lived below, would have been awakened by the battle. Or the Duchovny couple, who were on the same floor.
But no one had come.