It had been a long night.

He grimaced at the stench that rose from his shirt. At least six individuals’ blood coated it, leaving it clinging to his skin. Four garages he had visited had each been surveilled by a single vampire. Two more had been watched by pairs.

All vamps had fought fiercely, leaving him no other choice but to kill them without extracting any valuable information.

A thought dawned.

His brunch bag in one hand, Marcus reached into the storage compartment again and shifted the small first aid kit aside. (The kit contained very little—butterfly closures and pressure tourniquet bandages—because immortals’ quick healing took care of most wounds.)

When he saw what lay in the bottom of the storage well, he grinned.

Ami rocked! As usual, she had foreseen his every need and provided him with a fresh shirt and some environmentally friendly, scentless wipes.

With great relief, Marcus removed his coat and yanked his shirt over his head. The wipes worked wonderfully, removing the sticky blood that streaked his chest, arms, neck, and face, whisking away the scents of death. A minute later, the soiled cloths were stowed away and, garbed in a fresh T-shirt, he dug into a tasty sandwich.

As usual, his thoughts returned to Ami, then strayed to the feel of those perfect curves locked against his earlier. Her body beneath him. Breasts to chest. Hips to hips.

How he had longed to kiss her. A brush of the lips. Just a test. Then firmer contact, coaxing her full lips apart, slipping his tongue within to taste and tempt. Strip away those tight jeans and that crop top one thread at a time, revealing—inch by inch—more pale, perfect skin that begged to be explored. Or better yet, rip the garments off with his teeth, then carry her to his big-ass bed.

Lost in the fantasy, Marcus grew hard and saw in the reflection of the Busa’s shiny finish his eyes begin to glow.

Not good. He wouldn’t be able to sneak up on the vampire lurking outside the garage five miles distant with his eyes heralding his approach like flashlights. And he would really rather not fight the vamp while sporting an erection.

Tucking away his brunch bag, Marcus closed his eyes.

Immortals were, in many ways, the complete opposite of vampires. While vampires had little or no control over their emotions and bodies, immortals like Marcus could work wonders. Usually. When images of a certain feisty redhead weren’t teasing him.

He shook his head. “Over eight centuries of living and I haven’t learned a bloody thing,” he muttered. “I still want what I can’t have.”

When he had finally brought his body back under control, he checked the direction of the chilly breeze and set off toward the next garage on his list.

Like some of the others, it was a small business on a country lot, the owners’ home only a few yards away. With the stealth of a cat, Marcus advanced from downwind, his nose and ears alerting him to the presence of two vampires, neither of whom showed any awareness of his approach.

Marcus silently slid his short swords from their sheaths.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated.

The vampires’ conversation ceased.

Sighing, Marcus straightened, sheathed one of the swords and answered the phone. “Yes?”

“Marcus, this is Sheldon, Richart d’Alençon’s Second.” Very young and very new to the job, according to the immortal grapevine.

“What can I do for you?”

The vampires beyond the trees began to exchange vehement whispers.

“I thought I should call and give you a heads-up that the vamps at the garages are all carrying cell phones that have a coordinator on speed dial who, if called, sends in reinforcements.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah. The last one Richart confronted heard him coming and sent the message before Richart could stop him. The next thing he knew, over half a dozen vamps converged on him.”

“In other words, stealth is imperative.”

“Absolutely.”

Marcus heard the faint sounds of a number being speed-dialed on a cell phone near the garage. “So, once one is within earshot of the vampires, conversing on a cell phone probably wouldn’t be a good idea,” he posed calmly.

“Exactly. I—” An audible gulp carried over the line. “Oh. Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Take your mistake and learn from it.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought …”

He hadn’t thought at all. That was the problem. But he would learn quickly through experience. They all did.

Except for Ami. Ami had kicked ass from the get-go.

“From now on,” Marcus advised the young man stammering apologies, “unless it’s an emergency and you can’t reach her, contact me through my Second.”

“Yes, sir. Do you … Should I call Richart and tell him you need backup?”

“Hell no,” Marcus said, wondering if it might take this one a little longer than usual to learn the ropes. “If you do, you’re liable to land him in the same muck you have me. Good night.”

Sheldon sputtered something else as Marcus ended the call, but Marcus doubted it was important.

The harsh whispers ahead of him halted the moment Marcus put away his cell phone.

Shaking his head, he readied his weapons once more, then rocketed through the trees toward his prey.

Ami was monitoring the secure Immortal Guardians Web site for updates and information when that feeling of dread flooded her again, souring her stomach like an instant case of food poisoning.

Marcus was in trouble. The same feeling had driven her to speed to his side the night he had wrecked his Busa.

Already decked out in hunting togs with 9mm’s holstered on her thighs (Marcus didn’t know it, but she changed into such every night when he left the house so she would be prepared if he needed her), she grabbed her sheathed katanas and dove into the garage.

She and her Tesla Roadster flew through the night, veering in whatever direction the feeling guided her. She wasn’t sure why she felt it with Marcus. She had only ever felt it with family in the past. Even Seth, David, and Darnell—all of whom she now considered family—did not set her inner alarm system off when endangered.

Only Marcus.

Whipping down the winding, twisting roads, she passed the few other cars out and about as though they stood still. It helped that she had printed out the map of garages and gas stations Marcus would check tonight, all neatly concentrated in the same general area.

Wheels throwing gravel, she skidded to a halt about a hundred yards past the garage that had spawned the attack. Subdued sounds of battle met her ears as she threw open the door, leapt out, and darted into the trees.

Ami tucked her arms through the loops in the katanas’ sheath, letting them settle against the center of her back as she ran. Branches slapped her face and body, concealed by darkness until she was upon them. As she drew her 9mm’s, silencers already attached, she heard Marcus swear foully and guessed he had caught her scent.

“Get the human!” a male voice commanded, its owner screaming in pain a second later.

A large form sped toward her in a blur, bursting from the trees right in front of her.

Ami jerked to a halt and fired both weapons.

The form slowed and solidified into two vampires. Both stumbled as multiple bullets struck them.

Now that she could see them dimly, she hit their major arteries, then hurried past, giving them a wide berth.

There was no convenient clearing here. Just trees, trees, and more trees. Marcus appeared to be up against a dozen or so vampires, reduced to ten now that she had taken out two herself. The vamps who came after her next used the trees as shields whenever they could. Chunks of bark flew in every direction as she continued to fire, taking down a third.

Ami hadn’t had time to retrieve Darnell’s handy reloading tool from the trunk; so, when the clips emptied, she dropped the guns and drew her katanas. She had chosen the swords for their length, which had aided her greatly in the last vampire fray. Now, however, with so many trees limiting her swings, she did not fare as well.

This must be why Marcus and Roland preferred short swords and sais. Lesson learned.

Blood spattered her face and chest as her blades found purchase in soft vampire flesh. Without the car headlights that had lit up the last battlefield, she couldn’t tell exactly how many she faced. The foliage overhead blocked most of the moonlight. Were it not for their glowing eyes, she might not have seen her opponents at all.

Burning pain ripped through her right hamstring. Her leg buckling, Ami stumbled and lashed out with her sword. A howl of fury split the night as a vampire swam into focus and fell back, hands pressed to his femoral artery.

Lucky shot.

Agony erupted in her back, on the left side just above her waist, as a blade sank deep and stayed, lodged in her flesh. Driven to her knees by the pain, Ami lost her hold on her left katana. Still swinging the right, she looked up as two vampires appeared in front of her, fangs bared in triumphant smiles.

As soon as Ami had burst into view, weapons blazing—had there ever been a hotter vision?—Marcus had tried to circle around to fight at her back. But the vamps proved infuriatingly astute, always remaining between them as if they had videotaped the last battle, studied it like an American football team would the previous year’s Super Bowl footage, and created a new playbook.

Vampires were not what Marcus would call thinkers. So, who was guiding them?

He needed to take a vamp into custody so they could interrogate him and bring this uprising to an end, but … when he heard Ami cry out in pain, he went a little Medieval Maddened Immortal on their asses.

Stars and shurikens flew and sank deep into targets. His short swords impaled torsos and severed arteries and limbs. Any wounds he incurred he ignored, moving with such fast fury that most of the vampires had to focus their attention on defending themselves rather than attacking.

As two, three, then four vampires fell, Marcus noticed for the first time a solitary vampire who stood back from the fray near Ami and those she fought. The vamp didn’t participate in the battle or call in reinforcements. He just observed.