Page 29

He was slumped against the wall near the vestibule, security guard uniform dark with spreading blood. His throat was a ragged mess, torn open with savage efficiency. One hand still clutched his radio, never had a chance to call for help.

Sean moved past me, crouching to check the guard's wrist with practiced detachment. “Still warm. Can't have been dead more than ten minutes.”

I forced myself to look away from the dead man's face, to focus on details that mattered. Security cameras blinked red from strategic points around the sanctuary, active, recording. Someone was watching.

“This isn't right,” I said, studying the guard's wounds. “Vampire feeds are usually cleaner than this. They don't typically waste blood.”

“Because this wasn't about feeding.” Sean stood, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “This was about sending a message. Or maybe a test.”

“Testing what?”

His eyes met mine, serious for once. “How fast we'd show up.”

The implications of that sank in like ice water in my veins. If this was a trap, we were already inside it. I drew my gun, loaded with Sean's silver rounds, and tried to ignore how the mark's burning had intensified.

“Downstairs,” Sean said, nodding toward a door half-hidden behind the altar. “That's where they'll be. Old churches like this always have crypts or catacombs. Perfect spot for whatever ritual they're planning.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You seem awfully familiar with church architecture.”

“Used to be Catholic.” His smile was all edges. “Didn't take.”

We moved toward the door, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being herded. Everything about this felt staged, the open door, the fresh kill, the obvious trail leading us deeper. But what choice did we have?

The door opened onto a narrow stone stairwell, descending into darkness thick enough to swallow our flashlight beams. The air grew colder with each step, heavy with the weight of centuries. My mark throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a steady pulse of heat and warning.

“You know,” Sean's voice drifted back, barely above a whisper, “usually when someone's obviously hiding something that makes them react to supernatural energy, they mention it to their partner before walking into a potential ambush.”

I kept my voice equally low. “We're not partners.”

“No? Then what would you call this little arrangement?”

“Temporary inconvenience.”

His soft laugh echoed off the stone walls. “Fair enough.”

A sound drifted up from below, chanting, low and rhythmic. Latin, maybe, but older. Much older.

Sean went still, head cocked like a predator scenting prey. “You hear that?”

I nodded, though he couldn't see it in the dark. “Ritual magic. Strong enough to affect the air pressure down here.”

“Look at you, all knowledgeable about the dark arts.” His voice carried an edge of something, not quite suspicion, but close. “They teach that at Quantico?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when something's trying to kill me. Speaking of which...” He gestured ahead with his knife. “Ladies first.”

I bit back a retort and moved forward, every sense straining. The stairwell opened into a larger chamber, and the chanting grew louder. Red light pulsed from somewhere ahead, casting twisted shadows on ancient stone.

A sharp crash echoed from the main sanctuary, shattering the tense silence. My hand moved to my gun, but I held off drawing it. Years of martial arts training had taught me that sometimes the best weapon was no weapon at all. Beside me, Sean had already pulled one of his countless blades, the silver edge catching what little light filtered through the stained glass.

“Ten bucks says it's not a raccoon,” he muttered.

“Twenty says you make this worse somehow.”

His grin was quick and fierce in the darkness. “Only twenty? You're losing your edge, fed.”

We moved in sync toward the sound, and I had to admit that Sean knew his business. Where my movements were precise, measured from years of training, his were pure predator. Like violence given form, flowing from shadow to shadow with lethal grace.