Free Stained by Ella James

her mouth. Her eyes flew from the mangled car to her damaged shed to the melee in her yard. The man, bald and heavy-set, in boxers and a white undershirt, hefted a shotgun into the crook of his arm. He seemed equally bewildered.
In a flash of inspiration, Julia ran at the old man and pointed at the dark-haired Nephilim. "That one!"
With all her might, she willed the old man to heed her words. The dark-haired Nephilim turned. He raised his dagger, Cayne's blood dripping down his arm, and a boom ripped the air.
The shot hit the Nephilim in the chest, and he stumbled. That was all the advantage Cayne needed. He grabbed his opponent from behind and flipped him over.
All at once, dozens of neighbors poured from their homes. A man with a goatee had a revolver. "Herbert! What the hell?"
The old man shook his head. He was staring stupidly at the gun in his hand.
"The blond and the short-haired guy attacked us," Julia supplied.
The old man started. "What?"
"They attacked us."
He nodded shakily. "That darker one...I killed him."
He didn't, of course, but Julia didn't need to explain. Cayne was wailing on the blond one again and the brown-haired one was... staggering to his feet .
The hole in his chest was still spitting up blood. Several of the women screamed. The old man raised his gun again. "Don't you come one step closer!
"Cayne!"
The bleeding Nephilim leapt for Julia but crumpled in mid-air. He thudded to the ground, Cayne's knife protruding from his neck.
Cayne quickly pinned the blond Nephilim against a tree trunk. "Tell me why!"
"Y-You should--know why. Traitor."
Cayne leaned in so his face was inches from his captive's. "Pretend I don't."
The blond Nephilim pursed his lips and spat blood in Cayne's face. He tried one last time to break free, but with a flick of his wrist, Cayne snapped his neck.
A beat of silence followed the crunch of bone, and then a chorus of gasps filled the air. The bystanders stared fearfully at Cayne as he walked toward Julia.
He was covered in blood; it tangled his hair, stained his face, dripped down his arms, and oozed out of his torso. He seemed close to death, but Julia didn't move to help him. His savage display had frozen her bones.
"Don't you dare," the old man--Herbert--warned as he hefted his shotgun. His arms trembled as he pointed the barrel at Cayne.
"Stop!" Julia cried.
The old man's wide eyes rolled into his head, and his gun clattered onto the porch. Cayne's eyes were closed, and he swayed drunkenly.
"Cayne?"
She opened her sight, and saw something that horrified her worse than the blood that seemed to cover every inch of him. Bright, silver tendrils stretched from his aura and wrapped themselves around the man, whose own brown light was becoming dimmer by the minute.
"Cayne!" Julia walked right up to him and gave him a hard push.
Immediately he released the man, and when he looked at Julia his eyes were clearer. She wrapped an arm around his waist and steered him to the guy with the goatee.
"Cayne," she said through clenched teeth, "tell this nice man how much we'd like to borrow his car."

Chapter 15

Julia cracked the window of the pearly Audi, the fourth car they'd liberated in as many days, and glanced at Cayne.
He'd manipulated the witnesses' minds. His pretty little power didn't fix broken cars or busted buildings, but he'd convinced them to forget his and Julia's faces. He'd convinced two police cruisers to stop following them, too. And after they ditched Goatee Man's Buick, Cayne had even been able to convince someone else to donate their car.
But Julia wasn't worried about twelve frightened Utahians. Or the cops. Or a car-less woman and her son. She was worried about the old guy Cayne had almost taken out. Yeah, he'd been injured--maybe even dying--but that didn't give him a right to leech someone else's energy. What did it say about him that he'd tried? What did it mean that he'd been able to try? It seemed like every hour she learned something new about him, and she wasn't