Chapter 4 A Quiet Night Broken

SADIE -

When I got home, I sent Bennet a text, smiling like an idiot all because it felt nice having someone worry over me.

It was past three in the morning, but the file wasn’t going to review itself.

The Keurig steamed angrily as I waited for another cup of coffee. The scent was rich and thick and filled my small kitchen with the smell of home.

The ache for home settled deep in my gut as the scent carried me back to mornings in the Mercer training yard, where Mom watched Josh, our cousins, and the younger hunters practice the fighting style that our family had passed down for generations. I could almost feel the sun warming my face and hear Josh laughing before one of our sparring matches turned serious.

Home was filled with people I loved, but it was also the place that proved the wrong decision can hurt the people who matter most to me. No matter how right the decision felt in the moment.

I shook the memory away with a rough jerk of my head and walked over to my barely held-together kitchen table. The white paint was chipped away in several spots and the wood was worn, but it was mine, and that mattered to me more than how it looked.

Bennet’s case files lay spread across the table, stuffed with reports and stills pulled from surveillance footage of the latest cases.

The chair squeaked under my weight as I sat and lifted the same picture that had been eating at me ever since Bennet gave me the files.

The grainy image of the vampire stared back at me with an infectious smile. His hoodie was hanging half off his shoulder, and he’d just bought a soda from the cashier.

I set the picture down and picked up the report for the hundredth time, humming Mom’s favorite lullaby beneath my breath as I tried to concentrate.

Forty-two seconds after leaving, the deceased smashed through the glass entry, attacked the werewolf cashier, convulsed, and died.

Standard toxicology screen found no drugs in the deceased's system.

The Keurig beeped, and I let the report fall back to the table before I stood and popped the top on the machine.

Still humming, I went back over the facts of the case as I finished making my coffee with a heaping spoonful of sugar and too much milk.

The SCD was blaming the attacks on the growing number of unregistered supernaturals living beneath the east-side overpass and allowing the cases to fall between the cracks. But the longer I looked at the evidence, the more I agreed with Bennet.

The encampment has nothing to do with this

This last case was a Turned Vampire who worked at a magazine, writing funny but harmless blogs. He was set to move up, if his boss was to be believed.

Nothing in the file suggested he had been close to going rabid. He had no history of violence, no missed blood allotments, and no documented problems controlling his hunger. He’d been smiling at the cashier like any other customer.

Something had changed between the moment he bought that soda and the moment he came crashing back through the glass.

The only detail that stood out was the way he kept scratching the same spot on his arm.

His left arm? I couldn't remember which.

I closed the fridge and made my way back to the table to double-check the picture when I heard something big thud up the stairs on my front porch.

It was too heavy to be Owlbert, the stray cat I’d been feeding, who sounded ridiculously close to an owl when he meowed.

I pulled my Mercer Chain-Sickle from its hooks beside the front door. I let the reinforced chain hang, and I palmed the wooden stake attached to the opposite end with my other hand. The rune-covered wood glistened red in the yellow light of the bulb hanging above the door, and the weight of the heavy silver felt better in my hand than I wanted to admit.

I settled into the Mercer stance automatically, left foot back and the chain loose enough to strike. The moment I did, memories from the training yard tried to surface again, but I shoved them down and focused on what I could hear as I pressed my ear against the cold wood of the door.

The wicker couch creaked as a heavy weight fell onto it, and I pulled away from the door to peek out the window.

My heart was in my throat, pounding hard enough that my breath hitched with each pump, and I swallowed audibly around it.

A dark shadow sprawled lengthwise on the couch, but it was too dark to make out who or what it was.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath.

This is the last thing I need.

After one slow breath, I moved back to the door and let the stake and chain rest over my left shoulder. Then I rested my hand on the knob as I closed my eyes and let my Venari senses unfurl, searching for the familiar prickling beneath my skin that always came when a vampire was near.

When I found nothing, the pressure in my chest loosened.

Human, then?

Still, I squeezed the silver handle on my sickle before I turned the knob.

The smell of fresh blood reached me first. Humidity hung thick in the night air, trapping the metallic scent beneath the porch roof.

There were no red splotches marring the wood of my front porch and no signs of a struggle, yet the blood smelled fresh.

I pushed the door open wider and pulled the chain from my shoulder to let the stake hang loosely from my hand.

There were no unfamiliar vehicles sitting on the street or in driveways, and no misplaced trashcans someone could hide behind.

I counted the houses down the lane that still had lights on, but none were out of the ordinary.

The scrape of the dog door at the house to my left told me that the neighbor’s dog had gotten outside, and if it spotted me, the barking would never end.

Unfortunately, there was definitely a man lying face down on my wicker couch.

Silently, I moved closer, the hairs on my arms rising even though my Venari senses still gave me no warning of a vampire nearby.

The man’s body was hanging halfway off the couch. His left knee was pressed into the hard wood of my porch, and his left arm hung loose beside it. The slow rise and fall of his back told me that he was still alive, but his breathing was shallow and labored.

His long blond hair covered the side of his face, and fresh blood soaked the torn sleeve of his black jacket, shining wet beneath the light of the street lamps.

I squeezed the handle of the sickle and took the final step that would bring me beside him.