* * *
“The guy bringing up the rear is always the one who gets eaten, you know.”
Ryon Hunter made a face at Aric Savage’s back as their team of shifters crept stealthily in human form down the garbage-strewn alley. Or half of them, anyway.
The other half were elsewhere in the Big Apple, quickly and quietly searching the night for a gang of rogue vampires who were reportedly on the hunt, draining humans and leaving their corpses to be found by puzzled and alarmed citizens. The Pack’s mandate was simple: find the bastards and neutralize every last damned one of them. Otherwise questions would be raised by the general populace, ones that had answers the Pack and the very few authorities in the know didn’t want the public getting hold of.
Vampires in New York City. Sounded like an apocalypse movie.
If people only knew of the very real paranormal world that lurked in the shadows, there would be mass panic. The Alpha Pack’s job was to make sure that never happened. They hunted the most dangerous creatures in the world, taking them out before humans had a clue they were there. The less dangerous ones were brought in for possible rehabilitation and integration into the Pack’s world.
Peering into the gloom, Ryon forced himself to concentrate. Spirits beckoned to him from every corner, their ghostly forms fading in and out as they entreated him to listen to pleas he couldn’t hear. Didn’t want to hear. As the Pack’s Channeler/Telepath, this was his gift—or rather, his curse.
As a Telepath, Ryon was capable of pushing his direct thoughts into other people’s heads. He could also catch a reply from one of his teammates if they pushed back hard enough, even though none of the rest of them shared his gift. But his oh-so-wonderful abilities didn’t stop there. Being a Channeler meant that Ryon also could communicate with the dead if he really tried. Problem was, he rarely wanted to, but the ghosts just wouldn’t leave him alone. Lost souls were drawn to him like metal shavings to a magnet, and New York City held so many of them, it was like wading through pea soup.
Even worse, the ghosts seriously pissed off his wolf, who snapped and snarled inside him every time one got too close. Which was constantly.
Nobody, not even his Pack brothers, knew how very close to the breaking point the ghosts had driven him.
A slight scuffing sound came from behind him, like a shoe on concrete, and Ryon whirled. His enhanced eyesight scanned the darkness, but all was still. Quiet. So quiet that it took him a couple of seconds to figure out why that bothered him.
The spirits had vanished.
“Shit,” he breathed, spinning around to catch up with his group. “Hey, guys—”
The alley exploded in a flurry of dark figures rushing the shifters from all sides. He just had time to see Aric and Hammer engage in battle with four rogue vampires when a fifth tackled him from the side, slamming him into the wall of a building.
Grunting in pain, he shoved at the vamp, grimacing at the stench of fetid breath wafting over his face. The rogue had him pinned and he bared his fangs, going for Ryon’s jugular. Twisting, Ryon managed to get enough leverage to put his back to the wall and shove the thing off him. The vamp stumbled backward, and Ryon grabbed for the silver knife strapped to his thigh, cursing himself for not already having it in his hand.
He took the snarling vamp to the ground, and in one swift movement thrust the blade under the breastbone, burying it deep into the monster’s black heart. The vamp’s squeal joined the others’ as Aric and Hammer took out their opponents. But they weren’t out of the woods.
Another wave of rogues emerged from the shadows. Before Ryon could stand up, two vamps leaped on him, slamming him to the dirty concrete. He’d fought greater numbers before and won, but this pair had him off-balance. They got him facedown, one sitting on his legs, twisting Ryon’s arm behind him and taking his knife, while the other grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back to expose his throat.
“Get off me, you fucker!” His wolf, enraged, demanded release as Ryon bucked. Tried in vain to throw them off. Knowing he could fight them much better on four legs, with his own set of sharp teeth, he gathered his concentration for the shift.
“Uh-uh,” the one sitting on his legs sang. “We can’t let the puppy come out to play.”
How do they know—
A hard punch landed in his side. Hot, agonizing fire spread through his torso, seized his lungs. His cry came out as a hoarse wheeze as he realized the vamp had stabbed him with his own silver knife. He renewed his struggle to throw them off, but it was no use.
“Hold still, pup,” the other crooned in his ear. “This will be over soon.”
Then the creature’s fangs sank deep into his throat, silencing his shout. The agony was indescribable, drowning out even the burning in his ribs. The sickening slurp of the thing feeding at his neck made him want to vomit, but he couldn’t move. Could do nothing as his sight began to dim, his brain spinning with dizziness.
The one who’d been feeding raised his head. “It’s true! Shifter blood is like pure cocaine! So good . . .”
“Let me try,” the other insisted.
“No! This kill is mine!”
Their argument might have been what saved him. That, and his Pack brothers rushing to his rescue after taking care of the other rogues. Distantly, Ryon heard the sounds of a fierce but brief fight as the vampires turned to meet the new threat. Then sudden silence, broken by harsh breathing. Boots, jogging toward him. Cursing.
“Motherfucking hell,” Aric snapped. “Help me turn him over. Careful.”
Hands lifted him, and soon he was on his back. He tried to make out their faces, to say he was all right, but warm blood gurgled in his torn throat instead. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe!
“Don’t try to talk,” Hammer instructed him. “You’re gonna be all right, my man.”
Aric examined Ryon’s side, muttering. “Stabbed him with his own goddamned knife. We’ve got to leave that in there for now, or he’ll bleed out.”
“But he can’t shift unless we remove it. If he can shift, maybe he can heal faster.”
Aric’s voice floated above him. “Ryon? Can you hear me?”
He nodded once.
“Good. If we take out the knife, can you shift?”
He nodded again, or thought he did. Concentrating, he attempted to call his wolf, but it howled in pain. Retreated deep inside him, his strength drained.
“Ryon? Hang on, man. . . .”
His Pack brothers’ curses, their insistent pleas, melted far away. In to nothingness.