Vampires Don't Babysit

Vampire Mythicals 

1. Vampires Don't Babysit
2. Vampires Don't Protect
3. Vampires Don't Date the Boss
4. Vampires Don't Fall in Love

There is a moment in every man’s life, where he must evaluate his choices. Determine if he’s really made the right ones. Put his faith in the right place.

Former Sergeant First Class Jake Reynolds fucked up.

Seriously fucked up.

Because, nope, he didn’t put his faith in the right place.

He realized this as pain shot through him from someone attempting to hit him with a sword.

He jerked and jumped out of the way, the wound aching.

Then, like a physical slap upside the head, Reynolds felt an explosive release of pressure in his mind. Or in his heart maybe? Maybe some of both? His humanity sort of started to seep through his body as if it were gas or liquid being poured into his soul.

Then the pain hit. This was a new kind of pain.

Not the pain of battle, but something else.

He shook his head, trying to get rid of it, but it only amplified. Where was he? What was going on?

Confused.

What, where?

He was in battle.

Fighting for his master…

A vampire.

What. The. Hell.

He hesitated. Thoughts ran rampant, like a seeing his life pass before his eyes.

But it wasn’t his life. It was his new life. New death. Bridge to immortality—that’s what Melios had called it. A bridge to a never-ending existence, where not only would he never die, but he’d be the top of the food chain.

He’d be a monster among men.

A king.

It had seemed right at the time.

Looking back, it was obvious Jake Reynolds had really, really, really fucked up.

Something hit him. He winced. He swung back to block it. Was he armed? Did he have any kind of weapon?

A curved blade he used to block his attacker.

He glanced around the room.

A moment’s clarity.

Sort of.

Immortal Knights Templar slaughtered vampires around him without hesitation. People who had been his companions. Friends—almost—were disappearing in bursts of smoke and ash, right before his eyes.

The pain swelled in his head.

His gaze darted to his team. They all had been soldiers in their lives before this one, and they all winced, almost simultaneously.

Then they all paused.

Looked to him.

As a soldier does, when unsure of what to do, they look to a commanding officer.

Reynolds had only one recourse.

“Surrender,” he said, dropping to the ground, hands out. “We surrender.” He dropped his blade and fell to knees.

His head thundered in pain, like the worst migraine in the world, and he wobbled as he went down.

The Templar swinging the broadsword at him paused and redirected the heavy metal weapon, and the blade came down within inches of his face.

“How interesting,” he said, a bit of a British accent to him. “How very interesting.”