Page 14 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

Her words wouldn’t come, her jaw wouldn’t move.

She strained to lift her arms, to shift her weight, to do anything.

But it was like moving through tar. No, worse—like being locked inside herself, buried alive within her own skin.

Her pulse slammed in her ears, breath coming sharp and shallow, but even surging panic couldn’t break the hold.

The man called Antoine gestured toward her with smooth grace. “I’ve claimed this one, Minh,” he said, his European accent—French? Italian?—lending the words a rich, almost lyrical quality.

Claimed? The word sliced through her panic, sharp and impossible to ignore. What could he possibly mean?

“Too late,” Minh sneered. “I was here first, Outcast.”

Antoine shook his head, his exotic accent flowing smoothly. “She’s already marked. See for yourself.”

Cally’s eyes flicked between them—because those, at least, she could still control. Claimed? Marked? They were talking about her. There was no doubt.

The ground beneath her seemed to tilt, as if the world itself was shifting, pulling her into something she couldn’t escape. The air thickened, pressing in on her, like she was suffocating, drowning in it. Every nerve seemed to move, to run, but she couldn’t.

Minh looked past Antoine, settling on her, cold and unfeeling.

She tried again, pushing against the invisible weight, desperate to distance herself from him.

He was responsible for this. Somehow, with only his words, he’d trapped her.

Panic roared through her, frantic and useless, but her body wasn’t hers.

The man sniffed the air, his face contorting in distaste. “You mark your food, Antoine? You really are a relic.” He strode toward her. “But no matter. Marks are so twentieth century. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“I said she’s marked. Do you not know the Code?”

In a blink, the man in the long leather coat was between her and Minh. He moved so fast she wouldn’t have believed it, if she hadn’t been staring, physically unable to look away. He moved as fast as Minh.

The bite. The fangs. The red eyes. Their inhuman speed.

Cally was in no doubt anymore: Minh was a demon. His mesmerizing voice, the way he compelled her, the flashback to his bite on her neck—she knew what he was, although she could scarcely believe it. A vampire. A demon.

Cally couldn’t breathe. All her nightmares were real. And like in the worst of them, she couldn’t escape.

But if Minh was a demon, what the hell was Antoine? A savior? A fleeting hope? Or another horror given form.

The demon sneered. “What would an outcast like you know of the Code?”

“More than you, evidently.”

It happened so unbelievably swiftly that, if it hadn’t been for her well-trained combat eye, Cally wouldn’t have been able to follow it. Even then, she missed most of it.

The demon lunged, his hand outstretched, but Cally could tell he wasn’t trained in combat, relying solely on his speed.

The outcast had no such disadvantage, and, if anything, was even faster.

With almost casual grace, he twisted away from the demon’s reach.

Then, moving so quickly Cally could barely follow, he completed the turn and positioned himself behind the demon.

Gripping Minh’s chin, he yanked his head back, and, with brutal precision, sank his fangs into his neck.

Minh struggled, trying to break free, but for several long seconds, his blood fed the outcast. Then he staggered away, one hand raised to the wound on his neck. Antoine had let him go.

“You… you bit me!” Minh gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You fed from me!”

Antoine straightened, the leather coat tight across his shoulders. Cally stared in horrified fascination as he licked the blood off his fangs. Where before she could’ve sworn his eyes were pale blue, now they were a vivid red.

Fuck, they’re both vampires!

“You attacked me,” Antoine said coldly. “It is my right to defend myself.”

“I did no such thing! I was merely trying to reach the chattel!” The demon pressed his palm to his neck, a trickle of crimson staining the crisp white of his shirt collar. “You claim to know the Code. What’s the punishment for feeding from your own kin?”

To Cally’s bewilderment, Antoine chuckled, a sardonic sound, as though he shared a joke no one else would understand.

“In my experience, it varies,” he said, his tone dry.

“But you attacked me, Minh. You’re here unannounced and uninvited.

Now, why don’t you take what thralls you have left and leave my territory before this escalates further? ”

“This is not over, Outcast,” Minh growled, his animosity so palpable that Cally knew, if it were aimed at her, she’d be dead before she could react.

“It is for tonight, Minh,” Antoine replied wearily. “Get out of my territory. The next time you enter without my permission, know that I will retaliate in force.”

Minh scoffed. “What ‘force’? You and that aging butler?”

“I haven’t forgotten how to make thralls. If you want a war, then so be it. But know it will draw the attention of the Curia.” Antoine raised an eyebrow. “Is that your goal?”

He turned his back on the demon with casual disdain, then, to Cally’s surprise, he walked over to stand beside her.

Minh’s attention lingered on her, sharp and unsettling. Her throat tightened, panic swelling again. He sneered and looked at Antoine.

“I will not forget how you broke the Code this night.”

“Neither will I, Minh,” the outcast replied wearily.

“You killed some of my thralls,” Minh said, not sounding like he really cared.

“They were in my territory.”

“So they were. But thralls are just thralls, aren’t they? The Curia won’t care if one more dies.”

Between one breath and the next, Minh was gone. One moment, he stood there, his hand pressed to his neck, blood staining his expensive suit, and the next—nothing. How could he vanish so completely?

The return of her autonomy hit like a cold splash of water, leaving her disoriented and unsteady. She gasped a breath, her body jerking, her mind slow to regain control. Minh paralyzed her, and only with his absence had it faded—if any proof was needed. How could she fight something like that?

She stumbled, her limbs still sluggish.

The outcast caught her, his arm looping around her waist in a blur of movement. It was just enough to support her, no more, but she was pressed against him.

“Steady,” he said.

She’d already collected herself; she didn’t need his help. Her resolve had returned, and with it, her anger. With a sharp jerk, she tore away. “Get off me!”

He released her immediately, offering no resistance—and she’d expected it. She staggered again, almost falling. This time, he didn’t reach for her but just watched, lips curling at the edges.

She glared at him, at his tousled dark hair, the sharp angles of his jaw, the gleam of amusement in his now-blue-again eyes. Broad shoulders, a well-defined chest, his T-shirt doing nothing to hide the lean strength beneath. Firm, solid, surprisingly warm in that brief touch.

Standing there, exuding charisma like he had no right to do.

The corners of his mouth curled further as he took in her indignation.

Was he laughing at her?

“Who the hell are you, Antoine ?” she blurted.

Her brow furrowed as soon as the words left her mouth. That wasn’t what she’d meant to say. She’d been going for ‘fuck off and never come near me again.’

Hadn’t she?

He ignored her question. “Is there somewhere you can go?”

Cally looked past him, back toward the dojang—less than a hundred yards away, closer than home.

He noticed, and nodded his approval. “Anywhere is better than here, don’t you agree?” His accent slid over her like silk, caressing her skin.

What? ‘Like silk?’ Wake up, Cally!

She glared at him again. Only her anger kept her focused, and she clung to it like a lifeline.

Her demons were real, her nightmares tangible, and one of them stood before her, apparently amused by her existence.

And the other one? He’d simply vanished.

“Where… how… did he go?” That made sense, right?

“A good question,” the outcast replied, thoughtful. He barely moved, but abruptly he was holding her hand in his, his grip tender, his skin warm. “ Ma chérie , I regret I must take my leave of you.” He bent over her hand, brushing it with his lips. “I have a friend I must check on.”

Then he turned away, and as Cally looked on in bewilderment, he vanished into the night. One moment he was standing beside her, kissing her hand with French gallantry of old, the next she was alone. He even managed the accent and didn’t leave slobber on her skin.

One vampire wanted to kill her. The other wanted to… what, exactly?

She stared at her hand, the faint sensation of his lips lingering on her skin.

“She’s already marked. See for yourself,” he’d said.

“ You mark your food? ” the other had replied, and Cally could easily recall his tone of derision.

She was marked. Nothing more than food. Like a sandwich in an office fridge: don’t eat this, it’s mine.

What the hell did that mean? She’d seen nothing on her, no tattoos or mystical vampiric symbols etched over her heart. Thank God.

“I’ve claimed this one, Minh.”

Was that what it meant?

Wait. Did that mean it hadn’t been the demon who had drugged her in the alleyway? Had it been the other? The outcast?

Motherfucking son of a bitch.

Even if he had, apparently, saved her. Then kissed her hand.

With the compulsion she’d felt, he wouldn’t have needed drugs. He could have done whatever he wanted, and she would have been powerless to stop him, like she’d been powerless to stop the demon.

All her spirit, all her defiance, all her skills… useless against either of them.

Cally felt her world tilt. Just like that, she had not one but two demons in her life: one bent on harming her, while the other thought nothing of mind-raping her and drinking her blood. She was trapped between them.

And surrounded by the corpses they’d left behind.

She doubled over, emptying her stomach onto the ground.

Then she wiped her mouth and fumbled for her phone.

She wanted to run, to leave the bodies where they lay, but she knew what would happen. They’d be found quickly, and it would be clear they’d been killed by a martial artist. That would lead the police straight to the dojang.

No, there was no escape. They’d find her, and if they didn’t, they’d arrest Joon. She’d left him there alone, no alibi.

She couldn’t let it happen.

Cally pressed three digits, and her fingers didn’t tremble despite the anxiety gnawing at her recently emptied gut.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“I’ve been attacked by three men. I need an ambulance… and the police.”

She wanted to go back to the dojang—and Joon. But that would involve him. So instead, she sat on the hood of the car while she answered questions: her name and contact number, her location, details of the incident.

“Three men attacked me, and I defended myself. Yes. Well, I practice taekwondo. Yes. No, they are, uh, dead.” They are all dead. I am going to prison for a long time. She wanted to add, ‘I didn’t kill them,’ but it was futile.

“Stay on the line.”

The dispatcher sounded a lot less friendly. Apparently, when you use deadly force to defend yourself, you’re no longer the victim. Her empty stomach clenched again, and she swallowed hard. If she’d had anything left, she’d be throwing it up.

Could she even claim self-defense when it looked like she’d snapped their necks after they were unconscious?

Why would anyone believe her?