Shadow Keepers: Midnight

“Do it, then,” the werewolf taunted. “You think you can kill me? You think your powers are greater? That you have well and truly defeated me?”

The vampire held the beast against the wall, his arm as strong and sure as stone pressed against the wolven bastard’s neck. He should have broken it already. Should have ripped the weren in two. “Where?” he growled, his face so close to his prey that the foul scent of the weren filled the space between them, turning his stomach. “Where is the
conte
’s son?”

“You see? You cannot kill me.” Baloch’s voice was smug, his expression more so, and Tiberius pressed in harder, cutting off the weren’s air, making his mouth open and his eyes water as he gasped for breath. But the beast was right. The one thing Tiberius couldn’t do was kill him. He needed the wolf alive—at least until he found the boy.

With one violent motion he pushed back, releasing the pressure of his arm against the werewolf’s throat, replacing it with the tip of the knife he pulled from the sheath at his thigh. There was no full moon tonight, and Baloch had not called upon the change. He stood before Tiberius now as a man. But all Tiberius saw was the monster.

“Do you think the point of a knife scares me more than the death you can bring at your hand? It doesn’t,”
Baloch said, and the bastard had the temerity to smile. “Perhaps it is true,” he continued, stepping closer so that the point of the knife cut into his leathery flesh. “Perhaps I cannot best you as an equal. Perhaps your strength is greater than mine. Perhaps if it were only the two of us in this room, with no baggage or obligation between us, then I would be dead by now.”

“You damn well would,” Tiberius said, unable to resist the temptation to speak.

“How ironic that it is the boy himself who protects me.”

“Irony?” Tiberius retorted. “You hide behind the life of a child. It is not irony that guides your hand today, but cowardice.”

Anger flashed in those deep gray eyes. “I am no coward, vampire. The boy is
mine
. A debt rightfully paid, and I will not bow to you or to any man who claims otherwise.” He lifted his hands, then placed them flat on either side of Tiberius’s blade. Tiberius could feel the pressure of the weren’s touch and knew that he could fight it. That he could match the wolf’s power. That he could subsume it. One quick thrust and the knife would slide through those hands and slice open that neck. The coppery scent of warm blood would fill this small, dank room, and Tiberius would watch the coward fall, his lifeblood staining the stone floor as much as his bloodthirsty depravity now stained his heart.

“Kill me now,” Baloch taunted. “I see the desire in your eyes.
Do it
. Do it, and then feed. Lay me out and suck me dry. Do your worst, vampire. But know that once you have, you will never find the boy.”

The muscles in Tiberius’s arm quivered with the desire to kill. And not just because this arrogant bastard
had taken an innocent human, but because of what he was—a werewolf. A filthy, stinking, common werewolf. Within Tiberius, his daemon growled, a familiar rage fueling the hunger—the urge to rip and rend and kill.
To get revenge
. Against this werewolf, and those like him that had once maimed and tortured a boy who had been not much older than the
conte
’s son himself.

No
.

Memory closed around him, a red, pulsing wall, but he fought it back, fought back the daemon and the desire, and focused only on where he was and what he was doing. He’d conquered his past. And now he would preserve the boy’s future.

With one flick of his wrist the knife jerked upward, leaving a clean, thin slice on Baloch’s jaw. The weren howled as the blood flowed. Sweet, tempting blood. But it raised no desire in the vampire. Never would Tiberius lower himself to feed off weren blood. He would rather starve than stoop so low.

The weren’s lip curled up, but he held himself still with visible effort. “You’re going to regret that.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Tiberius said, even as a war cry burst from Baloch’s mouth. Suddenly the cramped room filled with the echo of pounding feet. A dozen weren burst through the dark passages leading to the stone chamber, their knives drawn and their faces held tight. It was three days until the moon was full, and the wolf was high in Baloch’s men. None had fully called forth the beast, but Tiberius could see the wildness in their eyes and he could smell the animal on their skin.

Tiberius pulled away, his knife held ready, as Baloch caught a dagger tossed by one of his underlings and grinned a black-toothed grin.

“Looks like I win,” Baloch said.

Tiberius said nothing, cursing his own miscalculation. He’d been watching the werewolf, but obviously not long enough. The beast was cagey. It was clear now that he’d known all along that Tiberius had spotted him in the densely packed Roman alleys and that the beast had led him into a trap. Tiberius had seen the werewolf only as the vilest and most base of creatures; he had forgotten how clever the wretched could be. He’d underestimated Baloch, and now he would pay the price. He only hoped that payment wouldn’t be taken out of the boy’s flesh.

He looked around the crumbling room, so dank and dark, and knew that for every werewolf he saw snarling at him, at least two more were hidden in the shadows. “You win nothing,” he said, his eyes burning into Baloch’s. He moved toward the alpha, and that was all it took. Baloch gave a tight jerk of his head, and the room came to life, like vermin scattering from a flame.

They were on him in a second, and as Tiberius thrust out, blocking the sword of a stalwart beast with pockmarked face, he felt the euphoria of the fight rise within him. But there was danger, and he needed to keep the boy at the forefront of his thoughts. He needed to leave and regroup.

He would go—yes. But before he did, he couldn’t resist taking a few of the vile creatures down.

The sword withdrew before being thrust out again, its wielder holding a stake in his shield hand. Tiberius moved with speed born of almost two millennia upon this earth, and in the blink of an eye, he stood with his knife bloodied and the werewolf’s sword arm lying useless on the dirt floor. The creature’s howl of pain echoed
in the chamber, but it was nothing to Baloch’s sharp cry of
“Enough.”

The fighting ceased. Even Tiberius, who held another weren’s back to his chest, with his blade pressed up against the foul creature’s neck, froze in the motion of decapitating the creature.

Baloch approached him, fury rising off him like steam as he passed the wounded man, who now lay whimpering and bleeding beside his detached limb. “Harm another of my men, and even if you do find the boy, you shall not find him whole.”

“Touch even a hair on that boy’s head, and you shall find that you suffer the same injury tenfold. You,” he said, drawing the knife slowly across his captive’s neck so that it raised only the finest line of blood, “and those you hold dear.”

He didn’t wait for Baloch’s reaction—he’d been reckless to remain after the weren soldiers had arrived, and he would be a fool to stay now that they were angered and injured. He thrust his captive forward, sending him toppling into Baloch, and then Tiberius was gone, a black raven soaring high above the weren, to perch atop the stone walls where the decaying roof had collapsed years earlier. He transformed back, and stood now as a man, looking down at the weren who stared up at him, hate shining in their eyes.