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As the other vampires came in, bells on the handle jingling, Skye pulled Balthazar backward; almost before he’d realized what she was up to, they were through the door that led to the gas station attendant’s booth. She slammed it shut and locked the door—a pitiful knob-only lock that wouldn’t hold for long, but it was better than nothing. They were pinned together in a space hardly big enough for one person to stand in, much less two. He could feel the fast rise and fall of Skye’s frightened breathing against his chest.
One of the vampires slammed against the glass wall of the booth, realizing too late that it was bulletproof. Balthazar put one hand against the far wall and tried to think of what to do; the building was so old, so run-down, that the wall felt almost soft against his hand. And there was a cold draft coming in, too.
The tallest vampire stepped closer, and for a moment, Balthazar’s mind froze. Almost without his realizing, he whispered, “Constantia.”
“Hello, darling. Long time no see.” Constantia smiled the same possessive, arrogant smile she’d always had for him. Her burnished gold hair hung long and straight as ever, and he had somehow managed to forget how tall she was—at least a couple inches taller than him. Even in the plain gray coat she wore, Constantia was a striking figure: like a statue of some avenging Teutonic goddess, beautiful beyond belief but hard as stone. “You ran far and fast last time, Balthazar. But now you’ve run in front of something we want.”
“Are we trapped?” Skye whispered. “I trapped us, didn’t I?”
“You bought us time,” he said to her, refusing to answer Constantia. Long-ago memories of the 1950s came back to him—he’d worked at a service station in Montana for a while, fixing up cars mostly, but occasionally pumping gas. This station had used the old-fashioned pumps; the switches were still on the wall. Because they were manual, not computerized, they probably still worked.
Would any gas fumes still be lingering in the tanks all these years later? They might have to find out. He snapped the switches to on with one swipe of his hand.
Constantia slammed her foot into the door; the old wood bowed and splintered immediately. Two more kicks and she’d be in.
Balthazar said, “Cover your face. I’m going to break through the external wall.”
“With what?” Skye looked around, and he couldn’t resist a smile.
“With me.”
No cinder blocks, please no cinder blocks—
With all his vampire strength, he threw himself at the rotten, drafty section of the wall, which thank God was not reinforced with cinder blocks, and broke through. It hurt like hell, but Balthazar was able to stumble free of the jagged gap; Skye followed him instantly, grabbing his arm as he staggered to walk off the blow. “They’re coming,” she said as he dragged her toward the front of the station and, behind them, the bells on the gas station’s door jingled again.
“I know. Come on.”
As they ran toward the pumps, a car pulled in—long and silvery, with the weight and gleam of expense. A Bentley, maybe. Balthazar knew many vampires with a taste for luxury like that, but he also knew which of them was going to step out even before he did.
Redgrave stood up. His dark gold hair was slicked back, almost the same color as his perfectly tanned skin. The camel-colored coat he wore was tailored perfectly to his lean, angular form, and a heavy golden watch shone on one wrist. As he saw Balthazar, his hazel eyes glinted, avaricious and cruel, much as they’d been the first day they ever met—one of the last days Balthazar would ever be alive—
Skye pulled them ahead faster; at least one of them wasn’t so easily distracted, Balthazar thought. He grabbed his old lighter from his pocket, snapped it into flame, and dropped it into the pile of papers and debris in front of the old station just before pulling loose one of the pumps and turning it on.
“What are you doing?” Skye cried. “We have to move!”
“We do now.” Balthazar grabbed her hand again and ran almost as fast as he could, towing her after him though he knew it had to almost hurt her to be dragged along at this speed. But they got to the very edge of the road before the pumps blew.
The explosion slammed into them, a wave of heat as solid as rock, shoving them both off their feet and into the snowy drifts at the side of the road. Balthazar saw the wall of flame blazing up brightly and felt a deep, irresistible terror well inside him. Fire—fatal to vampires, one of the only things that ever could destroy him completely—
Get over it. You’re in a snowbank. The only vampires burning alive right now are the ones who killed you.
Tires screeched, and Skye flung herself against his side as a car on the nearby road—its driver apparently startled by the explosion—ran off the pavement into the ditch so hard that the entire hood crumpled. For one moment Balthazar looked up at the gas station, just in time to see Redgrave’s car speeding past them, back on the highway.
Well, he hadn’t finished off the bastard, but at least he knew the old crew remained as afraid of fire as he was. And Skye was safe from further vampire attacks … for the moment.
“Are you okay?” Skye called toward the driver of the wrecked car as she stumbled through the snow. “Hello?”
Balthazar pushed himself up to follow her. The driver of the car looked dazed, and on his forehead—
Blood. Lots of it. He stopped in place, not trusting himself near such weak prey at such a moment; it was too soon after the fight, too soon after he’d let himself be a hunter again.
“Mr. Lovejoy!” Skye got the car’s door open to lay one hand on the injured man’s shoulder. He was apparently too weak to answer her. “It’s okay, Mr. Lovejoy. I’m calling nine one one right now.” As she pulled out her cell phone, she said to Balthazar, “It’s my history teacher. He’s hurt. Are you all right?”
Desperate for blood. Bound to protect her from a danger he didn’t understand.
“Yeah,” Balthazar said. “I’m fine.”
Weary, dizzy, he knelt in the snow and lowered his head, thinking only to collect himself. But on the snow was a small cluster of blood droplets—those of the man from the crash. Mr. Lovejoy. Or Skye’s cut hand. Maybe even his own, if he’d gotten banged up worse than he realized.
