Eric Northman, vampire Sheriff of Area 5 is ordered by the Queen of Louisiana to investigate accusations about a Coven of Necromancers in his area. Witches who control the dead are very dangerous to vampires. He soon discovers his long-lost love is...
When Sam called the next night, I practically exploded out of my coffin. My hands fumbled with my clothes, my body vibrating with anticipation.
Baker had been caught.
Sam had given me a location—an abandoned building in the industrial district of Bossier City. Baker was being interrogated by two vampires. Sam was watching from a safe distance in his truck, ready to shift into a mouse at my command to eavesdrop further.
I arrived a little after 9 p.m., my patience wearing thin. The scent of rust, rot, and old blood clung to the air.
Sam scurried up to me in mouse form, his tiny claws gripping my shoulder as he locked beady eyes with mine. I nodded. Go.
He darted across the pavement and disappeared through a fissure in the crumbling structure. Moments later, faint tapping sounds echoed from a few stories up. I flew up to a small window and was greeted by an eagle—Sam again. He tapped his beak against the glass, then met my gaze. I nodded. Well done.
As he flew off, I texted Pam. Wire the other half of Sam's payment. He's earned it.
Now, I focused on the scene before me.
Stan Baker was shackled in silver. His flesh sizzled where the metal bit into his skin, the room vibrating with his gut-wrenching wails. The smell was foul, even to me. His tormentors? None other than the Queen's favorite flunky, William Compton, and his lapdog Liam McKnight.
Bill and Liam were well-equipped—guns loaded with silver, daggers honed to a deadly point, and a wicked 20-inch silver prod, its leather handle allowing a vampire's grip without consequence. The prod glowed from recent use, slick with charred flesh.
"You have until Monday to pay the Queen her seventy-five grand, fuck-twat," Liam sneered.
Stan, shaking, spewed out promises. Anything to keep that silver prod from finding a more intimate home inside him.
Bill tilted his head, holding a silver dagger so close to Stan's eye that one wrong move would pop it like a grape. "How will you get the money, Stan? Last I checked, you were broke. You blew it all in Biloxi."
Stan inhaled sharply. "I know a wealthy woman who owes me for keeping her secret for the last fifteen years."
I froze.
He wasn't talking about just any woman. He was talking about Tara.
My grip on the window frame tightened. What secret?
"Who is this woman?" Bill pressed. "Where is she?"
Stan hesitated, testing how much he could hold back.
Liam lost patience. "That's not what Bill asked, ass-wipe!" He rammed the silver prod into Stan's ribs. Stan's scream was so raw it made even my dead heart shudder.
I couldn't wait any longer.
Before they could force Tara's name from his idiot mouth, I surged forward, bursting through the glass like a missile. The element of surprise was mine.
Liam barely had time to register my presence before I grabbed his head and twisted. His body popped like a blood-filled balloon, spraying gore across the room. His remains slopped onto Stan, who choked on the mess.
Bill had already moved.
Gunshots rang out. I ducked, but a silver dagger found my thigh. I roared in agony. The blade burned like molten iron, searing through my flesh with serrated teeth.
Bill didn't hesitate—he bolted, the coward. I yanked the dagger from my leg, my fangs grinding against each other as my wound hissed and sizzled.
But I had what I came for.
Stan.
He dangled from his restraints, eyes wide with terror, flesh blistered beyond recognition. His lips trembled as he begged, voice wet and broken.
"I'll tell you where she is! I'll tell you everything! Just don't kill me!"
I smiled. A slow, deliberate baring of teeth.
"I shall spare your pitiful existence," I lied smoothly. "Now tell me, Baker—where is she?"
He hesitated. Smart. He knew better than to trust me.
"I promise! I'll show you! Just untie me—please—I'll take you to her right now!"
I exhaled slowly. He wouldn't give up her location that easily. Which meant he had hidden her well.
Tara was alive.
That knowledge alone stopped me from ripping his tongue out right then and there. But if he thought that meant mercy, he was sorely mistaken.
Sliding on a pair of leather gloves, I grasped his collar and wrenched him free of his silver bonds. He sagged against me, too weak to stand. I didn't give him the luxury of walking—I dragged him, his burned flesh peeling as it scraped against the broken glass on the floor.
By the time I hauled him through the shattered window, he was leaving a trail of blood behind us.
And he knew, without a doubt, that I wasn't done with him yet.
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