The stink of death shrouded the place. Under the stench of fear and blood, the unmistakable smell of vampire lingered in the air. A distant part of his mind wondered how Villagrande had gained entrance to the house.
A thought carried Rhys into the living room. He wouldn’t have been able to enter the house uninvited if the family had still been alive, but murder had been done here, destroying the threshold’s basic protection. He had no need of an invitation. And no need to wonder further how Villagrande had gained entrance. The blood splattered on the floor inside the entryway told the tale. Someone had unwittingly invited Villagrande inside. And died because of it.
Rhys moved silently through the dark rooms, following Villagrande’s trail. The vampire had struck the four other members of the family while they slept, as evidenced by the blood-stained sheets and blankets carelessly tossed over the bodies.
Rhys lingered in the nursery where the last murder had occurred. The room was decorated with fairy wallpaper and pictures of Tinker Bell. The baby had died last. A Tinker Bell quilt, bright with blood, covered the dead infant. A Peter Pan lamp stood on the dresser beside a framed photo of a woman holding a baby. The mother and child? The woman was young and pretty, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. The baby was rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed.
Rhys swore softly. He had done some pretty despicable things in the course of his existence, but he had never killed an infant. Would he do such a thing if he existed as long as Villagrande? Would he view mortals as nothing but prey, his to do with as he pleased? The thought brought him up short and with it came the realization that he was close to feeling that way now. Or he had been, until Megan had come into his life. She had reminded him of how frail mortals were, how tenuous and precious their hold on life.
Megan. Needing to know she was all right, he closed his eyes, concentrating on the bond between them, and felt nothing. Only two things could prevent him from linking with her; she was either unconscious, or dead.
Before he could determine which, he sensed Villagrande’s approach. An instant later, the vampire materialized in the room. Preternatural power radiated from him, enhanced by the fresh blood he had recently consumed.
“So,” Tomás said. “We end it, now.”
“What have you done with Megan?”
A smile that was pure evil spread across Villagrande’s face. “You’ll never know.”
“Dammit, where is she? What have you done to her?” He couldn’t ask the question uppermost in his mind. Couldn’t ask if she was dead, afraid that saying it aloud might make it so.
“Me?” Villagrande spread one hand over his heart. “I’ve done nothing.”
“Don’t play games with me, you bastard. Where is she?”
Villagrande rocked back on his heels. “She killed Shirl. She wounded me. I will have my revenge.”
“No! Dammit, if you want a life, take mine.”
“I intend to.”
Rhys glared at the other vampire, his mind racing. How had Villagrande managed to bypass the safeguards on Delacourt’s house? And having done so, what had he done to Erik, Daisy, and Alex? Had he destroyed them all?
The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when Erik and Alex appeared in the room.
Villagrande looked at them and laughed. “Three against one, Costain? Hardly sporting.”
“I don’t want to have to fight you,” Rhys said. “Take the West Coast. Take my life. Just spare Megan.”
“It’s too late to make deals.” Villagrande’s gaze swept over the three of them. “You have all defied me,” he declared imperiously. “And the penalty is death.” And with that ultimatum, he sprang toward Rhys, fangs bared, hands transforming into lethal claws.
Baring his own fangs, Erik leaped onto Villagrande’s back, but Villagrande shook him off, like a pit bull shaking off a rat. Erik slammed into Alex, and the two of them sailed through the air, a tangle of arms and legs as they hit the wall, hard.
Rhys charged toward Villagrande, the only thought in his mind to destroy the vampire who threatened Megan’s life. They came together in a furious rush. Villagrande’s power lashed out at Rhys with the force of a tornado.
Rhys was hardly aware of the pain as Villagrande’s teeth and claws savaged his neck and chest. The physical pain was as nothing compared to the ache in his heart at the thought that Megan might be dead. If she was dead, it was all his fault. He never should have drawn her into his life.
He knew a moment of respite when Erik leaped into the fray again, momentarily drawing Villagrande away.
Alex crawled toward Rhys, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side. Holding out his good arm, he said, “Drink.”
Rhys didn’t argue. With a low growl, he buried his fangs in the other man’s wrist. He didn’t have time to take much, but even a little helped. He spared hardly a glance for Delacourt, who lay facedown on the floor. There was no time to worry about Delacourt, no time to think of anything but his own survival. He refused to believe Megan was dead. She was out there, somewhere, and she needed him. It was that thought that gave him the strength to meet Villagrande’s next attack.
They battled in silence, fangs and claws shredding cloth and flesh alike. The air was thick with preternatural power and the coppery scent of blood.
Breathing hard, Rhys fell back. Blood flowed freely from numerous bites and gashes on his face, neck, chest, and back.
With his heightened senses came an increased ability to feel pain and he felt it now with every movement he made, felt his strength ebbing. Wounds that should have healed quickly continued to bleed; the more blood he lost, the weaker he would become. His whole body screamed in protest when he moved.
Villagrande stared at him, a smug smile on his face. He had won, and he knew it.
Rhys took a deep breath. He couldn’t lose. If he did, it was like signing a death warrant for Delacourt and Alex, although he wasn’t sure if Delacourt was even still alive. Alex lay slumped in the corner, his pale face streaked with blood.
Dammit, he couldn’t quit now. Summoning Megan’s image, Rhys gathered what strength he had left. He was about to charge Villagrande when Daisy and Megan materialized in the room.
Rhys swore, his overwhelming relief at seeing Megan alive warring with his anger at Daisy for bringing her here.
Villagrande looked at the two women, then threw back his head and laughed. “Costain and Delacourt for dinner,” he crowed. “And two plump females for dessert.”
“Is that right?” Megan exclaimed. “Well, eat this!” Pulling a stake from the folds of her skirt, she sprang forward, the stake aimed at Villagrande’s chest.
Daisy was moving, too. Taking a bottle from her pocket, she threw the contents in Villagrande’s face.
Rhys knew a moment of hope. Was it possible that Daisy and Megan had accomplished what he couldn’t? But no. With a roar of pain and outrage, Villagrande backhanded Daisy, sending her flying across the room. Her head struck a corner of the dresser, and she crumpled to the floor beside her brother.
In a move faster than the eye could follow, Villagrande grabbed the stake from Megan’s hand. He tossed it aside; then, grabbing Megan by the throat, he lifted her off her feet. “Perhaps I’ll have dessert first,” he said with a growl.
There was a sudden rush of movement as Erik regained consciousness. A wild cry rose in his throat when he saw Daisy sprawled on the floor, her hair stained with blood from a gash on the back of her head.
Villagrande dropped Megan and spun around to face Delacourt.
And in that one instant, when Villagrande was distracted, Rhys snatched the hawthorn stake from the floor and drove it into the vampire’s back. It sliced through Tomás Villagrande’s ancient preternatural flesh like a hot knife through butter, piercing his black heart. Blood fountained from the wound in a crimson arc, spraying over the room’s inhabitants, as well as the walls, the ceiling, and the floor.
Villagrande turned on Rhys with a scream of rage, his eyes as wide and red as the depths of hell. And then, as if someone had jerked his legs out from under him, he toppled to the floor and lay still.
Megan ran toward Rhys, her face fish-belly white. “Is he dead?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rhys murmured.
And even as he spoke the words, Villagrande’s body began to shrink in on itself, the flesh melting away, the bones disintegrating, until there was nothing left but dust.
“Holy crap!” Cradling his broken arm, Alex limped over to stand beside Rhys. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Megan whispered, and buried her face against Rhys’s shoulder.
He ran his hand up and down her back. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“I will be.” Rhys glanced over his shoulder to where Delacourt was kneeling beside Daisy. “How is she?”
“I’m fine,” Daisy said. “Alex, are you okay?”
“Well, other than my wounded pride, my sprained ankle, and my broken arm, yeah, I’m okay.” He looked at his sister, at Erik, and at Rhys, then looked at Megan. “I’m thinking, as the only two humans in the room, that we should make ourselves scarce for a while.”
“Why?” she asked, frowning, and then, suddenly aware that all three vampires needed blood, she said, “Oh.”
Rhys glared at Alex. “Do you really think we’d feed off you?”
Alex snorted. “Delacourt’s done it before. And I seem to remember you gnawing on my arm just a few minutes ago.”
“That wasn’t feeding,” Rhys said, scowling.
“All right, that’s enough,” Daisy said, pushing herself to her feet. “This is what we’re going to do. We’ll transport Megan and Alex to the nearest hospital. Megan will stay with him while the rest of us go and, uh, get cleaned up. And then we’ll meet back at the hospital. All right?”
“Who put you in charge, Daisy Mae?” Alex asked.
“Have you got a better idea?”