Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 40

"It's Atticus Santos," I say to Emily. "I know him." I open the front door before Santos can knock, staying back from the newborn light. He looks at me, frowning, and peers into the room over my shoulder as if he senses something, but Emily is frozen in the shadows, invisible.

"Can I come in?" he asks. "It's about Dana."

"How nice of you to ask permission this time." I bar the door. He glowers at me while looking slightly uncomfortable and I can't help smiling in satisfaction. I glance behind me for Emily, who is increasingly curious.

I take a leap of faith and trust him. If Santos meant me harm, surely I would know by now. "I have company. My sister. I expect you to act civilized or I'll throw you out before you can blink."

He glares at me, clearly unaccustomed to being threatened by a woman. I step back, holding the door open and cautiously he walks inside. His hand is still at his hip. I grab and remove his Taser and firearm, setting them on the piano while his eyes blaze in outrage.

"You can have them back when you leave," I say.

Emily chuckles in the dark and Santos stiffens.

"Show yourself, Emily. Don't taunt him. He knows what we are."

"For God's sake, Anne." She steps into the room. "Tell me you're jesting."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Santos squeezes his forehead as if warding off a headache. "I wish this were all a fucking joke."

"Do you mind?" I say.

"What?" he asks bewildered.

"Your language."

"You drink blood and I can't say 'fuck'? Really?"

I glare at him, but he doesn't notice. Emily has stepped before the fire, drawing his attention as the light hits her eyes. They shine like an animal's.

With a sharp intake of breath, he moves for his weapons but I block him.

"You're safe here. Everyone in my home is safe. You are each under my protection."

Emily smirks, taking pleasure in his fear. "Like you could stop me if I wanted him."

"This is my home, Emily, and if you can't respect that, you can leave this instant." Reluctantly, she drags her eyes off him and takes a seat in a great wingback chair. Santos doesn't sit. His body is taut, ready for retreat, but his eyes are riveted on my sister, as if trapped by gravity.

The fire flickers, casting licks of savage light about her. She gleams with the wild glint of a dark goddess. A Kali or Anat or perhaps Artemis as she watches Actaeon being ripped apart by his own dogs. I wonder if she has been following the wars. Has she seen Santos before? Her eyes are locked on his and they stare at each other like lions circling in a forest.

Look away Santos. Look away.

"Please have a seat," I offer, but he ignores me, and finally, to my relief, wrenches away his gaze.

"How many of there are you?" His voice sounds breathless, a sound I've never heard from him before. "Is your entire family . . .?"

"No," I say. "There are not many of us. Emily was turned on the edge of death and then turned me before mine."