Page 1 of Her Dark Salvation

ChapterOne

Marco

Boston, Massachusetts, December 1965

The whine of an approaching streetcar tore through the quiet twilight and consumed all other sound. Even the heavy breathing and soft moans of the woman whose warm blood coated my tongue.

From the shadowed alcove between buildings, I lifted my gaze. The vehicle lumbered toward us, swaying on its tracks under the erratic glow of a single flickering streetlamp.

Tony’d be on that train. Right on time for dinner with my family. And for me to drop the bomb that had been ticking away in my head for weeks.

Renee shifted, pressing herself close. I tugged on her hair to expose more of her neck and took a sinfully deep drink. Steam rose from where my fangs sank into her flesh. She groaned and dug her fingers into my forearm, her body pliant and given over to sensation.

The rattle and shriek of the streetcar persisted, demanding an answer. I drew in a final mouthful of blood. The force of my pull injected more of my venom into her veins, enough to push her over the edge, and she shook through a feeding-induced release.

I freed her from my bite. Two drops of blood trailed down the pale length of her neck from holes that stared back at me like my own red eyes. I licked the wounds to staunch the bleeding, and she shivered through an aftershock.

I eased her out of my arms until she stood under her own weight. She leaned against the side of the building, and her head fell back to rest on the brick.

Eyes dilated and cheeks flushed, her lips pulled up at the corners. “Marco,” she said with a breathy sigh. “That was…”

Filling? Energizing?

The streetcar screeched to a stop. Perfect timing. I licked my lips and stepped out of the alcove, satisfied, but not in the same way as Renee.

She was a nice enough girl even if too attached to feeding. Not that I was complaining. I’d used her before. So had others. No shame in sharing willing Sources. But I didn’t want any complications, and Renee would’ve liked nothing better than to engage in complications.

I grabbed her hand, turned it over, and placed four dollars in her palm. “Get yourself home, Renee.”

She closed her fingers around the cash and shoved it in her pocket. “Why don’t you come with me?” Husky need laced her invitation, and she pushed off the wall, stepping toward me with hooded eyes. A provocative smile danced on her lips, and she trailed a gloved fingertip down the buttons of my waistcoat and hooked it around the inside of my belt buckle.

I jerked her hand away from my body. She winced but needed the reminder; my answer to her come-ons would never change.

Seduction transformed into amusement, and the pouty shape of her lips arched into a sly grin. “You’ll ring me next time?”

“Your blood’s as good as anyone’s,” I muttered and released her wrist.

She straightened her scarf, smoothed the loose strands of hair peeking out from beneath her hat, and stepped onto the platform. The sway of her hips turned heads, drawing both leers and reproach.

I swiped a hand down my face; I needed to find a new Source.

Renee’d grown tiresome. She wanted more than my teeth in her neck. She wanted my cock in her cunt, but that was never going to happen. I didn’t fuck where I fed, and Renee was a pleasure junkie who wanted sex as badly as she wanted a feeding. No doubt at the same time if she could manage it. Wouldn’t be hard. There were plenty of blood demons who fed for more than necessity, even more who didn’t have my hang-ups about feeding and sex.

Passengers disembarked and walked with fast-paced determination away from the train, weaving paths between those clambering to get on. They shoved their hands into their pockets and turned their collars up against the early December wind. Tony’s imposing frame stepped off the last car, and his long legs quickly carried him across the platform. He adjusted the brim of his fedora, pulling it low to mask his eyes. I did the same, and when he reached the alcove where I waited, I fell in step alongside him.

We crossed the tracks and headed north toward the Italian end of the city, our turf and our safety. We walked in silence until the cars, pedestrians, and noise of the Haymarket drowned out our conversation.

“I want out,” I said.

He eyed me sideways, and his surprise and concern drilled into my skull. I’d expected backlash—loud words announcing my stupidity followed by a string of Italian profanities. Instead, the soles of our leather Oxfords clapped the pavement, the sound deafening against the strained silence.

“Not easy,” he said. “Not impossible. But not easy.”

The dangerous urge to trust his reaction thrashed against my skepticism and the cold reality of my life. Antonio Moretti was my best friend, my brother-in-arms if not in blood, and I trusted him, but not as much as I trusted his loyalty to Cosa Nostra.

“Remember when we were kids?” he asked. “And the Gallo twins jumped me outside Salvatore’s?”

I grunted. How could I forget?

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