Page 13 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

“See you later. Be safe, okay?”

Cally slung her bag over her shoulder and gave Joon a wave. “Don’t worry about me. See you in a couple of days.”

The dojang was on the first floor, sharing the building with a run-down gym, but with its own entrance.

Cally pushed open the outside door and hesitated.

Around the corner of the building and through the parking lot at the rear was her usual shortcut, leading to the alley where that fateful encounter had occurred.

She hadn’t taken it since, opting for the longer route.

But after her conversation with Joon, her fear had receded.

The hell with it. It’s just an alleyway.

She almost hoped she’d find the creep who’d done this. And if she did, she’d kick his balls so hard he’d be scratching his throat when he got an itch.

For some reason, she’d thought the threat was greater—insubstantial, uncatchable, and scarier for being something she couldn’t fight. But if it was a creep with a needle, like Joon had said, it wasn’t a faceless demon. She would stay alert and strike fast.

A car pulled into the empty parking lot as she was halfway across, then accelerated, tires spinning and screeching, racing to cut across her path. It skidded to a stop, and so did Cally.

First night in two weeks taking this shortcut, and this happens? You have got to be kidding me.

Despite craving a fight, the first rule of any martial art was to run. Cally gripped the strap of her backpack and spun back toward the dojang.

Hardly had she taken a pace when she noticed the two men behind her, no more than a dozen feet away, having approached with surprising stealth. Both were large men, dressed in dark jeans and flannel shirts. They watched her carefully.

So it was like that? Fine.

The car’s door opened, and a man stepped out. Jeans, bomber jacket, and a leer as greasy as his hair .

“Evening, little lady. Need a ride somewhere?”

“No, thank you.” They had no idea what kind of mood she was in, but they were about to find out if they didn’t accept her polite rejection. Part of her was feeling reckless: she hoped they wouldn’t.

These weren’t demons, and this was an opportunity to let off some steam.

Joon gave me permission to go hard. So long as they don’t pull a gun.

She hadn’t bought one yet.

The three men ignored her refusal, closing in around her, their positions coordinated as if to box her in.

Wish granted.

Still, she should probably check once more before she kicked the shit out of three misguided innocents.

“Guys, why don’t you go find a strip club somewhere? I’m not in the mood to play tonight.”

“Oh, but we want to play, don’t we?” Bomber Jacket said, and the other men leered, eyes narrowing in unsettling amusement.

That was enough checking.

Taekwondo was a martial art that shone in open arenas; too flamboyant, too expansive, and requiring too much room to be truly effective in tight spaces.

Oh sure, she could stand practically touching a man and still manage to twist and kick him under the chin.

But given lots of space like an open parking lot? It couldn’t be more perfect.

She dropped her bag and took a couple of running steps toward Bomber Jacket, his surprise evident as she initiated. He was the one who had called her ‘little lady.’

Little? I’ll show them ‘little.’

With a jump, she launched into a flying sidekick, lashing out at the peak of her arc to land her boot with a satisfying thump into the man’s chest. He fell backward, bounced off the side of the car, and slid to the ground.

It should’ve knocked him out, but to her surprise he began to get up. He was a lot tougher than he looked.

Whatever.

She raised her foot high above his head and dropped it like the axe from which the kick took its name, and the man’s low position made him particularly vulnerable. Her boot connected with a meaty thud, and this time he stayed down, slumping unconscious on the cracked asphalt.

“Fuck!” gasped one of the men behind her.

Cally spun to face them, readying in kyorugi sogi : weight distributed evenly, body angled sideways. “Are we done here? ”

“Bitch!” one man shouted, reaching into his back pocket to pull a switchblade.

“That’s ‘no,’ then.”

Before the man without the knife could react, she leaped at him, turning her momentum into a jumping tornado kick. Landing on one leg, she spun into the other, her foot striking with all her force into his ribcage. He grunted, staggering a pace back, but again, he didn’t drop when he should have.

Was she more tired than she’d thought? What the hell was with these guys?

This time she didn’t hesitate. She followed up swiftly with a kick to the inside of his knee, then snapped her boot into his face.

His nose crunched, spraying blood. Breath knocked from him, his leg giving way beneath him, and the force of her foot likely causing a concussion, her second would-be attacker crashed to the ground, motionless.

The remaining man roared, charging at her, knife extended. None of these men knew how to fight, beyond the usual bar brawl. Oh, if he landed a blow, she’d probably be stunned and helpless. Such was the life of a woman fighting a man: one mistake, and she’d be done.

But first, he had to land a blow.

She ducked beneath his thrust, spinning away.

But he backhanded the blade toward her faster than she’d expected, far faster than he had any right to be.

But she was faster still. Barely. She blocked his wrist— Heh.

Using my hands, Joon —then danced to the side and snap-kicked the knife from his grip.

It was child’s play to turn it into a full roundhouse, her foot connecting unerringly with his temple.

He staggered sideways. This time, she didn’t wait to see if he’d go down.

She stamped on his trailing ankle, and he screamed as his leg buckled.

A final snap-kick to his head dropped him.

Thirty seconds. All in.

Slow, deliberate claps echoed through the parking lot, making Cally spin toward the car.

“Bravo. Bravo.”

A man stood atop the vehicle, dressed in an expensive-looking suit and a pair of very shiny shoes.

His features were hard and angular, his long straight hair so black it blended with the night.

He dropped to the ground with effortless grace, hardly flexing his knees at the impact.

Were his eyes red? No… it must be a reflection from the car’s lights.

“I was about to interfere, but you didn’t seem to need my help,” he said, as he paused beside the man Cally had bounced off the car.

There was a dent in the bodywork where he’d struck.

The well-dressed stranger lifted the unconscious man by the collar, took his head between hand and arm, and twisted sharply.

A grinding crack resounded through the empty parking lot.

Cally gasped, instinctively stepping back. Had he really just…?

The man was already crossing to the other pair while Cally stood stunned. One moment, he was standing over the first man, and the next, he was twelve feet away. How the hell…?

“Wait,” she said, uncertain. He moved so fast, she was still catching up, reeling from his casual brutality.

“Thralls this useless don’t deserve to live,” the man commented, twisting the head of Cally’s next assailant as casually as one might twist a grape free from a vine. “Besides, I promised someone I’d leave a few bodies around.”

“Stop!” she cried, flinging out a hand as though she might prevent him with her will alone.

What the hell did he mean by a ‘thrall’?

Those men he was casually killing may not have been demons, but he was.

A goddamn demon. Red eyes. All her fear, all her terror, crashed back down again.

The man had reached her last victim. He cradled the man’s head almost tenderly in the crook of his arm, while his other hand came around for the counter-twist. Red eyes locked on her, face relaxed, smile flirtatious.

Were those fangs ?

In a flash, everything came rushing back: the sensation of someone being there, the instinct to defend herself, the grip on her, lips against her neck, teeth following, her pulse racing, blood pumping from the bite.

She stared at him in horror, stumbling back.

The bite in my neck… Joon was right. I was bitten. A weird psycho with dental implants.

“You heard her. Stop.”

Another man had simply appeared, tall with wild, unkempt hair, wearing a long leather coat that screamed 80s goth subculture. How had she missed him? He hadn’t been there a second ago. It was almost as if he’d stepped out of the shadows, yet he was only twenty feet away.

But as Cally set eyes on him, she felt she knew him, like she’d seen him before.

No, it was more than that. Almost as if she’d shared something deeply personal with him.

How could that be ?

“Well, if it isn’t Antoine!” the weird psycho said, his tone dripping with false joviality. He flexed his arms, and a third crack echoed across the parking lot. “Late, as usual.”

Cally instinctively took a step back, already preparing to flee. She was fast enough to outrun them.

Her movement caught the eye of Mr. Well-Dressed—the psycho with the red contact lenses. He rose swiftly, releasing the man he held as he did. Her former attacker slumped to the ground, his head lolling limp and bouncing sluggishly off the asphalt.

“Oh, don’t go! I’ve barely made your acquaintance.”

The words curled around her, smooth and insidious.

She froze in mid-step. Not out of hesitation, nor out of fear, but because her body simply stopped listening.

She tried to turn, to bolt, but the impulse went nowhere, her limbs heavy and unresponsive.

Her foot landed, finishing the step, but she couldn’t take another.

“What—”