The pain of the bite itself was sharp but fleeting. It was the feelings and sensations it brought that repulsed him. There was nothing sensuous about the attack. It was an assault, pure and simple, same as a rat bite, only a rat doesn’t hang on and nurse at the wound like a leech. At least she hadn’t hit an artery—she was sucking too hard for that. It was the feel of that cold, soft-lipped mouth, kneading and working, that made him cry out. That, and the vertigo that immediately clutched at his mind. Stiles felt his strength draining, his will gone, his very life being tugged and pulled, stolen away . . .

The cascade of horrific sensations ended abruptly, as did the attack itself. The hands of the mob were suddenly gone and so was the wet suction cup of a mouth, though he could still feel her hands on him and her squirming weight pinning him to the ground. He blinked his eyes into blurred but compliant sight. Georgetta’s livid face hovered just above his own, mouth stained red and teeth bared, squirming to free her hair from Danner’s iron grasp. He straddled the both of them and held her at bay with little effort. “Now now,” he berated her gently. “I said no one touches our guest. Not yet.”

“No!” she squealed, straining against his grasp even as she pulled the soldier up into her embrace once again. “He’s mine! Mine!”

Nathan did not snarl at her, nor did he exhibit any anger at all. He simply reached out and cupped her chin with his palm and gave a sharp little twist, and Stiles suddenly found himself staring into the back of the woman’s head. She rolled off of him, gagging and coughing, gazing at the stars even as she crawled away on her hands and knees. Danner smirked as he grabbed Stiles by his combat vest and jerked him into the air with one hand, dancing him about like a broken puppet. “Where are your guns now, my friend? Where is your ghostly guardian? Come, bring them all on. I’m too powerful for the lot of you!” He shook the man’s limp form again but the response was the same. Stiles just hung there. “Aw, c’mon. Where’s all that pluck and fight?” No response. He sighed, “You’re no fun,” and contemptuously tossed him away. A flick of the wrist sent him nearly ten feet. Stiles tried to hit and roll but his reflexes were as battered as the rest of him. He landed hard, bounced once, and came to rest in a crumpled heap. The rest of the undead all tensed at the sight of the downed man like jackals after a lion’s kill, but they dared not advance. Not without their master’s consent, and he did not give it. He wasn’t through with this one. Not yet.

“Chris!”