Free Now Comes the Night by P.G. Forte Page B

exhausted and too sated to move.
    Until her voice was sandpaper-rough from shouting his name and his was worn to a whisper from urging her for more and more and more. Until they could do nothing but sleep, all day long, in each other’s arms, and wake up the following night just in time to do it all over again. Until she understood that she belonged to him. Until she knew it in her bones. And until he was certain, beyond any possible doubt, that she would never betray him again.
    But that knowledge, that certainty and that much pleasure was clearly not something he was going to achieve tonight. Which left him frustrated and furious beyond anything approaching reason.
    Turning his back on Nighthawk again, Marc snarled, “So, let me see if I have this straight. You basically came up here tonight to tell me nothing. Is that what you’re saying? Or is there something else you want to waste my time with?” He made no attempt to apologize for his rudeness, or the fact that he was taking his bad temper out on the feral. Nighthawk was both big enough and tough enough to take it. He’d also been stupid enough to have beaten up on Marc’s spawn, albeit before either of them had known Heather for what she was—for that alone, Nighthawk was lucky just to be alive. He was lucky he was still topside and able to bear the brunt of Marc’s anger at all. He was lucky Marc had felt himself bound to honor the promises he’d made to protect him—despite the mistakes Nighthawk had made.
    The inexplicable feeling of responsibility Marc harbored, on the other hand, and not just for Nighthawk and Heather, but for all the ferals—that sense of needing to care for them, guide them, provide for them—that went way beyond simple luck. That fell into the realm of ideas so monumentally, dumb-fuck stupid that Marc didn’t even have a name for it.
    Why was it so important for him to help them? What was it that kept him coming back here, night after night?
    Nighthawk cleared his throat. “Actually, I just came to tell you that the food’s started to arrive. The alley’s already packed with prospects. Looks like we’re gonna get a good turnout tonight after all.”
    The food. Wasn’t that just perfect? Marc’s gaze strayed involuntarily to the crowd in the alley. No wonder ferals weren’t well-liked. Ever since Marc had initiated the idea of holding raves at the warehouse as a way of giving the unclaimed, nestless vampires known as ferals a safe place to eat—under his strict supervision and rigid control—he’d had to deal with this type of attitude. From all of them, really, but Nighthawk was the worst. Tonight, Marc had had enough.
    His temper spiked off the charts. “Don’t call them that!” he snarled, almost choking on his anger. The memory of every lesson that had ever been drummed into his head from the time he was a baby screamed in outrage. “Show some respect.”
    “Aw c’mon, man.” Nighthawk shook his head. “Respect for what, huh? They’re nuthin’ but kine . The gamers got that part right at least—even if they were only talking about themselves. They come here, they bare their throats for us, they let us use them however we want. So, whaddaya think? Maybe we should send ‘em flowers afterward? Or would candy be better? You know, to make them think we still respect them after the bleeding’s stopped.”
    Marc turned his head to glare over his shoulder at the man. “Get over here. Now.”
    Nighthawk didn’t so much as blink. He was at Marc’s side in an instant. Marc had to struggle to hide his surprise. Yeah, it had been an order, but so what if it was? He figured any one with half a brain would surely have said “thanks, but no thanks”. Nighthawk had a brain—though it seldom seemed able to keep up with his mouth—yet, all the same, there he was, jumping at Marc’s orders as though he had no choice other than to immediately obey. Interesting .
    “Look at them.” Marc rested a hand on Nighthawk’s