Page 4

Some things were easier. A quick hack into the controls, and it was lights on, music off.

Some things were less convenient. If they tried an old-fashioned midday bust? This place would be unbreachable.

Night instantly turned to day. Vampires howled as they adjusted their sensitive eyes, spinning to see what asshole was going to get his ass kicked.

“Ow. Fuck, that’s bright,” Bennett growled. He was enough hunter to be unharmed by sunlight, but enough vampire to thrive in darkness.

Fuck, now even he could smell it. Fresh blood. Nothing old, as vampires weren’t slobs, but the scent of death permeated the walls.

The team moved in.

Vampires blinked away the shock of the light as their survival instincts kicked in. Fast. Really fast. Vampires moved like Olympic sprinters—even the happy-sleepy-surprised ones.

They outnumbered the hunters at least five to one, so they might have been under the impression that they stood a chance.

Vann rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip. Go time.

Three lunged at Lana in the lead, thinking her petite size made her weak. Blood splattered from one to the next as she sliced through the trio with the curved blade of her axe. Even in heels, she moved with purpose.

Vann covered the front door while Bennett guarded the back.

Two hands gripping the hilt of his sword, Vann drove the long blade through one until he hit spine.

Controlled.

Measured.

He dispatched the head of another.

With no hope of survival, the vampires were more interested in escaping than fighting.

More flooded toward the door.

Vann held his position. Not one was getting past. So fucking done with vampires.

Quinn would be bored, waiting outside with no action, but she’d love hearing how Ryan sliced his demonic black blade into one demon, elbowed the next, and finished the one behind him with a quick headbutt.

The team moved with the rhythm and ease of experts in their field.

Alone, each hunter sliced through their enemies one by one.

Motion on the floor.

Vann flicked a look, not daring to risk losing ground.

Fuck. A human. Alive—barely.

Blood was smeared over the human’s face. What wasn’t dripping red was pale as ice. He braced his hand over his own neck. Fucking miracle he was still conscious.

Dozens. They kept coming, refusing to die. If Vann lost the door, the fight was lost.

Sword high. He swiped. Another fell.

From the right. Another.

“Quinn?” he called through the com.

“Yeah? Okay in there?”