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D amon Brock clutched the neck of the guard and twisted. The crack of bone pierced the silence in the alleyway as his victim’s spine snapped beneath his fingers. The wind whistled in a freezing gush, so cold that his breath swirled in front of his face. The guard’s pulse beat several feeble times against his hands before fading. Not a single scream.

Damon released the guard, the body crumpling to the cold winter ground before he nudged the corpse with the steel toe of his boot. No movement. Only dead weight. A quick kill. Not even 9 p.m. and already he’d taken out one bloodsucker.

Rochester seemed promising.

Stepping over the corpse, he slipped through the back entrance of the club. A silver dagger under the sleeve of his leather trench coat, a Desert Eagle .44 caliber semi-automatic tucked into the back of his jeans, one silver throwing knife in each boot and a smooth, lacquered wooden stake inside his coat—you could never be too prepared when it came to vamps. The leeches were damn near impossible to kill. While bullets and silver gave them pause, only a severed spine, decapitation or a stake through the heart truly destroyed the undead.

Like a neon sign in a red-light district, the establishment’s name flashed over the interior service door: Club Fantasy.

He scoffed. Club Fantasy? More like Club Hell. If only the patrons knew the truth about the monster vampire who owned it. The man sitting at the top of Damon’s hit list.

He pushed through a second service door, and into the main level of the club. If the night went well, he would gladly up the body count to at least four. Maybe more.

The thick smell of liquor and sweat from one too many dancing bodies assaulted his nose as he scanned the crowd. Bright red lighting flashed over the floor, and the bass of the heavy dance music pounded in his ears. The most difficult thing about hunting vamps: they were damn near indistinguishable from humans. After nightfall, the pulses of the undead beat with the same intensity as any human civilian, but their craving for blood, their inhuman strength, and their drive to drain life from unsuspecting victims lingered.

If only humanity knew what the hell they were up against.

Damon strode across the dance floor, navigating between writhing bodies before he slid onto the black leather bench of one of the club’s booths. His hands ran across the smooth, newly lacquered tabletop. Despite the underlying seediness, the atmosphere of Club Fantasy came out on top compared to most of Rochester’s dive bars. With western New York prices and Manhattan quality, Club Fantasy had young twenty-somethings flocking to it like drunken sheep led to a bloodlust-fueled slaughter. High quality aside, it was twice as dangerous as any New York City club. At least, the City offered ample backup.

He'd admit one disadvantage to himself: navigating the supernatural scene of a city with no hunting division would be hard. Damn hard. But he was up for the challenge. He’d tracked his target here to Mark’s hometown, Rochester, and he wouldn’t stop until he avenged his friend. He’d requested assignment to Rochester for that sole purpose—even if it meant a chance of running into her . But he couldn’t allow himself to think about that. Not now.

His gaze jumped from face to face, searching for his target: blond hair, blue eyes, medium build, a strong, slightly crooked nose, and a small but noticeable scar beneath his left eye. He dreamed of that face every night.

An ancient piece of Roman shit, Caius Argyros Dermokaites ruled over the Rochester vamp coven with an iron fist, more because he was old as dirt, rather than because of some great attribute of his own. The older the vampire, the more deadly he—or she—became, and Caius was currently sitting at the top of Damon’s hit list.

Damon was going to kill him. He’d make sure of it this time.

His eyes locked on to the vampire. Though the swaying limbs of the dancing patrons skewed his view, he could see Caius sitting on the other side of the club. His hands clenched into fists. It was his fault. His fault that Caius sat there laughing while Mark’s ashes had gone unburied. His fault the only woman he’d ever opened his heart to wished him dead. He’d failed Mark—his closest friend—and he’d failed her , too.

A grin crossed Caius’s face as he wrapped his arm around the skimpy-leather-and-silver-chain-clad woman next to him. Caius was surrounded by women. Not surprising. Few things were larger than a male vampire’s ego, and Caius overcompensated like a pair of tricked-out rims on an already overpriced car. But if there was one thing Damon had learned during his field training, it was how to be a quick judge of character. Vanity was no doubt Caius’s number-one weakness and striking that vein would make him bleed.

A sexed-up, raspy voice purred right next to Damon’s ear. “You gonna order a drink, hot stuff, or just stare into the crowd all night?”

A cheap pair of too-tight latex pants blocked his view.

The bottle-blond waitress smacked her lips together as she chewed on a piece of gum. She leaned down, resting her elbows on the table in front of him, and treating him to a prime-time view of her tits. Her breasts were squeezed into a top smaller than some women’s panties, and her breath reeked of over-chewed bubble gum and the sharp smell of cheap gin.

She licked her lips. “You look like a vodka-on-the-rocks kind of man to me—strong, bold, served on ice but easily warmed.”

Damon barely glanced at the woman. He leaned back in his seat, aligning his vision with Caius again. “I don’t drink.”

The waitress sighed and peeled herself off the table. “Well, if you’re not gonna order anything, you can’t take up an entire booth.”

A slender redhead ran her fingers through Caius’s hair, pushing closer to his body. The human women surrounding Caius literally threw themselves at him, but Caius’s stare was fixed on something out of Damon’s line of sight. If he could just see where...

The waitress huffed again. “Uh, hello? Did you hear me?”

Fuck this. Moving about the club for a different vantage point was better than staying put. Without another word, Damon stood, brushing past the now pissed-off waitress. Nothing was going to distract him tonight. With six human women missing from Caius’s inner circle and a growing number of gruesome, fatal attacks, neglect wasn’t an option.

When he’d joined the inaugural hires of the Execution Underground, he’d sworn an oath to protect innocent humans from the dangerous creatures lurking out of their unsuspecting sight. But what had once been him and only a rag-tag group of his closest friends was now a government-sponsored network. An international elite group of men, the newly formed Execution Underground trained its hunters to annihilate everything from vampires to werewolves, demons, shifters and more.

But even with extensive combat training and packing loads of hard-earned muscle, no ordinary man could fight the supernatural alone. Upon swearing in, each hunter received a serum injection, and while the resulting longer lifespan, increased strength to battle the supernatural and extra healing capabilities were perks, putting their lives on the line every day was one hell of a sacrifice. Even with the serum, they still couldn’t match a supernatural’s strength. Not completely. That was where the training came in, to ensure they weren’t easily annihilated. They swore to protect their fellow humans no matter the personal cost, swore to keep the supernatural world hidden from view and away from the vulnerable.

They promised to give everything, even their lives, if needed.

Mark had given his life for the safety of others, and Damon wasn’t about to dishonor his friend’s memory by doing any less. He’d meant every word of that promise he’d made.

Damon followed the line of Caius’s sight and strode to the bar, finding a seat in the far corner, right where he could see Caius. He followed the ancient vampire’s eyes and found their target.

A woman. No surprise.

Her back was turned toward Damon, revealing nothing but a thick mane of dark brown waves falling over her shoulders and a tight, round ass squeezed into a pair of low-cut jeans that he shouldn’t have noticed. The bartender handed her two glasses of red wine. Slowly, she sashayed to Caius’s side, the ancient vampire’s gaze never leaving her body.

But Damon still couldn’t see her face.

He pulled his gaze away. No matter. He intended to hurt Caius and his minions in any way he could, but even to avenge his fellow hunter, he wasn’t about to endanger the innocent human patrons around him. Mark wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. He would need to lure Caius away from the crowd.

He glanced around the bar, taking in the number of humans patrons. His gut twisted.

The instinctive fight-or-flight response forced most people away from supernatural predators. But used, beaten, downtrodden, and abused humans swarmed the undead like flies on a half-eaten corpse, and they were the most susceptible to supernatural manipulation. Somebody needed to protect them. Someone needed to give a damn about their lives when the system never had.

Suddenly, his cell phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. He glanced down at the screen. Headquarters.

Shit.

He couldn’t return the call out in the open.

Isolating Caius would have to wait. For now.

Damon slipped away from the bar, heading toward one of the club’s private rooms. He ducked through the curtained door and into the empty space. Scanning the shadows, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing nothing more than the outlines of assorted couches, throw pillows and other ordinary furniture. He was alone.

He pulled the phone from his pocket, quickly glancing at the message.

The all-capitalized text glared across the screen. New information from his contact at Headquarters. UPDATE. CALL BACK.

Damon’s jaw clenched. Fuck. An update meant another dead body. Another death piled on to his conscience. If he hadn’t failed Mark that night three months ago…

He cursed under his breath and quickly hit redial.

Chris picked up on the second ring. “You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”

Damon rested his free hand on his head, running his fingers through what little hair remained after his buzz cut. “Get on with it.”

Chris let out a long sigh. “You want the shitty news or the straight-up awful news first?”

Damon shook his head and paced the room. “Does it make a difference?”

Chris sighed again. “Well, first order of business: there’s another dead body.”

Damon dug the fingernails of his left hand into his palm, his fist itching to punch into the

plaster wall. Anticipating the news before he’d returned the call didn’t make it any easier. The Rochester P.D. would jump all over this. Already they’d deemed the murders the work of a serial killer with vampiric delusions.

Another victim with fang marks would only fuel the fire.

He let out a low frustrated growl, his anger barely leashed.

What kind of bloodsucker didn’t seal up the damn fang holes after he sank his teeth in? Even the dumbest vamps knew to keep themselves hidden from the public eye. Was one small lick to close the wound too much to fucking ask?

“Damon, you still there, man?”

Damon unclenched his fist. He couldn’t let his emotions distract him. Not again.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Victim is a Caucasian female. Only sixteen,” Chris continued. “Found four blocks away from Manhattan Square Park. A connection with the police force called it in. Body’s in the morgue of the Golisano Children’s Hospital at the University of Rochester Medical Center. As of now, she’s listed as Jane Doe. No ID on her and, well...from the crime scene photos we’ve been sent, it won’t be easy to identify her. You better get over there soon. It’ll be a media shit storm once it hits the nine o’clock news in the morning.”

Damon leaned against the nearest wall, resting his head on his forearm. “And the other news?”

A moment of silence passed on the other end of the line before Chris cleared his throat. “There’s...been a new development in Mark’s case.”

Damon snapped upright, his whole-body rigid. “What do you mean ‘a new development’?”

Mark was dead. His body burned in the fire post-raid, and Caius was the vampire to blame. Damon had witnessed the death himself. His jaw clenched. The last memory he’d ever have of his friend’s face was of Mark lying on the ground, bled out and lifeless, before the building had gone down in the flames.

Before Damon had failed to save him.

“I’m so sorry, Damon.” Chris’s voice held a hint of defeat as he spoke from the other end of the line.

No. No. Nothing could make Mark’s loss any more terrible than it was.

The wind rushed from Damon’s lungs and bile rose in the back of his throat as he realized what Chris was saying.

“Another hunter spotted him in the City a few days ago. The information just made it into the system. I’m sorry, Damon. He’s not dead. He turned.”

The phone fell from Damon’s hand, his heart pounding in his ears as red clouded his vision. A sharp pain flamed through his chest as if someone had driven a blade into his heart.

Mark had turned. He wasn’t dead...

A furious roar ripped from Damon’s throat as he gave in and punched his fist into the wall. A large chunk of plaster crumbled to the floor, but no one heard over the loud thumping of the music.

Mark wasn’t dead. He worse than dead. He was a bloodsucking leech, and the fault fell on Damon’s shoulders. Memories of him and his best friend, his comrade, flashed through his mind. Images and words he couldn’t take back.

“There’s nothing worse than becoming a vamp.” Mark sharpened the end of his silver blade as he sat next to Damon.

The training room smelled of male sweat, blood and heavy artillery. After a full day out on the practice field, all the muscles in Damon’s body ached.

He nodded. “Nothing worse.”

“At the very least, I’m glad my family didn’t turn. In that respect, I’m glad they’re dead.” Mark glanced down at the blade in his hand. “Promise me that if that ever happens to me, you’ll stake me in the chest.”

Damon scoffed. “That’ll never happen, man. That’s what we’re training for.”

Mark thumped him hard on the back. “I mean it though, D. Promise me.”

Damon let out a long huff, before he clapped Mark on the back in return. “I promise.”

Those words echoed through Damon’s head once more.

I promise.

Damon threw another punch at the wall, then started pounding the plaster with his fists, praying the images in his head would disappear. Mark’s body lying on the pavement with puncture wounds in his neck. The blood. Oh, God, the blood and the stillness of his body as he lay across the concrete. Dust clouded the air, and Damon’s knuckles bled as he released every ounce of rage coursing through his bones.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, how many minutes passed or how many punishing blows his fists delivered as something inside him broke.

But he couldn’t allow his emotions to cloud his judgement. Not again. Not when that’s what landed him here in the first place. He still had an oath to keep.

The one and only promise he’d made Mark.

Chest heaving from exertion, slowly he stepped away from the wall, his vision refocusing. In the background, he was vaguely aware of the sound of Chris’s concerned voice coming from the other end of the line, but he was too numb to address it.

The one and only promise.

He would do this. He had to.

No matter how much it would destroy him.

Slowly, he crouched and picked up the device again, clutching the cracked screen in his still bleeding fist. Hands barely steady, Damon lifted the phone to his ear as he growled, “Tell me where to find him.”