Night Reigns by Dianne Duvall Page A

just one year short of obtaining tenure. Six years of grueling hours and ass-kissing down the drain. Even worse, the Immortal Guardians and that backstabbing bastard Bastien had killed Casey, the last member of Keegan’s family.
    Scott, the vampire in front of him, reminded Montrose of Casey. The same youth. The same foolish innocence.
    “Maybe it just needs to be stronger,” Scott suggested hopefully. “I do have a little bit of a buzz.” He was a nice guy. Eager to please and only turned three months earlier.
    Montrose refused to work with any volunteers who had been vampires for more than six months. They were too unpredictable. Too unstable. Too scary, though he wouldn’t admit that to Dennis. The virus damaged the brain faster in some than in others, effectively severing their impulse control. With the exception of Dennis, Montrose avoided contact with all but the most recently turned vampires.
    “Maybe,” he said, and motioned to one of the stools the lab boasted. “Go ahead and have a seat, Scott. Let John and I do some quick computations and—”
    What sounded like an explosion shattered the silence upstairs. A heartbeat later, the door to the basement slammed open so violently it flew off its hinges, careened off the cabinet next to it and—splinters splicing the air like mini-missiles—knocked John to the floor.
    Scott swore, leapt to his feet, and backed into a far corner so quickly he blurred.
    Montrose nearly crapped his pants when Dennis materialized only a foot away. His eyes glowed a vibrant blue, a sign of intense emotion. And, judging by the clenched jaw, rapid breathing, and visibly pulsing veins, that emotion was absolute fury.
    Dennis’s hair, dark blond and down to his shoulders, looked as if he had ridden from one end of the state to the other in a convertible with the top down. His clothing, black and reminiscent of Bastien’s with a long coat and sheathed weapons, was disheveled, his shirt glistening with a large wet spot. Ruby drops and streaks stained his neck and chin.
    Montrose began to tremble.
    Was that blood? That was blood.
    “Is it done?” Dennis growled.
    The fallen door behind Montrose shifted.
    Stalling, Montrose looked around.
    John climbed to his feet, nose bleeding, a red lump forming on his forehead.
    “Don’t look at him,” Dennis snarled, wrapping a fist in Montrose’s lab coat and giving him a rough shake. “Look at me.”
    Montrose did as he was told.
    “Is it done?” Dennis repeated. “Does it work?”
    Montrose swallowed. Hard. “N-no, it’s too weak.” He heard John come up behind him and glanced at him over his shoulder. “We, uh, we were just going to recalculate—”
    Dennis released Montrose’s coat and stepped to the side.
    Before Montrose could breathe a sigh of relief, Dennis reached past him, grabbed John by the shirt and yanked him forward.
    Knocked to the side, Montrose stumbled, grabbed the edge of a table to steady himself, then turned around in time to see Dennis dip his head and rip John’s throat out with his fangs.
    Blood sprayed in an arc as John reeled backward and groped at his neck.
    Montrose closed his eyes and cringed as the warm liquid splashed him.
    Harsh, gurgling sounds suffused the air.
    Shock rendering him speechless, Montrose cracked open his lids and watched as John—eyes wide with terror—staggered around, bumping into tables and desks and knocking paraphernalia over, then dropped to his knees. A few more choking gargles, then he fell forward. His body twitched. Twitched again. Then stilled.
    Hot saliva welled in Montrose’s mouth. Bile swiftly followed. Bending over, he spewed what hadn’t been digested of his triple beef burger and fries all over the floor and John’s shoes.
    “Oh, man up for fuck’s sake,” Dennis snarled.
    Hands on his knees, Montrose shook his head. “Why did you do that?” he wheezed, gagging as the scents of vomit, blood, and excrement filled his airways. “Why the hell did you do