Page 9 of Blood and Hexes

Soon enough, she was the only one left standing.

Diana hesitated before walking to the dark, tattooed man on the floor. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, and didn’t seem able to move.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to answer, but the only thing to come out of his mouth was a long grunt.

She sighed, towering over the pretty, tanned pile of muscles that strongly stank of bloodbane.

This was definitely not how she’d pictured her first night back. She’d planned on a quick pit stop here for a glass of spiced blood before hitting the road again. Now what? If she left the man here, when the boys she hadn’t killed woke up, they’d dispose of him. They’d been about to when she’d walked in. She could always take him a few miles away and drop him in a ditch somewhere.

She tilted her head, kneeling at his side. Then, on impulse, she lifted him up, carried him out, and loaded him on her bike. Bloodbane was nasty; the man would be out of it for the next day at least. She could take him north with her. Someone on Night Hill was bound to know who he was, right? There couldn’t be that many vampires up in Scotland. At least he’d be safe for a night.

She returned to the pub, wincing as she took in the broken tables, shards of glass, and pools of blood on the floor. Hopefully they had insurance.

Diana hopped on the bar, and elegantly swung her legs over. She jumped down, and made a beeline to the fridge. She grinned when she spotted her favorite drink. Bingo.

Vampires went on and on about how bottled blood didn't compare to the real stuff, but as far as she was concerned, just because it wasn't the best didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy it. Sure, she preferred champagne to beer, but if she drank Moët and Chandon every day, she wouldn't appreciate it. Olla—cheap O-positive mixed with tequila—was her everyday snack. Besides, it didn’t come with as many drawbacks as true human blood. Suffering from bloodlust on a constant basis wasn’t her idea of fun.

She grabbed four bottles and left a twenty on the counter, before returning to the Ducati—and the stranger perched on it.

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