Page 29 of The Vampire's Werewolf Bodyguard

Simon

The idea is a stone falling into water, each ripple a tidal wave. Simon struggles to surface.

“Dima is behind this,” he says, and it feels true. Human attackers without any connection to the paranormal. Dima refusing to call the treaty council to investigate.

But other details don’t make sense. Who killed Erica? If it was Dima, why would he kill his own puppet—just tying up loose ends? Why hire Cody to protect Simon?

Why not just kill Simon by his own hand?

It would have been easy.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Cody echoes Simon’s thoughts. “He hired me to protect you. Why the fuck would he want to kill you?”

“I don’t know.” Simon lifts a hand, then drops it, uncertain of what he’s doing. Flame sparks around his fingertips before extinguishing. “I don’t know him anymore. Maybe I never did.”

“Shit, Simon.” Cody’s hand heats Simon’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

The touch is too comforting. Simon wrenches away. He can’t stand the admission of being hurt. “Give me a second. I need to think.”

“We don’t have a second,” Cody says, gentle yet urgent. He pulls out his own phone. “Dima is on his way here. Doesn’t matter if he’s involved or not—we can figure that out when we’re somewhere safe.”

Safety is ephemeral. A flame smothered by the rippling water. Simon clings to details to keep himself in the present. “Who are you calling?”

“Tobias,” Cody answers. “He’ll send a car to meet us on the road, so we don’t have to go back to the house.”

“Don’t call him,” Simon says, paranoid reflex faster than thought.

Cody cancels the call without question. The instinctive trust would be gratifying if Simon wasn’t still in shock. “What’s wrong?”

Simon barely knows Tobias. Not like Cody. But there’s more than just Simon’s habitual wariness of strangers. “Tobias met Dima in person. What if Dima enthralled him?”

Cody’s face slackens, then hardens with a snarl. “It’s possible. He shouldn’t have been so tired.” Another snarl. “I should have noticed something was off.”

Forgetting the latch might not have been an accident .

“Don’t blame yourself.” More sparks dance around Simon’s fingers. He’s fled town before. He knows how to do this. “We have to go back to the house. If we’re running, I need my car.”

Cody nods sharply. He puts his phone away and draws his gun again. “You wait here. I’ll get it.”

“No,” Simon snaps. Then on a softer breath, “It’s safer together. We aren’t human, so Dima can only enthrall one of us at a time. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Simon expects an argument. For Cody to insist on doing his job, when this is far beyond contracts and protocols. Instead, Cody’s face softens, and he slides a gentle hand against Simon’s cheek.

“Good,” Cody murmurs. “Because I’m not letting you out of mine.”

He seizes Simon’s lips in a burning, grounding kiss. Calluses scrape Simon’s cheek, and he leans in for more, no longer capable of denying the comfort offered. Cody’s touch feels like a heartbeat, and Simon wants this forever.

Anything could happen. Simon still tastes the precious gift of Cody’s blood. He can’t let Cody disappear out of sight, like Francisco and Tania and so many others. All the mortals he’s ever known, lost between moments and years.

He and Cody aren’t bound by any lasting bite. Cody isn’t as strong as he could be. Simon can’t find him if he vanishes. The idea burns his lips, trying to break free. But now isn’t the time for impulsive demands.

Cody pulls away, looking just as reluctant as Simon. “Stay close behind me.”

Simon grabs Erica’s backpack. “Easy enough. Like I said, I love the view.”

The joke falls flat as the backpack thumps his shoulder. He might need its contents—stakes and holy water, against his own sire.

Cody thankfully doesn’t say anything more before taking off. They race through forest corridors, quicker and quieter than any mortal could. As they run, Simon remembers vividly, violently the night he turned.

He was twenty years old and high off a late-night performance. His third week playing the latest in a string of beautiful ingenues. Women weren’t supposed to be on stage, not at that time and place, so young men like Simon filled those roles. He thrived on the attention. Exhausted, elated, Simon had been stripping off his bodice when a stranger slipped backstage. The other players turned away, poorly muffling their laughter. A temporary pretense of privacy that would turn to taunting later.

The stranger was a nobleman, his hawkish features recognizable from the audience that night. And the previous night, and the one before that too. Already, the centuries had washed the color from his marble-cold skin. His pale eyes were haunting, but his voice was irresistible when he asked Simon to join him for a meal.

Simon had accepted such offers before, but never so eagerly. They spoke all night and didn’t even kiss until Dima departed at dawn. The pattern repeated for a week, and Simon quickly sensed something was wrong with the mysterious aristocrat.

“Not wrong,” Dima said when asked. “Special. I think you could be special too.”

The attention was better than any performance. Simon couldn’t resist the promise of a costume he didn’t have to remove. He bared his neck eagerly for the shadow-gift .

Until tonight, Simon had never wondered if Dima had enthralled him. If accepting the shadow-gift wasn’t a choice at all.

Just as likely Simon made the fateful choice. He was a reckless youth anyway, easily tempted. But even the doubt sickens him, like a fresh dose of poison. Century after century, he’d clung to one cold truth. No matter how many promises he broke, when it truly mattered, Dima would always return. No matter how implausible, Dima always truly cared for him.

The curtain has fallen. The masks have shattered. But Simon isn’t alone. His heart sings with the strength of Cody’s blood. Every touch, rough or tender, fleeting or purposeful. Somehow, Simon trusts Cody not to leave him.

Cody slows as they approach the fence, and Simon keeps close. Not because he’s obedient. He just wants to.

“I don’t sense him,” Simon whispers, both relieved and disappointed.

“I don’t smell him, either.” Cody reaches for the gate. His every move is focused. “Anything you need at the house?”

His coffin. His record collection. His painting supplies. The walls themselves, the promise of every unfinished mural.

“Just the car,” Simon says. “The key’s in the kitchen.”

Cody leads the way across the lawn. Each second stretches with anxiety, exposing them under the moonlight. But nothing happens. They reach the side door safely.

Strange hopes lighten Simon’s mood as they slip inside. As if familiar walls reinforce his emotional scaffolding. He grabs the keys from the kitchen drawer, then follows Cody towards the garage.

This may not be a true flight. He may be able to come back. If they can report everything to the treaty council after reaching safety. If Dima is taken into custody. If this is all a misunderstanding, and Dima can explain everything, and they find the real mastermind, and—

Out of sight, the front door opens. Then clicks shut.

Simon halts, cold veins turning to ice.

Cody swears and shoves Simon towards the garage door. “It’s him. Run.”

Of course it’s him. Echoes of centuries weigh down the very air. Simon wonders that his knees don’t buckle from the pressure. His voice is faint. “I can’t run from him.”

Dima’s reply comes from everywhere and nowhere. It chills the back of Simon’s neck, all the way from the foyer. “Why would you run, my fledgling? Come to me.”

Simon can’t resist the full force of the sire-bond. His limbs move under the control of a mind that can’t help but obey.

Cody plants himself in Simon’s way, a solid wall of muscle and fury. “Go downstairs,” Cody growls, placing a hand on Simon’s chest. “He blocked his scent somehow—I can’t smell him. He’s planning something.”

Simon pauses. The desperation in Cody’s words cuts deep enough to fracture the enthrallment. For a moment.

But Simon isn’t poisoned anymore. He seizes Cody’s arm and flings him into the wall.

He’s aware of everything; Dima doesn’t control his thoughts. Cody’s body crashes into wood and plaster, and the sound thunders through Simon’s bones.

“I’m sorry,” Simon gasps, wanting more than anything to stay. To make sure Cody’s all right. But all he can do is walk forward.

With a snarl, Cody shoves to his feet and follows .

Simon stops at the edge of the foyer, twenty feet from where Dima waits. Like an ancient monarch in his throne room.

And Simon’s first stupid instinct is relief at the sight of him. They’ll talk. Dima will explain, and everything will be all right. Or at least everything will be the kind of wrong Simon has tolerated for centuries. Simon can survive that.

“Drop that bag,” Dima says.

Simon drops it, and the enthrallment ends.

Dima looks as he ever has. Bone-white skin and glass-sharp eyes, no more alive than the marble beneath his boots. The marble is dustier than usual, and something else is different. As Dima’s colorless gaze rakes over him, Simon realizes what it is. The last veneer of civility has fallen. Simon finally sees his sire without pretense.

Everything will not be all right.

Cody surges past and halts between them. Disheveled but thankfully unhurt. He aims a gun at Dima’s heart with steady hands.

Dust scraping under his shoes, Simon edges around to see Dima, who regards them without moving. The calculation looks strangely like hesitation.

“So, you’ve figured it out, little firebird,” Dima says. The hint of affection slices deep, cutting away any hope that Simon is mistaken.

“You want to kill me.” Simon spreads his empty hands. He’s proud they don’t shake. “Why? Why all this theater?”

“I have my reasons.” Dima smiles. “Alas, humans make such fallible pawns. Perhaps this is better. I can bid you farewell for old time’s sake.”

A strange amount of talking. Dima doesn’t usually hesitate like this—but he’s outnumbered. As powerful as he is, Dima can’t enthrall both of them at once. A single werewolf? Yes. A single weakened vampire? Absolutely. But Simon is healed, and together, he and Cody are stronger than Dima.

Maybe Simon can get some information, before he…

Before he does what he has to do.

“Lawrence and Erica were your pawns,” Simon says. He has so many questions, but Dima’s admitted to this part already. “Why did you kill Erica?”

“You always cared about people,” Dima replies, more insult than answer. “Your most charming weakness. Erica was a useful distraction. So was her death.”

A new thought strikes like a wooden stake. “Was Tania’s death useful to you?” Simon asks, magic burning beneath his skin.

“I didn’t kill Tania,” Dima says, unreadable. “I killed the hunter who killed her—then I let the rest play out. Unfortunately, the treaty held strong. But enough about history.”

The cold hand of enthrallment seizes Simon before he can act on his fury. Dima knew what happened to Tania, and he kept it from Simon all these years. Simon’s magic surges, but falters.

He can’t move. It’s up to Cody, now.