“How could you?” he bellowed, glaring daggers at Sarah over the petite woman’s head.

Bastien circled the table in an instant and stepped between Marcus and the human. Reaching back, he looped an arm around the human’s waist and eased her behind him.

Chris moved forward, too. “Marcus, listen to Dr. Lipton. Sit down before you fall down. You look like shit.”

“Is she dead?” Marcus asked raggedly. Had he lost her already?

Chris sighed. “We don’t know. We don’t know what happened to Ami. Her body wasn’t amongst those in the clearing, so …”

Hope rose.

“Bullshit,” Bastien interrupted. “Don’t lie to him. He deserves the truth.”

Marcus met Bastien’s gaze, suddenly trusting him more than he did anyone else on the planet. “Tell me.”

“One of the vampires took her. I think it was their so-called king. Ami’s blood trail led into the forest, then her footsteps were replaced by a man’s, spaced far enough apart that they could only be those of a vampire. We followed the trail as far as Carrboro, then lost it.”

A heavy silence blanketed the room.

Ami was in the hands of vampires. Everyone knew what vampires did to the women they seized. It was why so few female vampires or immortals existed. They didn’t survive long enough to transform. Or, if they did, they lived short, tortured lives.

“How long ago?”

“Two hours.”

Two hours. “Will you take me to where you lost their trail? Maybe I can pick up her scent.”

“If I couldn’t—”

“I’m older. My senses are sharper,” Marcus persisted.

“If you wait until Lisette and Étienne wake up,” Chris said, “they may be able to pick up her thoughts and help you narrow down her location.”

“How much longer will that be?”

Dr. Lipton peeked around Bastien’s arm. “They’ve shown no signs of rousing. Since they’re younger than you, there’s no telling how much longer they may need to recover.”

“Why isn’t Roland awake? He’s older than I am.”

“We don’t know. To be honest, I’m shocked to see you up and moving around. I took your vitals not ten minutes ago and—”

The bleating of a cell phone sent a new shock of pain through Marcus’s head. Whatever else the woman said went unheard as he pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead and glared at Chris.

Fumbling in his pocket, Chris yanked out his phone and glanced at it.

“Is it David?” Darnell asked hopefully.

Chris shook his head and looked at Marcus. “I sent some men to your place on the off chance that Ami had gotten away and gone home. She wasn’t there, so I had them rig the doors with silent alarms that would dial my cell number when triggered. Someone just opened the back door of your house.”

Marcus was pretty sure he knocked some people down on his way out of the room, but couldn’t have cared less. In a matter of seconds, he burst into David’s barn and got in one of the many vehicles he kept on hand for emergencies. Retrieving the keys from the ashtray, he started the engine, shifted into first, and floored the accelerator.

The others ran out of the house, shouting as he tore down the drive, his only thought finding Ami.

Chapter 14

It took far longer than it should have for Marcus to reach the long, dirt road that led to his home. Whatever drug continued to course through his system had muted his senses and reduced his response time almost to that of a human. At least a dozen times on the hectic drive from David’s house, Marcus’s car had skidded into oncoming traffic or nearly left the road as he took curves far too quickly and failed to compensate at preternatural speeds.

When at last he brought the much-abused hybrid to a gravel-spraying halt in front of his home, the brakes were smoking.

Marcus leaped out before the engine quieted. The garage door was up, a strange car parked haphazardly within. Bypassing it, Marcus raced to the back door.

The bronze doorknob was sticky beneath his hand as he turned it and hurried inside the kitchen. His boots hit something slick on the floor and flew out from under him, nearly landing him on his ass. Only a quick grab for the nearest counter kept him upright.

Frowning, Marcus righted himself and glanced down at the crimson liquid that pooled on the floor just inside the door.

Blood.

Ami’s blood.

He closed the door, forced his senses to expand and searched the house for intruders. Only he and Ami occupied it.

Ami was alive!

But in what condition?

A dappled trail of congealing blood began at the puddle in which he stood and crossed the kitchen floor, accompanied by ruby, boy-sized boot prints. Small, red handprints dotted the edges of the cabinets along the way, something about them seeming off.

Marcus’s heart pounded painfully as he followed the trail. Larger stains smeared the walls Ami had leaned against in her efforts to remain upright. Halfway between the kitchen and the stairs another puddle marred the floor where she must have fallen. He could see where her knees had hit the floor, a hand, the toes of her boots. His gaze zeroed in on the handprint, compared it to the ones in the kitchen and on the walls in between.

She was only using her right hand. What had happened to her left?

Visions of the possible atrocities the vampires might have inflicted upon her sent him racing up the stairs.

Tink.

The odd sound struck his ears as he entered her bedroom. Her shirt, sticky with blood, lay on the badly stained coverlet on her bed. The door to her bathroom was closed. Muffled weeping permeated it.

Tinkalink.

Marcus crossed to the door. “Ami?” he called and heard her gasp.

“Marcus?” Her voice was so thick with tears he almost didn’t recognize it.

Grasping the knob, he tried to turn it. “Ami, open the door. It’s locked.”

A ragged exhalation. “You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, baby. Open the door. Please.”

Both knew he asked as a courtesy. Even in his weakened state, a flimsy door couldn’t keep him out.

“I … I can’t,” she choked out. “I don’t want you to see me like this. Let me …” She paused, emitted a muffled moan. “Let me finish cleaning up, then I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Marcus stared at the door in disbelief. Screw that! Gripping the knob, he pressed hard until the frame cracked and the door swung inward with a loud pop.

Ami cried out as he stumbled inside, so startled she dropped whatever she held in her right hand.

Tinkalinkalinkalink.

Clad only in her underwear, she spun away, giving him her back, as his gaze went to the sink where the object she had dropped came to rest.

A small, malformed lump of lead settled beside three others in white porcelain Jackson-Pollocked with blood trails.

Marcus stared at her narrow back, hunched slightly as though she were trying to make herself smaller. Two jagged, ragged holes—too large to be anything but exit wounds—defaced it: one on her right side down near her hip, the other on her left side up higher near the base of her ribcage.

Two exit wounds. Four bullets. She’d been shot six times. In the abdomen according to the blood he had briefly glimpsed on her front.

“No,” he whispered, terror burning its way into his gut.

“Marcus—”

“Nooo.” The word emerged as an inhuman howl as he wrapped his arms around her from behind and held her as close as he could get to her.

Ami screamed in pain.

Shaken, he hastily released her and backed away.

Ami swayed drunkenly, reaching her right hand out to steady herself.

Marcus hastily took her hand (slick with warm, fresh blood) and lent her his strength. Once he was sure she wouldn’t fall, he touched her shoulder and carefully turned her to face him.

Her beige bra was smudged with ruddy stains, her formerly white bikini panties now carmine. The smooth skin of her flat stomach bore six wounds still weeping blood, four of which she had dug the bullets out of herself. A shallow cut bisected her middle from side to side. Bone protruded through the skin of her left arm where it had been badly broken. Bruises, puncture wounds, and gashes crisscrossed her arms and legs. No bite marks marred her form.

Her sweet face was blood splattered, her eyes red-rimmed. Tears steadily streamed down her blotchy cheeks, washing them clean. One temple was bruised and swollen. Her nose was pink from crying.

“Ami,” he whispered.

Lips trembling, she lowered her head, limped forward, and buried her face in his chest. Both of her arms came around his waist, though she kept the left one angled away from him.

“I couldn’t feel you,” she murmured brokenly, her right hand fisting in his shirt. “I couldn’t feel you and thought … I thought the drug had killed you.”

Marcus wrapped his arms around her, allowing himself a few seconds to rest his cheek on her hair before he swept her up into his arms as gently as possible.

Carrying her into the bedroom, he laid her on the bed.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked when he turned away.

“I’m fine,” he promised, mind racing as he retrieved a towel from the bathroom and knelt beside the bed.

She was as pale as a corpse, her flesh cold and clammy. As he pressed the towel to the bullet wounds in her stomach to stem the flow of blood, he grabbed the edge of her coverlet with his free hand and drew it over her legs, the towel he clutched, and her chest to warm her.

“D-did Roland and Sarah make it?”

Her lips held a bluish tint. So did her fingernails. Her breath came in shallow pants. Her pulse tripped along, weak, but fast. Too fast. She was in shock, had lost too much blood.

“Roland and Sarah are fine, honey,” he assured her, keeping pressure on her abdomen while he drew out his cell phone and dialed Sarah’s number. “Is he awake yet?” he asked as soon as she answered.

“No. Did you find—”

“What about Richart?”