Page 75 of Rejected Exile

"Well, well." There's a littletskingsound from Demetri. "We have another rabid mutt to dispose of. This one seems to think he has a fighting chance. Shall we show him his true odds?"

There's a cacophony of hissing.

An echo of dark laughter.

One by one, the vampires reach out their long limbs, hold out their lighted torches, and ignite each other's flames.

Until I see the spark of a dozen tiny fires in the darkness, each of them illuminating two or three vampires.

Some of whom, my swiveling ears tell me, have already paced behind us to flank Delilah at her exposed back.

Demetri looks at me. I feel a surge of adrenaline, and I snarl at him, digging my claws into the ground. My muscles ripple as I prepare to throw myself at him—all two hundred pounds of muscle and fur.

Instead of facing me, he steps back into his coven, and is swallowed by their dark forms.

In a bored tone he orders, "Kill him."

Twenty-Six

Delilah

They havetorches.Actual, burning, fire torches, instead of flashlights or cell phones or anything else created in the past few centuries.

Maybe because they're as old as the concept of a flashlight.

Or older.

A mad laugh bubbles up in my throat, but I squelch it. As the tense, dark brown-black shaggy wolf at my feet informs me, I am currently in deep, deep shit.

I don't know what the European-accented man with the fancy white collar and black velvet coat smelled when hesniffed the fucking airin front of me. Whatever it is, he's willing to call dozens of his fellow bloodsuckers to the scene with his weird Borg-like mind-meld. Clearly they really want a taste of this B positive.

Even Kieran, in his venom-addled state, could sense that. My eyes keep straying to his huddled grey form, but he hasn't gotten up since the fancy-looking vamp smashed him against a tree. The only comfort is the surge of his ribcage as he takes a breath, and the pitiful whine that leaves his lips.

Roarke snarls at my feet. My eyes dart back to him, then up to Mr. Fancy-Vamp. Surely, my terrified mind tells me, he can'treallybe planning on starting a full-out turf war over a single drop of my blood. That must be in my imagination.

After all, the vampires haven't broken their unsteady truce so far. To do so would be suicide—one wolf can tear out multiple vamp throats without breaking a sweat. Not to mention their whole allergic-to-daylight thing. So he must just be bluffing.

That's what I'm hoping.

Up to the moment he melts back into his crowd of hissing ashen-faced brethren and dramatically declares, "Kill him."

There's a cacophony of hissing and rumbling among the vampires. Those in the back of the crowd dart forward like blurs. Those in the front tense and jostle among each other.

Roarke lashes his tail and snarls.

I back up and glance over my shoulder—at another wave of vampires gathered behind me. Torchlight glows in the distance. I count three or four bobbing lights.

Until, a moment later, they're all snuffed out.

And the darkness is that much more terrifying now that I know they've onlyletus see them. Because, of course, they don't even need the thin sliver of moonlight and starlight overhead to see by. All I can spot of them now is their glowing eyes.

Roarke's back legs skate on the ground as he prepares to pounce. I press up against him, needing the steadiness of his body against my calves. My hand dips down to graze against his fur.

There's a shift in the coven as one of the vampires rushes forward to strike.

Roarke makes his move. Whirling and twisting, he snaps his jaws up and tears the vampire's arm from his shoulder. Then another strikes, this time from the left—and he rakes his claws across him. Spittle and blood fly. Hisses and snarls echo.

My heart feels like a lump in my throat.

---