They'd killed everyone, even the children.
I had to kick the shattered remnants of a chair out of my way before I could reach Carmen Ezpinosa's limp body. Only a month ago she'd been a vibrant, smiling mother of two and another on the way. She'd never really looked at us when we came for food and rest, always tracking her children with the sharp, maternal possession that seemed to come with the gig. That look said, 'you'll have to step over my dead body to hurt them.'
And they had.
The Reds had torn open her blouse, descending on every bit of flesh they could so that she looked closer to raw hamburger than a human being. Her chestnut curls were matted and beginning to stick in the puddle of congealing blood that ran from her son's body. He was lying face down, but I could see that most of his throat was missing. There weren't any other marks. That was something at least. He hadn't suffered for long.
His sister hadn't been so lucky. She'd made it to her bedroom door, but hadn't been able to get inside and bar the door before they caught up with her. Someone had actually pushed her through the wood, turning the little girl into a pincushion. Half of her face was a mask of blood and the other was twisted in horror, mouth still open. She'd died screaming as they chewed through her ankles and wrists.
But it was the baby's room that had me bending double, vomiting my supper all over the wood floor. One of the newborn baby boy's arms was just gone, bitten off in one go so that the vampire could drain him like a damn juice box. He was ashy gray, eyes open and glassy, staring up at his homemade mobile without seeing it.
Without thinking, I lifted the baby from his crib and cradled him to my chest. Tears splashed onto his cold, firm cheeks and rolled into the collar of his onesie. He should have been alive and crying for his mom. Now he'd never grow up, and it was our fault. They'd done this to spite the Fellowship.
Something moved in my periphery, and I had only a moment to tuck the boy under one arm and reach for a knife strapped to my waist with the other. The vampire came for me in its rubbery bat form, teeth bared, aiming for my throat. I spun the blade in my hand and thrust upward into its flabby neck and-
"Molly?"
My eyes snapped open. Deigo Ezpinosa's little body was no longer under my arm. Had I dropped him, letting him clatter to the floors like a stone, cold and forgotten? Just the thought made me want to howl in outrage. Something moved nearby, and I flung myself at it without thought, driving us both to the ground. The intruder tried to struggle, but I managed to get him into a lock. He stilled when I pressed the edge of my blade to his throat.
"Murderer!" I snarled. "Don't touch him! Don't you fucking dare!"
It would be easy to open his throat or his belly, spilling all the stolen blood onto the wood floors. But...the floor wasn't hardwood. It was made of lush, high-pile carpet. The waist and torso under mine wasn't the almost gelatinous middle of a Red Court vampire. It was distractingly firm and human. The slice of light that came through the curtains showed a familiar, fangless face. His warm green eyes held all the wariness of someone who'd stumbled into the tiger enclosure and come face-to-face with the beast.
My head swam as I tried to make it fit. Where was I? How had I gotten here? Where were the Ezpinozas?
Dead and buried, my brain supplied. For almost six years now. It's over. The Reds are gone.
Tension flooded out of my body, the grip on the combat knife I'd hidden under my pillow loosening.
"John?" I asked in a very small voice.
In one fluid movement John Marcone batted my hand away from his throat, seized my hips, and managed to flip our positions so that he loomed over me, pinning my legs with his considerable bulk. One of his hands came up to grasp both of mine, fingers digging into my skin until I released the knife, letting it fall to the floor with barely a whisper of sound. He could have hurt me more. I wouldn't have been able to stop him, but we just remained like that for a minute that seemed to last longer, pressed so closely together that I could feel the increased tempo of his heart.
"Where were you just now?" he asked finally, not moving to get off me. Probably wise. I was still trying to drag myself back into the present.
"Mexico," I whispered. "They killed everyone, even the baby. He was only six months old-"
I wanted to say more, but my breath hitched on a sob. Tears poured down my cheeks and I tried to curl into myself to hide them. Marcone didn't let me. His expression did soften a bit as I cried.
"Sorry!" I managed. "Oh G-God I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-"
"I know," he said. There was a world of understanding behind those words. Did he wake thrashing from nightmares too? Had he hit or hurt people while wrestling with the ghosts of his past? "I came to check on you. You screamed. Now I understand why."
He let me up after another minute and lifted me gently onto the bed. Then he climbed in after me, staying close but not spooning me. His presence was warm and when he tangled our fingers together, I didn't fight him. The touch anchored me, helped me find my way back to lucidity. I turned my face away so he wouldn't see me cry, but I didn't let go of his hand. It felt like the only thing keeping me from launching back into a sea of nightmares.
I fell asleep eventually, John Marcone's hand still clutched in mine.