Page 25
“He’s been touched so many times, I think you’ll need to do the silencing more than once. Let me know if you require help.” Mathias shook his head. “I should do it. I feel responsible for not seeing the obsession earlier than tonight.”
“I will do it.” She hesitated, then said, “Rolf isn’t the only one who fed on Joe. I’ll work on him however long it takes.”
Mathias stared at her for a moment, then gave one decisive nod. “Done. Dam, I thank you for your care of the whelps and young ones. You’ve made my sire role much easier than it would have been otherwise.”
Her mouth quirked up on one side without showing her fangs as she said, “My honor, Sire.”
***
Mathias
The last of the thralls had been gently compelled and released. The warehouse settled into its usual post-reaping hush, going quiet after the frantic activity of the previous hours. Most of the camp had retreated to the deeper rooms, the last traces of blood and illusion fading into the concrete. Mathias stood near the reinforced loading doors, listening to the distant city, when he felt Zeke’s presence settle beside him like a familiar shadow.
They stood in silence for a long time.
Finally, Zeke spoke, voice low. “You’re different with him.”
Mathias didn’t pretend not to understand. “The bond is...consuming.”
“I’ve watched you for all these years. Watched and willingly followed.” Zeke’s gaze stayed on the dark street beyond the doors. “I’ve seen you fight the sun. I’ve seen you hold this camp together when it should have fractured. I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at that human.”
Mathias’ jaw tightened. “It puts all of you at risk.”
“Yes.” Zeke turned then, meeting his eyes. There was no judgment in the vampire’s face—only steady, bone-deep loyalty. “And I will still stand between you and whatever comes. Even if what comes is the sun herself.”
Mathias felt something crack open in his chest. “Zeke—”
“Don’t.” Zeke’s mouth curved in a small, tired smile. “You have carried us long enough. Let me carry some of it for you. When the time comes...I will buy you the minutes you need. That is what I’m for.”
He reached out and briefly clasped Mathias’ shoulder, the touch cool and certain, then melted back into the shadows without another word.
Mathias remained where he was, the weight of that quiet promise settling over him like a second skin.
He knew he would never be able to repay it.
***
Crowe
The man Joe sat across the metal table looking exactly as he should, since he was tired, mildly confused, and completely useless.
Detective Elliot Crowe studied him in silence for a long moment before beginning the final questions. He had done this too many times to rush it. Forty-three years old, former military, twelve years in the hunters’ network. He still carried an old burn scar along his left forearm from the first nest he had helped clear—an ugly reminder of what happened when you underestimated them. Most of the men and women who took the vow didn’t last a decade. Crowe had lasted longer than most because he treated the work like a long campaign instead of a series of righteous charges.
The vow was simple. Every hunter made it the night they were brought in:
I will not look away. I will not forget the dead. I will not rest while they walk among us.
Crowe had spoken those words over the body of his younger sister. She had been twenty-two, bright, careless in the way only the living could be. A vampire had left her in an alley with her throat pierced and her eyes still open, staring at nothing. The official report called it a random attack. Crowe had known better the moment he saw the wound. That night, he stopped being only a cop. The vow had given the grief a direction. It still did.
He had been tracking this particular pattern for weeks—dazed civilians released with pleasant gaps in their memory, soft rumors of rooftop gatherings that never quite became police reports, the faint residual signature of organized feeding. Not ferals. A group that policed itself was rare. That made them more dangerous.
Joe had been one of the cleaner trails.
Crowe worked him methodically. Soft questions. Harder ones. The usual pressure points. Nothing landed. The man remembered late nights and bad decisions and a stretch of time when he’d felt “off,” but every path that should have led to pale faces or the name Rolf dead-ended in a polite blank. The only good bit of intel was about a co-worker, Carson. Crowe would follow up on that lead next.
Someone had erased his memories thoroughly.
Crowe leaned back and studied the younger man. The work was good. Professional. The kind of memory revision that left the subject functional instead of broken. That alone confirmed an organized nest.
