Second Chance by Heather Brewer Page B

close to information about who had killed Cecile. He was so certain! And now . . .
    Boris shook his head, returning to his crimson drink. “Curse you, Blomberg.”
    A jolt went through Joss, and he sat bolt upright in his seat, eyes on his conversational companion. “Blomberg? Ernst Blomberg?”
    Boris nearly dropped his glass before returning it to the table once again. “How did you know?”
    Joss set his jaw. His heart had picked up its pace, and his entire body felt as if it were on high alert as the adrenaline rushed through him. The reveal, he’d thought, would have been the location of his stake, but Joss was mistaken. The big reveal in this magician’s act was about to occur. He locked eyes with Boris, took a steady, calm breath, and said, “I haven’t properly introduced myself, Boris. My name is Joss McMillan. I’m the great-great-great-grandson of Professor Ernst Blomberg.”
    A fiery, hate-filled glare flashed through Boris’s eyes then, and he growled low enough that no one else in the room would hear. “Well, then, Joss McMillan. It will be my immense pleasure to watch you die.”

10
    ANY PORT IN A STORM
    J oss didn’t have time to think—not that thinking would have been wise at that moment. What he needed was to rely purely on his Slayer instincts—they were the only thing, after all, that might help him get out of this alive.
    Boris lunged at him, sending his glass flying, its liquid contents spilling out in slow motion droplets that momentarily decorated the air to Joss’s right. Joss dove to the left, landing on the floor just as Boris connected with his newly emptied chair, toppling it over and landing in a heap. Joss scrambled to his feet, ignoring the screams and gasps from his fellow patrons, and reached for his stake, gripping the wood tightly in his hand. Boris roared and, before Joss could even blink, the vampire rushed him, slamming Joss against the door. His fangs were long and sharp. His breath smelled sickly like blood. It reminded him of the vampire who’d killed Cecile.
    Joss whipped his arm up and over, catching Boris’s shoulder with the tip of his stake. Boris cried out. “You will die, Slayer!”
    He slammed Joss against the door again. Pain ripped quickly through Joss’s spine, and for a moment, he saw stars. Only the stars didn’t disappear. In a blink, Joss realized that Boris had ripped the door from its hinges. He was lying outside, with a seriously ticked off vampire pinning him to the ground.
    Joss blocked out all thought and did what his instincts told him to do. He kneed Boris in the groin.
    Joss rolled free and moved to the nearest shadows, hoping to conceal himself briefly. Just until he’d formulated a plan to take Boris down. He stood in the alley nearest The Bourgeois Pig, stake in his fist, and waited for Boris to move after him and claim his vengeance with both fangs.
    Boris bared his teeth, his fangs elongating once again—slowly, this time—and stood. Joss could have sworn that he heard a low growl emanating from his adversary, even at this distance. “Cecile was my soul mate, Slayer. Your family broke that bond, and for that, you must die.”
    Joss very much wanted to point out that, in theory, a bond between souls couldn’t be broken. A bond was forever. So perhaps Boris had been wrong about the connection he and Joss’s great-great-great-grandmother had shared. Maybe it had been more of a crush-type situation than undying love. After all, their love had died. Hadn’t it? At least Cecile’s half.
    But he said nothing. There was a task at hand, and chitchat wasn’t going to get it done any faster. Joss just hoped that he was up to it. Boris was muscular, and even the weakest vampires were incredibly strong. But Joss didn’t have much choice in the matter. This fight was going to happen with or without his consent.
    And yet, he found himself standing there, not acting, not moving forward to engage Boris. Why? Because he sympathized with a