Page 1 of The Guardian's Curse

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The curvy brunette smelled of sweet cocktails and a heavy perfume that didn’t blend well with the sweat of dancing all night in an under-ventilated nightclub. Black stilettos conspired with too many Cosmopolitans to keep her off balance as she stumbled across the darkened parking lot on wobbly fawn legs. Her pulse thrummed beneath her skin, singing that wickedly sweet siren song.

Alistair Thorne ran his tongue across his teeth, savoring the sweet ache as his needle-sharp fangs descended. Beneath the shadows of the alleyway, he might as well have been on another planet from drunk, vulnerable Stacey, who’d been popping in and out of the Alley Cat bar all night to talk to a string of girlfriends. Based on her progressively less coherent conversations, she was partying to forget a regrettable sexual escapade with a Grade-A douchebag.

Her words, of course.

Now she wandered across the parking lot, with stray receipts fluttering out of her oversized purse.

A good predator was patient, waiting to strike when his prey was most vulnerable. He waited for her to stray from the safety of the pack, out in the open with nowhere to hide.

At the end of the alley, a wiry human was pressed to the graffiti-covered brick, like a lion hiding beneath the tall grasses of the savanna. No. More like a vulture. A scavenger who was too cowardly for a real hunt.

Stinking of sweat and stale beer, he shifted nervously on his feet. The tail of his black shirt was tucked into his paint-stained jeans, barely concealing the gun in his waistband. A stained ballcap covered his greasy short hair and cast his face in shadow. Harder to identify, of course. He could have been any one in a lineup of the usual dirtbags. The thumping of his heart was a noisy drumbeat to Alistair’s sensitive hearing.

Gravel scuffed under Stacey’s shoe as she walked past the alley. In the hazy floodlights, her shadow danced across the narrow alleyway. Another choking wave of her too-sweet perfume drifted toward him. Now her back was to both of them, to Alistair and the man who’d been watching sweet Stacey for the last two hours.

Her backless dress revealed the faint outlines of her summer tan. And with her wavy hair piled in a messy bun atop her head, her slender neck was exposed. The wiry man inched forward, his right hand creeping back to his gun.

Before he could emerge from the alley, Alistair pounced. Brick blurred around him. With the smell of blood in the air and fury igniting his nerves, he cleared the length of muddy ground in half a second. The burst of energy awakened the primal killer in him.

Dark-gloved hands yanked the skinny man back into the shadows. As they folded into the darkness, the man jerked in surprise. Alistair clapped one hand over his prey’s mouth before he could cry out and alert Stacey. Muffled screams vibrated against Alistair’s firm grasp.

Keeping the man’s mouth covered, he leaned in close. His lips brushed the human’s ear and caught the taste of dirt and salt. He preferred a much cleaner meal, but this would have to do.

“Watch her go,” Alistair whispered. “You’ve been watching her all night, haven’t you?”

“Mmm,” the man protested, wriggling in vain against his steel grip.

Alistair tightened his hold. There was a clipped whimper. Was that a crack? Maybe a rib or two. Possibly his sternum. Oops.

“Don’t lie,” Alistair said. Across the parking lot, Stacey had finally located her keys and was climbing into her car. She sang some pop song, a little off-key and made of more da da da than words. “She came alone, drank a few too many cocktails. And you were watching her. Were you going to rob her? Rape her?”

The man let out another sound of protest. He’d seen the scumbag patting his crotch, tongue darting over his lip in anticipation. Even now, he could smell the change in his body chemistry, the distinct smell of a man who wanted to fuck.

The engine of the white Jeep stuttered, then fell silent. In Stacey’s car, there was a whining sound of despair, then a muffled god dammit. Alistair was no mechanic, but thirty seconds on Google yielded enough knowledge to disconnect a few wires so Stacey didn’t go swerving down the interstate and kill herself or some other innocent bystander.

Go inside, he thought.

After another failed attempt to start the car, Stacey headed for the bar again. Her stylish black stilettos had been abandoned in favor of ratty white sneakers. Wise choice. As she strolled past, she was on the phone again. “Joanie? Yeah, I know it’s super late, but I need a huge favor. Do you think you could pick me up?”

After seeing her return to the relative safety of the dive bar, Alistair hauled his struggling prey back to the fenced-in Dumpster. The smell was nearly overpowering to his sensitive nose, but it was hidden and dark. All the better to finish what he started, and efficient cleanup to boot.

The man strained against Alistair’s grasp, but he was weak as a baby compared to nearly three centuries of supernatural strength. Fully cloaked in shadow, Alistair yanked the man’s head to the side. The blue line of a fat vein was tantalizing, just beneath the tiniest layer of skin. The smell of that fresh, hot blood overpowered his revulsion at the stench of unwashed human.

“And now, a treat,” he growled. The man whimpered, then let out a muffled squeal as Alistair bit. There was the faintest hint of resistance as needle-sharp teeth pierced through skin and sinew.

Blood rushed over his tongue, warm and rich and full of life. His senses ignited. The metallic bite mixed with a boozy burn, sliding down his throat. The roaring hunger in him, almost a living creature in itself, purred with delight as he drank deep.

The would-be rapist gave another weak twitch, then relaxed against Alistair. If it was his choice, he wouldn’t have made it so pleasant. The man didn’t deserve the euphoria tingling through him from Alistair’s fangs. He deserved to be consumed in terror as his life was drained away, realizing he would never again hunt innocent prey.

A hand fisted into his collar and swung him around violently. Before he even saw his attacker, Alistair released one hand, tightening it into a blade to drive up into his opponent’s belly. He whirled to see a familiar silhouette standing next to the rusted brown Dumpster, the faint silver of moonlight playing off his perfectly coiffed chestnut hair.

Surprise and anger twisted through him at the sight of his old friend. Drunk on fresh, hot blood, he hadn’t even heard Paris coming. Idiot. He’d be hearing about it for decades.

“Eating on the run is so déclassé,” Paris said wryly. God, he could be so smug and infuriating. “What happened to sitting to savor a meal?”

He bared his teeth, knowing how monstrous his blood-caked smile was. “I’m the paragon of etiquette normally.”

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