Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [213]
He began to close in on the man, tracking him silently as a shadow, shortening the distance until he was a mere five feet from the bastard. The knife had found its way into Veck’s palm, and he really didn’t want it there, but it was too late to resheathe. Too late to derail. Too late to listen to the voice that told him this was a crime that was going to land him in jail. The other side of him had taken over and he was lost to it, on the verge of killing—
The third man came from out of nowhere.
A mammoth man dressed in leather jumped into the killer’s path, blocking his way. And as David Kroner leaped back in alarm, a hiss seethed through the air.
God, that didn’t even sound human. And . . . were those . . . fangs?
What the fuck—?
The attack was so brutal that with just the first strike at the serial killer’s neck, the guy’s head nearly came off. And it kept going from there, blood flying so far and wide that it speckled Veck’s heavy black pants and turtleneck and hat.
Except there was no knife or dagger involved.
Teeth. The motherfucker was ripping shit apart with his teeth.
Veck tried to scramble back, but he slammed into a tree, and the impact sent him careening to the ground waaaay closer than he needed to be. And he should have run for his bike, or just plain run away, but he was transfixed by the violence . . . and the conviction that whatever he was watching was most certainly not human.
When it was over, the monster dropped the massacred remains of the serial killer to the ground . . . and then it looked at Veck.
“Holy . . . fuck . . .” Veck breathed.
The face had a very humanlike bone structure, but the fangs were all wrong and so was the size and that vengeful stare. God, blood was actually dripping from its mouth.
“Look into my eyes,” an accented voice said.
A gurgling sound rose up from what was left of the serial killer. But Veck didn’t glance over. He was transfixed by a stunning set of peepers . . . so very blue . . . glowing....
“Shit . . .” he choked out, a sudden headache cutting out everything he saw or heard. Collapsing sideways, he went fetal from the pain and stayed there.
Blink.
Why was he on the ground?
Blink.
He smelled blood. But why?
Blink. Blink.
With a groan, he lifted his head and—“Shit!”
Leaping to his feet in shock, he stared down at the bloody mess that was in front of him.
“Oh . . . fuck,” he cursed. He’d done it. He’d finally killed someone—
Except then he looked at the knife in his fist. No blood: Not on the blade. Not on his hands. And only specks on his clothes.
Looking around, he had no clue what had just rolled out. He remembered driving here . . . and parking his motorcycle . . . and tracking the man who was now dying on the ground.
If he was brutally honest with himself, he’d had the intent to kill. All along. But going by the physical evidence? It hadn’t been him.
The problem was, all he had was a black hole of no info.
A moan from the serial killer snapped his head to the right. The man was reaching for him. Mutely asking for help as he leaked all over the place. How was he still alive?
With shaking hands, Veck grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. “Yeah, Detective DelVecchio, CPD Homicide. I need an ambulance out at the Monroe Motel & Suites now.”
After the report was logged and the medics were on their way, he yanked off his jacket, wadded it up into a ball, and knelt down by the man. Pressing his coat into the guy’s throat wounds, he prayed the fucker survived. And then had to wonder whether that was a good thing or not.
“I didn’t kill you,” he said. “Did I?”
Oh, God . . . what the hell had happened here?
FIFTY-EIGHT
“Be came to see you.”
From Blaylock’s vantage point on the bed, Saxton