Page 5 of Fangbanger

It’s sharp on my tongue as my breaths heave. I fumble for my ash stake. All I need is one quick strike. One small chance. He’ll be dust.

Come on, Leah.

My eyes search the shadows, nearly frantic. I can feel how wide my pupils are. I swear it’s never been this dark in the hallway before, but he seems to steal all the light.

I force myself to focus, to reach out with my slayer senses, the heightened hearing I got from my mom. You’re better than this. I’m no match for him in strength or speed, but grit? Motivation?

I sense him in the dark, an oddly pleasurable coolness at the back of my brain, like someone ran a finger down my spine, then whispered in my ear.

There.

I whirl. Lunge.

Miss.

He’s faster. Arm to my throat. Fangs in my face. And those eyes. Silver as the cold fires of hell. Where he belongs.

“Vampire.” I bare my teeth.

“Slayer,” he snarls. “You have erred gravely.”

His accent is like none other. Latin. He grew up speaking Latin. It shapes his words, rough and round and low.

I fight for air. His gaze seems to spark as he watches my face. His lips part on a silent snarl.

I slash wildly at him with the dagger. My vision is black around the edges, and I force myself to think. I have a stake up my sleeve, on a quick-release trigger. I go limp and raise my wrist. I need air, need air, need—I gasp as the release triggers at the same time as he grabs my wrist.

The stake punches through my hand. I scream at the burning pain. Marcus leaps back, fangs extended, eyes wild. His nostrils flare as he circles me.

My hand is hot with blood, but my fear feels cold. I can’t grip anything in my left palm. The fingers of my right hand clench around my dagger.

Never bleed around a vampire.

Marcus is famous for starving himself before fights. He’d enter berserkage at first blood in the arena or on the battlefield. He slaughters indiscriminately. Friend. Foe.

My parents.

I imagine this is what they saw before they died. Black eyes. Fangs like daggers.

The thought propels me forward, feinting left before I swiftly pivot right. He dodges.

Why isn’t he fighting me?

“What have you done?” he grates. “How did you pull me here?”

I swear, I can sense his confusion, his doubt, there at the back of my brain. I shake my head. My injuries are messing with me.

“A spell,” I snarl, before I lunge.

“Fool,” he hisses.

I half expect him to dodge again, but he lowers his shoulder and plows into me with enough force that ribs crack. I have no time to dodge. No time to do anything except pray to the Goddess that I don’t die like this. My vision wavers as he slams me to the floor.

“How dare you?” he growls. “You think to bind me?” His fury takes up all the air and makes me shiver.

Get it over with, Leah. I can’t last against him. His punches can crack bones.

I knee him between his legs, and we roll, my legs wrapping around his hips, hands scrabbling, fists connecting with sternums, spit flying. Every breath sends pain dancing along my nerve endings. Whatever hesitation he felt before is gone now. His fangs are fully descended. His eyes fully black. He smells spicy and male, even though he’s not a man.