Page 7 of Fangbanger

Then darkness.

4

LEAH

When I come to, it’s slow. I am nothing but bruises. I try to move my limbs. I can feel my toes. But I can’t move. A horrified whimper rises in my throat before I remember it’s a prey sound.

I am prey.

Marcus is probably toying with me. My brain feverishly comes up with nightmare scenarios—his fangs, my throat. My thigh. I hate it. He hurts me. Worse, I like it. He makes it feel good. A shudder racks my spine. Another whine stoppers in my throat, behind my tongue. Pushing, pushing. Panic rising. Can’t get free. Another wriggle. I’m trapped. I die here. He kills me. No, he leaves me here. He’s gone. Never would I have thought that being alone would be worse than being with him. I’m alone, I’m alone, I’m⁠—

A thud and pained grunt. I tilt my head. The light from the containment spell is enough to see all of him in terrifying clarity.

Marcus Antonius, architect of my nightmares.

Enemy of my heart.

His shoulders and head are slumped awkwardly against the wall. The rest of him is mere inches from me.

Dead? Something soars inside me, brief, bright, hopeful. If I die, at least I take him with me. His eyelids flicker and that hope dies with them.

He groans and adjusts against the wall. Goddess, he’s fucking massive. The breadth of his shoulders and the hard muscle wrapped around his frame remind me that he is made for killing.

Specifically me.

His gaze is fully black when he meets my eyes. My stake is half-buried in his chest.

“What have you done?” His words rasp wetly.

“I told you. A spell. One that links us together and drew you to me.”

The curse from his mouth is guttural and not in a language I understand. “Not that. Why can’t I move?”

“Another spell. Keyed to me. You can’t move more than a foot in either direction, and my stake is too close to your heart. You will die here. Or at best, you will live a half-life, slowly starving, until you finally go mad.” The thought buoys me. I give him a sunny smile. “See you in hell, Marcus.”

He growls. “I will outlive you, you foolish slayer.” His words are belied by the grating difficulty with which he speaks. He is in pain and my stake could nick his heart at any moment.

“The containment spell will outlast my death. We’ll die together.” The words are feeble. I can’t move my legs. I’m not killing anyone. I very well might die here, next to my parents’ killer. Helpless rage fills my throat.

I squeeze my eyes shut, straining to lift whatever is on top of me. It’s a stone slab that would crush a human. It’s a piece of the ceiling, based on the massive hole above my head. We’re in the old part of the house, before the expansion, which means this is the solid granite keystone that my great-aunt used to ground her magic. The chandelier swings ominously above my head and I look away before my imagination can run wild.

I inhale and strain every muscle against the stone, trembling. Slayers are strong, but not this strong. Not vampire-strong. My ribs protest. Pain races up my nerves from my injured hand. It’s healing and I’ve torn open the wound again. I cry out. Part pain, part desperate relief that I still have sensation.

Frustration swells hot behind my nose.

Marcus is silent. When I look back at his face, his throat is working and his fangs are peeking out. A frisson of fear travels up my spine.

“You’re bleeding again,” he rasps.

Fuck. I heal fast, but not vampire-fast.

“Doesn’t matter.”

My animal brain reminds me that it does matter because Karina warned me that a very strong vampire might be able to withstand the backlash of the containment spell breaking. Assuming my blood is strong enough to keep him contained at all.

Marcus’s nostrils flare as he watches me.

I am so careful not to bleed in front of my prey. It spurs some vampires to incredible feats of strength, especially if they’re hungry. The stories say that Marcus is always hungry.