Page 63 of Veil of Blood and Bone

My hot stalker fed Audra blood to bring her back to life.

As if that isn’t crazy enough, mid-fucking battle, the other sexy guy I’d been making out with morphed into a giant raven and went for the monster’s eyes with his talons.

Like I wouldn’t notice.

Like it’s totally natural for A—a troll to stroll down Hemlock, B—a dude to walk around with an entire arsenal strapped to his body and then have the audacity to turn into a bird, and C—vampires to exist.

In no particular order.

A panic attack is a small thing in the face of everything in a life turned upside down. At least not all of it is trying to kill me.

Fear and discomfort aside.

Forest stares at the crumbling corpse of the troll changing to ash on the wind. The traffic pileup will result in some pissed off people but it worked in our favor. No one saw what I did.

What I felt like I had to do.

And Audra hasn’t moved. Her throat bobs, swallowing blood down, and finally, hot vamp pulls his wrist free. The wound seals itself and smooth tawny skin stretches without a scar.

“Come. Let’s get her inside.”

Move, bitch. I scramble to my feet, and the adrenaline I’d used during the fight leaks away, leaving aches and pains.

“The bookstore is ruined.”

The words slur together, and I bite down on them to hold them steady. Instead, they batter against my clenched teeth, my lips trembling. My life is unraveling, one significant place at a time.

The vampire gathers Audra to his chest, keeping her comfortable and cradled. “Breathe, Helene.”

“I’m breathing!”

I’m going to stab him with the dagger. Or anyone who makes the mistake of getting in my way. Against reason and logic.

“Don’t make me drag you.” He steps over glass, grinding it to sand beneath his boot.

When I glance behind me, the troll is not ash, but snow. A drift of pure white beauty poofs into the air and is carried away.

“What in the blue hell...” My remark fades.

“You shouldn’t have looked.”

The vampire is spiteful enough to shrivel my tongue, like it’s part of a game I didn’t know we started playing. His black eyes pool with hunger, and he drags his claws through his short dark hair.

His face is a harsh stone carving, and for a tense second I’m almost ready to run. Or fall.

When he speaks again, the anguish in his voice is a slash of pain. “She’ll live. Let her rest. She drank adequate blood to heal.”

“She won’t turn? Or I don’t know. Becomes some kind of Renfield?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“But she drank your blood,” I reply.

He sets Audra gently on a settee, a fainting couch Barnes uses more than customers. They browse and don’t want to stay. Audra is impossibly small on the curved seat.

“As long as she's able to get the sleep she needs, she’ll recuperate.” At my expression, he hurries to add, “The wound will heal, not her immune disease.”

I know not to let myself be devastated. There was never any cure for Audra. Why would this make any difference?