His legs were killing him, both of them. At this rate, the pain was becoming such that he was going to have to sit down—or pass out.

Shit.

The police cars zoomed by, going at breakneck speed, one . . . two . . . three of them in quick succession, their noise and strobing lights going on a fade as they passed.

There would be more. And the next wave would be slower, in recon rather than pursuit mode.

“How badly are you hit?” Balthazar demanded.

He wanted to lie. “My legs are a problem. One is shot, the other likely broken.”

“When was the last time you fed. From a female, that is?”

Months and months. Since he had first met Layla. Her ultra-pure blood had sustained him for a record amount of time, and when the strength had finally begun to fade, he had taken the veins of deer he hunted in the forest without telling his males he had resorted to such.

But Bali knew. They all must have known.

“That long, indeed,” his soldier grumbled.

Xcor looked around, not about to take the conversation further. Across the way, there was a fire escape, but he lacked the strength to drag himself up there at a sufficient speed, and he would not be able to dematerialize.

“Go,” he said to Balthazar.

“You can do this.”

“I have not the strength to make it back to—”

Balthazar pointed up. “There. The roof. That is as far as you must go.”

Barking dogs. At least two of them. At the head of the alley.

Ah, yes, the humans had brought in noses worthy of a search. As opposed to the lame ones on their pitiful faces.

“You must,” Balthazar said. “Just that far. And no farther.”

Xcor traced the way up the fire escape, past the series of windows, up some fifteen floors. It could be worse, he supposed.

“Now.”

Closing his eyes, he knew it wasn’t going to work. “I want you to go. That is an order.”

“I shall not—”

Xcor raised a tired arm and slapped his soldier across the face. In a weary voice, he said, “The others need organization and tending to. You are it. Go—and take those guns with you. They are valuable. Go! Someone must lead them!”

Balthazar was still swearing as he disappeared . . . and the dogs came ever closer to Xcor’s position. With the fresh scent of his spilled and ever-welling blood, they would find him in a matter of seconds.

This time, as his lids lowered, it was from pure exhaustion, not from any kind of hope that he would dematerialize.

Except just before he was due to be captured, as he lifted his gun muzzle and knew that he was about to lose his life in a very bad gunfight . . .

The image of Layla came to him so clearly that it was as if she stood before him.

If he did not remove himself, he would die and ne’er set eyes upon her again.

As a profound sense of loss struck him in the center of the chest, it was then that he knew what he had been denying for some time.

Faced with the reality that he might be denied one last audience with that female, one final chance to hear her voice, catch her scent upon the night air, stand in witness to her physical presence . . . the bonded male in him screamed in rage at such a crime.

Just as a German shepherd rounded the corner of the metal container, its deputy on a short leash following suit, at the very instant when the human shouted something along the lines of, “Freeze,” or some such drivel . . .

Xcor up and disappeared.

Only the drive to see his female again gave him the strength to cast himself upon the night air, scattering his battered, weakened body up to the roof that Balthazar had directed him to.

As the cop down below let out an exclamation of shock and another arrived to much ensuing conversation, Xcor fell out of thin air, landing hard on the gravel-topped flat roof of the building overhead.

“Thank you to the Scribe Virgin,” he heard someone mutter.

Groaning, Xcor rolled over onto his back. Zypher was standing over him. Balthazar, too.

“He is injured quite badly.”

That was the last thing he heard before blood loss and injury dragged him down into unconsciousness.

One block over, Rhage had his own list of problems thanks to all the damn humans who’d flooded the alleys. With his hands over his head, and his back to the approaching boys in blue, he was annoyed. And bored.

The real party, with those slayers, had gone ahead along with Bill Murray’s—make that Manny Manello’s—bulletproof medevac thing. Meanwhile, he was stuck here with a six-pack of Caldie’s finest.

“Don’t move.”

Just like in the movies, he thought while rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say, Officer.”

His keen hearing meant he triangulated their positions with total accuracy. And there was nothing ahead of him in the alley. No cars, late-night pedestrians, or other cops.

God only knew where Manny was going to end up. Or what was happening with Trez and Selena.

He didn’t have time for this.

“Officer?”

“Don’t move.”

“No offense, but I gotta blow.”

Just like that, because the CPD didn’t stress him in the slightest, he was up and out, dematerializing away.

He was smiling in his molecular state as he traveled off, imagining the OMFGs.

But he’d kinda done a no-no. There was one and only one rule in the war with the Lessening Society: Thou shalt not tee up the idiot gallery. I.e., it was in everyone’s best interests that humans didn’t know that vampires were so much more than a Halloween myth, and the Walking Dead was actually not just a TV show.

Sometimes you didn’t have a choice, however. And though he’d just given Frick and Frack, the handcuff brothers, and their other buddies, a helluva show, it was better than wasting time erasing their memories when Manny really needed him and Trez and Selena might possibly be needing him.

Blowing his way forward, he re-formed three blocks closer to the river on the roof of a delivery entrance’s carport. Just as Manny sped down the alley in his armored tank, with his wedding train of CPD units behind him, Rhage flashed down into the light of those Xenon beams—and gave the good doctor a wave to keep going.

Then he calmly and very deliberately stepped into the ambulance’s wake and opened fire on the markeds that were trailing the vehicle. He wasn’t an asshole, though. His Mary had been human once—sort of still was except for her whole immortal thing. So he aimed at the front tires and the engine blocks on a first-come, first-served basis. The unit in the lead quickly lost control and went into a tailspin, which meant the second was harder to hit safely. But he rocked that shit, rendering them useless.

Buh-bye.

He caught up with Manny again by ghosting two more blocks down, and he materialized into the passenger seat in the same way he’d left the vehicle.

Manny gave a shout of alarm, but didn’t lose his focus. He kept them moving and in the middle of the alley.

“We gotta get out of here,” the good doctor said.

“Head to the river. I know exactly what to do.”

“There are cops everywhere.”

“I’ll tell you when to turn.” Rhage got out his phone and started texting. A block later, he barked, “Now! Right!”

Rhage hung on tight as Manny threw them into a ninety-degree and hit the gas again.

“They’ve got a helicopter on us,” Manny announced.

Sure enough, the wide-screen was showing a lovely picture of a brilliant field of light pulling a heat lamp on them, the broad beam flashing around as the copter held them in view from the air.

“Two blocks up, take a left.”

“They’re going to close in on us from—”

“Do it!”

Annnnnd just like that they were under the highway, that spotlight extinguished.

“One more block,” Rhage muttered, jacking forward, praying that—“There!”

Over on the right, a service bay was opening slowly, the panels rising to reveal a blackened garage space the size of a small house.