Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Callahan dispatches the other thug with similar efficiency, a series of precise strikes that speak to his boxing background, similar to how he beat up Marco. The human thug never stood a chance against Callahan’s enhanced strength and speed, even if Callahan was holding back to maintain the illusion of humanity.
That leaves only Konstantin, who watches our handiwork with calculating eyes.
“Impressive,” he says, clapping slowly, a gold watch jingling. “You work well together.” His gaze shifts between us, assessing. “But you’re still outmatched.”
He moves again, faster than before, appearing beside me before either of us can react. His hand closes around my throat, lifting me off the ground with effortless strength. The careful human facade drops away—I feel the cold, undeniable presence of ancient vampire power radiating from him.
“Let her go,” Callahan growls, tension vibrating through his body.
“Or what, fledgling?” Konstantin’s grip tightens. “You’ve barely begun to understand what you are.”
Callahan’s eyes darken, pupils expanding until they swallow the blue. The transformation seems intentional, directed.
“Last chance,” Callahan warns, his voice dropping to a register I’ve never heard before.
Konstantin laughs. “You don’t even know who you are, what bloodline you carry—”
Callahan moves with shocking speed, driving his fist into Konstantin’s side with enough force that ribs crack. Konstantin drops me, momentarily stunned.
I roll away, gasping. When I look up, Callahan and Konstantin are locked in combat, moving almost too fast for human eyes to track. Konstantin is stronger, more experienced, but Callahan fights with desperate intensity.
Konstantin catches Callahan with a blow that sends him crashing into our car. The metal crumples, but Callahan is up instantly, blood streaming from a cut. It doesn’t heal as quickly as mine do.
“Enough playing,” Konstantin snarls, his mask of humanity falling away completely. He withdraws a curved dagger that gleams unnaturally blue.
“The blade of mordernes,” I gasp. “Callahan, be careful—”
Too late. The blade slashes across Callahan’s chest, tearing through shirt and skin. Unlike a normal wound, this one doesn’t immediately heal. Callahan staggers back, shock and pain registering on his face.
“First lesson,” Konstantin says. “Whoever holds this blade, wins.”
Callahan recovers quickly, adjusting his stance. There’s calculation in his eyes—the detective analyzing, finding weakness. There’s no time to tell him that the blade is what witches use specifically to slay vampires. They still have to be driven into our hearts, but even surface wounds can cause damage.
And because Callahan is only partly vampire, he can’t afford to get injured.
Konstantin strikes again. This time Callahan catches his wrist. They struggle for control of the knife, locked in a contest of raw strength.
To my amazement, Callahan begins to gain the upper hand. Konstantin’s expression shifts from confidence to confusion, then concern. Whatever vampire blood flows in Callahan’s veins, it carries power that rivals Konstantin’s primordial strength.
Callahan forces the knife from Konstantin’s grip and drives his fist into the vampire’s face with bone-crushing force, following with a series of blows too fast to track.
Konstantin staggers back, blood streaming from his face. “What are you?” he hisses. “You can’t be this strong, not this young—”
I move to join the fight, flanking Konstantin from the opposite side. Together, Callahan and I press our advantage, driving the Cohen vampire back. For a moment, victory seems within reach.
In the distance, sirens wail, growing louder with each second.
Konstantin’s eyes narrow at the sound. With a snarl of frustration, he leaps backward with inhuman agility, putting distance between us.
“This isn’t over,” he says, wiping blood from his mouth. “You’re interfering with forces beyond your understanding. They will open the gateway, one way or another.”
“The gateway,” I repeat. “The Ivanovs. Are you working for them or Cohen?”
Konstantin’s lips curl into a smile despite his battered face. “I work for myself.”
Before we can stop him, Konstantin turns and sprints away with supernatural speed, disappearing into the shadows between buildings.
“We need to go,” I urge, touching Callahan’s arm. “The police are coming.”
Callahan stares after Konstantin for a long moment, then nods. We run for our damaged car. The engine sputters but starts, and Callahan pulls away, tires squealing.
“What did he mean?” I ask as we speed away, taking side streets to avoid the approaching police. “About the gateway.”
Callahan’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. The mordernes wound across his chest hasn’t healed but at least it’s stopped bleeding. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I think we’re running out of time.”
“I think you’re right. We need to tell Abe.”
“We’ll go back to the hotel and check-out, get a new room somewhere else,” he says. “Call Abe and fill him in. We should rest, but I want to head to San Pedro tomorrow night. See if we can find this special club French went to. This Crimson Clover.”
I look him over, warmth spreading in my chest. “That was different back there,” I say quietly. “The way you fought. It wasn’t like before, when you beat up Marco.”