He was about to close his eyes and welcome his end when a man crept out from the dark woods, his nude flesh streaked with mud, leaves and sticks tangled in his matted hair.
“Ease off, boys,” the man said. “He ain’t one of ‘em.”
The wolves retreated—all but the one clamped around his ankle. A pup, Dorian realized. Warm blood leaked from the fresh wound in his shoulder, soaking the earth.
“Long way from the city, nightwalker.” The man crouched down beside Dorian’s prone form and extended a hand, unperturbed by his own nudity on the chilly autumn night. “Thought you old-ass vamps knew better than to provoke a wolf on his home turf.”
Dorian took the offered hand and let the man haul him to his feet. He swayed again, and the wolf attached to his ankle bit down harder.
“And I thought you stopped taking in stray dogs in the eighties,” Dorian said. “Yet here we are.”
A collective growl rumbled through the pack, but the man fisted Dorian’s hair and gave his head a playful shake, a grin splitting his mud-streaked face. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you, Red.”
Through the pain, the rage, the sheer exhaustion, Dorian smiled, his chest filling with an old, familiar warmth.
“You as well, Cole. Now, if it’s not too much trouble…” He gestured at the ferocious little mutt still attached to his ankle. “Would you kindly remove thisfuckingbeast from my person? Or would you rather I tear his head off and feed it to the others while you watch?”
Chapter Two
“Rogue vampires?” Dorian asked. “Inthesewoods?”
“Been trackin’ the fuckers all week.” Cole handed him a mason jar filled with something he’d poured from a dusty brown jug. “They keep slippin’ the traps.”
Sitting at a dingy linoleum table in Cole’s backwoods kitchen, an icepack on his shoulder and the wounded ankle bandaged and propped up on a chair, Dorian sipped the moonshine. He was fairly certain it would eat through his stomach lining—the stuff could probably strip the paint from his cars—but at least the burn distracted him from the blistering pain of his wounds.
Contrary to popular myth, the wolf bites wouldn’t kill him. But theywouldtake a few days to heal, leaving him to suffer through every excruciating moment.
Dorian glanced out the kitchen window, searching for the wolf who’d bit him. A few patrolled the perimeter, the rest of them still scouring the woods for the rogues. The sight of so many wolves in one place was beyond unusual, especially for a man like Cole.
He’d always preferred his own company to the complex, often violent dynamics of pack life. It was something he and Dorian had in common.
“And your new friends?” Dorian asked. “How did they get involved in your little hunt?”
Cole took the chair across from him and set the jug of moonshine on the table, pushing aside a pile of junk—pizza boxes, a palette sticky with acrylic paints, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, half-spent joint balanced on the rim.
Dorian tried to recall the last time he’d seen the man—five years ago, maybe six. There was a time—after everything had gone to shit and Dorian’s brothers had left New York—when they’d hike the woods together almost every weekend, often with Aiden in tow. But Cole had become even more reclusive than Dorian in recent years, often losing himself in his next masterpiece for weeks or months at a time.
Dorian had missed him, he realized now. Cole’s land truly was a favorite place, just like he’d told Charlotte. Like so many things in his life, it reminded him of simpler times.
Perhaps that’s why he kept returning, long after his old friend had retreated.
Perhaps he was searching for that elusive connection to brighter memories, just as Charlotte sought her father through their shared love of art.
Charlotte…
Dorian took another sip of his drink, obliterating thoughts of the traitor before they sank their claws in any deeper.
“Called in a few favors,” Cole said now. “They’re helping me with the search. Last thing I need is a bunch of rogue killers making themselves at home on my property.”
“How many are you tracking?”
“A dozen, give or take. Hard to tell with all the mud.” Cole took a long pull from his drink, then shook his head. “All month, things ain’t been right. I could feel it, Red. The woods, the air… I’d go out there to paint, and I’d get them chills on the back of my neck, like someone was watching me.”
Dorian shifted in his chair, holding back a shiver that had nothing to do with the ice on his shoulder.
“Few days back,” Cole said, “the animal carcasses started turning up. Four deer so far, and two black bear cubs, along with a shit ton of raccoons and rodents. One look, and I knew exactly what we were dealin’ with.”
“How so?”
