Page 42 of Vampire so Virtuous

“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 thosefangs?

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—”

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’dtrapped 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 aresotwentieth century. I won’t tell if you don’t.”