Page 49

His body went stone-hard in an instant. “Sam?” he barked. “Sam, is that you?” The connection was piss-poor, as it usually was in Cherryville.

“Find…Mir…an…” The line cut off.

Understanding dawned too late.

It was one hell of a fine trap all right, but not for the vampire. For Miranda.

He took off at a run, the beast growling and the man fighting back his fear and rage.

* * *

Sam cursed and threw down his phone. The thing had never worked for shit, and he would have taken his civilian car to Miranda’s—the vehicle with no damn police radio. He felt for the pulse on Deputy Forest’s neck. Weak, thready. Just like Deputy Dunn’s.

The men had been taken down, hard. But they were still alive. Was Miranda?

She’d better be.

The flickering porch light shone down on the deputies. Their radios and phones had been smashed to pieces.

Taking a deep breath, Sam rose. He’d go inside, find Miranda, and they’d call an ambulance and some serious backup.

He wanted to shout out to her, but he knew better. Roberts—because he knew that freak was behind this—had to be around somewhere, and he sure didn’t want to give away his location to the killer. His gun was in his right hand. His left hand reached for the handle of Miranda’s front door. Unlocked. He glanced down. His gaze locked on the faint scratch marks near the keyhole.

Even as his breath seemed to freeze in his lungs, a scream pierced the night. A scream that had him turning and running with his heart in his throat and his fingers tightening around his gun.

A woman’s scream. His mom had screamed like that. Just before his bastard father had stopped her screams forever.

He rounded the corner of the house, gun up and ready, and found a man pinning Miranda to the ground.

“Sheriff’s Department!” Sam shouted, and the creep’s head whipped toward him. “Get the hell away from the woman, now!”

But the guy didn’t move. He smiled and the bastard had something wrong with his mouth. His teeth—they were filed or sharpened or something. They looked like an animal’s. Light spilled from Miranda’s nearby windows, throwing a glowing circle around the struggling figures. Miranda was fighting. Squirming. Ramming her head against her attacker. Swearing.

And the perp’s smile was just getting bigger.

“I said get away from the woman!” Sam would put a bullet in the jerk if he had to do it. He wasn’t in the mood to screw around with some cracked-up killer.

“Make me.” A taunting whisper.

One hand pinned Miranda’s wrists to the ground. The other lifted to her throat and, what in the hell? Were those claws?

“Shoot him!” Miranda screamed.

The claws swiped toward her jugular.

Sam fired. The bullet caught the bastard in the shoulder, and his hand fell away from Miranda’s throat.

“Again!” she yelled. “Keep shooting, keep⁠—”

The man leapt away from her. Bounded to his feet in a single move. The smile was gone. Black eyes glared at Sam. “That stung, you bastard.”

Stung? It was a bullet, not a bee.

“And it really, really pissed me off.” His lips curled back, and those weird teeth of his looked even sharper.

Sam aimed his gun straight at the freak’s heart. “Get on your knees. Put your hands on your head.”

The man took a step forward. Wow, he really did look exactly like the photo of Paul Roberts. So the bastard faked his death. You knew that already.