Page 2 of The Curse of Eternity (Descendants of Helsing #1)
“It’s still not safe,” Olivia replied, and I could imagine her blue-gray eyes widening in dismay as I stepped around the door hanging off its hinges.
“She’s got her walkie.” Andrew’s tone took on a finality that was clearly a piss-poor imitation of Johann’s self-assured confidence.
Their voices faded, the whispers unheard over the sound of wind against the boarded-up windows along the corridor’s wall.
My boots scuffed across the cement, and I made an effort to quiet the noise.
I didn’t know where I was heading, except that it was opposite to where Johann’s Ford F-250 and Elias’s Dodge RAM 1500 were parked across the street on Richmond Drive.
On the corner was Route 66, and the noise of traffic would cover up whatever disturbance our hunting might have made.
That was one benefit of living in Albuquerque.
Nobody questioned it when we walked down the street with machetes on our hips, and the New Mexico desert was a relaxing drive away.
The perfect place to burn the undead corpses into ashes.
Turning the corner, I exhaled heavily in an attempt to calm down.
As if I didn’t already know I had messed up, Andrew seemed determined to never let me live it down.
We typically avoided each other at home, as much as any family could while living under the same steeple.
My head throbbed as the adrenaline ebbed away.
Through a surprisingly intact window, the moon waned between sparse clouds drifting past.
A tiny nagging part of me—that seemed to open like a chasm at the worst times—wanted to believe that Andrew was right.
As a kid, I’d thought my family’s legacy was incredible.
Then I grew up, and got bitch-slapped by my first vampire.
If the last eight months of on-and-off therapy taught me anything, it was that the mental scars cut deeper than the scratches littering my thick skin, all thanks to my ancestor.
Being descended from the legendary monster hunter, Van Helsing, sounded cool growing up.
The secret tale passed down through generations told of his ‘triumphant’ victory over the original vampire—Vlad Dracula the Fourth, son of the Impaler.
Back when Romania was still split into Wallachia and Moldavia, and long before we’d immigrated to America.
Except, when Helsing finally ended Dracula’s reign of terror over the continent, it didn’t eradicate the threat of vampires entirely.
The first vampire’s bid for power might have died with him, but the monsters he’d created since his inception were still undead and kicking.
That’s why my family’s legacy, our typical weekend activity, involved exterminating the parasitic species that reveled in feeding, raping, and murdering innocent people.
It’s what I was born to do, my calling. At one point, I’d done it proudly and without failure—until I fucked it up.
My steps slowed, nearing the next bend, and my intake of breath panged with morose hurt. Whether I liked it or not, I could bleed and die like any other human. Just like everyone else, I had to live with my consequences. No matter how much it killed me.
Guilt from both the past and present stung my chest on my exhale. Walking alone left me cooled off, but angrier with myself. Shaking my head, I turned around, intent on heading back—when a shadow to my right emerged from a stairwell.
“This place is not safe, miss,” a deep voice warned, and my fists shot up. Eyes narrowed, my right foot slid back in a defensive stance as the silhouette of a tall man in a leather jacket emerged. Except he wasn’t human, that was obvious from the silvery pallor of his skin.
Under the indirect moonlight filtering in from the nearby window, a shimmer danced across the angular side of his face and the exposed flesh of his outstretched hand.
The vampire moved closer, his expression falsely innocent and both hands raised in a placating gesture while he spoke with an Eastern European accent, “Please, allow me to escort you out. You are not safe here.”
The vampire’s stalled approach gave me the moment I needed to withdraw my machete. His dark eyes glanced at my blade, and then his black eyebrows rose with obvious surprise.
“Oh, perhaps you are, after all.”
Without hesitation, I rushed him. My blade swiped in an arc, aiming for the head, but the vampire stepped aside with a blur of speed.
Shit, his accent —all the oldest vampires were from that region.
The monster had speed and experience, meaning I needed the surprise of proximity.
So I moved in, stepping into his space and aiming my machete for the torso.
Vampires might not feel pain, but if I could bleed him out then his actions would slow.
The bastard dodged again, and for a split second, I warred between frustration and confusion. Because he moved further away, backing up several steps which I admittedly struggled to keep up with.
“If you would only listen—” he said, quickly cut off when I slashed at his head—or where his head was a millisecond ago. The vampire stepped aside, his expression so exasperated it only pissed me off more. “You are being obtuse.”
Okay, that did it.
All of Andrew’s tauntings echoed in my head, and my blood boiled. Fresh adrenaline fueled my onslaught. The hum of my pounding heart in my ears was deafening compared to the shush of my blade slicing the empty air beside the vampire’s head.
This one was fast , and a sinking realization left me woozy. I wouldn’t be able to take this one down on my own. Terrifying peace settled in at the thought, and I forced my focus not to waver while the vampire eluded my every strike.
In a last-ditch effort, I extended my arm past my usual safeguards. The sudden reach struck true, and my blade made contact with the vampire’s throat. Dark red blood oozed from the nicked skin in clotted streams. Yes! Finally—oh fuck.
Inches separated us when the vampire glared down at me. Panic slowed my hurried retreat, and he suddenly grasped my right wrist. His grip tightened, forcing my fingers to loosen on my machete’s handle. At first, I figured he’d snap my tougher-than-average bones.
Then he yanked me forward and I stumbled, off balance, my chest nearly touching his. Fear pounded through my skull, and my lungs stilled while I stared into his eyes—so clear up close, almost as black as a raven’s wings.
His other hand rose in a flash, covering my mouth and nose. On instinct, I inhaled, breathing in a sweet, powdery texture. The edges of my vision turned foggy, darkness closing in with each thrum of my beating heart…
An ache pulsed through my forearms, and my awareness flickered to life.
Stinging pain tightened my shoulders. My tongue felt thick, like it was wrapped in cotton, and I swallowed hard before forcing my eyes to open.
Every flutter of my eyelashes was sluggish, and it took several blinks to figure out that I was staring down at my lap.
Still clad in my bootleg jeans, and my gaze roamed to my black combat boots, the laces tied how I’d left them.
Cool air raised the hair along my upper arms, around the straps to my red halter top.
Where did my denim jacket go? The loose ends of my hair tickled my collarbone, so my hair tie must not have made the trip here.
With effort, I looked up. Iron shackles clamped around my wrists held my arms above my head.
The chains connecting either side were slung unceremoniously over a wall sconce. Wait, my brow furrowed, where am I?
It wasn’t the warehouse, that was for sure.
Cozy furniture surrounded me, with a writing desk on my left that stood opposite a row of bookshelves, and an antique dresser positioned against the right wall.
Atop its sleek, solid oak beauty was a silver platter with a decanter, a bottle of red wine, and a single polished glass. What the hell?
When I tried to move my arms, pain iced through my veins.
I bit back a scream. Holding completely still, I eyed the shackles a little closer.
Etched markings circled the iron—magick sigils.
The discomfort ebbed the longer I stayed stationary, fading into pins and needles while the blood drained downward.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I opened up my other senses. Beyond the hum of an air conditioning unit pumping out dry air, voices were murmuring in the next room. One was strangely familiar, while the other came through hazy, like over the phone. Both of them sounded masculine.
“If anyone can do it, you can, Drake,” the deep, staticky voice said with a tinge of humor.
“Must you always taunt?” the other replied—and his accent rekindled my memory while goosebumps crawled over my flesh.
Startled, I pulled at my restraints only to be shot through with scorching agony. A groan passed my lips as my head bowed, trying to curl into myself. Except the shackles wouldn’t let me move far. After several deep breaths, my ears stopped ringing.
“Then I will handle it,” the vampire said from the next room, his tone flat.
Heart pumping in my chest, I listened close to hear the call-ended beep. Despite the vampire’s silent footfalls, I sensed his approach. The air conditioning switched off, and I stared at the only doorway in or out as the vampire’s tall figure entered the room.