fall back into the pillows, a slim handled blade embedded in his chest. Sasha spun, using the second of time to open her senses; caught a flash of black-clad legs and coat as a hand slapped at the light and sound system controls, a waitress dropping her tray of drinks, a gasp of air from the prince as well as one from Burly Guard Number Two as he groped at the hilt projecting from his own chest. Stupid man. Pulling it out would just open the wound, allowing blood a quick path to an even quicker death. Sasha continued her observation, watching the lean guard pivot back to his feet the instant he landed. She’d been right. Number Four was quick and agile, and observant. He’d missed the killer’s projectile by a fraction of an inch.
The scene darkened, lit now by the little candles that flickered from atop each table, while a puff of cocaine powder filtered up from the table. The floor throbbed with two beats from the bass-driven sound system before it got silenced. The guard had pulled the knife out, going to his knees as the blood spurted with every dying heartbeat, and that, added to the stain spreading over the prince’s khaki toned silk shirt, stirred the very beast Sasha was holding back.
Rage consumed her, overriding every effort to stay it. Not because someone had taken her kill. Sasha dismissed that. But there wasn’t much that could stay the lust brought on by blood smell. It overwhelmed her, changing her and making her fight it. Drums of need hit her head, pumping pain behind her eyes, stricture through her throat, and a high-pitched buzz to her ears. She barely heard the screams from behind her. She couldn’t stop the need to feed. Her nails grew into claws and her canines lengthened in anticipation. Then some fool tipped over a table, sending what had been a little flicker of candle into a long stream of hot wax that, combined with the spilled drink mess, turned the slate-colored laminate into an instant conflagration.
She couldn’t stay the blood-lust. Nothing staunched the absolute need to feed. That’s why she’d taken this hit. The prince may be a foolish, spoiled, playboy – but he was in excellent health. She’d read the report. He rarely drank, never used the drug so carelessly offered at his table, and hadn’t developed a taste for the hookah pipe, either. As fresh and clean as he kept his blood, is would be a pleasure to drain it. But the killer had taken her prize, leaving her target dead with the accuracy of his throw, and that was a pure waste of fluid. These stilettos weren’t worth the money she’d paid, either. Sasha slammed each heel into the flooring, knocking both spikes off as noise and smoke, interspersed with grunts and cursing and then coughing, filled the nightclub. The next moment she was crouched at the dying guard’s side, feasting on what was left of his fluid before death took him and ruined the pleasure. And then she pulled back, spitting out an acidic tang that came from years of anabolic steroid use.
Ugh
. She should’ve known.
Sasha narrowed her eyes on the form of the prince, gauging any signs of life, and at that exact moment the lean guard spotted her and registered what she was. She snarled to give him an even better view, thoroughly enjoying the abject horror and fear on his face before deciding it really was a pleasure to ram a fist into his six-pack and watch him go down. The sprinkling system kicked in as he fell, drenching the entire scene, obliterating anything the forensics department could use for evidence, and ruining what had been a four hundred dollar dress.
Sasha was off and racing around the fire-enhanced scene, her heelless shoes allowing a slide of movement without sound. And while she didn’t enjoy a cold shower, the fire sprinklers worked well at cooling what had been an insatiable burning need. Or perhaps it was the infusion of the burly guard’s blood already sending odd flicks of energy through her limbs, along with a fizz of mirth that
The scene darkened, lit now by the little candles that flickered from atop each table, while a puff of cocaine powder filtered up from the table. The floor throbbed with two beats from the bass-driven sound system before it got silenced. The guard had pulled the knife out, going to his knees as the blood spurted with every dying heartbeat, and that, added to the stain spreading over the prince’s khaki toned silk shirt, stirred the very beast Sasha was holding back.
Rage consumed her, overriding every effort to stay it. Not because someone had taken her kill. Sasha dismissed that. But there wasn’t much that could stay the lust brought on by blood smell. It overwhelmed her, changing her and making her fight it. Drums of need hit her head, pumping pain behind her eyes, stricture through her throat, and a high-pitched buzz to her ears. She barely heard the screams from behind her. She couldn’t stop the need to feed. Her nails grew into claws and her canines lengthened in anticipation. Then some fool tipped over a table, sending what had been a little flicker of candle into a long stream of hot wax that, combined with the spilled drink mess, turned the slate-colored laminate into an instant conflagration.
She couldn’t stay the blood-lust. Nothing staunched the absolute need to feed. That’s why she’d taken this hit. The prince may be a foolish, spoiled, playboy – but he was in excellent health. She’d read the report. He rarely drank, never used the drug so carelessly offered at his table, and hadn’t developed a taste for the hookah pipe, either. As fresh and clean as he kept his blood, is would be a pleasure to drain it. But the killer had taken her prize, leaving her target dead with the accuracy of his throw, and that was a pure waste of fluid. These stilettos weren’t worth the money she’d paid, either. Sasha slammed each heel into the flooring, knocking both spikes off as noise and smoke, interspersed with grunts and cursing and then coughing, filled the nightclub. The next moment she was crouched at the dying guard’s side, feasting on what was left of his fluid before death took him and ruined the pleasure. And then she pulled back, spitting out an acidic tang that came from years of anabolic steroid use.
Ugh
. She should’ve known.
Sasha narrowed her eyes on the form of the prince, gauging any signs of life, and at that exact moment the lean guard spotted her and registered what she was. She snarled to give him an even better view, thoroughly enjoying the abject horror and fear on his face before deciding it really was a pleasure to ram a fist into his six-pack and watch him go down. The sprinkling system kicked in as he fell, drenching the entire scene, obliterating anything the forensics department could use for evidence, and ruining what had been a four hundred dollar dress.
Sasha was off and racing around the fire-enhanced scene, her heelless shoes allowing a slide of movement without sound. And while she didn’t enjoy a cold shower, the fire sprinklers worked well at cooling what had been an insatiable burning need. Or perhaps it was the infusion of the burly guard’s blood already sending odd flicks of energy through her limbs, along with a fizz of mirth that
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