Page 2 of Blood and Hexes

She grabbed her jacket and got out of the club, bursting into the misty, darkening gray London air.

She’d picked the well-presented Leicester Square establishment at random, simply because it was close to the meeting place Juniper had selected.

Diana had met Juniper Marshalls some two hundred years ago, in South America. They weren’t close friends, but when they were in the same city, they tried to meet for a drink and catch up. Diana liked the other vampire; she was fun to be around, and didn’t take life too seriously.

She liked the rest of Juniper’s coven far less, however. Juniper had been turned by a sire who liked to keep all his children around him, in a way Diana had found too controlling for her liking. Juniper didn’t seem to chafe under his leash, and they weren’t close enough for Diana to have broached the subject, although she made no secret of her dislike for the man.

Arlo Shaws was a smooth-talking, sophisticated vampire who had never been anything but charming. To her. Because he was too smart to antagonize a Helsing twice his age. During their few interactions, he’d made her skin crawl, treating his subordinates like they were solider ants whose sole purpose in life was to serve him.

Diana knew Juniper slept with him. If she wasn’t mistaken, he also had sex with Willow and Kenya, the two other females he’d sired. It wasn’t unheard of for a sire and their fledgling to have a relationship. Hell, it wasn’t even unusual. Typically, vampires turned people they cared about—their friends or lovers. But with Arlo, it seemed like he’d chosen a harem, rather than companions. The five males he’d turned were all strong enough to be adequate guards, but not so dominant as to pose a threat to his rule.

The entire thing stank. Diana had hesitated to reach out to Juniper at all, but her flight was at ten in the morning the next day, and she’d known it would be impossible for her to sleep the night before her return to Oldcrest.

There were other people she could have contacted, but she enjoyed Juniper’s company. She’d decided not to let Arlo win this round.

Diana looked down at her watch. Ten. She had half an hour to kill. Instead of finding refuge in another bar—she didn’t think she could deal with another sleazebag tonight—she made her way to the meeting point, a few streets down, near Piccadilly Circus. Tourists flocked to the central Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, taking selfies with its well-known statue of Anteros at any hour of the day. Instead, she’d picked the less-appreciated Horses of Helios—a bronze sculpture of four wild galloping horses. She’d never seen them in person before. They’d been commissioned about two hundred years ago, in the twentieth century of the last era. The pictures had intrigued her, and in person, the sculpture didn’t disappoint. It was even more evocative. The horses looked like they might suddenly burst out of the water and gallop through the evening sky, if their master would only call them.

Diana hopped on the fountain, just as it started to rain. She pulled out her phone and angled it for a selfie, but she couldn’t catch all four horses in the shot. She liked pictures, mementos, and memories, good and bad—but that didn’t mean she was a good photographer. Dejected over her lack of skills, she pouted and stuffed the phone back inside her green leather jacket, then lifted her head to look at the sky.

The rain didn’t bother her, but she’d dressed appropriately to fit in with the rest of the Londoners and tourists. Well, as appropriately as she could. She wore boots, skinny jeans, leather. She drew the line at carrying an umbrella.

Diana generally wore boots if she could get away with it. The ones she had on today were made of a patchwork of leather—green, red, orange, purple, each embossed with different motifs. One of her favorite pairs. These babies, and her jacket's long tassels with wood beads dangling at the uneven edges, made it impossible for her to truly blend in anywhere. So what if she found this century’s idea of fashion boring? She liked colors, shiny things, and pretty patterns. But while people stared, they only saw a brunette boho chick who looked like she owned a crystal sphere or two. Which was accurate. They didn’t guess that she also happened to be the second-oldest Helsing alive. One of the few born vampires who had—and could again—rule the world if they felt like it.

Not that Diana had done much ruling during the Age of Blood. She’d stuck to a territory she’d temporarily claimed up in Canada, and protected its inhabitants against any threat that dared show up on her doorstep. Other than that, she’d left the humans and sups under her thumb to their own devices. Which was one of the reasons why British Columbia was still a haven for sups. The humans around those parts were less wary than those who’d truly known the horrors of a war against her kind.

“Look who we have here.”

Diana groaned, recognizing the voice. Surely, the human couldn’t have been dumb enough to follow her? A whiff of his dull, common scent confirmed her bewildering suspicion. He truly was mentally deficient.

He’d come flanked by two other regular humans—his protection detail, she guessed, from their crisp dark suits, posture, and bulk. The idiot’s smug grin implied he believed he had the upper hand here.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault. He was too young to have lived through the Age of Blood, back when her kind had shown the regulars just how much stronger they were. Since then, they’d done whatever they could to remain in the shadows, away from humans. Besides, Diana prided herself on appearing sweet and cute. She liked to be underestimated.

“Tell me, boy. How many girls have you stalked after they rejected you? How many have you hurt?” Her voice was deceptively calm.

The human’s eyes twinkled with something akin to pride. Excitement. He loved this. He anticipated hurting her, and he relished it.

“And you.” She tilted her head to his two muscleheads. “You helped him every time, didn’t you? You can’t tell me assault is in your job description. You like this.”

The first musclehead, a pale, bald, tattooed man in his forties, leered at her. The second snorted. “Like you’re better than any of us, bloodsucker.”

She had been better, for years and years. She’d traveled the world, played music, danced in the rain, learned to dye silk and cook pelmeni. She’d socialized with both regular and sups on a superficial level, staying away from trouble. Away from anything that might trigger the predator inside her. Diana liked to live a hedonistic, pacifistic existence…most of the time. She didn’t attack without provocation, and she never did anything against innocents. But when presented with the opportunity to blow off some steam against someone who deserved it, she was something else entirely. She let the child her family had raised out of her inner cage and became a true Helsing for a moment or two.

“I’m going to enjoy this.” She smiled wickedly at them. “You aren’t.”

Diana launched herself at the trio, sliding low to administer a nasty punch to the bald one’s flank, then a high kick to the second guard’s neck. She lifted her other leg to the other side of his head and twisted her ankles—just hard enough to strangle him. She could have broken his neck, but it would have been over too fast, and now that the monster was unleashed, it wanted to play.

Stepping on his face, she stood tall on top of him, then jumped on the skinhead’s back. Her legs closed around his neck and she ducked, to roll on the ground, taking him with her—one of her favorite signature moves. She landed in an elegant feline crouch. The bodyguard fell face-first, breaking his nose on the hard pavement. Chuckling, she returned her attention to the second guard. He drew his fist back to punch her. She moved, swift as a shadow, and tapped his shoulder. “Over here.”

He blinked, confused as to why she wasn’t standing in front of him anymore.

Diana’s mouth closed on his neck and, unsheathing her fangs, she bit deep, hard, cutting into his artery, and then ripping his flesh.

Feeding could be a painless affair, if the vampire wanted it to be. It could even be sensual, under the right circumstances.

Or it could be the thing of nightmares. An excruciating wound, followed by horror as the prey froze, helpless, feeling their blood being sucked, drained.

She picked option two.

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