Page 13 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Thirteen

I flip up my hood, jam my hands into my pockets and saunter on, trying to look like I belong here. Just another harmless night-walker. Another shout, sharper this time. Fear knots my stomach.

Maybe they will mistake me for a teenager.

Maybe they will ignore me.

If they follow me, they will think I’m escaping—or spying—and I can’t exactly explain what I am, can I? I must not lead them back to House.

“Oi! You!”

Boots thud closer. Voices bark orders. Panic bites. I keep walking.

Don’t run.

Don’t—

“You! Stop!” A hand clamps on my shoulder.

Instinct shatters into a single command: run!

I bolt. Not towards the safety of home, but away from it—deeper into the night—praying I have not made the worst mistake of my life.

The sector blurs past—lampposts stretch, shopfronts smear, parked cars stand frozen like statues.

I can run, truly run, and I do not tire.

But the guards can run too. They are older, stronger, more experienced. In vampire terms, I’m barely out of the cradle. I sense them gaining yet keep my gaze ahead, unwilling to lose momentum. A sharp zip whistles over my shoulder; sparks flare.

They are casting at me!

I fling myself around a corner and straight into a trap. A hulking guy with a vicious expression blocks the pavement. When I dodge left, a spell slams into my back. Heat spreads like viscous webbing, pinning my arms and legs together. Great.

“Little shit,” he growls, striding closer.

“Why’d you run? It’s past curfew, too close to dawn,” says the second guard—the one who chased me.

“He’s up to no good.” The first man yanks down my hood. The tug pulls my blonde hair from its ponytail, and it tumbles around my shoulders. “Oh… she’s up to no good.”

They stare.

“Ma’am, what are you doing? You tripped the perimeter wards coming from the Human Sector.”

I press my lips together.

“Silent, eh? We’ll learn everything you’re trying to hide when we speak to your Clan Master. ”

“At least she’s not covered in blood,” the big guard sniffs. “Not a speck.”

“She’s a lesser, barely more than a fledgling. She shouldn’t be out alone,” the second adds. He grips my arms, lifts, and I dangle as he marches with me to a van marked Border Patrol . He opens the back door and bundles me in. No rights are read; clearly, procedures differ here.

I sit, frozen with humiliation, while we drive for about five minutes. When the door finally opens, we are in a brightly lit underground car park. The same guard helps me out and carries me toward a set of steel doors.

Inside is a station much like those in human police dramas—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, walls painted an uninspired grey, and plastic chairs bolted in neat rows. The air carries a faint tang of bleach and something metallic—old blood, perhaps, or magic.

A single austere desk spans the far wall, and the vampire manning it studies me over a monitor.

I force a half-smile, though I’m terrified. I need to get out of here before I turn human.

The snaring spell dissolves. Another guard seizes my wrist, slamming it onto the counter to expose the underside. “Is this a joke?” he snarls.

“She’s not marked.”

Not marked? What do they mean?

They gape as though I have two heads. I stay silent, but the custody vampire notes my confusion and softens.

“Every vampire bears a Clan sigil on the left wrist. Are you so young you have not been branded yet?”

“That’s against our laws,” the third guard states .

Uh-oh.

Staring at the desk, I tune out the guards’ discussion about what they intend to do with me.

I hadn’t realised vampires were tagged on their wrists.

There’s no bluffing my way out of this. I’ve never been in trouble before, and now look at me, the first time I attempt to be a real vampire, I land myself in this mess.

Nice one, Fred.

A door bangs.

At once the voices fall silent. Footsteps cross the room. I keep my gaze lowered so I don’t see the newcomer, but the guards’ deference and the prickle of power at my back tell me whoever it is outranks them.

The sheer weight of the vampire’s presence hammers at my senses, making my skin crawl. He is a magical powerhouse. I hunch lower. I’m in so much trouble.

“Sir, this vampire was running from the Human Sector across the scrubland,” one guard reports. “She tripped the wards, and we apprehended her.”

“Did she resist?”

“No, sir. She ran, but once spelled, she cooperated. She hasn’t spoken, though—clearly frightened. The problem, sir, is that she’s unmarked.”

Fancy shoes step into my line of sight. Polished. Expensive.

“Look at me,” the newcomer growls.

It takes every ounce of strength to raise my head.

Violet-grey eyes lock on to mine—eyes I recognise—and relief flickers through me. I had feared he might have been hurt after I was… killed. Yet he is alive—well, undead—and unmistakably in command .

He is a vampire.

So why was he awake during the day when we met?

There’s no spark of recognition in those violet-grey eyes; to him I’m just a delivery driver, a speck in his world. He regards me without expression.

I try to return the stare. The ripped jeans and T-shirt are gone.

He now wears a dark grey suit, so sharply tailored it seems sculpted to his frame, with a matching shirt and tie that deepen the violet of his eyes.

His hair is plaited close to his scalp, and he still has the lip ring, which should make him look unprofessional, and yet it screams utterly him.

Not that I know this man—he’s a stranger—but I think anything he wears, he will own it and wear with power. Half warrior, half billionaire tycoon.

“All right, gentlemen, I’ll take it from here.” He grips my elbow. “Lose the paperwork. She was never here.”

“Sir? Do you know her?” the big guard asks.

One look silences him.

“Of course, sir,” the custody officer says quickly. He claps his hands. “Bravo Team, daylight’s coming. Lock everything down.” The room empties.

My yellow-door vampire guides me through another doorway and down a long hallway, his hold surprisingly gentle.

He steers me into a dark office, flicks on the lights, and settles me into an uncomfortable plastic chair.

The office is small, almost suffocating, and I have no doubt this is where interrogations are held.

He searches his pockets, produces a compact device and presses a button; a faint ringing fills my ears. Magic blooms, hazing the walls, floor, door, and ceiling. Soundproofing, perhaps, or a privacy ward.

He makes a brief call. “I found her. I need a car at the station. Emergency Protocol One.” Phone pocketed, he cups my chin, tilting my head to expose the scar on my neck.

“Who did this to you?” he snarls.