Page 3 of Shadow Hunter

Damon leaned against the nearest wall, resting his head on his forearm. “And the other news?”

A moment of silence passed on the other end of the line before Chris cleared his throat. “There’s...been a new development in Mark’s case.”

Damon snapped upright, his whole-body rigid. “What do you mean ‘a new development’?”

Mark was dead. His body burned in the fire post-raid, and Caius was the vampire to blame. Damon had witnessed the death himself. His jaw clenched. The last memory he’d ever have of his friend’s face was of Mark lying on the ground, bled out and lifeless, before the building had gone down in the flames.

Before Damon had failed to save him.

“I’m so sorry, Damon.” Chris’s voice held a hint of defeat as he spoke from the other end of the line.

No. No.Nothing could make Mark’s loss any more terrible than it was.

The wind rushed from Damon’s lungs and bile rose in the back of his throat as he realized what Chris was saying.

“Another hunter spotted him in the City a few days ago. The information just made it into the system. I’m sorry, Damon. He’s not dead. He turned.”

The phone fell from Damon’s hand, his heart pounding in his ears as red clouded his vision. A sharp pain flamed through his chest as if someone had driven a blade into his heart.

Mark had turned. He wasn’t dead...

A furious roar ripped from Damon’s throat as he gave in and punched his fist into the wall. A large chunk of plaster crumbled to the floor, but no one heard over the loud thumping of the music.

Mark wasn’t dead. He worse than dead. He was a bloodsucking leech, and the fault fell on Damon’s shoulders. Memories of him and his best friend, his comrade, flashed through his mind. Images and words he couldn’t take back.

“There’s nothing worse than becoming a vamp.” Mark sharpened the end of his silver blade as he sat next to Damon.

The training room smelled of male sweat, blood and heavy artillery. After a full day out on the practice field, all the muscles in Damon’s body ached.

He nodded. “Nothing worse.”

“At the very least, I’m glad my family didn’t turn. In that respect, I’m glad they’re dead.” Mark glanced down at the blade in his hand. “Promise me that if that ever happens to me, you’ll stake me in the chest.”

Damon scoffed. “That’ll never happen, man. That’s what we’re training for.”

Mark thumped him hard on the back. “I mean it though, D. Promise me.”

Damon let out a long huff, before he clapped Mark on the back in return. “I promise.”

Those words echoed through Damon’s head once more.

I promise.

Damon threw another punch at the wall, then started pounding the plaster with his fists, praying the images in his head would disappear. Mark’s body lying on the pavement with puncture wounds in his neck. The blood. Oh, God, the blood and the stillness of his body as he lay across the concrete. Dust clouded the air, and Damon’s knuckles bled as he released every ounce of rage coursing through his bones.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, how many minutes passed or how many punishing blows his fists delivered as something inside him broke.

But he couldn’t allow his emotions to cloud his judgement. Not again. Not when that’s what landed him here in the first place. He still had an oath to keep.

The one and only promise he’d made Mark.

Chest heaving from exertion, slowly he stepped away from the wall, his vision refocusing. In the background, he was vaguely aware of the sound of Chris’s concerned voice coming from the other end of the line, but he was too numb to address it.

The one and only promise.

He would do this. He had to.

No matter how much it would destroy him.

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