I was unarmed.
Under normal circumstances that would have been a problem. Under demon-in-a-fluorescent-hallway circumstances, it was practically a death sentence. The only thing I had going for me was the vision—those stolen seconds of foreknowledge that showed me where I would be standing and what would be within reach.
My right hand dropped without hesitation onto the empty crate I knew would be there. The wood was rough beneath my palm, light enough to lift in one motion. I swung it in a tight arc just as the man-shaped demon turned toward me. I missed his torso by inches, but the crate connected solidly with his knife hand. The blade clanged across the concrete floor, spinning away into the shadows.
Hellbourne didn't waste time.
The demon's leg whipped around in a roundhouse kick so fast it blurred, aimed straight at my head. The body he wore looked slim, almost fragile, but the strength behind that kick was monstrous. If it landed clean, my neck would snap like a dry twig. Fore-Sight nudged my reflexes half a second ahead of reality, just enough for me to get my arms up. The impact slammed into my guard and drove me backward into the cinderblock wall hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Before I could push off and counter, he was gone, already sprinting down the corridor. The crash bar on the far door thundered open and then slammed shut. Silence followed, broken only by the ringing in my ears.
I took one step to pursue, then remembered the girl.
She was still pinned to the wall, thrashing like a trapped animal. Every violent jerk tore the wounds wider, silver bolts grinding against bone and masonry. Blood ran down the front of her white dress in dark, spreading rivers. The way she fought wasn't human panic—it was feral, desperate, almost instinctual, like survival had consumed everything else.
"Hey, easy. Easy!" I said, moving toward her with both hands raised. "You've got to hold still. I can't get them out if you keep moving."
Her struggles slowed, not stopping so much as shifting into tight, trembling motions. Those electric blue eyes locked onto mine, bright with pain and something older than fear. I reached up and grabbed the bolt in her left shoulder, bracing my foot against the wall for leverage. One hard yank and it came free with a wet sound I tried not to think about. The second bolt was deeper, embedded into the cinderblock. It took two pulls, then three. She hissed through clenched teeth but didn't lash out.
When the metal finally slid free, she went utterly still.
For a heartbeat I was sure she was dying. Blood poured down her chest in crimson sheets, soaking the fabric, dripping onto the concrete. I reached out to steady her, and she blurred.
Pain detonated in my left arm like a sledgehammer blow. Her mouth clamped around my wrist with crushing force. For a second my brain refused to process what was happening. Then sensation caught up with reality. She wasn't just biting me.
She was drinking.
I tried to pull away and couldn't move her even an inch. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds, but it felt like my arm was locked in a hydraulic press. I could feel my pulse in her mouth, feel the blood leaving me in hot surges. The dizziness came fast, creeping up the back of my skull.
Her wounds were closing.
Cuts sealed themselves in seconds, torn flesh knitting together like time running in reverse. All except one—the hole above her heart. When I leaned closer, fighting the swim of my vision, I saw the glint of silver lodged deep inside.
Some detached corner of my mind began listing facts like a bored clerk taking inventory.
I was in a vampire-themed nightclub.
A demon had tried to murder the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
That woman was now draining my blood through my wrist.
She had a hole in her chest and her heart wasn't beating.
By all logic, I should have taken the remaining bolt and driven it straight through that still heart. End the threat. Walk away alive.
But logic didn't move my hand.
Maybe it was because the Hellbourne had wanted her dead, and ruining their plans was almost always the right call. Maybe it was the raw, stubborn will to live I saw burning in her eyes. I'd always respected survivors. Or maybe it was the absurd, half-delirious thought that dying this way would make for one hell of a precinct story.
"You hear about Gordon?"
"Nah, what happened?"
"Drained dry by a supermodel."
"…Huh. Always thought he was gay."*
Even on the edge of passing out, my brain had a dark sense of humor.
I dropped the bolt I was holding and reached two fingers into the wound in her chest. Blood slicked everything, making it nearly impossible to grip the fragment of silver buried near her heart. My vision tunneled, the edges going gray, but I found it. My fingertip brushed something cold and impossibly still.
Her heart.
A jolt snapped between us like static lightning. Her chest convulsed and the heart thudded once—hard enough that I felt it through my fingers. Her eyes flew open as I pulled the shard free. It rang against the floor when it slipped from my numb hand.
The wound closed instantly.
The world tilted. Two brilliant blue circles filled my vision, swirling like twin galaxies. Then the pressure on my wrist eased. She lifted her head slowly, watching me with a focus that felt almost clinical. When my knees buckled, her arm slid around my waist and held me upright without the slightest strain. Her strength was deceptive—her grip felt like steel wrapped in velvet.
She studied me for a long second, head tilted as if listening to a distant voice. Then she lowered her face to my wrist again. Panic flickered, but instead of biting, she licked the wound gently, almost delicately. The sensation was oddly warm. When she pulled back, only two small pink marks remained, already fading.
Through the metallic scent of blood, I caught the faint fragrance of her skin—jasmine and lilac, soft and impossibly out of place in the sterile corridor.
I staggered back against a stack of crates, breathing hard, the room still spinning. She stood a few feet away now, silent, eyes fixed on me with an unreadable expression.