Page 44 of The Tenor's Shadow

Chapter 14

Anthony

Freddie had gone berserk. Anthony hadn’t seen Brian coming, hadn’t understood how he’d moved that fast, but his hand had been around Anthony’s throat, cutting off his airway. He hadn’t been able to force his desperate calls to Freddie past Brian’s tight grip. All he’d been able to get out was a pathetic whine.

He had been sure Brian was going to kill him, and he’d thought, silly as it was, that he was glad he’d gotten to give Freddie a blowjob before he died.

But before Brian could tear his throat out, Freddie had exploded.

Anthony missed most of it. Freddie had moved at an impossible speed, a blur in the air as he sprang from attacker to attacker. In the space of a second, they were all down, and Brian’s grip fell loose from his throat.

The blur came to an abrupt stop in front of him. Freddie was changed. His eyes shone the red of sunset, and his fingers were long talons. Sharp fangs peeked out from behind his upper lip. Brian’s head was in his hands.

“What the fuck just happened?” Anthony stood staring at the carnage.

Freddie looked up at him. Confusion flashed across his face, then fear. He tore his gaze away from Anthony, his eyeballs darting around, looking anywhere else. What was happening? Was Freddie afraid…of him?

“Anthony, I…” Freddie’s hands went limp and the bald, decapitated head tumbled down to the dirt below.

“What are these people? What are you?” Anthony looked around at the carnage, the bile rising in his stomach. Everywhere he looked, blood gushed from deep wounds, and bodies were surrounded by mangled organs and viscera. “You killed them, Freddie. You killed all of them.”

Freddie took a step, and Anthony stumbled backwards away from the blood-covered bodyguard. His brain couldn’t process what he was seeing. Anthony’s chest clenched at the look of anguish on Freddie’s face.

“Anthony, you have to…” Freddie’s voice trailed off as he shook like he was in the grip of a terrible fever. He collapsed down to his knees.

Anthony’s throat tightened at the unusual sight of weakness in the strong, stoic man. His shock and fear evaporated, and he ran forward to Freddie’s side, crouching down next to him and steadying him.

“Freddie, what is going on? What do you need?”

“Call your uncle…tell him about them…tell him…the crimson surge…” Freddie stopped, unable to say more, and leaned against Anthony for support.

Anthony scrambled to find his phone, pulling it out of his pocket and dialing his uncle.

“Tony?” his uncle asked, his voice scratchy. “It’s the middle of the night, what’s--”

“We were attacked. They’re dead, but the bodies…Freddie can’t speak and said something about the crimson surge.”

“What? Crimson surge? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I--”

“Anthony.” It was the deep voice of Oliver Hughes. “Where are you?”

“Barcelona,” Anthony answered. “Parc Güell. Freddie needs help. Please. What’s going on? Who are these people?”

“Listen to me. Freddie will be fine in a couple of hours. Get him back to your hotel.”

“But--”

“He needs to rest.” Oliver’s tone was resolute. “I’ll send a cleanup crew for the bodies. Your uncle will explain everything in person. We’ll take the jet. It shouldn’t take us more than three hours.”

“What’s wrong with Freddie? He’s so weak…”

“He’ll be okay. Just get him into bed and we’ll meet you there. We’ll be in the air within twenty minutes.”

Oliver hung up the call. Anthony looked down at Freddie, his pale, freckled face marred by exhaustion and pain.

“Freddie?”

---